#windows-support-phone-numbers | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

luveline · 1 year ago

Text

𝐭𝐨𝐩𝐚𝐳, 𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐞, 𝐫𝐮𝐛𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐝 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

Eddie has a staring problem that you barely notice, though you share an aching, awful crush. One of you has to bend first, and it’s not who you’d expect. fem, 5k

ditzy-ish reader, pining eddie, mutual pining, confessions, first kisses, fluff and hugging, idiots in love, mild states of undress

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

It’s a day fit for a funeral in Hawkins. Rain hammers his bedroom window like hailstones, plinking against the frame, condensation running down the panes in thick rivulets he soaks up with an old t-shirt.

It’s supposed to be spring time. Green grass, flowers, a gentle humming sun to warm the back of his neck while he sits out on the couch on the porch, a hand-rolled cigarette between his fingers, the tip shimmering with heat.

But the rain pours. He’s cleaned his room for the first time in a month, at least, and his back aches in the best way as he lays down amongst fresh sheets. His room feels strange when it’s organised, but he doesn’t mind. He pictures the state of it through a second pair of eyes. This is a boy who cares about things, who takes care of them, who could take care of me, too.

Rain again rackets on the metal roof above. He and Wayne keep a couple hundred bucks stashed for the day the roof flies straight off —they take turns hiding it, because cars break down and groceries get more expensive every year, but god will they need it, and so they safeguard it well.

He syphoned a little of the money recently with Wayne’s support. It was for a good cause.

“Jesus,” Eddie murmurs to himself, not tired but feeling dull as the clouds outside eat the remaining sun.

It’s depressing to be poor, and to lose a day trying to hide the evidence of an entire life in a small room. He could sleep a hundred years.

He’s just finished pulling the sheets over his shoulder when somebody knocks on the front door. Wayne opens it three rooms away, the sound of the rain doubled.

He gives a startling shout, “Ed! Your girl!”

Eddie topples out of bed. Doesn’t mean to, foot caught in the bottom of the sheets and stuck as he scrambles to slide out of the mess. He’s begged Wayne not to call you that when you’re within earshot, but Wayne’s a mean (kind) old bastard (middle aged dad) who wants Eddie dead (happy, and in love).

“Come on in, girl. You’re soaking.”

“It’s raining.”

“It’s pouring down. Did you walk here?”

“Took my bike. Thought I’d get struck by lightning in the car.”

“How’d you figure?”

Eddie goes to grab the door handle and spins on his heel, staggering onto his bed and up against the wall, where a mirrored tray once used by Dio himself for rolling hangs from the wall. He checks his face in the polished surface, his warped mouth and nose, too small eyes, and swears to himself that one day he’ll get a real mirror with a fully-functioning reflective surface.

Then he hops down off of the bed, causing a reverberation he knows traverses the entirety of the trailer floor. Eddie snatches a rare clean towel from his laundry chair and speeds down the hall.

“Hello,” he says, more casual than he feels to find you unexpectedly in his house. “You’re soaked.”

You give a sweet smile. “It’s raining out, did you not know?”

Your hair is dripping, water racing down the curves of your face to collect at your chin. Eddie can see the smudges of your makeup where it’s washing off as he wraps a towel around you, kohl on your cheeks, eyelashes turned to half-diamonds and sticky-looking. You grin at being covered, taking the towel from his fingers before he can dab you dry.

“Why didn’t you just call me?”’

“I can never remember if your phone number ends in three or four.”

“Seven. I wrote it down for you a hundred times.”

You rub your eyes and spread all manner of glitter and shadow over your skin. You wipe your neck and the glitter spreads like an alien rash.

When you talk next, you shiver, “I lost it a hundred times, sorry. Is it okay that I'm here?”

Wayne, who’s been watching with a distinct sense of amusement from the couch, lets out a chesty laugh. “Honey, it’s always okay that you’re here on my account. And it’s my house.”

“It’s fine.” Eddie turns your shoulder so he can mouth over it without being caught. Asshole.

Another laugh follows. Eddie would cut each of his fingers from his hand and then his hand from his wrist if it were something Wayne needed him to do, but that doesn’t make him any less of an opportunistic asshole. If there’s a way to fuck with Eddie, he tends to try it. He loves Eddie with all the tenacity of a father who loves his son, but Wayne got infected with little bitch disease or something and Eddie can’t cure it.

“Can I please wash my face? I didn’t expect to get soaked.”

“Didn’t you?” He regrets his flippancy quickly, leading you down the hall. “You could take a shower. What do you think?”

You’ve never showered here, but Eddie’s trying to, you know, date you. Romance you, get to cherish you, however anyone wants to say it. And it’s not a war of attrition, just a natural escalation of sharing, or a minimising of boundaries.

No, that’s pervy, isn’t it?

“I mean–” He starts to correct himself.

You interrupt with your answer, “Yes, please, do you think I could? But I don’t have anything to wear.”

“I have your purple hoodie in my room, and there’s gotta be a pair of sweatpants here that fit you,” he says.

They’ve got a whole bunch of clothes here that floated in from somewhere else, Eddie’s other friends or stuff they’ve bought by mistake. He’s sure he can find something.

“You have my hoodie?” you ask, black kohl spreading across the towel as you wipe your cheek.

Eddie only smelled it one time. When he’d realised you left it in his van he brought it in and folded it, waiting for the next time he’d see you to give it back, but that night he’d been getting out of the shower wondering if he could call you or if that was too soon, and your hoodie had been right there. So he stood there in his pyjama pants with his wet hair and he didn’t think about picking your hoodie up, he just did, and when he pressed it to his face it still smelled of your perfume.

He put it back and felt like a loser for days.

“It’s in my closet, you left it in the van Monday,” he explains quickly, nudging you through the doorway of the bathroom.

The Munson bathroom is teeny tiny but not unnavigable. There’s a shower pressed to the far wall that could squeeze in two people, their toilet to the right, a sink basin opposite that with a medicine cabinet and just enough room for a dirty laundry box that’s always, always full.

Eddie opens the shower and turns it on. “It takes a while to get really hot but then it’s not hot for long, sorry. There’s my shampoo if you want it, and soap, and body wash. Sorry, none of it is super girly.”

“Sorry sorry,” you say, pretending to hit him in the stomach. “What’s with all the sorries, handsome? I can’t wait to smell like a boy.”

The way you say it. Eddie doesn’t know what it is, but it’s why he’s crazy about you.

Probably shouldn’t tell you that as you're taking off your jacket, though.

“I’ll be right back,” he says.

Eddie heads out of the bathroom to their skinny linen cabinet hidden in the hallway. He grabs the last two towels from the middle shelf and takes pause, fabric starchy in his hands. Just be normal, he thinks, a pep talk from Eddie to Eddie. She hangs out with you all the time for a reason. She held your hand at the movies.

Eddie’s in better spirits when he remembers that. Your hand in his, your ring pushing his ring further down his finger, your cheek touching his shoulder as you’d leaned in and asked if he wanted some of your popcorn.

He opens the door without thinking, shower pattering against the perspex wall, your legs crossing tightly as he enters, turning yourself away from him.

“Woah!” you say, laughing.

“Holy crap.” The image of your red underwear immediately stamps itself into his mind as he pulls the door shut between you. They were really cute, red and white gingham, showcasing just the slightest curve of your– “I told you I was coming back!”

“I thought you’d knock!” you laugh. “Sorry I flashed you. At least I had my shirt on.”

At least, he thinks wryly, shoving his arm through the gap in the door, heavy towels pulling at his fingers. His head’s about to snap off, it's turned so far away from the door’s opening. “Here.”

“If you wanna see me naked so bad you can just ask,” you tease.

“Take the towels, loser.”

You take the towels and he closes the door, preventing any more accidental creeping, and giving himself a reprieve. Gingham underwear. Wavy lettuce edgings kissing your skin.

Holy fuck. Being a person is so lame, Eddie thinks. He wants to have a crush on you purely, and yet seeing the way you’d crossed your legs to hide from him, smiling, he can’t not think about kissing you —touching you. If he doesn’t get you laid out in his bed soon for some slow kissing he’s not gonna make it.

Eddie opens the strip vent above his window and prays it doesn’t flood his whole room. Clean, it doesn’t look half bad, he could bring you in here respectfully, you could stay the night without fearing for your life.

You take a quick shower. He’s barely gotten over his nerves when you’re walking into his room, a towel around you, not a hint of shyness about you.

“You didn’t bring me anything to wear,” you explain.

Eddie just stares at you.

“Eddie?” You wrap the towel tighter. “Come on, you’re staring at me.”

“Sorry.” His mouth is bone dry.

“You have my hoodie, right? Just need some pants.” You cross your arm tightly across your chest. “I don’t usually notice when people are staring at me.”

“You aren’t usually naked in my room,” he says, genuinely and embarrassingly apologetic.

“I’m not naked. Come on, please? Do I have to wait outside the door?” you ask with a laugh.

Eddie stands up. Shakes his head hard, almost trips over himself trying to get to his dresser. He decides honesty will be best at this point, lest you think he has only one thing on his mind, “Listen, I’m sorry. I’m just in my head about something and I wasn’t expecting you to come out like that. It’s not right. You’re just… you’re really pretty.”

“Thank you.” He can’t see you, sorting quickly through his middle drawer and all his miscellaneous pants for a pair he’s sure would fit, if he could just remember where it was. “What are you in your head about?”

“What?”

“Eddie, are you okay?”

“No, no,” he moans, rubbing his face with his hand, ring scratching the bridge of his nose, “I’m not okay, princess, I’m overheating or something, Jesus Christ.” He finally lays eyes on the sweatpants he’d been thinking of, grabs your hoodie from the top shelf and drops them both at the end of the bed. “I’ll give you some privacy.”

“I don’t have any underwear.”

“And that’s something I can’t fix,” he says, leaving the room in a hurry.

Eddie gets to the living room and keels over. His hair falls in his face, his shirt slides down his back. What the fuck is wrong with him?

Wayne, sliding his shoes on in the recliner, gives a start. “What’s wrong?”

Eddie lifts his head, yanking hair from his face, the skin of his under eyes pulled down harshly. “Oh my god.”

Wayne wrinkles his nose.

“No ones ever been such a pathetic excuse for a man before,” Eddie says.

“Your dad’s in jail,” Wayne points out. “And not for the impressive stuff.”

“I’m pathetic.”

“You’re fine. You’re not supposed to be not pathetic, you’re twenty.”

“I’m twenty one.”

“The extra year doesn’t mean much. I know you think you’re all grown up, but you’re still an idiot.”

Wayne stands and shrugs on the jacket laying over the armrest.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“I thought you were definitely gonna ask her?” Wayne asks knowingly. That’s what Eddie told him, after all. “Next time I see her, Wayne, I’m asking her to go steady.”

Eddie shakes his head. “You can’t leave.”

“Eddie.” Wayne gestures for Eddie to stop slouching like some fiend from a bad horror. “Listen. I get that you’ve always been sort of… behind everyone, but that doesn’t mean you can’t do it. She likes you. She biked here in a hurricane.”

“What if she says no?” he asks.

Truthfully, Eddie’s more scared of you saying yes.

Wayne shrugs. “Girl like that’ll still be your friend after. It’ll be fine, okay? Do you need a hug before I go?”

“No.” Eddie rubs his eyes some more, sore now from being touched. “Maybe.”

Wayne crosses the room to give his shoulder a squeeze. “It will be fine. You’re great with rejection, Eds, but I have a good feeling about this one.”

Eddie felt better about it, before he embarrassed himself staring at you. But Wayne’s right, even if Eddie’s read things wrong between you, he’s sure you’ll still want to be his friend. You and Eddie are the same kind of weird, though he’s more angry where you’re carefree. If everything goes wrong, you’ll probably just give an unnecessary apology and offer to braid his hair. Which will be torture, but Eddie’ll still say yes.

Wayne calls goodbye, and you shout, “Bye, Mr. Munson!” to which Wayne wiggles his eyebrows.

“Get lost,” Eddie says.

“Go make her a drink. I’ll see you later.”

That’s not a bad idea. Eddie makes you a mix of orange and grapefruit juice with a couple of ice cubes and a plastic straw, your reaction predicted and then proved.

“It’s a cocktail,” you say, pleased, sitting on the side of his bed.

“It’s not a cocktail, just juice.”

“Can I have some socks, please, Eddie?”

Eddie passes you your drink, fingertips brushing. “Yeah. Anything else?” He pretends to be exhausted as he trudges back over to his dresser.

You laugh and sip your drink. “No, I think you’re treating me quite well.”

Eddie grabs a random pair and finally gets to sit down beside you, the dresser drawer left out, a spare sock fallen to the floor. You shuffle back into his pillows, propping your juice on his side table, and holding your hands out for the socks. Again, your fingertips touch his as he passes them to you. You seem to enjoy it, a smile lighting your face as you pull your knees up to put the socks on.

“Thank you for waiting on me,” you say quietly. Not shyly, just quiet.

“You’re welcome. Came all this way to see me, didn’t you?” He gives you a shove. You shuffle back further. “In the pouring rain.”

“It felt important at the time.”

“Yeah?”

You get the socks on and don’t care about them once they're past your heels. Eddie does the honour of smoothing out the bands so that the elastic won’t dig into your skin, and when he’s done he can feel you looking at him heavily. You’re not one for continued eye contact, but you smile like you were waiting for it all day, like it’s a relief to see him.

“Bad weather,” you say, slouching down. “I think I’m still wet on the inside.”

“Gross,” Eddie says, pushing you over bodily to sit beside you. This isn’t new, he doesn’t need any nerves, and he’s grateful when they don’t come. “Here, I’ll pull the blanket over you.”

“Can’t move,” you say, leaning back against the pillows.

Eddie stretches his legs out. You keep yours up, but you turn to his side, and before he can really make any sense of you, you’re dropping your face into his shoulder.

“Are you still cold?” he asks, searching for the truth in your strange comment.

You nod into his shoulder. “I’m freezing. The shower didn’t get very hot.”

“Sorry,” he says, letting his cheek rest on your head.

You lift your chin as he does it, his lashes pressed to your forehead, the two of you stuck together like two warped jigsaw pieces. You probably weren’t made to be together, but you make a nice picture, and you fit snugly now. That’s what Eddie thinks.

This is the sort of moment that makes Eddie wanna ask you out. Maybe you’re just the best friend he’s ever had, but something about this closeness feels different. You wrap your arm around his stomach in a hug and he knows this is different.

“It’s okay,” you say finally, sighing as you shift downward into his side, getting comfortable.

“Please don’t bike here in the rain. It’s, like, torrential. You could actually get sick.”

You feel warm where your body presses against his, but Eddie doubts that’ll make a difference if the cold already made you sick. The bike ride from your place to his isn't short. He covers your arm with his and tries to be your space heater, cheek sliding over your forehead.

“Eddie…” You hug him with tenderness. Eddie’s reluctant to say cuddle, but it’s close. “This might be a surprise to you, but I think it’s worth the rain and the cold to see you. Especially when you do this.”

“What am I doing?”

“You’re rubbing my arm.”

He hadn’t noticed his hand caressing up and down your arm where it rests on his stomach.

“You make me feel amazing,” you say, dropping your face into his chest.

That’s his last straw. Eddie gets both arms around you and cuddles you (it’s a cuddle, okay! he’s a loser!) to him, arms tight but not cruel. All this fuss and you’re finally laying on top of him. He decides he won’t ask you after all. He’s not that brave, and he doesn’t want this to end.

Your legs fall onto him. You relax completely. Even after you shower he can smell your perfume.

“You smell nice,” he murmurs.

“It’s on my hoodie,” you murmur back.

Right. Eddie should remember.

“You make everything smell like you.” Even his van keeps your scent most days.

“Too much?”

“The right amount,” he says firmly.

You lay on his chest for a while, just breathing. Eddie rubs your back, tells himself he will ask, actually, because he can’t imagine not getting to do this again. You might even stay over. He could live hours of this. He didn’t know having you lay on him could make him feel like this.

He can’t believe you’ve never done it before.

Rain pounds the window. Condensation drips down onto the sill. You let your legs stretch out flat and then manoeuvre to be laying half atop him, hoodie riding up your back.

“Any warmer now?” he asks.

“Yeah, you’re warming me up.” You lavish in his arms for a moment, and then lift your face. “Oh, this is a bad angle.”

“For me or you?”

“For me, duh.”

Eddie doesn’t think you could have a bad angle. He rubs at your upper arm as you start to shift. “You know, your bike has just as big a chance of getting hit by lightning as your car does. More, probably.”

“You think so?”

“It’s physics. So, please don’t do it again.”

You hum. “Hm, should I risk getting struck by lightning, or spend the evening without you?” you murmur, your arm moving, moving slowly, your hand resting gently on the column of his neck. There’s something ironic in your voice, wry, but your eyes are warm. He’s paralysed. No one has ever spoken to him like you. “I think I’d rather get struck by lightning.”

You stare at one another. He laughs. You join in, your thumb a pressure at his neck, and when you move up his chest to lean in, he isn’t expecting it.

“We’re very close together,” you whisper.

“Super close,” he whispers back.

“…Eddie, can I ask you something?” Your eyes slip shut, your lips so close that something in him aches, just enough wit about him to cup your shoulders in his forearm.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t sound half as calm as you do.

“Would you… Do you think we could be official? Would you want that?” You tilt your head to the side. “Is that stupid?”

“Official?” he asks, panicked, his eyes squeezed shut hard enough for a moment that they ache.

“Like, you’d be my boyfriend. I’d be your girlfriend. We’d be close like this all the time.”

Eddie panics so hard he just says the first thing that comes into his head, “Like, we’d kiss?”

“I hope so,” you say, your nose pressing against his, the tip to the side of his, and then against his nostril. The heat of your breath is hard to ignore. “What do you think?”

What does Eddie think about it?

He catches your lips in a slow kiss. Achingly slow, not even sure it’s a kiss until you reciprocate, and your fingers dig behind his neck to tease his hair. Your lips part against his, the heat of your tongue sudden and undeniable —Eddie didn’t know you had it in you. He squeezes you to him, attempting to crane his neck downward, reliant on your enthusiasm as you move up, as you use his neck to pull yourself closer.

Your noses crush together, and it actually hurts. “Sorry,” he says, easing you back, “you okay?”

“‘Nother kiss,” you say hopefully, distractedly.

He can’t not give it to you.

Your hand spreads flat against his chest and you kiss, you kiss, long and slow movements against him before turning your head to take it again. Eddie doesn’t always know what to do with himself, but he knows kissing, no matter what anybody might think about him, and he takes the lead.

His hand screws into a fist against your hoodie, the slip of your back further exposed as you shiver into his mouth, a sound you shouldn’t make sweet on his tongue.

You pull away, breath on his lips. “Wanted you to kiss me for so long,” you murmur.

Eddie knows you’re not saying it to flirt, and that makes it worse.

“I should’ve kissed you a long time ago,” he says roughly.

“You wanted to?”

“Yeah. Yeah, so much, I’m a loser about you–”

“I’m always a loser,” you interrupt, “but especially about you.”

You scratch your fingers through his hair, encouraging his head down for another kiss. This one rougher but not rough, his arm slips finally behind your head where he’d needed it to be, hooking you in his elbow to keep you in one place. To kiss you soundly, without interruption. Your almost feverish ebbing inward is a dream, your nose rubbing up against his is a fantasy.

His heart hammers and hammers at his ribs.

You pull away to let him breathe. “You’re very excited,” you tease lightly.

Eddie kisses you, breathless. He kisses you so much he’s surprised you allow it, but your thumb rubs his cheek, and he knows he’d been right all along. You want him like he wants you, with startling, mildly pathetic urgency.

He feels like a fucking prince. Girl of his dreams in his lap, everything he wants, and he didn’t even have to ask.

—

Eddie spends a week in bliss. You’re suddenly everywhere, all the time, attached to his hip or some other part of him, and he forgets for seven whole days that he bought you a ring.

The rain dries up, the Munson emergency fund lives to die another day, and he remembers the ring only minutes before you’re knocking at his door.

He trips over himself trying to answer it before Wayne, who’s taken to being as painfully embarrassing as is possible for one human being, can get it for him.

“One day you’re gonna eat shit and break your nose,” Wayne says.

Eddie yanks open the door. “Yeah, thanks. Hey, beautiful, what’s with the sunglasses?”

You slide them down your nose. You’re a vision on his front step, not that you’d ever notice your own intrigue. “The sunglasses?” you ask, tucking them away. “What do you think they’re for? Three guesses.”

He grabs your waist, leaning down out of the doorway so as to save Wayne the agony. “That’s smart,” he says, kissing you quickly in hello. “You’re funny. Need anything before we go?”

“No, I’m okay. Hi, Mr. Munson!” you add.

“Hey, honey! How are you?” Wayne calls.

You look up into Eddie’s face with an obvious delight. “I’ve never been better.”

Eddie grins back.

He waves a quick goodbye to Wayne and then he’s out the door. You grab his wrist and practically dance him to the car, where you offer your keys, and he deigns to drive. From there it’s smooth sailing, familiarity with a better twist, Eddie driving with the windows down and your hands twined on your thigh. Things haven’t changed much since you asked him to go steady, there’s just a whole lot more of this. Touching, kissing, no weird guilt about staring.

As it turns out, you’re as eager to be laid out in his bed as he is to lay you out. He’s never wanted to kiss you more, and now he’s allowed.

“Eyes on the road.”

He leans over to kiss your cheek. The sun has warmed your skin, and his kiss makes you smile. You look pretty no matter the weather.

“Before we get there, I have something to give you.” He takes his hand from yours to slide the box from his pocket. He holds it up. “But you can only have it if you swear you’ll call me tonight before bed. No excuses. You know exactly what number to call.”

“Ends with a three,” you say, nodding.

He sighs. “No, it does not.”

“I’m kidding! Two one nine seven, I have now committed it to memory.”

Eddie pays attention to the road, though it’s clear and long heading out of the trailer park and into town. “That deserves a gift.”

You’re back in your glitters today, a skirt to enjoy the fine weather, a button shirt with a cute triangle collar, you’re lovely as ever, if a tad much for some. Not Eddie. He loves the dark clothes, the tinkling bracelets, the fun way you smile like everything he says is a secret between him and you. People stare wherever you and Eddie go, but as long your arm is sewn through his he couldn’t care less.

“A gift,” you say, smiling in your way, and taking the box politely. “I don’t think I deserve it for just remembering your number.”

“You deserved it for less. It’s not much. You can pay me back in three or four amazing kisses. Right here.” He points to the tight juncture beneath his jaw.

You attempt to lean over and kiss him immediately. He pushes you back, laughing, worsened by your own breathless laughter as you steal one exactly where he’d tapped.

You settle back down, Eddie’s hand dropping kindly to your knee. “I wonder what it is,” you say.

“Then open it.”

“I am!” You pop the box open, it’s springing hinge snapping into place. “Oh, woah. Woah. Where did you get this?”

It’s a slim ring, with a weirdly shaped band of quality metal around some cheaper but not totally worthless gemstones, of which there are three different colours: a topaz orange, a lime green, and a pinky-red ruby colour centre stage. They have nice cuts. It’s strange as you are, and he knew when he saw it you’d have to have it.

“If I put it on my marriage finger, are we engaged?” you tease.

“That one would be way heavier,” he says, giving you a squeeze.

You slide it onto your middle finger and hold your hand up in the sunshine. It fits in with your other ring nicely, though it is, to Eddie’s pride, far prettier.

He has half a mind to pull over and kiss each knuckle, but he’s trying to be less dramatic about you. It’s not working.

“Thank you, Eddie. I love it.”

“Best boyfriend ever?” he asks hopefully.

To his mild fear but better pleasure, you climb up onto the console to press three quick kisses to his cheek and jaw, your hand under his ear holding him in tender place. “Best boyfriend ever. Even if you stare too much.”

“How am I supposed to not?” he asks, with more weight than he’s intended.

You speak matter of factly for the first time in your life. “I am going to cause an accident,” you promise, attempting to kiss his nose. “A bad one.”

“Sit down, please.” He lets you kiss his nose, and then jabs you in the side. “Sit down, oh my god! That’s not funny, you’re so pretty I will total your car.”

“Now who’s not funny?”

You both laugh at the same time, the unfiltered, un-cute cackling of two idiots with the same sense of humour, and the same wealth of ridiculous honeymoon love.

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

thank you so much for reading!! I hope you enjoyed. if you did, please consider reblogging or commenting!! thanks very much <3

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson scenario #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader

4K notes · View notes

stargrillzz · 26 days ago

Text

Can’t help it, he’s so cute

summary: Bucky, knowing the team needs a new place to hide, turns to the only person he knows will support him. You didn't expect him to bring an entire team with him.

note: OMG BOB IS SO CUTE. xoxo

The makeshift safehouse reeked of dust and distrust.

It was someone’s abandoned cabin off-grid in the middle of Wyoming—too many pine trees, not enough coffee. The floor creaked when Yelena shifted her weight, sitting cross-legged on a rickety table while eating sunflower seeds like she was born for the apocalypse. Ava was pacing like a caged animal near the window. John Walker had his arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe like he owned the place. Bucky sat in the middle of the room, elbows on knees, fingers threaded into his hair.

And Bob Reynolds… well. Bob stood shirtless in the corner, looking like an accidental god. His shoulders didn’t fit into normal space. His glowing eyes flicked around the room like he was still trying to figure out how reality worked. Or maybe he was just bored. Hard to tell with him.

“So what now?” Alexei grunted from the only real chair, arms stretched wide like a king. “We camp here and wait for the government to find us again? Bad plan. Terrible plan. I’ve been in Russian prisons with more dignity.”

“No one asked you,” Walker muttered.

“We need somewhere better,” Ava cut in, her voice sharp but tired. “Somewhere we can lay low. Where they wouldn’t think to look.”

“Well unless one of you has a vacation home in the Alps,” Yelena said dryly, “we’re pretty much screwed.”

Bucky didn’t move. His jaw ticked once, like a switch flipped in his brain. Slowly, he stood up, eyes distant. “I might know someone.”

That got everyone’s attention. Bob tilted his head, blinking once. Ava stopped pacing. Yelena actually paused mid-sunflower seed.

“You know someone?” Alexei asked.

“Who?” Walker asked, skeptical.

“Just—give me a minute,” Bucky said, already walking outside. He tugged his jacket tighter around him, heading into the cold with a phone already in his hand. His thumb hovered over a number he hadn’t dialed in a long time. Not because he didn’t want to—but because he wasn’t sure he should.

Your contact lit up his screen: Cutest Stark💋 Obviously you saved your contact under that name when you were helping Bucky use his new phone, he just laughed an decided keep it that way.

He sighed and hit call.

Meanwhile, in New York City…

In the gleaming kitchen of Stark Tower—your inherited kingdom—you stirred a bubbling sauce with one hand while balancing your phone between your shoulder and cheek. Morgan’s face filled the screen. She was giggling at something offscreen, probably one of the robots you still kept around.

“—and then I told him,” Morgan said between snickers, “if he thinks he’s smarter than me, he can explain why he just fell for the oldest prank in the book.”

You laughed, warm and full, moving around the kitchen barefoot in one of Tony’s old MIT sweatshirts. “God, you’re such a Stark it hurts.”

“I know,” Morgan beamed. “You taught me well.”

Before you could respond, a second call tried to interrupt. Your screen flashed with a name you hadn’t seen in weeks. Maybe months. James. F. Barnes.

You froze.

Morgan squinted. “Is that who I think it is?”

You smiled, heart stuttering, sauce forgotten. “Yeah. I—hang on, peanut.”

You switched the call, pressed video, and Bucky’s face filled your screen, framed by pine trees and late afternoon light. His hair was longer. His stubble thicker. He looked tired… but your name made him smile.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Bucky!” You nearly dropped the spoon. “Oh my god, it’s so good to see your face. Where have you been? Wait—never mind, I don’t care. I missed you. Are you okay? Are you safe?”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I missed you too. I, uh… I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important.”

Your expression softened immediately. “Whatever it is, I’ve got you.”

“We’re in a tight spot. New team, no allies. We need a place to lay low for a bit.”

You didn’t hesitate. “You’re coming home.”

He blinked. “You sure?”

“Bucky,” you said gently, “I kept this place running for a reason. Your room’s still here. The tower’s secure. FRIDAY still knows your coffee order. Come home.”

He exhaled slowly, like the weight of the world finally slid off his shoulders. “Thank you.”

“You don’t even have to ask.” You paused, smirking a little. “But when you get here, you will have to explain why the hell it took you this long to call me. I mean, seriously. I thought you died. Again.”

He chuckled, that low, gravelly laugh that used to echo through the Tower halls. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“You better.”

Then your voice softened. “I can’t wait to see you.”

“Me too.”

The call ended, but your chest stayed warm. Morgan peeked back on the screen, smirking. “So… do I get to meet your war criminal boyfriend now?”

You groaned, but couldn’t stop smiling. “He’s not my—oh, shut up.”

Because yes, obviously, you always liked Bucky.

Who wouldn't?

It was just a crush though.

He was clearly a man who wasn't ready for anything with anyone, and you were a person who wanted everything with someone. Clearly, you weren't a good match. The point here, the sweet tone you used with him and the tender way you looked at him, was because he was your last lifeline. The last thing you had left connected to your father, Steve, Nat. Bucky is the last thing you had left, the only living proof that everything that happened really happened and wasn't in vain.

“We have a place,” Bucky said flatly, stepping back into the cabin’s main room. Everyone looked up.

Alexei blinked. “You do?”

“Yeah,” Bucky nodded, pulling his glove tighter. “It’s secure, off-radar, not government-controlled. We’ll be safe.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Where?”

He hesitated just long enough for them all to stare.

“…Stark Tower,” he finally muttered, and immediately regretted how that sounded.

Walker nearly choked. “You’re taking us to Tony Stark’s skyscraper? The Stark Tower? Didn’t that thing light up like a Christmas tree every time someone sneezed near Manhattan?”

“It’s under new management,” Bucky grumbled, grabbing his bag. “Let’s go.”

The quinjet landed on the private helipad atop Stark Tower at sunset, the entire skyline of New York painted in golden pinks and fire. The building glowed from within — a quiet kind of warmth, like someone had taken a monument of history and turned it into a real home.

The moment the team stepped into the elevator, surrounded by polished chrome and holographic glass panels, Bucky turned to face them all like an exhausted dad.

