#CEO of not handling compliments | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joonjuul · 5 months ago

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workplace. pjm

pairing: ceo!jimin x assistant!reader

wc: 4.6k

warnings: dom!jimin, mean!jimin, virgin!reader, noncon, coercion, light fingering (f receiving), light blood, crying, desk sex, jimin is a complete asshole

a/n: this is barely edited so good luck (ps thank you for all the love on my last fic! reqs are open id love to write some stuff yall wanna read :3

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you feel your fingers begin to cramp as you finish sending what feels like your 100th email of the day. staring at the computer screen as your eyes blur from sensitivity.

you can’t help the sigh that escapes your lips as you allow your face to fall into your hands. it was the busiest time of the year at your company, and you were struggling to keep up with all the side jobs your boss was giving you. it felt like every two seconds there was a new request in your inbox, only piling on top of the ones you still had yet to accomplish.

park jimin was hard on you, that was evident. you understood what you were getting into when you accepted the job, but you never could’ve prepared yourself for how hard on you he really was. everyone told you to decline his position offer, but you were in no place to pass up work, especially not with the salary he was giving you. but now you were starting to regret your choices.

just as you thought you were beginning to regain your composure, you hear that familiar notification sound, pulling you away from your thoughts.

1 new message in your inbox.

what could he possibly want now? haven’t you done enough already? the day had barely started and you felt like you were already exhausted enough to go home.

you couldn’t help the rage that filled you, almost like your efforts to him meant nothing. he never praised you nor complimented you for your hard work to him and the company, only coldly filled your inbox with new things to be completed. you had had enough of this torturous cycle.

you took a deep breath as you stood before the office door. although it was shut, you could still feel his presence through the walls. he was so intimidating, you couldn’t believe you were actually going to stand up to him, but you couldn’t handle it anymore. you were his assistant, not his bitch.

you felt the cold metal pang against your knuckles as you melodically knocked on the door, waiting for a signal to enter.

“yes?��

his voice sent a shiver down your spine. he didn’t sound happy, but then again, he never sounded happy. always so distant, locked up in his office like a hermit. he should try doing your job for a day.

you felt your hand turn the knob unconsciously as the door swung open gently. his presence now unmistakable as he sat proudly at his desk. he wasn’t cocky, or egotistical, he was almost… emotionless, like a robot that had no feelings for anything except the success of his latest business endeavor.

you stood before him, feeling the cold air of his office brush against your bare thighs, suddenly aware of how short your skirt was. you felt out of place standing before him, you probably hadn’t spoken to him directly since the interview that had you hired months prior.

“can i help you?” his voice rang again, your heart only beating faster. did he even know your name?

“sorry to bother you, sir. i was just hoping i could speak to you about something really fast.” all confidence that you had earlier was now gone seeing him sat before you. it was almost as if you weren’t a human being to him, just a pawn to ensure his work runs smoothly.

he signaled to the chair in front of his desk, allowing you to sit, his eyes never wavering from his computer screen. what was so important that he couldn’t have a conversation with you like a normal human?

nonetheless, you felt your feet carry you to the chair before him, carefully sitting down and quickly crossing your legs as not to expose too much of your upper thighs. not that he would notice anyway.

you sat in silence for a moment, waiting for him to make eye contact with you or start the conversation, but he never did.

you clear your throat gently, trying to gain the strength to speak.

“well, sir. i feel like sometimes with this job, i know that it’s the busiest time of the year, and that i’m supposed to complete any assignment you give me, but sometimes it feels although, not that you do it on purpose but-“

“spit it out.” his words are harsh, cutting you off, but his eyes still haven’t acknowledged your presence.

you clear your throat again, feeling slightly worse knowing he probably doesn’t care much about what you have to say.

“i’m just feeling very overwhelmed with the amount of work you’ve been giving me lately, sir.” you didn’t want to come off strong or demanding, but you’re starting to lose your patience.

you watch as his typing stops, his eyes finally looking up at you but now you wish they never had. his gaze is intense, and not in a way that’s professional, but in a way that’s hurtful. he looks… mean.

“is this job too much for you, y/n?” his voice is calm, emotionless as his eyes stay fixated on yours trying to gauge your reaction.

you shake your head no quickly, realizing the position you’ve just put yourself in. you couldn’t lose this job.

“n-no sir. not at all. i just feel like-“

“because i can easily find someone who can handle the workload this position requires.” he cuts you off again, leaning back in his chair to look at you intensely.

you gulp, not really knowing how to respond.

“i-i can assure you sir im more than capable-“

“are you? because it doesn’t seem like it.” he crossed his hands on his lap as he speaks. how can he be so cold? it’s not like you were asking him to stop giving you work. you just needed at least some more time in between assignments.

“i’m sorry, sir that was never my intention.” your gaze falls down to your lap, feeling so small, like nothing you say matters.

you hear him begin to move from his chair as he stands up and approaches you. his eyes watching you carefully, scanning from your face, to your collarbones, all the way down to your legs and back. he smirks slightly, the first time you think you’ve seen him display a tinge of emotion as he moves to where he’s standing behind you, gently placing a hand on your shoulder.

“you’re a good employee, y/n”

you’re shocked at his words. “i-i am?”

you look up from your lap and turn your head to see him standing behind you, a small smile on his face as he nods his head reassuringly.

“absolutely. best assistant i’ve ever had.”

you feel your cheeks heat up. he’s never praised or complimented your work before. it almost feels like a major accomplishment in your career.

“well thank you, sir.” you smile up at him, but watch as his disappears. his face now just as cold as it was when you first walked in the door.

“is that what you wanted to hear? you wanted me to tell you you’re doing a good job?” he begins to move his position so he’s standing in front of you, leaning against the desk as he watches your face change in confusion.

“i mean, it’s nice to hear every once and a while.”

“well i’m not nice, y/n.” your ears begin to ring at his words, now becoming more and more anxious in his presence. why was he being like this?

“i’m sorry, sir i don’t understand-“

“you’re here to do a job, y/n. i give you assignments, and you complete them. is that too much for your little brain to handle?” his words are like knives as you feel your eyes begin to water slightly as his voice raises in volume. he wasn’t yelling, he was still calm, however obviously frustrated with you.

you sit in silence, your gaze returning to your lap as you feel too cowardly to even respond.

“nothing to say now, hmm?” he says again coldly, almost mocking your state. you continue to look in your lap, avoiding his intense stare at all costs.

you feel your heart drop as he reaches a hand out to your chin, gripping it slightly to look up at him.

“you want to please me, don’t you y/n?” his eyes are glaring at you, his words harsh and his face emotionless as he awaits for your response.

“y-yes sir.” you clench your thighs together at his words, afraid he might be able to see too much of you from the close proximity. he looks down at your legs, noticing the slight movement and smirks as his eyes return back to yours.

“now you can either please me, or i’ll find someone else that can.” his fingers begin to grip on your chin tighter, almost until it becomes painful.

you look up at him confused, not sure what he means. “i’m sorry sir, i’m not understanding.”

he releases his grip on your chin, rolling his eyes as he leans down, his hand now grazing your inner thigh. you feel your stomach drop as you realize now what he was implying. you had no intention of sleeping with park jimin, he was your boss, and as much as you could appreciate his attractiveness, you were a modest girl, and held your virginity very close to your heart. you promised yourself as a young girl that you would prioritize yourself and respect not only your body but your future husband.

“do you want to keep your job, y/n?” you feel goosebumps arise on your skin as his fingers begin to trail up higher and higher. you hate the way your body’s reacting, and internally scold yourself for being so sensitive to touch, having not received much of it in your life thus far.

you gain as much confidence as you possibly can as you look up at him, his eyes dark and taunting.

“i hope you’re not implying what i think you’re implying, sir.” your voice comes out shakier than you had anticipated, and you watch as your boss only chuckles lowly in response.

“i guess that depends on whether or not you want to keep your job, sweetheart.” he pulls his hand away from your thigh and returns to his original position behind his desk. sitting down cockily as he begins to pick up where he left off on his computer.

you’re shocked at his behavior. you never would’ve imagined that a man as professional as him would create such an uncomfortable work environment for a young girl like you just setting out on her career.

if you thought you had felt rage earlier, you were wrong. you sprung up from your seat and stormed behind his desk. “you can’t do this.”

he stops his typing and turns in his chair to face you, a sly grin plastered across his face.

“of course i can, sweetheart. i own the company.”

you feel defeated. how is it that you ended up in this position? all you wanted was a break from all the work he piles on top of you. you were only one person, and now he was treating you like you were nothing more than an office slut to be used by him whenever he felt like it. you were not about to let that slide.

“you don’t deserve to run a company if you’re going to do so by using fear.” you felt the words leave your mouth before you even had a chance to process them. watching as his sly grin turned into a cocky smile. he sat up in his chair just enough so he was able to reach out and wrap a hand around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

you feel your breath hitch in your throat at the sudden contact, and watch as his hand that was once around your waist slides down to the inside of your thigh once more.

“sweetheart, fear is how you get things done.” he looks up at you tauntingly as he brings his hand higher and higher up your thigh, only inches away from your most sacred area.

you feel your legs begin to tremble slightly, both in fear and sensitivity. you hate how your body was reacting to his touch, but you couldn’t help it. you didn’t want to have sex with him but after being celibate your whole life, your body had a mind of its own.

“stop touching me.” your voice is breathy and unstable, only spurring him on more.

he brings his hand up even higher between your legs, gently grazing against your clothed core. “should i? i mean it looks like you’re enjoying it. you don’t have to fake it, y/n, we both know you want this.” you freeze up as you feel his finger move towards the side of your underwear, pushing the seam to the side as he begins to push a finger towards your sopping hole.

you quickly snap yourself back to reality and push his hand away. you hated being pushed around, and you weren’t about to let him get away with it.

“i said stop.” you watch as the smile drops from his face completely, leaving behind something that’s not cold or emotionless like before, but mad.

you’re barely able to catch your breath before he’s wrapping an arm around your waist and bending you over his desk in one fell swoop.

your heart stops for a moment, realizing now what you’ve done. he wasn’t asking you for permission, he was telling you, and now he was going to take it whether you liked it or not. you feel your heart fall deeper into your stomach, your body doing anything it can to wriggle out of his hold but it’s no use. he has you pinned against his desk, and there’s no denying how much stronger he was than you.

you feel your eyes start to well up as he brings his hands up your skirt, quickly tearing off your underwear and ignoring your gentle pleas.

“i gave you a choice, y/n. you did this to yourself.” his words induce a panic in you that you’ve never felt before, his presence behind you scaring you in ways that will stay for the rest of your life. you try to use your hands to push him away from you, but without being able to see him, you’re quickly overpowered as he gathers your hands with one of his own.

you feel a tear start to fall down your cheek as he brings a hand up to your cunt, your slick only pooling up more at his earlier ministrations.

“look at you, y/n. and you mean to tell me you don’t want this?” his voice is calm and collected as he begins prodding at your untouched hole. you curse yourself for even entering his office in the first place. you should’ve known better. but all you could do now was accept your fate.

you bury your head into his desk as he enters a finger into your throbbing cunt, your body only reacting more at the new unfamiliar sensation. you had touched yourself before sure, but never like this, and never by someone else. you feel your stomach flutter as one finger turns into two, stretching you out more than you even thought was possible.

“god you’re a tight little thing. i knew you would be when i first saw you. i’ve been waiting to see you bent over my desk like this. feels good, doesn’t it?” he whispers into your ear, and you can’t deny the tingling that you begin to feel in between your legs.

you don’t respond to him, and do everything you can to control the moans that are begging to fall from your mouth. you feel dirty, disgusting, everything you’ve held close to your heart is falling away, something you’ve been waiting for patiently is now being stolen from you, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

he notices your lack of response and slowly removes his fingers from your dripping cunt, your juices now spread down your thighs as he looks down at your fingers and sees a tinge of red between them.

“that time of the month, huh?” he questions, reaching over your head to retrieve a tissue from off his desk.

you lay there, emotionless, only able to muster up a slight shake of your head as you feel another tear roll down your cheek.

he quirks an eyebrow, noting your reaction.

“well you’re bleeding, y/n.” he continues to wipe his fingers, seeing the red tinge transfer from his skin to the blank canvas, now stained with your juices.

“i’m a virgin.” you say coldly, your body tired from fighting and simply laying still on his desk.

jimin stops in his tracks for a moment before throwing the tissue into the trash can next to the desk. his eyes tracing your figure almost as if he doesn’t believe you.

“a virgin, huh?” he mutters under his breath, releasing your hands from behind your back only to duck beneath you so he’s eye level with your soaking cunt. he watches as your hole tightens and closes occasionally, feeling his pants get tighter at the thought of defiling you on his desk right there and now.

he brings his head back up from beneath you, and brings his hands to your waist, stroking it gently as he watches you flinch under his touch.

“i’m not sure if i believe you, sweetheart.” his touch is gentle, only making your stomach flutter more, you curse yourself silently for being so easily pleased.

“you don’t have to believe me, it’s the truth.” jimin admires the sight before him, how wet you were for him and only him, your body crumpling under his hold, all the dirty disgusting things he could do to you before you realize that he’s the only one that could ever make you feel this way.

he feels a pang of sympathy. although he always gets what he wants, that doesn’t mean he has to deny you of what you want at the same time, and although you might deny it, he knows you want nothing more than to feel what it’s like to give yourself up to someone completely.

he quickly places his hands on your waist, turning you around to face him but keeping you laid on the desk.

standing between your legs, he brings his hand back down to the inside of your thigh, running it up your leg gently and watching as you shake harder. out of fear or sensitivity, he couldn’t tell, but he carefully brings a single finger back up to your dripping cunt, running it along your folds and watching as you wiggle your bottom half slightly in response, your skirt only hiking up further around your waist.

he smirks to himself, knowing that deep down you’re a corrupted dirty slut who wants to be treated like this.

he begins to circle your clit, his touch light and sweet as you bite your lip to keep quiet. how could something so wrong feel so right?

your breathing is heavy as you feel a knot form in your stomach, your hips swaying in turn with his fingers to create more friction, and jimin just watches as the girl who was so keen on being a virgin is slowly starting to come undone from his touch alone.

“see that wasn’t too hard now, was it?” his words are taunting, devilish, but you couldn’t deny how they made you feel, how he made you feel.

you want to tell him to shut up, you want to push him away, but every muscle in your body is begging for him to keep going, begging to defile you and use you.

he watches as you quickly become a needy mess. slick dripping down his fingers as you ride them greedily, signaling you were close. virgins got close so quickly. your face contorting and your bitten lip stifling your moans, you didn’t have to tell him that the knot in your stomach was close to releasing, he could see it written all over your body.

but not until he quickly removes his fingers from between your legs, watching as your legs begin to shake harder now, but still, you stay silent, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing you were enjoying this.

“what? were you close, sweetheart?” he leans above you watching as the only response you can muster is a slight shake of the head, your cheeks burning up, hair sticking to your face.

“good. wouldn’t want to ruin the fun now would we?” his voice is so mean yet so sweet at the same time, as he brings his hands to his belt and begins to undo it slowly, watching as your eyes widen in nervousness.

you feel panicked, you knew it was going to happen eventually but like this? was it wrong that you wanted it? you watch carefully as he pulls his pants and boxers down in one fell swoop, his cock springing out between the two of you. he was so big.

how would he even fit? you heard it always hurts the first time but you never imagined a cock could look like that. your mind was racing with a million questions, and jimin ignored every last one of them, taking his position between you and aligning himself with your entrance.

“nervous?” he prods his cock at your hole gently, but doesn’t put it in, seemingly testing the waters as he looks up at you. if you didn’t know better you would’ve thought he looked concerned.

you shake your head no, still not able to formulate an audible response.

“good.” and with that final word he plunges into you deeply, giving you no time to adjust. you’re unable to contain the scream that leaves your throat as he bottoms out inside of you, your upper half flying forward towards him to seek any type of comfort, or even to find something to hold onto, but you’re only met with his hand on your chest pushing you back down on the desk.

he places a hand on your mouth, and uses his other to wrap your legs around his waist, leaning forward as he begins to thrust into you hard.

“shut up and take it, you did this to yourself.” his speed is unimaginable, you feel like you’re going to rip in half the pain is almost too much to bare. how could this be pleasurable for anyone? you feel a tear starting to roll down your cheek as he picks up the pace, his hand on your mouth being the only thing keeping you from screaming bloody murder.

jimin removes his hands from your leg and mouth and brings them down to your hips, pushing you down harder onto his cock as he begins rolling his hips into yours.

and then, something happens. you let out a moan. you feel it fall across your lips before you have time to stop yourself. something felt good. you look down between the two of you and watch as he rolls his hips into yours, his cock hitting something inside you deliciously with every single thrust.

“what? feel good all of a sudden?” he taunts, watching your confused expression as you try to figure out what it is your experiencing. what was this feeling? what was he hitting inside of you to make you feel like this? and all at the same time, you feel that knot building in your stomach again.

you let out a small moan, your hands reaching out to his hips to stabilize yourself, suddenly feeling overwhelmed.

jimin quickly notices your response and grins, quickening his pace and bringing one hand down to circle your clit gently.

“feels good, doesn’t it sweetheart?” his voice is dripping with sex, the tension in your abdomen only getting worse with his words. he begins to fuck you harder in response, rolling his hips deeper and deeper.

you moan again, suddenly gaining some of your confidence back. “yes, fuck. it does.”

jimin grins at your response, continuing his ministrations on your tiny clit as he watches you become a writhing mess beneath him. but he can only keep himself in control for so long. every part of him wants to tear at your skin and pull your hair, but something in him is going easy on you.

you feel yourself getting closer and closer to your release, moving your hips in response to his, matching his movements as best as you can, but you’re so close you barely know how to think.

“cum for me angel. show me how dirty you can be.” and with that, you’re seeing stars. it felt entirely different than when you did it yourself, something in you blacked out, you couldn’t hear or see, all you knew was that he felt better than you could’ve even imagined.

jimin watched as you creamed on his cock, your walls tightening around him and only spurring him on more, you were so tight now he could barely move, but he kept up his pace, maybe even harder than before as he watched you squirm under him.

“that’s right good girl.” the praises roll off his tongue as he glides a hand down your chest, watching your body shake and shiver under his touch. he could get used to seeing you like this.

you come down, feeling exhausted and warn out, watching as jimin’s pace quickens, his breathing harsh as grips onto your hips tighter, almost tight enough to leave bruises.

