#why I think of things that make me so sad

[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.

[meowdei]

the psychology of men (a guide to understanding how they work) — ft. phainon

if nice guys didn’t always screw you over, you’d have an easier time trusting that phainon isn’t the good guy full of bullshit. but he’s still nice enough to patiently wait for you to give him one chance, though

❤︎ word count: 10.3k words — in literally one day. ONE

❤︎ before you read: female reader ; college au ; reader has a shitty ex boyfriend and trust issues — she is not perfect but she is human. be nice to her ; strangers to friends with benefits to lovers ; reader has a crush on mydei at first LOL ; mentions of alcohol and drunk sex ; phainon is a YEARNER ; resolved angst, miscommunication, and arguments ; phainon is down bad and reader is simply in denial that she is too ; cunnilingus ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; not proof read

❤︎ commentary: i didn’t care about this dude until today. he possessed me so hard i wrote 10k words in less than 24 hours. white hair and blue eyed freaks will do that to you

LESSON ONE: MEN ARE ALWAYS PLANNING SOMETHING. THE NICER THEY SEEM, THE MORE SINISTER THE SCHEME!

You meet Phainon for the first time while you’re freshly out of a relationship, nursing a broken heart. Your ex-boyfriend pursued you with that heartfelt, fairytale sort of devotion, and you thought you’d be telling people at your wedding one day that you knew he was “the one” early on in your relationship. 

And then he dumped you as quickly as he “fell in love” with you. It wouldn’t be right, he’d said, it just isn’t fair to keep you around when I don’t feel the way I used to. He leaves you with not so much as a tear of sorrow, and you’re left with the aftermath of a devastating heartbreak. 

Not the sad, lingering kind—this one is the sort of heartbreak that makes you hate all men. Especially the nice ones—the ones that manipulate you into thinking they’re the good guys who won’t turn on you, but they do. They always do. The nice guys are the ones with the most potential to turn out dangerous. They aren’t upfront about their assholery. That shitty ex of yours is a prime example, and you refuse to fall victim twice. 

Your first impression of Phainon happens in some boring college class you take just for the elective credit and an easy gpa boost. He’s the sort of guy your attention doesn’t instantly latch onto—he’s sweet, sure, and funny but a little too gentle to be real. Too good to be true. Too much of a green flag to be interesting. Exactly the kind of guy you’re avoiding—exactly the sort of person who can worm his way into your heart slowly and lethally and then bite. Hard. (That sort of mindset is too pessimistic to be any good, of course, but you’re only just barely in your twenties as you navigate your dramatic breakup, and your prefrontal cortex is still developing.)

You find his friend a little more intriguing for the longest time, if you’re honest. The brooding blonde next to him always made your eyes linger for a second too long. 

“Hey,” he whispers, poking your shoulder from behind. You turn, slightly irritated by the fact that some guy is interrupting your dissociation in the middle of class—doesn’t he know you have false scenarios to run through your mind while you pass the time? Professor Anaxagoras has a strict no-phones-in-sight policy if you want to keep your participation points up, so the only thing to entertain you is your own head. Sheepishly, as if sensing your irritation, he murmurs, “Sorry. Can I please use your laptop charger?”

“I’m using it,” you blink. 

“Yeah, but it’s almost fully charged,” he practically pleads. The puppy eyes on him are unreal—you feel almost compelled to cave just at the sight of them alone until you realize it’s your charger, and he’s bargaining with you about why you don’t need it. Absurd. “I can see the green battery sign.”

“Are you serious,” you stare at him blandly, “it’s barely twelve pm. Why is your laptop already dying anyway?”

“I charged it,” he pouts, “but she’s old and on her last legs. It doesn’t last if I take the charger out for too long—I forgot to bring it with me. Please. If it dies in the middle of this assignment, it’ll make me start over! It took me an hour to google all these answers.”

Well. He’s convincing in that pathetic sort of way. Just the perfect mix between nice and genuine but still a tad bit needy that just tickles your gut in the right place to loosen you up. Without a word, you unplug your charger with a roll of your eyes and hand it to him as he smiles gratefully. 

“You’re the best!”

“You’re pathetic,” his friend grunts to him from beside him.

“Don’t be rude, Mydei!” he whispers through a wounded voice. 

They continue to bicker back and forth, but you tune it out—there’s only one thought on your mind for the remainder of your time in that room. 

You spend the rest of class thinking about the deep sound of his friend’s voice to care about anything else. Fuck, you think—you’re almost debating that strict no more men rule you’d set for yourself after your break up, ready to throw it all away for the grumpy looking blonde with red tips behind you. He’s hot. And honestly, he seems a bit rude and crabby, so really, he can’t be that bad—and yeah, everyone would think he’s the red flag, but you know how men go. You’ve figured out their psychology. The ones who are prickly on the exterior are actually very soft inside, and they’re not half as bad as the soft, cuddly type of men who turn around and bite you as soon as you’re close enough. 

This guy could be different. He could be worked into devotion instead of smothering you with it early on, only to have ulterior motives and get bored. What was his name again? Mydei? Sounds decently moanable in bed, you reason. He certainly seems like a keeper. 

It’s not long before the lecture ends, and you walk off with all your thoughts consumed by the grumpy blonde guy who said maybe only three words that you properly heard before he possessed your mind like a fucking demon. So much so that you forget to ask for your charger back, and that clever asshole never gave it back on his own accord like a proper human being. 

So, the next time Phainon walks into class, you’re glaring at him right at the entrance of the room with an outstretched hand and an unimpressed curl of your lips. 

“My charger,” you say blandly, “you took off with it last class. I need it back.”

“Oh!” he flushes, quickly digging into his bag and pulling it out—at least he kept it in very good condition. Men are not to be trusted with things you need because they are irresponsible. Case example: not returning what they borrow. “Sorry,” he says earnestly, “I meant to return it, but I forgot. Which, I was thinking…maybe we should exchange numbers—you know…to contact outside of class if we ever need it.”

You blink, seeing right through him. Why else would you ever need it again? “You walked off with my charger just so you could use it as an opening to ask for my number?”

He flushes a deeper shade of red, creeping up to his ears and down his neck like he didn’t expect you to call him out on his so very blatant scheme. “W-well…did it work?”

You contemplate for a moment before you respond, “No.”

“How about if I throw in some assignment answers?”

“…Okay, fine.” You never pay attention in this class—the tests are open notes, and the weekly assignments are easy enough when you have the internet at your disposal. But still, having someone present the answers to you is a much faster route, and you have other non-elective classes to worry about, so all in all, if a semi-annoying guy messages you here and there, it’s not so bad.

And the better part is that his friend is hot, so you can snag the details on him, too. Men don’t really worry about the concept of loyalty—they don’t stay far away from the people their friends show an interest in for something like friendship. You know how they work. Phainon’s number can lead you to Mydei’s, and Mydei can break you free from your awful, terrible descent to madness from heartbreak, and when you inevitably have a happy, healthy, and loving relationship that lasts, you’ll never think about your bastard ex again.

Foolproof.

“Great!” Phainon beams. He hands you his phone, and you type your number in.

And that starts it all. 

────────────────────────

LESSON TWO: SEX DOES NOT EQUAL INTIMACY. WHEN THEY SAY IT’S JUST PHYSICAL, THAT’S TOTALLY FINE. BUT IF YOU SAY IT, YOU’RE OUT OF LINE!

Exchanging phone numbers with Phainon was supposed to be a simple way to have at least one contact for a class—a very important measure you should take for every class you’re in—and perhaps, if you’re lucky, you could also somehow get closer to that hot blonde friend he has named Mydei. 

It was never supposed to become a real friendship.

But, well…shit happens, and things don’t go according to plan. It also doesn’t help that Phainon is a consistent texter—almost to a fault. What sort of man doesn’t text sporadically and with a tone as dry as concrete? Phainon, apparently—which is not like any sort of man you’ve ever known. 

You even start sitting with him in class instead of in front of him—that’s a terribly unplanned development. The bright side of it, however, is that you quickly get over his friend. Mydei is nice, but he’s a little too bored. Or maybe he just isn’t interested in you; you’re not so sure. No amount of flirty comments gets a flush out of him, not a smirk, not even a smart retort back. He is just…bored. (Or maybe he’s secretly just one of those good friends who doesn’t flirt with the girl that his friend is actively trying to pursue, but that option does not align with your very complex understanding of men, so you shove it aside. He’s probably just bored, and that’s just truly unfortunate. He was hot.)

But you grow fond of Phainon. As a friend. Sure, he’s clearly been interested in you since day one, but he’s not pushy, and a hint here and there that you’re still bitter about your previous relationship makes him keep a respectful distance. But he’s definitely smitten—and you? Well, you’re lonely. And he’s a good guy. A good guy who keeps you good company as a good friend and nothing more. He knows that, and you don’t think you’re stringing him along if he’s aware that you’re nothing more than friendly. 

And sometimes, friends go to parties together. And sometimes, they also drink together. And sometimes, they also end up staying at the other’s apartment afterward because it’s closer and safer than trying to get back home alone. And…sometimes, although not a lot of times—but sometimes, they wake up in bed together, nude with no recollection of the previous night and love bites scattered on their necks as proof that something very, very physical happened between them.

It’s not always a common occurrence, but it’s certainly not a rare one. Does it complicate things? For certain—but you think that you and Phainon are good enough friends and mature enough people to know that sex does not equate to intimacy. Most men are super clear about that, anyway—it’s almost ingrained in their nature to say “no strings attached” before they fuck your brains out in every position they can think to try. This should not be a foreign concept to him. 

But it doesn’t make the morning any less awkward. 

“Oh my god,” you say in disbelief, pulling the sheets over your bare chest as you stare at Phainon like he’s grown two heads. He stares back at you like you’re some figment of his imagination—unsure if you’re real but painfully hopeful that you are. And then you take a quick glimpse around his room and realize he’s a space nerd—there’s a poster about Saturn on his wall. “I didn’t think you were into space. You seem a little too air-headed for that.”

“Hey!” he pouts, “you don’t know me! I can be very smart!”

You snort, eyeing him in amusement. Except staring at him for too long means that you are forced to look at the hickey you left on his neck, almost like you were a raging, horny teenager last night and not an adult. You would be more embarrassed if one glimpse down at your chest didn’t tell you that he was even worse. 

“So…” you start awkwardly. 

“So…” he echoes. 

You don’t know where to take it from there. There’s a beat of silence before you say, “We’re good, right Phai?”

He softens, looking at you with those large, round eyes that house every shade of the sky and her beauty before he nods and murmurs, “Yeah. We’re always good.”

“Good,” you breathe, “I’m glad. I want us to be good.”

“Well,” he rubs his neck, “we are, in fact, good. So…yeah.”

In the end, you sheepishly turn around so he can get out of bed, find his scattered clothes and put them on, and leave, and you—once you’re certain he’s far enough in the kitchen and the faucet is running—scream into his pillow before slipping out of bed and putting on your own. You’re pleasantly surprised he doesn’t have only one pillow. But his sheets are navy blue, so you dock a few points for that. Not a good look.

He makes you breakfast before you leave. Something about sitting and sharing pancakes while he has tousled hair feels so natural you almost feel sick at the thought of leaving. But you tell yourself that he’s an easy friend to have and feel comfortable with, and force yourself up and to the door when the time inevitably comes. 

He sees you out with a soft, “See you later?”

“Yeah,” you hum, “later. Bye.”

“Bye.”

—————

You wish so badly that you could be an ideal individual, but you are as flawed as the rest of the humans you share planet Earth with.

You and Phainon fuck again. Sober, this time. Still as friends. Not by accident, or through the influence of alcohol, or by forced proximity, or by anything that you can use to excuse it. You can’t excuse it. It’s entirely an act of free will that you consented to—because he does take consent very seriously, you learn—and it starts to become abundantly clear that sex is beginning to get a little too frequent in your time together.

The first time it happened after the initial accidental night, he was over at your apartment helping you build your new desk. The old one was too small, and you needed an upgraded space badly. He spends the evening hammering and drilling pieces away and fitting them together, and like some cliche joke from the universe, when you slip on the instruction manual on the floor, he catches you as your face hovers dangerously close to his. A kiss later, and suddenly he’s fitting into you and drilling you instead of the wood. 

And then it starts to happen everywhere. 

Sometimes in the back of his car before he drops you off at home after class. Sometimes on your kitchen counter when you’re supposed to be washing dishes after he’s over for dinner to study. Sometimes after he’s got a bad exam grade to blow off some steam. Sometimes when you’re particularly stressed over a busy week with too many assignments due on the same day and too many hours of your part-time job to work. 

Every time it happens, you go back to acting like you always do afterward. Like it never even happened. Never mentioned, or questioned, or brought up. He never questions if something is shifting in your relationship, and you never bring it up. Sometimes, two people can have a physical relationship and still be friends and nothing more. It’s not impossible, and it’s not bad.

If anything, it makes you closer friends. You start to understand each other better. You talk more—really talk. No silly banter, or heated debate, or stressed-out vents. Just you, Phainon, the sheets that cover your bodies and a quiet room that lingers with the scent of sex.

He tells you about how much he misses his hometown. How small it is, and how everyone knows everyone. How leaving home and his young triplet sisters was the hardest thing he did, but a good degree and stable job is even harder to come by where he’s from. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity. 

And you tell him about your ex. About how sweet and nice he was. How badly he wanted you. How good he was at doing things right and reading you for what you craved. How to love you like you always wished. How to spend time with you without burning you out and depleting your social battery. How to know your ticks and know when he’s pushing your buttons too far and when a joke doesn’t feel like a joke anymore. How to make you feel seen. 

No man has ever loved you like that. None have cared to, either. Learning you is a lot of work—you have years and years of life and stories and feelings and fears and everything’s to share. Teaching them is a lot. Learning them is even more. 

You liked to think that boy from your past was a ticket to something good. Some better life for yourself where it’s not just you and yourself, and that’s it—a life where you were you and someone else cared to see it. Have it. Cherish it. Keep it. 

You don’t know how someone could pour in so much time, do everything first, want things all on their own, and still walk away and tell you that they just don’t feel the same anymore.

You think it’s just a man thing. Men bore easily. 

Phainon snorts at that. 

“They do have short attention spans,” he tells you. 

You smile tightly, humming as you blink back tears. “Or maybe I’m just boring.”

“Aw, c’mon,” he gasps dramatically, reaching over to swipe the tears like it’s always been his job to—it feels so natural when he does it. “You’re not boring! You’re at least a step up from boring because boring is Professor Anaxa, and god knows what he drones on about.” 

“Gee,” you huff, but the tears are easier to subside when it’s him. They’re gone quickly like a fleeting reminder that sorrow exists but shooed away like they’re unwelcome when he’s around. He’s around more and more these days. “Thanks. I’m glad to be just a step up from boring. Maybe in a year or so, I’ll be two steps up from boring.”

“Nothing is ever impossible,” he winks. “Some day, with enough hard work and determination, you might even be three steps up.”

“You suck,” you giggle. 

He laughs, and the sound of his voice is enough to lull you to sleep. You sleep good next to him—always do.

—————

One thing you count on is that it’s always easy when it’s you and Phainon. Phainon and you. 

Just two people who exist with each other, and nothing else really needs to be thought out. You don’t worry about what you wear around him or how you look. He doesn’t care too much about what you’re doing or where you’re going. As long as it’s you and him, him and you, and nothing else—it’s okay. He’s good. He treats you good and makes you feel good, too. Inside and out. Physically and mentally. 

He might even be your best friend. You don’t know if you should tell him that—men get weird about definite titles like that. But then again, maybe not Phainon. He’s like an anomaly of sorts, sometimes. 

But you forget sometimes that Phainon was never hoping to just be friends. And you suppose letting him feel you come undone for him more than once is like dangling his desires right in front of his face because it all blows up on you very fast. 

Perfect one second, like the calm before the storm, and a disaster zone the next, leaving you no time to evacuate before the tornado has hit and done its damage. 

“Mydei wants to come with us to try that new cafe you mentioned,” Phainon hums, watching in sheepish amusement as you sigh and mutter under your breath while picking up his dirty socks from the couch and tossing them across the room. (Men are all the same, aren’t they?) “He said something about there being a pomegranate beverage he wants to try.”

“Fine by me,” you shrug, slumping onto his couch, “if he doesn’t find it awkward, then I don’t either.”

“Why would he find it awkward?” he looks at you in bewilderment.

“I think he’d have to be oblivious to miss the way I was flirting with him,” you huff out a snort, “I don’t think most men jump at the opportunity to hang out with a girl they ignored advances of, but maybe he’s just too passionate about pomegranate to care.”

Everything feels like it pauses as soon as the words come out. You thought he’d known this whole time—you could have sworn he’d known. How would Mydei have never mentioned it to him? Aren’t they best friends? Don’t men at least tell their friends when a girl is hitting on them regularly in passing? Is Mydei really that bad at giving life updates, or is he more clueless than you gave him credit for when it comes to romantic interaction? 

Nothing makes sense, and you’re not entirely sure about anything. The only thing you are sure about is that Phainon is staring at you like you’ve been disloyal to the worst degree. 

“You liked Mydei?” he asks in hurt, staring at you with those god-awful puppy eyes. You feel like you kicked one, too, with the way he stares at you. 

“W-well, no,” you stutter, “I mean, yes—but like…not really, you know?”

“No, I don’t know,” he shakes his head, “you’re not making any sense.”

“I liked him for a very short time,” you say quickly, “like…like a small crush, you know? He was attractive, and I am not immune to an attractive man, so it just…b-but it never lasted for long!”

“Did you still like him when we got together?” he asks quietly. Got together—you physically have to stop yourself from flinching at those words. Some part of you feels a little bit bad that he sounds so wounded, but the other part of you feels like this is all so absurd. That he’s starting to get worked up over nothing. He has to know you were never together—you never did anything that implies two people that are…together. It’s always been a good fuck here and there, and that’s what you kept it as strictly. 

(Distantly, your mind gnaws at you and screams that two people who just fuck and nothing else do not do the things that you and Phainon do. Sure, you were friends first, but two people who draw the line at sex don’t seek each other to FaceTime until three am, and they don’t bring each other soup when they’re sick, and they don’t hold each other when they cry, and they don’t, under any circumstances, tell each other about their deepest insecurities that they’ve never voiced before about shoddy exes who ruined their ability to trust and feel loved. You can’t be the closest people in your lives and just have sex—but your mind has never been your number one supporter, so you shove the voice down.)

