Any time you feel like you’re behind (especially if you’re in your 20s, but this applies to literally anyone) just look yourself in the mirror and be like “boo hoo you didn’t peak when u were 17. So sad. Whatever shall u do” and I promise u will instantly feel so silly for ever worrying about it
Canonized for his martyrdom of being dumped just when he thought his fuckbuddy of 6 years might be ready to take the next step.
If you ever feel like you might be catching feels for your fuckbuddy, pray to Saint Ilya by saying these words:
"Hollander. Hollander."
Inspired by this gifset by @firstprinced , by orthodox christian iconography and the thoughts in my head which, too, keep having a religious experience whenever i think about hockey yaoi (exorcisms welcome).
*did i cover up his nipple on purp-- uhhh have you ever seen a saint with nipples?? yeah, i didn't think so.
I think it's actually essential to children's moral development to be exposed to short stories moderately beyond their reading level where a bunch of fucked up shit happens and then instead of offering a moral lesson or any sort of emotional or narrative resolution it just ends.
(Ideally these stories should be presented in the form of poorly curated anthologies with the most generic titles imaginable, thereby rendering their contents impossible to identify or find later in life and leaving the affected individual wondering whether they dreamed the whole thing.)
Since we're sharing our personal white whales in the notes, mine is one I read when I was like ten about a boy who travels to a post-apocalyptic future where rising sea levels have caused humanity to evolve into fish-people, has a whirlwind romance with a local girl, then resolves to travel back to his own time and prevent the apocalypse, only to discover that his fish girlfriend has destroyed the time machine while he slept. He has a mental breakdown and the story just ends. Thirty years later and I still have no idea who wrote it or what it's called – not for lack of searching!
big shout out to tumblr for being the first major site in like two years to implement an ill-advised "feature" nobody wants, likes or respects that doesn't involve AI
warnings: bucky is really mean in this one im sorry :( , angst, no comfort, shouting, crying, bucky is just a stressed out overworked old man 💔
bucky barnes masterlist
part two
you sigh, pushing open the door to bucky’s office. “baby?” you make sure to keep your voice as quiet as possible because you know he’s stressed with all the pressure he’s been under recently. but you just want to make sure your husband is okay. he’s been cooped up in his office all day and now that it’s late, you’ll love it if he came to bed with you.
even though you’re now in his office, he doesn’t look up from the many papers that are spread out on his desk.
“baby? are you going to come to bed now?” you mumble, twirling your fingers together nervously. you’re not scared of your husband. not at all, especially when he’s treated you with nothing but soft touches and sweet words but his silence, him not acknowledging your presence is unnerving.
“m’busy.” he grunts, flipping through the papers on his desk.
“but we always go to sleep together no matter how busy you are. you always say it can wait till morning and im really tired—”
you flinch when he suddenly slams his hands on his desk, saying your name with a snarl. “if you’re so goddamn tired then go to bed. i told you that im busy.”
“b-but—” you flinch even harder this time when he stands up, his lips lifting in a snarl.
“are you fucking deaf? why can’t you listen to a single word i say? i am working! so do me a favour and get out of my office.” you nod, your eyes stinging with tears. just as you go to run out of your husbands office you hear him let out another bark. “and next time make sure you knock before you come in uninvited.” you swallow, quickly opening the door and leaving without looking back.
as soon as you’re in the comfort of your bedroom that’s when you finally let your tears overtake you. you dig yourself under the covers, in a tight ball, your shoulders shaking with your sobs. why was he so mean to you? he’s never spoken to you like that before and he always told you that you never had to knock when you go into his office because you’re his wife. your tears start to fall harder when you realise that you’ve never been afraid of your husband until today. is this the scary mob boss that all his men talk about because now you understand.
you’ve truly seen the ruthless man that he tries to cover up by being your sweet and loving husband. and you hate it. and you hate how you still want to be comforted by him even though he’s the reason for your pain.
the last thing you remember as your eyes close from exhaustion is the sound of your bedroom door opening.
fin.
a/n - ugh he’s so damn mean, but dw he makes up for it in the next part. i will make him grovel!