“fuck you feel so good.” he buries his head into your neck, biting and licking any piece of skin he can find as he feels himself getting closer to the edge. his hips never once stalling as he fucks you harder than he’s ever fucked anyone before.

you’ve never seen a man get like this, especially not jimin, he looked so human, so raw. his neck sticky, hair damp, face flushed and lips swollen from biting them. he looked… human.

you admire the sight before you as he takes one final plunge, filling you up with everything he has to offer. if you felt dirty before you weren’t prepared for the feeling of jimin pulling out of you, admiring his seed spill from your cunt, your walls throbbing from the overstimulation.

you both look at each other for a moment, unsure of what to say or what to do. all you knew now was that the workplace was going to be different.

jimin reaches over you to the tissues on the desk and begins cleaning you and himself up, the tension filling the room as you both awkwardly recover from your intense interaction.

it’s not until you stand up from his desk and lose your footing, forcing him to lean in and catch you, that you share a normal exchange for the first time all day.

“your legs are gonna be sore for a while.” he mutters, allowing you to stand on your own as you regain your composure.

“yeah among other things.” you say quietly, putting your underwear back on and fixing your skirt, you watch as jimin’s eyes dance once last time over your figure, before you clear your throats and find an excuse to get back to work.

“i should probably get going, i have a lot to get done.” you say quickly, fumbling towards the door.

“yeah.” jimin sits down again at his desk, now messy looking at the random patches of wetness scattered across his important documents and his computer almost falling off.

he looks up at you as you walk towards the door, legs still shaking slightly, and he grins to himself.

“y/n, i’ll give you a break with those assignments. take your lunch early today, okay?” his voice is gentle, making you turn around to face him before leaving the room completely.

“thanks.”

#jimin x reader #jimin au #bts jimin #bts smut #jimin smut #jimin scenarios

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emo-batboy · 2 years ago

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Battinson Guest Starring on TV Shows

For someone who holds the title of Richest Man in the World, Bruce doesn’t do a lot of traveling.

Which is to say he does a LOT of traveling, but he always tries to find a way out of it.

(Are there bat-related reasons for this? Are there people-related reasons for this? Are there anxiety-related reasons for this? Who knows?)

But partners and sponsors aren’t always going to tolerate his hermit-like tendencies. So once every month or so, Alfred wrangles Bruce into a private jet and sends him off to who knows where so he can represent the company.

Usually, it’s somewhere close on the East Coast, maybe it’s across the pond, even Asia isn’t off the table, but the rarest place to spot Bruce Wayne is actually the West Coast of the US.

One day, it is announced that Bruce Wayne will be spending two (count ‘em, 2) consecutive weeks in California with his kids for some grand business convention.

The West Coast media goes feral with the news, ESPECIALLY interviewers. And because Bruce kicks up such a fuss this time, Alfred has the gall to sign him up for FOUR TV appearances.

Here are these appearances :)

RuPaul’s Drag Race

Drag Queens, especially Drag Race all-stars, contribute to a wide variety of charities

So on a new episode, the queens are challenged to design and shoot a promotional ad for their own charity

And who better to act as a guest judge for this episode than the show’s largest benefactor, CEO of the Wayne Foundation, Bruce Wayne?!

Physically? He’s older than half of the contestants. But spiritually? He screams Baby Gay.

Fifteen minutes into the episode, Bruce is welcomed into the werkroom where he gives them pointers on their campaign. He’s in his cute little three-piece suit (Alfred’s idea) with the intention of looking put-together and knowledgeable. But that’s not the only outcome.

They all flirt with him. Everyone, single or taken. The confessionals are so thirsty.

“He’s lucky the cameras are on. Otherwise, I’d eat him up faster than a bachelorette party in a buffet line.”

“My celebrity crush is talking to me, and all I can focus on are his gorgeous eyes. How am I supposed to know what he's saying?”

Of course, they shoot their shot, but most of it is joking since they don't know he's bi yet.

“Are you single, honey?” Bruce blushes. “It’s complicated.” “Well, I’ll make it simple for you.”

We all know this man can't handle being flirted with. We saw how he froze when Selina did it. It’s like he mentally bluescreens when someone calls him a pet name.

Only THEN do they learn he's bi

One of the queens jokingly asks him, “Ever been with a man before?” thinking it would be a firm no, but Bruce says, “Actually, yes.” “Oh shit, really?” And to Bruce’s embarrassment, the whole room hears him.

The flirting is thus taken up a notch.

On the main stage, Bruce has a lot of great constructive criticism. He talks about how to find the right audience, the importance of a good slogan, and even goes on a little rant about logo design.

(You cannot convince me that Bruce hasn’t hyperfixated on the business of charity work before. Or the science of marketing. They’re his favorite business topics.)

After about three minutes of him complimenting one contestant for their Drag Library pitch, he stops himself mid-sentence and says, “Oh sorry, am I talking too much?” “No, please! Keep talking, sweetheart.” Bruce covers his face to hide his blush. “Why is everyone flirting with me?” “Baby, have you seen yourself?”

While the judges deliberate, RuPaul mentions Charisma, Uniqueness, Nerve, and Talent. Bruce nods along for a while then suddenly just blurts out, “Wait, does it spell ****?”

The judges pause then burst out laughing. “Oh no, we’ve traumatized him!" Bruce is blushing up a storm. “I just never thought about it like that!” “Sweet, innocent Bruce. We’re so sorry.”

It’s later revealed that Bruce offered to help some of the queens launch their charity projects through the Wayne Foundation.

It’s v cute 🥰

Nailed It!

I love Nicole Byer.

She is Mother.

In all seriousness, she’s so fucking funny and she’s personable enough to pull Bruce out of his shell a bit.

The theme for this episode is Found Family. Three pairs of family members compete together—a gay father and his adopted son, an aunt who adopted her niece, and a stepfather and stepdaughter.

Because Bruce Wayne famously adopted two children, he is invited to guest judge.

So Nicole opens the episode with a zinger, the contestants are introduced, and Bruce is welcomed onto the judge’s panel beside Nicole and Jacques.

(Yes, Bruce does speak French. Yes, Nicole makes a joke about it being hot.)

Nicole: “We were surprised you accepted our invitation, Mr. Wayne. You’re notorious for staying on the East Coast. What brought you to the Nailed It! Studio?” Bruce: “My children love this show. They always tell me I should be on it since I’m so bad at baking.” Nicole: “Really? Maybe we should do a celebrity season of Nailed It! and have you compete.” Bruce: “No, you should not.”

Nicole: “So, Bruce, I know you have a butler at home who bakes for you. But what’s the grossest thing you’ve eaten? Escargot? Bad caviar?” Bruce: “I drank olive oil straight from the bottle once.” Nicole: “…What?”

The problem for Bruce is he can’t say anything bad. It just feels mean :(

(And he would rather jump into oncoming traffic than gamble with a social interaction)

For the first challenge, the contestants make cake pops. But when Bruce tries the first one, there is a sickening crunch. Bruce’s eyes widen for a second and he slowly chews.

Nicole: “What was that? Bruce, are you okay?” Bruce, clearly struggling: “It’s…good.”

“Bruce, you can spit it out. It’s okay.” “I already swallowed it.” “Oh, you poor thing.” Bruce chokes for a second, and Nicole pats his back. “Please don’t die. We can’t afford it.”

For the big challenge, production has a surprise in store for Bruce.

Dick (9) and Jason (7) run onto the set and smother Bruce with a hug.

It’s adorable. Bruce no longer cares about paying attention, okay? His kids are here :D

The two boys read from cue cards to announce the second challenge: a three-tiered Gotcha Day cake. And as per tradition, the winner of the first challenge gets a leg-up.

This time, it’s a Helping Hands Button. When they hit the button, Dick and Jason will run over and help them for three minutes. (While being supervised, of course.)

As the contestants bake, Nicole says hello to Dick and Jason, who are clambering all over Bruce like a jungle gym. They both shake her hand and talk about how they love the show.

Nicole looks pointedly at the two empty chairs beside Bruce. “You know, we brought these chairs for you two to sit in.” Dick, on Bruce’s shoulders: “We’re fine, Ms. Byer!” Nicole: “Ms. Byer? Oh, you’re a cutie, aren’t you?”

Just ten minutes before the challenge is over, the Helping Hands button is pressed, and Dick and Jason are given stools so they can help the aunt and niece stack their cake tiers.

Two minutes in, the aunt instructs them to let go of the cake. But the moment Jason pulls his hands away, the cake topples over and covers him in frosting. Jason, whispering: “Oh f*ck.” Bruce: “Jason!” Jason: “I didn’t say that! Dick did!” Nicole: *cackling as Bruce buried his face in his hands*

Jason gets cleaned up, and Dick helps them stack what can still be salvaged.

When Wes brings out the trophy, he’s dressed as Batman. Dick and Jason gets a kick out of that.

Celebrity Family Feud

Bruce was invited to the show after his SNL skit went viral a few months ago

This episode, the teams are split up by cities they grew up in. Gotham v. Star City. Naturally, his team is playing for the Wayne Foundation.

It’s a pretty odd cast of people, most of them having moved to LA or Hollywood. Bruce is the only one to still live in Gotham.

They have fun, though, despite their limited common ground. The audience has a few good laughs.

(Some at Bruce's expense)

Harvey: You're a very wealthy man, Mr. Wayne. What do you really do in that tower all day? Bruce: I, uh…business? Harvey: …You business. Bruce: ……Wait-

All in good fun. Bruce just vibes in his little corner until he needs to answer a question. It's pretty chill.

For exactly half of the episode.

Then it happens.

Steve Harvey takes two people from each team up to the buzzer and says, “We asked 100 people: Name something your parents always told you as a kid.”

What the production failed to consider is how this particular question might be a sensitive topic for some contestants.

Bruce’s team gets the question, and Steve saunters up to Bruce, completely oblivious.

“Alright, Bruce Wayne!” Bruce nods awkwardly. “Hi, Steve.” “Bruce, what’s wrong? You’re looking a bit uncomfortable.” “…I don’t like this question, Steve.” “Why not?” Bruce just gives him a desperate look, and it clicks. “Oh! Oh my gosh!”

Let’s be real. Bruce is awkward enough, but Steve Harvey cannot save an awkward moment for his life either.

But he tries his best anyway and asks, “Are you okay with answering this question, or would you like to pass?” Bruce nods frantically. “I can answer. ‘I love you.’” “I love you too, Mr. Wayne.” “No, uh, my answer is ‘I love you.’” “Oh! That’s a good one.”

Thankfully, the audience erupts in laughter. That little interaction cuts the tension, and Bruce’s answer ends up on the board.

And by god, the memes

“I love you too, Mr. Wayne” is the new “Enjoy your meal.” “You too.”

The audio clip of “I don’t like this question, Steve” goes viral on TikTok

Someone gets a pic of Bruce and Steve looking at each other with palpable fear in their eyes, and it makes its rounds all over Twitter

10/10 never again

Running Wild with Bear Grylls

Now this is the most challenging. Not because it’s difficult, of course. But because Bruce has to look stupid enough to maintain his Brucie Wayne persona but smart enough to keep himself safe.

For this episode, Bear takes Bruce to the California desert.

“How much do you know about survival, Bruce?” Bear asks. Bruce nods carefully. “I did some survival training once with a friend from boarding school.” “Oh really, how did you do?” “Fine, I think.”

This is, of course, his way of saying I trained with a league of assassins for years, but Bear can’t know that! And that’s how most of the episode goes.

Thank god Bruce's fear of being caught is mistaken for being scared of the physical challenge because every time Bear points out how well he’s doing, he breaks into a sweat.

Bear: For a businessman, you’re surprisingly fit. Bruce, sweating bullets: Oh, this is all just for show.

Bear: Wow, you’re a natural. Are you sure you’ve never set up a zip-line before? Bruce, gripping his equipment so tight he gets rope burn: I think it’s just the survival instincts.

Of course, he pretends to be out of breath a few times. The Drama.

Bruce, pretending to slip and fall: Ouch! Who knew the outdoors were so dangerous? Bear, you are crazy. Bruce, internally: How much longer are we doing this?

Bruce being a vegetarian is actually a point of contention. You see, Bear always makes their celebrity guests do something crazy for food like skin a snake or eat a mouse. Scavenging for berries just doesn’t grab the audience’s attention.

But do you know what is vegetarian?

Bear: Now, in extreme cases of survival, it’s not rare for humans to resort to drinking their own pee. That’s what we’ll be doing in a moment. Are you up for it? Bruce, visibly repulsed: I’ve had Gotham tap water. I’ll be fine.

How on God’s Green Earth did Alfred convince him to do this?

To get to the extraction point, Bear takes Bruce down a cliffside.

Bear shows Bruce the meticulous process of properly belaying from the top of a cliff, and Bruce, who has done this over 100 times is like, “Wow that’s so dangerous :( Will we be okay?”

He really tries to ramp up his acting skills this time.

(Little does he know that’s not necessary.)

Bruce goes down first as Bear belays with a cameraman filming from the top. Halfway down, Bruce hears a scuffle, and the cameraman yells, “F*ck!”

Bruce looks up, arms already out for protection, and he sees a small disk falling towards him. It’s the lens cap. He catches it on instinct.

For a second, he thinks, “Shit, was that too skilled? That’s not enough to make people think I’m Batman, right? I just caught it in midair while dangling from a cliff. That’s totally not weird and suspicious. Normal people do that—“

Then Bear yells, “Bruce, drop it!” Bruce looks up at Bear, confused. “Why?” “There's a scorpion!” That’s when Bruce looks at the lens cap and sees a black scorpion perched on top with its tail ready to strike.

They don’t have those in Gotham.

Bruce jumps in his harness and flings the cap at the rocky cliffside. He hears a crunch, and the scorpion and cap tumble to the ground. Bruce frowns. Can a scorpion survive that drop?

“You just killed a scorpion, mate!” Bear cries. Bruce looks up in horror. “I killed it?!” “Hell yeah!” Bruce’s face falls. “No!”

Because oh. shit.

Bruce just killed something. The sad, orphaned vegetarian just killed a scorpion.

Bruce has a meltdown.

He didn’t mean to kill it!!!! Oh no, he just killed an innocent little creature. Yeah, he punches people for fun sometimes, and he definitely put a few violent criminals in the hospital, but he’s never committed MURDER!!

This poor little scorpion died due to his own negligence, and he feels so so so bad about it.

Bruce is a mess as he climbs the rest of the way down.

Bruce, cradling the scorpion’s body: I don’t know how to perform CPR on a scorpion! Bear: Bruce, you took its head clean off. Bruce: *sad noises*

Legit inconsolable. To him, it’s like he just murdered a puppy

Once they're out, Bear is trying to cheer him up. Bless him.

Bear: We’ve conquered the wild! Haven’t we, Bruce? Bruce, head between his legs, still mourning the scorpion: I’m never going outside again.

Yeah, no one’s going to think he’s Batman after that.

And that's all four of Bruce's TV appearances from the West Coast :) Dick and Jason never let him live any of it down. Alfred is almost sorry. (He is not sorry.)

Let me know your thoughts! What other TV shows do you think Battinson would appear on as a guest?

Okie dokie :D Love y'all! Have a good day <3

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sunrenity · 6 months ago

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RICH CEOㅤ⟡ㅤPJS

ㅤㅤㅤ ( ✦ )ㅤㅤthe look of love , the rush of blood

precis : rich ceo + boyfriend ! jay headcannons.

박정성ㅤ୨୧ㅤrich ceo ! jay x 𝒻em readerㅤ..ㅤoffice auㅤ/ㅤkissing, small making out sceneㅤㅤ( 1187 )

rich ceo ! jay who walks into the office every morning with an aura so commanding it’s impossible not to notice him. his tailored suits are sharp, and his wristwatch probably costs more than your annual salary. yet, there’s something about his subtle smirks and occasional soft glances that makes him feel human—almost approachable.

rich ceo ! jay who first notices you during a quarterly meeting where you presented a report with quiet confidence. while others were fixated on the data, he found himself focused on the way you spoke, your poise, and how you handled questions with ease.

rich ceo ! jay who goes out of his way to request you for additional projects, subtly pulling you closer into his professional orbit. at first, you think it’s because you’re a hard worker, but his lingering gazes and occasional compliments give him away.

rich ceo ! jay who promotes you to his secretary under the guise of needing someone "competent" in his corner, but in reality, he wants you near him. he thrives on seeing you daily, finding excuses to call you into his office just to hear your voice or catch a glimpse of your smile.

rich ceo ! jay who starts showing his softer side once you work closely with him. he offers you coffee during late nights at the office and remembers the exact way you like it. his teasing remarks about your "overly neat desk" turn into genuine appreciation for your meticulousness.

rich ceo ! jay who surprises you one evening after a stressful day by handing you a small, perfectly wrapped gift—a designer pen. “for someone as hardworking as you,” he says with a boyish grin, and your heart stutters at how genuine he looks.

rich ceo ! jay who becomes more protective of you as your relationship grows. he subtly shields you from office gossip and keeps his tone neutral in front of others but softens the moment the two of you are alone.

rich ceo ! jay who never fails to make you blush with his low whispers during meetings. “you look stunning today,” he murmurs while leaning over to review a document, and the proximity sends shivers down your spine.

rich ceo ! jay who corners you one evening after hours, the office eerily quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside. you’re standing by his desk, trying to explain a report, but his gaze is fixed on your lips, not the papers.

