#why do you think I was gone all those times

[kole-cooler]

Armistice

Irene x m!reader

16k words

It's another wonderful day at work.

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

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

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

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

Red flag number one.

"Here."

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

Okay, maybe not that strange.

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

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

"Just grabbed an extra."

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

Motherfucker.

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

Did someone actually try to poison you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You rap lightly on the heavy doorframe.

"Come in!" Choi’s voice booms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh boy, here it comes.

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

He gestures towards Irene, who visibly flinches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach rumbles. Plane food was predictably awful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, this is going to be a long night.

—

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

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

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

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

"I'm focusing on driving."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, the engine sputters.

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't," she warns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, you’re tired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This trip just keeps getting better and better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Positive.”

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

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

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

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

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

Irene clutches her overnight bag like a shield.

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

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

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

"All yours," she mutters into the pillow.

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

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

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

You hear a muffled "'Night" in response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You okay over there?" you ask quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

You can practically hear her processing that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

This is fine.

Everything is fine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know," she replies simply. Classic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sold," she agrees with a small chuckle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Think we passed the test?"

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

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

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

She looks at you warily. "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then her mouth is on yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Better?" you murmur.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you kiss her pussy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You push your finger in. She screams.

And you don’t stop.

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

But now?

Now it’s game over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She lets out a weak laugh, breathless and hoarse.

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

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

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

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

You feel her hips rocking up against you.

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Joohyun…”

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

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

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

“You sure?” you ask one last time.

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

So you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her breath catches. “Is that… you?

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

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

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

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

You lean down, mouth right next to her ear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m cumming—I’m gonna—ahhhhhh—!”

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

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

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

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

"Fuck—fuck, I—I’m—ahhhhhnnn—!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Babe, you don’t have to—”

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

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

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

“You okay?” you ask, voice tight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck, Irene—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Irene—fuck—gonna make me—”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck—Joohyun—gonna—fuck—I’m—”

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

And fuck, that look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come here,” she pants. “One more.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You almost scream.

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

“Holy fuck, Irene—!”

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

“Perfect,” she whispers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nods slowly. "Starving, actually."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

But the space beside you is empty. Cold.

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

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

"Morning," you offer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back to square one. Fuck.

[bigsoggyboots]

miscellaneous ambessa headcannons

✮⋆˙ loves slit dresses. she believes it commands both power and respect. it reminds whoever she may be talking to that every being responds to temptation. will you be bold enough to look down or respect yourself enough to keep your gaze up?

✮⋆˙ ambessa's anger seethes and festers inside of her more often than not. she's not one to point fingers and direction blame but more or so a person who finds a petty way to make your life worse.

✮⋆˙ really likes jazz. no other reason.

✮⋆˙ believes the most romantic way to express love to your lover would be to embrace each other's nude form. showing every nook and cranny of bare skin to someone you trust is love a sign of trust beyond just kissing and hugging.

✮⋆˙ always doing something, even when her body needs rest the most. her thoughts become too loud if she's not distracted.

✮⋆˙ wears her wrinkles like a crown. age means wisdom to her and why defy the stories she could tell?

✮⋆˙ can and will check out someone. she's not ashamed of a damn thing either.

"don't be afraid, little one. you should be proud."

✮⋆˙ can only sleep in total silence. any little sound will rouse her senses. it also has to be completely dark. she's a warlord, she'll be fine if there's a sneak attack, so why bother with any sort of light source?

✮⋆˙ as a lover, she kisses your hands all the time. it may be a bit of a obsession. ask her why however, and she won't give you an answer.

✮⋆˙ loves sweets. there's probably some bag filled with milk chocolate somewhere. it's something Mel instilled into her.

✮⋆˙ probably at the age where she's beginning to loose her vision. she's ignored it since she is in the middle of a war and business needs to attended to. even if she was to squint to read certain texts.

✮⋆˙ after Mel's banishment, she begins to collect things that remind her of her children. a caramel perfume? she'll buy a box. a simple chain necklace? she'll go to the shop herself and order 10 more of those for "inspection".

✮⋆˙ definitely the type to do wine tasting. she'll take you with her to try every wine there is. she'll give you the ones she doesn't like.

"this tastes.. subpar. for red wine, i expected something richer. here, let me try yours. you seem to be nursing your drink as well."

(she'll find a way to buy all the wine bottles you enjoyed after the date is over.)

✮⋆˙ wants to own a garden one day. it's a silly distant dream she had long ago that she can never shake. ambessa knows it'll never have but sometimes, it's ok to dream of simpler times.

✮⋆˙ if you think she's the big spoon you're wrong. she doesn't do that. you both sleep facing each other, or she cradles you. no other way.

an: I'm going to basically be busy from the rest of the week up until Saturday. so, I'm putting something else out so you guys can blow up my notifications while I'm gone.

[writerslittlelibrary]

Sharing a safehouse

masterlist

summary: after a mission gone wrong, you and Natasha are forced to lay low in a small safehouse somewhere in the countryside of England. It’s small, uncomfortable, and you’ve never been able to really connect with Natasha during your time on the team. what happens when you and Natasha are basically forced to connect?

pairing: Natasha x teen reader

warnings: none

genre: fluff

words: 1645

a/n: I would like a standing applause for the fact that I am posting another fic in the span of a month. it has happened. the apocalypse has struck 

also, have I written this trope before? yes, yes I have. will I be writing this trope again? yes, yes I will

You do not have my permission to repost, copy or translate my work

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The silence is unbearable. It’s not like you were against the quiet, on the contrary. You liked  a calm, quiet environment to work and relax. No, it was the quiet with Natasha that you couldn’t bear. 

You and Natasha never were the best team, mainly because it seemed Natasha just didn’t want anything to do with you. 

You didn’t blame her, truly, you didn’t. You weren’t afraid to admit you were a pretty odd kid. You liked stuffed animals, cartoons, and sometimes, when you were certain no one was watching, you’d open your drawer and take out your dolls. 

It wasn’t like you got to have any fun things when you were a child, and something as simple as a doll would have been harder to acquire than literal gold. 

You weren’t shy about admitting you had a fucked up childhood, and you weren’t shy to be watching Winx Club in the living room of the Avengers compound. It was funny, really, how at first Sam made fun of you, yet slowly started to get more and more invested to the point he would ask you when you were going to start the next episode. 

He was a total Winx Club fan now. 

The rest of the team seemed to pretty much ignore your childish side. Not in a rude manner, but rather in an uninterested manner. They didn’t think you were weird, and you liked it that way. 

Natasha, however, wasn’t at all holding back when she saw you watching a cartoon or coloring at the table.

It wasn’t like she’d get angry, but she would walk away, or give you a look like you were vermin. 

You never quite understood where her disdain for you came from. She was your favourite superhero, yet she treated you like dirt under her shoe. She wasn’t gentle when making her comments, either. 

Sometimes, when you were drawing, she’d make a comment about how you were far too old for such things, and while you were watching a cartoon she’d scoff like you were insane. 

It was a literal cartoon, not the end of the world. 

You had gotten pretty good at ignoring her antics over the past year, but you couldn’t deny that they still stung. Why did she despise you breathing so much?

At the moment, Natasha was caught up in writing her mission report while you were curled up on the couch, which doubled as the bench for the table and the bed you would be sleeping in. 

Tony was fucking loaded. Why the hell was this safehouse a literal trailer?

You were reading Rainbow Magic; Ruby, the Red Fairy. Occasionally, you’d glance up from your book, and you’d catch a glimpse of Natasha’s disapproving stare before she’d continue working. 

Okay, fine, maybe bringing the Rainbow Magic series wasn’t the most strategic plan with such a fairytale hater, but who could blame you? Those fairy books were actually very enjoyable. 

You ignored Natasha’s judgement, finishing your book before you got up, walking to the small cupboard and pulling open the doors.

Expecting for some form of entertainment in this trailer was clearly too much to ask. 

The cupboard didn’t hold much, safe for a few spiders and a bucket of cleaning supplies that looked to be at least two-hundred years past their expiration date. 

And then, at the far top shelf, you could see a chessboard peeking out amongst the shelves.

You had to stand on the tips of your toes to reach it, but you got it. 

By now, Natasha had finished her mission report and was studying your every move. Of course, you caught up to her staring almost immediately, and you turned to face her while holding up the chess board. 

“Do you play?” 

Natasha frowned, before sighing and giving you a singular nod. Well, more excitement was clearly too much to ask. 

Natasha leaned forward, clearing the table of her papers and reaching for your book. She half expected her to just throw it on top of your bag in the corner, and you were more than surprised when she picked it up gently and handled it with much more care than you thought her to be capable of. 

When the table was cleared, you put the chess board down, handing Natasha the box that the white pieces were stuffed in. 

“I’m always black,” Natasha said while frowning at the colour of the pieces in the box. 

“Sure.” You passed the box with the black pieces to Natasha while arranging the white pieces on your own playing field. 

Once all the pieces were put in place, Natasha made the first move, to which you immediately responded by putting her piece back in its place. 

“White starts,” you mention as you make your own move.

Natasha huffs but doesn’t protest, instead moving her own pieces to defend against your attack. 

The game continued far into the night, and after playing for nearly three hours, you finally made your last move, trapping Natasha in a check-mate. 

“I let you do that,” Natasha says before rearranging her own pieces. 

“Sure you did,” you respond before placing your own pieces back on the board. 

“Don’t you have to go to bed? It’s far past your bedtime,” Natasha asks, glancing at the clock on the whole. 

“I don’t have a bedtime,” you remark, making your move with the chess piece. 

“You act like a child, yet you don’t go to bed on time?” 

To your surprise, you didn’t hear any judgement in Natasha’s tone. Just pure confusion. A genuine question not meant to insult you. You didn’t expect that. 

You look up at her, frowning before shrugging. 

“Can’t sleep. Nightmares,” you say, counteracting Natasha’s move by blocking her piece. “And even if I wanted to, we’re sitting on my bed.”

As if the evening wasn’t surprising enough, Natasha lets out a huff of amusement. 

“We can share the big bed. It’ll help with the nightmares,” she suggests. 

“Why?” you ask, keeping your eyes on the game in the hopes of preventing awkward eye contact. 

Natasha shrugs. “I dunno know. Another presence helps with preventing nightmares or something. There’s a study on it.”

“No, I mean why are you so nice? Why offer to share your bed with me when you normally can’t even stand to share the same room?”

At that, Natasha looks up, a hint of guilt mixed into her usual calm facial expression. 

“It’s not personal,” she says, moving her chess piece. 

“Then what is it? You’ve barely shared one conversation with me since I joined a year ago.”

“You’re a child,” Natasha suddenly says after a moment of silence. There’s venom in her voice, yet you can feel it isn’t directed at you. 

“You should be able to play with your dolls without having to feel the need to hide, and you should be able to go to school and make friends and stupid decisions. You shouldn’t live in a compound with superheroes and fight super villains weekly. You are a child, and you should be able to be one.” 

You fall silent for a moment, shocked at her revelation of knowing about your dolls, and shocked at the amount of emotion hidden under her confession. 

“You don’t hate me?”

Natasha’s head shoots up, tears glistening in her eyes. 

“Hate you? What ever gave you the impression that I hate you?”

You shook your head. “You avoid me, you scoff wherever I’m drawing or watching something in the common room. It feels like you judge me, daily.”

At that, Natasha’s facial expression softens, and her expression turns glum.

“I never meant for you to feel like you were in the wrong, and I am so sorry for that. I wasn’t judging you, I was judging the situation you’re in.” Natasha inhaled a sharp breath, turning back to the chess board and making another move. 

“Fury gave you a choice. Either prison, or joining the Avengers. You never even did anything wrong. You were just a child, graced with powers that no one understood and everyone feared. You didn’t deserve prison, and you didn’t deserve the threat of prison. You deserved a family.”

You sighed. 

“And in a way, I got a family. The Avengers are nice-”

“They’re not your family, they’re your team. There’s a difference. Sure, they care about you, but if they were your family, they’d want you to live a life, rather than become a superhero.”

Natasha fell silent, and at her words, so did you. 

Was she right? If the Avengers were your family, would they want you to live a normal, domestic life somewhere else, rather than the superhero life you were living right now?

“I didn’t have much of a choice. Besides, it’s not like I hate my life. Just the paperwork,” you remark, moving your queen to once again trap Natasha in a check-mate. 

“I want to work something out, if you’ll let me,” Natasha then said, pouting when you took her king. 

“Like what?” you ask.

Natasha shrugged. “I don’t know yet. Something that’ll put you off missions, at least until you’re twenty-one or something. Maybe older. Something legal. I mean, you’re not even allowed to drink in the United States. Why the hell are you allowed, or better said, forced, to risk your life daily?”

At that, you snort.

“You make a good point.” 

“We’ll figure something out, I promise,” Natasha states, helping you clear the chessboard and standing up from the bench. 

“Now, it is time for bed. Tomorrow we’ll see if there’s a bakery or something in this god forsaken place.”

You snicker, taking Natasha’s hand and allowing her to lead you. Maybe she doesn’t hate you as much as you thought she did. 

Bonus a/n: rainbow magic; Ruby the Red Fairy is the first ever book I read in English.

Permanent tags: @marvelnatasha12346 @lesbionion @papimapileon @darkstar225 @saraaahsstuff @marvelwomenarehot0 @screechcat @iheartjohansson @tia-thesimp @swaqcenix @karmasgxrl @marvel-lous3000 @l1kepeps1cvla @lorsstar1st @superlegend216 @ravensinthedaylight

[memezs-corner-of-the-osc]

Memez theory analysis ramble #2:

SPOILERS FOR THE ENTIRETY OF TPOT 17.

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I’m dedicating a entire post to just the scenes with One and Doughnut because it tells us so much about One as a person:

Her demeanour throughout the altercation is something I’d like to bring light to.

One as a character is a manipulator who weaponises gaslighting by learning the characters psychologies to put them under pressure using her facade to sign as we’re all…..very aware by now.

What we learned here is are her downfalls: Temper and ego.

This is the face of someone who’s overly confident in everything she does, here she was not anticipating any failure in her plans.

I mean how could she possibly fail right, after all she’s tricked so many contestants-

And then reality hits.

Her egos down, she didn’t rehearse for this.

Now: let’s observe who one actually is under her act.

She resorts to violence to start with, trying to get a fear response from Doughnut.

Success: Ego back up tenfold.

She feels safe, like she has the upper hand.

So she starts her downfall: She starts giving Doughnut more information than he should know.

After all he’s going to take the deal, they all take the deal.

He can’t possibly escape and tell everyone after he just signs that little contract.

And so like the hawk she is she swoops back in to claim her prize, here she thinks she’s won in crushing the tough nut.

……unfortunately for her Doughnut is smarter then that and questions her, she hates being questioned as it ruins her whole shtick.

“Ughhh don’t worry about that Doughnut, after all is it so crazy to believe I’m just trying to help you?”

Mocking, condescending, setting up her “finishing blow”.

“Those friends of yours all agreed to it and look at all the fun they’re having!”

She can’t help herself and besides he’ll never get the chance to tell anyone so why not take the chance to unconsciously gloat to someone about it?

But it doesn’t work, he keeps questioning, second guessing and not trusting her act.

So she snaps and goes nuclear and goes to what she thinks everyone is can’t resist, themselves:

She tries acting like his friend one final little time, going with her plan B she set up.

She lays it all out, everything she knows about him and all the things in his life she rigged to happen in one last desperate attempt to regain control.

“Everyone gets to be a little selfish, it’s only fair.”

This is the line I’m going to go on a tangent on, it shows why One can do this guilt free.

She’s self justifying it constantly in her mind with a positive feedback loop, through her own delusions she sees fact.

It makes you wonder why she’s doing this and supports what I said last time, I still theorise she’s not here for the power, she’s here to make sure Two is powerless for her own pettiness.

One is a heavily Toxic abuser type person, she has warped morals that she bends to justify their own behaviour to herself subconsciously to get her own goals satisfied.

She has a ego or (at least acts like she has one to further her agenda) and will stop at nothing to the point of almost ending the universe to satisfy her needs.

And if she was friends with Two it would make sense if she used these manipulative tendencies on them and the other algibralians.

The scene with Six I will now circle back to basically confirms what I’ve been theorising with one quote: “She was supposed to be gone.”.

We have half her motive, this seemingly confirms One was exiled from the playground.

For what is yet to be seen.

Now let’s talk about the ending of the scene: What happens when someone defies her.

Let’s watch shall we:

She’s failed to make this man stoop to her level proving her psychology is wrong so she snaps, she’s never encountered this before.

She wants to feel like she’s won so she turns to a power trip, in a moment of rage she rips Doughnuts legs off and kicks him off to affirm to herself that she got the last laugh here and that letting him go is no issue.

I mean what can one man do without limbs-

And this right here is where I theorise Ones downfall begins, she got greedy adding Doughnut: a person who she knew could be a problem into the plan.

And where did it leave her?

With a wild card with context clues about what she was planning and with information about what’s behind her act on the loose, in her own greed I theorise she set in motion her demise.

And the kicker is even at the end she’s still affirming to herself that she didn’t really fail here by flying head first into the sun and that Doughnut was “just for good luck.“.

So I end off this essay of a post with a question: If this is how she treats her victims how did she treat her “friends”?

Thank you viewer for reading, the follow up to this will contain an analysis on Pencil (probably my favourite contestant by now) along with a few other misc things I want to talk about as this is already pushing it for this ted talk of a post.

[theseinfernalangels]

Rumors - Garrick Tavis

Synopsis: After your cruel half-brother decides to start rumors about you that end in unsavory behavior, Garrick decides to take matters into his own hands.

A/N: Another Garrick and Cosette fic! Love my sillies.

Includes: mentions of harassment, slut-shaming, brief allusions to assault, and otherwise implications. Angst, Protective Garrick. Takes place before Fourth Wing.

“Look at that, boys. Is that who I think it is?”

“Who? Oh. You mean the pretty little bastard from the Third?”

“Yeah, her. Camden. Can’t believe no one’s tried to get a piece of that yet. How do you think she likes it, huh?”

“Probably the same way she’ll get through the ranks: Under a Wingleader.”

You shudder, gripping your arms in a bruising hold as you shift deeper into the chair closest to the windows in the commons. It was futile, really, but if the velvety fabric brushing forcefully against your skin could replace the whispers of unfamiliar skin, you’d take it. You’d take anything, really, to get away from the negative attention.

It just had to be you, didn’t it? You’d done such a good job at keeping yourself inconspicuous and hidden in plain sight, and then your stupid half-brother —the very one that had never liked you, never even claimed you as his sister, never even acknowledged you outside his cruelty — had to open his big, spoiled, hate-filled mouth and ruin everything you had going for you. Alic hadn’t even revealed much yet; as far as you could tell, he’d just spilled the fact that you were an illegitimate child, and not the fact that you were related.

That was the thing, though. In doing so, Alic had intentionally revealed that he knew things about you — because there was no way he didn’t know the implications of his actions. He wasn’t an idiot; your brother, as cold as he was, knew exactly what he’d signed you up for as soon as he opened his mouth. That leaves you to pick up the pieces in all the worst ways, if the forceful breaths leaving your lungs didn’t say anything.

You hadn’t felt like this since…You can’t even remember. Your nails dig into your skin as you force air into your system, trying to focus on anything but the sinking feeling in your stomach. You shouldn’t let those guys affect you like this, you know you shouldn’t; after all, if they attack you, you have the full right to hurt them as much as needed to get them away. It’s not like you can help the icky feeling that’s been sticking to you like a burr recently — especially not when everyone knows about a part of you that, while you weren’t ashamed of it, revealed more about you than you were willing to risk.

A little scream is choked out of you when you feel an actual, tangible hand ghost along your shoulder, and you lash out almost immediately, sliding out of the chair and throwing your elbow at an angle that you know will catch someone in the throat if they don’t expect it. Gentle hands clamp down on your wrists, and you’re just about to throw your head back in a headbutt when a familiar voice sounds from behind you.

“Woah there, princess. Easy, easy, easy. It’s just me.”

You still and then let out what feels like the world’s most exasperated exhale. Wrenching yourself out of the offending grip, you brush your hands over your arms as if wiping the touch off of you.

“That was entirely uncalled for, Tavis. Why the fuck would you do that?”

Garrick stares at you for a moment as if to study you. Sure, you had great reflexes, but you’d never reacted so…strongly like that. Your eyes had gone wide with fright in a way he’d never seen out of you once this year, even with the dragons on Conscription Day.

“I do that all the time,” he says, raising an eyebrow before putting a few inches of space between the two of you. He looks you up and down again, hazel eyes flickering with…something, before he crouches down a little so you can look him in the eye easier.

“You want me to give you some space, Camden?” He asks in a quiet voice — one that holds none of the usual teasing he keeps for you. Your head shakes vehemently, a little too quickly for his own comfort. You look down, suddenly a bit self-conscious for your sudden vulnerability, but your voice betrays you when you speak.

“Please don’t. The last thing I need from you is space.”

You groan a little, scrubbing a hand over your face while you drop back into your chair. Garrick, eyeing you concernedly, settles into the seat next to yours — not quite far from you, but far enough that you don’t feel trapped in any way. His fingers drum along the arm of the chair absentmindedly.

“I heard something earlier.”

Well, shit. He already knows, and he’s probably figured your whole life story out. Great.

“A group of guys…talking.”

Your response feels automated as you speak. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “I didn’t quite like what they had to say. Something about—“

“A pretty little bastard from the Third Wing who looks like she’d fuck her way to the general’s position, right? Use her ass to her advantage because that’s all a woman can do here?” You finish his sentence for him, half-expecting him to add on with his own personal addendum.

You don’t face him in the following silence, but you don’t let your gaze fall. It’s all you can do to keep your dignity intact, to take control of a narrative being painted for you in front of your very eyes.

You expect a laugh, maybe even  a sneer. What you don’t expect is Garrick’s voice to be quiet and tight.

“I…What?” He sputters in disbelief. Your eyes meet his, and you’re taken aback by the rage simmering in his gorgeous eyes; it’s not something you’ve ever seen — not directed towards you, anyway. “Who the fuck said that?”

You blink once, twice, three times before you catch on that what you said was not what he was going to say. Great. He didn’t have to hear about it at all, but you told him yourself.

“Oh,” is all you can manage. “Damn. Guess gossip runs differently in different Wings, huh?”

He leans a little closer, his dark curls falling closer to his eyelids as he murmurs, “Camden. Who the fuck said that to you?”

Camden. Not “princess,” not “beautiful.” Camden. That’s how you know he’s serious. You realize that you prefer either of the annoying nicknames to his newfound seriousness.

You hold each other’s eyes for a moment, yours considering and his searching. You beat him to speaking first. “What were you going to say?”

Garrick blinks and then swallows, like he’s about to argue with you before considering a better alternative. 

“I…” He stops. “I heard…someone say that another first-year had slept with a few commanding third-years—“

“And you thought of me?” You flinch back incredulously.