“No,” you admit, and for a second, his shoulders sag in relief. Like he doesn’t care or feel threatened that you liked his friend as long as it didn’t bleed into your time together—and that’s when you start to wonder if Phainon is too good for you. Too kind and genuine in a way that is not dangerous. Too sweet in a way that doesn’t slowly kill you like poison but just gives you something to look forward to. Maybe he’s a good one—a good guy who is just good and nothing else. Still, you kill his heart anyway with a harsh blow to his chest as you add, “I didn’t like anyone when we started getting physical. And I still don’t, Phainon.”

Getting physical. Whatever that means. You say it like it puts some distance between the sex you have and intimacy. You say it like it rationalizes everything you do with him—you get physical, which is only human nature, and in the mix, if you develop a good, long-standing friendship, then there is nothing wrong with that. 

But are you really okay with just friends? Yes. You are. Are you sure about that? Absolutely. You don’t seem so convinced. This is a positive, for sure, one hundred percent true reality. Phainon is just a friend. You’re shooting yourself in the foot. 

You force yourself to stop arguing with yourself when you notice the way his eyes flash at the words: still don’t. He processes the words that you still don’t like anyone, and the look in his eyes is devastating. Betrayal. Confusion. Hurt. Anger. Something else that you don’t quite understand, but it makes you filled dreadfully to the brim with unease. 

“Every time we’ve been together has just been physical to you?” he asks quietly, croaking out the words as if they’re acrid on his tongue and taste awful. “You’re lying.”

“I thought I made it very clear we were just friends, and I wasn’t looking for a relationship,” you furrow your brows, “you can’t act like I’ve been stringing you along—”

“Before we started, fucking, sure! But I thought it was pretty mutually clear we were slowly turning romantic when you willingly took my dick down your throat every now and then.”

“We’ve never had a ‘hey, what are we?’ discussion,” you cry exasperatedly, throwing your hands up as though this is all…so, so, so absurd—and for a second, you feel like it is. You made it clear that you weren’t trying to date. Not him, not anybody. Sure, that silly blonde friend of his clouded your judgment for a bit, but that was never more than a phase. “Don’t you think it was a red flag to never discuss what we are or what we’re doing if we were getting romantic?”

He falters. Something in his face makes him look so unrecognizable. So fragile and knocked down a peg that you’ve never seen from him. And something about the way he looks at you makes you almost feel like he doesn't recognize you. 

“I thought you were avoiding the conversation on purpose,” he whispers, voice cracking just as he says: you. “I thought…I thought you were just nervous about labels after everything from your last…” he clears his throat, like even mentioning the word relationship kills him, “and…and that I was just waiting for you to be more comfortable…”

You don’t know what to say. And frankly, nothing seems like it’ll make him feel better. He’s fighting the trembling of his lips and blinking back the moisture in his eyes like all he has left in his control is to not shed tears in front of you. 

You extend him that much grace. (Men don’t like being vulnerable, you reason. They hate showing emotions.)

“Phainon, I think I should go,” you murmur softly.

“You want to leave?” he asks, gutted. It’s got two meanings—you know that. You know exactly what he’s asking.

Everything feels wrong when you say, “Yes,” through a soft whisper, “I do.” But you still don’t take it back.

And nothing feels right when he lets out a watery chuckle and lets the first few tears slip. “Well, you know where the door is,” he spits.

He doesn’t walk you out. You’re not sure why that feels so heavy—it’s not because you’re guilty. You know that. It’s something else, and you can’t quite understand it. 

────────────────────────

LESSON THREE: NOT ALL MEN. SURE, MOST HAVE A VERY BAD STREAK, BUT NEVER THE WHITE-HAIRED AND BLUE-EYED FREAK!

You barely last two weeks before you call Phainon. 

At first, you thought being without who is maybe your closest friend at the moment was just eating away at you, and that’s why you missed him. You threw yourself into your social circles, making plans left and right to fill that gaping hole of his presence. It didn’t work. 

And then it slowly starts to click in place. 

Your friends send you a picture of your ex’s new fling, calling him an asshole and how she’s too pretty to be his next victim. You don’t feel even the slightest bit jealous or hollow. In fact, you’re bored by the news—you have more pressing matters. 

Then, you start to see what feels like fucking propaganda for romance everywhere. Every social media timeline is filled with some stupid, cheesy, cringe trend that rubs in your face how painfully in love two people are. You get ads for fucking wedding rings. Your friends are all magically starting to get out of the talking phases and actually have something exclusive and official. Your old high school friends are getting engaged, and invitations are coming in. You’ve RSVP’d one in spring and two in fall already. 

Everywhere you look, it’s something that feels like the universe is promoting a relationship in your face as if it’s a poorly disguised paid sponsorship by some celebrity online, and all you want to do is throw a rock at the sky and hope it lands on whatever divine being is playing tricks on you straight in the face. 

But it slowly becomes clearer and clearer why it unsettles you so much. Why it all makes you bitter and annoyed and tired and…and sad. You’re sad. And it’s because you miss Phainon, and every couple reminds you of the hurt you caused him and why it’s your fault he’s still not in your life. Because you wanted your cake and to eat it, too. Even if it meant taking advantage of his feelings and the heart he didn’t even bother wearing on his sleeve. He just pinned it to yours and let you wear it. 

So you call him. When that doesn’t work, and you get sent to voicemail, you go straight to his apartment. You knock on his door incessantly for two minutes straight (you know he’s home—his car is there) before he opens the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes despite it being three in the afternoon. 

“Mydei, can you at least come bother me to eat a little later in the da—oh.”

He notices you and quickly straightens up, smoothing out his wrinkled t-shirt as best as he can and fixing his ruffled hair (that doesn’t do much but ruffle more) as he looks at you with what is his best attempt at a nonchalant look and clears his throat. “Yes?”

“Hi,” you say nervously, “how are you?” (What else do you say? You’re at a loss.)

“Oh, you know,” he shrugs casually, “nursing a broken heart and trying to integrate back into society as a functioning member. The usual. How about you?”

You flinch at his tone, at the way it’s so clipped yet so emotional at the same time. 

“I called earlier—”

“I know. I ignored that, by the way, if that wasn’t clear,” he says as if being petty and angry is the only thing he has left. (It might just be, and you certainly won’t blame him for it.)

“I know,” you whisper, “but I still wanted to talk. And see you. Which I know I don’t deserve, but I guess I’m clearly not perfect, huh?” you shrug softly, giving him a sad smile. 

“Well,” he says flatly, “you came all this way, and I’ve already opened the door. Might as well say the groundbreaking thing you came to say.”

When Phainon is hurt is the only time he does not know how to be kind. He spends so much time not hurting others, not letting them feel the pain of their feelings being overlooked, that he doesn’t quite know how to handle it. How to stomach that, yes, there are hurt people in this world, and, yes, they do the hurting, too. And he might fall victim to it. And he might even be the cause of someone else’s hurt, too, intentional or not. 

He’s not good at processing pain. He’s too good of a guy to ever have to dwell on how badly his actions have impacted someone. Not because he’s perfect but because he’s gentle enough by nature to avoid the necessity of it while he can. 

“I’m sorry,” you say earnestly. Because you are. You are. “I knew you were interested early on, and having sex as often as we did was leading you on whether I meant to or not, and you got hurt because of it, so I’m sor—”

“Unbelievable,” he scoffs, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. 

You blanch. “What?” you ask, mildly frustrated. He doesn’t have to forgive you, but it’s certainly an honest apology. “You don’t have to forgive me if you don’t want to. But I just felt it was right to tell you that I—”

“I’m not upset because you don’t like me or you that led me on,” he interrupts, making you blink in confusion. He looks at you for a moment—really looks at you, and before you can say anything, he lets out another disbelieving chuckle. “You still don’t get it, do you? Do you even understand it yourself—why you’re even here?”

“To apologize, of course—”

“No.” 

He says it so seriously. 

Phainon is hardly ever so serious. It’s what you always liked about him, even if you hated to admit it. He’s good at taking serious matters and making them feel like they’re not so serious. Not in a bad way—he’s just good at making them feel less soul-crushing with that carefree smile and those light-hearted words. He comforts you without ever letting you feel the shame of needing comfort. It’s nice.

You forget that even he is capable of being solemn. 

“No one apologizes for breaking someone’s heart unless it breaks theirs too—do you see that? Do you see that you care? I’m not upset that you don’t care about me or that you don’t feel the same. That would be easy to move on from. It kills me because you do—you care, and you feel exactly the way I do, and you just won’t admit it—do you know how much that sucks?”

You swallow thickly. It’s getting to that dangerous territory. That fragile, vulnerable place in your mind that you don’t like because then you have to admit that, yes, maybe you fucking fell hard and crashed onto the ground for Phainon. Asphalt and rocks still digging into your arms with raw and bleeding skin. Yes, maybe he’s that nice, kind, genuine guy who you fell for and who has no other motives than to spend his time being nice and genuine to you. And maybe, if you’d met him sooner and not later, you could have loved him and not some other asshole in disguise, pretending to parade around like a good man, like some wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

Maybe that would have saved you the constant fear of it inevitably going all wrong—of giving and giving and giving, and one day, even that’s not enough, and someone doesn’t even want to take from you anymore. That one day, someone doesn’t even find you worth taking advantage of. 

That stings.

It’s this twisted sort of rejection you can’t handle. This sickening sort of feeling makes you think it’s better to be needed for selfish reasons than to be discarded like a useless, meaningless waste of time. And Phainon wouldn’t take advantage of you, right? He’s too nice of a guy—he’d reel you in, make you think he wants you so, so badly, and then when he doesn’t, he’ll play that nice guy trick again and make you think he’s doing you a favor by letting you go. Letting you go so you’re not being used by making it known you’re unwanted and not enough. 

As if he didn’t spend so much time making you want him. Condition you into thinking being loved by him was such a treasure. Convince you into needing the devotion he hands so easily for free. 

But you’re wrong, aren’t you? Maybe he’s not like that at all—maybe he’s just a nice guy because he really is good. Maybe he’s not nice because he needs to be to get what he wants. Maybe he’s nice because he wants to be, and it earns him what he wants the honorable way. Maybe you’ve fallen for Phainon, and maybe you were wrong about that being a bad thing. And maybe you just really fucking hate to admit when you’re wrong. (Your prefrontal cortex is still developing, after all. The men of your past are not very helpful to that slow development.)

“I don’t know how I feel anymore,” you whisper, tears littering your eyes. And god, you feel like a witch—using those sad, doe eyes with the wet, teary gaze that you know will soften him up like butter. Because he does. Even if you don’t do it on purpose, it makes sure he softens right up in front of your face because he hates the sight of your sadness being so tangible that he can feel it on the pad of his thumb in the form of a wet, warm rivulet. 

Like clockwork, he wipes the tears and sighs, and you let out a shaky breath. 

“I don’t know how I feel about anything because every time I think my feelings are right, they’re fucking wrong,” you sob, “I am always wrong, and I don’t know how to stop being wrong.”

His arms wrap around you and pull you close, pressing your body flush against that sturdy chest that feels like a brick wall—strong enough to keep you away from all the harm and cruelty of the world around you as long as he stands in front of you. Sometimes, you think that’s all it takes. Just Phainon standing there, and that’s it. That’s it to be okay. 

“You can only stop being wrong once you’re right,” he hums, giving you a sad, innocent little smile, “isn’t that the whole point of it all? To find the person who’s right? There’s gotta be a few wrong answers here and there, don’t you think?”

“I don’t want to keep crying over the wrong answers,” you sniffle, “it’s dehydrating me.”

He laughs. It sounds good. It feels good, too, with the way his chest rumbles against you. He always does. Everything about him is just good. The way he smells, and feels, and sounds, and just is. Phainon is just good. You like just good—no catches, no curveballs, no fine print. Just good. 

“Hey,” he tilts your face up and presses his forehead to yours, wiping your tears valiantly still, even as they keep coming. And he’s hurt. You did that—you hurt him. But he seems more focused on the fact that your heart is crumbling than his own. “I can’t promise you won’t ever cry because of me—I’m not always the brightest, okay? But I can promise that I’m going to stay and wipe every last tear if I mess up. And then I’m going to keep staying. I will always stay so I can wipe the next round of tears and hydrate you again for your troubles. We’ll figure out the rest as we go. It doesn’t have to be perfect, yeah?”

“You don’t want it to be?” you snivel, “you seem like the type to hopelessly daydream about perfect romances with not much luck.”

“I’m going to let that dig slide because you are emotional right now, and we all say things we don’t mean when we’re emotional,” he rubs your back, rocking you slowly from side to side. 

And…well, you think you’re wrong. About him. About Phainon and now he’s nice in a way that’s too nice and too good to be true. You’re wrong because he’s just nice, and it’s just nice enough that it’s good, not devious—and for once, just this once, you don’t mind being wrong.

Not if it’s for him. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “for being confused and scared and unable to realize I care about you. I will get some help or something to be a functioning member of society.”

“Well, when you find help, hook me up,” he snorts, “because I need it, too. You’ve done a number on me.”

You’re both laughing. And then, at some point, you’re both kissing. His lips are on yours, and yours are on his, and it’s just a mix of each other that feels less like it’s right and more like nothing about it was ever wrong in the first place. Sometimes, it doesn’t have to be right as long as it’s just not wrong. Sometimes, that’s enough to keep things going. Sometimes, they become right along the way, all on their own. 

You cup his cheeks, making him pause his assault on your lips against his will as he lets out a soft noise of protest deep in his throat. You’ll fall hopelessly harder for him because of that later—first, you have more pressing matters. 

“I’m serious,” you whisper, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I do care about you—so much that it scares me. I care about you and I promise this time I’m going to stay and keep caring. So be ready.”

“I’m ready,” he smiles, all wobbly lips and a shaky voice and trembling fingertips. They dig into your hips as his head buries into your neck, and you hold him—latch onto him and clutch his shirt because feeling him is all that ever felt good, and you don’t think you can stomach letting it go a second time. “I am so ready to be the only thing you care about.”

“Maybe not the only thing—”

“Did you hear that? That weird crack sound? That’s the sound of my heart breaking a second time. Any more, and I’ll be collecting shards off the floor.”

“C’mere loser,” you laugh, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him into a hard, deliberate kiss that knocks the wind out of both of you. It makes your stomach twist and form knots and there’s this weird tickle in your chest that feels like you’re about to implode. Phainon is so good at that—at making you feel so, so unwell but well at the same time. You’re sick and nauseous from how badly you want him, but nothing else feels right until you have him. 

So you wrap your arms around him, pressing nearer, closer, harder up against him and kissing him until both of you are gasping for breath in between every press of your mouths together. Your hands find his hair, carding through it wildly and pulling on the strands when he nips at your lips, and when he groans into your mouth at a particularly harsh tug, you know it’s starting to become a scene that should not be happening at his front door where anyone can pass by.  

“Inside?” he pants, pulling away for just long enough to say the word.

You kiss him hard once more, making him groan again before you decide that, yes, it probably needs to move indoors. “Inside,” you breathe, labored and unsteady, “now—now, please.”

“Whatever you want,” he chuckles, “you don’t have to beg. You always get what you want—don’t I always give it to you?”

“Then quit talking and give it to me.”

That shuts him up really fast. With a dark glint in his eyes, he pulls you in, closing the door swiftly and pressing you against it. You’re caged—nothing but him, you, and the throbbing ache between your legs that seems to be a common denominator between the two of you. 

“I want you so bad,” he groans, kissing your neck, inhaling your scent along your sweet, delicate skin, “want you so bad I never want you gone. Don’t ever leave.”

“I won’t,” you gasp as he bites—and it’s a little hard. A little mean almost, but he kisses it better with a soft peck afterward that you forgive him on the spot and melt. “I won’t.”

“Good,” he hums, nose trailing along the column of your neck before he drags it along your jaw, kissing the corner of your mouth before he murmurs, “but I’ll make it hard to walk away this time just for safe measures.”

It feels like a literal and metaphorical promise. Before you can even respond to his cheekiness, he has your mouth hostage again—kissing and groaning into it enough that you have no choice but to soften and become pliant under him. You swallow up his sounds as the bulge in his pants presses against your own heat, the slow, desperate pressure of him grinding against you, making you shiver against the door. 

Good—he always feels so good. Everything about Phainon is always so damn good. 

“Feel that?” he croons, gasping as you roll your hips in tandem with his own movements, “feel how hard I am for you? You’re telling me anyone else will want you this bad? No one. I’m it for you. I’m not giving you up. Ever.”

His voice is a low, almost dangerous promise—and if you weren’t dripping at your core from the sound of him alone, you’d be less than inclined to admit that you like the sound of that. But you do, don’t you? You want him to want you so badly, so desperately, that the thought of letting you go makes him his own worst enemy. And he does, doesn’t he? He wants you so badly that you’re almost scared. 

But you like it. Love it, even. You fucking love that he needs you, and you want him to need you so badly he might just die without you. 

“Don’t,” you whisper, lifting the bottom of his shirt up to his shoulders. He lets go just long enough to pull his arms up and let you take it off of him, tossing it to the ground before your fingers run your nails along the hard plane of his abs. He shivers, letting out a soft, barely-there sound at the feeling. “Don’t let me go. Ever.”

“Whatever you want, princess,” he grins. Phainon leans in again, kissing you impatiently like being away from you for that short period of time was enough to have him on edge. Maybe it does because he only melts and relaxes when his lips are against yours again. His fingers trail to the edge of your pants, toying with the waistband as you quiver at the feeling of his rough fingertips rubbing against the skin of your belly. 

“Need you,” you whine.

“You got me,” he reassures, “just wanna take my time, yeah? You can handle that, can’t you? Let me have a little fun with you so I cheer up before I fuck you right against this door?”

You whimper. He’s mean sometimes, too. He’s so, so nice, but sometimes, it’s like a switch flips, and he’s mean. Not cruel—just teasingly mean to keep you on your toes and have you falling apart for him. It’s so mean, but it’s so careful and thoughtful and meant just for you—like he thinks only about you. 

“Just hold onto me, okay, baby?” he asks gently, pecking your lips, “I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”

Before you can even ask what that means, he drops down to his knees, spreading yours and pulling your pants and underwear down in one go, helping them off your legs as they get thrown somewhere in the back along with his shirt. You realize exactly why you need to hold on as soon as a finger prods your entrance, splitting your folds open as he peers into them and hums at the way you’re wet and slick. You gasp, grabbing onto the nearest thing—which happens to be his hair as he chuckles. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, “I hardly did anything yet. But don’t worry, you can pull if you need—I don’t mind.”

Just like that, his mouth is between the apex of your thighs, tongue tracing your sweet, precious little clit before he licks a stripe along your folds, humming against your cunt and sending vibrations as you mewl at the feeling. 

