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Chapter Text

The elevator doors slide open and you step out into the hallway with the kind of weight in your limbs that only a too-late Saturday night, a too-busy Sunday, and a too-early Monday morning can bring. 

The office door looms ahead, as familiar as anything. You push it open and step inside, greeted by the usual dark, quiet stillness.

You flip on the lights and head over to your desk. Your bag slides off your shoulder and onto the floor next to your chair with a soft thud, the sound almost too loud in the quiet. You roll your shoulders, blinking hard against the bright fluorescents, and lower yourself into your chair with a deep sigh.

You don’t bother turning on your computer just yet. You sit still for a moment longer, elbows on the desk, forehead resting in your hands, exhaustion humming somewhere low in your skull.

The elevator dings.

You don’t look up. You hear soft footsteps, the shuffle of boots, a quiet mutter of something too low to catch, and the door swings open with none of the usual clatter or shouting or competitive footsteps.

Kang walks in first, dark circles pronounced beneath his eyes. He looks like he’s been hit by a truck made of regret and cheap beer.

Kim stumbles in after him a second later, dragging her feet with zero shame and even less coordination, her bun lopsided and her brows pulled together like she’s trying to force the fluorescent lights to shut off just by hating them hard enough.

He holds open the door for her, then makes a beeline for his desk and drops into his chair with the kind of heavy, groaning thud that makes the whole thing rattle.

“I want to die,” Kim mutters, dropping her bag with a loud thunk that echoes way too aggressively in the quiet room. She stands there, arms at her sides, squinting at Kang like this is somehow his fault. And, you suppose, it is.

He doesn’t look up at her as he raises one hand lazily in the air and says, “Same.”

You glance up at them from where you’re half-collapsed over your desk. “Why did you make us do that?” you ask Kang.

“You’re an adult,” Kang says, flipping a hand lazily in your general direction. “You made your own choices.”

“Don’t talk to me about choices,” Kim groans, flopping into her chair and cradling her head in one hand. “You were the one who said, and I quote, ‘If we leave now, we’re losers.’”

“Okay, but I was drunk when I said that,” Kang says from across the room, slumped so low in his chair you can barely see the top of his head over the monitor. “You should have known not to listen to me.”

You boot up your computer, eyes half-focused as you skim the login prompt. Your fingers feel slow on the keys, like the signals from your brain are getting through at a delay. You blink hard and sigh.

“I want to know who let me drink a bottle of soju the night before we had to run drills at six in the morning and clean the whole fucking base,” he says. “Because I know I didn’t do that to myself.”

“That was you,” Kim says, pointing at him without looking. “That was literally you.”

“I think I need to be medically discharged,” Kang groans as he pulls himself up in his chair, dragging it out like it physically pains him to exist. Then his attention turns towards you with a sly look on his face. “Remember how Private Lee Myung-gi tried to seduce Kim with that cherry stem?”

Kim makes a strangled sound and immediately slaps a hand over her face. “I swear to god–”

You lift your head up with a grin, covering your mouth with your hand like you’re trying to hold the laughter in. “Oh, yeah, let’s revisit that.”

Kang lifts his head an inch, peeking over his monitor with an expression of pure glee. “And remember how he made eye contact while he did it?”

“And then he gagged!” you add.

“He did!” Kang says, gesturing wildly in Kim’s direction as she slumps over her desk. “He was like–” he makes a choking noise, overly dramatic, tongue out, and then slumps back down with a thud. “–mid-seduction. Completely blew the landing.”

“He looked like he was about to throw up,” you add, turning towards Kim. “I was trying so hard not to laugh.”

Kim drops her head onto the desk with a dull thud. “He almost spat it into my lap.”

You wheeze. “I thought he was gonna need the Heimlich!”

“He had tears in his eyes,” Kang says, wiping at his own like he’s crying from the memory. “Like he was really fighting for his life.”

“He looked me dead in the eye,” Kim mutters into the surface of her desk, “and said, ‘Was that hot or what?’”

You and Kang howl with laughter, folded over your desks, loud and echoing through the office as Kim groans in humiliation.

“Oh my god,” you wheeze, clinging to the edge of your desk for support. “Oh my god, I forgot he said that.”

“He looked so hopeful,” Kang sobs, absolutely gone. “He didn’t even tie it!”

“And it was from my drink, too!” you add. “He pulled the stem off and dropped the cherry right back in!”

“He did!” Kang shrieks with laughter, smacking his desk with his hand. “Like a little raccoon!”

Kim buries her face in her hands as a smile breaks out and the three of you dissolve into laughter. Kang smacks his fists against his desk, doubled over in his chair, and you lean back, holding your stomach, cackling so hard it hurts.

Eventually, Kang groans, long and drawn-out, wiping his hands down his face. “Okay, okay, I’m done. I’m still nursing a headache and this isn’t helping.”

“Thank god, let’s put that memory to rest,” Kim mutters as the last of her giggles fade, eyes closed, head tilted back like she might try to sleep sitting up.

You stretch your arms over your head, tension pulling along your spine with that dull ache you’ve been trying not to acknowledge since yesterday afternoon. Your whole body still feels like it’s working at half-capacity, like nothing is firing as fast as it should be, like there’s a layer of exhaustion pressed over every thought.

Kang sighs again, louder this time, and tilts his head in your direction. “Do we have any coffee made yet?”

You blink at him, and for a second, the thought of standing feels deeply offensive to your soul. But then you glance toward the kitchenette and you know if you don’t start it now, none of you are going to make it to the next hour alive, let alone to 08:00.

“Fine, let me go do it,” you mutter, dragging yourself out of your chair, the effort monumental, the movement slow and stiff like every joint needs a reboot. “But if I collapse mid-pour, I expect a funeral with full honors.”

“Cherry garnish on the casket,” Kim adds.

You flip them both off without turning around and make your way toward the kitchenette, footsteps heavy, the exhaustion coiled somewhere behind your ribs pulsing with every step.

The countertop is cool under your fingertips and the mugs are lined up along the drying rack from Friday.

You reach for Sergeant Cho’s – you always reach for hers first. You set it down gently on the counter, then move through the rest. You fill up the coffee machine with a fresh filter, grounds, and water, and zone out as you watch the pot slowly fill up drip by drip.

You set your full mug down on your desk beside Sergeant Cho’s, your eyes lingering on the pair for a second longer than they need to. You hand Kim her mugs and she nods in silent thanks, hands curling around the ceramic like she’s trying to siphon heat through her palms. She dumps sugar packets into the WORLD’S BEST SECRETARY mug, hedging her bets on Sergeant Hwang being in a bad mood today.

Kang yawns around his gratitude as he takes his.

Then it’s onto the reports. The printer whirs to life with a chorus of slow, grinding hums as you each move through your morning routine.

Kim finds the green folder she always uses for Sergeant Hwang’s morning briefings, flipping it open with one hand and neatly sliding the pages into place. 

Kang scoops up Sergeant Park’s stack with both hands, not even bothering to organize them before heading straight into his office.

Your own reports print slowly, the machine dragging its heels this morning like it knows you’re barely holding on yourself. You hover beside it, watching each page slide out into the tray one by one. You collect them as they come, aligning the edges with the side of your hand, tapping the stack against the desktop until it’s perfectly squared. 

You return to your desk, setting them down beside the two mugs, the air heavy with anticipation and the scent of coffee, the clock ticking steadily toward 08:00.

There’s nothing left to do now but wait.

You sip your coffee and tap away at your keyboard, sending emails, reworking Sergeant Cho’s schedule, trying to remember where to find a certain file as the coffee attempts to start working.

But your thoughts shift before you can catch them.

The vague sensation of something pulls at the edge of your memory, and then it’s there – soft, slow, dangerous, and you’re back in her office and she’s looking at you like you belong to her.

Your fingers still where they rest on the keyboard.

You try to blink it away, try to breathe like you haven’t just remembered the humiliation of being caught touching yourself in her chair, or the frenzied, heated way it spiraled from there.

It was only Saturday, and the memory feels carved into you, impossible to set aside, resurfacing now with such brutal clarity that your body starts reacting before your brain can stop it.

You take a deep breath and shift again, just slightly, just enough to feel the heat slowly start to pulse between your legs. You keep your eyes on your screen like that will help, like pretending to work will override the tight, restless excitement blooming through your chest.

You’re flushed and your mouth is watering and you don’t even know if she’s going to have her way with you again today, but your body doesn’t care – it remembers, and it’s dragging you under with it.

You sip your coffee just to keep your hands busy, and the taste is bitter and too hot on your tongue, but it gives you something to focus on for half a second before your thoughts dive right back in. Her cock in your throat, her cum on your cunt, her voice telling you to fuck yourself with it.

You press your legs together and sit up straighter, trying to breathe through it, trying to keep still, but you feel on the edge of something anyway, something too warm, too tense, too far gone for this early in the day.

You’re pulled out of your thoughts when Sergeant Hwang steps into the office with his usual sharp gait and zero acknowledgment of anyone present, his expression unreadable in the way that always leans toward irritation. 

Kim straightens in her chair, every line of her body snapping into something more put together and awake. Her hand curls around the green folder, the WORLD’S BEST BOSS mug held in her other hand. 

“Good morning, Sergeant,” she says as he approaches, her tone carefully neutral, the words delivered with just enough energy to sound professional.

He grunts in acknowledgement and takes the folder from her and reaches for the mug. Then he turns away, heading into his office without a glance back. The door shuts behind him with quiet finality.

Kim exhales slowly through her nose as she slumps back into her chair.

A beat passes and the door opens again.

Sergeant Park steps in with one hand curled around a paper coffee cup and the other carrying his usual brown bag, his shoulders loose, expression easy, movements lacking the sharpness the other sergeants bring into the room with them. His eyes sweep across the office as he enters and he pauses in the doorway, raising one brow.

“Well,” he says, “don’t you all look lively this morning.”

Kang lets out a low, pained noise from somewhere deep in his chest and leans back in his chair. “We went out Saturday night,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. “Then had drills at six the next morning. Then everyone had to clean up the whole base. I had to wash one of the armored trucks twice because the first time apparently wasn’t good enough.” He says that last part with with a sneer and a mocking voice.

Park winces, sympathy flickering across his face as he nods slowly. “Right. You poor bastards. I remember when I had to do that back when I was a lower rank.”

Kim lifts her mug, eyes half-closed as she tips it toward her mouth.

“There wasn’t any time to rest,” you add, stifling a yawn. “They didn’t let us be done until after midnight. We got maybe four hours of sleep both nights.”

Park lets out a low whistle and steps further into the office. “Well, now I feel bad for enjoying this croissant.”

“You should,” Kang mutters, but there’s no bite to it.

He steps inside his office with a chuckle and a final glance over his shoulder that looks suspiciously like pity.

You reach for your own coffee again once his door shuts, holding it steady in your hand as the room settles back into silence.

The office falls quiet again after Sergeant Park disappears into his office, his footsteps fading behind the closed door as Kang slouches even further into his chair like the effort of speaking had used up his final reserves of energy. The only sound now is the faint tapping of fingers on keyboards, the occasional yawn, and the click of Kim’s pen against the edge of her mug.

You let your gaze drift to the door, heated anticipation curling in your core.

And right on cue, it opens.

Sergeant Cho steps into the office, and it hits you hard – how fucking good she looks this morning. Her uniform fits tight at the shoulders, sleeves rolled past her elbows to show the definition in her forearms, and her belt draws clean across her waist, every inch of her pulled together like a weapon holstered at rest. Her shirt is buttoned to the collar, pressed and sharp, taut against her chest in a way that makes your mouth water. Her hair is pulled back in that same ponytail, smooth and clean, not a single piece out of place. 

You’ve seen her like this every day for weeks, but it doesn’t matter – it never dulls. If anything, it gets worse because you’ve felt her grip your hips, you’ve had those arms around you, that uniform pressing tight against you while she fucked you like it was the only thing she had time for. You know what she looks like above you. You know what she sounds like when she comes. 

Her eyes land on yours as she crosses by your desk, holding your gaze like she’s measuring something in you, like she’s remembering something, like she’s deciding something.

Then her gaze dips, slow, deliberate, the drag of it down your face like the trace of a fingertip – and stops at your mouth.

Your lips part. You don’t breathe. You don’t move.

Her eyes don’t leave your mouth, and something in her expression darkens, like a thought just landed that she intends to act on. Like she’s imagining something she doesn’t say out loud. Like she’s not here to be professional today.

Your head turns as she passes, your eyes locked onto her until she disappears through her open office door without a word.

You reach for the mug and the file on your desk without even looking at them, you just pick them up like it’s instinct, like your body knows what to do while your mind is replaying a supercut of her face every time she’s come inside you.

You follow her into her office like it’s the only direction that’s ever made sense.

She’s just finishing settling into her chair, one hand braced against the desk, her posture exact and dominating. Her uniform is immaculate, but your mind shoves it out of the way instantly, replacing it with the image of what she could possibly look like with her shirt off. 

You step inside and shut the door behind you.

The click is soft, but it feels seismic.

She logs into the computer, fingers tapping at the keys, her attention fully focused on the screen in front of her. Her silence should make you relax, but all it does is wind the tension tighter in your spine.

You move forward, placing her mug gently in its usual spot on her desk like you’ve done dozens of times before. The handle faces her, exactly how you’ve learned she likes it. 

Her gaze drags up from the screen and lands on you. It holds for a beat too long, her eyes flicking over your face, down to your chest, then lower, then back again, her fingers unmoving on the keyboard.

Then she speaks. “Busy weekend?”

Your brain blanks completely for a second. 

The question sounds casual, but your cheeks flush, chest prickling with heat, because your memory doesn’t go to the bar with Kim and Kang first – it goes to this exact chair that she’s sitting in. Her voice in your ear, low and full of possession, telling you that your body is hers.

You swallow hard. She waits.

“Um,” you say, blinking like that’ll help. “Yes?”

One brow lifts with enough tilt to tell you she’s picked up on your tension.

“You spent time with Privates Kim and Kang, isn’t that correct?” she purses her lips. “You all seem rather… Subdued today.”

“Oh – yes. Saturday night, we went out.” You clear your throat lightly, trying to sound casual. “We stayed out too late, then had to be up at six the next morning for drills, and by the time we finished scrubbing down the entire base on Sunday, I hadn’t really... rested.” You glance down, then quickly back up. “It was a long weekend.”

She hums. A small sound, like she’s also thinking about something else entirely. Her gaze lowers again, down the length of your body and back up. Her lips twitch.

“I remember Saturday,” she says, quiet, like it’s just for you.

The words land like a punch. Your knees go a little weak, heat pooling hotter between your legs, sharp and immediate. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, fast and heavy and impossibly loud.

Your mouth opens uselessly, then shuts. You clear your throat again instead.

“Um,” you say, dragging your attention back to the papers in your hand. You shift them slightly. “You have a meeting with Lieutenant Colonel Oh at eleven-hundred hours in conference room B.”

She nods once. Your voice is hoarse, so you try again, focusing on the paper, like that’ll help.

“Afternoon admin block is open. Maintenance wants a quick follow-up on the new requisition forms. I already handled the scheduling request that came through this morning and set that up for tomorrow afternoon.”

She doesn’t say anything right away, just reaches out slowly and takes the papers from your hands. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs, and the sound of her voice saying that settles deep in your chest.

She finishes skimming the top page of the stack, thumb brushing along the corner as she flips it. “I’ll need briefing packets for the eleven o’clock. Seven sets of hard copies.”

You nod, cataloguing it in your brain. “Yes, Sergeant.”

There’s a pause and you feel her eyes on you again, slow and assessing, like she’s waiting for something. Or deciding something. But she only hums, faintly, and turns her attention back to the report in her hand. 

You take a breath, waiting to be dismissed, the heat in your chest finally starting to settle.

But she doesn’t dismiss you. Instead, she says, without looking up, “You were good for me Saturday evening.”

The air leaves your lungs like she knocked it out of you. Your spine goes tight. Your breath catches so hard it almost echoes.

She turns to the next page casually, as if she hadn’t just dragged you straight back into that memory – her above you, stroking her cock as you touched yourself, the feeling of her cum spilling onto your soaked, sensitive cunt. It floods your spine with heat so fast you have to shift your weight like it’ll stave off the pressure mounting in your core.

You don’t know where to look. Your fingers twitch where they hang at your sides. Your breath leaves you in a short, involuntary exhale, soft, audible, and embarrassing.

Her eyes flick up at the sound. That’s the only reaction she gives, but it’s enough to make your throat tighten.

“Th-thank you, Sergeant,” you stammer quickly – too quickly – and your voice is raw around the edges. It comes out thin and tight and too soft, like it has to crawl over everything you’re holding back to get out.

She holds your gaze, tilting her head slightly. She sees the way your chest rises too fast, the flush that creeps up your neck, the way you’re trying so hard to stay composed and failing with every second that passes.

She looks back down at the papers and turns the page again, leisurely.

“If you want to hear it again,” she murmurs, “Ask nicely.”

You freeze.

It takes a full heartbeat for the words to land. Another to register what she’s said. And a third to try to formulate any kind of response, even though your brain is gone, your body is humming, and your thighs are pressing together without permission.

The heat in your cheeks makes you blink. You shift, chin dipping, shoulders folding in slightly. The smallest gesture of submission, but it feels massive.

The praise she gave you had ruined you over and over again that evening, but hearing it now, outside of all that heat and desire and trembling, hearing it here in her office in broad daylight, like it still belongs to you–

You want it again. You want to be told you were good again. You want it so bad it curls your fingers into fists.

Your voice comes out hoarse. “Please.”

She doesn’t acknowledge it, just turns another page.

Your cheeks burn hotter. You wish that was enough. You wish she’d look up, say something, let you breathe. But the silence stretches on, and the heat in your chest just gets stronger.

You shift where you stand, as if that might draw her attention. It doesn’t – she keeps reading like she didn’t hear you, or like she did and just didn’t think it counted.

You swallow hard. You should ask again. You shouldn’t need this as badly as you do.

But you do. God, you do.

Your throat tightens, and your voice comes out smaller than before.

“Please, Sergeant,” you try again, your breath catching at the end. “I–” You swallow hard. “I want to hear it again.”

Her gaze flicks up, eyes dark, and her mouth curves into a tiny, pleased smirk.

She sets the papers aside slowly, her fingers precise as she lines them up and moves them out of the way. Then she leans forward, lacing her fingers together while resting her forearms on her desk, and the shift in her posture pulls your eyes straight to her strong hands, the definition in her arms, the way her uniform stretches across the shape of her breasts beneath.

And then she speaks.

“You were good for me,” she says softly, slowly. “Sweet. Obedient. Pretty when you took my cock in your throat.”

Your stomach drops like it’s falling through the floor. You breathe out, shaky, like your body was holding its breath and just lost the fight. Your eyelids flutter and your legs shift again, unsteady beneath you. Every part of you feels caught in it – the memory, her eyes, the sound of her voice when she says it like that.

You don’t even realize your mouth is open until you shut it.

She watches all of it, every flicker of reaction.

Then she leans back and says, “Dismissed.”

You stand there for a moment because your knees forgot how to work and your whole body is buzzing with heat that has nowhere to go. The air feels too thin. Your lungs won’t pull a full breath. You feel like you’re vibrating with it, like she lit a fuse under your skin and then dismissed you just to watch what it does to you when you walk away.

You blink once, then again. Then your legs remember how to move.

You turn, step toward the door, and reach for the handle with fingers that feel too tight, too hot, too aware of everything she just pulled out of you without ever laying a hand on you.

You make it out of her office, but just barely.

The door shuts behind you with a soft click and you move before you can stop to process anything. Straight to your desk, automatic, your body remembering the routine even though your brain has gone fully offline.

You lower yourself into your chair like you're afraid any sudden movement will bring Kim and Kang’s attention to you and they’ll see how frenzied you are. 

You squeeze your eyes shut like that’ll help erase the memory, but once again, it only sharpens it. You can hear her voice as she told you with absolute certainty that she was going to come down your throat, and you were going to swallow all of it. And then you did.

You snap your eyes open and try to remember what you’re supposed to be doing.

The computer screen glows in front of you. You reach for the mouse and scroll through your inbox like you’ve done every morning since you got stationed here.

You don’t absorb any of it.

Your eyes move across the screen, but your mind is still stuck in her office. The way her sleeves were rolled up, the weight of her gaze, the way her voice dipped when she said ‘obedient.’ You let your head drop briefly into your hand, fingers pushing into your temples like pressure might help force your thoughts back into alignment.

It doesn’t.

You click on an email about upcoming base maintenance. Something about flooring. Or lighting. Or... something.

You scroll without absorbing any of it. An awards banquet, a week-long mandatory training exercise next month, something about registration, uniforms, class rotations. It doesn’t stick. 

You’re still trying to make sense of it when Kim sits back in her chair with a second cup of coffee. Kang is hunched so low in his chair it looks like he’s trying to disappear into the fibers. There’s a good chance he’s actually asleep.

You’re grateful for it.

Grateful that they’re too far gone to ask why you look like you’re about to combust. Grateful you don’t have to try to lie your way through an excuse.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You type three letters and backspace them, then switch tabs, scroll through something you’re not even pretending to read. 

The minutes bleed past in a haze of fast heartbeats that have nothing to do with the two cups of coffee you drink, your attention slipping every time you think you’ve managed to hold onto something concrete. You try, but the memory of her saying ‘sweet, obedient, pretty when you took my cock in your throat ’ loops nonstop.

You shift again in your seat, trying to ease the damp heat between your legs, your breath catching every time a chair creaks or someone passes by in the hallway. Every noise makes your spine go straight, like she might step out again and you’d get to see her. But she doesn’t.

Not until 10:55.

The door to her office swings open behind you and every hair on your arms stands up.

Her voice comes low, clipped. “I’ll take those briefing packets now.”

You blink. You blink hard. Your cursor is hovering over a spreadsheet that might be three years old. “Briefing packets?”

A pause.

Then, quieter, with an edge so sharp it slices straight down your back, “The briefing packets I asked for this morning? For my eleven o’clock.”

You blink again, slower this time. 

She raises her brows expectantly.

Your stomach drops as the memory clicks into place all at once – she’d told you that she needed seven of these packets printed, and you’d nodded, heard her, planned to do it.

But then she had praised you and brought you right back to Saturday evening and you’d gone back to your desk flushed, off-balance, heart racing. All combined with the exhaustion you came in with this morning, and by the time you sat down, the task had slipped clean from your mind like it was never there.

“I–” Your voice catches. “I’m sorry, Sergeant, I–”

Your hands fly to your keyboard. “I’ll print them now. Immediately. I’m so sorry.”

Your words trip over each other, too many at once, your face burning hot with shame. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see her glance toward the printer then back to you. And then says, clipped, “My meeting starts soon. I need those quickly.”

Your hands tremble as you click through folders. The printer sputters to life like it knows how close you are to disaster. You barely register the sound – it might as well be thunder.

You can feel the weight of her gaze and you risk a glance at her as she crosses her arms. Her face is unreadable, but something about the set of her jaw makes your stomach knot.

You step over to the printer and will it to go faster as it spits out page after page.

The last one slides into the tray and you snatch the stack like it might vanish if you’re not fast enough. You secure each packet with a paperclip and turn back to her.

Your throat is dry. “Here, Sergeant,” you say, voice barely steady. “I’m sorry for the delay.”

She doesn’t take them right away. Her eyes sweep over you from head to toe, measuring, quiet, cutting through your apology like it was never spoken at all.

Then she takes the pages from your hand. She flips through them then says, “I’m staying late tonight.”

You freeze.

Her gaze lifts to yours again, and the air in your lungs catches.

“I expect you to stay as well.”

It isn’t a request. It isn’t even a command, really. 

You nod immediately. “Yes, Sergeant.”

Her eyes hold yours a moment longer, long enough for your shame to fully settle, for your body to register the weight of everyone else in the room, for the humiliation to root itself somewhere low and deep and impossible to shake.

And then she leaves without another word.

The door clicks shut behind her, and the silence that follows feels so much louder than before.

Kang lets out a low whistle from behind his monitor. “Damn,” he says, long and drawn-out, like it’s somehow not cutting you open. “Tough break.”

Kim doesn’t look up. She mutters, “Rest in peace,” under her breath, like you’re being marched to the gallows.

You swallow hard and force yourself to move, every step back to your desk feeling like it’s happening underwater, and the moment your body hits the seat, heat flushes across your face and you realize your ears are ringing.

You forgot a direct order, and she had to wait for you. She’s risking being late to her meeting because of you.

You press your palms into your thighs and will yourself to breathe.

The next hour drags. You try to lose yourself in the rest of your tasks – scheduling, follow-ups, inbox cleanup – but everything blurs together in the mess of your thoughts. Your eyes keep flicking to the clock like time might fix the way your chest feels.

11:17

12:01

13:20

You lose track of the minute she returns.

The front office door swings open and shut again with her usual precision, no hesitation, no announcement. Her stride is measured. Her hair is still immaculate. The stack of reports is gone from her hands, and her mouth is set.

She walks past your desk without slowing down, without sparing a glance, and disappears into her office.

You sit there, fingers over your keyboard, your chest pulled tight.

You try to shake it off, try to shift back into your routine. But the guilt sticks, heavy and sharp behind your ribs. You answer two emails, you sort a folder, you spill half a sugar packet trying to make another cup of coffee. 

By 14:00, your stomach is twisted in knots.

By 16:00, you’ve rewritten the same sentence four times and still can’t bring yourself to hit send.

You don’t know if she’s going to call you in again. You don’t know if she’s going to say anything about tonight.

You just sit at your desk, spine straight, typing nonsense and rechecking the clock every three minutes.

The clock creeps past 17:00, and the first to leave is Sergeant Park.

You hear his door open and he gives a lazy wave. “Try not to burn the place down,” he says, warm and full of end-of-day ease.

Kang waves from behind his monitor, groaning something incoherent. Kim lifts her mug in farewell.

Sergeant Hwang follows ten minutes later, silent and efficient, the door swinging shut behind him without a single word. No eye contact, no farewell.

It’s 17:17 when Kim starts packing up. Her bag zips loudly, breaking the relative quiet. She slumps back in her chair with a dramatic sigh and stretches her arms overhead.

“God,” she mutters, “I’d better be unconscious in thirty minutes.”

Kang pushes out of his chair and groans the entire way to the door. “I’ll light a candle for you,” he says with a sympathetic look at you. “You’re gonna need it.”

You give him a halfhearted smile and Kim gives you a halfhearted wave as the two of them sleepily trudge out of the office.

The door clicks shut behind them and silence settles over the room again.

Sergeant Cho’s door stays closed. You keep stealing glances toward it – quick, panicked looks, like you’re hoping to catch some change, some flicker of movement, anything. But nothing comes. Just the occasional rustle of paper and the soft light of her desk lamp spilling through the thin gap at the bottom of the door as the sun starts to set.

Your monitor dims from inactivity, and you nudge the mouse.

You’ve been sitting like this for too long. It’s past 17:45 now and it’s just you and her and the unbearable weight of the day sitting somewhere deep in your chest.

You shift in your chair and let your hands settle in your lap. 

You haven’t seen her since she came back from her meeting. You haven’t spoken to her since she looked at you with quiet disapproval and told you to stay late.

And now you don’t know what this is. You don’t know if this is just punishment, if she’s letting you sit here in this silence, wondering, because she knows it’ll unravel you faster than anything else. You don’t know if she plans to call you into her office – you don't know if she wants to.

The last time you stayed late, she didn’t make you wait this long. The last time, she called you in before the hour had passed, had taught you how to take her cock in your mouth and fingered you as she told you what she would do to you as she fucked you.

You don’t know what this is now.

You don’t know if she’s disappointed, if she’s testing you, if she’s already decided what comes next – or if she’s waiting for you to break under the tension and knock on her door.

You don’t dare do that, but sitting here feels impossible. You rest your hands on your thighs and take a breath that doesn’t help. Your stomach coils tighter. Your shoulders ache from holding so still.

What if she changed her mind? 

What if this is just the end of it?

What if you’ve ruined something?

You close your eyes. Your body is hot, your chest is tight. You don’t know what to hope for.

But then silence shatters.

“Private,” she calls from her office.

You shoot up from your chair so fast that you have to steady yourself against your desk as a wave of dizziness washes over you.

Relief floods your chest, colliding with the undercurrent of anticipation that makes your pulse trip and your stomach tighten. Your heart is beating too fast and your body moves on instinct.

You step up to her door and your hands shake as you smooth them over your uniform. You run your palms over the front, pressing out invisible creases, trying to make yourself look like you belong in front of her again. You adjust your collar, push back the loose strands of hair that have fallen into your face, your fingers trembling at your temple.

You close your eyes, place your hand on the handle, take one more breath, and push it open.

She’s leaning against the side of her desk when you enter, the glow of the sunset hitting her with a soft golden wash over the edges of her uniform.

Her arms are folded across her chest, her legs crossed at the ankles, and her head tips just slightly when you walk in. She looks at you like she’s sizing you up – and maybe she is.

Her eyes are dark and steady, and the second you meet them, heat punches low in your core so hard you nearly lose your footing.

She doesn’t speak, she just stares. It’s the kind of stare that tears through layers, that strips, that devours. She looks like she wants to eat you alive and take her time doing it.

You take one step in, then stop, because she hasn’t said anything yet and you don’t move without her permission. Not in here, not with her watching you like that, not when you feel like you’re on thin ice.

Her eyes drag down your body, slowly, like she’s physically tracing every inch of you. From your face to your throat, across your chest, down, then lower. Her gaze lingers on your thighs, at the way you’re standing, the way your weight shifts. You feel your skin prickle like she’s touching you, like her eyes alone could push you to your knees.

Her gaze drags back up, deliberate and unflinching, until it meets your eyes and holds.

You straighten, standing at something that resembles attention even though your hands don’t know where to go. Your spine locks and your breath stutters in your lungs.

She tilts her head slightly, just barely, just enough to make the weight of her silence feel intentional.

And then, finally, she speaks.

“You forgot the briefing reports.”

It lands like a punch to the chest. Nothing in her tone is raised, nothing dramatic or cruel, it’s just the plain, undeniable truth.

“I–” Your voice catches. You clear your throat and try again. “Yes, Sergeant. I’m sorry. I – there’s no excuse.”

Slowly, with absolute control, she lifts one hand from her bicep and her fingers curl in a beckoning motion. 

“Come here.”

Your breath catches before your feet move.

You step closer, slow and obedient, pulse thrumming louder as you close the distance. Her gaze stays locked on yours as you approach, but the moment you’re within reach, it drops, landing on your uniform collar.

She reaches out and touches the front of your uniform. She starts at the lapel, smoothing it down with a motion so precise, so deliberate, that your breath stutters halfway out of your throat.

Then she drags her index finger along the seam, following the line down your chest like she’s inspecting the stitching. 

You try to stay still, trying not to tremble. Your cheeks are hot and you feel the flush spread beneath your skin like a slow, blooming brand, impossible to stop and worse when you know she sees it.

Her fingertip lingers at a button and she circles it.

“Why?”

You blink up at her, your lips parting.

Her gaze flicks back up to yours, sharp and waiting.

You swallow hard. “I– I was–” You take a breath and try again. “I was tired. From the weekend. And I… I got distracted.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, interested. Her finger lifts, trailing the fabric back upward, slow and idle.

“Distracted by what?” she asks.

Your pulse slams. Your stomach coils. Your voice is barely audible when it comes out. “Y-you.”

The word hangs in the air like a sin.

She looks at you. One brow lifts and her eyes are glistening with something smug, something curious – something dangerous.

“Oh,” she says, voice soft and edged with amusement. “You’re saying it was my fault?”

Your eyes widen. “No, no, it’s not – I didn’t mean–”

She tilts her head and looks like she’s circling prey.

“Then what did you mean?” she asks coolly.

She watches your silence with a look that could dismantle your entire nervous system – one corner of her mouth curving upward in a way that says she already knows exactly what happened inside your head.

Her eyes sweep across your face, taking in the parting of your lips as you try to form a response, the pink on your cheeks, the way your shoulders lock tight like you’re trying to hold everything in.

Her fingers toy once more with your uniform collar, brushing over the seam. You hold completely still, like movement might snap the thread-thin tension holding this moment together.

Then she leans in, just a fraction, and her voice drops to something soft and terrible and intimate.

“You know,” she says, “disobedience has consequences.”

Your breath catches.

She meets your eyes again, and this time, her gaze is heavier. It lands somewhere deeper, buries itself somewhere hotter.

“Do you know what happens to disobedient little soldiers?”

You try to answer, but your voice won’t come. Your brain trips over itself trying to formulate something – anything – that might be the right answer. You force yourself to shake your head once, small and stiff, the movement barely there. It’s all you can manage.

She hums, thoughtful.

And then, without warning, she slips one finger into the collar of your uniform, hooks it inside, and tugs you forward. You take a sharp breath as you stumble closer to her, and she leans in until her mouth is right beside your ear, her breath curling over the shell of it, her voice dropping lower still, just one breath above a whisper.

“They get punished.”

The heat that shoots down your spine is immediate and obliterating, like she’s flipped a switch behind your ribs, and the sound that leaves your mouth is desperate and helpless as a chill shoots through you. 

Your body is suddenly aching for anything that will bring this to its breaking point. Her presence, her voice, her touch – it’s too much and not enough all at once.

She lets the silence settle again.

You’re too wound up to speak, too strung out on anticipation to breathe evenly. 

Then she tilts her head, just barely, and murmurs, “Sit.”

For one long, suspended second, your brain flares white with nothing but desire, and your muscles lock up like there’s static under your skin.

But her eyebrow lifts, and that’s all it takes to snap you back into the moment.

Your legs carry you forward, every step too fast and too slow at the same time. You can feel her eyes on you the whole way, tracking, measuring, waiting.

You keep your eyes locked on hers like you’re afraid you’ll shatter if you break that connection. Your pulse thunders through your ears and you wonder if she can see in your face how badly you want her, how hot your skin feels just from the pressure of her gaze.

Then you lower yourself into her chair, slow and obedient.

You sit straight like you’re trying to prove something, your hands clenched lightly against your thighs, chest tight from how hard you’re trying not to breathe too loud. 

Her chair feels too big and too small at once. You’re surrounded by her – her desk, her scent, the heat of her gaze still pressing heavy against your skin.

She takes one slow step forward, then another.

Her hand comes in steady and controlled. She doesn’t fumble, doesn’t hesitate. She grips your chin with her fingers and guides your head upward, tilting your face into the light until she has your full attention. You breathe in, sharp and tight, and feel your lungs catch somewhere high in your chest.

Her dark eyes roam over you with clinical precision. She drags her gaze to your mouth, then back up, and the longer it goes on, the hotter your skin feels, like every place her eyes pass over is warming by ten degrees.

She glides her thumb over your lower lip and your mouth parts on instinct, your breath slipping out soft and unsteady. 

She hums, satisfied, like this is what she expected. Like you’re giving her exactly what she wanted.

“You’re going to make it up to me, every last second you wasted this morning.” She says it like it’s an oath, like it’s a truth you’ve already agreed to, and when your breath hitches, she smiles.

She leans in slightly, enough that her breath hits your cheek, and the hold on your chin tightens. She tilts your head a fraction more, making sure your eyes are on hers and nowhere else.

“I know how hard you try to behave,” she says, her voice dragging slowly, like she’s savoring the moment. “You had one task, and you forgot it because you were too busy thinking about how I praised you for being good.”

Her thumb glides over your lip again, firmer this time.

“I’m – I’m sorry,” you whisper. Your thighs press together. You don’t mean to.

Her thumb rests on your lower lip, the weight of it firm in a way that makes your whole body thrum with anticipation. She looks straight into you, taking in how your jaw trembles beneath her fingers, how you want to close the distance between your lips and hers, how your breath catches when you try to swallow.

“If you want me to forgive you,” She leans in slowly, lips just shy of yours, her voice soft. “You’ll take everything I give you.”

She’s not asking you – she’s already decided.

Her thumb presses slightly harder, sliding across the swell of your bottom lip again, and your mouth parts wider without resistance. Your eyes flutter half-closed from the touch, and you breathe her in.

Your heart hammers in your chest. You don’t look away, you don’t blink, you don’t think. Your voice is barely a breath, but your eyes stay on her, wide and unblinking. You look up at her like there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. You lick your lips slowly, and your tongue drags against the tip of her thumb.

“I’ll let you do anything to me.”

Her mouth pulls into a satisfied smirk.

“That’s a good girl.”

Your breath catches sharp in your throat, an involuntary, hitched intake that leaves your chest tight and rising too fast, and your face burns. A full flush, high across your cheeks, warmth spreading from under her hand and down your neck like you’ve been branded. Your thighs press together, drawn tight by reflex, trying to contain the sudden, surging pulse of heat that moves straight through you at her praise.

She hums, low and rich and so pleased, the sound curling warm against your cheek like she’s sealing something in place.

“I know how much you like that,” she murmurs, her mouth just brushing the corner of yours. Her breath warms your lips as she speaks, and your leg jolts as her knee nudges yours. “Good girl sits so pretty when she’s praised.”

Her thumb shifts lower, trailing past your lip, down your chin, and her fingers release you slowly. The absence of her touch makes your jaw tremble, and she sees that, too. Her hands slide down to your thighs, bracing there like she’s staking her claim, ready to keep you exactly where she wants you.

You let out a shaky exhale and your face tilts toward hers, chasing her mouth without meaning to.

“You get wet the second I call for you, don’t you?” She says, and your lips part like you’re going to answer, but nothing comes out except a soft, breathless whimper.

You’re trying to stay still for her, trying to be good, but your whole body is coiled tight, every muscle humming with tension and the unbearable need to prove yourself again.

She reads it like it’s printed across your skin.

“I know you’ve been sitting on that guilt all day,” she murmurs, her voice low and sure. “Thinking I’d forgotten about you. Wondering if you messed up too badly for me to call you in.”

You swallow – it’s true.

“Bet you sat there going over every second of this morning,” she continues, her mouth so close now that her breath ghosts across your cheek. “Worried I didn’t want you anymore. Convincing yourself you ruined it just because you couldn’t focus.”

She lets out a soft, amused exhale at how you’re looking at her. 

You let out a shaky exhale, caught in her voice, her presence, the weight of her attention finally back on you.

“Aching for a chance to make it up to me, hoping I’d still want you close. Hoping I’d let you show me how sorry you are.”

Your breath stumbles in your throat. Her words wrap around something inside you that’s been coiled tight since this morning, something raw and wound-up and desperate.

“You want to be good,” she whispers. “You want me to tell you you’re forgiven. That I still want you.”

You nod. It’s too fast, too eager.

“Say it,” she murmurs. “Tell me you want to be good for me.”

Your breath catches. Your lips part, but the words don’t come right away, and it takes a second before you answer.

“I – I want to be good for you,” you whisper, voice unsteady.

She exhales against your lips and you feel her mouth shift into a smile that you don’t even need to see to be able to feel everywhere.

“You’ll get what you came for,” she whispers, her hand lifting to rest gently on your throat. “If you keep sitting pretty for me.”

Your pulse pounds against her fingers. You don’t move – you couldn’t if you tried.

Her fingers stay curled gently around your throat, a physical reminder that she’s in control of your breathing, your posture, your pulse. Her thumb strokes once, and you feel your airway tighten from the anticipation coiling low and heavy in your core.

Her other hand trails over your chest and down your stomach until her fingers catch on your waistband. She hooks one finger through a belt loop and tugs once, and her gaze doesn’t waver.

“Take these off.”

You breathe in, shallow and shaky, and move your hands to the waistband of your fatigues, fingers fumbling slightly as you pop open the button and pull down the zipper. Her hand remains on your throat and her eyes stay trained on your every movement like she’s memorizing how obedience looks on you.

You lift your hips slowly and ease the fabric down over your thighs. Your breath stutters the further down they go, and her gaze doesn’t lift for a second.

She watches your fingers move, watches as you expose more of yourself inch by inch, watches the way your thighs press together once your pants are off, like you’re trying to manage the way the heat is blooming between them.

She steps in closer, the space between you vanishing in a breath, and then both of her hands come down, one to each knee, firm and commanding. There’s no hesitation, no gentleness – just raw, measured strength, her grip steady as she pushes your legs open until your thighs fall open wide for her, leaving you completely exposed beneath her gaze.

The tension blooms sharp through you as her touch brands itself into your skin, and before the air can settle between your knees, she raises her foot and plants her boot firmly on the seat between them, claiming the space like it was always hers to take.

The impact knocks a breath from your lungs, your legs spreading further under the pressure, the muscles in your thighs tensing from the sheer command of it.

Her hand moves to the hem of her pant leg, fingers hooking into the fabric just above the curve of her boot, and she pulls it up with a slow drag, the material folding over itself until the dark line of a harness comes into view, thick against her calf, the strap buckled tight, hugging the shape of her leg like it’s been there for hours.

It holds a vibrator, solid and severe where the head of it rests against her ankle.

You don’t breathe. You can’t.

She watches you see it.

She leans an arm against her knee and she bends in closer to you, and her voice drops lower, almost to a whisper.

“You see this?” she says more than asks, every word pronounced like a blade slipping beneath your skin. “You’re going to ride this.”

You let out a ragged, desperate exhale, your hips shifting involuntarily as you feel your cunt pulse with heat. She keeps her boot there, showing you the toy without touching you with it. 

“You’re going to sit on it,” she tells you, voice calm and certain. Her hand presses against your chest like she’s feeling the beat of your heart. “And you’re going to stay like that until I say you’re done.”

Your eyes flutter and your mouth waters. Your hips twitch again and her boot shifts higher on the seat, pressing closer to your cunt.

She slowly trails her fingers up the side of your neck, over the hinge of your jaw, soft at first, then firmer as she cups your face and turns it up toward her again.

Her thumb presses into your jaw just hard enough to keep your mouth parted. Your breath slips out unsteady and she takes it in, her gaze locked on your face like she’s watching you break in real time.

“You’ll sit right here,” she says, and her mouth brushes your cheek as she speaks, her words dragging like they’re being pulled from someplace deep. “Back pressed to the chair, legs spread like I put them, and your cunt right on top of my boot.”

You gasp, and her hand tightens on your jaw in response.

She hums approvingly. “You love it when I tell you what to do, don’t you?”

You nod. Barely. The pulse between your legs is heavy and desperate now. Your mouth opens slightly, and you inhale too fast.

“Oh,” she murmurs, dragging her thumb across your bottom lip again, slow and indulgent, “and you’re going to make such pathetic little noises, aren’t you?”

You try to respond. Your lips part, but the words vanish before they can form, your breath catching in your throat, your jaw trembling.

“You’ll sit there on my boot,” she says, voice low and deliberate, each word shaped with the kind of control that makes your spine straighten and your thighs tense, “and I’ll make you come for me until you’re shaking, and messy, and crying.”

You gasp, or try to. Your hips jerk forward towards her boot like your body is chasing the command.

“And you’ll thank me for it.”

The last part hums across your skin. Her lips drag closer to your jaw, hovering just shy of contact, and her hand slides up to cradle the side of your face, holding you steady, keeping your eyes front, your body still, your focus trained entirely on her.

“That’s what good girls do.”

Your head falls back against the chair, your eyes half-closed, breathing quickly with anticipation.

Then she smiles. Not soft. Not kind.

Her fingers move, and she flips the switch.

The vibration is sharp and sudden and you can feel it in your thighs. You grip the arms of the chair harder, and you clamp your legs harder around her boot, trapping it between trembling muscles as your body locks down on instinct, trying to process the threat, the promise, the heat.

She sees your flinch, your twitch, the way you’ve frozen around her like you’re already coming undone, and she smiles again, darker and satisfied.

Her hands come down hard, gripping the curve of your ass, her fingers pressing into you as they dig in and find leverage. Her grip tightens and she lifts you with a sharp, commanding pull, raising your hips off the chair like she owns your weight, your positioning, your permission to be here at all. 

And as soon as you’re up, she shoves her boot forward, planting it beneath you like she’s securing a weapon into position.

Your breath punches out of you in one wrecked exhale, your whole body seizing as the angle of the vibrator hits your cunt perfectly. The sound that tears out of your throat is somewhere between a sob and a moan, too loud in the quiet of her office, and your back arches off the chair.

The vibration tears through you like a live wire, sharp and sudden and so, so good. You grind against it, seeking more contact, and her grip on your ass keeps you where she wants you, pressed to the toy that works your clit like it’s found its target.

Your thighs twitch, your hips jolt, and your mouth opens with a broken gasp.

Her hand slides to your throat again, her thumb pressing lightly just beneath your jaw as she leans in to study the chaos she’s creating.

“That’s it,” she murmurs, her voice low and smooth and so close, her breath ghosting across your flushed skin. “Let it hit you. I want to hear every little noise you make.”

You whimper, sharp and high, your hips stuttering forward against her boot, grinding down into the pleasure. She keeps the vibrator pressed against your cunt, hard and steady, and your whole body shudders.

“You like this, don’t you?” She whispers, dragging the words out against the edge of your cheek. “Being used like this. Pressed down onto something I strapped to myself, just so I could watch you lose control.”

You moan again, longer this time, more desperate. 

Your legs try to close, but she moves her hands to your knees, forcing them to stay open. The vibration is constant and merciless, pressing right into you, buzzing through your body, turning your thoughts off one by one until all that’s left is sensation.

“I could make you come like this in two minutes,” she breathes. “Maybe one. You’re already falling apart so quickly.”

You choke out a sob, soft and broken, and she hums, pleased, dragging her nose along your cheek as she shifts her stance, pressing the vibrator harder against your cunt.

“There she is,” she coos. “There’s my desperate little mess.”

She lifts a hand from your knee and drags it down your throat, palm flat against your collarbone, her fingers curling to rest against the upper swell of your chest where she can feel every uneven breath you take.

She watches you with something dangerous in her eyes, something too satisfied, like she expected you to fall apart exactly like this, and she’s here to enjoy every second of it.

The vibration pulses directly against your cunt, your clit so sensitive that each slight shift of her weight feels like it pushes higher, deeper, closer, and the pressure of her boot keeping it flush to you is unbearable in the best possible way.

And then she speaks, quiet and deliberate, her mouth hovering beside your ear again, her breath warm and steady.

“Grind on it.”

The permission is so simple, so casually delivered, like she’s not telling you you’re allowed to fuck yourself on her boot – but that’s exactly what it is.

You whimper and you tilt your hips forward, the movement sending a fresh wave of friction directly into your clit. Your moan stutters out of you, long and high and helpless.

“That’s it,” she murmurs. “Rub that desperate little cunt right on my boot.”

Your hips roll forward in short, frantic pulses, each pass dragging that brutal vibration over you in a way that makes your whole body fight between tension and collapse.

Your head tips towards hers, and still she stays close – her mouth at your cheek, one hand spread wide across your chest, the other keeping your legs open like she’s holding you in place for her own amusement.

Your whimpers slip out between clenched teeth, building into broken little moans each time the pressure shifts beneath you, each time she grinds the vibration in deeper. 

“You hear yourself?” she asks, and her tone is rougher now, smug and taunting. “You hear those little noises you’re making? It’s like you’re fucking starving.”

You whimper again. You don’t know what else to give her.

Every grind draws more friction, more heat, your cunt throbbing, soaked and aching and straining for more. You grind harder, chasing contact, chasing pressure, each pass sending another pulse of pleasure through your core until your whole body is trembling with it, too far gone to stop.

“You’re grinding like a bitch in heat,” she says, and you feel her smile at your temple. “Like you don’t care how pathetic you look.”

Your mouth opens around something that might’ve been a sound, might’ve been a word, but nothing forms. Your jaw is slack, your throat tight, every thought folding under the constant vibration between your legs.

“And you do look pathetic,” she continues, voice dragging straight into your ear. “Look at you. Mouth open, eyes glassy, drooling all over my fucking chair while you hump my boot like you’ve never been touched before.”

You sob, high, tight, and undone, and your hips jerk harder.

She laughs under her breath.

“You just love getting off in my chair, don’t you?” she asks, her fingers tightening in the fabric of your shirt.

You manage a nod, small and jerky – because it’s true.

And you love how she’s watching you like this, the possessive look in her eyes making your hips grind down harder, chasing the next wave like it’s something you owe her, the heat building too fast for your body to contain.

“You’re soaking my boot,” she murmurs. Her fingers curl under your chin just tight enough to make your breath catch, and she tilts your face down until your eyes land on where you’re grinding on her boot. “Look at it,” she commands.

Your wetness gleams against the black leather, streaked across the arch of her boot where your hips have been grinding down helplessly, the pressure smearing it in a mess of heat and friction. There’s no hiding what you’ve done, just your body wide open and leaving proof all over her boot.

She tilts your face back up, guiding your gaze to hers with slow, deliberate pressure, and leans in close. Her lips press to the corner of your mouth, and it’s a kiss with no softness in it, just weight, just possession, just a quiet, deliberate claim planted there like it belongs to her.

Her other hand moves from your knee and she plants it against your chest, pressing you back into the chair just enough that your hips keep their angle, your body forced to keep riding the pressure.

Her dark eyes are locked on your face like she’s watching for the exact moment your brain begins to slip out of reach. Her thumb strokes your cheek, slow and almost mocking.

Your eyes flutter shut without meaning to, your head tipping forward as your hips grind again, chasing the next wave of friction. The pressure has you teetering on the edge, every nerve drawn tight, your breath quick and uneven, chest heaving where her hand pins you down. Your mind goes numb for a moment, head tipping forward as your body sinks, your mouth parted on a shallow, shaking breath, and it feels so good to let yourself give in like this.

But you stay like that for long.

Her fingers dig into your jaw and she jerks your face up toward hers, forcing your gaze back to hers with a rough, possessive precision.

“Eyes on me,” she growls, her voice low and cold and final, like she’s dragging you up out of the heat and tearing your mind back into her hands. “Don’t you dare look away from me while you’re like this.”

Your stomach flips hard, the sharp edge of her voice cutting straight through the haze in your mind, and your whole body stiffens in response – hips faltering where they grind, your chest tightening like you’ve just been caught doing something you shouldn’t.

“I’m – I’m sorry,” you gasp, desperate to fix it, to do better, to show her you’re still hers.

Her thumb stays pressed under your chin, her fingers curled hard against your jaw like she’s holding your apology in place just so she can crush it flat. Her eyes stay locked onto yours, dark and commanding, and her next words land low and clear, sharp enough to draw blood.

“Don’t let it happen again. You want to be good for me, so act like it.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” you whimper, your voice scraping past your lips like it hurts, like you have to give it to her or you’ll fall apart.

There’s too much heat under your skin, too much tension crawling through your limbs, and your hips are moving, chasing, the vibration catching over and over where you need it most. Your thighs are trembling and your breath stutters out and she laughs, low and quiet.

“Is this what you are now?” she says, her voice rough. “Just a desperate little thing that needs something buzzing between her legs and someone watching her to fall apart?”

You nod – barely, but you nod. You can’t help it. Your hips jerk, your back arches, and you feel it cresting, the heat building, the sensation tightening, your whole body on the verge of something sharp and blinding–

And then she moves her leg back, just a few inches, just enough to pull the vibrator away.

Your hips chase the contact, the sudden absence landing hard in your stomach, sharp and cold and unbearable, and the sound that tears out of your throat is full of protest. The buzz continues in the air, mechanical and cruel.

She hums, pleased.

“Oh,” she coos. “You really thought I was going to let you have that?”

You whine, soft, desperate, and wrecked.

She cups your cheek, her palm hot against your flushed skin.

“You were so close, weren’t you? About to fall apart all over me like some needy little thing who thinks she deserves it.”

“Y-yes, yes, I’m–” you breathe, stumbling over the words as they fall out of you, broken and eager and useless.

“And now you’re just sitting here with nothing to grind your wet, desperate little cunt against,” she adds, her voice calm and mocking. “That’s what you get for acting up,” she whispers against your cheek.

You make a frustrated, aching sound, and her smirk widens.

“You’ll sit still for me now. And you’ll wait.”

“No – wait – no, I’m sorry–” you gasp, the words tumbling out too fast to control, your voice cracking on the edges as your body trembles in the space she’s just created. “I’ll be good, I promise – please, I will, just – just please let me–” You’re panting, your eyes wide and glassy as you look up at her like your apology might save you, like it might be enough to earn it back.

Her head tilts, eyes locked to yours. “Oh, you’re sorry?” she murmurs.

Your head jerks in a frantic nod, breath stammering from your lips, chest rising as you try to find the right thing to say, to give her.

She shifts her boot, edging it forward, letting the tip of the toy slide close enough that you can feel the hum of it against the inside of your thigh.

Your hips buck on instinct, a choked sound tearing from your throat as you try to follow the movement, try to press yourself to it, chasing the contact like it might save you.

You can feel her eyes on you, like she’s studying the way your body writhes in her chair, the way your hands tighten on the armrests, the way your mouth opens around every stuttering inhale. You’re trembling from need, from tension, from the devastating absence of the vibrator, and she looks so pleased with herself.

“Go ahead,” she says, almost amused. “Try and get yourself off without me. Let’s see how far that gets you.”

Your hips shift again, body rocking forward into empty space, chasing friction that isn’t there, and the frustration builds fast – tight in your chest, burning in your stomach, everything under your skin screaming for her to come back, to press the vibrator against you again, to give you something.

“You want this?” she asks, her voice low and even, like she’s asking a routine question and expects a correct answer.

“Yes – yes, Sergeant, I want it,” you gasp, the words spilling out too fast, your voice breaking under the weight of your own desperation.

She applies a little more pressure against your thigh, teasing and useless, while her hand grips your jaw again.

“Then you need to ask for it,” she says, her tone sharp enough to cut. “Nicely.”

Your mouth opens and closes as your throat works around the sound before it comes out.

“Please,” you whisper, breath catching. “Please, Sergeant Cho, I–” your voice shakes, your legs shaking with it. “Please, I’ll be good, I want it, I need it–”

Her grip tightens at your jaw, and then, finally, she moves her leg forward and presses the vibrator back against your cunt in a short, hard jab.

Your breath catches with a hitched cry, your hips jerking forward, and then it’s gone again – ripped away in a single, brutal second, and a helpless, frustrated whine breaks out of your throat.

She smirks.

“Oh, I liked that,” she hums, her voice rich with mockery. “That pathetic little sound you made, like a dog begging for scraps.”

She does it again.

Another sharp press of her boot, another cruel little burst of vibration directly against your clit, and another broken, stuttering sound from your throat.

Then nothing. Again.

“Is this what you want?” she asks, her face level with yours. “You want me to tease your messy little cunt until you’re so far gone you can’t even speak?”

You whimper, higher, more desperate. Your hips twitch forward again.

“Answer me.”

“Please,” you force out. “Please. Please, just let me come–”

She cuts you off with another jab of pressure, this time slower, just a little more deliberate, and your entire body arches forward.

“Pathetic,” she whispers, holding your face still so she can stare straight into your eyes while your hips tremble and grind. 

Her boot moves again.

Another push.

Then nothing.

Then again.

Short, teasing, punishing.

Each one sets off another sharp sound from you, helpless and raw, and she drinks in every second of it.

“Just a thing to be played with,” she murmurs to herself. “A little mess in my chair, whining for it like it’s the only thing keeping your brain intact.”

And when she pulls her boot away again, you can’t help it – your hips jerk forward, chasing it without thinking, and she laughs under her breath.

“I want you to beg for it,” she says, low and final. “Beg me to let you come, and say exactly what you are when you do.”

The sound you make breaks open in your throat and falls out raw, desperate, and incomplete. Your hips buck forward and your hands grip the armrests like you’re trying to hold onto whatever control you have left – but there is none.

There’s only her, her breath against your cheek, her fingers curled around your jaw, her voice low and merciless in your ear.

“Say it,” she whispers. “Come on. Let’s hear what you sound like when you’re begging.”

You suck in a breath. Your whole body burns.

“Please,” you gasp, “please let me come – please, I need it–”

She cuts you off with another jab, quick and sharp, and your voice shatters into a whimper.

“That’s not good enough.”

You moan, shamefully wrecked, and try again.

“I’ll do anything,” you groan, barely able to push the words out around the heat in your chest, the throb between your legs, the pressure building under your skin like something ready to split. “I’ll say anything you want – just let me come, I – please, please, I’ll be good–”

“Wrong again,” she murmurs, her voice like a blade at your throat. “Try one more time. And this time, tell me exactly what you are.”

You freeze.

She waits.

And when you finally speak, the words scrape up your throat like a confession.

“I’m – I’m yours.”

You hear her breath catch.

“I’m yours,” you say again, louder this time, panting now. “I’m your mess, I just – please, I can’t take it anymore, I need to come, Sergeant Cho–”

She shuts you up by slamming the vibrator back against you, pressed to your throbbing cunt with a force that punches the air from your lungs.

You cry out, sharp and immediate. Your hips jerk forward, but she catches them in an iron grip.

The vibration is so much – so much, and so direct, and you can feel every pulse travel through your thighs, up your spine, and your body wants to move. It needs to. Your muscles twitch like they’re caught in a current.

“Stay still,” she says, her mouth right at your ear, her voice strict and cutting. “You sit right there and take it , and only come when I tell you to.”

You nod, choking on a gasp.

“Say it.”

“I’ll take it,” you whisper. “I’ll sit still, I’ll take it, I promise–”

She brushes her lips against your cheek in a mockingly light kiss. “Good girl.”

But your breath stutters and you move without meaning to, your hips jerking forward in a broken, greedy grind that chases the vibration like it’s oxygen. The contact hits too fast, too deep, and your body takes over before your brain catches up. 

The second you chase more than she gave you permission for, she reacts, decisive and merciless.

Her hand snaps to your face with brutal precision, her palm catching your chin from underneath, and her fingers curl into your mouth and over your bottom row of teeth, forcing your jaw open.

You freeze instantly, the vibration strong against your cunt while she grips you like this, the taste of her fingers dizzying as she holds your whole face like she owns it.

Her grip drags your face upward, shoving your head back against the chair, forcing you to look at nothing but her. Your breath stutters out in a wrecked sob, half-swallowed by the pressure of her fingers curled inside your mouth, spreading your lips wide around her hand like she’s staking her claim on your mouth the same way she’s claimed the rest of you – rough, controlling, and without the faintest trace of patience.

“I said don’t move,” she growls. “Or do you want me to take it away again?”

Your eyes are wide and unblinking, desire prickling hot beneath your skin as your hips lock in place, trembling from the effort of holding still. You can’t speak, can’t nod, can’t do anything but whimper around her fingers, your tongue pushed against them with the effort to be good again, to make up for it, to take the punishment right. You breathe hard, chest heaving against her other hand, every inch of you straining to stay obedient.

The toy stays pressed to your cunt, vibrating so hard that it makes your whole lower half pulse with the rhythm of it, and you feel your body climb again, faster this time, harder, louder – but you don’t move. You don’t dare.

She watches, her eyes locked on your face, boot between your thighs, holding you open, keeping you still.

“You look like a toy,” she murmurs, pleased. “My toy.”

The sound that breaks out of you comes out as a choked, needy moan, high in your throat, your eyes fluttering as your hips twitch once, instinctively.

The vibrations are hard and unforgiving between your legs, shaking straight through your clit in pulses that come so fast and deep it feels like you can’t take another second without unraveling completely. You’re breathing in bursts, shallow and quick, your chest tight, your eyes wide, locked on her even though they keep threatening to roll back from the sheer pressure of it all.

You’re close. So close that your legs are twitching without control, your thighs fighting to clamp down around her boot even as you fight to keep them still. So close your hips are screaming to move on their own, your breath catching every time they almost do.

And she’s right there, watching you lose your composure one gasp at a time.

Her hand presses firm at your chest, holding you down. 

“You want it so badly, don’t you?” she murmurs, lips grazing your cheek, her voice low and rough and so close it settles under your skin. 

You moan again, high, wrecked, half of it swallowed by her hand in your mouth.

“I should make you beg again,” she says. “You come on my boot, you come on my orders. You want it? You say it.”

“I–” you choke on the word, the tension spiking so sharp in your core it makes you stutter, your lips and tongue dragging across her fingers as you speak. “Please – please, let me–”

Her fingers dig in to keep your face turned to hers.

“Who do you belong to?”

“You–” it comes out as a gasp, almost a cry. “You, Sergeant, I–”

“Say it.”

“I belong to you.” The words tumble out, rushed and messy against her hand.

“What are you?”

Her boot rocks forward, grinding the toy against your clit with slow, deliberate force. She doesn’t ease up, doesn’t let you escape. One hand stays steady on your chest, the other cupping your chin, fingers slick in your mouth, holding you in place like she has reins tied around your very essence.

“What are you?”

“I’m your toy,” you sob. “I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m–”

“Good girl.”

Her fingers tighten on your mouth, your lips wet and parted around her grip, and she pulls you in closer, rougher, dragging your face toward hers, her breath brushing your tongue, her eyes locked to yours as she looks down at you.

“I want you to come now,” she whispers directly into your open mouth.

Your back arches with a sound torn straight from your throat, a raw sob soaked in heat and ache that shudders out of you. It hits hard and fast, the sensation cresting too quickly to brace for it. Your thighs seize, muscles locking tight as your cunt clenches, soaked and pulsing, the vibration ripping through you like it’s wired straight into your soul. You can’t breathe, can’t think – and it feels endless.

Your hands scramble uselessly at the arms of the chair, nails digging in like you’re trying to hold yourself together, but it’s all unraveling too fast. You cry out again, sharper this time, wrecked, your chest shaking with it.

