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leriexoxo · 2 months ago

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Pretty Boy, Asshole

Husband! Leeknow x Reader (arranged marriage au)

Tags: Arranged marriage AU, Strangers to Lovers, Slowburn, Enemies(ish) to Lovers, Angst, Smut, Fluff, Domestic Feels. Jealousy, feelings realization, Minho is an asshole

Word count: 7.8k

Summary: You never even met Lee Minho before your wedding was arranged. Your parents’ companies had been tied together for decades, so it made perfect business sense—merge the heirs, secure the legacy. At first, you both thought it was a joke. But then came the legal documents, the moving trucks, and the cold stares from a man who’d just lost the love of his life. He hated you for it. And you? You wanted to burn the whole marriage down.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’d been on the plane for thirteen hours, and somehow, your anger had survived every single mile.

It burned low and hot in your gut, simmering as the taxi pulled up to the towering glass building in the middle of the city. The kind of place with concierge desks and private elevators and probably a robot that sorted your mail. All of it screamed money—his money, their money—not yours. You dragged your luggage through the marble lobby with a scowl stitched into your face and your earbuds shoved in deep, just to drown out the sound of your own thoughts.

The elevator opened on the thirty-fourth floor with a quiet chime. A long hallway stretched out in front of you, lined with pale wood and tasteful lighting. Minimalist. Cold. And then—

The door.

Suite 3401.

Your new “home.”

You punched in the code the assistant had emailed you—because of course there was an assistant—and stepped inside.

And there he was.

Lee Minho.

He didn’t even look at you when you entered. Just sat there on the expensive-looking couch, one ankle crossed over his knee, phone in hand, posture relaxed like he wasn’t currently ruining your life by existing.

You stood in the doorway, suitcase wheels stuck on the lip of the entrance, staring at him like a ghost. The place was massive, all glass walls and open spaces, but the air felt tight, suffocating even, with him in the middle of it.

He didn’t say anything.

You cleared your throat. “Hi.”

A beat passed. Then he looked up. Just once. Just barely.

“You’re late.”

That was it.

Not welcome or did you have a good flight or hey, sorry we’re both being held emotionally hostage by our families right now. No. Just you’re late, like you were a bad intern and he was your condescending CEO.

You stared at him. “Sorry. The whole being-forcibly-uprooted-from-my-life thing kind of threw off my schedule.”

Minho blinked, bored. “Right.”

You wheeled your suitcase past him with more force than necessary, the rubber wheels thunking hard over the lip of the living room rug. The sound echoed too loudly in the silence. You didn’t care. Let him be annoyed. You were annoyed too.

No—furious.

You’d had plans. You had a studio apartment back home, a job you didn’t hate, friends who didn’t make you want to set the room on fire just by breathing near them. You had a life. And now?

Now you had Lee Minho.

Stranger. Fiancé. Asshole.

“I’ll take the room farthest from yours,” you muttered, already dragging your luggage down the hallway.

“No one’s stopping you,” he said.

Of course he wasn’t.

The guest room—no, your room now, apparently—was spotless and cold, like no one had ever breathed inside it. You dropped your bags, sat on the edge of the pristine white bed, and buried your face in your hands.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t even sigh.

You just sat there, skin prickling, spine tense, your body still humming with the quiet, ugly disbelief that this was real. That your life was no longer your own.

All because of a deal your parents made before you were old enough to spell the word contract.

A knock on the door frame.

You didn’t look up.

“There’s food in the fridge,” Minho said. “Don’t touch the top shelf.”

Then he walked away.

And you?

You smiled.

It wasn’t a nice smile.

If he wanted to play like that?

Fine.

Let the games begin.

—

It started with the oat milk.

Well, no. Technically, it started with the marriage contract your parents signed before you were even born, but the oat milk was the spark that lit the fuse.

You opened the fridge that morning, bleary-eyed and cranky, and stared at the single, sad carton sitting on the shelf. It was empty. Not a drop left. You shook it just to be sure, even though you already knew.

That bitch drank your oat milk.

You stood there for a second, hand still gripping the fridge door, mentally running through your options.

1. Scream.

2. Cry.

3. Commit a minor act of violence.

4. Be civil.

You chose none of the above.

Instead, you slammed the door shut and poured yourself a glass of water like a goddamn adult. Then you sat at the island counter and waited.

He appeared ten minutes later, fresh out of the shower, hair still damp, T-shirt hanging loose over his frame like he hadn’t even tried.

He glanced at you, then at the empty carton now placed—strategically—in the middle of the counter between you.

Silence.

“You drank it,” you said finally.

Minho looked at the carton like it was a science project he wasn’t particularly impressed by. “You didn’t label it.”

“It was oat milk.”

“So?”

You blinked slowly. “You think I bought oat milk for you?”

He shrugged. “I thought you bought it for the apartment.”

“The apartment didn’t drink it.”

He smirked, just a little. “Well, technically, I live here, so—”

You stood up, chair scraping back. “Okay. Ground rules.”

Minho raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. You grabbed a notepad from the drawer—because of course this penthouse had notepads—and started writing with aggressive, stabbing motions.

1. Do not eat my food.

2. Do not drink my things.

3. Do not speak to me unless necessary.

4. Do not assume anything is “for the apartment.” It’s not.

5. This is not a home. This is a hostage situation.

You slid the paper across the counter.

Minho didn’t even blink. “You done?”

“Rule six: Don’t be a smug little prick.”

He laughed. Laughed.

Low, amused, like you were a puppy nipping at his ankles. “That’s not very professional, fiancée.”

“Neither is stealing milk.”

He folded the paper neatly, tucked it under his phone, and leaned against the counter. “Alright. My turn.”

Your jaw tensed. “This isn’t a negotiation.”

“Too bad. I’m negotiating.”

He grabbed the pen and flipped the paper over.

1. Don’t slam doors.

2. Don’t use the speaker in the bathroom—I don’t want to hear your playlist at 7 a.m.

3. Don’t cry where I can hear it.

4. Don’t touch my closet.

5. Don’t mess with my routine.

You stared at the list, then at him. “You think I’m crying?”

He shrugged. “Heard something last night.”

“I was unpacking.”

“Right.” Another smirk.

You hated him. You hated him.

But not in the way you could do anything about. Not in a way that fixed anything. He wasn’t cruel, not exactly. Just… cold. Detached. As if he’d already made up his mind that you weren’t worth the effort of pretending.

And honestly?

You weren’t sure he was wrong.

“You’re a dick,” you muttered, turning away.

“You’re in my house,” he shot back.

Your house. The words rang in your ears long after you’d slammed your bedroom door behind you.

Not our house.

Not even the house.

Just his.

And that, somehow, pissed you off more than anything else.

—

You’d decided to make pasta.

It was a petty decision. Loud, messy, sauce-splattered pasta. Not some dainty meal for two. This was war food. Battle carbs. And you made sure to cook it at the worst possible time—right after Minho’s usual post-gym shower, when he liked the kitchen empty and the air quiet.

Too bad.

He walked in right as you started blending the tomato sauce. The noise ripped through the apartment like a chainsaw in a library.

Minho stopped in the doorway.

You didn’t turn around.

“Seriously?”

“Can’t hear you,” you said, raising your voice over the blender. “Domestic goddess things.”

He waited. You could feel it—the weight of his stare, the way his presence filled the room even when he didn’t move.

When you finally switched the blender off, the silence felt personal.

“You used my garlic,” he said flatly.

You turned. “Is garlic suddenly yours now?”

“It’s from my stash.”

“Oh my God, what is this, culinary class wars?”

He moved to the fridge, ignoring you completely, and opened it like he didn’t want to breathe the same air as you. But you saw it—the tightness in his jaw, the twitch of annoyance in his eyebrow. He hated this. Hated you, probably. And that should’ve stung, but—

Honestly?

You hated him too.

He grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap, and finally looked at you. Really looked this time. The kind of stare that peeled skin. “How long do you plan on sulking?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“This whole act. Slamming things. Writing rules like we’re in middle school. Throwing tantrums over oat milk. How long do I have to deal with this?”

The rage came hot and immediate, crawling up your throat like fire.

“I didn’t ask to be here,” you snapped.

He leaned against the counter, cool and clean and somehow infuriatingly calm. “Neither did I.”

“No, but you’re acting like I ruined your life. I didn’t do this, Minho. Our parents did. Go be mad at them, not me.”

For a second, something flickered in his eyes. Something raw and real and unguarded. But it was gone before you could read it, buried under that same sharp indifference he wore like armor.

“I had someone,” he said quietly.

You froze.

“I was going to propose,” he added. “Two weeks before I got the call. I had the ring. We had an apartment lined up. She thought I was joking when I told her. She laughed. And then she cried.”

You said nothing. The room felt suddenly smaller.

“I didn’t have a choice,” he said, voice low now. “Just like you didn’t. But don’t act like we’re the same.”

And with that, he left.

Not stormed out. Just left, like he always did—quietly, cleanly, like emotion was something he refused to be caught feeling.

You stood there, spoon still in your hand, staring at the door he’d walked through.

And for the first time since you’d arrived, the anger didn’t feel quite so simple anymore.

—

It was past midnight when you came out of your room.

Not because you were hungry. Not even because you needed anything. You just couldn’t sleep. The walls felt too white, too quiet, and the sheets felt like someone else’s skin.

So you padded out barefoot, hair a mess, wrapped in the hoodie you’d “accidentally” stolen from Minho’s side of the laundry basket. (Sue you. It was warm. And it smelled better than your room.)

You didn’t expect to see him.

But there he was—on the couch, passed out, phone still in his hand and a drama paused mid-episode on the screen. A glass of water sat half-full on the coffee table. One sock was halfway off his foot. His hair was a mess. A real, actual mess—not the kind he curated to look effortless. And his mouth was slightly open.

He looked… normal.

No expensive cologne. No pressed shirts or glinting watches. Just a guy in sweatpants, legs tangled up in the blanket he probably tried to pull over himself and failed halfway through.

You stood there, blinking.

This man—this insufferable, rude, arrogant, milk-stealing demon—looked like a person when he slept.

That was the most annoying thing of all.

You grabbed the remote off the floor, turned the volume down on whatever he’d been watching (some crime doc with bad voiceovers), and went to walk away.

But something stopped you.

Maybe it was the frown between his brows, the kind you only got when something hurt. Not pain-pain. More like… emotional bruises. Things he didn’t talk about. Things that lived under his tongue.

Maybe it was the way his hand was curled slightly around his phone, thumb pressing against a message thread he hadn’t opened yet.

You inched closer.

The screen lit up just enough for you to see the name.

“Hannie.”

You froze.

She’d messaged him.

The girl. Her.

The one he’d told you about.

Your chest felt strange. Not jealousy. Not pity. Just… tightness. The kind that came from remembering this was real. That all this wasn’t a drama. That someone really lost someone else. That somewhere out there was a girl waiting on a message that’d never come.

You sighed, then gently reached down to fix the blanket over his chest. Not out of kindness. Not really.

Just because it was cold.

And because even if he hated you—and you definitely hated him—he was still a human being.

You turned back toward your room, hoodie sleeves too long over your hands, and whispered into the dark:

“You look like a person when you sleep.”

He didn’t hear you. Probably.

—

Minho knew something was off the second he opened his eyes.

Not just because his neck was stiff or the TV was still on. It was the blanket.

It had been over him. Neatly. Tucked up under his chin like someone had stopped, looked at him, and—

He sat up slowly, glancing around the dim living room. Nothing. No sign of you. Just the faint smell of tomato sauce lingering from the pasta war the night before and a hoodie hanging crooked off the back of the couch.

His hoodie.

Fucking hell.

You’d touched his blanket. His clothes. You’d touched him, probably. And he’d slept through it like an idiot.

He hated that he didn’t hate it.

By the time you finally emerged from your room the next morning, half-wet hair twisted into a bun and sleep still crusting your eyes, Minho was already standing in the kitchen—freshly showered, coffee in hand, and unreadable behind his black tee and tired stare.

You didn’t look at him.

He didn’t look at you.

But the air was different.

He cleared his throat. “You’re up late.”

“I’m always up late.”

Right. Of course. You two weren’t going to talk about it. The blanket. The hoodie. The fact that, for once, neither of you had gone to bed vibrating with rage.

So you sipped your own coffee and stayed on opposite ends of the kitchen. Separate islands. Cold continents. Two strangers with matching rings they didn’t ask for.

Then your phone buzzed.

You didn’t answer it at first, but the second buzz turned into a full-blown call. You picked it up, eyes narrowing as you glanced at the screen.

“Oh, fuck me.”

Minho arched a brow. “Don’t offer things you don’t mean.”

You glared. “It’s my mother.”

He took a slow sip of coffee. “You’ve said enough.”

You answered on speaker, too tired to pretend today. “Hi, mom.”

“Sweetheart!” her voice was shrill and sugary. “I hope you’re both dressed—we’re expecting you at lunch!”

You blinked. “Lunch?”

“Yes, darling, we’ve arranged a little brunch at the family villa. Just a few friends. And, well… a few investors. It’ll be casual, of course. Just something to show how beautifully our children are adjusting to married life.”

Minho choked on his coffee.

“Married life?” you mouthed at him.

“Lovely,” you lied into the phone. “Can’t wait.”

—

You barely had time to fight over what to wear. Minho had shown up to the front door in a gray button-down and slacks like he was filming an ad for luxury timepieces. Meanwhile, you stood barefoot, mascara wand in hand, in a half-wrapped dress with a look of absolute murder on your face.

“Don’t even start,” you growled.

He smirked. “I wasn’t going to.”

“Good.”

“…You look nice.”

You blinked. Looked down. Then up. “You trying to seduce me into not stabbing you in front of your mother?”

“I wouldn’t need to try.”

You threw your brush at his face.

The car ride was quiet.

But not cold.

Tense, yes—but not the same kind of tension as before. Something new. Something that buzzed low in your spine. Like your bodies were talking even when your mouths weren’t.

He kept glancing at your legs. You pretended not to notice.

You picked imaginary lint off your skirt. He pretended not to watch.

The world outside flew by in soft gray blurs, and still—you felt that shift.

The one from last night.

The one you weren’t supposed to think about.

⸻

The villa was a lie.

It looked like a Tuscan postcard and smelled like money. Overgrown vines curled around white stone arches, and the sunlight streamed through polished windows like someone had bottled golden hour.

You hated it immediately.

Minho hated it more.

You could tell because he didn’t hold your hand until someone was looking.

But when he did?

Oh.

That bastard sold it.

He slid his fingers through yours like it was natural. Tugged you closer by the waist when cameras popped out. Whispered things into your ear that made you laugh, even when he was threatening to strangle you under his breath.

“Smile,” he said through clenched teeth. “You’re making me look like a villain.”

“Gee, wonder why,” you said through your fake grin.

But God, he looked so good when he did it. Like a real husband. Like someone who knew your perfume by name.

And worst of all?

You looked good next to him.

There was a photo taken at one point—someone’s assistant caught it. You didn’t even realize. But it got passed around between the wives and board members, passed around with murmurs like:

“Look at how in love they are.”

“She fits him perfectly.”

“They’ll have beautiful children.”

And you saw it, later. On someone’s phone. A candid of you mid-laugh and Minho mid-glance—eyes soft, mouth twitching, hand grazing your waist like it belonged there.

You looked like the picture of a happy marriage.

And for a second, you hated how good it felt to pretend.

—

The real first shift started with dinner.

Just some leftover rice, a pan-fried egg, and the remains of whatever frozen veggies you’d tossed into a pot earlier. You didn’t cook it for him. You just made too much.

But then Minho walked into the kitchen, towel still on his shoulders, hair wet from a shower, and blinked at the plate you’d pushed aside like you weren’t saving it.

“I’m not eating your food,” he said.

You shrugged. “Didn’t ask you to.”

“…But that egg looks good.”

You didn’t answer. Just sat down at the counter and kept chewing.

He stood there awkwardly. Then grabbed a fork. And sat down next to you like it wasn’t a crime.

The silence wasn’t heavy. Not even thick. Just… quiet.

Like both of you had run out of excuses to hate each other loudly.

Then came the next slip.

The couch.

It was late. You were scrolling through nonsense on your phone, half-dozing to a playlist you wouldn’t admit was full of sad lo-fi love songs. You didn’t even notice him sit next to you until his shoulder brushed yours.

You didn’t flinch.

That was the worst part.

You just let it happen.

You told yourself it was fine. The couch was huge. You were tired. It wasn’t a thing. He wasn’t even talking. Neither of you were.

And then, you woke up.

Warm. Comfortable. Safe.

Your cheek was against his chest. His arm was around your shoulder. Your legs were tucked under a blanket you definitely didn’t pull over yourself.

You froze.

He was still asleep. Breathing steady. Mouth parted again, hair fluffing against the pillow like a halo he didn’t deserve.

You moved slowly. Too slowly.

And he blinked awake the second you shifted.

His voice was low. Sleep-rough. “Don’t freak out.”

You already were.

“I didn’t mean to stay,” you whispered.

“I didn’t mean to let you.”