“No!” Garrick yelps, waving a hand. “No. And then I caught the words blonde and pretty and Third, and you were the first person I thought of.” He winces. “Unfortunately.”

There are so many implications to draw out of his words that you almost find it a little impressive. You choose the easiest one first.

“There are a lot of girls like that in my Wing,” you mutter. “Why’d you think of me first, Tavis?”

He scowls a little. “Because you’re on my mind half the time anyway,” he retorts, folding his arms. “Blonde and pretty and Third told me everything.”

You don’t even have the energy to think about that in full. “And do you think any of that is true?”

Garrick immediately shakes his head firmly. “No,” he replies. “I’d never think that of you. You’re beautiful, yeah, but you’re too dignified to do anything like that.”

Well, at least you have that going for you. It doesn’t put you at ease, but it does make your foot stop tapping nervously.

The two of you are both silent for a minute before you speak again, a little more nervous.

“You’re not going to ask…?”

You don’t even need to say it. You’ve heard it whispered behind your back so many times that it’s almost become your inner monologue.

Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.

Garrick doesn’t miss a beat. “Do you want me to ask?”

Relief fills you like a damned flood, settling your nerves. “No.”

“Then I won’t,” he promises. “It’s not like I have anything better being said about me.”

Straight to the truth, never missing a step or a beat or anything. That’s Garrick Tavis for you. Thank gods. He says your name quietly, delicately, and your head tilts to meet his gaze again. His eyes are no longer filled with anger, but pure concern.

“Can I touch you?” He asks gently, as if speaking to a scared child. At a glance, you guess, you probably look like that, anyway — curled in on yourself, hugging your arms to your chest like you were trying to lull your heart to sleep. 

You look down, running your tongue along your teeth. “I’m surprised you asked.”

Garrick’s jaw works a little. “I’ve never—“

He pauses and then scowls. “Who.”

“No one.” You wave him off with one hand. “Not yet, anyway. I just…I’m being paranoid now, is all.”

He nods and mulls it over. He doesn’t touch you, but he scoots a little bit closer and asks again. “You never answered me before. Who said that shit to you?”

You shrug. “No one said it to me. My ears work perfectly fine. I can hear people whispering when they think I’m not listening. I knew someone might start a rumor about me out of spite, but I never thought it would be…that.”

“But who would do that to you?” He demands. “You barely talk to anyone outside your squad as is.”

The answer is obvious to you. Alic. Alic. It’s all Alic, but Garrick can’t know that without every other little secret unraveling itself from the outside in. So you settle for a shrug. “Not sure. Maybe someone got a little bitter over a lost challenge, or something like that.”

“…Something like that,” Garrick echoes. You can practically see the gears turning in his mind, trying to discern which cadet among hundreds could possibly hate you so much that they could pull a stunt like this. It’s an impossible task for someone who doesn’t know you — or, in this case, the actual you that’s not inhibited by lies.

“Garrick?” You prod him with your index finger.

He meets your eyes, clearly still wracking his brain trying to think.

“Don’t try to get to the bottom of it by yourself. That’s not your responsibility.”

He sighs, clearly frustrated. “I know it’s not,” he mutters. “But I want to help you. This isn’t fair to you. You haven’t done anything substantial to harm anyone, and this is what you get in return? That’s fucking bullshit.”

The mere idea that he would want to help you warms your heart a little — but the feeling quickly dies when you realize that he probably wouldn’t do the same if he knew what you were hiding.

“It’s okay, really,” you insist. “It’s just a bunch of rumors with no substance. Give it a week or two, and I’m sure they’ll die on their own.”

“And if they don’t?” Garrick challenges. “And if they don’t stop, and there are still echoes in the halls wherever you go, and — gods forbid it — someone tries something? What’ll you do then, princess? You like to break the rules, but could you really stomach killing someone for double-crossing you?”

The thought makes you freeze up. You like to talk big game sometimes, but could you actually kill someone and be able to function normally afterwards?

Your silence is all the answer Garrick needs. “I don’t like to call your bluff,” he amends gently, reaching to ghost a hesitant finger on your wrist. “You’re one of the most capable women I’ve ever met, Camden. But I don’t want to risk something happening like that to you. I can stomach killing, but never that.”

Your eyes dip down for a moment as you consider his words.

“Why do you care so much?” You ask softly, tracing the fabric of your chair with a singular nail. “We’re not even in the same Wing, Tavis. I should be the least of your concerns.”

He fixes a firm stare on you. “So what?” He dares. “Am I not allowed to care about someone outside of my circle? Believe it or not, Camden, I actually like being around you, and I’m not okay with ignoring a clear problem just because you hope it will go away.”

His eyes gleam with something a little softer. “Please,” he pleads. “Let me do something. You don’t want me to go to leadership? Fine. But let me watch your back for you, or walk you to your classes, or anything to make sure that you’re okay. I can’t promise that nothing else will happen, but it’ll lessen the risk. Please? I’m not above getting on my knees for you.”

In any other situation, you would have been blushing yourself silly. Honestly, Garrick’s protectiveness does send a little rush to your head — probably because this is he’s of the only people in your life, sans Cam and the Queen, who’s ever given you any indication that they want to protect you. You don’t want to let yourself get used to the feeling, but damn it — it feels good.

“…Fine,” you finally concede with a sigh. “I don’t quite understand you, Tavis, but if it’ll get you to stop begging me here, then fine. I just don’t want thing to circle back to you, you know? You already have your fair share of issues with people, and I really don’t want them to get worse.”

He scoffs. “People have issues with me,” he corrects. A wicked little smirk tugs at his pretty lips, the scar on his cheek moving with it. “Don’t worry about me. I think people fear what I’ll do more than spread gossip about it.”

You feel his index finger hook under your chin, pulling you to face him fully. He grins down at you. “And this? You’ve never even seen me beg before, princess. That is, unless you reallywant me to.”

Your eyes widen a little, and you flick his hand away without moving.

“Don’t even joke about that,” you warn. “You’ll get my hopes up, Tavis.”

The look he gives you is mischievous, but underlain with something else. Something softer, maybe a bit more than fond.

“I’d never keep you waiting, princess. That, I can promise you.”

[starsinthesky5]

Do joe and her ever just sit in bed and like…have one of those random deep talks 🥲 like literally about life, aliens, god knows. I gotta know what it’s like

a/n: enjoy my rambling :)

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

they do. all the time. they’re the kind of couple who end up talking for hours without even realizing it—lost in each other, wrapped in the safety of soft sheets and the dim lights of their bedroom, like the world outside those four walls doesn't exist. it’s their own little bubble, warm and motionless, where time doesn’t move unless they let it. it usually begins when the day is winding down. they’re curled up together, bodies fitted like puzzle pieces, her face tucked into the crook of his neck, his fingers drawing lazy circles on her hip. the tv is still on, flickering softly in the background, but neither is watching it. they’re too caught up in each other; too in love with the way these quiet nights always turn into something magic.

it starts off small, almost silly. she’ll say something out of nowhere like, “do you think aliens would find us cute or annoying?” as she scrolls aimlessly through her phone. and joe, blinking sleepily but still so in tune with her, will smile against her temple and mumble, “annoying. for sure. but they’d keep you,”.

“me? why me?” she'd ask skeptically, and his response would both melt her heart and make her giggle until she couldn't breathe.

“you’d sing to them and they’d fall in love,” he'd say.

she laughs, swatting at his chest before shoving at his shoulder like he’s ridiculous. “you’re so dumb, joey,”.

“and you’re so cute,” he says, without even thinking, and it hits her in the chest like a warm wave.

sometimes, though, it turns deeper—softer. heavier in the way that makes your chest ache, but in the best way. she’ll be half-laying on top of him, draped in one of his old college t-shirts, her cheek rising and falling with his steady breaths. and she’ll whisper something like, “do you think we’ve done this before? like…in another life? found each other somewhere else?” and he’ll be quiet for a moment, fingers brushing through her hair, before saying, “i think i’d find you in every one,”.

and it’s so casual. so easy. like of course he would. like the idea of not finding her is impossible.

they talk about everything. their childhoods, the weird quirks they’ve carried into adulthood. what scared them when they were little, what still scares them now. what they think happens after we die. if fate is real. what they’d be doing if life had gone another way. joe once admitted, in that low, gravelly voice he uses only when it’s late and quiet and just them, that he always thought he’d be a high school science teacher if football didn’t work out, completely disregarding the fact that he did an internship on wall street at one point and could be a fantastic businessman. “you’d be a hot teacher,” she told him, nose scrunched, and he rolled his eyes. “you’d be the music teacher with the hoards of dramatic twelve-year-olds worshipping you,”.

“you’re just jealous,” she teased.

“i’m literally in love with you,” he replied, and god the way it rolled off his tongue. so easily, so smoothly. she couldn’t even speak after that. just buried her face into his neck, because how do you respond when someone says it like that? like it’s the most obvious thing in the world?

sometimes the talks are a little more chaotic. she’ll go off about timelines and soulmates and alternate realities with the energy of someone who had caffeine too late in the day. joe will just watch her with this stupidly soft smile, eyes all sleepy and full of awe, and say, “how do you have this much brain power at 1 am?”.

“because i had dessert. and i’m wearing your hoodie. and you’re next to me. i’m thriving, baby,”.

they’ll talk until their throats are dry and their eyes are heavy, until the world outside is completely silent and their room is filled with nothing but their voices and soft laughter. sometimes she drifts off mid-sentence, and joe will kiss her forehead, whisper “we’ll finish tomorrow,” and hold her tighter. and in the morning, she’ll wake up remembering something he said the night before—something like, “home doesn’t feel like a place anymore. it just feels like you,” and she’ll carry it with her all day like it’s precious.

the best part is, they don’t plan these talks. they just happen. like breathing. like gravity. two souls orbiting each other, drawn together by something deeper than love. they don’t need a prompt or a reason. just each other. just a boy and a girl lying in bed with the lights low, asking questions, laughing at dumb answers, getting a little lost in the wonder of “what if” and “maybe someday,”.

and it’s in those moments—those quiet, blinking-between-yawns, head-on-his-chest moments—that they fall even more in love. because loving someone isn’t always loud. sometimes, it’s a soft question at 2 am. a hand in your hair. a smile you can hear in the dark. and the kind of connection that makes you feel like no matter how big the universe is, you already found the best part of it.

[captain-huggy-bear]

Congrats on 1,000 followers! Could you do Michael Kesselring + “test came back negative” please?

Oh, he'd get his hopes up too. That man is built to have a hockey team of kids who are all giants who terrorise the league and constantly end up in the penalty box cause they're too tall. This is....how to describe: starts as angst, ends up mildly nsfw 18+ MDNI, rollercoaster. TW: Fertility issues/struggles getting pregnant 1000 Followers Celly Currently ongoing 🥳🎉 (please read the rules) Big requests/full fic/big idea requests are closed at the moment but drabble and prompt requests are still open. Writing Masterlist

You're already dreading breaking the news to Michael. It's no secret that the two of you have been trying for a baby, and each negative pregnancy test felt like a blow, a physical hit to you both. You hated it, but you could handle it, it wasn't either of your faults...it was just the way things worked out. Getting pregnant wasn't simple, it was a science of sorts to maximise your chances. It would happen, it just might take a while.

But Michael? Michael took it hard each time like it was somehow his fault that you weren't pregnant yet. He wanted so badly to be a dad and you knew he was worried, wondering if it would ever happen. You couldn't pretend that you didn't have some of those worries too.

So to see another negative result staring at you from the bathroom sink? That was the worst news of your day.

He's waiting where you left him outside the bathroom, sat on the edge of the bed, knee bouncing up and down nervously. The moment he spots you he's on his feet, rising to meet you, that glimmer of hope in his eyes that you know is about to get crushed again.

“The test came back negative...”

You watch Michael's face drop as he sits back down on the edge of the bed, face falling into his hands as he hunches over and you know it's more than just disappointment before he even says a single word.

"It's my fault..."

"Michael..." You move to sit next to him, tugging at his arms until he looks at you, eyes wet with tears, guilt swimming in them like he's done something unforgivable.

"No, they keep saying male fertility is like declining or whatever...we know you're ovulating, you still get your periods...it's me. It's got to be me...I'm the problem. It's my fault..."

"Most couples struggle to get pregnant, it's not as easy as one time and we're done...even if it is your fertility it's not your fault, it'll happen when it happens." You brush some dark curls away from his forehead, pushing them back and out of the way. Maybe it might seem backward to some that you're comforting him, but you know how much this matters to Michael, you know how much he worries about it, how desperately he wants this. He's not immune to those feelings just because he's the man in the relationship.

"Then why do I feel like I've fucked up?"

"Because you care, because we both want this so badly...look on the bright side?" You smile at him, fingers brushing the stubble starting to grown across his cheeks as he looks at you like you've gone insane.

"Oh yeah, and what's that?" You choose to ignore the eyeroll, to forgive it knowing how he's feeling right now.

Instead you throw a leg over his lap until you're straddling his hips, grinning down at him as you whisper, "You get to keep fucking me until it takes..."

You watch the way Michael's eyes widen before darkening, how his tongue comes out to wet his bottom lip. You feel his hands reach to grip your hips tight, tugging until you're sat flush on his lap, his cock hardening underneath you.

"Oh..."

"Oh." Your grin only widens when you rock against him, his eyelids fluttering shut, eyelashes long against his cheeks at the feeling of you against him. It doesn't take much for him to become hard and hot between your thighs, already thinking of how it'll feel to sink in you again, to cum in you again until it takes, until you're finally carrying his baby. He can keep doing this a million times over, not a chore at all, maybe you're right...maybe this is a bright side, a silver lining.

"Cool, cool...fuck, baby, you trying to kill me?" You're kissing his neck, teeth nipping at his Adam's apple as he swallows, sucking hickeys under his jaw until his eyes are rolling as much as his hips, until he's gripping you so tight that you're going to have bruises.

"Not before you give me a baby, no."

[lumosinlove]

Vaincre

Finals part ii

NYR vs. COL Game 6 : Saturday, 11:00 PM

There was a roar in Logan’s ears. He didn’t know where to turn first, numb and frozen and disbelieving. He didn’t know anything, and he knew it all. He wondered how it had happened, and he’d seen the entire thing. His cheek throbbed and he tried to look around, anywhere, tried to find them, even though he knew they wouldn’t be here. They’d be in the stands. They’d be waiting for him. Logan dropped to a knee and let out his first real breath all game.

•

NYR vs. COL Game 6 : Saturday, 4:30 PM

Logan adjusted the bill of his hat where Luke had knocked it askew down against the back of his neck to try and keep him from seeing the soccer ball they were kicking around in one of the clearer parts of the inner arena.

“D’accord,” Logan said, hand over his head. “That’s cheating.”

“You just tripped me,” Luke countered. “Which, by the way, if Coach saw you do that—”

“So, what did she say?” Logan interrupted. He looked pointedly to Percy as the soccer ball came his way. Luke rolled his eyes.

“What?” Percy asked, but he was grinning.

“Fuck off, you know what,” Luke said.

“When you finally asked Cassie out.”

Percy’s sigh was long and drawn out even as he laughed softly. Logan could see him doing that in OKN’s kitchen, on the road, in the various drab dining rooms of different hotels, and on long midnight bus rides. It was the same sound, the same laugh, the same face. His strawberry-blond hair and its usual tighter curls had been turned fluffy by his post-practice shower.

“Ah…” Percy said slowly. “I haven’t exactly asked her yet.”

“Marsh,” Alex shouted. “Jesus, dude, she likes you.”

“I am just a man,” Percy shouted back, still laughing. “You try looking at someone like her and asking her to spend time with you.” He held up a hand and began ticking off things he said by lowering a finger. “Cassie Baker, Cas-sie Ba-ker is smart, and gorgeous, and accomplished, and funny. And she always has been, since the moment I met her.” He pointed at Logan. “And before you freak out, you emotional French Canadian human, yes, it is fine that you dated her. But back to my original point: I am just a man who is fairly accomplished with sticks and ice cubes.”

“My God,” Alex said. “We should be better friends.”

“Please,” Percy replied. “Sir, come on.”

“Why haven’t you asked her?” Logan said. “She’s so—She’s so…”

He was met with multiple sets of raised eyebrows.

Logan didn’t know if it was really a lack of words, or English, or just that time had gone by that kept him from being able to properly describe Cassie Baker. She had been there, desiring him, through the start of a new part of his life. She’d kept him from feeling like a failure after a bad class, or a bad game—even, without her knowing, after a bad night spent wondering why he kept thinking about the freckles over Finn’s arms, and the moment earlier that day he’d wrapped one of those arms around his waist. She’d loosened his tense, guarded ways. She might, now that Logan was thinking about it, have been the reason he felt like he could kiss Finn in the dark back bedroom, that very first time. Might have been the reason he had been bold enough—when he was bold in nothing else—to guide their hips together and get Finn off.

“Hello?” Percy said. “Why do you have your Finn face on all of a sudden? What were you gonna say?”

“I…” Logan shook his head, dazed. “I mean—she’s fucking kind. She’s the best. Ask her, Perc.”

“He’s scared,” Saint said. He wasn’t kicking the soccer ball around with them. He never did. Wouldn’t touch the thing. He hung out and stretched close by though, usually near Luke’s side of their circle.

Percy scoffed. “Wow. Way to call me out, Saint.”

Saint shrugged, reaching back for an ankle to stretch towards the back of his thigh. “People as loud as you usually are.”

“She’s not scary,” Logan said.

“Girls are definitely scary,” Alex said. “But, like, it a good way.” He gave a mock little shiver and grinned. “In like a, what the hell’s gonna happen next way.”

Percy let out a soft ha. He kept his eyes on the soccer ball, which he balanced on the flat laces of his sneaker. “I—yeah. But. I mean, she could definitely say no. And I would rather be her friend than have her say no.”

“She could also say yes,” Logan pointed out.

“Yeah, well…” Percy gave the ball a little boost with a flick of his toe and kicked it in a gentle arc to Logan, who caught it on his sneaker likewise. “Saint’s right. I’m a chicken, Tremblay.” He adjusted his hat over his curls. “This chicken is now going to run a few laps.”

Logan frowned, watching him go. Percy Marshall was a lot of things. Afraid wasn’t something that would have made Logan’s list.

•

NYR vs. COL Game 6 : Saturday, 11:00 PM

Luke could hardly hear the crowd—or maybe it was all he could hear. Someone put a tight arm around his shoulder, then released him. Sweat dripped off his hair and down his neck. He was soaked through, overheated, wanted water so badly he was sure he could drink the entire tank of Gatorade the staff kept for them. But he wasn’t tired. He was a live wire with dangerous sparks at its end, trying to piece those last moments back together in his mind.

•

NYR vs. COL Game 6 : Saturday, 5:30 PM

Alex leaned his back against the doorframe to the lounge, using its solid edge to dig into a particularly sore spot on his shoulder while he waited for Natalie or Kasey to notice him. For now, he was content watching the way Natalie talked with her hands. He didn’t have all the time in the world, but he wanted to see the families milling around. There were his own parents, along with Finn and Leo, talking to Logan’s. Logan’s mother and Leo had their arms around each other’s waists and were laughing heartily about something with glasses of wine in their hands. Percy’s parents had been caught up by Will’s family it seemed, and they were showing something to each other on their phones and miming their hands in a way that made Alex think they must be talking about food. Maybe where they’d get dinner another day this week.

Alex crossed his arms and looked back to his two. Kasey was already looking at him.

“Kasey Winter,” Alex mouthed, and unwound one of his arms to crook his finger, telling Kasey to come to him.

Kasey bit the inside of his cheek against one of his hidden smiles and excuse himself from the conversation. Alex watched him walk over. He pulled a last sip from the ice of his drink before setting it down.

“Your face gets sexy when you’re chewing ice,” Alex said by way of hello.

“I took too much,” Kasey said around the sound of crunching. “It’s cold.”

“Root Beer?” Alex asked.

“The most underrated drink,” Kasey said. “Saving my more celebratory drinks for later.”

Alex slugged him in the shoulder. “I can’t believe you just fucking said that.”

Kasey just smiled. He leaned forward, hesitated for only a moment to look at Alex’s face, and then ducked slightly to give him a quick kiss. A zing of a kiss. Chilled from the ice. Alex felt ten times more awake.

“Feel ready?” Kasey asked.

Alex raised a brow. “Do you feel ready?”

“No, I feel like I’m already on pins and needles.”

Alex laughed. “Well, I like to keep you on your toes. It’s a goal in life.”

“Don’t we know it.” Natalie slid against his side and put her hand out. “Look.”

Alex gently took her hand in his to better see her red and blue nails. “Very pretty. All for me?”

“I like dressing up for games, what can I say?”

Alex glanced at Kasey as he ducked to press a kiss to Natalie’s temple. Her hair was swept back into a high ponytail and curled. “Just for games?”

“For you, Alexander,” Natalie said, putting a hand behind his neck. “Feel ready?”

Kasey laughed. “I already asked him.”

“Uh-huh, and he probably didn’t answer.”

Kasey made an exaggerated hm noise. “Come to think of it, he didn’t.”

“I’m ready, I’m ready.” Alex pressed a quick kiss to Natalie’s mouth. “And I gotta go, baby.” He leaned forward to to wrap a tight arm around Kasey’s shoulders and turned his mouth close to his ear. “You should watch me now, then watch me and Nat later.”

“Jesus Christ,” Kasey laughed softly. But then he pressed his hand low on Alex’s back.

Alex grinned. He gave Natalie’s blond hair a gentle tug as he passed, and felt alone in the hallway, like he always did when he left them.

He only made it a few steps before he heard footsteps behind him, jogging to catch up. When he turned, expecting Kasey by the lack of heels clicking against the floor, he found his little brother.

“Ah, goldfish cracker,” Alex said. When Finn just looked at him, frown in place, he put a hand on his shoulder. “Hi, you good, or—”

“These games,” Finn said softly. “They get rough. Tonight especially. It’s all on the line, Al.”

“You’re telling me.”

Finn rolled his eyes. “Alex.”

“I know,” Alex said. Some days, some mornings, he woke up unable to rest until he knew that Finn was all right. Sometimes he’d had a dream about the concussion. Some days he just needed to know. “I know.”

“Just be careful,” Finn said.

“You gonna celebrate with me tonight? No matter what?”

“Hell yeah.”

“Not gonna let Logan hog you?”

“Well—no promises. He’s very convincing.”

“You mean you wouldn’t be able to resist him if he…” Alex sighed. “I can’t even think of anything he could do.”

“Sounds right,” Finn said. He put both hands on Alex’s shoulders. “Hey. Love you. Kick their ass, all right? For our seven year old selves.”

Alex laughed as he watched Finn back up to return to the lounge. “Sure thing, Fish.”

•

NYR vs. COL Game 6 : Saturday, 5:30 PM

Logan was on the stationary bike when his phone lit up. Leo.