“Okay,” he said, lifting his hands. “I mean this — please. Behave.”

Yelena gave a little shrug. “You act like we are not capable of being polite.”

“You’re not,” Bucky shot back.

“Who exactly lives here now?” Ava asked, watching the floor numbers tick upward.

“That’d be…the older Stark,” Bucky said carefully. “Tony’s oldest daughter.”

The group went quiet.

“Oh,” Alexei said. “That Stark.”

“Wait wait wait,” Walker held up a finger. “Like Stark-Stark? The billionaire genius daughter of Iron Man who disappeared from public life after he—”

“Yes,” Bucky cut him off sharply. His voice lowered. “She was like family to Tony’s team. She stayed behind to keep the place safe. And she’s letting us stay, so try not to ruin it.”

Before anyone could reply, the elevator chimed — and the doors opened.

You stood there.

Hair soft and glowing in the evening light. Wearing leggings and a loose tank, barefoot but radiant, like the Tower itself breathed easier when you were in it. You held your breath the moment you saw Bucky, your eyes wide, lips parted, like you weren’t sure if he was real or a memory.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

He barely had time to register your name before you ran.

You launched into his arms like muscle memory, clinging to him with your face buried in his shoulder, and he caught you without hesitation, arms winding around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world. His grip was tight, grounding, a little desperate.

“God, I missed you,” you murmured against his neck.

“I missed you too,” he said into your hair. “You look—Jesus, you look beautiful. You always do.”

You pulled back, eyes glossy but full of a grin. “You really ghosted me, Barnes.”

“I know.” He grimaced, brushing your cheek. “I’m sorry. I should’ve called. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

“You better.”

You finally turned your attention to the crew behind him, all still in the elevator like they were watching a rom-com unfold in real time.

“Wow,” you breathed. “You brought… everyone.”

He cleared his throat, hand still on the small of your back. “Right. Uh—guys, this is Y/N Stark. She’s letting us crash here.”

You smiled. “Welcome to Stark Tower, or what’s left of it. Now a semi-chaotic haven for misfit vigilantes, apparently.”

Alexei stepped forward and shook your hand with a grin. “Is honor to meet small Stark daughter.”

“Oh no,” you smiled. “I’m not small. I’m just the older sibling now.”

Yelena stepped out next, and the moment your eyes locked with hers, you froze mid-breath.

“…You okay?” Yelena asked gently, brow creased.

You nodded slowly, swallowing hard. “It’s just—Natasha… she was like an aunt to me. We lived here together. She’d braid my hair in the mornings. Seeing you—it’s like a part of her walked back through the door.”

Yelena’s gaze softened instantly. She stepped forward and pulled you into a quiet, firm hug. “She would’ve loved that,” she said into your ear. “And I think she’d be glad you’re still here.”

You clung to her a second longer than expected, heart full. Bucky smiled to himself, a weight lifted.

Then John Walker strolled forward, flashing you his best smug grin. “So… you’re telling me a gorgeous, genius Stark lives in a high-rise all alone? How’s that legal?”

Before you could answer, Bucky’s voice cut through the room like a blade. “Back off.”

Walker blinked. “What? I’m just saying hi.”

“Say hi to the wall,” Bucky muttered.

And then—

You turned.

And saw him.

Bob Reynolds stood awkwardly near the elevator’s edge, towering, golden-haired, built like a titan and blinking like he didn’t know where to put his hands. His eyes met yours, and then traveled—slowly, reverently—across every inch of you.

And then, aloud—without even realizing:

“…She looks like a goddess.”

Everyone went still.

Bob’s face froze. His mouth dropped slightly.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, eyes wide in horror. “I—I thought that. That was supposed to stay inside my head.”

You laughed, hand covering your mouth as your cheeks flushed. “You’re sweet.”

Bob blushed so hard it looked like his skin might combust.

“I—I didn’t mean to—like, you are, but—oh no, I should stop talking.”

“It’s okay,” you said, grinning. “You’re adorable. You can talk.”

He looked at Bucky for help. Bucky looked like he wanted to throw him off the balcony.

You clapped your hands. “Okay! Quick tour before someone combusts. Everyone gets a private room with a bathroom. There’s a training floor on level 12, a kitchen that doesn’t explode anymore thanks to FRIDAY, and a living space where you can yell at each other like a dysfunctional family. Just—don’t break anything expensive, or sentimental. Or, y’know, the structural integrity of the building.”

Yelena raised her hand. “Do weapons count as sentimental?”

“Only if they were gifted,” you winked.

---

It was late.

The kind of late where the city had gone quiet, even the Tower’s hum softened like it was tucked under a blanket. You were curled into the corner of the oversized couch in the common room, legs folded, one of Tony’s hoodies hanging loose off your shoulder. The only light came from the floor-to-ceiling windows, where the skyline blinked in a million tiny stars.

And Bucky was sitting beside you.

Not close enough to touch — not yet — but close enough that your knees almost brushed, that the weight of his presence filled the space in ways silence never could.

You smiled softly, looking out the window. “Morgan asked about you again today.”

He glanced over. “She did?”

You nodded. “She thinks you’re my boyfriend. Keeps insisting on it, actually. Says she’s seen the way I smile when you text.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Smart kid.”

You bumped his knee. “She gets it from me.”

He looked over, finally meeting your eyes. His were tired, but soft. "I missed this. I missed you."

“I missed you too,” you whispered, and you meant it like it had been carved into your chest.

A pause stretched between you — not awkward, just heavy. Heavy with time. With words you hadn’t gotten to say.

“How’ve you been?” you asked gently.

He exhaled, leaning back. “Weird. Floating. Sometimes I feel like I’ve figured things out. Then I wake up and I’m right back where I started. The team helps, but… I’m still figuring out who I am when I’m not being used. When I’m not fighting.”

You nodded. “I get that.”

He looked at you for a long beat. “How about you?”

You hesitated.

Then you told the truth.

“I’ve been lonely.”

It came out quieter than you meant it to. You stared at your hands. “At first, it was just grief. For my dad, for Nat, for Steve—God, even Thor. I don’t know where the hell he is. Clint’s with his kids. Bruce is off somewhere being Bruce. Everyone left. Or died. And I… stayed.”

Bucky watched you like the world might shatter if he blinked.

You gave a small smile. “I kept this place alive, Bucky. I filled the Tower with warmth again, but it didn’t feel like home. Not without any of you here. So I got used to it. The quiet. The space. The ghosts.”

Bucky moved closer, slow and careful, like approaching a wounded thing.

“You’re not alone,” he said, his voice steady. “Not anymore. Not as long as I’m here.”

You looked at him.

“I mean it,” he whispered, reaching for your hand. His metal fingers brushed against your skin like he was still afraid to break it. “You and me, we’re gonna stick together.”

“‘Til when?” you asked, a small smile playing at your lips.

He squeezed your hand.

“‘Til the end of the line.”

You closed your eyes. That old phrase — it still made your heart ache in the sweetest way. You turned your hand to link your fingers with his, soft and sure.

And then you whispered back: “I’ll love you 3000.”

His breath caught.

And he smiled.

Like something lost had just come back to him.

Like a promise he’d almost forgotten was suddenly real again.

---

The training room of Stark Tower was nearly empty — just the quiet whir of air conditioning and the thud of your feet hitting the mat as you moved through a practiced series of kicks and strikes. You’d been at it for an hour, sweat glistening down your neck, your breathing even, controlled. The Tower’s AI, FRIDAY, had the playlist low in the background, something smooth with a beat you could punch to.

You weren’t showing off.

But you weren’t holding back either.

Your dad started your training when you were a kid — when you were still small enough to sit in the lap of one of his Iron Man suits. And when Natasha took over, it became second nature. Your body knew the dance of it. Every twist, every dodge, every controlled exhale.

And then—

You felt it.

The eyes.

You stopped mid-kick, chest rising and falling.

“…You know,” you said without turning around, grabbing a towel from the bench and dabbing your forehead, “if you’re gonna stare at me like that, the polite thing to do is say hi.”

A pause. Then a very deep voice stammered—

“I wasn’t—staring. I mean—okay, I was. But not in a weird way.”

You turned.

Bob Reynolds stood in the doorway, sheepish and impossibly sweet for a man who could melt steel with his pinky. His hair was tousled like he’d just run a hand through it out of pure nerves, and he was already blushing, even before you smiled.

You cocked your head. “That so?”

He blinked. “I mean—you were… doing that spin-kick thing. It was really impressive.”

You took a few steps closer, casually. Your sports bra clung to your ribs, the black fabric soaked in a way that definitely wasn’t helping Bob keep his thoughts PG. “Thanks. I’ve been training since I was little.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “I could tell. You move like a storm.”

You raised a brow. “That supposed to be a compliment, or a warning?”

His eyes widened. “Compliment! Definitely. A very respectful—intense—uh, not creepy compliment.”

You laughed, crossing your arms loosely. “Relax, Bob. I’m not gonna kick your ass.”

“…I’d probably let you.”

Your smile froze for a second, caught off-guard — and then widened.

“Oh?” you teased. “You into that sort of thing?”

Bob’s face went bright red. “N-no! I mean, I—I don’t know if I’m—uh, maybe? Oh god, I said that out loud again, didn’t I?”

You laughed so hard you had to brace your hands on your knees. “You really need a filter.”

He groaned, half-hiding behind a training dummy. “I swear I used to be cool.”

“I think you’re pretty cute like this.”

That got his attention.

He peeked out at you, blinking like he wasn’t sure you were being serious. “You… do?”

You took a step closer again, slow and smooth. “You’re like a golden retriever with godlike powers. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Bob laughed, rubbing the back of his neck again, his voice a little softer. “Yeah, well… you’re like… if a goddess got bored of Olympus and decided to just casually ruin me on a Tuesday.”

You tilted your head, genuinely curious. “Ruin you, huh?”

He looked like he might spontaneously combust. “I—I mean emotionally. I think.”

You leaned in just a little. “You say the sweetest things.”

Bob’s breath caught as your fingers brushed his arm, just lightly.

Then you backed up, letting him breathe, and turned your attention back to the training mat.

“I’m done here,” you said, tossing your towel over your shoulder. “You coming?”

He blinked. “Coming where?”

You looked over your shoulder, your smile slow and teasing. “Kitchen. You owe me a smoothie. For the compliments. And the stare.”

Bob followed like a puppy. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. I make a killer smoothie. Or, like… an aggressively average one. But I’ll give it emotional effort.”

You snorted. “Just don’t explode the blender.”

“No promises.”

As the elevator closed behind you both, he looked at you again — still soft, still wonderstruck — and whispered, “You really are something else.”

You didn’t answer.

You just leaned a little closer, brushing his knuckles with yours.

---

The kitchen was full of sunlight and chaos.

Alexei was digging through the fridge like it personally offended him. Yelena was perched on the countertop, already eating cold pizza with no shame. Ava stood in the corner like a ghost who had opinions but refused to share them. John Walker was trying — and failing — to figure out how to use the espresso machine.

And Bob?

Bob was making pancakes.

Or attempting to.

“Is this… normal?” Yelena asked, watching with a crooked grin as Bob poured another lumpy circle of batter onto the skillet, half of it splashing onto the stove.

“It’s either breakfast,” you said, tying your robe a little tighter around your waist as you stepped into the room, “or a science experiment.”

Bob turned around at the sound of your voice and lit up. “You’re up!”

You smiled. “Didn’t think I’d sleep through a kitchen explosion.”

He beamed like you’d just handed him a Nobel Prize. “I made you pancakes!”

You walked over, inspecting the pile. “…You tried to make me pancakes.”

“They’re… heart-shaped?” he offered hopefully.

“They look like they’re bleeding.”

He laughed, bright and boyish, and you couldn’t help but laugh with him.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Bucky’s voice came from behind you — low, casual, watchful.

You turned just in time to catch him entering, hair still damp from the shower, black T-shirt clinging to his chest, dog tags tucked out of sight. His eyes flicked from you to Bob, then to the pancakes, and then back to Bob again.

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “That for her?”

Bob straightened. “Yeah! I mean—yeah, I wanted to make her something. As a thank-you. For letting us crash here.”

Bucky’s tone stayed polite. Too polite. “Right. Real thoughtful of you.”

Bob swallowed, and you quickly stepped between them.

“He’s just being nice,” you said with a smile, brushing Bucky’s arm as you passed. “And I did promise to let him cook something after that smoothie yesterday.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “He cooked?”

“Well… he blended.”

Walker wandered in with a cup of badly frothed coffee. “We talking about Bob’s pancake massacre? I give ‘em 4 outta 10. Points for optimism.”

“You put ketchup on eggs,” Yelena muttered.

“That’s freedom flavor.”

You rolled your eyes and slid onto a stool, sipping the orange juice Ava had silently placed beside you. “Thank you, Ava.”

She nodded, her version of a hug.

Bob placed a plate in front of you, his proudest smile yet. “Okay. Taste test.”

You picked up the fork dramatically, took a bite… and paused.

Bob leaned in. “Well?”

“…It’s not the worst thing I’ve put in my mouth,” you said.

Yelena choked. Walker snorted. Bucky froze mid-sip of coffee, eyes locked on you.

You turned to Bob with a sweet smile. “That was not meant to sound that filthy.”

Bob, very red: “I—uh—I wasn’t thinking anything. I mean I was, but not that—well, okay, I was but I—”

Bucky stepped between you both, casually, placing a protective hand on your back and subtly guiding you away from the stove like it was radioactive.

“She doesn’t need to eat any more of that,” he said firmly. “I’ll cook something decent.”

“Hey,” Bob protested. “They’re edible!”

“Barely,” Bucky muttered, already cracking eggs into a bowl. “She deserves real food.”

You leaned on the counter, grinning at him.

“Overprotective much?”

He glanced at you sideways, his voice dropping low enough that only you could hear. “You’ve had enough men treat you like something to win. I’m not letting him be one of them.”

You stared at him, heart skipping just a bit.

“…You know I can take care of myself, right?”

“I know.” He handed you a fork. “Doesn’t mean I won’t still try.”

You bit your lip, hiding a soft smile.

And Bob — poor Bob — watched you both with a mixture of awe and panic, like he’d just stumbled into a Netflix rom-com and realized he might be the side character.

“Uh,” he said finally, “I can do dishes!”

Yelena patted his shoulder. “That’s probably safer.”

---

The training room was charged.

You were in leggings and a fitted tank top, wrapping your wrists in tape, jaw set with a hint of a smirk. Across from you stood John Walker, cocky as ever, bouncing on the balls of his feet like this was a warm-up. Ava and Yelena sat off to the side, watching with sharp eyes and popcorn-level interest.

Bob was leaning on the far wall, arms crossed, pretending not to watch too hard. He was failing.

And Bucky?

He was there too. Silent. Focused. Leaning against the glass with arms folded tight across his chest, jaw clenched, eyes glued to you.

“I go easy on Stark’s kid, or what?” Walker joked as he stepped forward.

You smirked. “If you need to.”

The match started.

Walker was good — strong, fast, overconfident. You was better — precise, fluid, cool as ice. He threw a hook. You ducked. Spun. Grabbed his wrist, twisted, and swept him flat onto his back in one breathless second.

“Jesus,” Walker groaned, staring at the ceiling. “You marry me and we rule the world or what?”

From the corner, Bucky pushed off the wall.

“No.”

Walker blinked up at him. “Uh—wasn’t really asking you.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He stepped into the ring without a word, eyes locked on you. The tension in the room crackled. Even Bob stood straighter.

You tilted your head. “You wanna go?”

His voice was low. “You need a real challenge.”

You smiled. “Alright, soldier.”

You circled each other slowly, like a dance you’d done before. Bucky moved with sharp grace — watching, calculating, and when he struck, it was fast. You blocked. Countered. Moved into his space. He grabbed your waist during a fake-out — held you a second too long — and flipped you.

You hit the mat with a laugh. “Cheap.”

“You love cheap.”

“You love controlling.”

He smirked. “Only when it keeps you safe.”

You were breathing fast, skin flushed, limbs burning with adrenaline — and you knew what this looked like. The way he lingered in your space. The way your hand lingered too long on his chest when you got back up.

And Bob?

Bob had gone very, very quiet.

When the match ended, you caught your breath and turned — but Bob was already gone.

---

You found him on the balcony outside the Tower gym. His back was to the wall, hair tousled, long legs stretched out, eyes on the sky.

You stepped out, closing the door behind you. “You ghosting me?”

He didn’t look at you. “Wasn’t trying to.”

You sat beside him, knee brushing his. “You left kind of fast.”

“I figured you and Bucky needed… space.” He forced a laugh. “Looked like you two had your own language going on.”

You were quiet for a second. Then—

“He’s protective,” you said gently. “Always has been. But that doesn’t mean—”

Bob cut you off, voice low. “You let him touch you like that.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

“I know it’s not my place,” Bob went on, rubbing his palms together like he was trying to wring something out of them. “I just… I see how he looks at you. And you let him get close. Real close.”

You swallowed. “He’s family, Bob.”

“Family doesn’t look at you like that,” he whispered. “Like they’d burn the world down just to keep you for themselves.”

You turned to him — really turned.

And for the first time, Bob didn’t meet your gaze. He stared straight ahead.

“I’m not stupid,” he said. “I know what I am. I’ve been broken. Rebuilt. Ripped apart inside. I know I’m not the guy someone like you is supposed to end up with.”

“Don’t say that.”

He exhaled, a bitter edge curling into his voice. “You laugh at my stupid jokes. You let me make you smoothies. You smile like I’m more than just some weird science accident with a god complex. And I don’t even know if you mean it or if you’re just—being nice. Because you’re kind.”

You reached out, gently cupping his jaw. That got him to look at you.

“I meant every smile, Bob. Every time.”

He blinked, breath hitching.

You leaned in, forehead brushing his. “If I didn’t… would I be out here with you, when I could be inside with him?”

He closed his eyes. “You make me feel like I’m not a mistake.”

You kissed his cheek — soft, lingering. “You’re not.”

And in that moment, something shifted.

He didn’t kiss you. Not yet.

But he stayed close.

And he didn’t look at the sky again.

He only looked at you.

---

It was late.

The city was quiet in the way it only gets around midnight — the hum of traffic in the distance, a breeze threading between tall buildings, neon lights flickering against puddles.

You were walking with Bob, hands brushing now and then, neither of you saying much.

You didn’t have to.

He’d shown up outside your door after dinner with two milkshakes and a hoodie that was definitely his and had asked if you wanted to take a walk. No big mission. No team. Just you and him.

And now you were here. Calm. Close. Every few seconds, he looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You turned to him with a smile. “You keep staring.”

Bob flushed. “Sorry. You just look…”

His voice trailed off.

You raised a brow. “Look what?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Like you should be illegal.”

You laughed. “Is that your way of flirting?”

He grinned shyly. “I’m new to it.”

You were about to respond when you heard it — footsteps quickening behind you, a camera flash, and then—

“Hey! Hey, wait—aren’t you Stark’s daughter?”

A man with a phone stepped in front of you, suddenly way too close. He wasn’t paparazzi — just some guy. Early twenties, beer on his breath, and eyes darting up and down your body like you were on display.

“Holy sh*t, it is you,” he said, stepping closer. “Damn, I thought you were hotter on the news, but—Jesus, you’re—”

“Back up,” Bob said sharply.

The man blinked, finally looking at him. “Relax, dude, I’m just trying to get a picture—”

“I said back the f*ck up.”

You grabbed Bob’s arm, gently. “It’s okay—”

But it wasn’t.

Because the air changed.

The golden hum started in Bob’s chest — soft, at first. His breath hitched, eyes flickering. You saw the power curling at his fingertips, glowing like a warning.

He stepped between you and the stranger, voice like steel. “You don’t get to touch her. You don’t get to talk to her. You don’t even get to look at her like that.”

“Jesus, alright,” the guy muttered, backing off. “Freak.”

And then he was gone.

Bob didn’t move.

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping around to face him. “Hey, look at me.”

His jaw was tight. Hands shaking. Power still crackling in his veins.

“I’m okay,” you said, placing both hands on his chest. “I’m okay, Bob.”

He looked at you like he was barely holding it together. “He was looking at you like you were a thing.”

“But I’m not,” you whispered. “I’m yours. Right?”

Something in him broke.

In a second, his hands were on your hips, gripping hard like he needed to feel you to believe it. He pulled you close — flush against him — and kissed you like he couldn’t breathe without it.

You gasped, and he groaned, deep and rough, backing you up against the nearest wall, his body covering yours. The city faded. There was only him.

His voice was low, shaking. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” you whispered, lips brushing his.

He kissed down your neck, open-mouthed, desperate. “I want you so bad. I want to keep you like this — close. Always.”

“You can,” you said, tugging his hoodie until he was practically on top of you. “You already do.”

“I’ll protect you,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ll never let anyone get near you like that again. Not even him.”

You shook your head. “Bob…”

He smiled, eyes soft now. “I know. It’s not about him. It’s just—when it comes to you… I go a little feral.”

You kissed him again — slower this time, deeper, and when you pulled back, his eyes were glowing with heat and something softer too.

“You make me feel like I’m someone worth loving,” he whispered.

You cupped his face, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “You are.”

And right there, in the quiet dark of the city, Bob Reynolds kissed you like a promise:

That you were his. And he was yours. And no one would ever touch you again — not unless they wanted to burn.

---

The front door clicked shut behind you.

The tower was dark, lit only by the city glow bleeding in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. You kicked your shoes off, tossing your jacket on the bench near the elevator.

Bob followed behind you, quieter than usual, hoodie sleeves pushed up, jaw tight.

Neither of you had said much since that moment in the alley. His hand had hovered at your lower back the whole walk home, but he didn’t touch you again.

He hadn’t needed to.

The air between you was thick.

You glanced at him now as you padded toward the kitchen. “You want something to drink? I think there’s still some—”

Bob grabbed your hand.

You turned.

He was right there.

Close. Eyes burning. His thumb brushed your wrist, and when he spoke, it was low and aching.

“Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

You stepped into him instead.

His hands found your waist, slow and reverent. “I almost lost it earlier,” he whispered. “The way he touched you. Looked at you. I—I saw red.”

“I know,” you said softly, reaching up to touch his face.

Bob leaned into your hand. “It scared me. How fast I’d burn down the whole world for you.”

Your chest rose and fell, breath catching.

“Bob…”

“I don’t want to be careful with you anymore,” he said, voice rough. “I want to be yours. I want to show you what it means to be wanted—not just protected. Not just looked after. Claimed.”

A beat passed.

Then you whispered: “Then take me.”

That’s all it took.

He kissed you.

Not the sweet, nervous kisses from before. This was hungry. Deep. Desperate. Like he was memorizing the taste of your mouth in case the world ended tomorrow.

You gasped as he picked you up effortlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist, walking you backwards down the hallway toward your room — his hoodie riding up your thighs, your fingers twisted in his hair.

He dropped you onto the bed like you were the softest, most sacred thing he’d ever touched.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he breathed, crawling over you, every line of his body pressed to yours. “You walk into a room and I forget who I am.”

“Bob—”

He kissed your neck. Your collarbone. Worshipping. “Let me take care of you. Let me show you what it feels like to be mine.”

You nodded, chest rising and falling fast. “Please.”

He pulled back just long enough to tug the hoodie over your head — and then paused.

His eyes swept over you. Slowly. Reverently.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “You’re perfect.”

You reached up, tugging at his shirt, and he let you peel it off. And when his skin touched yours — warm, flushed, shaking — he groaned like he’d just come home.

Everything after that blurred into heat and light and him:

His mouth tracing every inch of your body. His voice in your ear, thick with praise: “You’re so beautiful… so sweet… so mine.” His hands holding you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. And when he finally pushed into you — slow, deep, trembling with how badly he needed it — he buried his face in your neck and whispered, “I’ve never felt anything like this.”

You clung to him, breathless, lost in the feel of him, the weight of him, the way he filled you so completely it felt like he’d marked your soul.

And when you came undone — shivering, gasping his name — he followed seconds later, holding you tight like he never wanted to let go.

After, you lay tangled together, sheets kicked down, the city glowing outside the window.

Bob kissed your forehead, still breathless.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured. “Not now. Not ever.”

You smiled, eyes heavy, voice soft. “Good.” Because now? You were his and he was yours.

---

The next morning in Stark Tower felt unusually quiet.

You were in the kitchen, making coffee, wrapped in one of Bob’s oversized hoodies, the fabric soft against your skin. The scent of fresh brew filled the air, a small comfort in the sprawling, empty space.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with a careful gaze that had grown sharper over the past few days.

At first, he thought it was just the normal relief of seeing you safe — but lately, there was something different.

The way you smiled at Bob across the room, the easy way you let him touch you, the way Bob’s eyes lingered on you like you were the only thing that mattered.

It hit Bucky like a punch to the gut.

He cleared his throat.

“Morning,” he said, voice a little rough.

You turned, bright-eyed and warm. “Hey, Bucky. Coffee?”

He nodded, stepping inside. “Thanks.”

There was a pause.

Bucky scratched the back of his neck, suddenly feeling awkward. “Look… I just wanted to say… it’s good to see you smiling again.”

You smiled softly, reaching out to touch his arm. “I’ve missed this. Missed all of you.”

He gave a short laugh. “Yeah… well, some things don’t change. I still don’t like the idea of anyone—” He glanced toward Bob, who was casually lifting weights nearby, “—getting too close.”

Your smile faltered just a bit.

Bob caught the glance and grinned, waving a dumbbell like a trophy.

Bucky’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything else.

Later, as you and Bob settled in the training room, Bucky lingered nearby, watching from a distance.

He noticed how Bob’s hand found yours easily, how your laughter sounded lighter when you were with him, and how Bob’s protective gaze never left you, even in moments when no one else was around.

The realization was sinking in.

Something had changed.

And Bucky wasn’t sure if he was ready for it.

592 notes · View notes

namjooningera · 1 year ago

Note

Hi, first timer here. May I humbly request for a drabble with Yandere Nanami wherein his darling gets sick and tries to avoid Nanami, but fails and gets coddled in return

You absolutely may!

Yandere JJK react to you being sick

Characters: Nanami, gojo, geto, Toji

Tw: sickness, forced physical touch, poisoning (?) 👀

AN: I decided to go with all the characters cuz I actually like this prompt! However nanamis will be longer since you asked for him specifically :D btw y’all I’m thinking of adding Choso! Tell me what y’all think ;)

Nanami:

You cough and shake, body trembling. Nanami’s at work, you know that because he isn’t on his side of bed. His watch and phone have been picked off the nightstand, the windows were sealed shut again, and the clock on the night stand buzzed with the numbers

11:23 am.

It’s late. Well, sort of. It’s the late where you don’t usually wake up. Sure you don’t wake up as early as Nanami does, but you at least wake up before the afternoon.

Before, you’d wake up as early as possible, well, when you had a life, that is.

But your sniffling, your nose is clogged and your body aches. Your throat, restricted. You can barely swallow down that dry saliva because dammit your throat aches. You need some water to smooth your sore throat, but you find the glass at the night stand completely empty.

You slowly crawl out of bed, on all fours, body weak and mind empty. You’re tired, you feel dirty, and you feel like you could pass out.

You basically limp to the kitchen with your glass in your hand, at any point knowing you could drop it. It’s just so heavy in your weak hand, and it fucking slips.

It slips onto the floor and shatters. You sigh, staring at the broken glass on the floor. No worries! Right? You’ll pick up a broom and clean it up later.

That’s a future you problem

Amongst all the other problems you have. You get another glass from the cabinet, filling up your cup and downing the water. It hurts so bad, like a shards going down your throat but the slight relief it gives, helps.

But you can’t stand for long, your bottom hitting the kitchen counter, hands grabbing the edges for support. You stumble into it, trying to move, but your eyes get blurry.

Your body is weaker, your vision is weak, eyes droopy and legs starting to give out.

It’s fine- you’re fine. Is what you tell yourself. You can’t let Nanami know about this. He’ll take care of you- then his ego will boost ten fold. He’ll probably get more clingy and desperate, protective. He won’t let you go for a second then after your no longer sick, he’ll think he has some control over you know. That you owe him. That’s what you think anyway. Not that he actually cares about you (oh he certainly does), but you’d like to keep it in your head that he’s being fake, that he’s a bad man. Because you know as soon as you realize his actions are purely out of love, that he loves you, perhaps you’ll actually start to gain empathy for him. Feel emotions.. you shouldn’t.

He was your favorite coworker, best friend. You grew up with him, or at least from high school. He’s taken care of you before, but now you just don’t trust it.

Your back, starts to slide down the kitchen counter, and you hazily sit against the kitchen cabinet. You look at the time.

“11:46 am”

Ok great, he won’t be back until 7 right? That’s how it normally is if he has some out of city mission.

But your eyes get droopy, your dizzy, your vision is blurred, mouth dry and oh-

Your head is heavy and falls over onto the floor. You’re on your side, shivering. It’s hot but your also shivering, you can’t tell if your freezing or if your heating up. Your mind starts to shut down and so does your body- the sweat that drools down your forhead, the body heat that illuminates your skin.

You lay unconscious on the kitchen floor.

Nanami’s excited.

He’s able to come home early today. Around 3pm? He was so glad. It turns out this out of city mission was actually a lot simpler then told- or maybe it was gojo beating them before he could even arrive. Turns out gojo finished them off quick so he could have a chance to eat out in another city with Nanami. Nanami rolls his eyes at the thought. Luckily he was able to escape after a while of entertaining Gojo Satoru for that long. He could come home early to his darling and he was excited.

Excited to spend the mid-day with you too. He opened the door excitedly, a sliver of a smile adoring his face as he opened the door, bakery sweets in hand (he had to buy some to cope with Satorus constant crude comments).

“Sweetheart! I’m home!”

He says cheerfully, but his smile drops just a tad when you don’t come to the door to greet him. He just shrugs anyway, going off to the room to find you and tell you about his insufferable day, but feed you sweets and tell you, you make it all better.

But as he passes the kitchen, he immediately stops, his head is thrown in your direction and he sees you. On the floor.

You’re on the floor. Why are you on the floor? Why’s there broken glass? Did you hurt yourself? Purposely? On accident? He runs over, his feet sliding over the glass, he winces but ignored it, dropping on his knees, looking at your sweaty cold body. He was confused at the glass, his aching feet, your cold but heated body passed out on the floor.

“D-dear? My love?” He whispered. His voice lingered with panic, major panic actually, he was terrified.