She presses harder, drives her boot up into you with deliberate pressure, cruel and exact, keeping you right on it while your climax crashes over itself in sharp, overwhelming waves.

Your stomach clenches and your thighs tremble violently as the chair rocks faintly beneath you. 

She watches you, keeping her grip through every last tremor, holding your face steady, her fingers hooked inside your mouth, stretching your jaw open, her breath mingling with yours.

You can’t do anything but take it.

You gasp through it, moan through it, your tongue dragging across her fingers, your whole body twitching every time the angle shifts or the pressure rolls just right against your clit again.

She watches, smiling like you’re hers to ruin.

“There it is,” she murmurs, voice low and hot against your lips. “That’s my girl.”

You’re shaking, grinding down instinctively, your body chasing more even as it falls apart.

“Can’t stop now, can you?” she whispers, brushing her nose against yours, her breath curling down your throat. “So pretty like this. So desperate. Like you were made to finish on command.”

You cry out again, smaller this time, weaker, your body jerking one last time before it slumps back into the chair, flushed and ruined and twitching with every aftershock.

Your chest is heaving, your thighs trembling, your hands sliding uselessly across the armrests, searching for something solid to grip onto while your nerves catch up to what your body just went through. Your skin feels like it’s on fire. Your muscles won’t stop twitching. Your head is a blur of heat and static and the echo of her voice saying things you shouldn’t have liked as much as you did.

But her boot is still pressed firmly between your legs, still angled just right, still buzzing against your throbbing cunt.

You flinch when the sensation starts to sharpen again, too much and too soon and too intense, and your whole body jerks backward like it’s trying to escape the pressure, but her hand at your chest is holding you down, keeping you there.

“Don’t,” she warns. “I didn’t say you were finished.”

Your breath stutters and you can’t form words. You’re too dazed, too sensitive, too wrecked.

Her fingers are slick in your mouth, your jaw aching from hanging open around her hand, and when she finally starts to pull it away, it’s slow, deliberate, dragging like she wants you to feel every inch of it.

You can’t stop the whimper that escapes when she pulls free, lips raw, chin wet, your jaw relaxing. A strand of spit clings from her fingers to your bottom lip, stretched tight between you until it finally breaks, leaving your mouth empty and your whole body ringing.

She leans back and braces an arm on her knee, looking down at you spread wide with her boot shoved up against your cunt like she doesn’t plan to remove it anytime soon. 

You whimper and try to adjust your hips to ease the pressure, but her boot presses in harder, and your body flinches, a sharp burst of overstimulation lighting your nerves on fire.

Her mouth curves up at one side.

You let out a sound, half a protest, half a plea, and she leans forward, bracing one hand on the chair behind you. Her face hovers above yours, her voice dropping to something even lower, something meaner.

“Thought you could come once and be finished?” she murmurs. “Like that’s all this was?”

You gasp, trying to shake your head, but she grabs your jaw again, forcing your face back toward hers.

“You’re not done,” she says. “You’re mine. And I want to see what it looks like when you come again without catching your breath.”

Her boot grinds in slightly and the vibration tears through your over-sensitive nerves like it’s the first time all over again. You choke on a moan and your legs twitch uncontrollably. Your hips jolt, trying to shift away – but there’s nowhere to go. The chair, her boot, her words – you’re locked in.

“You should be thanking me,” she adds, her voice curling into your skin, low and smug and too damning to bear.

Your breath stutters out in little jerks, your hips flinching as the vibration pulses against your oversensitive cunt, nerves raw and twitching. You can barely hold still, barely breathe. Your lips part around a shaky gasp, and the words tumble out broken.

“Th-thank you, Sergeant,” you manage, the words tripping over your tongue, more breath than voice, your eyes fluttering as another tremor shoots through your core. “Thank you, thank you – fuck–”

The longer the vibrator stays pressed against you, the less your body can process it. Every nerve feels too raw, too close to the surface. The buzz cuts through your clit with ruthless precision, each pulse making your thighs tense, your stomach clench, your lungs drag in shallow breaths that never quite feel full.

Your grip on the chair is white-knuckled, fingers digging into the armrests like you’re trying to ground yourself against a tide you can’t stop. Your chest arches and your mouth opens around another gasping moan, but the sound comes out strangled and helpless.

Tears sting at the corners of your eyes and you blink hard, but it’s no use. One spills anyway, sliding down your cheek as your hips twitch against her boot.

The toy is pressed flush to your clit, grinding and pulsing, and every second it stays there makes your whole body burn. Your cunt is far too raw to take more, and still she keeps it there, watching your face like she’s waiting for something.

You’re already wrecked – you know that, she knows it. But she wants more.

Her fingers drift down the side of your throat until her thumb finds the edge of your jaw and holds you there, tilted toward her, unable to look anywhere else once again.

“Look at you,” she murmurs. “You’re crying and grinding at the same time. You don’t know if you want me to stop or never stop again.”

You whimper. You can’t help it. Your hips stutter again as the tears roll down your cheeks, and she catches them with a pass of her thumb like they’re proof.

“There it is,” she breathes. “You like this. You like not getting a choice. You like being wrecked in my chair with my boot shoved between your legs while I whisper in your ear like you’re mine to keep. Isn’t that right?”

You nod, barely able to breathe, lips parted around another wrecked gasp. “Yes, Mommy–”

The word leaves your lips without your permission.

Your eyes snap open wider, panic shooting through you, and your hand flies to your mouth like you could shove it back in, like you could pretend it hadn’t happened if you move fast enough. Your whole body locks up beneath her, chest heaving, breath stalling in your throat as you stare up at her, praying she didn’t hear it.

But she did. Her boot falters, pulling back just slightly, the vibration dipping out of range, and her head tilts.

You see the shift happen in real time. Her expression flickers, her eyes narrow, and then she lets out a stunned, breathless laugh.

“What did you just call me?” she asks slowly, her voice caught somewhere between disbelief and something darker, teasing and hot and so pleased it’s terrifying.

“Nothing,” you gasp, holding your hand to your mouth like it could protect you. “It was – I didn’t mean – I’m sorry–”

You say it all in one breath, your voice cracking in the middle, your eyes wide and wet, panic prickling across your skin.

Her eyes drag over your face in a slow, unblinking pass, taking you in like she’s seeing you for the first time, like that word cracked something open that she hadn’t let herself touch before. Her fingers twitch once where they rest against your jaw and her head tilts curiously, like she’s weighing the moment, turning it over in her mind, savoring it before she decides what to do with it.

Then she lets out a breath, and it sounds amused.

“Mommy?” she repeats, and the way she says it isn’t cruel – it’s worse than that. It’s pleased.

She lets it hang in the air, the corners of her mouth curling up slowly, like she’s watching you squirm and likes the view more than she expected.

“Is that what you said?”

You shake your head instantly, too fast and too desperate, and her grin spreads.

She hums, dragging the sound out as her hand trails down from your jaw, slow and deliberate, fingers skating over your flushed skin like she’s testing the weight of your embarrassment. “You say it like you’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

Your breath stutters and your mouth opens, but no words come out. 

She narrows her eyes slightly and her boot shifts, the vibrator moving forward again, intentional now, pressing directly against your clit, and your hips seize forward. You sob against your hand, your whole body shuddering with the return of that unbearable sensation.

“Say it again,” she tells you, and this time there’s no teasing in her voice at all – just heat. “Say it like you mean it.”

You try to breathe, but your chest is too tight, your whole body buzzing with heat and desire and something deeper, something heavier, something that leaves your limbs shaking even as you fight to stay still beneath her.

The vibration of the toy hasn’t let up, humming steadily, pressed hard against your clit with cruel precision, and your legs twitch again, instinctively, helplessly.

“I–” you stammer, your voice breaking around the sound.

Her gaze is steady and expectant.

“I’m–” you start again, your voice shaking, barely more than a whisper. You swallow hard and try to say it clearly, try to say it like you mean it. “I’m yours, M-mommy.”

The words leave you like a confession, soft and raw, thick with desire and guilt and something deeper you’re too far gone to name.

You blink, breath hitching, and her boot doesn’t move. Her hand does, though, rising to your face, fingers brushing your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your trembling mouth.

Her smile is slow – delighted and dangerous.

“There it is,” she murmurs, almost to herself, like she’s savoring it.

And then the pressure kicks up, harder, sharper, her boot rolling beneath you, and your whole body arches with a gasp, legs shaking as the overstimulation crashes over you in another sudden, searing wave.

She angles her boot just enough to catch you at the right spot, the vibration drilling in tight against your clit with a rhythm that makes your whole body seize. Your legs scramble under the force of it, a wrecked gasp catching in your throat as your spine arches and your hands claw at the arms of the chair.

You whimper, breathless, your lips parting on a sound that barely escapes before it’s crushed under the weight of your next moan. Your hips twitch forward again, and she watches you like she built you to do exactly this.

She watches you with that same calm, fixed gaze, her head tilted to the side, her fingers dragging lazy patterns up and down your thigh like she has all the time in the world to watch you fall apart.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, voice low and cruelly sweet. “So pretty when you shake.”

Her hand lifts from your thigh and brushes up over your chest, your shoulder, then cups your face again. Her eyes hold yours, and the corner of her mouth lifts, smug, expectant, and hungry.

“Say it again,” she breathes, brushing her thumb across your lips now, slow and deliberate. “Let me hear you beg for it from Mommy.”

The words strike straight through you, white-hot, humiliating, and perfect. Your lips part around a gasp, a whimper, a half-formed plea, and your body twitches again, desperate to move, to respond, to obey.

“Please,” you whisper, then again, louder, your voice breaking on it. “Please, Mommy – I want it, I want you – I need it, please, please–”

Your breath stutters, tears spilling over again as you grind helplessly into her boot, body pulled so tight it feels like your bones might snap. The word falls out of your mouth over and over, each one weaker and more frantic than the last.

And she watches it all with the patience of a woman who knows exactly how far she can push you.

Her fingers are light along your cheek, stroking almost absentmindedly, like she’s marveling at the heat there, the flush beneath your skin, the tremble that won’t stop no matter how hard you try to hold yourself together.

“Do you want to come for me?” she breathes. “Do you want to come for Mommy?”

You nod, fast, desperate, your breath catching at the top of your chest as your hips jerk forward, grinding down hard enough to make the vibration punch into the spot that sends a thrill through your body.

“Tell me,” she murmurs, her breath warm across your cheek, her voice soft and precise, like it isn’t dragging you to pieces. “Tell Mommy you want to come for her.”

Your stomach pulls tight. Your thighs clamp down, shaking. Your vision fuzzes at the edges as the pleasure climbs in you like a rising scream, like it’s been coiled for hours instead of minutes.

“I – I w-want to c-come for you, M-mommy,” you stammer, stumbling over the words as they fall out of you, broken and eager and useless. You swallow hard, eyes blinking through the blur of tears as you force the words past the ache in your throat, the heat in your core, the vibrating pulse between your legs that’s starting to crest again.

She bites her lower lip and keeps the pressure right there, the vibrator grinding against your clit in punishing waves that leave you breathless and twitching and barely aware of your own name. The overstimulation has burned through to something dizzying, raw need stretched too tight, everything inside you fluttering and frantic.

Her thumb drags up your inner thigh, slow, cruel, and deliberate, and she leans in, eyes fixed to your face like she’s watching for the exact second it breaks.

“Go ahead,” she breathes, her voice full of pure, raw desire. “Be a good girl and come for Mommy.”

You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body jolting forward before you even realize you’re moving. Your climax tears through you the instant she allows it, sudden and overpowering, all your nerves lit up at once, every inch of your skin thrumming with it. You sob, full-bodied and wrecked, and your hips drive down into her boot with the kind of instinct that doesn’t think and doesn’t care.

“Tell me who’s making you come like this,” she murmurs. 

“Y-you, Mommy–” It spills out on a gasp, cracked and desperate. “It’s you, you’re m-making me come, Mommy–”

Every wave of release hits harder than the last, and you sob and gasp, your lips trembling.

She hums her approval, pleased and warm and unrelenting, her boot still pressing the toy up against you.

“Good girl,” she breathes.

Your mouth drops open, a cry bursting from your lips, loud and guttural and completely unrestrained, and your hips drive forward once, then again, then lose all rhythm as your body collapses into the chair.

You’re shaking, your arms quivering with the effort of holding on, and everything is so much, too much, more than you asked for, but your body is taking it anyway.

“Mine,” she growls, her mouth brushing your ear, her hand sliding into your hair to hold you there. “That’s what you are. Mommy’s little plaything.”

You nod, moaning, crying, still grinding helplessly through the aftershocks, your thighs twitching with every new surge of pleasure and overstimulation tangled together so tightly you can’t tell which is which anymore.

You’re shaking, you’re soaked, your clit is on fire, every breath feels like it’s dragging over open wires, and your thighs are twitching against the chair like they don’t belong to you anymore. And when you flinch this time, trying to shift away from the pressure, she grabs you.

One hand against your chest, the other tighter in your hair, holding you in place like she’s not having it.

“No,” she says softly. “You stay right there.”

You let out something between a sob and a whimper, your legs clenching around her boot, tears welling in your eyes again.

“It’s too much,” you whisper.

Her breath brushes your cheek.

“It’s not enough.”

You shudder. Her hand lifts from your chest to your throat, light, familiar now, grounding you without choking, and her thumb brushes up under your jaw like she’s testing how much fight you have left. 

“Oh, baby,” she says, and her tone is mocking, sweet, and dangerous. “Are you crying again?”

The word hits you hard, harder than anything else she’s said tonight, and it sinks straight through your chest. She’s never called you by anything other than your rank – not once. And something about it, the sound of it in her mouth, the way she says it like it’s hers to use, sends its own wave of pleasure through you.

You nod, barely. Another sob slips out.

And she smiles.

“Poor thing. Your sensitive little body can’t handle a little extra attention, is that it?”

You’re gone, completely wrecked, breathless and soaked and twitching, your muscles locking and releasing in waves you can’t control, your mouth open around sounds you’re not trying to make.

There’s nothing left in you that should be able to take this, but your body won’t stop. It’s still pressing forward, still grinding down into her boot, chasing every ounce of pleasure like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

Your mind is blank, scattered, too numb to form a single thought, but your body knows what it wants – it keeps needing, aching, begging for more with every pulse of your clit, every sob that spills from your throat, every twitch of your thighs that pushes you closer. 

You whine, your hips twitch, and then her boot pulls back.

The vibration disappears with no warning, no softness, it’s just gone, and your whole body jerks forward from the sudden absence, your mouth falling open on a hard gasp as your clit pulses helplessly in the wake of the pleasure.

“No,” you whisper.

“No?” she repeats, voice low, amused.

“Please,” you gasp. “Please, I–”

“You’re crying,” she says again. “You already came twice. And you’re still begging me to let you do it again?”

Her boot nudges back in. Not all the way, just close enough for you to feel the buzz skim your inner thigh once more. Your hips jump and you moan, a real, wrecked one, and lean into it, desperate for friction.

And she pulls it back again.

You cry out, louder this time. Your whole body trembles.

“Mm,” she hums. “That’s fun. I like that sound.”

She does it again.

And again.

Each time, just a hint of contact. Just enough to tease, to torment.

Your hips grind forward without permission, chasing the sensation with everything you have, desperate for what she keeps taking away, your tears spilling faster down your cheeks with every stolen second.

“You really are pathetic,” she whispers, her hand sliding up to cradle your cheek, her fingers brushing the wetness beneath your eyes. “Crying, sobbing, begging, and rutting against my boot.”

You let out a choked sob.

“You want to come again?” she asks.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, please–”

Her boot presses in. Hard. Perfect. The vibration slams into your clit with brutal clarity.

You cry out and your hips snap forward in a helpless pulse.

And she pulls it away again.

Your body jolts and your whole frame curls forward like something’s been stolen from you before she uses the hand in your hair to pull you back against the chair.

“You’ll take what I give you,” she says through gritted teeth. “And you’ll thank me for it.”

Tears streak your flushed face, and your soaked cunt grinds helplessly against the vibrator, trying to chase the sensation that comes in cruel, sharp little pulses of contact that make your clit throb and your stomach clench every time she lets it touch you.

It’s not enough, and you know that’s the point.

Another pulse hits, short and hard, and your back arches with a broken sound.

“Tell me,” she murmurs. “Tell me why you like this.”

You sob, wrecked and desperate, and try to catch your breath, try to form a coherent sentence through the thick fog of pleasure.

“I – I like–”

She leans in, tilting her head and raising an eyebrow.

“I like it b-because–” your voice breaks, but you push through it. “B-because it’s you – because you’re watching, be-because you’re making me do this–”

She hums. Another pulse, and you cry out, higher this time.

“And what does that make you?” she asks. “Sitting in my chair, with your legs open, crying because you want more?”

You choke on it, but she waits. And when you whisper it, shaky and humiliating, it still feels like a scream.

“I’m y-yours.”

She looms over you.

“Louder.”

“I’m yours,” you repeat, raw now. “I’m— I belong to you – Mommy– I– I’m your little p-plaything–”

Her boot presses in again, harder this time, longer.

The sound that tears out of your throat is too broken, too wrecked, too close to that edge again, and your hips snap forward like your body is trying to crawl up her leg to get what it wants.

“You’re a good girl when you remember who you belong to,” she coos. “That’s the only time you deserve anything.”

She punctuates that with a tighter grip in your hair, pulling your head back, exposing more of your throat.

You whimper and tremble under her words.

“And look at you now,” she adds, her voice softening slightly, dipping into something slower and more lethal. “Crying, shaking, begging because I haven’t given you enough yet.”

Her boot shifts again. Another pulse.

You sob.

“You’re such a mess for me,” she murmurs, watching your face, cataloguing every twitch. “Mommy’s good little soldier.”

Everything between your thighs feels swollen and wet and overheated, like every nerve is being sung to by the toy strapped to her ankle, but she never leaves it long enough to give you what your body is screaming for. Just touches, just teases, enough to make you think maybe this time, maybe now, but then it stops again, and your whole body spasms with the crash.

“You’re twitching so much,” she murmurs, pressing in with her boot again just hard enough to make your hips jolt and your voice catch. “You think you’re getting close again?”

“P-please–” you sob.

“That’s cute.”

She pulls back again.

You let out a sound like something is tearing within you.

“Beg,” she commands.

You sob. You shake your head. You’re too far gone.

“Oh,” she mockingly coos, tightening her grip in your hair, “Poor little thing doesn’t know how to use her words. All that obedience, and for what?”

You make a sound – hoarse, broken, something between a cry and a plea. Your hips twitch, chasing the contact again, and she presses the vibrator against you for longer.

The vibration punches through your clit, hard and direct, and your entire body seizes – shoulders tightening, thighs locking, toes curling.

You whimper and your mouth drops open.

Then she pulls it away.

“You’re soaked. You’re crying. You’d do anything to come right now, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes–” you breathe, voice cracking. “Yes, please – please, Mommy–”

“Then say something useful.”

You blink hard, more tears falling, and she tilts her head.

“Say something filthy. Say something that makes you deserve it.”

You try to speak. Nothing comes out.

Her boot nudges forward again.

You gasp.

“I–” you sob. “I want to come on your boot – I w-want you to see–”

She brings her mouth to yours, not to kiss you, but to speak the words into you.

“Tell me you belong to me,” she groans, and you breathe in her voice. “Whisper it. Cry it. I want it broken on your tongue.”

“I’ll do a-anything you want,” you babble. “I’ll do whatever you ask of m-me – because I belong to you, Sergeant Cho–”

You sob, your voice catching, your whole chest stuttering with the effort. Your fingers dig into the arms of the chair and your mouth trembles as you whisper it again and again between ragged breaths.

“I belong to you, I belong t-to you, – I want you to use me–”

She moans into your mouth and her boot slams against you one last time, hard and direct. Her hand drags along your jaw, her thumb brushing over the corner of your mouth like she’s collecting the words straight off your lips.

“That’s what I like to hear,” she murmurs. “Now say it again while you come.”

Relief washes through you, and the second it hits, you stop breathing.

It’s not a choice – it’s a seizure of heat, of pleasure, of sensation, slamming through your body so hard you can’t move or speak or hold on to anything except the fact that she owns you through every uncontrollable tremor that pulses from the inside out like your body is short-circuiting under the weight of it.

You sob into her mouth and tears stream down your face in hot, frantic lines, and your voice breaks open in bursts that don’t even sound like words anymore – just whimpers, chokes, and high, cracking promises that you belong to her.

Her boot stays firm between your thighs, the vibrator hard and buzzing and unrelenting, dragging you through it, holding you in it, longer than you thought your body could possibly handle.

Your thighs twitch, your hips flinch again, oversensitive and spasming, but she keeps the pressure steady like she wants to see exactly how long it takes to tip you into another wave.

Her hand finds your cheek. “Say thank you,” she murmurs.

You gasp, mouth trembling, throat raw. “Th–thank you,” you sob, barely able to shape the words.

She strokes your jaw with her thumb and her boot presses harder.

“Say it like you mean it.”

“Thank you – thank you, I–” you hiccup a breath, your legs shaking so violently that your heels bump against the floor, “–thank you f-for letting me come, thank you for u-using me–”

Her eyes lock onto yours. “Thank you… who?”

You swallow. “Th-thank you, Mommy–”

Your lips part around another gasp as the vibration grinds into you again, pulling more of it out of you, another twitch, another sob as you soak her boot even more.

“Good girl,” she says, and this time it’s softer, slower. Not gentle, not quite – but real and earned.

You’re crying harder now. Not just from pleasure, not just from relief, but from everything. From the way she says it, from the way she sees you like this, wrecked and shaking, and somehow she still thinks you’re perfect under her hands.

“You did so well for Mommy,” she adds, her thumb dragging beneath your eye, wiping away your tears. “Took everything I gave you.”

You nod and whimper. 

She hums like that pleases her.

And when her boot finally, finally pulls back, you collapse into the chair.

The vibration cuts out with one precise flick of her finger, and the silence it leaves behind feels like a void inside your chest – too sudden, too vast, like your body doesn’t know how to handle the quiet after being held on edge for so long. 

Her knee fills the space her boot held for so long, one hand bracing lightly on your thigh while the other reaches up for your face, her fingers curling around your jaw.

“Eyes on me,” she murmurs.

You blink hard through the blur of tears, through the heat still burning beneath your skin, and when your gaze finally locks with hers, she looks calm. 

“Breathe.”

You do. 

She stays like that for a few moments, one hand on your leg, the other cupping your face, and lets you come back to yourself as she holds you.

You don’t move, you don’t speak. You can’t. Every nerve in your body is still lit up, oversensitive, buzzing with memory. You’re still crying, but softer now, slower, and she watches it like it means something.

Her thumb rubs against your cheek as she holds you steady.

“You’re my good little soldier,” she breathes. 

The words land heavy, sealing something between your ribs. You exhale like it’s the first breath you’ve taken all night.

Her hand moves from your thigh to your throat, light pressure, familiar now, and she keeps it there, thumb pressed to your pulse like she’s tracking your heartbeat for her own records.

She lets you sit there for a while longer while she cradles you in her hands. Long enough for your breathing to even out, long enough for your legs to stop shaking, long enough for the heat between your thighs to dull into something slower, something deeper, something that doesn’t feel like fire anymore. Just presence. Her presence. Branded into your skin, your muscles, your body.

She glances over her shoulder toward her desk.

“I still have work to do.”

The words barely register. You blink up at her, dazed, tears still drying on your cheeks. You’re exhausted, sore, flushed and too full of her essence to understand what that means.

The words cut through the quiet, and for a moment, you freeze, blinking up at her like you’ve misheard. But no – that’s what she said. And that must be your cue to leave.

You shift slowly, carefully, easing yourself up on unsteady legs, your hands bracing against the arms of the chair for balance as her hands fall from your face and she takes a step back. Your knees threaten to give, but you push through it. You reach for your pants where they’re in a heap on the floor, your head lowered, your heart heavy in your chest, aching in a way you don’t quite have words for.

Then her voice stops you.

“No, no,” she says, and there’s something quiet in it. Firm, but gentler than before. “You’re staying with me.”

You glance over your shoulder, breath caught in your throat, and find her watching you.

She sits in her chair, slowly, deliberately, like she’s settling into something she’s been thinking about all day.

She reaches down, unbuckles her belt, undoes the fastenings of her pants, and as they slide low on her hips, she slides her hard, flushed cock free with one smooth motion.

Your body responds faster than your mind as heat blooms behind your ribs and your breath stutters.

She tips her head toward her lap.

“Come here.”

Your legs almost give out when you try to walk from the sheer effort of it, the deep ache running through your thighs, the throb still echoing in every muscle. You brace the desk with one hand for balance, breath catching as your knees lock beneath you at the sight of her sitting there like that.

She watches you with something heavy in her eyes, something that flickers low behind the calm.

You don’t even realize she’s holding her breath until you step closer toward her, and she exhales one slow, shallow breath, like it’s the first one she’s taken in minutes.

Her hands rise gently to your hips, steadying you, her thumbs pressing in with a quiet kind of care, guiding you closer. You ease one knee onto the edge of the chair, then the other, and her touch moves with you, supporting your weight as you shift into place, your thighs quivering with effort as you straddle her lap.

Her eyes flick to your face once, lingering there, then back down.

You place your hands on her shoulders and lower yourself slowly, carefully, knees spreading wider as your hips begin to sink down. Her hands stay steady on your hips, helping to hold you in place, knowing exactly how much you’ve taken tonight.

The moment the head of her cock catches against your wet cunt, her jaw clenches – a tight flicker of control, like she’s holding something in, something deeper. Her breath shudders out and her grip tightens the smallest bit at your waist.

You sink down onto her cock slowly, inch by inch, trembling, breath catching with every shift, your cunt soaked and eager to take her despite all that it’s gone through already.

Her lips part and she lets out a quiet, breathy moan.

You take her cock easily. Your cunt stretches around her, aching and slick and hot, every nerve lit with static, and your thighs tremble as you keep lowering until you’re flush against her, buried full and deep.

She takes an unsteady breath and lifts a hand to your face, her fingers brushing delicately along your cheek as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear in a small gesture that somehow feels larger than anything she’s done to you tonight.

Her palm lingers there, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheek as she studies your face, and you barely manage to hold her gaze before she leans in.

Her lips meet yours softly. Softer than you expect. Softer than you thought she was capable of after everything she’s just done to you.

It’s a quiet connection, warm and close and steady, her mouth moving against yours like she’s trying to calm the shaking in your core with nothing more than her kiss.

She pulls back slowly, her hand still cradling your face, her thumb trailing down the line of your jaw. Her eyes meet yours and for one long second, she just looks at you, something heavy resting behind them.

Then her attention shifts and she leans forward, just enough to grip the edge of her desk and roll the chair closer to it.

She picks up a pen. The soft click of it breaks through the quiet like a return to order, like the structure of the moment realigning itself – her working, you on her lap, her cock buried deep inside you.

“I need to finish these reports,” she murmurs, flipping open a folder on her desk. “You’ll stay right here until I’m done.”

You give her a small nod, knowing there’s no place you’d rather be.

Your body aches in every way that counts, your limbs weak, and the stretch between your thighs burns with the shape of her, but you stay there, straddling her, eyes blinking slowly.

You hesitate, just for a second, then you lower your head into the crook of her neck.

The contact is tentative at first, careful, like you’re not sure you’re allowed to, like you don’t want to assume – but her warmth is too much to resist. You breathe her in and slowly relax into her. Your hands cling gently to her sides and the full weight of your exhaustion begins to sink into her, your head pressing deeper into her shoulder as you allow yourself to have this.

Her cock stays buried inside you, hard and present, stretching you wide and keeping you open while she types emails and signs forms like she didn’t just destroy you in this very same chair just minutes ago.

You breathe slowly, carefully, quietly, but every once in a while, a subtle pulse moves through you. Your cunt clenches around her cock and your jaw trembles slightly, but you don’t grind. You don’t buck. You stay right here, obedient.

She doesn’t say anything for a while.

Her hands move across the desk in smooth, even movements. She signs her name in quiet strokes, checks a box, turns to the next form, clicks on something on her computer. 

And every one of those movements, every tiny shift of her hips, every slow breath, every slight lean forward or tilt back, sends the smallest throb through your cunt.

And you know she feels it. You know she feels the way you clench down around her every time she leans an inch to the left, every time she reaches for a new form to sign, every time her thighs flex beneath yours just barely.

She exhales once and the movement of her chest makes her cock grind within you just enough to make your legs twitch involuntarily.

You gasp, quiet, sharp, and your hips jolt without meaning to.

“Stay still,” she murmurs gently in your ear.

Your whole body tightens again and you nod and breathe through it.

But she keeps moving. Not enough to be obvious – just enough to ruin you.

A nudge of her knee, shift of her feet, a sigh as she drags the next file toward her.

And your cunt squeezes tight around her, your clit throbbing from the constant teasing, the stretch of her cock buried within you, the heat building again from nothing.

She turns a page and smirks.

The room stays quiet except for the soft, occasional taps of the keyboard as she works, still mostly composed. You stay still on her lap, your weight settled low and warm against her, your body flushed from everything that came before, but pliant now, quiet, resting into her like you were made to be there – made to hold her cock deep within you.

She keeps working.

Or at least, she tries to.

But it’s been a while now, and you’re relaxed while she’s trying to be.

Her jaw tenses, and she shifts in her chair slightly, adjusting her hips, trying to focus on the sentence she’s been typing and retyping for three straight minutes. But the movement makes her breath come in a little harder, enough to lift her chest, to tighten through her shoulders.

Her thighs flex under yours, barely moving you, just a shift of pressure where your heat wraps around her.

You feel the shift like a pulse of heat, and it makes your stomach tighten – and you feel her react to it, too.

Her chest lifts slightly, like she’s holding her breath. Her jaw tightens, and you hear the faint catch of her inhale beside your ear as her thighs tense beneath you for a second.

She still doesn’t say anything, though. 

Her fingers falter once, missing a key. You feel her sigh and then she shifts again, another small adjustment that sends a dull throb through you.

You hear the quiet sound she makes, low in her throat, not quite a breath, not quite a groan, and her arms tighten slightly on either side of you.

She types two more words then deletes them. She pushes the mouse forward a few centimeters, then pulls it back, like she’s pretending to work.

She lets out a quiet groan, and this time, her hips move with it.

You feel the roll beneath you, subtle, just enough to push her cock deeper, just enough to press up more into the warmth of your cunt. The pressure makes your body tense involuntarily, and she feels it. You know she does.

She exhales again, harsher this time, lips parted, and her jaw tenses enough that you can see the flex of it.

She types another word and deletes that one, too.

And you feel it again, the tightening in her thighs, the slow shift in her breathing.

She tries to hold out for a few more seconds, her fingers moving quickly across the keyboard like maybe speed will save her, like if she just types fast enough, the heat building in her body won’t take hold.

But her breathing is too uneven now. She stares at her computer for a moment to try to remember what she was writing.

With another sigh, she puts her hands on her desk and pushes away from it. 

You slowly draw your head away from where it’s been resting against the curve of her neck and blink down at her, dazed and warm.

Her eyes are dark, jaw tight, lips parted like she’s trying not to breathe too hard. She looks like she’s keeping something in, like the act of restraint is taking real, physical effort now. For a second, it seems like she won’t say anything, like she’s too proud to admit it.

But then her voice comes low, tight, and almost hoarse.

“You’re making me lose focus.”

Your heart stutters and your breath catches. You give her a look that lands somewhere between apology and heat, your cheeks burning with it.

“Sorry,” you murmur, quiet, sheepish, and not really sorry at all. Your hips shift just slightly, slow and deliberate, grinding down into her lap, just enough to press her deeper, to make your point without a single word of follow-up.

Her cheeks flush, soft pink at first, then deeper. Her jaw twitches and then her teeth catch her bottom lip, her eyes flicking down to your mouth, then your chest, then lower.

Her hands come to your hips, steady and warm, and her fingers flex once. Her breath hits your lips when she speaks, shaky.

“Don’t be.”

Then her eyes lift.

The moment your gazes lock, your breath catches in your throat. There’s no demand in her face, no possessiveness, just something quiet, like the control has softened into something wanting.

She moves her hands beneath the curve of your ass and guides your body slowly upward until her cock almost slips out of you, and the loss of contact makes you gasp – but then she eases you back down. Not with force, but with intention.

You sink onto her again with a sound that’s half breath, half relief, your thighs shaking from the permission, the depth, the friction – finally. Her cock fills you again like it never left, heat spilling low in your core as your muscles clench and shift and wrap around her like you never want her to leave.

And she watches you the entire time. Eyes locked, mouth slightly parted, her grip firm. 

Her gaze doesn’t drop once, not to your mouth, not to where you’re joined. She stays right with you, breath caught in her throat as you begin to move your hips on your own, slow and aching and deliberate, your body trembling from the heat and the relief of being allowed to do this again.

She exhales low, rough.

Your hands move to her shoulders and her chest rises and falls in time with yours. And when your rhythm stutters, when your hips jolt too hard and you gasp, her grip tightens around you to steady you.

“You’re doing so well,” she murmurs. Her voice is more breath than sound.

And it doesn’t feel like praise for obedience, it feels like something else. Like a truth, or a secret. Like the way she’s looking at you now might just be about wanting you.

It’s warm and full and almost unbearable in how good it feels – not just the movement, not just the friction, but the way she’s watching you, the way her eyes don’t leave your face for even a second, like every little shift is being recorded, memorized, stored away for later.

Her hands stay at your waist, steady and firm, not guiding anymore, just holding. Her fingers splay out across your back as you lean into her chest, and when your breath stumbles, when your thighs tense and your hands clutch harder at her shoulders, she sighs softly.

She tilts her chin up the smallest amount and presses her mouth to yours in a kiss that’s soft and slow. Her lips part against yours, and when you open to her, when your breath stutters against her tongue, she shifts the angle slightly, deepening it, her grip tightening at your back to keep you there, pressed chest to chest, mouth to mouth.

You sigh into her and it makes your whole body tense again, and you whimper into the kiss.

She breathes into your mouth and it shakes when you grind down harder.

She breaks the kiss only enough to speak, her mouth staying close, her voice a whisper across your lips.

“Don’t stop.”

You gasp gently and her hand on your back presses you closer to her chest.

“Don’t stop, baby. Give it to me.”

Her fingers flex tighter at your waist like she can’t help it, like your movement is the only thing she could possibly want right now.

You grind down, easing her deeper, and it makes your breath catch. You feel her cock drag through every part of your cunt as your body shifts forward, the slow roll of your hips pulling her deeper again before rocking back.

You roll your hips once more, slow and even, and the friction settles low in your stomach, spreading outward. Your cunt throbs around her cock, still sensitive from earlier, and every bit of movement sends a warm pressure through you. 

She doesn’t speak, she just breathes.

You hear it as you move, a quiet hitch, the slight tremor at the end of it, like she’s trying to swallow back sound and failing. Her hand moves on your waist, sliding up under your shirt, feeling more of you.

You move with a slow, deliberate circle of your hips, dragging her deep once more. Your breath stutters and you see how tense her jaw is, her forehead coming to rest lightly against the side of your head.

It starts gentle, your hips rolling in slow, even circles, your hands braced against her shoulders, your breath mingling in the space between you, but it doesn’t stay that way. Not with how she feels inside you. Not with how deep she’s seated, how thick she is, how perfectly her cock fits inside you.

You grind against her again, then again, a little harder this time. Her breath catches against your cheek and you whimper as her cock throbs within you.

Her hands slide against you, holding you steady as your pace shifts. The tension starts to build, low and hot and unbearable. You rock forward again, harder, your body tightening as you ease her into you, and the angle sends her pressing into that spot that makes your breath leave your lungs in a sharp, broken gasp.

Her fingers dig into you and she groans, the sound barely held in, pushed against your skin like she’s trying not to let it out at all. Her chest rises into yours, her mouth open, and you feel the tremor in her arms when your hips drop again with more weight behind it.

You bounce in her lap, the rhythm picking up, your thighs burning from the strain, but it doesn’t stop you. It can’t. Her cock drags deep, thick, and steady as you ride faster, harder, her breath shivering with every impact.

The chair creaks once beneath you and she growls softly. Her grip moves again, one hand dragging up to cup the back of your neck, pulling you closer.

Your forehead presses to hers. Your mouths are nearly touching, both of you gasping now, open and desperate and chasing something you can’t slow down anymore.

Her teeth catch your bottom lip and you groan into her mouth as she gives it a light tug before releasing it.

You breathe her in like you need it to survive.

“Can I–” you whisper. “Sergeant, can I–”

You feel her nod against your forehead.

It crests too fast to stop.

Your hips stutter forward in one desperate jerk, and your entire body tightens – thighs clenching, chest pressed full to hers, arms locking tight around her shoulders like you could melt into her and it still wouldn’t be enough.

You gasp, voice catching at the back of your throat, and her hand at the small of your back suddenly pulls, dragging you down hard against her, keeping you right where she wants you, pinned on her cock and breaking.

Your cunt clenches around her cock in sharp, full-body waves.

It’s deep and messy, the kind of orgasm that unfurls like your body doesn’t know where to send it. Your mouth opens against hers on a breathless cry you don’t remember giving permission to leave your lips.

And right as your cunt throbs, gripping her hard, soaked, and full – you feel her cock pulse inside you.

Her breath catches against your mouth. Her thighs shift, muscles flexing beneath yours, and her hips jerk up in one instinctive, desperate motion of finally losing control.

It starts with a groan, low, deep, and dragged straight from her chest and forced into your open mouth, followed by a trembling gasp. Her hips buck up into you, then again, grinding deep, deeper, as her cock pulses within you.

A hot rush of heat spreads through you as she spills her cum inside you in slow, pulsing waves, each one drawn out longer than the last. Each throb spills more of her cum into you, and you feel your body react, clenching, tightening, drawing her in, like it can’t get enough of her, like it knows what she’s giving you and wants all of it.

Your stomach pulls tight as the warmth of her release fills you, coating you, marking you.

She shudders hard beneath you, head tipping back, teeth catching her lower lip as she lets out a helpless, wrecked groan, raw and strangled.

Her hands hold you down, keeping you flush to her, hips locked, her body twitching under yours as every wave tears through her.

You hold her through it, feeling all of it, the way her chest pushes against yours, the way her release begins to slowly drip out of your cunt as her cock twitches one more time deep inside you.

She drops her face to your neck and she sighs, almost strangled, like the sound is dragging out of her lungs against her will. Her hands squeeze hard at your back and neck, pulling you into her, holding you as close as you can get, your body flush with hers as her cock throbs again from the force of her release.

“You’re mine,” she breathes against your neck.

“I’m yours,” you whisper back.

Chapter Text

The walk from the barracks to the admin building is only ten minutes, but you take it slow today, dragging out each step like it might buy you a little more air before you’re locked inside a windowless room for the next nine hours. The breeze carries just enough chill to make you grateful you wore your favorite jacket, and you linger in it as long as you can, hands tucked into your pockets, the sunlight low and bright enough to make you squint.

Across the way, rows of dull government-issue vehicles glint in the morning light, damp with dew. It’s quiet, it’s early, and you’re enjoying the quiet.

That is, until you hear the fast patter of boots on pavement behind you.

Private Kim jogs up beside you, her short ponytail swinging. She has an extra competitive skip in her step today.

“Morning,” you say. “You’re early.”

“I thought of a new way to beat Kang by showing up early,” she says, slightly breathless but smug, adjusting the strap of her bag as she falls into step with you. “I have to win today. Remember how he blocked the elevator doors with his entire body so I had to take the stairs the other day? I’m still mad about that.”

“That was diabolical.”

“Exactly.” She gestures animatedly. “So I left twenty minutes earlier than usual. I’m so tired.”

You glance at her with mock awe. “Twenty whole minutes? You’re going to crash by oh-nine-hundred.”

“Shut up,” she says, shoving you with her shoulder with a smile on her face. “Just you wait, it’s gonna be so good. He’s gonna walk into the office, all smug like I’m running late and he’s getting there first, and when the doors open – bam. I’m already at my desk. Victory.”

The two of you step through the front doors of the building and Kim beelines toward the elevators, bouncing on her toes like the anticipation is too much to contain. You follow at a steadier pace, watching her punch the elevator button like she’s testing it for weaknesses.

“I didn’t even see him on the way over,” she mutters, a wicked glint in her eyes. “I’m so early, he’s probably trudging along like some tragic little foot soldier.” 

The elevator dings. Kim steps in first, bouncing in place as she jabs the fourth-floor button. You join her inside, the doors sliding closed with a smooth metallic hush, and she turns toward the mirrored panel to inspect herself like her facial expression needs to be optimized for maximum gloating.

“I think I’ll go with smug, but benevolent,” she says. “Like a queen bestowing pity on her jester.”

She tries it out, narrowing her eyes and pulling her expression into something regal, vaguely threatening, and deeply self-satisfied. Then she pauses. “Actually – wait. Wait. I’m already here, right? So I act casual. Like it’s weird he’s just now showing up. I look at him like he’s late and confuse the hell out of him.”

You raise a brow and Kim clasps her hands together. “Would it be too much if I adjusted all the clocks in the office?”

You laugh. “Okay, now you’re spiraling.”

“I’m just saying,” she mutters, eyes narrowed, “if I set the wall clock five minutes ahead, and I change the breakroom microwave, he might actually believe he was late.”

“Kim.”

“Just one minute off! Enough to plant the seed!”

You give her a look, half impressed, half terrified. “You need help.”

She claps her hands once, firm and resolute. “I need victory.”

The elevator dings. The doors open and she’s off like a shot, striding down the hallway with the controlled ferocity of someone enacting a well thought out revenge plan. She opens the office door and it creaks faintly as you both step into the dark.

Kim’s voice is gleeful. “I’m so excited to see his face when–”

You flip on the light switch – and both of you scream.

You reach for each other, grabbing onto sleeves, arms, anything solid. Kim’s hand fists into the fabric of your jacket, your fingers catch the edge of her bag strap, and for one split second, you're both frozen as Kang spins around in his chair, facing the door like he’s been waiting for this moment.

His hands are steepled under his chin, his elbows resting on the armrests like a villain mid-monologue, and a slow, devious grin curls across his face like he’s the final boss in a game Kim didn’t realize she was losing.

“Good morning,” he says smoothly, like he’s delivering a line he rehearsed. His voice is low, calm, and infuriatingly pleased with himself.

Kim rips her arm out of your grip and storms forward with renewed purpose. “What the fuck are you doing here?!” she snaps, jabbing a finger toward him.

“Little old me? I’m at work,” Kang says, all faux-innocence as he leans back in his chair, elbows resting comfortably on the armrests. “Just like I always am.”

“You–” She stares at him, flabbergasted. “You son of a bitch! I woke up early for this!”

He shrugs. “You win some, you lose some.”

“How long have you been sitting there like a fucking creep in the dark?” she demands, throwing her hands out wide.

“About ten minutes.”

“Ten – oh my god.” Her voice cracks on it. “You were just sitting there? In the dark? For ten minutes?”

“I had my phone,” he says casually. “Caught up on messages. Got comfortable.”

She groans and drags her feet over to her chair, then drops into it with a heavy, defeated thud.

“You’re insane.”

“And you’re late,” he says, rubbing salt into the wound.

“Like hell I’m late!” she snaps, eyes wide as she sits up straighter. “Wait, hang on. How did you end up doing this the same day I did?”

Kang shrugs again, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. “Felt like a good day to win.”

You glance between them, taking in the posture, the timing, the matching expressions of righteous indignation and smug amusement – different fonts of the same thought.

“You’re the same person,” you mutter.

Kim glares at you. “We are not!”

“She’s not wrong,” Kang says.

“You’re literally the worst,” Kim fires back.

He leans forward, elbow on the desk, chin in hand, eyes shining with barely-contained amusement. “But if I am the worst,” he says, “what does that make you?”

Kim exhales hard through her nose like she’s holding herself back from launching something across the room. She turns to her computer and doesn’t answer, and you all fall quiet as you settle into your morning routine. 

You move through the familiar motions in the kitchenette, filling the coffee pot, swapping in a fresh filter, measuring out the grounds and taking advantage of the calm moments as you wait for it to brew.

You carry Kim’s mugs over to her desk and set them down gently.

She scrolls through something on her computer with a furrow between her brows, her eyes flicking toward the mugs, then back to the screen. Then she opens her desk drawer, pulls out a handful of sugar packets, and dumps three of them into the WORLD’S BEST BOSS mug.

You cross over to Kang’s desk next and hand him his mug. He accepts it with both hands, like he’s being presented with something meaningful. “Thank you,” he says simply, nodding once, and lifts it toward you in something close to a toast before taking a sip.

You’ve just settled back into your chair with your mug of coffee in hand when Kim’s eyes light up and a grin spreads over her face. “Oh, sick, we got invited to the awards banquet on Friday.”

You turn toward her with your brows raised. “Really? Why do we get to go, too?”

“My guess is since Sergeant Hwang and Sergeant Cho are getting awards,” she continues, “they’re letting the two of us come since we work directly with them. I mean, we are the reason they can do all this important shit in the first place, you know? They’d be nothing without us.”

You laugh under your breath at that, opening your inbox and spotting the email she’s talking about, the subject line bold and formal: Awards Banquet Invitation.

You open it and read through all of the information, presented in a formal, cursive font. Friday, June 27, 1800. Dinner is served, followed by the awards presentation. Attire: formal. One guest permitted per attendee.

“They really formatted this like a wedding invitation,” you murmur.

“Will you go?” Kim asks you.

You mull it over in your head. It could be a good time, but… “I’m not sure,” you say, “I don’t have anything formal to wear.”

“I hope they serve steak,” Kang pipes up from his desk. “I haven’t had a good steak in years.”

Kim turns toward him slowly, tilting her head and blinking at him. “You speak as if you’ll be in attendance, Kang.”

He looks back and forth between you and Kim. “Well… I mean, aren’t you gonna take me as your plus-one?”

Kim lets out a short breath that’s almost a laugh, leaning back in her chair like she’s trying to appear unbothered. “Bold of you to assume I don’t already have a real date in mind.”

Kang narrows his eyes at her like he’s trying to gauge whether she’s serious. “What, you gonna bring Private Lee instead?”

She shrugs, arms crossing over her chest as she shifts in her seat. Her gaze slips away from him and she focuses on something on the wall above you. “Maybe I am.”

Kang blinks, and for a second, he actually looks thrown. “You’re kidding.”

She doesn’t look at him. “Maybe I’m not.”

He scoffs, unsure whether he’s supposed to laugh. “Kim.”

She lifts her brows, but keeps her eyes forward.

“You’re telling me,” he says slowly, leaning forward on his desk, “that after all that shit that happened, you’re gonna let Private Lee Myung-gi escort you to a formal military banquet?”

She uncrosses one arm just long enough to reach for her coffee. “So what if I do?”

Kang leans back in his chair, staring at her like he’s waiting for her to crack. “The same guy who almost died trying to tie a cherry stem with his tongue?”

Kim sips her coffee.

“You remember that, right?” he presses, looking at her, then at you. “You saw him gag. We all saw him gag.”

“I remember.”

“He almost threw up on you, Kim.”

She shrugs again. “It’s not about perfection. It’s about effort.”

Kang runs a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ.”

You glance between them, amused but staying quiet. 

Kim finally looks over at Kang, her expression annoyingly serene. “What’s your problem? You don’t want me to have a good time?”

“I do want you to have a good time. But I know you won’t have a good time with him.”  

She purses her lips and takes another sip of coffee.

Kang leans back in his chair with a long, theatrical sigh, arms folded across his chest as he tips his head toward the ceiling. “God,” he says, trying a new approach. “Can you imagine how much more fun the banquet would be if I were there?”

Kim doesn’t answer. She takes another sip, her eyes flicking toward him only briefly before returning to her screen like she’s deciding to let him talk himself out.

He keeps going, undeterred.

“I mean, I’m good in a crowd. I know how to pace a conversation, keep things light, make a decent toast if I have to. I clean up well, I’m photogenic, and people like me.”

You glance over just in time to see Kim close her eyes for a moment, take a deep breath, and the corner of her mouth tightens like she’s bracing herself.

“But nooo,” Kang continues, gesturing vaguely as he leans forward again, leaning into the sad puppy dog bit. “I’ll be stuck in the rec room. Alone. Eating microwaved curry over rice out of one of those sad plastic bowls. Probably watching reruns of a soap opera with all the other losers who got left behind.”

“You’re unbearable.”

He tilts his head toward her. “You’re not even denying I’d be better company.”

“I’m not entertaining this conversation.”

He sighs with exaggerated disappointment. “So this is how I find out.”

“Find out what?”

“That I mean nothing to you.”

Kim finally looks over, deadpan.

“I mean, it’s fine. If you’d rather spend your evening next to someone who thinks bitcoin is the next big thing, that’s your choice,” he says, holding up his hands and looking away.

Her mug hits the desk, and she turns toward him fully, her brow drawn, her voice sharp. “Oh my god, Kang. If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m really not going to bring you.”

Kang freezes mid-motion and a sly look crosses his face. “So you are gonna bring me?”

“Of course I am, idiot!” she says, each word crisp, clear, and unflinching. “Jesus. You think I’d bring someone else to this? You think I’d rather spend all evening listening to Private Lee going off about bitcoin?”

All traces of dramatic disappointment leave him as he leans back in his chair with both fists raised in silent triumph. “Yessssssss.”

“God, I hate you.”

“You don’t.”

“You ruin everything.”

“I’ll wear something nice.”

She throws a pen at him, and he flinches as it whacks him in the shoulder.

The rhythm of the morning settles in, the three of you fall into it naturally, the quiet choreography of familiar motions filling the office like muscle memory – folders pulled from drawers, paper loaded into the clunky printer.

Kim finishes assembling Sergeant Hwang’s packet, flipping through the stack one last time for order, taps the bottom edge against the desk until it’s flush, then slides it into the usual green folder. 

Kang coaxes his own morning reports out of the printer, muttering under his breath as it clicks and whirs like it’s thinking too hard. He smacks the side of the machine with the heel of his hand, and the printer jolts and the rest of the reports spit out in a rush.

And then, right on cue, heavy footsteps echo in from the hallway, measured and direct. Sergeant Hwang steps into the office with his shoulders squared, sharp-eyed and clean-cut as ever, but there’s a looseness to his posture today, something easier in the way his gaze moves across the room.

He walks right up to Kim, who is already rising to meet him, the green folder in one hand and the WORLD’S BEST SECRETARY mug in the other. She holds them out and he takes both without hesitation, offering a quiet, “Thank you,” and then he’s through the door to his office and it clicks shut behind him.

Sergeant Park steps in next, one hand clutching his usual brown paper bag from the cafe just off base, the other occupied with a breakfast sandwich he’s mid-bite through. He chews as he walks, nodding at each of you in turn, his mouth too full to say anything right away.

Kang glances over and tilts his head toward the bag. “Smells good.”

Sergeant Park swallows, then grins. “Tastes even better.”

He doesn’t linger, just turns toward his office with that same easy gait and pushes the door closed behind him.

You hear her boots first – steady, unhurried, the cadence firm and unmistakable as it carries down the hallway toward you. Sergeant Cho steps into the office like she always does, all presence and purpose, her uniform crisp, her sleeves pushed to her forearms, her expression cut clean into place.

She doesn't glance at the others, but her gaze lands on you as she passes, and it drags across your skin like heat.

She walks through the open door to her office, her stride never faltering. 

You move without hesitation, one hand wrapped around her coffee mug, the other cradling the stack of morning reports, the door hanging open like she left it that way for you, and you follow her in. Your fingers tighten slightly around her mug, breath caught low in your chest as you step inside.

The door closes behind you with a soft, certain click.

You set her mug down in its usual spot on her desk and hold out the reports for her as she settles in.

You stand at attention at her desk when she takes them, hands clasped behind your back, posture perfect as your mind swirls in her presence. You clear your throat softly, trying to will the nerves down into your stomach, away from your throat, where they’re currently doing laps.

“For this morning’s updates,” you say, voice steady despite the heat that always starts to pool between your legs whenever you’re alone with her, “You have a call with Staff Sergeant Kang at oh-nine-hundred, she confirmed five minutes ago. The training brief was rescheduled for fourteen-hundred, and you’re presenting, but Lieutenant Lee will open. And the readiness report from last night’s update has Officer Park’s approval, he signed off at oh-six-hundred.”

Her fingers shift on the edge of the paper in a small, unconscious movement that pulls your attention like a magnet. Her hands are always so precise, every motion economic, so it veers your focus for a moment. She turns the page and nods once.

“There’s also a memo waiting for your signature in the shared folder,” you add. “It needs to be in before eleven-hundred. I flagged it so it’s easier to find.”

Another nod. You hesitate for a moment.

“And the banquet,” you say, after a beat. “Is Friday night at eighteen-hundred. They need your RSVP by the end of the day.”

Her eyes lift to meet yours at that, and the sudden weight of her gaze hits like pressure behind your ribs and your shoulders square instinctively. There’s nothing aggressive in her expression, no clear signal you can read, but it’s intense, searching in a way that makes your skin tighten and your mouth go dry.

She looks at you like she’s on the verge of saying something more, but then, just as quickly, her gaze drops to the reports again, and she flips to the final page with an exhale so soft you wouldn’t have heard it if you weren’t listening.

A beat passes. Then another.

“Thank you,” she says, voice low.

You nod. “Yes, Sergeant.”

But she doesn’t dismiss you yet. Instead, she fidgets with the corner of the report. Her eyes stay on the text, though you’re almost certain she’s not reading. The muscle along her jaw tightens, then relaxes.

“For the banquet on Friday,” she says, tone quieter now. “I would like for you to attend.”

You blink. Your heart skips so abruptly you’re briefly unsure if it’s stopped altogether.

“Oh – um. Yes, Sergeant. Private Kim and I received our invitations this morning.” You rush to say it, words tumbling too fast, too eager, but you can’t seem to help it. “I wasn’t planning to attend, but I can, if… if you need me to do anything there, that’s–”

Her gaze lifts, and it stops you in your tracks.

The shift is instant. Controlled. Exact. Like a switch has been flipped behind her eyes and now you’re under inspection, pinned in place by something quiet and razor-sharp. You feel your mouth go dry as the end of your sentence falters, barely more than a whisper.

“–fine,” you finish, quieter.

The suddenness of her gaze slams into you like a palm pressed to your chest, and you fall silent under it.

“I would like for you to attend,” she says again, and there’s a hitch in her breath, barely perceptible, a pause that draws it out like she’s weighing something mid-sentence. “With… me.”

The words land like a weight dropped in your chest.

You stand there, motionless, replaying the sentence in your mind like there might be a second interpretation you missed. But there isn’t. You shift your weight, heart hammering. “Like…” You hesitate, throat tightening. You know it’s a stupid question, but you need to ask it anyway. Because if you’re going to play this dangerous game, you need to know you’re both reading from the same script.

“…as your date?”

Her thumb slides along the edge of the paper she’s holding. Her jaw works like she’s biting something back. Then, a breath, steady, measured, the kind she takes when she’s trying to keep control, and she looks back up at you.

“Yes,” she says, voice quiet.

The breath you’ve been holding rushes out of you, too shallow, too shaky.

Your stomach twists and unfurls all at once, nerves crackling under your skin. You nod, too quickly. Then you catch yourself and try to slow it down, to remember who you are and where you are and what this is supposed to look like. Your hands clasp behind your back, your posture drawn tight, and you try to pull your mouth into something neutral even though you can feel the way it wants to curve.

“Y-yes, Sergeant,” you manage, your voice softer than you mean it to be. “That… I would like that.”

You look down, face hot, heart thudding against your ribs like it’s fighting to get out. You bite the inside of your cheek and breathe slowly, trying to hold yourself together, trying not to let the sheer rush of being asked to be her date show on your face.

When you lift your gaze again, her expression has shifted. Her shoulders have eased. Her hands are still, her grip on the paper relaxed now, and her eyes are on yours.

“Good,” she says.

The word lands like a verdict, low and sure and final. It hums in your chest as the silence settles again, a pause that holds too much weight for either of you to move.

Her gaze is softer somehow, like the decision to ask this cost her something, and she’s still in the process of sealing it back up.

You swallow once, then clear your throat, eyes flicking down before they can give anything else away. But your pulse is loud in your ears, hammering in the hollow of your throat, and there’s a faint heat rising along the back of your neck that doesn’t want to die down.

And then you remember why you were hesitant to attend in the first place, a quiet flicker of anxiety rising beneath the high of being chosen.

“I, um–” you shift slightly, careful and composed, “I don’t really have anything formal to wear, though.”

You glance back up at her, and her gaze lingers for a long moment, like she’s already thought this through.

Her teeth catch her bottom lip and she nods once, deliberate. “I will… take care of that,” she says, each word measured, like she’s working a little too hard to keep her mask of control on.

It takes a second for the words to sink in, and even then, you’re not entirely sure what she means. There’s a flicker of confusion in your brow, a tiny furrow that lifts as your mouth parts to ask, but something about her tone, about the way she doesn’t blink as she watches you, stops you short. You don’t push. You just nod.

“Okay,” you murmur, trying to puzzle it out, holding back the stupid little smile that keeps threatening to slip onto your face.

Her eyes drop back to the reports in her hand, the moment sealed with that single look away, and you recognize the shift when it happens – the return to formality, the quiet expectation of dismissal.

“You’re excused, Private,” she says, low and even.

You brace for it with a soft breath, dip your head, and answer just as quietly. “Yes, Sergeant.”

You step out of her office, easing the door shut behind you without letting it slam, your body moving like it remembers what it’s supposed to look like even as your mind feels untethered, trying to re-ground itself in a reality that just bent sideways.

There’s heat in your spine and a bright ache in your chest and you are dangerously close to grinning like an idiot in front of Kim and Kang.

You make a slow beeline for your desk, trying to keep your steps even, forcing your expression into something neutral, but every part of you is betraying the effort. There’s a lightness to your walk, a tension in your mouth from how hard you’re pressing your lips together, a telltale warmth in your cheeks that you know hasn’t faded. 

When you sit, your hands reach for your keyboard, like muscle memory will cover for you if your thoughts can’t. 

Kim spins toward you in her chair, her whole face alight with that particular kind of excitement she only gets when there’s a plan in motion and she’s pulling you into it. 

“Kang and I are gonna go dress shopping on Wednesday,” she says. “After work. You should come with us.”

You shift slightly in your chair, blinking once before you look over at her. 

“Oh,” you say, a little quieter than you mean to. “Dress shopping?”

She hums, giving a small nod. “Yeah. I want something nicer for the banquet, and Kang’s determined to find a tie that matches exactly, so he’s coming along to help. Plus, you not having a dress shouldn’t be the reason you don’t go to the banquet, so come shopping. Problem solved.”

You hesitate, needing a beat to school your expression, to press down the grin trying to break across your face. You glance down, pretending to mull it over like you’re considering her offer, even though you already made your decision for an entirely different reason.

“You know what?” You let the sentence trail off for a second, like you’re still deciding, and then land on it softly. “Yeah, I’ll go. That sounds fun.”

She brightens immediately. “Yeah?”

You nod. 

~*~

On Wednesday afternoon, you’re hard at work. Your desk is stacked with printouts and draft memos, and you keep one eye on the formatting of a quarterly readiness report, checking margins and sign-off fields as you tab between pages. 

Across the room, Kim reads through a logistics report. She taps her pen against the edge of her desk every so often after she underlines something on the form in front of her, then goes back to reread the line before moving on.

Kang is at the printer, sleeves pushed up, crouched low with his head tilted under the tray as he mutters something about rollers and toner. There’s a screwdriver in his hand and a manual flipped open on the floor beside him, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him so focused.

You glance at the time, then the door, then the time again, as if that will make her appear.

Sergeant Cho has been in a senior staff meeting since lunch, and while you’re getting a lot of work done, there’s a part of your brain that’s been anxiously awaiting her return.

It’s not that you’re counting down the minutes – not exactly. But you find yourself checking the door more than you mean to, glancing up every time someone passes by the frosted glass, waiting for the familiar sound of her boots on the floor, the steady cadence of her stride. There’s a kind of weight to the space when she’s not in it, something subtle but noticeable, like the difference between holding your breath and breathing normally without realizing it.

You try to refocus, eyes flicking back to the report in front of you, your cursor hovering just above a misaligned signature field. You fix it, tab to the next page, adjust the footer. But your gaze slips again and drifts to the clock, then back to the door. You shift slightly in your seat, crossing one ankle over the other, forcing yourself to keep typing.

And after ten minutes, Sergeant Cho steps through the front door. Her eyes sweep the room, and her gaze holds yours, her mouth pressing slightly together like she’s biting back the shape of something she can’t afford to say aloud.

She approaches your desk and she lays a hand on it, and your breath catches a little tighter in your throat.

“Private,” she says, voice low but steady, “when you have a moment, please join me in my office.”

You nod quickly, almost too quickly, fighting the flush that creeps up the back of your neck. “Yes, Sergeant.”

She holds your eyes for just one second longer than protocol requires, then walks off, the door to her office swinging gently shut behind her. 

You take a few minutes to finish up your task, giving a respectable amount of time so no one suspects anything when you finally push your chair back and stand. You smooth your hands over your uniform, exhale through your nose, and cross the floor with even steps. You knock once, wait for a moment, and then step inside, closing the door behind you.

She’s reviewing something on her screen, though her attention turns to you when you enter. 

You stay by the door for a second, then cross to her desk with your hands folded behind your back.