Finn is with his parents but I’m just around locker room corner—kiss? xx

Logan nearly tripped getting off the bike. He stumbled on the pedals and hopped on one foot before catching himself on the handlebars of Luke’s.

“What the fuck just happened to you?” Luke asked.

“Be right back,” Logan called, already headed towards the door.

Cooing, he typed back to Leo, then cursed and tried to type correctly as he jogged out of the gym. Coming

Rounding the corner to see Leo leaning against the wall was more than Logan could have hoped for. He wore a blue sweater, one of the soft, thin cashmere ones he’d allowed himself to spend more money on than usual. Look, Lo, he’d said in the store. Feel how soft.

Logan had made him blush when he’d pushed the sleeve up and ran his fingers along Leo’s skin instead.

“Hi,” Leo smiled when he saw him. Logan reached out for him and Leo walked right into his arms, leaning down to press their cheeks together.

“Salut,” Logan said. “Thanks for coming all the way down here. Everyone in the box?”

“Just about.” Leo nosed at his jaw. “Thought maybe I could shut your brain off for a couple minutes.”

“That sounds good,” Logan said.

Leo’s kiss was playful. Logan let himself be pressed back against the wall by Leo’s tall form. The shadow he cast was like shade on a warm day. Logan felt like he never had to move again, especially when Leo ducked down further, deepened the kiss, and brushed his tongue into his mouth. Logan caught his hips, tucking his hands right under that soft sweater just like he had that day in the store.

Leo was true to his word. Logan’s mind hummed into quiet. The only pressure was Leo’s body against his. He wanted him closer. He withdrew his hands to press up on his toes and put his arms around Leo’s neck, carding his fingers through his hair as he sucked gently on Leo’s lower lip before letting Leo kiss him properly again.

“I—“ Logan broke off in a laugh. “I’m, maybe—Mm…” Logan held Leo closer, arching up into another one of his kisses that threatened to fold him right up. “Merde—Le—je t’aime, wait, je t’aime…”

Heat had begun to course through him, and if he didn’t stop Leo now, he never would.

Leo just smiled against his mouth. “They keep showing locker room shots on the broadcast they’re playing in the lounge.” Leo’s voice sounded shaky, like he was just as wound up as Logan. “And I’m standing there trying to talk to all these parents while you’re behind them on TV with your shirt off…” He brought one of Logan’s hands to his mouth and kissed his wrist, then his palm. “Taping a stick with these hands…Fuck, Lo.”

Logan leaned up and kissed him again. He tasted like tequila and lime. He must have had something with it at dinner, or in the lounge.

Leo broke the kiss with a reluctant sound and pressed a softer one to Logan’s overheated cheek.

“You’re right,” he whispered. “Sorry, I’m just suddenly…” He ran a knuckle along the collar of Logan’s t-shirt. “It’s strange, to see you ready to play when we’re not.” His hand traveled down Logan’s chest, over the Rangers logo on his sweatshirt, under the hem, where his thumb tucked just barely below the spandex shorts Logan wore beneath his sweatpants. “Though watching is not without its perks.”

Logan flatted Leo’s warm hand against his stomach and held it there.

“How was dinner?” Logan asked. He didn’t like being left behind from dinner with his and Finn’s families, but he knew he had a game to prepare for. He had received a photograph of Finn and Leo being hugged by all of his sisters. Noelle had sent him another of her and Leo cheering glasses, and another of Finn kissing her cheek. He didn’t know which one to make the lock screen of his phone.

“It was really fun. I love your sisters so much. And your mom.” Leo ran a hand through Logan’s hair. “She kept rubbing my back of brushing Finn’s hair back, or Noelle’s or something. I’m not even sure she knew she was doing it.” He put his hand back where Logan had placed it, running it up to his chest. “No wonder you like being touched so much.”

Logan sank a little more into his side. “I think I like being touched by you a little differently.”

Leo leaned down to rest their foreheads together. “I think so, too.”

They both took a few breaths, hands still clasped, Leo’s thumb ran soothing strokes over Logan’s skin.

“Feeling good?” he asked.

“Mm,” Logan nodded, not enough to part them, and closed his eyes. He did feel good. Endorphins raced through him. Even the nagging burn of Leo’s pleasure wasn’t uncomfortable. It was like a little push.

“Got something for you,” Leo whispered.

Logan opened his eyes, interested. “A present?”

Leo laughed, reaching into his shirt. “It’s not really a present. Though I expect you’ll get a few later tonight.”

He withdrew the fleur-de-lis from around his own neck and slipped it over Logan’s head.

“Meant to give it to you earlier,” Leo said. He kissed the pendant before letting it rest over Logan’s chest. “Good luck, okay? Be safe. You know where we’re sitting?”

“Ouais,” Logan said. When Leo folded him into his arms, Logan inhaled deeply and let every muscle in his body relax. “I’ll find you.”

When he was back in the locker room, he savored the feeling of the pendant dropping against his bare chest as he pulled his sweatshirt and shirt over his head to dress for the game. It was still warm from Leo’s skin. In his stall, his phone lit up again, this time from Finn.

It was a photograph of a television, where he saw his own back.

Hi, Finn wrote. I find you so hot, I don’t know what to do with myself.

Logan looked over his shoulder, found the camera, and grinned.

•

NYR vs. COL Game 6 : Saturday, 6:30 PM

Luke had a bit of a plan. Maybe he wouldn’t exactly call it a plan, but he had something he wanted. He kept an eye on the clock, on Saint getting dressed, buckling his pads. He listened as the rest of the boys got louder, more riled, as their walk down the tunnel to the ice got closer. Logan was laughing hard at something Alex was saying. Luke pushed his helmet down over his head, adjusting the tightness. It didn’t matter how hard his heart was pounding. Saint would lead them out tonight. And there would be no catching him alone after that.

He accidentally caught Logan’s eye as he made his way towards Saint’s stall. There must have been something in his face, because Logan put a hand out for him to clasp.

“Good?” Logan asked.

“Yeah,” Luke said, bringing their palms together and squeezing briefly. “See you in a bit.”

Saint had his mask perched on his head. He was examining his blocker, streaked with black from the rubber of the puck. He only glanced up when Luke stopped in front of him.

“Tweedle,” Saint said in a soft voice. “We’re all dressed up.”

Luke put a hand on the stall divider and leaned down until Saint looked up at him.

“Come with me,” Luke said.

Saint didn’t look up from his blocker. He only switched to checking the netting of his glove. “All right.”

Saint put his mask over his head and brought his stick, as if Luke was merely going to speak with him for a moment. Well, what Luke had to say would take a moment, but Saint didn’t need his mask for it.

He checked to make sure Saint was behind him. He lumbered a bit in his gear, but kept up.

“Are you okay?” Saint asked through the bars of his cage.

“You didn’t need your mask for this,” Luke said once they were alone.

Saint’s eyes flicked up. “You’re wearing your helmet.”

“Well—” Luke began, then cut off. He cleared his throat, looking between Saint’s brown-gold eyes. “What was all that with Percy earlier?”

“What happened with Percy earlier?”

Luke huffed. He was messing with him.

“‘People as loud as you usually are,’” Luke repeated his words back at him. “Scared.”

Saint tilted his head. “What did I mean?”

“Yeah.”

“I…” Saint opened his mouth, then closed it. “Nothing bad. You think he’s angry with me, I’m guessing.”

“No,” Luke said. “No, I don’t think he was angry, I’m just asking…What about the quiet ones?”

“What about them?”

Luke smiled slightly, giving his head a shake. This was Saint in full force. Driving him insane. He could drive him insane right back.

“I’m not loud.” Luke took his helmet off, letting it drop to the floor. “And I’m scared. Or I was, for a long time. Terrified the first time I saw you. The first time you kissed me.”

Saint’s eyes tracked the motion, resting on the helmet by Luke’s feet. “You’re…a special case.”

“Why?”

“You just are.” Saint looked back at him. “You were scared?”

“I want something.”

Behind his mask, confusion bloomed all over Saint’s face. He glanced in the direction of the locker room. “Tw—Luke…What?”

Luke shook his head once. “I mean, I want to say something.”

“I said what I said to Percy. It’s not a rule, I just…” Saint began, looking almost frustrated. “It was true. It’s hard enough to get what you want in life without people not even trying. It’s hard to…” Saint nearly rolled his eyes. “You are quiet. You’re also very difficult.”

“I know I am. So are you.”

Saint looked at his mouth, and Luke swore he leaned in, just a little.

“The thing about you is…” Luke pressed his lips together in an unsure motion. “I have no idea if you’re quiet, or if you’re loud.”

Saint said nothing.

“You don’t talk that much. And then when you do, you’re kind of brutal about it, but I don’t think that’s because you’re afraid at all, I think it’s because you’re not.” Slowly, Luke put his hands on either side of Saint’s mask. It was a new one, made from the deep blue color of the Rangers, Saint’s name written across the front below the cage. “Quiet, loud, I don’t care. You just have to look at me and it’s the loudest thing in the room. In the world.”

Luke was fairly certain Saint was no longer breathing. His shoulder pads were still.

“Seb…” Luke whispered. He put his thumb over Saint’s name. He began to lift the mask from his face. “I—”

Saint’s hand flew up and stopped Luke’s with a tight grip on his wrist. His eyes were wide. Bright. Something close to tears, but he wasn’t crying. Something close to fear, but not quite.

“You choose right now, when we’re about to go down that tunnel to the most important game of our lives to…”

He trailed off, but his voice wavered at the end.

“Yeah, I do,” Luke said.

Slowly, enjoying the way Saint watched him, Luke leaned forward and kissed the mask. The cage’s bars were cold against his lips. Saint’s tawny eyes had not moved away from his.

“I choose right now,” Luke said softly. “But I’ll chose later, too, if that’s what you want.”

•

NYR vs. COL Game 6 : Saturday, 8:30 PM

“What does my Finn face look like?”

There was six minutes left in the second period, and Logan wasn’t sure he was even going to be able to catch a break during a two minute TV break. Both sides were playing like hell, and Madison Square Garden, the New York crowd, was like wildfire.

Percy swished water around in his mouth and spit it back on the ice. “Like someone either just smacked you really hard or gave you a million dollars. Or like someone just smacked you really hard with a million dollars.” Percy considered. “Come to think of it, you actually have been both smacked really hard and probably earned a million dollars in the last few minutes. So I should think of a new metaphor.”

Logan smiled and looked up towards the crowd. A sea of blue. Will slid onto the bench beside them. Logan bumped their shoulders together. Will had a fresh cut over his nose, courtesy of one of Colorado’s defensemen.

“What’s up?” Logan asked.

Will’s mouthguard hung halfway out of his mouth and he chewed on it idly. “I’m thinking that your O’Hara mind-reading applies to extended family. And we should use it.”

They went back out onto the ice with a plan—a plan Logan had used so many times it was practically muscle memory. Luckily, he still only had to glimpse the edges of red hair from his peripheral vision. Logan told Alex what to do, covering his mouth with his glove, and Alex nodded.

“I’ll be there,” he said.

It almost worked. Logan had the puck on his tape, ready to drop it back to Alex when the next thing he knew he was being slammed into the boards.

He felt the cool waft of the ice near his neck as he landed on his back. He groaned and pushed himself up, righting his helmet on his head as he chased after 54, who had done it.

As soon as he touched the puck, Logan threw his shoulder forward, dug his skate into the ice, and sent 54 sprawling.

“Tremz!” Alex shouted, and Logan scooped up the puck and shot it across the ice. Then it went to Percy, then Alex, as they pushed back up the ice. Alex nearly missed Percy’s arrow of a pass, and then a Colorado defensemen only just managed to intercept the puck. He didn’t knock it free of it’s path, though. It ricochetted, and Logan lost sight of its path for only a moment before the red light in Colorado’s goal lit up.

The New York crowd roared, but it was muted just as quickly when the whistle blew. Logan’s smile slowly melted from his face as the referee pointed to the Colorado bench.

“What?” Logan shouted to the referee, skating up beside him. “Fucking what?”

“Language, Tremblay,” the referee said. “Coach’s challenge. And you know what else—that bullet of a hit of yours.”

Logan rolled his eyes and took his mouth guard out. “Oh, come on. He was in my numbers, too, everyone is tonight, I’m allowed.”

But the referee only waved him off, already talking into his headset. Logan scowled after him, but skated back towards his own bench.

“Colorado’s challenging the goal,” Luke said. “Said Marshy kicked it in.”

“Bullshit,” Percy scoffed. “It just hit my foot. It’s not my fault my foot was there.”

“And they’re thinking about giving me two because of my hit,” Logan hissed. “It was clean.”

“It was,” Luke said.

“He started it.”

“Calm down,” Luke laughed.

“What Dev said.” Percy shook his head. “Ya fucking fireball. Gotta douse you with one of those metal hats—those things, you know?”

Luke squirted water into his mouth. “A snuffer.”

Percy shook his head. “That’s what you clean floors with.”

“Swiffer.”

“It was a clean hit,” Logan said again, just as the referee pushed back out to center ice.

“The call on the ice stands,” he boomed over his microphone, and he put his arms out, though the crowd was already roaring. “We have a good goal.”

They left the second period ahead of Colorado, but a two goal lead was the fragilest thing in the world, and Logan didn’t feel anything other than urgency as they left the ice. He’d also left with a fresh, blooming bruise. His cheek throbbed, his knee, but all he saw was those twenty minutes more.

“Logan,” one of the assistant coaches said. “Intermission interview.”

Logan looked down the hallway, breathing hard, to where Cassie was discussing something with her camera crew.

“Take Percy,” he said, taking his helmet off.

Through the tunnel, Logan broke away from the team and the cameras, and was about to take the three steps up towards the PT room, only then someone grabbed his arm. He found his back set gently against the wall, and then he was being kissed. It was a kiss that he knew in his bones.

Finn Finn FinnFinnFinn.

“Nice,” Finn said in a low, happy voice. He glanced sideways towards a passing aid, who was politely keeping her eyes ahead and fighting back a smile. “Being able to do that.”

“Do it again,” Logan said.

Finn laughed. He brushed another kiss over Logan’s mouth. “I love when you follow the ref. Love when you get all like that. Love it…”

“He started it,” Logan mumbled, more interested in the flush on Finn’s cheeks—his ears.

“You okay?” Finn thumbed lightly over the fresh cut over Logan’s cheek. “You look good out there. That was a clean hit, I don’t care what the refs say. It was a solid play, your play, just like always. Can’t stand watching you get hit, makes me want to—”

“It was our play.” Logan turned his chin down into Finn’s palm. “You know?”

Finn gave him a lopsided smile. “Baby…”

“You know it was ours. You saw?”

“I saw.” Finn shook his head, still smiling. He kissed the corner of Logan’s mouth. “Of course I saw.”

Logan was nearly his height with his skates on, but he stepped halfway up the three stairs so he was taller and wrapped Finn up in his arms. He didn’t care if he was sweaty or had snow on him from the ice. He kissed the side of Finn’s temple and felt Finn touch where his necklace had come out of the neck of his jersey.

“Le?” Finn questioned.

“Yeah, Le.”

Finn rested his forehead against Logan’s jaw.

“You got this,” Finn whispered. When Logan looked down, he saw Finn had his eyes closed. Peaceful. “I can see it. All that fire you got in you.”

Logan smiled, letting his eyes slip closed, too. “Perc and Luke say it’s too much.”

Finn’s reply, whispered against the sweat cooling on his neck, drew a pleasant chill over Logan’s skin.

“I like it.”

•

NYR vs. COL Game 6 : Saturday, 8:45 PM

“I don’t know about you,” Percy said. “But I think they paired us up again because they want to hear the rest of the story.”

Cassie laughed. She had a small compact mirror out and was carefully adjusting the wing of her eyeliner, but snapped it shut and turned to him. “I guess they’ll have to live in suspense.”

Percy knew he certainly did. Snowy nights and street lamps showing blizzard flakes and wheels spinning on ice.

“Did you see my goal?” he asked instead.

“We’re going to be live in ten seconds.”

“Yeah, but were you watching?”

Cassie had a ready smile in place, eyes towards the camera. “Of course I was, that’s my job.”

“Did you think it was pretty?”

“It went off your foot and they reviewed it for a kicking motion.”

“But I didn’t kick. I would know.”

“No, you didn’t kick.”

“So, say it was pretty cause it was.”

“Thanks, guys,” Cassie said brightly to the voice in her earpiece. “I’m here with Percy Marshall who scored the goal to tie it up at the end of the second. Pretty tense moment, there, Percy, what do you think you guys have to do to keep your lead in the third?”

“I think we have to keep doing what we’re doing. We’re a team with a lot of strengths, very star-studded, with O’Hara, Tremblay, Montague… We have a lot of options, and we’re using every single one of them.”

Cassie directed the microphone back to herself. “I noticed you didn’t include yourself there among the stars.”

The microphone came back to him. Percy swallowed, and let his usual smile pass over his face easily.

“I’m no star. I’m what they call blood and guts.” He let his eyes flick down to her mouth, just for a moment. “At least when it comes to hockey.”

Cassie stared up at him for a moment, smile still in place, but softer. More for him. “I—thank you, Percy.”

Percy flashed the camera a smile. “Uh-huh.”

“And off,” said the woman waiting behind the camera. She flashed Cassie a thumbs up and then shuffled off with the camera man somewhere. It left them alone, if only briefly, and Percy’s heart kicked into drive.

Why, why had he been so much better at this in college?

Cassie was looking at him. He looked back

“It wasn’t a pretty goal,” she said. “But last game. The one you scored in the second…that was pretty.”

“Thanks,” Percy said. Then a question came tumbling out of him. “Is it weird being around us again?”

“Weird?”

“Will, Logan…” Me.

Wouldn’t be the first time I saved you, though, would it?

He’d meant to make her laugh. He hadn’t saved her, and now he felt stupid for saying it, saying it on television. It had been a snow storm, it had been a drive home, it had been—

They both looked away.

“No,” Cassie said. She was scuffing the heel of her boot lightly against the floor. She’d always done that. Percy could suddenly see her in those tight little dresses she used to love, one toe pointed up, heel down, tapping against a beer-sticky floor while she talked to Logan.

“It’s nice,” she continued. “You guys were always so wonderful. And I regretted when Logan and I—you know, when we broke it off. I mean, I get what was going on now, and I don’t—I’m not mad or anything.” She looked up at him. “Did you know? Finn and Logan.”

Percy leaned back against the wall, blowing out a breath. “That’s a very loaded question. Know-know? No. But…I mean, yeah, I knew they…”

He thought of Logan tearing out of the house after Finn left. Finn’s car skidding back into the driveway, his red eyes, tear-streaked cheeks. Nothing. I just thought I forgot something.

“It’s okay,” Cassie said, shaking her head. “It’s not my business, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, no,” Percy said. “You were caught up in them just like the rest of us. It’s all right. Happy ending, right?”

Cassie smiled, eyes flitting to his, then away. “Yeah.”

Percy glanced down the hallway where he could see the coaching staff heading into the locker room.

“Well, I gotta…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cassie laughed, then cleared her throat. “Okay. Good luck. Do something pretty out there.”

Percy’s laugh came out a little high-pitched, even to himself. “Yeah, I—I’ll try. Thanks.”

He made it half way to the locker room doors before he heard her voice.

“Hey, Marshall.”

Percy looked over his shoulder. Cassie was biting at the inside of her cheek, idly tapping her microphone against her thigh.

“Hey, Baker,” Percy said softly.

Cassie smiled at the old routine. Old jokes and unfinished business, that’s what Percy thought they were.

“I don’t know if I would exactly call it you saving my life,” she said. “But I do remember.”

Percy’s insides were melting. He knew no one else knew what they were talking about, but he’d felt such elation, such guilt that night, that he swore the memories had rolled out in scrolls at his feet.

“Do you?” Cassie shifted back a step, twisting one heel of her boot against the rubber they set down over the floor for their skates. “Remember?”

“Cassie Baker,” Percy sighed, settling his helmet back on his head. “If I ever forget a single thing about you, you can tell the world to go ahead and say I’ve lost my mind.”

•

NYR vs. COL Game 6 : Saturday, 10:45 PM

Logan burned. His lungs. His thighs. His knuckles. It had been a short, swing of a fight with a number 34, and when the guy had tried to put Logan on his back after taking his helmet off with a hard swing, Logan thought of Finn’s head, gorgeous and fragile, and he had seen red. Logan sent 34 to his knees with a rough shove to his shoulder. He’d caught some of his breath back in the two minutes he spent in the box, ice on his wrist, and now he was breathing hard waiting to take the face-off.

He waved off the beckons back to the bench. He breathed deep through his nose. He put his mouth guard back in.

He tried to pretend the only reason he was working this hard was to win a Cup.

He wished his boys were on the ice with him, not in the stands. He wanted Finn, tall and lean in his skates, talking fast in his ear, and Leo at his back in the net.

Home.

He needed this to get him home, and he needed it not to go to overtime. He needed this finished.

5-5 in the third with the clock winding down. Five goals: Alex, Percy, Logan, Logan, Alex.

Three times to show he meant it, that’s what he needed.

He gave his stick a flick of a twirl in his loose gloves and bent for the face-off.

There was nothing faster than play-off hockey. Sometimes, Logan thought he’d been born for it. He flexed his fingers in his gloves and imagined himself on the lake near his parents’ home. It’s where he put the pressure away. He sank into memory. He reached for something to set his blood roaring and found the image of how Jack Archer looked at Leo there waiting. His heart thundered. He dug his skate edges into the ice harder, ready to take off at a moment’s notice.

“I know you’re counting the seconds, boys. It’s nothing at all and it’s an eternity,” the referee said as he held out the puck. “But let’s play nice now. If you win it, you want to win it fair.”

Neither player replied. Maybe 45 was fast, but Logan stole the puck right out from the dot when the referee dropped it. He didn’t have to think, not in moments like these. Not when he could feel Will behind him, catching Logan’s win, hear Percy tapping the ice for his pass.

Colorado intercepted. Logan skated hard and drove his shoulder into the pick-pocket’s side right at the blue line. It let Alex get the puck. The crowd shrieked.

Alex hit the post. Logan swore the pinging sound echoed through the entire team. It made him gasp as he skated for the bench. He fell down beside Luke, breathing so hard he had to lean over and cough.

Luke slapped his back. “Atta boy, Tremz.”

The whistle blew as Colorado sent the puck dinging off the glass and into the crowd.

“Fuck me,” Alex shouted as he came to the bench, slamming the door after him hard.

“It was a good shot,” Logan said.

Alex’s laugh was breathless and he stole Logan’s water. “It was an almost shot.”

Five minutes.

It was nothing at all, and an eternity. Logan looked up, looked for red and gold.

It was impossible to see them, but he imagined he could. He found that his pendant had come out of his jersey and, eyes still raised, brought it to his lips and kissed it before tucking it away again.

Home. It was irrational, it wasn’t true, likely, but he still felt that if he did this, if he helped pull the Rangers into victory, he could ask for anything he wanted. He’d served his purpose. Home.