You stared at each other in the dim glow of the TV.

Nothing moved. Nothing breathed.

Then his phone buzzed.

And the bubble burst.

He looked down at the screen. His jaw locked. The softness vanished.

You saw it. You felt it.

Because you recognized the name.

Hannie.

Three words.

“Can we talk?”

Minho didn’t say a thing. Just stood up, grabbed his phone, and walked away.

He didn’t even look back.

—

You didn’t sleep.

You didn’t eat the next day either.

Minho wasn’t in the apartment when you woke up. No note. No text. Not even a plate of passive-aggressive toast crumbs to let you know he’d been there.

The silence was suffocating.

The warmth from last night? Gone.

Your hand kept drifting to your phone, but you had nothing to say. What could you even say? Sorry for sleeping on your chest and pretending you weren’t still in love with someone else?

You sat in the kitchen for hours.

He came home after sundown. Quiet. Unbothered.

You hated him for that.

But what broke you—what really split you in half—was the fact that he looked at you, said nothing, and headed straight to the shower.

Like you weren’t even worth a fight.

—

The front door slammed.

You didn’t even realize you were waiting for it until the sound made you flinch. Made your fingers clench around the glass in your hand.

Minho had come home.

Past midnight. Again.

Third night in a row.

And this time, he didn’t pretend to be quiet. He stomped around the kitchen without a care. Tossed his keys too hard on the counter. Opened the fridge, stared, closed it again. Then turned to find you standing there at the edge of the hallway, arms crossed, eyes tired.

You said nothing.

He said less.

And that was it. That was the moment something snapped.

“Don’t you wanna go back out?” you said, voice sharp. “Or was three nights with your ex enough?”

Minho froze.

Slowly, he turned to face you, and his expression made your skin crawl.

Cold.

Hard.

But this time, mean.

“You spying on me now?” he asked.

“You left your phone on the counter the first night. You think I wouldn’t see her name?”

He scoffed, like you were the one being ridiculous. “It’s none of your business.”

You stepped forward. “Really? That’s funny. Because you made it my business the second you decided to disappear without a word while I stayed here, alone, pretending everything was normal!”

“I never asked you to pretend.”

“No, you just let me.”

Minho’s jaw ticked. His hands were fists. “So what? You want a gold star? For playing house for three days like you actually give a shit?”

Your chest seized. “I did give a shit.”

Silence.

You said it. You couldn’t take it back.

He stared at you. Unblinking. Breathing heavy.

And then he laughed. Soft. Cold. Mocking.

“Oh, that’s rich,” he muttered. “You act like the victim, but let’s not forget—this is your parents’ idea. You’re just as much a part of this mess as I am.”

That hit.

Hard.

But you weren’t done.

You stepped closer. Eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare act like I had a choice in any of this. I left my life behind. My friends. My career. My freedom. For what? So I could be treated like a stranger in my own house?”

“It’s not your house.”

Those four words.

Like knives.

You didn’t even realize you’d thrown the glass cup until it shattered against the floor two feet from his head.

And still—he didn’t flinch.

He smirked.

“That’s more like it,” he said. “There’s the brat my parents warned me about.”

You stepped forward. Your voice dropped.

“You’re such a coward, Minho.”

The smile fell.

“You’d rather run to the past than even try to make this work. You don’t want a wife? Fine. You don’t want to play pretend anymore? Neither do I. But don’t fucking punish me because your little fairytale ended and now you’re stuck with someone who didn’t beg to be here.”

His mouth parted. But he said nothing.

Coward.

He turned.

Started walking away.

And something in you broke.

“You’re so goddamn cold,” you said. “Do you even feel anything anymore, or are you just playing numb until she takes you back?”

He stopped.

Didn’t turn.

Didn’t speak.

Just walked into his room.

And slammed the door.

—

You left that night.

No text. No calls. No dramatic slamming of doors.

Just your phone on the kitchen table, screen facedown like a corpse.

You packed a bag with nothing but essentials—some cash, a few clothes, your favorite perfume. The soft hoodie you slept in when you actually felt safe here. Just a few things to remind you that you were still you.

Then you got in the car and drove off.

Minho never saw you leave.

The hotel was three towns away. Coastal. Quiet.

The concierge didn’t ask questions. Just smiled when you booked the penthouse suite for a week and asked if you wanted a bottle of wine sent up. You said yes. Then requested a second.

The view was stunning.

The ocean glittered like it didn’t know how to be cruel. The room was wrapped in clean linens and silence. There was a rooftop pool. A bar with men who looked like they’d never heard the name Hannie in their lives.

It was freedom.

For three days, you existed like you were never married. Never shoved into a life you didn’t want. You slept with the balcony door open. Drank rosé for breakfast. Let strangers flirt with you in the elevator. Let a bartender ask for your number and smiled when you didn’t give it.

You lived.

And for the first time since this all started—you didn’t cry.

—

Minho, on the other hand?

He unraveled.

The first morning, he found your phone and rolled his eyes. Thought you’d storm back in eventually, full of righteous rage and a tantrum he could ignore.

You didn’t.

By evening, he’d checked every room in the apartment.

By midnight, he’d texted you twelve times even if your phone was turned off on the kitchen counter, he hoped you had your ipad or something with you.

By the next day, he was on the phone with your mother.

“I don’t know where she is.”

“Well, maybe if you treated her like a human being, she wouldn’t feel the need to vanish!”

Then came his father.

“If you screw this up, Lee Minho, so help me God—”

“Dad, she ran off—what do you want me to do?!”

“Get her back. Or don’t expect a damn cent when I die.”

That one stuck. So he stopped sleeping.

Started calling your friends. Your old number. Even checked your socials, which you hadn’t posted on in weeks. He scoured local hotels under fake names. Drove around aimlessly, gripping the wheel like it might help him understand where the hell this all went wrong.

He missed the scent of your hair in the hallway.

The hum of your voice talking to yourself in the kitchen.

The sound of the apartment feeling like someone lived in it.

And he hated himself for noticing.

But what gutted him? Was the dinner plate in the fridge.

The one you left by accident.

The rice and egg and veggies he didn’t eat.

Still there.

Still waiting.

Like you.

—

The door clicked open at 2:17 p.m. on a Wednesday.

No announcement. No warning.

Just the soft creak of hinges as you strolled in like you owned the place—like you didn’t leave it barren and echoing for four days straight.

Minho was in the kitchen.

He froze mid-step, glass in hand, mind blank.

Then he saw you.

Hair soft and glowing. Sunglasses perched on your head. One of those stupid seafoam shopping bags swinging from your fingers. A small, content smile on your lips like you didn’t just drop a goddamn nuke on his life and disappear off the grid.

You didn’t even glance at him.

Just breezed past like summer wind. Like perfume. Like a woman who hadn’t spent a single second wondering how he felt.

Like you hadn’t missed him at all.

He followed you. His jaw tightened. Voice low.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

You stopped. But didn’t turn.

“I went out,” you said, breezy. “Needed some air.”

“For four days?”

You finally looked at him and smiled.

“Oh, you noticed?”

That was it. That was the match.

Minho slammed the glass down—hard. Sharp enough to crack.

“You think this is funny?” he snapped, storming after you as you made your way to the bedroom. “You think disappearing without a word is some kind of fucking joke?”

“I think disappearing was the smartest thing I’ve done since saying I do.”

You tossed your bags onto the bed.

His eyes were on you—scorching. Dark. Possessive. And furious.

“Do you know what I’ve been through looking for you?”

You raised a brow. “Did you try your ex’s place?”

Minho exploded.

“Don’t fucking bring Hannie into this!”

“Why not?” you shot back. “Thought she’d already in our house.”

“She never came here. She only wanted closure—”

“Closure? You couldn’t send a goddamn text, but she gets closure?”

“You ran off!”

“BECAUSE I’M SICK OF THIS, MINHO!”

Silence.

Breathing. Heavy. Yours trembling, his uneven.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides.

“I didn’t sign up for love,” you said, quieter. “But I also didn’t sign up to be humiliated. To be ignored. To be left behind like a mistake.”

Minho looked at you, really looked.

And for the first time in days, his voice dropped to something that almost sounded like regret.

“You were never a mistake.”

You scoffed.

“Funny. You’ve been treating me like one since the day we met.”

Another silence.

And then—

“I looked for you,” he said. “I fucking panicked. I called everyone. I barely slept.”

You stared at him.

And something in your voice cracked, finally.

“Why?” you whispered. “Because your little doll went missing? Or because your inheritance did?”

That hit home.

Minho stepped forward.

Eyes sharp. Wild.

“I looked for you,” he growled, “because the silence was louder than the fights.”

You didn’t blink.

“I left because I needed space.”

He stared at you. Unmoving.

“And now?”

You met his gaze and said nothing.

—

You didn’t say anything else that night.

You’d stood in the middle of that bedroom—his fists clenched, your expression empty—and said absolutely nothing. Not “I forgive you.” Not “I understand.” Just… nothing.

And for Lee Minho, that silence was worse than screaming.

The next morning, he cooked breakfast.

Not well. Not gracefully. But enough that the scent of burnt toast and eggs greeted you when you walked into the kitchen at ten a.m., still in the hoodie you’d brought back from your coastal escape.

You blinked.

He stood at the counter. Jaw tight. Hair messy. A single plate waiting at your spot.

You stared at it.

He didn’t look at you.

“I didn’t poison it,” he muttered.

You sat. Ate half of it. Didn’t say thank you.

He didn’t ask why you only took one bite of the toast.

Later that day, a package arrived.

Shopping. Another one.

You’d clearly picked up the habit while you were gone.

He watched you slice the tape with a box cutter and pull out the sexiest red dress he’d ever seen.

You looked at it like it was an old friend. Then walked off humming.

Minho sat on the couch for three full minutes staring at the now-empty box like it personally offended him.

Then he googled the brand.

It cost more than his last pair of sneakers.

You hadn’t even flinched when the bill hit your card.

That night, you wore the dress.

Not for him. Of course not.

You didn’t even tell him you were going out. Just strutted through the apartment like a model on her way to kill a man with her bare hands. Hair done. Lip gloss gleaming. Legs out. Eyes sharper than any knife he owned.

Minho nearly choked on his water.

You grabbed your purse.

He stood.

“Where are you going?”

You didn’t stop walking. “Out.”

“With who?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He gritted his teeth.

“You’re married.”

You glanced over your shoulder.

“So are you.”

The door clicked behind you.

And Minho?

He stood there, fists clenched, heart thudding, and for the first time in his life—

he felt like he was chasing something he’d already lost.

—

You didn’t go far.

A lounge downtown. Some live music. Some harmless flirting.

You didn’t give anyone your number, didn’t accept the free drinks—but you smiled. You laughed. You felt something. Even if it wasn’t joy.

It was freedom.

And when you came home past midnight, heels in your hand and a lazy smirk on your lips, Minho was waiting.

Still dressed. Still awake. Eyes dark.

“What, did he not take you home?”

You blinked, unbothered. “Did you want him to?”

Minho moved so fast you barely saw it coming—slamming his glass down on the table, shattering it instantly.

The sound echoed through the apartment like a gunshot.

You didn’t flinch.

“You want to be angry, Minho?” you said coldly. “Then be angry. But stop pretending you have any right to be.”

His voice dropped. Low. Dangerous.

“You think I don’t care?”

You scoffed.

“I think you care about the idea of me. You care about your control.”

He stepped closer.

“You’re my wife.”

You took a breath.

“And I was yours. Until you treated me like furniture. Until you let your ex back into our home. Until I left, and you didn’t even call—”

“I DID.”

You paused.

That… stopped you.

“I did,” he repeated, quieter. “I called. I looked. I… I panicked. Okay? I couldn’t sleep.”

You stared at him.

“You called because you were worried?”

“No,” he bit out. “I called because I thought I lost you and I didn’t even know when you became something I didn’t want to lose.”

…

Silence.

The air was thick with heat, fury, confusion.

His chest heaved. Your lashes fluttered.

And then—

“Too bad,” you whispered. “You already did.”

You turned.

Walked down the hall.

Closed the door to the bedroom behind you.

Left him with nothing but guilt.

And the sound of his own breathing.

Minho stood in the hallway like he was losing it.

Because he was.

He’d asked. Nicely. Calmly. Even with that aching thing in his chest that he refused to name.

“Dinner with me. Just us.”

You hadn’t even looked up from your phone.

“No thanks.”

Just that. No explanation. No hesitation.

And that might’ve been fine—should’ve been fine—if you hadn’t left the house an hour later in a goddamn silk top, with your lips glossed and your earrings dangling, smiling at your phone like you were excited.

Excited for someone else.

Minho snapped.

He didn’t think. Just grabbed his coat, keys in hand, following the subtle perfume trail you left like it was instinct.

He wasn’t even trying to be sneaky.

He wanted to see.

He needed to see.

And when he found you—sitting at a trendy restaurant downtown, laughing across a table at a guy in a slim black button-up who wasn’t him—he felt something inside him break.

Minho stood outside like a ghost.

Watching.

Your smile looked different here.

Your laugh was real.

Your hand brushed the guy’s wrist when you reached for your wine glass and he laughed too—and Minho? He was already crossing the street.

You saw him before he reached your table.

That same thunderstorm scowl, the same black shirt he wore when he was ready to fight fate itself. You blinked, caught mid-sip, and your date raised an eyebrow.

“Friend of yours?”

“Unfortunately,” you muttered.

But it was too late.

Minho was there.

Next to your table.

Looking between you and the man across from you like he was barely holding himself together.

“Hi,” you said flatly.

He ignored you.

To your date: “She’s married.”

The guy blinked. “She said she was separated.”

“She’s not.” Minho’s voice dropped low. “She’s mine.”

Your jaw dropped. “What the fuck—Minho, you can’t just—”

But he didn’t listen. Didn’t care.

He grabbed your wrist. Not hard, not rough—just firm.

Like he was anchoring himself to you before he drowned.

And then he leaned in—and kissed you.

In front of everyone.

In front of him.

Not a soft kiss. Not a question.

A statement.

Minho kissed you like he was starving. Like he hated you. Like he loved you. Like you were air, and he’d been suffocating.

You pushed him back.

Staring. Shaking.

“What the fuck was that?”

He exhaled hard. “I ended it.”

You blinked.

“My ex. I ended it. For good. She never came to the house. She never stayed. I didn’t want her. I just didn’t know how to let go of something that already left me.”

You stared at him.

“That wasn’t fair to you. None of this was. But if you think I’m gonna sit back and watch you fall for someone else, you’re insane.”

The guy at the table stood awkwardly. “I should probably—”

Minho looked at him once and he quietly slipped out of the table and headed towards the exit.

You bit your lip, eyes blazing.

“You don’t get to be jealous.”

“I am, though.”

“You don’t get to kiss me.”

“I did.”

“And you don’t get to—”

He kissed you again.

This time, slower. Fuller. Like the world was ending and your mouth was his salvation.

When he pulled away, breathless, voice shaking:

“I get to love you. If you’ll let me.”

And for the first time, you didn’t have an answer.

—

The silence in the car was loud.

Unbearably loud.

You stared out the passenger window, heart still racing, brain trying to make sense of anything. You were vaguely aware that Minho had parked a few minutes ago, engine off, but neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke.

You were still dazed.

Still feeling his lips.

Still tasting him.

You brought your fingers up, brushing against your lower lip in disbelief.

Because what the fuck just happened.

Lee Minho—Mr. Iceman. Mr. I-hate-you-and-this-marriage. Mr. This-isn’t-what-I-wanted—had kissed you. Twice.

In public.

In front of your date.

And worse… You let him.

No. Worse than that— You wanted more.

Minho, on the other hand, sat in the driver’s seat, watching you like he was trying to solve a math problem. Like he couldn’t figure out if he’d just destroyed something or unlocked it. His jaw was tight, his hands still gripping the steering wheel.

Inside his head?

Chaos.

Why did he kiss you?

Why did it feel that good?

And why the fuck did he want to do it again?

He exhaled harshly through his nose, eyes flicking to you. Still staring out the window. Still lost in your thoughts. Still tracing your mouth like it betrayed you.

Something snapped.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, and before you even realized what was happening—

He leaned across the console.

Grabbed the back of your neck.

And kissed you. Again.

But this time, it wasn’t to prove a point.

It wasn’t angry.

It wasn’t performative.

This time, it was heat.

It was raw and hungry and messy.

His lips crushed against yours, mouth parting without hesitation, and your gasp disappeared between his teeth. His hand stayed at your nape, thumb brushing your jaw as he kissed you like he needed it. Like you were the only thing keeping him tethered.

You froze for a second—confused, overwhelmed—

Then you kissed him back.

This time with fire.

Your hands gripped the collar of his coat, yanking him closer across the gearshift. His tongue slid against yours and you moaned before you could stop yourself—and that only made him growl low, deep in his throat, and tilt your head so he could kiss you deeper.

He pulled back just enough to speak, voice ragged.

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

You were breathless. “Then why’d you?”

His eyes searched yours. “Because you’re my wife.”

“That didn’t mean anything to you before.”

“It does now.”