Summary: Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes has returned from the front lines, recovered from a career-ending injury. When he arrives home, he finds that his childhood friend is very much not a child anymore, and has been selected the diamond of the season. How can he hope to court you as a broken man, and with the eyes of the entire ton watching your every move?
A/N: Bridgerton season 4 is almost nigh, and what better way to celebrate than with a good, old fashioned yearning Regency fanfic? Reply or message to be added to the taglist!
Next Chapter │Back to Masterlist
It was a morning like any other, with two notable exceptions.
The first was that your manor was bustling with energy, in preparation for tomorrow’s festivities. Indeed, in less than twenty-four hours, you would be attending the Queen’s presentation ceremony. The launching pad of your very first season as a young woman entering society. The make-or-break moment that would set the tone for all of your family’s social interactions for the next year. And most distressingly, the occasion where all of the season’s eligible bachelors would be scoping out the debutantes like prospective buyers inspecting heifers.
The second exception was the carriage outside the front gates of the neighboring manor. The manor that had been renting to a rotating cast of characters – when it didn’t lay empty of its new master, the decorated and recently injured sergeant, and your best friend since childhood. James Buchanan Barnes.
But the carriage outside the gate was familiar to you. It wasn’t a tenant’s. It was his.
As soon as you saw the carriage through the window, you gasped in delight. You immediately jumped up from your vanity, to the chagrin of your lady’s maid, who had been halfway through practicing the arrangement of your hair for tomorrow. Flying down the stairs and out the door, you made haste for the servant’s entrance of Bucky's manor that you always used to enter through.
The servants didn’t try to stop you as you ran through the manor’s halls. While it had been four years since you had frequented the place, four years Bucky had been braving the front lines, they were used to your antics. Some of the servants knew you from near infancy, had practically raised you along with your own staff.
The footmen outside his study saw you coming from across the hall, and they wore twin expressions of dread. They opened the doors, and one of them hurriedly attempted to announce you before you came barreling in. As soon as your name left the footman’s lips, you ran full tilt into the room, looking for your friend.
Standing up from the desk was a man much taller, much more broad-shouldered than you remembered. But when his eyes raised to yours, they were the exact shade of cerulean that was the background of all your best childhood memories.
“Bucky!” you cried, flinging yourself into his embrace with no regard for propriety or manners. This was no time for manners. Bucky was finally home.
He caught you about the waist with a strong arm, a grunt of surprise escaping him. You gave him a squeeze before releasing him.
“Good God, you might have had the decency to write and warn me of your coming!” you scolded him with barely disguised delight.
He looked inexplicably embarrassed, but his eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled down at you. “My humblest apologies, dove. It was rather spur of the moment.”
You stepped back to better examine him. “Let me have a look at you.”
Bucky had left the ton four years ago as a young adult with gangly limbs, wiry muscle that had just barely begun to form on his frame, and a thirst to prove himself. Six months ago, he’d written to you, telling you of an injury he’d sustained in the line of duty, and the subsequent infection that had taken most of his left arm.
Now he was returned to you, a proper man, to your surprise. He was a few inches taller, shoulders wide, chest broad and arm swollen with hard-earned muscle. His hair fell in soft, chestnut waves, grown longer in his recovery in hospital. His ears flushed with that familiar red, his curse since childhood days to wear his embarrassment on his sleeve.
And he was handsome. Of course, he had always been handsome in that boyish way. It had changed shape somewhat while he’d been gone, rounded edges turned sharper, softness turned rugged.
You didn’t linger on the lack of a left arm for long – you knew he would get his share of fussing and stunned stares from the rest of the ton. You simply marked the way his jacket was knotted at the shoulder, and allowed your gaze to move on to the parts of him that were here, real and in front of you, finally.