“You have 29,” Logan said to Luke. “I’m going to go around.”

“I know,” Luke said. “I’m with you.”

But the referees were calling nothing at this late stage. At three minutes, Logan found himself going shoulder first into the boards, pain flaring. He ignored it. He got up, there was no time. He made to hit his stick against the ice, calling for the puck again, but found the blade half snapped off. The bench was hollering at him as Logan skated hard towards it. He barely looked as he threw the broken stick towards the equipment manager and snatched the fresh one.

Luke had the puck, his eyes went to Logan. Every part of the stadium seemed to hush, but Logan knew that was only because the place was so loud. Logan could picture Finn with his hands in his hair, Leo gripping his arm. He could imagine his sisters screaming.

A defenseman tried to block Luke’s pass, but Luke lifted the puck just enough so it warbled through the air. Logan was afraid, for a moment, that he wasn’t going to be able to catch it like that. He needed to steady it somehow, he needed to undo its momentum.

Logan dug his skate into the ice, tracking as the puck found his tape, and immediately pulled himself into a fast turn. The puck steadied on his tape and Logan knew he was out of time. He could feel the screams, they rumbled his feet, the ice, but he couldn’t hear them. Only his heart.

Logan steadied his blade on the ice and, half-blind, shot.

Luke was there, ready to pick up a rebound. Alex was there, arms wide against a defenseman. The goaltender reached, glove wide.

But the puck hit home, the net rippling.

Logan shouted, or at least he thought he did. The sound tore out of his throat. He threw his stick, his gloves. It was all he had time for before Luke and Alex were slamming into him. He felt himself stumbling, held up by his teammates, still shouting. He clutched at their jerseys, felt Alex’s visor press against his. The arena shook, and he gasped, straining his head back to see. When the cameras caught this moment, he wanted the world to see who he looked for first.

•

NYR vs. COL Game 6: Saturday, 10:50 PM

Dog pile.

Luke stumbled over thrown equipment, hardly able to move with how tightly his team was pressed together. He clutched Logan’s shoulders. He allowed himself one more second of holding his best friend before he turned, looking wildly, trying to find—

And he was there. Shoving to the core of their huddle, glove, blocker, helmet somewhere left behind, his curls free. Saint reached for Luke. Jostled as they were by the other boys around them, Saint held onto Luke’s jersey, keeping them together.

“Seb,” Luke shouted, laughing. “You were amazing, you—Fuck, you were so—”

“You terrify me,” Saint shouted over the stadium’s roar. He was still breathing hard, sweat dripping in his eyes in a way that probably stung.

Luke thought his heart had already been pounding. He thought there had already been a few tears on his cheeks. But now…

“You do.” Saint cupped a hand around the back of Luke’s neck, the other pressing to his chest. “And I—love you. I love you.”

Luke did cry then. He hadn’t expected it, the first sob hiccuped out of him, then it was a laugh. He leaned down in the only half-hidden, joyful huddle of their team and brought their mouths together. Kissing Saint was hotter than the adrenaline fire in his blood.

Someone, Percy, Luke thought, hit him in the shoulder happily. When the parted, Saint was smiling at him. It was a grin Luke had seen all of once. So thoroughly unguarded. No masks, no performances.

“Well,” Saint said.

“I love you,” Luke could hardly speak. Hardly breathe. “Seb—”

Saint pushed into his arms, and then someone else hugged him, too. When Luke opened his eyes, Logan was there at their sides, grinning at him.

•

Someone had shoved a champion hat in his hands and Logan pushed back his sweaty hair and put it on, backwards.

“Where,” he mumbled to himself. He saw families. Will’s wife, his son, his parents, all embracing. He saw Percy’s parents. Natalie and Kasey. “Where…”

“Lolo,” Logan heard from behind him.

He grinned, barely had time to turn, before Noelle was in his arms. He held her force and clutched back.

“Lo,” Noelle said shakily in his ear. “Logan, you did—you fucking did it again, that was beautiful, Lo, that goal, fucking hat trick, that was so beautiful.”

She broke off, laughing, speechless.

Logan tucked his face into her neck. There were cameras on them, capturing the moment, and mics hanging like fruit above their lenses. Words pushed at him, words he wouldn’t say to Leo or Finn, in case they made him sound too hopeful—or not hopeful enough.

But to Noelle. To Noelle, he could say anything.

“Maybe I can go home now,” Logan said.

“Oh, Bear,” Noelle said softly. Her arms tighten around him. “I know. I know…”

“Where—”

“Right behind me.” Noelle released him, crying, grinning, and turned.

Finally, there they were.

They didn’t have to push their way through. The crowd parted around them. Everyone knew they were his, that they were coming for him.

Alex was closer, and Logan knew Finn wasn’t about to pass by his brother. Two identical grins, running at each other one moment, then hugging tightly the next.

Logan only had eyes for Leo. Logan put a hand on Noelle’s shoulder and squeezed, then skated hard through the crowd. Leo put his hands up as he ran gingerly on the ice, then scooped Logan right off his feet, skates and all, and held him tightly before setting him down again and pressing his smile to his cheek. It probably should have made Logan feel every single one of his injuries, being lifted like that, but he felt unbearably light.

“That goal,” Leo shouted. “Jesus, Lo, oh my God, your hands. The spin, the lift you got, I don’t even know how you did that—”

Logan kissed him, but he might as well have plunged them both underwater. His hearing went muffled. Leo felt so good in his hands, strong and kissing him back. Salt leaked in, Leo’s tears, Leo being kissed on the ice by him.

“I can’t believe…” Leo mumbled, but the words dissolved and he gripped Logan’s jersey, drawing it taught over his shoulder pads.

Logan broke the kiss only so he could see his face. His lips were parted, red, his blue eyes bright. Speechless. His gaze darted behind Logan, around them, and he began to shake his head, began to laugh.

“I can believe it,” Logan said. “‘Cause it’s you.”

Leo brought his fingertips to Logan’s mouth, then the cut on his cheek. Smiling. Pure and bright. He touched his own lips, as if he could feel what had just happened.

“We…”

Logan threw his arms around Leo’s neck. He kissed him again, this one short and easy like they’d kissed on the ice a million times. “So happy you’re here. Merci, soleil. I know this is—after everything—” 

But Leo shook his head, grinning. “Oh, I love you. Of course we’re here, how could I miss that spin, and your face and—Lo, Harz and I just shouted our fucking lungs out. Lo, we just…” Leo leaned down and kissed him again. “God, lots of microphones around, I got a lot to say, but where—” He turned to look over his shoulder, clutching Logan to him as he searched—

And there was Finn, walking towards them, brown eyes already shining.

Leo released him only so Finn could take Logan gently in his arms.

“Look at him,” Leo said. “Look at him, Harz, look how happy.”

“God,” Finn’s voice broke, and he laughed, sniffling. “Are you hurt? Does that hurt?”

“Non,” Logan said, though he probably was, somewhere. “Non, I mean, can’t feel it.” Logan wanted Finn to hold him like this all the time. Hard, grasping, large palm warming the entirety of his flushed left cheek and jaw. And they were surrounded by people, Logan was wearing his uniform, on the ice, about to be handed the Stanley Cup for the second time in just two years, and Finn O’Hara was about to kiss him.

Finn didn’t say anything. He was probably thinking exactly what was going through Logan’s mind. He laughed, though, tears beginning to escape, and looked around, then back to Logan.

“If someone had tried to tell me, at nineteen…” Finn began. At the sound of how thick the tears were in his voice, Logan choked up, too. “My Lo.” He looked at Leo. “Le…I am the luckiest—”

Logan put his hands around Finn’s shoulders, leaned up, and kissed him. Finn’s tears were salty like Leo’s, and Logan was surprised to find that he himself wasn’t crying. He was so happy that he ached.

When he wrapped his arms around both of them, Finn tilted his head back and let out a loud, long whoop.

Leo’s answering smile was radiant and Logan hoped someone was taking photographs, anyone, of this. Of what was finally his.

“Now, I’ve won,” Logan said, clutching to them, and their answering laughs were a silver finer than anything. “We did it.”

Finn gripped Logan’s face, careful of the bruise, and made a low, growling sound that Logan supposed was him not knowing what to do with his happiness, how to contain his smile. He took Logan’s hat off, pushed his hand through his sweat-soaked hair, and settled it back on his head before using the bill to jostle Logan a little.

“God, Tremblay,” he said softly. “Love you forever.”

Leo’s mouth was close to his ear when he whispered, “MVP. At least in my book.”

Logan let himself close his eyes. He needed—and wanted—to see his family, but he just wanted to rest here for a moment. He wanted to feel Finn kiss his temple twice and Leo take his weight without question. Just the few moments had some of his adrenaline draining away, and Logan wanted them to take him somewhere and sleep for a year.

“None of that yet,” Leo said. “You got some heavy lifting to do still.”

~

“Alex,” Cassie Baker said. “How does it feel to be named the most valuable player to your team in this play-off run?”

Alex still felt like he could barely breathe, but he laughed, using the hem of his jersey to wipe champagne off his brow. “Got a shiny trophy and everything, huh?”

Cassie smiled at him. “Two trophies!”

“True, true. No, for real though, it’s—it’s a honor, but I’m nothing without these boys.” He motioned vaguely, but looked for a moment, trying to find familiar faces among the families in the crowded locker room. He could still feel the heft of the Cup as Percy had handed it off to him and he lifted it above his head. He could still see Logan’s grin as Alex had handed it off to him, then Logan to Luke, Luke to Saint. He found Finn, standing with his arms around Noelle and Aubrey, watching Logan being interviewed by another network. The floor was sticky, Alex’s entire face and hair was soaked with sweat and champagne and beer, but he was reluctant to take a shower. Natalie had jumped and locked her legs around his waist. Kasey was wearing his champion hat. Alex wouldn’t soon forget his grin as he took a swig from his own champagne bottle. Should I jump next?

“I can’t say enough about them,” Alex said. “And I won’t say this was an easy season. New faces, old friends, old faces, new friends. This team has become so close, but it was…” Alex laughed a little. “I don’t know, forge with fire, or whatever that saying is. Lots of wins feeling as rough as loses.”

Alex looked up to see that Finn was closer now, standing off camera, but listening. Cassie followed his gaze and smiled, too, but said nothing. Alex felt another hand thump him on the back. He didn’t see who it was, a teammate, a coach, a parent, but it felt good all the same.

“The thing with trades is you come to love people who might be your teammate one day and your opponent the next, and it’s difficult. But it’s lucky. There is so much…I’m just grateful to have everyone in this room in my life. On the ice, it’s a different world, we’re fighting so hard and—and it means everything when you’re on solid ground again to look around and find that there are twenty people waiting to celebrate with you.”

“You bring up trades, which you yourself went through this season, along with your old friend, Logan Tremblay. You both share a very tight connection with Gryffindor, who you knocked out of the playoffs this season. You’re being very modest, but I bet anything he would be able to give me ten reasons why you deserved this tonight. What was it like getting to be line mates with him?”

“Oh, Tremz is my—” Alex laughed as his eyes found Finn’s. Shouts went up and Alex caught a glimpse of the Cup being raised up, foaming beer sloshing out of it. Finn was smiling hard, rubbing at his jaw. “I don’t even know where to begin with that kid, he’s like a brother to me. We’ve shared good times, we’ve shared bad times, we…” Alex shook his head. “He makes my baby brother very happy, and so he makes me happy. And don’t even get me started on his game, he did things tonight I don’t think anyone can repeat, don’t even get me started, we’ll be here all night.”

Cassie laughed. “Final question, Alex, and then I’ll let you get back to celebrating. I just made eye contact with your brother you just mentioned, Finn, who plays for the Lions. There were a lot of Lions in the house today, including your old teammate Kasey Winter who you began your NHL career with here in New York. What did it mean to have him in the crowd?”

“Oh.” Alex heard his own voice break, and he laughed again, but felt it tremble. “You know, it’s…” Kasey was standing with Leo across the room, and both of their hands were out like they were discussing the goaltending of the game. Alex thought of that first locker room. Those brown eyes and big paw of a hand—he hadn’t quite grown into himself yet back then—stretching out to shake Alex’s pale one. That speeding drive, going faster than he’d ever admit, to reach the airport security check in time. Kase. Kase. Fucking, stop, Winter, wait—

“Oh,” Alex said again. “It’s—” He felt a sudden surge of protection over all of those stories, even against Cassie Baker’s kind eyes. “I’ll say this for now. It’s a big thing coming into this league. Bliz helped me settle into this life…” Alex swallowed. “Into myself. He retired this year, you know, that’s a big change for anyone. I just…I’ve never been so excited to be a part of someone’s next chapter, their daily life. I’ve never been someone’s…”

Suddenly Natalie was standing next to Finn. He didn’t know if Finn had waved her over, or how long she’d been standing there. She’d let her hair down, gold flowing over her shoulders. She had her arm looped through Finn’s, but she was only looking at him.

“There are beginnings, middles, and ends of everything,” Alex said, then smiled down at Cassie. “Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you get the full ride.”

[ankababy]

A Home (part 25)

Part 1 Part 24

Chishiya x reader x Niragi

TW: self harm inflicted by a lighter

Your sweater had twisted around your torso in the night, riding up over your stomach, your arms tangled in the sleeves like you were trying to hold yourself together and failed somewhere along the way. You weren’t cold. But you were shaking.

Your throat was dry, your mouth tasted like metal, and your eyes—your poor eyes—ached behind the lids. When you opened them, the light in the room was soft, honey-colored. It would’ve been beautiful, once. It would’ve meant something.

Now it just made you cry.

Sniff. Then a hitched breath. Then it crashed in again, full force.

You turned over on the floor, curled in tighter. Your voice cracked in your own throat when you tried to speak, even to yourself. No words came. Not even the ones you used to say, the gentle nothings that used to fill the air when things felt too bad. The humming. The lists. The dreams.

You didn’t have those anymore.

Now it was just:

He killed someone.

They killed someone.

And you—

Your fingers clawed weakly at the rug beneath you. Just something to hold onto.

You pressed your face into the floor, and the sound that left you wasn’t a sob—it was a crack.

“I didn’t—” you whispered. “I didn’t know.”

Like it changed anything. Like it mattered.

You had told Niragi to get out.

You had told Chishiya to go.

And now, they were both gone.

But that didn’t stop your heart from screaming for them.

You thought about Niragi’s hands on your body, about how he looked at you like you were a religion. You thought about Chishiya’s comfort, the way he held you without asking why.

It hurt so much you didn’t even know where it started anymore. It was just everywhere. In your bones. In your eyes. In the shape of your fingers as they clawed uselessly at your own sleeves.

You were supposed to be so sweet.

You were supposed to be their little light.

You were supposed to be untouchable.

But now there was blood on everything.

So you cried.

You cried like it was all your fault. Like if you cried hard enough, it would roll time backward. Like it could undo all the awful things done in your name.

And even when the sobs stopped—when your body was too weak to keep up—your eyes kept leaking. Silent, shaking. You couldn’t stop. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t feel anything except the awful pressure in your chest, the screaming in your brain that never made it out of your mouth.

You didn’t try to get up.

You didn’t try to be okay.

You just laid there, small and broken, on the floor of your own room, and let yourself come apart.

Because what else was left?

The Beach was full of killers. The men you loved were monsters. And you were just a girl who wanted to be good.

~

The sun was coming in too hot through Niragi’s curtains—he never fucking closed them—and it carved a line down his face. The sweat sticking it to his ribs, his chest. His hair was damp at the roots, matted against his forehead like he’d been running. Dreaming. Dying.

And for a moment—he wasn’t sure if he had.

But then he turned his head and saw the mess. The shattered lamp. The broken glass. The blood dried on the knuckles of his right hand. And oh yeah. He remembered now.

You.

You crying.

You saying get out.

You looking at him like that.

His neck ached. His ribs ached. Something in his soul ached so violently he thought it might just up and crawl out of his throat.

He sat up, slow. Like every movement might shatter him worse.

He could still hear you crying.

He’d do anything to make it stop. Rip his own skin off if he had to. Break his fucking jaw and shove his fingers down his throat if that could pull the guilt out of him.

But the worst part? He didn’t regret killing that asshole. Not even a little. Not even for you.

He regretted hurting you.

He regretted what it did to your heart. But Akira? Bugsy? Whatever the fuck? He could kill that guy a hundred times over and still sleep like a baby—except that now, sleeping meant dreaming of your voice when it broke.

“Get out.”

He dragged a hand down his face, digging his fingers hard into his cheekbones, scratching down until the sting felt real.

You’d loved him.

He knew that. Maybe not the way he wanted—but enough. You’d touched him like he mattered. You talked to him like he was someone. And he had fucked it. Blown it apart with his anger. With his name, with his hands, with his fire.

“Fuck.” he muttered under his breath.

He stood up, knees weak. Walked barefoot through broken glass because he didn’t care. The sting felt honest. He needed more of it.

He missed you.

That word wasn’t even strong enough.

He ached for you.

His whole body remembered the weight of you in it—the light you brought in every room, the way you looked up at him like you saw something worth saving.

Now?

He didn’t think you’d ever look at him that way again.

He couldn’t blame you.

He didn’t deserve it.

He lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, pressed it to his lips, and inhaled like it might fill the hollow space in his chest. It didn’t.

It had always been like this. Always him, in the wreckage of his own making. Always a mess of teeth and fire and damage.But this time, the wreckage had your name on it. And that made all the difference.

He exhaled, slow.

“I’m fucking sorry.”

Even if you never heard it.

Even if he never said it right.

He was still the monster you let in. Still the boy with a gun for a heartbeat and too much fire in his veins.

But for the first time in his life, he didn’t want to be.

He just wanted to be yours.

Your words hurt him.

Not in the dramatic, rage-fueled way that usually ended in blood. Not like when someone disrespected him, or mocked him, or looked at him like he was just another dog in the dirt. Those things he could handle. Those things he welcomed.

No—you hurt him like a person.

And for once in his life… he didn’t want to hurt back for it.

That was the first fucking sign. That something had shifted inside him—rotted or bloomed, he couldn’t even tell. But it was different. It wasn’t normal. Because Niragi was an animal that bared its teeth the second it tasted pain. He never sat in pain. Never soaked in it like this.

He was the one who inflicted.

And yet there he was. Sat on the floor of his room in the center of the glass and filth he made, cigarette between his fingers, blood on his hands, lip trembling like some weak little thing.

You told him to leave. You flinched when he touched your things, when his voice got too loud, when the fire in his chest caught your name and burned it out like it was his to burn.

You weren’t supposed to matter this much.

But there he was, alone. Ashes on the floor. Smoke in his lungs. Blood in his mouth.

And all he could think about was how bad he wanted to take it all back.

Not because he wanted you to forgive him. No, he didn’t think he deserved that.

But because he didn’t want to be the reason your voice cracked like that. Didn’t want to be the reason you cried so hard you couldn’t breathe. Didn’t want to be the monster in your story.

He was used to it from everyone else. He liked it, even. The fear. The disgust. It made him feel big. Unstoppable.

But from you? You, who always called him out and still smiled at him? You, who always touched his face? From you, it tore him to pieces.

So he sat there, head tipped back against the wall, teeth gritted, and he let it hurt. He let your words echo in his skull. Let your tears haunt the air. Let the silence eat him alive.

He wanted to wreck something. Tear the world down. Set fire to the Beach and everyone in it.

But instead?

He stared down at his palms.

The same ones you used to hold.

The same ones that shook when you touched his jaw and called him all those sweet words in that dumb little voice like it was true.

He stared at them and thought, I should’ve used these better.

And then he did the worst thing Niragi Suguru could do.

He blamed himself.

For everything.

For the way he spoke to you.

For the way he treated people like they were disposable.

For the way he let the violence take him again and again, even when you gave him other options.

He could’ve stopped it.

He could’ve listened to you—like you asked, so sweetly, so gently, like you believed there was still something worth saving in him.

But he didn’t.

And now? Now it was gone.

Now you were gone.

He brought the cigarette to his lips again. It shook. So he crushed it against the wall instead, watching the embers die out one by one. That was the closest thing to repentance he had in him.

He wanted to cut the words you said into his skin.

Not to punish himself, but so he wouldn’t forget.

He wanted to split himself open and show you he could change.

But you weren’t here. You wouldn’t believe him anyway. And maybe you shouldn’t.

He curled in on himself like something feral. Not crying. Not screaming. Just breaking. Quietly. Bit by bit.

Because you were the only good thing. And he’d wrecked you too.

He wanted to destroy the world. But not because he hated it.

Because he hated himself.

~

Chishiya woke up in his bed.

At least there was that.

No glass on the floor. No broken furniture. No blood on his hands.

Just the soft rustle of sheets, the sterile chill of morning air sliding through the open balcony door, and the quiet ache of a realization that wouldn’t leave him alone.

He was still. Flat on his back. Eyes staring at the ceiling like it held answers—like it could map out what went wrong, and where exactly he’d stopped being immune.

He wasn’t made for that. He was made to watch. To calculate. To manipulate. He was supposed to be untouchable.

But you touched him.

God. You touched him.

Physically, sure. Hands on his clothes, fingers brushing his, that casual intimacy you gave everyone. But it was more than that. You saw him. Through him. Past him. And didn’t turn away.

You were sweetness. Unfiltered, inconvenient, reckless sweetness. The kind of softness that should’ve annoyed him—should’ve made him roll his eyes and leave the room.

But he stayed.

Again and again.

Not because of the plan. Not because of utility.

But because when you looked at him, it was like he wasn’t wrong. Like he wasn’t some cold, disjointed thing pretending to be a person.

You made it easy to forget that he didn’t know how to be soft back.

He should’ve lied. He should’ve spun a story, kept the mask on, played dumb about not being a part of killing Akira. But he didn’t.

Because he respected you.

Because—somehow—you mattered more than the comfort of denial.

He sat up slowly, dragging a hand through his hair, his chest tight with the pressure of something unfamiliar and loud. It buzzed beneath his skin like static, like adrenaline, like the first time he realized he was going to survive a game by letting someone else die.

It was that same sick weight.

Except this time, it was about you. The way you laughed. The way you curled into Kuina like she was home. The way you never stopped giving people chances.

Even him. Even Niragi.

God, Niragi.

Chishiya pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and exhaled.

He knew how that bastard felt about you. He didn’t need to ask. It was written in every quiet second Niragi let you speak, in every time he let you sit in his chair, in the way he didn’t kill someone just because you looked at them a certain way. Well, except this time, but anyways.

And Chishiya hated that it made him jealous.

Because you liked Niragi, too. You chose to be around him. And Chishiya didn’t understand it. Not really. But he didn’t blame you.

You were drawn to broken things.

And fuck, weren’t they all broken?

He stared out the window now, eyes heavy, mouth a flat line.

He wasn’t going to cry. He didn’t do that.

But he felt it. In his hands. In the beat of his heart. In the way his thoughts looped back to you again and again like a skipped record.