“do you know how hard it is to focus when you’re around?” he murmurs, his voice deep and laden with something you’ve only recently begun to recognize as longing. before you can respond, his hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing your jawline.

the kiss starts gentle, almost hesitant, as if he’s giving you the chance to pull away. but when you kiss him back, threading your fingers through his perfectly styled hair, he deepens it, his other hand gripping your waist and pulling you closer.

he kisses you with a controlled passion that mirrors his personality—firm yet considerate, dominant yet attentive. his lips are soft but insistent, and when he nips at your lower lip, you can’t help the soft gasp that escapes you.

jay breaks away only to rest his forehead against yours, his breathing uneven. “you drive me crazy, you know that?” he whispers, his hands still holding you close. “but we can’t—someone might see.”

yet, even as he says it, he leans in again, stealing another kiss, this one slower and deeper, as if he’s memorizing the way you taste before reluctantly letting you go.

jay adjusts his tie afterward, the picture of calm despite his flushed cheeks and slightly disheveled hair. “let’s continue this conversation at my place later,” he says with a smirk, leaving you breathless and craving more.

boyfriend ! jay who officially asks you out after weeks of toeing the line between professional and romantic. one night, after a particularly intense dinner meeting, he drives you home and confesses, “i can’t keep pretending this is just work between us. say yes to dinner—just the two of us.”

boyfriend ! jay who is surprisingly soft behind closed doors. gone is the sharp-tongued ceo; instead, he’s the jay who wraps his arms around you from behind while you’re working late, murmuring, “come to bed. the office can wait”

boyfriend ! jay who announces your relationship to the company in the most dramatic yet endearing way. during an employee event, he casually intertwines your fingers and says, “by the way, this incredible woman here is taken—by me.” the shocked gasps and applause still make you cringe, but he wears his smug grin like a badge of honor.

boyfriend ! jay who takes pride in spoiling you, whether it’s slipping your favorite snack onto your desk, booking surprise weekend getaways, or casually gifting you designer outfits for “work events” (that he insists are mandatory).

boyfriend ! jay who makes sure everyone knows how lucky he feels to have you. “you’re dating jongseong?” a coworker asks, wide-eyed. “yeah,” you reply, and their response is always, “he talks about you all the time.”

boyfriend ! jay who insists on driving you to work every morning, even if it’s out of his way. “what’s the point of being a ceo if i can’t take care of my girl?” he teases, holding the car door open for you like a gentleman.

boyfriend ! jay who doesn’t care about rumors in the office but always keeps things professional during work hours. however, he can’t resist winking at you during meetings or sending cheeky texts like, “you’re distracting me in that outfit. can’t wait for lunch.”

boyfriend ! jay who makes you fall even harder when he introduces you to his parents. you’re nervous, but he’s calm and reassuring, his hand never leaving yours as he tells them, “this is the woman i’ve been telling you about.”

boyfriend ! jay who insists on calling you during every business trip, even if it’s just to say goodnight. “i miss you,” he admits, his voice soft over the phone. “but don’t worry—i’ll be home before you know it.”

boyfriend ! jay who loves holding your hand in public. whether it’s at a gala or on a casual date night, he keeps you close, fingers intertwined, as if silently saying, she’s mine, and i’m hers.

boyfriend ! jay who doesn’t hesitate to shut down any flirtation from others. when a new hire starts getting too friendly, he calmly but firmly says, “i’m spoken for. and she’s more than enough for me.”

boyfriend ! jay who wakes you up with breakfast in bed on weekends. “don’t move,” he warns, placing the tray in front of you. it’s always perfect—coffee just how you like it, fresh fruit, and pancakes shaped like hearts.

boyfriend ! jay who plans an elaborate anniversary surprise that includes a private rooftop dinner under fairy lights. when you jokingly call him a hopeless romantic, he grins. “only for you.”

boyfriend ! jay who ends every day with an “i love you,” whispered against your hair as he pulls you closer in bed. no matter how stressful his work gets, you’re his safe space, and he makes sure you know it.

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zoro-sremedy · 1 month ago

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a/n: it's been a really long ass time since I've written and posted something, but sharing is caring, aight?

Brief summary:

A merger puts them on opposite sides of the table… and then all over each other. Sex, secrets, and sabotage—falling wasn’t part of the plan, but some deals are made in whispers and signed between the sheets.

Word count: 4.2k

In the fine print - One. Meetings.

You’ve sat in boardrooms before — slick tables, colder coffee, sharper smiles — but today, something feels different the moment you step inside. There’s a certain air of power that makes your confidence flicker for a second.

The first thing in your line of vision is the blond man you spoke with before to set up the date—Vinsmoke Sanji, if you remember correctly. He stands in his navy-blue pinstripe suit, and you can definitely see why the girls at the office said he was all that.

He turns just as your heels click against the marble floor, and his smile is instant—too easy, too practiced.

“Ah, mademoiselle, I was hoping we’d meet in person again,” he says, stepping forward with that effortless charm. “You clean up beautifully.”

Sanji is all smiles and heart eyes as you shake his hand, polite, perhaps a little flirty as you size him up and return the gesture. “I don’t think you’ve ever seen me messy.”

He laughs. It feels honest and practiced at the same time, making you wonder just how good he really is.

“Not yet, mon chérie.” Ah, there it was—the flirting everyone warned you to be careful of.

He’s not my type anyway. Before you can reply—or shut it down—another voice cuts through the room, low and rougher than you expect.

“Sanji.”

Your gaze shifts to the man leaning casually near the window—how didn’t you see him there? Green short hair, black shirt, all black suit and tie. Broad shoulders. Expression unreadable.

So, he is Roronoa Zoro, you muse, impressed—but obviously not showing it.

You recognize him from the company profile. Chief Operating Officer. Second-in-command at One Piece Co. Quiet. Precise. Hot.

He’s watching Sanji like he’s heard this flirt routine a hundred times before and isn’t impressed.

Then—he looks at you.

And—oh. Those dark eyes. You can feel it—the silent, small, deadly spark.

You don’t break eye contact. Not immediately. That’d be too obvious.

So you hold it—just long enough to send a message—before turning back to Sanji with a light smile, like your pulse hadn’t just tripped in your throat.

“Pleasure to meet you too,” you offer, finally acknowledging Zoro with a polite bow and a smile.

He doesn’t nod back. Just analizes you a second longer.

“You’re Whitebeard’s rep?” he asks—low, blunt, borderline disinterested.

“Head of External Affairs. I’m _____,” you confirm, slipping into business mode before your head can wander wherever that man might take it. “I handle our major negotiations.”

“_____, huh.”

No approval, no dismissal. Just… observation.

But why did your name roll off his mouth like that?

You sit, smoothing your skirt, ignoring the heat crawling up your neck. It’s going to be a long meeting.

Sanji is still spewing compliments left and right—his version of professionalism, maybe—but your focus keeps shifting. Even when Zoro isn’t staring, there’s something about him that makes you want to just… melt. Into him. On top of him. Whatever works best.

Okay. Stop.

Then the door swings open with a loud bang, and in comes Luffy—barefoot, in joggers and a hoodie, grinning like he owns the place.

Well. Technically, he does.

Everyone rises instinctively, and you catch yourself smiling before you can stop it.

“This is the infamous CEO?” you murmur under your breath. You’ve heard stories, but seeing him like this? It's... kind of charming.

Luffy's entry seems to reset everyone into business mode and is not long before everything takes the route you were hoping for.

"We're not here to step on anyone's toes", you say, clicking your pen once, then setting it down beside your neatly organized notes. "But the eastern docks have been running under-capacity for months. We have the infrastructure to scale up, and both sides would profit."

Sanji leans forward, flashing a diplomatic smile. "And what does Whitebeard Co. want in exchange? Besides our sweet little corner of the coastline?"

"A shared access clause. We use the docks, you get a cut of all outgoing freight. And we handle maintenance, security, and international custom compliance." You answer coolly, giving him a smile back in return.

Sanji whistles. "Sounds generous."

Zoro doesn't say a word. Just watches you, arms crossed.

"You've already done the numbers," you say, meeting his gaze. "So you know it's fair."

Luffy pipes up suddenly, sprawled across the chair like it's his living room. "As long as no one's sneaking weird shit through the cargo, I don't care."

"No weird shit," you assure him, fighting a smirk.

Zoro didn’t say much unless he had to. But when he did, the room went still.

His voice—low, calm, calculated—cut through the air like it didn’t need to fight for attention. The kind of voice that didn’t ask to be listened to. It simply was.

You kept your expression unreadable, though it took effort the first time he looked directly at you. His gaze was sharp. Not aggressive, not even cold. Just… measured. Calculating. The way someone might study a blueprint—or a blade.

“And what makes your model sustainable five years from now?”

The question wasn’t antagonistic. If anything, it was surgical.

You flipped a page in your folder, met his gaze without flinching, and laid out the numbers. Not too fast. Not too eager. Just enough bite to show you weren’t here to roll over for a legacy name like his.

When you glanced back up, his eyes were still on you. And for just half a second, something flickered. Interest? Respect? Something else entirely? Then it was gone, like it had never been there. "She's right, the math checks out." Your eyes flicker to him—just for a second—but you can feel the heat creeping to your cheeks at his support.

"Well," Sanji says, sitting back. "That's the first time Mosshead agreed with anyone this quarter."

Zoro ignores him completely. "One condition," he says, directing it at you. "You send your own inspectors. No third-party ones."

"Done", you say without hesitation. For a second, just a flicker, something akin to a smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.

Sanji made some quip, Luffy laughed too loud, and the moment passed. But you felt it—like a string pulled taut beneath the blade.

The meeting winds down after another 45 minutes of fine-tuning logistics and territory percentages. Pens click, contracts are skimmed, and the energy in the room shifts from tense to… satisfied.

"Looks like we've got ourselves a deal," Sanji says, sliding a signed document across the table. "And no one had to bleed for it. Miracles do happen."

Luffy leans back with both arms behind his head. "Told ya’ this one was gonna be chill. Especially when Ace said she was cool".

Your eyes flicker to the CEO—and just like that, it clicks.

"Your Ace's little brother."

“Yeah!” he beams. “Kinda' hard to miss, right?”

You don’t answer that. The resemblance is there, sure—but the energy is wildly different. As everyone begins standing, you gather your things, organizing the papers with practiced ease—until a quiet voice cuts through the low conversation.

“Good work with Sanji.”

You look up. Zoro. Still standing across from you, arms relaxed now. His gaze is heavier than before—measured, almost… deliberate. “Not everyone handles Sanji's shit talk that calmly.” It’s not a compliment in the traditional sense. But from him? It’s enough to make something warm uncomfortably in your chest.

“Thanks,” you say, lips quirking. “You weren’t too bad yourself. For someone who barely talks.” A beat. His lips twitch—maybe a smirk, maybe not. But he’s still looking. Really looking.

Then Sanji steps in, his tone light as he claps Zoro on the shoulder.

“Careful, mosshead. You’re staring again. She might start charging by the second.”

Zoro doesn’t even look at him. Just turns to leave with a low grunt, hands shoved in his pockets.

But you catch it.

That last look over his shoulder—just before he disappears down the hall.

You’re definitely in trouble. As you waited for the elevator, you heard footsteps behind you—unhurried, solid.

You didn’t have to turn around. You already knew.

“You handled them well,” came a voice behind you—calm, low, familiar.

You turned, and there he was. Zoro.

His tie was slightly loosened now, jacket slung over his arm. He looked less like the unshakeable executive you’d faced across the boardroom table and more like a man who hasn't taken his eyes off you all meeting. Maybe he hadn’t.

“You mean your charming co-workers or your chaos gremlin of a CEO?” you said, arching a brow.

“Both,” he said, something flickering behind his gaze. “Didn’t think you’d keep up. Guess I was wrong.”

It wasn’t quite a compliment. Not outright. But the way he said it—the weight behind it—made it feel like one.

The elevator dinged.

You stepped inside, and just as he moved to follow—

“Oi, you’re not letting her leave without saying goodbye, are you?”

Sanji’s voice cut in, smooth and a little too loud. He appeared like he always did, unbothered and golden, and shot Zoro with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Tsk. Don’t go soft on us now, marimo.”

Zoro didn’t respond. But you saw the way his jaw clenched, the subtle shift in his posture, the flicker of something sharp in his expression. The doors began to close, and for second, you just looked at him. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But he glared at Sanji.

And you thought, smugly—Ah. So it’s not just me, huh?

God, he looked hot when he was pissed.

Sanji lounges beside you near the front entrance, lighting a cigarette with an easy flick of his wrist. "You know, for someone working with Whitebeard, you're not nearly as terrifying as I expected."

You arch a brow. "Disappointed? Expected someone more like Marco?"

Sanji visibly shudders at the thought of that frightful man who brokered the olive branch that led to this. "On the contrary, love," he exhales a stream of smoke, eyes narrowing slightly. "Pleasantly surprised. You're a vision."

You hum, amused. "You're quite the smooth talker." He places a hand over his chest like you've wounded him. "Mon dieu, you don't believe in such words of which you are worthy in every possible way?" You smirk, glancing toward the curb where your vehicle is pulling up. "Careful, Vinsmoke. I might start to think you're flirting with me."

"Oh sweetheart," he says as he opens the door for you with a little flourish, "I'm always flirting. But I wouldn't want to get in the mosshead's way".

Your breath catches for a moment as Sanji's smile sharpens—just slightly. "I noticed," he murmurs as he holds your hand to help you in. He gives it a kiss and closes the door.

The car hums quietly beneath you as the city blurs past the window. Your phone buzzes in your lap, but you ignore it for a moment, eyes fixed on your own reflection in the glass.

But I wouldn't want to get in the mosshead's way.

Sanji's words echo in your head.

You didn't mean to. It's not like you walked into that meeting hoping to lock eyes with someone who looked like he'd sooner bench press a yacht than smile at a joke. But here you are—pulse still out of rhythm, trying not to replay every second of Zoro's stare.

You scroll absently through emails, trying to focus, but instead you're wondering what he was thinking.

What he saw when he looked at you like that.

If he'll be at the dinner party.

God.

You hope he's at the dinner party.

Your heels click against the polished floors of Whitebeard Co.'s private building. You're halfway to your office when you noticed your door cracked open and the scent of expensive cologne and… is that—

"Ace," you sigh, pushing the door and closing it behind you. He's kicked back in your chair, boots up on your desk, flipping through one of your neatly filed reports like it's takeout time.

"Heyyyy, there's my favorite heartbreaker," he grins, head lolling lazily to the side. "Miss me?"

"Like a root canal." You snatch the file from his hand, kick his shoes off your desk and drop your bag on top, "what are you doing here?"

He clutches his chest dramatically. "Ruthless! That's how I like you best." He grins, still annoyingly charming. "You're going to Luffy's party, right? The olive branch thing?"

"I haven't decided", you say, ushering him out of your spot so you can work. "You're going," he says, smug and certain. "Because you know I throw the best parties. And you're dying to see me again. Don't lie"

You pause, eying him warily, "you're not the reason I'm considering it."

He tilts his head, watching you with a look that's half smirk, half something curious. "No? Then who is?"

You don't answer. Mostly because you're not sure yet. But the silence is enough to make Ace's grin turn thoughtful.

"Don't tell me you forgot about me and what I can do," he turns to stand behind your chair. His hands settle lightly on your clavicles —warm, familiar— and start to creep down. You roll your eyes and swat them away. "Ace," you say, voice dry as a sandpaper, "unless you're offering a neck massage and a nondisclosure agreement, I'd best suggest you keep it to yourself."

He retracts, laughing—full-bellied and shameless. "Come on, don't act like you don't miss these hands."

"Oh, I remember those hands, you say, twisting in your chair to meet his grin with a raised brow. "They broke my very expensive French press, reset my WiFi with a punch, and once tried to microwave soup in a foil container."

"You didn't complain when they were—"

"—unbuttoning my shirt with all the grace of a drunk racoon?" you cut in smoothly. "Yeah. Real fond memories."

Ace clutches his chest like you stabbed him in the heart. "Cold. Brutal. Just how I like'em."

"Besides," you say, spinning back towards your screen, "you're not my type anymore."

He snorts. "What, quiet and brooding with a six pack and pierced now?"

You don't reply—at least not with words. The silence is just long enough to say: maybe.

Ace whistles low. "No way. Mosshead? That dude's got the emotional range of a brick wall, baby." You recoil at the baby, "maybe I'm just looking for a sturdier foundation," you reply sweetly, typing away and clearly done with the conversation.

There's a bit of silence behind you. Then: "Well, damn. No wonder the old man likes you best". He laughs shamelessly as ever, "He'll be there and wants you there too, so I'll see you —fashionably late".

Ace kisses the top of your head like he owns this place and whistles his way out of your office.

It's not long before you're at home, your room smelling like vanilla and high-end setting spray. Half your closet is on the bed, the other half in a pile on the floor and you're standing in front of the mirror with one earring in when the doors swing open without a knock.

"You've got exactly ten seconds to be decent," Izo calls, breezing in like he owns the place—and in fairness, he's probably contributed enough wardrobe pieces to claim partial ownership.

"You ever consider texting first?" you ask, not turning around.

"I did. You ignored me. I took it as a cry for help."

You roll your eyes, but smile. Izo kicks off his heels with a practiced wiggle and steps into your closet like it's a war zone. "You're a mess. And we've got mosshead to impress. Girl, you need to be dicked down, respectfully."

You freeze mid-touch-up. "Ace told you?"

"Darling," he calls, holding a sleek black dress against himself for effect, "Ace facetimed me the minute he got out of your office. Said there was tension and you didn't love him no more? Mosshead stealing you over, something like that. I had to find out for myself."

You groan, sitting on the edge of the bed. "He's clinically ill".

"Girl, stop playing and look at this mess, that man made you shake in your boots," Izo quipped back with a smirk.

"I just want to look nice, Pops is gonna be there."

"mmmmhmmmm," Izo tosses a gold pair of earrings to you and sits beside you, curling a leg underneath himself. "So. Zoro."

You say nothing. Just fiddle with the clasp.

"Heard he went semi-pro back in college. Fencing, right? Or kendo? Something with swords and no personality."

You glance up. "He didn't talk much."

"But he looked, huh?"

That gets you. Your lips pressed together, betraying nothing. Izo, of course, grins like a fox "I know that look. That's the 'I'm trying not to think about his forearms but also if he smiled at me I'd die face."

You snort. "I don't have that face."

“You absolutely do.”

There's a moment of quiet as you finally clasp the earring.

“I’m not looking to complicate things,” you say, softer. “This dinner is important. For the company.” You get into the dress Izo was looking at, a black cocktail dress just perfect. “I know,” Izo replies, just as soft. “But if it gets complicated, you’ve handled worse. With better hair, too.”

You turn and look at him. “Izo.”

“Yes, darling?”

“…Zip me up?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

The car ride is quiet, a smooth glide through the city's night drenched streets. The skyline blurs by in streaks of gold and silver, the occasional flash of red brake lights reflected in the tinted windows. You sit back, legs crossed, one hand resting delicately on your thigh, the other trailing along the curve of your clutch.

Your phone buzzes. Then again. Then again. Ace, of course. Probably sending memes. Or selfies. Or memes of his selfies.

You don't check.

Instead, you glance at your own reflection in the window. Resolved eyes. Gold earrings. That black cocktail dress Izo practically wept over. Hair perfect. Lipstick holding steady.

You look good. No, you look dangerous.

Exactly the way you planned it.

You adjust your neckline slightly, and tell yourself it's just for symmetry. But deep down, you know what it is.

You want to be seen. By him. The man who said exactly eleven words to you, but looked at you like he saw all your layers and wanted to peel them back slowly. Zoro. Quiet. Heavy-lidded gaze. Jawline sharp as a sword. He could probably lift you like a doll with those arms. And that low, impossible voice—

God, you're doing it again.

You close your eyes and breathe. In through the nose. Out through ambition.