“You are changed,” you murmured. “Quite changed.”
Bucky regarded you in the same way you regarded him. You'd been a girl of fourteen when he last saw you, but a girl you were no longer. You were lovely, in the full bloom of womanhood – where there had been youthful softness before, now there were curves hinted at beneath the delicate chiffon of your dress. Shame flashed through Bucky at the thought. He should not be noticing things like that.
“As are you,” he replied, smiling as he took in your half-pinned hair falling over your shoulder. “You must be nervous to be presented tomorrow. Your first season. Time flies, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, let us not talk of that,” you huffed, perching on the edge of his desk and fussing with your gloves. “I’ve been sick with nerves all week. You must distract me by telling me everything that happened while you were away, and spare no detail.”
Bucky checked his pocketwatch. “I'm afraid I'm indisposed at the moment. There is business to settle up.”
It was difficult to resist the urge to pout, as you normally would when you did not get your way with him. “Bucky, have you no time to spare for your dearest friend?”
“I’m sorry, dove. You know nothing could keep me away that wasn’t important.” He pocketed the watch and squeezed your arm in apology. “You may interrogate me this afternoon. You have my word.”
You nearly stamped your foot in annoyance, but you supposed you could forgive him. His attention was likely pulled in a dozen different directions, with his father gone these two years and Bucky finally returned as the master of the house. You let out a sigh in surrender and dragged your feet to the door of his study. “Fine. Come to the willow when you’re finished being boring,”
Bucky smiled, shook his head, and sat back down at his desk to watch you flounce away.
At last, when nothing else could be demanded of Bucky for the day, he was free to leave his manor and steal into your garden. He knew exactly where he would find you — sprawled under the willow tree with whatever book you were reading at the time. Your favorite spot to while away the hours since you were children.
With a careful hand, Bucky moved aside the long draping limbs of the tree. There you were, stretched out in the grass amongst the wildflowers with your book in hand. It was such a familiar picture that it made his chest ache.
The rustle of the leaves drew your attention away from the page, and your eyes brightened instantly as you sat up. “There you are. I've been waiting ages,” you huffed in feigned annoyance.
He made a show of bowing before you. “My humblest apologies, Your Majesty. There's much to do when one returns to the ton after years of absence.”
You rolled your eyes and patted the ground beside you. “Well, sit you down this instant. I was promised an interrogation.”
“I’d written to you at least once a month the entire time I was away,” he chuckled as he crouched down to sit next to you. “I can’t imagine what else you’d want to know.”
“I want to know what you left out of your letters,” you declared, narrowing your eyes. “Any crimes committed? Scandals hidden under wraps?” You poked him in the side playfully. “Any rakish behavior you’ve hidden from me?”
You were immensely pleased when his ears flushed pink again at your questions.
“Your mother would have my head on a spit if I told you about scandals and rakish behavior,” he protested, avoiding your gaze. It could mean only one thing — that there was something worth hiding, worth keeping secret.
“You’re being boring again,” you grumbled at this secrecy. There was a time when he had concealed nothing from you, and vice versa. You couldn’t bear it that Bucky had, in his travels, become polite.
He ran his hand through his hair and reluctantly spoke. “Let’s just say that… like the rest of my regiment, I've sowed my wild oats as much as befits a soldier. I'll say no more out of fear of sullying your pure and perfect ears,” he teased, gently pulling at one of your earlobes.
Annoyed, you swatted him away and pulled up the hem of your skirt to adjust the ribbon keeping up your stocking, its knot almost completely unraveled. “No one ever tells girls anything,” you complained. “It’s infuriating.”
There had never been the least bit of shyness between you and Bucky when you had grown up together. There had been no need for it. But now, with the two of you grown and reunited, Bucky felt the need to avert his eyes from your ministrations, from the flash of thigh above your stocking that was revealed by them.