He liked you.

Your dumb little smile. Your kindness. Your stupid sweaters and weird questions. Your warmth. Your chaos. The way you lit up a room full of people who didn’t deserve it.

You cracked him open.

And now he couldn’t close it back up.

He stood finally, bones stiff, mind messier than it had ever been. His eyes flicked toward the mirror as he passed it.

Still cold. Still sharp.

But with a fucking crack running down the middle.

And her name was Y/N.

~

Kuina waited.

Leaning against the side of the stairwell, arms folded, her foot tapping rhythmically against the concrete. Ten minutes had passed since the time she and Chishiya were supposed to meet. It wasn’t that he was always on time—he wasn’t—but he showed up. Always. Even when he didn’t say anything. Even when all he did was lean on the railing and blink at her while she talked about everything and nothing.

But today, there was no Chishiya.

And no you, either.

That was the part that twisted something low in her gut. You hadn’t missed a single one of these little meetings since you’ve been included. Even when you were late, you always came running, panting and grinning and apologizing for something stupid, some random conversation you got dragged into or a detour that “seemed like a good idea at the time.” You were the little heartbeat of the Beach that somehow made all this shit bearable.

But now?

Now it was just empty.

The world felt… quieter.

She stared up at the hallway that led to your room for a while, debating. She could leave it. You were probably fine. Maybe sleeping in. Maybe fucking Chishiya and that’s why she was all alone.

But a knot had formed in her chest and it wasn’t loosening. So she pushed off the wall and made her way upstairs.

She tapped her knuckles against the door. “Hey… it’s me.”

There was a pause.

Then your voice. Quiet. Barely audible. “Come in.”

Kuina opened the door slowly, expecting—she didn’t know what she expected. But not this. Not you sitting on the floor with your knees pulled up to your chest, sleeves of your sweater tugged down past your wrists like they were trying to shield you. Hair messy. Eyes puffy. Cheeks blotchy. Like someone had reached inside you and scrambled everything that made you, you.

Her breath hitched. Just for a second.

“Hey.” you mumbled, voice shaky.

Kuina shut the door behind her and crossed the room in two quick steps, crouching in front of you. “What the hell happened?”

You didn’t answer at first. You just stared down at your hands, twisted in your sweater. Kuina waited, gently placing one hand on your knee.

“I saw…” Your breath stuttered. “I saw them carrying a body. Last night. Niragi was there. He told me Aguni wanted to see me—but it wasn’t true. I—I was scared. And I ran back here, and—and Chishiya was here, and I was crying, and—” Your voice cracked. “And I told him what happened and he—he explained it.”

Kuina’s brows drew together. “Explained what?”

“That he was part of it, Kuina. He was fucking part of killing Akira.”

Her hand stiffened on your knee.

“I thought—I thought they were just… messed up. That’s it. You know? But they planned it. Together.” You choked on the words, shoulders curling forward. “They just did it. They killed him. Like it was nothing.”

Kuina sat back on her heels, trying to take it in. She’d seen violence here. She’d seen the darkness in people—especially Niragi—but something about this…this felt worse.

Maybe because it involved you.

You, who still said “please” and “thank you” to people who didn’t deserve it. You, who made everyone feel like they mattered. You, who smiled at Niragi like he was redeemable.

And now you were crying. In pieces. And Kuina had no idea how to fix it.

“They just looked at me.” you whispered, like the horror was still clinging to your skin. “Like they knew I’d fall apart and didn’t care. And Niragi—he threw my stuff, Kuina. He fucking lost it. And Chishiya just… stood there. Watching. He didn’t even stop him.”

“Oh, babe…” Kuina reached out and pulled you into her arms before she could stop herself.

You didn’t resist. You just folded. Like you wanted to be held. Like the second someone touched you with kindness, your entire body gave up.

“I shouldn’t have trusted them.” you whispered against her shoulder. “I was so fucking stupid.”

“No, no, don’t say that.” Kuina tightened her grip. “You weren’t stupid. You were kind. You were fucking brave. You saw something in them that no one else could.”

You sniffled, your fingers curling into her body. “It wasn’t enough.”

Kuina didn’t have an answer for that. She just held you tighter. She didn’t know what to say to a girl breaking in her arms. Not you. You weren’t supposed to break. But here you were. And all she could do was be here while it happened.

You crying wasn’t like anyone else.

You crying felt like a failure of the world.

Like something precious had been ruined.

She’d fight every battle for you, if she could. Tear this place apart piece by piece. But this? This was something she couldn’t punch. So she just stayed. Held you. Let you cry.

You didn’t make a sound anymore—your breath was shaky, your fingers twitching slightly, like the crying had left you hollow instead of relieved. Kuina could feel the little stutters of your inhale against her body, the way your body kept trying to hold on, even when everything in you had given up.

You were so warm.

So small.

So good.

God, she hated this.

She hated what they’d done to you. She hated that you were the one paying the price for their darkness. And she hated how badly she wanted to tuck you under her own ribcage and keep you safe forever.

Pathetic, she told herself. You’re so fucking pathetic, Kuina.

Because here you were—falling apart in her arms—and all she could think about was how soft your hair was against her cheek. How it smelled like that lavender soap. How she wanted to run her fingers through it and whisper something ridiculous, like “you’re gonna be okay,” even though she didn’t believe that herself.

She’d never really gotten over that little crush.

And especially not now.

Not when you were broken. Not when the world finally got to you the way it got to everyone else.

It should have ended her crush—watching you cry like that, raw and messy and ruined. It should’ve drained all the illusion from you. Made her realize you were just a girl like the rest of them. But instead…

Instead, she felt it worse.

Felt it in her chest like a bruise. Like she was thirteen again, fumbling for the shape of something she didn’t understand. The way you looked at her like she could make it better—even if only for a second.

For you, she could be gentle. She wanted to be.

Her hand rubbed circles on your back without thinking. Maybe to comfort you. Maybe just to remind herself that you were here.

“I feel so fucking stupid.” you whispered after a while, voice raw and sleepy. “I thought I meant something. I thought they cared.”

“You do mean something.” Kuina said.

You didn’t answer. Just tucked your head deeper into the crook of her neck.

She almost told you. Almost whispered it right then and there.

That she cared.

That she’d never hurt you like that.

That she’d never leave you sitting on the floor with a hole in your chest.

But she didn’t. Because this wasn’t about her. And maybe it never would be. So she just sat there. Breathing slowly. Holding you tighter when your hand gripped hers. Letting her dumb little heart hurt in silence.

Maybe one day she’d get over it.

Maybe one day she’d stop thinking of you like this.

But not today.

Today, she just wanted you to sleep. To breathe. To survive.

And she’d sit there for hours if that’s what it took.

~

The next few days passed like rot under the floorboards—silent and steady and everywhere.

No one said anything.

No one fixed anything.

Niragi coped the way he always did—with fire. With recklessness. With cruelty turned inward, then outward, then inward again.

He didn’t speak to anyone unless he had to. Not like he ever really talked, but this time, even the militants avoided him. He shot at bottles. He threw knives. He got so drunk one night he nearly fell from the top balcony of the resort, laughing the entire way. He burned a towel on accident and didn’t even look at it as it smoldered on his floor.

There was a bite in him now, deeper than before. Not just rage, but sadness. Quiet grief that made him rip his room apart again and again just so he wouldn’t have to feel it.

He didn’t go looking for you.

Because if he saw your face, he might do something worse than scream.

He might fall on his knees.

And Niragi didn’t kneel for anyone.

Chishiya handled it differently. Predictably. Quietly. Almost…cold. He didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Didn’t break anything. Not even a breath of chaos around him.

But that didn’t mean he was okay.

He just stopped moving. Like someone had cut the wires inside him. He stayed in his room. Sat on the balcony for hours. Barely ate. Kuina came by once, knocked on the door with her usual rhythm. He didn’t answer.

She didn’t come back.

It wasn’t personal.

He just couldn’t do it right now.

He thought a lot about you. About your crying. About the way your voice broke.

He’d wanted to protect you.

But why had it turned out like that?

Why did he feel like the villain?

He played every second back in his head over and over. And still—he’d do it again. If it meant keeping you safe. He’d kill ten more Akiras.

But it didn’t stop the guilt. Or the strange, sharp ache under his ribs.

What a stupid thing to fall in love with someone like you.

You were hollow.

You laughed once or twice. At something Kuina said. But your eyes didn’t crinkle anymore when you smiled. You walked slowly. Talked softly. Not your usual soft—this one was dulled, like something pressing down on you from the inside.

Kuina stayed close. She didn’t speak much. She didn’t need to. You two just existed together—she’d braid your hair in the evenings, sit by the window while you lay on the bed with your face turned toward the ceiling, fingers playing with your own shirt hem.

You saw Niragi from a distance once. He didn’t look at you.

You saw Chishiya too, on the opposite side of the fourth floor railing.

You looked down first.

Sometimes you wondered if you were just being dramatic. Sometimes you wondered if maybe you were as dumb as you felt. But then you remembered Akira’s body. And you remembered their silence. And your heart would fold back in on itself.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, Kuina stayed still. Stayed strong.

For you.

But even her heart had limits. Even her fingers shook sometimes when you weren’t looking.

Something had to give. It just hadn’t yet.

So yeah, it had been… days. Maybe a week. Maybe more. You weren’t really counting anymore.

Time passed thick and slow and kind of tasteless. But at least you were talking now. At least you weren’t curled up on the floor, whispering nothing to no one. That was something. That had to mean something.

You were sitting cross-legged on your bed, a soft old hoodie hanging off your frame. Kuina was across from you, her back propped against the wall, chewing the thing in her mouth while she watched the frog and the lobster.

Now the two creatures sat side by side, clean, well-fed, probably living better than most humans in the Beach.

You stared at them for a moment in silence before finally saying, “We have to name them.”

“Alright. Frog first?”

You nodded, serious about this. “I think… maybe Charlie.” You blinked at the frog. “He looks like a Charlie.”

Kuina tilted her head. “Yeah. Okay. Charlie’s cute. He’s chill. I vibe with Charlie.”

You smiled for real at that. The kind of smile that didn’t hurt your face.

“And the lobster?” she asked, leaning in closer to the tank, peering at the slightly slow, big-clawed creature dragging itself across the sand.

“He’s dramatic.” you said immediately. “Look at him. He’s like a little Victorian man crawling to his death.”

Kuina laughed. “That’s just how lobsters walk, babe.”

“I don’t care.” you sniffed. “He’s a drama queen.” A pause. Then: “…Henry.” you said finally. “He’s a Henry.”

You both fell quiet for a moment, just watching them exist. Tiny creatures. So small and useless and out of place in this world, and still—alive. Still here.

Like you.

“I think Henry likes it here.” you said softly.

“Because you saved him.” Kuina replied, just as soft.

You didn’t answer. But you didn’t look away, either.

It helped. The little tank. The stupid names. The way Kuina brushed your hair without you asking. The way she let you talk about things that weren’t them. About colors. Dreams. About this weird little book you found in one of the back rooms that made no sense but had a good smell.

You were still not okay.

But you were trying.

You were eating again. Sleeping, kind of. Smiling. Still haunted, yes. Still aching. But not completely gone.

Charlie croaked softly, like he agreed. And maybe, just maybe, Henry lifted one claw.

That was enough for today.

~

Niragi sat down in his chair at the meeting that had been called. The one you had once occupied, a ghost of your presence still there if he let his eyes blur. He didn’t. But he felt it, like a stain.

Chishiya, as always, didn’t say anything. His arms crossed, his expression the usual. But still. The room didn’t quite balance right without you in it.

You weren’t there.

And no one said your name.

They talked about cards. The next games. Supplies. The cars. Some new guy offered something, Mira shot him down with one elegant sentence. Hatter drank wine before dinner. Kuzuryu kept his hands folded. Aguni said almost nothing. Last Boss absolutely did not speak. Ann was useful.

But no one said your name.

Not even in passing.

Because your absence was a hole. An obvious, aching, unnatural space. And everyone felt it. But most of them were smart enough to pretend they didn’t.

Except for the way Niragi sat too still. Except for the way Chishiya kept looking—not at anyone—but at nothing.

That nothing was always you-shaped.

Mira looked prettier than usual. Watching the boys like she was counting their breathing patterns. She said nothing about you, but her eyes were curious. Always curious. She didn’t miss the way Niragi had one finger twitching against his gun. Or how Chishiya’s mouth was tighter than usual.

You weren’t there. But you were there.

And everyone saw it.

Especially in the silence between the agenda points. Especially when Hatter’s gaze skimmed over Niragi, then Chishiya, then moved on without acknowledging what he clearly knew.

You had burned yourself into the bones of that room.

And without you in it? The air turned stale.

Niragi caught Chishiya’s eye across the table.

Neither of them looked away. Not right away.

Chishiya’s stare was calm, that same expression that made most people assume he didn’t feel anything at all. But Niragi knew better now. Knew what it meant when Chishiya stayed too quiet, when his fingers tensed around the arm of his chair, when he didn’t even blink.

Niragi’s jaw twitched. His knee bounced. He wasn’t good at this kind of stillness. Not when everything inside him felt like it was breaking glass.

It was your fucking fault.

All of it.

The silence. The weight in his chest.

The fucking hole where his heart should be.

He used to be proud of not giving a shit. Now he felt stripped. Unarmed. Like someone had crawled into his skin and peeled him apart cell by cell—and that someone was you. With your sweet voice and stupid angel face and softness that didn’t belong here. Not in a place like this.

Chishiya loved that softness. Niragi could see it. Had seen it in the way Chishiya looked at you.

Not like Niragi did. Not like he wanted to own you, or protect you in a fucked up way, or crawl inside your ribs and live there. But still—still enough to break him.

And now here they were.

Two idiots.

Chishiya finally looked away first. Back to the table, as if something one of the others had said was important. It wasn’t.

Niragi scoffed, barely audible, but it was sharp. He leaned back in his chair like he didn’t care, like he wasn’t falling apart inside. Because he was.

And Chishiya? He’d tried to fix it, hadn’t he? He’d let you cry on him. Let you thank him. Then you’d asked him to go. And he had. That part was worse.

Because Niragi would’ve stayed. Would’ve stayed and fought and burned and bled just to make you look at him again the way you used to.

But Chishiya… Chishiya respected you.

And maybe that was why you loved them both in your own twisted way. One who tried to protect your innocence. One who wanted to sink his teeth into it and never let go.

The meeting droned on.

Niragi’s knuckles cracked where he clenched his fists.

Chishiya didn’t move at all.

But their hearts?

God, their stupid little hearts.

So broken. So fucking loud.

They missed you.

God, they missed you.

It wasn’t even about the silence. Or the room. Or your laugh, or the way you always touched someone when you spoke to them—fingers curling into a sleeve, resting against an arm, brushing past someone’s shoulder with a softness no one in this place deserved.

It was about what you did to them.

You’d come into their lives like a sugar-sweet virus and they’d both let it happen. Chishiya, with all his walls and logic and cold observations, had still let your light bleed into his world until the grey wasn’t comfortable anymore. Until solitude felt lonely instead of safe.

And Niragi?

God, Niragi had bent. Had bowed.

He hadn’t even known he was capable of it, but now, sitting in a room that felt too cold without you, too sterile, he found himself shifting in his chair like he couldn’t get comfortable without your weight nearby.

You were supposed to be there. In that chair. In that meeting. Talking, joking, playing with something in your hands—because you were never still for long.

You made everything around you come alive.

Now? Everything felt like ash.

Hatter talked. Ann nodded along. Mira smiled. Aguni didn’t speak unless he had to. Kuzuryu offered things. Last Boss… yeah.

But nobody said your name.

Not even once.

It was too dangerous.

Because saying it out loud meant acknowledging that you were gone. That something had broken. That maybe this place—the Beach, the hierarchy, the cards, the systems—they could survive almost anything. But they couldn’t survive you falling out.

Niragi leaned his elbow against the table, fingers tapping the edge, staring into nothing. Every now and then, his eyes would flick up and find Chishiya again.

They didn’t glare anymore. They didn’t try to start anything. They were just… there.

Two boys gutted by the same girl.

And it was sick, wasn’t it? How you’d turned these two knives into people who longed. Chishiya longed in silence. In thought. Niragi longed in fire. In destruction.

But the ache was the same.

You had carved out space in both of them. Warm space. Real space. You’d made Niragi wonder what mornings could look like with you in them. You’d made Chishiya curious about what it meant to feel.

Now you were locked away in your room or Kuina’s. You didn’t walk the halls. You didn’t make appearances by the pool, didn’t throw your sweater over that ridiculous bikini, didn’t beam up at them like they were made of gold even when they’d done nothing to deserve it.

You were gone.

And they were still here. Miserable. Hollow. Missing you like you were air.

And god, if they could—if they could—they would’ve undone it all. Not for themselves. Not even to clear the blood. They would’ve undone it because it took you away.

And that was unforgivable.

~

The meeting ended eventually, but Chishiya and Niragi didn’t move for a while. They sat there in their stupid chairs, silent and heavy and haunted.

Because your absence was more than noticeable now. It was loud. And not in the way you used to be—laughing, cooing, soft fingers brushing someone’s arm, talking about lava lamps or frogs or whatever sweet thing your brain was tangled up in that day. It was loud because there was a space in the world shaped like you, and nothing else would fit in it.

Eventually, Niragi left.

He didn’t stop to talk to anyone. Not even the girls who usually trailed after him with sugarcoated words and hollow adoration. Not the militants who nodded his way, hoping for a grin, a joke, anything.

He gave them nothing. He had nothing to give.

By the time he was in his room, he could barely stand to be inside. So he slid the balcony door open with more force than needed and stepped into the open air.

The night air was warm. Humid. Stupid.

He pointed his rifle down at the pool where the lights danced across the water and people—empty fucking people—laughed and played like nothing in the world was broken. Like you weren’t broken. Like he wasn’t dying inside.

He didn’t shoot.

He just… pointed.

Finger resting lightly on the trigger. Just to feel the weight of power. Just to pretend.

He tracked movement with the barrel lazily, watching some girl splash her boyfriend, watching another guy throw himself into the water in a cannonball.

He could kill them.

God, he could.

But he didn’t.

Because then he remembered the last time you stood out here. Wrapped in his blanket, eyes soft, voice softer. Asking for a cigarette. And when he told you no, you didn’t push it. You didn’t pout. You respected it.

“You said it kills.” he mumbled to himself now, pulling out a cigarette anyway. “You didn’t want me to smoke.”

He lit it with shaking fingers, the tiny flame flickering against the wind.

It touched his lips.

Burned warm.

Bitter.

But before the first inhale made it past his lungs—he stopped.

Just froze there.

Because he remembered the look on your face when you said it. Not angry. Not controlling. Just… worried. Loving, in that soft, ridiculous way only you could pull off in a hell like this.

He stared at the cigarette for a long time.

Then, quietly, almost like a ritual, he crushed it against the railing before the smoke could even sink into his skin.

“Fuck.”

It was the only thing he could say. The only thing his voice could carry without cracking. He leaned on the railing with both elbows, head hanging low, mouth parted like he couldn’t breathe.

His chest ached. Not from guilt. Niragi didn’t really do guilt.

But from loss.

You weren’t dead. You weren’t gone.

But he’d lost you anyway.

And it was torture.

Because you were the only fucking thing he’d ever wanted to protect. You were supposed to be his. His girl. His angel. The only softness he’d ever let touch him.

And now? He was standing out here alone, with trembling hands and a broken heart, destroying the one thing that used to calm him down because you told him to. Because you wanted him alive. Because he fucking mattered to you.

God, he wanted to scream.

Or cry.

Or shoot the sky until it bled.

But all he did was stand there.

Breathing.

Barely.

~

Chishiya sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he was praying. He wasn’t. Not to a god, at least. But maybe to a version of you that would show up in the doorway and forgive him.

He missed you. And he didn’t even like people.

That was the joke, right? That his first real crush—his first time actually feeling anything for someone, anything real—had to turn out like this. He should’ve expected it.

You were so sweet. And not in a stupid, naive way. You were strategic. You were brilliant. You played the people here like they were instruments and your kindness was the melody, and Chishiya had watched you do it, always amused. But when you did it to him, it didn’t feel like a trick.

It felt real.

You made him laugh. You touched his arm when you talked to him. You gave him stupid little names for things. You made up plans and whispered them with eyes full of fire, and god, he believed in you.

It didn’t feel like a game.

Not with you.

So when he saw the way you looked at him after you found out, after Niragi told you Aguni wanted to talk to you, after you walked away so happy and trusting, after he helped hurt the person you were kind to once—

It hurt.

It fucking hurt.

Not because he regretted what they did. That wasn’t it. He still thought Akira deserved worse. Anyone that touched you without permission deserved worse. That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was…you cried. Because of him.

You stood in front of him in your room, shaking and red-eyed and betrayed, and he just—stood there. Let you go. Let Niragi crash in like a storm and fuck everything up even more.

And even though he stayed calm—always stayed calm—it didn’t mean his heart wasn’t screaming the same way yours had.

Now, here in this room, he missed you like a fever.

He kept remembering the flower you gave him. When you made him food back at the apartment.

Why the fuck did that hurt?

He sighed and leaned back until he was lying flat on the bed.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

Usually, you’d be buzzing around someone’s room by now. Probably Kuina’s.

But now the halls were silent.

You didn’t visit.

You didn’t smile.

You didn’t sparkle.

And even though Chishiya had lived his whole life in silence, suddenly it felt suffocating.

He turned his head and stared at the door like you might walk in. Like it wasn’t completely shattered between you two. Like you hadn’t looked at him like a stranger that night.

The way you whispered thank you before telling him to go… god, that stayed with him more than he wanted to admit. Because you were always grateful. Even when you were ruined.

And now he was the one left with the wreckage. No plan. No way to fix it. Just him. And a heart he finally acknowledged, now cracking in his chest.

It was stupid. It was all so fucking stupid.

He should’ve just let Niragi handle it alone. He should’ve told you. He should’ve—god, he should’ve done something different. But he didn’t. And now, you were gone. Still in the building, sure. But gone.

And his first real crush—his one soft, human thing—was curled up in a room somewhere, afraid of him.

So he just laid there. In the dark. And listened to the quiet that used to be his friend, but now felt like a funeral.

~

Niragi felt like he was rotting from the inside out. He hadn’t touched a cigarette since that last one he stopped at the start—your voice echoing in his head. He didn’t eat. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t fuck. He didn’t scream.

But he wanted to scream. He wanted to grab someone by the neck and demand where you were hiding all that sweetness now. He wanted to make a scene. Set something on fire.

Instead, he paced. Aimless. Quiet. Not even the burn in his chest felt like enough punishment.

Chishiya didn’t move from his bed for hours. He didn’t even blink sometimes. His eyes just rested on the ceiling, as if expecting it to fall in and crush him.

He thought about you all the time. Not even consciously.

You were his first warmth. His first mistake.

And somehow, his first loss.