“Ph-Painon…fuck—”

He hooks a leg over his shoulder, letting you half sit on him as he props you up and devours you. Devours you like you were the only thing on his mind. Like he was starved and dying in this apartment, and the only thing to sustain him is you. His tongue dips past your folds and fucks into you before pulling away just as quickly and flicking over your clit. Two fingers gently prod at your entrance this time—only they don’t tease you. No, instead, they fill you up and slip into you as far as they go, curling into a sweet, sweet spot in your walls that has your knees wobbling. 

You think you will fall for a moment. You think holding onto his hair and tugging him so harshly is not going to keep you steady, and the weight he takes as he props you up on a shoulder, is not going to hold you.

But he makes good on his promise. He doesn’t let you fall or slip for even a fraction, even as your legs get weaker and your orgasm draws nearer. 

“‘M close, Phai—s-so close,” you whimper. 

He pulls away. With a smug, stupid little grin, he looks up at you as you stare down in disbelief. “Say you care about me.”

“What is wrong with you—”

“Ah ah, that’s not what the magic words are!”

“Phainon—”

“That’s not a bad guess, but still not the right answer!”

“Fucking hell,” you hiss, “I care about you, asshole.”

“A little more aggressive than necessary, but I will accept it,” he hums, rewarding you with a soft kiss to your clit. “Now tell me you know I care about you. That I want you, and I want to stay.” 

“Phainon,” you plead, “please, can’t we do this later?”

“No,” he says firmly, “because then it’s just getting physical, and I am not getting physical. I am getting intimate. Tell me what I want to hear so there’s no mistaking things.”

He’s throwing your words right back at your face. And the only way you’re going to get what you want is if you own up to them, even if it’s against your will. So you do. With an exasperated sigh, you tell him what he wants to hear.

“I know you care about me,” you say impatiently, “I know you care, and you want me, and you want to stay, and god knows you’re not good at leaving me alone, so I guess I will just have to get used to you.”

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, giving your clit one more kiss before he’s back to lapping at your cunt like he’s parched. Your slick coats his chin and makes his skin glisten as he traces your clit with his tongue, curling his fingers just right into your heat. They brush against that spot again—he has it perfectly memorized, and just like that, you fall apart, gushing around his fingers and coating his lips with even more of your essence. 

“Fuck,” you sob, grinding against his face as you ride out the shockwaves of pleasure, feeling him groan against you right where you need him. 

He lets you stay like that for just a moment, resting half your weight on his shoulder and half your weight on one leg before he abruptly stands and grabs your waist, hoisting you up as your legs wrap around his hips. You’ve done this before—at that point, you’d considered it just any other step to getting physical with someone. 

Now, you realize you were beyond oblivious to how much you needed it to only be him you were doing all these motions with. It almost feels silly. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he grins.

“What?”

“I don’t want you against the door anymore. I want you on the bed—my bed. And you’re staying there, and you’re going to like it.”

You laugh, breaking into a fit of giggles as he jogs over to his room with you in his arms. And when he drops you unceremoniously only to the bed, flopping on top of you and attacking your neck with kisses, you can’t help but break into another fit of giggles, feeling his playful nibbles and licks against your skin. It feels so easy. So natural. Only with Phainon, you realize. Only ever with Phainon. 

“Hi,” you breathe when his forehead presses to yours. 

He gives you a bright, toothy grin, murmuring, “Hi, yourself, pretty.”

And then he's kissing you again. His lips are soft and slow this time around. Pressing against your mouth, slotting into the space like it’s his to fit into—and it is. It’s always been his, whether you were willing to admit it or not. His tongue glides against yours languidly, no rush or impatience or desperation like usual. This time, he kisses you like you’re his and always have been—like he knows what you taste and feel like, and he knows it’s always been his and always will be. He kisses you like he’s reminding you of it, one painstakingly slow second at a time. 

“You broke my fucking heart,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice raw and vulnerable but never not soft, “you know that? You broke my fucking heart.”

Your hand presses against his chest, feeling the erratic beating of it under your palm as you whisper, “Seems like it’s working perfectly well to me.”

He chuckles at that. Lets out another toothy grin before he tilts his head back and laughs. It’s cute and precious and so fucking sweet—he sounds just like what he is. Tooth rotting sweet.

“You’re always so smart with your words,” he drawls, pressing wet, hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw.

One hand slowly pulls your shirt up, inch by inch, before you slowly help him take it off of you. The bra comes off next, and you’re bare—under him as nothing else but his. Nothing else that covers or keeps what’s his away from him. 

And when you eye his pants with a petulant, pouty look, he chuckles before throwing you an amused look as he takes them off slowly, not taking his eyes off of you.

You and Phainon have fucked. But you’ve never been intimate—not by the real standards, at least. The proper kind where you take the time to really take in each other’s bodies, commit each dip and curve to memory, know it inside out and like the back of your hand. Where that scar starts and ends from his childhood shenanigans, where your little moles scatter along your body in hidden crevices. And when he slowly frees his cock, and you can really stare without having to tell yourself you shouldn't, you take a good look. 

You take a good look at the flush of his pretty cock—pretty, just like the rest of him. A nice, soft, muted pink at the tip that oozes with the beginnings of pre cum, and it’s sensitive as it twitches under your delicate thumb when you smear the dribbling essence along the head of his cock. 

“Mmh,” he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, fluttering his eyes closed and panting as you touch him. Feel him. Want him. 

You finally want him, and it’s almost enough to make him spill into your hand alone. But he forces himself to composure, grabbing your hand and pinning it over your head—and then goes the other. He holds them in place with one large hand, watching as you squirm under him impatiently. 

“No touching,” he whispers, “first, I’m gonna teach you not to take me for granted. Then you’ll never want to take your hands off of me.”

“If you just ask me nicely, I’ll never take my hands off of you,” you offer. 

He laughs, boyish and charming and so fucking smooth, you feel something flutter at the base of your stomach. Something stirring in your guts and twisting them inside out in anticipation. “Persuasive,” he hums, “but I still have to teach you not to take me for granted.”

When the tip of his cock brushes against your entrance, your wrists struggle against his hands to break free. You need to feel him—to know he’s there against you and real. To feel his hair and tug and hear him groan in response. To scratch along his back and feel his warm, damp skin, the way he shivers under the pain and likes it. To pull him closer and feel him practically melt against you at the gesture. 

You want to feel him. Because you need to know he’s yours. And you never, ever want to take for granted Phainon again. Your Phainon. The nice, sweet, gentle boy who stole your charger for a day to get your number. Who knew before you knew, long before you were ever willing to know, that he would love you. Even when you didn’t want to, he did it from a distance. And when he thought you finally would, that you’d finally let it happen, he still did it quietly, stripped of labels and titles even though he wanted to announce it to the world. 

For you. Everything was always for you. 

“Please, Phai,” you plead, “please, please, please—let me touch you.”

“Yeah? You want that, huh?” he grins, pretending to think for a moment before he hums, “tell me why.”

“So I can feel you and know you’re mine,” you lean up and breathe against his ear, “don’t you want to be mine?”

It’s a silly question. It’s all he’s ever wanted, so he gives it to you easily. Lets your hands go and lets them wander over his sculpted body as he sinks deeper into you—no more taking his sweet time to draw out the teasing. He’s impatient now—just as impatient as you. Maybe even more. He’s been waiting longer than you have to make this happen. To take you and make you his and have you admit that he’s yours, too. 

“Fuck,” he groans as he sinks the final few inches of this thick, girthy length, “fuck you’re so fucking tight. You feel that? Feel me? How deep I am?”

“Yes,” you mewl, “yes—so deep. F-feel so full. You feel so good.”

He groans at that, pulling out almost completely before slamming his hips into yours, cock burying deep into you and burying to the hilt. The tip of his sensitive length kisses against that sweet, delicate spot against your walls—your spot that he knows and memorizes so easily. 

He knows you. Knows your body. He’s felt it so many times under him and made it react for him the way he wants, but finally—fucking finally, it reacts to him and only him. He knows it’s him and only him. Only ever will be if he has anything to say about it. 

“God, you drive me insane. So insane, you know that?” he grunts, rolling his hips hard and fast and drilling into you like he has something to prove. Every slam of his hips and every brush of his cock along your sensitive folds makes you pull him closer, kissing him hungrily—desperately. So needy. 

You need him. You’ve always needed this—someone to want you and need you and find you worth it to stay. How could you think Phainon didn’t want to stay when he was so clearly happy with just pieces of you because you didn’t want to give the full of you? When he stayed and stayed and stayed and happily took the little shards you dropped, even if they were sharp, and cut his fingers because they were pieces of you. When he was just happy to have you whichever way you let him because it was you. 

All he wanted was you. You get that now. You’re not going to forget. 

“‘M close,” you pant, breathing against his mouth, “g-gonna cum. With me…with me, please.”

“Yeah? Whatever you want, princess,” he groans. 

His hand moves to find your clit, rubbing quick circles as his own pace quickens, and you can feel the telltale signs that both of you are not going to last much longer. He lets out a particularly deep, sharp thrust—and you’re gone. 

Plummeting off the edge in a hazy fall. You mewl his name, chanting it over and over and over as your walls constrict around him tightly. Spasm around him uncontrollably. And your fall coaxes him into his own. He falls into his release with a soft, drawn-out moan of your name, hot, thick seed filling you up through quick ropes of cum. His cock twitches with each rope, painting your insides white with him. 

“You feel so good,” he rasps, “so fucking good—you were made for me. Only me. Knew…knew you were perfect for me since the first day.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him as close as he can get without physically merging into your bones. His head tucks into your neck, and you both ride out the aftershocks of your highs. You feel him breathe, and he listens to your soft breaths, and it’s just you and Phainon. Phainon and you.

It always has been.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbles tiredly after a while, sleepy words said through a petulant warning. 

You chuckle, kissing his sweaty forehead as you promise, “I won’t.”

“Good. Won’t let you.”

“Good. Don’t.”

Your own eyes start to grow heavy with exhaustion, slowly fluttering closed until—

“Who’s that?” you look at him in confusion as you hear an incessant knocking on the door. 

He chuckles sheepishly, rubbing his neck. “Ah,” he sighs, “right. That’s…that’s just Mydei. He’s coming to make sure I eat instead of starving to death from sadness.”

You blink, and then you throw your head back, laughing loudly. He watches you for a moment, smiling softly at the sound of you flooding his space. “You’re hopeless, Phainon.”

“Am not!”

“Go tell Mydei to leave and that you’re alive.”

“...Okay.”

Idk what this is. It’s 10k words of pure babbling and hardly a single coherent thought. I’m sorry dfksksjr this isn’t my best work but . I needed to get him out of my system

I also think writing a reader that is younger than me and navigates life and its challenges through a less mature and experienced lens was a fun project. She is not perfect but she is certainly a human who is trying her best and wants to be loved and I think that’s endearing

[supernovafics]

𝐃𝐎 𝐌𝐄 𝐀 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

word count: 8.7k words

summary: in which you and steve randomly meet at a bar and realize that you two can help each other out with a similar problem

warnings: explicit language, mentions of alcohol/drinking, mentions of past bad relationships (very recent breakups), smut (18+), oral (f!receiving), protected p in v sex

author’s note: i genuinely can’t believe how long this ended up being lol hope yall enjoy though!<333

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“We could be the greatest wingwoman and wingman for you right now if you just let us, dingus.”

Steve rolled his eyes at Robin’s words. “I already let you guys drag me to this bar, isn’t that enough?”

Robin responded with a simple, “No, it’s not” before taking another sip of her drink, while Eddie said something about how if this were a year ago, they wouldn’t have had to force Steve to this bar because he would have suggested the idea himself. 

“Monica changed you for the worse, man,” Eddie continued, and Steve only frowned at him. 

Robin gave Eddie’s arm a quick whack. “Hey, we promised no Monica slander tonight. At least not right in front of him.”

Steve gave them both the most unamused look. “You guys really had to make a deal about that? To not talk shit about my ex?”

“Okay, don’t say it like that,” Robin told him. “It would actually be super warranted if we did wanna talk shit about her. She was super pretentious and she hated all of your friends; me and Eddie, especially.”

Steve couldn’t think of a rebuttal to that on the spot, so he ended up saying nothing. And then he reminded himself that Monica had brutally dumped him two weeks ago, so why should he even want to defend her to his best friends anymore?

“There’s seriously not one girl here right now that you could maybe be interested in?” Eddie asked, and Steve was grateful that the conversation was at least slightly shifting away from Monica.

But, he didn’t even take a quick look around the bar before answering Eddie’s question with an immediate “No” and hoping that the subject would change again.

Eddie groaned and then proceeded to finish what was left of his beer, and Robin sighed before saying, “If you at least talked to a random girl here, and just maybe flirted a little bit, don’t you think you’d feel a little less sad about the breakup?”

“I’m not sad about it, though,” Was Steve’s immediate response, and it was only kind of a lie. 

It really wasn’t Monica breaking up with him that made him sad; it was more about him spending almost a year of his life with someone that he knew he probably shouldn’t have been with in the first place because of how incompatible they were. That hard truth was what made him feel sad and a little stupid. Actually, scratch that, a lot stupid. But things with her had become so comfortable and routine that it eventually felt easier staying than leaving. 

Robin simply gave him a look before shaking her head. “You’re a terrible liar. Last night I saw you watching that one National Geographic documentary that you only watch when you’re sad. Which I still find kinda weird, but you’re my best friend and I love you and all of your weird coping habits.”

“Wait, which documentary is it again?” Eddie asked, laughing a little. “The one about the whales or the one about the lions?”

“Whales,” Robin answered. “And it's like three hours long.”

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Steve abruptly said before Robin or Eddie could say anything else. 

He left his half-drunk beer with his friends and walked away from the high table they’d been occupying for the past hour and headed toward where the bathrooms were down a random hallway. 

“Don’t try to sneak out the back. We have your location and we will find you,” He heard Robin say from behind him. “And don’t turn it off now that I just mentioned it.”

Steve laughed as he held up his hand, giving her a quick thumbs-up in response. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

There was only so much waiting and hiding you could do, so you decided to ask the first guy that you saw exiting the bathroom. 

“Hey, are the two girls sitting at the end of the right side of the bar looking this way?” 

Surprisingly, this random guy didn’t question why you were asking him that, or why you couldn’t check that yourself, or even question why you were so obviously hiding in this slightly secluded hallway where the terrible bathrooms were. 

Instead, he stepped out of the hallway a little bit and took a peek around the corner for you, and then turned back to you after a second. “Yeah, I see two girls looking this way.”

“Shit.”

“Who are they?”

“My friends.”

The confused look he gave you was immediate. “Why are you trying to avoid your friends?”

You sighed as you leaned back against the wall behind you. “Because they’re trying to convince me that going home with a random guy tonight will help me get over my boyfriend who just broke up with me.”

The laugh he let out in response surprised you. It also made you feel equal parts offended and amused. 

“Is my devastating heartbreak funny to you?”

For the most part, you were exaggerating; your breakup with Elliott hadn’t actually been all too devastating— no outward lying or cheating, just a lot of miscommunications and bad timings— but you kind of wanted this random guy to feel at least a little bad for laughing at you. 

“Shit, no, sorry,” He said, and his cheeks reddened a bit in what you could only assume was embarrassment, and you suddenly felt kind of bad about getting so defensive. “I just laughed because my friends are trying to do the same thing for me, too.” 

“Oh, sorry,” You said, feeling slightly worse now that you knew that you two were in the same boat. “Sorry about your breakup.”

He shrugged like it was fine. “How long have you been standing here hiding from your friends?”

“Five minutes, maybe,” You answered as you pulled out your phone to quickly check the time. Seeing that it was a little after ten thirty let you know that you’d actually been standing here for closer to ten minutes, but you didn’t correct yourself. “My plan is to somehow find an opening to slip out the front door, and then I’ll send them a picture from my Uber telling them that I left.”

“Solid plan.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.”

“Maybe a little bit,” He said, giving you a small smile, and it was then that you were realizing, or finally noticing, that this guy was cute; even in the shitty bar lighting you could tell that. 

Maybe it was because of his sweet smile, or maybe it was the denim jacket he was wearing over a plain white t-shirt that suited him really well. Or maybe it was his hair that looked as if he got out of bed and pushed a quick hand through it and then proceeded to leave his home, and you meant that in the best way possible.

Either way, this guy was really cute and so clearly your type— even though you felt like you were in no place to consider anything romantic with anyone, you could recognize his attractiveness— and you were suddenly being hit with an idea.

“Wait, you said that your friends are trying to set you up with someone here too, right?”

He let out a sigh. “Yeah, they are.”

“And I’m guessing by that sigh that you don’t wanna do that?” You asked, and when he shook his head in answer, you continued. “Okay, I think we maybe can help each other get out of here. This might sound a little insane since we literally don’t know each other at all, but let’s just pretend we really like each other in front of our friends— like, be super flirty and whatever. And then we’ll leave here together, letting them think that we’re gonna…” The thought of saying the word suddenly made you feel awkward, so you didn’t. “Do what they want us to do.”  

After taking a moment to process your sudden idea— you honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if the guy said no because it was pretty weird— he nodded. “That’s actually a really great idea.” 

“Thank you. I’m known for my great ideas, actually,” You said, smiling at him as you reached out to grab his hand and intertwine it with yours. 

If the thought of saying that you and this stranger were gonna have sex made you feel awkward, then abruptly holding his hand should’ve felt weird too, but surprisingly it didn’t. “Alright, let’s just act like we’re super into each other, I guess.” 

“I’m Steve, by the way,” He told you. 

“Oh, yeah, that’s probably important information to know,” You said and then proceeded to tell him your name too. 

You led the way to your friends and the small corner of the bar where they were lingering by. 

“Hey, guys, this is Steve,” You said and slapped on the happiest smile you could muster at the moment. 

“Steve,” Danielle was the first one to say something after noticing your and Steve’s interlocked hands. “What’s your last name?”

“Harrington.”

And then Amy was jumping in. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.” 

“What do you do?”

“I work at the record store down the street.”

“So, you’re a music guy?”

“Not really, I guess. My friend got me a job there.” 

You decided to stop the interrogation before Steve got scared away by this back and forth questioning Danielle and Amy were doing. “Okay, okay, that’s enough of the interview. His friends are gonna think he ditched them or something.”

“You guys should come over to the table we’re at,” Steve said and then pointed in the direction of where his friends were with his free hand. “There’s enough room.”

You nodded at his words. “That’s a great idea.” 

If Danielle or Amy were aware of this act you were putting on— how you were no longer rejecting their idea of you flirting with some guy to “get over” Elliott— they didn’t call you out on it. Instead, they agreed that going to the table with Steve’s friends was a good idea. 