“What can I do for you, Sergeant?” you ask, keeping your tone even, professional, trying not to betray the way your pulse has quickened just from being this close again, alone, without the eyes of the rest of the office on you.

She leans back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, a stack of reports resting in her lap. Her gaze drifts over you with a slowness that feels deliberate, like she’s savoring the sight of you standing there, waiting, quiet and ready.

Her eyes move over your face, then lower, just for a breath, just enough to remind you she can look wherever she wants. The air stretches between you as she holds your gaze, the flicker of something possessive and assessing settling behind her calm expression, like she’s imagining something that would make your knees weak.

When she finally speaks, it’s calm and even. “I selected a dress for you.”

You blink once, lips parting before your voice catches up. “Oh, th-thank you,” you say, and it comes out stiffer than intended. You glance around her office, searching for the shape of a garment bag, like maybe she brought it here, like maybe she’s about to hand it over. But there’s nothing.

She shifts the reports aside without breaking eye contact, one hand dragging lazily down the edge of her desk like she’s tracing something there only she can see. “Come to my quarters after work today to collect it,” she says, and the words settle thick in the air between you, far heavier than the logistics they’re pretending to be.

The cadence of her voice is steady, but the meaning underneath curls at the edges, smoky and intentional, like she’s setting something alight just to see how you handle the heat. 

Your breath catches the way it always does when she talks like that, like you’re something she has, something she’s dressing for her own pleasure, and it coils low in your core before you can do anything to stop it. You shift your weight subtly, posture straightening like it might help you keep composure, but she sees it. Of course she sees it.

“Yes, Sergeant,” you manage, and even though you say it cleanly, your voice feels tight in your throat, too aware of the look in her eyes.

Her fingers tap once against the armrest, then curl into her palm, slow and deliberate, like she’s considering something else to say.

But she doesn’t. She just watches you a moment longer, long enough to make your skin buzz with awareness, before she turns her attention back to the reports and says, “Dismissed.”

Your mind races as you turn to leave, and you keep your pace steady as you close her office door behind you. But your heart is hammering in your chest, your palms a little sweaty, your whole body buzzing with the promise tucked behind that invitation.

The rest of the afternoon stretches out slow and steady. You lock in on your work, typing steadily, eyes flicking between spreadsheet cells and Sergeant Cho’s daily logs, going line by line with practiced focus. 

Across the room, Kim holds strong for a while, her brow furrowed in concentration as she clicks through a backlog of personnel requests, muttering to herself about someone’s misplaced gear inventory.

She’s meticulous when she wants to be, and for a while, she’s just as locked in as you are.

But somewhere around 3:30, her discipline starts to unravel. She slumps back in her chair with a soft groan, spinning side to side, sighing dramatically as she starts to scroll through her phone. A moment later she mutters something about coffee and wanders off to refill her mug in the kitchenette.

Kang, on the other hand, is still hunched over the office printer, his hands smudged with ink. You catch him muttering at the machine, pressing buttons with the cautious precision of someone who’s already lost this battle a dozen times.

Eventually, though, something clicks, literally, and the light on the console flips from orange to green with a cheerful beep. He throws both fists into the air with a triumphant “Hah!” and Kim cheers for him from the kitchenette.

And finally, it hits 5:00.

Sergeant Hwang’s door opens first. He’s talking on the phone as he exits, laughing about something you don’t catch, and Kim gives him a small wave as he walks past her desk. He flashes a quick smile, nods in your direction, and disappears through the main door without missing a beat.

Sergeant Park follows not long after, greeting Kang with a firm hand on the shoulder and a congratulations on fixing the printer. He waves at both you and Kim on the way out.

Sergeant Cho doesn’t say anything when she emerges from her office. Her gaze skims past Kim and Kang, then lands on you and lingers, long enough to warm the back of your neck. She looks at you like she’s thinking about something she hasn’t said out loud, something she intends to show you instead, and your heart skips once, then tries to recover.

She holds the stare for just a second longer, then gives a faint nod, barely more than a breath, and walks through the door.

Kim stretches in her seat like she’s been counting the minutes. “God, finally,” she mutters, reaching for her phone. Then she turns toward you, eyes a little brighter now that the workday is finally over. “You’re still coming with Kang and me to go dress shopping, right?”

Your mouth opens, then closes, and you freeze for a second, panicking a little. “Oh, uh – yeah. I mean–” You scramble, brain chasing timelines, only just now realizing that you promised your after work hours to both Sergeant Cho and Kim. “Actually, could we meet a little later? I just… need time to go back to the barracks and change into something that’s not a uniform.”

Kim tilts her head, then nods in understanding. “Oh. Yeah, good point. I probably should do the same.” She glances down at her regulation fatigues and makes a face. “Six fifteen good?”

You nod, a little too relieved. “Perfect.”

You don’t linger long, filing away your last report, shutting down your computer, and gathering your things with a calm that only barely masks the restless edge pushing through your chest.

You head back to the barracks and the moment your door closes behind you, you’re peeling off your uniform and reaching for the drawer where you keep your civilian clothes. You choose carefully, something soft and simple, but something that still fits you well and hugs the right lines.

Your selection is fairly small, considering there aren’t many opportunities to wear non-uniform clothing, but you land on a nice blouse, your favorite pair of jeans, and of course, your favorite jacket.

Your hands tremble once when you button your shirt, and you force yourself to pause, steady your breath, and look at your reflection long enough to smooth your expression. You don’t have time to lose composure here, not when you’re walking into something like this.

The sergeants’ quarters are located in the southern wing of the compound, tucked into the higher-security side of the base with badge-locked stairwells and quieter corridors, far from the bustle of enlisted housing. You’ve never had a reason to step foot inside this building before – but you do know which room is hers. You’ve filed maintenance requests for her busted overhead light, her faulty heating unit, a leak under the bathroom sink that took three separate visits to resolve. 

You pause outside the building’s glass-paneled door, shoulders squared, one hand tucked into your jacket pocket. Your ID badge feels too light on its lanyard, suddenly uncertain in its purpose. You have no idea if it’ll actually grant you access – this building is restricted to sergeants and above, and you’re none of those things.

If it doesn’t work, you don’t know what the hell you’re supposed to do. You don’t have her phone number. You also can’t hope a passing officer lets you in, not when you’d have to explain why you're here, who you’re going to see, and why you’re showing up after hours.

You shake your head and sigh quietly. No point standing around looking suspicious. You lift your badge to the reader, brace yourself, and tap it.

The panel beeps, a green light flickers, and the lock clicks.

You breathe out, push the door open, and step inside.

Your footsteps sound louder in these hallways, sharper, the tap of your shoes echoing with each turn. There’s no one else around, which is a relief.

The lighting in here is softer, warmer, and the corridor ahead branches into two distinct hallways, each marked by a small mounted plaque on the wall. You pause by the directory, reading through the listed room numbers. Her wing is clearly labeled with an arrow pointing left. You shift your weight, smooth a hand down the side of your blouse, then start walking.

Your pulse is a little too quick, and there's a warm heat blooming between your legs that only builds with every step closer to her private quarters. 

You glance at the room numbers as you go and the anticipation starts to spiral, crawling up your spine like static. You picture her inside – maybe she’s fresh out of the shower, maybe leaning against her bed, waiting. Maybe she’s already changed out of her uniform and you’ll get to see a different, more casual, less guarded version of her. Maybe she’s thinking about you the way you’ve been thinking about her all day, letting her thoughts drift south, imagining her hand sliding lower–

You shake your head once, a sharp exhale pushed through your nose.

She’s always had this effect on you. This is what she does. She looks at you like she knows how to take you apart and she enjoys the waiting. She tells you where to be and you go, no hesitation, no questions, no contingency plan beyond yes, Sergeant and whatever she wants next.

You don’t even know what she’s planning, just that she picked a dress. Just that she asked you to come here. Just that you want it bad enough to risk being caught in the wrong building for all the wrong reasons.

You slow your pace when her door comes into view – room 120, tucked down at the very end of the corridor. You approach it slowly, like the air gets heavier with each step. You keep your pace even, keep your expression blank, keep your hands from fidgeting, but your thoughts are anything but still.

You stop in front of her door, eyes scanning its surface like you’re expecting something to signify what’s about to happen, what’s already happened between you and the woman inside.

But there’s nothing. Just a standard military-issue door, a keycard reader, a doorbell button you don’t press.

You shift your weight onto your heels, inhale slowly through your nose, then roll your shoulders back. You smooth out your blouse again, fingers tugging it straight, more to give your hands something to do than because it needs adjusting. Your skin is warm, flushed from the walk – or from the thoughts you’ve been trying not to let spiral too far, thoughts of what she might be wearing, how close she might stand, what her voice might sound like when she’s in her own space and not at the office.

There’s no protocol for this, no regulation for showing up at your commanding officer’s private quarters fighting the kind of heat you should honestly be reprimanded for.

But she told you to come. So you bite your lip, glance once down the empty hallway, then lift your hand and knock.

The door opens after a moment, and the sight that greets you nearly sends you to your knees.

You can’t move, can’t speak, can’t do anything except stare, because standing in the doorway with one hand on the handle and the other bracing against the doorframe – is Sergeant Cho.

In her black combat boots, camo pants slung low on her hips, creased and clinging in all the right places, the waistband pulled tight with a simple black belt, and above that–

A black sports bra. 

And that’s all.

It’s almost too much. You almost turn around and walk out of the building.

She’s breathing a little heavily, her chest rising and falling with every breath, shoulders drawing tighter each time like she’s trying to slow it down, keep it contained. But there’s a flush high across her cheeks and a sheen of sweat on her brow, like you’ve caught her mid-workout.

Her biceps flex slightly where she braces herself against the doorframe, the veins in her forearm raised, the curve of her muscles catching the light as she shifts. Her shoulders roll once and the movement drags through her entire upper body, each ripple in her muscles carved out in real time, one after another, like something primal wants you to watch them move.

She’s big like this. Bigger than she looks in uniform. Broader. Raw. All sharp lines and thick muscle and precision coiled under skin. You’ve never seen this much of her, never seen her hair this messy, loose strands curling against the sweat along her temple, her neck, her jaw. Never seen her shoulders bare. Never seen the ridges of her muscles move.

Her eyes drag slowly across your body. Her jaw tightens and her brows lift just a fraction like she almost forgot you to look good in your civilian wear.

You don’t remember what your heart was doing before she opened the door, but it’s sprinting now. You swallow hard and try to remember how to speak, but your mouth is dry and your limbs are heavy and your brain is so thoroughly short-circuited that all you can do is just… stand there.

The smile that pulls at her mouth is barely there at first, just the tiniest shift in one corner of her lips, but when your mouth doesn’t close and your gaze lingers too long on her abs, her smile deepens. Coy, amused, smug in the way only someone absolutely certain of their effect can be. She doesn't say anything. She doesn’t have to. She just tilts her head slightly, then lets her arm drop from the doorframe with an easy, fluid motion, stepping back into the room with a grace that looks entirely effortless. 

It takes you a second to remember how to move. Your hand lingers near your side like you meant to do something with it, like tuck your hair behind your ear, steady yourself against the doorway, or rip off your clothes maybe – but your fingers stay curled as your body catches up to your brain.

You step inside.

The door clicks shut behind you, and for the first time, you’re standing in her space. Her personal space. Not the clinical office with its wooden desk and standard-issue filing cabinets – but hers.

She moves, crossing the room with the same calm, deliberate steps that have made you stop mid-sentence more times than you can count. She heads toward a selection of workout equipment, snags a small black towel from where it’s draped over the back of a chair, and swipes it across her brow, then down the line of her chest, the dark fabric catching against the slick heat of her skin. Her abs tighten as she moves the towel down them, her hips shifting with every pass, each subtle motion framed by the taper of her waist and the way her sports bra clings to the upper curve of her torso.

You tear your gaze away – force it away – because if you keep watching her, you’re definitely going to end up foregoing dress shopping altogether. You scan the room instead, trying to slow the thrum in your chest, the pulse hammering under your skin like it’s trying to beat its way to the surface.

Her quarters aren’t extravagant, but they’re distinctively hers. Everything is neat, functional, and well-maintained. A small gym setup takes up the side of the space where she stands, weights racked in tidy rows, a pull-up bar bolted into a support beam, a sleek black resistance machine with tension bands and padded grips stationed near the window. 

You caught her mid-workout. That’s what this is. The sweat, the breath, the heat radiating off her like a warning sign.

And now you’re here. Standing on the edge of her world while she dabs sweat from her toned body like you’re not seconds away from letting her take you and use you for her pleasure.

She tosses the towel back onto the chair, fingers raking through her hair. There’s a weight to her gaze, something heavy, like she’s settling into the moment the same way she does everything else – at her pace, on her terms, fully aware that you’ll follow her wherever she wants to take you.

She takes a few steps in your direction, her hips rolling subtly with every shift of weight, her arms loose at her sides, chest still rising a little faster than normal, dripping in post-workout heat and dangerous intent, like she knows just how much of your attention she’s stolen, and she’s savoring the power of it.

“You’re staring,” she says. Her voice is low, casual, teasing, and it cuts through the room like she’s laying down a challenge and knows damn well you won’t win it. Her lips part like she might say more, but she drags her tongue over her bottom lip instead, slow and deliberate, watching you tense at the sight of it.

Your mouth opens before your brain is ready, and it’s immediate panic – because you don’t have a response. You’re not ready. You’ll never be ready, not with the way she’s looking at you right now, like she wants to eat you alive but is taking her sweet time with it.

“I, uh–” you start, then cut yourself off with a sharp exhale, fingers twitching at your side like you need to do something with them before they reach out and touch every inch of her. You try again. “I wasn’t – staring, I just – uh. You – you look–”

She arches one brow as she comes to a stop in front of you, not quite touching, but close enough that you feel the warmth coming off her. Her head tilts just slightly to the side, her smile small and wicked as she raises her eyebrows, like she’s daring you to continue.

She’s every inch the lethal soldier they trained her to be, and every inch of that muscle and sweat and control is currently smiling at you like she’s enjoying the view just as much as you are.

“I–” You blink hard, mouth dry, every coherent thought tangling in the heat of her proximity. “You, uh… you look like you’ve been working out.”

Her laugh is soft but biting, a low hum that pulls from somewhere deep in her chest. “Mm. You don’t say.”

She steps closer.

It’s minor, barely even a full pace, but it closes the distance just enough that the toes of her boots brush against yours. She doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t touch. Just stands there, heat radiating off her bare skin, sweat clinging to the curve of her collarbone, her shoulders, her abs, every defined muscle flexing and shifting with each subtle inhale. Her breath stirs the hair at your temple.

You can feel your pulse jumping, high and tight in your throat, your whole body hot with something greedy and helpless and achingly aware of how much control she holds right now.

She watches your mouth again. And when you part your lips like maybe, just maybe, you’ll finally say something coherent, she smiles.

Your eyes dip again, drawn back down to where her sports bra ends and those sharp, defined lines begin. It’s the kind of muscle you don’t get from casual gym visits, but the kind that’s earned, deliberate, lethal – and it’s right there, inches from you, flexing softly every time she shifts her weight.

And you don’t even think before you speak.

“Can I…?”

Your voice is quiet and careful, like you know exactly what you’re asking for and exactly how dangerous it is to ask it. You flick your eyes back up to hers, searching her expression, heart pounding hard enough you can feel it everywhere, every inch of skin lit up and waiting.

She lifts her chin a little, lets her eyes roam your face, taking you in like she’s reading your pulse through your stare alone. Then, slowly, lazily, she smirks.

“You want to touch me?”

You nod, too fast, too eager, but you can’t make yourself care. She’s inviting you in, and your mouth is already parting like you might try to explain yourself, to soften it somehow, but she speaks again before you can. And when she does, her voice is low and full of heat.

“Then touch me.”

It doesn’t feel like permission. It feels like an order. Like a command dressed in silk.

Your hand lifts, and when your fingers hover just above her skin, you hesitate, breath catching as you watch the way her abs tighten beneath the anticipation. And then, carefully, reverently, you press your palm against her stomach.

She’s warm and solid under your touch, muscles twitching just slightly where your fingertips trail upward. You splay your hand across her abdomen, feel the flex of her body beneath you like it’s responding to your presence alone, and you let your fingers drift across her toned, defined abs, slow, stunned, like you’re not sure she’s real.

You don’t know how long your hand stays on her stomach. You don’t know if time is moving forward at all, or if it’s just folding itself around this moment like it wants to keep it preserved, untouched, suspended between heartbeats and heavy breaths.

Her skin is hot beneath your palm, damp from the workout she didn’t finish, and every shift of muscle beneath your touch sends a pulse straight between your legs, vivid and electric and impossible to hide.

Your gaze drags higher, slow, cautious, half in disbelief that you’re even allowed to look – and you catch the rise of her chest again, the strength in her collarbones, the curve of her shoulder. And then your eyes land on her arms.

Her biceps are carved, built, defined. Toned like sculpture, the kind of strength that speaks in restrained power, in precision, in control. You don’t mean to stare, but it’s not like you can stop.

She sees it, and her mouth lifts again in just a hint of a smirk, like she likes that she’s caught you frozen, like she’s proud of the mess she’s making out of you. She bites her bottom lip like she’s winding the tension even tighter just to watch what it does to you.

“Wanna feel those too?” she murmurs, low and slow, and it should be a joke but it isn’t. Not when her voice dips like that. Not when your thighs press together and your chest feels too full and you’re nodding before you can stop yourself, breath caught in your throat, already reaching for her like your body answered first.

She lifts one arm, smooth and steady, her forearm curling upward as she tightens her bicep, and she flexes.

You reach for her arm and she holds the pose as your fingers hover and then settle gently against her.

Your fingertips trace along the curve of her arm, marveling at how solid it is, how she’s all coiled tension under your touch, taut and responsive and so strong you almost can’t believe it. Her bicep pushes up against your hand, flexed beneath your palm, and you feel every inch of that power, not distant or implied or buried beneath layers of uniform – right there, under your hand, offered to you.

You exhale. Quiet. Awestruck. Like you’ve just been handed something holy and dangerous and far too much to handle all at once.

She watches you. You can feel her eyes on your mouth, your neck, your chest rising and falling a little too fast.

You run your fingers down the lines of her arm, feel the way the muscles dip and curve, how they tense under your touch, and you can’t stop your thoughts from spiraling, from wondering what it would feel like to be fully beneath her, to be held there, to have those arms bracketing you in with no way to escape.

You want to be claimed by this. By her. You want her to press you down and leave fingerprints on your hips and–

“Good?” she asks, voice amused, quiet, a little smug. Like she knows exactly what’s going through your head.

Your thumb drags slowly over the peak of her bicep, your whole hand cradling the flex of it, and you nod, not even pretending to be composed anymore.

Her arm is solid beneath your palm, taut from the flex, like every inch of her was carved out of heat and control and raw power. You barely notice how long you’ve been touching her, feeling the line where muscle meets muscle, the way her skin practically hums under your fingertips. 

That same half-smile curls at her lips, proud and dangerous and entirely too pleased with herself. Her eyes flick to your mouth for a split second, then back to your eyes.

You open your mouth, maybe to speak, maybe to beg, maybe just to breathe her name, but the moment never arrives.

Because she lowers her arm and moves her hand to your jaw, slow and deliberate, fingers curling under your chin to tilt your face up. Her thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, gentle at first, then firmer when your breath stutters.

You can’t move. You don’t want to. She’s looking at you like you’re something precious and breakable and hers, and the heat rolling off her body is like a furnace, caging you in with nothing but muscle and sweat and absolute control.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” she whispers, quiet and steady, like a promise.

And you nod. You can’t speak. You can barely think.

Her mouth crashes into yours a second later.

There’s no soft testing of waters, no hesitation, no slow build. Just heat. Her lips are full and demanding and she kisses like she’s making up for every moment she’s spent not doing exactly this. Her hand keeps your jaw tilted where she wants it, thumb sliding along your cheek as she presses in, breath hot against your skin, her body radiating strength in every inch that doesn’t quite touch you.

You feel her teeth scrape your bottom lip in the faintest tug, and you let out a soft moan, your knees nearly giving out under the weight of it. She eases up just enough to catch your mouth again, slower, sloppier, tongue teasing against yours, and you taste sweat and power and something burning low in your core.

Her mouth claims yours like it’s routine and reverent all at once, like she knows exactly what you taste like and wants it again and again, deeper this time, harder. Her thumb presses along your jaw, coaxing your mouth open further, and you let her take, let her pull that low noise from your throat like she’s done before and certainly will do again. 

You move your hands, sliding to her waist, fingers tracing over the ridges of muscle along her sides. Her skin is warm and impossibly firm under your touch. Every breath she takes makes her abs tighten just slightly, shifting under your palms in a way that steals your own breath. You slide your hands higher, along the shape of her back, slow and searching, marveling at the strength there, the way her spine dips between ridges of muscle, the tension in her shoulders, the sheer solidity of her.

Her breath hitches when your nails scrape lightly down her back, and she presses in closer, exhaling against your lips.

She pulls you in, one hand staying at your jaw, keeping your mouth right where she wants it, while the other slides down to your hip, tugging you flush against her until there’s no space left, no air between you. Her body is heat and pressure and control, her lips dragging over yours again and again, teasing at the edges of something rougher, something filthier.

You kiss her like you’ve done it dozens of times before – because you have – but it still burns through you like it’s brand new, like every time you touch her it rewrites what desire even feels like.

She breaks the kiss with the kind of maddening slowness that makes your lips chase hers, rising onto your toes like you can follow her back into it if you just reach far enough. But her hand tightens slightly at your waist, holding you steady, holding you there, and it’s only when you open your eyes, dazed and wanting, that you catch the look in hers.

Smoldering doesn’t begin to cover it. There’s heat, but there’s also satisfaction, pride, and possession. She licks her bottom lip once, like she’s tasting you, and when she catches the way your gaze dips to follow the motion, she smirks again, lazy and lethal.

“I have something for you,” she says, her voice low and edged with something knowing.

You blink, catching your breath, trying to remember where the hell you are. “I’ll take whatever you give me,” you murmur before you can stop yourself, voice rough and quiet and embarrassingly sincere.

She huffs out a soft laugh through her nose, and it’s fond and amused, like she enjoys this version of you, blinking up at her like you’d follow her into open fire if she asked. Her thumb drags once along the edge of your jaw, soft and slow.

“Your dress,” she says, and the words take a second to register, swimming somewhere in the heat-flooded corners of your brain.

“My what?” you ask, still half-lost in her, in the press of her body, in the weight of her touch.

She tilts her head slightly, smiling. “The dress I chose for you. For the banquet.”

“Oh.” You swallow. “Right. Um – right. The dress.”

She steps back a pace, dragging her hand down your side as she does, palm catching at your hip before slipping away completely. Her body turns toward the doorway off to the side, and she backs through it with the same controlled confidence she always has, her gaze never leaving yours.

You follow without thinking, not even fully aware of your legs moving, just tracking her with something close to awe.

You step through the threshold like it means something, like you’re crossing into new terrain, and the air feels different here – quieter, heavier, charged with whatever comes next.

Her bedroom is just as immaculate as the front room, everything crisp and precise, exactly like you thought it would be. The lighting is low, warm, softening the edges of the space just enough to make it feel more like a bedroom and less like another extension of her military rank.

Her bed is huge, sitting against the wall to the right, corners tucked, sheets pulled so tight you could probably bounce a coin off the duvet. It’s the first thing your eyes land on, the most obvious shift in tone. 

Your stomach flips. You try not to let yourself look at it for too long.

She walks ahead of you like she doesn’t even notice how close you came to unraveling in her entryway, like she doesn’t know what this space does to you, what the idea of her, here, pulling you close against those sheets, might be doing to your brain. She crosses the floor with her usual steady gait and stops at the tall wardrobe on the left side of the room.

The door is cracked open, and you notice the garment bag hanging from the top of it as she reaches for it.

“You–” your voice stumbles and you swallow and try again. “You didn’t have to get me a dress. I could’ve picked one out.”

She glances down at you, her hand resting against the garment bag’s zipper, her eyes unreadable for a moment – then she tilts her head, just slightly, and the light catches the sharp line of her jaw, the faint sheen of sweat on her brow. Her expression sharpens, full of heat and something heavier, something staking claim.

“I didn’t want you to pick one out,” she says simply, voice smooth as steel. “I wanted to choose what you’d wear.”

Your breath stutters in your chest.

She turns back to the bag and pulls the zipper down in one long, deliberate motion. She pushes the canvas back like she’s revealing a weapon, not an outfit, and when she steps aside, you finally see what’s inside.

It’s dark green, rich and saturated, and the silky fabric catches the light like water. The neckline dips just enough to make your heart pound, and the shape of it suggests it’ll trace every line of your body, hugging you in every right way.

Sergeant Cho doesn’t say anything, just watches you with that same quiet heat as you reach out to feel it, running the fabric through your fingers.

Your gaze tracks lower, and then freezes when you see the slit on the left side.

It’s long and high, the kind of high that will probably go all the way up your thigh. You blink. You blink again. You run your hand along the fabric, fingers catching on the edge of the slit, and you exhale a little harder than you mean to, your mouth parting.

“You want me to wear this?” you murmur, mostly to yourself.

She doesn’t hesitate. “I want you standing there in silk I chose for you,” she says, voice low. “I want that dress clinging where I’d hold you, and opening where I’d spread you.”

You look up at her, your heart hammering behind your ribs, at a complete loss for words. She meets your gaze head-on, her body close, her mouth set in a line that looks far too pleased with your reaction.

You don’t even realize you’re doing it until your eyes land on the bed again. It’s just – there. Massive, neatly made, the corners so sharp they might actually slice.

But what holds you in place isn’t the size, or the precision, or even the private intimacy of knowing this is where she sleeps – it’s the weight of it, the implication. You’re standing in her bedroom. A place no one else is supposed to enter, a place where her uniform comes off and she’s just Hyun-ju. A place she might not keep secrets – or maybe one she keeps all of them.

You glance back at the dress, your fingers brushing the slit in the fabric, but your mind won’t settle. Her bed is so close.

You look back at it. You could step backwards and your calves would hit the edge of it. You could sit down, lean back, let her–

“You keep looking at it,” she says, voice low, amused.

Your breath stalls, and your eyes dart up just in time to see the smirk that’s playing on her lips, the subtle arch of her brow, the measured way she tilts her head. You open your mouth, but the words tangle before they can form, and she’s already stepping closer.

Her boots are nearly silent against the floor. The soft tread of them muffled but felt, like the slow, deliberate press of a hand against your skin. She stops when she’s just close enough to crowd your space without touching, and the heat radiating from her body feels stronger now, sharper, tinged with something that prickles at your spine and pulses between your legs.

“Is there something you want?” she asks coyly, like she already knows the answer and is just giving you a chance to say it yourself. She glances at the bed and then back at you, and the movement is slow and measured.

You swallow, hard.

“No,” you manage, but your voice comes out rough, and your eyes drop immediately to her mouth.

She smiles. The kind of smile that says she knows exactly how wrecked you are and she’s not done with you yet. One side of her mouth pulls just slightly higher, and her eyes flick down your body, not in appraisal, but in acknowledgment. Like she’s already touched you everywhere and is just mentally retracing the path.

Your knees almost buckle on principle.

The heat between you expands, thickening with every breath. You want to say something, anything, but she’s so close, and your body is stuck in that electric limbo between restraint and surrender, between manners and need. You don’t even realize how tightly your fingers are gripping the edge of the dress until she reaches out and pries them free, her palm warm as it brushes yours, slow and intentional.

“You sure?” she murmurs, and it sounds almost idle, like she’s just making an observation. But her tone is too smooth, too deliberate, and the way her eyes drag over your face makes it feel like a game she’s already won. Her hand lingers on yours, then drops, brushing against the side of her thigh.

You wet your lips and swallow hard.

That earns another slow smile, the kind that builds from the corners and takes its time reaching her eyes. She steps forward.

You try to take a step back, but there’s no room. The back of your legs hit the bed frame and your balance slips, and before you can even catch yourself, you’re falling back onto the mattress with a soft, shocked breath. She watches you go like she planned for it to happen, like this has all been set on rails since the moment you walked through her door. 

And she follows you.

Her arms brace on the bed beside your head, and her body hovers over yours with unbearable heat. Her leg lifts smoothly, her knee fitting perfectly into the space between your thighs, the press of it sending a jolt of awareness straight through your core. 

You’re breathless. She’s looking down at you like you’re something worth devouring.

“You look good here,” she says, quiet and low. “Just like I’ve imagined.”

You blink up at her, barely able to form a thought. You open your mouth, but no words come out. She leans in slightly, just enough for your noses to brush, just enough to force your eyes to almost flutter shut and your breath to stutter.

Her voice is barely audible when she speaks against your lips.

“You sure there’s nothing you want?” she asks.

Her knee shifts between your legs, close enough that you feel the threat of it, the weight behind the possibility. Her arms are braced around you, her body hovering but so solid, so present, that your breath catches again. She looks down at you with something quieter now, something darker, and then she leans in.

Her lips brush the corner of your jaw. Just once. Just enough to make you shiver.

You tilt your head without thinking, giving her more of your neck, and she hums under her breath like she expected you to. Like she’s learned the rhythm of your body over time, cataloged every one of your tells and reactions and involuntary gasps and tucked them away for moments like this. Her mouth trails, warm and open just beneath your ear, then lower still, her breath rolling down the slope of your throat in a slow, steady stream that leaves your skin prickling.

She kisses there, near your pulse point, and you don’t even try to hold back the soft sound that slips out. She feels it, hears it, smiles against you like that’s what she brought you here for.

“You don’t even need orders anymore, do you?” she murmurs, so quiet it barely registers at first. Her lips graze your skin again, then pull back just enough for her words to land, weighted and real.

Heat flares up your spine like it’s been lit from the base, and you make a sound, something between a moan and a choked breath, embarrassed and wrecked and clinging to composure like it’s still something you might get back. Her knee presses forward, slow and steady, applying just enough pressure to make your hips grind gently against it, and her mouth dips to your collarbone, teeth grazing lightly as she speaks again.

“Every inch of you, laid out and waiting for me,” Her voice is low, teasing, almost indulgent. “What am I supposed to do with that, I wonder?”

You inhale sharply, biting down on a moan as her knee shifts again, deliberate now, angled just right. She exhales against your throat, then lifts her head just enough to meet your eyes.

“Let me fuck you the way I’ve been thinking about all week,” she whispers, her voice like smoke.

She kisses you like everything in her hands – your body, your time, your breath – is hers to decide what to do with. Her mouth drags along your jaw, the shape of each kiss spelled out in heat, lips parted just slightly, her tongue tasting every inch of skin she can reach. One of her hands braces against your side, warm through your blouse, firm enough that you can feel every place her fingers press down.

You tip your head back against the bed, lips parted, barely breathing, and she follows the stretch of your neck like it’s something she’s been waiting to sink her teeth into for days. Her breath coasts along your skin as she kisses under your chin, the edge of your jaw, the hollow of your throat. When her teeth skim across your pulse, your whole body tenses and her fingers slip under your blouse like she’s thinking about lifting it.

"Fuck,” you whisper, and it’s not even a word anymore, it’s just the shape of one, a sound soaked in heat, your fingers digging into her biceps like you’re trying to hang on to something solid.

She hums, pleased, then tilts her head and kisses the underside of your jaw again. “I like it when you sound like that,” she murmurs, low and close and smug as hell. Her hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your cheekbone, her body so close now that your chest rises with hers, breath syncing without you meaning to. “I like knowing I did that to you.”

You gasp, then moan, quiet, desperate, too far gone to care, and it’s all too much, her body over yours, the taste of her, the weight of her, the way her thigh is pressing just enough between your legs to make pleasure pulse through you each time you roll your hips against it. Your hands trail from her arms to her back, pulling her down, closer, tighter, until her chest is pressed flush against yours and her abs are against your stomach and every muscle on her feels like it was carved out for your hands to explore.

And just as her lips part against your collarbone, and she breathes in like she’s about to say something filthy, or cruel, or hot enough to ruin you–

You say, “Wait.”

She breathes out against your skin, slow and controlled, like she heard you, and she’s giving you the chance to take it back.

But you don’t. You swallow hard and whisper, “I – I can’t – I can’t stay.”

That gets her to lift her head. Her brows knit just slightly, and then one arches, a slow, deliberate raise that borders on offense. Her expression is unreadable at first, caught somewhere between curiosity and disbelief, but her voice is calm when she speaks.

“You can’t stay?” she repeats, like she’s trying the words on her tongue to see if they make any sense.

You nod, guilt and need tangling up in your chest like you’re choking on both. “I – I told Kim and Kang I’d go dress shopping with them, I’m – I’m supposed to meet them soon.”

Her gaze flicks down to your mouth and you see the quick twitch of her jaw, the faintest press of her tongue against the inside of her cheek, her thumb still resting against your face. She doesn’t say anything right away, just holds there, staring at you like she’s working something out in her head, like she’s debating whether to push harder or let you go.

Her hand slides down, brushing your jaw as it drops, then trails along your neck and rests at your collarbone. “Of all the things to stop me for,” she mutters, almost amused.

“I’m sorry–”

She cuts you off before the second syllable can even settle between you.

“Don’t be.”

It’s not flippant. It’s not cold. It’s low and rough and full of something dangerous, like if you gave her half a reason, she’d push you into the mattress and finish what she started, dress shopping and friendships and consequences be damned.

Her thumb skims your collarbone before she leans down and kisses you again, firm, slow, and decisive. The kind of kiss that makes your hips grind against her thigh and your hands grip her bare back, the kind that coaxes a low, aching noise from your throat before you can stop it. She drags it out like she knows exactly what it’s doing to you, like she wants to brand it into your memory. Like she wants you thinking about this while you’re out tonight, picking out dresses with shaky fingers and flushed cheeks, tasting the memory of her mouth on yours.

She breaks it, pulling back far enough to breathe, then farther still, leaning back up and stepping away from the bed until she stands at the foot of it, looking down at you with an expression that’s both smug and restrained. Her arms fall to her sides, chest rising with a slow inhale, abs flexing with the motion.

You sit up, dazed, your breathing uneven. When you glance up at her face, her expression shifts to something softer and less teasing. She lifts one hand and strokes your cheek, fingers light against your skin, and you lean into the touch. Her hand is warm, steady, possessive.

Your gaze dips. Her abs are taut and glistening in the low light, rising and falling with each breath. The tension in them is unreal. Every muscle is defined, carved, flexing slightly as she shifts her weight from one leg to the other.

You reach for her before you can think better of it, your hands settling at her hips, fingers sliding under the hem of her pants where the waistband is slung low. You hook them there, letting your fingertips skim over the curve of her hipbones, your thumbs brushing the faintest trail of muscle just above her belt buckle.

You look up. She’s watching you.

And fuck, you want to keep going. You want to lean forward, press your mouth to her stomach, drag your tongue along the sharp line that cuts down through her abs and then lower, feel her flinch from the heat of it. You want to mouth at her like you're worshipping her. Like that’s all you're meant to do. The urge is dizzying as it climbs up your spine, settles between your legs, lights up your nerves like every part of you is screaming to stay.

But before you can move, before you can lean in, before your lips can even part – her voice comes, low and rough and you feel it scrape against your skin.

“Didn’t you say you have somewhere to be?”

You let out a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a groan, eyes fluttering shut as your hands tighten around her belt. She smiles, just barely, and reaches down to wrap her fingers around your wrists. Her grip is firm but not forceful as she peels your hands from her hips like she knows exactly how to touch you without breaking you, but also without letting you pretend for a second that you’re in control.

Her gaze doesn’t leave yours as she pulls you up off the bed in one smooth motion that has your body tilting forward into her space again before you catch yourself.

Her fingers linger, the pads of her thumbs brushing over your wrists like she’s trying to commit every pulse, every tremble, every second of hesitation that crackles under your skin to memory. Her mouth is so close you could tilt your head forward and taste her again, feel the curve of her smirk against your lips and see how long it would take before she lost her composure entirely.

But instead, she pulls back, her touch falling away. You blink, breath caught somewhere in your throat, and watch as she crosses the room with that same deliberate stride, lean muscles shifting under her skin, her back flexing with each step as she makes her way to the wardrobe and unhooks the hanger from the door.

The garment bag rustles faintly as she lifts it off the hook. She pauses just long enough to glance over her shoulder, catching your eyes again, then tips her head toward the doorway.

The front room feels smaller now, charged with everything you didn’t do, thick with the remnants of everything you wanted to. The tension clings to the air like humidity as she walks you to the door without a word, and when she stops in front of it and turns to face you, there’s something unreadable in her expression. You think it might be restraint. You think it might be wanting.

She holds the dress out to you, her voice quiet but rich, like it was dipped in heat before it left her mouth. “It’s too bad, you know,” she says, her fingers brushing yours as you take the garment bag from her. “I was hoping I’d get to see you in this tonight.”

You swallow and her eyes drop to your lips.

“But I guess I’ll just have to wait until Friday.”

Your stomach flips as your fingers tighten around the garment bag. The heat between you is unbearable.

You breathe in, then out, slower than you mean to, and your voice scrapes out low. “I’ll wear it for you.”

Her gaze flicks up to meet yours again, sharp and steady, and there’s no mistaking the satisfaction in her eyes, how she lingers in it, how she lets it settle before she moves closer again. Her hand rises to your jaw, her thumb stroking your cheek, and she tilts your face up.

“Good,” she murmurs, and leans in.

This kiss is slower, deeper, cruel in the way it leaves you gasping into her mouth, like it’s meant to tide you over until next time – like she knows it won’t. You lean into her, breath hitching when she sucks lightly on your bottom lip before pulling away with one last press, one last taste, and when she finally lets go, your eyes stay closed for half a second longer.

You open them to find her watching you, her gaze heavy on your mouth.

“Go,” she says, voice soft, almost amused.

You nod once and adjust your grip on the garment bag, step backward, fingers brushing the edge of the door as she eases it open. Your pulse is hammering and your thighs ache from the tension.

And when you step out into the hallway, the door closing behind you with a soft, final click, all you can think about is how the hell you’re supposed to feign interest in doing anything other than making her open that door back up and fucking you against the wall.

~*~

The boutique has a narrow storefront and a tiny bell that jingles when you push the door open, and from the outside it looks like it might only have a few cocktail dresses hanging on wire racks – but inside, it’s wall-to-wall formalwear, rows and rows of gowns in every color, every length, for every occasion imaginable.

Kang is elbow-deep in a display rack when he calls out, “Kim, over here! You would look so good in this,” he says, straight-faced.

She steps over to him and he holds up a satin monstrosity that glitters in three different kinds of reflective trim. The neckline is covered in rhinestones, the bodice bedazzled, and there’s fringe beading dangling off the sleeves like a chandelier.

Kim makes a noise of disgust that borders on theatrical and swats his arm. “You are an actual criminal,” she says, and pushes past him toward the other end of the display rack. “I’m not showing up to a military banquet looking like a vintage light fixture.”

You grin and flip through a display rack on the opposite side, hands brushing over gauzy fabrics and silky finishes, searching for something that might suit her.

A few dresses later, you find a blush-pink number with a structured bodice and delicate straps, simple but elegant, something that would look sweet on her. You slip it off the rack and head over.

“What about this one?” you ask, holding it up by the hanger so the skirt sways a little.

Kim tilts her head. “Mm.”

Kang glances over, his face brightening. “I really like that one.”

Kim shrugs one shoulder. “It’s pretty. I just don’t know if it’s me, you know?”

She’s not wrong – it is pretty, but as you think about it, she’s never really gone for soft or demure. She needs something with more edge, more structure. Something that fits her personality more.

Kang freezes mid-step, his eyes locked on a rack by the far wall. “Wait. Wait wait wait.”

Kim barely glances up. “What now?”

You watch as he beelines toward the far corner like he’s been summoned by divine force, sifting through the dresses with intense purpose until he finds it. And when he pulls it free from the rack and holds it up, there’s a beat of silence.

It’s a black gown, floor-length and fitted through the waist, with wide shoulder straps and a square neckline. The entire outer layer is overlaid with black lace, thick enough to give it texture, delicate enough to catch the light. Sleek and striking without trying too hard. Definitely not soft, and definitely not sweet.

He presents it to her like he’s just unearthed a treasure. “Tell me this isn’t exactly what you’ve been picturing.”

Kim walks over and stops in front of it, eyes dragging from the neckline to the hem. She doesn’t speak right away.

“Well?” Kang asks.

She purses her lips. “It is nice. Put it in the maybe pile.”

Kang makes a victorious noise and drapes it over the ever-growing collection of dresses he’s carrying in one arm. 

Kim turns to you, her brow lifted as she studies you with an assessing, lightly exasperated look. “Are you sure you don’t want to buy a new dress?” she asks, voice pitched casual, but the words laced with that subtle, persistent concern of hers. “I don’t wanna be the only one shopping. It feels unfair.”

You flip through the rack in front of you, looking at gowns in every shade of navy and grey. Sequins, lace, satin, a velvet dress that seems like it would trap sweat like a sponge.

You lie through your teeth with an easy grin that sells it as truth. “I already told you, I’m borrowing one from a friend. I don’t need to spend two hundred thousand won on a dress I’m only going to wear once.”

Kim groans, her head tipping all the way back.

“But that shouldn’t stop you from finding something you like,” you say, picking a black halter dress off the rack and holding it up toward her, one eye squinting like you’re trying to picture it on her. It’s a simple silhouette, fitted at the waist, flowy skirt, a little slit in the back, and honestly pretty cute. Kim raises an eyebrow, and you smirk before slipping it back onto the hanger. 

Kim lets out a dry little laugh. “Yeah, yeah.”

“And besides,” you add, jerking your chin toward the mirror near the corner, “look how much fun Kang is having.”

You both turn just in time to catch him standing in front of the full-length mirror with a fire-red cocktail dress held up to his body. It’s short, strappy, and aggressively sexy. He’s adjusted his stance, one hip cocked, lips pursed like he’s halfway through a photoshoot.

He notices you finally watching and raises his eyebrows in the mirror, striking an even deeper pose. “What do we think?” he asks, chin tilted upward like he’s expecting a real critique. “Too sexy?”

Kim lets out a sharp whistle and shouts back, “Not sexy enough!”

The three of you laugh as Kim veers off toward a rack of jewel-toned gowns near the fitting rooms, holding one out in front of her with a skeptical eye, while Kang hangs the red cocktail dress back up.

You glance after them, then take a slow step in the opposite direction, pretending to scan a few more displays, your hand trailing across a line of structured bodices and satin-finish sleeves.

The lingerie section is tucked into the back of the store in a small alcove, subtle and dimmer than the rest of the boutique, arranged with folded silk robes, lace-trimmed underthings, and mannequins dressed in lingerie that looks like it costs more than your monthly stipend. You glance back over your shoulder and you slip toward it.

It’s quieter here, the music muffled, the lights warmer. The racks are lower and the mannequins are spaced wider apart, like the store wants you to feel like you’re stepping into something private, something intimate.

You let your fingers graze a silk robe hanging from a low bar, deep burgundy, edged in scalloped lace, so light it feels like water between your fingertips. There are matching sets, some delicate and frilly, others barely there at all. There are thongs stitched with ribbon, sheer bras with structured cups, little clips and straps that cross in intricate patterns. One of the displays holds corsets in varying shades of black, green, and wine red, boned and buckled and laced with care. The tags are minuscule, the prices obscene.

You look over your shoulder again.

Kim has a dress slung over one arm now and is lifting another, holding it to the light. She’s facing away. Safe enough.

You keep going.

The deeper you wander into the section, the more your heartbeat slows into something heavier. There’s a display tucked labeled Soft Luxe which has a wide, shallow drawer of underwear, all loosely folded, lace-trimmed, silky, cotton, and mesh. Some high-waisted, some low. Some cut so high in the hips it feels like a dare.

You reach in and gently shift through the options. There’s something weirdly reverent about it – private, quiet. You’re not even sure what you’re looking for, only that your fingers keep moving, slow and idle, brushing over the fabric like you’re trying to feel out an answer.

And really, you’re not even thinking about yourself. 

You’re thinking about what it would be like to slip back into her quarters at the end of the banquet, her hands impatient, her eyes sharp and dark. You’re thinking about how she’ll react to seeing you wore something like this underneath the dress she picked out for you, something delicate and completely for her. If she’d notice the detail, or just tear it off with her teeth. If she’d say something smug, or something low and quiet and only meant for your ears. If she’d back you against the wall, or press you face-first into her mattress, or hook her finger through the waistband and pull slowly until you were begging.

You brush past a cream pair with a high waist and a little bow at the center, a burgundy set that looks gorgeous but costs more than your entire grocery bill last month, and a black, strappy thong.

And then you spot something tucked into the corner of the drawer like it’s waiting for someone to notice it, pale blue lace folded neatly around itself with scalloped edges. It’s delicate without being frilly, light without being too sheer, and the shape of it looks like it’ll hug your hips in exactly the right way, like it was designed for touch. Like it was made to be seen.

You pick it up and turn it over in your hands, your fingers tracing the design of the lace, the soft press of the seams, the thin line of the waistband. The price tag is surprisingly reasonable, not so cheap that it feels flimsy, but not so expensive that you’ll have to justify it to yourself later.

Your throat tightens a little.

She’d like this.

You glance over your shoulder again. Kim is holding a new dress up in front of a mirror, frowning at the color, Kang holding out the skirt to see how flowy it is.

You slip the underwear into your hand and make your way toward the front counter, heart beginning to pick up speed the closer you get. There’s only one staff member stationed at the register, a younger woman in a sleek black blouse, and she offers you a soft smile as you approach, setting the underwear gently on the counter.

She scans the tag, tells you the total, and waits while you fumble with your wallet to tap your card. It’s a twenty-second transaction, maybe less, but it feels longer, hotter, like your body is broadcasting something it shouldn’t be. Like it’s obvious you’re not just buying lingerie – you’re preparing for something. For someone.

When the woman hands you the small bag, you shove it into your purse. The movement feels rushed, maybe even a little clumsy, but you can’t help it.

You head back over to Kim and Kang, your purse tucked close to your side, smoothing your face into something easy and unreadable.

Kim has her back to you, arms crossed as she eyes a new row of deep emerald dresses, and Kang’s arms are loaded with dresses, hangers clinking and scraping as he shifts the pile higher against his chest. He raises his brows at Kim, adjusting his grip with a dramatic huff.

“Okay, Kim. These dresses are starting to get heavy. Do you think you have enough?”

She squints at him like she’s trying to pretend she doesn’t hear the faint threat of complaint in his voice, but after a beat, she exhales through her nose and tips her head. “Yeah, probably.”

Kang hangs the dresses up in the fitting room and takes a seat on the small velvet couch, stretching his legs out and getting comfortable.

You join him as Kim tugs the curtain closed behind her.

The first dress she emerges in is black, long, and dramatic, and the neckline plunges so low that she’s got one arm braced across her chest, the fabric gaping open beneath her hand. “I can feel a draft,” she says flatly, already turning halfway back around. 

Kang immediately covers his eyes as he turns his face away and you and Kim exchange a firm, synchronized “No.”

She disappears again, muttering something about fashion designers having no respect for physics, and the next dress she steps out in is flowy and pastel, a flurry of multicolored chiffon that moves when she walks like it’s alive.

The moment you see it, your mouth pulls into a slow grimace, and Kang actually recoils like the dress offended him personally.

Kim watches both of your faces and makes a noise in the back of her throat. “That bad?”

“Little too…” you start, then trail off, fluttering your hands in an imitation of the way the skirt sways.

“Got it.” She spins on her heel and vanishes into the dressing room again.

The third one is burgundy velvet, sleek and rich in color, and both you and Kang let out impressed sounds when she steps out in it. It hugs her in all the right places, high neckline, long sleeves, a subtle slit in the skirt, and it suits her – elegant but understated.

Kang whistles. “That’s a contender.”

You nod, admiring the way it fits across her shoulders. “That color looks amazing on you.”

But she frowns at her reflection in the mirror, tilting her head one way, then the other. “I dunno. It’s nice, but it doesn’t really feel like me.”

Kang groans. “How does looking hot not feel like you?”

She snorts and flicks her eyes toward him. “It’s too… old lady.”

“Old lady? Kim–” you start, but she’s already waving you off, retreating into the fitting room again.

She tries on half a dozen more dresses, all of them receiving varying degrees of “no” – and then she comes out in the one Kang picked.

It’s black, floor-length, with thick straps that sit neatly on her shoulders and a lace overlay that runs from the bodice down to the hem in delicate, floral patterns. It’s sleek without being tight, fitted enough to highlight her waist and her hips, and it has that rare balance of sharp and soft that makes it look like it was made for her.

Kang lets out a low, appreciative whistle.

You blink, taking her in, your eyes dragging from the way the fabric dips across her collarbones to the subtle shimmer in the lace when she moves beneath the lights. “Damn,” you say finally, grinning. “Do a spin.”

Kim rolls her eyes, but she turns slowly in front of the mirror, the skirt swaying just slightly with each step. When she finishes the circle, she pauses with one hand on her hip, eyes flicking between the two of you.

Kang lifts his fists and lets out a loud, celebratory whoop that makes a woman browsing a nearby rack jump. “Yes! That’s the one!”

Kim can’t help it – she beams. The kind of real, caught-off-guard smile that breaks past whatever performance she was putting on, her posture easing, her shoulders falling just a bit. She looks back at her reflection, smoothing her hands over the sides of the dress.

“Okay,” she says, voice a little quieter. “Yeah. This is definitely it.”

She disappears into the fitting room one last time to change. She pays, and when she finally rejoins you, dress bag draped over one arm and a look of quiet satisfaction on her face, there’s a small, collective exhale between the three of you. You leave the store together, the warm evening air brushing along your skin as the bell jingles above you.

Kang offers to hold the garment bag for her when you get to the bus stop, and she hands it off to him.

And you think about the lingerie hidden in your purse. 

You imagine her seeing it. Not at first, not right away, not while the lights are still up and your voice is still polite. But later, after the banquet, when it’s just the two of you. When her hands move lower, when she realizes what you’re wearing beneath the dress she picked out.

You picture her expression, how it might shift. The way her eyes would narrow, how her jaw would flex once she understands what you’ve done. Not for attention, not for praise – just for her.

The thought settles low, spreading out like warmth through your limbs, and you have to glance away, jaw tight against a smile you don’t mean to show. You stare out across the street, at nothing in particular, and breathe slowly through your nose until the fluttering sensation eases into something steadier, something you can hold onto.

Chapter Text

The building rises ahead of you in clean glass and white stone, all sleek lines and polished edges, with wide vertical windows that catch the light just right and reflect the motion of passing traffic around you.

You step out of the transport and feel the air shift, warm against your leg where the slit in your dress opens in a way that doesn’t feel accidental. The fabric brushes light and silky against your skin, and the slit climbs high, most of the way up your thigh, and it parts with every step you take, baring skin in flashes that feel almost indecent.

It feels dangerous. Like something you shouldn’t be wearing to a work event. Like something that wasn’t meant to be worn by someone who’s supposed to blend in.

But she picked it for you.

That’s the thing you keep circling back to. She knew what she was doing when she picked it out, knew how high the slit would rise, knew how exposed you’d be. She chose the color, the shape, the way the neckline dips just low enough to draw the eye without starting a scandal.

She didn’t ask you to wear something tighter, or sheer, or practically painted on – but you would have. You know that. If she’d handed you something with less fabric and more intention, you’d have worn that, too. You’d have walked into this banquet in anything she wanted – low-cut, skin-tight, mesh over bare skin – and carried it like an order.

Every step feels like a performance, your body held upright by the thought of her eyes on you, by the quiet command of her voice telling you what she wants. You can feel the lace of your underwear as you walk, like a secret pressed tight between your legs that only one person in the entire room would have permission to uncover.

But it’s not just about looking good. It’s about being seen. By her. For her. Maybe even with her for a bit.

You, Kim, and Kang walk up to a set of tall double doors beneath a sharp overhang where a handful of other attendees are filtering in, their gowns, suits, and dress uniforms crisp and shoes shining.

Kang reaches for the door, flashing a grin as he swings it open for you and Kim to pass through.

You and Kim both curtsy in perfect unison, dipping low enough to make it ridiculous.

“Much obliged,” Kim laughs.

“Your service is appreciated,” you add.

You step in behind Kim, the slit of your dress sliding open again with the motion, the fabric tugging across your thigh. The air inside is cooler than it was out on the street, but it does nothing to soothe the slow crawl of heat behind your ribs.

The entry hall opens wide around you, tall and symmetrical, all clean lines and corporate luxury, clearly built for nights like this. Dark tile stretches out beneath your heels in long, uninterrupted lengths and the ceiling rises high above, sharp white with recessed lights cutting across long panels, every angle deliberate, every detail curated to keep the focus on the people who walk through it. 

To the left and right, bartenders in sleek black uniforms move behind open bar stations, bottles lined up like props, shaking cocktails and uncorking bottles of wine with professional ease. A few small groups have already formed at each bar of officers and their guests, military brass and administrative staff, early arrivals all sipping from stemware or short crystal tumblers, talking amongst themselves as more guests slowly trickle in. Conversation hums through the space in a low, steady murmur, the kind of social static that builds between drinks and greetings and early compliments about awards.

Straight ahead, the floor drops down into the banquet hall proper, a wide staircase descending toward a sea of tables, some already surrounded by crisp suits and tailored dresses, deep in the first round of drinks and opening smiles. Glass doors line the wall to the right, leading out to a balcony that overlooks a lake.

You hover at the top of the stairs for a moment, Kim and Kang on either side of you, both scanning the room in their own way. Kang shifts forward half a step, his grin widening at the sight of the bar, nudging Kim with his elbow and murmuring something that earns him a smile and a shake of her head. He looks good tonight, clean-cut and unusually composed, his jacket tailored just enough to pass muster, his tie matching her dress almost exactly.

Your whole body is thrumming under the dress, the lace and silk clinging to you, the memory of Sergeant Cho echoing through your mind with every step. Her muscles. Her body. Her eyes on you while she pinned you beneath her on her bed. Her voice in your ear, low and quiet, telling you exactly what you weren’t allowed to forget.

And she’s in this building somewhere.

You study faces and uniforms, eyes catching on the glint of pins and medals, the shine of polished shoes, the occasional flash of rank insignia as someone turns just enough to catch the light. There are a lot of people in dress blues, gathered in loose semicircles with drinks in hand and easy smiles that suggest no one’s thinking too hard about the chain of command right now. But still – appearances matter. Even off-duty. Even here.

You couldn’t arrive with her. That was the rule. No slipping in through a side door together, no getting out of a car at the same time. Not with everything layered between you, or the possibility of someone asking questions they’re not supposed to ask. You’re here as her date, sure – but not officially. Not publicly. Not in any way that can be pinned down in writing or passed around over drinks the next day. You’re here as someone who happens to be in the room while she’s in the room, and that has to be enough. You both agreed.

Still, your eyes keep moving.

There are too many people dressed in variations of the same thing – navy or charcoal suits, military uniforms with ribbons you don’t recognize, dresses in sleek silhouettes and formal cuts. The hall buzzes with low murmurs and professional greetings blending together in a constant tide of noise and motion by people who are all dressed almost exactly alike.

And then – you see her.

She’s standing at the bottom of the staircase, chatting with two other officers, her shoulders back and posture perfect in that effortlessly intimidating way that always makes you feel like your knees are on the verge of giving out. Her formal uniform fits her like it was made just for her, every line of it structured to perfection, all charcoal-black fabric and gleaming hardware. 

Medals catch the light on her chest, her rank pins sharp against her collar, and the line of her jaw might as well have been sculpted from granite. There’s a champagne flute balanced in her right hand. She says something to the officer beside her, but her eyes, too, are scanning the room.

And then they lift to yours.

And for a second, everything else stops.

There’s no sound. No movement. No crowded banquet hall or laughter in the distance or ice clinking in glasses. There’s just her. Just the shape of her in that uniform, the dark, sharp line of it cutting clean through the warmth of the room, the heat of her stare burning into you from across the distance like a live wire.

Her expression shifts the moment your eyes meet. Something subtle and unmistakable. The tight control she always wears softens, the corners of her mouth relaxing, her eyes going darker, heavier, like she can’t help it. Like she’s not even pretending not to look. Her gaze drags down, slowly, like she’s seeing every inch of the dress, every curve, every breath you take in it, and then back up, her lips parting.

And you – you’re frozen. Your body hums with the memory of her touch, how her voice sounds when it drops low in your ear, how it felt to be pressed beneath her. You want to walk down these steps and straight into her arms. You want to grab her by the collar and kiss her in front of every last person here. You want to ask her, out loud, if this look means what you think it means, if she’s as gone for you as you are for her, if she’s feeling it like it’s the only thing that matters right now, too.

But then there’s a hand on your arm.

You blink, sucked back into the noise and light of the present. Kim’s voice is warm beside you, light-hearted and casual. “Come on, we’re heading to the bar.”

You turn toward her like you’re waking up from something, your tongue heavy in your mouth, your pulse still climbing. “Right. Yeah. Okay.”

The two of them start walking and you glance down the staircase one more time.

She’s still looking at you.

You hold her gaze, just for a second longer, then step into motion and follow Kim and Kang, desire tugging at your chest with every step you take away from her.

You reach the bar with a small lull in the line, the three of you slipping into place along the edge of the counter as Kang picks up the laminated cocktail list standing upright between two neat stacks of black napkins. 

“I want something fun,” he announces. “No whiskey, no soju. Something fruity.”

Kim leans in beside him, her arms folded on the counter, dress shifting slightly as she settles her weight onto one hip. You glance over her shoulder, too, all three of you peering down at the menu. 

Kang’s finger stops on one halfway down the page and he taps it twice before turning it toward the bartender.

“That one,” he says, then glances up with a smile. “Please.”

The bartender gives a short nod and reaches for the ice scoop.

A few moments pass, filled with the quiet rhythm of the bar around you, glass clinking, faint shuffling, a bottle cap twisting off – and then the bartender slides the drink across the counter toward Kang, bright pink and clinking with crushed ice, a sugared rim sparkling under the overhead lights. There’s a lemon wedge tucked against the edge of the glass, and a tiny blue umbrella blooming from the straw like a final flourish.

He lets out a soft, satisfied “yes,” and smiles wide as he takes a sip.

“Oh, man,” he says, turning toward Kim. “You have to try this.”

She takes the drink from his outstretched hand and sips delicately, the umbrella brushing against her cheek as she does. She hums in approval and lowers the glass, licking a bit of sugar from her bottom lip.

“Oh yeah,” she says, glancing down into it like she’s reevaluating the entire night. “That’s good.”

Kim turns toward you, taking another sip.

Kang frowns. “Wait – hold on, that’s mine.”

She shrugs and doesn’t give it back. “It’s mine now,” she says as she gives you a teasing look.

You laugh as he slumps a little, sighing under his breath before flagging the bartender again with a resigned look.

“A second one, please.”

The bartender gives him a sympathetic smile and starts assembling it. Kang rests his elbows on the counter and stares at Kim while she drinks, his face full of exaggerated betrayal that earns him absolutely no sympathy.

When the second drink arrives, he reaches for it immediately, lifting it just slightly before you lean over.

“Can I try?” you ask, tipping your head toward him, curious now that both of them are acting like this cocktail is god-tier.

He holds it out with one hand, eyes narrowed.

You take it and sip. The drink is cold, almost shockingly so, and it tastes like candied fruit – raspberry and lemon, and something floral underneath, sweet without being syrupy, light enough to go down way too easily. 

You lower the glass, grinning. “Okay, yeah, that is good.”

And before he can stop you, you turn away with it still in your hand, joining Kim at her side, both of you smiling into your drinks like you’ve just pulled off something covert. She tilts her head toward yours and clinks her glass lightly against the side of the one you just stole.

Behind you, Kang groans. You glance back and see him slumped dramatically against the counter again, arms thrown wide in disbelief. The bartender raises one eyebrow, already shaking a third drink together.

When the third cocktail appears, Kang grabs it with both hands and holds it close to his chest like a toddler guarding a toy.

“No one touches this one,” he declares, stepping back from the counter. “I’m going to find a table where I can keep it safe.”

Kim giggles. “You’re so sensitive.”

He mutters something under his breath, then gestures to an empty bar-height table near the side wall. She follows, but you linger.

“I’ll be right there, I want to scope the place out some more,” you say, shifting away from them, your tone too light, too rehearsed, but neither of them question it. They’re too busy arguing over drink theft and whose idea it was to come to the bar in the first place.

You step away from the counter, weaving gently through the small crowds gathered around tall tables as you make your way toward the railing overlooking the banquet hall proper.

The view is the same, the same rows of tables, the same buzz of conversation rising from below, the same servers gliding in and out of the space in precise patterns, and your eyes move carefully across the room, searching.

But you don’t see her down there anymore.

You grip your glass a little tighter as you scan the crowd again, slower this time, trying not to make it obvious – just another guest looking over the event, drink in hand, taking it all in.

But your eyes keep drifting toward the places she might be, tracking the lines of the crowd like she might materialize between them, like maybe she’s searching for you, too. Your pulse pushes up behind your ribs as you look toward the bar on the other side, then the rows of mingling officers between the tables, hoping for a flash of her uniform, a clean line of rank pins, the unmistakable way she carries herself.

You lift your drink and take a small sip, holding it there, fingertips wrapped around the glass a little tighter than necessary. Your other hand smooths over your thigh, brushing over the slit in your dress.

Then – there. Across the upper level, just at the top of the stairs, you see her.