Niragi laid on the cold floor of his balcony later, his gun on his chest like a lover. He watched the night sky.

Your voice. Your laugh. That sparkle in your eyes when you joked. All of it played behind his eyes like a hallucination.

He hated this. He hated you for doing this to him.

He loved you for doing this to him.

Chishiya stared at the unopened can of juice you once brought him. You thought he didn’t notice that you kept sneaking them to him.

He noticed.

He noticed everything.

But he never said anything. Because he was scared that if he acknowledged it, it would become real.

Now, all of it was real. And it was gone.

Niragi smashed a glass against the wall, just to see something break the way he did. It didn’t help.

The sound was nothing compared to the silence you left in him.

He sat down in the glass and let it cut into his skin.

At least the pain reminded him of how much he missed you.

Chishiya finally stood up and went to the mirror. He looked into his own eyes, deadpan. Cold.

He watched the mirror like maybe he’d see your reflection behind him.

He didn’t.

Meanwhile,

“AHHHH!”

You screamed so loudly it echoed down the hallway. Your hands flew to your mouth.

“Sorry! Sorry!” you gasped, breathing hard. “You scared the shit out of me—!”

Last Boss stood there.

You blinked, heart still racing. You let out a laugh, one of those panicked little laughs that turned sweet when it fell off your lips.

“Jesus, you’re like a ghost.” you huffed, hand still to your chest. “Could’ve warned me.”

He didn’t say anything. Not a word.

“Okay.” you smiled, recovering. “That’s fair. You’re not the warning type.”

You straightened out your top and tilted your head at him. Your hair was a bit messy, eyes still red here and there from the past few days, but there you were—smiling. Sweet. Still trying.

“You okay?” you asked. “I haven’t seen you around in a bit.”

He looked at you.

“I mean, not that I expect you to be all chatty.” you added quickly. “But, y’know. Just in case no one asked.”

There was silence between you both. He shifted slightly, barely a nod.

“I named the frog.” you told him, proud for some reason. “Charlie.”

You beamed, just a little. That soft little beam that always made people stop.

Still, he didn’t speak. But he stayed.

“I had a hard week.” you admitted. “I mean, that’s obvious, right? You probably heard. Everyone probably did. I’m not stupid. Just…” You sighed.

You leaned against the wall next to him. Not close enough to invade. Just enough. You looked up at him, searching his face, though you didn’t expect it to give you much. It never did. That was part of the charm, you guessed.

“You’re a good listener.” you said after a moment. “Not many of those left.”

You both stood there in the stillness. You weren’t crying now. But your voice was tired. Your heart was on the table, whether he chose to take it or not.

“I always liked those.” you murmured, nodding slightly toward the tattoos on his face. “They’re… cool. Like, I don’t know, like they were made to be there.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

“I think they suit you.” you went on. “I mean, they probably mean something, huh? Most things do around here.”

You smiled anyway. Small, crooked, like you weren’t trying anymore but you meant it all the same.

“You’re cool.” you said simply, finally, and that was the truest thing you said all day. “Like… the kind of cool that doesn’t ask for attention. Just is.”

And still, he said nothing.

You sighed, letting your head rest back against the wall, shoulder brushing barely against his. It felt warm. Not in a romantic way, not even comforting. Just human. Real.

“I’m not gonna make you talk.” you whispered. “That’s not what I’m here for.”

You paused for a beat, eyes flicking to him once more.

“I like you anyway.”

No pressure. No expectation. Just that. And then… nothing. You didn’t move. You didn’t look for a reaction. You just stood there beside him, like you were holding space. For him. For yourself.

Because even if he never said a word, he had never made you feel like you had to earn your existence.

A small breath through your nose, a final glance at Last Boss and then you turned on your heel and wandered back into the maze of corridors. The silence you left behind wasn’t awkward. It was just… silence. You’d learned to appreciate that.

You weren’t dressed to impress. Not today. Still in one of your usual soft sweaters thrown over a tank, loose shorts. Your feet were bare. But when you approached the doors of Hatter’s suite, the two stationed bodyguards shifted.

Not threateningly. Not even cautiously. Just… attentive.

Their eyes met yours, but they didn’t block your way. They didn’t ask your name. Didn’t ask if he was expecting you.

All it took was a smile. Soft and angelic, without even trying.

And they let you in.

Impressive, really.

Inside, Hatter sat on his long couch, robe sleeves rolled up, cigarette half-burned in one hand and a drink in the other. His legs were spread, posture relaxed, but his eyes— lifted the second you entered. And he smiled.

“Ah. My favorite surprise.”

You returned it, your voice softer. “You’re not surprised.”

“No.” he agreed with a little chuckle, “I’m not.”

You crossed the room. Sat beside him, not too close, legs tucked up slightly beneath you. The way he looked at you wasn’t like the others. Not hungry. Not territorial. Not even curious anymore. No—Hatter had figured you out long ago, and liked what he saw.

“Something happened.” you said gently, almost childlike in the admission.

His head tilted slightly. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“I want to.”

And you did.

You told him. Not everything. Not all the dark ugly parts of it. But you told him about the three of you. About Akira. About the chair and the blood and your panic and the hurt. About Niragi’s explosion and Chishiya’s words and how your heart didn’t even know how to beat anymore. You told him in your soft, trembling voice, and you weren’t even crying this time.

Just exhausted.

Hatter listened. No interruptions. Not even a hum or a nod. Just silent attention.

And when you finished, when your words drifted into stillness again, he finally set his drink down on the glass table and leaned back, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling.

“You’re too good,” he said. “to be walking around in a place like this.”

“I’m not.” you answered, voice barely audible.

He turned to you. “No. You’re not.” he echoed. “You’re just good at walking around in a place like this.”

A difference. One you understood.

You breathed deep. The couch was warm beneath you.

“I think you were right.” you whispered. “When you said something was going to happen to me.”

“I’m right about a lot of things.” he said with a crooked grin. He flicked ash from his cigarette.

Hatter saw potential in you the way an artist saw sculpture in untouched marble. You were something golden underneath all the softness. Sweet, yes, but never stupid. You could listen. Adapt. Influence.

And you made people want to protect you. Without asking. Without demanding. Just by being.

“It’s not just the way you talk.” he told you. “It’s the way people feel seen by you. You’re a mirror, in a way. You make them feel real.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t say anything.

He softened then, gently, eyes not so calculating anymore.

“I’ve seen a lot of people break here.” he continued. “They get stronger, harder, colder. Or they die. But you… You hurt, and it brings people together.”

You blinked.

That might’ve been the nicest thing anyone had ever said to you.

And you believed it.

Not because you thought you were important. But because… maybe he was right. Maybe you had a place here. Even if it hurt. Even if it bled. Even if you cried yourself to sleep some nights and didn’t speak to your own reflection the next morning.

Maybe you still had a place.

“You don’t have to be alone.” Hatter said quietly.

You looked over at him again, and for a moment, something fragile flickered behind your eyes. Trust. And you smiled, gently. Not because it fixed anything. But because you felt safe here.

Hatter wasn’t touchy in the way men in the Beach usually were. He wasn’t grabby, or forceful, or territorial.

It was subtler than that. Kinder.

A hand on your shoulder. A palm pressed warmly to your back as you shifted closer on the couch. His arm draping across the back of it, never pulling you in—but there, just there, enough that if you leaned a little, you’d feel held.

And you did.

You leaned.

Not because you wanted anything from him, not really. But because physical touch felt like oxygen, and your lungs had been burning for days.

He smelled like spice and tobacco. And his warmth? It wasn’t suffocating. It was like being wrapped in a blanket after being out in the rain.

“You alright?” he asked after a quiet moment, voice deep and low, meant just for you.

You nodded against his shoulder. “Not really. But also… I’m glad I came.”

He chuckled, soft. “Glad I didn’t scare you off.”

“You’re probably the only man in this place who doesn’t scare me.” you said, and meant it only partly. Aguni didn’t scare you. Last Boss didn’t scare you. But Hatter didn’t scare you on an… extra level?

That made him laugh—really laugh, his whole chest shaking. It was comforting, the way he could find joy even in the way you said dark things like they were light.

You pulled your legs up beside you, settling deeper into the couch. His arm stayed over your shoulders. A protective curve, not a cage.

“I used to be a little scared of people like Niragi.” you admitted.

“And now?”

“I still am.” you said. “But I think I understand him a little now. Which is maybe worse.”

Hatter looked at you, something knowing in his eyes. “He loves you, you know.”

“Yeah.” you sighed. “I know.”

“And Chishiya?”

Your laugh this time was quieter, more tired. “That one’s harder to explain. He doesn’t… say much. But I feel it.”

“Dangerous types, both of them.” he said, though his tone wasn’t judgmental. “You’ve got a taste for trouble.”

“No, I just… I don’t know.” You played with a loose thread in your sleeve. “I think people like them are the only ones who’ve ever looked at me and seen something more.”

“They do.” he said, voice lower now, heavier. “But they don’t know what to do with it.”

You looked up at him, your cheek still brushing his robe. “And you do?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just looked at you, that steady gaze still so gentle. “I don’t need anything from you, sweetheart. That’s the difference.”

You blinked.

Your chest ached.

That simple sentence had more weight than any speech. It didn’t ask anything of you. Didn’t expect you to save him, or choose him, or mold yourself into something lovable.

It just told you you were okay. As you were.

You reached up without thinking and touched his wrist where it lay across your shoulder. Just a small touch, grounding. “Thank you.”

He smiled again. “You don’t have to thank me.”

But you did. You really, really did.

“You ever miss the real world?” you asked after a while, your voice softer, as if the question could break if you said it too loud.

“Sometimes.” he said. “But I also know I didn’t have much waiting for me there.”

You tilted your head. “That’s sad.”

“It’s honest.” He looked ahead, as if seeing some memory across the room. “I was always chasing things that didn’t exist. Here… at least I know what I’m dealing with. At least here, I built something.”

“You did.” you said. “This place is terrifying, but… it’s also incredible.”

“Because of people like you.” he said, nudging your shoulder lightly with his. “You keep it breathing.”

You smiled at that, even if your eyes stung again. “I don’t feel like I’m keeping anything together lately.”

“You don’t have to feel like it to be it.” he said.

You let that sit for a moment.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next.” you whispered.

Hatter turned a little toward you, enough that he could see your face. “You don’t have to do anything. Just… be. Heal. Rest.”

You leaned into him more. “You’re really nice to me.”

“Of course I am.” he said, almost playfully. “You’re my favorite.”

You rolled your eyes with a soft laugh, but it wasn’t sarcastic. Then you went quiet again. Not because you were sad—no, not this time. Because you felt something. Something full and warm and real.

He looked at you a little more seriously now, though the soft curve of his mouth never left. “About what I told you before.” he said. “How something was going to happen to you?”

You nodded. You remembered too well.

“Well,” he continued. “it is happening. People talk, you know. Eyes are on you.”

You laughed softly. “Probably not for the best reasons.”

“I disagree.” he said. “You’ve captured something most people can’t even define. You’re not trying to be a leader—but you make people want to follow you. That’s rare.”

You turned your head slightly, looking at him. “Is this the part where you tell me again you want me to be the next boss?”

He smirked. “I never stopped wanting that.”

“But what about Kuzuryu?” you asked, voice more curious than doubtful. “Isn’t he… next in line?”

Hatter let out a quiet breath through his nose. “In rank, yes. In spirit? I’m not so sure anymore.”

You raised a brow. “You’re saying I have more of the spirit of the Beach’s number one?”

“I’m saying you’ve got more than that.” He met your eyes. “You’ve got heart. And presence. People are drawn to you—not because they have to be, but because they want to be. Even those two boys who’d sooner burn down the world than admit they’re hurt.”

That made your chest ache again, but you smiled faintly. “You think I’m strong enough?”

“I think you’re already doing it.” he said. “Without even trying.”

You stared at your hands for a moment. “I don’t know if I want power.”

“Then don’t take it for power’s sake. Take it because you’re the only one I trust with it.”

There it was again. That unwavering faith. He didn’t just believe in you—he knew. And it made something rise in you that had been lying cold and broken for days. Not pride, not quite hope.

Just… dignity.

You sat in it for a while, letting the warmth of it sink in, before Hatter broke the silence again—this time with a smile dancing back onto his face.

“So,” he said. “want to be spoiled?”

You blinked. “What?”

He sat forward, just a little, eyes glittering. “You’ve been through hell. You’ve held yourself together better than most men here would. I say that earns you something.”

“Takeru,” you laughed, a little overwhelmed. “you don’t have to—”

“Let me.” he interrupted gently. “You deserve it. And I want to.”

You stared at him for a long second, caught off guard by the honesty in it.

He held up a hand, counting on his fingers. “Anything from the bar, anytime. You want a full new wardrobe? Say the word. Want a balcony? A view of the pool? A new sound system? A thousand more frogs and lobsters? Done.”

You snorted, grinning despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious.”

You tilted your head. “Why me?”

“I told you already.” He leaned back, still watching you. “Because you keep the Beach breathing.”

That shut you up for a second. Not in a bad way. Just… full again. That heavy warmth that came with being seen.

Then he added, voice softer this time, “And because I like to see you safe. Somewhere no one can reach you unless you let them.”

You looked at him.

And he looked at you.

“You want a new room?” he asked.

That one caught you. You sat up a little straighter. “A new room?”

“One of the best. Luxurious. Big bed, clean walls, balcony, hell, big carpet.” He smiled again. “Somewhere untouched. No memories. Just… yours.”

You blinked.

It hit harder than it should’ve.

Because you had memories in your old room. Of Chishiya sitting on the edge of the bed. Of Niragi throwing things. Of crying. Of whispering. Of nights tangled in bodies and others curled up alone.

That room was a graveyard of emotions. This? A new room?

That meant space. That meant air.

That meant starting over.

You nodded, almost shy. “Okay.”

“Yeah?” His smile widened. “Good.”

You glanced at him again, something softer in your eyes now. “Thank you. For… all of this.”

He waved you off playfully. “You don’t need to thank me.”

You let yourself settle, let your voice drop into something softer. “How would it work? The room, I mean.”

He smiled—just the slightest pull of his lips, like he’d been waiting for you to ask that. ““You’ve got a game tomorrow, don’t you?”

You blinked. “Yeah. I do.”

“Well,” he continued, his voice easy, like this was just another detail in a busy calendar. “I’ll have my guys move your things while you’re gone. They’ll set everything up. You won’t have to lift a finger.”

You stared at him. That felt… unreal.

“I—wow.” you muttered, kind of caught off guard by how simple he made it sound. “You really want to do all that for me?”

“I really am doing all that for you.” he said, grinning. “You don’t even have to ask.”

You shook your head slowly, a quiet laugh slipping out. “You spoil me.”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his arms over his knees, his tone still light but not joking when he replied, “I take care of people who matter.”

You looked at him again, and there was something in your expression that flickered—something between gratitude and disbelief and a need that was still trying to be small enough not to be a burden. You didn’t say thank you again, but you didn’t have to. He saw it in your eyes.

“You’ll like it.” he said after a while, sitting back again. “Barely touched. No memories sticking to the walls.”

You let out a breath, one that shook a little. “That sounds perfect.”

He nodded, then added, more gently, “And maybe it’s time for that. Something new. Just for you.”

You nodded too.

And finally, slowly, you stood.

Hatter stood with you, and when you hesitated—just a breath—he opened his arms again. You stepped into them.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t confusing.

It was just comfort.

His embrace was warm and real and steady, and your cheek against his shoulder felt like pressing your forehead against an open window.

When he let you go, he kept a hand on your shoulder. “Get some rest tonight.” he said. “My guys will take care of the rest. You focus on the game.”

You smiled, softer than before, eyes a little glassy. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” he said, like he meant it. And you knew he did.

You stepped out of the room, the guards moving again with that same quiet respect—like just being in Hatter’s company had elevated your status even more, like they saw you differently now.

Like you really were the favorite.

It wasn’t even a secret at this point. Not anymore.

It wasn’t favoritism because you were lucky, or because you begged for it, or because you played a game. No.

It was because you earned it.

You’d started to sleep again.

Kind of.

Eat, too.

Sometimes.

Because even with your gentle bones still barely held together, with your spirit cracked but not crushed, even with mascara sometimes drying at the corners of your eyes from days before, you were rising. Quietly, but definitely. Hatter had handed you something no one else ever did in this place.

A chance.

A choice.

And while you breathed a little easier inside your walls that night, thinking about what will the next room be like, Niragi was doing something else entirely.

His room was dark.

The curtains hadn’t been pulled in two days, just the heavy smell of smoke hanging in the air, not from the cigarettes this time, but from the singed edge of his own skin.

His lighter flicked open again.

Flame. Burn. Skin.

Again.

Again.

Again.

The hiss of flesh, the brief sear of pain—it was his rhythm now. Because if he couldn’t feel anything else, at least he could feel this.

He wasn’t screaming. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t punching walls or breaking mirrors or smashing things to bits like he used to. That was the old brand of Niragi chaos, and this—this was something else. Quieter. Darker.

Worse.

Because this time, the person he wanted to hurt most was himself.

He’d broken something. Something that mattered.

And unlike every other time in his life, this time, he didn’t feel triumphant about it. He didn’t feel like the most dangerous man in the room. He felt like a fucking ghost. A nightmare without an audience. A mistake dragging its knuckles through the carpet, leaving ash and blood behind.

Because you were gone. Not gone-gone—but gone from him.

He didn’t even have your voice anymore. Not the real one. Just the echo.

Don’t smoke.

You said that like you believed he could actually be different.

And now he was worse.

He burned himself again. The lighter dropped on the floor and kept flickering until it died on its own.

He didn’t bother to pick it up.

Chishiya sat on the edge of his bed with one arm resting on his knee, his eyes blank.

He hadn’t moved in a while.

He wasn’t thinking in the usual way.

He was existing. Breathing. But still.

Your face wouldn’t leave his mind.

The way you backed away from him. The way your tears came up. Your voice.

He’d spent most of his life avoiding this.

Closeness. Connection. Feeling.

And then you happened. Sweet. Soft. Bright-eyed and loyal and goddamn stubborn. You pulled him in without even meaning to. You didn’t try. You just… existed.

And now? You existed without him.

Was this what love looked like?

Not romance. Not roses and candlelight and confessions under the stars. But this—this gnawing ache that sat under your ribs and didn’t move. This quiet kind of hell that didn’t scream, didn’t shout—just emptied you.

He wondered if Niragi felt it too.

He knew the answer.

Of course he did.

And wasn’t that the most fucked up part? That two men who could never see eye to eye on anything, could hate each other’s guts and laugh in the other’s face—

Both of them still wanted you.

Both of them were losing it for you.

Because you were that kind of girl. The rare kind.

So what if they were crazy?

What if they were already past that point?

Because Niragi had a lighter burn spiraling down his forearm, the smell of charred skin mixing with smoke. And Chishiya—he sat in his pristine, silent room, completely still, like if he moved he’d shatter. And you? You were curled up on your bed with your frog and your lobster in a glass tank in front of you. A blanket over your legs, Kuina’s sweater slung over your shoulders.

Niragi leaned against the wall of his bathroom, eyes half-lidded, cigarette barely lit between his fingers. He hadn’t smoked it—just held it there, thinking about you, your voice, your hand gently snatching it from his lips that one time back at the apartment.

Fuck. You were gone. And he still couldn’t make himself take a drag.

Chishiya hadn’t moved in hours, sitting cross-legged on his bed with his back against the headboard. He stared out the window, watching a few birds hop across the railing. He wondered how many games it would take to forget you.

Then decided he didn’t want to forget you at all.

You laid on your bed. The frog blinked slowly from inside the tank, and the lobster sat at the bottom.

You watched them both. “You guys don’t lie.” you whispered.

They didn’t respond. But they didn’t kill anyone either.

Niragi stared down at his floor. Lighter. Broken glass. The memory of first meeting you.

He hated that it made him smile now.

Then he picked up the lighter again.

Chishiya flipped a card between his fingers—King of Hearts. He got it from a toy store back in town. He stared at it longer than he meant to, then finally flicked it across the table. It landed face down. He didn’t flip it back over. Didn’t need to.

He knew what the heart stood for.

It was mocking him.

You pulled on a pair of socks even though it wasn’t cold. You just wanted to feel like something hugged you. Something soft. Something gentle.

Your room was nice. Expensive. Thoughtful.

But none of them were there. Not even one.

And you missed them.

God, you missed them.

Niragi ran a hand through his hair and pulled a piece out. Literally yanked it from his scalp. He didn’t even flinch. He just watched it fall, his fingers twitching like they were searching for your touch and kept grabbing at nothing.

Chishiya touched his collarbones. The ones you had complimented once.

Now? It reminded him of you.

Everything reminded him of you.

Even the silence.

You looked at the mirror for a while. Then turned it face down. You weren’t sure if you didn’t want to see your face, or didn’t want to see their fingerprints still on your skin. Your mouth, your heart.

It was your fault for caring.

But was it?

They did kill someone.

Niragi sat down in the corner of his room, knees up, arms slung over them. His skin was red. Singed. Burned in little shapes.

But he wasn’t crying.

He didn’t deserve to.

If you cried over him, that was already more kindness than he had ever earned.

Chishiya traced the edge of a notepad with a pencil. The page was empty. He didn’t write anything anymore.

No plans. No outlines. No graphs.

There was no point. He already lost the only variable he couldn’t account for—you.

You opened the window, the music from the party slipping into the room.

You closed the window.

Covered your ears.

And cried.

Niragi punched the side of his bedframe. Just once. Hard. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t grief. It was something in between. The kind of pain that made your chest cave in, where rage had nowhere to go.

He thought maybe if he bled enough, you’d come back.

Chishiya wondered if you could ever forgive him.

Not just for the body.

But for breaking the only real thing he’d ever held.

Could he fix this?

Would it even matter?

Would you look at him again and not flinch?

You sat on the floor beside the tank and whispered your secrets to Charlie and Henry.

“I miss him.”

“I miss them.”

“But they’re not good people. I know that.”

You didn’t cry this time. Your voice just cracked.

“They were good to me, though.” you added. “Sometimes.”

Niragi still had your perfume on one of his shirts. He pressed it to his face, like some desperate addict trying to breathe you in one last time.

Chishiya got up. Finally. Looked at his reflection and thought of how you used to look at him. With so much hope.

He didn’t deserve that. But maybe—just maybe—he could try to become someone who did.

You stood up too. Hugged yourself in the mirror. Then wiped the smudge off your lip.

Niragi sat legs sprawled. The lighter clicked again. And again. He didn’t hesitate this time. Pressed it to the inside of his arm.

Ssshhh.

It hissed. His skin jumped under the heat, but he didn’t scream. Didn’t even flinch. His eyes were blank, mouth parted, like maybe he was somewhere else. Somewhere far from this room.

He remembered your laugh.

He remembered how small your hands were.

He remembered how you looked at him, like maybe he was human for a second.

And now all of that was gone.