“You’re not a girl anymore, dove,” he said, fixing his gaze firmly upon the grass. “In the eyes of the ton and Her Majesty, the Queen, you are a woman.”
“Don’t remind me,” you groaned, shoving down your skirt and flopping back onto the grass.
He banished the image of your stocking, of the tender skin of your thigh to the furthest corner of his mind. Bucky made an effort to focus on your face, on your halo of hair splayed out around your head. “It won’t be so bad,” he assured you. “You may even enjoy some aspects of it. Mingling in society, meeting interesting people. Interesting men,” he added with a teasing lilt.
“Oh, please. Interesting people, here? In the ton?“ you asked sarcastically. “Not likely.”
Bucky placed a hand to his heart as if he’d been struck. “You wound me.”
You laughed softly in spite of yourself, nudging his knee with yours. “Present company notwithstanding, of course.”
Looking at the leaves above you, you grew quiet – your expression pensive, almost sad. Bucky waited patiently for you to speak on whatever thought had dimmed the light in your eyes.
“Even if I do meet someone interesting, I will be expected to marry him before the end of the season.” Frowning, you twirled a plucked wildflower between your fingers. “And my father won’t be there if I do.”
Bucky nodded solemnly. You’d written of your grief often in your letters to him. He’d been across the continent, unable to comfort you in the way that he wished he could. Even though some time had passed, he suspected the sadness would stay with you for years to come. After all, when you loved, you loved completely, unflinchingly. With your father now gone, all that love had nowhere to go, and had transmuted to grief instead.
He tenderly brushed a lock of your hair where it laid in the grass. “You must miss him terribly.”
“Everything would be so much easier if he were here,” you murmured. When your eyes flicked up to his, you softened a bit, some of the sadness retreating. “At least I have you.”
Every moment he spent in your presence, Bucky could feel something in him begin to thaw, something that had frozen over while he’d been so far away from home.
“I’ll always look out for you, dove,” he promised. “You know that.”
Sitting up, you looked at him with as serious an expression as he’d ever seen you wear. “Are you well?” He expected your eyes to land on his shoulder, on the empty space where his arm should be. But they remained fixed on his own, warm and earnest. “How are you feeling, really?”
“A bit like an insect under a microscope,” he shrugged self-consciously. “But your presence has much improved me.”
“Do not worry. If anyone says anything even remotely off-colour to you, I’ll…” You scrunched your nose, searching for the appropriate threat. Once you found it, you then concluded, “…box their ears.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Bucky laughed heartily. Laughter faded to a soft smile as he picked a stray grass leaf out of your hair. “I’ve missed you.”
You gave him a defiant look. “Not nearly as much as I've missed you.”
“Now, that I very much doubt,” he countered, and you gave him a shove in response.
Before you could start an impromptu wrestling match, as you were wont to do when you were younger, your mother’s voice rang out from the terrace. “Dearest! Is Buck—“ Your mother paused as she corrected herself. “–is Sergeant Barnes staying for dinner?”
As if you could sense his impending polite denial, your head whipped around, your eyes pleading. “Stay. Please?”
He was already done for, as soon as you turned on the eyes. “Will it just be you and your mother?”
You nodded eagerly. “Not a soul else. And if anyone else shows up, I shall turn them out onto the street,” you declared with a dramatic waive of your arm.
Bucky sighed good-naturedly. “Very well.”
You squealed in delight and called out, “Have Betsy set the table for three, Mamma!”
As you settled back into the grass, Bucky prodded at the book in your hand. “Now, will you tell me about what you're reading?”
With a grin, you began to excitedly ramble about the book's subject matter, just as he knew you would. You leafed through the pages and found passages to read aloud to him. Bucky listened with undivided attention, enjoying the breeze and the shade and the you of the afternoon.
The ceremony, the manor, the ton — all of it could wait. For now, at least.