Your breath stutters behind the rim of your glass.

She’s walking toward you. Not wandering, not weaving, not looking around for someone else she might recognize – she’s moving with intent, in a steady, unbroken line carved directly through the small clusters of people in her way, her eyes fixed on you.

The crowd parts around her, like the sheer presence of her in that uniform is enough to clear space. There’s something in the way she looks at you, something in her eyes that gives you butterflies so intense you have to clench your jaw to keep your expression from giving yourself away.

Your back straightens, almost on instinct, chest tightening with anticipation as your mind scrambles for something to say to her when she reaches you. You feel too warm, the air around you humming with tension, knowing she’s going to stop in front of you, say something filthy and perfect, and ruin you in half a sentence.

But just before she reaches you – someone steps in front of her. 

“Sergeant Cho!” Lieutenant Ali Abdul says, slipping smoothly into her path with the smile of a man who has no idea what he’s interrupting. “Congratulations. Your award is well deserved.”

You can see the flicker of hesitation in her as she comes to a stop, her gaze tearing away from you to regard him, the moment her focus splits. Her head turns slightly in your direction, her brows pulled in the faintest degree, her jaw tight like she’s debating whether to politely excuse herself.

Then Lieutenant Cho Sang-woo steps in and joins them, expression equally polite, both of them now standing between you and her like a wall.

And now she’s stuck, half-turned, half-committed, and you can see the moment the decision is made. She shifts, nodding once, forcing herself into conversation, her mouth forming a tight smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Her chin tilts a degree higher as she listens to them speak, her fingers smoothing over the side of her champagne flute like she’s restraining the urge to set it down and leave.

Lieutenant Cho makes an offhand joke about the commendations and she answers politely, but she glances back toward you.

You meet her gaze again, and it’s softer now. Almost regretful.

Your grip shifts around your drink, fingers flexing with the unspoken hope that maybe, just maybe, she’ll get away. That she’ll find an out, brush past them with a clipped excuse and close the distance between you in a few purposeful steps. That you won’t have to do a single thing except stand here and try to keep your breathing steady while she comes to you, dressed like that, looking at you like she knows how the night is going to end.

But she reluctantly settles into the conversation, and you’re left at the railing, heart racing, drink in your hand, your body vibrating with the aftershock of almost.

Just then, Kim taps your elbow, and you startle. “Hey, we’re gonna check out the raffle table.”

Kang, beside her, is grinning. “Pretty sure I spotted a drone. I’m gonna win it, don’t try to stop me.”

You don’t answer right away. Your gaze flicks back to Sergeant Cho.

Her shoulders are drawn tight with polite posture, tilted marginally toward Lieutenant Cho like she’s listening to something he’s saying, but her head isn’t fully turned. Not really. There’s a stiffness to her stance, a pinch at the edge of her mouth that tells you she’s only enduring the conversation. 

You could ignore Kim. You could stand your ground. You could find some excuse, anything, to stay right here until the second she finds her exit.

But that would look suspicious, and you know it.

So you nod, slowly, pretending you’re not biting down on frustration, pretending you didn’t just feel the silent throb of longing that passed between you as clearly as if she'd said something aloud.

You physically force yourself to tear your eyes away, then follow Kim and Kang, the heavy press of the evening pushing back against your shoulders with every step away.

You take one last look back, and her eyes are locked on yours. They don’t flick away when you meet them. They don’t even waver. It’s like she’s willing you not to go.

Your chest tightens with something slow and yearning. 

Down the stairs, the raffle table stretches along the far left side of the hall, draped in pressed white linen and set beneath a string of suspended lights that cast soft reflections across the floor.

And the closer you get, the more carefully assembled everything looks – prizes laid out in even intervals, each one paired with a glass jar holding varying amounts of small, red tickets. Among the items are a sleek coffee machine beside a matching milk frother, a set of brushed steel travel mugs, a precision kitchen scale with digital calibration, a set of wireless earbuds, and, near the end of the table, a compact camera drone, angled just right so the box’s front image catches the light.

A second table displays charity raffle baskets, each one shrink-wrapped and holding a theme. There’s a wine basket with four carefully selected bottles, an electric corkscrew, and a padded wine carrier folded neatly at the back. Another is stuffed with spa-day goods, and there’s one filled entirely with lottery scratch-offs and metallic tinsel, the corner of a piggy bank peeking through.

You slow as you approach, your eyes skimming the spread before landing on the girl seated behind the booth.

Private Kang Mi-na is slouched in a cushioned banquet chair, posture all disinterest and idle impatience, her chin propped up against her hand and one thin braid curled around her finger. Her other hand is slowly spinning one of the raffle jars, just enough to make the tickets flutter inside. Her dress is bright pink and sparkling under the lights, cut low and tight in a way that makes it very clear she didn’t pick it for practicality, and the expression on her face matches her posture – bored, unimpressed, vaguely annoyed to be here at all. 

Kang drifts away immediately, zeroing in on the drone like it’s the tactical target of the night. You can hear him muttering to himself about the specs as he crouches down to read the font on the box.

Mi-na spots you and Kim and perks up a little. “Oh thank god,” she groans, sitting up straighter. “People I don’t want to slap.”

Kim leans in with a grin. “Wow, you look so happy to be here.”

Mi-na rolls her eyes. “I got the invite to this banquet thinking I’d be able to enjoy it. But do I get to enjoy any of the actual party? No. Of course not. I get told I’m manning the raffle booth the second I step in here. I told Min-su to get me a drink ten minutes ago already, and of course he’s not back yet. He’s probably cowering in a corner somewhere, honestly.”

Kim hums, leaning her hip against the edge of the table as she takes a sip of her drink. “At least you look good while you’re stuck sitting here.”

“Babe,” Mi-na says flatly. “I wore this dress so I could drink and flirt. Not sell raffle tickets to captains trying to win neck pillows.”

You laugh, stepping closer to look over the contents of the table. 

“You wanna throw your name in for anything? Three thousand won per ticket. You pick your item and drop one half of the ticket in the jar. You keep the matching half. Very advanced system.”

Kim starts to dig into her clutch, producing a crumpled 10,000 won bill. “Can I get three?”

“Sure,” Mi-na says, opening a small cash box and passing over the stubs to her. “Go nuts.”

Kim passes one to you and one to Kang, who’s staring at the drone like he’s trying to figure out how much it costs.

Mi-na sighs again and slouches in her seat, turning the raffle jar a little faster this time. “Seriously, avoid Mi-nyeo at all costs, unless you want to get roped into doing a bunch of stupid shitty work all night.”

“Noted,” you say as you step a little closer to the raffle table, fingers tracing loosely along the edge as you glance over the prizes arranged in neat rows. There’s a surprising variety, but nothing you would really have the need for or even the ability to use while living in the barracks on a military base. 

But then, you get an idea.

“We should put in our tickets for the coffee machine,” you say to Kim. “It’d be nice to have a better one for the office.”

Kim looks over and assesses the box. “Ooh, it’s got a cold brew setting. And strength levels? This is fancy, let’s do it.”

Kang doesn’t look convinced. “The drone,” he says, tapping a finger on the box, “Is the real prize. You can control it from your phone. And it’s got a camera!”

Kim folds her arms and gives him a look. “I bought you that ticket, you owe it to the office. Plus, the base is restricted airspace, so you can’t even fly it anyway.”

Kang sighs like the weight of sacrifice is too much for him, but he trudges forward with exaggerated reluctance and drops his ticket stub into the jar. 

Kim grins. “There. Team spirit.”

Kang turns on his heel, pulling out his wallet as he heads back toward Mi-na. “I’m buying my own ticket for the drone,” he grumbles.

Mi-na grabs the roll of raffle tickets and rips one off, but it slips from her grip and flutters to the floor, skimming the edge of the table before floating backward behind her chair. She sighs dramatically, then rises with a grunt of annoyance, smoothing her dress down as she circles around to retrieve it.

Private Park Min-su appears from the crowd like a man on a mission, hands occupied with two full drinks, his face the picture of raw concentration. The pink cocktail from the bar is unmistakable, the tiny umbrellas bobbing precariously with each of his carefully measured steps. His eyes are locked onto the glasses in his hands, brows furrowed like he's calculating every shift in momentum, every micro-tilt of the liquid’s surface.

He's so focused, so determined to keep from spilling a drop – that he doesn’t see Mi-na at all.

She straightens up and turns around just as he rounds the corner of the table, clutching the dropped ticket in one hand – and they collide.

The impact sends both drinks flying, tiny umbrellas and all, liquid splashing across both of them in an arc of sticky red and citrus.

Mi-na stumbles back with a high, sharp noise that could almost be mistaken for a scream. “Oh my god, Min -su!”

Min-su looks down at his arms, his shirt, and the rapidly expanding pink stain spreading across the front of Mi-na’s equally as wet dress. His mouth opens, closes, and opens again as his ears start to turn a deep shade of scarlet. “I – I’m sorry – I didn’t–”

Mi-na flaps her hands at her sides, trying to shake off the worst of it, twisting around in place like she’s about to combust. “Are you kidding me? This is a brand new dress! I just got this–”

“I didn’t see you–” he babbles, looking like he might actually pass out, his voice trembling like it’s fighting to stay in one piece. “I had the drinks, and – I’m so sorry–”

Kim covers her mouth, holding back laughter, while Kang makes a noise halfway between a wince and a laugh. Mi-na turns to all three of you like a woman on the edge, her voice sharp with frustration.

“Can you guys deal with this stupid table while I go clean myself up?”

“Yeah, of course,” you say quickly, as Kim and Kang nod in sync beside you. Mi-na lets out a breath that’s more like a growl and marches off without another word, heels clicking furiously against the tile as she storms toward the nearest bathroom.

Min-su stands frozen for a beat longer, dripping slightly, his shoulders drawn up near his ears. Then, very slowly, he lowers both of the glasses onto the raffle table in front of you, like he’s afraid they’ll explode if he moves too fast.

He doesn’t say anything, just turns and walks away at a quick, awkward pace, heading in the same direction Mi-na went, looking like his soul has completely vacated his body.

Kim sighs as she steps behind the table and flops down into Mi-na’s chair, arms crossed as she glances down the line of baskets and prizes, her face a mix of annoyance and resignation.

Kang shifts his weight, reaching across the table to drop his ticket into the jar labeled for the drone. “How are we supposed to do this?”

Kim shrugs, eyebrows lifting as she takes a sip of her drink. “It can’t be that hard if Mi-na and Min-su were doing it.”

You glance toward the hall where the two of them went off to and see Min-su as he reaches the bathroom doors, holding his arms out slightly from his sides like he’s afraid to touch anything. A man steps out of the bathroom at that exact moment, and Min-su jolts in surprise, stumbling awkwardly as he tries to move out of the way, shoulders hitching up as he bows in apology. You watch as he finally disappears inside, the door swinging shut behind him, and you’re just turning back toward the table again when Kim says–

“Oh, good evening, Sergeants.”

There’s a sharp inhale behind your ribs, a little lurch of breath you can’t quite stop, and when you look up, you’re face-to-face with Sergeant Cho.

And also Sergeant Hwang and Sergeant Park.

She looks devastating. Her hair is perfectly in place, her uniform pristine, the decorations on her jacket catching the overhead lights in a dull gleam. Her eyes are on yours, and for a beat too long, you forget how to swallow as a rush of heat coils beneath your skin.

Before either of you can say anything, Sergeant Park claps his hands together once, loud and cheerful, and gives all three of you a grin.

“Well, would you look at that? How’d you three get roped into working?”

Kang speaks up with that easy tone of his. “Private Park Min-su spilled two drinks on Private Kang Mi-na,” he says. “So we’re watching the table while they clean up.”

Sergeant Park throws his head back and laughs, loud and full, and claps Sergeant Cho on the back with enough force to jostle her. Her posture shifts, caught off guard, her shoulders pulling in tight, jaw flexing like she’s biting back a reflex as she turns her head to him. 

“Oh, I remember Private Park,” Sergeant Park says, grinning wide. “How long did he last as your assistant, Cho? Two weeks? Three?”

“Three,” she answers, the word clipped and unamused, her mouth pressed in a line, annoyance blooming at the memory.

Sergeant Park lets out another bark of laughter and swings his arm to slap Sergeant Hwang on the back, too.

“Remember when he spilled coffee all over you? You were so mad, even I was afraid of you when you made him clean it up.”

Hwang’s eyes narrow and he angles his body away, one shoulder pulling up in an effort to subtly dislodge the hand resting on him.

“Unfortunately,” he mutters.

“He’s a good kid,” Sergeant Park says, pulling his hands off Sergeant Cho and Hwang’s shoulders at last and turning his attention back to the raffle table. “Not cut out for anything beyond office work, but he means well.”

Sergeant Cho’s jaw tightens again, the smallest flicker of an exhale pushing out her nose like she's seeing the shadow of a memory she would very much like to never experience again. 

“He mixed up a training rotation schedule once,” she says evenly, her voice deceptively flat. “I had three platoons show up to the wrong field at the wrong time.”

Park grins like that’s the funniest thing he’s heard all night, nudging her with his elbow.

“I remember that! That was him?” He snorts. “Ah, you must’ve hated that.”

Sergeant Cho’s eyes slide to him, sharp and clean. “I did.”

“How did you wind up here?” Kang jokes with Sergeant Park, breaking through the tension, “I thought this event was invite-only?”

“Ooh, I convinced Lieutenant Abdul to bring me as his plus-one. Doesn’t take much to convince him to do something for you if you bring out the puppy-dog eyes.” He chuckles and rubs his hands together, turning his attention to the actual raffle table. “But enough about all that. What’s the haul here? Anything good?”

Kang perks up, gesturing toward the far end of the table. “That drone is awesome. I put a ticket in for it already.”

Sergeant Park whistles low. “That’s the fancy kind, huh? With the stabilizer and the tracking sensors?”

Kang nods, pleased to get some validation, and Kim leans in toward the center of the table, tapping one neatly manicured nail against the box of the coffee machine. “We all went in for the coffee machine, too. It’s got all the bells and whistles – grinder, timer, strength settings, everything. Way better than the one we have back at the office. You should put in for it too, so we have a better chance of winning it.”

“Maybe I’ll finally stop needing to get coffee from the cafe if we get a decent one,” Park says, clasping his hands together like he’s already imagining it.

Kim nods, dry amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Three thousand won per ticket.”

Without missing a beat, Park reaches into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “Cho, Hwang,” he says, tugging out his wallet, “Come on. We’re doing this for the greater good.”

He pulls out a crisp 10,000 won bill and hands it over to Kim, and she takes it with a blink, glancing around for the little cash box Mi-na had been using. It's tucked behind a few of the prizes, and she carefully slides it out and flips it open.

“Good idea, Private Kim,” Park jokes. “Admirable of you to be thinking so selflessly.”

Kim grins as she gives him his change. “Oh, it was her idea, not mine,” she says, tilting her head in your direction.

At that, Sergeant Cho stills for a moment, then slips the 5,000 won bill she was about to hand over back into her wallet and pulls out a 50,000.

Sergeant Park is mid-laugh when she hands it over, and he claps a hand against Cho’s back again, and this time she’s braced for it. “I should have you as my assistant instead,” he jokes, shooting a wink to Kang before turning to you. “Clearly you’ve got better judgment than others.”

Sergeant Cho’s reply is immediate and unflinching as her eyes lock on Park’s for a moment.

“She’s mine,” she says matter-of-factly, gaze steady, her tone anchored by something deeper than the words suggest.

It lands like a strike to your chest, hot and sharp and impossible to miss. Your breath catches before you can stop it, and the heat that flares in your face makes you instinctively lower your gaze. You don’t know what your face would give away if you looked up right now, and you’re not willing to find out.

Park lets out a laugh, clapping her on the back again. “Ah, Cho,” he chuckles, oblivious. “Always so possessive of her things.”

He doesn’t clock the way the corner of her mouth just barely curls up, or how her gaze sharpens with something private, almost territorial. He doesn’t catch the breath you forget to take in, or the way your fingers tremble where they hover near the raffle ticket roll.

You stare at the tickets as you tear them, one after the other, trying to keep your expression flat, but your skin feels too warm, your breath too shallow, and your body too aware of hers standing across the table. You hope no one here heard her the way you did, but your chest is buzzing and your throat feels too tight to swallow it down.

When the last ticket tears free, you hold them out to her, keeping your eyes on the space just above her collar, somewhere safe.

She takes a step forward and reaches for them, and when her fingers meet yours, it’s a clean, slow contact, deliberate, steady, and warm as she slides the tickets from your grip. You look up without meaning to.

That familiar heated look is back in her eyes, and your pulse jumps hard in your throat at the sight of it. You freeze, eyes locked with hers across the handful of inches that feel like a mile, every detail of her face seared into your mind – her parted lips, the tiny flex of her jaw, the shadow of something smug, something dangerous curling slowly at the corner of her mouth.

Sergeant Hwang’s eyes drift as the conversation lulls, something purposeful in the way he scans the crowd, hand loose around his champagne flute, the other tucked into his pocket. Then his lips tug into a smile and he murmurs. “Excuse me,” tipping his head to the group. “I see someone I need to speak with.”

Sergeant Park steps in to fill the silence as Hwang walks away. “Well,” he says, brushing a hand along the edge of his jacket as he straightens up, “I suppose we ought to circulate, too. Big night. Lots of mingling to do.” He turns, scanning the crowd until they catch on someone near the back of the room.

His expression shifts into something brighter. “Oh,” He leans slightly toward Sergeant Cho, pointing. “Looks like Corporal Park brought his mom. Sweet lady. You should say hi – she’ll love you.”

She doesn’t answer right away. She lingers on the other side of the table, leaning over to place her raffle tickets into the coffee machine jar.

Her gaze flickers toward Sergeant Park, then returns to you, just for a breath, just long enough to make your stomach tighten. There’s something held carefully behind her eyes, like she's weighing the cost of staying versus the consequences of leaving.

Then she shifts her stance and finally hands off the moment with a clipped, polite, “Of course,” spoken like she’s dismissing a subordinate rather than walking away from something far more precarious.

She and Park say their goodbyes and turn away.

And you can’t help it. Your eyes drop.

Her back is straight, her waist drawn in by the perfect fit of her uniform jacket, and beneath the crisp line of her hem, the curve of her ass moves with deliberate weight in each step she takes. It’s shameless, really, the way you look. Greedy. You don’t even try to stop yourself.

You follow the sharp tuck of her waist into the fitted line of her dress uniform, and then lower, tracing the sway of her hips as she walks. The way her pants cling across the curve of her ass is enough to knock the air straight from your chest.

You want her.

You want her so badly it feels like a sickness in your stomach, heat crawling down your spine, blooming between your legs as you lean your head subtly to the side like it’ll give you a better angle. Like maybe you can burn the shape of her into your memory and carry it with you until she finally touches you again. Until she finally makes good on everything she’s been building with every single glance tonight.

You don't realize you’re holding your breath until she disappears into the crowd and it punches its way out of your chest all at once, hot, shallow, and useless.

Mi-na and Min-su come back together without speaking.

Mi-na walks like she’s holding back an argument, each step clipped and controlled, and she doesn’t so much as glance at him while she crosses behind the table.

Min-su lingers just to the side, damp shirt clinging to his arms, posture hunched.

“Seriously,” Mi-na mutters, still not looking at him as she smooths a hand down the side of her dress. “I ask for one thing. One drink. And somehow, it ends with me needing to re-do my makeup.”

Min-su opens his mouth like he’s going to try for an apology, but nothing comes out. His fingers twitch slightly at his side before he latches them behind his back instead.

Mi-na shakes her head and finally looks up, flicking her gaze between the three of you. “Any of you wanna take over for the rest of the night?” Her voice is dry, just edged enough to pass for a joke, but there’s a tightness behind it that says she really wouldn’t mind if you said yes.

Kang lets out a quiet huff of breath, sympathetic but firm, as he steps back from the table. “I think we’ve done our part,” he says as he takes the final sip of his drink. “I’m starving. I’m gonna go find the appetizer trays before everything gets picked over.”

Kim makes a noise of agreement, brushing invisible lint from her dress. “That haemuljeon was already halfway gone when we got here,” she says under her breath, clearly ready to bolt.

You nod along, grateful for the excuse to leave. There’s still a buzzing under your skin, heat prickling down the back of your neck from the last few minutes – Sergeant Cho’s voice, the weight of her stare, the brush of her fingers over yours. You’re not sure your legs will carry you cleanly, but you’d rather try that than stay planted here under Mi-na’s withering stare and Min-su’s quietly wilting guilt.

Mi-na sighs and waves you off with a hand, not waiting for any further conversation. “Fine. Go. Have fun. I’ll just die here.”

Kim slips around the edge of the table with a murmured “Hang in there,” and tugs Kang by the sleeve as she moves. You follow close behind, though not without one last glance at Min-su.

He hovers near the corner of the booth, mouth pressed into a thin line, looking anywhere but at Mi-na. He shifts his weight like he’s trying to disappear into the floor, and when your eyes catch his, he flinches. You give him a small, sympathetic smile, and then turn to leave, catching the sound of Mi-na sighing behind you as she flops back into her chair.

Kang leads the way, dodging through clusters of mingling officers and guests like a man on a mission. His eyes scan every corner of the room, searching for the telltale glint of a silver tray and the red vests of the catering staff.

“There’s got to be ones still making rounds,” he mutters, “They were all over the place when we got in.”

You and Kim stay close behind, letting him cut the path. The crowd has thickened, people standing in tight circles or draping themselves over chairs half-pulled from their assigned place settings, conversations humming louder as drinks continue to circulate.

Your dress brushes against your knee with every step, slit swinging open just enough to remind you what you’re wearing, and that feeling of exposure stays with you, even as the room grows warmer and louder around you.

“There,” Kang says suddenly, pointing toward a server crossing the far end of the banquet hall. His tray is piled high with appetizers, steam rising faintly off the contents.

But just as Kang pivots to make his approach, a woman steps directly into his path.

She has long, frizzy hair and is wearing a very beaded, low-cut gown that shines dramatically with her movements, and her tone arrives before she’s fully turned – sharp, fast, and unmistakably frazzled. “Oh, thank god, more Privates.”

Kang startles, almost colliding with her shoulder. “Ma’am?”

“Have you seen Privates Choi or Roh?” Han Mi-nyeo, a senior administrative staff member, asks, pinning him with a look and then turning the same wide-eyed intensity onto you and Kim. 

Kim blinks. “No, ma’am.”

Mi-nyeo exhales sharply through her nose. She speaks quickly, each word clipped and deliberate, like she’s trying to compress five minutes’ worth of panic into one breath. “They were supposed to bring in the boxes of award plaques. I sent them out twenty minutes ago, and now I can’t find them. If those plaques aren’t on the table in ten minutes, I swear to god–”

She cuts herself off, scanning your faces for any sign of a solution. You can see the moment she recalibrates, eyes narrowing slightly, focus shifting from ‘missing personnel’ to ‘available manpower.’

Kim straightens, eyes narrowing slightly. “Where are the boxes supposed to be?”

“They should have been unloaded from the transport van with the other supplies,” Mi-nyeo says, sharp and immediate, like she’s been waiting for that question just to pounce on it. “But I swear to god, every idiot on staff is allergic to following instructions.”

Kang blinks. “You think they’re still out there?”

“I think they’re off somewhere drinking or flirting behind a pillar while the entire awards banquet is about to fall apart,” she hisses, throwing her arms up like she’s moments away from combusting. “The plaques are in two taped-up cardboard boxes, labeled in thick-ass black marker, ‘PLAQUES – DO NOT LOSE.’ Which, apparently, was me tempting fate.”

You can feel Kim tense beside you, because Mi-nyeo’s not exactly yelling, but her voice has that deadly pitch to it, that very specific kind of tight-lipped rage that’s a half-step away from becoming your problem if you don’t move fast enough. Kang seems to register it at the same time you do, shifting his weight like his legs are preparing for a quick getaway.

“Look,” Mi-nyeo snaps, pinning the three of you with a wild, desperate glare, “I don’t care where those two morons wandered off to, I just need those boxes. Go out to the parking garage, find the van, grab the damn things, and bring them here. They should be in the back near the event signage. You’ll see it. Cardboard, tape, black marker, very hard to miss unless you’re brain-dead.”

Kim opens her mouth, probably to ask something else, but Mi-nyeo cuts her off with a final, flustered wave of her hand. “Through the side doors by the kitchen, stairs go straight down to the garage. It’s parked near the ramp. Go. Now.”

Then she spins on one heel and storms off, muttering something blistering under her breath about doing everything herself, her heels clicking furiously against the tile.

Kang exhales. “Dammit.”

“Come on,” Kim groans, turning in the direction Mi-nyeo pointed. “If we don’t go now, she’s going to hunt us down and kill us.”

“She looked like she could, too,” Kang mutters, falling into step behind her. 

The air shifts the second the three of you push through the side doors and into the stairwell, the distant hum of the banquet fading behind you with each step down. Fluorescent lighting buzzes overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete walls as your footsteps echo, fast and uneven. When you hit the landing and shove through the next set of doors, the parking garage swallows you whole – dull and gray and too quiet, the overhead lights flickering faintly.

You spot the transport van immediately, parked crooked near the service ramp with its hazard lights blinking like it’s trying to be discreet and failing. The back hatch is half-open, like someone got distracted halfway through the job and wandered off. And just in front of it, leaning against the hood like they’re at a rooftop bar instead of a military service event, are Privates Choi Su-bong and Roh Nam-gyu.

They’re draped on each other, loose-limbed and smug, arms looped around shoulders like this is the afterparty no one else got invited to. Private Roh has a hip popped, blazer unbuttoned, tie barely hanging on, and a silver flask in hand that he’s tipping toward Private Choi’s mouth with a dramatic flourish.

Choi drinks from it like it’s a practiced move. He grins when he drinks, broad and boyish, and then drops his head briefly to Roh’s shoulder, laughing at something the other just muttered, the sound of it echoing off the walls and cars.

When they finally notice you, it’s Roh who lifts a hand in greeting, all casual and chaotic charm. “Let me guess, Mi-nyeo sent a hit squad.”

“She’s in full-blown crisis mode,” Kim says, loud enough to cut the distance. “If she doesn’t get those plaques on the tables in the next ten minutes, she’s going to stab you to death with a fork.”

“She said she sent you two out here twenty minutes ago,” Kang adds, crossing his arms as he steps up to the two of them.

“We got... sidetracked,” Choi offers, with zero shame. He raises the flask like it’s Exhibit A.

Roh grins, nudging his side. “We were having a deep and meaningful conversation about inter-departmental cooperation.”

Kim squints at them. “You two are gonna be the reason the awards start an hour late.”

“Ooorr,” Choi says, drawing out the word, “we’re gonna be the reason the party actually gets interesting.”

Roh leans a little heavier into Choi’s side, flask still in hand, and it’s not clear if it’s from alcohol or just habit. Probably both.

“The boxes are in the van, yeah?” Kang asks, stepping forward.

Choi waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah. Two of them. One’s got the senior plaques, the other’s all the commendations and service stuff.”

Kang sighs and steps toward the back of the van, yanking the doors open with one firm pull. They creak as he does it, and the interior light flicks on, casting pale gold across folding chairs, catering crates, and two cardboard boxes stacked right at the back. Kang leans in, dragging the first one forward with a grunt, fingers curling under the taped edge as he hefts it up and hands it over to your outstretched arms.

It’s heavier than it looks, your grip finding a corner and pressing in as you shift the weight in your arms.

“You sure you two don’t want to come in and help set these out?” Kim asks, voice flat.

Choi raises his eyebrows, mock-offended. “And miss the chance to be useless? Never.”

“I believe in knowing your strengths,” Roh adds with a smirk, still lazily leaning against Choi’s side.

You start backing away, bracing the box against your chest. “Come on, let’s go before Mi-nyeo bites someone.”

“She’d go for the jugular,” Kang mutters.

“She’s got the teeth for it,” Kim replies, and the three of you are already halfway across the garage when you hear Choi call after you:

“Tell her we were ambushed by terrorists!”

You don’t bother turning around. You hear Roh cackling, the sound trailing behind you like proof that those two are going to flirt each other into a court martial someday.

It’s too elegant back in the banquet hall for the kind of frantic delivery you’re making, and for a second, all three of you hesitate in the doorway, caught between the sterile humidity of the garage and the velvet drape of champagne haze waiting ahead.

You adjust your grip on the box in your arms, its weight biting into your forearms, the cardboard edge pressed right into your skin, cutting through the soft sheen of sweat that’s started to form from the walk up those stairs.

Kang exhales sharply beside you and immediately sets his box down on the closest table he can find, muttering something about how this had better earn him a whole tray of appetizers. 

You follow his lead, shifting forward with stiff arms and setting your own box down with a thud. The relief is instant, but your shoulders ache, and you’re breathing hard, your chest rising and falling in shallow pulls as you lean back against the table.

Your hands curl against the edge and you let yourself lean just a little further back, enough that the slit in your dress makes the fabric slide back along your thigh. You don’t really think about it until you feel the faint shift of air against your newly exposed skin. The silk falls around your leg, your weight tilted back, one knee bent slightly, the shape of your leg framed deliberately but entirely accidentally. You stay there, chest heaving gently, and tilt your head back just to keep yourself from closing your eyes entirely.

That’s when you see her.

Across the room, Sergeant Cho is half-turned toward the crowd, one hand reaching toward the tray a server holds out to her. Her fingers close around the stem of a fresh champagne flute, the glass catching a sliver of light as she lifts it, but her eyes – her eyes are fixed on you.

Locked. Unmoving. Intense enough that you forget how to breathe for a second.

She’s watching you, her gaze low and deliberate, tracing the curve of your exposed thigh, then rising slowly, slowly, until it meets your flushed face. There’s a pause in her motion, just the barest hitch in her arm as she lifts the glass, but it’s there. Her jaw shifts as she swallows, the muscle ticking beneath the line of her cheekbone, and then her bottom lip drags between her teeth with slow pressure, like she’s trying to keep something down. Her eyes don’t leave yours, even as she lowers the glass slightly, the weight of her attention hitting you as firmly as the weight of the box did moments ago.

She starts to move. One foot forward. The tilt of her shoulders angling toward you. You feel it in your chest, in your throat, between your legs – everything in you sharpens under her gaze, blood humming in your veins, a low burn threading up your neck.

You stay posed against the table, like your body wants to be seen properly.

But before she can reach you, before that inevitable thing that’s been looming on the edge of this entire night can snap into place – you hear it.

“There you are!”

Mi-nyeo’s shrill voice cuts across the room like a warning shot, and you flinch, shoulders tightening as your eyes drag reluctantly away. She’s at the far side of the banquet hall, waving both arms like a signal flare, her tone pitched halfway between crisis and exasperation as she beckons the three of you over.

Kim’s already moving, Kang groaning under his breath as he turns to grab his box again, and you sit up, your hands move numbly back to your own, lifting it with a quiet grunt as you brace the weight against your chest.

You glance back, just once, your arms burning, your pulse still lodged somewhere near your throat – and Sergeant Cho is still watching you, her steps stilled, her mouth slightly parted.

You hold her gaze, just long enough for something silent to pass between you – apology, longing, want, mine, yours – before you follow Kim and Kang into the crowd and disappear.

You barely make it over there before Mi-nyeo’s heels click-clack across the floor like gunfire, her arm outstretched, a folded sheet of paper clenched tight between her fingers like it personally offended her. She zeroes in on Kim with laser precision, no room for thanks, no softening in her voice.

“Here,” she says, slapping the paper into Kim’s hands, not even waiting for acknowledgement before steamrolling forward. “Set them up on that long table behind the stage, in this exact order. Not close, not approximate. Exact. The order is timed to the script.”

Kim blinks, mouth parting slightly in protest, but Mi-nyeo’s already halfway turned away, muttering something under her breath about amateurs and logistics and how this entire night is being held together by a thread thinner than her patience. Her hand flutters behind her in a vague, dismissive wave before she disappears into the crowd again, storming off with such authority that even the servers scatter a little.

The three of you stand there for a second, breathing heavily, Kim staring down at the paper.

“Oh my god,” she mutters. 

Kang groans. Loudly. Theatrically. He drops the box onto the table and flips it open with a disgruntled noise, digging one of the plaques out, tilting it to the light to read the engraving. 

“I’ve had one drink tonight. One. And zero appetizers,” Kang grumbles. “Watch – by the time we’re done with this, there’ll be nothing left but sad meatballs and toothpicks.”

Kim sighs, scanning the list. “You know what? I get it now. When Mi-na was complaining earlier, I thought she was being dramatic, but... this sucks.”

“She was being dramatic,” Kang says, pulling out another plaque and squinting at it, “but that doesn’t mean she was wrong.”

You groan under your breath as you lift the lid off your own box, peering inside at the glossy rows of polished plaques, all of them basically identical if not for the engravings. You drag one out and turn it toward Kim.

“Where’s this one go?”

Kim checks the paper, then gestures toward the far end of the table. “Third to last.”

You walk it over, set it down carefully, and return for another.

The process is agonizing – plaque by plaque, one slow step at a time, checking names, cross-referencing spellings, spacing them out evenly across the length of the display like a trio of unpaid interns.

You lean over the table, reaching for another spot on the list, and sigh as your arm brushes past Kang’s. “This is gonna take forever.”

Kang huffs, half-exasperated, half-resigned. “You know what I should’ve done? Faked an injury. Limped in here, winced a little, and spent the night drinking while everyone felt sorry for me.”

“You’d pull a fake limp just to get out of stacking awards?”

“If it gets me out of the next ten minutes of this, I’d dislocate my actual knee.”

Kim snorts. “Save the theatrics for someone who didn’t just see you carry a thirty-pound box up a flight of stairs.”

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head as you lift another plaque out. 

Kang grumbles again and slides a plaque into place on the table, just a little crooked. You reach out and nudge it gently so it’s aligned.

And then, as another name gets matched to another heavy slab of engraved appreciation, the table slowly begins to take shape – neat rows, evenly spaced, a full lineup of recognition waiting to be distributed to the deserving. Or at least the semi-competent.

You rub at your wrist, sore from carrying the weight of the box, and try not to think about how much more of this night there still is to go.

Especially now that it’s clear you won’t be spending the rest of it tucked in some shadowed corner with Sergeant Cho.

Just as the final plaque is nudged into place and Kim lowers the crumpled checklist with the weary pride of someone who’s just survived a minor war, Mi-nyeo materializes again like a curse conjured by competence. She sweeps toward the table with a rustle of beads and authority, arms crossed, her mouth already in motion before she’s even come to a full stop.

“Great,” she says, sharp and loud enough that heads turn, “you’re done here. New task.”

Behind her trails Private Park Min-su, stiff as a corpse and about as colorful. His eyes are wide and vacant, his posture too upright, and he’s following close to her side like someone who’s been struck mute by prolonged exposure to stress, and he flinches when Mi-nyeo gestures sharply behind her.

“Those,” she says, snapping her fingers and pointing, “Fucking finally just got delivered. They need to go on every table. One per table. Centered. Water’s already in the vases, so don’t go sloshing it around and making a mess, or so help me–”

She doesn’t finish the threat. She doesn’t have to. Her glare does it for her.

The three of you pivot slowly toward the source of her ire – a table with at least thirty large glass vases, each one filled halfway with water and bursting with artfully-arranged flowers. Long-stemmed lilies, baby’s breath, roses, and eucalyptus branches fan out in dramatic, architectural sweeps, their stems anchored in the clear vases like sculptures barely balanced. It’s all elegant, upscale, expensive-looking, and inconvenient as hell.

You can feel the sigh bubbling in your chest that threatens to escape, but one glance at Mi-nyeo’s expression is enough to swallow it back down like poison.

“Thank you,” she snaps, already turning away. “I’ll be back in ten to make sure they’re set up properly.”

Min-su glances back over his shoulder at her, haunted.

Kang waits until she’s fully out of earshot before muttering under his breath, “Is this a banquet or a military exercise?”

Kim walks over to the flower-covered table and picks up two of the vases with great care, holding one in the crook of each elbow like she’s handling live explosives.

“She’s lucky I’m not petty,” she says, voice quiet and measured, “because I could absolutely throw one of these through a window right now.”

“You are petty, and you should do that,” you add, stepping in to lift two of your own. The glass is cold and slick, and you shift your grip slightly to keep the water from sloshing too high up the sides. The floral scent hits hard, lush and green, floral and sharp, and you calculate the nearest table route that avoids both waitstaff and Mi-nyeo’s line of sight.

Kang, trailing behind with his own bouquet pair, kicks off the circuit with an exaggerated groan.

One by one, the tables begin to transform. Each time you reach one, you set the vase down in the center of the white tablecloth, making adjustments until it’s aligned with the salt shakers and water carafe. You straighten up, arms still aching from the plaque box but now also from the awkward hold, and circle back to the floral table for round two. And then round three.

Kim moves quickly, muttering under her breath.

Kang starts narrating the names of each flower like he’s announcing combat maneuvers – “Roses secure, lilies advancing, baby’s breath holding the flank.”

Min-su is even more focused than when he was carrying Mi-na’s drinks, desperately trying not to spill anything more tonight.

Your last vase is heavier than you expected, the stems shifting in the water as you carry it carefully toward a table. Your fingers curl tighter around the base, half for balance, half from the stubborn need to get this over with, to set it down without cracking the glass or spilling a single drop. 

You lower it into place, adjusting it just enough to nudge all of the things on the table into something resembling symmetry. Your arms fall to your sides like they’ve given up, spent and sore and no longer willing to participate in anything that resembles labor. Your back aches, your dress feels clung too close in places where sweat has started to gather, and you don’t even want to think about what your hair looks like anymore.

Min-su places the first of his two final arrangements a few tables down, hunched forward with the same tension he’s carried since he appeared with Mi-nyeo, his posture tight with embarrassment and too much fear. You hear the slight clink of the vase settling against the tabletop, and then the smallest, almost imperceptible sigh of relief as he straightens up beside it. 

You blow out a breath, soft but long, the kind that empties your lungs all the way down. It trails out of you with the weight of everything you’ve just carried, the vases, the plaques, the exhaustion of being wrangled into a million little tasks you never signed up for. You glance down at your dress, the slit swaying open slightly where you shifted your stance, and resist the urge to tug it back into place. You're too tired to care now. Too fed up with the whole thing. You’re here in a goddamn formal gown, not some reception crew uniform, and it’s starting to feel less like a banquet and more like a punishment for arriving too early and looking too available.

Your eyes dart sideways, just to check if Mi-nyeo is still hovering, ready to drag you into the next emergency that she deems worthy of complete disruption. But her back is turned for the moment, talking to someone in a suit near the edge of the stage. So you seize the opening like it’s life or death.

You are done. You are so done.

You shift your weight, roll your shoulders, and set your jaw. You’re not sticking around for her to turn back around and suddenly need you to help align the seat-back programs or re-iron the table runners or whatever other desperate task she invents next.

You need a reason to leave. You need a reason to disappear.

And she is all the reason you’ll ever need.

Your head lifts instinctively, your eyes scanning the room with new purpose, cutting through the blur of uniforms and satin and too-loud laughter, all of it irrelevant unless it leads you to her. You scan the upper bar areas first, then toward the cluster of officers mingling near the stage. You pivot slowly, tracking the space like something might move if you just stay still long enough.

And suddenly your entire chest floods with something warm and fluttering and immediate – because, finally, you see her.

Through the open doors, past the shifting bodies and drifting music and the muted hum of too many conversations at once, you catch a glimpse of her.

Sergeant Cho, standing alone on the balcony, one hand resting lightly on the railing, the other holding a champagne flute that glints faintly in the light. Her profile is sharp, carved cleanly from shadow and lamplight, her shoulders square, her posture relaxed in a way it never is when anyone else is near. She’s looking out at the skyline, lips parted slightly, not smiling, not frowning, just there. Present. Herself.

Your breath catches.

It’s the perfect out, the perfect moment, the cleanest excuse you could ever ask for. Your feet are moving before you realize it, carrying you around the table, threading through the narrow path between chairs and tables and the occasional drifting server. You’re too focused to speak, too focused to process anything beyond the sheer urgency of getting to her, the relief at finally being allowed to want something tonight and getting to have it. You’ve barely had a moment with her since you arrived, and now, she’s alone. She’s waiting. 

And you’re going to get to her.

You don’t even try to hide your expression, your mouth curved faintly in a breathless smile, your heart starting to race in time with your steps as you angle toward the open doors, your eyes fixed on her silhouette as she lifts the glass to her lips.

He doesn’t see you.

Min-su makes a quick, awkward pivot as he adjusts his grip on the vase in his hands, too distracted by the relief of almost finishing his task, too unaware of where you are or how close you’ve gotten.

And then there’s a sudden smack of something hard against you and a splash that hits your chest and sinks instantly through the front of your dress, water and flowers exploding out of the glass vase like it’s been waiting for its moment all night.

It crashes down your arms, sloshes across your stomach, slides over your thighs and down into your shoes. You make a strangled, guttural noise, half gasp, half what the actual fuck, staggering back a step as the shock of it locks your body in place.

You stand there, dripping, your arms slightly raised at your sides, dress soaked and sticking in ways that were never part of the plan, eyes wide and mouth agape in sheer disbelief.

Min-su freezes, empty vase clutched crookedly in his hands, eyes wide and horrified as he stares at you like you’re about to publicly execute him in front of half of the South Korean Army. His lips move once, no sound, then again.

“I – I didn’t – oh god – I didn’t see you – I–” He looks down at the vase, like he’s trying to figure out how his focus could have possibly betrayed him. “Oh my god – I am so sorry–”

He’s backing up, like he might turn and bolt, like this is the kind of moment you never recover from and the only option is to disappear forever.

Your arms are out at your sides, dress clinging to your body in half a dozen uncomfortable places, and for a moment you can’t do anything except stare. Not at Min-su, though he’s right there, sputtering, looking like he’s waiting for lightning to strike – but just at the nothing in front of you, somewhere between the table and the space you should have been walking to, the balcony you were supposed to reach, the moment you were meant to have.

You blink once, slow and disbelieving, like maybe this is just a very stupid, very vivid dream and you can still wake up and walk out to her like none of this happened.

But your shoes are wet. Your dress is stuck to your stomach. This is your reality now.

Min-su is trying to apologize again. You can barely hear him over the ringing in your ears.

“I didn’t mean – I swear, I wasn’t – I didn’t see you there, I was just – oh god–”

His words are coming fast and tripping over each other, full of breathless panic. He takes one small step forward, like maybe he can do something to fix it, but his eyes catch on the water dripping down your arms and he stops himself, visibly deciding that nothing he says or does is going to make this any better.

“It’s fine,” you say, sharper than you mean to, your voice tight from how hard you’re trying to keep it together. You take a quick breath in through your nose and repeat, quieter this time, more controlled. “It’s fine, Min-su. I’m fine.”

You can feel the eyes on you. You don’t turn to look, but they’re there. The quiet shift of conversation dying down in a ten-foot radius, the sound of laughter pausing, chairs creaking, someone muttering something sympathetic just out of earshot. You force yourself to breathe through your nose again, slow and steady, willing your pulse to back the fuck off as you exhale, then finally glance over your shoulder.

Kim is standing a few tables back, her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. Kang is grimacing, his head tilted like he just watched a car crash he couldn’t look away from. And Mi-nyeo is rolling her eyes so hard you can practically hear them creak in their sockets, her fingers tangled in her hair, muttering something vicious under her breath as she stalks past one of the servers without even noticing she nearly knocked over his entire tray.

Kim rushes toward you, her heels clicking fast against the floor. “Are you okay?” she asks, her voice high and tight, like she’s not sure if you’re about to cry or scream.

You close your eyes for half a second, just to collect yourself. Your fingers twitch, water dripping off of them. You reopen them and manage to meet her gaze.

“I’m fine,” you say again, this time with a tight-lipped smile, the kind that’s more damage control than comfort. “It’s just water. I’m just… gonna go dry off in the bathroom.”

Kim doesn’t stop you. Kang doesn’t either. Min-su looks like he’s halfway to bursting into tears. 

You step away from them all, dignity clinging to you by the thinnest goddamn thread as you start your slow, soaked retreat out of the spotlight.

You don’t look toward the balcony again. You can’t. Not right now.

The bathroom is quiet, the light low and diffused, casting soft shadows along the sleek tile walls, the kind of dimness that blurs edges and makes everything feel just a little more private. You let the door close behind you with a shaky breath, your dress clinging to your skin. For a moment, you just stand there in the echoing quiet, grateful for the solitude, the privacy, the sheer absence of other people’s voices.

There’s a gleaming marble counter that spans beneath a wide mirror, and at the middle of the counter, there’s a large wicker basket filled with thick, folded paper towels, the kind that actually absorb water instead of just smearing it around. No hand dryers in sight, no awkward rumbling air machines to deal with. Just blessed paper products.

You move quickly, yanking a handful free and pressing them against your arms first, then your chest, then down the front of your dress where the worst of the water clings to the fabric. It’s cold, and your skin prickles as you work, the chill finally catching up to your adrenaline.

You use the slit in your dress to shove your arm up underneath, patting down your stomach and thighs as best you can. You grab a few more, dabbing at the inside hem of your dress, trying to dry the edges before they soak through any deeper.

You hear a toilet flush, and one of the stall doors opens.

You don’t look up right away. You’re still busy twisting at the damp fabric around your waist, your whole body humming with leftover adrenaline and frustration, your thoughts too loud in your own head.

But then you hear the shuffle of heels and the sound of someone stepping up to the sinks, and then Mi-na’s voice, dry as ever: “What happened to you?” She pauses, gives it one beat, then adds, “Wait – let me guess. Min-su had something to do with this, didn’t he?”

You meet her gaze in the mirror, eyebrows raised, lips tight with exasperation. “How ever did you know?”

Mi-na grimaces in sympathy but lets out a small laugh, shaking her head as she turns on the faucet. “He’s having a rough night,” she mutters, scrubbing her hands like she’s trying to erase the whole evening from her skin. “Which means everyone else has to suffer for it.”

You snort softly as you shove a paper towel down the front of your dress. 

Mi-na shuts off the faucet and grabs a towel from the basket, drying her hands quickly before stepping closer.

“Here,” she says quietly, her voice lower, its usual sharpness gone. She reaches for another towel, folding it once before gently dabbing it along the nape of your neck, where water is still clinging stubbornly to your skin. She moves slowly, blotting with care.

“You missed a few spots,” she murmurs, not teasing, just observant. She drags the towel along your collarbone, then up to your shoulder, thumb anchoring the fabric of your dress so it doesn’t crumple as she works. “How much of that water went down the front of your dress?”

You breathe out a short, tired laugh. “Too much.”

“Mm,” she hums in sympathy. “Figures.”

She drops the towel into the bin behind her and steps a little closer, scanning your hair with a frown that borders on affectionate disapproval. “This is a mess,” she mutters, reaching up to tug at one of the loosened bobby pins, carefully removing it so she can reposition it properly. “When did this even happen?”

“Sometime between hauling around a forty pound box of plaques and learning interior design on the fly.”

Mi-na exhales through her nose, her mouth twitching at the corners. “Tragic,” she jokes, pulling out a pin from her own hair and putting it between her lips. “You really are suffering tonight.”

Her fingers separate a section of hair near your temple, combing through it slowly, then fluffing it gently with her fingertips. She steps around you slightly to get a better angle, catching another loose strand, twisting it, and pinning it into place with the pin she held between her lips before smoothing it into the rest.

You hold still under her touch, watching her work in the mirror, eyes scanning the way her brow furrows in concentration, the way her fingers move like she’s done this a dozen times before, for herself or maybe for other women in bathrooms who’ve needed someone to make them feel composed again. It’s such a small gesture, this effort to put you back together, but it carries weight. It cuts through the noise and frustration and leaves you standing here in this quiet, private space, breathing a little slower.

She steps back a little, fingers trailing down from the final bobby pin to smooth a few wayward strands into place. Her eyes meet yours in the mirror, and there’s no teasing smirk, just a slow nod of approval.

“There. You’re pretty again,” she says softly, like she means it, like she’s impressed.

She reaches forward to adjust the fall of your hair over one shoulder, tilting her head slightly as she studies you. 

You blink at your reflection. A little flushed, still a little damp in places, but your hair is back in place, your shoulders are pulled straighter, your frown is gone. You look better. You feel better.

“Thanks,” you murmur, voice quieter.

Mi-na shrugs like it’s nothing, like she’s not the one who just single-handedly salvaged your night from waterlogged chaos. “Don’t let anyone make you feel like you’re anything less than stunning,” she says, putting her hands on your shoulders and giving them a friendly squeeze. 

You look at her in the mirror, and for once, you believe it. You offer a faint, genuine smile and meet her eyes in the reflection.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” she says, letting her arms drop to her sides and stepping back, admiring her handiwork. “I’m gonna go get another drink. You want to come with?” she asks, heading for the door, heels clicking softly against the tile.

You huff out a laugh and straighten a little in the mirror. “Thanks, but you go ahead. I’m gonna stay in here a bit longer to avoid Mi-nyeo. If I go back out there now, she might try to rope me into serving hors d'oeuvres or emceeing the awards ceremony.”

Mi-na laughs at that, giving you a knowing look over her shoulder as she pushes the door open. “Smart move. She already tried to hand me a tray once, and I’m sure it won’t be the last time.”

You both share a grin, an exhausted, war-weary kind of camaraderie forged in the chaos of banquet logistics, and then she’s gone, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft thud that leaves the bathroom startlingly quiet again.

You turn back toward the mirror, exhaling slowly. The dim lights overhead cast clean edges around your reflection, grounding you in place. Your dress has dried surprisingly well, the fabric no longer clinging damply to your skin. You smooth your palms over your sides, adjust the way the neckline sits, pull the slit slightly to make sure it lays just right over your thigh.

Then you just… rest.

For a moment, you let yourself stand there in the quiet, breathing evenly, your hands braced on the counter’s edge, your gaze settling on your reflection with a tired sort of acceptance. The buzz of the night, the tension, the sheer rollercoaster of the last hour or so – it all begins to bleed into the stillness of the bathroom.

You hear the door open and you sigh again, a little deeper this time, and push yourself up to stand fully, adjusting your posture like you’re bracing to go back into battle.

But when you turn around–

There she is.

Sergeant Cho, standing just inside the door.

Your breath catches instantly, ribs tightening around it before it can go anywhere, before you can even decide what to do with it. Her pins and medals catch in the low light as the door swings closed behind her, the hem of her jacket cutting across her hips with cruel precision. Her eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, neither of you move.

Her jaw flexes once, barely a shift, and her gaze drops, slowly, pointedly, tracking down the length of your body. The curve of your collarbone, the swell of your breasts under your dress, the exposed line of your leg from where the slit of your dress parts.

Then back up.

To your mouth.

And finally, your eyes.

You stand there, frozen in place, heart hammering, lips parted just enough to taste the charged air between you. Whatever collected calm you’d managed to scrape together during the last ten minutes shatters on the spot, the heat rushing back into your face like you’ve been caught in something filthy, something illicit.

You want to speak, to break the silence, to say something, but then her eyes flick away from yours for just a moment.

A subtle tilt of her head, a glance toward the row of stalls behind you. She leans back slightly, shifting her weight to one side as she listens, her gaze dropping to the floor, scanning for feet beneath the doors. You watch her throat move as she swallows once, slow and deliberate, and then, when she sees that you’re alone, just the two of you, at last, something in her posture eases.

Her shoulders drop the faintest bit, her stance softens, and when she looks back at you, her whole demeanor has shifted. Still measured, still in control, but looser now, warmer, her presence curling into something darker. The heat in her eyes is no longer restrained – it flickers freely now, open and intent, as if she’s given herself permission to stop pretending.

She slides her hands into the pockets of her uniform trousers, slow and confident, the move drawing your eye down the lines of her hips before you catch yourself and force your gaze back up. And when it meets hers again, she’s smirking.

“That was quite the spectacle out there,” she says, voice low and dry, her words curling at the edges with something amused and unmistakably possessive. Her boots move soundlessly across the tile as she steps toward you, unhurried and deliberate.

You huff out a breath and rub a hand down your face, unable to stop the embarrassed smile tugging at your mouth.

“You saw that?” you mutter, pulse skipping at the memory of the disaster you survived.

She hums and leans a hip against the counter beside you, the granite edge catching the crease of her uniform pants just right, her body pointed toward yours. And she doesn’t look away. Not for a second.

She studies you in silence, her gaze moving across your face like she’s tracing a pattern only she can see. There’s no hurry to it, just that slow, deliberate intensity that always makes it hard to breathe when she’s this close.

Her hand lifts in a quiet, almost reverent movement, her fingers reaching to catch a stray lock of hair that’s fallen across your forehead. She tucks it behind your ear with a gentleness that makes your skin prickle. 

And then her fingers trail down, brushing the side of your face in a line that burns hot despite its tenderness. Her knuckles graze the curve of your jaw, slow and deliberate, as her voice dips lower.

“I’ve been trying to get to you all night.”

The words settle between you like gravity, pulling everything else out of orbit.

Your breath stutters, just slightly, and your eyes meet hers – dark and unwavering, her pupils blown wide in the low light of the bathroom, her attention locked on you like there’s nothing else in the world worth seeing.

“So have I,” you say.

And your voice doesn’t shake, but it’s quiet. Honest. Like the truth of it has finally pushed its way to the surface, unguarded and raw.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you.

She leans in closer as the hand resting on your jaw drifts lower, trailing downward in a slow, heated arc. Across your throat, down your shoulder, over the bare skin of your arm. Her fingertips drag there like she’s been thinking about this moment for hours, like she’s been counting down every second to this exact touch.

“I kept trying,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, rough and low and intimate, like it’s meant only for you. “Every time I got close, someone pulled you away. Or I got pulled away. Or the whole goddamn table of flower arrangements got in the way.”

Her thumb moves in a slow arc against the inside of your wrist, warm and steady against your skin. You swallow, breath catching in your throat, and her fingers keep drifting lower, curling around your hand.

“And now that I finally have you alone…”

She threads her fingers through yours.

The contact is gentle but decisive, her grip firm and steady, but there’s nothing patient about the look in her eyes. There’s something burning there, something that’s been buried under layers of decorum and uniformity all night, something that’s been fighting to stay hidden behind the way she carries herself in front of the others.

But now it’s spilling through the cracks. Now it’s written in the tension of her jaw, in the way her chest rises and falls just a little too fast, in the way she bites the inside of her cheek as she looks at your lips like she’s seconds away from giving in.

Her other hand slips from her pocket, slow and steady, and then she pushes off the counter. Her hand never leaves yours, her fingers never loosen their grip. And when she turns, she tugs you with her.

It’s the kind of pull that says she’s done waiting, done holding back, done playing the part she’s supposed to play in front of everyone else. Her steps are precise as she guides you down the row of stalls, her grip never faltering. The soft tap of her boots against the tile is almost lost beneath the blood rushing in your ears, your breath unsteady, your heart thudding against your ribs.

You pass stall after stall, each one closed, each one silent, and then she stops at the very end at the accessible stall.

She pushes the door open, her other hand still holding yours.

And finally, finally – she looks back at you.

The light overhead catches on her features just enough to deepen the shadows at the curve of her jaw, the bridge of her nose, the sweep of her lashes. Her mouth is parted, her lips drawn into something focused and simmering.

Her gaze drags downward again, slow and consuming, taking in every inch of you now that there’s no one to pretend for.

And then she pulls you inside.

The lock clicks shut with a sound that echoes too sharply in the quiet. The kind of sound that confirms you’re not leaving until she says you can.

She faces you slowly, one hand resting on the edge of the stall door, her posture composed, patient, like there’s nowhere else in the world she needs to be. Her gaze finds yours without hesitation, steady and sharp, and your breath stutters before you can stop it. 

She takes a step forward.

You take one back.

Another step. Another. 

She takes her time, letting each step bring her closer, crowding into your space.

You retreat until your back hits the wall, the cool tile against your skin, a small shiver crawling up your back as the distance between you collapses.

She doesn’t stop until she’s right there in front of you, close enough that you can smell the clean scent of her perfume, feel the warmth radiating off her. Her eyes flick down, lingering at the slit in the dress. Her hand lifts, casual and slow, and her fingers ghost over the fabric where it parts at your thigh. Just a brush. Barely any pressure at all. And then she tugs gently, moving the fabric aside to reveal more of your skin beneath it.

Her lips part, just slightly.

It slides to the side easily under her touch, the movement revealing the bare skin of your thigh, the cut high enough to make your heart stutter. Her thumb brushes the exposed skin like she’s checking the hem for quality. Like she’s making sure you’re still hers, even here, even now.

“This looks good on you,” she murmurs, and the words hit harder than they should. They’re low and smooth and precise, like everything she says, but there’s something else under it too, something that makes your stomach tighten and your knees threaten to give. Her thumb drags lightly against your inner thigh. “Better than I imagined.”

You exhale slowly, too aware of how warm your skin is beneath her fingers, too aware of how long you’ve been waiting for her to touch you again.

Her eyes lift and pause on the soft rise and fall of your chest under the fabric she chose for you, then your throat, then your lips.

Her gaze finally meets yours with full weight behind them, and the pulse between your legs beats hard. You’re aching in a way that feels like punishment, like anticipation curled up so tight inside you that you’re going to unravel the second she lets you.

She steps in closer, her mouth hovering over yours for a breath, like she’s letting the moment stretch just a little too long, just enough to make sure you’ll remember it.

Then she moves in.

And she kisses you like you’re hers.

No hesitation. No warning. Just heat, and pressure, and the firm, possessive grip of a woman who’s had to hold back all night and is done doing so.

Her mouth moves against yours, firm and slow, and the sound that catches in your throat barely makes it out before it’s swallowed into the kiss. Her body presses in close, chest to chest, thigh against thigh. She’s everywhere, and you fall into it – into her.

You tilt your head. Your hands lift, fingers tangling loosely into the fabric at her waist, like holding onto her is the only way to stay upright. She tastes like champagne and warmth and restraint breaking apart. Like control tipping over into something darker, deeper, hungrier.

Her tongue brushes your lips and you gasp into her mouth, and she immediately takes advantage of the opening. Her tongue drags across yours, pulling another sound from deep in your throat that she drinks it down like it belongs to her. And it does belong to her. Everything about you does.

She draws it out, savoring it, kissing you like she means to undo you slowly. Like she has all the time in the world to take you apart piece by piece, starting with your mouth.

You feel her jaw shift, the faint press of her teeth catching your bottom lip, and the heat that surges through you in response is instant. You melt harder into her, your fingers curling tighter at her waist, and she makes a sound, low and pleased, into your mouth that leaves your legs shaking.

When she finally pulls back, it’s barely an inch. Her breath fans across your lips, and her eyes are on fire when they meet yours – dark and focused and heavy with something that coils straight down your spine.

“You look perfect tonight,” she murmurs as her thumb brushes the edge of your jaw. 

She leans in for another kiss before you can say anything, deeper this time, rougher. And you give into it instantly, helplessly, like your whole body’s been waiting for her to press her mouth to yours since the moment you stepped into her line of sight.

She brushes her hand against your cheek with something almost gentle before it trails lower, fingers tracing down the side of your throat, over the curve of your collarbone, your chest, your side, until it finds your waist. She holds you there, firm and commanding, anchoring you in place. Like this, right here, is where you belong.

The other hand moves slowly, deliberately, brushing the outside of your thigh where the slit in the dress starts to reveal skin. And then she slips her hand through the opening, palm dragging along the bare skin of your thigh like she’s been waiting all night to finally touch what’s hers.

Your breath hitches so hard it breaks the kiss.

Her lips hover against yours as she speaks, each word low and deliberate, her thumb brushing lazy circles at your hip.

“I’ve had to watch you all night in this,” she murmurs, her mouth close enough that her lips brush yours with every word. “Pretending I wasn’t aching to find somewhere quiet and do exactly this.”

Her hand on your thigh moves in a touch that leaves a trail of fire in its wake, slow enough to make your breath catch every time her fingers stroke lower then circle up again, just light enough to keep you on the edge. Her other hand stays at your waist, holding you in place like she knows your knees are already losing their strength.

She adjusts her stance, knee nudging between your legs like she needs every inch of her body in contact with yours. Her thigh brushes the inside of yours, and she grinds up higher, dragging right along the dampening heat between your legs.

A low groan breaks in her throat. She grits her teeth.

“Fuck, you’re warm.”

Her hand moves from your hip and hits the wall beside your head, steadying herself. The other curls tight at your thigh, fingers digging into your skin. She holds you there, jaw clenched, head tilted forward so her nose brushes the side of your face.

Another small shift, another breath, and her hips press tighter. It’s a rut now, like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. 

She drags the slit of your dress higher, just a few inches, just enough to feel the skin underneath, and you whimper, soft, barely audible. 

Her next breath shakes and she leans into it.

Her body pushes forward again, grinding deep against you, slow and steady and desperate, like she’s trying to fuck you through the layers, needing more of you, more pressure, more heat. She exhales hard through her nose and her hand fists in your dress.

And then another slow, deliberate press forward, hips angling in with military-grade precision until her belt is flush to your waist and her erection is snug against the heat between your legs. The thick line of it through her slacks is unrelenting, pressed right up into the soft, thin fabric of your dress, angled high enough that you can feel the full shape of it as it drags between your thighs. 

She slides her hand further between your legs, and it’s not smooth or practiced or confident – it’s clumsy with how badly she wants it. Her breath hitches near your cheek, her fingers clenching briefly against your skin like she doesn’t trust herself not to grab.