The lighter dropped from his hand, still burning against the floor, flame kissing tile. He didn’t care. He was tired. And his skin hurt. But not as much as his chest.

You stared out the window.

Someone was dead.

You couldn’t forget the way Niragi looked that night. Like he hadn’t done anything wrong. Like he was proud. And you couldn’t forget how Chishiya stood there, quiet, guilty but unmoving.

And then you remembered that night in your room—how Chishiya had looked at you. When you two talked.

What a fucking joke.

Were you supposed to just get over that? Forget that someone died and laugh about it in a week?

But the worst part? The worst, most awful part?

You missed them.

Even now. Even after.

It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair.

You didn’t hate them at all.

Chishiya thought about your voice. He thought about the way your fingers tapped when you were thinking, how you talked to animals like they were people. How you looked at everything like it could still be beautiful.

He had ruined that.

He told himself it was logical. That Akira was dangerous. That this world demanded brutality. But you never did. You never demanded that from them.

And that was why it hurt so fucking bad.

He thought he could outsmart heartbreak. Thought he’d never be weak enough to love someone. And now here he was. Wondering how to ask for forgiveness from someone who had every right to hate him.

Niragi held the shirt tighter to his chest. It smelled like you. Still. He knew that wouldn’t last forever. He had to hold onto it now.

He had burned his arms raw. Skin angry and blistering. It didn’t matter. He deserved worse.

You weren’t talking to him. Not even looking. He would’ve taken any kind of attention—even a slap, a scream, a shove—if it meant you still gave a fuck.

But you were gone.

And he didn’t know how to exist without you anymore.

You changed your clothes three times before lying back down again. You didn’t know why you changed. Maybe because every outfit reminded you of a memory with one of them.

And still, you couldn’t scrub them out of your mind.

You missed Niragi’s chaos. His wildness. The way he acted like no one could hurt him but looked at you like maybe you could.

And you missed Chishiya’s calm. The way he listened even when he said nothing. The way he always knew more than he let on but still showed up beside you, every time.

You loved them.

And that was your tragedy.

Chishiya turned the lights off again. Sat in the dark. Sometimes it was easier that way. No reflections. No reminders.

He thought maybe if he had told you sooner—how much you mattered, how much he wanted to change for you—you’d still be in his life.

He should’ve fought harder. But instead, he let you walk away. Because he thought he didn’t deserve you.

And maybe he didn’t.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t want you.

Niragi picked up his gun. Not to use it. Just to feel something familiar in his hands. Something solid. Something real.

Like maybe it could tether him to the ground.

But the only thing that had ever really made him feel real… was you.

You whispered their names into your pillow. Just once.

Soft. Like it hurt.

And it did.

Because even now… even with everything…

You still loved them.

And it was killing you.

❤︎︎ @lizntstoptalking @cherryheairt @fiction-fantasy-folks @monkey4lifer @psychicyouthfox @so-dramatic1 @mypsychoticlove @unhinged-sorcerer @rattymess @mocchii-writes @adanfore @scarlet703 @fluentgoddess @maxinehufflepuffprincess @onyxmango @bluerthanvelvet444 @risingofjupiter @enhasrii @potato-vagina @cherryyserenade @l5byrinth @soaplickerrr @sillyenemyarcade @miellette @sk1ndx0

[heechwe]

WITCHING HOUR | 최연준

⟢ PAIRING: choi yeonjun x fem!reader ⟢ WORD COUNT: 3.8K ⟢ GENRE: smut, hints of comedy and fluff ⟢ TAGS: witch!reader, wizard!yeonjun, sexual tension, oral (f receiving), bondage elements, backshots, protected sex ⟢ SYNOPSIS: Like magical elements, you do your usual push and pull with Yeonjun until one night when it's almost too much to avoid him any longer, and it makes you wonder why you stayed away from him in the first place. -ˋˏ✄┈┈ AUTHOR'S NOTE: Originally written for a group I no longer follow or write for, so I thought why not remake it with lovely Junie boy? Not a lot has changed from the original except the introduction, since I am happy with it for the most part!

For a powerful witch, you feel weaker than you’ve ever felt whenever a certain boy stands too close to you. The girls in your family are from an established bloodline, built on the bones of what younger witches and warlocks could only wish to be, and yet Choi Yeonjun seems to tap a nerve that tears every part of the symbols of your family’s foundation to pieces. Strength, control, independence. All gone with the simplest trail of his eyes along your skin.

Like now. Putting books back on their shelves should be a simple task; it’s what you’re supposed to do in Soobin’s store. Both mortals and magical folk often stroll through and leave behind copies they contemplated buying for a millisecond, just for you or another coworker to put away by the end of the day. It’s normal work for anyone. Yet, all of your power seems to drain out of you because of Yeonjun and how close he is when you least expect him to be.

The warlock stands idly by, still ogling your figure as you put a book on Transfixions back in its cataloged spot, the words on the cover to any human reading as a nonfiction piece they’ll never open. You release a huff of laughter, incredulous that his gaze still prickles your skin like this. “You could take a picture, you know,” you say into the silence. “According to mortals, they last longer.”

Yeonjun chuckles and takes a few books off of your cart to help you put them away. His arm brushes yours just slightly as you go through the motions of sorting and stacking, but it’s torture with every pass of his gooseflesh against you. “I think I can remember without technology.” His lips barely brush your ear when he speaks again. “You’re too mesmerizing to forget.”

You want to smack the guy in the arm for invading your personal space, but this is how it’s always been. The verbal and bodily tension between you is both sharp and ever-present, a blade a part of you wants to be cut by. For better or worse, all of your emotions heighten whenever he’s around.

Yeonjun saunters away as you release a ragged breath, one you did not recognize you were holding until the air escapes your lungs.

Soobin peaks out of the corner with his enormous glasses, bangs covering the rest of his face like a black cloak. He almost resembles a curious cat more than the owner of a bookstore. “Can you guys just make out so I can run my store properly again?” he asks, partially humorous but with a tone that makes you laugh as you stack the shelves again.

Like Yeonjun, you and Soobin have known each other for years through magical training, schooling and family dinners. He’s a good friend, but he’s known Yeonjun longer, so you’re unsure what underlying words sit beneath Soobin’s explicit ones. “We’re not gonna do that, it’s just—”

“Just what? A ton of pining and sexual undertones that never go anywhere?” He pops an eyebrow up, his mouth puckered. “You’re both like the characters in those romance novels all the girls eat up in this place.”

You blow a raspberry at him, but your mind flits back to the only time you ever got close to Yeonjun physically. It’s written all over your face when Soobin coughs dramatically in your direction. You go back to the present, staring at his sarcastic expression, and your cheeks heat up. “What?”

“Something happened, didn’t it?”

You stutter as the guy’s face breaks into a beaming, knowing smile. “Like almost two years ago! It wasn’t even that big of a deal!” The it in question was a drunken kiss shared in a broom closet at one of Sim Jaeyun’s house parties. You tried to forget it, and Yeonjun practically confirmed it was a one-time thing with the way he addressed you afterward.

And nothing did happen after that night and those subsequent days, the usual friendly greetings and underlying physical gestures marking the passed time like normal, but those instances sparked the same effects you feel to this day in his presence.

“Mhm, I’m very convinced,” Soobin says, still sporting his grin, but he attaches an eye-roll to the expression before walking away.

You think about that night as your fingertips brush the final books to put on the shelves and Yeonjun’s words from a mere ten minutes ago. Maybe Yeonjun gets such responses out of you because he challenges your abilities and talents alongside your emotions in such a way that screams it could be fate. Written in the stars, as the mortals say. 

Maybe it is, the two of you pushing and pulling until you both eventually click into place. You refuse to believe it, though; Yeonjun may be too arrogant to deserve such validation.

That’s how you find yourself in a bar called the Hollow later that night. It’s the city’s known haven for fellow witches and warlocks to escape the stresses of the day with a handmade cocktail and pleasant conversation. Mark and Winter toss back rum and cokes and gossip about the latest scandal in the elixir shop they both work at on the edge of town. You listen and laugh when you’re supposed to, but something’s off. Normally, you would enjoy the moment, relax, and let the worries of the day fade into nothing. You aren’t incapable of having fun; witches don’t need to be told to enjoy themselves.

But Yeonjun is here, you just know it. The air is ripe with that string connecting you both together, waiting for the moment one or both of you sever it.

“Babe, you’re a million miles away,” Winter remarks with a hand in your face. Her fingertips almost knock into the glass holding your espresso martini, and you step back to avoid spilling the concoction over your dress.

“Sorry, I just—”

You try to look nonchalant as you search the club. The place is shrouded in candles of all colors, the flames sparkling against the dark bodies around the room. But you recognize Yeonjun as soon as your eyes focus on him. Black hair as striking as the spark of flint, bottom lip caught in his teeth, whiskey in the palm of his hand. You notice it all before you meet his eyes, the ones that have already been watching you from across the room. And now he knows you’re watching him, too.

“Oh,” Winter exclaims, suddenly grinning, the same wolfish smirk that Soobin possessed hours ago. You want to roll your eyes at her, but you’re caught between looking unbothered and trying to sneak peeks at Yeonjun again without him noticing.

Too late for either at this point. He won’t keep his eyes off of you now.

“What?” Mark asks before Winter takes his jaw in her hands to move in the direction of Yeonjun and his friends. Yeonjun tries to talk to Taehyun and Heeseung like he’s relaxed himself, now recognizing your friends have spotted him too, and it almost makes you want to tuck yourself away into the night.

“Ah,” Mark says with the same lilt to his voice as Winter. Your anxiety and irritation is on fire by now. It is so obvious to everybody but the two of you that something needs to happen?

“If you both are done oh-ing and ah-ing, I’m gonna go get us more drinks.” Your two friends snicker like conspiratory traitors as you walk towards the bar.

Attempting to order another round without looking behind you, smiling sweetly at the bartender as you ask for tequila shots, proves to be difficult. You steel yourself not to turn back toward him once again, but it’s hard not to. Yeonjun’s eyes remain glued to your back like melted wax. He trails his eyes down your purple slip dress, to the revealing curve of your thighs, and so on. It’s a ripple down your spine, like Yeonjun’s memorizing you for later.

Look at me again.

You hated this power you two shared the most. As legend has it, no matter how the bond is created, ties between two witches’ or warlocks’ thoughts can be made if both individuals want to speak to one another without actual verbal communication. It’s an advanced power, one few can use or conjure up anymore. Only you and Yeonjun learned such power years ago from your private teachers and family members. Worse, you don’t exactly reject him or the bond because, deep down, a part of you wants him to be inside of your head, to connect with you this way. 

So, here he is, using his words to push you further into him.

Just once.

It’s like the entire bar can sense the shift in your will, knowing you’re hooked as soon as you turn your body to face the booth across the room. Yeonjun pretends to listen to Heeseung’s diatribe, eyeing you from over the rim of his glass and paying little attention to what either Heeseung or Taehyun are saying.

Happy now?

You quirk your eyebrows in his direction, but all he responds with is a smirk.

Not even close.

Your feet pull themselves off the ground and walk towards him, not caring what your mind does or doesn’t want to say on the matter. You think you hear Winter yell “Go get him, tiger,” but you’re too far away to acknowledge it. Instead, you give the man that equally frustrates and excites you a cat-like grin.

You’re fucking impossible.

Taehyun and Heeseung’s faces twist into confusion at the laugh that leaves Yeonjun’s mouth, but once their mutual friend gets up to meet you halfway to the dance floor, they figure it out quickly.

When you finally stand in front of Yeonjun, you’re both breathless from spoken and unspoken words and the implications from every past look and “accidental” touch you’ve shared with each other. You don’t want to think of the soft curve of his bottom lip against your own. Imagine his hands on the places he’s only mapped out in his fantasies. Envision the words he’s kept saved for you when no-one else is around in curses and whispers and grunts. You don’t want to, but you do anyway.

Leave with me.

Yeonjun's eyes widen with mirth, a smug smile spreading across his face.

As the witch commands.

The sound of your back hitting the wall of Yeonjun’s hallway reminds you this is truly happening, not a teenage fantasy to scold yourself for later. His hands are everywhere. One’s underneath the back of your thigh and the other on the side of your neck, guiding you and pulling you into him. Your kisses are sloppy, without a doubt. The touches of your tongues and moans resounding from your open mouths echo blissfully in the small space you’re in.

When you separate, Yeonjun’s eyes gleam. He tugs the hem of your dress until he pulls the piece over your head and throws it somewhere on the floor. He stops to admire you in just your bra and panties. Surprisingly, you don’t feel shy under his gaze. You’ve never been a bashful person, but you know intimacy leaves you vulnerable in a way you don’t experience often. But you want him to look at you this way, like the start of pleasure begins and ends with the lines of your body. You want to ask yourself why you didn’t let him or yourself have this before, to feel this yearning finally bleed into indulgence.

“Two years and three days.”

“What?” You ask before moaning when he takes one hand and dips it into your panties. Two of his fingers lewdly glide across your folds until he swirls them around your clit.

“It’s been two years and three days since the first time I kissed you,” he says, eyes coated in desire. “And now, I don’t think I ever want to stop.”

“Then don’t. Don’t stop,” you gasp, bucking your hips into the movements of his hand. You use your own to unclip your bra and throw it in the same direction Yeonjun threw your dress, and he wastes no time taking one of your nipples into his mouth. He sucks hard and without mercy, his fingers matching the pace and feel of his mouth, and you could fall apart from that alone. But you know you want him to fill you so deep and help you forget how long the want for him stayed dormant. Now, it’s bursting to life; you can’t hold out any longer.

He senses it, Yeonjun releasing your nipple with a pop and wrapping your legs around his waist to guide you into his bedroom. Barely any light comes in through his blinds, the darkness of midnight heightening your lust. You know, for all the myths, the witching hour is a reality in your world. Your powers, your senses, everything elevates at this split in time, both the start and end of two days, the meeting of two intersecting lines.

If Yeonjun didn’t toss you softly onto the bed, you would laugh, finding the dichotomy between his dirty acts and sudden gentle touches ironic.

The jingle of Yeonjun’s belt buckle and ruffle of his shirt snaps you from the thought, and you whisper, “I want to see you.”

You already know he’s smirking. By the time he waves a hand to light the candles on his dresser and nightstand, he’s only in his black boxer briefs and his cock is visibly hard. You bite your lip as you stare. You crave the feel of it in your hand and mouth when Yeonjun takes off the briefs entirely. It’s unavoidable how much or long you admire its size. When you reach to remove your panties, Yeonjun stops you from doing so with the turn of his head. Your hands are frozen in place, and you huff exasperatedly.

You don’t play fair.

Yeonjun laughs, amusement gleaming in his eyes. “Never said I did, but I think you like it.” You do, so much it makes you hate how right he is.

After he wraps your hands together in one of his own and raises them over your head, he tugs the fabric down your legs with his free one. You kick it away, glad to have the air hit your skin. Knowing your hands will stay in place until he breaks you from his spell, he trails his kisses down. He starts with your mouth, deeply and languidly, and ends the kiss with the pull of your bottom lip between his teeth. Then he presses his lips to your neck, the column of your throat, your breasts (which he playfully bites too), and right before your navel.

Before long, he licks a long stripe up your slit, the wetness pooling on his tongue and making you moan in earnest. You want to wrap your hands in his hair, give it a hard tug to urge him to go faster, to make you come, but the invisible binds on your wrists will not budge, no matter how much you will your own magic to release you. “Let me touch you,” you whine, lifting your hips to meet his lips.

“Let me touch you first. I want to savor this,” Yeonjun replies, kissing and sucking your clit into his mouth. He trails two fingers along the inside of your thigh before he sinks them inside you.

A broken moan escapes your lips, the sound jagged and cracked. You know you cannot hold yourself back anymore. You press as much of your lower body against him, his movements feeling so good on you, inside of you. When he adds a third finger, you come with the well of tears in your eyes and his name leaving your mouth over and over.

He wipes the remnants of your arousal off his lips with the back of his hand, but when he goes to kiss you with his tongue licking inside of your mouth, you taste yourself. You moan as his skin connects to yours in various places; your mouth connected to his, his hands on your hips, your sensitive core rubbed up against his cock. He smiles down at you, caressing your sides with his palms, and you feel the forces against your hands ebb away. Instantly, you wrap your hands into the hair at the nape of his neck and kiss him deeply again. When you part, he says, “Turn around, baby. Hands and knees.”

You nod with a smirk, pressing your hands into the sheets of Yeonjun’s bed and raising your ass in the air for him to pinch and stroke with his fingers. He releases a curse at the sight before him, but not before you hear the tear of a condom wrapper. You grin, ready to feel him.

Mortals commonly recognized witches for their self-indulgence and hedonism, believing you all used your magic on your every whim rather than for the help of others. While it was more of the latter than the former on the regular day, this is how you seek pleasure all the other times. You search for it in the connection of two bodies, the elements bending to your wills and heightening the experience in a way regular humans would never understand. And you can’t wait to feel the curl of yours and his magic wrapping around each other, intertwining until you forget how deep his is claiming you and yours is unraveling him.

By the time he presses the tip inside of you, you both moan loudly into the candle-lit room. The clench of your pussy around Yeonjun makes him groan as he presses deeper, your walls tightening around his cock so perfectly. You press your head into the sheets, releasing a long cry as he buries himself inside of you to the hilt. It’s a decadent feeling, and you don’t know if this is the same magic everyone else feels with their lovers, mortal or not. But you savor it as your nerves buzz to life. Yeonjun wraps a hand in your hair softly and raises your head from the bed, leaning his chest into your back to murmur into your ear, “I wanna hear you. All of you.”

You moan loudly when he thrusts, cry when he pulls out to the point you barely feel him there, and repeat the process when he angles himself deeper inside of you. “Yes, Yeonjun. Please,” you shout, loving the way his body and the essence of him enfolds you with every propel of his body and touch of his skin to yours.

His hips go in and out languidly, and you know you’re already building towards a second peak. You can practically feel your arousal dripping onto the sheets when his cock leaves your pussy, only for him to pull you back against his body to feel the warmth of you again.

“You’re so tight. Fuck, I could stay like this, buried inside of you. All. Fucking. Night,” Yeonjun growls. As a string of groans leave his mouth, he pivots his hips in and out of you. The blunt strength makes you whimper his name in ecstasy. After another few seconds, he slows down and reverts to the pace he started with. You gasp at the change in his tempo, knowing you’re so close to coming.

He says your name in earnest, his voice laced with pleasure. “I want you to ride me.” He rubs your back and kisses the curve of your spine. “Would you like to?”

“Fuck, yes,” you reply. With that, he pulls out of you and turns you over. You expect him to get into position on his back, but he pulls you into his lap, making you squeal.

He laughs and kisses your nose, then your lips with tenderness. “Like this, baby.”

When you wrap your hands around the base of his cock, he grunts. He fills you up again, and you immediately grip his shoulders for support as you move your hips back and forth, then push your body up and down to take every piece of him that you can manage. The sound of your bodies slapping against each other is filthy, but so rewarding when he curses and grunts into your chest, doing his best to meet the clench of your pussy with his own thrusts. You whimper at the feeling, entirely different from him guiding you. You push against him, the knot in your core tightening at a rapid speed when Yeonjun presses his hand to your clit.

For as weak as you felt when you denied yourself of him and this, you feel powerful with Yeonjun’s body so close to yours, sensations blown to indescribable portions. What’s left of you follows the rhythm of the two of you chasing the end together. With his mouth attached to your breasts and turning your skin red and purple from his attention, strength and power could not be better than this: connection, desire, affection.

Come, baby. Come.

The three words flow into your mind and wrap around your skin until you do. You bounce on Yeonjun’s cock and ride out your high, feeling the blind spots of your vision pervade with color. With a broken cry, Yeonjun comes right after, spilling into the condom and rocking up into you until he stops moving altogether. You both feel the aftershocks of your orgasms, Yeonjun milking one more thrust before he slacks. With another press of your lips to his, you leave his lap and collapse onto the bed.

Running to the bathroom, Yeonjun discards the condom and grabs a wet rag. When he makes it back to you, he cleans you with soft touches and praises, a loving gaze in his eye that you wouldn’t have expected from him after the immodest words he spoke to you before. He throws the rag in his hamper and tucks the comforter over your bodies when he lays down next to you.

In the silence that pervades after you’re both finished catching your breath, Yeonjun whispers, “I like you. A lot.”

You blush, tucking your head into the curve of his neck. “I like you too.”

In the low light, the candles using the last of the wax, you realize you were never weak because of him. You might have been weak for him, but you let yourself believe wanting to be near him was a sign of weakness. And that was wrong. The only thing that could be wrong now was missing out on nights like these for so long.

“I’ve liked you for a long time, ever since that stupid house party. I just never admitted it to myself,” you admit, propping your chin on his shoulder to stare into his eyes.

They light up in muted glee, part of him too tired to express his complete excitement. “Ditto.” He kisses you lazily, the stroke of his lips against yours better than any magic you could create. “Sorry I didn’t ask you on a date first. Seems I couldn’t wait.” He grins sheepishly, to which you laugh.

“Likewise. But we can go out tomorrow. Right now, just lie with me?”

Yeonjun nods, wrapping his arms around you and kissing your forehead. “As my witch commands.”

@gyubakeries @loserlvrss @jjunberry @frenchkisstheabyss @prkhaven @tinycatharsis @fangel @aaa-sia @lovetaroandtaemin @xomakara @yvnempire @bbangbies @addictedtohobi @filmnings @xylatox @dawngyu

𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒 ── .✦ @kstrucknet @k-films @kvanity-main @lapydiaries @cosyhomenet @moadiarynet @/pirateeznet @/thediamondlifenetwork @/sweetvenomnet @/deoboyznet @violetanet @whipped-kpop-creators

𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫 𝑴𝒀 𝑶𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹 𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑲𝑺 𝒐𝒓 𝑱𝑶𝑰𝑵 𝑴𝒀 𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻𝑺 © 𝖠𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖧𝖤𝖤𝖢𝖧𝖶𝖤; 𝖣𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍.

[fandom-random-help]

Part 1 Part 2

Part 3 of Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Military!Reader

Simon stared at his phone in a bit of shock. He wasn't stupid, but now he was second-guessing that. He was putting pieces together in his mind while his phone buzzed over and over with calls from Price. How could his sweet little bird lie to him? Why would she even lie about this?

Things started to make sense now. The constant "business trips", you knowing how to shoot a gun (multiple in fact, but he didn't know that), and the slip of the tongue when you would respond to and/or understand military jargon. All of those things made Simon believe you were Grasshopper, and right now he needed to see you. He got dressed in his casual clothes, an army green shirt, black sweat pants, and a black surgical mask to match. He snuck out of his room and quietly walked as fast as he could to the infirmary. He couldn't believe you never told him about what you really do for work, but he also understood why you would keep it a secret. He knew it all too well. The worry, the agony of not knowing if you would come home alive at the very least, the thought of possibly putting those you love in danger. He knew those thoughts, hell he's had them ever since you two started dating. He needed to hear those words from you though.