This dinner is for the company, you remind yourself.

It's a celebration of professionalism. Partnership. Strategy.

And if he just happens to look at you tonight like he did in the boardroom… if his eyes flicker, just once?

Well.

That's just good diplomacy, isn't it?

The car pulls to a stop.

You step out, heels clicking against the pavement like a declaration. Head held high. Shoulders back.

Whatever happens inside that party— you're walking like you own the building.

The scent of grilled yakitori and expensive sake hits you the moment you step through the sliding doors. The restaurant is warm with laughter, clatter, and chaos—exactly what you'd expect from a party thrown by Luffy's and Whitebeard's brood.

Your heels sink just slightly into the tatami mat as you step inside, all black silk and golden glint. Heads turn—some out of surprise, some out of respect. Some just to ogle. But your eyes scan the room with calm precision.

Ace sees you first. Of course he does.

"Holy hell," he breathes, abandoning a giggling cluster of accountants like they've suddenly evaporated. "That dress should be illegal in seven prefectures."

He meets you halfway, flashing that reckless grin, already reaching for your hand like he’s about to twirl you around just for the show. “You’re early,” he says, eyes flicking down, then up again with appreciation. “Or just fashionably dramatic?”

“Don’t worry,” you reply, tone cool as your earrings swing with calculated poise, “I’ll let you pretend it was for your benefit.” Ace whistles low. “Cold. But I’ll take it.”

The clamor behind him continues. Luffy’s in the corner arm-wrestling Whitebeard himself—both of them cackling like pirates. Sanji’s fighting a losing battle with the servers trying to organize appetizers. And Zoro—

Zoro is quiet in a sea of noise.

He’s seated near the middle of the banquet table, sake cup in one hand, the other absently picking at sushi. Eyes half-lidded. Calm. Observing. He’s the only one who hasn’t moved since you walked in.

But you feel it.

The way his gaze hooks into yours and holds as soon as you look at him. Like he's not seeing you—he's clocking you. Measuring. Marking.

You glance away first, pulse ticking in your throat. Ace says something else, but you barely hear it. You move deeper into the room, all smiles and subtle nods, exchanging greetings.

At some point you need to sit, and of course everything is occupied.

Except—of course—near him.

You hover for a second. Not awkward. Not hesitant. Just calculating.

Then Zoro shifts.

Without a word, he slides to the side. Enough space for one person. No invitation spoken, but the message is clear.

You sit.

Close enough to feel the warm from his sleeve brushing yours when you reach out for a cup to drink. His voice is quiet when he finally speaks, low and even like a blade drawn slowly.

"Didn't think you'd show."

You look at him, letting a small smile curve. "And let you miss all of this?" you gesture to yourself, "God forbid."

Zoro's mouth curves, barely. Not quite a smile—more like sharpened acknowledgement. "You clean up nice," he says, voice low enough that no one else would catch it over the laughter echoing off the wooden beams. You lift your cup; sake cool against your fingertips. "That sounds dangerously close to a compliment."

"It is." He doesn't blink. "Dangerous."

Your heart flips once, traitorous. But you meet his gaze evenly. "And here I thought you didn't talk much."

"I don't." He tilts his head, just enough for his shoulder to brush yours again— this time intentional. Deliberate. "Only when I've got something worth saying."

You sip, slow. "So, what are you saying now?"

Zoro turns slightly toward you, still composed, still unreadable—except for his eyes. They're a little darker than they were before. Focused. "That if you keep looking at me like that, I won't be responsible for what happens after dessert."

You choke—quietly—but manage to recover with a small chuckle. "Wow. That was… direct."

"I said I don't talk much," he murmurs, leaning in a fraction more, his breath grazing your cheek. "Didn't say I don't know what I want."

Somewhere across the room, Izo—mid-sip of his sake—straight up chokes.

He's seated with Sanji and a few Whitebeard VP's, but he's watching you like you won an Oscar and punched someone on stage at the same time.

Izo leans to Sanji, eyes wide. "Did you see that? Did you see that? That was smoldering. That was 'we're about to test the structural integrity of a luxury penthouse energy."

Sanji's eyes the two of you with a slight frown. "He's such a brute. No finesse." Izo hisses, slapping his arm, "Oh, shut up."

Back at your side of the table, Zoro hasn't looked away, loving the way you were trying to not get flustered and mildly succeeding. You lean in slightly, letting your shoulder stay against his now. "Then what do you want?" you ask, soft and silk-smooth.

His gaze drops—quick flick from your eyes to your lips, then back again. "I want you to finish your drink," he says, barely audible over the clamor.

"Then what?"

He takes his own cup, knocks it back in one smooth motion, and sets it down with quiet finality.

"Then we talk," he says, "somewhere quieter, with less interfering eyes."

You don’t answer right away—but the smile that curves your lips is pure heat. You turn back toward the table like nothing just happened, sipping your drink, while Izo fans himself with a napkin like he’s watching a telenovela climax live.

You set your glass on the low table and glance up just as Zoro rises. He offers you his hand—no tie, now wearing a deep green shirt with the top 2 buttons teasingly undone.

When his fingers close around yours, a current shoots from your palm straight to your core. He guides your arm through the nook of his, firm but careful, and for a heartbeat you catch Izo in the crowd—wide eyed, panicked—but you don't look twice.

All that matters is how Zoro makes you feel: disarmed and electrified at once, like you're both hunter and prey. Yet you're neither. "Shall we?" he murmurs, voice low enough that only reaches your ears once you can hear it. He leads you off the banquet floor and toward the night air waiting just beyond the sliding doors.

one two three

#zoro #roronoa zoro #zoro one piece #zoro smut #zoro x reader #one piece smut #one piece zoro #vinsmoke sanji #one piece sanji #one piece law #one piece trafalgar law #one piece luffy #luffy smut #law smut

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wadewnstonwilson · 7 months ago

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housewife wade wilson headcanons || suggestion by anonymous

pairing: wade wilson (deadpool) x genderneutral!reader

author note: let me know if you guys want me to make this into an actual fic!! also would love to make more headcanons in the future featuring logan or wade so please feel free to drop me an ask!

the minute you leave for work, wade starts bombarding you with text messages. It starts out sweet—“hope you have a killer day, sugarplum!”—but quickly turns into a series of selfies, random thoughts, and (usually chaotic) updates about what he’s doing at home. it’s part of his way of staying connected, even if you’re in a boardroom meeting.

wade clings to you in the morning, draping himself over you dramatically and whining about how you’re “abandoning” him for corporate life. he might even joke about chaining himself to your briefcase just to keep you close. he knows it’s ridiculous, but it’s his way of getting a few extra minutes of affection before you leave.

knowing how particular you are about cleanliness, wade makes an effort to keep the house pristine. he wears a pink apron with “kiss the cook” emblazoned on it, vacuuming and dusting with the same enthusiasm he has for a mission. but he’s still wade, so sometimes you’ll come home to find him balancing on the couch trying to clean the ceiling fans or experimenting with “creative” cleaning solutions that smell way too strong.

even if you prefer something professional and sleek, wade insists on packing you a lunch every now and then, filled with your favorite snacks. he’ll sneak a little love note or even a crude drawing of the two of you, knowing it’ll make you smile when you find it at work.

wade is in awe of your polished, expensive style. every time you’re about to leave the house in a sleek suit or designer outfit, he goes over the top with compliments and jokes. “who needs a superhero when you’ve got this hot-shot executive look going on? can you even handle the power you’re radiating?”

when you get home, wade is the first to greet you at the door, practically tackling you into a hug. he refuses to let you go, playfully clinging to you while peppering your face with kisses. you’ve learned that, once you’re home, wade is glued to your side for the rest of the evening, practically following you around the house.

wade’s idea of romance involves surprising you with homemade dinners—even if they’re a bit chaotic. sometimes it’s a full, fancy setup, complete with candles and flowers, and other times, it’s just pizza with your favorite toppings. either way, he’s thrilled to play “perfect spouse” and waits eagerly for your reaction.

wade “borrows” your wardrobe regularly, despite the sharp contrast with his usual style. he’ll strut around the house in your blazers or designer coats, doing his best CEO impression. “look at me, babe, i’m ready to fire people and make millions!” it’s all in good fun, and he knows it makes you laugh.

wade’s clinginess reaches its peak at night. he wraps himself around you like a human octopus, insisting it’s for “optimal cuddle coverage.” if you try to roll over, he’ll grumble and pull you back, claiming you need his warmth to survive the night.

wade takes pride in being the stay-at-home husband. he jokes about being your “trophy spouse,” but he’s honestly thrilled to be there for you however he can. he wants to make your life as comfortable and happy as possible, even if he’s not the conventional choice for a high-powered CEO’s partner.

#wade wilson #wade winston wilson #my work #my writing #my headcanons #wade wilson x reader #wade wilson fanfic #deadpool #deadpool & wolverine #deadpool fanfiction #deadpool x reader #wade wilson headcanon #deadpool headcanons

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why-purpose-enti · 18 days ago

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Infertile & Expecting

for: my fav @minniebbang

I hope you like this!

Paring: Hyunjin x Reader.

JYP wasn’t always what people assumed it to be. To the outside world, it was a sleek, powerhouse advertising agency dotted across Seoul’s business district, with too many interns and not enough espresso. But inside, it was chaos. And inside that chaos, there was AWs — Abroad Works, a sub-division that specialized in foreign campaigns, international collaborations, and very weird visa paperwork.

The CEO of AWs was Minho. Terrifying in his management style — pounce without warning, disappear without explanation.

Jisung was the editor sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, and constantly muttering about how coffee should be a basic right, not a privilege.

Hyunjin was the model with chiseled features, dramatic sighs, and allergic to punctuality. Changbin handled business talks but today, he wasn’t around. Something about a family emergency, a cousin’s wedding, and a goat.

Which brought us to the meeting room on a Tuesday afternoon that smelled like rain and ramen.

Minho, slid a folder across the table to Jisung. “You’re going to the US next month. Florida. Big project. Only you and Hyunjin are here today, and you already know…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. Everyone knew. If earth split open and Hyunjin fell in, Minho might ask for receipts before helping.

Jisung blinked. “Okay. Thanks?”

Two hours later, Jisung was editing a banner of Hyunjin standing next to a suitcase for an ad titled “Pack Light, Travel Bright.” He smirked and added a mosquito near his perfect jawline. Payback for last week’s snide comment.

Suddenly, the door creaked.

Hyunjin.

Big eyes. Very big eyes. The kind you make when your pride has been crushed, marinated, sauted, and served on a plate with grass.

“Can I have… one hour?”

Jisung blinked once. “What?”

“One hour. Just one. Please.”

“…why?”

“Just… come. I’ll pay.”

They ended up at a tiny dumpling shop near the station. Hyunjin didn't touch the menu. Just leaned forward like he was about to propose.

“I want to go to the US.”

Jisung narrowed his eyes. “And?”

“And… if you decline the offer, since Changbin-hyung is out, I’ll be next in line. Minho-hyung won’t have a choice.”

“...Why should I give that up?”

Hyunjin’s lips twitched. There it was. The ego crack.

He leaned back, groaned once, rubbed his face like this physically hurt him.

Then launched forward.

"Okay, listen. All my friends went abroad, okay? All of them. Seoul National, USC, NYU, some went to san francisco—I didn’t even know that was a real place! Every single one of them posts stories in their dumb little fake American accents like “It’s snowingg guyssss!” and “Starbucks hits different here.”

You know what I post? Selfies with cutouts of detergent brands!! I have ONE wish in life, Han Jisung. Just ONE!!"

He paused dramatically. Then said, slowly, “I want to pick up the phone and say in the most forced American accent ever: ‘I'm in Florida. It’s raining like hell. Ohhh ma gawwwd.’”

Jisung’s face remained unimpressed. “No.”

Hyunjin blinked. “No?”

“Why would I give up this opportunity for a.....joke?”

Hyunjin’s face contorted. His hands clenched. His jaw twitched.

And he whisper-screamed, desperate, The rarest word in his vocabulary.

“PLEASE.”

The next month was approaching fast, and with it, Jisung’s all-expenses-paid trip to florida, complete with fancy accommodations, American coffee, and a glorious break from office drama.

Unfortunately, “drama” had legs, a jawline, and an endless supply of turtlenecks.

Hyunjin had entered full pestering mode. Like Jisung’s success was a war crime.

He started small — delivering Jisung’s coffee exactly the way he liked it (which was suspicious in itself), complimenting his editing work “Wow, this is almost art, Jisung-ah” (he cropped the picture), and even offering to carry his tripod bag. Jisung did not own a tripod bag. So Hyunjin bought him one.

By Friday, Jisung had enough. He slammed his sandwich onto the desk and turned, half-bread, half-murder in his eyes.

“You know what? If you wanna go to the US so bad, just buy a damn ticket and leave! Not that hard!”

Hyunjin stared at him like he’d just said “jump off a bridge.”

“I can’t,” he said, voice dropping like tragic violins in the background. “I literally can’t.”

Jisung squinted. “What, do you owe someone money?”

“No.” Sigh.

“My dad,” Hyunjin began, “is deeply religious. Like...‘calls a shaman before ordering takeout’ religious.”

Jisung blinked.

“My mom too. And my grandma — don’t even get me started, she calls me ‘sin magnet.’ Anyway, this one shaman my dad adores — some guy named Master Jido or Judo or something — apparently saw my face in a rice bowl and said I have bad travel omens.”

“A rice bowl?”

“Yeah, and since then, my dad’s convinced I shouldn’t cross the Korean Peninsula. He cancelled my trip to Japan in high school, he deleted my US college applications. Said, and I quote, ‘the wind outside Korea will swallow his luck and spit him back without eyebrows.’”

Jisung stared at him like he’d just aged 15 years. “You have GOT to be joking.”

“I WISH,” Hyunjin cried, hands flailing. “Do you know what it’s like to watch your school friends post beach pictures from Malibu while you’re stuck doing toilet flush product commercials in front of a green screen rain cloud?!”

Jisung squnted his eyes, then exhaled deeply. “Hyunjin, you think I’m that dumb?” Jisung asked.

There was silence. Then—

“Because...Mr. Lee only listens to you,” Hyunjin blurted. “You say the sky’s green, he believes it! Say your grandma died, and boom — you’re free.”

Jisung paused, jaw twitching. “You want me to say...my grandma died?”

Hyunjin grabbed his shoulders and shook him violently. “YES! If I said it, he’d call the hospital to check if I was lying. You say it, he’ll send flowers, plus a free trip to fiji for your mental well-being.”

Jisung yanked himself free, appalled. “Hell no! What’s wrong with you?!”

But Hyunjin wasn’t stopping. He was already on his knees, quite literally begging on the carpet Minho once declared “imported Italian” hands clasped like he was auditioning for a soap opera.

“PLEASE!”

Jisung sighed.

“Enough diversions and lying.” Jisung snapped, getting up.

“I WASN'T LYING!”

“okay, half lying.”

Hyunjin pulled out a small blue notebook.

Opened it.

Then… lifted it up.

And hid his face behind it. Peeking from behind the page… were two guilty brown eyes. Wide. Dramatic. Trapped.

“See, man. Be honest with me. We’ve had unnecessary beef for, like, forever. You mocked my editing, I insulted your hair — that’s history. But now, suddenly, you throw away all your pride just for a wish to go to the US?”

Hyunjin let out a dramatic sigh and took a mighty slurp of the cold drink before him — one of those neon-colored, sugar-overloaded concoctions that looked more dangerous than hydropower. The moment the freezing hit the roof of his mouth, he jerked in his seat.

“Brainfreeze—owowowow—okay, listen,” he whimpered, eyes squeezed shut like he was physically preparing to relive a decade-old heartbreak. “I’ll tell you.”

He placed the drink down, straightened his shoulders, and began:

“There was a girl.”

Jisung blinked.

“A girl?” he echoed, already unimpressed.

“She transferred to our school when I was thirteen. A foreigner, one of the two foreigh transfer students. Always carried this clunky DSLR, like a third arm. Nobody talked to her much. But one day, my bicycle, which was a girls one, was parked next to hers and—”

“Wait.” Jisung frowned. “Why were you riding a girl’s bicycle?”

Hyunjin looked mortified. “…The shaman. He said the top tube on boys cycles was dangerous for my family lineage.”

Jisung snorted so hard his straw jumped. “Bro WHAT.”

“I didn’t question it! I was twelve!”

Jisung was full-on laughing now. “What, it was gonna erase your family tree or something?”

“Yes!” Hyunjin cried in frustration. “They said I’d never have children and the family name would end!”

Wheezing, Jisung wiped his eyes, doubling up. “Oh my God, man.”

Hyunjin glared but pushed on, determined. “Anyway. She didn’t laugh at my bike. That mattered. Most people did. Like you. she didnt laugh even when i told her.”

“She and I became…accidental friends. We never hung out alone or anything. She would laugh at everything I said. And one Christmas, I wrote her this card. It had a picture of Amelia Island on it, super random, no snow or anything — just a beach. But I don’t know, it reminded me of her. I gave it anonymously.”

Jisung tilted his head. “That’s kinda sweet.”

“She read it during recess. No expression. Blank. Next day, she comes to me, asks, ‘Did you write this?’” Hyunjin scoffed. “I panicked. Said no. Then mocked the card I made. Called it lame. Said it looked like a brochure for lost tourists.”

Jisung winced. “Smooth.”

“She didn’t laugh. Just… stared at me and said, ‘That card made me feel something for the first time this winter.’ Then she walked away.”

Jisung, now slightly invested, raised a brow. “Oof.”

“I never told her I wrote it” Hyunjin admitted.

A pause.

Jisung squinted. “And what does this possibly have to do with you going to the US?”

Hyunjin waved his hand. “Let me finish.”

Jisung looked at the half-drunk cold drink, then back at Hyunjin.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “I can reject the offer. You’ll get the slot instead. But then... how will you convince your family?”

Hyunjin sipped the last of his drink slowly.

Looked out the window.

And grinned.

Hyunjin leaned back in his chair, that infuriatingly smug smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His eyes sparkled with something Jisung could only describe as unearned confidence.

“I already took care of it.”

Jisung narrowed his eyes. “Took care of what, Romeo?”

Hyunjin simply crossed his arms and nodded to himself like a villain finishing a chess game he started in his own head.

“Clarity” Jisung said. “Give it. Now.”

In the JYP Building, another sub-branch office buzzed with quiet chaos. HR. Finance. And there she was — the shaman’s daughter. Mid-twenties, blunt-cut bangs, and permanently unimpressed with the universe.

She worked in HR, or maybe Legal — Hyunjin hadn’t actually checked. All he knew was that she existed.