She exhales like it hurts.

You gasp and your hips buck forward as her fingers find the heat between your legs and her forehead tilts toward yours, almost gently, and you hear her breathing shift again, something sharp catching in her throat.

Her brow lifts, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes, and her fingers shift, pressing against the damp heat, slow, testing, like she's confirming what she’s feeling. 

She glances down and eases the fabric of your dress aside, her movements slow and precise, deliberate in a way that makes your breath hitch.

A breath slips out of her, short, quiet, and sharp at the edges.

Her eyes land on the soft, blue lace of your underwear. Her hand stills as she stares, her mouth parting slightly. She drags her fingers over it, slow and heavy, pressing in hard enough to make you feel how much she likes what you chose for her.

Her eyes lift back to yours, and the weight of her stare hits you hard, like she’s seeing something new in you, something she hadn’t anticipated. Her hand stays right where it is, fingers brushing over the damp lace.

“What’s this?” she asks, quirking a brow, a sly smile curling up the corner of her mouth.

You meet her gaze, your face warm, too aware of her fingers as they start to move in slow, reverent circles, pressing against your clit over the lace.

“They’re…” you start, voice softer than you mean it to be. “They’re for you.”

Her breath catches and her eyes drag lower again. She drags her fingers across the lace once more, slower this time, like the confirmation changes everything. Her tongue swipes across her lower lip as she exhales.

“You picked out this dress for me,” you say, your words more certain now, a bit of confidence finding its way out. “So I picked these out for you.”

A low, soft sound comes from the back of her throat. Not a groan or moan, but something quieter. Something almost reverent.

Her gaze stays fixed on the lace, her fingers tracing along the curve of your cunt with a kind of concentration that feels more like worship than touch, and for a second, it’s like everything else – the banquet, the risk of getting caught together like this, the weight of her rank and yours – vanishes. All that’s left is her hand between your legs, and the lace you wore for her, and the knowledge that she’s seconds away from losing control because of a gift you haven’t let her unwrap yet.

Then she drags her fingers upward, pressing in as they trace the full length of the mess she’s made of you. Her touch isn’t steady – it stutters once midway through, like she wasn’t ready for how wet you actually are, and when she finally exhales again, it comes out low and strained, her voice barely holding together around it.

“Jesus,” she whispers. It’s not sharp or composed or smug – it’s barely audible, said like something she meant to think instead, like it slipped out before she could help it.

Her fingers curl under the edge of the lace and she slides it to the side. Her breath catches as she drags her fingers through the slick heat of your cunt like she can’t help it. She strokes once, then again, just a little deeper. Just enough to feel the way your body reacts, the way you clench your thighs around her hand, the sharp gasp that escapes you. 

She groans under her breath. Her jaw flexes, her hips shifting like she wants to press forward and rut against your thigh as her middle and forefinger presses into your cunt, slow and sweet and so careful, like she just wants to feel how tight you are around her even like this. Her palm fits perfectly against you, her hand spread wide between your legs, steadying you both.

“God, you’re–” she doesn’t finish it. Her voice trails off before it can land, swallowed somewhere between a groan and a breath. She holds you like that for a moment longer, her fingers grinding faintly in your cunt like she’s still trying to make sense of how soft and warm and ready you already are for her. 

Then she withdraws her fingers slowly, like she’s reluctant to break contact, like even the distance of a few inches is too much right now, her fingertips dragging lightly along the inside of your thigh as she pulls away, leaving you aching around the emptiness she left behind.

Her palm brushes your dress as it falls back into place, the hem settling uselessly over your skin, and for a second, you think that’s it, that she’ll reset, straighten her jacket, return to the controlled cadence she carried into the stall.

But then her hand lifts slowly and she parts her lips without hesitation, guiding her fingers past them with the same care she touched you with just seconds ago.

Her tongue meets her fingers like she’s tasting something she already knows she’s going to want more of. And then she closes her mouth around them, her lips sealing as her eyes flutter shut like it overwhelms her for a second. Like it settles too deep too fast. She holds it there, her lips soft around her fingers, the rest of her body completely still.

Her breath doesn’t come right away; it pauses in her chest, suspended somewhere between effort and reaction, her whole body pulled into that one slow, subtle shift of her jaw as she tastes what you gave her. 

She holds you in her mouth a moment longer, like she’s letting herself sit with it, like tasting you was more than indulgence – it was permission.

She draws air through her nose like she’s trying to recover from it, and when her eyes open again, something’s different. It’s not sharpness or restraint – it’s weight. Focus. Heat. 

Her hand lowers and her fingers find your jaw and guide your face toward hers with purpose. 

And then she kisses you.

The press of her mouth is warm and full, the slide of her lips slow against yours, the taste of you fresh on her tongue as she leans in to share it. She tilts her head, deepening the kiss just enough to make your knees tremble, her hand holding your face like she’s trying to feel every movement of your mouth against hers.

Her breath slips out into your mouth when she breaks away, and her forehead rests against yours like she needs the connection to be able to speak.

Her voice is rough when it comes, quieter than before. 

“You taste–” she cuts herself off, jaw tightening like whatever word she chooses won’t be enough, like there’s nothing to properly describe how she feels about it. Her gaze slips down once, then lifts again, slower this time, her expression settled into something warm and strained and aching, “So fucking good.”

Her hips meet yours again in one smooth, forward press, her erection grinding thick and unrelenting through her slacks right where your body is soft and slick and open, and it hits so precisely that it knocks your breath loose from your chest. 

An inhale catches halfway up your throat, mouth falling open around it like it’s too much too fast, like you didn’t realize how close you were to shaking until she locked her hips into place and made you feel it all at once. Your hands grab for her jacket, like your body knows better than your mind how to steady itself when she starts moving.

Her hips roll in a slow, steady grind that starts low and drags upward, her erection catching exactly where it needs to as the pressure builds. She doesn’t ask – she just shifts her weight forward and uses it.

You feel all of it. Every hard, aching ridge of her straining through the layers of clothing, and it makes your knees threaten to give, your thighs clenching helplessly around the pressure as you start to tilt toward it.

She moves her hands to your hips, holding you steady, fingers pressing through the fabric of your dress to remind you she’s still in control of this, even if her breath is starting to break in uneven bursts and her cock aches with every grind. Her mouth hovers near your cheek, the tip of her nose brushing your skin as she leans in and speaks low enough that it doesn’t feel like speech at all, just breath shaped into sound.

“You feel that?” she asks, not rhetorical, not cruel, just needing you to know. “You feel how fucking hard I am because of you?”

You nod against her forehead because there’s no air left to speak, no control left to pretend with. Heat spikes between your legs, a sound catching at the back of your throat before you can swallow it down. 

Her hips grind forward again, but this time the pressure isn’t even, like the restraint is starting to splinter under its own weight. Her hand tightens at your waist in a selfish grasp and her breath comes faster, hot against your cheek, her jaw brushing yours with every exhale as her erection presses harder, the grind shallower, rougher.

A low noise curls out of her throat like it broke loose without warning. A quiet growl that hits just below your ear, forcing its way out of her throat like it broke loose without warning, warm and full of everything she’s barely holding back – desire, frustration, hunger, helplessness.

“You don’t know what you do to me.”

The words come out rough, torn from somewhere deep, too honest to be calculated. Because her voice doesn’t sound like it’s holding anything back now – it sounds raw, like she’s trying to gather the threads of herself and can’t quite make the knot hold. Her hips jerk forward again, the line of her cock grinding up against you with desperate pressure, and her head falls forward until her forehead brushes your temple.

“You don’t–” she tries, but swallows the rest. Her hips roll forward again, slower, deeper, and your body arches into her as your hands curl around her waist, finding the fabric of her shirt and tugging it loose. You press your fingers into her skin, sinking your nails in, and she groans into your neck.

“You don’t know,” she murmurs again, voice breaking, “how fucking hard it is to stay composed around you.”

She presses her body into yours harder, more urgent, her hips rolling with rougher, needier momentum as she lets herself feel it, lets herself want you. Her jacket is stiff against your chest, her belt biting into your stomach with every grind, her erection straining against her slacks as she drags it up between your legs again and again, using your body like she needs it.

You whimper and she moves faster. One hand drops to your thigh, sliding beneath the slit of your dress, and she guides your leg up until it hooks around her hip and locks her against you. Her other hand braces against your waist, caging you in so tightly the air between you disappears entirely.

“I’ve been thinking about this for days,” she murmurs, her lips brushing just above your jaw. “From the second I handed you that dress. From the moment I told you you’d be wearing it for me.”

You gasp, and she hums at the sound.

“That slit isn’t just for show, you know,” she continues, fingers dragging lightly up your exposed thigh. “It’s so I could get to you easily. So I could have you exactly like this.”

Your head tips back, your chest lifting with a shuddered breath as her hips roll forward once more, the friction devastating through the layers between you.

Her next thrust comes harder, enough to rock you against the wall. You gasp, and her hand catches the back of your thigh, lifting it higher, angling your hips with military precision that barely masks how close she is to losing it.

The sounds coming out of you are all broken words and breathless need, your mind fogged with sensation, your mouth parted and useless except to whimper for more.

She drags your mouth back to hers, kissing you hard, her breath ragged against your lips, her body tight with restraint that’s about to snap. And when she breaks the kiss, her mouth stays close, her forehead pressing against yours.

“I should make you wait,” she mutters, her lips brushing yours with every word. “But I can’t–” her breath catches, her next thrust hitting deeper, “–I fucking can’t.”

She releases her grip on your thigh and your leg slides down hers as your foot finds the floor again. Her hands move between your bodies with a kind of urgency that tightens your grip on her waist, and she works quickly at the fastenings of her pants.

Her fingers work fast at the front of her slacks, just enough to pull them open and down the inches it takes to free her hard cock from the restrictive press of her waistband.

Her hands are on you again before your next breath settles, finding their way to the slit in your dress, one hand pushing the fabric to the side with firm impatience and the other moving back to your thigh, dragging down and splaying her fingers out against your skin. 

She lifts your leg and hooks it over her hip once again, holding you flush to her like your bodies were made to fit this way. Her cock is thick and hot between you, trapped between the soaked lace of your underwear, and you can feel her cock throb as her hips shift forward again, adjusting for angle, for pressure.

Her hand moves then, fingers dipping between your legs and sliding your underwear to the side with one firm pull that bares you for her completely. There’s no teasing, no comment, just the impatient efficiency of someone who’s waited long enough and can’t stand to waste another breath.

The tip of her cock presses against your cunt, and the noise she makes in response is deep and pulled up from her chest in a way that surprises even her. 

Her forehead stays against yours, her jaw tight, mouth open, and her breath slips out hard when she starts to push in. The press of her cock makes your back arch and forces your eyes shut even as she keeps hers open, watching your face while her cock sinks into you one inch at a time.

You feel your cunt tighten around her, pulling her deeper. Your breath falters as she slides into you, her body pressing you into the wall, her hands adjusting only to keep you steady as the angle shifts.

You make a sound somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and the second it leaves your mouth she exhales again, this time through clenched teeth. She pushes in another inch and it sends heat flooding into your cheeks, and you feel the falter in her rhythm, the tremble in her shoulders, the way her cock pulses inside you, still not all the way in.

Her voice breaks next to your cheek. “Fuck,” she whispers. “You’re–”

She draws her hips back just slightly, making your leg shake where she holds it around her hip, and when she presses forward again, slower this time, her cock slides into you until the resistance fades and all that’s left is the sensation of her, the length of her, the fullness that you’ll be feeling long after this night ends.

You don’t even feel yourself moving. You just grab for her, the edge of her jacket, the tight line of her shoulder, the fabric of her collar, something to hold onto as the pressure builds, as she sinks in further, filling you with the kind of intensity that makes your whole body brace for it.

When she’s finally all the way in, her body shudders once – and then she starts to move.

The rhythm begins slowly, a grind more than a thrust, her hips rolling forward in deep, dragging pushes that make your knees tremble, her hand clamped to your thigh, holding you in place. Her cock drags out and pushes back in with precision at first, each stroke enough to feel the length of her, each press just deep enough to pull a gasp from your throat.

Her breath catches and her jaw clenches. She exhales against your cheek, rough and wrecked – then she snaps her hips forward, sharper this time. A low, quiet groan slips out when she catches your mouth with hers, silencing the sound you make before it escapes.

Her hand shifts lower to grip under your thigh, keeping your leg hoisted against her while she drives into you, her cock filling you over and over with the kind of rhythm that’s meant to leave you ruined.

You can hear her breathing break apart. You can feel her body tighten, the press of the buttons and pins on her uniform sharp against your chest, and you hear her voice, cracked and low and completely undone.

“Fuck,” the word shakes out of her – and she breathes out your name.

Your name, not your rank, not ‘Private,’ but your name – and the sound of it hits you harder than the thrust that follows, sharp and full, your hands pulling her in tighter as they wrap around her neck. She fucks you through it, hips slamming forward with the kind of hunger that doesn’t know how to stop once it’s been given permission.

Her cock drags through your wet cunt with every stroke, thick and hot and perfect, and you can’t think straight. There’s nothing except the sound of her breathing ragged against your jaw and the grind of her body against yours like she’s trying to fuck something out of you. Maybe your sanity.

“You feel so fucking good,” she groans, voice cracking in your ear.

The only sounds you can make are helpless and broken, caught somewhere between gasps and moans as she thrusts harder, deeper, and then– 

You hear the sound of the bathroom door swinging open, and you freeze. Your hands tighten where they’re clutched behind her neck and hold your breath like it might make you disappear. 

Her hips pause and her arms wrap tighter around you.

You hear voices, laughing about something, the sound echoing off tile as the door swings shut behind them and their footsteps head toward the sinks. You hear the sharp twist of a faucet handle and the clatter of a compact hitting porcelain.

Sergeant Cho’s eyes are wide as they search yours, and her lips part like she might say something, but nothing comes – just breath. Just the faintest tremble of her mouth, like she’s balancing on the edge of restraint, and even a whisper might knock her off of it.

You can’t move, you can barely breathe, and the realization hits hard and fast: if either of the two women turn even slightly, if one happens to glance down the row and sees two pairs of feet in one stall – you’re seconds from being caught.

Sergeant Cho looks like she’s come to the same conclusion as her gaze drops to your mouth. But her teeth catch her lower lip – and that’s the moment everything tips.

She doesn’t hesitate when she moves. Her arms shift, hands moving beneath your dress and bracing under your ass, lifting you in one smooth pull that drags you higher against the wall. She pushes you harder against it, pinning you to her chest, locking your body flush to hers, and your legs instinctively wrap around her hips and your arms tighter around her neck as she hikes you up.

“Did you bring any lipstick? I didn’t think to bring mine,” one of the women asks, light and unconcerned, a gentle scrape of something plastic against the counter following right after.

“Yeah, I think so,” the other replies, followed by the zip of a purse and the sound of a tube being uncapped. “You need powder, too. You’re glowing.”

“I’m hot,” the first one laughs, “That champagne is dangerous.”

You hear Sergeant Cho’s breath hitch again, shorter this time, sharper. Her hands tighten where they hold you up, fingers pressing in beneath your thighs as she tries not to move.

But her hips twitch. Barely. A tiny pulse forward. Enough to make her cock press just a little deeper, the weight of it dragging heat low in your core, the kind that makes your jaw clench and your throat ache to make a sound.

She lowers her head until her forehead presses against yours, her breath hot and uneven between your lips, and when her hips roll forward, just slightly, you feel the tremble move all the way up to her shoulders, her whole body tensing with the effort it takes to keep her movements small.

The woman at the sink sighs. “It’s too humid out there. I put all this work into my hair and it’s gonna look like shit.”

Sergeant Cho fucks into you again. Just once, just an inch. She squeezes your thighs, fingers digging in hard. Then her hips roll back again, slower, more shallow, like she’s trying to be good, like she knows one wrong move will give you both away.

The sound that breaks in your throat never makes it out.

Her hand slams over your mouth, palm wide and warm and steady, her fingers pressing against your cheek as she muffles the cry that would’ve shattered everything. Her bicep flexes as it supports your leg, and she starts to fuck you slowly, deliberately, and completely silently.

And her eyes are locked onto yours like she’s daring you to fall apart before she does.

Outside the stall, one of the women says something about work schedules.

Sergeant Cho’s fingers tighten slightly when your breath hitches and your hips jerk forward to meet her thrusts, and you see her press her own lips together to force herself not to make a sound. She sinks into you again with a shift of her hips that sends another pulse of heat surging through you.

You gasp against her palm just as one of the women drops something, the sound concealing yours.

She pulls her hand from your mouth and finds your thigh again, every breath she exhales sinking into your lungs like it belongs there. Her hips roll again, and your whole body tenses with the effort of holding it all in.

Outside, one of the women sighs and says, “Ugh, I swear this lighting makes me look ten years older.”

Sergeant Cho’s pace stays careful, but the tension is building within her, shoulders shaking faintly with every small thrust that she can’t hold back. Her hand slides slightly on your thigh as she adjusts the angle, pulling you closer, tucking you higher up against her waist as she lifts you that extra inch to get deeper.

Your cunt clenches around her cock and she shudders as her hips lock. Then she drives forward again, harder this time.

She watches you, eyes locked on yours, lips parted, her expression carved from focus and hunger, like she’s studying how much the both of you can take without making a sound. Her cock fills you over and over, and each thrust forces your breath higher into your chest until you feel like you might break apart.

The kiss lands fast, her lips catching yours in a way that’s messy and open and breathless, the full weight of her desire pouring into you before she can think better of it. She kisses you like the sound she would’ve made otherwise would’ve been too loud to hide, and her mouth slants against yours with a desperation you’ve never felt from her before – urgent, clumsy, and real.

Her rhythm falters, her hips pushing forward again, deep and slow and so hard you whimper into her mouth, your breath catching between her lips as she swallows the sound. 

She kisses you like she’s coming apart in your arms. Her teeth catch on your lower lip when your cunt tightens around her cock, and she groans into your mouth – quiet, broken, her chest pressing tight against yours, hips working in shorter, sharper movements as her control slips with every thrust.

Her cock drags out slowly and thrusts back in so deep it sends another quiet sound from deep in your throat and she catches it all, swallowing everything you give her like it’s the only thing keeping her steady.

Outside, one of the women sighs.

“Alright,” she says. “I think we’ve held them up long enough.”

Sergeant Cho shudders against you. Her hands clench against your thighs, her mouth open over yours, breathing into you, and when the footsteps start to move, she presses her hips forward one more time, deep, like it’s the only thing keeping her from falling to her knees.

The bathroom door creaks open and a burst of noise leaks in – distant laughter, the clattering of dishes, the hum of polite conversation.

Her hips grind forward as the door closes, deep and fast, her cock dragging through the heat of you in a rhythm that tells you how much she was holding back.

And then she leans in, her mouth brushing the side of your throat, breath hot and fast where it hits your skin as she lets out a deep, guttural groan.

She presses her face there like she’s drawn to the pulse beating under your jaw, like it calms her to feel it, like it reminds her you’re real and right here and taking every inch of her cock like you’ve been aching for it since the second you walked into this building tonight.

Her voice is low, breathless, voice fraying at the edges in a way that makes it feel heavier than anything she’s said all night.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” she mutters, her mouth open against your neck, words slipping out like they’ve been waiting behind her teeth for too long. 

A rough, half-choked moan slips out of you, caught somewhere between your throat and your chest as your cunt pulses around her cock.

Her cock slams into you, deep and rhythmically hard. Your legs shake around her and she mutters your name again, low and close to your ear. It sounds wrecked and raw, like she’s barely hanging on.

“If I didn’t outrank you,” she mutters, her mouth brushing your skin with every word, “I’d walk out of here with you on my arm for everyone to see.”

Her confession punches something out of you from how real it sounds. Like she means it. Like she’d really do it if she could. Your eyes meet hers, breath clashing in the small space between you, the heat crawling through your body too close to spilling into something you can’t walk back from.

Her eyes are locked on yours and she grinds her cock in deep enough that your entire body wants to shake, but all you can feel in this moment is the weight of what she said – and what slips out of you before you can stop it.

“I want them all to see that I belong to you,” you whisper, the words raw and quiet and completely unfiltered, your lips brushing hers, your heart racing in your chest like you’ve just admitted something you weren’t supposed to say out loud.

She growls low and quiet, right against your mouth, and kisses you like the words burned her, like she needs to swallow the sound of them before they ruin her for good.

And when she pulls back, her voice is wrecked, her breath hot and shallow between you, her hands gripping your thighs like she doesn’t trust herself to let go.

“You belong next to me,” she says, the words sharp and sure, spoken like a truth she’s never dared say out loud until now. “And I hate that I have to act like you don’t.”

Her rhythm breaks, the control in her hips fraying, the drag of her cock growing heavier, slower, deeper, like she’s trying to hold herself inside you just a second longer before everything falls apart. 

“If I let myself,” she murmurs, her hands gripping your thighs like she’s trying to feel the confession against your skin. “I’d pull you close and kiss your throat in front of every officer in that room.”

You whimper and her grip tightens like she hears it for exactly what it is.

“I want them to see,” you whisper back, lips brushing hers with every word. “I want them to see – and to know it’s you who puts your hands on me like this.”

A sound punches out of her chest like it tore through her without warning and she surges forward, thrusting deep enough to steal the rest of your breath, her hips locking against yours as her mouth catches the corner of your lips and then your jaw, like she can’t decide if she wants to kiss you or say something worse.

“I called you mine earlier,” she growls with her mouth against yours, “Right in front of them.”

You moan into her, legs tightening around her hips like your body is answering for you. “I am yours – and I want everyone to know it.”

She groans, deep and shuddering, and her next thrust hits harder, everything in her movements unraveling. Her mouth finds your ear again, her voice dropping into something wrecked and low and completely unguarded.

“I want to suck bruises into your neck,” she gasps, breath hot against your jaw, “where everyone can see.”

You whimper, completely gone now, wrecked in her arms, the words ripping out of you before your brain can stop them.

“I want them to ask where they came from,” you whisper, your breath shaking so hard it barely counts as speaking. “So I can tell them it was you.”

Her hips snap forward like it’s instinct, like her body heard that before her brain did, and she curses into your mouth, one hand grabbing your jaw and holding you steady as her eyes burn into yours, wild and wrecked and too far gone to stop.

“I should’ve kept my distance from the start,” she grits out, “But you make me want to break the rules I’m supposed to enforce.”

You gasp, your breath catching as your hands tighten against the back of her neck, hips rolling up to meet the next thrust before it even comes. 

“And I can’t stop,” she gasps, her voice ragged and right in your mouth. “Fuck, I can’t stop, I want you too much, I don’t care–”

“Don’t,” you rasp. “Don’t stop, don’t care, please–”

Your name is on her lips when the next thrust slams into you, deeper than the last, harder than you can brace for, and your whole body jolts with the force of it, gripping the back of her neck, head falling forward until your mouth finds her throat because you have nowhere else to go.

She groans against you, low and uneven, and her hips keep moving, rough and relentless, her cock driving into you like she’s stopped thinking entirely, like her body has taken over and there’s no reason left to hold back.

It builds fast, too fast, pulled tighter with every thrust, every desperate word she spills against your skin. The pressure coils deep and low, a burn between your legs and your thighs and the base of your spine, everything inside you tightening around her. You feel it coming, feel the way your body starts to shudder, how your breath falls apart in your throat, how your grip on her turns frantic – and then it hits.

Your cunt pulses so hard around her cock that it knocks the last sound out of your chest and all you can do is cling to her and cry her name into her neck like it’s the only thing left in your head.

She’s not far behind.

You feel it in the sharp, staggering snap of her hips, in the raw noise that tears loose from her chest like she couldn’t hold it back even if she tried, and in the way her cock drives in hard one last time and stays, pressed in so deep it feels like she’s trying to keep herself buried inside you forever.

Her whole body seizes – shoulders tight, thighs flexing beneath your legs, breath punched from her lungs as she comes hard, cock throbbing deep in your cunt with one slow, dragging pulse after another, each one spilling inside you, thick and hot and endless.

You feel her cum fill you, each release heavier than the last, pressure building where her hips grind into yours like she doesn’t want to leave an inch untouched.

Her breath breaks against your neck, mouth open at your shoulder, jaw clenched, and her hands grip tighter as your cunt throbs around her cock, drawing out every last pulse. She stays pressed in tight, one hand gripping your thigh and the other locked around your waist, and she holds you there like she’s trying to force every throb of release as deep as it can go.

It floods you, spilling in waves, each one heavier than the last, until you can feel it start to leak out around the base of her cock, so much more than your body knows how to handle.

You choke on a sound, something cracked and breathless and ruined. 

Her cock throbs inside you with small aftershocks that make her breath hitch each time she feels your cunt clench in response, her whole body trembling through the last waves like she doesn’t want to come down.

She holds you there, arms locked around you, your back against the tile, your chest rising and falling against the sharp buttons and medals on her uniform. 

Then, quietly, reverently, she shifts. Just enough to bring her mouth to your shoulder and kiss it. Just her warm lips, pressed to the bare skin where the strap of your dress has slipped down. A small, careful kiss, like she’s thanking you. Or grounding herself. Or maybe both.

“You’re mine,” she murmurs softly.

When she finally does lift her head, her face is flushed, hair sticking to her temple, her lips swollen from kissing you. Her eyes find yours, and for once – they’re not guarded. They’re just open.

She looks like someone who’s realizing something too late. Or maybe for the first time. And it steals the breath right out of your lungs. 

In her eyes is something softer than lust. Something deeper than possession. It lands hard in your chest, coils tight behind your ribs, and you don’t know what to do with it except hold it there and hope she doesn’t pull away.

You don’t speak. You don’t move. You just look at her.

There’s something terrifying about how quiet and real this moment is. Her body is pressed to yours, her cock still inside you, both of you tangled in the heat and the mess and the weight of what just happened.

You swallow hard, unsure of whether the ache in your chest is from being fucked against a wall or from the fact that part of you wants to say something back. Something just as vulnerable, something just as exposed. But you don’t. 

Instead, you let her linger.

You let her thumb trace along your thigh, soft and repetitive. You let her breath shake quietly against your lips, warm and rhythmic, like she’s trying to come back into her body, like she’s finding the edges of herself again after handing you everything.

Her hands shift at your thighs again, fingers flexing like she’s feeling for something, like she needs to gauge whether your legs are steady or still trembling too hard to trust. Her grip tightens around your thighs and she takes a long, steady breath against your cheek. You feel the rise and fall of her chest, the slow recalibration of her control, and then she moves.

She lowers you, slow enough that you feel every inch of the way your bodies part. A soft whimper slips out of your mouth as her cock slips free and you see her jaw tighten at the sound, see the way her fingers flex around your thighs like she’s fighting the urge to stay buried inside you instead.

Her hands don’t leave you when your feet touch the tile again. One stays at your waist, fingers curled into the fabric of your dress like she doesn’t trust your legs to hold you yet. The other trails down your thigh, warm and steady, coaxing you to breathe through the shudder caught in your chest, and you hold onto the lapels of her jacket like they’re the only thing keeping you from falling apart all over again.

And when your feet are fully on the floor once more, she doesn’t step back. Her forehead rests lightly against yours, the moment between stillness and movement stretching long enough that you can feel her breathing settle.

She watches you like she’s taking inventory. Of your flushed and dazed face, of your parted lips, of the tremble you’re trying and failing to hide. Her thumb drags lightly over your hip, slow and grounding, and you flinch from how sensitive you are, how easy it would be to crumble under it.

You try to speak, but nothing comes out. Just a quiet exhale, a tiny whimper that barely forms a sound.

Her lips press against your cheek, then your jaw, then lower, slower, tracing the curve of your neck. These kisses aren’t soft – they’re purposeful and possessive. Her breath exhales roughly against your skin and her teeth graze the tender place just above your collarbone. 

And in your chest, something pulls tight.

Because this is her returning to herself. This is her remembering who she is, who she has to be in this place full of her superiors and those who listen for her commands. This is Sergeant Cho stepping back into her name with her body tangled in yours.

She exhales again, calmer now and more even. The softness hasn’t vanished, but it’s been folded into something stronger, like a storm cloud winding itself back into formation.

Her hand moves from your thigh, sliding back between your legs where you’re hot and flushed and slick. She drags two fingers through the wetness there, slow and intentional, like she’s collecting the mess she left behind.

Her cum coats you in thick streaks spread high across the inside of your upper thighs, and more threatens to spill from your filled cunt. She rubs it in like it belongs there, like you’re hers and this is proof. Her hand is wide and slow as it drags up your inner thigh, her fingers spreading it deliberately until you let out a quiet gasp.

Her fingers slide between your cunt again and you hear her hum low in her throat. The sound is quiet but sharp, like satisfaction held on a leash. She presses her fingers upward, slow and firm, and they nudge your entrance, pushing the cum that’s started to leak out back in.

Your cunt clenches down hard around her fingers and you feel the mess she’s left inside you slide deeper again.

Her fingers move in a tight circle, pressing it in and up into the places that are still aching, still twitching, still open from the way she fucked you.

You’re pulsing around her fingers, wet enough from her release and yours that they don’t meet any resistance, and you breathe out a moan as she pulls her fingers from your soaked cunt. 

Her hand lifts, fingers glistening. She turns her hand slightly, letting it catch the light, and then looks back at you with her mouth parted, her eyes steady, her expression unreadable except for the barest curl at the corner of her mouth.

She brings her fingers to your lips. The movement is smooth, practiced, intimate in a way that makes your stomach flip. Her other hand slides up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone, steadying you in place.

The two fingers hover just in front of your lips. She waits, her eyes flicking from your mouth to your eyes and back again, watching you process what’s about to happen, giving you the space to decide – but not the choice to refuse.

“You know what to do,” she murmurs, and her voice is low and tight as she rubs her thumb across your lower lip.

You don’t even think. Your lips part, and her fingers slide in, filling your mouth in a way that’s familiar and new all at once. The taste of both of you on her fingers is warm on your tongue as you close your lips around her fingers and suck.

Her breath shudders. She’s close enough that you feel it, warm against your face, caught between you.

She pushes her fingers deeper. Not roughly, just until they press against the back of your tongue. Her thumb strokes your jaw while you adjust, while your mouth works around the taste and the pressure, while your tongue moves slowly around her fingers like you’re trying to clean her completely.

She watches you like she’s memorizing it. Like she’ll think about this later. Like it matters.

Her eyes are locked on your mouth, her jaw tight, her pupils are blown wide, everything about her straining at the edges.

“You never waste a drop, do you?” she asks, and this time her voice is cracked open around it, raw and reverent and just a little hoarse.

You hum in response as you work your mouth around her fingers slowly, tongue curling to catch the last of her cum clinging to them, and your lips seal around the base of her fingers, your cheeks hollowing just slightly with each careful suck. She watches you the entire time, her hand tight at your jaw like she doesn’t trust herself to move it.

You can feel how hard she’s breathing. It’s shallow, controlled, barely moving her chest under the stiff line of her uniform. Her shoulders are square, her jaw locked. But her fingers twitch. Just once. Just barely. Like the tension in her is trying to break through her skin.

When she finally pulls her hand back it’s slow, easing her fingers out of your mouth inch by inch, your lips clinging to them, your breath catching around the friction. Her eyes stay fixed on your mouth, like watching you let go of her is harder than she wants it to be.

The moment they slip free, she hesitates before pulling away from your lips.

Her thumb traces your mouth, and you can see the way hers twitches, the way her breath stutters once and then steadies, like she’s swallowing something down hard. Her thumb lingers at your chin, just beneath your bottom lip, and she tilts your face up until you’re looking at her again.

Her eyes are dark and focused, every inch of her is drawn tight around the need to hold herself together.

And when she speaks, it comes out low, ragged, and much too close to vulnerable.

“Do you have any fucking idea–” she murmurs. Her breath hits your cheek and her hand tightens like she’s fighting the urge to put her fingers back in your mouth and keep them there. “Fuck,” she mutters under her breath, like it’s the only word she trusts herself with.

Her jaw tightens as she bites her bottom lip and takes a deep breath, trying to collect her thoughts. 

“Don’t move yet,” she murmurs. “I have one more thing I want to give you.”

Her fingers dip into the pocket inside of her jacket with a kind of quiet intention that makes your breath catch, and when her hand emerges again, she holds something between her fingers.

It's a compact plug, curved just enough to disappear inside you without a fight, the base flared. The silicone is soft, matte and smooth like it was made to live within heat and movement for hours.

She holds the toy in her hand like she’s already imagining it inside you, her fingers loose around the base, her thumb slowly dragging along the curve like she’s drawing out every thought she shouldn’t say.

You can’t stop watching it. The shape is smooth, glinting faintly under the bathroom lights, and she tilts it just enough to let you see the base, the taper, the size. She holds it between you like the decision has already been made.

“I don’t want anything I gave you tonight to leave you,” she says quietly, her tone pulled tight around the edges, like she’s barely holding herself together beneath it. “Not a drop.”

The words make your breath catch. She sees it happen.

Her gaze flicks up and it meets yours.

“So this,” she continues, angling the toy slightly, “is going to keep it all inside. While you’re out there. While you try to keep your legs still. While you feel it shift every time you breathe too hard.”

Your body responds faster than your brain, and heat floods you before you even take a full breath. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s no hesitation in you, no question, just the weight of yes sitting so heavily in your core that it’s hard to move.

Her hand slides to your waist, her fingers curling through the fabric of your dress like she’s reclaiming you all over again. Her voice drops lower.

“I’m going to put this in you,” she murmurs, and it sounds like a promise she’s been waiting to deliver all night. “And you’re going to sit next to me during the banquet. You’re going to smile and nod while you’re full of everything I just gave you.”

Your mouth falls open slightly as your eyes drag down to her hand, to the toy held steady in her palm. The taste of her cum on your tongue hasn’t faded, and the heat of it all settles deep between your legs, pulsing hard enough that your thighs tense.

She leans in and her lips skim the side of your jaw, and her next words are soft enough to feel instead of hear.

“You’ll be filled with my cum,” she breathes. “While I’m on that stage, giving my speech, thanking the command for this award–” her voice hitches slightly, but her mouth stays right at your skin, “and you’ll be leaking around this with your thighs tight under the table.”

You whimper. It slips out the second your body tenses, the pressure between your legs suddenly unbearable.

Her hand moves up to your face and her palm is warm against your cheek, her thumb grazing the edge of your lip like she’s checking to see if you’ll open again.

You do. Your mouth parts, but no sound follows. Your voice is somewhere far off, your thoughts half-formed, your whole body reeling. You’re flushed and shaky and aching so deep it feels like your legs aren’t strong enough to hold you.

She tilts your face to hers and holds it there like she’s waiting for your focus to catch up with hers, like she needs you to understand that this isn’t a game and it never was.

Her hand lowers from your cheek, but only so she can catch your waist again, her fingers sliding over the soft fabric of your dress as she steps in closer, her chest brushing yours, her hips angling just enough to press you back against the wall again.

Then she leans down slightly, her hand slipping through the slit in the dress to grasp behind your knee, the fabric of your dress falling to the side as she lifts your leg once more and her hand glides the toy between your legs.

When she drags the toy across your inner thigh, you flinch from how sensitive you are, from how much your body still wants, and the shift drags the plug higher into the heat between your legs.

She drags the tip of the toy lightly through the wet heat of your cunt like she’s measuring how pliant you are, how easy it’ll be to slip it in after everything she’s done to you. Your legs twitch, shaking slightly from the aftermath of being fucked and filled, and you spread them further, shaky, flushed, and obedient.

She hums, quiet and approving.

Her eyes stay on your face as the tip presses in, low and steady, guided by fingers that know you by heart, the way you ache for it, the way your body welcomes it.

You gasp as she eases it in.

There’s no resistance. The toy slides in smoothly, aided by the mess inside of you, your fingers twisting in the fabric of her lapel as the pressure sinks deeper.

She watches your reaction out of something close to obsession. Her hand on your leg tightens and her mouth parts like she wants to say something, but can’t quite trust her voice. 

The plug fills you, seating itself perfectly, your cunt pulling it in like it was made for you. It settles there with devastating ease, a reminder of how well she’s prepared you. Your eyes flutter, your legs twitch, your hands scramble for purchase.

She watches every flicker of your reaction as your cunt adjusts to the shape, the weight, the fullness.

It fills you differently than her cock. Firmer. Shallower. But you still feel it everywhere, a full, anchored pressure that pushes her cum back into you, seals the warmth inside, keeps everything slick and aching and trapped. The base presses flush to your entrance and you can feel how wet it is, her cum coating the base, your wetness pooled around the seal, your thighs sticky with both.

She holds it in place with one firm hand, pressing her palm flat against you, the heel of it resting right above your clit. The pressure forces your hips to press forward against her hand, your body pinned and trembling, your breath hitching again and again as you try to stay upright.

Her fingers find the lace of your underwear that she pushed aside in a rush earlier, straightening the fabric and pulling it back into place, slowly, carefully, making sure the lace slides snug over the base of the toy.

The pressure shifts, pressing the plug deeper, sealing everything in, the toy locked flush in your cunt. You twitch once when one of her fingers drags across your clit, too sensitive to handle even the lightest friction.

She keeps her fingers there, cupped gently beneath you, holding it in place while her other hand comes up, her forefinger curling just beneath your chin as she tilts your face up to hers.

Her other hand stays low, locked between your legs, her palm cupped over the heat there, pressing against the lace, keeping the plug seated inside you, holding everything she gave you right where it belongs. The lace is thin and soaked, and the warmth of her hand sinks through it as she gently rubs against it.

Her body is pressed to yours and she adjusts her weight forward when your knees begin to falter, shifting her stance to support you with a kiss.

Her mouth moves slowly against yours and her lips part. Her tongue grazes yours for a single moment, one soft, deliberate pass that makes your whole body tense. 

She breaks the kiss slowly, like she’s carefully putting something away, like she’s placing a final seal on something she’s already claimed. Her finger stays beneath your chin, her thumb dragging beneath your bottom lip as she holds you still.

She studies your face for a long second, her eyes moving slowly over your expression, taking in the heat in your cheeks, the way your lips stay parted, the twitch of your thighs every time your muscles try to catch up with the mess being held inside you. 

When she speaks, her voice is low, even, spoken close to your mouth like a secret she’s choosing to share, even though the tone is anything but soft. “This isn’t just for keeping my cum inside you, you know.”

Her hand lifts from between your legs and she reaches into her jacket pocket. She pulls out her phone and unlocks it with one thumb, her other hand slipping to your waist, steadying you as she looks down at the screen.

You don’t think there’s anything left she could do to you right now – not here, not in this bathroom stall, not with the mess she’s made of you pulsing warm inside your body.

Then she taps the screen – and the vibration hits without warning.

It starts deep, a low, solid thrum that spreads outward in a focused wave. You jerk forward with a tight gasp, your hands flying to her chest for balance, your fingers tightening into the edge of her jacket as your hips shift reflexively. The hum travels through you in a constant, even pressure. Your breath catches and your mouth falls open as you exhale once, sharp and shaky, and feel the muscles in your thighs pull tight as your legs give another small tremor beneath you.

Her gaze drops to the way your thighs press together, the way the lace of your underwear clings soaked between them, the way your knees keep trying to lock against the pressure she’s put inside you. Her hand is steady at your waist, fingers firm in their hold, and her body stays close, her chest brushing yours, breath even against your cheek.

Her eyes drag up your torso, slow and deliberate, until they meet yours again, and the look she gives you is hard to hold. There’s no mockery, no smirk – just sharp, dark focus.

“You’ll need to practice staying still,” she says coyly, then her voice drops to a whisper as she speaks against your lips. “Some of the speeches run long.”

You try to respond, but your throat is tight. Your mouth stays open and your hands grip tighter at her jacket, needing to hold onto something real.

She looks back down at her phone, her thumb hovering above the screen. She doesn’t ask if you’re ready when her thumb moves.

The vibration shifts immediately, faster, a sharper rhythm buried in the same depth.

Your legs give and she catches you like she was waiting for it, tightening her grip at your waist to keep you upright as the next pulse rolls through your core. It’s precise and unforgiving, the toy vibrating harder as your muscles clench around it, your hips rutting forward, thighs tightening out of instinct, and her hand doesn’t let you fall.

Another tap on her phone screen sends a short burst, then a second, then one that holds longer, a deep, drawn-out hum that builds at the base of your spine and floods upward, dragging heat up through your cunt and into your chest, your face, your fingertips.

You gasp, sharp and shallow, and her hand slides from your waist to your jaw, her thumb brushing your cheek, bringing your gaze to hers, holding your head still as your body shakes.

She leans in close and her mouth brushes yours when she speaks.

“You’re going to be such a good girl for me out there,” she murmurs, the words quiet but unrelenting. “Aren’t you?”

Your nod is weak, but you give it to her. You don’t need words – not now. Not with your whole body buzzing and her cum filling you and her fingers pressed to your skin like she owns every inch of you.

“Good.” Her voice softens slightly, enough to feel it settle into your chest. Her breath fans against your lips. “You’ll sit nice and still for me. You’ll take every second of it, and you won’t give yourself away.”

You nod again, shakier this time, your knees trembling from the pulses.

She taps a few things on the screen, and then she holds it out for you to see.

The interface is simple, with three sliders, a few buttons, and clean labels across the top. Vibration, pattern, intensity.

Your stomach flips as you watch her thumb drag slowly across the screen. She doesn’t press anything yet, just shows you how easily she can do it. The bar glows faintly under her thumb, and the proximity alone makes your thighs clench.

You bite your lip. You don’t say anything, but she watches the way your weight shifts, the way your chest rises faster, and the corner of her mouth twitches up.

She turns the screen back toward herself and her thumb hovers over one of the presets.

“One tap,” she says, “is all it takes. While I’m talking to command. While we’re sitting around your superiors. While you’re trying to focus on a single word being said around that table.”

She taps the screen and it hits a second later.

A sharp, direct vibration pulses hard inside you, one clean jolt that lands so suddenly it makes your hips buck and your mouth fall open on a gasp. Your hand moves to her arm and you grip her forearm tight, your fingers digging into the fabric of her uniform, and she doesn’t flinch. She just watches it happen, watches you try to recover, and then calmly adjusts the setting again.

The toy responds right away. It builds, low and steady at first, but with pressure behind it, the hum growing stronger by the second, too slowly to measure but fast enough that you can feel it climbing. Your cunt tenses around it. Your knees buckle. You press your lips together, and her hand slides from your waist to your lower stomach, palm flat, her fingers pressing lightly above the heat between your legs.

“I can let it climb like this,” she tells you, “until you can’t think. Until you can’t tell if I’ve changed it or if you’ve just started to break.”

You let out a soft, breathy moan, and her large hand spreads across your pelvis, her thumb rubbing against your clit through your underwear as she holds you still. You can feel the vibration in her hand, not just inside you, pulsing against her palm.

“Or,” she says softly, “I can take it away.”

Then she taps Hold and the vibration cuts off instantly.

Your body jolts from the silence, your legs clenching around the absence, your hips shifting forward out of pure reflex. You sway forward into her chest, not just because you’re asking for more, but because you didn’t know how much you needed it until she took it away.

She catches your chin with one hand.

You breathe hard, your head spinning. 

She watches you struggle.

“If you’re perfect tonight,” she says, her tone lighter now, approving, dangerous, “you’ll feel the slow ones. The teasing ones.”

She presses one of the presets. You don’t see which one. You only feel the toy come back to life with a hard, rhythmic stutter, deeper than before, faster, almost unbearable. It pulses low in your core, hitting you in short bursts that make your cunt throb again and again. You moan, helplessly, and she lets you.

She takes it in, then turns the toy back off with one clean flick of her thumb.

Her hand moves from your jaw and brushes over your hair, smoothing it back, fingers tucking strands behind your ear.

“You’ll sit there and take it,” she says, quiet and clear, her thumb dragging down the line of your jaw. “Because you’re mine. And this–” her hand slides down your side, slow and deliberate, pausing at your hip before dragging over your exposed skin, “–this is how I remind you.”

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your body is too hot, too tight, too full. Your cunt is full of her cum, the plug holding everything sealed in place, the delicate lace of the underwear you picked out for her pressing against it all. The ghost of vibration hums through your nerves even though the toy is silent, and when she finally steps back just enough to take you in fully, the air between you feels thick with heat you’re still breathing through.

She takes another step back and reaches for her waistband, fingers working with the same clean, deliberate precision she brings to everything else. She fits herself back into her pants, palm pressing flat to guide her length down, and you watch the way her jaw tightens slightly as she moves. She tucks her shirt back into her pants and the button closes and she draws the zipper up slowly, then threads the end of her belt through the loop and fastens it in one clean motion, the leather tugging snug around her hips. 

Your dress is wrinkled and pulled in uneven lines from the way she had you pressed against the wall, the seams along your hips misaligned and the straps at your shoulders knocked loose.

She straightens the bunched-up waistline and then her fingers trail up, smoothing the fabric, like she’s letting herself touch you more under the guise of straightening your dress. 

Her palms glide along your ribs, hands drifting across the curves of your breasts like she’s claiming the shape of you even as she puts everything back into place. The fabric doesn’t resist her, and neither do you. Her fingers linger when they settle a strap back onto your shoulder, and instead of pulling away, her knuckles graze along your collarbone, then down the front of your dress in a soft drag of pressure that ends with the slow press of her palm back against your hips. 

She doesn’t treat it like clothing. She handles it like it’s an extension of you, something she owns, something she’s responsible for returning to order. Her touch feels like a seamstress correcting a fit. Like a commander assessing her uniform. Like a woman resetting her favorite thing exactly how she likes it.

Your skin burns under the attention. You feel flushed but grateful for the steadiness in her hands, the calm in her expression, the silent order she imposes on your body without having to speak.

She searches your expression for a long moment, and whatever she sees there seems to satisfy her. 

Her uniform is in the same state of disarray as your dress. The lapel is skewed, some of the pins near her collar have twisted off-center, her jacket is rumpled from where your body had been pinned against hers, and the fabric along her shoulder is creased from the grip of your hands.

You swallow, and without asking, you reach up to fix it.

You smooth your palm along the edge of her collar, flatten the seam, then reach for the twisted pins and straighten them carefully, your thumb brushing the metal before letting it go. Your hands linger and she watches you do it. 

Her breathing shifts, just slightly.

You move to the other side and adjust the fabric at her chest, flattening it over the curve of the breast pocket, then tug gently at the lapel, correcting the line until it lies even against her chest again.

Everything about her looks composed – clean lines, crisp fabric, sharp posture. She’s Sergeant Cho again, the version the rest of the banquet expects to see.

But her hair is still a little out of place, messy from how you wrapped your arms around her neck and held her close.

You lift your hand slowly. Your fingers brush the edge of her hairline, light and careful, and you smooth her hair down, guiding a loose section behind her ear. The movement is gentle and deliberate. Your fingertips graze the curve of her ear, then follow the line of her jaw. You feel the way her breath softens, the way her shoulders drop a fraction, the way she leans into your touch like she wants more of it – more of you. Not as an order, not as control, but just because it feels nice.

Her eyes meet yours again, calmer now, heavier, like she’s letting you see something she usually holds in too tightly to speak aloud.

She holds your gaze for another beat, her hand resting lightly at your waist, her thumb brushing the fabric like she isn’t quite ready to pull away. You can feel the heat lingering in your face, the steady thrum in your chest, the full pressure seated deep between your legs where the toy stays nestled exactly where she placed it. 

Then she finally turns toward the stall door, one hand lifting to undo the lock, the other drifting briefly across your lower back in a quiet cue to follow. The lock clicks open and she glances at you again.

“Show me how good you can be,” she murmurs.

She steps out of the stall first, back straight, shoulders squared, like nothing in her expression could betray everything she just did to you. 

You follow her down the row of stalls, and the bathroom door opens with a soft whoosh of air conditioning and a burst of ambient chatter from the banquet hall beyond. You follow her out, blinking against the shift in light, the buzz of conversation, the clink of glasses and silverware and distant laughter. It’s all too bright, too public. 

Your walk isn’t shaky, but it isn’t smooth either. Each step tightens the pressure in your core, the plug shifting just enough to remind you that she’s still inside you, still keeping you full, still in control of every sound you might make if she taps her phone again.

She walks one step ahead of you, composed and upright, her uniform crisp and her posture exact. No one would know what she’s done. No one would guess where her fingers were or what she put inside you. 

Every inch of you feels tight, high-strung, alive in a way that makes you want to fidget or breathe heavier, but you don’t. You just walk. You keep your chin lifted, your mouth shut, your legs moving in even, careful strides that only tremble once.

Sergeant Cho doesn’t look at you. Her steps are smooth, silent, controlled. One hand swings naturally at her side; and the other slips into her pocket, fingers curling around her phone as she pulls it out.

She taps her thumb once and the vibration hits without mercy.

A deep, centered hum bursts to life inside you, so sudden and so sharp in its precision that your breath catches halfway through an inhale and your body jolts like your nerves just misfired. Your heel stutters on the tile, your pulse spikes, and a rush of heat flares in your chest before you manage to reel it back in. 

You force the line of your mouth to stay neutral while your cunt throbs and clenches around the toy, while the rhythm buzzes low and relentlessly like it's tied to your nerves.

She doesn’t say a word. She keeps walking like nothing’s changed.

You glance at her, once, careful and fast.

She’s looking at you from the corner of her eye, watching you like you’re a performance she orchestrated and wants to see play out in real time. You see the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth, the slow stretch of satisfaction that settles into a smirk.

You tighten your jaw and keep walking. You keep your face calm while everything between your legs pulses harder, wet and full and sensitive, your thighs tight, your chest pulling in shallow breaths.

And then you hear a familiar voice, light and friendly, laced with the warm amusement of someone who absolutely knows how to make a room feel easy.

“Sergeant Cho!” a man calls out from off to the side.

She turns, her shoulders squaring as she adjusts her stance. You turn with her, and it takes effort to keep your jaw loose, your expression clean. The vibration shifts when you move, just enough to make your breath catch in your throat before you swallow it down.

Walking up to you is Sergeant Seong Gi-hun, the man everyone seems to like. He’s all relaxed charm and open posture, and next to him, standing just slightly closer than a normal professional distance, is Sergeant Hwang In-ho, all perfectly symmetrical lines and polished buttons, his expression calm but softened in the corners, the way it only seems to be when he’s around Sergeant Seong.

You glance up at her and hesitate, searching her face for a cue, for anything to tell you whether you’re expected to stay at her side or take your leave. You're here with her – she brought you here as her date. But no one knows that. To everyone here, you're just her secretary, her subordinate, another low-ranking attendee from the admin wing, who keeps her schedule airtight and her paperwork clean and was deemed relevant enough to extend an invitation to.

To them, you’re not the person who had her hand clamped over their mouth minutes ago while she fucked the breath out of them in a bathroom stall. You’re not the one walking beside her full of her cum and a vibrating toy she shoved in your cunt.

But she gives no indication that she expects you to be anywhere but at her side, so you stay one step behind her, politely half-engaging with the conversation.

“Well, shit,” Sergeant Seong says with a grin, stepping forward and extending a hand. “I thought they were exaggerating the guest list. But you actually showed up.”

Sergeant Cho’s mouth curves slightly as she accepts the handshake, her movements measured like they always are when she’s in uniform and everyone’s watching.

“Couldn’t exactly skip it,” she says. “Command doesn’t take kindly to no-shows when they pay to engrave your name on a plaque.”

Sergeant Seong laughs, bright and genuine, and clasps her hand briefly between both of his, like he’s sincerely proud of her. “Congratulations. Seriously. You earned it.”

You try to keep your breathing slow, but the vibration is still going, low, constant, pressing into the walls of your cunt with every movement, every shift of your weight, every minor adjustment to your stance. You clench down around it without meaning to, and it sends a shiver up your spine. You keep your hands loose at your sides and hope no one sees the way your thighs press tighter together.

“You earned yours, too,” she says, nodding toward Sergeant Hwang with genuine acknowledgment. “Command made the right call this year.”

Sergeant Hwang inclines his head in a small nod. “Thank you, and congratulations once again,” he says simply, his voice smooth and low. “Your record speaks for itself.”

“He goes on and on about your field tactics,” Sergeant Seong adds, nudging Hwang’s shoulder with his. “I think he has a file somewhere labeled Cho’s Greatest Hits.”

Sergeant Cho raises an eyebrow, and a flicker of dry amusement flashes behind her eyes. “I’d love to see what made the list.”

“You’d deny all of it,” Hwang says, a trace of something lighter in his tone. “Or say it was just you doing your job.”

“Or ‘a joint effort.’ Classic Cho,” Seong adds, grinning. 

You don’t trust yourself to laugh, not with the way your body pulses around the plug like it’s been wired into your heartbeat. So you smile instead, small and measured, politely not involving yourself into a conversation between your superiors. You shift your weight, hoping for relief, but it only presses harder against that spot that makes your legs ache and your eyes want to flutter closed.

But Seong’s gaze shifts, easy and unhurried, and it lands on you.

“And you must be Cho’s secretary, right?”

Your breath catches sharp in your throat and you straighten on instinct, posture snapping clean before you even process it. Shoulders back, chin lifted, hands at your sides, legs pressed tighter together in a useless attempt to steady yourself against the slow, relentless hum working its way through your cunt like it’s mapping the limits of your composure.

“Yes, sir,” you answer quickly, voice tight with control, your eyes locking on the space just over his shoulder like you’re about to be inspected.

Sergeant Seong laughs, the sound loud and unbothered and full of warmth. “At ease, at ease. We may be at a work event, but nobody’s checking your salute.” He lifts one hand in a little wave and tilts his head. “You’re off the clock, Private. No need to stand like I’m about to tell you to drop and give me twenty.”

You exhale just enough to let your shoulders loosen, easing back half a step to fall into a more casual yet still professional stance, but the shift of your weight rocks the toy inside you just slightly, and the movement sends a sharp flick of sensation through your cunt. It burns like something forbidden, and your thighs press in again before you can stop them.

“You deserve half of her award, you know,” he says, glancing at Sergeant Cho with a grin. “Putting up with her, keeping her meetings in order, making sure she doesn’t forget where she’s supposed to be every hour on the hour. Must be a full-time job and then some.”

Sergeant Cho rolls her eyes, but there’s amusement in her expression, the faintest huff escaping her nose as she turns her chin toward him slightly. You glance up at her, and the sight of her being so casual, so friendly and at ease, so unlike the Sergeant Cho you work for – makes something twist hot behind your ribs.

“I’m serious,” Seong goes on, gesturing toward you like you’re part of an inside joke. “She ever tell you what she was like when she was a lieutenant? Mean as a snake. Ran the whole base like it was a damn boot camp. We used to take bets on who she’d destroy in the weekly briefings. She hasn’t really changed much though, has she?”

“I’m efficient,” she says half-defensively.

“You’ve always been a menace,” he counters, grinning wider. “Bet she runs you around like crazy, huh?” he adds, turning back to you. “Strict schedules. Color-coded files. Never letting you breathe too long between assignments.”

Your mouth opens and your tongue stumbles over itself before the words can land properly. “It’s – it’s not so bad,” you say, trying to keep your voice level, trying to remember how to speak when your whole body is buzzing. “I enjoy working under her–”  The second it’s out of your mouth, you freeze. Heat slams into your face, panic fluttering sharp through your chest. “–working for her,” you correct quickly, too quickly, like you’re hoping the speed of it will erase the slip entirely.

You don’t dare look at her, because even without glancing up, you know the corner of her mouth is twitching.

You want to sink into the floor. You want to scream into your hands. You want to come and you want to die and you want to press your face into her chest until this whole night is over.

But Seong just chuckles, unaware of the slip of your tongue. “She got herself a good one,” he says to Sergeant Hwang, voice full of teasing approval. “Polite and professional. Cho, don’t you dare lose this one to admin. They’ll scoop her up the second they realize she’s functional.”

At that, Sergeant Cho’s gaze lowers to you, deliberate and cool, her tone sliding into something smoother than steel.

“She is very obedient,” she says, each word precise.

The breath you take isn’t enough.

Your stomach flips so fast it’s dizzying, and your throat tightens around the inhale like it’s caught on her voice. Your knees threaten to buckle from the sheer weight of her public approval, pressed into your skin like a brand.

Seong doesn’t catch it. Hwang doesn’t blink. You’re the only one who feels the heat curl up your spine at her words, because you know exactly what she means. 

So you smile, small, composed, and professional. “Thank you, Sergeant,” you say quietly.

Sergeant Seong claps his hands together lightly, cheerful as ever. “Well, I should go say hi to Lieutenant Abdul before he forgets who I am,” he says, nodding toward the far side of the banquet hall. “You two are at my table, right? I’ll catch you in a bit.”

Sergeant Hwang gives a polite nod. His eyes flick briefly between you and Sergeant Cho before he steps away, following Seong with the kind of effortless discipline that says everything about their working relationship, and maybe just a little more than that.

You exhale slowly once they’re gone. The crowd shifts around you, polished shoes brushing past, suits and dress uniforms drifting like currents in a tide.

Sergeant Cho turns toward you with a small tilt of her head, her expression unreadable to anyone else but razor-clear to you. She gestures with a subtle dip of her chin toward the dining tables arranged in precise rows across the hall.

You follow her lead, trying not to focus on the heat between your legs, but every step tugs something deeper. The vibration is steady but your body keeps reacting like it’s new, like it doesn’t remember that you’re not supposed to gasp for air every time your hips roll too far forward. You can feel it with every shift of your thighs, a thrum that anchors you so completely that it colors everything else – the air, the chatter, the pull of her eyes as she watches the effect of it all from beside you.

When you reach your assigned table, she slides your chair out for you, a perfectly polite gesture that tugs something in your chest – tugs it hard. You pause, breath caught halfway, and the hum inside you pulses in tandem with the ache curling tight in your ribs.

You murmur a soft thank you and settle into the seat, trying not to jolt too visibly when the plug shifts within your cunt, fitting itself deeper as you sit. Heat floods your face and you plant your hands on your lap to keep from reaching for the table, because the pressure of the seat is just barely bearable, and any sudden movement might undo you.

She sits beside you like she didn’t just fuck you against a bathroom wall fifteen minutes ago.

You reach for your water glass with a shaky hand.

Across from you, Privates Kim and Kang have already found their seats and are mid-conversation, leaning in toward each other with such focused urgency you almost feel bad for interrupting their rhythm. But they glance up when they notice you settling in, Kim grinning brightly and asking “Better now?”

You nod. “Much better,” you say, trying to keep your voice even, trying to keep your spine straight even though the toy is making every breath feel like a whisper pressed too close to the edge of something.

They return to their conversation and it only takes a moment for the words to filter into your consciousness.

“I’m just saying,” Kim insists, arms crossed, clearly several rounds into this argument, “if Hwang didn’t bring Seong as his date, then why have they been together all night?”

“Because they work together,” Kang says, exasperated.

“Everyone works together,” Kim fires back, eyes trailing the direction Hwang and Seong disappeared to. “And like I tell you all the time, he’s always in a better mood after meetings with Seong,” she says, voice low but charged, like she’s been sitting on this theory for months and tonight is the final straw.

You don’t jump into the conversation – you can’t, not with the subtle pressure shifting every time you breathe – but you keep your expression even and try not to visibly wince when the hum pushes back in harder the moment you lean back in your chair.

“Besides,” Kim continues, her voice dropping even further, “this event was invite-only. You needed to be on the recipient or staff list. Seong isn’t getting anything tonight. He’s not listed in the program. So how the hell did he even get in?”

Kang looks like he’s trying to find an explanation. “He’s a Sergeant. He can come if he wants.”

Kim’s eyes narrow, slow and smug. “So why’s Seong got a seat at our table? And Park said he only got in ‘cause he convinced Lieutenant Abdul to bring him as his plus-one.”

You look down at your plate, eyes tracing the polished rim, heartbeat thudding in your chest like a second vibration. The hum inside your cunt hasn’t stopped once, and it's making it hard to follow the logic of their argument – but somehow, the effort of focusing on anything other than the way your cunt clenches every time you shift in your seat helps you stay grounded. Helps you keep still. Helps you not squirm under the weight of Sergeant Cho’s hand resting calmly on the table beside you, her fingers close enough to reach out and thread your fingers through.

Kang exhales, shoulders sagging. “Okay. Maybe he is here with him.”

Kim shoots him a look like she’s just won a war.

Sergeant Cho lifts her water glass with deliberate precision and takes a slow sip as her leg brushes yours under the table.

Then Kim groans under her breath, slouching in her chair like the mere sight has drained ten percent of her will to live. “Oh god,” she mutters, reaching for her half-empty champagne flute like it’s strong enough to help. “Who let those bozos in here?”

Your head lifts, curious, and the second you follow her gaze, you see Private Lee Myung-gi and Specialist Park, side by side like they think they’re the main event, sauntering across the banquet hall with their jackets open, their ties slightly askew, and the swagger of men who haven’t been told to sit down and shut up nearly enough.

“Oh no,” Kang says, exhaling like he’s bracing for impact. “Hide your cherries.”

You try not to laugh. You try even harder not to moan, because the vibration catches again when you shift your weight slightly, and it’s all you can do to pretend like you're just listening politely to small talk and not battling the unrelenting pulse of Sergeant Cho’s control embedded inside you.

But the momentary lightness drains from your face when you realize Specialist Park isn’t just trailing along for the ride – he’s heading straight for you.

His gaze lands on you like it always does, too direct, too familiar, with a smirk tugging at his mouth that’s all ego and no self-awareness.