That stunned silence settled again—but this time, it pulsed with electricity.

You sat back slowly, lips swollen, heartbeat slamming against your ribs.

“What changed?”

He was quiet for a moment.

Then, quietly, “You left.”

You blinked.

“I woke up and you weren’t there. Left your phone. No note. Nothing. And the house was just… quiet.”

You waited.

“And I didn’t realize how much I hated the quiet.”

Your throat tightened.

Minho leaned his head back against the headrest, staring up at the roof.

“I told myself I didn’t want this. That it wasn’t supposed to be you. But then it was, and I just—” he paused, eyes squeezing shut. “I don’t know how to do this. I’ve been angry for so long, I forgot how to feel anything else.”

Your voice was soft. “So what now?”

He turned his head slowly. Looked at you like he hadn’t stopped thinking about your mouth since the first kiss.

“What do you want?”

You swallowed hard. The air between you was thick with unspoken things. With need. With possibility.

You opened your mouth. Then closed it.

Because the truth was—

You didn’t know.

You just knew one thing:

Minho was finally looking at you.

And you didn’t want him to stop.

—

The morning light spilled across the room in soft gold.

You blinked awake slowly, disoriented at first. Sheets tangled around your legs, the faint scent of clean linen and cologne still lingering in the air. It was quiet. Peaceful. Too peaceful.

Until it hit you.

Last night.

The car.

The kiss.

Both kisses.

His mouth on yours like he couldn’t breathe without it.

Your fingers instinctively touched your lips again, brushing over them like you could still feel the imprint of him there. And you could. It was annoying how vivid it all was—the way he grabbed your neck, the groan that slipped from his throat, the way he said you’re my wife like that meant something now.

You sat up too fast, the motion tangling your thoughts even more.

There was no note. No coffee waiting. No sound in the hallway. If you hadn’t known better, you’d think last night was a dream. A delusion you conjured up from all the tension snapping in your spine since this marriage started.

You padded out of the bedroom barefoot, oversized tee hitting just below your thighs. You didn’t expect to see him. You were just headed to the bathroom, like a normal person, to brush your damn teeth and try to reassemble your scrambled dignity.

You reached for the door.

Swung it open.

And there he was.

Minho.

In the bathroom.

Shirtless. Toothbrush in mouth.

Eyes going wide like a deer caught in fuckery.

You froze. So did he.

Toothpaste foam halfway down his lip. Water still running. The mirror fogged from his recent shower and his hair slightly damp, sticking to his forehead in soft, tousled strands that were so unfairly hot you actually wanted to scream.

It was like time stuttered for a second.

Your eyes met, and neither of you said a word.

Not about the kiss. Not about last night. Not about how this exact bathroom was where you’d once screamed at each other just weeks ago—and now you were both standing in it like strangers with secrets on your skin.

He stepped aside slowly, giving you space to reach the sink. “Didn’t know you were up,” he said finally, voice rough with sleep and awkwardness.

You cleared your throat. “Didn’t know you were either.”

A pause.

He spit.

You grabbed your own toothbrush, avoiding his reflection in the mirror.

You could feel his eyes on you though. Like heat.

“So…” he started, voice quieter now. “About last night—”

“Nope,” you said quickly, mouth full of mint. “No talking until after brushing.”

It was a lame excuse.

But you were panicking.

He didn’t argue.

The next two minutes were filled with brushing. Swishing. Spitting. Rinsing. You were trying to play it cool, but your heart was going insane because his arm had just brushed yours and oh god, was that a shiver?

He reached for a towel to dry his face. His fingers passed yours again.

“About last night,” he said again, this time firmer. “I don’t regret it.”

You froze mid-rinse.

He glanced at you, towel hanging around his neck.

“But I get it if you do.”

Your gaze finally met his in the mirror.

“I didn’t say that.”

“So you don’t?”

You were quiet for a second.

“I don’t know what I feel.”

His jaw twitched. “Fair.”

You wiped your mouth and turned toward him, crossing your arms over your chest. “But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to pretend we’re suddenly okay now.”

“I wasn’t going to pretend,” he said evenly. “I just—meant it. That’s all.”

A pause.

“And if I kissed you again,” he added, “I’d still mean it.”

Your stomach flipped. “You’re not going to kiss me again.”

“I’m not?”

You looked up at him, heart hammering, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re my husband, Minho. Not my boyfriend. This isn’t dating. This isn’t normal. You don’t get to just kiss me like we didn’t hate each other last week.”

His eyes darkened. “I didn’t hate you.”

You blinked. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He stepped closer. Not close enough to touch—but close enough that you could smell the clean spice of his skin. The kind of proximity that made your breath catch.

“I hated the situation,” he said quietly. “Not you.”

And for the first time… you actually believed him.

You stared up at him, blood rushing in your ears.

And then, before either of you could speak again—his phone rang in the hallway. The sound broke whatever spell was swirling around you. Minho stepped back, exhaling hard through his nose.

“I’ll get that,” he muttered.

And just like that, he was gone.

Leaving you in the bathroom.

Staring at your reflection.

And still tasting his kiss.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: part two is linked at the top of the fic, for my new readers 😏 WELCOME

#leeknow angst #leeknow x reader #leeknow fluff #leeknow x you #skz lee know #skz imagines #straykids lee know #leeknow smut #lee know #skz smut #skz minho #skz fanfic #skz angst #skz fluff #stray kids minho #stray kids x reader #my husband #arranged marriage

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n0tamused · 1 month ago

Text

˖ ࣪⊹Lover's Embrace, Fading Warmth

Contents: 3.3 Quest Spoilers, Mydei x GN reader, angst, I'm a grieving widow so y'all gonna suffer with me

Words: 334

Red skies stand still as gold splashes across the underfoot, glossy and thick as words come to a choking standstill in your throat.

A blade holds Mydeimos pinned in place, pierced through him mercilessly like a faulty childhood memory - old, blurred and betrayed, only leaving behind something that was supposed to keep him safe. For even a moment longer. His eyes find yours in the small distance away, bleeding just as he was, expressing shock and regret, so many thoughts slowly fading from those eyes you love - eyes bringing a shattering symphony to your heart. Light was all but gone from him, even as he made one last attempt to reach for you with his mailed hand.

Your own pain doesn’t sway you, but it weighs you down all the same, the ground coming up to meet you with a cruel slap to your entire body as you collide with it, the Flame Ravers blade having cut through you like a hot knife through butter. It hurts.. it hurts..

“M.. Mydei..” choked words resonate on each fragment of your broken heart as you watch him tumble down like a sack of sand, boneless, with a distinct breath wheezed out as he meets the cold ground. Bitter, angry , grieving tears blurred your vision until all the colors of the world merged into a muddy, gloopy puddle. All you could see was that wretched gold mixed with browns and reds and blacks. The Flame Reaver was far away from your mind, and you didn't realize you were moving until you were near Mydei again, hopeless prayers falling from your trembling lips. Blood lined the path you crawled, and your last ounces of strength evaporated from you as you collapsed on top of his back, embracing him with a quiet sob.

The idea of those distant shores of the west could not quell the hurt of your heart. The wound you suffered did not kill you, but the absence of warmth of your dear Mydei’s body did.

#-better an arrow than you.#mydei #mydei x reader #mydei angst #mydei x you #mydeimos x you #mydeimos x reader #mydei x y/n #honkai star rail imagine #mydei imagine #hsr imagine #hsr angst #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you #angst #3.3. hsr #hsr #hsr spoilers

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httpsghostie · 2 years ago

Text

Three's a Crowd

bro I have no words for what I've just written it's pure filth I can't stop wont stop I need them internally

I'm not sorry for this

Summary: a situationship between your lieutenant and your colonel that leads to obscene measures.

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: smut, Simon 'Ghost' Riley x female!reader x König, unprotected piv and dp sex, kinda cuckold (?, light spanking, dacryphilia, praising/humiliating, lots of pet names, breeding kink, choking, no use of y/n

masterlist

NSFW under the cut

You didn't know exactly how, but you ended up in a situationship between the colonel and your lieutenant, none of them knowing about each other.

Ghost was never the jealous type, at least that's what he said. But some things changed when he heard your voice when he was passing in front of König's room.

"Scheiße, baby." He moaned. It wasn't so loud, but since Ghost had keen senses and was practically merging his ear with the door, it was loud enough for him to hear. He was startled, how could you do this?

For a brief moment, he felt insecure. Was he not enough for you? That's why you had to find someone else to give you pleasure? But you've always told him how it was good, how he fucked you just the way you liked it.

Lieutenant 'not the jealous type' Ghost.

Ironical.

But that feeling changed when he was pinning your face to the mattress, ass up, his cock abusing your hole. He held his phone up, filming how your ass jiggled when he thrusted hard inside you. Your arms were tied behind your back with his belt, and he held them before pulling out and jerking himself off, coming on your ass, cum dripping down your big lips.

And, well, that video was 'accidentally' sent to König's e-mail.

She lets me cum inside.

Ghost could not fucking believe the answer he read on the phone. He expected König to back off, but apparently König had the same expectations.

He couldn't confront you, and the idea of sharing you with his superior was slowly driving him nuts. You noticed he started fucking you rougher, he'd shoot videos of you two having sex saying he needed those to remind him of you. Of course it was weird at first, but you could trust him, or so you thought.

On the other side, König was also a bit different, the man was once calm, always taking his time with you, but he started to enjoy being meaner. He'd either deny or overstimulate you until you cried on his girthy and long dick hitting your cervix.

One day, while gagging on König's dick, you noticed him eyeing the locked phone on the bed, beside him. Without stopping, you reached for it and opened the camera, placing it on his large palm. He looks down at you, confused, and you give him a cock drunk smile. He didn't want to ask to film you, so this was pretty much convenient for him.

That was the first video he sent to Ghost in response to him fucking you senseless.

He was speechless. His cocky demeanor vanished as he tried to come up with a snarky response. Nothing could've prepared him to see you drooling on another cock. Unintentionally, the sight of you sucking another guy's dick made him hard. He had to excuse himself out of the meeting because he had a boner. It was funny, he felt like a teen.

But you noticed how both of them were different towards you and each other. They weren't used to talking before, and now it seemed like they'd punch each other's faces whenever they met in common rooms. König assigned difficult tasks towards Ghost and the thought of them knowing about your situationship terrified you once it crossed your mind.

You thought about confronting them, explaining the whole situation. They were both excellent in bed and they provided you with different feelings. König was soft and caring and Ghost was… well, Ghost. But you knew you could lose them two, even though you didn't have an established relationship with them.

One day, the task force is all drinking together, playing truth or dare. Gaz is dared to do something obscene, and he playfully moans like a girl.

Aye, sounds like the lad in König's room.

You choke, spitting the whiskey coke out, the soda gets out from your nose and your eyes get teary from the gas. They all get quiet when they look at you and you fake a laugh, of course Soap had to say that.

They soon forgot about the awkwardness and went back to the game, but Ghost was eyeing you like a prey. You purposefully avoided them since you all joined for the party, and he and König sat on opposite sides from each other. You sat in between Price and Gaz, you all in a weird circle.

Meeting room. Now.

Your phone buzzed as you received a message from your Lieutenant. You read it from the notifications and looked up, but he was already gone in the darkness. You come up with an excuse and get out of the common area.

When you walked in, the phantom was standing right across the table, you could only see a glimpse of his eyes. The lights were off, but the room was lit when he started typing the digits of his phone password. He slowly stands up and walks towards you, your legs already trembling with fear. The phone is left on the table right in front of you, displaying a video of your fucked out face while sucking a dick very different from his.

"Simon, I can expl-" you try to say, but you're cut off as he grabs a fistful of your hair and buries your face on the cold wooden surface of the table.

"Y'know why I brought you here?" He asks, holding your wrists behind your back. "So everyone can see who you belong to." You feel him restraining your hands with one of his hands, and the spare one unfastened his belt and pulled his pants down just enough to expose his already hard dick.

At this moment, you thank yourself for wearing sweatpants, because they were easily pulled down from your body. He lifted his mask and spat on your pussy, then entered you with his full length, not giving you time to get used to his size.

He fucked you desperately, grabbing your hair again, making you look at the looping video on the screen of his phone.

"You're such a fucking little slut." He groaned. "You're so desperate you need two fat cocks?" You felt ashamed, your face burning, not knowing if it was from the whiskey or the embarrassment. The door made a locking sound and you jolted, but Ghost's grip didn't let you give a look. "Like what you see here, Colonel?" He asks in between breaths, you squirm and try to move but he holds you in place. Soon there was a figure across from you, sitting on the empty chair and manspreading.

"If you fucked her good enough she wouldn't come to me." He said in that thick German accent.

"You're really petty for a second option." Ghost holds your throat from behind, choking you and forcing you to look at König. You can see König's dick getting hard, it wasn't easy for him to mask that due to his size. He got up and slowly walked around the table to get to you.

"How does he feel, schatz?" König grabs you by the chin, blue orbits finding its way into your soul. You couldn't even babble an answer, Ghost was fucking you brainless. Your eyes could only look back to König and your head could only nod. He lifts a bit of his hood and gives you a kiss, his lips containing the warmth you needed to melt.

"Kneel." Ghost demands you as he pulls out. You do as you're told, but in order to comfortably be on your knees, you pull your pants back up. They don't seem to care. König takes his belt off and folds it, running it from your chest to your chin, lifting your head.

"Be a good girl, ya?" He says as he pushes his pants down, his dick bouncing up as he releases from the boxers. Without even noticing, your mouth was already open and your tongue was laying flat. König brushed his pinkish, leaking tip on your lips and tongue, the familiar salty taste of his precum invading your senses. He pushes it in your mouth, fucking it slowly. Your hand travels to Ghost's dick and jerks him off as he watches. "Like what you see, Lieutenant?" König chuckles.

Ghost was going to give him a sarcastic response, but his head fell back when you started to suck him off, your hand now on König. As you expected, Ghost wasn't so gentle, so his hand grabbed your hair and pushed your throat down his length. You soon became a drooling mess, taking turns on each throbbing cock in front of you.

Your jaw became sore, taking just one of them was already hard enough. You felt a pressure against your pussy and looked down, König's boot was grinding against you. You groan, sinking your weight on his foot. The more you gagged around them, the more he'd move.

"Didn't I tell you were just a fucking whore?" Ghost pulled from your mouth and tapped his cock on your tear stained cheeks. "Getting off his foot, huh? So desperate." As if it was possible for you to get any wetter, you felt another wave of arousal moisten your panties.

He got you up and almost dragged you to the sofa in the corner of the room. König followed just behind. Ghost sat down and made you kneel in front of him, and König positioned himself behind you, large palms roaming your small body and gently pulling your pants down again. He aligned his shaft with your soaked pussy and in one long thrust he pushed it deep inside you.

"Just so… fucking tight." You hear him whimper as he bottoms out. Your eyes are locked with the masked man in front of you, that's slowly jerking himself off at the sight of you being filled by someone else. "Gonna have to tear this pretty pussy apart." You clench around him and he starts fucking you.

Ghost gently pulls your face closer and lifts his mask, planting a sloppy kiss on your lips. You could only moan, in hope no one else could hear it. Your lips were now connected on Ghost's member, eagerly sucking him off. Your moans sent vibrations down his skin and he groaned whenever you gagged.

König's cock was buried deep down your walls, he felt an incessant need to slam his hips into yours and make you a moaning mess, so he held your hips in place as he thrusted hard into you. One of his hands travelled down to your clit and started rubbing circles, easily making you orgasm around him. He felt his climax getting closer, but he didn't want this moment to end just as quick. When his pace became erratic, he pulled out, slapping your ass.

He got up and sat down beside Ghost, who got up and pulled you to his arms, holding you firmly in the air. Your legs were pushed to your chest, the back of your knees held by his veiny forearms. He entered your used hole and started slow, but it didn't last long and he was soon bouncing you up and down his length.

König watched as you took Ghost entirely, thinking about how tight you'd feel with another cock inside you. He gets up and walks behind you, brushing his tip on you.

"Do you think she can handle?" König asks with genuine concern.

"She'll take it and thank you for it, isn't that right, bunny?" Your arms are wrapped around his shoulders, your face buried in his neck. You manage a small nod before feeling another monstrous cock entering your abused hole.

How that fit was a story for another day, but your pussy was happy to be filled by two men. The pain started to go away and you moved a bit to signal them to go. They managed to keep the same pace for a while. König let you lay back on his chest as Ghost held your legs, they pushed deep down into your core.

"Look at you, taking both of us." Ghost mumbles. "Such an obedient little pet."

"Such a good girl, liebe." König moans in your ear.

They kept fucking you until you felt empty again. Emptier than ever. Your pants were taken away from your body and König pulled you on top of him as he sat down on the couch, already making you sit on his shaft. Ghost came behind you and you felt a humid finger entering your tight little hole.

"Simon-" you moan.

"Shut up." He puts another finger in.

"Too much."

"You've taken it before and you're gonna take it again like the good slut you are, understood?" You slowed down on König and felt another finger inside of you, stretching your butthole. You couldn't help but whimper at the way he was using you. "Don't stop fucking her." König holds your hips and starts thrusting harder.