He’d found his window.

Hyunjin stood outside a quiet break room with the phone against his ear, pacing in dramatic arcs like he was rehearsing for a movie.

He called.

Ring. Ring.

Click. “Hello?” came the aged voice on the other end. The very Shaman. His enemy. His nemesis since age seven.

Hyunjin’s voice dropped into sugar-laced sarcasm.

“Hello, Master Jido. This is Hwang Hyunjin. Your favorite client's son.”

“Oh, it’s Hyunjin! What is it, son?”

“I just had a little doubt,” Hyunjin said, sweetly.

“A doubt?” the man chuckled. “Ask away, child.”

Hyunjin’s voice changed. From fake-sweet to quiet-deadly. “If I kidnap your daughter…”

“…Eh?”

“…And elope with her…”

“WHAT?”

“…Then marry her…”

“Are you—”

“…And two months later… dump her, throw her out of the house, emotionally ruin her, and disappear from the family registry…”

The silence on the line grew nuclear.

“…Then, Shaman-nim,” Hyunjin asked, voice as cold as a weather app warning, “Whose horoscope do the bad omens belong to? Mine, your daughters, or yours?”

“What do you want.”

Jisung stared, blinking. “You blackmailed a seventy-year-old spiritual consultant.”

“Gently intimidated,” Hyunjin corrected.

“With the emotional threat of fake marriage and divorce.”

“Wasn’t fake in the moment” Hyunjin said, sipping from the straw like a man who just solved world peace. “I committed to the bit.”

Jisung just stared.

“I didn’t actually do anything! I just... helped him consider some new astrological angles” Hyunjin said.

“Now, apparently the stars have changed or something. A fresh wind of fortune has entered my celestial corridor.”

“I can’t believe you dragged a whole girl into this—”

“She doesn’t even know. It’s fine. Her Insta bio says ‘Engaged to coffee’ anyway.”

“…What does that even mean—”

Hyunjin suddenly stood up and raised his arms like he’d won a national award. “San Francisco! It’s rainin' like hell, OH MAH GAWD!!!”

The cafe went quiet. Everyone turned. A kid started crying. The waiter dropped a glass.

Jisung sank into his chair, hiding his face and muttering, “It's Florida.”

You were thirteen when you landed in Korea, still jetlagged, still unsure how far Seoul was from anything familiar — your school, your grandma, the small room in Florida that always smelled like oranges.

Your dad had one rule: “No Korean boys.”

You blinked. He leaned in like he was whispering ancient wisdom.

“They’re into shady stuff. Like... gambling and prostitution.” You nodded. Not because you believed it — but because the jetlag had won, and your brain had clocked out somewhere over the Pacific.

You started school in March, jetlagged and freezing, with only two phrases in Korean: "Hello" and "I don't understand."

The only other foreign transferee was a boy named Felix, who looked like he’d been born with bubble tea in his hand. Korean-Australian, bleach-blond, and soft-spoken, he spoke Korean in scattered syllables and English with an accent that made teachers squint and classmates swoon.

You and Felix became a team by necessity. You copied each other’s homework, traded cafeteria pickles for extra milk, and sat side by side during any group project, acting as one two-headed confused foreigner.

Then there was Hyunjin.

The Korean boy who looked like he walked off a shampoo ad — with his floppy fringe and moody aura, and that stupid girls’ bicycle he parked next to yours every morning.

He tried to speak to you.

Often.

“Hi. Me am… Hyunjin… boy… I am goose pinples. No.—wait—I mean, I have the goose pinples.”

You and Felix burst into laughter so loud, the homeroom teacher glared.

Hyunjin, unbothered, nodded proudly. "Funny. You laugh. you like me."

“No,” Felix wheezed. “Because you said you are goose pimples.”

“Goose pinples happen when heart is... too loud!” Hyunjin declared, without understanding a thing.

“My English is very… constipation.” “I feel you, I have many… hormone today.” “This snack is… how do you say? Explode in mouth? Like… popsex?”

“Today is Constipation Day in Korea!” and what not.

You and Felix lost it every single time.

You never corrected him. Because he always looked so damn confident. Like the world should revolve around his pronunciation.

Felix would record some of it. You’d play it back in the dorm at night, wheezing into your pillows, whispering:

“Popsex. He really said popsex.”

But there was something endearing about him. Or maybe something tragic. You couldn’t tell.

The sun was setting. You were taking a photo of the schoolyard. He walked up, fiddling with something behind his back.

He didn’t say anything. Just dropped a card on the bench and left.

The cover was of an island. Amelia Island. Inside, written in broken English:

“You make my heart like dance. Happy marry Christmas.”

You didn’t smile.

Because it was sweet. And embarrassing. And probably from him.

The next day, you asked him, straight-faced:

You: “Did you leave this?”

Hyunjin: “What? Me? This??” (Laughs too hard. Slaps his knee.) “This very funny! Haha. Island card! Very joke.”

you told him you liked it very much. that for once you felt like someone gave you something worth keeping. His eyes widened and he was about to say something when you walked away, a bit hurt.

“No dating Korean boys” Your dad said again, while reheating soup and watching Korean dramas like a hypocrite. “Keep that in mind.”

You’d just nodded.

He didn’t know about Hyunjin. Not really. He was your friend. Mostly. Kind of. Not technically anything that violated international treaties or fatherly warnings.

Even when he gave you that Amelia Island card — anonymous but obvious — you said nothing. He denied it. Called it lame.

So you shrugged, hurt a little, and moved on.

Eventually, your parents moved again. Another town. Same country, but a new school, new skyline, new loneliness.

You never saw Hyunjin after that.

Your sister was the golden one.

She smiled brighter. Spoke softer. Her eyes watered during shampoo commercials and she once cried when a stray cat let her hold it for a minute.

So when she came to you — eyes big and trembling — and said

“Can you tell them? Please? I don’t think I can. He’s Korean. You know how Dad’ll be.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want her to be happy. But because the moment she asked, you felt it — that old familiar weight settling on your shoulders again. The one you carried through your teens, through immigration, through every rule your father ever carved into stone.

You sat on the edge of the living room couch, your fingers digging crescents into your thighs, while your father’s silence sharpened the air like a blade.

Your mother’s voice cut in, pleading — but soft, rehearsed, like she already knew the end.

“She’s never asked for anything her whole life. Let her marry him, please. We have Y/N, don’t we? When have you ever said no to her? She’ll marry whomever you ask her to, it's the least she can do.”

You blinked. Felt the ground vanish a little under your feet.

But you didn’t say anything.

You smiled. A small one. A polite one.

You didn’t know then that smile would cost you something.

The wedding was small. Rushed. A white dress borrowed. A groom with tired eyes and a job in tech. Your sister looked happy, though. For a while. With you as the photographer.

Eight months later, you were at the hospital. Premature baby.

“She’s in labor. Come if you can.”

You went. You held her hand when her husband was at work. You remember the way she looked at you — sweaty, scared, but still somehow calm, like you were the only solid thing in the room.

Then the baby didn’t cry.

And everything after that blurred into this cold, sterile memory of machines and silence and a doctor’s voice trying to be gentle.

They named him Noah. He was perfect. For ten minutes. Then he was gone.

The funeral was the kind of heartbreak people don’t talk about because there are no right words for something that brief and permanent.

Her husband blamed her for not taking care of herself while pregnant.

“You said you didn’t want kids. You remember? You told me a year ago. That maybe... you’d regret it.”

And your sister just stood there. Frozen. One hand still resting on the tiny urn in her arms.

They never recovered.

You held her until her breathing evened out. Until her voice cracked open.

And you just kept rubbing her back, trying to hold her together with hands that were already so used to holding other people’s pain.

Later, your mom pulled you aside while helping pack up some things for her.

“At least you… you should listen to your father. You don’t want to end up like your sister.”

You didn’t respond because she's right.

Years later, you’re still in Korea. Still taking jobs from strangers who don’t know your language but trust your eye. You have clients. You have your quiet little life.

But something in you had started to twitch.

A thread pulling tight.

It stirred when you saw your sister's hands shake over her tea.

It stirred loudest when you saw Hyunjin again — in that photo. The boy who once said “goose pinples” with his whole chest. Who looked at you like you were a language he wanted to learn.

It started with a hand graze.

James had bumped into you at a small book café in the quieter part of the city, apologizing so earnestly for a moment you barely noticed. “Sorry—wasn’t watching,” he said, British lilt and coffee-stained fingers holding onto a stack of art books. You glanced up briefly from your own pile of screenwriting guides, nodding once, distracted.

He returned a few minutes later, leaned against your table, and offered you a smile that held no arrogance, no performance. “You like writing, I guess?” he asked. “Or maybe just collecting intimidating books?”

You smirked at that. He sat. He talked. He stayed.

And you didn’t expect that you’d like him so much.

He was sweet. Not in the manufactured way you’d grown used to—he didn’t send flowers, didn’t quote poems he didn’t understand. But he remembered the books you liked, bought a matching notebook when you mentioned needing one, and waited outside the film school for two hours on rainy days with an umbrella and half a chocolate bar.

He met your sister. Made her laugh, even. Played card games with her in the cramped corners of the house when your father wasn’t around.

But when you finally told him—quietly, anxiously—that you wanted him to meet your father, he hesitated.

“Give me a month,” he said, voice low. “Just one month. I want to have a job by then. I want to come to him with something in hand. I know what your dad is like.”

You frowned. Not because he was wrong—but because that month already sounded like an escape route.

Still, you nodded.

You always wanted to believe the best of people.

One month turned into two. Then four.

He kept trying, he said. But you were the only one holding onto his promises anymore.

2 years later.

Your father came into your room. He had a printed photograph in his hand. A boy in a navy blue shirt, smiling politely.

“His name is Joseph,” your father said. “Son of Thomas. Studied in Delhi. MBA. Good job, salary, family, and most importantly, nice and respectful.”

You stared at the picture, you knew Joseph from church. But it wasn’t even Joseph you were reacting to—it was the sudden realization of what this meant.

He thought you were ready for marriage.

“dad” you said slowly. “I… I want to show you something.”

You opened your phone. Scrolled to the gallery. Your thumb hovered for just a second before you turned the screen toward him.

It was an image of a printed brochure for a photography course abroad.

“I want to apply for this,” you said. “I think it’ll help with my work.”

There was a long pause. He didn’t react for a full minute. Just stared.

Then, finally, he placed the photograph of Joseph on the table and sat back.

“You know I’ve never denied you anything,” he said quietly. Not angry.

“Don’t take it for granted.”

“I’m not,” you said. “I promise I’m not. I just… I really think this will help. With the way the industry’s changing, and—”

He raised a hand, stopping your excuses mid-way. You felt like you were shrinking.

He nodded once, a little stiff. Then, after a moment, rested his callused hand on your head the way he always did when you were little. Gentle, warm, still.

“Go” he said. “Make sure you do it properly.”

You smiled.

But your eyes had guilt.

Packing didn’t take long.

Neither did the goodbyes.

You kept your room clean. Hugged your sister a little tighter. Stared too long at your walls and the half-torn posters you’d never get to finish decorating.

Then came the early morning of departure.

The airport lights felt too white. Too quiet. Your sister walked next to you, carrying your hand luggage while you tugged along the suitcase. You were wearing a hoodie.

“Is that him?” your sister asked softly, referring to the guy who sat on the waiting lounge, very far away, the matching hoodie you wore was a hint.

You told her everything last night.

You nod and stop.

Right outside the terminal glass doors, you turned toward her. And your face crumpled.

“I’m sorry,” you said suddenly, voice cracking, your breath stuttering. “I didn’t mean this, I didn’t—”

You swallowed. Clenched your teeth. Covered your mouth with your hand for a second, trying not to let it shake.

Your sister didn’t say anything. She just looked at you the way she always did—waiting, quiet, gentle.

“Please” you whispered, “don’t tell them.”

And that was all.

You picked up your bag again.

And walked through the doors.

You made it through security in silence, your hoodie pulled low over your eyes, your steps heavy. The air inside the airport felt sterile—metal chairs, quiet voices, the hum of announcements you weren’t really listening to. You held onto your passport like a lifeline.

And then you saw it.

A lone suitcase just a few feet ahead, with a grayish denim jacket draped lazily over it. The chair beside it was empty.

You paused. Tilted your head slightly. Maybe the guy had gone to the washroom. You didn’t care.

You didn’t even want to care.

You sat down with a gap of one chair in between, resting your small handbag on top of your own suitcase. The weight of the flight, the course, your family, James, and everything you didn’t say sat on your chest like bricks.

A headache was already blooming behind your eyes.

You stood again, rubbing your forehead, and made your way to the tiny pharmacy stall just across from the waiting area. Bought a strip of pills, a small water bottle, and pressed your palm to your temple as you walked back.

And then you saw him.

Long legs stretched out.

Foot tapping on his suitcase and kicking it forward like a bored child playing air hockey with himself.

And then pulling it back with his heel, only to do it again.

You stared at him for a solid ten seconds.

He didn’t even notice you—he was too busy whistling a terrible, off-key rendition of some unknown classical tune. Probably something he made up.

Your brows twitched.

You moved to sit down anyway, deciding to just pretend he didn’t exist.

But the moment your hand touched your suitcase handle, he looked up.

And his face lit up like he wasn’t twenty-four years old but actually five.

A slow, mischievous grin crept onto his face. He tilted his head, blinked dramatically, then—because he had no self-preservation instinct—shifted one chair closer, leaned into your face from the side.

He pointed a finger and poked your shoulder. With far too much confidence.

“Ma’am,” he said, in the most suspiciously fake tone you’d ever heard, “have we met before? Or… are you just the reason the stars look dim tonight?”

You blinked.

Squinted.

And then smacked his shoulder with a loud thwap.

“Hwang Hyunjin!” you snapped. “Stop overacting! What the hell?! I’ve been searching the entire airport like a lunatic—!”

“I told you I was inside—!”

“You were not! You left your suitcase here like you live here. Is this a goddamn palace?! Were you taking a heritage walk or what?!”

“It’s my first time in this terminal!” he defended, eyes wide and innocent, “I got excited, okay?! It’s like a mall but worse!”

You glared. “You’re unbelievable.”

He leaned in closer, voice full of pride. “But also really good-looking.”

You deadpan-stared at him. “I’m this close to checking in my morals and leaving you in the cargo.”

“Noted.” He nodded solemnly, then grinned again. “Oh, by the way—Florida’s gonna be awesome, baby, Imagine all the white sand and palm trees and—ow, ow—okay, sorry, stop hitting me—!”

You had shoved him lightly on the chest, but he reacted like he was dying.

“Oh my God,” you groaned. “Grow a spine.”

“Oh my God,” he mimicked in a high voice, holding his chest. “Grow a spine—You hit me! I might never emotionally recover from this moment.”

You turned away, cheeks puffed in exasperation.

He leaned in again, wrapped an arm around your shoulder without asking, and pulled you in close like a clingy koala. You squirmed, tried to push him off, but he was already launching into another act.

“Milady,” he said in a terrible British accent, “I humbly beg your forgiveness. I was so very bewitched by the splendid architecture of this steel-and-concrete airport that I momentarily forgot I had a beautiful lover waiting for me.”

“‘Beautiful lover’?” you raised a brow.

He straightened, chest out like a knight. “I would doth die a thousand deaths to bask in thy gaze.”

“…Are you high?”

“I took two mints. Close enough.”

You started laughing despite yourself.

You hated that he always knew how to twist your mood—how to flip the script, to go from heavy and aching to ridiculous and warm. Like he could sense exactly when you were on the edge.

And even though you were still mad… you rested your head on his shoulder for a second before standing up.

“Come on,” you muttered, grabbing your boarding pass. “Let’s go. Before you get distracted by another vending machine and try to marry it.”

Hyunjin gasped, following you with exaggerated shock. “That was one time! And it said limited-edition banana milk—!”

You walked ahead, shaking your head.

And behind you, suitcase rolling, Hyunjin trailed after you with that same stupid smile—already reaching out to hold your hand like it was muscle memory.

This is a notice from the heavens: what in the ever-loving hell just happened ?

Flashback.

Hyunjin barely sat down at his desk when the dreaded voice pierced the air.

“Hwang Hyunjin. Office. Now.”

His eyes lifted like a man being summoned to court. Minho never calls. Minho appears like a spirit of mild annoyance and sarcastic judgment. But this? This was serious.

He stood, heart hammering, already mentally cycling through everything he might’ve done wrong—was it the extra-long lunch break last Tuesday? The incident with the bubble tea explosion in the studio? That one time he accidentally hit ‘Reply All’ and sent a crying cat meme to the entire office?

No time to wonder. He walked in.

Minho sat at his desk, arms crossed, face unreadable. Very Minho. Behind him, the screen glowed with a blank spreadsheet—deadly in its own way.

“We’re changing the face of the AWs campaign,” Minho said, without even looking up.

Hyunjin blinked. “...Okay?”

Minho leaned back. “We can’t afford celebrity models. The budget is ass. So. New idea—we pick someone from the team.”

Hyunjin tilted his head. “Oh… That’s actually kinda genius. Like… relatable marketing. ‘We are you’ type vibe.” He nodded, warming up. “If we do a shoot with banners and everything, it’ll look organic. Sales will go up.”

“Exactly,” Minho said, drumming his fingers. “So now comes the real question…”

He stared straight into Hyunjin’s soul.

“Who should be the model?”

And in that moment… Hyunjin knew he was absolutely screwed.

Minho never asks for opinions. Which meant—he already had someone in mind. And he was called here, which meant—it was him.

An intrusive image assaulted his brain: A massive banner over a subway station. Hyunjin. Smiling. Thumbs up. Next to a toilet seat.

“AWs: Flushing Problems Away.”

He swallowed thickly.

“Jisung,” he blurted. “Han Jisung’s got that—like, you know—model energy. Face like a K-drama second lead, right? Like the nice one that dies?”

“Hyunjin,” Minho said flatly. “You’ll do it.”

“No—no no no,” Hyunjin stammered, waving his hands. “Minho-hyung, listen—my family’s got… issues. Yes. Terrible issues. There’s a… a spiritual curse, actually. We can’t be on printed material. It invites demons. My mom said—”

Minho didn’t even blink.

He turned to his monitor.

“Do it or resign.”

There it was. Classic Minho. Dropping ultimatums like it was Monday morning Sudoku.

Hyunjin stood frozen. He sighed. Long. Dramatic. Almost award-worthy.

He turned to the door. Put a hand on the handle. Then paused.

“Give me one hour,” he said, turning back.

Minho didn’t glance up. “Take it.”