“Dear please!” He raised his voice for the first time ever, breaking one of his own rules he had for himself.

Your ears are ringing, but your eyes finally start top open and you look up at him.

“N-Nanami..” even though your angry at him, furious, you look up at him, and you know the fear in his eyes are genuine.

And you see your best friend.

Your high school best friend. The sweet man from high school. Patient, kind, caring, quiet, your lovely best friend. The one that you.. had more then just friendly feelings for. I mean how could you not? He was so sweet and perfect. Always spoiling you, taking care of you, making sure you ate and we’re always well kept. He made you laugh too, unintentionally most of the time but still hilariously. And oh was he handsome. He’s always been, and it always made you wonder why he never dated. Never say anyone or had something as simple as a crush. You always thought it was probably because he was too busy, the jujutsu sorcerer life isn’t easy, it’s time consuming and utterly dangerous, no fit for a relationship.

You look up at Nanami. He’s your best friend. A year rolls down your eye, dropping to the floor.

“Sweetheart? Don’t cry? My love, what happened?” His voice was shaking, he was scared.

You haven’t seen him like this before.

Hah, no that’s a lie. You have. And it was.. quite.. violent.

And right before you got kidnapped.

You get it now.

He did do this, kidnapped you and all, for your own safety. To make sure he’d always have you his palms, his hands, so that you’d never break.

But look at you. Even now. Even though your in the safety of his home, his surveillance, your still ill and wounded.

Your shaky breaths leave your mouth and your lidded eyes look up at him. He swallows hard. He considers taking you to the hospital- but no. They’d take you away from him. But he’d also rather have you completely safe and hurt free. If letting you’d go meant you’d be better, then so be it.

But his hands shook as he went to touch you. He didn’t want you to leave. Once he lets you go you’ll be gone forever.

His hand caressed your cheek, a tear bubbling in his eyes, and that’s when you know. When you know what’s in his mind, what he’s thinking.

“I-I’m fine..” Your voice incredibly shaky and desperate.

Just get away. You think. Leave me alone. Fuck. You want him gone, you want this asshole- the idiot who betrayed you- who kidnapped you who hurt you- you want him gone and off your back.

“You’re not fine. Your not! Sweetheart I- what happened?”

“C-could be uh-“ you cough, “food poisoning?” Perhaps, but you’re unsure. You’re both unsure.

He picks you up. His arms shaking and feet stinging from the small shards of glass that stick up his heels. He carries you to your room, placing you softly on the bed with a shaky exhale leaving his lips.

His face is pale and sweaty, he looks more sick then you.

“I’ll call you an ambulance okay?” Shaky tears leave his eyes. He holds your hand tightly, towering over your spread body.

“W-wha?”

He sighs, a sad smile on his lips.

“I-if that’s what I have to do.. to.. stop this.”

You think. You could get away, have that chance. But you also think it isn’t worth it.

Looking up at your best friend, the tears leaving his eyes, that soft smile he’s looked at you with before. Fuck. You know there’s something deeper to this, he didn’t do all of this on purpose. His obsession, obsession with protecting you and shadowing you and god just his constant paranoia and possessiveness until he kidnapped you- it had to be at a fault not from him right?

And looking up at the man you called your alley, your best friend, your crush. You had to save him. Maybe then, once you do, you two could be normal again? You could learn to forgive him, he’d let you go, and heal. And once he healed.. perhaps you two could be something more? More than a forced relationship.

Your hand tightens over his. Barely, but he feels it.

“S-stay.”

His eyes widened and he looks down at you. “Honey? What?”

“D-don’t wanna go Kay? Can take care of m’self.”

He grumbled at that. “Absolutely not. Your body is heated to hell and your shivering. You look terrible.”

You huff. “Rude.”

“Dear please let me take you to a hospital? Or to get checked out at least, please?” He’s so desperate, it’d be sweet if it wasn’t for the situation you were in, with a lovesick yandere. But you knew he wouldn’t let you go until someone could heal and take care of you. You sighed to yourself.

“Just go buy some medicine? Will be fine…” you mumbled.

“Do you have to be so thick headed? I know you’re in pain. At least let me take care of you.”

“Just leave me alone!”

Your scream threw him back, stepping back from you. “I…I understand.”

He left the room, his eyebrows bunched up and his mouth in a scowl. You felt disgusting, but hoped some nap could help. A nap that would wake you up from this horrid shit, perhaps this was all a dream.

Alas, you wake up. And it’s not a dream. And you feel even worse, actually. Your throat is completely closed, you can’t speak for fucks sake, your entire body is covered in a thick inch of sweat and you feel sticky. Your clothes are too tight and your hair feels wet, sticking onto your forehead. Your stomach is empty but still feels twisted, and god your body is so weak. So weak you can’t get up, so weak you don’t think you can even move your hand to grab the glass of water on your nightstand.

Everything hurts. You can’t avoid Nanami now, you need him.

“N-Nanam…” your realize your voice is basically gone to dust, you can’t speak and you can’t call out for him, and that’s when the panic starts to set in.

What if he left the house and won’t be back until late night? What if he doesn’t come check on you? What if he’s so upset for you avoiding him and pushing him away so he doesn’t help you?

But as your thinking all these thoughts, the door slowly starts to crack open, you see some blonde hair peeking out and an eye.

“Nan…nana..mi..” his eyes widens and he ran over to you.

“You need me?”

It’s like he was waiting out there for you to call him, right outside the door until you wake up and asked for him. You push that thought to the back of your head.

“Sweetheart- your burning up even worse then before. Please, please let me take care of you at least. I’m begging you, my love.”

You grumbled, looking up at him from your pillow. The soft expensive fucking sheets that nobody should be allowed to buy, clutched and balled up in your sweaty hands.

“F-fine.” You mumbled.

He smiled, but not one out of happiness but out of relief. “I’ll be the best care taker you’ve ever seen, my love. You’ll be better in no time.”

Gojo-

Satoru is possible the worst man you could be sick around. He gets fucking clingy and won’t leave you alone for a second. Treating you like some newborn baby who needs the utmost care at every waking moment.

That’s why, when you feel a oh so familiar cough rise in your throat, a chill in your spine and a just lovely heat illuminating from your forehead, you don’t tell him.

You pretend like it’s not even there. You think it’ll pass anyway. It’s probably some cold, some small bug that you’ll get over in a few days.

But it’s not that easy, especially when the medicine cabinet is locked and Satoru barely leaves you alone.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” Your try to play off the fast you just chocked on your own disgusting heavy cough, as if you weren’t just about to puke from how gross and vile that cough felt.

You cleared your throat and continued to watch the TV. Satoru put on some lame show and you decided you had nothing better to do, so you plopped down on the sofa to watch, too. Well, plopped down on the entire other side of the sofa.

It’s funny though, he thinks you don’t see the way he slowly scoots over closer to you every second. It’s pathetic, really. But if you didn’t hate him so much you’d actually find it kind of endearing.

“Hey, uhh. You have any pain killers? Or just.. medicine.”

He looks at you suspiciously. “Why?”

“Just.. have a headache. You know..”

He raises his eyebrow at you but nods. “Follow me..”

He leads you out of the living and to the kitchen. Where he unlocks a cabinet with a key that he pulled out of who knows where.

He grabs some pain killers for your so called “headache” and while he’s taking a pill out, you sneak behind him and try to grab some cold cough medicine.

And obviously, you get caught immediately because who wouldn’t.

“I knew it! You are sick!”

“No! I just uhh..”

“You just uhh.” he mocks you. “You’re sick- I can see it all over your face. Can’t fool me.” He snickers, grabbing the cold couch medicine, and you, by the arm, and drags you to the living room where he forces you to situate yourself on the sofa while he stands.

“How long have you been sick?”

You shrug.

He scoffs. “Fine. You know what? Your not getting these,” he waves around the cough medicine, “until I get a hug. A hug for every pill you want.” He huffs and strikes his chin upwards, acting all mad and pouty.

“What? Your kidding. Satoru this isn’t funny.”

“It’s really not.” He answers.

“Fine. I’ll cough all over you and get you sick too.”

He huffed and bonked your head a few times. “Hey! You want the cough medicine or not? Don’t you wanna get better?” He teased with a very annoying smile on his face.

But your desperate, and you can feel your throat start to clog and a cough starting to gear up, you know what you have to.

“-ugh fine!”

….

It’s a few hours later.

Satoru was fucking elated. Floating on cloud nine, while you, were stuck in his arms. He had been clinging onto for who knows how long. As soon as you gave in and gave him those hugs, he wouldn’t let go.

Yes, he gave you those pills, yes you feel relieved and less sick, but god was it really worth it? Worth your dignity and sanity?

“One more episode pleaseeeee.” He whined, knowing damn well that he could just force you to watch with him anyway, but it was as if he wanted that reassurance that you wanted to watch with him too.

Which you didn’t.

“No satoru. I’m sleepy, okay? I’m tired.”

He mumbled something incoherent and grumbled, but then a smile appeared on his face.

“Oh no problem! Let’s just go to bed then!”

You didn’t realize what he meant until he grabbed you off the couch, carrying you off into your room giddily and jumped into bed with you.

He cuddled up to your side and sniffed into your neck, inhaling your scent and almost rubbing himself into your nape.

“S-satoru move..”

He chuckled and just squeezed closer to you. “But you’re sick sweetie.” He said with a faux pout, the kind where you know he was taunting you. “I need to be with you at all times to check your temperature and make sure my girl doesn’t get worse~”

Geto-

Suguru geto is a weird man.

He goes off everyday to his cult, his huge estate that wraps around his cult.

You don’t know it all started, what lead him to kill the leader and take over. No, you do know. You just wish you knew why. You wish you could’ve stopped him before his corruption. But alas, here you are.

But this time, Suguru is upset with you. Before he left to “work”, you had called him names and yelled at him. Told him to get away from you and that you hate him. You don’t know why you suddenly blew up, you’ve been eerily calm these past few days, but your upset. He’s been forcing himself on you, not sexually, but he’s been trapping you two together.

Following you everywhere you went, acting all calm when you got upset as if he wasn’t the problem. At one point he tried to get into the bathroom while you were showering, yes that was the last straw.

In your robe you yelled at him and called him out, and at one point it got out of hand, you started saying things that didn’t even have to do with why you were mad.

He left upset, he didn’t say anything. Just silent as he listened to your screams then left silent, too. And that was the scariest of them all.

But the truth is, you weren’t really upset about the fact he was trying to barge in when you were showering. Sure that would’ve been annoying and outright perverted, but you were mad for a different reason.

The way he almost found out that you were in fact, not showering.

But instead, using the showers loud water noise to cover up the fact that we’re puking.

When you saw the door handle start to turn as you coughed into the toilet, you quickly threw on a robe over your pajamas and wiped your mouth with the back of your hand.

You were angry because he almost caught you. The truth is, you’ve been sick for a while now. You know it’s some stomach bug, you get every now and then but you don’t want Suguru to know.

Because once he knows, it’ll just be another reason to control you. To coddle you and guilt you into staying with him.

But honestly the look on his face before he left- god did it make you feel guilty. You almost bit your inner cheek off seeing that. After all you still had.. unsolved feelings. He’s your best friend for fucks sake- no. He used to be your best friend. Before his corruption.

But you can’t help to think that perhaps- the Suguru you know is still there somewhere. He had to be right? That’s why he still loves and cares for you like he used to. Just now, it’s unwanted and forceful.

He comes home late tonight. You know why but you don’t say anything, you don’t comment on it. You’ve been reading, laying on your bed. Normally suguru comes in, lays on the bed and acts like he’s your husband who came home. Telling to you about his day, and asking about yours, as if he didn’t know.

But today, he doesn’t.

And you’re confused, but you don’t comment on it. And you don’t go to find him either because honestly you could care less.

But the thought lingers in the back of your mind, that uneasy feeling in your chest, heavy. You try to ignore it and read your book. But you can’t, your distracted and you can’t focus .

You decide you need some water, you get up and put your book on your nightstand. But as you walk to the door, about to pull the handle, Suguru comes storming in.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” He said angrily, basically threw the door open almost hitting you on the way, grabbing you by your mid arms.

Your confused. He doesn’t have cameras in the bathroom how could he know- oh.

You remember your slip up. The slip up you forgot.

When going to the kitchen to grab a glass of water after puking your guts out in the bathroom, desperately wanting to get that disgusting taste out your mouth and throat.

But then as you made your way to the kitchen for some water, you choke and feel yourself gagging. You throw up into the kitchen sink, coughing your guts out.

You thought that the cameras weren’t in the kitchen- and if so you forgot anyway. To focused on trying not to sob as that disgusting mass left your throat and emptied out your stomach.

“I don’t know what your talking bout Suguru..” you mumbled, trying to act stupid.

Obviously that doesn’t fly with Suguru and he just holds your arms tighter. “I saw you, don’t lie to me. Why didn’t you just tell me?” His voice was angry until it broke at his last words.

“Do you just not trust me anymore?” And god the desperation and sadness in his eyes actually hurt you for a second, the guilt in you starting to bubble up. But you push that aside and shrug your shoulders at him.

He grinds his teeth and pulls you into him. “I’ll earn back your trust, my dear. Or I’ll force it into you.”

Your eyes widen at the last part and you look up at him. He has to be joking, right?

“Excuse me?”

“Your going to bed rest for the rest of the week. I’ll be home the entire time.”

And you realize all your private time away from him has been taken away for the entire damn week, locked in a room, a bedroom, in bed, with Suguru. Fuck. But still, you did feel a twinge of guilt, so even though you heavily didn’t want to stay locked in a room with him, you unhappily agreed, but agreed either way.

Suguru just smiles at you. He doesn’t mean to be harsh, he cares. And he’s smart enough to know what your allergic to and what gets your stomach upset.

It’s just so weird how a curse managed to make it into y’all’s home, undetected by the both of you, and somehow infected you unknowingly.

Oh well.

What you don’t know can’t hurt you right?

Toji-

He’s overprotective and you know that.

That’s why, before you even know your sick, he’s all over you and checking you. He things it’s subtle (spoiler; it’s not) and he coddles you to death.

“I’m gonna take a day off today.” He’s doing it because of you and not one of his stupid excuses. And he says it, while his one arm is around your neck, the other around your belly, trapping to against his chest, your back to him, in bed.

“C-could you let go? I’m over heating..”

He groans and cuddles into you closer. “Few mo’ minutes, doll.” He mumbled into the back of your neck.

“I’m not sick I told you! Get off!”

Except it’s like your extreme refusal that your sick, the refusing his help and refusing him, just ends up in you sick.

You lay on the bed in front of him, while he pulled a chair up to you and spoon fed you soup. You can tell he enjoys it, a sly tug at his lips saying ‘I told you so’, he doesn’t have to say it out loud you just know.

You whine and tell him to go away, you don’t need him to baby you or stay home from work. That you’re perfectly fine taking care of yourself.

“Yeah? You refused me tryna’ help you and ya think you can take care of yourself fine?” He says, basically angry.

You huff and let him push a spoonful of hot soup into your mouth. “

“Why don’t ya just shut your mouth and let me take care of you. So damn bratty.”

You sigh and clutch at your blanket. You have nothing better to do then surrender to his touch because you feel so damn weak.

He slightly smiled at you, seeing you finally quiet down and let him feed you without a fight.

What a smart girl. He thinks.

It’s like you know the antidote is in the soup.

….

So that was crazy guys. Anyways! Should I add choso and Sukuna? I love them sm 😋 (tbh kinda scared to write Sukuna cuz he’s insane)

1K notes · View notes

certaimromance · 5 months ago

Text

𝜗𝜚 The Other Boy Next Door.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

next chapter | series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: Spencer is focused on not hurting you and keeping a healthy distance, but his whole world is turned upside down when he hears a male voice in your apartment.

Words: 3,9k.

Warnings & Tags: this is part of a series, check the masterlist to make sure you are in the correct chapter. mention of jail, gun, violence, alzheimer, blood. references to what happened with maeve (no direct mention). painter!reader. post prison reid (with so much trauma). lack of communication. angst. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: This chapter was veryyy difficult to write because I really wanted to show both points of view, and I killed myself researching the deeper consequences of three months of confinement to be realistic with Spencer😭 I hope this makes sense to you.

Most days in apartment 23 were lonely and very decadent.

Generally, Spencer Reid woke alone in a bed that felt far too large for one person, the sheets cool and undisturbed on one side. Coffee came first, a dark, bitter brew that filled the air with its sharp aroma. He would stand by the kitchen window, staring out at the skyline, lost in thoughts that circled endlessly but led nowhere. His medical books were always on the table, their spines cracked and pages marked with notes and highlighter strokes. He pored over them not out of passion but desperation, chasing elusive cures for his mother’s Alzheimer’s. The phone rested nearby, a constant reminder of his work, its silence pressing heavier with each passing hour.

When there was no call, which was really weird, he filled the void with repetition. He’d toast bread or fry eggs for a meager breakfast, then venture out to the coffee shop on the corner. The routine was painfully predictable: the same stale donuts, the same barista with the tired smile, the same seat by the window. Thirty-two minutes, start to finish, every time. If the phone didn’t ring even then, he’d wander aimlessly to the library, where the scent of old paper offered fleeting comfort, or return home to let classical music fill the otherwise suffocating quiet. He was always pleased to hear songs without lyrics that could further suffocate his brain. It was a nice way to wait to be needed.

But one day, the loop cracked. Midway through his meticulous routine, something—or rather someone—broke through the fog of his predictability. You moved in next door.

And then, all of a sudden, his quiet time between classical sonatas, coffee, and huge books was interrupted by your cat, and consequently, you. His whole routine changed right away. He no longer woke up alone in his bed because you and Mittens took up all the space that was left and more. He didn't just buy one coffee anymore; now he bought two, with an extra brownie that you loved. He didn't lock himself away to read non-stop because he had you to talk to and give him the support that no book could ever give him. He stopped listening to so much classical music because you liked watching him analyze the lyrics of your favorite songs. He stopped waiting for calls from work to feel useful because you always seemed to need him.

And he welcomed all the changes, because the biggest one was his favorite: you.

Everything about you captivated him from the moment he saw you hauling an absurd number of canvases into your apartment. You were unlike anyone he’d ever met. Your presence turned the once-sterile hallway into a place of possibility, where running into you felt like a small miracle. But what amazed him most was how you transformed his apartment, a place he once thought of as lonely and very decadent, into a home. It wasn’t just the way Mittens treated his space like her second domain or how your art supplies slowly began to infiltrate his coffee table. It was the warmth you brought with you, the way you made him feel seen and understood in a way he never had before.

But since Spencer was used to it, nothing good lasted. But since Spencer was used to it, he'd rather leave than be left behind again.

You two were almost like strangers now. The warmth that had once filled his days was gone, replaced by a hollow silence that lingered in every corner of his apartment. There were no more mornings waking up together, no shared cups of coffee, or lazy conversations about nothing and everything. Even your casual hallway encounters had dwindled into fleeting moments, a rushed “good morning” as you passed each other without meeting his eyes.

Now, his mornings were cold and solitary once again. He sat alone at the small kitchen table, the other chair pushed neatly against the wall as if to erase any memory of you. The second coffee cup he’d grown so used to buying stayed behind at the shop, and the barista didn’t even ask about the brownie anymore. Instead, he carried a single steaming cup back to his apartment, where it joined the growing pile of books that had reclaimed their place as his only companions.

He buried himself in his medical texts with a desperation that bordered on obsession, but even the words on the page couldn’t hold his attention. He visited his mother at the nursing home you had helped him find, but the comfort he once felt from knowing it was close had turned into an aching reminder of how involved you’d been in every part of his life. And to make things worse, the job that had always been his refuge was gone too. Temporarily suspended, he had nothing to distract him, no cases to pour himself into, and no purpose to latch onto. He was adrift, waiting for his boss to negotiate with the bureau, waiting for his life to have some semblance of meaning again.

This morning was no different from the others. A bleak repetition of what his life had been before you. Spencer sat on his couch with a cup of coffee that had already gone lukewarm. His fingers gripped the edges of an open book, but his eyes skimmed the words without processing them. The air in the apartment was heavy, stagnant, broken only by the soft, repetitive scrape of Mittens’ claws against the fabric of a cushion. The sound grated on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to shoo her away. In truth, he was grateful for the small disruption, even if it came from a cat that seemed to sense his turmoil.

But something changed this time. From the corner of his ear, a sound, a voice, pierced the thin walls of the place. It was not so loud, but it was unmistakable. A man's voice. Deep. Low. Tense. And from your apartment.

His body tensed, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. His heart stopped for a few seconds. The voice was unfamiliar; he knew it wasn't one of his friends because he knew them all, but there was still something about it that made him uneasy. It was almost...harsh. The words, though distorted by distance, still had a tone that made Spencer catch his breath. It wasn't an argument, he didn't even hear your voice respond or even give the slightest sign that you were okay. It wasn't so loud, but the pressure of the voice, the possibilities behind it, didn't sit well with you. Especially since you were always reluctant to let anyone into your home.

At that moment, a deafening crash shattered the fragile stillness of the apartment. The sound reverberated through the walls, shaking picture frames and sending a cold jolt straight down his spine. It was the kind of noise that demanded attention, the kind that twisted in the pit of your stomach and told you that something was horribly wrong.

Then, silence.

No voices. No footsteps. Nothing.

It was the silence that gutted him most. His mind instantly spiraled into the worst-case scenarios. Blood pooling across the floor. Your voice screaming his name in pain, only to be silenced. The flicker of movement as someone fled the scene. He couldn’t stop the flood of images from invading his mind. They were vivid, visceral, and rooted in the darkest parts of his imagination.

The silence dragged him back to the nightmares. The ones he’d woken up to every night in that tiny, suffocating prison cell, his heart racing and his breath shallow. Nightmares of iron bars and shouts echoing down narrow corridors. Nightmares of blood in the courtyard, spilling from faceless bodies while the sun mocked him with its indifferent light. Nightmares of whispered threats and the press of a blade against his ribs. They had told him they’d hurt everyone he loved, and for months, he’d believed them.

He had learned survival then, how to block out the fear, how to guard his thoughts, how to endure. But the nights were a different story. He’d lie on that hard, narrow cot, willing his body to rest while his mind conjured the only thing that could keep him sane: the image of you. You smiling. Laughing. You safe. It was the only thing that had kept him alive in a place that wanted to devour him whole.

And now, this silence threatened to destroy that fragile illusion of safety.

Without even thinking, his hand went to the drawer where he kept his new pistol, and his fingers brushed the cold steel. He paused, thinking about how he never thought he would need it in a place like this, a safe apartment in a decent neighborhood, where the most dangerous thing that had ever happened was Mittens knocking over a vase or spilling his hot coffee. Yet now, everything felt wrong, the voice he’d heard earlier, the crash, the gnawing dread in his chest that whispered, you’re too late, for the second time.

His breathing quickened as his hand closed around the grip, pulling the gun from the drawer. The weight of the gun in his palm momentarily calmed him and made him feel in control again, but his mind was already racing, imagining the worst. What if something had happened to you? What if that voice was threatening you or, worse, trying to hurt you? What if that man had already hurt you and that's why your voice couldn't be heard? What if he failed you like he failed in the past? Spencer tightened his grip on the gun, his mind racing as his feet moved faster toward the half-open door of your apartment.

With his body paralyzed with fear for you and his mind screaming for him to come in and make sure you were safe, the door creaked open just enough for him to see inside.

You were standing in the middle of the room, disheveled but unharmed. The sight of you, alive and unhurt, should have brought him relief, but instead, it only stirred confusion. The kitten-faced shirt he had given you for Christmas was wrinkled, your hair wild and unkempt, and faint streaks of dust and paint covered your hands. His eyes darted past you to the man beside the sink, leaning casually over the counter, focused on his work. The sink was dripping steadily, water pooling beneath the cracked faucet, and there, next to it, lay a jagged shard of broken glass on a rag. The man, dressed in worn work boots and a faded flannel shirt, was tinkering with a wrench, his brow furrowed in concentration as he replaced the faucet head.

Damn.

For the first time, Spencer Reid realized something. His instincts were wrong. His mind had misfired. His thoughts, clouded by the lingering darkness of his past and the fear, had led him to the wrong conclusion. For the first time.

The man’s voice broke the silence. “Good thing you called me when you did,” he said cheerfully. “Could’ve ended up with water damage if this had gone much longer. Would’ve been a real shame for your paintings.”

At the mention of your paintings, your most cherished works, your soul poured onto each canvas, your body tensed, a chill running through you. Instinctively, you turned toward the wall where they were propped, vibrant colors peeking out from behind the half-open door, but it wasn’t the paintings that caught your attention.

It was Spencer.

Your heart slammed in your chest as your eyes met his. His face was tight with something you couldn’t decipher, but your gaze was drawn inexorably to the thing in his hand. The weapon he was awkwardly attempting to hide beneath his jacket. The sight hit you like a punch to the gut, your pulse spiking with a mix of confusion, disbelief, and raw fear. It was like the world shifted on its axis, everything around you turning to static, muffled noise.

You couldn’t speak. Your mouth went dry, your throat constricting. No words could come, not while your mind raced, trying to make sense of this moment that felt like a nightmare, and yet, it was all too real.

The man, Mike, your neighbor, remained oblivious, still focused on the task at hand. “All set here,” he said with satisfaction, wiping his hands on a towel, his back still to Spencer. “Just keep an eye on it, and let me know if anything else leaks.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stay composed. “Yeah…thanks. I really appreciate it.”

Spencer shifted his weight, and you saw his hand, tight on the gun, pressing it awkwardly against his side in an attempt to hide it further. It only made things worse. His actions were clumsy, frantic even, as if he couldn’t decide whether to conceal it or confront you. And you saw it all, the frantic, fearful energy that was pulsing in the air between you. But what stung the most wasn’t just the weapon; it was the confusion in his eyes, the distance that had grown between you, and the unsettling realization that he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell you why he was here. Why did he have to carry that gun knowing that you had never even liked to be near the drawer where it was kept?

Mike, noticing a subtle shift in the atmosphere but not understanding its source, glanced at Spencer briefly, his expression faltering slightly as if sensing the subtle change. But he said nothing. He simply gathered his tools and offered an awkward, polite nod. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your day,” he said, too focused on his exit to feel the heaviness that hung in the air. “Always happy to help. Just call me if anything else comes up.”

You didn’t speak. You just moved, stepping forward with a forced smile that felt more like a mask, positioning yourself subtly between them. Your movement was calculated, deliberate, blocking Spencer, hiding the gun, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy. “Will do,” you said, the words sounding like a brittle lie in your own ears. The brightness of your tone was a poor attempt to mask the tightness in your chest, the hurt you couldn’t quite articulate.

With a nod, he headed toward the door, giving you a wave as he left. “Have a good day!”

“You too,” you managed to reply, your voice thin and strained. You barely registered the words before you were practically ushering him out, closing the door swiftly behind him, the finality of the click of the latch echoing in the silence that enveloped the room.

After a moment, you turned slowly, your hand slipping from the doorknob. Your eyes met his, and the look on his face stopped you in your tracks. His expression was raw, his brows drawn together, lips pressed into a thin line, his knuckles white where they clutched the gun now tucked awkwardly against his side. There was fear in his eyes, but also something else, something darker, harder that you never saw before.

“What,” you began, your voice shaking, “were you thinking?”

Spencer opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. His chest heaved, breaths shallow and erratic. His mind, racing at full speed, tried to make sense of the words he needed to say, the ones that would make everything okay, the ones that would make you understand. But nothing fit. Nothing was enough to explain the panic that had taken hold of him, the fear that had driven him to do something he never would’ve imagined.

His gaze darted between your eyes and the gun still clenched in his hand, and a surge of self-loathing flooded him. He looked like a madman. He felt like a madman. His hand twitched, as if it were trying to pull the gun back, to shove it into the recesses of his mind where it belonged. But it was too late. He had already brought it into your life, into your apartment.

You took a cautious step toward him, each movement deliberate, careful. Like you were walking on glass, afraid that the slightest misstep would shatter everything between you. Your eyes flicked down to the gun, and your throat went dry. You swallowed hard, trying to push down the sick feeling in your stomach. “Put it down, please,” you said, your voice steady but thick with unspoken emotions.

For a moment, he didn’t move, his fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around the grip. Then, as if the weight of your words had finally broken through, he blinked and seemed to snap out of a trance. His gaze dropped to the gun in his hand, and a wave of something, shame, regret, maybe even self-loathing, washed over his face. Slowly, carefully, he moved to the table near the entrance and set the weapon down.

The sound of the metal meeting wood was louder than it should have been, echoing in the oppressive silence of your apartment. The sharp clink made you flinch involuntarily, your body tensing as if bracing for something that, thankfully, didn’t come.

“You brought that into my apartment,” you said finally, your voice low and trembling.

“I thought—” he began, but you didn’t let him finish.

“You thought what?” you interrupted sharply, spinning around to face him. Your eyes were blazing, the fury in them cutting through him like a blade. “That you could just storm in here with a gun? That this—” you gestured toward him, your hand shaking, “—was the right thing to do? Even when you know how I feel about…this stuff?”

He knew, of course he did. He knew how much you hated his work and all that it involved, even though you tried hard not to show it every time he told you about it. Spencer knew that anything to do with violence gave you nightmares that only his company and many cartoons could alleviate.

“I thought you were in danger,” he whispered, his voice quieter now but laced with desperation as he took a tentative step toward you. His hands rose slightly, palms outward, as though to show you he wasn’t a threat. He wasn’t trying to intimidate you. “I heard a man’s voice, and then I didn’t hear you at all. There was a crash, something breaking…and I—” His voice cracked, and he clenched his jaw, trying to stop the panic that clawed at him. “I didn’t know what was happening. I thought—God, I thought you were hurt.”

God.

He didn't usually say that word.

“You didn’t know because you didn’t ask.” The words shot out of you like arrows, and the sting was sharp. You took a step back, arms crossed tightly over your chest, trying to shield yourself from the wave of emotion crashing over you. “You didn’t call, you didn’t knock, you didn’t think.”

At that moment, Spencer wasn't sure if he was more hurt by your words or the fear that still haunted your gaze. It was almost as if you were afraid of him, his own mind told him. And it hurt, like a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, and your eyes narrowed as you stood there, fighting to regain control of your emotions. “If you weren’t ignoring me like the plague, you’d know that my apartment flooded a month ago. I’ve been trying to get the plumbing fixed, but I haven’t had the money until now. That’s what I was doing,” you said, your voice trembling but stronger now, the words tumbling out faster than you intended. “That’s why I had someone over today. He was fixing the leak. He’s just—he’s just a plumber, Spencer. He’s our neighbor from the fourth floor.”