Quick introductions were made, and then the group settled into typical small talk. However, you and Steve deliberately fell into your own kind of “flirty conversation” and played it up for your friends, all of whom tried to pretend that they weren’t intensely watching you two, but they failed miserably at hiding their staring, which was exactly what you both wanted. 

After a few minutes of exaggerated smiles and elated laughs, Steve leaned in close to your ear. “How long do you think we’re gonna have to do this?”

You softly giggled like he just whispered the sweetest thing to you and then leaned into his ear. “Follow my lead.”

You pulled back and then shifted so that you were standing closer to him, and he quickly took the hint and wrapped his arm around you. 

“Hey,” You said, grabbing the attention of your friends and his, which was easy because they had already been half-listening to you and Steve anyway. “We’re gonna head out of here, so we’ll see you guys later.”

There was a mix of confused and surprised looks that crossed all over their faces for the briefest moment, and then Amy was the one to first say something. “Really?”

“Yeah,” You nodded. “I want to take Steve to my place to show him something.”

“Since I’ve never seen the second Home Alone movie, we’re gonna watch that,” Steve added. Out of all of the movies he could’ve said, you weren’t sure why he was mentioning a Christmas one in September, but sure, you’d play along. 

“You’re gonna watch a movie?” Robin asked, somehow looking both skeptical and amused. 

Steve nodded. “Yeah.”

“Yup,” You agreed as you reached up to lace your fingers with his hand that was around your shoulders and used that to push yourself even closer to him. 

“Okay,” Eddie said, failing to bite back his grin. “Have fun watching a movie.”

“We will,” Steve told him and gave your hand a light squeeze. 

“I’ll text you guys later,” You said to Danielle and Amy, who were looking at you with equally surprised but happy looks. After so many years of friendship, it was pretty easy to read each other, but you hoped that they couldn’t see through what you were doing; you hoped you were faking all of this well enough.

Neither of them said anything, though, and they instead nodded and said different versions of “We’ll talk to you in the morning,” which let you know that they were just happy that you were actually following through with what they wanted you to do tonight. 

Steve pulled his arm from around you and just went to normally holding your hand, and you two said final goodbyes to your friends and then headed away from the table. You two stayed practically attached at the hip until you were out of the door. The cold hit you immediately, but it wasn’t too unbearable with your jacket on, although you still wished that you had opted for a better dress. You gave Steve a quick look as the bar door closed behind you both.   

“Nice idea with the movie thing, even though Home Alone 2 is so random,” You said with a laugh. “They all definitely think we’re about to go have sex in my apartment.”

“I’ve kinda used that movie line before,” Steve said. “It’s been a while, but Robin and Eddie still know what it means.” 

You gave him an amused smile. “Okay, so Home Alone 2 is code for ‘I’m about to go hook up with this random girl’?”

“No, I don’t use the same movie every time,” He laughed a little. “That one was just the first thing that came to my mind this time.”

You nodded as you slipped your hand from his and you reached into the pocket of your jacket to pull out your phone. You opened the Uber app and ordered a car so that you could finally go home. 

“So, what are your plans for the rest of the night?” Steve asked as you slipped your phone back in your pocket. 

“Head home and probably finish the bottle of wine that I had been drinking before my friends dragged me here, and then call my ex and leave very stupid voicemails.”

You didn’t mean to be so honest— if your friends had asked you that question, you would’ve lied and avoided any and all mentions of Elliott because you wanted to make it seem like you were dealing with the breakup just fine— but talking to Steve made you want to be truthful for some reason; maybe because you two were going through the same thing. 

“That doesn’t sound like the best idea.”

“It’s not,” You agreed, but didn’t say that you wouldn’t still be following through with it. 

Things became quiet as you two stood on this sidewalk, not at all as close as you two were when you were trying to play things up in front of your friends. There was actual space between you two for the first time in the last ten minutes, and you weren’t looking at him anymore, instead, you were focused on the quiet street. The faint sounds of all the noise coming from inside the bar managed to fill the silence, and you wondered if this was the part where you two were supposed to go your separate ways. Now that you helped each other get what you both wanted, what else was there to say or do? 

You were about to mumble something along the lines of “Thanks for your help tonight,” but Steve was speaking before you could. “My ex texted me earlier.”

Weirdly enough, you actually felt a little relieved that he was keeping the conversation going. You honestly didn’t mind talking to him. There was something about this entire conversation that felt so simple and easy, even though you were talking about kind of shitty things. 

You looked at him. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“My friends would say bad. And a part of me knows it’s bad too, but I don’t know,” He shrugged. “It’s kinda tempting.”

You understood what he meant completely, but you still gave him advice that you probably wouldn’t have taken for yourself. “Okay, well, if my opinion matters at all in this, which I know it probably doesn’t, you shouldn’t text her back.”

“And then, in that case, you shouldn’t drunk call your ex,” He reminded you. 

“Why did you two break up?” You asked instead of outwardly agreeing with his words. 

“She did it two weeks ago over the phone,” Steve told you. “She said that things were feeling “off” between us and maybe they always had been.”

“Ouch,” That word felt like an understatement to represent just how shitty breaking up with someone over a phone call was, but it was all you could manage to say right then. 

He gave you a quick nod, breaking your gaze for a second, and then he threw the question your way. “What about you?”

“He wanted to move to California, and I wanted to stay here,” You answered. That was the short version of it; the easy version of it. 

“Okay, that sounds pretty amicable,” Steve responded. 

You almost simply agreed with him just to let this part of the conversation end, but it didn't feel right doing that. For reasons you couldn’t fully recognize just yet, you didn’t want to lie to Steve. 

“It wasn’t,” You admitted softly. “The moving thing came up months ago, and if we were smart, we would’ve just ended things then, but we didn’t. I told him I didn’t want to move, and he said that was fine, but it definitely wasn’t fine. He started pulling away and being a dick, and we both became really shitty toward each other by the end of it until he finally broke up with me and then moved like he wanted to.”

“Okay, nevermind. That sounds like it sucked.”

“And yours seems pretty bad too,” You said. “Doing it over the phone is such a fucked move. Did you see it coming?”

“No, but also yes, which probably doesn’t even make sense,” He answered, and in your eyes, it did make sense, but you didn’t interrupt him to tell him that. “There was something that always felt “off” about us, but in the moment, it never seemed like that big of a deal. Looking back now, though, it’s so obvious that we were never gonna work, and I guess it’s kinda good that she ended it.”

“But, she texted you today,” You reminded him. 

“Yeah,” He said and then sighed. 

“I still don’t think you should say anything back to her,” You told him. “Now, after hearing that she broke up with you over the phone, she definitely doesn’t deserve a text back.”

“If you don’t call your ex tonight, I won’t text mine back,” Steve said, giving you a look that you couldn’t fully decipher, but you were still nodding at his words. 

“Deal,” You said and then held out your hand for him to shake— because it felt like the obvious thing to do, even if the “deal” you two were making was a playful one— and he did. You didn’t understand how his hand was still warm after being out in the cold for the past few minutes, but it was nice all the same. 

As if on cue, a car pulled up in front of the bar with the all too familiar Uber sticker in its windshield. You looked at it for a quick second and then at your phone to make sure it was the right car. And then after that confirmation, you looked at Steve. 

“You coming?”

The confused look he gave you was immediate. “You want me to?”

You nodded and smiled at him. “Yeah, how else are we gonna make sure we both follow through with the deal we just made?”

“Makes sense,” Steve said, nodding back with a small, amused smile on his face, and then he followed you to the car. 

You two sat on opposite ends in the backseat, and it was probably the first time all night that the silence between you two felt a little awkward.  

“Can I read the text she sent you?” You asked, halfway through the ten-minute ride. “Sorry, if that’s weird, I don’t know why I’m so curious.” 

“Not weird,” Steve told you as he tapped on his phone for a second and then handed it over to you. 

You took a brief look at the previous messages sent between them, which was a lot of simple stuff, and then you focused on the most recent one. 

I’ve been thinking about you a lot today. Maybe we can meet up soon and talk? Let me know when you’re free. 

It was hard not to roll your eyes at the message. It felt almost too painstakingly equivalent to something Elliott had said to you the day he moved out of your apartment. His one final attempt to get you to change your mind and move to California with him, as if all the damage to your relationship hadn’t already been done. 

You were about to hand Steve his phone back, but then you noticed something. 

“Steve,” You said, looking at him in the darkness of the car. “Why is there still a heart by her name?”

“I haven’t gotten around to changing it yet,” He answered, which didn’t sound like the best excuse to you because you thought about how promptly you had changed Elliott’s contact name to “Asshole” once he left the apartment for the final time. 

“Alright, let me do the honors for you,” You said as you deleted the red heart and then Monica’s name entirely and simply put “EX.” “Okay, here you go.”

You handed the phone back to him, and he looked at what you did and then laughed a little. “I don’t know why I thought you were gonna make it something a lot meaner.”

“It was tempting,” You started. “But, I don’t know her, so I don’t know what mean stuff would’ve been the most fitting.”

Steve nodded as he slipped his phone back in his pocket. “What’s your ex’s name?”

“Asshole in my contacts and Elliott in real life,” You answered and Steve laughed again and then said a quick, “Got it.”

You made it to your apartment building five minutes later and it took another five minutes, due to very shitty elevators, to make it to your actual apartment.  

“Welcome to my place,” You said to Steve as you flicked on the light and then pulled off your jacket and hung it on one of the hooks by the front door, and slipped off your shoes. 

“Did you just move in?” Steve asked, following suit and doing the same with his jacket, and then toeing off his shoes by the door as well. 

The half-emptiness of your apartment didn’t really faze you anymore, but you understood how unfinished the place looked to someone who was seeing it for the first time. 

“Oh, no, I’ve been here for almost three years now. When Elliott moved out, he took a lot of things, so it looks a little weird and half-decorated now,” You quickly explained, hoping that you successfully masked the sudden awkwardness in your voice because you now felt the tiniest bit embarrassed that you brought him here. “I’m still working on getting a new TV, so for now we can just watch something on my laptop if you want.”

Before Steve could say anything in response, you grabbed your laptop from where it sat on the small coffee table in your living room and then handed it over to him. “I’ll be right back; I need to get out of this dress. But you can put on whatever you want.” 

“Okay,” You heard him say as you headed toward your bedroom. 

It didn’t hit you how sort of insane this entire situation was until you closed your bedroom door behind you, and you were left alone for the first time since you met Steve near the bar bathrooms. Now, logical thinking was kicking in, and you considered just how much of a bad idea all of this was. 

There was a guy who you barely knew in your apartment, and you had no plans on having sex with him, so this wouldn’t end up being a one-night stand kind of thing. So, what would happen instead? You two would simply talk and genuinely watch a movie, and then what?

Although you had no idea what the answer to that question was, it actually didn’t completely scare you. Because yes, this was kind of an odd set of circumstances, but you and Steve were going through the same thing, and that somehow made everything feel different. You weren’t nervous around him, and you hadn’t been all night; instead, things had felt weirdly easy, you realized. And you decided to keep leaning into that easy feeling and not overthink whatever this was or would be.  

You slipped out of your dress and put on what was probably the most comfortable pair of pajama pants you owned and a simple t-shirt. When you stepped out of your bedroom and headed back into the living room, you saw Steve sitting on the couch, and a small, slightly amused smile tugged at your lips as you noticed what was playing on your laptop, which was opened up and back on the coffee table.

“Okay, I definitely didn’t expect you to put on a nature documentary,” You said as you sat down next to him, leaving a fair amount of space between you two. “I don’t know why I thought you’d put on something super boyish. Like, Die Hard or one of the million Fast and Furious movies.”

“Oh, I was planning on putting on Die Hard after this,” He said, and you immediately took notice of the playful tilt in his voice.

“An ocean documentary and Die Hard sounds like a solid double feature,” You joked back with a smile, and Steve laughed in response and then proceeded to tell you that this documentary was specifically about whales. 

A comfortable silence began to linger as you grabbed the throw blanket that was folded on the back of the couch and spread it over your lap and then offered some of it to Steve, which he accepted— it was long enough to fit you both comfortably even though you weren’t right next to each other. And then you focused on the documentary and the Australian narrator talking about the vastness of the ocean. 

“We can watch something else if you want,” Steve abruptly said about five minutes in. His words slightly surprised you because you had actually been finding the documentary pretty interesting so far and you hadn’t done anything to show otherwise. “My friends always hate when I put this on.”

You looked away from the laptop screen and at him. “How often do you watch this?”

“Whenever I’m not feeling great,” He answered, turning a little to look at you too. “Like, sick or sad.”

“Okay, and with your breakup, I guess this has been on repeat these past two weeks?” You asked, and the nod he gave you in response made you think that he was embarrassed by that answer, and you immediately wanted to make him not feel that way. “My personal sad go-to has been putting on this one reality show where people do dumb obstacle courses to win money. There’s like twenty seasons of that show and I’m halfway through it.”

“That’s what we should actually watch after this,” Steve said, giving you a playful smile. 

“Yeah, and we can wallow in our collective sadness,” You nodded in agreement, which made him laugh. “And this will probably sound weird or just not even make sense, but I’m not even sad about me and him breaking up, because I know that it definitely needed to happen. I’m sad about basically wasting the last two years of my life with someone who didn’t end up being “the one” or whatever. Thinking about that feels so much worse than the breakup itself.”

Steve gave you a look that you couldn’t decipher at all. It was probably the first time all night that you felt slightly self-conscious under his gaze. You got the urge to look away from him and focus back on the whales on screen, but you didn’t. 

Instead, your eyebrows furrowed. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Sorry, it’s just, I feel the exact same way pretty much,” He told you. “I’m not really that sad that Monica broke up with me, I just feel really stupid that we were even together in the first place. She didn’t really like my friends and would always make fun of my job.”

“Didn’t you say you work at a record store? What is there to make fun of about that?” 

“She would say a lot of stuff about how ‘it’s a job that’s going nowhere,’ but then play it off like she was just joking.” 

You were unable to hold back your grimace. “Wow, that sounds terrible.”

You noticed the embarrassed look cross his face and you felt the immediate need to change it.  

“Sorry, sorry, I’m not judging,” You quickly told him. “Elliott called me a lot of mean things by the end, and I still stayed with him, so I know all about making dumb decisions in a relationship.”

Steve frowned at your words. “How mean?”

“So mean that you’re actually the first person I’ve even mentioned that to. It still feels way too embarrassing to bring it up to my friends,” You admitted, and it was then that you had to finally look away from him. “I don’t really get why it’s so easy to talk to you.”

“Probably because we’re basically strangers,” Steve said, and after considering his words for a second, you nodded. “And fuck him, by the way, for whatever mean shit he said to you. That sounds pretty terrible too.”

“That’s why I wanted to call him tonight and leave equally as mean drunk voicemails, but you talked me out of it,” You said, finally meeting Steve’s eyes again. “You’re right, though, it would’ve been stupid to do that.”

Steve shook his head. “Oh, when you said that, I thought you meant that you wanted to leave the sappy kind of drunk voicemails where you talk about wanting to get back with him or something.” 

“Oh, no way. I was just gonna list off a bunch of bad things about him,” You responded. “Like, the kinds of things that when you’re dating the person, it just seems like a little quirk or bad habit that you can overlook, but in hindsight you’re like, why did I put up with any of that, y’know?”

Steve nodded understandingly. “Can I hear the list?” 

“You sure you wanna hear me rant about my ex?” You asked him with an amused smile, and Steve laughed a little and nodded again. “Okay, he would always forget to turn off stuff before he left the apartment; the TV, lights, anything really. He never did the dishes and would always get a little annoyed when I asked him to do it. Oh, and he hated whenever I would beat him at any kind of games.” 

“That’s a very solid list.”

“Also, he,” You started and then immediately cut yourself off, realizing that maybe you should have at least somewhat of a filter. “Nevermind, it’s stupid.”

Steve gave you a look. “Wait, now you have to say it.”

“He never…” You looked away from Steve’s curious gaze and instead focused on the blanket draped over your lap. You pulled at a random loose string as you said your next words. “He never went down on me.”

“Really?” He asked, and you simply nodded because it suddenly felt too hard to form words right then. “You were together for almost two years, and he didn’t do it once?”

You nodded again and then finally found your voice. “He said he wasn’t a “fan” of it. Meanwhile, he loved when I gave him a blowjob.” 

It was pretty obvious that your filter was completely gone at this point; if it had ever even really been there in the first place when it came to Steve. 

“Wow.”

You tilted your head at him. “I can’t tell what that wow means.”

“It means that he’s an idiot and you should’ve been the one dumping him, not the other way around, and also, once again, he’s definitely an idiot.”

You laughed a little. “Woah, who knew one word could mean so much?”

“Yeah, it has a ton of connotations to it,” Steve joked, smiling at you. 

You both went back to watching the documentary on your laptop, but there was something about this part of the conversation that didn’t feel over yet. You didn’t feel like you could just go back to watching this whale documentary as if you hadn’t just admitted the most embarrassing thing about your sex life.  

“Um, what about you, though?” You asked, and Steve looked at you again, a confused furrow to his eyebrows like he didn’t fully get what you meant by the question, so you elaborated. “What was shitty about your sex life?”

Steve was quiet at first, and for a second, you thought that maybe for the first time that night, you two had reached a question that was “too much,” or worse, there had been nothing bad about his sex life with his ex, so he had no answer to give you.  

“Um, she always wanted to do the same thing,” Steve finally answered after what felt like the longest stint of silence ever, and you were completely confused by that response. 

“What do you mean?”

“She only wanted to do missionary. Nothing else,” He explained. “And I know that it’s a classic, I get that completely, and it definitely is. But sometimes you just wanna change things up, y’know?”

You nodded instead of outwardly saying anything because you didn’t want to admit that aside from the lack of oral, your sex life with Elliott had been pretty good. 

“So, almost a year of just missionary?” You asked, and Steve gave you a nod that seemed equivalent to the one you’d given him when it was you answering this kind of question. “What would you do if you could choose?”

You noticed his cheeks turning the tiniest hint of pink as he considered the question. “Oh, um, girl on top, I think. That one’s pretty good.” 

You weren’t sure why you expected him to say something a little crazier, but you didn’t tell him that. 

“Good choice,” Was what you said instead. 

There was another lull in the conversation, and maybe that was where it should’ve finally ended, but there was something about it that still didn’t feel entirely over just yet. 

“I could—”

“We could—”

Your and Steve’s suddenly spoken words stumbled over each other and made you both stop abruptly.  

“What were you gonna say?” He asked.

You shook your head. “You can go first.”

“No, no, I’m a gentleman,” Steve told you, a small smile on his face. “So, ladies first.”