✧･ﾟ:Bucky’s seen it. How you stare at his metal hand. How whenever he grabs something with it your eyes flick down, how when he grazes you with it—even only in brief passing—your body seizes up. At first he thinks it’s aversion, but then he spots the way your breath catches. Sees how you start to lean into the touch. Like you can’t enough of it. Of him.
✧･ﾟ:He runs an experiment. He touches you more. Offering a shiny palm when he helps you out of the car, squeezing your upper arm when he walks past you, even just wiping something off your chin with a light, cool touch. It pays off fast. One night he grabs your thigh during dinner, and you make a low, soft sound. A moan. You grab his wrist, face flushed and lips parted. Then you let go like he burned you, stumbling slightly back and ignoring his affectionate smile.
✧･ﾟ:You’re not expecting him to bring it up so suddenly. You’re hoping to ignore it for a while longer. But you’re on the couch, and he’s lying next to you, and suddenly you feel the chill of metal on your inner thigh. It’s electric. You start out of your seat with a squeak, but Bucky pushes you back down. His fingers tease on your sensitive inner thigh, and you gasp, grabbing his wrist with pleading eyes.
✧･ﾟ:His brows raise in a silent question. He’ll let you push him away, and you’ll never speak of it again. But that’s not what you want. You want to feel how that hard, deliberate hand feels inside of you. How every part of Bucky fits with you, how he can abuse the machinery for your pleasure. You push his hand further down, letting the tips of his fingers brush over your clothed core. Bucky smiles, and gives you exactly what you want.
✧･ﾟ:The first time he touches you there, you don’t think you’re ever going to be able to use a toy again. He filles you up so well your eyes roll back, rushes of delight shooting through you as the cold contrasts your dripping heat. Bucky crooks deep inside of you, and bullies that gooey, hot space inside of you with an efficiency that should be criminal. You’re writing and breathless just on his hand, and he moves to his knees to watch himself work you. Awe shines in his eyes, when you spasm around him.
✧･ﾟ:When he’s done, he licks the fingers clean, and you almost cum again at the sight. He learns that he can vibrate them, and kisses you back down into the mattress, the light feeling tickling near your core before he fucks them into you, and you scream in delight.
✧･ﾟ:He starts to use them more and more. Sometimes he feeds them to you while he drills into your already puffy cunt, making you suck every bit of him in. Other times you’ll be folded under him, his mouth working your core until you shine on his beard, and metal fingers roll and pinch your nipples as you squirm.
✧･ﾟ:Soon there are whole nights where he splays his warmer hand over your abdomen, pinning you to the mattress as he fingers you into oblivion. Other times he lets you buck and roll around, enjoying the chase for when your legs get too weak to scramble away. The pleasure is overwhelming, but you still chase it. There’s nothing but bliss in you, when Bucky drags you to his chest and watches you ride them with a dreamy expression and hazy eyes.
✧･ﾟ:Sometimes he just sits them inside of you, forcing you to feel them. How hard and thick they are, just like his cock, but with Bucky under so much more control. He presses on your g-spot and doesn’t falter when you spasm around him, his cock only pressing near your ass as he keeps your pinned in his lap. You try to grind onto him, but he’s stronger and holds you still. He just wants you to feel them. To take him.
✧･ﾟ:Some part of him likes this even more than you do. He likes that you want this part of him. A part that used to be a curse, now turned only into a bringer of your flushed, pretty face and doe-eyes as you watch him like he’s an angel. Every time you cum on his metal fingers, the arm feels less like a mocking, phantom limb, and a little more like Bucky.
✧･ﾟ:You call his name when he touches you, after all. And Bucky doesn’t much care what part of him is making you do that, as long as you never, ever stop.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist✦
✦Author's Note: can you guys tell how normal i am about the metal hand.✦
✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦
Warnings: suggestive content, age gap, hints of BDSM
You read the memo three times.
“Please maintain a respectful professional boundary with Mr. Ju Ji-hoon.