Ghost replaced his fingers with his aching dick and you've never felt so good, so filled. He waited a minute before moving, giving you a bit to adjust. But goddamn it you were tight.

As soon as the pain went away, he started to move, gradually going faster. König was a whimpering mess below you, moaning german praises in your ear. In little to no time, you found yourself being railed once again.

"Can't take much more." König whimpered, digging his nails on your hips. Ghost landed a sharp slap to your ass and towered over you to reach for your clit, he stimulated you as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, trying to memorize your scent.

Your legs trembled as you felt your high approaching faster and faster, and you fall on König's chest, trying to muffle your loud moans.

"That's right, baby, be a good girl and come for us." König holds you close, reaching a new spot. That's what it took for you to squirt all over their dicks. Crying at the non stopping thrusts.

"Always have to leave a mess, huh?" You're still squirming as you hear Ghost say. "Fuck, you're so pretty when you cry."

König also feels his orgasm approaching and with a few more thrusts he can't hold it anymore.

"Gonna fill your cunt with my cum." He moans, holding your chin to look at him. He comes inside of you, but he doesn't seem to be stopping anytime soon. He keeps on slamming his dick inside your cervix and pushing his cum inside you, making the tears fall out of your eyes. He becomes a whimpering mess as he overstimulates his dick in your pussy.

Ghost also can't stop thinking about how good you feel, and how bad he needs to cum inside you. He slips a hand in front of your body and squeezes your breasts. It was enough to electrify his body and sent shivers down his spine. With just a few more erratic thrusts, he spills his seeds in your hole. He pulls out, kissing your back through his mask. König finally pulls out too, his dick red from the overstimulation. You collapse on his chest, losing consciousness.

"Truce?" He asks Ghost, who's getting dressed.

"Truce."

#ghost cod #könig cod #ghost mwii #cod smut #ghost smut #könig smut #mwii smut #simon ghost riley #simon riley #könig mwii #cod mw2 #cod mw2 smut #ghost könig smut #cod fanfic

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stellaronhvnters · 5 months ago

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⸻ LOOKS LIKE YOU’VE GOT MAIL… !

⸻ STELLARONHVNTERS PRESENTS: LOVE LETTERS !

The season of love is upon us—happy Valentine’s Day ! Love Letters is a themed prompt/request event. Send participating hunters a prompt & your selection of 1-3 inspiring words from our list, and they’ll write something short for you ! DURATION : feb 1st - feb 13th. On the 14th, all completed letters will be compiled in a single envelope and posted to the network blog !

HOW TO PARTICIPATE?

Reblog this post with the characters you’re willing to write for, send some requests to fellow rebloggers, and wait for the same—that’s it ! Please do NOT reblog if you aren’t going to participate. Reblogging this post is confirmation you’re open to requests for this event! Only members of STELLARONHVNTERS are allowed to send/write letters. We encourage you to use this opportunity to reach out to members you haven’t before! There’s no limit to how many requests you can send, but please be courteous, and remember they are not obligated to complete yours! Letters should be a minimum of 200 words and a maximum of 2000—keep it short and (maybe bitter…) sweet!

Remember to tag your letters with #hvntersloveletters !

PROMPTS:

( 💌 ) — YELLOW ROSE: though valentine’s day is usually centered around romance, there are many types of relationships that deserve to be highlighted and celebrated. ( ❤️ ) — IRIS: promises are just words unless they can actually keep them. ( 🧺 ) — DAFFODIL: you’re not sure if they love you back or not, but either way, some part of you will always be theirs. ( 🦢 ) — PURPLE LILAC: they’re falling first, and falling hard. ( 🌹 ) — RED TULIP: they’ve been waiting to confess for a long time—now’s their chance. ( 💌 ) — BLUE HYACINTH: you may just be idealistic, but you’ll always hold out hope for a future with them, no matter how long it’s been. ( 💔 ) — BOUQUET: what could the bouquet in your hands possibly symbolize? ( 🧺 ) — DAHLIA: both of you are dressed to the nines, going out to celebrate valentine’s day and one another however you see fit. ( 🦢 ) — VOLKAMERIA: watching from the pews as they marry their soulmate, you wonder if fate has a cruel sense of humor. ( 🌹 ) — PINK HYACINTH: who can kiss the other the most today? ( 💌 ) — CHRYSANTHEMUM: saying your final goodbyes on the undisputed day of love is ironic. ironic… but fitting. ( ❤️ ) — CHICORY: who needs money to have a good time? ( 🧺 ) — PURPLE HYACINTH: seems that you accidentally ruined their romantic grand gesture! quick, make up for it! ( 🦢 ) — RUE: misunderstandings, misunderstandings… ( 🌹 ) — FORGET-ME-NOT: it is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. ( 💌 ) — OLEANDER: you know your baking is mediocre at best, but they still endeavor to taste your creation, despite how their eyes may water or how ugly their face may scrunch up. ( 💔 ) — YELLOW HYACINTH: do you actually want them, or do you want to be them? ( 🧺 ) — WALLFLOWER: they planned on taking you on a picnic, but the rain started pouring as soon as you placed down the blanket. ( 🦢 ) — VENUS’ LOOKING GLASS: they don’t usually flirt with you quite this much… ( 🌹 ) — HONEYSUCKLE: they’re making it a point to show you just how much you mean to them.

WORDS:

(These are mostly here for vibe purposes! It’s more about the association of the words’ meanings together than the words themselves—have fun with it!)

accismus — an ironic rhetorical device, in which one feigns indifference, or makes a pretense of refusing something one desires. aeipathy — an enduring and consuming passion. amaranthine — undying. anagapesis — loss of feelings for someone. apricity — the warmth of the sun in winter. cafune — running fingers through a loved one’s hair. catharsis — emotional release. charmolypi — the joy that emerges out of sadness, and (conversely) the sadness that merges out of joy: an integrated feeling that cannot exist without both sorrow and joy, dwelling together and giving rise to each other. cicatrize — heal by forming scar tissue. clement — mild, gentle, or merciful nature. clinquant — shiny and glittery; showy. cordiform — heart-shaped. coruscate — to give off light; to reflect in flashes; to sparkle. druxy — (of wood) having decayed spots or streaks of a whitish color; rotten, decayed. ebullience — a boiling or bubbling up; (figuratively) the quality of enthusiastic or lively expression of feelings and thoughts. eunoia — goodwill towards an audience, either perceived or real; the perception that the speaker has the audience's interest at heart. evanesce — disappear gradually; vanish; fade away. feuillemort — of the color of dead or dying leaves; dull yellowish or orangish brown. indelible — incapable of being lost or forgotten. iridescence — exhibition of colors like those of the rainbow; a prismatic play of color. kalon — the ideal of physical and moral beauty. kalopsia — the delusion of things being more beautiful than they are. laconic — using as few words as possible; pithy and concise. lacuna — a gap or absence in understanding. litost — a state of torment created by the sudden sight of one’s own misery. lucent — emitting light; shining; luminous. mellifluous — flowing like honey; sweet, smooth and musical; pleasant to hear (generally used of a person's voice, tone or writing style). metanoia — a fundamental change of mind. niveous — snowy; resembling snow. paracosm — a detailed imaginary world. petrichor — the smell of earth after rain. redamancy — the act of loving in return. reverie — a state of dreaming while awake; a loose or irregular train of thought; musing or meditation; daydream. sanguine — confident and helpful; a blood-red color. saudade — an emotional state of melancholic or profoundly nostalgic longing for a beloved yet absent something or someone. selcouth — strange, unusual, rare; unfamiliar; marvellous, wondrous. serein — light rainfall from a cloudless sky after sunset. serendipity — a combination of events which have come together by chance to make a surprisingly good or wonderful outcome. sonder — the profound feeling of realizing that everyone, including strangers passing in the street, has a life as complex as one's own, which they are constantly living despite one's personal lack of awareness of it. taciturn — silent; temperamentally untalkative; disinclined to speak.

EXAMPLE:

could i request (prompt) + (word), (word), (word) for (character)? thank you!!

#📑 ► terzetto. events!#hvntersloveletters

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lovemni · 3 months ago

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꒰ mail by yani ꒱ :: not a fic post, unfortunately.. however, it is equally and possibly more important!

may the lord bless my precious liliza, i woke up to something upsetting.

liliza let me know about a blog, @hyunsdoll / @hyunlixgirl, who they came across.

they've has been blatantly copying us— and by that i mean @cosmicalily’s header images, display fonts, bio; color schemes ; @hyunjiiza’s dividers, pinned post directory images, including the symbols. and unfortunately.. my older fic layout style, that i have recently only formatted a tiny bit. which is including the fic’s header pictures, symbols, warnings, notes, all the fic info and also the lines i add at the end of a fic. word by word. you can check for the proofs on liliza's blogs.

(copied: title, first two header images, outro line, note, info. and tag.)

so no credit, no acknowledgment. just taken and used as if it were their own. it’s beyond frustrating because the work we put into our blogs—curating aesthetics, crafting our own unique styles, and making our spaces feel personal—is something we’ve built with dedication and creativity. something’s that us. original. it’s not just me. this person has taken from all the three of us and i think that’s the most disappointing part when they’ve not even blocked either of us.

the fact that they didn’t just take inspiration but fully lifted elements from each of us makes it even clearer that this wasn’t accidental. may have come across our accounts, saw how close we are, and decided to merge our styles into their own space without credit, as if no one would notice. but we did.

i don’t believe in gatekeeping inspiration—after all, we’re all here on tumblr because we love what we do. but there’s a difference between being inspired and outright stealing. the little things—our words, our layout choices, the specific ways we present our fics—those are ours. they come from us. and when someone takes that without permission, it’s not just disheartening; it’s discouraging. especially when this isn't the first time my layout's been copied [those who've been following me since jan '25, would know!]

it makes it feel like the effort we put in can just be taken without thought. if we would’ve at least been asked for permission before the usage of our layouts, we might’ve allowed you to do so regardless. but without the permissions, it’s straight up wrong.

so, to that blog, i really hope you take a step back and realize what you’ve done. it takes nothing to give credit where it’s due, to acknowledge when something isn’t yours, and to respect the work of others in a community that thrives on creativity. we put a lot of heart into what we create, and it’s only fair that it stays ours. i hope you can recognize that and do the right thing!

after all we do make mistakes and learn from them. praying that it doesn’t happen again in the future. i also hope that the three of us, lily, iza, and i, have made ourselves clear.

it's absolutely okay to take inspo from people's works! incorporating very few or similar elements is fine. however to everyone, please don't steal other people's creativity and post it as your own. the original creator would appreciate it if you ask them for permission first!

p.s., would've posted this sooner but well, timezones differ. just because i didn't post anything about this and liliza did, does not mean i'm not bothered by it!

#𐔌❤︎ ͡꒱ ┊ yani yaps! ^..^ 𐒡 #announcement #stray kids #stray kids imagines #kpop #skz #stray kids oneshots #stray kids x reader #stray kids fic #liliza #hyunjiiza #cosmicalily #heartsbyani #lilyaniza

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freelancearsonist · 1 year ago

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all that we see or seem

➔ Dieter Bravo x AFAB!Reader

➔ 5.7k words

➔ You moved to Hollywood in hopes of chasing your dreams; you get a lot more than you bargained for from your new boss, Dieter Bravo.

➔ Rated MA // dark fic, reader is afab (female anatomy, no pronouns used) and generally able-bodied, age gap (unspecified, reader is younger than dieter), vampire!dieter, blood/both consensual and non-consensual blood drinking, knife use, slight self-harm, gore of the mouth variety, pet names, takes place in 1983 bc i’m a sucker for changing settings

➔ this was requested from this prompt list by the very lovely @sp00kymulderr!! happy birthday darling, sorry this took so long but i hope it's worth the wait <3 thank you so much to @missredherring for this AMAZING header graphic ily 🖤

Los Angeles is a far cry from the little town you grew up in. It’s a seemingly endless maze, with more possibilities than you ever could’ve dreamed. It’s a little daunting, really. You step off your plane with your suitcase in hand, and you feel like the world is in the palms of your hands.

The harsh reality comes crashing in without warning.

LA is expensive, especially on your own. As the money you’d saved up to get you started dwindles much quicker than expected, your dreams only get further and further out of reach. Life always finds a way to fuck you over, and the city of angels does it quicker than anywhere else. The glitzy neon nightclubs and the glamor of Hollywood swiftly become an omen of doom rather than a beacon of hope. You’re in over your head, but it’s too late to back out now.

Auditions get put on the backburner. You work yourself to the bone as a server in a dumpy little diner, but it’s still barely enough to cover your basic expenses.

You wake up, you go to work, you come home, you go to sleep. The cycle repeats itself so quickly that your days all merge together into one, long, neverending nightmare.

The light at the end of the tunnel appears shortly before the first anniversary of your move. You’re scanning through the paper during your meal break when you see a help wanted ad. It’s normally the type of thing you would ignore, but a few things about it draw you in. The part that really catches your eye is the large, bold letters that proclaim “work closely with one of the biggest names in hollywood!” It seems too good to be true, and certainly something you’re not qualified for. But it could be a start–a way to get your foot through the door of the industry that brought you out here in the first place. Really, what’s the harm in trying?

You go to the library, type up your resume, and mail it in to the address listed in the ad. Realistically, you know that there must be hundreds of other applicants and you probably won’t get so much as a rejection letter back; but the needling little ‘what if’ in the back of your mind gives you a boost of hope that you’ve lived without for an achingly long time.

You get better than a letter–a broad, handsome man shows up at the diner late one night asking for you three days after you drop your resume into the local mail slot at the post office. Janine, the shaggy-haired waitress you work with almost every shift and have sort of become friends with, nudges you excitedly while you’re handing a ticket back to the kitchen.

“Honey, do you know who that is?” She nods her head over her shoulder towards a table in the corner of her section and you try to look over as nonchalantly as possible.

Of course you know who that is. His face is everywhere in this stupid town–magazine covers, billboards, movie theaters. Even with sunglasses obscuring the dark brown eyes that have made thousands swoon, you recognize Dieter Bravo. He’s bigger than Hasselhoff and Swayze combined.

“He’s asking for you,” Janine whispers. “By name. You know him?”

“Not yet,” you answer truthfully. You know without a doubt that he’s here because of your resume and that your entire world is about to change.

You’ve seen him on the big screen before and now you can definitively say that it doesn’t do him justice. He’s more handsome than any man has a right to be. He’s wearing a black hoodie and black trousers, an ensemble that stands out in the brightness of 1983 but yet perfectly complements the tanned tone of his skin. His shoulders could fill a doorway and his smile might actually melt you into a puddle. You can’t help but notice–with a hint of trepidation–that his canines are the sharpest you’ve ever seen, although that thought is quickly pushed from your mind when he greets you by name.

“Your resume is impressive.”

“No it’s not,” you respond with a little laugh before you can stop yourself, then you have to refrain from banging your head into the wall. What a great start to an interview.

But he laughs, and you can’t help feeling you’ve done something right. You’d do a hell of a lot worse just to hear that gorgeously deep, hearty chuckle again.

“Okay, I’ll rephrase. You said all the right things. You’ve got exactly what I’m looking for as an assistant.”

You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, because this is much too good to be true.

“You’re not from LA,” he states factually. “What brought you here?”

You consider lying–coming up with some story that’s less pathetic than the truth. He’s appreciated your honesty thus far, though, and you don’t want to break a streak. “I wanted to act, but… it’s hard to get started when you don’t have any connections. So I’ve just been kind of… getting by.”

He nods and gives you a look over–assessing, you think. “We all have to start somewhere. But this isn’t an easy job.”

There’s something unreadable in his voice, but you choose to ignore it because you want nothing more than a chance to impress him. It’s not about ‘making it’ anymore; it’s about proving to Dieter Bravo that you’re worth taking a chance on.

“Neither is this,” you reply with a vague wave at the diner around you. “If I’m not covered in fryer grease at the end of the day, it’s a good job to me.”

He chuckles again and it washes over you like fresh water after years of drought. You want more of him–more of his charm, more of his warmth.

“When can you start?”

You ask for two weeks to leave your diner gig on good terms, and he’s gracious enough to accommodate you. As the days tick past, the anticipation ramps up and time seems to move slower. You’ve never been so excited for a new job. Normally, your gut twists with anticipation and your mind swirls with every little minute detail that could go wrong–but not now. No, now you’re just excited. The possibilities of Hollywood finally seem to be within your reach again, and it all starts with this job.

You learn a lot about Dieter within five minutes of starting on your first day. For one, he’s incredibly personable. He greets you himself and vows to show you the ropes. There’s no third party to teach you everything you need to know, it’s just him. Just the two of you. You appreciate that immensely, because you’ll be serving him directly as his assistant. There’s no better person to learn from when it comes to his desires and routines than the man himself.

Two, he wears many different masks. It’s a little spooky, the way his demeanor changes depending on who he’s dealing with. He can be the sweetest, most charming man you’ve ever spoken to, then turn to a producer and be a complete hardass all in the name of getting things done. He knows exactly what persona he needs to wear for each person he interacts with–it’s all very calculated. You suppose all actors have to be capable of that; the mark of a good thespian is being instantly able to pretend you’re someone you’re not.