His heart hammered in his chest, and for a moment, he just stood there, taking it all in, the weight of your words sinking into him like a stone. The irrational fear that had gripped him moments ago now seemed distant, almost laughable in the face of what he had just done.

He opened his mouth to apologize, but the words were stuck, tangled in the knot of regret and guilt in his throat.

You met his gaze, searching for something, anything, in his eyes that might show you he understood, that he truly realized how wrong he was. But all you saw was the same deep sorrow, the same painful awareness of the damage he had caused.

“I don’t know what you were thinking,” you whispered, your voice barely audible but cutting through the silence. “Or what happened these last three months that changed you so much.” You shook your head slowly, your eyes glistening with unshed tears. “But that wasn’t it. That’s not how you protect someone. That’s not how you show you care.”

The finality in your words hit him like a blow to the chest. Spencer’s shoulders slumped, and for the first time, he looked truly broken. He stood there, vulnerable and raw, his lips parting as if to speak, but all that came out was a quiet, defeated whisper. “You’re right.”

His voice was barely above a breath, but it carried the weight of every ounce of regret he felt. “I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to protect you…or anyone.” His gaze dropped, his hand flexing at his side as if he didn’t know what to do with it. “I haven’t learned.” He exhaled sharply, a sound that was half a sigh and half a plea. “I’m sorry.”

And with that, he stepped forward, each movement slow and deliberate, as if he feared any sudden motion might shatter what little remained between you. His hand reached for the gun on the table, the clink of metal against wood echoing in the room like the final note of a requiem. You flinched at the sound, a subtle but unmistakable movement that made Spencer freeze in place. He saw it, the fear in your eyes, the way your body tensed, and it broke him in ways he didn’t know were possible.

Without another word, he tucked the gun securely away and turned toward the door. His steps were heavy, deliberate, like a man walking toward his own execution. He didn’t look back as he opened it, his silence saying more than words ever could. The door clicked shut behind him, the sound reverberating in the room, leaving you in a deafening, suffocating quiet.

You stood there, frozen in place, the weight of his absence crashing over you. Your chest ached, your mind racing with thoughts you couldn’t stop. For the first time, you weren’t sure if he was still the same man who had made you fall in love.

Because your Spencer would never have hidden a gun in his apartment, even when he was supposed to be suspended and without one. He would never have brought it to your home, especially after hearing you say a thousand times how scared you were of arms. And most of all, he wouldn’t have left the way he did now. He would have stayed. He would have held you, kissed your forehead, and asked for forgiveness a thousand times over until you knew, without a doubt, that he regretted every moment of his mistake.

But he hadn’t. And as the silence pressed down on you, you couldn’t help but wonder if the man you had loved was still there…or if he had already disappeared, piece by piece, in the last three months.

You certainly didn't know a lot of things.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid angst #matthew gray gubler #mon’s fics ♡

516 notes · View notes

alchemistc · 7 months ago

Text

He's been good. He's been - pretending to be good well enough that no one has been suspicious.

It's just -

That was it. That was The One.

And sure. He can get back out into the world. He can fall in love again. There is a beautiful man somewhere out in the world who will make him laugh, make him cry.

He's just not sure he wants to put the effort in anymore.

For a hot second he'd really thought -

Not that it matters, anymore.

He's pretty sure his leg is pinned. The cockpit is more smoke than air, at this point. He can feel his toes, but honestly that might be more a curse than a blessing.

He's been staring at the phone in his hand for the last five minutes. Ever since he realized he didn't have the leverage to try to move the bracket keeping him from slipping free of the broken, crunched in door frame.

It's selfish. It's the most selfish fucking thing he's considered since he decided to break his own heart instead of letting someone else.

But logistically he's got about seven minutes until there's too much smoke and not enough air in here, and that's only IF the fire doesn't catch somewhere else.

He's got enough bars. And there are two numbers he could call. Two ways this could go.

The phone rings through four times, and on the fifth, someone answers.

"This is a bad time, Tommy," Eddie says, and Tommy feels a little hysterical. The laughter comes in fits, only slows when he gets a nice good whiff of smoke straight up his nose.

"Sure is."

The tone shifts. "Are you okay?"

"It was a bad idea anyway."

He feels woozy. Glances down at his leg and realizes that stain he'd thought was shadow is... definitely blood.

"Listen. I'm - when Evan gets the call, don't let him go alone. It's my fault for not updating my ICE."

The silence on the other line is deafening. "Tommy, where are you? Don't - don't make any decisions you can't come back from." It's a panned line he'd heard at the VA the half dozen times he'd gone.

"Yeah I didn't really make this decision myself. I'm just - I'm losing a lot of blood, here, and there's not a lot of ways for the smoke to get out of this cabin, and -."

High alert has a very specific sound and feel to it.

Eddie's cursing, something is shuffling, he's snapping his fingers in the distance. God, they're probably at work. "Where are you?"

Tommy rattles off his last known coordinates. "I already told dispatch, Eddie. I'm just. They're not gonna make it in time, and I need you to promise me you won't let him be alone when -."

It'd been a trip he would have been riding shotgun for, if Tommy hadn't made sure he wasn't. He's grateful for that, at least.

He's really not expecting much, he thinks. Eddie doesn't have to go far out of his way to support Buck. It'll hurt him, true. But Tommy's gotten pretty used to being the cause of that. And. He'll be dead, anyway, so he won't have to carry that guilt for long.

And then Eddie betrays whatever vestige of friendship they had left, because it's not Eddie's voice that responds.

"Hey asshole. Do you have enough leverage to break the window?"

He's got a good voice. A little gruff, a little heavy.

Tommy doesn't want this.

"No."

"Actually no, or are you just accepting your fate again without even talking about alternatives."

It's not how he thought he'd go. Dramatic final hour phone call, the end of their relationship as a metaphor for the bleakness of his situation. "I'm sorry, Buck."

He's having trouble focusing his eyes. There's a beat behind his ears that keeps slowing down. He thinks he might be hearing sirens but -

"Evan," Tommy says for the first time in six months. "I'm so sorry, Evan."

He says - something. The tone of it is there, even if he can't quite make out the words.

Tommy blinks. Coughs.

There's a phone in his hands.

Why is there a phone in his hands, he's supposed to be flying a -

He'd crashed it, actually.

Well shit.

Damn.

Eddie's gonna be so pissed if he has to find out second hand that Buck's going to get a really fucking shitty call in a few hours.

He should call.

---

When he blinks open his eyes, he finds his fingers first, nearly has a panic attack when they don't move they way he wants them to, except - oh.

There are fingers interlocked with his.

Tommy follows the line of the arm, even though he knows.

"Sorry," Evan says, and there are tears unshed at the corners of his eyes but he looks mad as hell. "You only get one dramatic exit out of my life in a calendar year."

#bucktommy #crash that helicopter #bucktommy ficlet

784 notes · View notes

fictionalmenxyn · 7 months ago

Text

𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦

Pairing: frat!hockeyplayer!rafe x reader

(Also I have a lack of hockey knowledge, I’d like to get into it but it’s not as popular from where I am so I don’t rlly know much, so bare with me 😭)

Warnings: SMUT (rough), p in v (protected), fighting, blood, cuts. (Ward is mentioned but only as coach. So nothing bad.)

🜚🜚🜚

Today was the day, game day. The boys had been hyping this game up for the past two weeks. It was a big game. The finale… and it’s versus their rivals. So a very very big game. Especially to all the guys. Ward, being their coach had been training them hard. Making sure they secure the win.

You sat front row, next to the penalty box, with your friends. Wearing Rafe’s jersey. His number ‘13’ on the back along with ‘Cameron’ above the number. You felt proud, to be his, to watch him do what he’s passionate about. He did the same for you. Whatever you may do, he’s always there supporting you.

The lights in the arena go off. Then they start to flicker, music plays as smoke machines go off. The lights go back on as the rival team skates onto the ice first. They always did that when they played home. Always making the opposing team go first. Then everyone supporting the Outer Banks team started to chant. You included, you and your friends shouting at the top of your lungs as the team skates into the ice.

Cheering loudly knowing he’d already been looking for you in the crowd.

He sends a wink your way when he finally spotted you. He knew you were in a good spot for many reasons.

🜚🜚🜚

As the game continued, Rafe and the ‘18’ for the opposing team had been going back and forth. Throwing shoves left, right and centre. You could see the mean look in his eyes. He was looking for more than a shove. And the perfect excuse came over, as you all watch number 18 knock Topper off of his feet.

Rage speed skates over to the guy. In one motion his stick and gloves on the ice. Swinging straight at the guy. Both guys breaking out into a fight.

Yes, this made you worry. Your boyfriend fighting on the ice. It was worrying. But you knew he could hold his own. Also knowing he’s done this many time to know what he’s doing. You said ‘fuck it’. You started cheering and shouting “go baby! Fucking get him! Get ‘Im!! That’s it!” Your friends laughing at the fact you were cheering for him.

That’s when Sarah had the idea, she pulled out her phone and started to record you cheering. Also capturing the fight along with you cheering your boyfriend and her brother on.

That’s when the referee called it quits. Skating over and pulling apart the fight. The referee sent both guys the their penalty boxes. Rafe raised his fists in the air in pride. You were clapping. Rafe tilted to his side a little to break. Stepping into the penalty box, sitting down on the bench.

You started knocking on the plastic window. You shouted “Rafe! Babe!” He looked over to you and smiled. “Baby! Did you see that?! He fucking had it comin’!” You laughed and nodded “yeah, he did!”

Rafe stood up and rested his forehead against the window of the penalty box. Looking down at you and taking you in. Seeing you in HIS jersey, did things to him. Unspeakable things…

He smirked “hey, when I get back on the ice! If I scored five points I want you to give me a big kiss on the lips as soon as I get out of the locker room. Yeah?!” You smiled and nodded “sure! I’ll hold ya to that!” He smirked and gave a nod.

🜚🜚🜚

Soon enough the game was over. He did achieve his goal.

After waiting for what felt like forever. He appeared from the locker room. Some of the guys were coming out behind him.

He dropped his duffle bag as soon as he saw you approaching. He picked you up into his arms and kissed you as if he hasn’t seen you in months. He done it. He and his team won the finale! Against their rivals! He had a total of two fights and won both! No shock there, but the low amount of fights made you more proud.

He pulled away ever so slightly, he mumbled against your lips.

“I won’t tonight, you know what that means… it’s gonna be harder than if we lost.” He grins and winks at you. Chewing his gum casually as if he didn’t just imply he was gonna roughhouse you in bed tonight.

“We got the frat all to ourselves, sweet girl. Gonna go back and celebrate like there no tomorrow…” with wicked grin on his face said everything. You weren’t getting up tomorrow. He was gonna treat you like a queen tomorrow. For what he’s gonna be doing to you tonight.

🜚🜚🜚

He’s already on top of you. He’s in just his boxers as you lay in your bra. Kissing your lips as his hand moves down your body. His thumb moving to your bud, moving in slow light circles. Causing you to gasp softly. He smirked against your lips “fuck, baby, you’re so pretty like this, hm? Look soooo good f’me… all just f’me… hm? Gonna let me have ya all night, cause I won, yeah? Help me celebrate?” You nodded eagerly.

He replied “that’s my girl..my lucky charm”

As you both continued to make out, Rafe wanting to drag it out. He started to lazily grind his hips against yours. His big hardened length grazing against you. Causing you to moan softly into his lips. His kisses move across your jaw and down your neck as he continued to move his hips.

He started to pull down his black Calvin Kline boxers. Leaving his length spring free.

He reached into his nightstand, purposefully grazing his cock against your core. Just to add some spice. Making you moan softly. He always teases, always.

He ripped open the gold condom packet. Sliding it over his dick. He tossed the packet into the trash can.

He looked down at you. His hands running over you as you remove your bra. Knowing he would want that, but was too whipped to remember that he hadn’t taken it off yet. Usual Rafe.

He groans “fuck, ma… you’re so pretty… gonna have you in every way…” you gasp as he starts to press up against you. He groans as he slides in with ease. You swallowed him up like it was nothing, that really got him going. Seeing you take all of him like it was nothing. But it always got to you, in a good way. Which made it even more of a turn on for him.

He moves his hands to support him into the mattress but also push your legs back. Keeping them up with his forearms. He started to slowly thrust into you. Trying his best to go slow, knowing you both had all night. But he was too excited, he always was. Seeing you like this, under him, god he wanted to crumble right there and then.

Hearing you moan his name and gasp as you take every inch of him. Made his mind go numb. He groans to your moans. Both of you having a vocal night. Rafe thanking his earlier self for ‘kicking out’ the other guys since he’s frat president.

Rafe groaned deeper at the feeling of the nails (which he paid for) dig into his back. He liked that stuff, he doesn’t know why, but he does. Knowing those marks on his back were from you. It was like your version of hickies. Since he always gave them to you. But you preferred this way.

He lifted your right thigh, bringing it over his shoulder. He mumbled against your thigh “fuckin’ perfect, baby.. so perfect… taking me so well…” his praises making you tighten around his cock. He groans “like that shit, huh?” He grins “knowing you’re my perfect girl, eh? That shit then you on, huh?” You moaned out “yea! Fuuuck…”

You could already feel the knot in your lower stomach. Already feeling the high approaching. Rafe smirked, he knew your body through and through.

He pulled out, you whined “what?” He smirked and patted your hip “flip over, baby, wanna see that perfect ass I love…”

You turn over, his hand connecting with your ass cheek. Causing a smack to echo through his room. He pressed back into you. Continuing what he was doing seconds ago. His one hand on your lower back as the other massaged your ass cheek. Every so often smacking it. Seeing his red hand print in your soft skin really got him going. Making him twitch inside you.

You gasped out “Rafe!” He smirked “I know, baby, you’re close, I can feel it… do me a favour and let go f’me, yeah? Be a good girl and do that, yeah?” You could swear his voice always gets raspier towards your climax. Maybe he did it on purpose. Who knows.

As you came around him, he soon approached his first climax of the night.

He groaned “oh fuuuck! Shhhhitt…! Jesus, baby… squeezing me so fuckin’ tight, eh?… fuck… feels so good…” he slowed his pace. But didn’t stop completely. He rubbed both ass cheeks as you started to catch your breath. He then started to rub you lower back. Soothing but a subtle intel that you’ll definitely need that same massage when you’re done.

And let’s just say that wasn’t your last either… he won the finale, you can’t say no to him tonight… he never does for you.

🜚🜚🜚

542 notes · View notes

subjectsix · 7 months ago

Text

KIP'S BIG POST OF THINGS TO MAKE THE INTERNET & TECHNOLOGY SUCK A LITTLE LESS

Post last updated November 23, 2024. Will continue to update!

Here are my favorite things to use to navigate technology my own way:

A refurbished iPod loaded with Rockbox OS (Rockbox is free, iPods range in price. I linked the site I got mine from. Note that iPods get finicky about syncing and the kind of cord it has— it may still charge but might not recognize the device to sync. Getting an original Apple cord sometimes helps). Rockbox has ports for other MP3 players as well.

This Windows debloater program (there are viable alternatives out there, this one works for me). It has a powershell script that give you a little UI and buttons to press, which I appreciate, as I'm still a bit shy with tech.

Firefox with the following extensions: - Consent-O-Matic (set your responses to ALL privacy/cookie pop-ups in the extension, and it will answer all pop-ups for you. I can see reasons to not use it, but I appreciate it) - Facebook Container ("contains" Meta on Facebook and Instagram pages to keep it from tracking you or getting third party cookies, since Meta is fairly egregious about it) - Redirect Amp to HTML (AMP is designed for mobile phones, this forces pages to go to their HTML version) - A WebP/AVIF image converter - uBlock Origin and uBlacklist, with the AI blacklist loaded in to kill any generative AI results from appearing in search engines or anywhere.

Handbrake for ripping DVDs— I haven’t used this in awhile as I haven’t been making video edits. I used this back when I had a Mac OS

VLC Media Player (ol’ reliable)

Unsplash & Pexels for free-to-use images

A password manager (these often are paid. I use Dashlane. There are many options, feel free to search around and ask for recs!). There is a lot that goes into cybersecurity— find the option you feel is best for you.

Things I suggest:

Understanding Royalty Free and the Creative Commons licenses

Familiarity with boolean operators for searching

Investing in a backup drive and external drive

A few good USBs, including one that has a backup of your OS on it

Adapter cables

Avoiding Fandom “wikias” (as in the brand “Fandom”) and supporting other, fan-run or supported wikis. Consider contributing if its something you find yourself passionate or joyful about.

Finding Forums for the things you like, or creating your own*

Create an email specifically for ads/shopping— use it to receive all promotional emails to keep your inbox clean. Upkeep it.

Stop putting so much of your personal information online— be willing to separate your personal online identity from your “online identity”. You don’t owe people your name, location, pronouns, diagnoses, or any of that. It’s your choice, but be discerning in what you give and why. I recommend avoiding providing your phone number to sites as much as possible.

Be intentional

Ask questions

Talk to people

Remember that you can lurk all you want

Things that are fun to check out:

BBSes-- here's a portal to access them.

Neocities

*Forums-- find some to join, or maybe host your own? The system I was most familiar with was vbulletin.

MMM.page

Things that have worked well for me but might work for you, YMMV:

Limit your app usage time on your smartphone if you’re prone to going back to them— this is a tangible way to “practice mindfulness”, a term I find frustratingly vague ansjdbdj

Things I’m looking into:

The “Pi Hole”— a raspberry pi set up to block all ads on a specific internet connection

VPNs-- this is one that was recommended to me.

How to use computers (I mean it): Resources on how to understand your machine and what you’re doing, even if your skill and knowledge level is currently 0:

This section I'll come back an add to. I know that messing with computers can be intimidating, especially if you feel out of your depth. HTML and regedits and especially things like dualbooting or linux feel impossible. So I want to put things here that explain exactly how the internet and your computer functions, and how you can learn and work with that. Yippee!

#old internet #computer tag #resource post

851 notes · View notes

bullet-prooflove · 2 months ago

Text

Peppermint: Dennis Whitaker x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989

It’s at karaoke that it happens. Dennis doesn’t expect it, he doesn’t expect anything about that night, the singing, the dancing, the light press of your body against his. It’s been a long time since he’s let himself laugh, since he’s felt the muscles in his body relax, since he’s truly let go.

And he does in that moment, all his inhibitions they just fly out the window, because you’re there with him, your arm looped around his neck, mouth so perilously close he can smell the peppermint balm you applied to your lips after you sipped his beer. His forehead comes to rest upon yours, his breath quickening, his heart thudding.

You tilt your head just a little, your mouth brushing over his and it’s like his whole world erupts into HD.

It’s not his first kiss but it’s the one that makes every single nerve ending in his body light up, that makes him feel like he’s burning alive from the inside out. He doesn’t want it to end but like all good things it does and he’s left with empty arms and the taste of peppermint on his lips when the lights come up.

It’s when he tumbles into the Uber that he realises he didn’t get your number, he didn’t even get your name. It was drowned out by Santo’s version of ‘You’re So Vain’ being hollered down the microphone, deafening him.

It’s all he can think about the next day when he gets to The Pitt, that missed opportunity. He grips the straps of his rucksack as he stands in front of the elevator, watching the numbers count down. It’s when the doors open that he gets his biggest surprise, you standing there as pretty as a peach in baby blue morgue scrubs.

“Doctor Whitaker.” You greet him and the edges of his mouth tip up into a smile because you know his name. “I forgot to give you my number last night.”

“Dennis.” He says as he pulls his phone out of his pocket and hands it to you. “Call me Dennis.”

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

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #dr whitaker #dr whitaker x reader #dr whitaker fanfic #dennis whitaker #dr whitaker imagine #dennis whitaker x reader #dennis whitaker imagine #dennis whitaker fanfic

283 notes · View notes

gremlingottoosilly · 2 years ago

Text

Cleaning services (perv!Konig x fem!cleaner!Reader)

Konig needs help in decluttering and cleaning his house. Unfortunately for you, he takes quite a huge liking in having pretty things like you around. And he isn't very nice about it.

TW: Perverted Konig, age gap, Konig masturbates at you without consent, implied kidnapping, yandere Word count: 3754 This work on AO3

There is no shame in having a professional cleaner, König tries to tell himself.

Yes, he is a grown man with a very dangerous job that requires having a lot of responsibility. He holds the lives of his soldiers in his hands and risks his life every day not for the sake of his country, but certainly for the sake of his wallet and the reputation of KorTac.

Hiring a professional cleaner for his house shouldn’t make him feel humiliated and embarrassed, and he knows it. Cleaners are basically like soldiers – doing stuff that other people can’t for a certain amount of money, providing services for the clients who can afford it. Besides, it’s a support of his local community – after everything he took from the people around his town, it’s only natural that he would support this growing business of cleaning services.

There is no shame in having some nice old lady cleaning his house and watching over it while he is too busy trying not to kill himself or drown his head in liquor after a particularly rough mission. When you lose two guys on a run that was supposed to be the quickest task possible when you’re returning home with an injury that isn’t really that serious but brings your whole mental state into a very dark place, and when you’re forced to take 3 weeks of leave in the place you hate, hiring a cleaner to take care of everything really shouldn’t make him so ashamed of himself.

Even if he can clean his space – the house is just too big for only one of him, and his ribs still have this funny feeling of fantom bullets traveling around his guts. So, he dials up the number of the cleaning services because he is too fucking old to understand their weird website and messenger ordering, even though speaking with a human operator on the other half of the line is somewhat more humiliating that having no idea of how to use a modern interface.

There is no shame in asking for help, his therapist is trying to shrill it in his head all of the time and yet he is still hesitant when the cleaning professional is knocking on his door, finding this place surprisingly fast. König braces himself, thinking about all the ways he could avoid having a conversation – he drew a quick map of the place, put down the room cleaner shouldn’t be entering – his gun safe, mostly, already repeated in his head how he would greet them and swiftly extract himself from the situation.

“Guten Tag, please, come in. This is the map of the place, don’t go to the red door on the right, don’t hesitate to ask questions, I will be on the second floor.” He takes a few wide, swift steps to his door and stops. Thinks again, overthinking, thinking too fucking much about everything, anxiously checking on his phone to read the message that yes, his cleaner is here and he should probably open the door or they would burst down the window. “Guten Tag, come in. Map of the place is here, don’t go to the red door to the right, please hesitate to ask questions, I will be somewhere around the house, lurking in the shadows” He braces himself to open the door, ready to see that sweet old lady who would spend the next 8 hours cleaning his house and then turn back another day to rinse and repeat until his house stopped looking like a place where a very, very miserable man lives. (Even if this is true)

But, there isn’t a nice old lady with a bunch of cleaning supplies and determination to make someone’s life easier.

But, there isn’t a cold middle-aged woman with a very professional no-nonsense attitude who wouldn’t even talk to him before going straight to work.

But, there is a young girl. Well, not a girl, of course, if he had to guess you were somewhere around the “Too fucking young, but definitely legal” spectrum. Young enough to not be alive when he was already going to school, young enough to make him sweat, and definitely not old enough to be accepting a job where you’d have to spend so much of your life cleaning and scrubbing and sorting and…

There isn’t anything shameful in ordering a cleaning service when you genuinely need it, but you’re young and you’re pretty and he isn’t even wearing a mask because he is an old dumbass that forgot about it, and you look at him with your shiny eyes and…

Maybe, he should clean on his own – would definitely be less shameful.

— Sir? H…hello? Good morning? Can you hear me?

Yes, he can hear you.

Yes, he would love to hear you every single day of his life, when he wakes up and when he falls asleep.

— Ja. I apologize, I…thought it was mail.

It’s a dumb excuse, but he can’t really say that he was just too fucking mesmerized by your shiny eyes and perfect hair and nice figure and basically everything about you. He has this nasty habit of imagining a future with people around him – with people who just fucking want to be left alone, and yet he still stares and looks and it’s probably ultra uncomfortable for them – but he can’t help imagining the life with every cute lady in the grocery shop or elegant lady sitting next to him on a train.

He has a pattern – people who are not interested in him in the slightest. He has a pattern, a preference, cute girls, smart girls, popular ladies that were never even so much as looking in his direction. He could probably score someone now, having a colonel’s salary and honorably discharged payments, but he gave up on trying to find anyone. He has friends, company, has work where he spent most of his life anyway – he doesn’t need anyone, he wants to think.

Then you waddle into his life with a bunch of cleaning supplies and a small vacuum, barely able to handle everything in your hands. He rushes to help and envelops your hands with his – you are so much smaller in comparison, he has bear-like arms and horribly big everything. he feels awkward when he gently removes everything from your arms – when he tries to help by simply putting everything on the table of the next room.

König hated this house – it was big, it was empty, and the only reason he didn’t sell it was because Mother’s things were still locked in her old bedroom and every time he tried to clean it and evaluate the cost of the house, he decided that he will Do It Other Day. Coincidentally, all of those days were also followed by three-month minimum missions, making him utterly unable to do everything about this place anyway.

This is why you’re here – a hired cleaner, a sorter, you promised to de-hoard everything and see if there is anything of value. Perfect for someone like him, especially since he is paying you double for spending the whole day and a few days more in his house exclusively.

Now, he looks at how awkward your smile is, how you fidget with the edge of the broom you brought, and how you can’t even start a conversation because he is simply staring at you, staying in the living room of this dead, almost abandoned house. Now, he looks at how cute you are, how perfect, and remembers that he didn’t score with anyone in half a year already – not even in terms of sex, the casual flirting was also forbidden since half of his unit was transferred and the new people weren’t really fun of his tough methods of breaking rookies in.

When was the last time someone genuinely smiled at him?

Ah, he is staring again. Scheisse.

— Where do you want me to start, sir?

He wonders how much he should pay you to clean him instead. Would you be gentle? Rough? Would you call him a pervert, which he is, and then slap him and yell at him for being such a horrible old dog who is ready to pounce at every pretty girl in his presence? He would do anything that would set his mind free of the thought about Mom. Her bedroom. This whole house that he can’t call home ever since he turned 6 and understood why Father was always so, so angry.

— The living room. If it’s not too much.

He barely stops himself from talking more – you look weird, you loom surprised, you look at him like he is fucking stupid and, in fact, he is. Of course, it wouldn’t be too hard for you, you’re his clean, for fucks sake. You come here to clean, you get good money for it, he shouldn’t feel guilty for using your services because, in some way, he actually provides you with a job and a cute thing like you shouldn’t go to other houses, with old perverts that can do unspeakable things with the adorable worker.

Ah, yes, perverts like him. God, he is hopeless.

— Alright. Do you want to note something, like if there is anything I shouldn’t touch?

He would allow you to take your adorable, yellow glow-wearing hands to get into his personal savings and all of his bank accounts, if you’d want to. He curses under his breath, hating how professional you are – hard worker, perfect, simply a fantastic person who deserves more than working for him. You aren’t trying to shy away from the job and he almost resents you for it.

You’d make a good soldier, he thinks – you’re able to hear the orders and oblige to them, you’re obedient and came even before the discussed time. You’d make such a perfect private for his unit, he observes.

Ah, right, he was supposed to answer you. Shit.

— No. Just don’t go to the second room on the left.

— Alright. Anything else?

He grumbles under his breath, trying to get into the right headspace to deal with someone like you. König knows it’s rude, to just ignore and leave you like this – but if he were to stay in he same room as you, he would do something horrible, disgusting, and completely dishonorable to you. So, he leaves – escapes – to his office. Father’s office, mostly, the only thing here that belongs to him are some documents and useless papers – and a laptop that he drags to every other room anyway.

He doesn’t like this room, it reminds him of the worst episodes of his early childhood – yet, this is his only reserve. He doesn’t want to leave the house because the territory is secluded and if something were to happen to you, he would be the only one able to help. He also doesn’t want to leave his gun collection with you – he doesn’t want you to find it and freak out or hurt yourself.

This is what he tells himself, at least. He wants to be there with you, in the same room preferably, but horrible for his anxiety, because he wants this illusion, phantasm of having a loving relationship. Of having a woman in his life, a lovely housewife who would cook for him, clean for him, and would be absolutely spoiled with gifts and attention. God knows he doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body – but he will carve one out of his ribs for you.

And he only knew you for an hour tops.

König feels like literally the worst man alive when he spread his legs and starts stroking his hard, glistening cock. He brushes over the swollen, red tip, not allowing himself to have any lube other than spit and oozing pre-cum – he tries not to cum embarrassingly quickly, thinking about your perfect gestures and smiling face. How perfect you look in your cleaning uniform – not like maids from the occasional porn he was watching, but still beautiful. Your body is perfect even with all of those ugly layers and grey fabric – and he can’t stop thinking about the sway of your hips or glimpses of your legs under your dress.

He thinks about you, bent over his couch, trying to clean the especially dirty spot on the furniture – how the material of your dress would be tight around your ass. The image makes him grunt quietly, stroking his barely wet dick even more – the pain from the dry sensation only makes the pleasure all the sweeter. He is hard, was hard for the past 10 minutes as you were introducing yourself and whatever your deal is. He is dirty, perverted, knowing only your name and your face – and he is still stroking himself, thinking about paying you extra just so you’d get on your pretty knees and suck him. Would you be sloppy, messy, get his cum all over your face so you’d have to wash it off? Would you be experienced, eager, trying to get as much seed as possible with that pretty tongue of yours?

He is a lost cause because he hears the sounds of vacuum – you’re only a few rooms away from him, trying so hard to clean his house for him, to work through every bit of furniture and everything he acquired for the past twenty years or so – and he moans loudly, knowing that you don’t hear anything. You’re probably listening to music or some silly girl’s podcast about planets and gardens and maybe some university lectures. He’d pay for your courses, he would get you any book you want – having his salary and barely spending it made him softer in the saving habits.

He can afford to splurge on a pretty girl who just needs a rich Austrian mercenary to sweep her off her feet. But, he is old – but, he is a monster who preys on someone helpless, using her pretty face to jerk himself off, and he doesn’t even deserve your number, although he has had it since accepting the service.

His cock is big, angry red in his hand as he runs his finger over the bulging vein, teasing the sensitive flesh – always loud in bed, with grunts and moans of pleasure, he can barely contain himself now, only forcing his mouth shut when he doesn’t hear the sound of vacuum anymore. He strokes his dick fast, angry, and slams it into his fist, trying to make the pain last longer, so he won’t cum after a minute or two. He has the stamina to last longer – but it’s also the first time he was so horny since…he can’t even remember.