You rolled your eyes at him, but there was nothing serious behind it. “I was gonna say that maybe we could… Maybe we could help each other out. Like, show one another what the other was ‘missing out on’ while they were in their relationship.” You then rushed out your next words before Steve could respond to your previous ones. “What were you gonna say?”

“I was gonna say that I could do what your ex didn’t want to do for you.”

“Just me?” You asked, and he nodded. “Well, it wouldn’t be fair if you got nothing out of this.”

Steve gave you a quick shrug. “I wasn’t really thinking about me.”

You teasingly smiled at him. “Wow, you truly are a gentleman.”

He laughed. “I told you.”

“If we did actually do this, though,” You started. “I would also wanna do your thing too.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah. If you go down on me, I’ll happily ride you.” 

Finally outwardly saying the words made you laugh a little; you couldn’t help it. None of what was happening right then felt exactly weird, but it was definitely… surprising.  

“This is such an insane conversation,” Steve responded, laughing too. 

“Oh, yeah, it definitely is,” You said, looking away from him and focusing back on your laptop screen for a second. “We could just go back to watching the documentary and pretend this never happened.”

“Is that what you wanna do?”

“Not really, no,” You admitted. Logically, your answer probably should’ve been the opposite, but you honestly couldn’t imagine saying yes to his previous question and actually pretending that this conversation hadn’t happened. “Do you?”

Steve shook his head. “No.”

“Okay, so it’s settled then. Should we shake on this too?” You asked, mainly joking with your words. 

“Yes, definitely,” He said, playing along. “That’s the only way it will be real.”

You scooted a little closer to him, closing most of the space between you two on the couch, and then held out your hand. “So, deal?”

He grabbed your outstretched hand and shook it. “Deal.”

This was the second handshake shared between you two, but this one felt charged with something different than the one outside the bar. 

Steve’s hand was warm against yours, and you were also noticing how soft it was too. Your eyes stayed on his, and even though you didn’t really know him that well, if at all, you still felt as if you somehow understood what was going on in his head because it matched exactly what was happening in yours. 

With your hands still linked together, he pulled you closer, and then let go at the last second to find your cheek and slot his lips against yours. It was messy at first, a sudden clash of tongues and teeth, but it also felt really good, and it took only a second for you two to find your collective rhythm.  

Steve was a great kisser, which surprised you because first kisses with people were never this good, and they definitely never felt this right. There were always some sort of growing pains as you navigated what to do and figured out what the other wanted, but that somehow wasn’t the case for you and Steve. 

You definitely didn’t expect your first post-Elliott kiss to be damn near perfect, and you decided not to think too much about what exactly it meant that it was happening with Steve; a guy you’d barely known for two hours. 

“You’re really good at this,” You mumbled against his lips. 

“What? Kissing?” He whispered back in between each one. 

“Yeah.”

Steve pulled back to look at you, a small, amused smile playing on his lips. “Thanks. You’re really good too.”

You suddenly started feeling shy under his gaze, so you quickly leaned back in to get him to stop looking at you so sweetly. His hand still holding your cheek kept you steady and further warmed your already burning skin, and you let out the softest sound against his mouth when his free hand slipped beneath your shirt and found your waist, giving the bare skin a quick squeeze. 

You wanted to move out of this awkward side-by-side position and sit in his lap, but you also wanted to get off the couch completely, so you abruptly pulled away from him and stood up. Wordlessly, your hand found Steve’s again, and you led him to your bedroom. 

The second the door was closed behind you both, Steve’s mouth eagerly found yours again, which made you smile into the kiss, as he walked you back toward the bed. The second the backs of your knees hit the foot of the bed, he gently pushed you down on top of it.  

Before he could even ask or say anything, you were pulling your t-shirt off and tossing it somewhere to the side, and then doing the same with your pajama pants. The look he gave you as you now lay on your bed, half naked with only your bra and underwear on, made something stir in your stomach. 

“You okay up there?” You asked after a moment, making your voice light and playful, and also trying to push away the feelings that were starting to make a home in your stomach. 

“Yeah, I’m fine, it’s just… Fuck,” He let out a breath. “You’re really pretty.”

You had to turn your head and look away from him then, but you still couldn’t help but smile at his words as your cheek pressed into the blanket. 

This was just supposed to be another case of two people helping each other out. This wasn’t supposed to be so sweet and nice and serious, right? You weren’t sure, but you could inwardly admit that you liked hearing him call you pretty. 

You still weren’t looking, but you could feel Steve settle on top of you and lean in to press his lips to your exposed neck, making you let out a quiet moan. 

He sucked on your skin, a sensitive spot on the underside of your jaw that had you mewling for him, as his hand moved down toward your cunt. He pulled your underwear to the side and slowly pressed his middle finger into your slick folds. 

“Shit,” He mumbled against your neck. “You’re soaked.”

You let out a soft breath. “Like I said, you’re really good at this.”

He pulled away from your clit and out of your wetness completely and you let out a whine in protest, but then his fingers were hooking into the waistband of your underwear and dragging them down your legs. Your bra was next, and you sat up a bit so that he could unhook it and toss it to the side. 

“Fuck,” Steve said, leaning back to simply just look at you for a moment. “You look so perfect for me.”

You were completely naked now, and he was still fully clothed, but you didn’t even feel shy under his lust-filled gaze because you really liked the way he was looking at you in this moment.

Before you could make any move to grab at the ends of his t-shirt to at least pull that off of him, his mouth was on you once again, pressing a quick kiss to your lips and then moving to your neck and continuing lower and lower. 

Your eyes slipped shut, and you let out the softest sounds as he slowly trailed down your stomach and went to your hips and then to your inner thighs, teasingly pressing his mouth against your warm skin at every spot. You felt his hands hook around your thighs and pull you closer to him. 

“Hey,” Steve said to grab your attention, and your eyes met his. Looking at him with his head between your legs and his mouth so close to where you needed him to be was probably the hottest thing you’d ever seen. “Tell me if you want me to do anything differently, okay?”

You nodded before softly saying, “Okay.”

Your head fell back against the bed when his tongue ran a long slow stripe up your slit. He stopped at your clit, circling the bundle of nerves before latching his lips around it and giving it a quick suck. The gasp in pleasure and surprise you let out in response was immediate. 

After one too many rejections from Elliott, you told yourself that you didn’t like oral anyway, always reminding yourself of other times with past partners when it had been rushed and sloppy. But now you knew just how much you’d been lying to yourself because this felt fucking phenomenal. Steve’s mouth felt perfect on you, and there was nothing about this moment that felt rushed or half-baked, like he was just trying to quickly get to the next thing. 

He slipped two fingers inside of you, pushing in as deep as he could go and his mouth went to your clit again. Your fingers threaded through his hair as he lapped at the sensitive bundle of nerves. Steve could tell just how much you were enjoying yourself with every tug on his hair and the contented sounds you were making above him. 

His hand still on your thigh squeezed roughly as he started to suck hard on your clit, which pushed you closer and closer to the edge. It should’ve maybe felt a little embarrassing— how quickly he was about to make you come only from his mouth and fingers— but everything just felt so fucking good that you didn’t care how fast he was making the tight knot in your stomach feel as if it was going to explode. 

“Steve, I- I’m gonna… Fuck,” You trailed off with a loud moan. Words were alluding in this moment as Steve continued his ministrations against your dripping cunt; his mouth on the most sensitive part of you and his fingers deep inside you, curling against an almost too perfect spot.  

Your own fingers pulled a little harder at his dark locks, which made him moan against your clit and the vibrations from that abruptly sent you over the edge. 

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” The words fell from your lips in a sort of whispered chant as your back arched sharply off the bed and you saw stars behind your eyes. 

Steve continued exactly what he was doing as you came, your moans and whimpers sounding like music to his ears. He happily took and lapped at everything you gave him, absolutely loving the taste of you on his tongue. He continued to finger you and eat you out through your orgasm until he felt you become too overstimulated. 

“Fuck,” You squeaked out when his tongue did one final teasing lick against the sensitive bundle of nerves. “Fuck, that was really good.”

Steve pulled away, and he sat up a little, smiling as he watched you come down from your high. “I’m sorry you’ve had to miss out on that for the past two years.”

You let out a breath of a laugh. “Thank you for the condolences.” 

Your heart rate slowly returned to normal, and you turned to Steve, who was now sitting next to you, and you took notice of the obvious tint in his jeans. 

You reached out to palm his hard length. “Girl on top is what you wanted, right?”

He let out a low groan. “Mhm, yeah, but only if you want to do that.”

“Steve,” You said so his eyes would meet yours, and then you proceeded to give him the reassurance that it seemed so clear that he needed. “I really want to do that for you.”

He looked at you so sweetly, and this time you didn’t look away, you simply just smiled back at him as you crawled into his lap. 

Your fingers immediately grabbed the ends of his t-shirt to pull it up and off of him. “Let’s make things even, yeah?”

He nodded, and you shifted back a bit so that you could work on the button of his jeans. You then lifted your hips so that he could push his jeans and boxers down his legs and off him completely. 

Your eyes became glued to his hard cock. You didn’t really know what you were expecting, but he was huge and you could feel yourself becoming wetter at the thought of him filling you up. 

“You have such a pretty cock, Steve,” You whispered as you wrapped a hand around him and brushed your thumb over his slick tip. He groaned in pleasure, and one of his hands immediately found your hip in response, squeezing the bare skin. 

A part of you wanted him to be rougher; you honestly didn’t mind the thought of finding Steve-shaped bruises on your skin in the morning. However, you didn’t tell him that because this moment wasn’t about you.  

“Does that feel good?” You asked instead, voice soft and gentle, as if you couldn’t tell the answer to your question just by all the sounds Steve was making and by the way he was twitching in your hand. 

“Perfect,” He groaned out, eyes meeting yours just for a second before he was looking down and watching as you kept slowly stroking him from base to tip. “Fucking perfect.”

You smiled and wondered if this was how he felt when the roles were reversed and you were the one who was a mess below him. 

“Shit, I need,” Steve let out a strangled breath and his head fell back against the headboard with a soft thud. “Really need to be inside of you.”

You nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at you, and let go of him to reach over and grab a condom from your nightstand drawer.  

Steve watched as you tore open the foil packet and slipped the condom on his cock; it was probably one of the hottest things he’d ever seen. 

“Do you want me to turn around and take it that way, or like, how do you want this?” You asked, meeting his half lidded eyes as you went back to stroking his cock. After what he’d just done for you, you wanted this to be perfect for him. 

“No, I wanna see you,” He said, free hand coming up to gently stroke your cheek. 

You could feel your skin warm under his touch; somehow, that felt like the most intimate thing he’d done to you so far tonight. You nodded at his words instead of saying anything because you were pretty certain your words would’ve failed you anyway. 

You lifted your hips so that you could line him up with your slick entrance and then your eyes met his as you slowly lowered yourself onto him, completely taking his cock inside of you. 

Your and Steve’s collective moans filled the quiet air, and you were the one to break eye contact with him because your eyes were pinching shut. 

Both of his hands shot to your hips to keep you from moving, which was good because you needed a moment to adjust to the feeling of being so full of him.  

“Shit, I’m gonna fucking explode if you move right now,” Steve mumbled, looking down at how well you were taking him. 

“That’s okay,” You told him softly. Your hands rested on his shoulders for a quick moment, and then they tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. 

He let out a chuckle and met your gaze. “I want this to last more than two seconds.” One of his hands came up to find your breast. “And I also want you to come with me.”

You hummed at the feeling of his fingers squeezing your already hard nipple. “Still such a gentleman.”

Steve laughed again, and that sound turned into a low groan when you lifted your hips ever so slightly and then sank back down onto him. 

“God, you feel so good,” He rambled out. “Taking me so fucking well.”

His words sent a jolt of pleasure through your body. “‘M so full.”

“Yeah?” Steve asked teasingly, and you simply nodded, words failing you the moment he pushed up into you. 

Whatever control you had was lost. You were technically riding him, but he was doing most of the work, and it seemed as if that was exactly what he wanted. He had a near-bruising grip on your hips as he guided your movements and hit all of the right places with each thrust. 

Your face became buried in his neck when it all felt like too much. “Fuck, I’m so close.” 

Your words were whispered against his soft skin, and you could feel his nod in response. “Yeah, me too.”

He slipped a hand between your bodies so that he could find your clit and you sucked in a breath when his thumb started circling it.

“I wanna see you,” He groaned when he felt you clench around his cock, and at first all you could do was hum against his skin in response. “I wanna see you come for me.”

You pulled back and met his gaze, hands finding his bare shoulders to keep you steady. It was harder to do than you expected because of how much you wanted to let your eyes slip shut and simply just take everything Steve was giving you. 

“Hi,” You softly said to him instead of closing your eyes or letting your head fall back in pleasure due to his teasing strokes against your clit. 

“Hi,” He gave you a smile that made your stomach flutter and his hand on your hip pulled you harder against his cock. “You gonna come for me?”

You could only moan in response and give him a meek nod, forcing your eyes to stay on his. The knot in your stomach was tightening and tightening, almost ready to completely unravel. 

“Go ahead,” He said as he thrusted up into you. “Let go.”

“Ah,” You dug your nails into his shoulders the second your orgasm hit you. He looked at you so fondly, like he truly cared about making you feel good, and that only made you come harder, walls fluttering around his cock. 

You once again buried your face in the crook of his neck, sucking the skin and leaving red marks that would be there later. You landed on what you would later realize was an especially sensitive spot on his neck because the second your tongue grazed over it, Steve was letting out a loud moan and spilling into the condom. 

“Fuck,” He muttered as he came and his hands squeezed your hips to keep you firmly planted on his cock. 

You pulled away from his neck to watch him come apart beneath you. It was probably the prettiest thing you'd ever seen— his blown-out pupils, his mouth slightly parted in a moan, and a few locks of his messy hair falling against his forehead. 

Your and his movements slowed as you both came down from your highs. With his hands still on you, he shifted things so that you two were lying sideways on the bed. His softening cock slipped out of you in the process and you couldn’t help but quietly whine at the feeling. 

You two became a tangle of limbs and warm bodies, and your arms circled around his neck to push yourself even closer to him. 

“Was that good for you?” You asked, soft words hitting right against his ear. “You did like all of the work when it should’ve been the opposite.” 

His fingers began mindlessly stroking the bare skin of your back. “No, that was really good.” 

“Mm,” You hummed in response. “Okay, but it does slightly feel like I ended up getting a better outcome to the deal than you.” 

Steve let out a laugh at your playful words as he pulled away from you, and it took a lot of willpower to not protest his actions and keep him close to you. He pointed at a door, silently asking if that was where the bathroom was, and you nodded in response and he headed in.

You got up from your bed and started picking up the clothes that had been haphazardly thrown around the room. You slipped on your t-shirt and underwear, and when Steve emerged from the bathroom, you handed him his shirt and boxers.

It almost felt a little comical remembering that when you first let Steve into your apartment, you inwardly told yourself that you weren’t gonna have sex with him, and this wouldn’t turn into a one-night stand type of situation. 

And now here you two were. 

However, weirdly enough, the thought of this moment following the typical one-night stand rules— Steve leaving right now and you two never seeing each other again— didn’t sit right with you. 

“Have you really not seen Home Alone 2 before?” You asked Steve as he finished slipping on his t-shirt. The talk of that movie had been such a minor moment in the conversation at the bar earlier, but still, you remembered him mentioning it. 

“No, I haven’t,” He answered. 

“Me neither, actually,” You told him. Christmas movies had never really been your favorites. “Do you maybe wanna watch it now?”

You knew what your words meant— that you didn’t want him to leave yet, that you wanted him to stay a little longer— and he understood that too. 

He gave you a small smile and nodded. “Okay. And this is probably the best time to also admit that I’ve never seen the first one either.”

You let out a laugh as you headed into your living room, where your laptop was still playing the documentary from earlier, and Steve followed right behind you. “Okay, double feature it is, then.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

let me know your thoughts<333

[butyoudidthis4what]

Perfumer

Jack Abbot x Reader

1.5k || All of my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: none I think. Hinted at sex and suggestiveness but that's about it really.

Summary: Jack smells the perfume you're wearing, flirty fluffy happy teasing ensues. That's it, that's the fic. Established relationship. No use of y/n or related. Zero proofreading of any kind. No beta.

A.N.: The summaries and titles will not be getting better I fear. After getting out some sadness in that last one I just needed something fluffy and happy and flirty. This is very self-indulgent as I love perfume and wish I had Jack Abbot giving me some and then smelling it on me, and telling me I smell good, you know? Honestly I'm quite shocked I wrote anything with like no level of angst in it that was just fluff. But my mental health needed some pure happy fluff with him so here we are. Anyway, this is exceptionally short for me and as with last time this is my first time back writing fanfic in a longggg time so please be gentle and kind and also let me know if you like it! The ending is very open, so there's definitely part two potential depending upon reception and if anyone would like.

“I should have known the trail of smell good was you. You always smell good.” Santos comments as she walks up to you while you stand by the center desk. “Do you own like a thousand perfumes or something?” 

Jack’s head popped up from looking at the tablet in his hands a few rooms down from the desk at ‘smell good,’ correctly assuming it meant you were here. You can feel his eyes on you and look over at him. “Probably not a thousand, but a lot, yes. I collect them.” 

“Why? Aren’t women supposed to want, like, a signature smell or whatever?” She tilts her head at you. 

You start smirking but Robby beats you to it. “Oh, she has to keep Abbot on his toes somehow.” 

“What does that even mean?” She looks between you, Robby, and Jack.

You bite your lip and stifle a laugh. It’s nice, having your relationship out in the open, having been able to get to know Jack’s friends. He’s still quite private though, which you respect, and know Robby is flirting with the line. You weren’t going to go quite as far, but can’t help the way it made you smile, in large part because it’s true.

It’s become somewhat of a game for you and Jack. You wear a different perfume everyday and he guesses what it is. He’s good at it, which isn’t surprising, he’s good at everything he does. It’s a nice way to have a close moment together. He likes buying them for you too to keep the game interesting.

It lets him read your moods a bit too. He’s learned that when you’re a bit down you have a tendency to go for perfumes that are heavier in a sense, more warm and comforting. And if you don’t wear perfume he knows it means things are bad because you don’t want to end up associating a smell with however you’re feeling or what you’re going through. He also swears they mix with your chemistry and smell different at certain times during your cycle. You don’t know why you found the idea of him being able to smell that on you so hot, but you very much did.

Recently you’d taken to layering some of them, in part to be creative and in part to make it more challenging for Jack.

“It means-” Robby starts.

“Okay, can we just not?” Jack asks as he walks over to you, shooting Robby a look and standing next to you. 