You straighten up reflexively, the sudden shift making the plug press deeper inside you and your stomach flutter, your thighs pressing together just a little tighter beneath the table, and you force yourself to breathe evenly as he approaches.

It’s not just that he’s cocky – it’s the way he walks like everyone’s already listening, like he’s rehearsed his entrance in the mirror. Like your attention is something he’s owed, and he’s finally come to collect.

He slides into the seat beside you like it’s a performance, all confidence and too-strong cologne. He gives you a smug grin and raises his eyebrows like he’s expecting you to swoon on sight. 

“Didn’t expect to see you here tonight,” he says, voice pitched low like he’s letting you in on a secret, like the entire room didn’t also get dressed up and show up for the same military banquet. “You clean up real nice. Almost didn’t recognize you without a stack of reports in your hands.”

You force a polite smile, muscles tight around it, your head giving the smallest nod in acknowledgment. “Thanks, Specialist,” you say, tone even, just warm enough to count as civil. You keep your posture perfect, hands folded in your lap, spine straight, every inch of you screaming decorum despite the low, steady vibration pressing into you from the inside out.

From the corner of your eye, you see the smooth slide of Sergeant Cho’s fingers over her phone screen, lifting her water cup and taking a sip while her thumb gives one deliberate tap.

The toy shifts instantly. A pulse, slow, harder, and intentional, floods through you in waves. Your breath stutters and your thighs press tighter under the table. It climbs without rushing, coils in your core like she’s reminding you of the presence of her cum held in place by that plug, of the confessions she breathed into your mouth, of the fact that no one else in this entire room has any idea what you’re sitting through except her.

Park keeps going, oblivious. “I mean, honestly? Surprised they didn’t give you one of these awards too. Probably got more done this quarter than half the officers in this room.” He gives you a wink, like he thinks he’s being clever. “Not that I’m not due for one myself soon. They’re probably just waiting for the right moment. Big ceremony, spotlight. You know how it is.”

The vibration shifts with a hard pulse, then another. You grip the edge of your seat, your thighs tensing. 

“You, uh–” Park leans in a little, lowering his voice like he’s about to drop a bombshell. “You doing anything after this? I know a spot not far from here. Good drinks, decent music. Bet I could talk you into a round or two.”

You blink, slow. You glance across the table at Sergeant Cho. She’s sipping her water, her expression unreadable. But her phone is still in her hand, and her thumb rests just above the slider.

“No, thank you,” you say, and the words come cleaner than you expected, sharper. “I’ve got other plans after the banquet.”

Your breath slips out harder than it should, but it doesn’t matter. Park isn’t paying attention to anyone but himself. He’s too busy leaning into your personal space, too busy assuming that if he just pushes harder, you’ll cave.

“Aw, c’mon,” he says, giving you a look that might be charming if he weren’t so egregiously off-putting. “You can reschedule, whatever it is. One drink won’t kill you. Besides,” his voice drops slightly, too casual to be anything but calculated, “you might even enjoy yourself.”

You keep your expression polite, but there’s tension in your posture, in the way your fingers flex in your lap. Your whole body feels hot and flushed, thighs aching, cunt pulsing, nerves frayed to the edge. 

“I mean, come on,” he says, like he’s trying to win you over with sheer charisma. “Look at this–” he gestures vaguely at you, at your dress, your makeup. “You’re dressed to impress. I’d be an idiot not to at least try.”

You don’t answer right away. Your throat feels thick, your skin tight. You’re seconds from telling him to shut the fuck up – and then Sergeant Cho turns beside you. Her voice cuts clean and cold through the air.

“Specialist Park,” she says, and her tone is the same one she uses in drills. Authoritative and sharp enough to stop a heartbeat. “I believe Lieutenant Abdul was looking for you earlier. You should go find him.”

Park turns toward her like he hadn’t registered she was even there, eyes narrowing slightly as his ego struggles to recalibrate. His jaw tightens, just a little, and you see him force a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Thanks, Sergeant Cho,” he says, and the edge in his voice betrays the weight of her authority. He looks back at you one last time, trying to salvage something. “Maybe I’ll catch you later,” he adds, softer, with a smirk that’s too casual to be harmless. “You look like you’d be fun once you loosen up.”

He lingers for a second longer, waiting for you to bite, and when you don’t, he stands and walks off, his shoulders a little too stiff, his steps a little too sharp. 

You don’t look at Park as he leaves. Don’t spare him a glance, don’t offer him the dignity of a response. You sit with your spine straight and your pulse pounding in your throat.

And when he’s gone, your entire body exhales.

Your shoulders drop and your chest lifts with a slow, shaky breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You shift in your chair and the plug presses deep again, drawing a tremble up the backs of your thighs and into your spine. The vibration throbs at that same steady, punishing pulse, dragging you toward a peak you’re barely holding at bay.

Sergeant Cho’s hand lifts slowly from the table, fingers curling around her phone like your body is under her command and it’s time to let you breathe again. The screen glows faintly in the dim lighting, soft blue light reflected against the edges of her jaw, and as she tilts it slightly, you turn to look at her fully.

Her eyes meet yours, and there’s tension in her gaze, something simmering low behind the careful mask – possession, pride, a flare of something sharp that cuts just behind her restraint. Her lips part like she’s about to speak, but then she seems to consider something, her thumb hovering over the app for one long second before she looks down at your mouth.

Then your chest.

Then your lap.

Her gaze returns to your eyes, and this time it lingers.

Her thumb presses down and the vibration drops in an instant, softening from relentless to steady, settling back into something low and bearable again, less a surge and more a hum, the kind of sensation that feels like breath beneath the surface. It washes outward in quiet pulses from your cunt to your spine, loosening the muscles clenched tight in your thighs, easing the grip of restraint without releasing it entirely.

Your breath slips out slower, shaky but loosening with the drop in intensity. The tension hasn’t gone anywhere, it’s only shifted, thinned at the edges, thick in your throat and between your ribs and the steady pulse between your legs.

You lean your head slightly toward her. The words come quiet, barely more than a whisper, but they come.

“Thank you,” you murmur. “For – for getting rid of him.”

“I could’ve stopped him sooner,” she murmurs, soft like a confession but sharp around the edges, and the look she gives you burns hot. “But I liked watching you turn him down.”

Your stomach flips.

“You looked so good sitting there full of my cum, letting him talk while your cunt begged for me,” she whispers, low in your ear, voice barely audible over the murmur of the room. “I wanted to see you sit still and soaked and polite while someone else thought they had a chance.”

Her eyes drop, just for a second, dragging down the line of your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, your chest rising and falling like you’re still trying to catch your breath. She leans in closer, her lips almost brushing your ear.

“You were perfect,” she murmurs.

She doesn’t wait for your reaction. She doesn’t need to. She just sits back like nothing happened, calm and composed and perfectly in control, while you struggle to remember how to breathe with anything close to normal rhythm.

Across from you, Sergeant Hwang and Sergeant Seong join you all at the table, taking their seats next to each other. Kim and Kang share a look, her eyebrows raising and his lips pursing as he gives them a good look.

Time passes and chatter rolls from table to table in soft, rolling waves, casual, confident, loose with champagne and chummy camaraderie. Someone laughs behind you, another clinks their glass too hard across the room, and for a moment, the sound feels like it pierces straight through your chest. 

You’re perched in your chair with all the posture of attention and none of the relief that comes from holding it. Ankles crossed tight, back straight, jaw locked. There’s a smile settled on your face, carefully arranged, but your eyes flick too quickly, and your hands stay too close to your lap.

The vibration is enough to coat every breath you take with heat. It coils low in your stomach, stretches into your thighs, and makes every shift of your hips a new lesson in control.

It’s background noise and centerpiece all at once – steady, present, pressing deep inside you with every breath. You shift your weight and it presses harder. 

A waiter comes around and fills everyone’s glasses, and you reach for yours and the angle rocks your hips just slightly, and the next sip is barely more than a flicker on your tongue before it disappears.

She, on the other hand, is radiant.

Sergeant Cho has always carried herself with composure, but this is something else. The candlelight from the center of the table glows against her jawline as the lights in the hall dim halfway, catching in the clean structure of her face when she turns to respond to something Hwang says. Her smile is quick, her laugh low. She lifts her wine glass with delicate fingers and swirls it once before taking a sip, her other hand resting on the table, her knuckles brushing the edge of her plate. Her phone sits dark beside it.

Sergeant Seong cracks a joke about the length of the awards portion coming up, something about the waiter leaving the whole bottle of wine the next time they come by for a refill, and the table erupts into a soft wave of laughter. You let out a breath, too, caught somewhere between amusement and relief. 

She picks up her phone again and your eyes dart to it.

Your pulse spikes.

But she doesn’t tap. Doesn’t swipe. Just idly checks her notifications, thumb ghosting over the edge of the screen before she sets it back down, face-down this time, like she’s proving she doesn’t need it right now. Like the threat of it is enough.

And it is.

You swallow hard, pick up your fork, and try to focus. The food is good, and Kang is overjoyed to finally get his steak – but to you it’s texture more than taste, a pattern of movement more than satisfaction. The fork lifts, the bite goes down, and every tiny motion rocks the plug inside you with the kind of precision that makes your muscles twitch beneath the tablecloth. You keep chewing, keep smiling, keep answering the occasional question and you manage to respond without stammering most of the time. But your body feels too hot, too aware of itself.

A server comes by with a pitcher of cold water, and you sigh with relief when he refills your cup. He pours slowly, the condensation running down the glass like mercy, and you take it with both hands, lifting it like a lifeline. You drink deep, cooling your throat, trying to will the heat in your face to ease.

And eventually, the room quiets in waves, a hush settling as the chandeliers overhead dim completely, replaced by a soft golden spotlight that flares across the stage at the front of the room. It catches on the figure walking slowly to the podium, casting long shadows across the floor, and Lieutenant Oh, in full dress uniform with a chest of medals older than half the people in the room, steps up to the podium.

He adjusts the microphone, clears his throat once, and surveys the room with eyes that cut sharp despite the soft slope of age settling around them.

“Welcome to the awards portion of tonight’s banquet.=,” he says. “I know, I know, you’ve had your drinks, you’ve eaten a very fancy piece of meat with a French name none of you can pronounce, and now I’m asking you to sit quietly and listen while we talk about other people for a while. Brutal, but it’s important.” A wave of soft laughter ripples through the room, polite but genuine. 

“Because what we’re doing here tonight is more than just ceremony – it’s recognition. And not just for individual accomplishments, though there are many. But for excellence. Dedication. Service. And the kind of quiet leadership that doesn’t always get attention in the middle of the day-to-day.”

There’s a murmur of agreement across the crowd. Sergeant Hwang nods once, hands folded neatly in his lap. Sergeant Seong hums an approving sound beside him and lifts his wine.

“These awards,” Lieutenant Oh continues, “aren’t handed out lightly. They’re earned. Every single one of them represents hours, days, months of work that no one sees. Early mornings. Late nights. Reports nobody wanted to write and missions nobody wanted to talk about. We’re here tonight to make sure that doesn’t go unnoticed. That you don’t go unnoticed.”

He flips a small notecard in his hand and glances down at it briefly.

“We’ll be starting with unit commendations, followed by individual citations, and then the special recognitions at the end. But don’t worry,” he says with a small smile, “I won’t keep you too long. I know Sergeant Major Choi’s already eyeing the dessert table.”

Another small ripple of laughter, soft and well-timed. 

You try to focus on the speech. You really do. But something shifts beside you, and when you glance down, you see that her hand is moving.

Sergeant Cho’s fingers slip just beneath the edge of the tablecloth, just slow enough that you feel the anticipation spool tighter before the touch even lands. Her fingertips graze the slit in your dress where the fabric parts along your leg, and then she slides her palm inward, smooth, deliberate, and precise. Her hand slips through the opening with a precision that steals your breath, sliding between the fabric and over the curve of your thigh in a single, unhurried motion.

Heat blooms behind your ribs like an open flame fed sudden air, and your breath catches before you can mask it behind a sip of water or wine. You keep your gaze forward, keep your posture intact, but your whole body locks tight as her hand moves, fingers pressing in through the parted fabric until her palm rests warm and firm against the top of your thigh.

You can feel the vibrations humming low inside you, feel the way your muscles tense around it involuntarily, feel the slick ache where your underwear has long since stopped being anything but soaked fabric pressed close to heat.

The tablecloth rustles faintly as you shift, trying not to move too much, trying not to let it translate into motion that anyone might see. You press your knees together tighter and draw a slow breath through your nose. 

Beside you, she doesn’t so much as glance your way, just keeps her gaze on the stage, her expression composed, her mouth relaxed in a faint, polite smile. Her fingers shift once, barely, and the movement sends a jolt through you.

And you know she can feel it.

You know she’s aware of every breath you take, every minute shift in posture, every way your body tenses under the weight of her attention. 

Her fingers trace inwards, brushing against the soft skin of your inner thigh. It’s subtle, masterful, timed to the laughter that moves through the room as Lieutenant Oh cracks another joke. No one’s watching you. Everyone is focused on the stage.

Except her.

She stays perfectly still above the table, shoulders relaxed, head turned slightly to follow his voice, her other hand holding her wine glass in a gesture so elegant it looks rehearsed. 

And underneath the tablecloth, she drags her fingertips higher.

Her palm brushes closer to the damp heat between your legs, too close, far too close – and then she shifts again, and the tips of her fingers catch against the edge of your soaked underwear.

You twitch. Just slightly.

She says nothing.

Lieutenant Oh lists the first few categories of awards – commendations for strategic excellence, cross-division collaborations, outstanding acts of service under fire – but you hear none of it. 

You nod along and sip your water like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality. But all of your attention, all of your breath, is tied to her hand under the table, her fingers moving ever closer to your center, close enough to feel the base of the plug.

Then she presses in, gently and precisely.

And your hips buck against the sensation.

She feels it. Her hand stills for a beat, almost like she’s considering her next move.

And then her middle finger draws upward along your heat in one smooth motion, slow and deliberate, the fabric wet enough that the pressure of her touch drags along it easily.

You suck in a breath too fast to be discreet and take another sip of your water, lifting the glass to your lips to hide the parting of your mouth, the tremble in your jaw, the way your thighs press together with renewed force.

She moves her finger again and strokes once, down this time, just a single, gliding pass of her fingers over your clit, and it wrecks you.

You dig your nails into your napkin on the table and shift in your seat, pretending to get more comfortable. You nod along when Kang makes some passing comment about the length of the ceremony, and you smile faintly and say something polite back.

But you don’t hear a single word that leaves your mouth. Your brain is white noise. Static. A high-frequency hum that matches the rhythm of the toy inside you and the agonizing control of the woman seated beside you.

And through it all, she never looks at you. Never breaks character. Just sits poised, drink in her hand, fingers moving in slow, patient strokes over your cunt like this is a training exercise.

Applause starts somewhere far away, Lieutenant Oh just finishing announcing the first award recipient, and the table beside yours claps loudly while someone in uniform rises and makes their way toward the stage.

Your body is locked around the heat blooming between your legs, every nerve ending pulled tight beneath the weight of her hand. She hasn’t changed the setting on the toy, the vibration remaining low, steady, and unrelenting – but her fingers are another story.

She drags her middle finger down again, slower this time, pressing firmer. The friction of damp lace against your clit sends a pulse of pleasure through you, and your thighs tremble in the confines of your seat.

She spreads her fingers just slightly, two now splayed against the soaked heat beneath your underwear, one pressing against your clit and the other stroking the shape of the base of the plug through the thin fabric.

It's all measured, deliberate, torturously restrained. And it’s working. It’s ruining you.

Your hips lift in an involuntary twitch and her hand immediately flattens, the weight of her palm commanding you back into place with a pressure that feels impossibly intimate.

And when you settle once again, her fingers press against the base of the plug, nudging it just slightly farther into you, and the sensation reverberates through your core like a tuning fork struck inside your ribs.

Her fingers stroke in slow, dragging passes, each one heavier than the last, and every motion feels like a secret whispered across your skin. You’re fully, shamefully soaked, and she’s pressing into it like it’s something to be claimed.

The room is full of people. Rank, charm, sharp eyes and sharper tongues. Conversation flows around you. Silverware glints under the dimmed lights. People laugh at Lieutenant Oh’s next joke about field rations and paperwork.

And you’re unraveling.

Each brush of her fingers is worse than the last because it isn’t fast. It isn’t teasing. It’s intentional. 

You shift your weight again and her hand tightens in a quiet reminder of control, and you freeze beneath it, pulse hammering, cunt aching. She hasn’t said a word. She hasn’t looked at you. But you feel her attention in every inch of your body. You feel her claim.

The room applauds as Sergeant Hwang is called up for his award. And then another name. Another award. Another wave of polite ceremony that means nothing to the roaring in your ears.

And then she presses her fingers straight against your clit, pressure building through the soaked lace, vibration humming steady beneath it, and you see stars behind your eyes.

Her fingers press a little firmer, adjusting to the rhythm of the vibrations, working in tandem with it. Your hips jerk again, and you barely catch the whimper that claws its way up your throat. Your hand flies to your almost-empty wine glass, lifting it to your lips as cover, even though your hands are shaking and you can barely swallow past the heat rising in your chest.

The combined stimulation makes your thighs tremble beneath the table. You clench around it without meaning to. Your eyes flutter shut for half a second, lashes trembling as you force them open again, heart pounding with the raw panic of how close you are, how very little it will take to push you the rest of the way.

And she knows.

You feel her shift again, the pressure of her fingers increasing just enough to make your breath stutter. Your whole body tightens. You’re so close it hurts.

You can’t come like this. You can’t – not here, not in this chair, not in front of everyone while the award ceremony carries on around you. But your hips won’t stay still. Your breath won’t stay even. The whimper that slips out of you next is soft, caught behind your teeth, but it still makes your face burn. You’re unraveling, and if she doesn’t stop soon, it might be the end of you.

But it doesn’t last. She pulls her hand away a second later, and the loss is so jarring that you almost grab her hand to put it back.

Lieutenant Oh’s voice is steady and measured as he speaks of tactical excellence, field leadership, operational brilliance under duress – the award that Sergeant Cho is receiving. It’s a commendation reserved only for those who’ve shaped outcomes at scale, for those who’ve commanded with such precision and resolve that entire mission structures owe their survival to it.

And then she picks up her phone.

Your breath catches.

Your gaze climbs from her hand to her face, and what you see there knocks the breath loose from your lungs. Her jaw is tight and her cheeks carry the faintest flush. Her lower lip is pulled between her teeth, holding there like she’s bracing against something, like she’s holding tension, too. 

And that’s when it hits.

The surge is immediate. A high, sharp burst of intensity blooms from the toy, radiating outward like a livewire shoved into your cunt and lit from within. It rips through you with zero buildup and zero mercy, and the sound that tears out of your throat is a gasp – too sudden, too raw – and you slam your hand over your mouth, desperate to cover it up with a cough, a breath, anything.

It doesn’t help. Nothing helps.

Your hips twitch, reflexively pressing down as if it’ll give you any relief, but it just makes it worse, the plug vibrating harder when you move, the friction building fast, your clit aching, and your whole body pulses once, violently, with the force of how good it feels. You grip your wine glass like it’s the only thing keeping you from climbing into her lap in full view of half the chain of command.

“Operational Excellence in Theater Command,” Lieutenant Oh announces, voice deep and unwavering across the room. “Awarded to Sergeant Cho Hyun-ju, for strategic leadership and mission continuity under high-casualty conditions in hostile terrain.” 

Applause moves through the room as she stands.

Her chair scrapes gently across the floor, and she adjusts the buttons on her jacket with a precision that’s almost insulting in how calm it is. One hand smooths along the edge of her uniform, the other pressing briefly at her hip as she straightens her shoulders. And she walks toward the stage without a single glance in your direction.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip as she crosses the room, a vision of impossible self-discipline, and the whole time the vibration keeps pulsing inside you, stronger than before – her hand gone, but this left in its place like a punishment, like a leash pulled tighter with every step she takes away from you.

You’re soaked. You’re shaking. And you’re getting so close that it’s dangerous.

The whole room claps as she ascends the stage, and you’re stuck at this table with your thighs pressed together so tightly it hurts, your cunt pulsing around a toy you didn’t ask for but would beg not to lose, and the ghost of her fingers on your thigh etched into your skin like a brand.

She steps into the spotlight, her expression composed with that perfect balance of humility and precision.

Lieutenant Oh meets her halfway across the stage with a smile that’s all warmth and admiration, his hand outstretched to meet hers. They shake with a firm grip, respectful, captured instantly by the flash of a camera, and she lowers her head slightly, just enough to be gracious.

Every nerve is drawn taut, your cunt pulsing with every breath, every shift in your seat. Your thighs are clenched so tightly you think your knees might bruise, but if you so much as relax them for a second you know you’ll fall apart. Right here, in front of everyone. Right here, while she stands on a stage being celebrated for her strength, her discipline, her excellence.

And she’s the reason you’re almost sure you’re about to come in a room full of high-ranking officers.

Lieutenant Oh steps aside, gesturing her toward the podium.

She nods once, offers a quiet thank-you, and steps forward. The room quiets, hushed with respect, every eye trained on her as she rests her hands on either side of the podium, fingers curling around the edge of the wood with confidence.

“I want to begin by saying thank you,” she says, her voice calm and steady, commanding without ever raising its volume. “To Lieutenant Oh for the introduction, and to the review board for this recognition. It means a great deal to me.”

You shift in your seat. The vibration inside you pulses and it makes your cunt throb – too close, you’re too fucking close.

“I’m honored to receive this award,” she continues, her cadence flawless, practiced, deeply sincere, “but it wouldn’t be right for me to stand up here without acknowledging the people who made it possible. This wasn’t done alone. I’ve had the privilege of serving alongside some of the most capable, dedicated, and brilliant soldiers I’ve ever known.”

You’re breathing harder. You try to force your hand to stay still, but your fingers clench into a fist. Your cunt throbs around the toy, your hips twitching before you can stop them. Every inch of you is wired tight with tension, every nerve drawn toward the same burning point in your cunt where the pleasure is starting to crest. You try to breathe through it, but each exhale comes out thinner than the last, your chest heaving in tiny movements.

“I’ve never believed in individual glory,” she says, and her voice softens slightly, rounding with something personal, something vulnerable. “What we do is about trust. About showing up, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. And every success I’ve had has come down to the people around me. The ones who trained me. The ones who fought beside me. The ones who made sure I got home.”

The silence in the room is reverent.

Yours is anything but.

Your legs are shaking. Your thighs are aching. You’re soaked and burning and so close you can barely focus on anything but the way your cunt is throbbing around the deep hum inside you, heat rippling outward with every breath, every word she speaks, every second she makes you sit there and feel this.

You bite your bottom lip harder, digging your heels into the floor, gripping the edge of your seat like they’re the only thing tethering you to the moment, fingers locked so tight your knuckles burn. Your cunt clenches down tight around the plug like your body’s begging for it, like your muscles know what’s coming and that your fight is coming to an end.

“I don’t take this honor lightly,” she finishes, gaze sweeping the crowd. “And I’ll continue to do everything I can to live up to it. Thank you.”

The applause hits like a wave, immediate and thunderous, an eruption of sound and movement that rolls from table to table, echoing off the high ceilings. People are clapping and cheering, and a few officers whistle. 

You shift once in your chair, then again, and then – there. The angle hits perfectly. Pressure drags exactly where you need it, and you stop pretending you can wait this out. You stop pretending at all.

And then she looks at you.

She finds you in the crowd and her eyes land on yours with surgical precision, slicing through the swell of applause and the blur of movement around you until everything else collapses into nothing – just her gaze, sharp and steady, leveled at you with a weight that pins you in your seat and keeps you there like a held command. She holds it. Holds you. 

Your thighs spread slightly, your hips rocking forward to press closer to the source of pleasure, and you let the vibration of the toy that holds her cum deep inside you carry you forward. There’s no part of you left untouched, no thought louder than her name in your head, and in the swell of applause and white noise and heat – you lean into it. You chase it. You let it come.

You can’t breathe. You can’t look away.

Because this isn’t just eye contact – this is domination. This is control. This is a decorated Sergeant, your commanding officer, standing on a stage in front of a hundred high-ranking officials, and she is watching you come while they applaud her for her restraint.

She holds your gaze like a collar pulled tight, tension thick in the space between you, your body writhing in silence and hers perfectly still under the lights. It’s reverent. It’s cruel. It’s the most devastating thing you’ve ever experienced. Because this isn’t her asking for submission.

This is her demonstrating it.

It starts low, the kind of pressure that builds so gradually it’s almost invisible until it’s already everywhere – until your breath is shallow, until your fingertips are trembling, until the muscles in your thighs are locked so tight your knees press into each other hard enough to ache. You can feel the plug thrum deep inside you, nestled exactly where it needs to be – filling you, claiming you, grinding against every spot that makes your body feel impossibly full and not full enough.

You come like a secret.

Like a prayer.

It drags through your body like a slow climb up something too tall to see the top of, like a hand at the base of your spine pushing you forward no matter how much your limbs beg to rest. Your cunt clenches once, then again, tighter, stronger – and you feel it roll through your hips, your stomach, your chest. 

A sound escapes your throat – a gasp, a moan, something broken and high, mercifully covered by the sound of applause.

Your eyelids flutter, threatening to close as you let your orgasm take you – but you know she doesn’t want you to look away.

You feel every tiny shift creating more friction, more pressure, more unbearable pleasure until your toes curl and your entire body goes still. You can’t blink. You can’t breathe. You’re just there, coming in silence, in stillness, in a room full of your peers and superiors, with Sergeant Cho standing proudly in the spotlight while your body gives in to her.

You let it wash through you, every wave drawn out longer than the last, thighs quivering under the table as you hold her gaze like it’s instinct. Like it’s reflex.

Like it’s worship.

She stands there. Calm. Decorated. 

Sergeant Cho Hyun-ju. ROK Special Forces. Award recipient. Commanding officer.

And the reason your cunt is throbbing while applause echoes through the room like thunder.

The applause continues as she steps down from the stage. She takes it all in stride, moving with a calm precision that feels carved from ceremony itself, her posture easy, her pace even, the plaque in her hand held against her hip like it weighs nothing at all. 

Her presence slices through the banquet hall like a blade. Officers reach for her arm as she passes with quick, congratulatory gestures, the casual brush of palms, the occasional pat to her bicep or shoulder. ‘ Sergeant Cho, well earned.’ ‘That was beautifully said.’ ‘They should let you run the whole damn place.’

She smiles, polite and warm, dipping her head humbly with each thanks.

She returns to her chair and the moment she sits, the energy at the table shifts around her, Kim and Kang leaning in with matching grins, offering quiet congratulations between bites of dessert, Sergeant Seong lifting his wine glass in a quiet toast as Sergeant Hwang murmurs something about how the speech was ‘clean and understated, very well done.’

She nods once to each of them in turn, soft and gracious. Her expression remains measured, appreciative but never indulgent. 

And then her gaze shifts to you.

She takes her time with it, eyes trailing down your face, lingering on the flush painted across your cheeks, on the slight part in your lips where your breath still hasn’t fully returned. She sees the tension in your shoulders, the way you haven’t quite relaxed, the quiver in your fingers where they grip the edges of your chair like you’re trying to keep yourself upright. Her gaze dips lower, slow and knowing, and you feel it all the way down to where her cum is still held inside you.

When her eyes meet yours again, there’s a shift in her mouth. It isn’t a smile, not quite. It’s something darker. Something proud. It settles into her like satisfaction, like confirmation of what she already knows.

You did that for her. You sat through it. You obeyed.

She lets you sit in that silence for a beat longer. Her gaze pins you down, holds you in place, wraps itself around your ribs and squeezes. She owns you in front of everyone, and she doesn’t need to say a word to prove it.

Then, finally, she reaches for her phone.

One hand, smooth and quiet. Her thumb taps the screen once.

The toy stops instantly.

The silence is vicious. Your cunt throbs helplessly, clenches once in protest, and the ghost of sensation lingers behind like smoke after a fire. You sag just slightly in your seat, a breath caught somewhere between a whimper and a shudder slipping loose from your chest. 

You exhale, slow and shaky, and every inch of it sounds like surrender. Not relief – something deeper. Something heavier.

It sounds like ownership.

Because you’re full of her cum and her toy that she brought specifically for you, caught in the space between control and collapse.

And when she looks at you again, quiet and composed beneath the warm light of the banquet hall, there’s nothing you can do but hold her gaze and let her see exactly what she’s made of you.

And then a voice cuts in from the side.

“Excuse me – would you all mind if I got a photo?”

You blink, lifting your head just as a man in a pressed suit steps up to the table, camera slung around his neck, badge clipped to his lapel. He smiles as he gestures politely toward the group.

“We’re getting table shots of all the award recipients and their guests. Just a quick one.”

Around you, everyone straightens up – Sergeant Seong sets down his wine glass, Kim brushes a hand over her hair, Kang mutters something about spinach in his teeth and ducks his head to check his reflection in the back of a spoon. Sergeant Hwang sits up with perfect posture, his expression returning to something neutral and presentation-ready.

And beside you, Sergeant Cho moves.

It’s subtle, seamless, her expression shifting into the calm, professional poise she wears so well, her smile faint but camera-ready.

And under the table, her hand returns to your thigh.

The weight of her palm lands solid and deliberate against your skin through the slit of your dress, her fingers curling like they never left. She rests it there, possessive and warm and perfectly in place – a reminder, a brand, a statement.

And no one knows.

You can feel her press your thigh down slightly, keeping you still, keeping you held. Your breath catches, chest tight with the echo of sensation from your orgasm, your cunt full, pulsing faintly around the plug, your underwear soaked, the ache sharp now that there’s nothing to chase, just the aftermath simmering low and constant.

The photographer raises the camera.

“All right – one, two…”

You keep your spine straight. You keep your hands folded neatly in your lap. You keep your expression soft, lips parted in what you hope passes as polite instead of wrecked, because all you can feel is the heat of her hand pressing into your thigh and the fullness inside you and the buzz behind your ribs that hasn’t let up since she looked you in the eyes and watched you fall apart.

“Three–”

The shutter clicks.

And just like that, it’s captured.

You, flushed and trembling, thighs parted just wide enough for her hand, cunt full of her claim, breath shallow in your chest.

And her, composed and immaculate, her uniform pristine, her face relaxed in a quiet smile like she didn’t just claim ownership of you in front of half of the army branch.

No one will ever know.

But you will.

You’ll remember this, this exact moment, for the rest of your life. Her hand on your thigh. Her cum inside you. Her control etched into your skin like heat that never faded. The camera shutter sealing it all into memory.

And when you see the photo later, framed, perhaps, for some hallway display or tucked into a staff bulletin – you’ll look at her.

And you’ll remember who you belonged to that night.

Who you still belong to now.

Chapter Text

It feels like memory, almost – but warmer, soaked through with want and need and something far too tender to name.

The sensation of you beneath her is too sharp to be fiction, too perfect to be real. Her hands know your skin, fingertips dragging slowly over your ribs, your waist, your hips, just barely pressing into the softness of your inner thighs as she settles herself between them.

The air hums with heat and breath and the closeness of you, built from the way you looked the last time she had you – eyes heavy, voice sweet and wrecked, ready like your body had been waiting a lifetime for her.

Her gaze drags up your body slowly, reverently, hungry in a way that has nothing to do with control and everything to do with how deeply consumed she is by you.

Your mouth is slack, eyes open just enough to see her, and when your fingers reach for her, when you tilt your hips up and offer yourself like it’s the only thing you’ve ever known how to do, her chest tightens.

There’s no uniform here. No title, no rules, just the weight of your trust in her, the heat of your cunt pulsing against her cock, and the quiet pressure of something blooming too fast inside her chest.

She lowers herself over you with unbearable patience, breath brushing your jaw, her hand wrapping around the base of her cock to guide it across your slick cunt. The feeling of it makes her eyes flutter shut, just for a moment, and when she opens them again, you’re watching her like you know what she’s feeling.

Like you feel it, too.

She presses in slowly, not teasing, just intentional, wanting to feel every inch of you stretch to take her, wanting to feel the moment your cunt clenches around her and your breath slips out in something close to a moan.

You’re gorgeous like this, with your back arched, your thighs shaking, your hands wrapped around her shoulders like you need the anchor of her body to keep from floating away.

Something aching curls in the air around her, something she hasn’t said, not out loud, not even in her own head when she’s awake – but it’s been there for a while now, tightening around her soul.

It’s in the way she touches you, in the way she lets you touch her. It’s in the way she lets you see her, not just the control, but the softness behind it. The ache that only you seem to reach.

Her cock slides deeper, and she watches the tension ripple through your body, your lips parting, your brows drawing tight, a tiny sound slipping from your throat that hits her square in the chest. 

She’s always been good at holding herself back, at keeping quiet, at being efficient and controlled – but not with you. With you, it’s slower. It’s needier. She rocks her hips forward again, your cunt pulsing like your body wants more than you can say.

She cups your cheek with one hand, her thumb brushing over your lips, and you take it into your mouth without thinking.

The sight of it burns through her like a fuse catching flame and she leans in, her forehead pressing against yours, her breath catching in her throat like the feeling is too big to contain.

You moan around her thumb, hips tilting up into her, your legs tightening around her like you can’t get enough of her inside of you, like you’re trying to drag her deeper.

Her pace doesn’t change, but her thrusts come heavier, her control slipping in slow pieces as you take everything she gives you. She can feel how wet you are, how your cunt pulses with every slow grind of her hips, and it makes her feel drunk with it – with you.

You’re hers. You’ve always been hers.

And here, she doesn’t have to hide how much she needs you.

You breathe her first name like it means something. Like it’s not just part of the name stamped across every form and report you’ve handled over the months, but something shaped from your mouth with reverence, with affection.

And it catches her off guard, letting out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sigh as her rhythm stutters for the briefest moment, like the sound of your voice is enough to pull her off course.

She blinks against the heat behind her eyes, forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing your cheek as she draws her hips back, slow and trembling, only to push forward again with the kind of pressure that makes you whimper.

She’s been careful for so long. Always measured, always steady, always keeping her hands wrapped tight around the reins. But here, there’s nothing holding her back except the echo of how badly she wants this to be real.

Not just the fucking, not just the way your cunt grips her cock with every breath. But this – your hands holding her gently, the warmth of you wrapped around her waist, the way you look at her like you’ve chosen her. Like you’ll keep choosing her.

Her chest tightens, breath catching sharp and high in her throat, and she shifts her weight forward, one hand sliding up your thigh, anchoring herself to the heat of your skin. Her other arm curls under your shoulders, pulling you closer, until there’s no space left between your bodies, just heat and the soft, unrelenting drag of her cock moving inside you.

The sound of your moans fills the space like it’s part of a song you’re singing together, every thrust pushing a new note out of your throat.

She presses her mouth to your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your lips. She lingers there, breath shallow, her eyes flickering open just enough to see you watching her.

You look undone. Not from the way she’s fucking you, but from her, from this, from the way she’s holding you like you matter to her. Because you do.

She doesn’t let herself think these things when she’s awake. She buries them, shoves them down beneath protocol and silence and the endless churn of responsibility.

But here, she lets herself feel it, lets herself think about how easy it would be to whisper it against your skin, how easily it would slip out if she let her guard down just an inch more. That you’ve gotten under her skin in ways she never expected. That she dreams about you like this because part of her is aching for something she doesn’t know how to name.

She rolls her hips deeper, slower, and the breath you let out trembles between you. Your body arches into hers, and her first name slips from your mouth again, softer this time, laced with something warmer, something that hurts.

You reach for her, fingers threading into her hair, and pull her closer until your mouth presses against hers.

And when she thrusts into you again, deeply, slowly, tender in a way that makes her whole body ache – she moans into your mouth like she’s yours, like she’ll always be yours.

You shift beneath her, a slow drag of your fingers down her back, then back up, with a touch so gentle that it unravels something in her.

Your legs shift, your heels hooking around the backs of her thighs, pulling her in deeper, anchoring her with a possessiveness that she feels all the way down to her spine. And the way you look at her, with your eyes fixed on her with something raw and reverent, it makes her heart beat wrong. Too fast, too hard, like her body is trying to make up for everything she’s kept buried since the moment she realized how long she’s been waiting for you.

And then your hand slides up her chest, grazing her breast with the gentlest touch, barely there, and it makes her breath stutter. Her hips falter mid-thrust, her eyes fluttering shut as your thumb swipes delicately over the curve of her nipple, teasing it until it hardens under your touch.

You lean up, kiss the edge of her jaw, and whisper something, low, quiet, and soft against her skin, and she doesn’t even catch the words because she’s falling apart from the sound of your voice, from the certainty in your touch, from the overwhelming sense that you’re taking control of every fiber of her being.

And she doesn’t know how to bear that.

Because she’s always been the one in control. The one with the sharp voice, the clipped commands, the calm hand on the reins. But here you are, beneath her, wrapped around her, holding her – and she’s the one coming undone.

You press your palm to the center of her chest and guide her back slowly, and she follows without resistance. Her breath catches as your body moves over hers, and for a moment all she can do is stare up at you, her lips parted, eyes wide, her cock buried inside you and throbbing from the warmth of you around her.

She should take back control. She should roll her hips and make you beg. But instead, she just watches you.

Watches the way your hair falls forward as you lean down to kiss her collarbone, the way your hands frame her face as you kiss her lips like she’s something fragile, how your mouth drags along her skin with something deeper than lust.

Something like love.

The way you move on top of her now, slow, steady, reverent – it feels like you see her. All of her. Not just the soldier, not just the uniform… but the part of her that aches to be held like this. To be touched like this.

To be known like this.

Your body moves with hers, the roll of your hips rhythmic and deliberate, and the pressure of your cunt wrapped around her cock makes her head spin. But it’s the look in your eyes that breaks her. The softness, the certainty, the way you study her face like you’re retracing every inch of her from memory.

And in this impossible moment crafted from her own yearning, she lets you.

She lets you see her.

Her hands lift, one resting over the back of your neck, the other curling gently around your waist, and her chest rises with a shaky breath as she feels herself giving in. She’s not thinking anymore. There’s no plan, no posture, no distance between who she is and who she wants to be when she’s with you. There’s just this.

She’s never felt so wanted, so cherished.

And when your hand finds hers and you lace your fingers together, resting it over her heart like you’re anchoring her there, she closes her eyes and whispers your name.

You tighten around her like you mean to, like you’re doing it on purpose, with something deep, something she feels everywhere, in the look in your eyes and the weight of your body and the way your hand stays pressed to her chest like you’re holding something sacred in place.

It overwhelms her. Not just the heat or the friction or the unbearable rhythm of you rocking against her with a slow, torturous certainty, but the way you don’t look away. The way you never look away. 

She can’t hide – and she doesn’t want to.

You’re so warm, so full of her, and she feels every clench, every glide, every pulse of your cunt drawing her in tighter, keeping her there, and it’s more than she can bear, it’s too much and still not enough.

Your forehead touches hers, your breaths shared in the narrow space between your mouths. 

She hears you whisper something again, something that sounds like her name, or maybe it’s a promise, or maybe it’s just sound, some sacred thing her brain can’t translate but her body answers to. Her hips stutter up into yours on instinct, the tension rising fast, almost brutal in how it coils in her core, pressure building like a dam about to burst.

You murmur something else. You say you’re close. You say stay with me.

And she does.

Because even in this haze of impossible touch and unbearable longing, she would follow you anywhere.

And she does it now without hesitation, with her mouth falling open and her head tipping back and her cock throbbing inside you, her whole body tightening as your hips grind down just right and you let out that sound again, broken and sweet and just for her.

She feels your release before her own, your cunt pulsing around her like a thank-you, like a reward, like you only need her – and then her body moves beneath you and everything rushes forward, hot and heavy and relentless as she fills you.

Her cock pulses in deep waves, twitching inside you, her back arching, her fingers digging into your soft skin, her cum spilling into you, thick and warm and so much, so fucking much – and you take it. You take all of it.

Her breath breaks in her chest in a half-gasp, half-moan, her eyes never leaving yours as she throbs inside you, every nerve sparking, every thought drowned in the crash of it. She feels your lips on her throat, on her cheek, on the corner of her mouth, anchoring her to the moment as the edges of it begin to blur, begin to dissolve into heat and haze and the echo of everything she didn’t know she needed.

You kiss her again, slower now. Deeper.

She breathes, flushed and wrecked, held in the cradle of your body, your fingers brushing against her brow like you’ve done this a hundred times, like you’ll do it a hundred more.

And in the quiet, with your skin pressed to hers and the weight of the sensation sinking through her limbs like gravity, she thinks – this is what it means to be yours. This is what it means to belong to someone you love.

~*~

She stirs as she wakes, the aftershocks of the dream pulsing somewhere deep in her muscles, slow and quiet like the last ripples across water.

She’s warm, tangled within the sheets, her skin damp, her breath soft. There’s a heaviness in her chest, tight and full and blooming too big for the small space it’s been given, like it wants to stretch out through her ribs and take over everything. Her brow tenses and her thighs shift under the covers, her cock aching faintly with the memory of you wrapped around her, of your hands, your voice, the feeling of your mouth lingering on her neck like it’s something real, something recent.

She breathes in through her nose, slow and deep, and holds it in her chest like she can pull the dream back that way, like she can keep it from slipping through her fingers like every other fucking thing she can’t control.

But it’s already leaving her. The moment she exhales, the edges of it blur and the weight of you in her arms softens into feeling, the shape of your mouth on hers dissolves into heat, and the sound of your breath curls into something untraceable.

She doesn’t want to open her eyes. She wants to stay here, in this in-between, where it’s still warm, where it’s still possible to believe you’re there beside her, that if she turned her head to the side, she’d find you there in the morning light, tucked up against her side, your face peaceful in sleep.

But the space beside her doesn’t hold your warmth, the sheets don’t carry your scent, and the room doesn’t hold the weight of your presence.

She sighs and opens her eyes and blinks once, and the ceiling stares back at her, familiar and flat and blank.

The curtain is slightly parted and the sky beyond the window is turning light blue, the early morning light slipping through in a soft glow.

She’ll have to get up soon. She’ll have to run, shower, dress, go in, and sit through briefings and administrative meetings and pretend the absence of you at the desk in front of her office door isn’t something she notices. She’ll have to pretend that you don’t cross her mind like clockwork, like reflex.

She closes her eyes again and lets her head tip toward the side of the bed you slept on like maybe she can trick her body into thinking you're there. Like maybe if she lets the ache spread wide enough through her chest, it’ll reach you and the tightness will dull.

But there’s no relief. Only the press of the mattress, the drag of the sheets as she shifts, and the echo of your voice in her mind, just soft enough to feel like a haunting.

She presses the heels of her hands to her forehead and sighs, slow and tired and bone-deep.

It’s only Wednesday.

You left her private quarters on Sunday morning, sneaking out before any superiors could spot you, and your fingers clung to hers before you walked out.

Monday was rough. Tuesday dragged. Today will, too. And there’s still Thursday. Still Friday.

You won’t be back from your mandatory week-long training until Saturday evening at the earliest, and even then, realistically, she knows better than to hope she’ll see you before you report to the office on Monday.

Which means five more nights without you. Five more mornings without waking up with your body tangled in hers. Five more days where the only way she gets to see your face is in an album on her phone.

She’s used to solitude. She doesn’t mind the quiet. But this… this is different.

This longing is like a bruise inside her chest, something she can’t tend to or wrap up or press ice against. This is your name stuck in her throat at the end of every thought. This is her hand curling into the blanket like it’ll find yours in the space you left. 

She hadn’t told you this, but she tried to get you out of the training. She had emailed Lieutenant Oh, explaining that you were vital to day-to-day operations, that a week without you would be nearly detrimental. But her request was denied, and so you had to leave her anyway.

And she misses you like it’s punishment.

She shifts beneath the sheets, the fabric catching at her hips as it pulls with the movement, the cotton bunched and twisted around her waist. Her body feels heavy, still tangled in the dream, her limbs slow to respond, her breath dragging deep into her chest like it’s trying to hold on to whatever fragments are left.

Her hand moves without thinking, fingers spreading as they drag down her stomach, then lower, skin warm beneath her touch, flushed and oversensitive in a way that only ever means one thing.

The pressure between her legs is impossible to ignore. It throbs low and steady, her cock stiff against the waistband of her underwear, straining with its own kind of urgency. There’s a weight to it, a pulse, a tight ache coiled through her thighs like it’s been waiting for her to catch up. She exhales through her nose, jaw clenched, and lets her palm press flat over her erection, the ghost of the dream blurring around the edges of her mind.

She doesn't fight it. She doesn’t pause to analyze or justify, doesn’t talk herself out of it like she would months ago, back when this was just about sex, back when her feelings for you lived in the dark, unreachable corners of her mind, barely-formed and easy to brush off.

But it’s different now.

You’ve carved out a place inside her heart, and now everything – her body, her mind, her mornings – answers to it.

Her hands trail down, tugging the offending waistband down, and she sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly. 

She drags her fingertips up her cock, light and deliberate, and she watches her stomach tense and her thighs twitch.

The memory of you sharpens as she touches herself.

It’s not the dream anymore, but the real things you’ve done, the sounds you’ve made, the way your hands move when you’re touching her, like you know exactly what she needs before she can even ask for it.

Her hand wraps around her cock and her eyes slip closed again, because it’s too much to see the room around her, to see the daylight growing, to acknowledge that she’s here alone when all she wants is your breath on her neck and your thighs around her hips.

She strokes slowly, her palm dragging up the shaft, her thumb swiping under the head before sliding back down. Her hips lift into it slightly, her body working on memory, moving toward the sensation it wants most.

She thinks about the way you look at her, with your gaze heavy and focused, like she’s the only thing that matters. The way your voice sounds, low and needy and reverent. The way you say please when you’re aching for her, and the way you whimper when she gives it to you. The way you thank her with your mouth, your body, your eyes.

She tightens her grip. The heat spreads up through her spine, pooling at the base, tingling at the back of her thighs. She strokes again, this time firmer, her other hand moving to her chest, palm sliding over the soft swell of her breast, thumb brushing lightly over a nipple until it tightens beneath her touch. Her breath hitches and her hips lift again.

The memory of the way you looked the first time you kneeled before her undoes her.

That exact image, locked so deep in her memory it feels like it’s inked behind her eyes. The flush across your cheeks, the obedient look in your eyes as you sunk down the second she told you to, the way you took her cock in your mouth without hesitation, swallowing everything she gave you.

She groans softly, the sound muffled into the back of her throat, her hand moving faster now, her chest rising with every breath.

She thinks about your nails on her back. Your tongue against her throat. The heat of your cunt pulsing around her, tight and perfect, clenching when you cry out for her, when you beg her to keep going, to make you come again, even when your legs are shaking and you’re crying from overstimulation.

Her fingers curl at the base of her cock, the way you’ve done before, gently stroking, teasing the sensitive skin there, and the jolt it sends through her is sharp and electric, enough to make her legs tremble. She moans, quiet but unguarded, her lips parting, her chest arching into the touch as her thighs shift open wider, chasing more of it.

She reaches for her phone in a kind of frenzy, her breath catching in her throat as her fingers slide across the nightstand, closing around it with a grip that feels tighter than it should. Her other hand stays wrapped around her cock, her hips shifting against her palm as she unlocks the screen.

She knows exactly where to go. The folder is hidden, buried just deep enough that no one would find it unless they knew what to look for, but she could get there with her eyes closed.

And when she opens it, the ache in her chest deepens.

You had spent most of the weekend with her, tangled together in her bed, wrapped in her sheets like the outside world had nothing left to ask of the two of you. She’d taken the photos and videos herself over the course of the weekend, the hours bleeding together into something slow and private and impossible to separate.

It had started with her giving instructions, voice low and precise, telling you where to lay, how to spread your legs, what to touch, what to show her. She’d kept her phone in hand the whole time, angling it to catch every twitch in your expression, every shift in your hips, every shaky breath you let out just for her.

But somewhere along the way, those deliberate snapshots blurred into something else. Something less posed, less orchestrated, and more like a series of small, undeniable moments of how deeply the two of you had sunk into each other. Not just physically, but in the way your eyes kept finding one another, in the way your hands never stopped moving, even between kisses, even between thrusts. There were moments she’d captured where your voice was barely a whisper, where hers was softer than she ever let it be, where it was less about sex and more about staying close, about feeling everything at once and knowing the other felt it, too, about the way you laughed and the way she exhaled your name like it was the only word she knew.

Some of the videos were steady, controlled, timed perfectly for her own later use. Others stuttered and shifted as her fingers clenched when you moaned something that made her forget what she was doing, as the rhythm broke and all that was left was sound and motion and the blur of two people giving in to each other.

She’d meant to document you – your obedience, your pleasure, the way you fell apart from her commands – but what she’d ended up with were memories. 

And every single one of them burns.

She scrolls through the thumbnails. There’s one where you’re on your back in her bed, sprawled across her sheets, thighs parted, head tilted back against her pillow, mouth slack, skin flushed. Her cum is splayed across your stomach, caught in the amber light of late afternoon sun. Her hand is wrapped around the base of her cock, hard and aching, just visible at the bottom of the frame.

She remembers the way you had looked at her right after that, how dazed and needy you had been, how you asked her to take the picture, to remember how good you had been for her.

She chokes on a sound and her thumb scrolls again, slowly, reverently, each image a punch to the chest, each video a spark down her spine.

There’s a video that you took where her face is between your legs, licking into your cunt like she’s starving, her nails digging into your thighs, her voice a low rasp of praise between moans. 

The need builds, hot and all-consuming, and it’s not about the heat between her legs or the way her cock is throbbing, hard and aching in her hand – it’s you. It’s the memory of your hands on her hips, your voice in her ear, the way you whispered things to her that no one else has ever said, not like that, not with that kind of devotion. It’s the feeling of being wanted, of being seen. 

She scrolls to the bottom of the folder and taps on the first photo she took, feeling her stomach flip the way it did when she took the photo.

You’re laid out flat beneath her, shirt bunched high across your ribs, arms spread loose across the sheets like you’d forgotten how to hold yourself together. You’re not posed – you’re given.

She remembers the exact way she straddled your hips, telling you softly, “Stay just like that. Arms up. Good girl. Let me see you.” And you had, without a word, resting your hands beside your head, palms up, fingers curled in loose surrender like you knew who you belonged to.

Your mouth is parted slightly, lips full and plush, and there’s a tension in your brow that looks tender and almost awed. She pinches the screen to zoom into your face, drawn in by the heat blooming low in her core, her fist moving in even strokes. 

And she realizes that you’re not looking at the camera – you’re looking at her. And that makes her breath catch, makes her pulse flicker sharp against her throat, makes her grip tighten around her cock. It would’ve been so easy to miss at a glance, but up close, it’s obvious. The angle of your eyes, the softness in them, the way you were watching her like nothing else existed in the room but the weight of her on top of you.

She swallows hard and her thumb brushes across the screen like she could feel the warmth of you through it.

You’d looked at her like that the whole time, hadn’t you? Not just when the camera was up, but even before, when she told you what she wanted and you shifted beneath her with slow, obedient ease, your shirt catching under her fingers as she pushed it up, her palm resting over your chest while she asked you to raise your arms. You’d smiled, a little embarrassed, like it felt strange but good to be doing something like this. She’d kissed you once before taking the photo, soft and slow, and then leaned back, her thighs framing your hips, the camera angled down toward your body like it was a worship offering.

Her breath drags in again, this time rougher. Her hips rock forward into the cradle of her palm, grinding in a slow, steady rhythm that keeps time with the pulse thrumming in her chest. 

She swipes again, her breath catching somewhere between her chest and her throat when a video comes up, taken minutes after the photo. Her thumb hovers for a second before she taps the play button.

There you are again, flat on your back, arms up, the same rumpled sheets beneath you. Only this time, your clothes are nowhere to be seen.

Your shirt is discarded somewhere off-frame and your chest rises in uneven breaths, nipples stiff from the air or the attention or both. You’re flushed, your stomach flexing with each inhale, legs parted wide enough to frame the movement between them.

And the camera shows all of it. Your hands, gripping the sheets. Your hips, tilting forward into the slow, maddening glide of her cock where she grinds herself against you, the tip dragging against your clit in a steady rhythm that never quite gives you what you want.

The sound is soft and low with a quiet breath, the faint rustle of sheets, and then her voice, rougher than she remembered it being.

“Fuck. Look at you.”

You shift a little in the frame, chest heaving, eyes locked on hers, and she sees that need coiled within you, the kind that makes you tremble even before she’s taken you.

“You look so fucking good like this.”

Her voice breaks on the last word, like she’d forgotten how to speak. There’s a sharp exhale after it, half a curse, half a reverent sound she hadn’t meant to make out loud, but couldn’t hold back.

Her hips shift, the rhythm of her hand on her cock slowing as the video plays on, her eyes fixed on the screen. The camera catches one hand gripping your waist, the tip of her cock pressing just barely against your entrance. She waits there and holds, the moment stretching, your thighs tense, your breath caught in your throat as your fingers curl against the sheets, the anticipation unbearable.

Then she pushes forward, so slowly it’s agonizing, letting herself slide in just an inch at a time, pausing between each push to give you the space to take it. Your body reacts visibly in the frame, hips twitching forward, lips parting, your back arching as she sinks herself into you with deliberate control, like she wants you to feel every last bit of it.

There’s a tremble in your jaw, a flicker of your lashes, and your brows pull together like you’re trying to keep it together, even as your body gives way to her.

And then you tilt your head, just a little, cheeks flushed, your hair falling in your face in messy strands. The sight of you like that, taking her like that, makes her fist tighten around the length of her cock, the friction barely enough, the rhythm breaking with the sharp twist of desire that builds in her.

You gasp when she pushes deeper, and she makes a sound in her throat, raw and low, and strokes herself firmly, her fingers sure as they move down her cock, her grip wrapping tight near the base before sliding back up, thumb catching under the head where the pressure always makes her throb.

The memory plays underneath the video, the way you looked up at her while she sank in, your hands moving to her waist like you needed to feel that it was her doing this to you, that it was her cock filling you, inch by inch.

She watches her own hips in the video, the flex of her thighs as she starts to move, slow at first, like she couldn’t get enough of the way you gripped her. She watches the way your breasts lift when your back arches. The way they fall again, soft and heavy and flushed with heat.

She tightens her grip around her cock, the rhythm faltering just slightly as her eyes stay glued to the screen, tracking the way your breasts move. Every time she presses forward, the weight of her hips rocking into yours, your breasts bounce lightly with the impact, nipples stiff from how badly you’d needed it by the time she gave in and fucked you like that.

The video shakes a little and the angle dips once, just briefly, like she’d gotten distracted and let the camera fall lower, too caught up in the way you felt around her, in the flush of your skin, in the way your hands had gone from fisting the sheets to curling around her hips like you didn’t want her going anywhere. 

She remembers how soft you’d felt when she leaned down to kiss you mid-thrust, how her chest had pressed into yours and pushed you against the mattress, your nipples brushing against hers as you let out a broken, desperate little breath into her mouth.

She reaches between you then, one hand wrapping around one of your breasts, your back arching up into her touch as she fucks you.

Her own chest tightens at the memory, groaning softly at the sight of it, how good you’d looked like that, how much of you there was to see and feel and own, every inch of your body offered to her like you were hers to use however she wanted.

She strokes herself with more purpose, her pace steady but hard enough to make her stomach clench, hips rolling forward into her hand like she can fuck her fist the way she fucked you. 

Her hand spreads wide across the swell of your breast, her thumb rubbing slow circles over your nipple. She remembers the heat of you under her, the soft give of your skin, the way her nails sank in just enough to leave the faintest marks as her thumb dragged across your nipple in slow, deliberate passes.

And it wasn’t gentle. It was measured, controlled, all that strength channeled into the flex of her hand squeezing once, then again, hard enough to make you whine and squirm beneath her, the motion sending a fresh wave of heat rolling through her chest and down to where she was pushing deep inside you.

You look at her like you can’t decide what wrecks you more – the way she fills you or the way she touches you like she wants to feel every inch of your body all at once.

On the screen, her hand moves again, rolling your breast in her palm, cock sliding deeper inside you. Her voice is faint but audible, low and wrecked, almost like she’s speaking through gritted teeth.

“God, you’re perfect,” she says, and her fingers pinch your nipple, drawing a gasp from your mouth and a jerk from your hips that sends your chest lifting into her hand like you want more.

She tightens her grip around her cock now, matching the video stroke for stroke, thumb brushing the head, moaning low as her hips buck forward into her fist. The sensation doubles up, her body remembering what it felt like to squeeze your breast while her cock was buried inside you, your body beneath her, so desperate and open and hers.

She can see the tension in your jaw, the tremble in your arms, the way your hand curls around her wrist like you don’t want her to move it, like you needed her hand there, on you, full and claiming and firm. She hadn’t needed to ask – you’d begged for it without saying a word.

She presses against the underside of the head now, dragging it slowly across the most sensitive part, her hips jerking again as she squeezes harder, breathing ragged as her thighs start to shake under the weight of it. 

She wants to come so badly it hurts, but she keeps watching, keeps holding on, keeps staring at the way her hand fits over your chest like it belongs there, until the video ends.

She scrolls to the next one, and the first frame alone punches a sound out of her chest that comes out low and wrecked. 

You’re facedown, your cheek pressed into the mattress, arms stretched above your head, your knees pulled under you, hips lifted, ass arched high. 

She taps the play button.

She hears your breathing, ragged and too fast, underscored by the soft sound of skin against skin and the quiet creak of the mattress shifting under both your weights. Then her voice, half a growl, sharper now than it had been before.

“Keep still.”

The image jerks slightly as the camera adjusts, and then she sees her knees pressed into the bed, and her hand wrapped around your hip with the kind of grip that leaves fingerprints. She’s pulling you back, every thrust landing deep, your cunt catching the full weight of it. Her hips move with purpose in the video, controlled and rough, and every stroke draws a new sound out of your mouth.

You moan into the sheets, soft and muffled, breath stuttering in time with each thrust, and she can hear how hard you’re trying to keep it down, like you’re clinging to the last shred of composure as she fucks it out of you. But it slips, over and over again, and each time you gasp too loud or cry out for her, she tightens her grip and pulls you in harder, your ass bouncing against her with each collision.

In bed, her hand moves faster, stroking herself in rhythm with the thrusts playing on screen. Her cock aches, throbbing against her palm, tip flushed and leaking, and she spreads it down with a sharp inhale, the friction just right, just enough to make her legs spread wider under the sheets. 

She watches her own hands in the footage, the way her fingers dig into your hips, the way her thumb presses into the dimple on your lower back for leverage. She’d held you like that on purpose, tight and possessive, to feel you, to ground herself in the heat of your body and the way you trembled every time she sank in. She’d wanted you open, wanted you held. And you’d let her.

The next sound that leaves you is a choked little cry, pitched higher, and the camera catches you just as you lift your head slightly, your mouth dragging against the sheets, eyes barely open as you gasp, “Fuck, Mommy, please–”

Her whole body jerks when she hears you call her that. Her fingers tighten around her cock, stroking the full length with steady, punishing strokes, her palm twisting at the base before dragging up again. She throbs in her hand, flushed and heavy, so close she can barely hold back, her thighs flexing under the tension, and she has to grit her teeth to keep it at bay.

She watches her hand slide down your back in the video, palm dragging against your spine, and she hears her voice again, low and possessive.

“Be a good girl and take it for Mommy.”

Your moan after that is a mess, high and needy and so beautiful it makes her swear out loud now, in real time, the sound punched through her teeth as she strokes faster, chasing the edge with everything in her body. Her stomach is tight, her hips snapping forward into her fist, and she can't stop watching, can’t tear her eyes away from the way you shake under her, can’t forget how it felt to be buried that deep while you whimpered and begged and held yourself together with nothing but the sound of her voice keeping you in place.

The video ends with one last sharp gasp from you, and she immediately swipes to the next one.

The video opens in low light from the dull gold of the bedside lamp, catching the shine on your lips, the slope of your shoulders, the outline of your body where you kneel between her legs. She’s seated at the edge of the bed, legs parted wide, cock flushed and hard, one hand fisted in your hair, guiding the motion.

Your head bobs in slow, steady rhythm, mouth stretched around her cock, tongue pressed flat along the underside as you take her in deep. The sound of it is wet, obscene, and perfect, and she moans softly now, in real time, her hand moving slower than before, more focused, more intentional, like she wants to drag this out for as long as she can.

In the video, she’s panting audibly, and your movements don’t stop, even as her grip in your hair tightens. You hum around her like you’re trying to soothe her through it, your lips sliding down her cock until you take her down your throat, just like how she taught you.

“Fuck–”

Her voice cracks in the recording, sharp and ragged, and then her hand pulls you back firmly, and you go easily, your mouth trailing off her cock with a slick pop that makes her throb in her hand.

And then you look up.

Not at her, but directly into the camera.

She freezes.

Your gaze is steady and hungry and proud, like you know exactly what you’re doing to her, and exactly what she’ll do when she watches this back later, like you filmed this for her to suffer through.

You blink up at the camera, lips parted, chin shiny with spit, and you hold yourself there as she wraps her hand around her cock and starts to stroke.

And you don’t look away. You never look away. Even as she strokes herself faster, her hips jerking slightly off the edge of the bed, and when her voice breaks, whispering your name like it’s the only word she knows, you open your mouth.

Tongue out, waiting patiently. 