König thinks about putting you in his bed – like a perfect housewife, you would hug his waist with your legs, would allow him to lick and grope at your tits, and won’t scream too much when he’d force his tongue inside of your precious pussy, taking every last drop of your pleasure. He wouldn’t want to be forceful, angry, you’re too precious for this and too weak for his strength – but he can imagine slamming into you in a matting press, cumming inside and not even pulling out, warming his cock in the heat of your body.

Father would kill him for doing something so dirty in his office – but he is long dead, devil save his soul, and it’s König’s office now. Even when he barely uses it, even if he doesn’t really need this. It came in handy when he had to jerk off to the pretty cleaning girl who cleaned up after him – so, somehow, his father managed to improve his mood 15 years after he died.

He cums with a low groan, whispering your name – he doesn’t understand how a pretty thing like you still works here and wasn’t taken by someone else already, but he would take what he can get. Never the one to get the first dibs, never being someone’s first choice – he feels terrible for thinking about you in such a low way, but his pleasure sticks to his fingers and, at this point, it’s too late to feel bad.

Drying the tip of his dick with a tissue, he spends a good few minutes with spread legs, his soft cock laying on the chair, with cum still oozing out – such a waste, honestly, would be much better to stuff you full of his cock or even take your pretty ass, spread you slowly. Keep only the tip in, not pressuring you into anything more until you’d start moving yourself, like a good slut you will be.

So perfect under him – the images and sounds of your voice are running through his mind, making him breathe heavily. If he was younger and had as much sex drive as before, he would already be hard – but he needs some time to relax, thinking about your pretty legs and adorable face.

It takes him a few minutes of listening to your sweet voice to understand that you were not, in fact, a hallucination or a mystical fairy coming to make him come. You were standing outside of the office door, looking embarrassed and clearly hearing at least some of his horny mumblings – you avoid looking at him, and your fingers are trembling when you tug at the sides of your dress. Guilt immediately rushes to him again, he looks at you like a perfect treasure you are – and he is a horrible monster trying to hoard all of it to himself.

— What is it, liebling?

Petname goes smoothly from his tongue and he can only hope that you don’t know German – he is too embarrassed to talk to you, too anxious, his newfound shyness is a result of both your beauty and the post-nut clarity that already made him feel like a monster. He contemplates just giving you money and sending you off, paying double for the false call, and leaving you a 5-star review so you won’t get in trouble with your boss.

You look so meek from his angle of view – he has to fight the urge to pinch your face, squeeze your cheeks, grab your waist in his firm hands, and just lift you in his arms, holding you to his bed. Maybe getting a nice set of cuffs to ensure you would never escape from him.

— I finished with the living room and…well, I just wanted to ask if you want the decluttering work to be done today or tomorrow.

He remembers how he basically paid you for a few days worth of work – and he smiles at exactly how perfect this decision was. Of course, you are a smart girl, a modest girl, you aren’t staying the night and would rather waste time on the road, much to his dismay, but at least he would see you for a few days already.

He might not even let you go after.

— Ach. Today, if it’s not too…

He stops himself again – of course, it’s not too much, you are a professional, not just a friend that comes to clean his place for a pack of beer and maybe some pizza. He doesn’t know how to talk to you, anxiety eats him whole, and he has to just avoid looking at you to avoid further embarrassment.

— Alright. I will do it right away then.

You smile awkwardly, your lips are twitching and he already knows that you could hear him moaning your name and sweet little praises while stroking his cock. You aren’t biting the hand that feeds you, not running away screaming at how perverted he is – poor girl, you probably need money more than you need personal safety if you’re fine with him heaving like this. If you were his, he would never allow you to be so careless.

He moves behind you in the most dreaded room of the house. Mother’s bedroom, a room that she only used for sewing and only allowed him in when he was extra whiny after another failed fight with his bullies. All of her thighs are here – ever since she passed away, he just moved everything to one room and locked it, barely bothering to keep a key. He hates being here, almost as much as being in Father’s office — this room smells like death and old paper and you scrunch your nose in an adorable expression when you take a step inside.

— I will divide everything into categories, alright?

— Gut.

You look at him nervously, clearly scared that he is watching over you now. It might feel like a logical decision – after all, it was his mother’s vintage things, who knows what kind of jewelry she kept here, something that he won’t even notice gone until it’s too late. You and him both know, however, that this isn’t the reason he is looming over you. A perfect obedient thing, you deserve something better than his affection, but he still locks his gaze with yours, looking at your hands and going through various furniture pieces.

You work like a fairy, not an ounce of laziness or exhaustion in your actions – even after you already spent a few hours cleaning his living room, you act like a Cinderella that got a bunch of magic mice up her rags. He licks his lips, looking at your perfect ass you as sit on your knees, starting with decluttering every little box there is.

— Can I just put it back in boxes or…

You look the the contents – vintage makeup, some jewelry, head pieces that don’t look particularly expensive but were definitely well-loved. You wonder who they belong to – probably a wife, or, maybe, some of his relatives who lived here. He doesn’t seem like a married or divorced man – he does, however, look insanely lonely.

It takes him a good few seconds to respond, too mesmerized by the little song you were humming a minute before. He imagines you in that old, chunky jewelry, some necklaces that cost more than your salary – and the thought makes him salivate.

He smiles, leaning closer to you – hot breath on your face, you shift immediately, scared. He is so fast for someone so big, his movements are perfect and his eyes are cold – you feel the chill deep in your bones when he moves even closer, his lips almost brushing against yours.

Suddenly, you are very aware of the fact that he locked the door to this tiny room when you both moved in.

#cod #call of duty #cod x reader #konig x reader #yandere konig #cod x you #konig mw2 #reader insert #yandere cod #male yandere #konig #konig x you #konig cod

4K notes · View notes

thatsmooji · 2 months ago

Text

dogtooth.

sigma!connie springer x reader

1.4k words: connie springer x reader, mixed!connie springer, black!reader, light angst, hurt/comfort, arguments, foul language, mentions of violence, neglectful partners, past relationships, jealous exes, pet names (ma, mama, baby, pretty girl), not really proof read

notes: hiiii! sorry that this took so long, but i finally got a laptop! it actually sucks ass, but i can write much faster on here! i lost a bit of motivation, but i know that i definitely want to write more sigma!connie and alpha!ony, so expect to see more of them! this fic doesn't have much to do with greek life, but i just wanted to note that this is part of the sigma!connie series anyway :)

“you can't keep getting into fights, connie baby.”

your boyfriend didn't respond, choosing to look out the window at the passing city as you drove him back to campus. the lights of the town shown gently on connie’s face, letting you catch slight glimpses of the bruises plaguing his beautiful cream skin. you sighed, turning your attention back towards the road.

your heart had nearly fallen into your stomach when connie called you from the police station, softly asking you to pick him up. it made you sick to see him hurt, and it didn’t help that he was being so nonchalant about it.

“they're not gonna keep giving you breaks forever, you know,” you started again, ignoring the way connie sucked in a breath next to you. “your frat brothers can only do so much. hell, i can only do so much-”

“well what am i supposed to do, ______? just let that asshole keep messing with you?” connie snapped. he was frustrated. beyond frustrated, and you'd be stupid not to know it. “he keeps playing in my fucking face.”

when you got accepted into your university, you were so excited to just escape. leaving your old friends, unbearable family, and past mistakes behind. it was a new chapter in your life, and the last thing you expected was for an old character to make a reappearance.

your ex-boyfriend, aran, had followed you out of state to your university. apparently, he had been accepted on an academic scholarship, but that was very hard to believe. there was no room for anything besides high praises for himself in that brain, let alone any academic knowledge. the boy was arrogant, narcissistic, even.

looking back, the only reason you got involved with him was to maintain the high-standard image you had worked so hard to portray in high school. he was rich, and so were you. you were stunning, and he was beautiful. popular, wanted, and adored. a match pulled straight out of a high school novel.

but behind the scenes, aran was mean. at first, you believed you could learn to love him; making him lunches and dropping them off at his homeroom class, showing up to support him in any activities he decided to participate in, and even going on halfass dates with him outside of school, which usually only ended up with him heading home with a new girl’s number in his phone. it was hell dating aran, and you were so glad to leave the part of you that was ever involved with him behind.

but now he was here, tainting your new (genuine this time) picture-perfect life. everywhere you went on campus, he was there. hollering at you in the courtyard, standing behind you in the cafe, hell, even showing up to your dorm room at the ass crack of dawn. despite all of this, you ignored him. you were determined to continue revelling in the comfort you had built around you. you had new friends, new goals, new ideals, and a new and very loving boyfriend. you weren’t the selfish, inconsiderate bitch that you were in highschool anymore. you had things that you cared for, and aran was not a part of that.

it didn’t take long for aran to realize this either. and while it wasn’t as easy to break you down, it was almost comical how simple it was to get under connie’s skin; and he knew that your precious connie baby is what mattered the most.

it started harmless enough. minor taunts everytime aran caught glimpses of connie around campus, as well as the occassional shade thrown toward him on instagram or snapchat. during this stage, connie was much slower to anger, and you miraculously managed to keep him from doing anything he’d regret. you’d convinced him that the sigmas and you mattered more, and connie held onto that notion deeply.

but aran was nothing if not persistent. he began making passes at you in connie’s presense, even going as far as to slap your ass when he walked past the two of you. that was when connie’s resolve began to slip.

now you were here, driving a slightly battered and bruised connie back home. you hadn’t even been present to know what went down. you were hanging out peacefully in your dorm, helping your roommate get herself together after a night out when connie called.

“what even happened, connie?” you asked, glancing over once more to see him still staring out the window. “whatever it was, i’m sure putting your hands on him wasn’t the solution.”

connie was quiet for a moment, but he sure as hell knew better than to ignore you. he scoffed before turning back to you, staring daggers as if you were the one in the wrong.

“why do you keep defending this boy?” he sneered.

your mouth gaped, honestly trying to grasp what the hell connie was talking about.

“connie, wha-”

“every fucking time me and him get into it, you always crying about ‘not putting my hands on him’ and ‘you don’t have to do allat.’ who’s side are you on, ? cause it sure as fuck don’t seem like mine. you still like that nigga or something?”

you whipped your head to look at connie, anger lacing your face. “are you fucking kidding me connie? you think i want him to keep bothering us? you think i want to see you stressing everytime aran is even mentioned? don’t talk fucking crazy to me.”

you weren’t even watching the road anymore, praying that your hand stayed steady and no one pulled out in front of you. “what? you think i’m not bothered by him too, connie? that nigga followed me here like some fucking stalker, and you think i’m okay with that? you think i like it? i don’t, but i sure as hell don’t like dragging my ass out of bed in the middle of the night, worried fucking sick, to come get your ass out of jail for fighting a mistake that i made several years ago.”

the car swerved slightly before your turned your attention back to the road, tears stinging at the back of your eyes.

“all of this ‘nagging’ and fussing i’ve been doing is for you. i don’t wanna see you lose the shit you care about because of me. i never thought i would see him again, connie. there was not a single ounce of love between us back then, and i promise you that there isn’t now,” you sniffed, scrubbing the tears off your bare face with your sleeve. “i’m sorry that he’s here. i didn’t know he would do any of this. he’s ruining everything that i worked so hard to get, bringing back the things i ran from and-”

“pull over.”

you sucked your teeth, looking over expecting to see a look of judgement, but there wasn’t. connie stared at you with soft, comforting eyes. you only ever saw them when you cried, whether you were stressed over an exam or distraught because your hair didn’t act right that day. connie has never judged you, so why would he start now?

“pull over, ma. it’s okay.”

you coughed nervously, pulling off the road into a Target parking lot close to campus. once you parked, you immediately felt connie’s arms wrap tightly around you. he gently pulled you over the seat into his lap, wiping the raw spots under your eyes with cold fingers.

“’m sorry for fighting, mama. ion wanna see you crying over this,” he started, using his other hand to rub soothing circles into your back. “i know i let my temper cloud my mind sometimes, but everybody knows i don’t play about my pretty girl.”

you looked away, trying to stifle your laugh.

“ahh there it is, look at them pretty lips,” connie grinned, pushing your face to look back at him. “i know that you’re mine, and you ain’t going nowhere. especially not for some nigga who wears skinny jeans.”

connie leaned forward, resting his face in the crook of your neck. “all i see is somebody bothering my girl, and i just don’t think. i didn’t know it was bothering you this much, baby. all my fighting and shit has been for you, but if that ain’t what you want, then it’s not gonna happen anymore.”

you nodded into his shoulder before pulling back and pressing a kiss onto connie’s forehead.

“thank you, connie baby.”

connie leaned up, quickly pressing a kiss into both of your cheeks.

“anything for you, ma.”

“…now if that nigga put his hands on you…”

“connie, please,” you scoffed before playfully nodding towards your purse. “he knows better.”

connie snorted before pulling you back in for a hug.

“that’s my girl.”

#— mooji writes! 🥟#aot imagines #aot connie #connie springer x reader #connie springer #connie x black reader #aot x reader #black!connie springer

316 notes · View notes

cocobeanncteez · 10 months ago

Text

Ateez Choi San — Safe Habor

Genre: SMUT (mdni / 18+), angst, fluff, strangers to lovers au

Pairing: Attorney! San x CEO! Reader (fem)

Word Count: 22.5k

Warnings/content: divorce topics, reader is framed for drug possession and distribution, domestic violence by reader's ex (very brief scene), mentions of a failing marriage, lack of support from parents, please note that the reader's ex husband in this story is a random name I made up and so are other names in his story other than ateez, court battles, restraining order, reader gets arrested, driving under strong emotion, making out, breast play, dry humping, hand job, oral sec (f receiving) / cunnilingus, fingering, clit play, vaginal penetration, protected sex (pill), multiple orgasms, praising, pet names (sweetheart, baby), sorry if I missed anything else!

You stand in front of the large windows of your penthouse, gazing out at the city skyline. The lights from the buildings in the distance flicker like stars, but tonight they bring you no comfort like they usually did.

The weight on your shoulders has been growing heavier with each passing day, pressing down on you until it's nearly suffocating.

The argument you had with your husband, Baek Jaeyoon, echoed in your mind— his awful words were sharp, cutting, and so very dismissive. He’d once made you believe in the possibility of a partnership, a marriage of equals, but now you see it was an illusion, one carefully crafted by him and your family.

You never wanted to marry so early in the relationship, especially not for convenience, for business. But your family’s expectations were clear: Jaeyoon was the right choice, the only choice, a perfect match simply because his family was as wealthy as yours.

Sure, you liked him. You even dated him for a couple of months before your family said it’s time to get married. Yet, the more time passed, the more you realized you were just another asset in a long line of acquisitions for him. The love you once tried to cultivate has wilted away, leaving behind a barren landscape of resentment and pain.

Tonight, you finally admit it to yourself—after a year of being his wife, this marriage is over.

Your heart clenches with the thought, but there’s a quiet strength within you. The decision is terrifying, yes, but also liberating. You’re not just doing this for yourself; you’re doing it to reclaim the life you’ve lost in the process.

You’re Y/N— the CEO of one of the biggest furniture companies in the nation, Saturn & Co. — a woman who has built her career and reputation on her own terms. You’ve faced hostile takeovers and boardroom battle. Surely, you can handle this.

But you know you’ll need help, someone who can guide you through the legal labyrinth that awaits. You first think of Hongjoong, your longtime friend, a friend you've known all your life.

Hongjoong comes from a lawyer family that has been in this field for generations. His father was a very reputed attorney, now retired, who helped many wealthy clients win their legal battles. His father became friends with your father during their college days and are still very close to this day, so it's no surprise that you and Hongjoong became great friends too. He’s always been there when you needed him, and now, more than ever, you need his expertise.

With a deep breath, you turn away from the window and reach for your phone, dialing his number.

After three rings, he answers your call. "It's almost eleven. Shouldn't you be asleep?"

"Well, hello to you too, Joong," you chuckle, "Why are you still up?"

"Ah, I'm just going over some documents for a high profile case," he explains, "What's up? All okay? You never call this late."

You take a deep breath. "I... this might sound crazy or stupid, but I want to get a divorce."

There was silence on the other end for a brief moment before he said, "It's not crazy or stupid. Have you thought this through completely?"

"I have," you answer with a sigh, "You know how my parents are. They will throw a huge tantrum and threaten to disown me as usual." Hongjoong hums at that. "But Joong, I just can't live with Jaeyoon anymore. He's not the same person. We're always fighting, and he's always saying the most hurtful, disrespectful things to me."

Truthfully, Hongjoong never liked your husband. He always thought Jaeyoon seemed too short-tempered and controlling. However, you seemed to be happy initially, or at least that's what you showed the outside world, so Hongjoong never commented on it, especially since it wasn't his place to do so. But he did hint at it once or twice. Once your parents got involved, he knew what the outcome would be, and he only hoped you would fight back and make the right decision.

"Have you considered couple's therapy?" Hongjoong asked.

"I did, and I brought it up to him. He got extremely upset, said there's nothing wrong with him, that I'm the problem and I need therapy, and I should be grateful that he even chose to marry me."

Hongjoong rolled his eyes. "That stuck up asshole. He thinks quite highly of himself."

The rest of the conversation with Hongjoong is brief but comforting. He listens to your concerns without any judgment, his voice steady and reassuring while he gives his legal input.

“Divorce isn't my area of specialty, you know that. But my friend, a fellow attorney in my firm, Choi San, is one of the greatest attorneys I've ever seen. He’s worked on many cases similar to yours and has a great record,” Hongjoong says, “He’ll make sure you’re taken care of, Y/N. You have nothing to worry about.”

But worry is exactly what you feel. Not about the process, but about what comes after. The unknown stretches before you, vast and intimidating. Still, you’ve made your choice. And for the first time in a long while, you feel like you’re the one in control.

The next day, you find yourself walking into Hongjoong’s law firm, a sleek, modern building with glass walls and minimalist decor. The receptionist greets you with a warm smile, and soon you’re being escorted to a private conference room. You wished Hongjoong was here, but he was in an important meeting with one of his clients.

As you wait, blankly staring at a painting in the room, your mind races with questions. What will San be like? Will he understand the complexity of your situation, the nuances that come with being in a marriage like yours? What if he's an old man who thinks people should push through a dead marriage like your parents? It was so common for society to frown upon a divorced woman.

The door opens, and your thoughts scatter as a man steps inside. Is this an attorney or a model?

He’s quite tall, broad shoulders, siren eyes, dressed sharply in a black tailored suit, with an air of confidence that is immediately reassuring.

His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you’re struck by the calm intensity in them. There’s a softness there, too, something that puts you at ease despite the circumstances.

But God, is he the most stunning man you've ever seen.

“Mrs. Baek,” he says, extending a hand. His voice is smooth, professional, but there’s a warmth in his tone that surprises you. “I’m Attorney Choi San, but please call me San. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

You shake his hand, feeling the strength in his grip. “Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice, San. Please, call me Y/N, I'm trying to get rid of the 'Mrs. Baek' title," you joke, though it was true.

San chuckles and nods. “Of course, Y/N. Hongjoong spoke very highly of you.” He gestures to the chair across from you, and you both sit down.

"I understand you’re looking to proceed with a divorce," he says, taking a laptop out of his bag and setting in on the table before opening it. "Don't mind me, I just need to take notes of what you say so I can better understand how I can help you."

You nod, the words feeling heavy in your throat. “Yes. I… I want to make sure everything is handled properly. There’s a lot at stake, and I can’t afford any mistakes.”

San gives you a reassuring smile, and you notice he has dimples. You couldn't help but think that he was extremely charming. "Don't worry, Y/N. You're in safe hands," he says, "Now, how about you start by telling me about your marriage and what prompted you to seek divorce?"

You take a deep breath and look at him directly. “I never wanted to get married so early in the relationship. It wasn’t about love—it was about business, aligning our families. And I… I tried, but Jaeyoon… he’s not the man I thought he was. We dated for a couple of months, and he was genuinely really nice. But soon after we got married, he suddenly doesn’t respect me, and lately, it feels like he’s more interested in controlling me than being my partner.” San listens intently as you explained your situation. The more you talk, the more you notice the way he focuses on you, his attention unwavering even while he's typing on his laptop.

San nods when you finish speaking, his expression serious but understanding. “It sounds like you’ve been carrying this weight for a long time.”

“I have,” you admit, your voice softer. “I’ve always put my family and my company first, but I can’t keep doing that at the expense of my own happiness and mental peace. I want out, but I don’t want this to become a spectacle. My family… they’ll try to push back, and Jaeyoon’s family will make things difficult too.”

You continue to tell him more about your life, and he asks the right questions, probing gently but thoroughly, and it becomes clear that he understands the complexities of your life—the family expectations, the business implications, the emotional toll.

San leans forward slightly, his gaze steady on yours. “The first step is to file a petition for divorce. Since both of you are public figures, we can request that the details remain confidential to avoid any unnecessary media attention. We’ll also need to consider how any joint assets will be divided, as well as any potential claims from Jaeyoon regarding spousal support.”

As the meeting progresses, you feel a sense of relief washing over you. San’s approach is meticulous, but there’s also a kindness to him that you hadn’t expected. He’s not just treating this as another case; he’s treating you like a person, like someone who deserves to be heard and supported.

“What kind of timeline are we looking at?” you ask, a hint of anxiety creeping into your voice.

“It depends on a few factors,” San replies, his tone calm and reassuring. “If Jaeyoon agrees to the divorce and we can reach a settlement outside of court, it could be finalized in as little as six months. However, if he contests it, especially regarding asset division or other terms, it could take longer—potentially a year or more.” You frown, the thought of this dragging on for so long unsettling.

“And if it does go to court?”

“If it goes to court, we’ll be prepared,” San assures you with confidence. “I’ll work to ensure that your interests are protected. That means gathering all the necessary financial documents, assessing the value of shared assets, and if needed, preparing for depositions and hearings. I’ll handle the legal strategy, but I’ll also make sure you’re fully informed every step of the way.”

“What about my company? Saturn & Co. is my life’s work. I can’t afford for it to be affected by this.”

San’s expression softens slightly as he considers your concern. “We’ll make protecting your company a priority. Given that Saturn & Co. was established long before your marriage, we’ll argue that it should remain entirely under your control. But we’ll need to be thorough in documenting that your company assets and finances are distinct from any shared marital property.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Thank you, San. This is all so overwhelming.”

He gives you a small, encouraging smile. “That’s what I’m here for, Y/N. I’ll guide you through this process, and we’ll take it one step at a time. You’re not alone in this.”

By the time you leave the law firm, you’re still apprehensive about the future, but for the first time, you feel like you’re not facing it alone. And as you think back to the way San’s eyes softened when you spoke, you realize that maybe, just maybe, this won’t be as lonely as you feared.

2 months later

The familiar scent of Jaeyoon’s cologne hits you as soon as you step into the penthouse and hang your coat in the closet after a long day at work. The air is thick with tension, and you can feel the weight of the divorce papers in your bag like a lead anchor.

You mentally thanked San for being so quick to give you the documents. Since you had no kids with Jaeyoon, and your pre-nup was very straightforward about how any joint assets should be divided, San said your case wasn't very complicated.

In the 2 months of working with San, you have grown to take a liking towards him. He was kind and gentle towards you, and he always gave you his full attention when you spoke. When you went to Hongjoong's birthday party a month ago, you were delighted to see San there as well; that's when you got to know him in a non-professional way, and you genuinely thought he was the sweetest, most understanding man you had ever met.

Now, standing in your penthouse with the divorce papers in hand, you felt extremely anxious. You had rehearsed this moment countless times in your mind, but now that you’re here, every word you planned feels inadequate.

Jaeyoon is seated in the living room, scrolling through his phone, but he looks up as you enter. There’s an expectant look on his face, like he knows something’s coming. He's certainly no stranger to the way you’ve been acting these past two months, and he was often very angry when you refused to be intimate with him.

You steel yourself, trying to gather the courage you need. “Jaeyoon... We need to talk,” you say, your voice steady, though your heart is racing.

His brow furrows as he puts down his phone. “What’s this about, honey?” he asks, and you mentally cringe at the pet name.

You reach into your Dior tote bag and pull out the divorce papers, holding them out to him. For a moment, Jaeyoon just stares at them, as if he doesn’t understand. But then, slowly, he takes them from your hand.

He skims through the content of the top page. “What the hell is this?” His voice is low, almost calm, but you can hear the anger simmering just beneath the surface.

“It’s what I should have done a long time ago,” you reply, trying to keep your voice from shaking. “I want a divorce, Jaeyoon. This marriage… it isn’t working.”

He flips through the papers, his expression darkening with each passing second. “You can’t be serious,” he finally says, his voice rising. “Do you have any idea what this will do? To us? To our families? To the business?”

“I’ve thought about it,” you say, standing your ground. “This is the only way forward for me. I can’t live like this anymore.”

Jaeyoon’s face twists with rage. “You ungrateful fucking—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he slams the papers onto the coffee table, the sound echoing in the quiet room. “After everything I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me?”

“You didn’t do anything for me, Jaeyoon,” you say, your voice breaking. “You did it for yourself. For control. I’m not your possession. I tried to fix this marriage for months, but you refused to make any attempts to realize how horribly you’ve been treating me.”

Before you can react, he’s on his feet, his hand striking you across the face with a force that sends you reeling. The sting is sharp, but the shock is even sharper. You stumble back, your hand instinctively reaching for your cheek.

“Jaeyoon!” you cry out, but he’s already moving.

"I'll fucking kill you!" His eyes are wild, fury taking over as he grabs a nearby vase and hurls it at you. You barely have time to duck, and the vase smashes into the wall behind you, hitting your shoulder in the process before shattering into pieces on the floor. A sharp pain shoots through your shoulder, but you force yourself to stay on your feet.

Your breath comes in short, panicked gasps as you stare at the broken remains of the vase, the reality of what just happened crashing down on you. This is no longer just about a failed marriage—this is about your safety, your life.

Without another word, you turn and run out of the penthouse, the door slamming behind you. You don’t stop until you’re in the elevator hastily pressing the button for the parking garage, your body shaking uncontrollably. You were glad your bag was still with you and had all the stuff you needed— your phone, wallet, and keys.

As soon as you reach the parking garage, you make your way to your car. You unlock it with your keys and quickly lock yourself in. You realized you ran out in your house slippers when it's freezing outside, but that was the least of your concerns right now.

You needed to get out of here.

You switched your car engine on and put your seat belt on, ignoring the pain in your shoulder. Tears blur your vision as you fumble for your phone, and before you know it, you’ve dialed San’s number. While his phone rang, you moved the gear selector in your car to drive, and you wasted no time in pressing on the accelerator, leaving the garage and the gates of the apartment building.

Your phone was connected to your car, and San's soft voice was heard. "Hello?"

"San…" Your voice is barely a whisper, choked with sobs. "Sannie, I..."

“Y/N? What happened?” His voice is immediately alert, concerned. The sound of your car's indicator alerted him further. “Where are you? Are you in a car?”

“I… I’m driving. I can’t… I don’t know what to do…” Your words tumble out in a rush, your mind spinning.

"Y/N, tell me where you are. It's not safe for you to drive under strong emotion. Please pull over, I'll come get you."

"He... he hit me," you cried, ignoring San's words. "I left... I'm driving and I don't... I don't know where I'm going, but—"

"Sweetheart, please," San begs, and the sudden nickname makes your heart burst, and you find yourself calming down a bit. "Please pull over. It's not safe. Please."

And you finally listen to him. "Okay," you murmur, taking a deep breath. You make a turn into what seems to be the parking lot of a hospital. You parked in the first slot you could find. "I... I stopped."

"Okay, what do you see around you?" San asks, and you can hear some muffling in his background.

"A hospital," you say, glancing around from your car for the name of it. "Geumgang Asan hospital."

San lets out a breath in relief. "You're actually right by my apartment," he says, and you hear a door close in his background.

"Which apartment?" You ask, voice still shaky.

"Raemian Caelitus," he answers, "Stay right there. I’m coming to get you. Don’t move, okay? I’ll be there in a few minutes. Which car are you in?"

You don't respond to San. Instead, you put your car in drive and head for his apartment complex, doing the complete opposite of what he told you to do.

"Y/N?"

"I'm almost there," you say to him.

San groans. "Y/N... It's—"

"I know, I know," you chuckle, "but it takes less than two minutes by car. Besides, I'm already here." You pull up to the apartment gates, rolling your window down to speak to the security. He took down your name and number before opening the gates for you.

You drove to the guest parking lot and parked there, waiting for San to get to you. You slump against the car seat, your tears falling freely now. The numbness starts to set in, and you wrap your arms around yourself, trying to hold the pieces of yourself together.

It feels like an eternity, but in reality, it’s only a minute or two before there's a knock on your car window. You grab your bag and keys, getting out of your car. The cold night air feels chilly against your tear-streaked face. You’re still trembling; the shock of what happened earlier was refusing to release its grip on you.

San doesn’t say a word—he just pulls you into his arms, holding you tightly as if he could shield you from everything that just happened.

You break down completely, sobbing into his chest, and he just holds you, his hand gently stroking your hair. “It’s okay,” he murmurs softly. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

When you started shivering, San noticed that you weren't wearing a coat, and your feet were only covered with your house slippers. He immediately takes his coat off and wraps it around you before picking you up bridal-style, wasting no time in making his way back to his apartment.

Once you reach the warmth of San's apartment, he sets you down on his couch. His actions made you sob more as you were touched by the way he treated you. He continued to hold you in his arms, trying to control the anger he felt at seeing the faint handprint mark on your cheek.

After a while, when your sobs start to quiet, San gently tilts your chin up to look at him. His eyes are filled with worry, but there’s also a fierce determination there. “We’re going to make sure he never hurts you again,” he says firmly.

You nod, unable to find the words, but the way San looks at you—so protective, so caring—gives you some strength. You feel like you’re moving toward something better, something that’s just for you.

The two of you sit in silence for a while. You tried to gather your thoughts, his presence a steady anchor in the storm of your emotions.

Eventually, he speaks, his voice gentle but serious. "Y/N... do you want to talk about it?"

You take a deep breath. "I gave him the divorce papers... he didn't take it well. Everything happened so fast. He slapped me, and then he threw a vase at me."