“I just think it’s cute how-”

“Still talking.” Jack cuts Robby off. 

“How the tables turn.” Robby shoots back, making Jack roll his eyes. 

“I was just trying to help-” Jack starts.

“Now, now, boys, no fighting in front of the children.” You fake scold them. This time they both roll their eyes at you. 

“Go back to work since you all still want to be here past your shifts.” Jack tells everyone, grabbing your hand and leading you to the doctor’s lounge. 

You expect a kiss and hug now that you’re in private, but instead you’re met with him pressing his chest to your back, one hand coming to hold one of your hips and the other moving your hair off one shoulder and tilting your neck before he leans in close to breathe you in. You can feel the soft skin of one of his lips brush against you and the stubble from him not shaving for a day. 

“Jack,” you breathe, heavier than you mean to, one hand coming to rest on his hand on your hip and the other reaching up to cup his face. 

“Celeste,” he murmurs against your skin. He’s right so you nod. That’s the name of the perfume you’re wearing on your neck and wrists today. “No wonder Santos picked up on you. Heavy sillage.” He gives you a kiss to the neck before pulling back to spin you and give you one to the lips. You smile as he does. “Stop smiling so I can kiss you properly.”

That makes you laugh, but you’re able to control it and in turn he’s able to kiss you properly, how you deserve to be kissed. “I love that you know what that word means and actually used it. It’s kind of hot.” You give him another kiss. “I’m making my military man into a perfumer.”

He hums at you, low and from the back of the throat. He loves it when you call him yours. “If you ever told anyone I would deny all knowledge of having a clue about what sillage and gourmand and all of the other pretentiously fancy perfume related words mean.” 

“I never would. Couldn’t ruin your reputation could I, Dr. Abbot? Plus I like having our little secrets.” You let your voice trail down on the last sentence, run your hands all over his scrub top.

His eyes darken just a little and his jaw tightens. He never really had any sort of title kink before he met you, but there’s something about the way ‘doctor’ slips off your tongue that really gets to him. Same with sir. 

“You’re not here for an ED related reason, are you? Hurt? Sick?” It’s teasing but there’s just enough of a tinge of real concern to the question that melts you. 

“I am not, no. I promise if I ever was here for such a reason I would make sure you knew immediately.” You smile at him softly, run a hand through the salt and peppery curls you love so much. “I just wanted to lay eyes on you, even if only for a moment. I missed you extra today. I’ll let you get back to work.” He nods, the little smile he gives you saying everything it needs to. You share one last kiss before going to leave the room.

“Oh,” you say, turning around and shutting the door again. “You’ve only answered half the question today. I just thought you should know.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You layered scents?”

“No.” You shake your head and smirk. He narrows his eyes a little as he tries to find the answer in your eyes. It suddenly clicks.

“Fuck me, your ankles?” He groans. “You put a different one on your ankles? Why?” He can already feel himself starting to fill out. He doesn’t know if he could articulate why he finds it so hot when you put perfume on your ankles for him to discover but he does. 

Your smirk widens. “For a fun surprise and to see the look on your face when I told you.” He glances around the room and then gets a look on his face like he’s thinking. You’re shocked, honestly. It’s so out of character for him to think about trying to do it at the hospital. It’s only happened twice. “Oh no,” you laugh, “no, no, no, Jack rabbit, you are not finding out here at the hospital, so don’t even think about places you could take me to try and find out.” 

He makes a noise of protest, somewhere between a growl and a whine that makes you bite your lip. He pins your back to the door with his hips and rolls them against you, grinding him into you to let you feel what you’ve done to him. “So what, I’m just supposed to go around like this for the rest of my shift?”

“Well you might want to take a couple of minutes to let that go down baby, but yes. You can finish your shift thinking about what could be on my ankles and what position it is you’re going to put me in to find out.” You press a kiss to his collarbone and his hands squeeze your hips a little harder, an unspoken command to look at him. 

You pull back and do as he asked. So big on eye contact, your Jack. He blinks at you, jaw clenched. “I’m going to be half hard and uncomfortable there for the rest of my shift, you know that right?”

“I am nothing if not a cruel woman.” You say with fake solemnity as you smooth your hands over his chest. “I’m sure as you get drawn back into work it’ll go away. Plus, you know the anticipation and wait makes it better.”

He somehow steps closer to you, almost puts a knee between your legs and leans in close, dropping his voice and making his voice even more gravely.“I want you to remember those words because you’re going to find out all about them once I’m home and I don’t want to hear any complaining.”

“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow. “Are you threatening to edge me, sir?” His jaw grinds and you see the slightest twitch under your eye that makes you smirk. You love that you can affect him like this.

“I don’t make threats, Doll.” He whispers at your ear as he steps back from you and pulls the door to the lounge open for you both to walk out of. Everyone glances up at the two of you, effectively forcing you to control your reaction as he keeps his voice low, only for you to hear. “Only promises I intend to keep.” 

[elysianstarfall]

blue lock boys w/ a super expressive reader (hcs)

summary: your emotions are always written all over your face, and your actions are also a dead giveaway. what does your boyfriend think?

characters: isagi yoichi, bachira meguru, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, itoshi rin

a/n: god i hope this makes sense

i. yoichi

LOVES IT. SO MUCH.

he's always using so much brainpower trying to figure out what his teammates/opponents are thinking

so when he can tell how you're feeling with one look at your face, he's genuinely so happy

his brain is fried, he deserves a break

doesn't mean he doesn't care about you though!!

still has to figure some stuff out, but most of the time he notices your mood and adjusts to match it

you're really excited about something? he tries his best to get into it too

you're lowkey depressed? he softens his voice and listens to you intently

gets you whatever you need

the second he sees you're uncomfortable or something he tries his best to get you out of the situation even at his own expense

will embarrass himself to make you feel better

you always tell him he's the best bf ever but you seriously make it so easy for him to be

b. meguru

"you're just like me fr..."

yeah he's basically the same

you guys literally just sync up by accident

like if one of you is happy, the other one's mood just instantly gets better too??

bluetooth ahh relationship

also, miscommunication? what's that?

you know each other's feelings so well that misunderstandings are pretty much nonexistent

if something's wrong, it's so obvious

like if you're moping he'll make you talk things out with him or tell him what's wrong

same if he's feeling sad

thinks it's adorable when you're excited and your eyes just straight up light up

he just gets a stupid smile on his face which makes you even happier

cue the never-ending cycle of emotions

you guys are so soulmates

n. seishiro

he's so, so grateful

he doesn't have to put in any work deciphering your emotions? sign him up

consider yourself not a hassle!

it's actually perfect for a lazy guy like him

finds your facial expressions really cute

even when you're just voice calling, he can hear everything you're feeling

like when you laugh or when he can hear your smile when you're talking, he can relax

happy gf = he's doing something right

oh but when you're mad...

save him, he has no clue how to fix it

actually scared to talk to you because you look like you're gonna beat him up

and when you don't even look mad, when you act nonchalant and distant and he can't tell how you're feeling?

yeah, he's cooked and he knows it

will give you an apology with tears

he'd rather avoid that so he tries to keep you happy

m. reo

ok idk why they're all grateful but yeah. he is too.

he's been dealing with nagi's unemotional ass for forever, so he's pleased that someone actually shows their emotions and lets him know how they're feeling

finds it really helpful when he gets you stuff since he knows whether or not you actually liked it

like if your reaction is clearly fake as hell he knows not to get you something like that again

he doesn't take it personally ofc, just uses it to refine his gift-giving abilities

really likes it when you're genuinely happy because of something he gave you

you cannot stop him from blowing insane amounts of money on you

in his eyes you deserve it

just let it happen bro

also he's kind of a romantic and he loves seeing your reactions when he does something cliché or stupid

tells you horrible pick up lines out of nowhere and thinks it's so funny when you actually get flustered

i. rin

he couldn't care less.

JK he's secretly very happy

there's only room for one emotionally unavailable partner in the relationship (him)

so at least one of you can tell how the other's feeling!

thinks it's nice that he can tell when you're mad at him

because let's be real he's lowkey insecure

abandonment issues are not for the weak

so when you reassure him and your expressions and actions are backing it up?

he just fell for you even harder

but when you are mad? ouch

he's a "my gf is mad at me i hope i die" kinda bf but he keeps it very lowkey

will just sulk until he gets so sick of you ignoring him or being mean to him that he awkwardly breaks down and gives you a very sincere apology

hopes you never change because he loves you the way you are

[tarotlexa]

PICK A PILE READING- your male version!

don't ask me why i thought about this reading because i couldn't really give you an explanation besides the fact that i was over caffeinated. <3

the idea behind this is that most of you are women and one day i randomly thought: what would i have been like if i were born a man? what would his vibes be? idk! why not make it a tarot reading? so here we are.

as always, this is a collective reading so take what resonates and leave what does not my luv. <3

.　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀✦ ⠀ ⠀　　　　　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀* ⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.

.　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　✦⠀　   　　　,　　　　　　　　　*

　　　　　⠀　　　　⠀　　,

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　 　　⠀　　　⠀.　

　　˚　　　⠀　⠀  　　,　　　　　　.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　.

　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀  　　　　　⠀✦⠀　

　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　.

　　　　.　　　　.　　　⠀

　　　　　　　　　　　.

　　　˚　　　　　　　　ﾟ　　　　　.

　.⠀　　⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀,

　　　*　　⠀.

　　　　　.　　　　　　　　　　⠀✦

　˚　　　　　　　　　　　　　　*

.⠀ 　　　　　　　　　　.　　　　　　　　.

　　　　　✦⠀　   　　　,　　    　　　　　　　　.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀✦ ⠀ ⠀　　　　　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀* ⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.

.　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　✦⠀　   　　　,　　　　　　　　　*

　　　　　⠀　　　　⠀　　,

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　 　　⠀　　　⠀.　

　　˚　　　⠀　⠀  　　,　　　　　　.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　.

　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀  　　　　　⠀✦⠀　

　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　.

　　　　.　　　　.　　　

　　　　　　　　　　　.

　　　˚　　　　　　　　ﾟ　　　　　.

　.⠀　⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀,

　　　　　✦⠀　   　　　,

pile 1: you know one of those boys that some tumblr girls simply crave? poetic, melancholic, distant, soft but untouchable. very fought over but he simply wouldn't care LMAOOO a literal heartbreaker, a manwhore without even acting on it since he's a yearner. think will graham (i know i know), he would probably have curly hair too since most girls love it. he's constantly torn between his idealistic romantic self and his abandonment issues. probably writes poetry no one reads, very guarded by reason and intellect. definitely popular but unaware of it lol

vibes: as i said before, will graham!! nick nelson (heartstopper), charlie from heartstopper too, will byers, the main character from perks of being a wallflower (forgot his name), timothee chalamet in a sad boy role, tom hansen from 500 days of summer, robert pattinson

pile 2: anxious king, holds everything together but crumbling inside, big no one takes care of me energy. just wants to be held, but only if you ask nicely. a serious, ambitious man who overthinks EVERYTHING to the point of getting anxious over made up scenarios. holds too tightly to people or routines, definitely very patrick batemanesque. he might look very put together but he’s secretly scared of crumbling. he has a fear of being judged and letting go. probably has a 10 step skincare routine.

vibes: zuko from avatar, patrick bateman ofc, batman/bruce wayne, jeremy allen white in the bear, adam driver too because why not.

pile 3: "in tarot we don't say sugar daddy, we say king of pentacles", a brilliant and reliable man who has a flair for spending money on whatever he wants to. probably a bit of a player too. he knows he's hot shit (in a bretman rock way), his mind is sharp and crystal clear and his power is in knowing when to act and when to pause. he smells expensive and always knows how to get the bag, also a proud rolex collection owner. definitely into vintage cars too. somewhat obnoxious. fears vulnerability or being perceived as weak.

vibes: ned stark from game of thrones, steve harrington from stranger things, any of those wannabe heroes in any other tv show or movie, maybe carlisle from twilight too. idk not many names are coming up to me atm.

thank you for reading, i hope you enjoyed this random unhingedness. <3

[yandere-romanticaa]

What you think of a sacrificial bride reader with mydei🤧 likeeeeee 😫 and soon he becomes possesiveee lmao

Phainon may be my personal favorite but Mydei is objectively the hottest man on Amphoreus. It's so not fair how hot he is, I'm so sad I didn't manage to get him... Also, sorry for this fic not being very good, I'm in a strange state of being sleepy but also having the desire to write.

The sharp edges of his metallic gloves inch closer towards your face as you stare off into the distance, body clad in head to toe with a fine silk dress which left absolutely nothing to the imagination. His touch felt strange, like a contradiction. If you did not possess a pair of eyes, never in your wildest dreams could it be said that the same man who could tear off someone's neck without breaking a sweat could be so horribly gentle.

Your husband had a knack of lingering. Watching. Rarely ever did he truly indulge in your true company, mostly relinquishing himself into the shadows and his duties. One day, a wave of either stupidity or bravery came over you. Angrily, you had marched straight towards your husband and demanded to know why he was so suffocating.

A beast - that is what he is, that Mydeimos.

Not in the way one would expect him to be though. Stepping foot into his palace felt like a nightmare come to life. A foreign princess had been forced on her knees, chained up like a dog ready for slaughter. You had anticipated for him to be cruel, to be merciless, to have his way with you. His battle prowess was almost legendary, perhaps even godly in the eyes of some.

Even so, in the dark of the night when people would fade away and the stars would come out, the man would seek you out and like a storybook phantom, he would watch you from the shadows. It was beyond difficult to understand what he was thinking but not paying attention to him did not seem to make him mad.

You read books, painted, even tried to dance sometimes and Mydei - as he wanted you to call him - would do nothing but watch.

Finding your husband to be passive, you figured that there would be no harm in requesting to have a day out. You want to feel the sun on your skin and it's good for you - and it was immediately shut down with a raised hand, his finger wagging left and right, as if you were some child making a senseless request.

Mydei himself never could have imagined that he would find such joy in his little bride. She was offered up to him on a silver platter, his devour wholly and whenever he saw fit. He knew how you looked at him and he could not help but to feel a bit insulted by that notion.

He may be a beast, but he was not a monster.

At least, he did not want to treat his wife that way.

I shall give her time, he thought to himself as he sipped on his drink, the delicate pink colour matching the shade of the dress he had handpicked earlier.

Not that his wife knew that, much to his amusement. He enjoyed seeing her frolic around in shades of pretty pinks and delicate reds in the comfort and safety of her palace wing. No one else could come here but a few servants, which were also handpicked by him.

He was not sure how he could handle another gazing at his wife in the same way he did. The thought should not be even entertained, for his heart would want blood.

With a grunt, he placed down his cup on the table, mind slightly hazy.

She shall come to me when she is ready, thought Mydeimos, his red eyes gleaming with hope. He was confident in his ability to melt her heart. These things took time and he was willing to wait for as long as it took.

[wildehacked]

big news, friends: tonight i hung out with my cousin who I never see (cousin 1, delightful, heterosexual, I see him once every five years), and he told me that a different cousin (cousin 2) who I haven't seen in like twenty years because cousin 2 is a homophobe and I'm a homo....is currently a firefighter at the lafd and I was like cousin 1. this saddens me deeply. I am devastated right now. and he was like why? and I was like, you see, cousin 1, I'm kind of obsessed with this tv show about the lafd, and now you tell me I have a blood relative who works for the lafd and I can't even text him to ask for inside scoops and he was like wait, wait, my girlfriend and I love that show! Sergeant Athena Grant! and I was like YES OMG. Eddie Diaz is my BOY, and he was like beenado! and I was like beenado!!!! and then he was like have you seen the most recent one and I was like OBVIOUSLY I've seen the most recent one, and he was like do you think chimney will live, and I was like yes, obviously chimney will live. do you think BOBBY will live, and he was like?????? captain nash is not in danger? and I was like wait for it, man, wait for it. and then i decided to be a Social Scientist so I was like "my second favorite after Eddie is Buck," and he said, unprompted, two things about Buck: 1. "Buck is so funny when he gets sad. He's such a sad boy"

2. "I was really surprised by the bisexual plotline. Like, they did that, and I was like, what are the writers doing? But then they kept going and I was like, you know what, makes sense."

at which point I was like "well who do you think Buck's going to end up with now though?"

and UNPROMPTED he was like "Well, it's gotta be Eddie"

and I was like cackling with joy, obviously, and I was like what makes you think that. like I think that, but why do you think that, and he was like "dude, he's living in his HOUSE." and I was like "he's a renter!!!" and then he was like "and it's so obvious his sister thinks he's in love with Eddie" and I was like "cousin 1, when you're right you're right."

anyway. an evening of joy and good cheer <3

[mirrored-muse]

shauna request!! maybe taivan teasing shauna about crush on main and shauna tries to act tough and deny but then main comes and asks shauna for help with chores and breaks out the puppy eyes and shauna can’t say no? :)

ᴡʜᴀᴛᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀɴᴛꜱ | ꜱ.ꜱ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 830

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ꜱᴇᴇꜱ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ꜱʜᴀᴜɴᴀ’ꜱ ᴛᴏᴜɢʜ ɢᴜʏ ᴀᴄᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴀ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟᴇ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ʜᴀꜱ ʜᴇʀ ᴅʀᴏᴘᴘɪɴɢ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ꜱʜᴀᴜɴᴀ ꜱʜɪᴘᴍᴀɴ x ꜰᴇᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴀ/ɴ: ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛɪɴɢ, ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴ ᴡᴏᴍᴇɴ. ʟɪᴋᴇꜱ, ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴀᴛᴇᴅ.

It starts with Van’s voice, always a little too loud, too amused.

“Oh my God, you’re staring again.”

Shauna doesn’t look up from where she’s sharpening a knife, slow and methodical. “You want to lose a hand?”

Van only snorts. “Seriously, Tai- am I crazy or is this, like, day five of ‘Shauna glares at everyone but her’?”

Tai leans against the log beside Van, a twig between her fingers, watching Shauna with narrowed eyes and an annoying little smirk. “Nah. You’re right. I’ve seen more affection from a feral dog, but somehow Shauna always goes soft whenever she walks by.”

Shauna scoffs. “You both need hobbies.”

Van grins. “Maybe. Or maybe we just think it’s hilarious that Shauna ‘I-don’t-care-if-you-die’ Shipman turns into a whole different person when a certain girl shows up.”

“I don’t turn into anything.”

Tai raises a brow. “So if she came over here right now, asked you to help her haul firewood or something—”

“I’d tell her to go to hell,” Shauna snaps.

“Sure.” Van’s still smiling, like she knows something Shauna doesn’t. “Just like you did yesterday when she asked for help and you dropped everything and followed her into the woods like a sad little murder puppy.”