Still, it’s a little chilling. If you didn’t see it in some form or another with every person you meet on set, you’d be a little concerned. Dieter just makes it look like adaptation–fitting into his surroundings as a means of staying afloat. He’s been in this industry for a long time, he knows what works; and, subsequently, what doesn’t.

As far as the job goes, it’s a nice change of pace from what you’ve become accustomed to. You spend nights on set with him, fetching his coffee order or running little errands while he’s busy shooting. The hours aren’t unreasonable, and it pays double what the diner did. Now that you’re not struggling to get by financially, you have the free time you need to start pursuing your dreams again.

You have only Dieter to answer to, which is a definite learning curve. Directors, producers, and even other actors chase after your favors, but Dieter tells them unequivocally to fuck off. You’re his–it’s a heady feeling each time he reasserts it. It makes for easy work when you’re not being pulled in thirty different directions simultaneously. He asks for what he needs when he’s around and he gives you a list of tasks to complete when he’s not. He’s a little eccentric–he tells you he can only work after dark because his eyes are sensitive–but it’s nice, falling into a routine after so long of working unconventional hours at a job where no two days are the same.

Still, as days turn into weeks by his side, you wonder exactly what version of Dieter he’s presenting to you. Which face is the most authentic? You want to believe he’s himself with you, but you’re not quite naive enough to convince yourself of that. The thing that bothers you the most is that you want him to feel comfortable enough to drop the facades around you. You want to get to know the real Dieter Bravo, underneath all the masks. But you also swore to yourself, when you accepted this job, that you would be nothing but professional–and wanting to get to know him so intimately is definitely a step beyond just being his employee.

To his credit, he’s strictly professional–even if you wish he wasn’t at times. There’s a lot of rumors and gossip about him, about his hedonism and the life he supposedly leads at night, but you don’t see that facet of him. With you, he’s friendly, kind, and respectful. He’s the perfect gentleman–and that’s how you know that you’re not getting a full glimpse of the real him. There’s too much contradiction between the rumors and the Dieter that you interact with.

No matter how straight-laced you try to be, you can’t help wondering what it’ll take to get a look at the real Dieter Bravo.

You think he starts to peek through when Dieter asks if you would be willing to work longer hours and be more of a personal assistant than a production assistant. You know him inside and out, he tells you, and it would be a pain in the ass to teach a whole new person how to deal with his errands. He even offers you a sizable raise when you pretend to be contemplating it, like you weren’t bursting at the seams to say yes before he even finished asking.

The sad–maybe even pathetic–truth of the matter is that you’re falling for him. Every facet of his charm, from his darkly passionate eyes to his easy humor, have you completely bewitched and ready to ignore the way your hair stands on end each time his gaze meets yours. You’ll take any small fraction of him that you can get.

He eases you into your additional duties, at least; that much can be said in his favor. He starts you out with small tasks, like ordering his groceries and picking up his dry cleaning. Dieter’s so kind and patient as he explains how he likes everything done–he’s particular, but not unreasonable. He even gives you a grand tour of his home so you can see exactly where and how he likes everything done–it’s like finally getting that real glimpse of him that you’ve been hoping for.

His Sherman Oaks mansion looks like something straight out of a Bram Stoker novel on the outside, yet the inside is a testament to the warm side of his personality that you’re more familiar with. It’s decorated in shades of orange and red, with patterns that are a little out of date but still manage to feel intentional. It gives the impression of someone who was more comfortable and sure of himself in the 70’s, or at least someone who hasn’t quite adjusted to the new trends that came with the turn of the decade. The walls are covered with art–most of it signed with his familiar “DB” in the bottom right hand corner. It’s neat, but not so neat that it feels staged. It fits the Dieter Bravo that you know perfectly, and it even starts to feel like home to you when you start spending more time there with him.

There’s never anyone else around when you’re there. For someone who has a reputation for throwing the liveliest parties in all of Hollywood, he doesn’t actually do a lot of partying. Not when you’re around, at least. It’s almost like he’s trying to hide that aspect of himself from you. If he has to host, he sends you home early or lets you know in advance that you’re getting a paid night off. You’re almost disappointed–parties have never really been your thing, sure, but you feel like you need to experience at least one of his.

Plus, people are starting to talk. You hear it on set first; his co-stars whispering about how he’s gone soft, how he’s gotten boring. Even the tabloids are starting to wonder if they’ve seen the last infamous Dieter Bravo party, which were once highly coveted and exclusive events. The few times he’s hosted lately have been small, quiet affairs–definitely not the big, star-studded shebangs that he’s gained a reputation for.

A rumor even starts circulating that he’s finally decided to settle down with a nice girl, which makes your stomach twist with a little green monster that shouldn’t be there. He’s your employer, you reason. That’s all. No matter how friendly he is, no matter how much he flirts with you, no matter how much he compliments your perfect cup of coffee, that’s all he is. Your boss. And yet, despite your constant self-assertion, your brain just can’t seem to accept it. You know you shouldn’t want anything more than that, and yet you just can’t seem to stop yourself from hoping.

“What’s going on with you?”

You’re in the midst of trying to sort through the files in his upstairs home office so you can find out when his insurance needs to be renewed when you hear the voice, loud and clear due to the open floor plan downstairs. Sound travels like crazy up the double-wide staircase with Dieter’s office door right at the top. You couldn’t shut it out even if you wanted to–and you don’t. God help you, you’re a little nosy and a little curious.

“Nothing.” That’s Dieter’s voice, but you don’t recognize the other.

“Bullshit. You’re not yourself.” It’s a deep, rich tone that you’ve never heard before and it immediately has your interest hooked. Dieter doesn’t get many visitors, much less such purposeful ones. Most people like to schmooze him, but evidently not this unidentified man.

“I’m trying to be different,” Dieter explains half-heartedly. “It’s time I cleaned up a bit.”

“No. Cleaning up your act is nothing more than a good way to get yourself caught. Things happen in the party climate, that’s how you fit in. Things don’t just happen to nice rich actors.”

Caught? Caught doing what, exactly? You creep closer to the open door on light feet, curiosity peaked.

Dieter sighs, and you can hear the exhaustion in his voice. “I’m tired.”

“So what are you going to do? Just give up? Waste away after… how long?”

“Maybe I should,” Dieter retorts–there’s grit in his tone now, maybe even bitterness. “Maybe I never should’ve taken the deal in the first place. You don’t see how fucked up this all is?”

“So, what? You’ve gotten everything you could’ve possibly wanted, and now you’re tired of playing the game? Pathetic.” There’s a sneer in the tone of this unidentified speaker and you don’t like it. You want to jump to Dieter’s defense, but something tells you this is a conversation that you shouldn’t be eavesdropping on.

“Whatever, man,” Dieter scoffs dismissively.

There’s noise downstairs now–a slight thud and what sounds like Dieter grunting as if the wind has been knocked out of him.

“What changed?”

“Fuck off,” Dieter spits.

“What. Changed?”

“You weren’t fucking honest with me.”

“Bullshit,” the stranger growls back. “You knew exactly what you were getting into.”

“No, you said everything I wanted, that was the deal. Remember?” It’s quiet for a long moment, and you wonder if Dieter’s pacing. He does that, when he starts to get stressed. “I’m still alone, though.”

“That’s your own fault,” the stranger replies–voice a little softer now. “I didn’t say I would hand you your dreams on a silver platter. You make your own destiny. Surely it hasn’t been so long that you’ve forgotten that little qualifier.”

“I can’t bring someone else into this shit and you know it,” Dieter replies. The venom is gone from his voice now–he just sounds done. Exhausted and spent.

“You can, but you won’t.” There’s a moment of silence, then a heavy sigh. “Start acting like yourself again before you raise too much suspicion.”

“Fine,” Dieter sighs heavily.

There’s a few long moments of silence, and then you hear the heavy solid oak front door shut. Presumably the guest has gone, and while you’re eager to sneak down and see if you can catch a glimpse of who it might’ve been, it’s far too risky with Dieter down there. Something tells you that he should never find out about the way you just eavesdropped on that conversation. You don’t know who he was talking to, or what kind of deal they were discussing–you just know that it’s serious, and definitely above your paygrade.

“Did you find that paperwork?”

You didn’t hear Dieter come upstairs–his sudden question from right behind you makes you jump and whirl around to look at him. You fight to keep your calm as you catch your breath; the last thing you want to do is clue him in that you overheard his conversation with his unknown guest.

“Yeah, I’ve got it right here,” you answer after a thick gulp.

“You’re a doll,” he proclaims with a wide smile. How easily he picks up the face he wears with you after a conversation that clearly upset him. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you hum with a smile. “This entire room is a nightmare. It’s a miracle you ever find anything. You need to get, like… some filing cabinets. At the very least.”

“I’ll, uhh… get right on that,” he says in a way that makes you sure he definitely won’t get right on it.

Despite the nerves still thrumming through your veins, you laugh. “I’ll take care of it.”

“You’re a doll,” he repeats with his trademark grin. “Oh! Hey, uhh… you have tomorrow off. Paid, obviously.”

“Why?” You ask before you can think better of it.

He seems surprised–you don’t normally ask questions, especially about paid vacation days. “Work stuff I gotta take care of. No big deal.”

“Okay,” you answer with a slight frown. “Sure I can’t help?”

He actually does seem to be contemplating it for a moment–his eyes scan over your body, and it’s like he’s considering you more than the actual offer. “No, honey, I’ll be okay.”

“Okay.” You take a short breath, then head towards the door–this was the last task on your list for the night. “Anything else you need before I head out?”

He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head as he follows you down the stairs. “No. Thanks, sweetheart.”

You feel heat fluttering underneath your skin at the pet name–he uses them often and they never fail to make your heart pick up pace. It’s like he can tell, because his eyes linger on your lips for a moment before trailing down to the pulse point on the left side of your neck. You wonder for a second if he can actually see it beating, but you quickly push that ridiculous thought away.

“You’re sure there’s nothing I can do for you tomorrow?”

His eyes are still trained on your neck like he’s completely zoned out or something. You watch as his tongue slowly glides over his bottom lip, trance-like; it makes your breath hitch in your throat.

“Yeah,” he whispers after a long moment–he’s standing so close now, you didn’t even notice him closing in. “I’ll call you if anything comes up.”

“Okay.” You want nothing more than to grab him and pull him in, to kiss him like your life depends upon it. He sounded so upset and every bone in your body is screaming to comfort him. The way he’s looking at you right now, you don’t think he’d mind at all.

Instead you take a deep breath, grab your bag from the bench next to the door, and bid him goodnight.

Dieter doesn’t seem to realize that you’re always working, whether you’re on the clock or not. Even on ‘off’ days, you get loads of calls for scheduling requests and other tasks. Your saving grace is your trusty day planner—it holds both of your schedules, all neatly color-coded for maximum efficiency.

The worst thing you could’ve done on a weekend leading up to awards season is leave it in Dieter’s home office—and yet, as you frantically dig through your tote bag and your desk, that seems to be exactly what you’ve done.

You know Dieter’s got whatever event he’s hosting at home, but you can’t keep taking calls and scribbling notes on napkins without your schedule in front of you. The last thing you want to do is overbook him at a time where every single interview counts.

With a heavy sigh, you dial Dieter’s home number. It rings for what seems like eternity, and just as you’re about to hang up an unfamiliar voice answers.

“Hello?”

With a sigh of relief, you ask, “Hi, is Dieter there?”

“He’s busy.” The voice is high and sweet, yet her tone says she couldn’t be more irritated.

“Okay… umm, it’s kind of important.”

The stranger sighs dramatically. “I can take a message.”

“I just… I left something there, and I need to come get it as soon as possible. But I don’t want to interrupt anything.”

This time when she speaks, her tone is considerably more friendly. “Oh! Yeah, come on over. The more the merrier!”

You can’t help your intrigue, although you really don’t want to intrude without Dieter’s say-so. “Are you sure? I could always come tomorrow, I guess.”

“No no, come! It’s a party, everyone’s welcome!” Then the line goes dead without any further discussion.

You consider redialing in the hopes of speaking and clearing your visit with Dieter, but you doubt you’ll actually get through to him–and really, what harm would a quick visit do? You know exactly where you left it, on the desk in his office. It’ll be five minutes tops, a quick in and out. He might never even know that you’d been there.

You shake off the curious sense of foreboding that overtakes your mind as you grab your keys and lock your apartment door behind you.

It’s a twenty minute ride to Dieter’s house–a lot of time to spend thinking. At the forefront of your mind is that peculiar conversation you overheard last night; you’re not entirely sure why, really. Whoever that man was sounded almost as if he was in some kind of position of power over Dieter, and you don’t have even an educated guess at who that could possibly be. Dieter’s his own boss and he doesn’t take bullying–you’ve never heard someone get away with bossing him around like that before. He’s constantly in some weird form of pissing match with the directors and producers of whatever film he’s working on; he’s never seemed to be good at taking orders, even when he’s supposed to. You’ve heard many a rant about how much he values the ‘freedom of expression’. It all serves to make the mysterious visitor more confusing. Who does Dieter have to answer to?

The cab pulls up in front of his gated home before you’re able to find a plausible answer. You instruct the driver to keep the meter running since you’ll only be a minute before you step out into the crisp late-January air.

The grounds are a lot quieter than you expect them to be as the guard on duty opens the gate and closes it behind you. One thing Dieter’s famous for is noise–his parties are always reported as loud and exciting affairs akin to the fraternities in his favorite movie Animal House. There's no noise at all today, though, and it makes you curious. Is it really a party? Or was the stranger who answered the phone maybe his only guest? If the latter is the case, why would she want you to join in?

There’s a pale man in a cheap-looking suit waiting just inside the door, a tray of filled wine glasses in his gloved hands. “Take one,” he instructs, his eyes distant like he’s looking through you rather than at you.

“Oh, no thank you, I just need to–”

“Take one,” he repeats. “Master’s orders.”

Master? Of course Dieter would be into that.

The wine is a deep red, probably that expensive vintage shit that he’s always raving about. You prefer the grocery store stuff yourself, not just because it’s all you can afford. A drink never hurts, though, and you could certainly use something to take the edge off–because that tingling sense of foreboding has only gotten stronger since your arrival.

You take a glass and swirl its currant-colored liquid around. It seems more viscous than any wine you’ve had before–probably a mark of its age, but that’s just guesswork on your part. You take a small sip, then nearly gag. It’s like drinking a pile of melted pennies. You swallow it down with a grimace anyway since you don’t want to make a scene of spitting it out in front of the server. It leaves a metallic taste in your mouth that you’re eager to wash out–thankfully, the kitchen is on your route to the stairs. You quickly deposit the glass on a table once you’re out of the server’s eyesight, then head down the hall in a desperate search for water.

Once you’re out of the foyer, there are people everywhere. Very subdued people, at that–draped over furniture like throw blankets, some even laying on the floor. You consider checking one’s pulse until he twitches and lets out a muffled groan. Clearly high on something, you’re just not sure what. You nearly trip over one person and they actually hiss at you like some kind of feral cat. Your skin starts to crawl with every step you take. Even more important than your discomfort, though, is finding Dieter. What if he’s like this, too? Do you need to call someone?

You notice a dull ache starting in your gums as you make it to the kitchen–thankfully you’re familiar with his home, and you have a glass of water in your hands within no time. It seems that no matter how much you drink, though, that coppery-bloody taste never leaves your mouth. What the hell was that stuff?

There’s a short-haired blonde woman propped up against the wall underneath the mounted phone; she reaches out a lazy hand in some sort of greeting. She looks vaguely familiar, like someone you might’ve seen on the set of one of Dieter’s films.

“You made it!” She says with a lazy smile. She must be the woman you spoke to earlier, although you’re not sure how she can identify you.

“Yeah. Where’s Dieter?” The longer you’re here, the more worried you become. Something isn’t right, and your skin is prickling with apprehension.

“Upstairs,” she murmurs, then her eyes flutter shut and she slumps a little further down. She’s visibly breathing, at least.

For a moment, you consider picking up the phone and ringing the police. Would that cause more harm than good? Dieter must be aware of what’s going on here–you know you should talk to him before you do anything.

Your mission to find your planner momentarily forgotten, you make your way through the living room towards the stairs.

You check the office at the top first–there’s a few bodies zonked out on the couch, but none of them are Dieter. With trepidation in your very soul, you make your way down the hall. Each room is more of the same–people in varying states of unrest, no sign of the man you’re looking for. Most of them have red-stained lips and you eye more than one smashed glass along your journey. Your own mouth is starting to get alarmingly sore, but you ignore it in favor of finding Dieter.

Each step you take drives your worries deeper into your skull. What if something’s happened to him? What if he’s knocked out like all of his guests, or hurt, or something worse?

This is the first time you’ve breached the bubble of his bedroom. None of your work has ever involved this room, and while you’re a naturally nosey type of person, there’s something deeply personal and sacred about the space someone sleeps in.

Ignoring the steady throbbing in your gums, you knock once before pushing open the door.