He cupped your face with one hand, gently stroking your cheek, a look of worry in his eyes. "Are you hurt anywhere?"

You knew your shoulder was definitely bruised, and you could still feel the dull ache. But you didn't want to tell San that.

"No... I'm okay," you lied. "Jaeyoon said he would kill me when he threw the vase. I left right after that." You noticed the way San's jaw clenched.

“Y/N, what that dickhead did tonight is beyond unacceptable. We need to take steps to make sure you’re safe. I think we should file for a restraining order against him.”

You glance at him, fear creeping back into your mind. “But… there’s no proof. It’s just my word against his.”

San nods, understanding the concern. “I know it feels like an uphill battle, but your testimony is important. The court can issue a restraining order if it believes there’s a credible threat, even without physical evidence. Your account of what happened, combined with the details of your marriage and the pattern of controlling behavior, can be enough to convince the judge.”

You hesitate, the thought of facing Jaeyoon in court, of reliving the nightmare, filling you with dread. “What if they don’t believe me? What if… what if this makes everything worse?”

San reaches over, gently squeezing your hand. “I’ll be with you every step of the way, Y/N. Not just as your lawyer, but as someone you can trust, someone you can count on," he says, and you felt butterflies in your stomach. "We’ll present your case as clearly and thoroughly as possible. We can also gather any supporting evidence like records of past arguments, any messages or emails that show his controlling behavior. Even if we don’t have a video or physical proof, your word carries weight, Y/N.”

His reassurance steadies you somewhat, and you nod slowly, deep in thought while blankly staring at the numerous law books on his bookshelf.

And then it hit you.

Video proof.

You turn to San with a hopeful look in your eyes. "I just realized, we have cameras in the living room. And this whole thing happened there, too. The footage should be on the app on my phone."

San's eyes widened, and a huge smile spread across his face. "This is perfect, Y/N! This would be more than enough to get the restraining order, as well as settle the divorce without having to go to court. Once we show him that we have evidence of his violence, there's no way he would fight back cause the court will most likely rule in your favor!"

You reach for your phone and unlock it, immediately opening the app. The footage gets saved in 30-minute intervals, and you were glad to see that it was still there and Jaeyoon had not deleted it yet. You downloaded the footage to have a copy of it on your phone. San requested that you send the footage to him as well so he could adjust the documents he wrote accordingly.

"Thank you, San," you say with a smile. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

He only smiled and stroked the back of your head. "Did you have dinner?" he asks, and you nod.

"Mhmm, I ate at work."

His face grew slightly serious when he noticed it was one hour to midnight. "Y/N, do you... want to stay the night here? I have a guest room. But if you're uncomfortable and you prefer a hotel or somewhere else, I can drive you. Whatever's most comfortable for you."

"I want to be here with you," you say in a soft tone, your words sending San's heart into a frenzy.

He nods and gets up. "Make yourself at home. Let me prepare the guest room a little bit first, okay? If you want to drink or eat something, the kitchen is all yours."

"Thanks, Sannie."

While San was busy setting up the guest room, you looked around the living room of his apartment. The decor was so simple and beautiful, and you noticed many pieces of furniture were actually made by your company. You loved how clean his apartment was, not even a pillow out of place. You noticed he had a giant boba tea plushie in the corner of the room, and you couldn't help but think San was so adorable.

"It's ready," he says, and you enter the guest room. You noticed there was a hoodie and a t-shirt neatly folded on the bed. San noticed you glancing at it. "I realized you don't have any clothes to sleep in. I didn't know if you preferred warm clothes or something more airy, so I got both. In the bathroom, there's a pack of spare toothbrushes in the cabinet. If you want to take a shower, I kept a smaller bathrobe for you and a towel."

You hug him tightly. "Seriously, thank you, Sannie."

"You don't have to thank me, Y/N," he murmurs, "Get some rest, hmm? I'll be in my room if you need me."

He turns to leave, but you grab his arm. "Wait..." you hesitate, "I... um..."

"Hmm?"

"Can you... can you perhaps... stay here with me, please?" You ask in a quiet tone, feeling your cheeks heat up.

"Oh, um, I can if you want me to," he answers, his own cheeks turning pink. "Let me get ready for bed first, and then I'll join you, okay?"

You nod and he leaves the room to give you some privacy. You head into the bathroom to change out of your clothes and take a quick shower. You brushed your teeth and put some lip balm on. You chose to wear his t-shirt, which served as an oversized t-shirt for you. Taking a whiff of the t-shirt, you lightly hummed in delight, his scent of him making you feel some type of way.

When you exited the bathroom, San was already under the covers of the bed. He shyly pats the space beside him, and you slid under the covers with him.

San kept a bit of distance from you to not make you feel uncomfortable. You really appreciated that, but you wanted him to be closer.

Knowing the gentleman San is, you knew you had to speak up first.

"Can you... come closer?" You squeak out, slightly embarrassed. San chuckles and does as you say.

"Anything else?" he teases. You turn on your side so you're facing him, and the faint light from the nightlamp makes his skin glow somehow. San was so beautiful inside out. You were utterly mesmerized by him.

"Closer," you whisper. San moved closer to you, his head now on your pillow. You could feel his breath on your face and the warmth radiating from his body.

"Closer," you say again, looking between his eyes and his plump lips that were slightly parted. You reached for his arm and put it over your waist.

San understood what you wanted, but he restrained himself from giving in. "Y/N... what are you doing?" he murmurs, his hand placed softly on your back. His eyes were staring intensely into yours as if to see if you felt the same way as him in this moment.

"I want you to kiss me," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

San gulps, unsure of what to do. He wanted to kiss you, but he wasn't sure if you were really in the best mental state for that after what happened just a few hours ago.

You look at him, an expectant look on your face. You wouldn't have asked him to kiss you if you weren't confident that he felt something for you. You were not ignorant to the way he looked at you, the way he spoke to you, the way his eyes subtly roamed your body when you were in his office, the way he took a sharp inhale of your scent in a crowded elevator... but then you started to overthink.

What if he didn't want to kiss you?

What if all those signs weren't as deep as you think they are?

"I'm sorry," you say to him, and his eyebrows furrow in confusion. "I didn't realize I was being too straightforward with this, and I understand if you don't want to kiss me. I should have—"

San placed his lips on you, shutting you up instantly. "There's nothing I want more than to kiss you," he mumbles against your lips, pulling you closer to him. "I just... don't want to put any pressure on you when you're in a vulnerable state."

You smiled against his lips, feeling touched by how considerate San was towards you.

And then you kissed him. His lips were so soft and warm while it molded with yours, and you couldn't help but feel relaxed while he kissed you back in such a soft manner, as if you were extremely delicate. You wrap your arms around his neck to pull him even closer, a small whimper leaving his lips when he feels your body flush against his.

You pull away first to catch your breath. You watch as San's eyes slowly open to look at you. There was a kind look in his eyes, one that screamed of adoration.

San lets out a little giggle when it hits him that the two of you really just kissed. He kisses your forehead and holds you in his arms while he tells you all the little things you did that made his heart flutter.

Eventually, sleep finds its way to both of you, the night ending in a warm embrace.

Two days later, you and San head to the courthouse, where he helps you file for the restraining order. The process is grueling, forcing you to recount the events of the night two days before, but San is there with you, guiding you through every step. His presence is a lifeline, his calm professionalism giving you the strength to face what lies ahead.

When the judge finally reviews your petition, you feel a knot in your stomach. But as San presents your case, emphasizing the danger you’re in and the need for protection, you see the judge’s expression soften.

After what feels like an eternity, the judge grants the temporary restraining order. It’s not permanent yet—there will need to be a hearing for that—but it’s a critical first step. For now, Jaeyoon is legally required to stay away from you, and any violation of that order could lead to serious consequences for him.

When you leave the courthouse, you feel a mixture of relief and lingering anxiety. But you also feel a small spark of hope—hope that, with San’s help, you might finally be able to take control of your life again.

You and San part ways to head to your respective workplaces, but he promises to see you after.

When you reach your office building, you're surprised to find your secretary waiting outside the doors of your office.

"Ms. Y/N," she starts, "Your parents are here, inside your office. I told them to wait outside, but they refused. They seemed to have found out about..."

You nod at her. "That's okay, Yena. Thanks for the heads up."

"You have a meeting in about ten minutes with the design team for the summer patio collection. I can postpone the meeting for you if you'd like."

"That won't be necessary," you say, "I'll be done in five minutes, hopefully. My parents... I know what to expect from them." Yena nods and wishes you luck.

You enter your office, shutting the doors behind you. You aren't surprised to see the rage on your parents face.

"Filing for divorce behind my back and getting a restraining order against your husband? What are you thinking?" Your mother says, a look of disappointment clear on her face.

You sigh. "Tell me, mom and dad, had I told you about it beforehand, would you have let me?" You say in a calm tone. "And that man is not my husband anymore."

"Y/N, you can not get a divorce. I forbid it," your father says in a strong tone. "You will bring utter shame to our family. I will not hesitate to take your name off my will."

You chuckle. "I don't care about your money, dad. I have my own company that I built on my own," you say, crossing your arms over your chest. "I will not live with a man that treats me like I'm inferior to him, a man that hits me and throws stuff at me."

"Jaeyoon was angry," your mother defends. "You betrayed him. He had every right to—"

"Every right to abuse me? Do you hear yourself right now?" you gave her an incredulous look. "Is your daughter's happiness and safety not more important to you than your image and connections?" You turn to look at your father. "You said I'll bring utter shame to our family, but tell me how? I'm not the one who abused him and treated him like shit for months!"

"Enough, Y/N!" your father raises his voice. "You will do as I say. You better withdraw your case. I will talk to your lawyer. I don't want to hear you talk of divorce again. I better see you in the penthouse tonight."

"My apologies, father, but I'm done listening to you," you firmly stand your ground.

"Don't make me disown you, Y/N. You married into a very good family, someone who matches your background and status in society."

"By all means, please do," you say with a scoff. "I'm not making sacrifices for your sake anymore. I have a meeting to attend, so please leave."

You turn away from your parents and walk to your desk. You sit down on your chair, and face away from your parents.

"You're an ungrateful brat," your mother spits before walking out of your office, your father grumpily following behind.

You let out a breath you didn't even know you were holding as you slump down in your chair.

You loved your parents deeply, but you wished for once they would not care about money, power, and status, and start caring about the well-being of their child.

San sits at his desk, meticulously reviewing a file when the door to his office opens. He looks up to see your father standing in the doorway, his eyes hard and calculating. There’s no polite knock, no greeting—just an imposing presence.

San got up from his seat and bowed politely. “Mr. L/N, I wasn’t expecting you. What can I help you with today?”

Your father steps into the office, the door closing behind him with a quiet click. He doesn’t sit down, instead choosing to stand, towering over San’s desk.

"I came to discuss my daughter's case. This whole divorce nonsense. It’s a mistake, and it needs to be stopped," your father explains. His voice is firm, commanding.

San doesn’t flinch, meeting his gaze calmly while he took his seat. “With all due respect, Mr. L/N, that’s not something I can do. I represent your daughter’s best interests, and she’s made it clear she wants to proceed with the divorce.”

Your father narrows his eyes, leaning forward slightly, the temperature in the room seemingly dropping. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me, Mr. Choi. I said the divorce needs to be stopped. I’m here to make sure it doesn’t go any further.”

San remains seated, unbothered by the thinly veiled threat in the older man’s voice. He folds his hands on the desk, his expression composed. “Your daughter has the right to make her own choices, Mr. L/N. I’m here to ensure that her voice is heard and her rights are protected. I’m afraid I won’t be withdrawing from the case.”

The older man’s lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He takes a step back and places a briefcase on San’s desk. With a casual flick of his wrist, he opens it, revealing stacks of neatly arranged cash.

“125 million won. More than enough to make it worth your while to reconsider.”

San’s eyes briefly flicker to the briefcase before returning to the man in front of him. His expression doesn’t change. He slowly rises from his chair, closing the briefcase with a firm click.

“I’m not interested in your money, Mr. L/N. My commitment is to my client, your daughter, not to the highest bidder,” San says in a steady tone.

Your father’s eyes darken. He straightens, crossing his arms over his chest. “You might want to reconsider, Mr. Choi. You know who I am. I have powerful connections, and it wouldn’t take much to have you fired. You’re nothing more than an associate at this firm. Hongjoong and I go way back. One call from me, and you’ll be out of a job.”

San’s jaw tightens, but he keeps his cool. He steps around the desk, standing toe to toe with your father. “You’re free to make that call, Mr. L/N. But I’ll tell you right now that it won’t change anything. My integrity and my client’s well-being come first. I won’t be bullied into backing down.”

For a moment, the two men stand in silence, the tension thick between them. Then your father lets out a low chuckle, though it’s devoid of warmth. “You’re a fool, Mr. Choi. But I’ll leave you with this warning. Cross me, and you’ll regret it. You’ll wish you’d taken the money.”

The door shuts behind him with a heavy thud. San stands in the now-silent office, his eyes lingering on the closed door for a moment. He exhales slowly, tension easing from his shoulders as he returns to his desk.

San’s thoughts drift briefly to you and the storm that might be heading your way. But he steels himself, ready for whatever comes next. His loyalty to you and his belief in doing what’s right will not be shaken. Besides, he had enough trust in Hongjoong to know his friend would never listen to your father either.

Hongjoong sits at his desk, engrossed in reviewing a case, when the door to his office swings open with a heavy push. He looks up to see your father striding in without so much as a knock. His face is a mask of anger, but there’s something more—disappointment, perhaps, or even hurt.

Hongjoong straightens up immediately, his surprise giving way to a faint smile of recognition. “Uncle, I wasn’t expecting you to stop by.”

Your father's jaw tightens at the familiar greeting, and he waves off the formality with a sharp motion. He stands in the middle of the room, eyes piercing as he regards Hongjoong with a mixture of affection and frustration.

Your father starts, “Hongjoong, what is this mess with Y/N?”

Hongjoong sighs inwardly but keeps his composure. He gestures to the chair across from his desk. “Please, sit down. Let’s talk.”

Your father shakes his head. “I’m not here to chat. I’m here because of this nonsense with your associate, Choi San. You’re letting him destroy my family. You’ve known Y/N since she was born, Joong. How can you allow this to happen?”

The use of his childhood name stirs something in Hongjoong—a reminder that this man was more than just a powerful businessman. He had watched Hongjoong grow up, had been at family dinners, birthdays, celebrations. But Hongjoong keeps his professional mask on, aware that this conversation would require careful navigation.

Hongjoong softly says, “Uncle, you know I care about Y/N. I’ve always looked out for her, and I’m doing that now.”

“By letting her divorce her husband? By letting her throw away everything we’ve built? This will ruin her—and us!” your father says, his voice rising.

Hongjoong’s face hardens slightly. He motions again to the chair. “Please, Uncle. Let’s sit down and talk about this.”

Reluctantly, your father takes the offered seat, but not without a huff of frustration. He looks at Hongjoong, his gaze heavy with expectation. “You need to fire that attorney of yours. He’s putting ideas in Y/N’s head—encouraging her to throw away a good marriage. You can’t let this happen.”

Hongjoong takes a deep breath, knowing this was coming. His voice remains calm, though his loyalty to both San and you runs deep. “I won’t do that, Uncle. San is a brilliant attorney and one of my closest friends. More than that, he’s doing exactly what Y/N needs. He’s protecting her.”

Your father leans forward, his tone sharp, “Protecting her? From what? Jaeyoon’s a good man. He’s just been under stress! Y/N’s exaggerating the situation.”

Hongjoong’s eyes narrow slightly, a rare flash of anger crossing his usually composed face. “This isn’t an exaggeration, Uncle. Jaeyoon’s hurt her—physically, emotionally. I’ve seen the bruises myself from when he threw a vase at her. And he’s threatened her life too.”

Your father’s expression falters for just a moment, but he quickly covers it with a shake of his head. “Y/N’s always been dramatic. She’s too sensitive. Jaeyoon would never do that.”

“This isn’t drama, Uncle. This is abuse. You’ve known me my entire life, so you know I wouldn’t say this lightly. If you don’t believe me, ask Y/N yourself. Or better yet, spend one minute in a room with her and see the fear in her eyes.”

There’s a long pause as your father processes Hongjoong’s words. He looks down, his hands clenched tightly in his lap. For the first time, doubt flickers across his face, but his pride keeps him from showing it openly. “She’s my daughter, Hongjoong. I’m doing what’s best for her.”

Hongjoong softens slightly, his tone more compassionate, “I know you love her, Uncle. But what’s best for her isn’t keeping her in a marriage that’s tearing her apart. You want to protect her? Then let her go. Let her break free from Jaeyoon and start fresh. She deserves that much.”

The room falls silent again. Your father looks away, clearly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation has taken. He’s used to being in control, used to getting his way, and now he’s faced with a situation that no amount of power or money can fix.

“I don’t like this, Hongjoong. Not one bit,” your father says in a quiet tone.

Hongjoong nods. “I understand. But forcing her to stay will only make things worse.”

Your father finally looks up, his voice filled with resignation, “I’ll think about what you’ve said. But don’t think I’ll just sit by and let this happen.”

Hongjoong watches as the older man slowly rises from the chair, his movements less confident than when he first entered the room. As he walks to the door, he hesitates, turning back to look at Hongjoong with a mixture of frustration and something almost like vulnerability. “You’ve grown up well, Hongjoong. I’ve always been proud of you. But I hope you’re not making a mistake.”

“Thank you, Uncle. But I believe in what I’m doing. I believe in protecting Y/N.”

With a final nod, your father turns and leaves the office, the door closing quietly behind him. Hongjoong sits back down at his desk, the weight of the conversation lingering in the air. He exhales slowly, his thoughts turning to you, hoping that your father will see reason before it’s too late.

3 weeks later

You sit at the head of the long glass table, eyes focused as one of your top designers presents the new luxury patio collection. The conference room buzzes with the energy of innovation—your team is passionate, and it shows in the careful detailing of the furniture designs displayed on the digital screens along the walls. Teak wood, sleek metal accents, and eco-friendly materials come together in sophisticated harmony.

“We’ve incorporated the latest trends in sustainable materials, aiming to appeal to clients who prioritize both style and environmental responsibility. The durability will be a key selling point for the summer collection,” the chief designer explains.

You nod, your fingers drumming lightly on the surface of your notebook. Despite being from a wealthy family, you’ve built Saturn & Co. from the ground up, and you’ve learned to balance creativity with practicality. Your mind is already analyzing the numbers—thinking about production costs, price points, and the narrative you want to craft around this collection.

“I like the direction, but we need to ensure the pricing reflects the exclusivity. This is a luxury line, and our clientele expects something unique. Let’s look at limited editions to build that exclusivity,” you voice your opinion.

Your team exchanges glances, taking notes as you speak. You look at the marketing head next. “We need to start the marketing campaign as soon as possible. I want a narrative that ties back to our brand’s legacy, something that shows we’re not just following trends but leading them.”

As you discuss the campaign, the atmosphere in the room is abruptly shattered by the sound of raised voices outside the glass doors. Your brow furrows in confusion as you glance toward the commotion. Before you can react, the doors swing open, and several uniformed officers from the Korean National Police barge into the conference room.

The room goes still, everyone frozen in place.

The officer in charge looks directly at you. “Ms. L/N, you are under arrest for illegal possession and distribution of narcotics. Please stand and come with us.”

You feel the words hit you like a physical blow. The room spins for a moment, and your breath catches in your throat. You blink, trying to comprehend what’s happening. Your colleagues stare at you in shocked silence, their faces a mixture of confusion and concern.

“There must be a mistake,” you say, absolutely stunned at the accusation. Your voice feels distant, barely your own. The officer takes a step closer, his expression hard and unyielding. Two other officers flank you, moving into position as if expecting resistance.

“We have a warrant for your arrest. You have the right to remain silent.”

Everything feels surreal, as though you’ve been dropped into someone else’s life. This can’t be happening. You’ve never been involved with drugs—this is absurd. You shake your head, your voice stronger now. “I’m innocent. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

The officers ignore your protests as they take you by the arms, pulling you to your feet. You glance around the table, your team frozen in disbelief. Your head of security moves toward you but is stopped by the officers, who block his path.

As you’re led out of the conference room, your heart pounds in your chest. Fear mixes with disbelief, but you force yourself to stay calm. You don’t know how this happened, but you’re determined to fight it.

The walk through the Saturn & Co. building feels endless. Employees stop in their tracks, staring as you pass by, whispers rising in your wake. Your cheeks burn with the humiliation of it all, but you lift your chin and keep your expression calm, refusing to show any weakness.

Outside the building, a crowd has already gathered, cameras flashing in your face. You can barely hear the shouting reporters over the thrum of your own thoughts. As you’re escorted into the waiting police car, you can’t help but wonder—who could have done this? And why?

Your first thought was your ex-husband. Well, you still weren't legally divorced yet. But you had a gut feeling that it was him.

The door slams shut behind you, and as the car pulls away from the building, the reality of the situation begins to sink in. Your life is about to be turned upside down, and you know exactly who you need to call: San. He’ll help you. He has to. Right?

Its been a while since you saw San as he was busy handling back-to-back cases and traveling to meet clients and witnesses. You also bought a new apartment and were busy moving and unpacking your stuff, so you didn't have much time to meet up with him either.

Once you reached the station, you were thrown into an interrogation room. The cold, sterile room is a stark contrast to the familiar warmth of your office. The walls are bare, the fluorescent lights overhead casting a harsh, clinical glow. You sit at a metal table, your hands resting in front of you. Despite the fear bubbling up inside you, you keep your back straight, refusing to show the panic you feel beneath the surface.

You’ve been here for hours now. The officers had taken your personal belongings, leaving you feeling exposed and disconnected from the outside world. The initial booking process was a blur of fingerprinting, photographs, and paperwork. Now, it’s just you and the suffocating silence of the interrogation room.

The door creaks open, and two officers step inside. One of them, a senior detective, takes the seat across from you while the other leans against the wall, arms crossed. You can feel their eyes on you, studying your every move, waiting for any sign of weakness.

“Mrs. Baek... or should I say, Ms. L/N? The public may not know everything, but we certainly do. Now, do you know why you’re here?”

You look at him, your heartbeat thudding in your ears. You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m innocent. I don’t know why I’ve been brought here. This has to be a mistake.”

The detective leans back in his chair, pulling out a manila folder and flipping it open. He slides a few photographs across the table toward you. You glance down at them—images of plastic bags filled with pills and powder, some stashed in a high-end handbag that looks disturbingly similar to one you own. “These drugs were found in your possession. We have evidence linking you to a drug-selling operation. Do you care to explain?”

Your stomach drops, and your hands instinctively clench into fists in your lap. You shake your head, staring at the images as though they might change if you blink hard enough.

“That’s not mine. I don’t know how those drugs got there. I’ve never been involved in anything like this. I swear,” you say.

The detective raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by your denial. He taps one of the photos with his finger. “This was found in your car, Ms. L/N. Are you telling me someone planted these drugs without your knowledge?”

Your mind races. You remember parking your car that morning—everything was normal. But nothing makes sense now. You feel trapped, caught in a nightmare where you don’t know the rules.

“I don’t know how it got there. I’ve never seen those drugs before in my life, neither do I do drugs. I can do a drug test to prove that.”

The detective exchanges a glance with the other officer, who remains silent but watches you carefully. He leans forward, as if to intimidate you. “Ms. L/N, the evidence is stacked against you. Your fingerprints were found on the packaging of the bag. We were secretly searching for those involved in drug distribution of this very drug, a drug that can only fall in the hands of someone with a lot of money and influence.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. Your fingerprints? You struggle to breathe evenly, trying to understand how this could be happening. “That’s impossible. I’m not involved in any of this. Someone has set me up.”

The detective doesn’t blink. He looks at you as though you’re a puzzle he’s trying to solve, but you can tell he doesn’t believe you. “This is your chance to come clean, Ms. L/N. The sooner you cooperate, the better this will go for you. Tell us who you’ve been working with, and maybe we can work something out.”

You shake your head, frustration and fear mixing into a potent cocktail in your chest. Your voice rises slightly, despite your efforts to stay calm. “I’m not involved in any drug operation. I don’t know who’s behind this, but it’s not me.”

The detective leans back, his expression hardening. He closes the folder and taps it lightly against the table before standing up. “I’ve heard it all before. You’re looking at serious charges here, Ms. L/N. You might want to think about your next steps carefully.”

As he leaves the room, the door shuts with a heavy click, leaving you alone once again. You drop your head into your hands, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst out of your chest.

How did this happen? Who could possibly want to destroy you like this? The questions whirl through your mind, but there are no answers. You take a deep breath, reminding yourself of what you know to be true. You’ve done nothing wrong. You just need to hold on, stay strong, and prove your innocence.

A knock sounds at the door, and it opens again. This time, it’s a different officer—one who escorts you back to a holding cell. They’ve told you a lawyer is on the way, and that thought alone keeps you from unraveling completely.

You pray that it’s San. He’ll know what to do. He’ll fight for you. But even as you cling to that hope, the uncertainty gnaws at you. You’ve never felt so powerless in your life.

San steps out of the courtroom, the echo of his client’s relieved voice still ringing in his ears. He had just secured another victory—an ironclad defense that left the opposition scrambling. His confidence is high as he buttons his suit jacket, his mind already shifting to the next case on his docket.

Just as he’s about to push through the heavy glass doors of the courthouse, his phone buzzes in his pocket. Glancing down, he sees Hongjoong’s name flashing on the screen. He frowns slightly, knowing Hongjoong was out of the city at the moment, but he swipes to answer.

"Hongjoong hyung," San answers in a cheerful tone, "You’re catching me right after a big win. What’s up?"

There’s a brief pause on the other end, and when Hongjoong speaks, his voice is tight, serious. “San, we’ve got a really fucked up situation. It’s about Y/N.”

San’s heart skips a beat at the mention of your name. His hand tightens around his phone, and the world around him seems to blur for a moment.

“What happened? Is she okay?” San asks, concern evident in his voice.

"No. She’s not. She was arrested earlier today," Hongjoong says grimly. "I just spoke to her father. Her parents aren't going to see her until this mess is sorted out. She has basically no one to support her now other than us."

San stops dead in his tracks, his stomach plummeting. People brush past him in the courthouse lobby, but he’s completely still, his mind racing. “Arrested? For what?”

“Drug possession and distribution. The police found drugs in her car, but it’s clear she’s been framed. It’s all over the news now—photos, headlines, everything. I’m in Gwangju meeting with some clients now as you know, and I can’t get back to Seoul until tomorrow morning. I need you to handle this for me. I thought of representing her myself, but she needs an attorney as soon as possible. Please represent her.”

San’s chest tightens with a mix of disbelief and anger. He can already see how this might play out—the media will have a field day, and your reputation will be dragged through the mud. “Of course, I’ll handle it. I’ll go to the station right away.”

There’s another pause, this time longer. San can almost hear Hongjoong’s hesitation through the phone. “I trust you with this, San. I know you’ll fight for her like I would… maybe more.”

San’s breath catches. He stares at the floor for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. “What are you getting at, hyung?”

Hongjoong’s tone shifts, a little lighter despite the gravity of the situation. “I know how you feel about her, she's like a sister to me. I’ve known for a while now, Sannie. You care about her, and not just as her attorney.”

San’s mind reels. He’s always kept his feelings for you carefully hidden, even from Hongjoong. But it’s clear now that his friend has seen through him “It’s not something I planned, hyung.”

"I didn’t say you did," he says gently, "but maybe this is a chance to show her how much you care. Not as an attorney, but as someone who’s willing to stand by her through the worst of it."

San runs a hand through his hair, conflicted. His stronger feelings for you have always lingered just beneath the surface, a quiet undercurrent to the professional relationship you’ve shared during your divorce proceedings. But now, as you’re facing this crisis, he knows those feelings are about to come to the forefront, whether he’s ready or not.

It's not like you don't know of his feelings after sharing a steamy kiss on his bed. You just didn't know that his feelings for you were stronger than what he showed.

“Right now, I’m her attorney. That’s what matters. I’ll get her out of this mess first,” San says in a firm tone.

Hongjoong chuckles softly, “You’re a good man, San. I’m glad she has you in her corner. I’ll be back tomorrow to help however I can, but for now, please take care of her. And be careful—the media’s already circling like vultures.”

San nods, even though Hongjoong can’t see him. His mind is already spinning with what needs to be done: pulling strings, calling in favors, and working to get you released as soon as possible. But beneath all that, a deeper urgency thrums inside him—an overwhelming need to protect you, to be there for you, not just as an attorney but as someone who deeply cares about you.

“Don’t worry, Hongjoong hyung. I won’t let her down.”

Hongjoong hums. “I know you won’t. Keep me updated, and I’ll be there first thing tomorrow.”

The call ends, and San slips his phone back into his pocket. He stands there for a moment, staring blankly at the glass doors in front of him. His pulse quickens, and he shakes off the lingering shock. You need him now more than ever, and there’s no time to waste.

He steps outside into the late afternoon sun, his mind already focused on his next move. As much as this case will test him professionally, San knows it will also test him personally. And for you, he’s willing to face whatever comes next.

With determination in his step, San gets into his car, heading straight for the police station. There’s no way he’ll let you go through this alone.

You sit on a hard bench in the holding area, your hands clasped tightly together, the events of the last few hours playing over and over in your mind like a bad dream. You still can’t wrap your head around it. Arrested. Framed. And now, sitting here, waiting for something—anything—that will prove your innocence.

The door to the holding area swings open, and you look up instinctively, hope sparking in your chest.

And then you see him— Choi San.

His maroon suit jacket is slightly wrinkled from his hurried movements, his face a mix of worry and determination as he strides toward you.

For a moment, you can’t move, your breath catching in your throat. Relief floods through you as he approaches, his eyes softening as they meet yours.

San frowns, yet his expression was gentle. “Y/N…”

He kneels down in front of you, his presence grounding you in this moment, even though your world feels like it’s spinning out of control. His voice is low, calm, and it soothes the chaotic mess of your thoughts.

"San… I didn’t do this. I swear," you say in a trembling voice. "I don’t know how—"

He holds up a hand, his expression steady and resolute. “I know. I believe you, sweetheart.”

The simple statement, spoken with such certainty, nearly undoes you. You’ve been holding yourself together, refusing to cry, refusing to break—but the sheer relief of having someone believe you shakes you to your core. You take a deep breath, blinking back the tears that have been threatening to spill over.