“Your time, sir,” Hyunjin added with unnecessary formality, voice full of noble defeat.

Minho finally looked at him, eyes squinting with the exhausted patience of a man being begged to let a golden retriever run a government agency.

“What now?”

The lighting is warm, jazzy music hums faintly, and there's a rustic charm to the place. The only thing out of place is the sheer tension radiating from one side of the booth.

Minho sits like a man about to order his final meal before heading into a warzone.

Hyunjin sits like a man who is the warzone.

The waiter approaches with a notepad.

Minho: “Dakgalbi. Extra spicy. Add cheese. Double portion.” Hyunjin: “...A glass of hot water. Please.”

The waiter blinks. Looks at Hyunjin. Then at Minho. Then back at Hyunjin, silently judging his life choices.

“Hot… water?” “Yes. Plain. Hot.” “Lemon?” “No. I’m not here to feel joy.”

The waiter backs away slowly.

Minho sighs. “Are you starting or should I just punch myself in the head and save time?”

Hyunjin takes a dainty sip of his steaming hot water, wincing like it burned his soul. Then places the cup down like he’s just returned from a war front.

“Sir. I asked you here tonight because I needed to explain why I absolutely cannot be the face of this campaign.”

Minho: “Uh huh.”

“There’s a girl. She never judged me. Not when I was in my girls cycle.”

Minho freezes mid-napkin-unfold, he remembers something.

“We were 13—”

Minho cuts in, deadpan:

“Yeah. I know. You gave her a card for Christmas and it had an island on it and blah blah blah.”

Hyunjin freezes. “Wait… how do you know that?”

Minho sips his water now, mocking.

“You also asked for one hour during your job interview and told me the same sob story.”

Hyunjin seals his lips, humbled into silence. For a moment.

Then:

“There’s… more, sir. But I’ll have to go with the flow—”

Minho cuts in again, already halfway through his meal.

“Come to the fucking point. I’ll only be here till this plate’s empty.”

Hyunjin mutters under his breath:

“Didn’t know you were gonna inhale the damn dish…”

Minho: “What?”

Hyunjin (straightening): “Nothing. So—what happened was…”

He breathes in deep. Eyes down.

Minho looks pained.

“one night… I opened Instagram. And there she was. With another guy. Matching hoodies. Holding hands. At the zoo. I saw the giraffes in the background, hyung. Our giraffes.”

“You had giraffes?”

“We once watched a giraffe documentary together in the office pantry. That was OUR moment.”

Minho slows down. Just a little.

“And she was dating a guy who was a small time struggling photographer, looking for another job, and hence, I quit getting photographed out of spite”

Minho paused eating. “What”

“I archived my entire gallery. Stopped taking selfies. I haven’t touched my camera in half a year. The guy at Canon messaged me to check if I died.”

Minho tosses his chopsticks down.

“Hyunjin. During your interview, you also told me you quit riding bikes because your dad bought you a pink one. Are you the son of JYP that we should excuse your behavior like it’s performance art?!”

Hyunjin looks mildly insulted. “It had a bell shaped like a bunny. It traumatized me.”

“Okay. Shut up. You’re coming tomorrow at 7 AM sharp. You’re shooting a campaign for room spray. If you cry, I’ll make you do deodorant and drain cleaner next.”

“Sir—my aura is not compatible with room spray.”

“Neither is your soul compatible with employment, apparently.”

Hyunjin looks like a dying goldfish.

“But hyung—sir—I’m emotionally unavailable. I won’t be able to concentrate!”

“It’s not like you ever achieved anything while fully concentrated anyway.”

He stands. Leaves.

Hyunjin sits there, stunned, insulted, and still clutching his hot water like a widow.

The waiter brings the bill.

Hyunjin also starts to get up, following Minho… when—

“Hyunjin,” Minho calls without turning.

“Pay the bill.”

He disappears around the corner.

Hyunjin opens the bill and his soul leaves his body.

“Of course. I love being financially exploited right after emotional trauma.”

The lights are dim. Not in an artistic, mood-lit way. In a “someone forgot to turn on the switches” way. The studio smells faintly of coffee, industrial cleaning spray, and vague regret.

Hyunjin stands in the middle of it.

Half-dressed in an orange jumpsuit with “AROMA WHISPER™” stitched in cursive over the chest. Someone handed it to him like it was a privilege. Like he wasn’t just betrayed by the concept of personal dignity.

He’s brushing something off his shoulder. A bit of lint. A speck of despair. Maybe both.

The shirt underneath doesn’t sit right. Too stiff. The kind of material that squeaks when you move. Corporate cosplay.

His hair’s been half-slicked back, the way Minho said it would “photograph clean.” His soul, however, remains smeared across the floor.

He adjusts his collar. Winces.

The fabric itchy. The zipper mocking him. Every fiber of the jumpsuit screams,

“You used to be an artist. Now you are a mascot for air particles.”

Hyunjin mutters under his breath, eyes down.

“Room spray… Room slay. Whatever makes it hurt less.”

And then—

“...Hyunjin?”

A voice.

A very specific voice.

He freezes.

Not like, subtle stiffening. No. He freezes like a man whose worst emotional enemy just pulled the fire alarm inside his chest.

His heart flinches so hard, he forgets how to breathe for a moment.

Slowly, like in a drama that’s low on budget but high on intensity, he lifts his head.

And there she is.

HER. The girl. The she of all his tragic Instagram stalking. The one who never judged him during his Girl Cycle™. The one he once sent a pressed hydrangea and poetry-level card to.

She’s standing there—slightly confused, holding a clipboard, wearing the company vest.

She’s dressed like a part-timer in production, but to him, she looks like the goddess of Febreze herself descended from Olympus to ask why he stopped posting mirror selfies.

And then—

CLICK.

Suddenly, someone hits the main camera lights.

They beam on like interrogation spotlights. White. Blinding. Glorious.

Hyunjin flinches as it hits him in the face—full beam. But he doesn’t close his eyes.

Because hers are on him. Just her eyes. On just him.

And even though he’s dressed like a traffic cone—

Even though his ego is currently six feet under a pile of product sponsorship—

Even though his knees feel like a newborn deer’s and he knows he’s about to be told to hold a fake daisy-scented bottle next to a toilet prop—

All he can think is:

“Damn. I’m in love again.”

And this time, worse than before.

A few moments after the blinding lights switched on and his soul left his body temporarily, Hyunjin starts piecing things together.

She’s not just standing around. She’s not observing. She’s holding a camera.

No. No. No, no, no—

“Y/N,” Minho’s voice cuts through the silence like a very smug dagger, “Let’s start the shoot. Just get a couple of green mat shots for the catalogue, we’ll fix the color grading later.”

Green mat.

Hyunjin’s eyes twitch toward the green rectangle of synthetic shame rolled out like a yoga mat meant for humiliation. A little fake potted plant sits next to it. He’s told to hold the "Rain Breeze Blossom" spray bottle and “smile with your eyes.”

He doesn't even know what that means.

She’s behind the camera. Adjusting the lens.

Professional. Focused. The way she bites the inside of her cheek while testing the lighting makes him want to throw himself out of a very medium-height window.

He’s smiling in the photos.

But only his teeth are participating.

The rest of him is trying not to dissolve into a puddle on the floor and flow straight into the studio’s drainage system.

Click. Click. Click.

He poses. She shoots. They don’t say a word.

Until— It’s over.

Minho walks up, grabs the camera from her hands casually, scrolls through the display.

He stops at a photo of Hyunjin holding the room spray like it’s the antidote to his broken heart.

“Good job,” Minho mutters.

Hyunjin exhales.

“Thanks,” he says quickly, too quickly, heart blooming just a little—until Minho looks at him like he’s grown a second head.

“Not to you,” Minho says, not even hiding his disgust. “To her.”

Hyunjin wilts.

“Thanks,” you say, smiling lightly, taking the camera back.

It’s worse than rejection. It’s non-existence.

You’re not sure how you ended up here.

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s the only room still lit up in the whole building—like it remembered you both still had things to say.

Or maybe it’s the way he looked after the photoshoot.

Like he was trying not to look at you. Like looking might hurt. Like not looking already was.

You sit across from him, the table between you unnaturally clean, like the both of you are too polite to leave even a teaspoon of mess anymore.

He’s wearing a plain shirt now. Something soft and pale and very him. His curls are messier. Looser. The way you remember them from last year’s winter, when he used to post black-and-white mirror selfies captioned with song lyrics and emotionally concerning emojis.

You wrap your fingers around your tea mug. It’s hot, but the warmth doesn’t quite reach your chest yet.

“You’re really a photographer now,” he says, half-laughing, like it snuck up on him.

You shrug.

“You’re really a model now,” you say back, with a smile that almost counts as teasing.

He groans dramatically, dragging a hand down his face.

“Don’t say that. That’s the worst moment of my professional life. I’ve peaked in a citrus jumpsuit.”

You laugh a little.

Not because it’s particularly funny, but because he’s always been good at saying things just wrong enough to be endearing.

There’s a pause. The kind you used to fill with banter, or stolen fries, or your fingers brushing his across a couch cushion when no one was looking.

Now it just hums.

“So…” he starts, drumming his fingers lightly against the table, “You’ve been good?”

You nod. Slowly.

But he notices. You don’t say yes.

And he doesn’t press.

Because he knows you.

The same way you know his silence is always louder after 10 PM. The way he brushes the back of his neck when he’s anxious. The way he always shifts his gaze to the corner of the room when he’s afraid of hearing something he wants.

He’s doing it now.

Looking away.

Like he’s scared you’ll say something real.

“So… uh. You and that guy from Instagram. You broke up?”

You raise a brow slowly, suspiciously.

“What, are you stalking me now?”

“No—I mean, no! I just—it was on your story. Publicly. With, like, the couple hashtags and everything,” he mumbles, going red. “I just saw it.”

“Stalker,” you whisper behind the rim of your mug, lips twitching.

He groans.

“I’m not—! Ugh. Whatever.”

You tilt your head, eyes sharpening just slightly.

“Yeah. We broke up.”

“Oh,” he says, a little too quickly. “Good—I mean—uh. Not good. I meant… interesting.”

Your lips quirk.

“He cheated on me.”

That wipes the color from his face in less than a second.

He stiffens.

Hands clenched into weak little fists on the table. Eyes darkening like storm clouds, like he was just given permission to go commit arson.

“Hyunjin,” you say lightly, “You look like you’re gonna punch someone.”

“No,” he says, deadly serious, “Just… imagining kicking him into a trash can and sealing the lid shut.”

“Tempting.”

“If you give me his workplace location, I swear I can pull up with a bat and an apology card.”

You laugh again—softly. Only a little.

But his eyes flick up instantly.

And then, suddenly—he goes dramatic.

He straightens, hands gesturing wildly now, dead serious like he’s about to drop the philosophy of the decade.

“So—when you go to a salon, right? And you get a new haircut, it feels… weird at first. Like, who is this?You stare at yourself in the mirror, wondering if you just ruined your entire look. Right?”

You nod slowly, amused.

“But then,” he continues, “the next day, you see yourself again and go, hey. Wait. It’s not that bad.”

His eyes widen for emphasis.

“And then, one week later, you look in the mirror like—damn. I'm kinda cute. Actually, wait. This is the best haircut ever.”

He places both hands on the table like he’s just proven the theory of relativity.

“That. That’s what your breakup is.”

You stare.

He waits.

You narrow your eyes, biting your lip to stop yourself from cracking a smile.

He scratches the back of his neck, sheepishly grinning now.

“I mean… I did go to the salon yesterday, sooo…”

You blink again.

And then— You snort.

And then you actually laugh.

Hyunjin freezes. Mouth parting slightly.

“Wait. Did you just laugh?”

He gasps dramatically, standing halfway up from his seat like he’s discovered light.

“Manager—turn off the lights! We’ve got enough sunshine here! Go green, baby, let’s save the planet!”

You roll your eyes, still laughing.

“Sit down, idiot.”

“Hey, hey, turn that side and smile a little. We could take a photo and put it in the lobby. You just solved the building’s electricity crisis with your solar power.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile too much. But it’s too late.

He sees it.

And for a second, he just stares.

Like that one smile of yours could pull him back into orbit.

The room is packed.

Slides are changing slowly on the projector as Minho paces at the front, pointer in hand, talking about fragrance variants of the new room spray product like it’s a matter of national security.

Hyunjin’s eyes, however, are glued to his phone.

Not the screen on the wall. Not the notes in front of him.

Your text thread. Your name. Sitting there in his messages like a tiny piece of serotonin.

He types under the desk with the subtlety of a kid cheating on a test.

Hyunjin:

where are you you weren’t at the shoot you didn’t reply this morning are you okay is minho making you quit blink twice if you need rescuing

Three dots pop up.

Then:

You:

Going to a friend’s wedding! Wanna come?

His thumb freezes.

Then moves so fast he almost stabs the touchscreen.

Hyunjin:

I’M COMING I’M COMING OMG

Then GASP.

An actual, audible gasp in the dead quiet room.

Minho pauses his monologue mid-sentence. Everyone looks up like they just heard a fire alarm.

Hyunjin is on his feet, clutching his phone like he’s just received life-altering news.

“No… no, no, no—this can’t—this can’t be happening…”

Minho narrows his eyes. “Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin staggers dramatically toward the door, hand to his mouth like he’s going to faint.

“I… I have to go. I—It’s—It’s personal. Very personal. Family. Emergency. Sad things. Crying things.”

He wipes an invisible tear from his cheek and sniffles audibly.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

Minho stares at him, completely unmoved.

“You’re not even crying.”

Hyunjin forces a high-pitched sob.

“NOW I AM.”

Minho doesn’t blink. Just folds his arms, sighs, deadpans.

“Go.”

Hyunjin immediately drops the act, grins.

“Thanks, boss!! Love you!”

He darts out the door in a blur of limbs, nearly knocking over the intern carrying sample bottles.

Minho sighs deeply, clicking the pointer with the weariness of a man who has seen too much.

“Okay. Back to lavender mist and cinnamon-sugar sorrow. Slide twelve, please.”

The sun’s dipping low, painting gold on the windshield. The soft hum of the AC fills the silence.

He’s in the passenger seat, hoodie slightly wrinkled, hair a little messy from air playing with it five minutes ago. His bag’s in his lap, untouched.

Your cars parked right outside his house, engine off, not saying a word.

Neither of you are.

Until suddenly you reach across the console and hold his hand.

Hyunjin blinks.

Looks down at your fingers.

Then up at you.

You’re serious.

Your expression doesn’t wobble even slightly as you ask—

“Will you marry me?”

He freezes like someone just told him he won the lottery and the prize is you.

“Wait—wait. Hold on. What.”

You nod. Still serious. Still holding his hand.

“You. Me. Marriage. What do you think?”

He stares. Then swallows.

Then stares some more.

And finally, very softly:

“You tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”

He’s lying in bed. Lights off. Blanket up to his chest like he’s in a horror movie.

Only the horror is… His father.

Hyunjin sighs dramatically into the void.

“Appa’s going to kill me.”

His eyes widen.

“No—worse. He’ll disown me. Then resurrect me just to kill me again.”

He turns to his side. Opens his phone. Stares at your name in the messages. Doesn't dare text. You’re probably thinking about the same thing.

“A foreigner. An artist. A photographer. With opinions. Style. Confidence. Love. And—God forbid—humour.”

“I’m dating everything my father prayed against during family offerings.”

He throws the blanket over his face.

You're lying flat on your back, eyes glued to the ceiling fan.

It’s been spinning for hours. It has no answers. Neither do you.

“How do I explain this? Mom’s going to be confused. Dad’s going to have a nosebleed.”

You pull the blanket over your face. Scream into it.

“I’m marrying a Korean guy. A model. An AD model.”

You sit up.

They’re lying in their beds, phones still in hand, both sighing at the ceiling.

Then simultaneously:

“Maybe we should elope.”

Beat.

“But we can’t. My mom would find me in whatever continent I hide in.”

“So would my dad. With a shaman.”

You’re already there when Hyunjin shows up.

You're pacing.

Hands shaking.

Mind spinning.

He sees you from across the street—crosses quickly, no goofy wave today.

You're chewing your lip. Hard.

"Hey," he says gently. "Let’s sit inside?"

You shake your head. Eyes sharp, voice sharp-er.

“Why did you call me here?”

“plan” he says, raising a finger. “I have a plan.”

You squint.

He opens the door. You walk in with him—reluctantly.

Small booth. Two cups between you—one coffee, one untouched hot water.

You're silent. Hyunjin keeps fidgeting with the sugar packets.

Then:

“Let’s elope.”

You stare at him.

Like stare stare.

As if he just said “let’s skydive into a pit of sharks.”

“Are you actually serious?”

“Deadly.”

“Hyunjin—my parents—”

You slam your palm on the table, rattling the spoons.

“Do you know how many hopes they have for me?! Do you know what kind of deal it was for them to send me here? Do you know what my sister’s going through? Do you think I’m just going to throw everything away and—elope?! With a guy who models room spray?!”

Hyunjin’s mouth opens. Then shuts. He nods slowly.

“Cool, cool, cool. I see where the disrespect is.”

“What?”

“No, no, continue. Ruin my entire bloodline.”

“Oh my god—”

“As if my father’s ever looked at me and thought: wow, my son’s going to make wise, marriageable decisions. No! He once told me I should have been born a turnip. At least turnips don’t take photos in orange jumpsuits.”

You blink.

“Turnip?”

“YES, TURNIP. That’s what I’m dealing with. So don’t come at me like you’re the only one with cultural pressure, alright?”

You stand up suddenly, chair scraping loudly.

“I won’t run away like a coward. I won’t mess up everything my parents worked for!”

You begin walking away—heels clicking, exit in sight.

And then—

Hyunjin stands too.

Loud.

Passionate.

Chaotic.

“THAT’S WHY GANDHI SAID!”

Everyone turns. You freeze mid-step.

Turn back slowly.

“…What did Gandhi say?”

He blinks.

Raises his finger again like he’s summoning wisdom from the heavens.

“He said: ‘If you ask me everything—what the fuck will you do, you shithead!’”

Pin-drop silence.

A waiter spills a fork in the corner. A kid starts crying.

You stare at him.

Hyunjin’s chest is rising. He looks like a revolutionary who forgot the script.

You blink. Once. Twice.

“Gandhi said that?”

“Absolutely,” he lies confidently.

Your lips twitch.

You fight it. But it’s coming.

And then—it breaks. You laugh.

Covering your mouth. But laughing.

“You’re such a dumbass.”

“And you’re the dumbass who proposed to me in your car.”