Dieter’s alone in his room, sprawled out like a starfish in a sea of rumpled sheets at the center of his massive bed. Something akin to a groan of horror escapes your throat as you see the state he’s in. He’s paler than a corpse and drenched in sweat, chest barely rising and falling with breath.

For a moment, you’re frozen in place. Your entire body breaks out in a cold sweat as you notice the knife in his right hand and the deep gash in the crook of his left arm, right where an IV would normally be set. You can smell the blood draining from him, you can even taste it in the air–or maybe that’s just the lingering taste of whatever you drank downstairs.

Your stomach churns violently with the sudden realization of what you’ve done, of what you’ve drank.

“Dieter!” You manage to choke out while your brain tries to remember how to send the signals required for your body to fucking move.

He lifts his head shakily, brown eyes widening after a long moment of trying to recognize the face he’s looking at. “No no no,” he whispers hoarsely, “you’re not supposed t-to be here. You’re.. y-you’re supposed to be a-at home.”

A sharp, shattering pain in your top gum snaps your brain back into action. In a flash you’re crawling across a seemingly endless desert of mattress and it feels like you’ll never reach him. Everything is moving so slowly–each movement seems to take a hundred times the effort it should.

You spit out a mouthful of blood as the pain heightens, barely registering the two upper canines that go with it.

“What the fuck have you done?” You sob, uselessly pawing at his slashed left arm. It’s a precise cut straight across the artery–your hands are sticky and soaked with red the moment you touch him. Pressure, your brain screams at you. Put pressure on the wound.

“A real artist must suffer,” he mumbles weakly–then, even quieter, “I didn’t want to be alone anymore.”

“You’re dying.” Your voice doesn’t sound like your own anymore. It’s higher, breathier.

“You drank it, d-didn’t you?” He asks, ignoring your statement. His distant eyes are trained on the sharp fangs that have pushed your canines out. “Fuck. Fuck! You were n-never supposed to…”

“Shut up, shut up,” you plead. Every shaky breath seems to cost him years. “How do I fix this? How do I fix you?”

“Thirsty,” he mumbles. There’s water on the sideboard, your brain reminds you. You don’t even remember bringing the glass with you, much less setting it down. Everything is so fuzzy. Your arm doesn’t move nearly as fast as it should when you reach for the glass, and Dieter’s hand weakly comes up to stop you.

“Not water,” he croaks. “Need… need…”

He can’t seem to form the words required to tell you what he needs. He doesn’t have to, though. You know.

“You’re not dying on me, Bravo.” You take the knife from his slack right hand before he can stop you and grit your sore teeth together as you slash it across your palm.

“N-no, don’t…” But he doesn’t resist as you hold your bleeding palm to his mouth. His empty eyes flash back to life with the first taste, and then he takes your hand in his own and drinks greedily. You watch with nothing short of disbelief as the cut on his arm seals itself right before your eyes.

“You were supposed to stay away from this,” he murmurs as his tongue sweeps across your palm. “Why the fuck are you here, baby?”

You don’t even remember anymore. Everything is hazy, everything hurts. It’s a chore just to keep your eyes open.

“Damn it,” he growls–pushing your hand away from his blood-smeared mouth seems to take all his willpower. “I never wanted this for you.”

“It’s okay,” you murmur as you slump down against his sheets. They’re so soft and light, and you want to cocoon yourself in them for the rest of time. “It’s just a dream.”

“Why’d you have to come save me? Huh?” His voice sounds so far away that you’re not even sure he’s really speaking.

“I love you.” It’s okay to say that, because he’ll never actually find out. It’s just a dream, after all; you’ll wake up in the morning confused but totally okay.

“You were never supposed to,” his voice echoes from some plain of existence far, far away. “Damn it honey, stay awake just a minute longer.”

You try, but your eyes are so heavy. He sighs heavily, as if he knows it’s useless.

“Promise you’ll still love me when you wake up,” he pleads through the tunnel that separates you.

Nodding saps the last of your strength, so you let your eyes flutter closed. “Okay.”

You feel his lips against yours and his coppery kiss nearly brings you back from the verge of sleep. In the end, though, your throbbing head wins. Sleep takes hold quickly despite your feeble resistance.

How strange it is to fall asleep in a dream.

➔ beta: @schnarfer and @futuraa-free thank you my lovelies <3

➔ Want to see more from me in the future? Follow @freelancearsonist-updates and turn on post notifications to be notified when I post new fics!

➔ Want to support me? Please reblog this fic! It helps boost it in the algorithm and gives it more circulation no matter what your follower count is :) any feedback or comment is always greatly appreciated!!

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #the bubble #the bubble fanfiction #cece writes

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kth1fics · 2 years ago

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Inconspicuous (M) | KTH (TEASER)

Inconspicuous

⟶ Pairing: Incubus!Taehyung x Female Reader ⟶ Genre: Horror, Smut, Rated R | 18+ ⟶ Tropes: Jennifer’s Body Au, Friends to Lovers?, College Au ⟶ Teaser WC: 600+ ⟶ Warnings: talk of d**th, etc (not much since it's a teaser) ⟶ Beta: n/a (but my beauty jo @daechwitatamic looked through here for me) ⟶ Summary: A demonic force possesses college boy Taehyung, causing him to feverishly lust over unfortunate females who are completely out of his league. As his appetite for human flesh keeps Taehyung alive, you – his best friend since childhood – try everything to stop the savage butchery he leaves in his trail. ⟶ Author’s Note: Completely based off from the 2009 movie Jennifer’s Body, I have twisted a little tale of my own. I truly hope my readers enjoy this dip in horrific evil, and please leave any feedback or comments on a reblog, post, or even my ask box! Be mindful: The fic is still currently being written and is subject to change at any given time!

Masterlist ◈ Mail Box ◈ AO3 ◈ Ko-Fi

You hear the professor mention the debate with his students. He, Professor Greenburg, rests himself atop the corner of his desk as he peels his glasses from his face. The class is divided into a semicircle of chairs, each attached with a small wooden plank which acts as a desk for each student. Taehyung always fancies scooting his chair inches closer to you so he can mumble his remarks and to steal some of your notes or snacks you stuff your bag with.

“Yes, you can!” Your classmate raises their voice to interject another. “Some people are inspired by the movies or shows. Haven’t you seen any news or documentaries?”

“No, it’s not. Movies are not responsible for our actions or pursuit.” Another classmate bounces back.

Taehyung sighs softly, leaning his head against his hand as he shifts his weight. He’s counting down the minutes until your class time is up and for the two of you to leave. At this point it’s routine for the class to continue their arguments and discuss their cases. He just blends into the background and pretends he is invisible.

Dawn, a strong personality sorority sister, sits tall in her seat. Her purple pom-pom pen taps angrily when another student references film and real life being art references and imitation.

“Absolutely not,” she musters her voice up. Her sharp eyebrows stand high on her forehead with shock, “This isn’t a hypothetical situation. It’s not about ‘art’.” Dawn clarifies, “these are real people you’re mentioning. Actual life. This is reality, not a movie.”

“It inspires people and gives people ideas,” you hear someone chirp back. “Think about it, the writers of said movie or show already thought and came up with the scenario. It’s present in at least one person’s mind if you’re being technical about it.”

“And sure, making it into a movie is what? Promoting the idea?” Dawn mocks back.

The class continues to bicker and prod another’s ideas. You attempt to ration a few yourself, listening in and observing the thoughts that come out of your fellow peers. However, Taehyung remains silent. Hushed slightly adjacent to your seat.

A resounded alert chimes from everyone’s phones, loud and startling. A few of you jump, quickly grabbing at your phones to see what all the noise is about. From your device, you see a campus-wide notification. Seems that everyone else received the same one.

You scan the words as someone else verbalizes it for the class.

“Campus curfew?”

The buzzing begins small but grows loud fast.

“All classes after 4:30 PM are canceled and will be merged online for the time being.”

You can hear the groans and moans coming from the other classes down the hall. Maybe some students are happy about the sudden transition.

“What’s this about?” You question out loud, turning your head around to see if you can find the answer from someone. Even when you turn to Taehyung, you see the disappointment of him being clueless.

“Beats me,” he shrugs.

“Is this about what happened from the town over?” You hear a curious classmate ask Professor Greenburg. “From last weekend?”

“It’s tough to say something like that is related to this,” he honestly replies. Professor Greenburg is still rereading the notification from his cellular device. “It wasn’t directly affiliated with the campus or student body, but if it were the case, it’s a precaution to keep things safe.”

“Maybe the police recommended it,” Dawn comments. “I just heard from a friend at a nearby university that they also were given a curfew at their school earlier in the week.”

You tune back to Taehyung, whispering, “What happened?”

“Didn’t someone die?”

“Die?”

“Killed,” Taehyung boldly refines. “Murdered.”

⟶ Estimated Posting Date : Halloween 2023

#inconspicuous #fic teaser #inconspicuous teaser #fic: inconspicuous #bts smut #taehyung smut #taehyung imagines #taehyung x reader #taehyung fanfic #taehyung fic #bts fic #bts halloween #bangtansorciere #btscreaturescoven #bts x reader #kth1fics #btswritersclub

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chicgeekgirl89 · 2 years ago

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Festive Friends- Read on AO3

Rating: T

Words: 8600

This one is for @strandnreyes as part of the @tarlos-santa 2023 exchange! I chose the prompt: AU - Carlos and TK unknowingly have each other for the office secret santa exchange. Up to you if they’re pining idiots, “enemies”, secretly dating, or anything else! Hope you enjoy and have the most festive of holidays!

“Good morning Mr. Reyes.”

Carlos looks up to find the office intern, Mateo, standing cheerily next to his desk, a stack of envelopes in his hand. “Good morning Mateo. And again, you can call me Carlos. Mr. Reyes really isn’t necessary.”

“Sorry Mr. Reyes, I’m just not really used to being like, a real adult yet I guess,” Mateo says sheepishly.

Carlos keeps a chuckle to himself and doesn’t admonish the kid again. “I understand. Whatever you feel comfortable with is fine.”

“Cool. Thanks Mr. Reyes. I brought your mail over for you.”

“Thank you,” Carlos says, accepting the stack from him.

“Can I get you anything? A coffee? Oh! I think Mr. Strand has some new kind of energizing smoothie or something in the break room. Although, it looked kinda gross to me,” Mateo says.

The thought of that smoothie sends a shiver down Carlos’ spine. He hasn’t known Owen Strand for very long, but his health nut tendencies have quickly become too much for Carlos’ taste. “No, that’s okay. I don’t need anything right now. Besides, your job here is to learn about the business, not fetch everyone’s coffee.”

“Right. Yes. Learning. I love learning all the things. Hey, are you coming to the office tree lighting on Friday afternoon? I heard they’re gonna have those little pigs in a blanket.”

Carlos’ eyes dart back to his screen and the half finished email staring at him. “Um, yeah. I’ll be there for a little bit.”

“Awesome!” Mateo seems genuinely thrilled and Carlos once again has to bite back an amused smile. The kid is ninety nine parts enthusiasm and one part overly helpful. “Well I’ll let you get back to it. Lots of…what exactly does HR do?”

“Emails,” Carlos says. “Lots of emails.”

“Right. Sounds fun. Good luck with that!”

Mateo sends him a parting wave and then disappears around the side of his cubicle.

Things have been absolutely crazy at PD and Sons since they merged with 126 Designs a few months ago. Owen Strand had been brought in to manage the merger and insisted on hiring a significant number of new staff. Onboarding the new hires like Mateo has been a ton of work, especially since Owen insisted on being extremely involved in the entire process. Carlos has been in non-stop meetings for weeks and today is the first day he hasn’t felt completely overwhelmed in forever.

He flips through the stack of mail, tossing a few random flyers in the recycling, and setting aside the important envelopes to open later. He wrinkles his forehead when he finds a folded up piece of red paper at the bottom of the stack. When he opens it his eyes immediately widen in horror.

What. The. Hell?

“Lexi.” He stands up and looks down into the cubicle next to him where his work wife is busy with some kind of design project. “Why did I just get a paper telling me who my Secret Santa is this year?”

“I signed you up because I knew you wouldn’t do it otherwise. It’s the season of giving and part of that means giving up your Grinchy ways and pretending like you’re interested in getting to know all the new people in the office,” Lexi says without looking up at him.

His jaw drops. “Okay, first of all, I’m not uninterested in getting to know them. I just haven’t had time to get to know them. And secondly, I hate Secret Santa. Nobody ever really knows what to get you, so you end up with all this random crap and candy that you don’t want and it all sits in a drawer for three or four years until finally you throw it out.”

She finally stops and turns to look at him. “Wow. Okay Uncle Scrooge. First of all,” she echoes him, “it’s not Secret Santa, it’s Festive Friends. Not everybody celebrates Christmas. Get your terminology right. And secondly, it’s not about getting good gifts, it’s about spreading joy for the holiday season. So take the Christmas tree out of your ass and start fa la la-ing with the rest of us.”

“Lexi,” he grinds out her name between his teeth and quickly glances around to make sure no one is in earshot. “I got T.K.”

Lexi is the only one in the office who knows what an incredible disaster meeting T.K. Strand has been for his life. A week after the PD Austin and 126 Designs merger the entire office had gone out for drinks. One thing led to another, which led to another, and ultimately ended up with T.K. very naked in Carlos’ bed.

They’d been incredibly hot and incredibly heavy for a couple weeks after that, sneaking around together, making out in the supply closet, booty calling each other in the dead of night, and Carlos had been so ridiculously happy. T.K. Strand had turned him into a horny freaking teenager.

And then he’d made the mistake of surprising T.K. with dinner. He’d thought it would be romantic. That it might move them from booty call status into something a little bit more permanent.

But T.K. had freaked out, stormed out, and shut Carlos out of his life. Thank god his cubicle is all the way around the corner on the other side of the building. They barely have to see each other except for the occasional awkward brush in the break room or men’s room.

Carlos’ heart has been more broken than he’d like to let on, not to mention his ego is bruised too. The whole thing has made getting to know the other people from 126 Designs like Marjan, Paul, Nancy, and Judd very awkward.. They’re T.K.’s friends. And he doesn’t want to piss T.K. off anymore than he already has.

Of course he has to interact with T.K.’s father, Owen Strand, he is the manager after all, but other than that he’s kept everyone else at an extremely polite and professional distance.

So finding T.K.’s name in his hands is like a punch in the gut.

“Good,” Lexi says, surprising him. “You’ve been pining for him for weeks anyway. Might as well do something about it.”

“Lexi, this guy hates my guts,” Carlos says. “He doesn’t want presents from me.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t hate you. You’re Carlos Reyes. No one hates you.”

“Please switch with me.”

“No.”

“Lexi!”

“No! I got Paul. I already have ideas. I’m not switching. It’s only three gifts, you’ll be fine.”

“Three?! I thought Secret Santa was only one gift!”

“God, do you even read your email? It’s three gifts in the week leading up to the holiday break. This will be good for you. Now go away. I’m working.”

Carlos sinks back down into his chair, misery settling in his stomach. This is going to be absolute torture.

He takes another look at T.K.’s scrawl. His writing looks hurried in a way that suggests he’s so excited that he can’t be bothered to slow down and shape his letters more carefully. It has that same kind of frenetic, joyful energy that drew Carlos to him in the first place. Now the only energy he exudes toward Carlos is coldness.

Carlos catches himself tracing his fingers over the letters of T.K.’s name and balls them into a fist before forcing himself to read T.K.’s answers to the Festive Friends questionnaire. T.K. has written down that he likes sour candy, Harry Styles, boba, and interesting tea flavors. He doesn’t like black licorice, the Mets, or anything with alcohol.

Carlos frowns at that. He doesn’t remember T.K. mentioning anything about alcohol during their weeks together. But then again, they didn’t exactly spend much time talking. Their mouths had been occupied with other things.

It feels unfair to have this scrap of T.K., to get this little glimpse into his life. These are things he doesn’t want Carlos to know. He made that clear when he stormed out the door of Carlos’ condo and left nothing behind except Carlos’ fractured heart.

He takes a breath and squares his shoulders. It’s just a stupid office tradition. They’re colleagues. They’re going to have to become cordial at some point. Maybe this is how he can start to smooth things over. Besides, it’s not like he has to talk to the guy. That’s literally the point. To keep it secret.

This is going to be fine.

It is not fine. It’s not fine because Carlos is the type of person that agonizes over gifts. And in this case, there’s even more pressure because the gifts have to be perfectly impersonal so they don’t say, “Your dick was life changing and I don’t think I’m ever going to recover because now you hate me and I don’t really know why.” He’d much rather they say, “I’m fine and I don’t ever think about you and that thing you did with your tongue that one time.”

Ugh.

He arrives Monday morning the week before Christmas with a gift bag in hand, a Yankees baseball cap tucked inside. It’s a lame gift. Perfectly impersonal. And the rest of his gifts for the week aren’t much better. There’s a small part of him berating himself for not doing a better job. He could at least try. The guy broke up with him, he didn’t murder anyone.