“I don’t understand how this happened. Who would do this to me?” you mumble.

San glances around the room, ensuring no one else is too close, before leaning in slightly, his voice quieter but still firm. “That’s what we’re going to find out. But first, I’m getting you out of here. I’ve already spoken with the officers. There’s not enough evidence to support holding you overnight. You’ll be out soon, and we’ll start working on clearing your name.”

His confidence eases the tight knot of fear that has been sitting in your chest since the moment you were arrested. You nod slowly, feeling a flicker of hope. San has always been calm under pressure, and now, in the face of this disaster, his calm feels like a lifeline.

“Thank you, San. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

San smiles a little, his eyes never leaving yours. For a moment, something unreadable flickers in his gaze—something deeper than just professional obligation. He stands, offering you his hand to help you up. “You don’t have to go through this alone, Y/N. I’ll be by your side every step of the way.”

You take his hand, letting him pull you up from the bench. For a moment, you just stand there, the weight of the day pressing down on you, but San’s hand in yours keeps you steady.

Just as he promised, within the next hour, he navigates the process with the officers, and the paperwork is completed. You’re released, but the gravity of the situation still hangs over you like a storm cloud.

As you step out into the cold evening air, San walks beside you, his hand hovering near your back, a silent but steady presence. The flashing lights of a few reporters’ cameras catch your eye, and your stomach churns with dread. The story is already out there, and now it’s not just the legal system you have to worry about—it’s the court of public opinion.

San leans in to whisper in your ear, “Ignore them. They don’t matter right now.”

You nod, swallowing the rising anxiety as you step toward San’s car, slipping into the passenger seat. Once you’re both inside, the weight of the day crashes down on you all at once.

San glances over at you as he starts the car, his voice gentle. “We’ll figure this out, Y/N. I promise.”

His words are meant to comfort, but you can hear the determination behind them. You trust him—more than anyone right now—and that trust is the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

"Can we... go to your place, please?" you say, voice barely above a whisper.

"Of course we can," San answers with a smile, his dimples showing.

The car pulls away from the station, the city lights blurring by outside the window. You don’t know what comes next, but with San by your side, you feel like maybe—just maybe—you’ll be able to get through this.

The exhaustion catches up to you and you fall asleep in San's car.

Once San parks in his designated spot, he's quick to put a face mask on you to ensure no one recognizes you while he takes you to his place. You were still deep asleep with a frown on your face, so San resorted to carrying you bridal-style to his apartment.

He tried to be very slow while placing you down on the bed in the guestroom, but the movement stirred you awake. When you open your eyes, San's face is just inches away from yours.

You sit up straight and hug him, the teers falling freely now. He warmly embraces you, telling you words of encouragement and how he'll be with you through it all.

While your sobs quieted down, San pulls away to look at you. "I'll make us some dinner, hmm? I'll take about half an hour. Is that okay?" he asks sweetly, his thumbs reaching to brush your tears away.

"Can I... be in the kitchen with you? I don't want to be alone," you murmur.

San leans in to place a gentle kiss on your forehead. "Of course, sweetheart. You don't even have to ask." You smile lightly, your heart racing in a good way this time.

"Let's go now, hmm? I plan to make your favorite side-dishes!"

The courthouse is bustling with activity as people file in and out of courtrooms, their footsteps echoing off the marble floors. You sit beside San on a wooden bench outside the courtroom, waiting for your case to be called. You’re dressed professionally, trying to project the calm confidence that comes naturally to you in the boardroom, though inside you’re anything but calm.

Your heart pounds in your chest, and you feel the weight of every glance thrown your way by people passing by. The gravity of the situation is suffocating, but San’s steady presence beside you keeps you grounded. He hasn’t left your side since this nightmare began, and for that, you’re grateful.

San leans closer, his voice low and reassuring, “Remember, this is just the arraignment. They’ll present the charges, and I’ll enter a plea on your behalf. After that, we’ll have time to prepare for the real battle. Stay calm, and let me do the talking.”

You nod, drawing a deep breath and trying to steady your nerves. San gives you a small, encouraging smile before standing as your case is called.

“The People versus Y/N L/N.” The bailiff calls out.

The words send a jolt through you, but you rise to your feet, following San into the courtroom. As you walk down the aisle, you catch sight of a few reporters lurking in the back rows, their cameras trained on you. It takes everything in you to keep your head high and your expression neutral as you approach the defense table.

The judge, a stern older woman with sharp eyes, sits at the bench, looking down over the courtroom. The prosecutor stands across from you, a tall man with a stack of folders in front of him, looking all too confident.

The judge glances at the paperwork in front of her. “This is the arraignment for Y/N L/N. Let’s proceed.”

The prosecutor steps forward first, clearing his throat. “Your Honor, the defendant has been charged with illegal possession of narcotics and distribution of a controlled substance. Given the amount found and the nature of the charges, the prosecution believes there is sufficient evidence to proceed with the case.”

The words hang in the air like a death sentence, but you stay quiet, your hands clasped tightly in your lap. You glance at San, who remains calm and collected, his focus razor-sharp. He rises to address the court, his voice steady.

"Your Honor," San starts, voice firm, "my client pleads not guilty to all charges."

The judge nods, making notes as San continues, his tone professional but determined. "We would also like to request that Ms. L/N remain free on bail while we prepare our defense. My client has fully cooperated with the investigation thus far and has strong ties to the community. She is not a flight risk, nor is she a danger to the public."

The prosecutor steps forward again, shaking his head. “Your Honor, given the severity of the charges, we believe that bail should be revoked. The defendant was found in possession of a substantial quantity of illegal narcotics. In fact, the police were in search of individuals tied to the distribution of this very drug. We consider her a significant flight risk, particularly given her financial resources.”

You swallow hard, anxiety tightening in your chest as the prosecutor speaks. You’ve never felt so vulnerable, so exposed. San’s hand brushes yours under the table, a small but comforting gesture, and you glance at him. His expression is calm, though his eyes flash with determination.

San stands up again. “Your Honor, my client is a respected CEO, one that is dearly loved by her employees, and has no prior criminal record. She has been falsely accused and fully intends to clear her name. She has no intention of fleeing and will cooperate with any conditions the court deems appropriate.”

The judge taps her pen against her desk thoughtfully before looking up. “Given the circumstances and the defendant’s lack of prior offenses, I will allow Ms. L/N to remain free on bail, provided she adheres to strict conditions. She will surrender her passport and be subject to regular check-ins with law enforcement. Any violation of these conditions will result in immediate incarceration.”

Relief washes over you, though it’s tempered by the reality that this is just the beginning. San nods respectfully to the judge, and you follow suit, standing as the judge dismisses the court.

As you turn to leave, you feel the weight of the reporters’ eyes on you once again. The camera flashes, the whispers—it all threatens to swallow you whole. But San places a reassuring hand on the small of your back as you walk out of the courtroom together, his presence steady and unwavering.

Outside, the fresh air hits you like a lifeline, and you take a deep breath, feeling some of the tension leave your body.

“You did great in there,” San says.

You give him a weak smile, though the anxiety still churns inside you. The legal battle is just beginning, and the road ahead looks long and treacherous.

“Thank you, San. For everything.”

He glances down at you, something soft and unspoken in his eyes, before giving you a nod.

“We’ll get through this. I promise,” he assures you.

With those words, you both walk toward his car, the future uncertain but no longer quite as overwhelming. You trust him, and for now, that’s enough.

2 days later

The rich, dark wood of Hongjoong’s office and the soft leather chairs normally evoke a sense of calm professionalism, but today the air is thick with tension.

You sit at the large table in the corner of his office, San beside you, his expression serious and focused. Across from you is Hongjoong, his brow furrowed in concentration, and to his right is Yeosang, a lawyer specialized in criminal law whom Hongjoong had brought in to help navigate this tangled mess.

Yeosang leans forward, flipping through the files spread out on the table, his sharp eyes scanning the details of your case with practiced ease. He seemed to be in deep thought. “We’re dealing with someone who knows what they’re doing. The drugs were placed in a high-traffic area—your car—and, more importantly, they had your fingerprints on them. It was deliberate for sure.”

You lean back in your chair, frustration and disbelief bubbling beneath your surface composure. “But how? How did they even get my fingerprints on the bags? I’ve never touched drugs in my life.”

Yeosang looks up at you, his expression calm and reassuring, though his mind is clearly racing through possibilities. “It’s not impossible to get your fingerprints on something without your knowledge. It could’ve been as simple as someone using an item of yours—a glass, a piece of paper, even a surface you touched—and transferring the prints to the bags. It’s not common, but it’s doable with the right resources.”

San’s hand tightens slightly on the table beside you, his jaw clenched. His eyes are sharp, focused on the bigger picture. “This wasn’t some random setup. Someone orchestrated this carefully. They knew exactly what they were doing. The question is—who benefits from framing Y/N?”

A heavy silence settles over the room as everyone exchanges glances. The answer hovers in the air, unspoken but undeniable.

“It has to be Jaeyoon,” Hongjoong voices out grimly.

You nod, the name sitting like a stone in your gut. The thought had crossed your mind more than once since this all started—your soon-to-be legally ex-husband, vindictive and controlling, would have the motive and the resources to pull something like this off. But even knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to accept.

“He’s been desperate to stop the divorce, but I refused to back down. He knows he’s losing his grip on me, and his family’s connections… they’d give him access to people who could do this.”

Hongjoong nods, his expression hardening with a protective edge. He’s known you and Jaeyoon long enough to have seen the warning signs, even if it took time for you to accept them yourself. “If Jaeyoon’s behind this, he’s playing a dangerous game. But we need proof. Right now, it’s all speculation.”

Yeosang taps his fingers lightly against the folder in front of him, deep in thought. “We’ll need to dig into Jaeyoon’s connections, his finances, and any third-party contacts he may have used. If we can find a trail—payments to people who could’ve planted the drugs, any suspicious transactions—we can start to build a case. Of course, we can't do that without a court order, so we would somehow have to bring him up to the court to be able to access his finances.”

San sits up straighter, his focus laser-sharp. “Speaking of finances, we went over Y/N’s financial records. They’re clean—no suspicious activity, no unexplained deposits or withdrawals. Whoever’s doing this wants to make it look like she’s running the operation without leaving any financial trail.”

Yeosang nods, impressed but not surprised. “That’s important. It gives us a baseline to work from—if there were any dirty money moving through your accounts, it would be much harder to prove your innocence.”

You feel a small sense of relief at that. At least that part of your life is still intact. But then the anxiety returns as the enormity of the situation sinks in. “So… what now? How do we prove that it wasn’t me?”

Yeosang leans forward again, his tone reassuring. “We focus on the weak points in their setup. The planted drugs, the lack of a financial trail, and the circumstantial nature of the evidence. We need to show the court that there’s reasonable doubt—and if we can link it back to Jaeyoon, we’ll turn this whole thing around.”

Hongjoong looks at you, his eyes softening slightly. “We’ll figure this out, Y/N. We just need to be smart about it. We’ll start looking into Jaeyoon’s connections and anything we can do legally without a court order. There has to be something—someone who can tie this back to him.”

San speaks up, his voice resolute. “I’ll coordinate with investigators and see what we can find. But we also need to be prepared for whatever Jaeyoon throws our way. He’s not going to back down easily if we were to bring him to court.”

You nod, your mind spinning with everything that’s been said. The pieces are slowly starting to come together, but there’s still so much uncertainty—so much at stake. You’ve always prided yourself on being strong, on keeping control of your life and your business, but now you feel like you’re navigating a minefield where every step could lead to disaster.

San looks at you, his gaze steady and unwavering. “You won’t be fighting alone. We’ve got your back.” You nod at him, a smile playing on your lips.

The room falls silent again, but this time there’s a sense of unity—of resolve. You’re facing an uphill battle, but you know you’re not facing it alone.

The door opened, and Jongho— an intern under San— stepped in, followed by your secretary, Yena. Their expressions were serious, and you immediately sensed that they had uncovered something important. Your pulse quickened as you turned to face them.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Jongho began, his voice careful and respectful, "but we found something that might be really important."

Yena stood next to him, her eyes flicking to yours. “We were reviewing the security footage from the office building, particularly your office since I'm the only one that has access besides you. We were checking to see if there was anything unusual that could explain how this whole situation began. And… well, something stood out.”

Jongho pulled out a tablet from the folder he was carrying and moved toward the table. Everyone in the room leaned in, curiosity and hope sparking through the air. San's focus sharpened as Jongho tapped the screen, pulling up the relevant footage.

“We found this clip,” Jongho explained, “It was taken the day before the police discovered the drugs. It shows an employee bringing two cream-colored bags to your office—bags with wood samples inside.”

You leaned closer to the screen, watching the semi-grainy security footage play out. There you were, sitting at your desk, while one of the employees approached, two nondescript bags in hand. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. You accepted the bag, placed it on the desk, and resumed your work.

But then your eyes caught something unusual.

“He’s wearing gloves,” you muttered, the realization hitting you like a punch to the gut.

"Exactly," Jongho replied, his voice low but confident. "That’s what caught our attention. Wearing sterile gloves to deliver wood samples? That’s not standard."

Yeosang leaned forward, eyes narrowing as he focused on the details of the footage. "It’s certainly not typical. Most people don’t wear gloves unless they’re handling something delicate, hazardous, or… they don’t want their fingerprints on it."

San clenched his jaw beside you, his hand resting on the table as he processed the implications. "Who is this employee?" he asked Jongho and Yena, though his gaze stayed fixed on the screen.

Yena stepped forward. "I’ve seen him before—he works in logistics, occasionally helping with deliveries. I believe his name is Jang Yohan. But I’ve never seen him wear gloves like that. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now… it feels off."

"It wasn’t just wood samples in that bag, was it?" you asked quietly, almost to yourself. The thought left a bitter taste in your mouth. "That’s how they did it. Whoever set me up had him plant the drugs in that bag—wearing gloves to avoid leaving his prints. My fingerprints are the only ones that would be found on it."

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, his mind clearly running through the possibilities. "It makes sense. They were careful—calculated. The gloves are the giveaway. It’s likely whoever hired him instructed him to use them for this exact reason."

San handed the tablet back to Jongho, a grim determination settling over his face. "This is exactly what we need to create doubt in the prosecution’s case," he said, his voice strong. "It doesn’t clear Y/N yet, but it raises serious questions about how the drugs ended up in her possession."

Hongjoong, who had been pacing while the video played, finally stopped to look at you. His eyes were intense but filled with that familiar protective instinct. "We need to trace this back to whoever orchestrated it," he said firmly. "If it’s Jaeyoon, we need proof. We need to dig into his finances, find out if he paid anyone off, and see who this employee is connected to. It’s the only way we’ll be able to prove that Y/N was framed."

You nodded, your heart hammering in your chest. A glimmer of hope began to break through the fog of anxiety. "Thank you," you said quietly to Jongho and Yena. "This could be the key we’ve been looking for."

Jongho offered a small, reassuring smile. "We’ll keep digging. There has to be more."

As they exited the room, the weight of the situation seemed a little lighter. You glanced at San, who was already gathering his thoughts for the next steps.

"This changes everything," he said softly, though there was an edge of fire in his voice. "We’re going to prove your innocence, Y/N. Whoever’s behind this isn’t going to get away with it."

For the first time in days, you felt a small measure of hope. It was far from over, but now you had something to fight with—a direction to move in.

The video footage had given you something solid—something that could cast doubt on the charges against you. Yet, the deeper question still gnawed at you: who was behind it all? Jaeyoon?

Hongjoong was already pacing again, his mind clearly racing, when he stopped abruptly and turned to you, San, and Yeosang.

“Y/N,” Hongjoong said, his voice sharper with a sudden realization. “That employee—the one who handed you the bag with the wood samples. What exactly did he say when he gave it to you?”

You frowned, trying to recall the details of that day. "He said he would come back later to collect the bag after I’d reviewed the samples. I didn’t think much of it at the time—just normal procedure."

Hongjoong’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “And did he ever come back to get it?”

You nod your head. “Yes, I had it sitting on my desk to review it later as there was ample time before the deadline to approve it. He took it while I wasn't there. If I remember correctly, he told Yena that he mixed up the samples.”

San’s gaze snapped toward Hongjoong, who looked deep in thought. Slowly, Hongjoong walked back to his desk, picking up a photo that had been part of the evidence submitted by the prosecution. It was a picture of the drugs found in your car—specifically, the bags they had been placed in.

He stared at the picture for a long moment before grabbing a pen from his desk. Without a word, he drew a line across the image, right above a very noticeable purple mark on the bag. Then, he turned back to you.

“When you received the bag of wood samples,” Hongjoong began slowly, “did you notice anything unusual about it?”

Your mind raced back to that moment. It had been a normal day, and you were preoccupied with your work. But now, with the intensity of everything, you tried to remember.

“There was… a mark on one of the bags,” you said, furrowing your brow as the memory came into focus. “A black or purple ink mark.”

Hongjoong nodded, lifting the photograph up to eye level. "Look closely at this picture—the one of the drugs found in your car."

You leaned in, your eyes scanning the photo until they settled on the same purple mark that you’d just remembered. Your breath caught in your throat as the pieces began to fall into place.

“It’s the same bag,” San said, his voice tight with realization. “The exact same bag we see in the footage.”

Hongjoong nodded, his expression grim. “That employee came back for the bag because he wanted to switch out the wood samples for the drugs. The purple mark connects the bag found in your car with the one you were given in the office.”

Yeosang leaned forward, his fingers drumming against the table as his sharp mind began piecing it together. “This means whoever set this up planned it meticulously. They planted the drugs in the same bag that you’d innocently handled with the wood samples, ensuring your fingerprints were on it. When the police found it, there’d be no question—it would appear like you’d been in possession of it the entire time.”

You sank back in your chair, a mix of anger and disbelief coursing through you. “This was all calculated,” you murmured. “They knew exactly what they were doing.”

San’s face hardened, a new determination sparking in his eyes. "We have a direct link now. This bag connects the planted drugs to the employee who handed it to you. It’s evidence that can start to unravel their case against you."

Hongjoong crossed his arms, the gears of his mind turning. “If we can find out who this employee is connected to, we’ll have the leverage we need. I’m willing to bet everything that Jaeyoon is involved. We just need to follow the trail.”

Yeosang nodded in agreement. “The bag, the gloves, the purple mark... it’s all pointing toward a deliberate setup. We just need to dig deeper into the employee’s background, see who’s pulling the strings.”

San turned to you, his expression softer now but no less serious. "We’re getting closer, Y/N. This is the break we needed."

You met his gaze, feeling a flicker of hope return. It wasn’t over yet—not by a long shot—but with this new piece of evidence, you were finally beginning to see a way through the darkness.

-×-×-×-

2 weeks later

The courtroom was quieter this time, but the tension was even more palpable than before. You sat beside San at the defense table, your fingers gripping the edge of the chair. Across the aisle, the prosecutor shuffled through his papers, confident as ever. The employee—the one who had handed you the bags. Jang Yohan—was sitting at the witness stand, his eyes darting nervously around the room.

San was focused, calm, but you could feel the intensity radiating from him as he prepared to question the witness. Hongjoong sat a few rows behind you, his presence reassuring as always, while Yeosang was absent, working on other elements of the case. This was a critical moment, and everyone knew it.

The judge entered, and the room stood in unison. After the usual formalities, the hearing began. The prosecutor wasted no time presenting the case, confidently restating that the evidence was clear: you had been found in possession of illegal narcotics, your fingerprints were on the bags, and the prosecution would show that you were guilty of the charges.

Then it was time for San to present your defense. He stood slowly, his movements deliberate as he approached the judge.

"Your Honor," San began, his voice steady and commanding, "new evidence has come to light since our last hearing, which I believe will cast significant doubt on the charges against my client. We have footage that shows my client receiving the bags containing the drugs, but there’s more to it than that."

You couldn't help but find San extremely attractive. The way he carries himself, the way he speaks... focus, Y/N.

The judge’s eyes sharpened with interest. "Proceed, Mr. Choi."

San gestured toward the screen where the footage would be displayed. As the security video played, the room grew silent. You could see yourself sitting at your desk, accepting the bag from the employee. Everyone watched intently as the employee, conspicuously wearing sterile gloves, handed the bags over with care.

After the footage ended, San spoke again. "As you can see, the employee, Mr. Jang here, who delivered the bag at that time was wearing gloves. We found this suspicious, and upon further investigation, we discovered that the bag in question—both the one delivered in my client’s office and the one found in her car—has a unique identifying mark."

San held up a printed image of the bag, with the purple ink mark circled clearly in the photograph. "This very evident purple mark is present on both the bag from the footage and the one seized by the police. My client’s fingerprints were found on the bag because she handled it while inspecting wood samples," San explained. "We believe that Mr. Jang, under instruction, delivered the bag intentionally so that Ms. L/N's fingerprints would easily be all over it. We also have the footage of Mr. Jang coming back to Ms. L/N's office to get the bags hours later, wearing sterile gloves yet again. Additionally, a large chunk of footage was deleted from multiple viewpoints around the office building the same day Ms. L/N received the wood samples. The footage from Ms. L/N's office can only be accessed by Ms. L/N herself and her secretary."

The judge leaned forward, her eyes on the witness stand where the employee sat, clearly uncomfortable. "So you’re suggesting this employee, Mr. Jang, was complicit in planting the drugs, Mr. Choi?"

San nodded. "Yes, Your Honor. And we intend to prove it."

The judge turned her attention to the prosecutor, who frowned but nodded for the employee to be questioned.

San approached the witness stand, his gaze locking onto Mr. Jang, who was already shifting nervously in his seat. He started with a calm but pointed question. "Can you explain why you were wearing gloves when delivering the bag?"

Mr. Jang hesitated, his eyes flicking toward the prosecutor for support before returning to San. "I—I don’t really remember," he stammered. "It was a normal delivery."

San didn’t let up. "Is it normal for you to wear hospital-grade sterile gloves when handling wood samples that are already placed in a bag?"

Mr. Jang’s face flushed. "Not usually, no."

"Yet, on this particular occasion, you chose to wear gloves?" San pressed.

Jang Yohan fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable with the scrutiny. "I guess I—uh, I wasn’t thinking."

San’s expression remained cool as he continued. "Or were you instructed to wear them? Were you told to ensure your fingerprints weren’t left on the bag?"

His eyes widened, and you could see the panic starting to set in. "No, I wasn’t instructed—"

"Then how do you explain the purple mark on the bag?" San cut him off smoothly, pulling out another image of the bag found in your car, the mark clearly visible in both photos. "This is the same bag you delivered to my client, isn’t it?"

His lips pressed into a thin line. He glanced at the prosecutor again, but this time the prosecutor remained silent. His hesitation only deepened the growing suspicion in the room. "I don’t know," he muttered, avoiding eye contact.

San stepped closer, his tone still measured but carrying a steely edge. "You don’t know? Or you don’t want to say? Who instructed you to plant those drugs in Ms. L/N’s possession?"

The room was dead silent as everyone waited for his answer. The employee’s hands fidgeted in his lap, beads of sweat forming on his brow. After a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice barely a whisper. "No one… no one told me to plant anything." You inwardly sigh in utter frustration.

San took a step back, giving the employee a moment to breathe, but his eyes never left the man’s face. "You realize perjury is a serious crime, don’t you?"

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he did. "Yes… yes, I know."

San nodded once, satisfied for now. He turned back to the judge. "Your Honor, this man’s refusal to provide a clear explanation, combined with the evidence of the identical bags and the suspicious nature of his actions, strongly suggests that someone instructed him to plant the drugs in Ms. L/N’s possession. We will continue to investigate this matter, but we believe this evidence raises significant doubt about my client’s involvement."

The judge glanced from San to the employee, her expression unreadable. "Mr. Choi, I agree that the evidence raises questions. We will continue to allow further investigation into this matter, but for now, we will adjourn until the next scheduled hearing. The court is dismissed."

You felt a small wave of relief wash over you as you heard the sound of the gavel. The case wasn’t over, not by a long shot, but you could see that San had managed to shift the momentum in your favor. As the courtroom slowly emptied, you turned to San, gratitude and hope mixing in your chest.

"Thank you," you whispered, knowing full well that without him, the situation would have looked far bleaker.

San gave you a small, reassuring smile. "We’re getting there, Y/N. Step by step."

-×-×-×-

2 days later

The café was quiet, the low hum of conversation and the clinking of coffee cups providing a subtle background noise. San and his bestfriend Wooyoung, a corporate lawyer, sat at a corner table, their eyes scanning the room as they waited.

Wooyoung adjusted his jacket casually, the tiny recording device hidden within the fabric. He leaned back in his chair, his expression calm and collected, while San checked the time on his phone.

A few minutes later, the café door swung open, and the employee, Mr. Jang Yohan—nervous, disheveled, and clearly rattled from the last court hearing—stepped inside. His eyes darted around anxiously before they landed on San and Wooyoung. With a deep breath, he approached the table, his steps hesitant.

"Mr. Choi," he greeted San with a shaky voice, "you wanted to speak with me?"

San nodded, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Yes, have a seat."

Jang Yohan glanced around once more before sitting down, his hands fidgeting on the table. Wooyoung remained silent, observing the man carefully, his expression unreadable.

San wasted no time. He leaned forward slightly, his voice calm but firm. "We know you’re involved in framing Y/N, but what we need now is the full story. Who ordered you to plant the drugs in her car?"

The employee swallowed hard, clearly nervous. His gaze shifted to Wooyoung, who gave him a polite but unreadable smile. The pressure was mounting, and it was clear that the employee was caught between fear and guilt.

"I—I've told you, no one ordered me to do anything," he stammered, his voice trembling.

Wooyoung, sensing the employee’s hesitation, leaned forward, his tone friendly but sharp. "Look, we’re not here to ruin your life. But if you don’t come clean, this is going to end badly for you. You don’t want to be the fall guy in this mess, do you?"

Jang Yohan blinked, his hands shaking slightly as he looked down at the table. His shoulders slumped under the weight of the situation.

"I… I was just following orders," he whispered finally, his voice barely audible.

San exchanged a quick glance with Wooyoung, sensing that they were finally breaking through.

"Whose orders?" San asked, his tone measured, giving the man space to speak without pressure.

He hesitated, his fingers tapping nervously on the table. He glanced around again, clearly afraid of being overheard. Wooyoung remained calm, his hand resting casually on the table, the recording device capturing every word.

"It was… Ms. L/N's mother-in-law," the employee said, his voice shaking. "She… she approached me. She told me to place the drugs in Y/N’s car. She said it was the only way to stop the divorce and protect their family. She said she would have my kids expelled from their schools if I didn't listen. She also paid me off, and I—I didn’t know what else to do... I worked very hard to put my two children in a decent school, and one of them in guitar lessons."

The air around the table seemed to freeze as the words hung there. San’s expression didn’t change, but inside, a surge of anger and determination flared. This was the confirmation they needed.

"Jaeyoon’s mother, Mrs. Baek," San repeated, his voice carefully controlled. "She orchestrated all of this?"

Jang Yohan nodded quickly, looking down at his lap as if ashamed of his role. "Yes. She said her son told her there were no security camera's in Ms. L/N's office so there was no way I would get caught. They told me to delete the other footage of me moving about the building. I never wanted to do this."

Wooyoung leaned back slightly, giving the employee a sympathetic look. "And now, here you are, being dragged into a legal mess that could ruin your life."

He nodded, his face pale. "I didn’t know it would go this far. I just… I just did what she asked. I was scared of my kids' lives getting ruined."

San leaned back as well, keeping his expression neutral. "Well, you’ve just confessed to a crime. But here’s the thing—we’re willing to help you. If you cooperate with us, we can protect you and get you out of this. Your kids will not be affected in any way. But you’ll need to testify in court. You’ll need to tell the truth."

Jang Yohan looked up, his eyes wide with fear but also relief. "You’ll… you’ll help me?"

Wooyoung nodded, offering a small smile. "We’ll make sure you’re protected. But you have to stick to the truth, no matter what happens."

He nodded quickly, looking like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. "I’ll do it. I’ll tell the truth. I don’t want any more trouble. I just want a good life for my kids."

San and Wooyoung stood up, the deal made. As they left the café, Wooyoung adjusted his jacket again, the recording safely stored. The confession was all there, captured and ready to be used in court.

As they walked toward the car, San turned to Wooyoung, his expression relieved but still serious. "That was risky, but it worked."

Wooyoung grinned, patting his jacket lightly. "Sometimes a little pressure does wonders."

San nodded, his mind already moving to the next steps. This was the turning point they needed. The truth was finally coming to light, and now, with the employee’s confession and the evidence in hand, they could start dismantling the case against you.

-×-×-×-

1 week later

The courtroom buzzed with anticipation as people filled the seats, journalists whispering to one another and spectators craning their necks to get a better view of the proceedings.

You sat beside San, your pulse racing as you watched the judge take her seat. This was it—the moment where everything could finally come to light. San had been relentless, and now the confession that could clear your name was about to be delivered.

The employee who had played such a pivotal role in your framing sat nervously at the witness stand, fidgeting as the prosecutor paced in front of him. Across the room, you could see the prosecutor’s frustration—this wasn’t going to go the way they had hoped. San, calm and composed as ever, sat back in his chair, waiting for his moment.

After the preliminary questions from the prosecution, it was San’s turn. He stood up, buttoning his jacket before walking toward the witness stand, his presence commanding the room. Jang Yohan avoided eye contact, clearly uneasy but ready to confess what he had done.

San didn’t waste any time. He stopped directly in front of the witness stand and addressed the employee with a calm, measured voice. "You’ve already testified that you were the one who delivered the bag to Ms. L/N. Now, I want you to tell this court exactly what you told me. Who ordered you to place the drugs in her car?"

The courtroom fell silent, every eye on the employee. He glanced nervously toward the prosecutor before finally speaking.

"It was Mrs. Baek, Ms. L/N's mother-in-law," the employee admitted, his voice trembling. "She told me to do it. She… she said it was to stop the divorce, that if I didn’t help, her family would be ruined. She threatened to have my kids expelled from their school, and she paid me a lot of money, too."

Gasps rippled through the courtroom, and the judge raised a brow in interest. San continued, his expression neutral but firm.

"So, Ms. L/N's soon-to-be ex-husband's mother orchestrated the entire plan to frame Ms. L/N for drug possession and distribution?" San asked, his voice steady.

The employee nodded, his face pale. "Yes. She paid me to plant the drugs in Ms. L/N's car. I didn’t want to, but she… she said I had no choice. She promised I wouldn’t get in trouble if I helped her."