Do not initiate personal conversation.
Do not ask for selfies or autographs.
Absolutely no fraternization.”
You blinked.
You weren’t here for a fan meet. You were 25, an overworked junior strategist in Seoul’s biggest corporate firm, and frankly, you'd rather dig through twelve hours of procurement spreadsheets than deal with such silver-spoon born people. Especially older, ridiculously sculpted, unfairly poised figuers like Ju Ji-hoon.
Forty-five years old. Stoic. Meticulous. The face and embodiment of your company’s existence literally.
You were just here to close the campaign budget approvals. You had only heard about his position and his authority despite being 6 months in the company. Never met him, never had a single word of conversation, nothing.
So why the hell did it feel like his eyes were following you?
The conference room was cold, but your skin felt flushed. You hated being watched, more so, you hated being judged or scrutinized by unknown faces.
He hadn’t said a word to you. Not directly. Just polite nods. Just quiet elegance in a black dress shirt, one button left open at the collar. His manager handled all the talking. His focus was fixated on a stack of papers which he seemed to swipe through every now and then, not even bothering to listen to the HR Manager's PowerPoint presentation which apparent took the man 2 weeks to complete.
Despite the tension the meeting room held from all the employees, you found yourself sneaking small peaks and glances of the man the office respected and feared.
You pretended not to notice how his sleeves were rolled back to his forearms. You absolutely did not notice the slow, deliberate way he sipped his coffee. Or how he never touched his phone. Or how he glanced—just once—at you during the brief moment you laughed at something your marketing lead said.
It was… electric. And forbidden.
Your boss nudged you after the meeting. “Good job today. Just—try not to draw too much attention.”
You blinked. “I didn’t—what?”
She smiled knowingly. “Ji-hoon-ssi is particular. He doesn’t like interruptions. Doesn’t excuse anyone. He comes off sweet and friendly but doesn’t talk personal much. Just be careful. He is a senior after all.”
Your cheeks flushed. Not from guilt. From confusion. From the heat that rose again at the memory of his gaze.
Three days later, you saw him again.
You were the last one to leave the presentation floor after the campaign preview. You’d stayed behind to fix a formatting error on your slides when the door opened behind you.
You turned.
Ju Ji-hoon stood in the doorway. Alone. It was excessively weird for the CEO to travel five floors below his cabin to leisurely stand by the lobby cafe 'by chance.'
You noticed his hair was slightly damp from rain. Coat slung over one arm. Tie loose. No manager, no assistant. Maybe he came back because he left something?
Your mouth went dry. “Ah—sir. I didn’t know—”
“You stayed late,” he said quietly.
You nodded. “I had to update the sponsor summary.”
He stepped closer. Slowly. “You’re the youngest on the strategy team?”
“Yes. Well—second youngest. But… probably the least experienced.” You gave a nervous smile. “I’m only a few months in.”
He looked at you. Too long. Too closely.
“I can tell.”
You stiffened slightly. At first you got defensive, thinking it was a snarky remark.
But he didn’t mean it unkindly. If anything, it sounded… amused.
“Innocent,” he added. “That’s rare here.”
Your stomach flipped.
“Thank you?” you said uncertainly.
He stepped even closer. Close enough for you to smell his cologne. Warm, musky, and expensive. Dangerous.
“I meant it as a compliment,” he said, voice low. “Most people in this world… lose softness early. You haven’t yet.”
You didn’t know what to say to that.
He tilted his head. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”
Yes.
No.
Not exactly.
You felt hot. Embarrassed. Alive. Like you were standing on the edge of something huge and hidden.
“I’m just not used to this,” you admitted.
“Which part?”
“Being seen like that,” you whispered. "By the CEO, at the very least."
His lips twitched—just slightly. “You’re very easy to read. That’s dangerous, you know.”
You swallowed. “Why?”
“Because you’re surrounded by people who want to shape you. Control you.”