You sat in your bed. You were glad to be in somewhat familiar territory and you didn't have to wear that stupid mask anymore. The infirmary was nice, but void of anything lively to say the least. Your recovery was going quite well. There were even discussions of you getting to go home in a couple days. With all of the good news surrounding your recovery you were drowning in the thought of having to confess to Simon about everything. You've talked yourself up, gaining confidence and finding the words you wanted to say for when you would see Simon again. Suddenly, a faint knock on your door pulled you out of your thoughts. A young nurse carefully walked in and closed the door. "Sergeant (Y/L/N) there's a Lieutenant Riley here to see you. Would you like for me to send him in?" The nurse asked almost in a whisper even though you were wide awake. You nodded your head, "Let him come in."

When Simon walked in his eyes scanned your form. You looked so different in a hospital gown. So fragile that if you even attempted to get out of bed you'd break. He didn't say a word as he sat down beside your bed, his eyes still on you. After a brief moment of looking at each other in pure silence, you spoke up. "Simon, I'm sorry I never told you. I was worried about how you would take it. I wanted to have both my job and you. I didn't want you to worry about me or make me change my career because it didn't fit your perception of me." Before you could continue Simon cut you off with a chuckle. "Love, I don't want none of that. I get why you did it. I get why you kept it from me, but don't think I didn't worry. I do gotta say though, you had me fooled in the beginning." You looked at him in suprise. "Wait really? How? I felt like I had the most ridiculous mask covering my face. My jokes with the guys weren't funny. I was almost useless the entire time. I felt so out of place." You explained. Simon shook his head. "No love, you are an entirely different person at work than you are at home. You were bold, confident, you spoke your mind when need be, and let's not forget the stress ball. I didn't know you kept little things like that with you, but you did and it came in handy. You were incredible out there darlin'. So what, you took a bullet? You were lucky and quick enough on your feet that that's the only wound you suffered the entire time we were gone." You blushed at his words and then he leaned closer. "I'm lucky to call you my girlfriend. Wanna know why?" You smile and nod your head. "Because I have the most gorgeous and badass woman I've ever had the pleasure of knowing." Your heart swelled at his words. Simon was never the affectionate type, and you didn't mind. But this? This was a whole different side of him you've never really seen all too often. "You wanna know something else?" He said. You giggled, "What baby?"

"Before I knew you were my girl under the mask. I fell for Grasshopper pretty hard. I gotta say she was pretty irresistable. Hard not to think of her bossing me around if she was rightfully mad." His confession had you a laughing mess. "So what are you saying? You liked Grasshopper more than me? Your precious little doll?" You chuckled. "No love, it just means I fell in love with a new side of you. To me, it felt like falling in love all over again with you." Simon whisperd.

The rest of the night was spent with you two telling each other about your military stories. The good, the bad, and the awesome stories were all laid bare to each other in the silence of your infirmary room. Simon even cuddled with you on the hard bed for the remainder of the evening. When the sun rose, you were greeted by a firm knock at the door as the doctor stepped in. Simon quickly got out of bed and sat back in the chair beside you, listening intently on what the doctor said about your recovery. You were going to need some time to rest at home. No strenuous activities or heavy lifting. The doctor handed you the discharge papers and you signed them eagerly. Simon waited for you outside of the room while you gathered all your things.

But then he noticed Price, Johnny, and Kyle at the front desk. He could only assume they were there to see you on your way out.

"Bloody hell." Simon cursed under his breath.

Part 4 coming soon!

Taglist!!!!! (I almost forgot)

@camcvpidd

@thatoneghostcosplayer

Love you guys!!!!!

[envihellbender]

Serial killer Steve Harrington, Eddie’s the only one who’s figured it out (pre-relationship?)

Fandom: Stranger Things

Characters: Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington

Content: Serial killer Steve Harrington, and Eddie Munson is into it, steddie, pre relationship

—

Eddie took a long drag on his cigarette as he waited outside of the abandoned warehouse. His l chest hurt as he did, he knew he should either quit this disgusting habit or stop binding but he knew he wouldn’t. Maybe it was the cold, damp air outside the abandoned, burnt out factory. He had followed Steve there, and now he waited so that he could finally… Something. Confront him? Maybe. Although, he had to admit, he struggled to come up with a reason against what he was doing. The first one who disappeared, as far as Eddie knew, was Tommy Hayes. Eddie still couldn’t believe the fact that hardly anyone seemed to notice that Steve spent their entire ‘friendship’ nervous and constantly sporting new bruises. The second was Carol Perkins. And honestly, Eddie and the rest of Hellfire were grateful that two of them were gone. Carol tortured Ronnie, and Gareth. Tommy had zoned in on Eddie in Junior year. Those two made sense as a target from Steve, after what they’d done to Nancy and him. However, the latest string didn’t make much sense to Eddie and almost made him question his analysis that the logical killer was Steve Harrington.

The latest two potential victims were Andy Hogan and Chance Peters. The final one who hadn’t shown up to school was Jason Carver. Andy and Chance were two boring lapdogs, horrible in the sense that they were so passive and happy to mock and beat whoever Jason told them to. To them it was all about popularity and little else. Ever since they’d gone missing Jason had gotten worse, far more erratic and violent than before. Chance and Andy had harassed members of both Hellfire and Corroded Coffin, particularly fixating on the freshmen which didn’t seem fair to Eddie and he did what he could. So, he wasn’t sad that they’d disappeared, and that Jason was next… But he couldn’t think why. Steve had graduated already, and they barely knew eachother. Eddie only had one theory, but if that was the case Dustin’s disgust at the idea of his classmates disappearances and potential murder might show Steve his little plan wasn’t working.

Eddie had been watching Steve’s night time activities for a while, and knew that the warehouse he stood at the door of was one of Steve’s favourites. Eddie had seen evidence he could’ve handed over to the police, but he didn’t. He didn’t exactly trust the cops and Steve’s work actually seemed to be doing more good than anything else. When Eddie heard rummaging from inside he flicked the ash from his cigarette onto the floor and took another drag, waiting until Steve appeared.

“Fancy a smoke?” Eddie asked, as the large metal entrance door creaked open, the sudden noise caused Steve to jump from his skin as he dropped the door letting it slam behind him.

“What the hell are you doing here, Munson?” Steve snapped, he wrapped his arms around himself and looked around anxiously.

“I could ask you the same question, Harrington.” Eddie knew it was cliched and childish to throw it back at Steve, but he was amused at how startled Steve was.

“I’m not creeping around like a-” He almost visibly bit his tongue and swallowed. Eddie raised his eyebrows in surprise as Steve swallowed and forced a smile with burning red cheeks. Eddie appreciated that Steve was trying, he was changing. He didn’t let words like “freak” roll off the tongue any more. “I’m not sneaking up on people.”

“You’re pals with Henderson, right?” The sudden change in subject was visibly jarring to Steve but Eddie rolled along with it as if it was natural.

“Yeah. I guess. Kinda like a little brother or something,” Steve mumbled, his hand scratched the back of his head as he looked around nervously. Eddie looked him up and down, Steve was wearing a t-shirt despite it being cold out, and his sneakers were oddly clean.

“Is that why you chose to carve up Carver then?” When Eddie pushed Steve’s eyes widened, he swallowed and stomach turned and twisted in on itself in anxiety. Before Eddie could push further Steve bit into his hand, hard. Eddie regretted being so blunt, he recognised a tic when he saw one but never dreamed he’d seen one coming from Steve Harrington.

“Erm. I. Sorry,” Steve muttered. His cheeks burned red as he looked down at the ground as if he’d been caught stealing Eddie’s wallet.

“Sorry for… what?” Eddie knew precisely what Steve was referring to, but the memory and shame of Eddie’s verbal tics “disturbing” class and resulting in a detention filled his mind and body. Eddie would be damned if he made anyone else feel that way.

“I- Erm. Nothing. I guess.” Steve paused with narrowed eyes. He looked around then back at Eddie, confused and almost as if he was trying to size him up. “Why are you so interested in Jason Carver?”

“I’m not, dude’s a fundie freak who shits himself when he sees kosher options in the cafeteria.”

“Okay. And what does he have to do with me?”

“I think he’s why you’re hanging out here in the middle of the night.”

“No… I don’t…”

“Steve. I know.” When Eddie said this Steve looked more baffled than anything else. They were both silent before Steve gave in and asked,

“Know what?”

“You’re getting rid of the Hawkins assholes,” Eddie began matter of factly as if he was telling Steve what his basketball game strategy was. “First it was your ex and his new chick, that makes sense. I mean, no offence but he was clearly as shitty to you as he was to everyone else. But. Why the latest brand of shitty jocks? You’ve gotten out of the hellhole that is Hawkins High.”

“What are you accusing me of here?” Steve responded sharply. “Do you- you think I’m-”

“The Hawkins Strangler is the name the press are using, right?”

“You’re crazy, Munson.”

“Absolutely yes, but irrelevant.”

“I don’t-”

“Is it because of Henderson?” Eddie interrupted, ignoring Steve’s denial as a distraction they couldn’t afford. “Is that why you’re going after Carver, and why you killed his friends before?”

“No. I didn’t-”

“Look. I get it.” This time when he raised a hand to silence Steve and spoke over him, Eddie felt frustrated and uncomfortable. “You don’t want to tell me, maybe you think I’m wearing a wire, which no, dude. So let me be real, you’re taking out people who deserve it. Who hurt you and those you care about. So I don’t care. So if I’m right, just… you don’t have to admit it. Just blink once for no twice for yes.”

“I’m- this is stupid.” Steve swallowed, he looked around nervously, then blinked twice deliberately.

“Fuck. Knew it.” Eddie had a wide, shit-eating grin across his face as he couldn’t suppress his delight.

“And? Are you going to turn me in?”

“Steve, dude. You’re kind of my hero, now,” Eddie grinned. He didn’t expect it but a strange sense of worship and joy filled him.

“Wh- why?” Steve looked startled and as if he’d just discovered Eddie had been killing off the town’s bullies.

“I mean, you got rid of the guy who pissed in my locker, or because you got rid of the girl who sexually harassed me when-” Eddie frowned and looked away. The awkward moments in public bathrooms as a trans person wasn’t something he wanted to bring up again. “Assholes who deserved it. Just. Is it Henderson? Is that why you’re taking the jocks down?”

“Not just Henderson. I mean, sure, that’s part of it. But…” Steve paused and frowned, he looked away in this awkward and vulnerable moment he’d never expected. “I was picking him up after your board game Hellfire thing and I saw the bastards hanging around outside of it. You guys were so stoked and then they ruined it. Shouting abuse and shit at you, Carver throwing his beer can at your head cutting you open. If I hadn’t have intervened,.."

“Dude. Are you- you killed a guy for me?” Eddie spoke slowly, his eyes wide and his voice a quiet gasp.

“I- I guess so.” Steve stammered his response, and wrapped his arms around his body.

“Shit. Dude that’s hot as hell.”

“Hot? Really?”

“The fact you didn’t cringe and run for the hills then is pretty encouraging.” Eddie grinned, his face lighting up as he saw Steve be a little flustered.

“Are you flirting with me, Munson?”

“Do you want me to be flirting with you?”

“One second you’re exposing my secrets and the next you’re trying to get in my pants… It’s a weird turn.”

“I’m a weird guy.”

[rottenpumpkin13]

Does Reno get his hair professionally dyed or does it do it himself? And if he does it himself, let me propose: What does Reno do when they're sold out of his regular brand. The shade and color he's been using for YEARS.

Reno absolutely dyes his own hair, ain't no way he's trusting a stranger with scissors and bleach near his head. The last time he let a salon touch it, he walked out looking like a flamingo. Plus, they never layer the bangs right. Ever. Now. Enter the tragedy: His go-to dye, "Inferno Lollipop #6," gets discontinued. Cue apocalyptic meltdown.

*Tseng walks into the break room and immediately freezes. Red goo is everywhere. On the counters. In the sink. The ceiling. It looks like a crime scene*

Tseng: AH. AH—AHH.

Reno: Chill, boss. It's just hair dye.

Tseng, visibly relived: Why is there hair dye everywhere??

Reno: Because Inferno Lollipop #6 is gone, Tseng. Gone. I'm synthesizing it from memory using my science knowledge.

Tseng: Reno, you do not possess science knowledge. The last time you made coffee, it had foam insulation in it.

Reno: Nah, nah, I do! I mix alcohol and other stuff all the time! Plus those "brownies" I make? Delicate chemistry. Gotta get the dosage just right or your consciousness ejects from your body like a cannonball. I

Tseng, covering his ears: STOP CONFESSING TO FELONIES. I don't have time to fill out forms.

Reno: No can do. We're this close. My last formula was almost right. I tested it on Rude!

*Tseng slowly turns to Rude, who is, as everyone knows, bald. his facial hair is still the same color, which can only mean one thing*

Tseng: !

Reno: It's not what you're thinking. I just applied some to his scalp, and like, it only burned a little. This batch's only flammable if you breathe on it too hard.

Tseng: Clean this up and get out.

Reno: Actually, I can't. Not yet. I'm waiting on Zack. His hair's the closest match to mine pre-dye. Y'know—volume, color, texture. I slathered him with Prototype Batch #12 before he left for a quick run in the rain. If it survives that, it's officially stormproof!

Tseng: Oh, I apologize. I doubted your progress. Please, continue.

*Zack walks in, completely bald*

Reno: Damn.

Tseng:

[lilies-of-the-fields]

originally rb'ed because i wanted to follow up on the citations in this article... And the idea that brain damage specifically affecting how we understand and take risks might be an ongoing factor in why some individuals may have stopped masking or seemingly stopped caring about the risks of covid

But in light of the post i just reblogged re ableism and covid, i wanted to rb this again to explicitly mention that

Ive not yet gone thru all the citations in the essay (not that there are too many just awful headache today lmao) so i cant/wont vouch that the arguments and articles hold to scrutiny (yet)

Interpretation A:

covid causes brain damage in 100% of cases. In particular covid infections impair how we assess and feel risk -> loss of anxiety/fear and quality of judgement leads to more risky behaviors -> higher likelihood of repeated infections causing cumulative incremental damage to capacity for understanding risk (a.k.a. positive feedback loop)

A feedback loop like this might explain why people who previously seemed to care sincerely about covid precautions, protecting their community, etc, may have changed their behaviors.

Imo, this could explain some of how people's behaviors have changed over time. I think it's too easy and convenient an excuse to be true for most people, though. There's less implicit blame in "oh well, we all have brain damage so we made poor decisions" versus "i like going out to eat and for concerts and it's too much of a bother to keep taking precautions" or even "we as humans eventually start to tune-out ongoing threats (especially when those most at risk are considered dispensable in the first place, are abstracted, and when given conflicting information and a facade of normalcy)

Interpretation B:

Covid causes brain damage, impairing judgement and perception of risk -> people care less about others and become less intelligent -> people get reinfected because of their own selfish and negligent actions -> people with long covid have themselves to blame

writing this second interpretation felt very ... Exaggerated and a bad faith interpretation of the essay? Especially given how the author explicitly says they are not using brain damage in a derisive way, but instead compares it to a knee injury. They also allude to acquaintances who have been significantly affected by covid (reinfections) but seem to have so much cognitive distortion / memory impairment that they no longer recall this.

Clearly, though, this is how a number of people are talking about covid reinfections if prev post is an indication. Idk that i really added anything here, especially since i still need to fact check the citations. I guess I just didnt want to spread the post without making it clear that A) being sick/contracting covid is not a moral failing. You can do everything "right" and still get sick. B) having brain damage / low intelligence does not equate to lesser worth or inherent unkindness. C) ... Idk, i am trying to think it through critically? If there's something missing w my reasoning or sometjing im not seeing i would rather know so i dont unintentionally internalize / promote ableist thinking

Ever wondered why your previously like-minded friends and allies suddenly abandoned vulnerable populations (trans, disabled, BIPOC) disproportionately affected by covid?

Or why it's suddenly hard for those same people to mask in the grocery store?

If you're disabled like me, I already know your answer.

Every covid infection causes brain damage that is visible on brain scans. It could literally be changing the way people think.

[circledwithaheart]

A few weeks ago I bribed promised @diazsdimples one sentence of mer!buck for every 100 words he wrote for an essay. I'm finally making good on that (with a few extra). bone apple tea 🫶

He doesn’t actually know what merpeople are supposed to avoid when it comes to food; if they’re like geese and shouldn’t have bread or some shit like that.

“You remembered,” Evan murmurs, his eyes finally lifting to look at Eddie again. Something shifts in his chest and makes his cheeks flush hot even though he can’t fathom why.

“Of course I did. Not like I’m going to forget my best friend’s favorite.” 

“Best friend, eh?” Evan’s expression shifts to a smirk that doesn’t manage to appear as mischievous as he probably intends. 

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your gills.”

Evan snatches his treat, gleefully tearing open the wrapper. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He crosses an ‘x’ over his heart (at least where Eddie assumes it is) before taking a large bite. 

“I still don’t know how you eat those with your teeth. They aren’t exactly meant for grinding like molars.”

“Who said anything about chewing?” Evan retorts with a shrug.

“So, what, do you unhinge your jaw and devour small, unsuspecting children, too?”

“Edmundo Diaz!” Evan holds a hand to his chest in mock offense.

That’s new. 

“Wait, I never told you my full name.”

“I, um,” Evan blushes, ducking his head. “I overheard your mom say it. The first time she came looking for you here.”

“Evan. That was-” The burning, prickling sensation returns full force as Eddie considers this new piece of information. He’s sure he’s blushing down to his toes. “I guess I wasn’t the only one paying attention, huh?”

“Guess not. Anyway, didn’t you have to find food for yourself? Don’t want you getting sick or anything.” For some reason Evan still won’t look directly at him.

Like an agreement, Eddie’s stomach rumbles again, only louder this time. 

“Yeah, you’re right. Uh, see you tomorrow?”

Evan lifts his head and their eyes finally meet again. It must be as much of a relief for him as it is for Eddie, because he smiles softly, matching his tone when he says, “See you tomorrow, Eddie.”

He stands and gathers his things. When he glances at the water to say goodnight Evan’s already silently gone. That’s never happened before. Evan always waits, waving like a dork until Eddie’s too far away. 

It stings deeper than he thinks it should, even worse because he can’t figure out why it does at all.

tagged earlier by @tizniz

np tagging @diazsdimples @daffi-990 @bidisasterevankinard @bi-buckrights @spotsandsocks @stereopticons @wildfluorescent @wildlife4life @diazheartsbuckley @thewolvesof1998 @midsummersmorn @theotherbuckley @kitteneddiediaz @your-catfish-friend @thekristen999 @aoubooming @wikiangela @rainbow-nerdss @steadfastsaturnsrings @inell @eddiebabygirldiaz @dr-shortsighted-owl @imtheiliad @elvensorceress @giddyupbuck @beyourownanchor6 @bekkachaos @ladydorian05 @lemonzestywrites @monsterrae1 @statueinthestone @slightlyobsessedwitheverything @thelikesofus @eowon @rewritetheending @spaceprincessem @bucksbignaturals @lovetommyactually @lavenderleahy @whatwouldeddiedo @hyperfocusthusly @loucifersbitch and anyone else who wants to 😘

also @theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming

[mammoth-clangen]

(Hi, i need to rant to someone who knows more than me on the topic of the de-extinction of mammoths. Apologies to your inbox and you for the wall.)

in my opinion, for mammoths, it's also vital to remember how unfortunately inbred their last living population was. If humans hadn't killed them, they'd have all died of inbreeding. They were stuck on an island, the only extant population left, and honestly, probably on their way to if not already suffering from low food supplies, assuming they had few or no natural predators there. Plus, I'm pretty certain we have at least one specimen from there, and to my knowledge, we can't exactly test how inbred it is without other direct relatives... while yes, a few cases of inbreeding would be relatively harmless to a population, rampant inbreeding is bad for a reason.

I don't think any species should be revived - even if there was somehow a good reason to - unless we can clearly and consistently prevent unhealthy amounts of incest from occurring down the line. Something which, as you pointed out, likely can't be done with "dire wolves" or mammoths.

These scientists are playing with fire, and all they're going to do is make everything worse. The very definition of "so determined to see if you could, you forgot to stop to see if you should."

You make a very good point about the mammoths towards the end, they were indeed, very inbred. The cervical rib thing is interesting to me in particular because I have cervical ribs too, lolol

That being said...

The last surviving refuge population, the Wrangel Island Mammoths, were actually were doing surprisingly well before humans showed up! This is surprising, especially given what we know about animals such as Cheetah, with very reduced genetic diversity.

But it seems the Wrangel Island population, small as it was, had found a sort of 'genetic and environmental equilibrium' that lasted 200+ generations. They were living long-term as a whole population with inbreeding depression until their extinction ~4000 years ago, at the hands of humans. Major deleterious gene mutations were apparently "purged" rather than accumulating, though why, I'm not certain.

Really strange and interesting stuff!

However, the severe inbreeding in the last mammoths is still important in discussions of de extinction.

It shows what happens when, as we both mentioned, a species' numbers drop below the minimum survivable population. "Severely reduced heterozygosity" is the scientific term for "both copies of everyone's genes are the same." It leaves them vulnerable to disease, and much less able to adapt to changes as a population.

Refugia of extinct species like Wrangel Island are fascinating, but unless they can repopulate outside their refuge, they typically don't last. It's only a matter of time before something novel to the environment, such as predators or disease, wipes the rest of them out.

Quick clarification about inbred mammoth genomes in cloning

It's important to remember that the ice sheets have come and gone across the Northern Hemisphere for hundreds of thousands of years. Mammoths lived and died among them for much of that time. Thus, any intact genomes we find would likely be from different times in their range; not all from at the time of their extinction!

Here's a couple of examples of mammoth DNA sequenced from:

52,000 year old Woolly Mammoth skin.

Three Siberian mammoth specimens dating to the Early and Middle Pleistocene subepochs, two of which are more than one million years old!

So what I'm saying is, we actually could sequence a fair number of non-inbred mammoths. And we should! Learning about their genetics is fascinating, and tells the story of their lives throughout their existence as a species!

Does this mean we should clone/GMO mammoths using those sequenced genomes?

It's still a Hard No from me, for the other reasons mentioned here.

Additionally, whatever was happening on Wrangel Island, I doubt we would be able to replicate it well enough to stop inbreeding depression in resurrected mammoths.

Like the bucardo, I think any de extinct mammoths would unfortunately be crawling towards a second extinction.

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Sorry to mildly rebuttal you there; I just think it's important not to spread misinformation, regardless if it supports your viewpoint c:

And thanks for giving me a chance to ramble about those funny island proboscideans!

In a world where endangered species are constantly at risk of genetic drift and inbreeding depression, the Wrangel Island mammoths are a bizarre case that I don't expect most people to know about XD

Image taken from the Wrangel Island paper.