But then he remembers how miserable he was in the days after T.K. had stormed out. Whatever. He didn’t sign up for this anyway. T.K. deserves his boring gifts.

The office is quiet as he makes his way to T.K.’s cubicle. Even just the sight of his desk makes Carlos’ heart ache a little. There’s a picture pinned to his bulletin board of T.K. with their other co-workers, Marjan, Paul, Judd, Mateo, Nancy, and Tommy all smiling and having fun, clearly out for a night on the town together. He’d known 126Designs was small and that was part of the reason for the acquisition; to bring on a tightly knit team to help their own, but seeing T.K. so happy with them all doesn’t really feel great.

He’s been so preoccupied by his own shopping that he completely forgot that he is also getting gifts until he steps into his cubicle and sees a bright green bag with little white Christmas trees all over it. He inspects it carefully, relieved to find there’s no glitter anywhere.

He hates glitter.

There’s a little card attached to the handle and when he opens it it reads “Hope you have a Write Christmas- FF.” It takes him a second to figure out that FF must mean Festive Friend.

He carefully extracts the tissue paper and looks into the bag. It’s office supplies. Pens, post-its, a new stapler, blue paperclips, and a ball of rubber bands.

The pun on the card makes sense, even if it is as terribly lame as the gifts inside. At least it’s practical. He can always use new pens.

“Hey!” Lexi pokes her head in. “Ooh what’d you get?”

He shows her the bag and she nods in approval. “Your Festive Friend knows you like office supplies. Nice.”

“If you’re expecting a thank you for going behind my back on this, you’re going to be waiting a long time,” Carlos tells her as he sits down and opens up his laptop.

“Pretty sure people with that attitude get coal in their stocking,” she tells him, flipping him off before heading to her own cubicle.

It’s midway through the morning and Carlos is about to make yet another phone call when Owen Strand steps into the middle of the bullpen. “All right, attention everyone!” he calls.

The ambient sound of typing and low chatter ceases. “Thank you,” he says. “I just wanted to remind everyone that we have our first team building activity this afternoon. So if you have anything scheduled this is your last chance to rearrange. Mandatory fun is in store for all!”

Carlos bites back a groan. He is really not into mandatory office fun. Especially when it means he’ll be in close proximity to T.K. But he’s also not one to flaunt the rules, so he’s going to have to suck it up and deal.

No one has been allowed in the conference room all morning and when one o’clock rolls around Owen waits at the door with a massive grin on his face. The man is clearly thrilled with whatever he’s cooked up to torture them today.

When Carlos walks through the door he sees why. The tables have been covered in red plastic tablecloths and every two feet or so sits a pile of materials like graham crackers, marshmallows, frosting, and candy. It’s immediately obvious how they will be team building today.

“All right everyone!” Owen says when they’re all assembled. “As you can probably guess our team building activity for today has taken a turn for the festive. And I’ve taken the liberty of assigning you all a partner to work with. Each team will be assembling a pre-determined part of our gingerbread village. Paul, you’re with Marjan.”

They immediately turn and high five, clearly thrilled.

“Nancy with Lexi, Judd with Tommy, Mateo with me,” Owen flashes him a smile and Mateo lets out a whoop.

Carlos’ stomach drops. That leaves him with—“T.K., you’ll be with Carlos.”

Fuck.

“Send one person to grab your pre-assigned building assignment! Remember this is not a competition. We’re all working together to build our village. Just like it takes a village to run a company.”

There’s a brief silence in which everyone internalizes what a dumb, schticky thing Owen has just said and then he claps his hands. “Okay, get to work!”

Everyone claims a spot around the tables. Carlos takes a paper slip from Owen and then looks around to find T.K., who is sitting across the room with his back to Carlos.

Carlos reluctantly walks over and sits in the empty seat next to him, all the while wondering if he can fake sick or claim a family emergency to get out of this. When he finally looks up at his partner he recoils in shock. T.K.’s lip is split and swollen, and there’s a dark ring of bruising underneath his right eye. “What happened to you?” Carlos asks, a surprised reflex releasing the words from his mouth before he can stop them.

The look T.K. sends him immediately reminds him that they’re not friends anymore. It’s full of vitriol and misery and…Carlos looks a little closer. Pain. There’s a rawness there that Carlos doesn’t remember seeing before.

“Sorry,” he says. “I just…that looks like it hurts.”

“Doesn’t feel great,” T.K. agrees, his voice stiff. “What are we supposed to be making?”

Carlos looks at the paper. “Police station.”

“Perfect. Way to read the room Dad. ACAB and all that,” T.K. grouses as he reaches for a pile of graham crackers and immediately begins squeezing icing all over.

“Um,” Carlos hems and T.K. stops.

“What?”

“Don’t you think maybe we should make a plan first?”

T.K. sighs and dramatically drops his piping bag onto the table. “Fine. Do whatever you want.”

“No I—I didn’t mean—” Carlos struggles to find the right words. “It’s fine. Let’s just try and get something standing first. That’s the hardest part anyway.”

They spend a couple minutes in silence gluing graham crackers together with icing and using some marshmallows to prop them up until they have something that roughly resembles walls and a roof. “You’re kind of good at this,” T.K. says.

It’s the closest thing to niceties that they’ve shared in weeks.

“I have a lot of nieces and nephews. Not my first gingerbread house. Although it is my first police station,” Carlos admits.

“Cool,” T.K. says, then winces, his lip clearly hurting.

“You sure you don’t want to tell me what happened?” Carlos asks, feeling a little emboldened by T.K.’s compliment.

T.K. shoots him a glare. “You’re kind of annoying. You know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” Carlos says, trying to let the jab roll off his back. “But I know you’re new around here and you’ve obviously gotten into some trouble. Sometimes it helps to talk things out.”

He gets silence in return. God what the hell is wrong with this guy? He’s literally just trying to help. “Fine. You don’t have to tell me. But you should probably tell someone before whoever gave you that shiner comes back to give you a matching set.”

T.K. goes quiet, fiddling with the icing bag in his hand. When he speaks his voice is soft.“I went to a bar last night.”

“Ah. A little drunk and disorderly,” Carlos says, aware that he’s being snarky and not caring in the least. “So you have an idea of how the inside of this police station should look then.”

“I wasn’t drunk,” T.K. says quickly and Carlos remembers his Festive Friends answers. He looks down. “I just went through a really bad break up. Like nuclear bad. And then I relapsed.” He looks around and lowers his voice. “I relapsed with substances.”

Oh.

Carlos sets down the graham cracker in his hands, his full attention now on T.K. as memory slices through him. “I tried to pour us champagne during dinner. I’m such an idiot I’m sorry—“

“It’s fine, ” T.K. cuts him off quickly, like if he gets interrupted now he won’t ever be able to find the strength to share this again. He fiddles with the peppermint wrapper in his hands. “Ever since I’ve gotten here it’s just…it’s grey. And I just feel numb all the time. So I went out to a bar looking for trouble. And I found it. Big time. I guess I just…I wanted to feel something.”

He’s pulled in on himself, his body looking vulnerable and wounded. Carlos gets it now. The overenthusiastic sex. His no-strings attached mentality. The complete meltdown during dinner. This is a man who has been hurt, and he’s struggling to find a way to heal. Carlos had unknowingly probed at the wound in his soul and T.K. had lashed out. It makes sense, even if it wasn’t fair.

T.K. looks miserable and despite their history all Carlos wants to do is make him feel better. “Judging by that lip, I’d say mission accomplished,” he says, trying to lighten the moment.

“You’re really busting my balls right now?” T.K. asks, an unreadable expression on his face.

“No,” Carlos says. “I’m busting your jingle bells.” He tries and fails to hold back a smile at his incredibly stupid joke.

T.K. blinks at him. “That’s terrible,” he says, but he is also struggling to keep his face neutral.

“And yet you’re smiling,” Carlos says. He feels lighter, like there’s been an ominous blizzard hanging over him in the weeks since they stopped seeing each other. Now it feels like the snow has finally started to fall and all the ugliness of the bare world in winter is being covered in a fresh layer of soft white powder. There’s a sense of hope to it.

“I’m laughing at how stupid it is,” T.K. says.

“Well laugh while you work,” Carlos says, reaching for a bar of Hershey’s chocolate to put on the roof. “I know your dad said it wasn’t a competition, but Marjan and Paul seem to be working on a second story. So I’m not sure they know that.”

Together they finish the roof, adding on lots of dripping icing as snow and icicles. Carlos carefully starts to add windows while T.K. works on the landscaping.

“Tommy I don’t know why you’re trying to make me do these little details when you know I’ve got fat fingers,” Judd is saying across the way as he and Tommy try to add a steeple to their church.

Marjan and Paul’s apartment building does indeed have two stories and they’ve somehow managed to chisel out actual windows in the graham crackers. Lexi and Nancy are creating a ski chalet that includes a chairlift, and Owen and Mateo’s fire station sports a fire pole made of pretzel rods.

“There,” T.K. says, plonking a creation down in front of where Carlos has crafted a front door out of Kit Kats.

Carlos raises an eyebrow. “What is that?”

“A snowman.”

Ah. Now Carlos sees it. There are two marshmallows stacked on top of each other and T.K. has shoved pretzel sticks in each side for arms. There is a lifesaver on each one and they’re connected by a thread of Twizzler. “What’s on its arms?” he asks.

“Handcuffs,” T.K. says.

“The snowman is getting arrested?”

“Or getting ready to do something kinky.”

“In front of a police station?”

“Some people get off on a little exhibitionism. Don’t judge Carlos,” T.K. says, a smirk on his face.

Damn it. They should have stayed mortal enemies. Now that they’re talking again, Carlos feels the urge to drag T.K. into the nearest cubicle and kiss the shit out of him. He didn’t need to go to a bar to find trouble. He could have shown up on Carlos’ doorstep and gotten into plenty.

Carlos’ attempt at a police cruiser has them both laughing; the oreo wheels keep falling off the rice krispie body (which T.K. snuck out and stole from the break room and has loudly been declared illegal by half the staff in the room) no matter how much icing he uses to try and stick them on.

“Stop eating our building materials,” Carlos admonishes a few minutes later when he goes for another red gum drop and finds they’re nearly gone.

“Why? They’re delicious. Tis the season for sugar,” T.K. says.

Carlos goes to give him a look and notices a dab of frosting on the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got some—“ He mimes brushing it away.

T.K. grabs a tissue and wipes, but misses completely. “No other side,” Carlos directs without success. “Here just, let me.”

He swipes the tissue from T.K.’s hand and dabs carefully, taking care not to pull on T.K.’s split lip. Their eyes meet and a heat passes between them, setting Carlos’ bones on fire. He clears his throat. “Got it.”

“Thanks,” T.K. says quietly.

They spend another half hour decorating before Owen makes them put all the buildings together into a little town while he snaps a picture for the company social media accounts. It’s actually pretty adorable once assembled and Carlos goes home that night strangely optimistic about what the rest of the week has in store.

Tuesday is business as usual and by the time Wednesday morning rolls around Carlos finds himself excitedly driving into work, his gift for T.K. in the passenger seat. He’s scrapped all his other gifts and spent the last two days looking for better items. Last night he visited a local tea shop and probably went a little overboard. They’d definitely upsold him on a few things and he’d let it happen because Monday’s gingerbread decorating had put a kernel of hope in his chest and…it can’t hurt to make sure T.K. likes his gifts, right?

He drops off T.K.’s gift bag and is only mildly disappointed when he walks into his own cubicle to find his desk is empty. It doesn’t matter; at least, that’s what he tells himself. Honestly, he’s not surprised. People are terrible at doing Secret Santa, it’s very likely that his person has forgotten him in the hustle and bustle of the holiday season.

He heads to his desk and gets right to work because they’re all heading out early to help with a toy drive at the local fire station; another of Owen’s brilliant ideas to encourage office camaraderie. It means he has a lot more to take care of than usual to try and make up for the lost time, and by mid-morning he’s in desperate need of a second coffee.

He’s about to get up and make one when his phone rings. It’s Ernie, their security guard from downstairs informing him that there’s a delivery waiting for him. Confused but intrigued Carlos heads for the elevator.

“Hey Ernie, all set for the holidays?” he asks when he reaches the desk on the ground floor.

“Just about. Got a couple more things to pick up today, but then I should be good to go,” Ernie tells him. He nods toward a bag and a coffee cup on the desk. “That’s for you.”

“Thanks.”

Carlos picks up the white paper sack and has to hold back a snort when he sees what’s written on the side. Hope the holidays don’t make you “cronuts”- FF. He peeks inside and inhales the scent of cronuts from Twiggy’s. Cronuts are a massive weakness of his, and a sip of the coffee tells him it’s made just to his specifications, a little bit of cream, no sugar. Whoever his Festive Friend is, they know him well. His suspicions are definitely leaning more and more toward Lexi.

He gets back in the elevator and when he steps off he nearly runs over T.K. “Whoa, sorry,” he says, holding up the coffee so it doesn’t spill all over T.K.’s chest.

“Lunch?” T.K. asks, nodding toward the bag.

“A snack from my ‘Festive Friend,’” he says. “Cronuts from the Twiggy’s.”

“That place is great. Enjoy,” T.K. says.

“Do you want one?” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself. God he’s needy. “I um, I got two and I can’t eat both. They’re really only good fresh, it’s not like I can save one—“

“Sure.” T.K. thankfully interrupts his ramble and the affirmative response sends a jolt of electricity through him.

They step into the break room and T.K. boils some hot water for tea before settling down across from Carlos at one of the high top tables, a kitschy little vase of fake flowers between them.

Carlos pulls out the cronuts and puts each one on a paper plate. They’re decorated for the season as little Santa bellies, and hopefully they’re as delicious as he remembers. He slides one toward T.K. before picking up his own and taking a massive bite. He has to hold back a groan. They’re freaking amazing.

When he looks up he finds T.K. staring at him with an amused smirk on his face. “Sorry,” Carlos says, feeling his cheeks heat. “I um, these are my favorite.”

“So I can see,” T.K. says, the smirk widening a little. “The last time I saw that look we were both way more naked.”

Carlos feels his entire face go red at the reminder. He finishes chewing his bite, trying not to let memories of said naked time take over his brain. “So your dad,” he says. “He’s really into the holidays huh? We’ve never had so many festive office events.”

“Yeah my dad doesn’t really do anything by half measures,” T.K. says. “I think he might be overcompensating on the holiday cheer a little bit this year. The move down here was kind of a lot and I haven’t exactly been a bundle of joy lately, so he’s trying to fix it with cocoa and faux Christmas wreaths.”

Carlos takes another bite and thinks carefully about his next move. This new dynamic between them still feels tenuous, and he doesn’t want to fracture it. But at the same time, he can see the unfiltered hurt in T.K.’s eyes and he longs to help bear the weight of it. “You mentioned a breakup the other day,” he says quietly. “Is that part of why you came?”

T.K. blows out a breath and looks down at his cronut. “It’s the whole reason we came.”

Carlos watches as he wrestles internally and he’s just about to say that T.K. doesn’t have to tell him anything, when T.K. starts to speak again. “I had a boyfriend, in New York. Alex. We were together for like…I don’t know, a year I guess? He was the first boyfriend I’d had since getting sober and I wanted it to work so badly. Like this relationship was proof I finally had my shit together, you know?”

Carlos nods.

“I had this plan, I was going to propose to him. Had a ring, a restaurant, the whole thing. I was basically down on one knee and he—he told me he’d been cheating on me. With his spin instructor.”

Something hot and violent shoots through Carlos. “That motherfucker,” he says, before he can stop himself.

T.K. looks up in surprise and lets out a startled laugh.

“Sorry,” Carlos says. “That’s just…wow what an asshole.”

“Yeah he definitely was,” T.K. says, looking a little more relaxed now, as if Carlos’ angered sympathy has put him more at ease. “For a long time I think. I can look back on it now and see little moments. We only ever went where he wanted to go for dinner. He was always busy when I asked him to meet my friends. There was stuff I was overlooking because I was trying to prove to everyone else that I was stable.”

“I get that,” Carlos says.

T.K. shifts a little. “I went home after that, found a bottle of pills and…took them until I couldn’t feel anymore. My dad had to bust down the door to save my life.” He shrugs. “And that’s how we ended up here. He knew I needed to get away, so he took me as far as he could get.”

He looks up at Carlos. “I’m doing better now. Well, kind of.” He indicates his black eye. “But that’s why I freaked out on you that night. It wasn’t the champagne or anything you did. You were—you were so kind to me Carlos. I just wasn’t ready for it. And I’m really sorry that I walked out on you.”

The urge to reach over and touch him, to hold his hands and soothe away the hurt that’s painted into the lines of his forehead is overwhelming. But he’s not sure T.K. would be into that so he grips his own thighs instead. “Thank you for telling me,” he says. “That all sounds really difficult. I’m sorry I ambushed you. And I’m sorry I wasn’t more understanding when I realized you were uncomfortable. I think um, I think my ego took a little bit of a hit,” he says sheepishly.

“Oh you think Mr. ‘I Know It Doesn’t Look Like a Lot of Work’?” T.K. asks with a grin.