“…Touche”

You sigh, walking back to him, rubbing your temples.

“So what do we do, Gandhi?”

“Let’s go home for now”

It’s dark, except for the soft amber glow from your bedside lamp. The world feels slower at this hour—still, almost forgiving.

You’re curled up in bed beside him. One leg thrown lazily over his, your cheek resting against his chest, where you can feel the steady rhythm of his heart. It’s comforting. So is the weight of his arm around your waist, his fingers tracing thoughtless circles over your back.

But your thoughts won’t stop. They keep chewing at you like cold air under a thin blanket.

You’re stressed. You don’t even have to say it—he can feel it.

“Hey,” he whispers, mouth brushing your forehead. “You’re still thinking about it.”

You don’t answer. Just nestle in closer like maybe silence will erase the pressure sitting on your chest.

He shifts, just enough to tilt your chin up and look at you.

“What’s the rush?” he asks, eyes soft, voice even softer. “We don’t have to get married tomorrow, baby. Chill.”

You blink at him, mouth parting like you might argue—but you can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like you hung the moon.

“We’ll figure it out. Okay?”

Still, you frown. “But what if they hate me? Your dad—my mom—my sister—”

“They probably will,” he replies without missing a beat, grinning. “That’s fine. Let them. They can start hating me and end up loving me. Happens all the time.”

You let out a quiet laugh, but the nerves don’t go away entirely.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Hey,” he murmurs again, voice low and warm like honey. “You and me, we’re good. We’ve got time. No one’s waiting at the altar yet.”

You nod slowly against his chest.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Besides,” he adds with a smug smile you don’t even have to see to know, “your mom’s gonna love me.”

You shove his chest, laughing for real this time.

“You’re so full of it.”

He tightens his grip on you.

“Full of love, actually.”

“Jinnie”

“What? Let me have my poetic moment.”

Your fingers are lazily tangled in Hyunjin’s hair.

The sun’s barely up. Golden light spills through the curtains in sleepy ribbons. Hyunjin’s breathing is deep and even, his face turned into the crook of your neck, lips slightly parted. He’s fast asleep—smiling faintly like his dreams are filled with you and snacks.

You’ve got one arm on him and your phone pressed to your ear with the other.

Your sister’s voice is soft and cheerful on the other end of the line.

“I’m pregnant again.”

You blink.

“Wow”

“Mhm! Found out last week! Everyone’s so happy.”

You glance down at Hyunjin’s messy hair, then back up at the ceiling with a small smile. “Congratulations… that’s amazing!”

“Yeah, well… now that I’m knocked up again, he’s pampering me like crazy. Foot rubs, back rubs, breakfast in bed... as if my value exists only by a fetus.”

You snort softly.

“You have to talk about kids with Joseph before marriage, though, just so you don’t end up like me.”

You freeze.

“…who?”

“Joseph.”

“…who the hell is Joseph?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Wait… Dad didn’t tell you?”

Your heart rate spikes.

“Oh no. Oh my god. He’s probably planning to surprise you. Y/N, don’t tell him I told you, okay?! Promise me—promise! I don’t want to be the reason you get overwhelmed.”

“What the fu—”

“BYE! Love you!”

Click.

The call ends. You stare at your phone in horror.

A full three seconds pass before you whip the blanket off like it personally betrayed you.

You shake Hyunjin by the shoulder—gently at first.

“Hyunjin.”

He groans sleepily.

You slap his arm.

“Hyunjin.”

“Mmmphh—five more minutes, sunshine”

You yank the pillow out from under his head.

He shoots up like he’s been drafted into war.

“WHAT?! WHAT?! Are we being robbed? Did I leave the stove on? DID I ACCIDENTALLY LIKE YOUR MOM’S INSTAGRAM PHOTO FROM 2017?!”

You grab his face.

“My dad is trying to arrange my marriage to some guy named Joseph.”

He stares at you. Blank. Blinks once.

“…who the fuck is Joseph?”

“EXACTLY.”

You’re already stumbling out of bed, throwing on whatever sweatshirt you find.

Hyunjin finally wakes up for real. He throws off the blanket.

“Get me my pants. We ride at dawn.”

THE PLAN.

You’re curled up at the foot of your bed, knees pulled to your chest, your arms wrapped tight around them. Hyunjin’s sitting nearby, hands in his lap, eyes locked on you like the whole world’s balance depends on your next word.

You’ve been silent for almost twenty minutes.

He finally speaks.

“You haven’t said anything since you ran out of the kitchen. Talk to me.”

You look up, your voice tight and soft. “We’re talking about lying to our parents, Hyunjin.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it again.

You bury your face into your knees. “I already feel disgusting for knowing Joseph exists and not confronting my dad yet. And now I’m supposed to say I’m pregnant—just so they’ll let me marry you?”

He stays quiet, waiting.

You lift your head, eyes watery.

“My sister went through hell after her first baby died. My whole family’s grief was shaped around that loss. It’s why they’re treating this new baby like a gift from God. And now I’m supposed to use that pain? To manipulate their hearts?”

A tear escapes without permission.

“I’m the worst person alive.”

He moves to the edge of the bed, his knees nearly brushing yours.

“Then I’m worse. Because I’ll lie be saying I’m infertile just so my family treats you like some self-sacrificing angel.”

You laugh through your tears.

He pulls you gently into his arms.

“I’m scared too,” he whispers into your hair. “But if we tell the truth, they’ll try to tear us apart. I’m not sure I’ll survive watching you walk away again.”

You press your cheek to his chest, heart aching at the way his voice shakes.

“I don’t want to lose you either.”

A pause.

Then, very quietly, he says, “We can lie. Just… for now. Until they know us. Until we’re so much a part of their lives that they forget the lies ever mattered.”

You don’t reply for a long time.

He breathes in like he was waiting for your approval to live again.

“I’m in love with you” he says.

He cups your face gently, brushing your cheeks with his thumbs. “So much it’s ruining my organs.”

Your mouth trembles. “I still hate this plan.”

“I know,” he whispers. “So do I.”

“But we’re doing it anyway?”

He nods, forehead resting against yours.

“Till death—or Joseph—do us part.”

You let out a weak laugh, and for the first time that night, it doesn’t feel like your whole world is collapsing. Just… rearranging.

Messily. Painfully.

But with him.

You decide to go to Florida, because lying from a distance is so much less scarier. And Amelia island was there. You always wanted to get married there, you told him once and hence it was decided that you both exchange rings there, just for formality.

“But how the hell do we go to Florida?”

He grinned.

And hence……

To jisung:

“Can I have… one hour?”

Jisung blinked once. “What?”

“One hour. Just one. Please.”

“…why?”

“Just… come. I’ll pay.”

To your dad:

“dad” you said slowly. “I… I want to show you something.”

You opened your phone. Scrolled to the gallery. Your thumb hovered for just a second before you turned the screen toward him.

It was an image of a printed brochure for a photography course abroad.

“I want to apply for this,” you said. “I think it’ll help with my work.”

Part-2, final!

#skz #skz fics #inkandtension #stray kids #skz imagines #fics #skz scenarios #skz x reader #hyunjin #Hyunjin x reader #hwang hyunjin #hwang hyunjin x reader #part 2 will be there #Skz #inspired by my fav movie #After a long tiiiime #Stray kids

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zeroseuniverse · 4 months ago

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Obsession

Word Count: 683 Summary: Lee Taeyong was brilliant, sharp, and ran his company like a well-oiled machine. But when it came to you? He was a problem. Pairing: CEO Taeyong X GN Secretary reader

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Your job description was simple: manage schedules, filter calls, handle emails, and keep your ridiculously wealthy, powerful, and impossibly clingy boss from doing anything that would land him on the front page of a tabloid.

Lee Taeyong was brilliant, sharp, and ran his company like a well-oiled machine. But when it came to you?

He was a problem.

It started subtly—lingering glances, “accidental” brushes of his hand when he handed you documents, the way he always had an extra coffee waiting for you every morning (even though you never told him how you liked it). But it quickly escalated into something else.

Something obsessive.

Like how he mysteriously developed an aversion to any male employees coming within five feet of your desk.

Or how every time you went on lunch break, he just so happened to need urgent assistance with something that could have easily waited.

Or how, when you casually mentioned that you were thinking of going on a date, his entire office went silent.

You had watched, amused and a little terrified, as his usually calm expression went completely blank.

“A date?” he repeated, as if the word personally offended him.

“Yes, Taeyong. People do that, you know. They meet people, they talk, they—”

“With who?” His voice was too even, his fingers tightening around his pen until you were sure it would snap.

You blinked. “That’s not really—”

“Who.”

Okay. This was new. You’d never seen your boss glitch before.

Clearing your throat, you shrugged. “Just someone I met last week. He’s nice.”

The air in the office shifted.

“Nice?” Taeyong said, as if you had just admitted to committing a felony.

“…Yes?”

There was a tense pause before he suddenly leaned back in his chair, his sharp, assessing eyes never leaving yours.

“Cancel it.”

You let out a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“I said cancel it.”

“And why would I do that?”

Taeyong smiled. It was the kind of smile that made stock prices soar and entire industries bow to his will. Unfortunately for him, you were immune.

“Because,” he said smoothly, “I don’t like the idea of my secretary being distracted.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t realize my personal life was now a corporate matter.”

He tilted his head, studying you. “Everything about you is my business.”

You froze.

The office suddenly felt a little too warm, his gaze a little too intense.

You tried to play it off, rolling your eyes. “That’s not how employment works, Taeyong.”

He smirked. “No, but that’s how I work.”

Oh, you were so doomed.

—

Things only got worse from there.

By “worse,” you meant:

Your date mysteriously canceled on you last minute (you knew Taeyong was behind it, but you had no proof).

A new intern innocently complimented your outfit, and Taeyong personally reassigned him to another department (far, far away).

He installed a state-of-the-art security system in your apartment building without telling you. ("Safety first," he had said, eyes completely unapologetic).

And the final straw?

A business dinner with a foreign investor, where the CEO of another company got a little too friendly with you.

You had been handling it just fine—until you suddenly felt Taeyong’s hand snake around your waist, pulling you flush against his side.

“She’s not interested,” he had said, voice dripping with authority. “And I’d appreciate it if you stopped looking at my secretary like you’re imagining her in something other than her dress.”

The entire table had gone silent.

Your brain? Short-circuited.

And then—because apparently he wasn’t done ruining your life—he leaned in, lips brushing your ear as he murmured, "Only I get to do that."

Game over. You were done.

Later that night, after you had yelled at him (which he had smugly enjoyed), after you had stormed out of his car (which he had personally driven to take you home), you laid awake in bed, staring at the ceiling.

You were in so much trouble.

Because Lee Taeyong wasn’t just obsessed with you.

He was making you dangerously obsessed with him, too.

And honestly? You weren’t sure you wanted to stop him.

#nct imagines #nct fluff #nct x reader #nct u #nct dream #nct fanfic #nct 127 #nctzen #lee taeyong #taeyong nct #taeyong x reader #taeyong imagines #taeyong #lee taeyong x reader #lee taeyong fluff #nct u x reader #nct u imagines

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samoankpoper21 · 1 year ago

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Kento Nanami Drabble

A/N When I eventually get around to uploading my masterlist please note that the characters will ALWAYS be chubby! / plus size! reader and is a poc 🫶🏽 Anyway this is something "light" 🤣 Enjoy~!!

Word count: 967

Content warning: slight smut, slight fat shaming if you squint really, really hard, small cursing

Random drabble of how Kento Nanami adores his chubby, fiesty secretary that doesn't take shit from anyone. She will put you in your place if she feels that you have disrespected her.

The moment you were hired you reminded Kento of a fire log: you brought warmth within the office, if that made sense. He tried not to pay too much attention to you, only talking when saying "thanks" and "that'll be all" but found the task of ignoring you impossible considering that your desk sat outside his office making it convenient for you to be at his beck and call. He watched through his tinted glasses admiring your full figure as you clacked away at your computer -you're efficient he'll give you that- getting up to retrieve documents from the printer, stopping every once and in a while to talk to your coworkers with that warm smile on your face that he was slowly falling for.

What really sealed the deal for him was how you always looked out for him, taking care of him in your own way: leaving small squares of dark chocolate on his desk with a note scribbled in your neat handwriting: Not saying you look like shit but it's been proven that if you eat one dark chocolate a day it'll benefit your heart, teeth, and help you sleep better^^ try to get some rest ~^^ you look a bit tired today :-( ; always making sure that he actually stopped working to eat and rest. "Minnie," the nickname you adapted to calling him when it was just you two. "Ya need to eat something."

"Let me just finish this-"

"When was the last time you ate?"

"Uh-"

"Too long. Come on!" He inwardly shivered at the spark that zapped through him as you grabbed him by his forearm attempting to pull him out of his seat. Squeezing you joke, "Sheesh. Didn't realize how built you were." Leading him towards your desk he wondered whether you knew what effect you were having on him.

The day that really killed it for him was when you both showed up to work practically identical: you wore a white, mid length pencil skirt with a thin black belt, satin blue blouse tucked in with the first two buttons undone, and some black heels. As you were gathering the notes to lay on the conference table you giggle. "Minnie, we look like a couple." After the conference he went home early claiming to be sick. Oh the naughty thoughts that were running rampant in Nanami's mind as he fisted his aching cock in the cold shower: he wanted to hike your skirt up, squeeze the supple flesh of your thighs, rip the blouse apart making sure to bring out your breasts from the confines of your bra and pound into you on his desk as you pant his name. "Na-nami" he imagined your half lidded eyes, mouth agape as he watched your breasts bounce with each of his thrusts, his fist stroking faster, teasing and rubbing at his sensitive, tip. "Minnie, I think ima-" Nanami groaned as rope after velvety rope painted his walls. This was driving him mad. He needed to make you his asap.

Sitting at the head of the conference table with a potential client, sneaking glances your way, he watched as you typed away at your laptop, alternating between typing and writing in a notebook. He was grateful that the lights were dimmed as the company's CEO and representative were giving their presentation, lightly palming himself underneath the table.

Oblivious to Kento's internal struggle you stood directly in front of him, so close that if he were to lean forward just slightly he could sniff you. Meanwhile he was admiring how your love handles looked in the midnight blue, sleeveless blouse you were wearing and how the black pencil skirt complimented your ass. As you both were saying goodbye to the CEO he clasped his hand on Kento's shoulder saying, "Mr. Kento, I look forward to working with you. But, take it from an old geezer who's been in the game for a while now, if you want more clients you need to hire someone who's more easier on the eyes. You know what I'm saying?" Your eyebrow shot up and as you were about to defend yourself Nanami replied with, "Unsolicited advice is never welcome. You disrespecting my secretary is a direct hit towards me. I can't do business with someone who only wants to look good on the outside. Please allow the security to escort you out."

"What?! You're joking right?"

"I never joke when it comes to the well being of my employees."

"This is preposterous!"

"Security please escort he and his representative off the premises."

"You will regret not merging with us!"

"Highly unlikely."

As the scene died down you tilted your head glancing at Nanami. "You know I coulda handled it."

"Why? So you could get reported to HR and lose your job?"

"I wasn't gonna hit him." Nanami stopped to stare at you intently. "Ok maybe I wanted to shave his bushy ass eyebrows." Shaking his head he chuckled. "The shorter you are the closer you are to the devil." You lightly smacked his shoulder. "Besides I can't afford losing you."

"Awwwww why? Minnie, you make it seem like you actually like me." Stopping in his tracks he turned to looked at you. "I do. I do like you."

"You better not be playing because I swear to gawd-" Nanami pulled your body flush against his causing you to silently gasp, biting your lower lip. Leaning down to whisper against the shell of your ear, "Need more proof?" You shook your head, you could feel the dark chuckle erupting from within his chest. "Use your words baby girl."

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lefteagleblizzard · 10 months ago

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𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔦𝔡𝔢𝔫𝔱'𝔰 𝔰𝔬𝔫

Derek Danforth x male reader

Summary: At a stiflingly dull party, an opulent celebration of Derek Danforth’s mother’s election as President of the United States, you escape to the garden for some fresh air. There, a late-night encounter by the pool turns into a game of strip pong with unexpected stakes. With your terrible aim, some steamy and passionate moments develop between you two.

Warnings: male reader. Derek being a tease. Stranger to lovers. Relationship with your boss. Strip pocket. Gay. Gay smut. Pool sex. Handjob. Anal sex.

This can also be found on wattpad and ao3

Words count: 4500 words.

The party inside the beautiful villa had been a grand affair, an opulent celebration of Derek Danforth’s mother’s election as President of the United States.

You had grown tired of the stifling heat inside, the air thick with the smell of expensive cigars and the sweet tang of vape pens. The oppressive atmosphere was suffocating, and you needed a break. Slipping away from the main room, you made your way through the sliding glass doors and out onto the patio, grateful for the cool night air that greeted you.

You could still feel the haze of smoke clinging to your clothes, a mixture of cigars and expensive vape clouds that had permeated the air all evening.

The pool lay before you. It was massive, almost the size of a small lake, with perfectly smooth edges that mirrored the elegant design of the villa. At the center of the pool, a small fountain burbled softly, its stream of water arcing gracefully before cascading down into the pool with a gentile splash.

The smell of the water was strong, an almost overpowering scent of chlorine mixed with something floral, like jasmine or honeysuckle, carried on the breeze.

You took in the scene around you, the few remaining guests were sprawled out on the lounge chairs or even directly on the grass, passed out from too much alcohol, their expensive outfits now rumpled and askew.

You walked over to the edge of the pool and sat down, dipping your feet into the cool water. The sensation was immediately refreshing, the chill of the water a welcome contrast to the heat of the villa. You let out a long sigh, feeling some of the tension of the evening melt away as you gazed out at the water.

After a few minutes of peaceful solitude, you heard footsteps approaching from behind. You turned around and saw Derek, the CEO and your boss, standing there with a curious expression on his face. He was dressed, as usual, in an eccentric ensemble. In one hand, he held a vape pen, the other casually tucked into the pocket of his pants.

His shirt, a crisp white button-down, was slightly undone at the collar, revealing a hint of tanned skin underneath.

His eyes locked onto yours as he took a slow draw from his vape.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" he drawled, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. His voice was smooth, laced with a hint of amusement. "Taking a little break here all alone?"

You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks at his attention, though you tried to play it off with a casual shrug. "It was getting a bit stuffy inside," you replied, trying to keep your tone steady. "Needed some fresh air." Derek chuckled, taking a slow drag from his vape before exhaling a plume of smoke

into the night air.

"Smart move. The party's winding down, but it looks like some people couldn't handle their liquor," he said, glancing over at the passed-out bodies on the lawn. "Quite a sight, isn't it?"