And when she comes in the video, when her breath catches and her voice stutters, half a gasp, half your name – the moment hits all at once. Her hand tightens at the base, her hips jerk forward, and her cock pulses hard in her fist. The first burst of her cum streaks across your tongue and your bottom lip, and you don’t flinch. Your mouth stays open, tongue out, waiting for the rest of it like you already know exactly how much she has to give you.

She watches as more of her cum spills out onto your tongue, some threatening to drip past your lower lip and down your chin. You blink up at the camera the whole time, unmoving, not even shifting on your knees, like the only thing in your world right then was the feel of her finishing for you, the weight of her need, the satisfaction of taking all of it.

Her jaw clenches as she watches it. She drags her palm up to the head of her cock, thumb circling the tip, teasing at the slick bead gathering there, all while her eyes stay locked onto yours on the screen.

You’re a mess and so beautiful in it, with your lips glossy, chin wet, her cum glistening in your mouth.

Onscreen, her hand lets go of her cock and reaches for you, fingers threading beneath your jaw in a hold that’s far gentler than the one in your hair was, her thumb dragging up the side of your cheekbone. She cups your face, steadying you, her thumb brushing the edge of your lip like she’s trying to guide you through the rest of it, like she needs to feel you swallow it down.

Your mouth closes and your throat shifts as you swallow, slow and unhurried, and then your lips part again, your tongue sweeping across your lip where some of it had started to trail. You lick it clean, head tilting slightly into her hand, and the sound that leaves her in the video is quiet but rough, like the sight of you, so soft, so good, so hers, had taken the last of her control.

She breathes out now, long and slow, her hand moving at half pace around her cock, enough to keep herself aching, enough to hold the edge in place without slipping over it. The video ends with you leaning into her touch, the cum now gone from your mouth, your lips wet and glistening but clean, and a damning look in your eyes.

She scrolls again, and the photos she swipes through are of you, still kneeling, eyes up, your tongue out as you lean in close to her cock. Your lips are parted and that same dark look is in your eyes like you knew exactly what it meant to be doing this. Another photo, this one of your tongue dragging along the head of her cock, slow and thorough, catching what was left behind.

She flips through more, each photo taken a few seconds apart, each one showing your mouth, your tongue, your expression. Devoted, focused, savoring everything she gave you. And then one where you’re looking straight into the lens, tongue sweeping your lip, with a look on your face that’s impossible to describe, something between pride and reverence and ownership, like you knew just how deep you’d gotten under her skin.

She swipes again and her thumb hovers over the next thumbnail. It’s a video, but it looks unfamiliar, starting with a crooked angle and slightly blurred. She doesn’t remember taking it.

She taps the play button, and the sound that comes is a faint shuffle, the low rasp of her breath catching in her throat, and the soft sound as you murmur something she can’t quite make out. The camera shakes once, a fumbling motion like she’d meant to take a photo but missed and hit record instead, and then the screen wobbles before settling again, the phone dropped face-up on the bed beside her. The frame is tilted, catching your side profiles.

She hears your voice, soft and low, and sees you rise from the floor. There’s a breath of laughter, hers, startled and ruined, as you crawl on top of her, pushing her down against the bed.

Her own voice is soft in response.

“What are you doing?”

More laughter. Yours this time, light and shameless, your voice innocent and coy.

“Getting on top of you.”

And then she sees you straddle her hips, your legs sliding on either side of her thighs, and then her hands, reaching up, curling around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

There’s a moment of stillness, a pause where nothing happens except the faint sound of your breath hitching, and then you lean down and your mouth finds hers.

The kiss is slow, and the camera catches the tiny hums of contentment from both of you, the shift of your bodies as you settle in like this together. You murmur something against her lips.

“Did I do a good job?”

And then her voice, unfiltered and vulnerable, as she pushes your hair back behind your ear.

“You were perfect for me.”

Her breath stutters in real time, back in her bed, as her hand slows its movements again, and the tightness in her chest deepens. Not from arousal, but from the ache of missing you so completely it feels like pressure behind her ribs.

Those words, the way she said them without thinking, the way you looked at her like you already knew, like you didn’t need her to say anything at all – she forgot how soft it was. How real it felt. How much you’d given her without needing to be told how much it meant.

She watches as you lean back, your hips rolling forward into hers, the first tentative drag of your soaked cunt over her cock, and she hears the way your breath stutters, the tiny gasp that catches between your teeth as you raise yourself just enough and guide her to just the right position to sink down onto her cock.

Then a brief shuffle and a hand in the frame. The phone is picked up clumsily, and the recording ends.

She lies there for a long moment, staring at the screen, her hand loose around her cock, her chest tight with something that’s not quite grief, not quite pleasure, but something messier, something heavier, something she doesn't have a name for. All she knows is that you’re gone. And she wants you back.

She takes a deep breath and scrolls again, her chest tight, her thumb hovering just above the next thumbnail like she already knows how this one’s going to hit.

The stillframe catches you above her mid-motion, hands braced on her chest for balance, but it’s the expression on your face that undoes her. Even in the frozen image, it’s clear how much you were feeling it, how good it felt to be on top for the first time. How bold you looked with her cock inside you and the rhythm all your own.

She taps the screen and lets it play.

It starts in motion, no hesitation, the camera tilted upward from her angle as she lies on her back, the camera catching you from below.

You’re riding her slowly, like you’re easing into it, finding your rhythm, your movements careful but deliberate, every bounce just a little deeper than the last.

Her hand appears in the frame, fingers lifting to brush your hair back behind your ear where it had fallen loose again. She cups your cheek then, and she remembers feeling the heat radiating from your skin and the softness of your face in that moment.

You smile down at her, and you’re breathtaking. You look almost giddy from the way she let you take control, the way she let you move the way you wanted, the way she held your hip and met each bounce with a slow grind up into your cunt, letting you set the rhythm even as her grip threatened to claim it back at any second. You bounce a little harder, your breath catching in a gasp, and she groans right back, her voice low and hoarse from how good it felt to let you use her like that.

She strokes herself now, slower again, almost reverent in the motion, fingers tight at the base as she drags her palm up, catching under the head just as she sees you rise in the frame again.

You ride her harder, your thighs flexing, your rhythm confident and almost cocky, like you thought you were winning.

And she’d let you think that. She remembers the burn in her abs from holding back, the heat in her chest from watching you come alive like that, owning it, using her, making her moan with every shift of your hips.

And the look on your face, cheeks flushed, mouth open, lips parted, brow furrowed just slightly like you were chasing something but savoring it, too. You bite your lip once, moaning low as your head tips back, and she sees the way your breasts move with every bounce, the way her hand had caught your waist, guiding, steadying, barely holding on.

She picks up the pace now, her hand stroking faster, hips shifting into the motion, thighs tightening under the sheets. She remembers how wet you were, the way you clenched every time she lifted her hips to meet yours, the heat between your bodies as the tension built. 

Her own voice cuts through again in the clip, low and broken.

“Just like that – fuck, that’s it–”

And then the camera wobbles sharply, the motion jarring as the lens catches a blur of your face, a squeak of laughter, a hand flying out for balance – and then the whole frame spins. Her thighs come into view, her hand bracing against your chest as she flips you onto your back, the sound of your body hitting the sheets with a soft gasp, followed by your voice, breathless and laughing–

“Hey–!”

She’s back on top, reclaiming the rhythm with one hard thrust that doesn’t make it into the frame, but echoes in the sound of the bedframe hitting the wall and your breath catching hard as she fucks into you relentlessly.

And then the footage cuts out.

She lies there, panting, her hand trembling where it holds her cock, the ache in her core sharp now, deep and pulsing and ready. 

She doesn’t hesitate as she swipes to the next one and presses the play button, because she knows exactly what this one is. 

It starts with your face.

Shot from above, angled slightly off-center, shaky as she holds the phone in one hand while gripping your with the other. Your face is flushed and radiant, eyes unfocused, mouth parted as you try to catch your breath, your chest rising and falling in short, uneven pulls. You’re wrecked, blinking slowly, too far gone to speak. And you’re smiling, faint, barely there, with the kind of grin that only shows up when every nerve in your body has been lit up and satisfied.

Her own breath is audible in the footage, low and ragged, catching as she shifts behind the camera. And then it moves, tilting slowly down, the frame dragging down your chest, your stomach, the soft rise and fall of it, the slight tremble in your thighs where they’re splayed open around her hips, until finally, the shot lands on where you’re connected.

Her cock is buried, her hips flush against you, your cunt stretched around her like it was made to keep her in place. Your hips twitch slightly as she starts to move.

In the video, she breathes out.

“Fuck.”

The camera stays trained right there, focused on the way you cling to her as she slowly pulls back, the way her cum catches the light as it starts to leak out around her cock.

Your body jolts slightly, and a soft, broken sound leaves your throat, half a gasp, half a whimper, and she moans in the video, quiet and low, like the sound alone hit her right in the chest.

She does it slowly, dragging the motion out, like she wants to feel every second of it, wants to see how your body reacts.

She watches the way your stomach tightens, the way you try to hold her in even as she keeps going. The base of her cock glistens, coated in everything you gave each other, and it shines faintly in the soft light as she pulls back, careful, steady, letting you feel every part of her you’d just taken.

And when the head finally slips out, her cock throbs in her hand.

She gets the angle right as it happens, the camera tilting lower, catching the exact moment where you’re left open.

Her cum gathers right at your entrance, threatening to spill, but you hold it there, keeping it all inside the way you’ve learned she likes.

The camera moves closer, tighter and more focused as she drags her thumb through the mess, slow and deliberate. She presses just enough to part your cunt slightly, wetness catching under her finger as her thumb moves downward, then back up again, the pressure light but unrelenting.

You twitch again, legs jerking, breath catching, and the sound that comes out of her is half a groan, half a laugh, something low and strained that she doesn’t even remember making. Her thumb circles once, then again, slow and wide, and then she tilts her wrist, dragging it lower, skimming over the mess as she dips the tip of her thumb into your filled cunt, just enough to push some of her cum back inside before pulling out again.

And then she does it again, this time for the camera.

The footage shifts as she adjusts the angle, her hand pulling back just slightly to show more of you, more of your thighs, the spread of your legs, the way you’re holding yourself open.

She moves her thumb in a slow, shallow push, in and out, no deeper than the first knuckle, just enough to make you flinch every time she re-enters. You’re too sensitive for this, too spent, and that’s what makes it perfect.

She rubs again, her touch firmer now, then pressing up higher to brush over your clit, just a tease, something added to make the whole thing unbearable. 

You flinch the second she brushes over your clit, like your nerves are already overloaded, like even the idea of more is too much. But you let her anyway. 

She glides her thumb over your clit again, light and controlled, circling once, then again, her movements unhurried. She doesn’t want to push you too far – that isn’t what this part is about. This is just for her, for the view. For the way your body tenses underneath her, thighs flexing, hips shifting against the sheets even though you’re too tired to move. She circles again, slower this time, dragging some of her cum up from below just to smear it across your sensitive clit.

The motion is purposeful, designed for this exact playback, for her in bed now with her cock in her hand and her body tense and aching. It’s not just about seeing you – it’s about knowing what she did to you. Remembering your thighs trembling under her hands, the twitch of your cunt when she touches you again after she wrecked you. The way your body stays open for her, letting her rub and push and tease just because she wants to.

“Just like that,” she whispers in the video. “That’s it.”

In real time, she’s close. Close enough that every stroke makes her thighs jump, her stomach tight and fluttering with the kind of tension that leaves no room for thought, no space between pleasure and pressure. Her hand moves in a tight, perfect rhythm, her grip shifting just enough to push her higher with every pass, and the room around her has narrowed down to just this, just the glow of her screen, just the video playing out in her hand, rewinding it to show the exact moment her cock drags free from your cunt, thick and swollen and soaked.

The sight of it is almost enough. Her cum, caught at your entrance, doesn’t spill – it sits there, heavy and thick, pushed forward just slightly when her hand touches you The camera angle is better than she remembered. Her thumb moves in frame, slow and deliberate, teasing you through the mess, and your hips jump again at the pressure, a soft sound leaving your throat that makes her hand tighten around herself.

Her whole body clenches.

She’s right there.

She drags her thumb over the head of her cock once, twice, hips stuttering up into her palm, her breath caught sharp behind her teeth, and somehow, somehow, she holds on.

The edge rolls through her like a wave, heat rushing up her spine, locking in her stomach, and she almost gives in to it. She almost lets it break, but something stops her. It’s want – wanting something else. 

She isn’t thinking about how she fucked you. She’s thinking about how you fucked her.

She swipes back with her thumb, fast and clumsy, her chest heaving, hand never stopping on her cock, the drag of her palm sloppier, her fingers trembling as she scrolls back to the previous video and presses play. 

You on top of her, your face flushed and bright, your hair falling over your face as you ride her like you can’t get enough of it, like you’d been waiting for her to give you that chance and you were going to make it count. 

You’re moaning for her with those soft, broken sounds you make when you’re right on the edge, too focused to speak, too deep to hold back. Her hand is on your hip, letting you move how you want, letting you use her in the way you want. 

She was letting you have it, just for a little while, just long enough to feel what it was like when you took charge. And now, watching it back, her cock throbbing in her hand, her whole body straining under the pressure of needing it, she realizes what’s breaking her – not the dominance, but the way she gave it up for you.

Her hand jerks hard around her cock, her thumb dragging across the head, her hips snapping forward into her palm, and it’s your voice in her ear, your eyes on her through the screen, your body above her with all the heat and confidence and focus that she only ever wants from you.

She mutters your name out loud now, low under her breath, her lips barely forming the shape of it before it melts into a groan. Her whole body tenses, her stomach seizing, her thighs shaking under the weight of it as she stares right at your face on the screen.

Heat surges forward all at once as her body locks up. Her hips snap forward into the motion with a sharp jerk, and she groans, long, low, and raw, her voice breaking open as the pressure finally gives.

The release is intense and overwhelming, and she strokes through it, hand tightening reflexively around the base as the next pulse hits, thick and forceful, spilling across her stomach in messy streaks. Her thighs jump with it, muscles straining, and she chokes on the next breath as her stomach pulls tight.

Her cock pulses hard in her hand, every sharp throb dragged out by the steady rhythm of her grip and the unrelenting memory of you above her, riding her, your head tipped back as you moaned for her, giving in when you finally lost the battle to lead and she shoved you onto your back.

She says your name again, this time louder, rougher, her voice cracking open around it like it hurts to hold back anymore.

Cum spills across her knuckles, hot and heavy. Her grip tightens just enough to catch every last throb, every low pulse trapped in the base of her cock, her muscles tight through her core, her legs trembling, the heat surging up through her spine, release tearing through her in thick waves until her breath sticks in her throat and all she can do is let it take her. The slick heat in her palm, the mess of it dripping across her fingers, and the image of your flushed body bouncing on top of her – that’s all she knows, all she can see, until the edges of the world finally start to ease back into focus again.

Her hand slows, grip easing, her cock flushed and oversensitive, her breath shaky and uneven. Her stomach flutters with the aftershocks, thighs flexing, and it takes a long moment for the tension to ease back out of her. 

She’s still staring at the screen, her whole body open and still and quiet, watching as she fucks into you until the video ends.

Her chest is tight, and the release hasn’t softened the ache – it’s only made it clearer. It lingers behind her ribs, dull and steady, and she catches her breath, grounding herself in the weight of her own skin when everything else feels too far away.

The photos and videos should’ve satisfied something in her, and for a while they did – until the high passed and the only thing left was the empty side of the bed and the echo of your voice like it was still in the room.

She sighs and scrolls back, her thumb dragging instinctively until it stops on that one clip.

She doesn’t watch it for her personal pleasure - she watches it to soothe the ache in her heart.

And even though she knows what’s coming, it still knocks something loose in her. There’s laughter in her own voice, something shy and surprised, something too far gone to hide what she’s feeling, and then your voice as you giggle and say, “Getting on top of you.”  

Her eyes stay fixed on the screen, on the half-tilted blur of motion, as you push her onto her back. And then the moment your body settles over hers, knees bracketing her hips, the weight of you right where she wants you most.

Her hands lift into the frame, reaching for your waist like it’s reflex, like she needs to touch you just to be sure you’re real, and there’s a pause, a beat of silence where the only thing she can hear is the sound of breathing.

The kiss is quiet, your mouth brushing hers. It’s not for sex, it’s not for show. It’s just the kind you give someone when you want them to know how you feel about them.

She doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until your voice cuts through it again.

“Did I do a good job?”

You say it lightly, teasing, but with that edge of real hope under it, like you want her to say yes, like it mattered to you that she meant it.

And her answer, immediate, unguarded, soft in a way she never lets herself be unless it’s just the two of you as she brushes your hair back behind your ear:

“You were perfect for me.”

The words hit harder now than they did when she said them. She hears them differently, with the distance of the week between you, with the weight of the ache that’s been growing since you left. She watches her face tilt just slightly out of frame, and she can feel that same flutter in her chest that was there when you kissed her.

Your name leaves her mouth again, this time in a whisper, barely there.

You start to move then, the slow shift of your hips, the first slide of your cunt over her cock, the sound of both of you catching your breath at once. You’d already been together for hours, but you both still wanted more.

The video catches you sinking down, the tiny gasp you let out when you take her deep. Her groan follows, low and wrecked, and it lands different now – not as arousal, not as stimulation.

It lands like grief.

She swallows hard. Her body is still humming, but her chest feels hollow, like she’s given everything and can’t find her way back to full.

The screen shakes at the end, the phone being picked up, half-covered, fingers visible for just a moment – and then it’s done, and the recording ends.

She lets the screen fade out, the light from her phone dimming to black as her hand slackens with the weight of it and flops down onto her chest.

She exhales, long and slow, like it might drain something out of her. It doesn’t. The ache is still there, heavy as ever, pressing in behind her ribs with the weight of everything she’s been feeling since you left. The silence of the room only makes it worse, like the absence of your voice is somehow louder than the recording had been, like the space you filled beside her this weekend is pushing back now, refusing to stay empty without reminding her of it.

She stares up at the ceiling. There’s nothing interesting there, no distraction to soften it, just the pale expanse and the way her chest tightens more with every passing second she spends thinking about you.

It’s the kind of longing that sinks into her bones, the kind that doesn’t let her think straight, the kind that turns into a low-grade buzz behind everything she does, like her body is aware of something it doesn’t know how to fix, like it’s waiting for your laugh, for your eyes, for the warmth of your body pressed up against her side, for your hand reaching for hers in the middle of the night as you slept. 

She stays like that a while longer, eyes fixed on the ceiling, chest rising and falling with the kind of shallow rhythm that doesn’t calm anything and doesn’t bring her back down.

She knows she should get up. She knows she can’t stay here all day, stuck in her sheets and her head and the video burned into her eyes. But it’s hard to move when everything feels this still, and harder yet when she knows the only thing waiting for her is the kind of routine that used to feel stable but now just feels empty.

Eventually, she shifts.

She opens the drawer beside her bed, pulling it just far enough to fish out the small towel she keeps there. It’s an automatic process, wiping her hand first, then dragging the towel across her stomach. She adjusts her grip lower and wipes herself off with steady, deliberate movements, her cock softening but still pulsing occasionally from the echoes of her orgasm. 

She finishes cleaning and tosses the towel into the hamper beside her closet, the soft thud of it landing against the mesh the only real sound in the room besides her own breathing. She pulls her underwear back into place, the elastic dragging lightly across her hips, and smooths the waistband down with both hands.

She sits up, then she looks back down at the bed.

The sheets are mussed, creased from where her body had pressed against them, empty in the place you should be. The pillow you used is untouched, and for a moment she just stays there, staring at that quiet hollow in the mattress like it might offer her something if she looks long enough.

It doesn’t.

She presses her lips together because the movement keeps her mouth from pulling into something else. She stares another second longer, then stands and heads toward the bathroom.

She braces both hands on the edge of the sink and exhales slowly, jaw tight, spine tight with the kind of ache that comes after holding tension too long. 

She rinses her toothbrush under the tap and squeezes a line of paste onto it, movements practiced to the point of muscle memory. She brushes in silence, keeping her grip steady as her mind drifts like it always does during this part. There’s nothing else to focus on, just the taste of mint and the sound of her breath through her nose, the reflection of herself in her peripheral vision, the echo of your voice from the morning you left.

She spits, rinses, and washes her mouth out twice. Then she splashes water over her face, pressing her hands to her warm skin like she might scrub something out if she presses hard enough.

She pats her face dry with a towel, and that’s all she allows herself before moving on with her morning routine.

She dresses for her run with black compression shorts, a sports bra, and a t-shirt with the army’s logo emblazoned on the front pulled over her head with one smooth motion. She tightens the laces on her sneakers with a double knot, tucks the excess string in, and steps out the door before she can hesitate.

The morning air outside hits her square in the chest. It’s cooler than it has been the past few days, and she takes a deep breath in, shoulders rolling back as she stretches out one leg, then the other, leaning forward with her hands braced on her thigh. She doesn’t waste time easing into it today – there’s too much in her chest, and she needs it out.

She starts fast.

The gravel crunches under her shoes as she rounds the first corner of the loop around the base, her cadence quick and even, breathing measured but heavy. Usually she runs the standard route around the base, just far enough to get her blood going before her shift, just long enough to check the box and feel steady again. But today, she keeps going.

The second loop is harder. Her calves start to burn halfway through, and her breath begins to hitch a little more sharply every time she hits an incline, but she doesn’t slow down. If anything, she pushes harder, lengthening her stride, leaning forward more into the turns like she’s racing something she can’t see. Her pulse is loud in her ears. Her fists are clenched. And all she can think about is your voice, the shape of your mouth when you moan, the way you looked when you were curled up against her the night before you left, the way she held you in her arms as the two of you slept.

She rounds the final bend harder than she means to, but she doesn’t break rhythm. She just grits her teeth and keeps moving, all the way up to the end of the route, where she finally stops back at the front of her building and plants her hands on her knees. She bends there, breathing hard, sweat beading along her forehead and spine, her whole body humming with the ache she’d been trying to run off.

It doesn’t leave. But her legs are shaking now, and that’s something.

Back inside, the door clicks shut behind her and she toes her shoes off and peels off her clothes, tossing them to the floor as she heads straight into the bathroom again.

The shower takes a few seconds to warm up. She adjusts the knob until the steam starts to rise, then steps into the stream of water. It hits her shoulders first, then trails down her back and chest, hot enough to sting, and she lets it.

She washes quickly, hair first, then body, then face again, scrubbing harder than she needs to. When she steps out, the mirror is fogged up, but she doesn’t wipe it down.

The protein shake is the same one she makes every morning. Two scoops, water, creatine, all shaken up in the blender cup while she towels off her hair with the other hand. She doesn’t even taste it when she chugs it, just tilts her head back and downs the whole thing, her throat working through it automatically, jaw tight around the last of it.

She dresses quickly, starting with her camo uniform pants, drawing them up her legs in one smooth pull. Her bra comes next, then her undershirt, then jacket, then belt. 

She finishes dressing with slow, steady movements, the layers of her uniform coming together the way they always do, every piece of it fitting exactly how it’s supposed to. She adjusts her collar, straightens the belt, tightens the cuffs. She doesn’t roll up her sleeves today – there’s no need to since she won’t be able to watch you take in the sight of her bare forearms. The mirror catches her reflection head-on as she stands there for a moment, watching herself breathe. Everything looks right. Everything is in place.

She sighs once, shallow and quiet, then turns toward the door.

She makes it halfway out before something out of the corner of her eye pulls her back.

Her eyes fall to her desk and her hand pauses on the doorknob as her gaze locks onto your favorite jacket hanging over the back of the chair.

She blinks at it. You must have left it here when you’d gone back to pack, forgotten it in the haze you’d been in when you left her quarters on Sunday morning with that soft little goodbye.

She stares at it for a long moment, the way it drapes over the chair like you’ll come back for it.

She closes the door without really thinking, her fingers curling around the knob until it latches with a quiet click. Then she turns and walks toward it.

She remembers the way you showed up at her door on Friday night as you leaned in close to kiss her hello. She remembers sliding it off your arms, tossing it somewhere between kisses, neither of you bothering to fold it or place it anywhere neatly.

It had stayed there all weekend, and now, it’s the only thing left of you in this space.

She reaches for it slowly.

Her fingers graze the sleeve, the fabric soft and broken-in, the kind of worn that only comes from something you’ve had for years. She picks it up and holds it for a second, suspended between her and the desk, her thumbs brushing over the fabric like she’s trying to smooth out time. Then she turns it over, careful and deliberate, tracing along the seams like she might find a piece of you tucked somewhere inside.

And then, without letting herself think too hard about it, she lifts it to her face and takes a deep breath.

The scent of you hits her immediately.

You, fully and completely, the way you smell when you curl into her side in her bed, when you slide into her lap and bury your face in her neck, when you rest your head on her chest and breathe with her like you’re synced. It’s your shampoo, your skin, the echo of your perfume caught in the lining, and the force of it lands square in her chest, so strong and sudden that she has to reach out and brace herself on the edge of the chair.

Her eyes fall closed and her mind drifts too easily, pulling up flashes of your smile, your laugh, the little way you shake your head when you’re amused by something but don’t want to admit it, the weight of your head resting on her shoulder like it’s second nature. She thinks about how soft you are when you wake up, how warm you run when you sleep, how sweet your voice gets when you’re tired and trying to act like you’re not. She thinks about how easy it is to hold you. How good it feels to let you hold her. How rare it is to find something that makes her feel like herself without having to perform for it.

The longing pulls hard in her chest.

Eventually, she exhales, slow, shallow, and steady. She lowers the jacket and smooths it back into shape, fingers curling gently around the sleeves before she drapes it back over the chair. She pauses again, just for a moment, and then she steps back toward the door.

She steps out into the hallway, and her footsteps fall softly on the tile. Morning rounds and early reports have just begun, and there's a steady rhythm of distant voices, the occasional thump of someone locking a door, and she moves through it feeling like her chest is sinking under the weight of this absence she can’t shake.

She stays centered in her motion, steadying herself, but every step echoes differently, every turn of the corner makes her wonder if you’ll be waiting at the end of the hall.

She pushes the front door open and steps into the warming morning air, the sun glossing over the pavement in a pale sheen, the quiet wide and open enough that she can almost hear her own breath. She closes the door behind her, shoulders squared, then walks along the path leading to the admin building, boots scuffing quietly against the surface.

“Morning, Cho,” comes Sergeant Park’s usual friendly tone from behind her.

He comes up beside her, stepping up to hold the door with one hand while in the other he carries the usual crumpled brown paper bag from the off base cafe.

She gives a polite nod, her “Morning” soft and precise, the intonation flat but courteous. She feels the pull of you again, having to hold her posture, hold her voice, hold her everything, while she’s reeling inside.

They walk down the entranceway together, nodding to other personnel they pass. They’re silent, parallel but separate, and she feels the emptiness of the conversation more than she ever did before as they step into the elevator and ride it up.

The elevator dings.

Sergeant Park steps out first, the brown paper bag swinging lightly at his side as he moves through the short hallway that connects to the main office. She follows a few paces behind, her boots landing against the polished floor, but she’s already drifting, already elsewhere. The closer she gets to that room, the more the hollow ache in her chest thickens, spreading outward in slow tendrils that coil around her ribs and press down against her lungs.

Voices drift out from the open office ahead – laughter, sharp and bright, the kind that rides the tail end of something stupid and funny said at just the right time. Park steps through the door first.

“Morning,” he calls out, and there’s a shuffle of movement in response.

Private Kang, face red from laughing, responds with a light “Morning, Sergeant Park” as he holds out a mug of coffee.

Park takes it and asks what’s so funny this morning.

There’s more laughter as she enters the office and Privates Kim and Kang explain it to him, but she doesn’t listen.

Their expressions flick briefly in her direction when they see her, that usual glance of recognition when a superior walks in, but they don't say anything to her, and she doesn't give them the opportunity to, because her gaze has already locked onto the desk on the left side of the room.

Unoccupied, empty, your chair tucked in too neatly. No soft movement of you in that standard-issue uniform as you look up at her and take her in.

The absence lands like a blow to her chest, sudden and sharp, and she has to tighten her jaw to hold everything in place.

She doesn’t pause, won’t give anyone in this office, especially Kim and Kang, a reason to notice anything strange, but the weight of it lingers with every step she takes across the room. The quick, practiced shift as she turns into her office. The familiar feel of the door against her palm. The soft click of the latch sliding into place behind her.

It’s quiet in here. Quieter than it should be, like the air itself is holding its breath. Like it remembers what this room is like when you’re in it – your voice, your laugh, your warmth, and it doesn’t know what to do now that you’re gone.

Neither does she.

She pulls her chair back and lowers herself into it, her muscles moving stiffly, like they don’t quite want to cooperate. Her hands settle against the edge of the desk, fingers curling slightly, but she doesn’t reach for anything. Doesn’t start her emails or sort through the reports. Just sits there, staring ahead at nothing for a moment, heart beating a little too loudly in the quiet.

If this were any regular day, you would’ve walked in a breath behind her, carrying her coffee mug in one hand and the morning reports in the other. You would’ve set the mug down gently in its usual place, and then you’d meet her eyes and begin your daily rundown, and she’d let herself get distracted from the very first word, letting the information wash over her, grateful for the excuse to linger in the sound of your voice, seeing how far she could push you before your voice cracked or your gaze flicked down or you shifted your weight from one leg to the other like the tension might actually burn through your uniform seams.

That was the game. That was the quiet power exchange, unfolding every morning in plain view, dressed up as efficiency and discipline, veiled in military order.

But today, it’s just her. Her coffee and morning reports are already on her desk, and she lifts the mug to her lips and takes a sip, grimacing before she’s even fully swallowed. Too bitter, too cold, and not nearly enough cream.

Kang, for all his good intentions, doesn’t know how to prepare it the way you do. It doesn’t matter how many buttons and functions the coffee machine you all won from the banquet raffle has if the person using it doesn’t understand her preferences.

She sets the mug back down, but not in its original spot – she slides it to the left, where it should’ve been to begin with, where you always place it. Her fingertips linger on the handle for a moment longer than necessary before she lets them fall away, her shoulders sagging just a little, the full weight of the silence pressing in again.

It’s only a few more days, she reminds herself. You’ll be back this weekend. You’ll be waiting for her as she walks in the door and she’ll look at you like the absence hadn’t been unbearable, like the days hadn’t stretched too long in her chest, too sharp around the edges without the grounding presence of your voice, your eyes, your whole being.

She draws in a slow breath and lets it out even slower, reaching for the top report on the stack. Her eyes scan the header, but the words blur for a beat before she refocuses. She flips the page, reaches for her pen, and tells herself again, with all the steadiness she can muster, that it’s only a few more days.

Just a few more.

Chapter Text

It’s somewhere around midnight on Saturday, and the world both inside and outside the transport truck is quiet. Blurry yellow lights shine brightly through the windows every fifty feet as the truck rumbles along a gravel road, and shock absorbers groan in protest every time the driver takes a turn too fast.

You’ve been watching the same stretch of steel fencing crawl past for the last fifteen minutes, unable to focus on any of it, and even the clatter of boots and rucksacks has faded into the white noise of exhaustion. Most of your squadron is slumped against each other or curled up on the seats, faces pressed to canvas bags or crumpled jackets, their uniforms a mess of dirt stains and sweat and dried streaks of god-knows-what. There’s a pungent stink to the air from bodies that haven’t been properly clean in days – old socks, week-old mud, and skin rubbed raw beneath the weight of gear that never came off for long enough to feel human.

Someone mutters something in their sleep, barely loud enough to hear over the engine, and someone else groans, shifting to get more comfortable on a seat that was never meant for rest. 

Your legs are a patchwork of bruises, your knees are stiff, your shins throb with every little jolt, and you can feel a dull ache blooming from the spot just below your right shoulder where you hit the ground too hard after not taking a fall correctly.

It’s one of a hundred new injuries. Every inch of you feels wrong, off-kilter, and worn thin by too many days without enough sleep, enough food, enough quiet, enough warmth that wasn’t stolen in the brief moments of respite.

The drill sergeants spent the whole week stripping you down to the barest version of yourselves. Early wakeups before sunrise, the blare of klaxons, the snap of overhead lights flicking on before your body even remembered how to move. Your palms are still raw from obstacle courses and rope climbs, knuckles scabbed from days spent sparring on hard-packed dirt. There were times, shivering in a t-shirt before dawn, when you almost forgot how to want anything besides sleep.

No one’s talking. Nobody has the energy for it. The kind of silence that’s settled over the squad is the rare kind, the kind that means everything’s been taken out of you. Every last joke, every last complaint, every bit of yourself you had to spare. There’s only what’s left: hunger, pain, the echo of someone else’s breath, and the little sliver of hope you’re still carrying for when the night finally lets you go.

You press your forehead to the window, feeling the vibration of the engine in your skull, eyes stinging from the combination of exhaustion and the sand that got flung up into your face hours ago. There’s a fine layer of dirt crusted in the lines of your hands and grime worked under your nails, and you keep running your tongue over the inside of your cheek, tasting copper. Your whole body feels like it belongs to someone else, like you’ve been moving on autopilot, carrying it from checkpoint to checkpoint, just to get here. You’re so tired it feels like a kind of sickness, the kind of exhaustion that makes even the thought of standing up seem impossible.

And the only thing that keeps surfacing in your mind is how badly you want to be held. Not a handshake or a slap on the shoulder or the kind of rough, joking camaraderie that helped get you through this past week – but the real thing. The weight and warmth of someone’s arms around you, the permission to let your guard down, to let everything you’ve been holding together just unravel.

It’s not even a question who you want. Your mind keeps circling back to her, drawing patterns around the memory of her body, her voice, the way she looks at you when it’s just the two of you and there’s nothing left to perform for. There’s a sharp ache in your chest as you think about her, always so steady, always so controlled, the one person on this entire base who makes you feel like maybe you’re not about to come apart at the seams.

You want to see her. You want to bury yourself in her arms and let her hold you the way she did last weekend, when you spent the whole time holed up in her quarters, the world on pause for as long as you could get away with. You remember the feeling of her arms wrapped around you, warm and impossibly soft despite the strength in her muscles. The way you curled into her, her chest rising and falling beneath your cheek, her hand smoothing gentle lines down your back as you drifted to sleep, every bit of tension in your body dissolving under her touch.

You know you shouldn’t even think about doing it – not now, not when every rule in your head says this is the worst possible time to risk it.

For one thing, she isn’t expecting you. And it’s late. And you’re so out-of-your-mind tired that if you try to sneak to her quarters tonight you might slip up, you might get caught, you might make a mistake.

The thought of being found out like that, stumbling half-dead through the halls, desperate enough to risk everything for one night in her bed – makes your stomach twist, shame and longing tangled up in a way you can’t begin to sort out. You picture knocking on her door, waiting in the hallway, every nerve in your body strung tight as you pray for her to answer.

And then the fear sets in. What if she opens the door and her face is blank, closed off, annoyed that you’ve woken her up just because you can’t handle one night alone? What if she doesn’t even answer at all – or worse, what if she turns you away? You’re not sure you could handle that tonight. Not when you’re this raw, this worn down, when all the armor you’ve built up over the week has finally started to crack.

She’s never rejected you, though, you remind yourself. Not once, not even when she’d caught you touching yourself in her office chair. There’s a first time for everything, and you’ve never felt this fragile before… But you’ve also never needed her quite like this.

You remember slipping out of her quarters at sunrise on Sunday, the light barely blue at the edges of the window, everything still and heavy with the hush of early morning. Your fingers had lingered in hers, neither of you quite willing to let go even though you both knew you had to. There was something in the way she looked at you as you finally slipped out, a question, a wish, the barest hint of a plea, that you’ve been holding onto ever since, that makes you think that maybe, just maybe, she wants to see you as badly as you want to see her.

You try to hold onto that feeling now, the possibility that you might not be a burden, that maybe she wants you just as much as you want her. It’s a dangerous hope and you know it, but you can’t help chasing it all the same. You remember the things she murmured to you in the dark, half-asleep and almost shy, the rare moments when her guard slipped and something real came through, so gentle you almost missed it.

Maybe you could go to her tonight. Maybe she’d let you in. Maybe you could collapse into her arms, feel her hands on your back, hear her voice telling you it’s all right to be tired. Maybe, for one night, you could let yourself fall apart and trust her to put you back together.

The thought terrifies you, but it’s the only thing that feels real. You stare down at your hands, dirty and scraped, and all you can think is how good it would feel to have her touch you, to let her hold you so tight you finally remember what it means to be safe.

Or maybe you should just go back to the barracks, strip off these filthy clothes, scrub away the worst of the week, collapse into a dreamless sleep before anyone can see how ruined you really are, and report to work on Monday morning. It would be the smart thing – the safe thing. You could pretend this need is just the byproduct of too many days running on empty, too many nights curled up alone wishing you had someone who cared enough to see through your bravado.

You can’t stop thinking about her though, about the things you did together last weekend. The way you both came undone over and over until you lost track of the hours, until her voice was raw from all the things she whispered against your mouth, her hands leaving marks you could still feel days later.

You keep replaying the way she had you pinned beneath her, the drag of her palm over your bare hip, the way she looked at you – hungry and focused, every ounce of that self-control she wears like armor twisted into something rough and tender just for you. You remember her teeth scraping your jaw, the sound she made when you grabbed her by the hair, the way her breath stuttered in your ear when you begged her not to stop. Every second of it is burned into your skin, sharp as the bruises you’re carrying now, impossible to forget even when your whole body aches for rest.

You remember how you lost yourselves in each other, how she fucked you until your legs were shaking, how you clawed at her shoulders and she filled you over and over again. There was a moment when you had a burst of confidence and taken charge, climbing on top of her, your knees bracketing her hips as you pressed her down into the mattress. You remember the way her eyes went wide as she let you take control, the way it felt to kiss her and sink down onto her cock and set the pace yourself for once.

There was a rawness to the way she looked at you then, a vulnerability in her face you almost never get to see, like she was letting you in past every barrier she’d ever built. You rode her, dragging every sound from her lips, watching her come undone beneath you. She was yours and only yours, stripped of every bit of rank and armor. 

And then her mouth curled, that little glint of challenge flashing back into her eyes, the smug spark you know so well reigniting as she flexed under your grip, twisted free, and flipped you onto your back. All muscle and command and that familiar, hungry laugh, pinning you in place as she took everything back, making you beg her for once more. 

Even now, when you close your eyes, you can still taste her skin, still feel the way her hands dug into your waist, her mouth on your throat, the heat of her tongue against yours. You remember the way she smiled at you, soft and dangerous, eyes glittering as she held you down and told you she wasn’t finished with you yet.

The memory makes your face burn and sends a rush of heat straight through the exhaustion, and it makes the thought of spending the night alone in your bunk feel impossible.

You want to see her. You want to be held. But you’re filthy – your hair is greasy, your battered uniform reeks of sweat and mud, and your skin is scraped raw in too many places to count. You aren’t anything close to desirable tonight – she’ll probably wrinkle her nose and tell you to shower before you see her again.

But the longing runs deeper than shame. Even if you’re unwashed, even if you’re half-broken, you know you’d give anything to hear her voice, to feel her hands on you, her mouth against yours.

You go back and forth, heart thudding in your chest as the truck crawls through the gate, headlights sweeping over familiar buildings of the base that feel both impossibly close and impossibly far away.

The transport vehicle finally jerks to a stop at the drop-off point, the engine dying in a long, exhausted sigh. The squad stirs awake, faces grim, shoulders set, everyone moving like the weight of the week refuses to let any of you go. You reach for your duffel bag, hefting it over your shoulder, and a sharp jolt of pain travels up your arm. You bite back a grimace, fingers tightening on the strap, every scrape and cut and battered muscle protesting as you climb down from the truck and hit the tarmac.

The night air is heavy, cooler than the inside of the vehicle, and you breathe in deep, trying to steady yourself, sweat chilling fast on your skin. Everything feels sharper out here – the floodlights bleaching the shadows, the smell of the grass just beyond the pavement, the taste of fatigue heavy on your tongue.

You hesitate, boots planted in the middle of the lot, indecision flickering through your mind one last time.

You could turn left and head for the barracks. You could pretend you don’t need her, that you haven’t spent the entire week counting down the hours until you could see her face again.

But when you close your eyes, all you can feel is her. Her hands, her warmth, the low hum of her voice in the quiet space between your ribs.

There’s no other choice. Not tonight.

So you take a breath, feel the cold settle in your lungs, and let the longing win out over every excuse. You shift the weight of your duffel on your shoulder, trace the path to her building, and you know that there’s only one thing you want tonight, only one place your body aches to be. 

You set off across the lot, keeping your head low as you cut away from the line of your squadmates trudging toward the barracks. You glance back, half-expecting someone to call you out, to demand an explanation – but nobody is looking. Everyone else is too tired, too beaten down to care what you do with the last scraps of your night. The few that aren’t already swallowed by gloom move in their own slow, lurching lines, heads bowed, minds fixed on hot showers and bed, the promise of sleep more tempting than curiosity.

You’re invisible here, just another body moving through the motions, and that anonymity lets you slip away from the group without a single pair of eyes on your back.

You can't help but focus on the ache in your legs and the sting of every bruise and scrape you’ve earned this week, so you use the pain to keep yourself anchored in your body as you make your way along the path that winds past the admin block and toward the cluster of buildings where her private quarters are. It’s a route you could walk blindfolded by now – the same shortcuts, the same uneven pavement beneath your boots, the same tension prickling at the base of your neck whenever you stray too close to the edge of being caught.

The only thing that keeps you moving is the thought of her, the way your body remembers what it feels like to fall into her, to let her take you apart and put you back together with her hands and mouth and the sound of your name on her lips. Every step is heavier than the last, your limbs dragging with fatigue, and still you keep going, heart thrumming loud in your chest.

When you reach the side door, the one tucked around the corner and hidden behind the row of battered recycling bins and the tall, swaying grass that nobody ever seems to cut, you fumble for your badge, fingers trembling a little as you press it to the reader.

The green light flickers, the latch clicks, and you slip inside with a quick, furtive glance over your shoulder, nerves jangling as the door swings shut behind you.

The hallway is dim, your footsteps muffled by the threadbare carpet, and the hush feels unnatural after a week of constant noise and chaos. Your breath grows shallow as you turn into her corridor, pulse tripping up in your throat.

The air here feels different – quieter, almost sacred in its stillness. It’s never just a hallway when you come here; it’s a threshold, a line between the rest of the world and the one place you can let go.

The sight of her door sends a fresh ache rolling through your chest, sharp enough to make your eyes sting. You pause just short of it, hand hovering over the wood, so close to the only sanctuary you know but still caught in the trap of doubt and longing and the possibility of rejection.

You look up at the number 120 on her door and the knot in your stomach pulls tighter, the anxiety and hope almost indistinguishable now that you’re right on the edge.

For a second you can barely breathe, standing there with your duffel slipping off your shoulder, feeling every bruise, every hour, every risk pressed into the shape of this one narrow hallway. You’re so close you can almost taste relief, almost feel her arms around you, but the dread that she might turn you away, or that you might be caught, everything ruined in a second – makes your hands shake as you lift your knuckles to the door.

The silence that follows your knock feels endless, one heartbeat stretching into another until it’s hard to remember anything except how exposed you are, standing here with your heart pounding in your throat, every nerve thrumming with the threat of disappointment.

The longer you stand there, the more your thoughts begin to unravel, exhaustion magnifying every fear you’ve tried to bury all week.

You know this feeling too well: the desperate hope that she’ll pull you in, combined with the sinking dread that maybe you’ve misread everything, that maybe all those soft moments and gentle affection in her eyes were just you projecting what you wanted onto something that was never really yours.

It’s embarrassing, the way you can’t stop wanting her. Embarrassing how much your heart aches for her, how badly you need her. She’s the only thing you think about when the world gets too sharp, when the weight of the day presses in so hard it feels like you’re choking on it, when you’re bone-tired and lost in the ache of wanting something that doesn’t come with rules or duty or uniform. And after your week in the dirt, the week of being stripped down to nothing, body and pride scraped raw – it’s her you reach for, her you want, and the need for her is the only thing that feels real in all this exhaustion.

You know how you feel about her. You know, even if you can’t say it out loud, even if you can never tell her, terrified of the mess it would make.

It’s more than just wanting to be touched or fucked or even comforted – it’s how every version of the future you can bear to imagine starts and ends with her. She’s threaded through every hope you have, woven into every quiet daydream you let yourself entertain in the hours behind your desk, her laughter echoing through even the most impossible plans. 

You hear a shuffle, the faint sound of movement behind the door. Your breath catches, and out of habit – one drilled into you over a week of shouted orders and inspections – you straighten your posture, shoulders pulling back without thinking, snapping into formation even as your nerves rattle beneath the surface. 

The door cracks open, and she stands there with her hair mussed and her sleep shirt hanging loose on her shoulders, but it’s her eyes that hold you in place.

There’s a softness there, a brightness that flares up the second she sees you, her gaze sweeping over you like she can’t quite believe you’re here. For a long, dizzy moment, you just stand there, the exhaustion and hope and fear all crashing together in your veins, and the relief of seeing her is so sharp you almost lose your grip on everything you’ve been holding in. If you were any more tired, any less guarded, you know you’d break down and cry right there in her doorway.

There’s a beat of silence, a long, hollow second where the world narrows down to nothing but the sound of your own heart slamming against your ribs, every muscle braced for the blow, drawn tight in anticipation of another order, another correction, another moment of being called out for taking up space you haven’t earned that you heard so much of this past week.

She stands there, lips parted like she’s searching for the words, and for a moment you almost let yourself believe she’s happy to see you.

Then her voice comes, low and hesitant. “I didn’t – I didn’t expect to see you until Monday.”

You hear it the same way you’ve heard everything this past week: as a mistake, a misstep, another failure to do the right thing at the right time, and suddenly you’re right back under the glare of floodlights, boots lined up on the freezing concrete, every word from your superiors tearing another strip from whatever’s left of you.

Of course you shouldn’t have come here. Of course you got it wrong. The voice in your head is merciless – what the hell are you doing here, showing up unannounced, filthy and stinking of sweat and desperation, thinking you could ever be wanted by someone like her? You’ve been trained all week to expect nothing but discipline, to apologize before you even know what for, to retreat as you’re dismissed.

You don’t even realize you’re doing it as your shoulders snap down, chin tucking in, body folding up small as the apology spills out, automatic and raw.

“Sorry, Sergeant. I shouldn’t have–” The words taste like every humiliation you swallowed on the field, bitter and sharp, and you’re already backing away, turning from her, desperate to escape before she can make it official and shut you down herself. “I just – didn’t mean to bother you. I’ll go.”

All that need, all that hope, curdles in your chest, twisting itself into a knot of shame you can’t bear to look at.

You step back, folding into yourself, trying to shrink down and disappear before you can embarrass yourself any further. You tell yourself you should have known better, that you’d gotten it all wrong, that she could never want you the way you want her. Every moment you thought meant something – the soft warmth in her eyes, the way she held you as you slept, the careful way her hands held you after she fucked you senseless, the things she said to you as she pressed you up against that bathroom wall at the banquet – every one of those memories twists sharp in your chest, suddenly reinterpreted as nothing but hunger, nothing but sex, nothing but you fooling yourself into seeing more than was ever there.

You knew it, deep down, didn’t you? That there was nothing softer beneath it all. That you were just a body to her, just a way to pass the time in between the real parts of her life.

The humiliation crawls up your throat, hot and thick, and you blink hard, desperate to get away before you let anything show.

But before you can take another step, her hand closes around your wrist, stopping you short.

You freeze, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a gasp, and when you turn to look at her, there’s something in her eyes that begins to unravel every certainty you thought you had just come to.

Something like longing.

“Wait,” she says, her voice low and soft, so different from the clipped commands you’ve been living under all week. 

You stare at her, everything inside you warring between disbelief and the aching hope that maybe you haven’t ruined everything after all.

She’s looking right at you, gaze locked to yours, her fingers curling a little tighter.

“Don’t go,” she says, and the words are so quiet, so careful, that you almost don’t believe them at first.

For a moment you stand there, confusion tangling with longing, the humiliation prickling but already beginning to give way to something softer. You replay her words in your exhausted mind, desperate to make sense of them, to believe that maybe you didn’t get it all wrong, that maybe what you felt in her bed last weekend – what you’ve been feeling for a while now – wasn’t just an illusion.

Hope and longing surge up together, fighting for space inside your chest, and you feel your throat tighten, your vision going glassy with the force of it.

She tugs you gently toward her, pulling you across the threshold and into the soft, familiar dimness of her private quarters. Your steps are slow, every muscle heavy with exhaustion and the last shreds of fear, your duffel bag heavy in your hand. 

You never look away from her, not even for a second – and neither does she.

When you step fully into her quarters, the relief is overwhelming, rising up so sudden and fierce that it leaves you breathless, almost choked. You feel it in the hitch of your breath, in the sting behind your eyes, in the way your chest constricts as the door falls shut behind you.

You stand there, her hand wrapped around your wrist, neither of you speaking, the air thick and humming with everything you can’t say out loud.

There’s a heat to her gaze, a tenderness beneath all the strength and sharpness, and it holds you in place as you feel yourself coming apart at the seams. The silence in the room is total, pressing in on you from all directions, as if the world itself is bracing for whatever happens next.

She reaches up with her free hand, fingers steady and impossibly gentle, and tucks a loose strand of hair out of your face, the back of her knuckles brushing across your cheek. The touch is so careful and so unexpectedly soft that it breaks something loose in your chest, all of the exhaustion and fear and longing spilling over at once.

You don’t move, held in the space between what you’ve grown used to and what you actually need. Every other time you’ve crossed this threshold, it’s been hunger first – her mouth on yours before the door even clicks shut, her hands greedy, your body thrumming with want so raw it left bruises and bite marks in its wake.

But tonight, the craving that burns through you is softer and heavier. A need to be kept, not claimed – to feel her arms around you and believe that there’s more to this than the desperate grind of bodies and the secret high of getting away with it.

You can’t hold yourself back anymore as your duffel bag slips from your grip and thuds to the floor.

When you step into her, you don’t go for her mouth. Instead, you wrap your arms around her waist and hold on as tightly as you dare. There’s something unbearably raw in the way you bury your face against her chest, warm and solid and smelling of floral soap and something purely her.

Her body tenses beneath your touch like she doesn’t quite know what to do with the softness – but then she exhales, and her whole frame seems to melt around you.

She’s bigger than you, stronger by far, all hard muscle under the softness of her t-shirt. But the way she pulls you in is so careful, so gentle, that it wrecks you. She settles one broad hand at your back and draws you in even closer until you’re pressed chest-to-chest. She rests her cheek on your hair, her hand settling at the back of your head, and lets out a breath that trembles at the edges like she’s been holding it in as long as you have. 

You let out a shaky sigh, meaning to relax, to melt into her and let the week’s pain dissolve in the safety of her arms. But instead, it catches on a sob you didn’t even know was coming. 

Suddenly, you’re choking up, tears stinging hot at the backs of your eyes, every defense you’ve built collapsing under the force of her embrace. You try to hold it in, to steady your breathing, but it’s useless; your body betrays you, breath hitching and stuttering, shoulders trembling as you begin to silently cry against her, every tear wrung out by relief and exhaustion and the dizzying, overwhelming truth that she’s real and she’s holding you and she wanted you to stay.

Her arms tighten, steady as she holds you, her warmth and strength making it safe to fall apart at last.

She doesn’t let go, not even when your breathing evens out and the worst of the tears have passed, her arms still wrapped around you, thumb tracing a slow circle between your shoulders. You soak in the warmth of her body, letting the exhaustion seep out of your bones.

Eventually you find your voice again, rough at the edges, words thick with tears and the kind of honesty you can only manage when someone is holding you like this.

“It was… a really hard week,” you manage, voice muffled against her shirt. You’re not even sure where to start, so it all comes out in pieces, scattered and half-finished. “They woke us up at four every morning, made us run drills before sunrise, then threw us straight into hand-to-hand or muddy obstacle courses. I got slammed into the dirt so many times I thought I was going to die. Every meal was rushed, everything was a test, and no one was allowed to slow down for even a minute.” You pause, swallowing thickly, reliving the bruises, the way your muscles trembled under the weight of too many orders, too much cold air, and not enough rest. “I just wanted to get through it. I just wanted to make it to the end so I could see you.”

You can feel the tension leaving your body with every word you let go, shame loosening its grip as you realize she’s not pulling away, not laughing, not rolling her eyes at your weakness.

Still, when the words dry up, you start to feel self-conscious, acutely aware of the grime on your skin, the way you reek of sweat, the fact that you haven’t seen a shower in more hours than you can count.

When you pull away, it’s only enough to look at her, to swipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, and to mumble out an apology. “Sorry – I know I’m a mess. And I stink. I didn’t mean to…” Your voice trails off as the embarrassment catches up with you. “I should probably get out of your hair. I’ll go shower and see you Monday morning at the office.”

You mean to step back, to untangle yourself before the mortification sinks any deeper, but her hands tighten at your waist, keeping you rooted where you are.

“Hey.” Her voice is gentle, but there’s a weight to it, something immovable. “It’s all right. I remember getting wiped out by training weeks, too. When I was first starting out, I came back worse off than you. I get it.” 

The admission softens something in you, the knowledge that even she’s been here before, that she understands what it feels like to be raw and ruined and just needing someone to say you’re enough.

Still, the feeling that you’re a burden itches under your skin, stubborn and familiar. “Really, I should go,” you say again, voice small, fingers loosening from her shirt. “I can shower and sleep and just… see you at work. You shouldn’t have to–”

She doesn’t let you finish. She gives you a look, steady and unwavering, and her hand comes up to cradle your face, thumb brushing over the grime dried under your eye.

“No,” she says quietly, but with absolute certainty. “Stay. Please.” There’s a note of a question in it, a vulnerability, a hope that makes your heart trip in your chest.

You hesitate, almost unable to believe she means it, searching her face for any sign of discomfort, any hint that she’s just being polite. “Are you sure?” you ask, the question fragile as you dare to hope.

She looks you over, her gaze trailing down from your greasy hair to your battered knuckles and the filthy uniform clinging to your frame, then back up to meet your eyes. There’s nothing but reassurance there, the softest curve of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

“I’m sure. You can shower here.”

Her arms slip from you with a final squeeze, and she turns and heads for the bathroom, flicking on the light.

You catch your breath, staring down at your boots that are caked in dried mud, laces stiff with grime as your fingers work to untie them. Every tug on the knots makes your knuckles sting, and when you finally pull the boots off, there’s a throbbing ache in your feet, and you peel your socks off and stuff them into your boots as you set them by the door.

The sound of the water running reaches you, the low rush of the shower filling the quiet. You dig through your duffel, muscles protesting every movement, searching for your toiletries bag, and your fingers close around the little black case and you pull it out.

You pad softly across the room and step up to the bathroom doorway. She’s there with her hand under the spray as she tests the temperature, the steam curling up into the air, making the edges of the mirror fog. She glances over at you as you set your bag on the counter, her eyes flickering with something so soft and careful it nearly undoes you all over again.

You’re used to her strength, the sharp edge of her voice, the sure grip of her hands, the way she’s always been so steady and composed, like nothing in the world could rattle her.

Every other time she’s gotten you undressed it’s been with urgency, with that cool, confident command that leaves you breathless, wanting, already halfway to losing yourself in her.

But right now, there’s none of that. Her hands move slowly as she steps up to you, like she’s figuring out how to do this with you for the first time with no hurry, no hunger.

She finds the zipper at your collar and draws it down in one smooth line, her eyes fixed on yours, and you feel her fingers brush your skin as she eases the jacket off your shoulders. She lifts your shirt, her touch gentle, reverent even, and slides it over your head. There’s no hunger in her gaze, just a careful assessment, a worried sort of tenderness as she takes inventory of your scrapes and bruises that makes your breath catch in your throat.

She works her way down, undoing your belt and kneeling to tug off your pants, her hands steady as her brows knit together at the sight of bruises and dried blood.

You stand there in front of her, naked and stripped of everything but what’s left of your battered self. She looks at you like you’re something precious, something breakable, and in that moment, she’s not your Sergeant or your secret – she’s just someone who wants to help you put yourself back together, piece by piece.

When she runs her hands down your arms, it’s the gentlest thing she’s ever done. A silent promise that she’ll take the burden, just for a little while, so you can finally breathe again.

You step into the shower, pulling the glass door closed behind you, and for a second you just stand there, bracing yourself against the tiled wall as the rush of water hits your shoulders. The temperature is perfect – hot enough to sting, hot enough to make you feel the ache in your muscles, every bruise and scrape flaring up before the heat starts to work its slow magic, coaxing some of the tension out of your bones. The steam fogs the air, curling up around your body until it feels like the world outside could be a million miles away.

You close your eyes, tilting your head back, letting the spray work through your hair, down your chest, down your legs. There’s dirt everywhere, streaked across your shins, ground into your knees, caked under your fingernails and crusted at the base of your throat. The water runs muddy at your feet, swirling in little brown spirals around the drain, and still, you feel like it’s barely touching the exhaustion sitting heavy in your chest.

You press your thumb against a bruise blooming at your ribs, and then another along your hip where you tripped and fell against the rock climbing wall.

It all comes back in flashes – the slap of boots in mud, shouted commands cutting through the fog of sleep, the sting of rain as you hauled yourself over obstacles, elbows and knees raw from army crawling through the muck. The drill sergeants barking at you to pick up the pace, your hands freezing and useless as you struggled with the ropes, your uniform tearing on the barbed wire and the sting in your pride when you had to stop and untangle yourself, mud soaking through every layer. You can still hear their voices, sharp and relentless, always watching for a slip-up, always ready to call out every weakness. You clench your jaw, trying to wash out the grit and shame, trying to pretend it didn’t get to you.

It did, though. It all got to you, every long minute spent wishing you could be anywhere else, every time your body gave out before your will did, every sideways glance from someone who looked twice as steady, twice as tough. You scrub at your arms, your chest, the back of your neck, trying to erase the feeling of being weak, of not measuring up.

Working administration – pushing papers, answering phones, scheduling appointments in the comfort of climate control – it’s made you soft. Or at least that’s how it feels tonight.

You joined the military for the challenge, for the meaning, for the chance to prove something to yourself. But standing here with your skin stinging and your pride in tatters, you can’t help but feel like you’re failing at the one thing you swore you’d never give up on.

You want to believe that she doesn’t see you that way, that she doesn’t look at you and see someone who can’t hack it, someone who crumbles under pressure, someone who doesn’t belong in uniform. But the fear is there, gnawing at the edges of every thought, and it makes your hands shake as you scrub the dirt from your arms, like getting clean could wash away the fact that you’re not built for this.

You can’t stop thinking about how you must look to her tonight – tired, battered, worn down by one single week of hard work when you should have been able to handle it without a second thought. You press your hands to your face and close your eyes, willing yourself to be better, tougher, someone worthy of being hers.

Mercifully, your messy thoughts are cut short when the glass door slides open and she steps in. The shower isn’t large, not the kind built for luxury or even for comfort, just enough room for two people to stand close, bodies brushing if you move too much.

It throws you right back to last weekend: your face pressed up against the cold tile, your bodies slick with suds and soap as she pressed herself against your back, her mouth at your ear as she toyed with your breasts and worked her fingers between your legs until you were gasping and shaking and moaning for her. It was nothing but heat then, her voice low and hungry, your skin on fire everywhere she touched, both of you lost in it, reckless and ravenous. Even the steam felt different, clinging to you in thick waves, every second charged with the promise of more.

Now, though, there’s none of that tension, none of that unspoken demand humming between you. 

You watch as she slides the door behind her and reaches for the bottle of shampoo on the shelf.

She squeezes some into her palm, motions for you to turn around, and you do. She lifts her hands to your hair, fingertips sliding through the tangles with a tenderness that surprises you – nothing rushed, nothing perfunctory, just the slow, methodical lather as her hands massage the shampoo into your scalp.

Her fingers are strong and sure, working in circles at the crown of your head, then down behind your ears, thumbs brushing your temples, and then to the base of your skull. The pads of her fingers dig in and you sigh, knots of tension slowly unwinding under her touch, every bit of grime and dried sweat being coaxed out and washed away.

It’s shockingly gentle and almost hypnotic the way she works the shampoo in, gathering all the exhaustion of the week and smoothing it away with a patience that you’ve only ever glimpsed in fleeting moments. You let your eyes flutter shut, the shame and self-doubt and tight coil of nerves loosening as she keeps working her hands through your hair.

She nudges your head forward gently, until the spray of water rinses the suds out, her fingers combing through the strands, making sure nothing is left behind. You feel the clean slip of hair under her hands as she rinses, and then she reaches for the shampoo again, working more into her palms, lathering you up a second time.

This round, her touch grows even slower, almost reverent, her thumbs drawing long, soothing lines from the top of your head down behind your ears, her nails scratching just enough to make your skin prickle. The foam builds, and you can’t help but lean into it, letting her hold the weight of your head steady as she rinses you clean all over again.

By the time she works the conditioner through, your muscles have turned to jelly, the exhaustion melting out of you, replaced by something softer – something like safety, like trust, like the knowledge that you don’t have to do anything but stand here and let her care for you. She works the conditioner through your hair, her hands kneading slow and deliberate at your scalp, her nails tracing gentle arcs over your skin. 

It’s the best thing you’ve felt all week, the kind of gentleness that undoes every cruel voice in your head, the kind of intimacy that makes you feel seen, held, and wanted in a way that sex never could. 