Shauna slams the blade down into the log with a dull thunk. “Keep talking.”

Van and Tai both laugh, and Shauna mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like ‘fucking idiots’.

She doesn’t have a crush. She doesn’t do crushes. Not out here, not now. She doesn’t have time for that shit. There’s survival, there’s the group, and then, maybe, there’s you. The only one who doesn’t treat her like she’s one wrong look away from stabbing someone. The only one who talks to her like she’s still a person.

Which is probably why you get away with things no one else does.

Like now.

You appear at the edge of camp, holding a broken basket in your arms, cheeks flushed from whatever work you’ve been doing. You glance around, scanning faces, then lock onto hers.

She stiffens.

“Shauna,” you call softly, walking over.

Tai and Van immediately hush like predators sensing prey.

Shauna straightens but doesn’t move. “What?”

You stop in front of her, holding up the basket. “It snapped. I think I was trying to carry too much. I was gonna fix it, but I can’t find the twine anywhere.”

Shauna stares at you. “Okay?”

“I thought maybe you’d help me look?”

“I’m busy.”

You blink at her, then tilt your head, your bottom lip sticking out just a little. Puppy eyes. That soft, wide-eyed thing you do that makes her chest ache and her hands curl into fists.

“please?”

She glares at you.

Tai snorts.

Shauna doesn’t break eye contact with you, but her next words are aimed behind her. “Shut the fuck up, Tai.”

You blink again, waiting for an answer.

She sighs like the weight of the world is on her shoulders. “Fine. I’ll help.”

You smile, bright and warm, and for a second she forgets how pissed she was two minutes ago.

Van leans over, whispering to Tai, but still loud enough for Shauna to hear. “Aww, look she’s blushing!”

“One more word and I will stab you.”

But then you’re walking ahead of her toward the storage tent, basket still in your arms, and Shauna follows. Begrudgingly. Muttering under her breath.

—

Inside the tent, you crouch to dig through a crate, tossing aside old fabric and half-snapped sticks. Shauna watches you, arms crossed, pretending like she’s only there because she has to be.

You glance up. “You’re staring.”

“I’m making sure you don’t hurt yourself.”

You raise a brow. “Since when do you care?”

Her jaw clenches. “I don’t.”

You smirk, and Shauna wants to punch something.

You turn back to the crate. “Well, thanks for helping anyway.”

She doesn’t respond. Just steps forward and crouches beside you, grabbing another bin and rummaging through it with quick, sharp movements.

Your hand brushes hers once, and she freezes.

So do you.

She doesn’t move away and neither do you.

“Shauna?” you say, soft.

“What?”

You look at her again, eyes gentle. “I don’t think you’re as mean as you want people to think you are.”

That’s when she looks at you—really looks at you.

And fuck, she wishes you’d stop doing that. Talking to her like you see something in her that no one else does. It’s dangerous.

But it also makes her feel like there’s a part of her that’s still human.

And she can’t walk away from that.

“You don’t know anything about me,” she says, quiet but rough.

You reach out and nudge your pinkie against hers again. “I know enough.”

The space between you tightens. She doesn’t move. Neither do you.

Finally, she clears her throat, snatches a roll of twine, and thrusts it into your chest like it might burn her. “Here. Go fix your basket.”

You take it with a soft smile. “Thanks, Shauna.”

[coolgrl111]

JEALOUS!ART X READER.

PART 4.

a/n: hiiiii i’m sorry i’m literally evil.. it’s been a year daddy!!!! i’ve been wanting to write more in my fics, so we have another mix of smaus and writing!!! pls enjoy 💋💋

part 1

part 2

part 3

—

she opened the app with fingers trembling like moth wings. drew’s page. a carousel of screenshots. texts ripped out of context. photos from months ago with captions twisted into knives.

“cheating whore.”

“hope art was worth it.”

“funny how you act innocent when you’re on your knees for your best friend.”

her face burned. the room tilted. the silence screamed.

her first instinct wasn’t even heartbreak—it was shame. not because of what she’d done (nothing, nothing, nothing) but because of what people would now believe.

art stirred. turned. blinked at her with sleep-slowed eyes, the worry rising as he took in her expression.

“what is it?”

she couldn’t speak, just handed him the phone.

he read it once. then again. jaw tight, mouth a straight line that trembled only slightly.

“he doesn’t get to do this to you,” he said, voice low. “he doesn’t get to twist things.”

her throat burned. “but people will believe him.”

art sat up, ran a hand through his hair. looked at her like she was something fragile, yes—but not broken.

“then let them believe what they want,” he said. “i know the truth. you do too.”

her fingers went slack.

the phone slid from her hands and hit the carpet with a soft, traitorous thud.

she folded forward, slow then all at once, like paper creasing under rain—arms around her stomach, head pressed to her knees, trying to hold herself in. but the sob tore through her chest without warning, and then another, and then another.

it was ugly.

guttural.

art was beside her in less than a breath.

“hey—hey,” he said, panicked, the word breaking. “no, please—what—what can i do?”

his voice cracked on please.

she couldn’t look at him. couldn’t speak. the pain swelled inside her like a tide, rising fast, drowning her in shame and hurt and the fear that this—this version of herself, shattered and humiliated—would push him away forever. but art stayed.

he knelt on the bed beside her, his hair messy, his eyes puffy from sleep—a hand hovering before it landed on her back, trembling.

his palm moved in slow circles, but he was shaking too hard to make it steady.

“you don’t deserve this,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “you know you didn’t do anything wrong. you’re no cheat. we didn’t...” his words quietened. it was true. they hadn’t done anything intimate. was it bad if she wished they did?

she shook her head, hands covering her face, tears pouring through the cracks in her fingers.

“they’re gonna think it’s true,” she choked. “they’ll think i lied, that i—that we—”

“fuck them,” he said, too loud, too raw. then softer, “i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.”

his other hand brushed her hair back. his eyes were red now, too.

“i hate seeing you like this,” he said, close to crying himself. “it’s like—god, it’s like someone’s reaching into my chest and ripping everything out. i just want to fix it. i’d do anything to fix it. i never fucking liked drew, you know that? never thought he was good enough.”

and then she remembered.

his text.

“i’m in love with you, y/n.”

last night, amidst her panic about the stanford gossip page posting about her and drew—he’d sent it. she hadn’t replied. couldn’t.

it was only six words.

just thinking about it again knocked the air out of her, just like drew’s horrible messages did—only this was a different panic. because maybe she reciprocated it.

she looked up at him, finally. saw the way his eyes searched hers, desperate. his bottom lip was trembling.

“why did you tell me you loved me last night?” she whispered.

he blinked, startled. “because i couldn’t hold it in anymore. because you were so sad. and you’re so beautiful… and i couldn’t stand the thought of you going home to someone who didn’t see you the way i do.”

her breath caught in her throat.

“and now this happens,” he went on, voice breaking again. “and it’s like—i confessed something real and instead of kissing you forever, making you mine— i’m watching you fall apart because of someone who didn’t deserve one second of your love.”

her eyes filled again. not from shame this time. not from fear.

“i hate drew, y/n. i absolutely despise that fucking prick.”

his words were firm, but from the way he looked at her, so soft, it was like she was all he’d ever waited for.

“i’m sorry i didn’t say anything,” she whispered. “i was scared.”

“i’m scared too,” he said. “but i’m not going anywhere.”

his thumbs were still on her cheeks, catching the tears as they fell, brushing her skin like he was memorising the shape of sorrow. and she was crying again—not from fear this time, but from the unbearable kindness in his voice, the way he held her like she was something sacred.

her hands moved slowly, unsure, reaching to hold his wrists. she looked at him—really looked—and saw him trembling just like she was. his eyes glossy, mouth parted like he was afraid of what might happen next.

and then, almost without thinking, she whispered, “then don’t go.”

and leaned in.

their foreheads touched first, like a prayer. a pause. a promise.

and then, finally their lips found each other.

it wasn’t perfect. it was messy and wet and trembling. he kissed her like he had waited forever but wasn’t sure he was allowed. she kissed him like she might break from it, and maybe she was.

they were both still crying. she could taste salt on his mouth, couldn’t tell whose it was. didn’t care.

his hands slid to cradle her jaw, holding her steady. her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt like she needed to anchor herself to something that wouldn’t hurt her. the kiss deepened slowly, like a secret unfolding between them, years in the making. it wasn’t lust. it wasn’t a firestorm. it was gentler, more devastating—it was real.

when they finally pulled apart, neither of them moved far. foreheads resting together. breathing the same air. they both sniffled from the tears.

art let out a soft, broken laugh. “i’ve wanted to do that since we were sixteen.”

she smiled shyly. “me too.”

taglist: @blastzachilles @mrszweig @grimsonandclover @areyoutheregoditsmecelia @hrrysglitter

[deepspacedarling]

HIYAA, so i saw your post abt getting into an argument with the LAD boys and was wondering if you could maybe do an extended version of everything but it ends in fluff? Obviously you don’t do all the boys, you can choose who you want to write it for. Thats alll BYYEEE

Making Up with the LADS Boys

Warning: None

AN: I was hoping someone would ask for this. Angst always makes me sad and if no one asked for this I was going to have to take matters into my own hands and write you guys making up.

Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb

Pt 1. How the LADS Boys Argue with You

Xavier

He still doesn't understand why you're upset with him. He still thinks he's right. But he acknowledges that he upset you and he wants to fix that. He loves you so much and you mean the world to him.

He might go to Jeremiah and ask for a second opinion to see if he's actually in the wrong. Whether he was or wasn't, he'll ask how he can make you feel better and resolve the issue.

He doesn't like going to bed angry with you. He'll spend the whole night figuring this out with you if he has to. Once the matter is resolved and you're both snuggled up close again together, he feels like everything is finally okay again.

Zayne

You guys don't go more than a day after the argument without him trying to come to you and resolve the issue. He doesn't like being upset with you and he knows that you feel the same. You're both calm rational adults. You can figure this out together.

Now that he's had a moment to calm down, he thinks over and over again about what he needs to say to you. He's got a whole script in his head to tell you how sorry he is and get his initial thoughts from the fight across without upsetting you. That all kind of goes out the window when you two start talking and he starts to flounder.

He's not the best with his words. He'll stumble during the conversation but he's earnest in his want to find a compromise with you. You two will get past this, he'll make sure of it.

Rafayel

Poor Thomas has to listen to him complain about your argument for HOURS. When Thomas finally tells him to go fix it, he grumbles and goes home. He'll come slinking into the house and you'll both eye each other warily to see if one of you is going to start arguing again before eventually he sighs and sits down. He's not getting up until this is fixed or you hurt his feeling again.

He'll apologize for hurting your feelings. He always tends to go for the jugular when he's upset and he knows that it hurts you when he acts like that. He didn't mean what he said but he knows it hurt you anyway so he's sorry.

He'll make sure repeatedly that you're not still upset with him after you both find a compromise. He doesn't want you to leave him so he'll do what he must to keep you even if that means admitting he was wrong.

Sylus

Initially, he'll try to buy your happiness back. Of course you'll stop being mad if he gets you that new car you wanted or that diamond necklace you were looking at. But then he realizes it isn't working and he has to shift gears.

He'll sit you down and listen to what you have to say. There's a long moment afterwards of him just thinking. He's not really the type of give in unless he's getting something out of it. He'll carefully maneuver the conversation so that you can find a happy medium. He's not willing to start a fight again but he's not willing to just give in either.

Once it's all said and done, he's happy with the result. He wants you to stay with him so he'll play nice even if it means he doesn't 100% get what he wants. What you want is important to to keep your relationship healthy.

Caleb

He'll do anything to get you to stop being angry with him. You don't understand. His brain is already conjuring up ideas of you leaving him. Of him coming home and your things are gone and he never sees you again.

He's much more receptive to your point of view once he's scared himself enough. He's still not 100% on board with your side of the argument but he's willing to compromise if it means you stay with him.

Once you've smiled at him and found a happy medium, he can finally breath again. You're going to stay with him. He's going to be okay. He needs to make sure that this argument never happens again. He'll do what he has to to ensure it doesn't.

Requests are Open!

[lunee43]

What are some things that you dislike or hate abt EPIC?

Oomph— okay people, these are my personal takes! And just know things are gonna get a bit heated. (Also!, I’d like to hear what you all dislike or hate about epic/the fandom aswell!)

Warning ⚠️: Hot takes.

Okay I’ll talk about Epic the musical as the musical itself, and then the fandom because they also help make up Epic.

Epic the musical

I honestly love this musical so much do it’s gonna be hard to find personal dislikes.

-Plotwise, I kinda dislike a the plot a bit, I don’t know why but I do dislike some of the changes made in the musical compared to the odyssey, they’re cool but sometimes I feel like it’s a bit too much. Such as the whole Poseidon stabbing thingy. (I’ve talked about this b4)

-Polites, I don’t dislike him, but I dislike how fast his character came and went, I didn’t feel sad for Polites when he died because we only had a small amount of time to know him., and Compared to Eurylochus I was devastated when he was cooked like bacon. I felt his character was just there… then continued to just be there.

-The demonstration and characterization of Telemachus, I think many can agree when I say I do not like how infantized he is portrayed, or kidlike, this has made people confused about his age, he’s 20/21 people.

-The musical sometimes Justifying Odysseus’s actions here and there and making him look real good. Of course the musical is from Odysseus’s pov so it makes sense.

Anddd that’s it!

Now…the fandom…..😀

-the mischaracterization of characters. Such as Eurylochus, Odysseus, Penelope, etc. they believe characters have a one track persona, and that’s it. But in reality they are all very diverse

-lying/spreading false information. I see it all the time specifically twitter and TikTok. Polites having a daughter, Penelope in wanting to get shot by the arrows, or she’s standing behind them???, Telemachus and Circe that’s not in the Odysseus it’s a different story and a modern spin of the story of Circe. And whatever made up shit some create to win arguments.

-tearing down different art styles. This really irritates me, though it’s a small majority, it’s agitating how they easily tear down lots of very talented epic animators and artists, because that artwork is their babies. It’s so disappointing to see.

-odysseus being infantised. I hate this. Some people in the fandom make him an uwu baby boy who can do no wrong and well “everyone else is at fault but Odysseus” it irritates me.

-Media illiteracy, sometimes I believe some people don’t understand the story sometimes, and how it’s supposed to be a tragedy. (This can also be in the mischaracterization idea)

-The inability to understand other perspectives. I’ve seen plenty of debates but I’ve also seen people bring down others for having differing perspectives, I’ve experienced it myself. In fact I at one point was receiving some incredibly rude stuff in my inbox for creating fun drawings of Eurylochus, and enjoying his character.

I’ve deleted both twitter snd TikTok for most of these major points. Both sites are addicting, and so very toxic based on the people on it.

-

Of course these certain people make the fandom look real bad, but it’s so common and popularized within the fandom.

And yes I’m tagging cause I want people to see this lol.

[sincapjelly]

Honestly, seeing how different this family's fate could go is so sad to think about. I talk about this fairly often, so I may be repeating myself right now. But Cole's childhood could work out way more differently if only some small things worked out. Lilly's unhealthy aproach to being a hero and continuing to take missions without her powers, overtiring herself, not having enough time for Cole, and in the end passing away from all of this is the most tragic part of all of it.

I feel like Cole got his anxiety issues from there too. It's a thing Lilly also posessed, her anxiety causing her to feel responsible to an extend that sounds absurd to someone else. But the way she was taught feeds her unhealthy mindset about always needing to be the hero for people who ironically never apreciated her. I see her exact behavior in Cole, it concerns me but it's also fascinating to see how well this family is built in the story. You can always track back Cole's traits from his parents and that's beautiful.

What also makes this family insteresting and heartwarming is the love they have for each other. How far they are willing to go to keep the family safe. How the roots of their family is built on love and always protecting each other at all costs.

Reading Quest for the Lost Powers, the way Lou talks about leaving his job, his band, something that is a part of his identity behind to be with Cole all the time, like it was no big deal for him. The way he is never mad at Lilly for her struggles, and clearly had done everything in his power to help her too.

This is also why I can never be angry at Lou, because he does everything he can for both of them. Lilly's passing is tragic for him too, because he did everything in his power to keep her safe and happy. Him and Cole were the best things in Lilly's life, which is why Lou will never think healthily about her passing. It is not something he can handle, and it caused him to make mistakes. Which, when you know the full extend of their relationship, makes all the sense. He is not sad for himself, not sad just because he misses her, he is sad because he will never shake the thought that Lilly didn't deserve any of this. While some not very justifyable, I think all his actions are explainable and even logical. All of this, over the time made him a lovable and interesting character for me.

I also can't stop thinking that part of the reason why Lou sent Cole to that school, is because it was Cole's plan before all of this. Losing his mother meant losing his good memories about music, and he pretty much lost his purpose in life. Before all of this, Cole's desire was to be a performer (as said in Way of the Departed), it's not too far fetched that he'd want to study there. I think Lou pushed it because he didn't want Cole to lose an opportunity he chased for so long. Wanted Cole to get his purpose back. But... yeah. It was beyond saving for Cole, and music will always be bittersweet for him.

"I found something new that I'm really good at. I'm a ninja"

So Cole was saying this after Lou caught him going over the plan to steal the Blade Cup with the other ninja.

And here is Lou's face right after Cole said that he was a ninja:

And later, Lou says to Cole in reference to how stealing is wrong, "I'm not going to wait around to watch you make a mockery of our of our family's legacy."

And I know that at the time the episode was written, Lilly most definitely wasn't conceptualized, meaning that her being the previous Earth ninja couldn't as well.

But watching this after Season 13, you can interpret Lou's reaction to Cole being a ninja and stealing, as not only a mockery to his legacy being a dancer, but also Lilly's legacy as being a ninja.

[bullet-prooflove]

Virgin: Dennis Whitaker x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @julius-ceasar @happyfox43 @totallynotavampir3 @cosmic-psychickitty @sargeant-sad-eyes

Companion piece to:

Peppermint - The taste of peppermint will always have a special place in Dennis's heart.

The Morgue Thing - A miscommunication between you and Dennis almost ends things before they begin.

Dennis is a virgin.

At least that’s what the rumours say.

They started when Santos had asked him when he last got laid and he’d flushed that pretty shade of pink across his cheeks and up his throat. It had spread like wildfire after that and of course everyone seems to have an opinion, whether he likes it or not.

“You know, I think it’s great at your age.” McKay tells him when he’s working triage with her. “I lost mine far too young and in the back seat of a Camero, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

He really doesn’t know what to say to that so he doesn’t say anything. He kinda just hopes the whole thing will blow over but then he steps into the security office to drop off a cell phone he found in one of the bays and that’s when he sees the betting pool.