You laughed nervously, trying to focus on something other than the way he was looking at you, like he was sizing you up.

"Yeah, it's definitely been... eventful"

He chuckled, his eyes never leaving yours. "Eventful. That's one way to put it."

"So," he said after a moment, breaking the silence, "what do you do for fun at these kinds of things? Besides, sit by the pool and look hot, of course."

You laughed, a little flustered by the compliment. "Honestly? I'm not really sure. I'm not usually the one to go all out at parties like this."

He raised an eyebrow, his interest clearly piqued. "Really? So, you're saying you're not into the usual antics?"

You shrugged, trying to downplay your nerves. "I guess I'm more of a low-key kind of person. I like to people-watch, maybe find a quiet corner to relax in."

"People-watch, huh?" He seemed amused by that. "I guess you've had quite the show tonight then."

"Definitely," you agreed, smiling. "There's never a dull moment when people start drinking”

He nodded, his gaze shifting to the passed-out guests around the pool.

He took another drag from his vape, exhaling slowly, the vapor curling around his face before dissipating into the night. "It's a shame, really. Most of these people have no idea how to enjoy themselves. They just drink until they pass out.”

You glanced over at the passed-out guests around the pool, their limbs sprawled out in various awkward positions. "It does seem like they missed the point of the party."

Derek's smile widened, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "That's the problem with these kinds of parties. People drink to impress, to prove they can keep up, and then they end up like...” He gestured vaguely toward the garden, where a few guests were passed out, one even snoring softly “...that. But you seem to be doing just fine."

You felt your blush deepen, his words and the way he was looking at you sending your heart racing. "I guess I just know my limits."

"Smart," He said while taking a step closer, there was something in the way he was looking at you, a glint in his eye that made your heart skip a beat.

"But where's the fun in that?"

Derek's smile widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he took another step closer, now standing right beside you. His gaze lingering on your face a little too long.

In a desperate bid to break the intensity of the moment, you glanced around and spotted a table set up near the pool, red cups lined up neatly on either end. A sudden idea struck you, something that might shift the dynamic, give you a moment to breathe, and perhaps, just perhaps, figure out what Derek really wanted.

"Wanna play a game?" you asked, your voice a little too eager, a little too breathless, but you didn't care. You needed a distraction, something to break the spell he had over you.

Derek raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "What did you have in mind?"

You pointed to the table. "Beer pong. Or, well, whatever's in those cups."

He followed your gaze and then looked back at you, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You want to play beer pong? With me?"

You weren't oblivious to his allure, to the sharp edge of attraction that had been simmering between you all night, but you wanted more than that. You wanted to see if there was something real beneath the surface, something beyond the flirtation and the power plays.

You could tell he was used to people trying to win his favor, trying to seduce him for their own gains, but you wanted something different. You wanted to see if he was interested in more than just the thrill of the chase, if there was something real and tangible behind that carefully constructed facade.

He seemed to sense your intention, and for a brief moment, something in his expression softened, as if he were considering the possibility that you might be different, that you might be someone worth spending time with, not just another conquest. It was a fleeting moment, but it was enough to make you hope that maybe, just maybe, there was more to Derek Danforth than what meets the eye.

"Why not?" you challenged, standing up and taking a step closer to him, the playful energy between you two only growing stronger. "Unless you're afraid I might beat you”

Derek laughed, the sound low and rich. "Afraid? Not at all. But I think we should make it more interesting than just a game."

Your heart skipped a beat as you watched him, his eyes scanning your body with unabashed interest. "What do you have in mind?"

He took a step forward, closing the distance between you until there was barely any space left. "How about this, every time one of us scores a point, the other has to take off a piece of clothing."

You felt your breath catch in your throat, your mind reeling at the proposition. But the excitement in his eyes, the challenge in his voice, was impossible to resist. "Deal," you said, your voice a little breathless.

Derek’s grin was wickedly sharp as he sauntered to the table, stepping casually over a passed-out guest without a second thought.

The table was covered in a haphazard array of red solo cups, each containing a small amount of different kind of alcohol. You picked up one of the cups and sniffed it, trying to guess what was inside. Vodka, maybe? Or gin? You weren't sure, but it was definitely potent.

"This is going to be interesting," you said, setting the cup back down and taking your position on one side of the table.

Derek took his spot across from you, a confident smirk on his face as he casually rolled up the sleeves of his green suit jacket. "I hope you're ready to lose," he teased, picking up a ping pong ball and twirling it between his fingers.

You lined up your first shot, your hands trembling slightly with the combination of nerves and the anticipation of what was to come. The ball sailed through the air, but your aim was off, and it bounced off the rim of one of Derek's cups before rolling away. A soft groan of frustration escaped you, only to be met with Derek's quiet, knowing laughter from across the table.

"Not your best start," Derek teased, his voice dripping with amusement as he picked up his ball. He rolled it between his fingers, his gaze locked onto yours with a look that made your stomach flip.

With an almost lazy flick of his wrist, Derek sent the ball sailing across the table. It landed squarely in one of your cups, splashing down into the liquid below. He raised an eyebrow at you, his expression smug, and you could tell he was enjoying every moment of this.

With a quick glance at Derek, who was watching you with an expectant grin, you reached down to remove your shoes. Derek groaned loudly, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

"Shoes? Seriously?" he complained, though his tone was more playful than accusatory. "That's cheating, and you know it"

You feigned innocence, batting your eyes at him. "What? I thought we said any article of clothing."

"You're lucky you're cute, or I'd call foul on that move.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the flutter of nerves in your stomach.

Derek had a way of looking at you that made your thoughts scatter, his intense gaze never leaving you, even as he casually tossed the ball into yet another one of your cups.

"Another point for me," he declared, his grin widening as he watched you. "What's it going to be this time?"

With a sigh, you knew you were running out of options. You reached down, pulling off your socks next and tossing them aside, leaving your feet bare on the cool marble tiles.

The chill of the ground against your skin was a stark contrast to the heat that was building inside you, both from the alcohol and from Derek's relentless flirting.

Derek watched you closely, his eyes darkening with something you couldn't quite place. "Getting closer," he murmured, his voice laced with a dangerous edge. "But you've still got a long way to go."

The alcohol in the cups wasn't helping matters. Each time Derek landed a shot, you had to drink the contents of the cup.

The whiskey was sharp and burned as it went down, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.

The gin was bitter, almost medicinal, and made you wince with its intensity.

The rum, though smoother, had a sweetness that clung to your tongue, making your head spin with its potency.

The alcohol worked its way deeper into your system, loosening your inhibitions and making it harder to keep your wits about you.

You could tell he was enjoying this, the way his eyes gleamed with victory each time you missed, the way his grin grew wider with each piece of clothing you were forced to remove.

Soon, you were left with only your shirt and trousers. The alcohol had started to blur the edges of your thoughts, making you slower, less coordinated. You lined up another shot, determined to at least get him to strip off more than just his shoes. But your aim was off, and the ball bounced harmlessly off the table, rolling away into the grass.

Derek didn't hesitate. With the same effortless grace, he sent the ball flying, and you knew before it even landed that you were in trouble. The ball splashed down into another one of your cups, and Derek's eyes met yours, his grin downright wicked.

"Well?" he prompted, leaning forward slightly as he watched you. "You know the rules."

You hesitated, glancing down at your remaining clothes. With a resigned sigh, you reached for your belt, unbuckling it slowly before slipping it off and letting it fall to the ground. Then, with more reluctance, you unbuttoned your trousers, sliding them down your legs and stepping out of them. The night air was cool against your skin, and you couldn't help the shiver that ran through you as you stood there in just your shirt and underwear.

You knew you were losing, but there was a thrill in the way Derek looked at you, in the way he seemed to savor every moment of your slow surrender.

You focused on the cup in front of you, trying to steady your hand despite the way your heart was racing.

The ball flew through the air, arcing perfectly before landing with a satisfying splash in one of the cups. Derek raised an eyebrow, impressed, as he reached for the bottom of his suit.

"Well, well," he said, slowly taking it off. "I hope you didn't use up all your luck on that shot." he remarked, his voice smooth and teasing.

You watched, your mouth going dry, as he shrugged off his suit and tossed it aside, showing his slightly unbuttoned white shirt that hugged perfectly his toned frame and revealed part of his hairy chest.

That smug bastard.

He didn't even give you time to recover. With a quick flick of his wrist, he landed another perfect shot, and you knew you were out of options.

You were down to just your shirt and underwear, with Derek barely having lost more than his shoes and shirt.

The imbalance was humiliating.

You glanced at Derek, who was watching you with that same intense gaze, and you knew what he was waiting for.

Swallowing your pride with the help of the alcohol, you decided to play into the moment. You stood up straighter, your hands going to the hem of your shirt. Instead of removing it, you tugged it down lower over your hips, covering yourself as best as you could, and then reached for your underwear.

You slipped them off, tossing them across the table at Derek. Derek's eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly recovered, reaching out to catch your underwear mid-air.

He held them up with a triumphant grin before dropping them over his shoulder, letting them hang there like a trophy, his gaze never leaving yours.

"Now that's what I call a proper forfeit."

You couldn't help but laugh, the ridiculousness of the situation only heightened by the alcohol buzzing through your veins. "Enjoying yourself?" you teased, though you were acutely aware of how exposed you were now.

"Immensely," Derek replied, his voice a little huskier than before. He paused for a moment, his eyes lingering on your nearly bare form, and you felt a shiver run down your spine at the intensity of his gaze.

"I give up," you admitted, raising your hands in defeat. "You win.”

The only consolation was that you did manage to get him to strip off some of his own clothing. His green suit jacket went first, then his shoes, leaving him in just his shirt and pants. But even as you stripped him down, you knew it wasn't enough.

Derek's grin widened, but there was something softer in his eyes as he looked at you. "Are you sure?" he asked, though there was no mistaking the satisfaction in his tone.

"Yeah," you replied, laughing softly as you leaned against the table for support.

He chuckled, stepping around the table to approach you. His presence was overwhelming, the scent of his cologne mixing with the faint traces of alcohol on his breath as he stopped in front of you. "I'll take my victory then, with you as my prize." he murmured, his voice low and smooth.

Before you could react, he reached out and grabbed you by the waist, pulling you flush against him. The sudden contact made your breath hitch, and your hands instinctively went to his chest for balance. You could feel the heat of his body against yours, the steady beat of his heart under your palms.

With a swift motion, Derek lifted you onto the table, his movements fluid and practiced. The cold surface pressed against your thighs, but the sensation was quickly overshadowed by the warmth of Derek's body as he leaned in closer. His lips crashed against yours in a fierce, hungry kiss that took your breath away. All the tension that had been building throughout the game exploded in that

moment, the intensity of his kiss leaving you dizzy.

You could taste the remnants of the alcohol on his lips, a mix of whiskey and something sweet, mingling with the heady sensation of finally giving in to the attraction that had been simmering between you all night.

Derek's hands roamed over your body, sliding under your shirt. Your mind was a whirlwind of sensations, your senses overwhelmed by the way he made you feel.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with desire. "You're something else," he murmured, his voice thick with want.

"You're not so bad yourself" you managed to reply, though your voice was breathless, your thoughts scattered by the intensity of his gaze.

Derek's lips curled into a grin, and before you could say anything else, he was kissing you again, harder this time, his hands tightening on your hips as he pulled you closer. The sensation was overwhelming, the heat between you almost unbearable, and you couldn't help but moan into the kiss, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you clung to him.

After the intense kiss on the table, Derek pulled back slightly, his breath mingling with yours, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He gently helped you down from the table, his hands lingering on your waist as he did. "What do you say we take this somewhere more private?" he suggested.

But as you both turned to head back into the villa, you realized that the party had left no room unoccupied. Through the large windows, you could see that every bedroom, lounge, and even some hallways were filled with passed out guests or couples who had claimed their spots long before you two had even thought to look.

Looks like privacy's in short supply tonight.

You extended your hand to retrieved the underwear you had playfully tossed at him earlier. Derek raised an eyebrow at your bold move, watching with keen interest as you stepped back, quickly slipping your underwear back on.

Just as you finished adjusting them, a sudden force hit you, and you gasped as Derek pushed you, sending you tumbling backward into the pool. The cold water swallowed you instantly, shocking your heated skin and taking your breath away. You surfaced quickly, spluttering and laughing as you wiped the water from your face, your hair sticking messily to your forehead.

"You jerk!" you called out, laughing even as you cursed him, your voice echoing slightly in the quiet night. Derek's laughter boomed across the poolside, deep and unrestrained, clearly enjoying your reaction.

Derek's grin was wide and unrepentant as he began stripping off the few clothes he had left. His movements were quick and efficient, and before you knew it, he was down to just his boxers. With a playful wink in your direction, he dove into the pool, cutting through the water with the same ease and grace he seemed to approach everything else in life.

He swam towards you rapidly, the cool water parting as he moved, and within moments, his strong arms wrapped around you from behind. You let out a soft gasp as he pulled you close, his chest pressing against your back, maneuvering your body until you were flush against the smooth tile wall of the pool, trapping you between the unyielding surface and his firm, solid presence.

"You look good like this," Derek murmured, his voice a low growl that dripped with desire as his lips hovered just above your ear. "Wet, breathless, and all mine."

Your hands found their way to his chest, fingers splaying out across the hard muscles there.

Derek's lips found yours again, and the kiss was everything you had been craving. It was deep, almost bruising in its intensity, filled with the pent-up desire that had been building between you all night. His tongue parted your lips, and you welcomed him eagerly, your own tongue tangling with his as the kiss deepened.

His mouth found the sensitive spot just below your ear, and he bit down, not gently, but with a force that made you gasp, the pain melding into pleasure so intense it left you dizzy. His kisses were hot and demanding, leaving a trail of fire in their wake as he moved lower, his lips finding the sensitive spot just above your collarbone. You gasped, your head tilting back to give him better access, and he took full advantage, his tongue flicking out to taste the water on your skin.

The scent of chlorine filled your senses, sharp and pungent. It mingled with the heady, masculine scent of Derek's cologne. A fragrance that was rich and woody, with undertones of leather and spice.

His hands continued their exploration till they were groping your butt, pulling you even closer against him. He squeezed, and a low, involuntary moan escaped your lips, swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you deeper, harder, lifting you slightly so that you were almost weightless in the water.

"Derek..” you breathed, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer, like a plea. You weren't even sure what you were asking for, only that you needed more of him, needed him to touch you, to kiss you, to make you forget everything but the way he made you feel.

He growled again, a deep, primal sound that made your pulse quicken. "I know," he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with desire. "I know"

Each time his mouth claimed yours, he deepened the kiss with a fervor that left you gasping. His tongue explores the inside of your mouth, tasting, claiming, and savoring the essence of you.

"You're my good slutty boy," he murmured against your skin. His voice was rough, tinged with a possessiveness that both terrified and thrilled you.

The water sloshed around you, the sound of it punctuating the quiet night, a symphony of soft splashes and the labored breaths that escaped both of you as you moved together.

The taste of the alcohol lingered in your mouth. It mingled with something more, a distinctive personal flavor that was uniquely yours.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, as if he was trying to absorb every last drop of you, as if he had decided that he wanted to always taste the essence of the drinks through your mouth from now on, a craving that could only be satisfied by you.

He squeezed your butt again, his fingers digging in just enough to make you arch against him, seeking more, needing more.

His hand moved forward, slipping past the elastic rim of your boxers, digging his hands inside the garment and against your prick.

They were pulling, squeezing, torturing you in the best way possible.

“Derek...” you gasped, gripping the rounded, concrete edge of the pool. You could feel something jabbing at your butt, rubbing along the cheeks while he started jerking his hips.

He yanked down your boxers, startling an awkward yelp from you as he shoved his fingers in your mouth.

When he pulled out his fingers, his other hand still in your hair, he drove the slick digits down along the submerged line of your buttocks. Without warning, he stuck one of them inside, all the way to the second knuckle.

You jerked. “-Aah – wha –D-Derek...” you gasped brokenly through the burn of Derek’s finger-fucking.

“Only getting started,” Derek ground out, pumping his finger hard into the tight flesh. “I’m gonna fuck you til you scream.” He added, breathy and low.

Derek’s voice grated over the ebbing pain, grinding raw pleasure into you.

A third finger struck at your loosened inner muscles. The overpowering burn forced his eyes shut, and an, “Ah-oh –oh God, oh God...” from your lips.

The fingers drew out of you, and in a few second’s adjustment, something vaster pushed past the outermost rim. You gasped – you almost couldn’t breathe – oh fuck.

“Got a –hnng– a tight ass – fuck,” Derek groaned as he shoved himself in further, grinding his hips against your ass.

Those merciless thrusts pounded you faster, deeper, leaving you gasping desperately for air like a fish out of water. Then the hilt of Derek’s length slammed up against something, and just as you were told, you started screaming.

He fucked you senseless, hard at a wild pace, fucked you until with one long cry you quaked and reeled with blissful tremors. Derek grunted and came inside while you tensed around his cock, filling you up with hot liquid.

As the final waves of pleasure washed over you both, your bodies trembled in the aftermath, still intertwined in the cool water of the pool. The night air was filled with the sound of your labored breathing, mingling with the gentle lapping of water against the tiles.

Derek's strong arms remained around you, holding you close as you both caught your breath.

After a few moments of silence, Derek leaned in, his lips brushing lightly against your ear. His voice was low, intimate, filled with a promise that sent a shiver down your spine. "Come home with me," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin.

“We're not done yet."

There was something irresistible in the way he said it, a quiet command that you had no intention of refusing.

You nodded slightly, your heart racing again at the thought of what more the night could hold.

As you both slowly untangled yourselves, Derek's hands lingered on you, as if reluctant to let go even for a moment.

Once you were out of the water, the cool night air hit your damp skin, making you shiver slightly. Derek was quick to drape a towel around your shoulders, his usual commanding demeanor softened by an unexpected tenderness.

He wrapped his own towel around his waist, his eyes never leaving yours as he began to gather up his clothes, handing you yours as well.

Once you were both dressed, Derek took your hand, his grip warm and reassuring. He led you through the quiet villa, the remnants of the party now nothing more than a distant memory.

As you walked, Derek's mind was already working, calculating and planning.

He had been thinking about you long before tonight, and now, after what you had shared, he knew he wanted to keep you close, much closer.

Promotion, he thought to himself,

would be the perfect excuse to see you more often, to keep you within reach.

After all, someone as talented and intriguing as you deserved recognition, didn't they?

Note: If you liked this story please leave a comment, I love reading them <3.

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