She reaches past you for the soap and a clean washcloth, and works up a thick lather, then turns you gently under the water so you’re facing her, eyes flicking over your face, then dropping to your chest, then back again.

She draws the washcloth over the side of your neck and scrubs with a patience that feels almost ceremonial. Each pass is slow, thorough, and careful, the cloth dragging over skin that’s still sore in places, her touch just firm enough to chase away the ache but never enough to bruise.

She works her way down to your shoulders, soap slick between her fingers as she massages the knots there, her thumb kneading gently at the base of your neck until you let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. She’s focused, watching every twitch in your expression as she chases the stubborn grime from the hollows of your collarbones, the slope of your shoulders, the tender spot just above your heart.

She washes your arm, her palm curving around the muscle, working soap in little circles. Her grip is strong, but there’s no edge to it, just a steady warmth, a wordless promise that tonight, you’re allowed to be vulnerable.

When she reaches your hand, she cleans between each finger, working out the last traces of dirt under your nails, careful not to aggravate any cuts or scrapes. It would be easy for this to feel clinical, detached, or practical – but the way she slows down at every bruise, the way her eyes linger on your skin before she moves to the next place, makes it something else entirely. She moves to your other arm, repeating the same ritual, letting the silence hang heavy in the steamy air.

She braces her hands on your shoulders and turns you again, then presses the washcloth to your spine, dragging it down in slow lines, her free hand steady at your hip. She scrubs your back in broad, even strokes, working down to your lower back and then up again, pressing carefully at every knot, every line of tension, every place the week has left you sore and tired. 

She crouches to scrub your legs, the washcloth working over your calves, the backs of your knees, her hands steady and sure as she works around the bruises and scrapes you’ve collected. She presses a palm to your thigh, then smooths the washcloth over your skin, each pass a little slower than the last.

When she stands again you turn to her, and she looks at you, eyes searching, and you hold her gaze, every unspoken thing caught in the hush between you.

For a long moment, it’s just her hands and your skin and the steady rhythm of her care, every inch of you cleaned and claimed and calmed by her, until the last of the week’s dirt is swirling down the drain and there’s nothing left but the two of you and something neither of you can say out loud.

The shower winds down, the last of the heat swirling away in the fogged-up glass, and her arm brushes against yours as she reaches over you to shut off the water. She steps out first and grabs a towel from the rack, handing it to you without a word. You soak up the water from your hair, then wrap it around yourself.

She takes her own towel, rakes it through her hair, then wraps it around herself, and the two of you stand side by side at the sink, mirroring each other as you brush your teeth, falling into the routine you started last weekend, a small ordinary thing that grew into a ritual, and the familiarity of it is grounding in a way nothing else is.

You finish up, rinse your mouth, and the two of you pad into the bedroom. She opens a dresser drawer and pulls out a spare t-shirt, the ROK Special Forces logo on the chest nearly worn off, and hands it to you. It’s a bit big on you, the sleeves loose around your shoulders, and you pull it over your head, wrapped up in something that smells like her. She slips into a clean t-shirt of her own and a pair of gray sweatpants.

She gestures to the bed and you sit down at the edge, watching as she disappears into the front room.

When she comes back, she doesn’t push you down or sprawl out next to you the way she might have on any other night. Instead, she sinks to the floor in front of you and sets a medkit down beside her. She pops the latch open, sorting quietly through its contents – tape, gauze, antiseptic, the small boxes and packets shuffling under her hands until she finds what she’s looking for.

She opens a box of bandages, fingers steady as she peels the wrappers. You watch her face as she works, how her brow furrows and her lips press together. She’s focused in a way that feels almost surgical, and there’s a tightness in her jaw that makes you wonder if she’s upset, not quite able to tell if it’s anger or worry or just something she doesn’t dare name.

She dabs ointment over the worst of the cuts, her touch slow and gentle, smoothing the bandage over with the flat of her thumb. It stings, but you don’t flinch; the way she handles you makes the pain bearable, makes it feel like she’s tending to something bigger than just skin and blood.

She moves from one scrape to the next, inspecting each spot with a kind of determined attention, her gaze flicking up to your face now and then like she’s checking for any sign that you’re in too much discomfort. Your eyes linger on her, on the way her hair falls over her brow, the way her hands move, how completely she’s in this moment with you. 

You try to focus on the feeling of her fingers brushing your skin instead of the way your thoughts spin themselves back into knots. Each scrape and bruise makes you feel a little smaller, a little more exposed, and you can’t help wondering what she sees when she looks at you right now. If she’s silently cataloging all your failures, if the dark circles under your eyes and the stiff way you move confirm something about you she’s not saying out loud.

You catch yourself staring at her face, searching for any sign of disappointment – a sigh, a flicker of frustration, something that would tell you she’s just patching you up out of obligation, that this is what you get for coming to her in pieces. Your jaw tightens around the words you don’t want to say, but the question presses at your teeth anyway, stubborn and stupid and impossible to ignore.

“Do you think I’m weak?”

Her hands pause, a bandage balanced between her fingers, and she looks up at you, the confusion on her face so honest it makes you feel embarrassed for even asking.

“No,” she says with no hint of judgment or pity. Just plain, straightforward fact.

You force a breath past the tightness in your throat. “But I can’t even handle a week of training,” you murmur, staring at the ugly scrapes on your knuckles. “I made the decision to join the military. I knew what to expect. It shouldn’t get to me this much.”

She sets the bandage aside, her hands pausing as she looks down at yours. For a long moment, she doesn’t move, her thumb tracing a line across her own palm, her eyes fixed on your fingers where they rest in your lap.

She exhales, quiet and unsure, and her gaze flicks up to your face like she’s checking for permission. And then slowly, carefully, she reaches out. Her fingers hover above yours, hesitating just a breath longer, then thread through yours with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten. 

She gives you a small smile and she looks down like she needs a moment to find the words. 

“There were a lot of days, when I started,” she says quietly, “when I thought about quitting. Training was brutal. Worse than anything I’d ever done. There were nights when I’d sit on my bunk and wonder if I’d made a mistake, if I’d ever be able to keep up.” 

She looks up at you, her gaze steady on yours. “Suffering through it doesn’t make you weak. If anything, it proves you’re tough enough to come out the other side. You’re… supposed to come back with scrapes. You’re supposed to come back tired and beaten and battered. That’s proof that you made it through.” 

You look down at her, the lines of her face softened by the lamplight, the stark honesty of her words settling over you. You manage a weak smile, your embarrassment lingering but edged with something like relief. The idea that Sergeant Cho, this woman who commands a room without trying, who never flinches or falters, who seems as untouchable as steel, once sat on a bunk questioning her place – makes everything shift in your head. It’s humbling, and oddly comforting. Maybe you’re not failing; maybe you’re just learning how to survive, just like she did.

You squeeze her hand, tentative but grateful, and nod. “I guess you’re right,” you manage, your voice small but steadier. 

You think about the week, the exhaustion, the sweat, the bone-deep bruises that made every step an ordeal. The way you hated every second, the sting of each fresh scrape.

But she’s right. You made it through. You didn’t quit. You’re still here, and you’re stronger for it.

You roll your shoulders, trying to shake off the anxieties, forcing yourself to breathe in and out, slow and deep, focusing on the shape of her kneeling before you. But the movement draws a sharp wince from you, a flare of pain radiating through your shoulder, so sudden that you can’t hide it.

Her eyes flicker with concern, drawing her brows together. “Are you alright?” 

You force a breath and nod, lips pulling into a wry smile. “Yeah, just… sore. One of my combat partners got too into it, and I didn’t take a fall correctly.” The words come out with a self-deprecating huff.

She closes the medkit, latches it, and sets it aside, then rises from the floor. She gives your hand a squeeze before letting go, and you feel the absence of her touch as keenly as you felt its comfort. 

“Lie down,” she says, a familiar thread of command woven into her gentleness.

You obey without thinking, a flicker of anticipation simmering under your skin. You stretch out across her bed, turning onto your stomach, arms hooking beneath the pillow you’d used all last weekend, its fabric holding the faintest trace of her scent, and you take a deep breath.

The mattress dips as she climbs onto the bed, and you feel the brush of her thigh as she swings one leg over, straddling your ass. Her weight settles heavy and warm over you, the hem of your shirt riding up just a bit. Her hands slide up your sides, broad and careful, and she leans forward, the familiar heat of her body blanketing you.

“Where does it hurt?” she asks.

You shift a little, tucking your chin against the pillow. “Um – mostly my right shoulder.”

She nods and presses the heel of her hand into the muscle near your shoulder blade.

“Here?” she asks, and you let out a shaky breath.

“A little to the left,” you murmur, surprised again by how much she’s caring for you tonight.

She adjusts, her hands shifting just so, and tries again. “Here?”

Her thumbs press in, warm and steady, kneading into the knot that’s been tightening for days, and you nod, too relieved to find words.

She starts to work, her palms rolling slow circles into the muscle, pressing and releasing, thumbs digging in just enough to make the pain loosen, to make your nerves buzz with relief. Every time you sigh, she seems to press a little deeper, working the tension out bit by bit until you feel yourself start to loosen beneath her.

She keeps at it, slow and steady, pausing every so often to move her hands lower, kneading out the tightness in your back, her thumbs running along your spine, fingers splaying wide as she smooths over each aching muscle.

You can feel the week melting off of you – every late night, every early wakeup, every bruise and blow, all of it softened under the pressure of her touch. Her thighs press gently into your hips, and there’s something tender in the way she holds you, her body heavy on yours in a way that feels more protective than possessive.

By the time she finishes, the pain is a memory, the knots undone, your mind drifting somewhere half-lucid with relief. She smooths her hands one last time over your back, her palms warm and lingering, and sits back.

“Better?”

You nod, your cheek pressed into the pillow, your whole body sinking into the bed under the lingering press of her hands. “Yeah,” you say, voice thick with gratitude, “much better.”

She eases herself off of you, palms sliding gently over your lower back as she shifts her weight and settles down beside you. You roll onto your side, the movement slow with exhaustion, and slide your arm around her waist, tugging her closer. Her own arm slips around you, pulling you flush against her until you’re pressed together, chest to chest, her other hooking beneath the pillow under her head.

Her body is soft in all the ways you only ever notice when you’re held this close, muscle wrapped in a layer of warmth, her skin smooth, the steady, reassuring weight of her arm around you pulling you closer. You burrow in, resting your forehead just below her collarbone, cheek pressing to the shape of her chest. Her hand finds your waist, palm wide and certain, splaying out over you like she wants to keep you exactly where you are.

For a long time, you just stay there, drinking in every quiet detail. The hush of her breathing, the faint thud of her heart under your ear, the way her thumb draws slow circles at the edge of your shirt, not quite tracing bare skin, but not quite innocent either. The stress of the week slips further away with each heartbeat, leaving a soft pulse of heat curling within you.

You tighten your arm around her, feeling the soft give of her under your palm, the subtle firmness beneath it. She feels like safety and strength and something private all at once. When you drag your hand up her back, you can feel the outline of muscle under her shirt, proof of everything she’s survived, all the things she’s done, and for a second you wonder if she knows what it does to you, the way she holds herself together for everyone else, but lets herself be soft here with you. 

You slide your leg between hers, the heat of her settling in against your bare skin. Your hand bunches in the fabric of her shirt, and her hand moves with the kind of touch that’s impossible to mistake for anything but affection. 

You can feel her breathing, low and even, her body warm against yours. You close your eyes and soak it all in – the gentle pull of her fingers, the solid heat of her chest, the little noises that only exist in this room, in this lamp-lit hush. 

You missed her so much it’s almost painful. The days were empty without her, every minute away felt stretched too thin, the ache in your chest only growing sharper each time you caught yourself reaching for her out of habit and found nothing but air. Being here now, tangled up in her, you feel that ache dissolve, replaced with something weightless.

Her hand moves to your hair, twirling a damp strand around her finger, and you think there’s no place on earth you’d rather be than right here in her arms. You want to tell her everything you held back all week – the way her voice lingered in your head, the way the memory of her laugh made even the worst days bearable.

But the words get caught behind your teeth, too big and too tender to say all at once. So you start small, the admission trembling in your chest as you breathe it out.

“I missed you,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

The hand in your hair stills, and you feel her heart jump where you’re pressed to her chest, the soft, steady beat suddenly quickening under your cheek. For a second, you’re afraid you’ve said too much, crossed a line you can’t uncross – but then she draws in a slow breath, lets it out, and answers, voice quiet and almost shy.

“I missed you, too.”

It’s a revelation, hearing it in her voice, soft and certain and more vulnerable than anything you’ve ever heard from her before.

You pull back a little to look up at her, searching for any hint of a joke, any sign that she’s covering for something – but all you see is her, wide open and a little unsteady, like she can’t quite believe she’s said it out loud.

“You did?” you ask, the words slipping out before you can catch them, and you hear the stunned, almost giddy note in your own voice.

She smiles, just a hint at first, then wider, the corners of her eyes crinkling in the lamplight, and her fingers resume their slow, absentminded twirling. “Kang took over your duties while you were away,” she says quietly. “He doesn’t make my coffee the way you do.”

The smallest huff of laughter escapes her and you grin, unable to stop yourself.

“Not even with the fancy coffee machine we won from the raffle?” you ask.

She laughs for real then, a warm, low sound that vibrates against your chest. “Not even with that,” she says, her gaze dropping to your mouth, then back up to meet your eyes again.

Her hand slips from your hair, her fingers gliding down to cradle your cheek, the pad of her thumb traces lightly over your cheekbone. For a long, suspended moment, you think she’s going to say something as her gaze flickers from your eyes to your mouth, her breath slowing, the muscles in her jaw working around something.

The air between you feels impossibly warm, every inch of space humming with the tension you’ve been carrying for days. Her hand at your jaw is so gentle, so certain, and you can feel your pulse thumping beneath her palm, the anticipation building with every heartbeat.

Then she leans in, closing those last few inches, and kisses you.

It’s not hurried or hungry, not the rough, urgent press of lips you’ve come to know so well. It’s soft and slow, her mouth moving against yours with a care that undoes you, that makes your whole chest ache with the sheer relief of finally, finally being here in her arms again. Her thumb brushes over your cheek as her lips part yours, the warmth of her breath mixing with yours, the kiss tasting of something like longing.

You press closer, your hand fisting into the fabric of her shirt, and every bit of distance between you evaporates, replaced by a tidal wave of everything you’ve held back – relief, desire, and a fierce, wordless tenderness.

It’s the first kiss since last weekend, the first since you left her in the gray dawn, the first since you showed up at her door tonight dirty and aching to be touched, to be seen, to be wanted like this. The connection is overwhelming, flooding through you, and you drink in the way her mouth fits yours, the heat of her palm on your face, the little hitch in her breath as she presses in just a little closer. It’s a kiss that feels like a promise: not just I want you, but I missed you, I need you, you’re home.

You feel a blooming heat that starts deep in your chest and pools lower, spreading through you in slow, steady waves. Your body wakes up under her touch, nerves sparking to life, desire curling tight inside you, so much softer and sweeter than desperation but no less intense.

She draws back only enough to look at you, her eyes dark and searching, and the space between you is electric and full of everything that hasn’t been said but so desperately wants to be.

That kiss leaves you dizzy, floating somewhere between the giddy relief of being wanted and the ache that pools between your legs with every heartbeat. You hold her a little tighter, savoring the way her thumb brushes over your cheek, the press of her legs between yours, the warmth of her breath as she hovers close, lips barely parted. You sink into her, the week’s worth of longing boiling down into a need that hums through every inch of you.

Your mind flickers back to the previous weekend, to those hours spent tangled together, hot and reckless and so desperate for each other. You remember how she’d reached for her phone, all soft coaxing and low, teasing instructions. Just like that, let me see you, I want to remember how you look when you come for me.

You remember looking into her eyes as she held her phone up to you, her voice as she made you spread your legs, made you open up, made you show off for her in every filthy way you could. The way she held you down, the way her hand looked wrapped around your breast, the way you looked back at her through the haze, hungry and ruined and so full of desire you could hardly breathe.

You feel a flush crawl up your neck, the heat blooming between your legs, and you can’t help the way you press against her leg between yours. The memory glimmers between you, thickening the air, and you swallow, nerves sparking as you gather the courage to ask, “Did… did you ever look at the photos and videos we took?”

The question hangs there for a beat, heavy and electric. She huffs out a low laugh, and then she smiles, shifting her position on the bed, pressing her thigh more firmly between yours. She’s so close that every breath she takes makes your skin tingle, every little shift of her weight driving you further under.

“I did,” she admits, her voice dropping, warmth flooding her words. 

You can’t help but grin, something smug creeping into your smile as you bite your lip, a rush of confidence rising up from the heat inside you. There’s something deeply satisfying in the thought of her alone in her room, wanting you, watching those videos, needing you the same way you’ve needed her all week.

Her eyes flick to your mouth, then back up, and she shifts even closer, her thigh sliding between yours, pressing up against you, making you shiver.

“They helped… more than I want to admit,” she adds, voice lower now, like a secret meant just for you.

The words settle in your chest, burning away the last of your doubt, the last shadow of fear that she’d forgotten you or replaced you or let the memory of your body fade. She wanted you. She wants you.

You drag your hand up her side, emboldened now as you ask, “Did you… have a favorite?” The question comes out softer than you intend, but you force yourself to look up and meet her eyes.

Her gaze has gone dark, pupils blown wide, and the look she gives you is hungry, heated, a little possessive - and it sends another jolt of desire straight through you.

You watch as she weighs her answer, jaw tensing just a little, the smallest flicker of vulnerability sliding behind the confidence she always wears so well. You feel her thigh press more firmly between your legs as her hand moves from your jaw to rest on your hip, finding the bare skin where the hem of your shirt rides up, and a shiver of anticipation running through you, the heat curling tighter as you wait for her to speak.

“It was the video of you riding me,” she says finally, her voice a little rougher than before, eyes dark and fixed on yours. “The one where you got on top of me and set the pace.” Her lips twitch at the memory, and a faint flush forms on her cheeks. “You looked so damn confident. Cocky, even.” She lets the word hang there, almost a challenge. “I watched that one a lot.”

You bite your lip, feeling a wave of pride and heat crash over you, your own body responding to the memory, how it felt to straddle her, to see her looking up at you with something like awe, something like surrender.

There’s a hunger simmering under her calm now, the mask slipping as she leans in, voice lower, almost reverent. “I liked seeing you like that,” she murmurs, the admission barely above a whisper. “I liked watching you move the way you wanted, taking what you needed, using me. You looked… incredible.”

Her hand slips under the hem of your shirt and moves higher, and she leans in, her breath warm against your lips. “I couldn’t get enough of it,” she says quietly, her words sending a jolt of arousal through you. “You looked so good, fucking yourself on my cock. I almost forgot how it felt, but watching that video–” She trails off, her grip on you tightening just a little, her eyes searching your face like she’s still looking for something she can’t quite say.

You feel emboldened by the look in her eyes, by the confession that’s left her a little unsteady for once, and you let your voice drop, rough and low, as you murmur, “So you like it when I take charge?”

Her hand flexes and slides lower, her palm cupping the curve of your ass, thumb dragging in slow, deliberate circles as her grip tightens in response, and the way her jaw tightens makes your stomach flutter.

Her gaze roams over your face, her lips parting like she’s weighing how much to give you, how much to admit. “I liked seeing that part of you,” she says, each word sending another ripple of heat through you. “I liked seeing you take what you wanted.”

Your hand wrapped around her waist shifts then, slow and intentional, gliding over her side and up beneath the edge of her shirt. The fabric bunches as you slide your palm up her stomach, feeling the subtle tremor of her muscles beneath your touch. She inhales, the sound catching in her throat, her whole body taut with anticipation as your hand finds its way higher. 

You pause there, your eyes on hers, waiting, teasing, letting her feel the weight of what you want. She exhales slowly and shaky, and you can see the tension in her jaw, the flush rising on her cheeks.

You lean in, letting your mouth brush hers as you whisper, “What if I did something like this?” Your voice is rough, cheeks burning with the thrill of holding her attention like this.

Then you cup her breast, your palm full and warm over her skin, and her breath stutters, her cheeks flushing darker, mouth falling open as you begin to knead her gently. The soft weight of her in your hand makes your own arousal surge, an ache twisting between your legs as your hips push against her thigh.

Her body arches into your touch, her hand gripping your ass, and you watch her eyes flutter shut, her lashes dark against flushed cheeks, her breath coming faster.

“I’d let you,” she whispers, her voice so low you barely catch it, but the meaning is unmistakable.

She’s giving you the reins, letting you take her, letting you set the pace and decide how this night will go. Your grip tightens and you feel the way her whole body responds – hips pressing up, the unmistakable heat of her arousal pressing into you through her sweatpants, hard and heavy.

You lean in, mouth brushing the edge of her jaw, and let your hand work slow circles over her breast, rolling your thumb over her nipple, her fingers digging harder into your skin. All the power, all the want, all the history between you is right here, balanced on the tip of your tongue, and it feels so good to be the one making her tremble, to know she wants you just as much as you want her – maybe even more.

You knead and tease, and every little sound she makes, every shiver of her body pushes you further, makes you more confident. There’s a thrill to having her like this, open and breathless and so clearly undone by you.

Her hand is tight on your ass as she presses her hips closer to you, seeking friction. Your hand wanders, skimming along the curve of her breast, feeling the soft weight and the way her chest rises with every shaky inhale.

You lean in and trail your lips across her jaw, then down her neck, your breath warm against her pulse. Your hand tugs at the hem of her shirt, gathering the fabric in your fist and pulling it up, enough to bare her chest to you. 

The sight of her with her breasts exposed and her skin flushed makes your mouth water. You lower your head, brushing your lips over the soft swell of her breasts, kissing the slope with a slowness that borders on reverence. You drag your tongue in a slow line around her nipple, circling, teasing, savoring the way her breath catches, the way her fingers flex against your hip and her other hand slides up to tangle in your hair.

You close your lips over her nipple, sucking gently, letting the tip of your tongue flick and swirl, and she gasps, hips bucking, her chest arching into your mouth. You draw back to breathe over the wet skin, then kiss a line across to her other breast, using your free hand to cup and knead as you lavish attention on both. You alternate between mouth and palm, sucking and rolling, licking and pinching, drinking in every soft moan, every tremor that runs through her body.

You mouth at the sensitive place just below her nipple, feeling the shiver that travels through her. Her hand tightens in your hair, and you can hear the way her breathing has gone ragged, the way her hips are starting to rock against your thigh in small, desperate motions.

You slow down, taking your time, letting her feel every second, your teeth grazing just enough to draw a gasp, sucking a mark just above the curve of her breast before returning to her nipple, flicking and swirling until her whole body is taut and needy under you. You press your thigh between her legs, letting her grind against you as you mouth at her, feeling her heart pounding hard and fast.

Your mouth lingers as your tongue drags slow, messy circles, sucking until you feel her jerk beneath you, her back arching, her thighs squeezing tight around your leg. She’s so warm and soft in your hands, and the sounds spilling out of her – those short, broken moans, the sharp little gasps when your teeth graze just right – go straight between your legs. 

You bite down gently on her nipple, just enough to make her shudder, then lap at the sting, drawing it out until she’s rolling her hips and grinding against your thigh, chasing any friction she can get.

Her grip in your hair tightens, the other hand hauling you closer, her hips grinding up, cock thick and hard where it’s straining against the front of her sweatpants, pressed hot between your bodies. You moan into her chest, the vibration making her tremble, and you switch sides, licking a wet stripe up to her other nipple, sucking it into your mouth and rolling it between your lips until it’s slick and flushed and swollen.

Your hand wanders, sliding over the curve of her waist, her abs jumping under your touch, then drifting down, slipping over the fabric of her sweatpants, fingers wrapping around the heat of her cock, slow and greedy. She groans, head falling back, baring her throat to you, her whole body tense and straining, and you can feel her cock throbbing in your hand, the weight and length of her so hot that you have to pause for a breath, forehead pressed to her chest, before you can keep going.

You stroke her slowly, just to hear the way she chokes on a moan, her hips stuttering up into your fist.

“Fuck – just like that–” she rasps, the words barely making it out between her ragged breaths, her voice gone rough and desperate, nothing left of her usual cool control, her thighs trembling as you work her over.

Your mouth never leaves her chest, lips and tongue teasing, sucking, nipping, marking her up with love bites. You keep stroking her, pumping her cock, savoring the way her breathing breaks apart, how her free hand fists the fabric of your shirt, how her body rocks into you, greedy and open and so fucking needy.

She lets her legs fall wider, giving you more room, and you press your thigh up against her, making her grind into you, every inch of her begging for more. 

Your cunt throbs, soaked and aching, her thigh pressing close enough to it that every movement sets you off.

You bite at her collarbone, sucking a bruise just above the line of her shirt, and she gasps, high and sharp, hips jerking helplessly.

“You look so fucking good like this,” you whisper against her skin, your voice rough with need, and she groans again, her hand pulling you tighter, desperate for friction.

You’re both messes – her shirt rucked up, breasts flushed and slick from your mouth, her cock leaking against her sweatpants, your cunt throbbing and soaked, every nerve ending on fire. 

The need in the air is overwhelming, filthy, and honest, and it feels so good to know that every noise, every tremor, every frantic thrust of her hips is because of you – because she wants you, needs you, can’t get enough of you. 

She lets out a sound low in her throat, a growl that vibrates against your lips and sends a jolt straight through your core. Before you can make another move, her hands are in your hair, tugging your head up so she can crash her mouth to yours.

It’s a different kind of kiss – there’s nothing soft or careful, all hunger and heat, her tongue claiming your mouth with a kind of desperation that’s been building for days.

You whimper, the sound sharp, your body giving in immediately, hands faltering in your rhythm as she kisses you harder, the taste of her making you dizzy. She kisses you like she needs it to live, like she’s been starved for you, like this is the only way she can show you just how much she’s missed you. She shifts her weight and pushes you back onto the mattress, her hands spanning your jaw, holding you in place as she leans over you, her breath hot on your skin.

You fall back easily, heart pounding, legs already spreading for her. Your hands catch at the hem of her shirt, fists twisting in the cotton as she grinds her hips down. The weight of her and the heat of her cock straining through her sweatpants as she ruts against you is everything – so hot and heavy between your thighs that it makes you arch up, chasing every bit of friction she gives you, every grind making your cunt throb.

She breaks the kiss to move her mouth down your jaw, biting at it, then trailing her tongue down your neck, marking a path that leaves you gasping. She sucks a bruise at your collarbone, not caring if it would be visible over the collar of your uniform. Her breath is ragged, chest heaving, and you can feel her smile against your skin in a cocky, satisfied little curl that only makes you want her more.

She moves lower, mouth ghosting over the swell of your breast through the loose fabric of your shirt, teeth scraping lightly before she bites down, just enough to sting, to make you arch up, your voice going high and shaky.

“Fuck–” you gasp, and she bites you again, harder, as her hand comes up to squeeze and knead your other breast, fingers digging in until you’re shaking.

Her lips trace lower, working down your ribs, her breath hot and desperate, kisses scattered over every inch of exposed skin as she tugs your shirt up.

She trails lower still and bites at your hip, then kisses the mark she leaves, hands moving to your legs.

You barely have time to brace yourself before she’s shoving your thighs open with both hands, her face right where you need her most. The heat in her eyes when she glances up is molten – hungry and wild, like she’s been waiting to have you like this since the moment you walked through her door tonight.

You whimper again, louder, breath coming fast, every nerve screaming for her, and you barely have time to grab a fistful of her hair before she presses her mouth to your soaked cunt.

She moves like she’s been starving for this, like she needs you in a way that’s almost feral. Her grip on your thighs is bruising, fingers digging in as she holds you wide and open and helpless beneath her. Her tongue is hot as she licks a broad, heavy stripe up the length of your cunt before she takes your clit into her mouth and rolls it hard between her lips.

Your hands tangle in her hair, gasping, tugging, and she’s relentless – there’s nothing soft or slow about the way she eats you out. Every flick of her tongue, every greedy suck, every sound she makes against your cunt is loud, shameless, and needy. She groans into you, the vibration making your hips buck, and you hear her mutter, “I can’t fucking get enough of you,” half-lost in the mess she’s making of you both.

It’s like she can’t decide if this is about her own need or yours, like she’s devouring you to sate a hunger she’s been carrying for days. You feel every breath, every moan, every desperate gasp she takes, and it sends sparks shooting up your spine, making your whole body tense. You try to hold onto her hair, but the sensation is too much, too fast, too overwhelming, and your hands slip free, fisting the sheets, clawing at anything you can find as your thighs shake.

She grips you harder, dragging your hips up into her so she can go even deeper. Her tongue fucks into you, her mouth pressed to your clit as she laps you up like she can’t get enough. She moans, loud and hungry, the sound echoing through your body, and you arch up, crying out, legs tensing helplessly on either side of her head. The heat is everywhere, pounding in your chest, spreading through your veins, soaking into every muscle until you’re nothing but sensation, nothing but raw, aching need.

Your hips move on their own, grinding up into her mouth, chasing every flick of her tongue, every hot, filthy suck. She lets you ride her face, lets you use her, but it’s clear from the way she’s working you over that this is just as much for her, like every gasp, every whimper, every shudder from you is something she needs to drink down, something that’s keeping her alive. She’s humming, moaning, devouring you with fervor you’ve never seen from her before, like you’re the only thing she could possibly want, like she could do this forever.

You buck, hips stuttering up, but she just tightens her hold, thumbs digging into your thighs as she pins you down. Her tongue moves faster, then she drags it back up, focusing on your clit again, licking it with quick, eager flicks, then flattening her tongue and rolling broad, insistent strokes that make your toes curl.

She keeps going, keeps pushing you higher, every lick rougher, every suck deeper, her hands holding you down, forcing you to take it, to feel it, to fall apart for her. There’s a wildness in the way she devours you, a passion that makes your whole body sing.

Her tongue is relentless as she works you over with fast, precise strokes, lips sealed tight around your clit as she sucks and flicks and rolls her mouth over you, coaxing every gasp and tremble until your whole body is drawn tight as a wire. Her grip on your thighs is hard and greedy, fingers digging in as her arms hold you open so you can’t escape the sensation, can’t back away, can’t do anything but take what she’s giving you and let yourself be ruined by it.

You’re panting, mouth open, chest heaving as you writhe under her. Every muscle in your body is taut, legs shaking, hips rolling up to meet her tongue. It’s dizzying, the way she builds you up, never letting you plateau, always finding a new angle, a new pressure, a new rhythm that sends a fresh shock of pleasure shooting through your nerves. You can’t even think anymore, can’t remember how to hold on, your thoughts dissolving into a string of pleas and curses.

She swirls her tongue in tight, ruthless circles, and you jerk, the tension so sharp you feel like you might break. Her lips throw you right there, perched on the knife’s edge, every inch of you humming, your hands gripping the sheets.

She holds you open as her mouth works you over with an intensity that borders on feral. Her tongue drags relentless circles around your clit, then she sucks, deep and hungry, pulling cries from your throat. Your hips jerk up and she follows, matching your every movement, never breaking the rhythm, never giving you an inch of space to breathe. You’re gasping, every breath broken, every word tumbling out raw and frantic.

“Fuck – don’t stop, please – Mommy, please, I’m so close–” Your voice cracks as the pleasure builds impossibly high, your thighs clamping around her head as she devours you like she can’t get enough.

She moans against you, the vibration shuddering through your body, her tongue flicking faster, greedy and desperate. The pressure is blinding, every muscle in your body seizing tight as the world narrows to the heat of her mouth, her nails digging into your thighs, the slick mess of your arousal. 

Your breath catches, your whole body locking up as the pressure crests, the tension breaking all at once in a blinding rush.

It’s overwhelming as it crashes through you in violent, rolling waves, each one stronger than the last. The first shock rips a raw, broken cry from your throat, your voice breaking open as your cunt throbs against her mouth, thighs trembling on either side of her head. Your hands fly to the sheets, clutching so hard your knuckles ache as your back arches, hips bucking helplessly. It feels endless, every pulse sharp and hot, your clit pulsing in her mouth, barely able to catch your breath.

She licks and sucks you through every spasm, coaxing every last wave of pleasure until it starts to blur into something sharper, a little too much, your legs trembling as the sensation tips into overstimulation.

“M-Mommy, oh my god, you’re – please–” you gasp, the words barely forming as your hips twitch and jerk with the wild pulse of need, the shock of how much you want her to take from you.

Your chest is heaving, but she doesn’t stop, not until your whole body jerks with every flick of her tongue, every gentle suck. The sensation borders on too much, the line between pleasure and overstimulation thin and bright, but you can’t bring yourself to pull away – you want to feel it, want to give her everything, want to be taken apart and put back together by her mouth, her hands, her need for you.

Only when she’s sure she’s wrung every last shudder from you does she finally ease off, her mouth slowing, her tongue gentle as she presses wet, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, your hips, your stomach. The touch is messy and hot and reverent, her breath coming fast, lips dragging over your skin as she works her way up your body.

She’s heavy and solid above you, and before you can blink she’s kissing you hard, rough, and desperate, her chin slick from your wetness. The taste of yourself on her mouth makes your head spin, and you reach for her, both hands fisting tight in her hair as you hold her close, refusing to let her pull away.

She settles her weight on top of you, every inch of her pressing you down into the mattress, the heat of her cock hard through her sweatpants, her chest flush with yours. The kiss is filthy, all tongue and teeth and need, her mouth working yours open, her tongue pushing deep as she groans into you.

You arch up to meet her, legs wrapping around her hips, needing her everywhere, the pulse of aftershocks still making you twitch and gasp under her weight.

Her tongue is hot and insistent as she fucks it into your mouth like she can’t get enough of you, like she wants to eat you whole from the inside out. You open for her, greedy, wanting all of it, gasping against her lips as she devours you, licking into your mouth with the same rhythm she just used on your cunt, every thrust desperate and sure. You can feel her teeth scrape your bottom lip, can feel the way she bites down, hard enough to make you moan, your hands finding her hair, yanking her in tighter.

Her breath comes hot and ragged as she devours you, tongue tangling with yours, pressing deep then retreating just to chase you again. You answer her with your own tongue, fighting for space, letting her claim you, then claiming her back, the kiss turning into something more like battle than dance – rough, slick, and utterly filthy. Her jaw works against yours, leaving your lips swollen and wet, but you don’t care. You want it rough, you want it hungry, you want her to take everything.

Her body is heavy on top of you, weight pressing you down into the mattress, grinding between your legs, her cock trapped and hard between you, her chest heaving with every breath. You’re both panting, both lost, the room filled with desperate little gasps and groans that slip out every time she pulls back just enough to breathe before diving in again.

Your legs lock her in place, and your hands fist in her hair, refusing to let her up for air, needing her close, needing her to know how much you want this – want her, all of her, in every single way.

You gasp into her mouth, voice cracking with a wild, desperate need you can’t swallow down. “Fuck, Sergeant–”

Her breath catches against your lips, and she cuts you off right there, voice low and urgent as she speaks against your lips.

“Hyun-ju.”

It comes out like a command and a plea all at once.

Your eyes fly open, your body stilling beneath her as you try to catch up, your mind racing to process the shift in the air.

She pulls away to look at you, her eyes locking onto yours, burning with something raw and vulnerable, unguarded in a way that you’ve never seen before. The world feels like it’s holding its breath, everything in you wound tight, her fingers digging into you like she needs you to understand exactly what she’s giving you.

“I want you to call me by my name.”

The air shivers between you, the titles and boundaries and all the careful lines shattering in an instant.

She wants you to call her by her name. She wants you to see her. Not the uniform, not the authority – her.

You stare at her, searching her face for any sign that this is a trick, some test of obedience or loyalty. But all you see is the same wild ache you feel – something desperate and hopeful, a need for closeness that goes beyond the boundaries you’ve danced around for months.

You hesitate, breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

Calling her by her first name is something you’ve dreamed about as she’s moaned your own name into your neck, but never dared to speak aloud. She’s always been your Sergeant, your superior, the one you answered to, the one you admired and obeyed.

But this – this is her asking you to strip all that away, to meet her as an equal, to close the last bit of distance left between you. You feel exposed, trembling with the knowledge that nothing will be the same if you say it now. You’re not sure you could ever go back.

You swallow hard, nerves shivering through you, and when you say it, the word barely makes it past your lips.

“Hyun-ju.”

It’s quiet, reverent, something you’re giving up just for her. Her name hangs between you, impossibly intimate, and you see the way her whole body reacts. Her eyes soften, her mouth falls open just a little, and the line between you both seems to disappear.

Her breath stutters, her lashes flutter, and for a split second you both just look at each other, everything laid bare.

And then you surge up, grabbing her face, crashing your mouth to hers with a force that’s all need and relief, kissing her like you want to carve her name into your bones, like you never want to be Sergeant and Private ever again. She moans into your mouth, the heat reigniting between you, her body curling around yours as you fall together into this new, shattering closeness.

She growls as her teeth catch your bottom lip, her breath mixing with yours in a hot, frantic rush. She tugs at it, biting it until your breath stutters and your hips buck up into her. The pain is sharp and electric, and you feel your entire body tighten, a new pulse of arousal crashing through you.

She lets your lip slip free, the sting lingering as she crashes her mouth to yours again, groaning deep in her throat, grinding her hips down into you, the kiss somehow even messier, wetter, more unhinged.

And you can’t stand another second of distance, of fabric, of anything that keeps you from all of her. 

Your hands slide down her sides, fingers skating over fabric and taut muscle until you find the waistband of her sweatpants. You curl your fingers into the elastic and tug hard, and she lifts her hips in response, breaking the kiss with a breathless groan as you shove them down, knuckles dragging along her thighs. She kicks them away and they fall to the floor, and the sudden heat of her bare skin against you makes your pulse race.

She straddles your hips, cock heavy and flushed as she sits up and grabs the hem of her shirt and tugs it off in one fluid motion.

For a moment she’s framed in lamplight, abs tight, chest rising and falling, breasts flushed and soft, every inch of her looking like she was cut from marble. She’s all muscle and raw strength and beautiful, wild hunger, and the look in her eyes says there’s only one thing on her mind.

She’s on you again in an instant, her mouth hungry and hot, and you rake your nails down her back, hard, dragging over every ridge and dip of muscle, leaving red lines in your wake. She shudders, groaning into your mouth, her hips snapping forward, cock pressing up between your bodies, making you moan. You arch up, needing more, needing all of her.

You plant your hands on her shoulders and push her with force, and she lets you, eyes glinting with a dare as her back hits the mattress, muscles flexing under your palms as you climb over her, knees bracketing her hips. Her hands clamp down on your waist, fingers digging in, and she starts grinding you down against her, her cock sliding slick and hot against your soaked cunt, making you choke on a gasp.

You plant your palms flat on her chest, fingers splayed over the curve of her breasts. You knead them, rolling her nipples between your fingers, feeling the way she arches into your touch, her mouth dropping open on a ragged gasp. Her grip on your hips tightens, guiding your movements as she grinds against you, her eyes burning up at you, possessive and desperate all at once.

You lift your hips as your fingers trail down her stomach, and your hand closes around her cock. You steady her, breath catching as you hold her, and you guide the head right to your soaked cunt, lining her up with your entrance.

You meet her eyes as you do it, and the look she gives you shows you that she’s entirely at your mercy. It makes your chest ache and your cunt throb, every part of you burning for her. 

You circle your hips, teasing her, the tip of her cock just barely pressing inside, savoring the way her body tenses, the way her grip on your hips tightens, the way her eyes blaze up at you with raw hunger.

You press her cock just a little more inside, the first inch pushing in slow and careful. You shudder, gasping, your head falling forward as the feeling melts into something hot, something necessary. She groans, low and desperate, her hands flexing against your hips, pulling you down another fraction, her jaw clenched, eyes fluttering as she tries to hold herself still for you.

You take your time, rocking your hips, letting her slide in a little deeper, then pulling back to tease her. She bites her lip, her breath coming faster, and you can feel her cock throbbing, can see the way her whole body trembles with the effort not to just grab you and fuck up into you.

You let her have a little more, just a little, the head sinking in, your cunt pulsing around her – and she loses composure. Her hands clamp down hard and she presses her hips up, the head of her cock sinking into you deeper, stretching you wider.

 “Fuck–” she gasps, her voice rough, her eyes squeezing shut as she presses back into the pillow. Her hands on your hips are desperate and needy as they drag you down, her back arching up, begging for more.

You gasp, the feeling electric, pressure mounting inside you as you let her fill you, inch by slow inch, until you’ve sunk all the way down, taking all of her. She groans, her hands roaming over your ass, your waist, your back, as you settle flush against her, both of you shaking with the thrill.

You shudder as the fullness settles inside you, her cock pulsing deep, her body trembling under yours. You look down at her, meeting her eyes, and the look she gives you makes you feel like you’ve just jumped off a cliff and landed in her arms.

Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a gasp and a sigh, the fullness of her inside you pulsing with every beat of your heart.

Then you start to move. Slowly at first, rolling your hips, making your head spin. Your nails scrape over her skin, and then you rise, lifting yourself off her inch by inch until you’re nearly empty, before you slide back down, slow and greedy, taking her in as deep as you can.

Her hands slide to your waist, letting you set the pace, her lips parted in a soundless gasp.

You tease her with the rhythm, rocking forward, lifting up, pressing down hard, just to watch the way it makes her eyes flutter closed and her breath stutter out in short, ragged bursts. Every movement is deliberate, every grind a slow build, your own body burning with need – but the pleasure is layered, tangling with everything you’re becoming desperate to say out loud.

And when she opens her eyes, something in her gaze nearly unravels you.

She looks at you with awe, longing, and a kind of wonder like she’s seeing something she never thought she’d have.

She can barely breathe. Each time you slide down, her hands flex at your sides, her cock pulsing deep inside you, her eyes locked on yours like you’re something precious, fragile, and impossible. She searches your face, drinking in every inch of you, every sound you make.

You stare back, drowning in the heat and yearning in her eyes, feeling something catch in your chest – something that burns, that aches, that makes your whole body feel alive.

You can’t remember a time before her, can’t imagine wanting anything or anyone but her, not now, not ever.

She’s become your everything.

The person you search for in every crowded room, the ache you carry when you’re apart, the one you dream about even when you’re awake.

You want to tell her, to spill out all the words stuck in your throat.

But instead you ride her harder, your hands roaming her chest, her arms, her stomach, every inch of skin you can reach. 

The room is thick with heat, but there’s something else weaving through it – a sweetness, a quiet certainty that makes you dizzy. You chase it in the way you move, the way you look at her, the way her name is caught on the tip of your tongue. And when you meet her eyes again, you know she sees it all.

You hold her gaze, moving together, her voice catching in her throat as she finally lets out a shaky, reverent, “God, I–”

But the rest dies in her mouth, replaced by a look so intense it could swallow you whole.

Her hands slide up your back, steady and strong, and then she’s sitting up, shifting you with her, never breaking that deep, charged eye contact. You barely realize what’s happening until your chests press together, her arms anchoring you to her lap, her cock still buried deep inside you. You hook your arms around her neck, pulling yourself closer, resting your forehead against hers for a moment as you both struggle to catch your breath.

She looks at you and you feel the way she sees into your soul, searching for something she hasn’t let herself believe until now. Her brows knit, her lips part, and for a moment you can see her wanting to speak, her mouth shaping words she’s hesitant to say.

But nothing comes out. Instead, her hands flex at your back, her breath hot and trembling against your lips, and you can feel her heart hammering in her chest, wild and desperate, beating right into you.

You rock your hips, feeling the way her cock fills you, the way every inch of her is molded to you. You can see the question in her eyes, the hope, the fear, the ache, and you know you must look the same, every part of you turned inside out for her.

And when she presses her lips to yours, it’s nothing like the kisses you’ve shared before.

It’s slow, and it burns at the edges with everything she wants to give you. Her lips move over yours with a kind of reverence as her hands clutch you tightly, her whole body trembling as she pours herself into the kiss, like she’s trying to show you everything she can’t find the words to say.

There’s nothing but her – her mouth, her hands, her heartbeat, her breath tangling with yours. The world falls away, the bed, the room, the week, the entire night collapsing into this one point of connection, the place where you fit together so perfectly it feels like something fated.

Your lips part only to come back again and again, deeper each time. This kiss isn’t about the sex – it’s about the way you hold each other, the way her mouth trembles against yours, the way your hands hold her, the way you both cling, desperate and soft, terrified of losing this.

She breaks the kiss with a slow drag of her mouth, lips lingering on yours, breaths mingling as she stares into your eyes, close enough to count the flecks of gold in her irises. Her hands slide down, anchoring at your hips, and you let her guide your movements, lifting and lowering you on her cock with a reverence that sends a soft wave of desire through you.

Your hands find her shoulders for balance, and her arms wrap around your back, holding you close, chest to chest. You move together, each slow grind sending shocks of pleasure through you, making your thighs tremble and your breath shudder.

She never looks away from you, eyes locked on yours like she’s searching for the right words, watching every gasp and every flutter of your lashes. You see it building in her – the longing, the hope, the need that’s bigger than either of you have ever let show. 

You ride her slowly, the air between you thick with everything you’re aching to say, every word crawling its way out of your chest more and more with each passing second. You feel the pleasure blooming through you, nerves raw and alive, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of her gaze.

“I never want another week without you,” she whispers. The admission lands heavily and your hips falter, stuttering as you take the words in. She notices and holds you tighter, and you see something crack open in her.

She breathes out, eyes searching yours, and her next words tremble at the edges. “I didn’t realize how empty I would feel, how much I need you, until you were gone.” Her hands slide up your back, tracing your spine as she keeps you moving, her voice breaking the silence in a way that makes your heart pound.

“I kept expecting to see you at your desk or knock on my office door and you just… weren’t there.” She shakes her head, a rueful half-smile tugging at her lips, her eyes shining as she looks at you like you’re something she’s been missing her whole life.

Her eyes are glassy with emotion, breath catching every time your hips meet. Her voice is a low rasp that vibrates through your ribs when she speaks, each word soaked with the ache she’s held inside for far too long.

“You make me forget how things are supposed to go.” She lets the words hang there, her gaze fixed on your mouth like she wants to kiss the truth straight into you. “I thought I was good at keeping everything in order, but then you came along, and suddenly nothing feels like it used to.” Her hands tighten, her nails dragging softly down your spine, a tremor running through her as you keep riding her, taking in everything she’s giving you.

“You’re all I wanted all week. Every hour.” Her voice breaks a little, and you see the muscles in her jaw working as she holds your gaze. “Every time I woke up, I’d reach for you. And you weren’t there, and it felt… wrong. I just wanted to see your face and hear your voice and hold you.” She shifts her grip, pulling you even closer, your breaths tangling together in the small space between you.

Your hands sliding up to cradle her face, holding her steady as the words pour out of her.

Her hands slide back down to your hips, her grip tightening until you feel her nails press into your skin. She pulls you into her rhythm, guiding you with a kind of desperation that leaves no doubt how badly she needs you, moving you on her cock, making you ride her slow and deep until you’re both shuddering. Her chest is pressed to yours, her heart pounding wild against your body, and when you look at her, her cool mask is gone, her eyes wide and unguarded, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen. 

Her eyes glisten, and when she speaks, it’s like she’s emptying her entire soul right into yours. “Do you remember the first day you came to the office, and could barely even look me in the eye?” She laughs softly, her body shuddering around you. “You were so obedient. So fucking eager to do anything I asked. I thought it would be easy to keep you at arm’s length, to make it just about the power, about the sex.”

You move together, every inch of her cock inside you, every press of her chest to yours a memory come alive. Every time she’s held you behind a closed door, every whispered order, every time she’s made you kneel for her and called you hers.

“But you never made it easy. You’d walk into my office all eager to please, and I’d forget how to breathe. I tried to keep you as just my subordinate, but you–” She shakes her head, her jaw tight as she pulls you in until your lips brush hers, her words hot and trembling between you.

Her confessions pour out between harsh, trembling breaths. “At that banquet, I thought I could handle it. Watching you walk around in that dress I picked for you, not wanting anyone else to have you. I nearly lost my fucking mind. All night, all I could think about was you. And when I finally got you alone in that bathroom – that’s when I realized I couldn’t keep pretending this was just about sex. I didn’t care if the world burned down – fuck, I’d have burned it down myself – I just needed you.”

You ride her harder, your arms locking around her neck, her name falling from your lips in a helpless, desperate gasp. She holds you even tighter, every muscle in her body straining as she chases the words out of her own mouth. “Last weekend – having you here, just the two of us – I wanted to freeze time. I want – I want to wake up every morning with you in my arms, to make you laugh, to listen to your voice, to just see you, every single day.”

Her grip trembles, the pleasure building between you both, her voice shaking as she rushes toward the edge. “This week, being apart – it was hell. I kept looking at those photos and videos we took, not because I wanted to get off, but because I missed your face. I missed your voice. I kept watching them just to see you, just to hold onto some piece of you until you came back.”

She moves you faster, harder, fucking you down onto her cock with a kind of wild purpose that makes your whole body burn. The pleasure hovers just out of reach, your thighs shaking, your breath coming in broken sobs as she rocks you up and down, guiding you with a desperation you’re never felt from her before.

Her eyes are locked on yours, her brows drawn together, her whole face cracked wide open with something raw and pleading. There’s no trace of the cool, controlled Sergeant Cho – only Hyun-ju, as she trembles beneath you, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling fast, every bit of her focus on you, on this. 

She holds your gaze as the pleasure builds, as her jaw trembles and her eyes shine with the kind of vulnerability she’s only ever shown you in the briefest moments. You feel it cresting, the whole world narrowing to the heat of her hands, the sound of her voice, the wild, desperate hope in her eyes.

Her grip tightens, her hips bucking up into you, her voice rough and desperate as the words tumble, unstoppable, the longing spilling out at last. “I can’t do it anymore. I can’t keep pretending this is just sex, or a secret, or something I can control. I can’t go another fucking second without you because I–” She breaks, breath caught, her eyes wild, everything about her laid bare before you. 

And then, just as you teeter on the edge together – she breaks, her voice cracking as she finally lets go.

“Because I love you.”

The words hit like a lightning strike, her confession pouring out in a rush that pulls the ground out from under you both. “I love you – fuck, I love you–”

You didn’t know you could feel a sound in your soul, but as her words crash through you, they tear down every bit of apprehension that’s coiled around your own love for months. You’ve wanted to say it, you’ve ached to say it – but you never thought she’d want you this way, never thought she’d love you back.

Shock and longing slam through you in the same breath. It’s almost too much – the heat of her, the burn in your chest, the ache in your heart that finally, finally finds release, and everything you’ve held back floods through you in one violent, beautiful rush. The longing, the yearning that’s gnawed at you since the first time she looked at you. You stare into her eyes, breathless, mouth trembling, everything inside you twisting and lighting up, the world tilting off its axis as the last of your fear gives way to hope so bright it hurts.

Your voice is raw when it comes out, trembling with shock and awe and something so much bigger than need.

“I – I love you, too–” It barely makes it past your lips, your voice breaking, but the way her eyes widen, the way her whole being cracks with relief – you’d say it a thousand times if it meant she’d look at you like that again.

The words come tumbling, all the confessions you never let yourself speak aloud, pouring out in a mess between frantic breaths and sobs. “I’ve – I’ve always loved you. From the first second I saw you, I couldn’t stop wanting you, I couldn’t stop thinking about you, no matter how much I tried. I – I wanted to tell you, I wanted to tell you every single day–”

She looks at you like she’s seeing the sunrise for the first time, like everything she’s ever wanted is finally within reach. You see all of her: the loneliness, the hunger, the hope, the wild animal ache that she’s buried under cool commands and starched uniforms for months, and now it’s all spilling over, too much to ever contain again.

Her arms shake as they lock around you, her hands sliding across your back, up your spine, gripping you with a trembling force that leaves no doubt she means every word. The way she says your name is different this time – ragged and reverent, like she’s been dying to say it all her life and only just got permission.

You feel her breath as it ghosts across your face, her words spoken into you like she could tattoo them there, like she’s trying to breathe them straight into your bloodstream.

“I love you, fuck, I love you so much–” It’s everywhere, her voice echoing through you, the heat of her body sealing every wound you ever carried, every secret you ever kept.

You crash your mouth to hers, your hands diving into her hair, grabbing hold like you’ll never let her go. She meets you with the same wild, frantic passion, kissing you like she’s drowning, like she could live for an eternity on the taste of your lips alone. Her hands splay across your back, her body arching up into yours, her cock throbbing deep inside you, every inch of you open for her.

You come together – not just your bodies, but every shattered, hidden, aching part of your souls, all the longing and feelings and secret dreams colliding in a rush that’s blinding, obliterating, and holy.

Your cunt clenches around her cock as she fills you, her release slamming through her in a helpless, wrenching gasp. She says it again and again, the words blurring into your mouth as you clutch at her, riding the wave as it crashes through both of you – “I love you, I love you, I love you–”

You can barely think, barely breathe, every thought tangled up in her, in what she’s giving you, in the impossible joy of finally, finally being wanted this way. All the longing, all the apprehension, all the secret wishes you buried under obedience – they’re obliterated by her hands, her words, her need, her love.

You’re broken open and stitched together all at once, and the only thing holding you together is her hands, her voice, her love pouring into you with every tremor, every shudder, every pulse. 

Time stretches, every second molten, every breath a vow. You gasp her name, clinging to her with everything you have, both of you shaking, ruined, remade.

When you finally blink back the haze and look at her, her eyes are red and shining, her cheeks wet with tears, her lips swollen and parted with wonder and disbelief and joy.

Both of you are trembling, hearts hammering, and she kisses you again, slow and messy and perfect, whispering “I love you,” over and over, like it’s the only truth left in the world, and you believe it – every word, every shudder, every impossible, beautiful second.

Your bodies are pressed so close you can’t tell if it’s your pulse racing in your throat or hers, every heartbeat tangled together, the blood in your veins singing with hers like you share the same heart.

You pull back from her lips, breathless, her hands smoothing down your spine, across your waist and you rest your forehead against hers, so close you can taste the heat of each other’s skin.

Her hand comes up to cup your jaw, her thumb running across your cheek, smudging away a tear you didn’t even realize was there. “God, I’m so fucking in love with you,” she says, barely more than a whisper. She blinks, a tear escaping down her cheek, and she laughs softly through it, shaking her head like she still can’t believe any of this is real.

You don’t know how long you stay there, clinging to each other, every muscle trembling with the aftershocks of what just broke open between you. She buries her face in your neck, her breath uneven against your skin, every exhale a shaky confession all its own. You can feel the thrum of her heartbeat everywhere you’re pressed together, wild and relentless, like her body hasn’t caught up to the truth that you’re both finally allowed to love each other out loud.

She murmurs your name, so quietly you almost miss it, and her lips press against your throat, her hand moving up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair with an absentminded tenderness that splits you open all over again.

“I spent the whole week trying to convince myself it was better to just keep pretending, to keep you close any way I could, even if it meant lying to both of us.” She shakes her head, hair falling forward, and you smooth it back, tucking it behind her ear. 

Her mouth brushes your jaw, the shape of your cheek, her lips trembling as she whispers, like she can’t believe any of this is real. “You have no idea how many nights I dreamed about you, wishing I could just… say it.”

The words hang in the air, weightless and massive, and kiss her, slow and careful, like you could memorize the taste of her relief. 

“You asked me what my favorite video was,” she says, almost sheepish, her cheeks darkening as she glances away, “and… it was actually one I took on accident. I didn’t even know I was recording.” She smiles, her lips twitching at the memory. “You climbed on top of me, and the way your voice sounded, and your laugh, the way you looked at me, the way you kissed me – I just…” She looks down, and you can see the flush creeping up her throat, the shimmer in her eyes. “I must’ve watched it a hundred times. Sometimes just to hear you laugh, or see your face, or–” She laughs, hiding her smile in the crook of your neck. “You make everything feel so easy. I wanted to keep that piece of you for myself.”

You settle into each other, breath slowing, the heavy ache of your bodies easing as the adrenaline fades, leaving only the softness that comes after of warm skin, tangled limbs, and hands stroking lazy, winding paths. 

When she pulls back, her eyes are shining in the low light, and she holds your face, thumbs stroking slow circles across your cheeks, anchoring you in this new, impossible reality.

You look at her and see it all, every crack in her armor, every piece of her she kept hidden until now.

“I’m done pretending,” she whispers, her voice trembling but certain, every word shaped by longing and sheer relief. “I want you with me. I want you to be mine. As long as you’ll have me.”

You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I’m yours, Hyun-ju. I don’t want anyone or anything else. I just want you.” The truth of it rings between you, so raw and so simple it feels like coming home.

Her hand slides down to your jaw, thumb tracing the corner of your lips, and you breathe together, the world outside the room impossibly far away.

“It’s going to be hard,” she says, voice low, every word deliberate. “We can’t–” She hesitates, searching for the right way to say it, unwilling to break the spell but needing you to know what comes next. “We still can’t let anyone know. I’m still your superior. I’m still–” She swallows, her jaw flexing, but she keeps her eyes on you. “It’s still too risky.”

You nod, the truth of it settling in your chest. “I know,” you say, voice steadier than you expect. “I knew the risks when I said yes to you the first time. I’ve known the risks every time I’ve stepped into your office or walked these halls.” You bring your hand to her mouth, gently brushing the tips of your fingers over her lower lip. “But I don’t care. I’d rather have you in secret than not at all.”

“It’s going to be hell for me,” she murmurs, words quiet against your fingers, “Not being able to touch you whenever I want. Not being able to look at you for too long in front of everyone else.” She lets the ache show, lets the longing slip into her voice, so full of wanting it almost hurts. “I want to tell everyone you’re mine. I want to show you off. I want to keep you by my side – always.”

“We’ll find ways,” you whisper, the promise as much for yourself as for her. “We always have. We’ll be careful. We can… steal what time we can get, until it’s enough. Until something changes and it gets easier.” You take her hand, threading your fingers together, and press your joined hands to your heart. “I’d wait a hundred years if it meant I got to be with you. I’ll take whatever you can give me.”

She smiles, full and genuine, and you watch the last of her fears slip away. “I wish I could take you out somewhere,” she says, her thumb tracing your jaw. “I wish I could show you off and just… be seen with you. But if all I get is you here, in my bed, in my arms – if all we get are weekends and moments in my office and the way you look at me when no one else is watching – I’ll take it. I want it. I want you.”

You let the truth of it hang there between you, rich and fragile and real, the air thick with everything you’re both willing to risk for this – for each other.

You lean in and kiss her, slow and steady, nothing to prove, nothing left to hide. “I’d keep every secret in the world if it means I get to keep you.”

There’s a softness to her that no one else would recognize – the infamous Sergeant Cho, all sharp edges and command, holding you like you’re something precious.

You think of the first day you walked into her office, nerves and heat twisted tight in your core as you drank her in. You remember the orders, the clipped voice, the unmistakable sense of authority she carried everywhere she went. You remember the first time she touched you, the first time you realized what it felt like to be wanted by her, how quickly you learned to crave her praise, how every ‘good girl’ or ‘yes, Sergeant’ sent heat rushing through you. The stolen moments in her office, the risk, the thrill of being her secret, the ache of wanting her even when you told yourself it was just about the sex.

You think of that night she told you to stay late, when the office had gone quiet as everyone else filed out. You remember how she pressed you down onto her cock and just held you there in her chair as she worked, no rush, no commands, just the quiet ache of wanting to keep you close, to fill you up and hold you against her. You remember the way she fucked you slow and careful, nothing hurried or rough – just her, learning how to be gentle, how to show you everything she couldn’t put into words yet.

You remember the way her gaze lingered on you at the banquet, how you lost each other in a sea of uniforms and small talk and odd jobs, how she found you in that bathroom and kissed you like she’d drown if she couldn’t have you. You shiver at the memory, and her grip tightens, her thumb brushing the line of your jaw.

“That night at the banquet,” you say, your voice trembling with the truth of it, “I think I knew. You let yourself show me everything, even if you couldn’t find the words.”

She nods, her eyes shining in the dim light, and she leans in to kiss you, slow and lingering, like she’s sealing every memory to your skin. “I was already gone for you,” she whispers against your lips. “I just didn’t know how to let go of the rest.”

You hold her close and let those old moments settle into the present. Every look, every brush of skin, every whispered word stacking up until you feel the whole weight of your history pressed into the space between your chests.

You remember waking up tangled in her sheets, the morning sun painting her face in gold, and thinking you’d give anything for a thousand more mornings just like that. You remember the ache of this past week, the way every hour apart made you restless, made you ache for her voice, her touch, her impossible presence. 

You think of the little things – the coffee on her desk, the looks she gives you when she walks by you in the mornings, the thrill of hearing her call you from inside her office. The way she holds you now, with no armor left, no orders to give – just the steady, relentless devotion she’s never shown to anyone but you.

Outside, the world carries on, all rules and ranks and the quiet knowledge that you can’t be hers in public. Not yet.

But here, in this bed, with her breath mingling with yours and her heartbeat steady against your palm, you realize it’s enough. More than enough.

It’s everything.

You let yourself believe in the promise of more mornings, more weekends, more secret glances and soft words spoken behind closed doors. Whatever tomorrow asks of you, you know the answer lives here, in the gentle way she holds you, in the hush that follows your tangled breaths.

For now, you just hold on, hearts beating in time, the taste of her name sweet on your lips. Love winds through you both, threading everything together in a knot that no one will ever untangle.

You’re hers, and she’s yours, and there is nothing in the world more real than this.