He leaned just an inch closer.
“And you haven’t decided yet whether you want to be controlled.”
Your knees went weak.
He looked down at your hands, still holding your laptop against your chest like a shield.
“Relax,” he said softly. “I won’t touch you.”
Not yet, his silence seemed to say.
The rest of the ride back home was a mess. Your mind was everywhere but nowhere at the same time. Does it even make sense? It doesn't. You felt like a madwoman ramming her head against her steering wheel, choosing to sink in the silence of the garage of your apartment. Even getting out of your car feels naked, exposed; as if someone is going to read all of your racing thoughts as soon as you step out of the seat. Your seat belt clung to your chest, acting like a ship's anchor which tried to keep you grounded to reality.
Of course you were overthinking, of course you're being unreasonable and livid with these meaningless interactions with a man twice your age, with a man that's literally a household name across the nation while you were just a new employee at the office, both foreign to him and his country.
With little energy left, you usher yourself out of your car, plain but it gets the job done so it is alright. You don’t like overspending anyways. You swiftly ease into your apartment, hoping a quick cold shower will resolve the mess inside your brain. And to an extent, it did. For a moment, you found yourself leisurely making dinner, grilled sautéed chicken with vegetables and a warm herbal tea to calm your nerves. Things to a turn when you went to bed because your head was blank with only him invading your thoughts. His poised demeanor, friendly yet so untouchable, the respect everyone held towards him and his work, it was unreal.
After a quick message to your colleagues about tomorrow’s schedule, you tucked yourself inside your blankets, hoping slumber to take over you instead of the older man’s thoughts. But life is a bitch, so are your hormones. That night, sleep seemed even harder than winning a lottery ticket at a grocery store.
In The Quiet Between Us - Ju Ji-Hoon X Reader X Choo Young-Woo
CHAPTERS: ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR | FIVE | SIX | SEVEN
Main Characters:
Ju Ji-hoon (CEO) - 45, enigmatic, poised, dominant. Public image: calm, refined, untouchable. Private self? Caged chaos, precision, hunger. Has a strict no-dating policy… until her.
You (Reader!Employee) - 25, a corporate strategist at an enterntainment company. Vanilla, career-obsessed, cautious. Never knew submission could feel like liberation. Until him.
Choo Young-Woo (Employee) - 32, empathetic, poised, comforting, Public image: Career focused, sweet, shy, ambivert. Private self? Soft, yearns in silent, patient. Wants nothing but to care for her, protect her.
Themes:
Age gap (20 years and 7 years)
Power imbalance (celebrity x corporate staff)
Forbidden workplace romance
BDSM x vanilla dynamic
Soft to intense smut
Emotional unraveling
Public facade vs private surrender
ANGST ANGST ANGST
SLOW BURN
YEARNINGGGG
So much miscommunication
Red flag Ji-Hoon (I know he's far from it I am sorry yall)
A/N: This story is completely fictional with absolutely no relevance to the characters' real life persona or personal lives. It is meant for enterntainment purposes only and is not to be taken literally. Thank you.
You were warned.
"Don't stare."
"Don't engage unless spoken to."
"And never—never—flirt with Mr. Ju."
Which was fine, really. You had better things to do than pine over your new boss, even if he was obscenely sculpted in a black turtleneck, his bone structure seeming engineered in a lab. You were there to finalize the budget approval for a global campaign shoot, not drool over his fingers as they leisurely swirled his espresso.
But he noticed.
He noticed everything.
"You work in finance?" His voice was velvet over marble, smooth but cold.
You nodded, startled that he’d spoken to you at all. "Strategy team. I'm here for the contract review."
“Hmm.” His eyes didn’t waver. “And yet you look like someone who’d rather control people than numbers.”
Your pulse stuttered.
"I'm sorry?"
“Apologies,” he said smoothly. “You just… hold yourself like someone who’s never been told what to do.”
That was the first crack in your shell.
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