Multiple coloured post-its, all depicting when, how and where he’ll lose his virginity.

It seems to sway from romantic: candlelight, mood music and a sultry silk nightdress to fucked up and freaky: In the morgue, on a table, light on, scrubs off.

There’s even a sub division for foreplay: who does what to who, how good they are at it.

One very helpful person has even written ‘Whitaker eats pussy like a champ’ in block capitals. Another states ‘Lisbon cracks under the pressure’.

“Fuck…” He drawls out the word, one hand scrubbing down his face because there is no way in this world that you aren’t going to hear about this. It’s simply a matter of time.

You’re waiting for him after shift in your usual place against the wall when he gets out. Your head is tilted back towards the sun, your eyes closed as you catch the last of the dying rays before dark. You look beautiful in that moment, so serene, so at peace with the world. He hates that he’s spoiling it.

“You’re going to hear a rumour about me.” He tells you as he takes up residence alongside of you, his hands clasped in front of him. “That I’m a virgin… I’m not but… I guess you’d say I’m inexperienced… I’ve slept with one person in my life and it wasn’t…”

He fumbles for the words, trying to articulate.

“It wasn’t fire or passion or any of the things it is with you. I don’t even think I was very good at it…”

“Dennis.” You say softly, your hands slipping under his coat. Your palms come to rest on his waist, thumbs tracing tiny soothing circles through his shirt that make him exhale as his forehead comes to rest upon yours. “I’m not worried about your capabilities in bed. The two of us have great chemistry and when the time is right we’ll find our rhythm. I’m just enjoying the journey right now, being with someone whose taking the time to get to know me, instead of trying to fuck me.”

“I know.” He whispers, his nose trailing over yours as he looks into your eyes. “I’m enjoying this part too.”

Love Dennis? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[cherryblossomfairyy]

Bejeweled

Pairing : spencer reid x bau!reader

Summary : y/n finally breaks up with her boyfriend. He caused her to dim her light. Now single and feeling great, she goes to the FBI’s annual gala. Where she has her bejeweled moment and dances with Spencer. Maybe he will say the night with her? Along the lyrics of the song "Bejeweled" by Taylor Swift.

Masterlist

You used to dim your light for him. Not on purpose—not really. It was more subtle, like the way the moon fades a bit when clouds pass by. You didn’t stop being you. You just got…quieter. Less “bejeweled,” as your best friend had so perfectly put it one evening over wine.

“You used to shine,” she said, swirling her glass with a pitying tilt of her head. “You were diamonds. Lately, you’re costume jewelry. Cheap stuff. Plastic. Why?”

You didn’t answer her. You didn’t want to say that the reason you’d dulled yourself was you (insecure) boyfiend—or more accurately, the way his behaviour made you feel around him. It wasn’t your fault, not really. You felt trapped and his promises made you feel better momentaraly. The man was brilliant, soft-spoken, and kind when he wanted to.

"Baby love, I think I've been a little too kind."

The clock ticks. Rain hums outside. You stands in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped tightly around her. James lounges on the couch like he’s already over the conversation.

y/n quietly said, with silent tears in her eyes “I just want to talk about what happened at the party. You completely ignored me all night, and when I tried to say something, you laughed in my face.”

“Jesus, you’re still on that?”James answered her, without looking up.

“Yes. Because it hurt. And you still haven’t acknowledged it.”

He sighs dramatically before speaking. “You’re too sensitive. I was talking to people. Networking. You want me glued to your hip all night like a child?”

y/n, shocked by his reaction, trying tos peak calmly. “I never said that. I just wanted to feel like I existed to you.”

James let out a big laugh, still not looking at her. “Wow. Drama queen much?”

A frown appeared on y/n’s face.“Why do you always do that? Make fun of me when I try to be honest?”

“Because you're always making up these stories in your head. You twist everything into some attack. It’s exhausting.” James tells her, fort he first time looking up from his phone.

"Sadness became my whole sky."

“I’m not making anything up,” she said, voice firm but shaking slightly. “I’m telling you how I feel.”

He crossed his arms, his tone turning cold. “No, you’re making a scene out of nothing. Again. You do this all the time — create problems that don’t exist just so you can play the victim.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare call me the victim. I’ve put up with your gaslighting for months, and I’ve tried to make this work.”

He let out a laugh, dripping with mock innocence. “Gaslighting? Oh my god. You really think you’re being abused just because I don’t agree with your little fantasy version of things?”

“It’s not a fantasy when I live it every day,” she snapped. “You lie. You deflect. You deny things that I know happened. I bring up real issues and you make me feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“BECAUSE YOU ARE ACTING CRAZY RIGHT NOW!” he shouted, voice booming. “You’re blowing everything out of proportion! You always do this when you don’t get your way!”

"Baby boy, I think I've been too good of a girl."

Y/N spoke calmly, almost too calm. Like she was used tot his type of reaction. “And now you’re screaming. Again. Like that’s gonna fix anything.”

“I’m screaming because YOU DON’T LISTEN!”

The sound of bruising knuckles echos throught the living room as James slams his fist into the wall.

“I’m fcking drowning here trying to keep this together, and you just—walk away from everything like it's nothing!”*

She stepped back, her expression unreadable. “Wow. There it is. I finally see it. You don’t love me — you just love having someone to blame everything on.”

Her voice cracked slightly, but she didn’t flinch. “I don’t even know what we’re doing anymore. Every conversation turns into a fight.”

He threw his hands up, frustrated. “Because you keep picking at me! Every little thing I do becomes a problem.”

“I’m not picking,” she said sharply. “I’m asking for basic respect. Like not disappearing for two days and then acting like it’s completely normal.”

He fell silent for a beat. His chest rose and fell, shallow and fast. His jaw clenched. There was rage in his eyes — but something else too. Desperation. Fear.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he muttered. “You’re emotional and paranoid, like always. Go take a walk or something. You’ll come back and realize you’re overreacting.”

She stared at him, calm and certain now. “No. I’m not coming back.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh please. You say that every time. You’ll be texting me by morning.”

“Not this time,” she said, voice soft but solid as stone. “I finally believe myself more than I believe you.”

She grabbed her keys. Her heart pounded in her chest, but her hands didn’t shake. He didn’t move. Just sat there, watching her like he still expected her to sit back down.

“So what,” he said bitterly, “you’re just gonna walk out like everyone else? Coward.”

Y/N with a deep sadness in her voice, but staying strong. “No. It takes strength to walk away from someone you love who keeps hurting you. You want to scream and blame me? Fine. Scream into an empty room.”

She grabs her coat from the hook, hands trembling.

James voice breaking as he realised that this time she’s serieus about leaving him

“y/n… wait. Please

After a silence that lasted no more then five seconds, his anger came roaring back.

“You’re nothing without me.” He muttered.

As y/n paused in the doorway, she said, in a low, final tone “I was nothing with you.”

“No, wait—y/n, don’t do this. Don’t you dare—”

She shuts the door behind her. And for once — she doesn’t look back.

"And by the way, I'm going out tonight."

________________________________

The whole team knew of your difficult relationship with him. They offered their help and advise, but you didn't want to hear it back then. You told them little lies, about how you two were doing better now and that they didn't have to worry.

"Didn't notice you walking all over my peace of mind."

But Spencer had a knack for seeing through things—especially you.

Spencer saw how hard you tried. How often you dressed up, hoping maybe one day your boyfriend would notice how great you actually were. You were always just a friend. A teammate. The girl he wanted to ask for dinner, but was too afraid.

But tonight was going to be different. after a short screaming match, only him. You officially broke up with him, now he's just one of your exes. No longer a man that slowly started to break you down.

Tonight was for you.

You slipped on the dress you’d buried in the back of your closet. The one that shimmered like starlight and hugged you like it missed you. You painted your lips red and lined your eyes with defiance. You slid on heels that clicked like a warning.

You were going to the FBI’s annual gala looking like the woman you had once been before you started hiding behind subtle smiles and quiet loyalty.

You were going to sparkle.

''Best believe I'm still bejeweled."

"When I walk in the room, I can still make the whole place shimmer."

The room was full of light—chandeliers glittered overhead, and the BAU looked stunning in tuxes and gowns. You caught JJ’s eye first. Her jaw dropped. “Y/N…you look incredible.”

You smiled. “I know.”

"What's a girl gonna do? A diamond's gotta shine."

Confidence wasn’t cocky. It was truth. And you had earned the right to own it.

You passed by Hotch, Rossi, even Morgan, all of whom gave you compliments or double-takes. And then, finally, you saw him.

Spencer.

He was at the bar, nervously twirling a glass of soda water in his hand, wearing a deep navy suit that made his brown eyes darker, more intense. His tie was crooked, of course. You always liked that about him.

He turned—and stopped.

His eyes widened.

“Y/N…” His voice was soft, almost reverent. “You look…”

You raised an eyebrow, lips curved. “Bejeweled?”

"I can reclaim the land."

He blinked, caught off guard. Then he smiled, and it was slow, shy, and so Spencer it almost hurt.

“Yeah,” he said. “Exactly that.”

But you didn’t stop. Not yet.

You walked past him, hips swaying to the rhythm of your own self-worth, giving him a wink as you grabbed a glass of champagne. You chatted with Luke, laughed at one of Penelope’s wild stories, danced with Morgan to a song that had too much bass and not enough subtlety. You lit up the room.

The music pulses through the floor, low and heady. Colored lights spin lazily over a packed dance floor. You’re standing by the bar, laughing at something Penelope said, when two guys, agents from a different branch, approach — confident, smooth, probably a little too charming for their own good.

One leans in with a grin. “You look like you’re having a boring night. Wanna change that?”

You arch a brow, amused. “Depends on your definition of fun.”

The other nudges his friend. “We’re not bad dancers, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You glance toward the dance floor.

So you smile. “Alright. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The music shifts to something sultry, bass-heavy. They’re decent dancers, easygoing, clearly trying to impress. One twirls you around. The other steps in too close, then laughs it off. You laugh with them,

"And when I meet the band. They ask, "Do you have a man?" I can still say, "I don't remember"

And Spencer watched.

It wasn’t until the fourth song in—a slow, sparkling tune that sounded like it had been written by stars—that he approached you.

“May I?” he asked, holding out his hand.

You hesitated, just long enough for him to worry, then took it.

"And we're dancin' all night."

His touch was tentative. But his eyes? They were clear. Finally seeing you. "Diamonds in my eyes."

“You know,” he murmured, swaying with you, “I think I’ve been waiting for too long.”

You tilted your head. “You think?”

“I’ve always known you were beautiful,” he said honestly. “But tonight… I see a version of you i have missed for so long. The real you, the one who shines. A friend told me to stop hiding from my feelings.”

And you smiled. Because you weren’t doing this for your now ex-boyfriend. Not anymore. But for yourself. It felt good to be seen again. And it felt right that it was him.

“You should’ve told me sooner,” you said.

“I know,” he replied, and his voice cracked just slightly. “But if you’ll let me…I’d like to start making up for that. One dance at a time.”

You let your head rest against his chest, just for a moment.

Because tonight, you were glowing.

Not for anyone else.

Just for you.

But maybe, just maybe, you’d let him bask in the light too.

The car ride back to your apartment was quiet. Not awkward—just thick with unspoken things. Spencer sat beside you in the backseat of the Bureau-issued black car, his hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes flicking to you when he thought you weren’t looking.

But you saw him. You always saw him. The difference now? He knew it.

When you reached your place, you expected him to say goodnight. But when you turned to do the goodbye-smile thing, he just said:

“Can I come up? Just for a little while?” "And you can try to change my mind."

You hesitated—not because you didn’t want to. God, you wanted to. But you weren’t sure if your heart could handle Spencer Reid in your space, with his hands maybe brushing yours, with that look in his eyes that said this is new, but I’m not going to pretend anymore.

But you nodded.

Upstairs, you kicked off your heels and dropped your clutch on the entry table. Spencer lingered in the doorway until you waved him in, watching him as he scanned the apartment with those observant eyes. He took everything in—your books, the throw blanket on your couch, the framed photo of the team—but it was you he looked at the longest.

You moved to the kitchen and grabbed two glasses of wine. When you turned back, he was closer. Not touching. But closer.

“You’re still glowing,” he said softly. “Even in this light.”

"I polish up real, I polish up real nice."

You let out a breathy laugh, taking a sip of wine to steady your nerves. “It’s just makeup and good lighting.”

“No, it’s not,” he replied, setting his untouched glass down. “It’s you. It always has been.”

"Sapphire tears on my face."

Your eyes met his. He didn’t flinch away this time.

“I feel like I missed out on you,” he continued. “Like you dissapeared and I didn't know how to help and I… I was too wrapped up in my own head.”

You walked toward him slowly, standing close enough to smell the faint scent of cologne and vintage paper—Spencer always smelled like old books and warmth.

“You didn’t miss it,” you said. “I was just hiding.”

He looked down at you, hands still at his sides, every inch of him buzzing with restraint.

“You don’t have to hide anymore.”

You reached up, fingers grazing his tie to straighten it—a habit you’d always wanted an excuse for. “So what now, Spencer?”

His breath hitched. “Now I stop pretending I don’t want you.”

Then he kissed you.

It was slow at first—hesitant, testing. Like he didn’t believe you’d kiss him back. But you did. And then you did again, deeper this time, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging gently until he groaned against your mouth.

He backed you into the wall, hands cupping your face like you were a piece of something sacred. It was messy, breathless, years of wanting packed into each desperate brush of lips and teeth.

When you pulled back, your lipstick smudged and eyes hazy, he whispered, “Tell me to stop.”

But you didn’t.

Instead, you took his hand and led him to the bedroom.

And once the door shut behind you, there was no more hesitation.

He undressed you like he was solving a puzzle—carefully, reverently. His hands memorized the shape of you, his mouth tracing a soft path along your collarbone, down your chest, making you gasp and arch and feel. You watched his brain click into overdrive—not analyzing, just worshiping.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured between kisses. “I should’ve told you every damn day.”

You pulled his shirt over his head, pressing your palms to his chest, fingers splayed over his heart. “Then start now,” you said, voice breathless. “Make up for it.”

And he did.

With every touch, every moan, every whispered I see you now, he rewrote the silence you’d endured. You weren't just shining—you were on fire, and he let himself burn in you.

Afterward, tangled in sheets and sweat and laughter, he whispered something against your bare shoulder.

“I don’t want to go back to the way we were. I want to know you—every part. Not just when you’re glowing. Even when you’re dim.”

You turned in his arms, touched his cheek, and kissed him slow and sweet.

“You’ve got me now, Spencer. All of me.”

And in the soft light of morning, you weren’t hiding.

You were bejeweled—and finally loved for it.

[buggie-eyed]

THERE ARE SPOILERS UP AHEAD FOR NINJAGO DR S3!!!!

This post will be tagged properly, but I placed that warning just to be safe. You have been warned~

Now get ready for my dr s3 notes, in no particular order of importance

- Right off the bat, I love love love Frak. We didn’t get to see his personality on full display in s2, and now that I know what he’s like I freaking love this guy. He’s kind of a dick, but not on purpose, more like in a teenager way. He really reminds me of the early season ninja, when they just said whatever tf they wanted, whenever. With Arin and Sora being pretty sweet most of the time, and Wyldfyre being a little pest but not actually saying anything controversial, I like that an overly opinionated guy got added into the mix.

- with that being said, I really didn’t expect Sora to be given a real love interest, but I don’t hate her and Frak as a possible pairing. Ik people interpreted her as a lesbian but idk pan Sora also works for me. Their dynamic is pretty fun. I like that Lloyd can’t pick up on the fact that they’re bonding and not actually full on arguing.

- PIXAL MY BELOVED IS BACK AND HER EYES ARE OOPY GOOPY AND HUGE!!!!!! WHY ARE THEY SO BIG, IS IT TO SEE HER DARLING HUSBAND WITH?

- Zane being goofy w/Pixal as soon as they reunited was what got me to tear up. That might sound weird but I love love, and their love means so much to me :[

- I didn’t know I needed and Lloyd and Pixal hug until they did it and now I need more Pixal hugs with her friends

- “Wow it’s awesome that Morro got his moment. He’s so epic and noble now, what a guy. I hope we see him again.”

- The second and only other time I cried was because of Arin and Sora’s friendship backstory, and when they hugged again for the first time in ages. God damn the writers didn’t have to make their dynamic and friendship that amazing but they did. They are the definition of platonic love, together until the end. While it’s sad that Sora left with Arin and Ras, it actually makes me so happy that she chose friendship.

- ^^ And now to add on. It was obvious from the start that Ras was lying about Arin’s parents. His non specificity about their deaths cemented it for me, and what shocked me the most wasn’t Jay’s reveal. What shocked me was that Jay instantly knew exactly who the ninja were talking about when they mentioned Arin’s parents. Is his memory really good? (It would be ironic, I know) but if Jay was really managing that many people, for like 7 ish years, the idea that he remembered these people who mean nothing to him right away is so Jay of him.

- NOW FOR JAY. He was really awesome as Rogue. Bro was kind of a beast. He took so many damn hits, yet he was suddenly “really hurt” the minute he was offered a warm and safe place to rest (🥲). I doubt his reluctance to go with the ninja was real and not an act. I think he’s genuinely sad and lost, and then these kind people showed up and he doesn’t know how to react without claiming it’s weird. I’m excited for him to learn to be vulnerable again. That was kind of his whole thing before, wasn’t it?

- I need to know what happened to Zane’s actual body. Is it in the suit? Is it under maintenance somewhere else? Like hello?!?! Imagine transferring bodies and being that chill w/it. It will for sure be addressed (I think)

- I really like that Kai and Nya got so many moments together. They deserve to be with each other, and annoy each other to death after being separated for so long.

- For the people who got sidelined a lot- Wyldfyre and Cole - here is why I don’t mind it too much:

- Wyldfyre was given a boyfriend, and while they like each other a lot, I did think they needed more development. And development is what they’re getting. I also liked seeing Wyldfyre apply her lessons with Kai about remaining calm(ish) when things are looking bad.

- Cole, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen for most of the first half of s3. Why do I not care too much? Because they’re really trying to hammer in the fact that Cole is a family man now, with a responsibility to his husband (yes husband) and his kids. That’s my interpretation, and now I need the writers to commit to a lostshipping kiss :]

- “Well I think that wraps everything up. I’m glad that boss dragon was defeated, so anyways- Oh, is that Morro again? Cool, maybe he’ll get to see the ninja or- wait what’s happe- THAT DRAGON ATE MORRO? He FucKinG ATe hIM WHAT TJE FUCK YOU CANT END IT LIKE TJAT-“