“Hey, that fish took me like three hours to make,” Carlos teases. “You missed out.”

T.K. sobers a little and fiddles with his cronut again. “I think I missed out on a lot.”

Carlos opens his mouth to offer a response, but Lexi pokes her head into the break room. “Carlos, your phone is ringing off the hook.”

“Coming,” he says, sliding off the stool and picking up his plate with the last couple bites of cronut on it. “Are you going to the toy drive this afternoon?”

“Boss dad said be there so yeah, I’m going,” T.K. says. “Thanks for the cronut.”

“You’re welcome,” Carlos says and then hustles back to his cubicle, where his phone is indeed ringing off the hook. He shoves the last bite of cronut into his mouth as he sits down, chewing furiously before he picks up. “This is Carlos.”

An HR crisis means Carlos is the last one to leave the office and arrive at the fire station’s toy drive. He looks for T.K. as soon as he gets there, but Lexi pulls him over to a table where they’re taking donations for one of the local food pantries.

“So,” Lexi says as they fill boxes with canned beans and stuffing mix and mac and cheese, “looks like someone’s back on Carlos Reyes’ nice list. Although with the way you were looking at him, seems more like you’d prefer he stay on the naughty list.”

“Lexi!” Carlos hisses, looking around. “There are kids here!”

“Oh they can’t hear me,” she scoffs, handing him a bag of flour. “They’re all at the make-an-ornament station.”

Carlos looks over and finds T.K. hunkered down by that very table, laughing and smiling as he helps a couple kids glue pompoms and sequins to colored paper. It’s adorable and Carlos’ heart melts a little at the sight.

“See? That look right there. You’ve got it bad. You want him to jingle your ba—“

“I’m going to remind you that I’m your HR rep and you probably shouldn’t finish that sentence,” he says quickly.

“Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “But you two did look pretty cozy in the break room earlier. The great branzino war is over I take it?”

“Yeah we had a good talk,” Carlos says.

She clears her throat. “You can say thank you anytime now you know.”

He furrows his brow. “For what?”

“For making you do Festive Friends and fixing your broken heart.”

“My heart was not broken,” he scoffs.

“You have been acting like you’re in the last ten minutes of a Hallmark movie for weeks. Time to finally realize you’re in love and kiss under the mistletoe,” Lexi tells him.

“Just because we’re friendly now doesn’t mean we’re going to kiss.”

“Okay. Sure. Believe whatever you want.”

There’s a massive influx then from a church group and thankfully the matter is dropped for the rest of the night.

On Friday Carlos stops at home to change his clothes before heading to a local bar for their holiday party and the big Festive Friends reveal. He puts on a pair of dark jeans and winces when he pulls on the ugly sweater that Owen insisted they all wear. As far as they go, his is pretty tame, albeit with a bit more sparkle and pizazz than he usually goes for. It says Feliz Navidad in tinseled letters with some primary colored pom poms decorating the rest for good measure. It had been part of a family white elephant a few years ago and has sat in the back of his closet since for good reason.

He gabs the box he wrapped up for T.K. on the way out the door. It’s nearly as brightly colored as his sweater. Generally he tries for a more sedate theme in wrapped gifts, but T.K. is so vivacious and colorful that he broke into the stash of wrapping paper he usually saves for his nieces and nephews.

He’s nervous as he drives and he can’t quite put his finger on why. Is it because he wants T.K. to like his gift? Because things between him and T.K. have shifted in a more positive direction and his stupid heart can’t quite stop believing that tonight might be like that first night at the honky tonk? Is it because he feels very stupid in this sweater and he really hopes everyone else obeyed Owen’s instructions from the email invite?

Probably all of it.

Ah well. At least if things don’t go well there will be liquor around to help drown his sorrows.

There’s immediate relief when he walks in through the doors of the bar and sees holiday themed knit-ware all over. “Hey Carlos, glad you came,” Owen says, greeting him at the door in a sweater with a massive reindeer head on the front.

“Mr. Strand,” Carlos says, giving him a nod.

“Carlos we’ve been over this. You can call me Owen,” Owen says, a tinge of good natured exasperation in his tone.

“Yes, right, sorry” Carlos says, embarrassed. Didn’t he just chide Mateo for the same thing last week? Somehow this seems different. And definitely a weird way to address the man who fathered his most recent hookup.

“Go ahead and grab a drink, there’s hors d’oeuvres, I highly recommended the stuffed mushrooms, and then when the time feels right make sure you deliver your gift to your Festive Friend,” Owen says brightly. Then he leans close. “I got Judd a new belt. Italian leather, handcrafted, this thing is a masterpiece. He is gonna love it!”

“I’m sure he will,” Carlos agrees.

“Oh! Nancy! Come on in!” Owen gives Carlos a pat on the shoulder and moves past him to greet her.

Carlos says hello to Judd and his wife Grace, his eyes searching the room and finally landing on T.K. who is standing at the bar chatting with Mateo. Carlos’ heart flutters at the sight of him even as he tries to figure out what the heck is knitted on the back of his sweater. It appears to be a long, yellow tail, but that can’t possibly be right, can it? He takes a breath and then abruptly loses courage and goes to find Lexi instead. “Nice earrings,” he says when he gets to her table.

“Thanks,” she says, pushing her hair back so he can see them better. “They’re from my ‘Festive Friend’ Marjan.”

“Great,” Carlos says as he grabs a chip from a bowl on the table. “Did you give Paul your gift?”

“Yes, he is thrilled with the crime novels I got him. He hasn’t read that author yet so hopefully he likes them.” She gives him a look. “Why do you still have T.K.’s?”

“I haven’t seen him yet,” Carlos says defensively.

“You mean you saw him and you’re too chicken to go over there because you’re having feelings and don’t know what to do with them,” she says bluntly. “Are you going to ask him out when you give it to him?”

“I—I don’t know,” Carlos says. “That seems pushy.”

“You two were practically making out in that break room.”

“We were literally sitting three feet apart,” Carlos says dryly.

“Fine. You were emotionally making out.”

He wrinkles his nose. “That’s not a thing.”

“I think you should ask him. It’s Christmas. The season of miracles. And wishes. And Santa shit. This is your chance!” she says enthusiastically.

“How much have you had to drink?” he asks.

She scoffs. “This isn’t drunkeness. It’s my Christmas wish that you grow a pair and ask T.K. out.”

“That is a terrible wish,” Carlos says.

“Well it is what it is. You wouldn’t want to break a girl’s heart at Christmas would you?”

He opens his mouth to respond but Paul calls Lexi’s name and beckons her toward him. “That’s my cue,” she says, hopping off her bar stool. “Gonna go kick Paul’s ass at darts. Good luck!”

And with that she’s gone, leaving Carlos alone with his feelings and his gift box. He stares at it for a moment and gives himself a stern pep talk. It’s a gift. Not a marriage proposal. If T.K. hates it, it’s whatever.

“Hey Carlos.”

He’s waited too long. He looks up to find T.K. standing on the other side of the table, a smile on his face. Carlos can now see the front of his sweater. Some kind of lizard smiles at him, clearly the front end of the tail he spotted before. Above it are the words “Merry Crickets.” It is truly the most hideous thing he’s ever laid eyes on, but somehow T.K. makes it look adorable.

“Hey,” he replies..

Excellent. Great. He’s crushing this.

“Nice sweater,” T.K. says, taking a sip of the drink in his hand.

“Thanks. This is some party. Your dad is quite the host.”

T.K. rolls his eyes, but there’s a fondness to it. “Just be grateful I talked him out of chartering a party bus. And roller skating.”

“Your dad thought our holiday party should be at a roller rink?”

“He was going with an 80’s holiday theme at first,” T.K. says. “It took a lot of bargaining to get him down to ugly sweater instead. I think he was an event planner in a former life.”

“He definitely has a flair for it,” Carlos agrees. He looks down at the present in front of him. He should have gotten a drink before doing this. “So um, actually, I’m your Festive Friend. Surprise. This is for you.”

He slides it across the table and T.K.’s eyes immediately light up. “Can I open it now?” he asks eagerly.

He looks like a kid on Christmas morning and it’s so endearing that Carlos can barely breathe. “Yeah, yes, it’s all yours.”

T.K. pulls off the bow and rips open the paper, lifting out the soft yellow sweatshirt inside. He doesn’t say anything for a moment and Carlos feels a flutter of nerves. “It’s—“

“The sweatshirt Harry Styles wore in New York last summer,” T.K. says. His tone is almost reverent, his thumbs moving back and forth to stroke the material. “Oh my god. I have Harry Styles’ sweatshirt.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not the exact one he wore,” Carlos says, feeling sheepish. “But I know you like him and hoodies so it seemed right.”

“It must have taken forever for you to find this,” T.K. says.

“Oh, no, it was…it was no big deal,” Carlos says, omitting the entire night he spent on instagram combing through Harry’s outfits of the last few years and trying to find them for sale.

“Thank you Carlos,” T.K. says, sincere gratitude in his voice. “This is amazing. All your gifts were amazing.”

“I mean, that hat was kind of lame,” Carlos says, still embarrassed that he bought something so generic.

“No it’s great! I’m going to wear it the next time I go to an Astros game,” T.K. says, a twinkle of mischief in his eye.

Carlos chuckles. “Yeah good luck with that.”

“Did you get your last gift yet?” T.K. asks casually.

Carlos shakes his head. “Not yet.”

“Any guesses who it might be?”

He has no idea. There’s no one in the office that knows him well enough to send him cronuts besides Lexi and he knows she had Paul. “No,” he says. “Usually I’m pretty good at figuring this kind of thing out, but everyone in the office is so new I haven’t really been able to get a read on anyone.”

“Marjan?”

“She had Lexi.”

“Paul?”

Carlos looks around until he finds him standing in a corner next to a Christmas tree, laughing at something Lexi just said. “I don’t think so. He’s from Chicago, I doubt he would know about Twiggy’s.”

“Judd?”

“Something tells me he wouldn’t know about cronuts either,” Carlos says with a laugh. “I feel like it has to be someone who knows me pretty well, but Lexi is the only one—“

His eyes land on T.K.’s face and he knows. He can see it in his eyes and he feels stupid he didn’t realize it before when T.K. used that false casual tone. “You?” he asks in surprise. “You’re my Festive Friend?”

T.K. reaches into his back pocket and pulls out an envelope. “Merry Christmas,” he says as he hands it to Carlos.

Still in a little bit of shock Carlos carefully lifts the flap on the envelope to reveal a printed out email inside. “A cooking class?” he asks, looking up to search T.K.’s eyes.

T.K. nods, a flicker of nerves flashing over his face. “It’s bruschetta, pasta, and a dessert. A husband and wife team run it out of their home. I thought, I mean you obviously know how to cook, but I thought it might be fun.”

“It sounds amazing,” Carlos says genuinely. He’s always wanted to try his hand at homemade pasta.

T.K. nods and takes a breath. “I um, I got you two tickets. You can take whoever you want, but I—“ He runs his hands nervously over his jeans. “I know I fucked things up between us, so I was hoping that maybe this could be kind of a do-over for us. If you want?”

“Yes,” Carlos says immediately. It’s embarrassingly fast and absolutely gives away how badly he wants them to try again, but he doesn’t care. “Yes I would love a do-over.”

“Yeah?” T.K. asks, his eyes full of hope.

“Yeah,” Carlos says. A smile plays on his lips and he’s about to thank T.K. for his other gifts when something occurs to him. “You little shit!” he says incredulously. “You bought me those cronuts and then sat there and ate one like you had no clue who’d given them to me!”

T.K. sends him a wicked smile. “I was counting on your holiday generosity,” he says.

“How did you even know about that bakery?” Carlos asks.

“You mentioned it,” T.K. says. “I don’t know, it was the second or third time we hooked up. I saw a flyer for them on your fridge and you told me how good they were.”

“You remember that?” Carlos asks in surprise. After their blowup he’d convinced himself that he was just a warm body for T.K. to be with, another notch in his bedpost who’d meant nothing to him.

T.K. looks at him, his face serious. “I remember all of it Carlos.”

The words make his heart swell and he hysterically wonders if this is how the Grinch felt when he heard the Who’s singing on Christmas. “I remember too,” he says. “It was incredible.”

“That first night, in the honky tonk. Best bathroom hookup of my life,” T.K. tells him.

“Only bathroom hookup of my life,” Carlos says.

“Yeah, I know,” T.K. says with a roll of his eyes.

“How could you know that?”

“Because you kept looking around like it was the most unsanitary thing you’d ever seen in your life,” T.K. tells him. “So I made it my mission to make you forget all about it. Pretty sure I succeeded.”

Carlos flushes as he thinks about T.K.’s mouth and his hands and the way they felt on his body. “You definitely did.” His gaze drops to T.K.’s lips. “God, I want to kiss you so badly right now.”

T.K. smirks, clearly please that he’s turned Carlos on in the middle of this bar. “What’s stopping you?”

“Um the fact that all of our co-workers are here. And also your dad,” Carlos says with a laugh.

As if on cue Owen’s voice rings out over the crowd. “All right everyone!” He claps his hands a couple times. “If I could have everyone’s attention please! Thank you all for coming to the 126 Designs holiday party. I have a little surprise up my sleeve. Tonight, we are going to be participating in some holiday karaoke!”

A bar employee rolls a karaoke machine in out of nowhere to cheers from the crowd. “Did you know?” Carlos asks.

“No,” T.K. says. “But I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Get on over here!” Owen encourages them. “Judd! Let’s hear a little Deck the Halls buddy!”

“Come on.”

T.K. reaches for Carlos’ hand and pulls him toward a side door. “Wait, what about karaoke?” Carlos asks.

“Do you really want to stay here and listen to my dad attempt a version of Santa Claus is Coming to Town?”

Carlos considers this. “Actually…”

T.K. laughs and tugs him again. “Come on Reyes.”

They step outside into the night, the door closing behind them. It’s quiet and the air has a slight chill. Nothing that would even hint at a white Christmas, but enough that it feels like the holiday season instead of the dead of summer. A few stars have managed to permeate the light pollution and the moon shines brightly above them.

The side of the restaurant is lit by a single streetlamp, giving them just enough light to see each other, but also the illusion of privacy from anyone else who might be walking by. T.K. leans against the brick of the wall and tugs Carlos toward him, dropping his hand so he can grab his waist, his thumb pressing into the crease between Carlos’ thigh and his hip through his pants. “Well,” T.K. says, the cocky ass smirk on his face that shoots something hot through Carlos’ veins. “Go ahead. Kiss away.”

Carlos looks around in fake concern. “Mmm, I don’t know. Someone could still see us out here.”

“Don’t worry,” T.K. pulls a sprig of mistletoe from his pocket and dangles it over their heads. “I swiped this from inside. Now you have to kiss me. Christmas rules.”

“Oh is that right?” Carlos asks with smile, pressing in a little closer, and lifting a hand to run it through T.K.’s hair before sliding it down to cradle the back of his neck.

“Definitely,” T.K. says.

Carlos doesn’t waste another second before leaning in and fitting their lips together. The sparks inside him whirl and dance before bursting into full on flames. It feels like coming home.

T.K. opens up and invites him in, their bodies coming flush together, searching for as much contact as possible. Carlos fists one hand into T.K.’s hair, the other landing solidly on his lower back and urging him closer, while T.K.’s roam everywhere, traveling Carlos’ biceps, his chest, his back, his ass, and everything in between.

Carlos slots a thigh between T.K.’s legs, pressing into him and T.K.’s head falls back against the wall, eyes closing as he lets out something between a groan and a sigh. Carlos smiles and uses the change in position to press kisses into the sensitive spot just below his ear. “I missed you,” he says in between breaths.

“I missed you too. Am I going to have to report this to HR?” T.K. asks.

Carlos pauses and pulls back, sending T.K. a withering look. “Haha,” he says dryly. “Thanks for reminding me that I’m going to have my hands full with this one in the new year.”

“My ass is quite a handful,” T.K. says with a smirk. “But you can handle it. It’s just a little bit of paperwork. And someone got you really nice pens for the holidays.”

“Yeah someone did,” Carlos says, poking him in the side until he squirms. “Speaking of paperwork, you owe me a thank you note for your gifts.”

T.K. bites his lip. “Why don’t you take me back to your place and I’ll do a little better than a thank you note?”

Fuck. Carlos swallows hard. “What about the party? Won’t your dad be upset?”

“I’m spending Christmas day with him. He’ll live.” He slides a finger along the waistband of Carlos’ jeans. “We can go back in if you really want to though. I do a mean rendition of Jingle Bell Rock. We can stand in there with all of our co-workers and you can try not to think about how good I’d make you feel if the two of us were in bed together.”

Carlos strokes a thumb across T.K.’s cheek. “As much as I would like to hear you sing Jingle Bell Rock, I think I’d rather take you home.”

T.K. gestures toward the street. “Then lead on Festive Friend.”

It’s the merriest Christmas Carlos has had in a long time.

#Tarlos #Tarlos Secret Santa #tarlossanta #tarlossanta23 #Festive Friends #Office AU #Christmas #Secret Santa #Christmas Fluff

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