San turned to the judge, his tone shifting to one of firm conviction. "Your Honor, this confession clearly establishes that my client has been framed by her ex-in-law's family. This entire case against Ms. L/N has been a deliberate attempt to discredit her and force her into submission."

The judge’s gaze moved from San to the prosecutor, who looked visibly shaken by the turn of events. The entire courtroom felt the weight of what had just been revealed.

"I request," San continued, his voice growing stronger, "that the court issue a subpoena for the financial records of Mr. Baek Jaeyoon’s family. If this court examines their transactions, I am confident we will find evidence of payments made to individuals—perhaps even this very employee—proving that this was a calculated scheme to frame my client."

The judge looked thoughtful, leaning back in her chair. She glanced at the prosecutor, who was still recovering from the bombshell of the confession.

The prosecutor rose, clearly scrambling for control. "Your Honor, while the testimony is damning, we must be cautious about making broad accusations without hard evidence. There is no direct proof connecting the Baek family finances to any payments made in relation to this case."

San didn’t miss a beat. "That is precisely why I’m requesting access to their financial records. We have the employee’s confession, and now we need to follow the money trail. If Baek Jaeyoon’s mother orchestrated this, the payments will be there. This court needs to see the full picture before passing any judgment on my client."

The judge tapped her fingers lightly on the bench, her eyes shifting between the prosecutor and San. After a long moment, she spoke.

"Mr. Choi’s argument is compelling. Given the testimony we’ve just heard, I am inclined to allow the request for a financial investigation into the Baek family. The court will issue a subpoena for the necessary records, and a thorough examination will be conducted."

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. The tension in the room eased slightly, but the stakes remained high. The judge nodded toward San, signaling that he had the floor.

"I also request, Your Honor," San added, "that the charges against Ms. L/N be dropped while pending the results of this investigation. With this new testimony, there is significant doubt about her involvement, and keeping her under suspicion serves no purpose."

The judge paused again, thinking it over, then turned back to the prosecutor. "Does the prosecution wish to oppose this request?"

The prosecutor, still reeling from the confession, reluctantly shook his head. "No, Your Honor. We will await the results of the investigation."

With a sharp rap of the gavel, the judge made her decision. "The court grants the request for a financial investigation into the Baek family and suspends the charges against Ms. L/N pending the outcome. This hearing is adjourned."

The courtroom buzzed with murmurs of excitement and shock as the judge exited. You let out a long breath, feeling lighter for the first time in what felt like forever. San turned to you, his expression softening as he met your eyes.

"We’re not done yet," he said quietly, "but we’re closer than we’ve ever been."

You nodded, relief and gratitude flooding through you. The truth was finally starting to emerge, and now, with the financial investigation underway, it was only a matter of time before the entire web of lies unraveled.

-×-×-×-

1 week later

The atmosphere in the courtroom was electric with anticipation. Journalists lined the back rows, cameras flashing as they caught glimpses of the key figures entering.

Jaeyoon and his family sat on one side of the room, their expressions tense and cold. Across from them, you sat with San, your heart pounding as the final pieces of the puzzle came together. This was the moment you had been waiting for—the culmination of everything you’d fought so hard for.

Your family, finally here to support you, sat behind you, their presence a welcome comfort in this fraught situation. They had never believed you before and hadn't supported you at all, but you couldn’t help but not care today. You felt good today.

The judge took her seat at the bench, her sharp eyes scanning the room as she called the court to order. The tension was palpable as the final hearing began. This time, Jaeyoon and his family were the ones on trial, and you could feel the shift in the room—the power dynamic was no longer against you.

San stood up, his movements calm and measured as he approached the bench. He held a folder in his hand, the evidence that would finally expose Jaeyoon and his family for their crimes.

"Your Honor," San began, his voice steady and commanding, "the financial records that were subpoenaed have revealed a deeply concerning pattern of illegal transactions made by Mr. Baek Jaeyoon and his family. Over the past several months, large sums of money have been wired from Mr. Baek Jaeyoon’s personal account to an influential politician, Yoon Daechul. These funds were used to facilitate the procurement of illegal narcotics, which were then planted in Ms. L/N’s possession as part of a scheme orchestrated by Mr. Baek’s mother."

A murmur rippled through the courtroom as San presented the financial records, each one showing the repeated wire transfers. The judge’s expression remained neutral, but there was a spark of interest in her eyes as she leaned forward to examine the documents.

San continued, his voice unwavering. "The money trail is clear—each payment corresponds with a significant political favor or action, all of which led to the acquisition and placement of the drugs. This politician acted as a middleman, using his connections to secure the narcotics that were used to frame my client. The Baek family attempted to cover their tracks, but the records don’t lie."

The judge turned her attention to the prosecutor, who looked visibly rattled by the developments. "Does the prosecution have anything to say regarding these findings?"

The prosecutor stood, his expression stiff as he shook his head. "No, Your Honor. The evidence speaks for itself."

The judge nodded, then turned her gaze to Jaeyoon and his family. "Mr. Baek, your financial records clearly show that you and your family engaged in illegal transactions with a known politician in exchange for narcotics. This court will not tolerate such blatant disregard for the law, nor will it allow innocent individuals to be wrongfully accused as a result of your actions."

Jaeyoon’s mother shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her once imperious demeanor now replaced by visible anxiety. Jaeyoon himself remained stoic, but there was no mistaking the tension in his clenched jaw and stiff shoulders.

San took a breath before continuing. "Your Honor, I also want to address the broader context of this case. Ms. L/N and Mr. Baek Jaeyoon were once married, but their relationship took a dark turn. Ms. L/N sought a divorce after enduring emotional and physical harm at the hands of Mr. Baek. The situation escalated to such a degree that Ms. L/N was forced to file for a restraining order to protect herself."

He held up the restraining order for the court to see, his voice steady but filled with emotion. "This was not a simple marital dispute. Mr. Baek inflicted harm on Ms. L/N, both physically and emotionally. She had no choice but to separate from him and take legal measures to ensure her own safety."

San’s eyes flicked toward you for a moment, offering a reassuring glance before he turned back to the judge. "This conspiracy is an extension of Mr. Baek’s attempts to control and manipulate Ms. L/N. His actions have gone beyond personal harm and escalated into a criminal scheme designed to ruin her reputation and destroy her life."

Jaeyoon’s face reddened with anger. He shot up from his seat, glaring at San. "That’s a lie!" he shouted, his voice shaking with fury. "I never laid a hand on her—she’s exaggerating everything to make herself look like the victim!"

The judge raised an eyebrow, her gaze hardening. "Mr. Baek, you will refrain from speaking unless addressed directly by the court."

Jaeyoon’s mother, unable to remain silent any longer, stood as well, her voice sharp and indignant. "Your Honor, this is nothing more than a slanderous attack on my family! That woman—" she pointed accusingly at you—"has been trying to ruin my son from the beginning! She never belonged in our family, and she couldn’t handle the pressure of being part of something bigger than herself. This restraining order is just her way of making herself look innocent!"

The judge’s gaze was ice-cold as she replied. "Mrs. Baek, the restraining order was granted based on documented evidence of harm and harassment. This court will not dismiss it as a fabrication."

Jaeyoon, sensing the growing tension between himself and his mother, suddenly snapped. "You know what? Fine! Yes, the money was wired. Yes, the drugs were planted, but it wasn’t my idea!" He turned to his mother, his expression hardening. "This whole thing started because of her. She couldn’t stand the idea of losing control, and she dragged me into this mess."

His mother gasped audibly. "Jaeyoon! How dare you—"

"It’s the truth, Mother!" Jaeyoon snapped, his voice filled with anger and bitterness. "You said we had to get rid of Y/N no matter what if she went through with the divorce, that she was a threat to our reputation. You were the one who wanted to frame her! I went along with it, yes, but you were the mastermind!"

The courtroom buzzed with whispers and murmurs as Jaeyoon threw his mother under the bus. His mother, for the first time, looked truly rattled, her confident demeanor cracking. She opened her mouth to respond but couldn’t find the words.

The judge raised her hand, silencing the courtroom. "Regardless of who initiated the scheme, it is clear that both of you participated in an illegal conspiracy to harm Ms. L/N. The court is not interested in your blame-shifting; we are here to ensure justice is served. You will both be held accountable."

The judge turned back to you. "Ms. L/N, given the overwhelming evidence presented in this case, I hereby dismiss all charges against you. The court recognizes that you were the victim of an elaborate and malicious scheme. You are free to go."

Relief washed over you, your heart soaring as the weight of the past few months lifted from your shoulders. San’s hand brushed against yours beneath the table, a quiet gesture of support and reassurance. Behind you, your family let out sighs of relief, your mother placing a comforting hand on your shoulder.

But the judge wasn’t finished. Her gaze returned to Jaeyoon and his mother, her voice now firm. "Baek Jaeyoon, your mother, and any individuals involved in this conspiracy will now face charges of fraud, bribery, and conspiracy to commit a crime. This court will see to it that justice is served. You are hereby ordered to remain in custody pending further investigation."

The gavel struck the bench, and the courtroom erupted into a flurry of activity. Reporters scrambled to document the fallout as Jaeyoon and his family were escorted from the courtroom in disgrace, their faces pale and drawn.

You stood slowly, still processing the magnitude of what had just happened. San was beside you in an instant, his hand resting gently on your back. "It’s over," he said quietly, his voice filled with quiet triumph. "You’re free."

You turned to face him, tears welling in your eyes, but this time, they were tears of relief and gratitude. "Thank you," you whispered, your voice breaking slightly. "I couldn’t have done this without you."

San smiled softly, his eyes warm. "You didn’t have to. We were always in this together."

As you left the courtroom, surrounded by your family and the people who had fought beside you, you felt a sense of peace you hadn’t known in a long time.

Justice had been served, and for the first time in months, you could breathe freely, knowing that the truth had finally prevailed.

-×-×-×-

The morning sun cast a warm glow over the city as you drove toward Saturn & Co., your heart lighter than it had been in months. The events of the trial were still fresh in your mind—the relief of being exonerated, the weight of the accusations finally lifting off your shoulders.

Today, you were returning to the company you had built, ready to step back into your role as CEO with renewed purpose after weeks of suffering.

As your car approached the building, you noticed something different. A large crowd of employees stood gathered outside the front entrance, their faces lit with excitement. You slowed the car, your curiosity piqued, and as you pulled into your parking spot, the realization hit you—they were all waiting for you.

The moment you stepped out of the car, the sound of cheering erupted from the crowd. It caught you off guard, the sheer volume of their support overwhelming. Your heart swelled with emotion as you took in the scene in front of you.

"Welcome back, Ms. L/N!" someone shouted from the crowd, and soon, the voices of your employees echoed the sentiment, their cheers blending together in a wave of affection and celebration.

Your eyes landed on a large banner strung up across the front of the building. In bold, colorful letters, it read:

"Welcome Back to Our Beloved CEO! We’re So Proud of You!"

Tears pricked at your eyes as you stood there, momentarily stunned by the outpouring of love. These were the people who had stood by you throughout everything—who had never lost faith in you even when the world seemed determined to tear you down. They had believed in your innocence, and now, they were here to celebrate your return.

A soft hand rested on your shoulder, and you turned to see Yena standing beside you, her face glowing with pride. "We wanted to do something special for you," she said, her voice filled with warmth. "You’ve been through so much, and we’re just so happy to have you back where you belong."

You smiled at her, your heart full of gratitude. "Thank you, Yena," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "This means more than I can put into words."

You took a deep breath and began walking toward the entrance, the crowd parting to let you through. Your employees clapped and cheered as you made your way up the steps, and for the first time in a long while, you felt a sense of peace and belonging.

As you reached the front door, you paused for a moment, turning back to the crowd. "Thank you," you said, your voice carrying over the noise. "I’m so grateful for all of you. Saturn & Co. isn’t just a company—it’s a family. And I’m proud to be your CEO."

The applause grew louder, and you smiled, feeling the warmth of their support wrap around you like a protective shield. With renewed energy, you stepped into the building, ready to lead once more.

Inside, the familiar sights and sounds of the office greeted you—people bustling about, the hum of conversation, the scent of freshly brewed coffee. It felt like home, and after everything you had been through, you realized just how much this place—and these people—meant to you.

As you walked toward your office, you passed by employees who smiled at you, offering words of encouragement and congratulations. By the time you reached your desk, you felt lighter, more hopeful than you had in months.

Sitting down, you looked out over the city through the large windows, a smile playing on your lips. The battle had been long and hard, but you had emerged on the other side stronger than ever.

A knock was heard at your door before Yena stepped in, a bright smile on her face that caused one to form on yours too. "Ms. L/N... the surprises aren't done yet!"

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Really?"

"Mhmm, you have a dinner reservation with Attorney Choi San at the Signiel Hotel tonight," she says with a smirk, well aware of the feelings you had for San. "I also booked a suite for the two of you at the hotel."

You blushed, a small chuckle escaping your lips. "Yena... you're too much."

"I know!" she beamed. "I know you get off only at six thirty today, so I already packed a little bag for you. I also chose your outfit for tonight as well and I'll do your hair and makeup too!"

-×-×-×-

When you arrived at the restaurant in the hotel, your heart raced when you noticed San seated at a booth in the corner, looking at the Seoul skyline, the sun setting in the distance. He was wearing beige pants and a navy blue shirt with a couple of buttons undone. You were also wearing navy blue, and knowing Yena, you knew she purposely got you this dress to match with San.

As you moved closer to San, the sound of your heels caught his attention, and he turned to look at you.

He stands up, taking your hand in his. He brought your hand up to his lips, placing a delicate kiss at the back of it. "Y/N..." he greets, "you look gorgeous tonight."

You blush. "Thank you, so do you, Sannie."

San giggles. "Shall we?"

You take a seat across San, and he pours a glass of wine for you. "How was work? Yena told me your employees surprised you today." You nod your head, taking a sip of the sweet wine while you made conversation about the events of your day. San listened to you so attentively, his eyes full of adoration.

The waitress brought the food and you noticed it had some of your favorite dishes; ones that you told San you loved weeks ago. You felt really touched that he remembered your likes and dislikes.

The two of you ate in comfortable silence, occasionally talking about the food or an old memory while you both watched the sun set and the light from the buildings around became more bright.

After dinner, the two of you went to your suite at the hotel, putting on a romcom movie and sipping on some more wine. Throughout the movie, you were cuddled up to San's side, your arms wrapped around his muscular arm. You felt very at peace. You felt so safe with San.

Once the movie ended, you stretched your arms, getting up on your feet. You walk towards the floor-to-ceiling windows, placing a hand on the glass while you looked at the beautiful night view of Seoul.

San made his way towards you, pausing right behind you. "It's so pretty," you say in awe, turning around to look at him. The strap of your dress was nearly falling off your shoulder, catching San's attention.

San thought you were glowing. You looked so beautiful.

He took two slow steps towards you, towering over your smaller form. His eyes roamed all over your face. It seemed like he wanted to say something but was hesitant to.

"What's wrong, Sannie?" you ask, hand reaching up to cup his face. He placed a hand over yours while leaning into your touch. He was looking intensely in your eyes like as if he was looking for some signs.

"Can I kiss you?" San asks in the softest tone he could muster.

You smiled, feeling your cheeks heat up. "I'd like that."

San brought his free hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing along your skin. "You're so beautiful," he whispers, making you lean into his touch.

He leans down closer to you, brushing his lips against yours before gently kissing you. It felt just like how he kissed you at his place — soft, warm, and pure.

Your arms moved to wrap around his neck, pulling him even closer to you. You caught his bottom lip in between your teeth, giving it a light bite. San let out a faint moan at your actions, pressing his body against yours.

When San pulled away to breathe, you took the opportunity to kiss his neck, gently sucking and licking at his skin, making sure to leave a mark on him Your other hand traced the expanse of his shoulder before moving down his chest until you reached the button of his shirt that wasn't undone. You place your hand flat on his chest, and you could feel his heart beating fast.

You pulled away to look at him. "Can I?" you ask, eyes moving between his and the buttons of his shirt.

"Yes, please," he responds, and you slowly move your fingers to unbutton his shirt, his muscular chest and abs coming into view.

San swiftly swept you off your feet, carrying you bridal-style to the loveseat in the very corner of the living room. As soon as he sat down with you in his arms, you moved to straddle his lap. You gently push the navy blue shirt off his body, exposing his bare upper body to you.

Oh. My. Goodness. Holy. Fuck.

Now, this was a view you could never get enough of: San, half naked, looking up at you with hooded eyes, with the Seoul skyline in the background.

San smirked, extending his muscular arms along the top of the backrest of the loveseat. "Impressed?" He asks, titling his head slightly, a smug look on his face while he watched your eyes take in the sight of his body that he worked very hard on despite his hectic attorney schedule.

You leaned in to place a lingering kiss on his lips before you let yourself sit down completely on his lap, feeling his hard dick beneath you, the only barrier being the material of your panties and his pants.

You mimicked his smirk, straightening your body, reaching for the hem of your dress, taking it off right in front of his eyes, letting it pool on the ground, leaving you in just your lacey panties.

San's jaw dropped.

He shamelessly checked you out, eyes noticing the muscles on your thighs, his mind imagining his face getting squeezed by them.

If you thought San was hard enough beneath you before, he was even harder now.

"Impressed?" You ask, repeating his words, your hands running through his soft black hair before resting on his shoulders. You leaned in to kiss him again, grinding down on his hard clothed dick.

San was about to lose his mind. "Very," he practically growls.

You noticed he hadn't touched you in any way yet. You reach for his hands, bringing them up to your chest so he could grab your tits. When he looked at you, you nodded at him, giving him consent to touch you.

San brought your lips back to his in a hungry kiss while you continued to grind on his clothed dick. His hands played with your boobs, giving them a light massage, rolling your hard nipples between his fingers. You let out a moan in his mouth, and you could feel your panties sticking to your wet folds.

You slightly pulled away, resting your forehead against his. "San..." You say his name breathlessly. Your head spinning from the intensity of the kiss. Your clit was throbbing, begging to be touched in any way. "San, please."

"Please what, baby?" San murmurs, his hands moving up and down your thighs. The pet name from his lips caused a chill to run down your spine.

"I want you right now," you say, pressing your core down harder on his clothed dick.

"Want me how?" He knew the answer, but he wanted to tease you.

You lean down to kiss his neck, dragging kisses up to his earlobe, placing a soft kiss beneath his ear. "Attorney Choi... Choi San..." you whisper in his ear in a low tone. "I want you to fuck me right now."

San's hands moved up your thigh to your heated core. He touched you over the fabric of your panties, smirking at the wet patch he could feel. "So needy for me, hmm?"

He looked you straight in the eye when his hands moved to one side of your hip, ripping that side of your panties, repeating the same thing on the other side. You gasped at his actions, and he tossed the scraps onto your dress on the floor.

"I really liked those panties," you say with a light chuckle, moving your body up to make yourself more comfortable, but San stopped you midway; your tits were right in front of his face.

"I'll get you a whole pack of them later," he murmurs in a low tone. "But could you stay like this for me, hmm?"

He took your nipple in his mouth while his finger swiped your slit to collect the wetness there. He rubbed your slick onto your clit, using it as lube to better rub your clit.

"San, fuckkk," you moaned when his finger moved faster on your clit. Without any warning, he pushed two fingers inside your wet pussy, wasting no time in pumping his fingers in and out while his thumb rubbed your clit in circular motions.

San pulled his fingers out, and you whimpered at the loss of contact. He sucked his fingers clean before picking you up and taking you to the bedroom of the suite. He dropped you onto the bottom of the bed so that your legs were dangling off the edge.

San unbuckled his belt, tossing it aside, his pants and briefs off following shortly after. You marveled at the sight of him nude in front of you, your hips bucked up involuntarily at the mere sight of him. He dropped to his knees, his hands moving your legs to rest over his shoulder. He wasted no time in licking your slit, moaning at your sweet taste. He attached his mouth to your clit, licking and sucking the nub while he slowly introduced two fingers in again.

Your thighs were squeezing his head, just like he imagined, and your loud moans prompted him to pump his fingers even faster. You were so lost in your pleasure until your orgasm came crashing, and you came all over San's fingers.

You took a minute to compose yourself before you sat up straight, wrapping your hand around his hard cock. You pumped his length, your thumb rubbing circles on his slit. San moaned you name out before taking your lips in his, his tongue brushing across your lower lip. You opened your mouth slightly to give him more access, but he pulled away and stopped your hand from jerking him off further. "You're making me feel too good, sweetheart... I might just bust right now."

"Let me ride you then," you say to him.

San nods, moving to lie down in the middle of the bed. You hovered over his cock, leaning down to kiss him. "I'm on the pill," you let him know before sinking down onto his length.

You started moving down on his dick at a slow pace, wanting to take the time to familiarize yourself with the way his cock felt in you. You sunk down even more until you bottomed out. You gave yourself some time to adjust to his size before you increased the pace, bouncing on his dick.

His hands moved to cup your ass, helping you slam harder on him. "God, Y/N, I-I swear... you're so fucking hot taking my dick like that," he growls.

The room was filled with your combined moans and the sound of skin clapping, and you watched San's eyebrows furrow while his tongue darted out to wet his laps, his upper teeth sinking into his bottom lip while he moaned.

San loved the way your tits bounced and the way you threw your head back, but he wanted to take control now. Placing his hands on your hips, he stopped you from moving and quickly flipped you onto your back.

"Let me take care of you, yeah?" He slammed his cock in and out of you in a rapid pace, his hands interlocking with yours while he fucked you. He was repeatedly hitting your spot, and you felt the coil of pleasure tighten in your stomach. You tried to move your hands to touch him, but his hands held yours down with a little force, the gesture causing your clit to throb yet again.

"San... I... It's... I'm gonna..." you struggle to say. Your body felt like it was on fire.

"Let it go, baby, cum for me," San encourages, hand reaching down to rub your sensitive clit. Few more thrusts and an intense orgasm washes over your body, causing your body to shake while you chanted out his name.

"Hold on, baby, I'm almost there," San lets you know. He quickened his pace even more before coming to a stop, his dick pulsating in you when he reached his climax.

San slowly pulled out before collapsing next to you. He reached for your sticky, sweaty body, pulling you to his chest while you both tried to calm your breathing.

He kisses your forehead. "Are you okay?"

"Mhmm," you mumble, "It was so good." San chuckles, holding you close to him. "Hey, San?"

"Hmm?"

"You know I have feelings for you, right?" you confess.

"Oh really? I didn't know that!" he teases, and you lightly smack his chest. "Of course, I think everyone knows that now. But Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"You know I have feelings for you too, right?" he admits, and the butterflies in your stomach flutter around wildly.

"I... I wasn't too sure," you murmur honestly, "I felt like there was so much going on and... I don't know, I thought that you might like me, but I've been... too much lately, these past few months."

San strokes the back of your head. "And? If anything, these past few months where you were so vulnerable and yet so brave, so strong, has made me admire you even more. My feelings for you have only kept growing since the first time you stepped into my office. I want to be with you, Y/N. I want to show you the life you deserve."

"You do?" you ask in a soft tone, your heart racing at his confession.

"Yes, sweetheart," he chuckles lightly. "But I don't want to rush into anything. I know these past few months have been hard for you. I want you to take as much time you want or need before you decide that I'm the one you want."

You hum, thinking about his words, appreciating how considerate he's always been. "I only want you, San," you turn to look at him, "I'll always only want you. I want to take things slow," you mentally laugh, because you literally just had sex with him, "but I want to do it all with you."

San's smile widens, his dimples deepening as warmth fills his eyes. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering like a promise. "You have no idea how much that means to me," he whispers, voice hushed with emotion. "I never thought I'd find someone who sees me like you do."

Your heart swells, and you pull him into a sweet kiss, one where you both can't stop smiling. The way his lips move against yours feels like a silent vow, like this moment is the beginning of something more—something real.

When you break apart, you giggle softly, your foreheads resting together. "Let's take a shower together and then cuddle to sleep, hmm?"

San chuckles, his breath brushing your skin. "You sure you're not trying to tempt me again?" His eyes twinkle with playful mischief.

You pretend to think about it, biting your lip. "Maybe… or maybe I just want to hold you close and feel safe in your arms."

San’s grin softens into something more intimate, his gaze steady on yours. "Then let me take care of you, the way you deserve. Always."

As you both make your way to the shower, hand in hand, the future doesn’t feel so uncertain anymore. For the first time in a long while, you're no longer weighed down by the past or the fear of what might happen next. All that matters is this—San, you, and the love that's beginning to blossom between you.

And as the warm water cascades over you both, washing away all the worries of the day, you know deep down, you're exactly where you belong.

995 notes · View notes

keelt9 · 2 months ago

Text

TICK TACK

Masterlist

A/N: I don’t know but yeah, I see Oscar on leading for a while… plus I’m optimistic for the championship.

Should I post part 2? Pt. 2😏

She didn’t mean to fail the last exam, forcing her to sentence her subject and the last semester of her career. Still, there she is sitting as she taps the wooden floor with her best friend giving her all the support she could.

“I still don’t get it.” Gema said seeing down where the last group of students are answering the exam as the other two groups remind up there of the auditorium, waiting.

That’s how Doctor Thurpin works, you fail a test and if you want it back that grade, he gladly will wait for you the next weekend, literally weekend because he, quote, likes the Sunday for a good and refreshing replacement of exam.

“You are so good at this. How do you fail?” Gema sentences looking around the people who are tired and impatient for Mr. Thurpin, started to grade.

Y/N tosses her hair in desperation.

“I DON’T!” The room full of shh as the eagle eyes of Mr. Truphin makes her scream in silence. “It was the GP of Bahrain, I stayed awake until 4 in the morning and I woke up at 7 am.”

She scoffs, still hard to believe how life is playing tricks with her. “At that hour the exam begins, I fall asleep.”

Running and with different shoes, she arrived at a closed classroom hoping for mercy but Mr. Thurpin only pointed to his watch through the windows before waving his hand.

“Talking with Oscar, huh?”

For Gema it is still hard to believe, if three years ago someone told her on a random day she found the one and only Oscar Pastri coming out of the bedroom on the 4th floor of their dormitory as her best friend grabbing his hand, she would call them crazy.

Until her eyes witness. Gema left the dormitory that weekend to spend a few days with her family, Y/N told her she had a lot of homework so she will be staying, she forgot to mention her homework, which is called Oscar Piastri.

Almost a heart attack after, she discovers that weekend her best friend made official the relationship with a boy she met on a casual day, last summer, as she helps her mother in the store they had next to the beach.

“I wish. Actually, I was waiting for his call.” She smiles, lighting up the screen of his phone. “But the press conferences kept him busy.”

A photo of Oscar with his first trophy, the first win.

“By the way, thanks for changing my flight.” Y/N said to tangle her arm with her best friend.

She was supposed to be in the airport taking a flight to Saudi Arabia for the grand prix, instead of waiting for a grade.

Gema takes another gummy. “No worries, I call it good persuasion and family contacts.”

The ringing of the bells announce the end of the exam of the third group, finally Mr. Thurpin will begin to grade under the anxious eyes of his students.

Taking his damn time like he actually doesn't know every answer.

“I'm freaking out.” Y/N whine seeing another text of Oscar.

>I couldn't find you! Dinner later?

She doesn't mean to lie to him, however for Oscar she arrived in Saudi Arabia time, early in the morning.

Watching the free practice and the race from the stands where she said prefers to, otherwise she would freak out hearing him with a lot of numbers and letters on the big screens.

Of course Oscar adapts her choice to the VIP zone, in the stands but in a zone he's able to see her every time he goes down from the car.

But, this Grand Prix is an overwhelming step of what he's capable of doing and he's hungry for the victory. And she doesn't want him being distracted for anything else, of course less for her.

Gema didn't need to read it, the way she hissed as her phone started to spin between her fingers is all she needed for knowing Y/N lied about something.

“He doesn't know, huh?” Gema asks as they hear another person being called for the note.

Y/N let her head down, shaking it. “The race is the most important thing, he must be focused on that.”

Gema has seen how Oscar looks at her, she is essential for him, to be in an important race it’s pure fuel to him.

“You'll be there, don't worry.” Y/N sees her. “Or we can find a way to get you there.”

Gema winks at her.

Oscar is nervous, it's late at night and his message, still with no response, he's not that toxic but it's strange.

The time difference isn't helpful sometimes but she replies no matter the time, this time seems to be the exception.

“All good?” Lando asks as they walk inside of the hotel after dinner together.

Oscar's eyes aren't stuck to his phone but his hand does.

Oscar moves his head around searching among the few people in the lobby.

“Have you seen Y/N?” Oscar asks as Lando smiles seeing his friend so over the clouds.

His non expressive face changes into a breezy smile and bright eyes every time he's with her.

“That clingy, huh?” Lando teases him as he scoffs.

“I haven't seen her, and she hasn't replied, I'm a little worried.” Oscar sees his screen but nothing, just her picture.

Last year, she was in the middle of the paddock doing homework before the qualy, notebook on her lap and headphones over as she heard all the indications to Oscar, she jokes with him saying it’s her favorite playlist. He owes the photo to one of his engineers.

Ok, for Lando that's weird too. Yeah, she isn't the most searched wag of the paddock but she's nice and lovely plus hates to worry Oscar.

Lando thinks for a second, who could find out something, but he doesn't have a clue.

“If you call her?” The lethal eyes of Oscar is the sign of how stupid his question is.

He already called her…right to the voicemail after the third beep.

The elevator doors open even though he is willing to wait for her; he also knows must sleep early.

Dragging his feets to the room he gets ready to go inside of the bed with discomfort all the time.

When his phone rings, Y/N is calling.

��Ba…” Oscar begins but she doesn't let him talk.

“I'm sorry, I lied to you.” She hears anger as the audible sound of wheels against the floor calls for his attention. “I… fuck, I couldn't take the plane on time, and the one I had scheduled is cancel…”

Is not hard to imagine her furious sitting next to her suitcase tired as she keeps looking at the screen where the flight status doesn't change at all.

“Are you alright?” The question of Oscar makes her eyes watery, this isn't exactly she refuses to call him, he will say something that makes her want to cry.

Oscar hears the sniff through the call, wanting badly to hold her but he simply can’t.

After a detailed description of what happened Oscar understood the reason for her silence.

“Love, I already told you if you had more important things to do next day, it’s ok, you don’t need to watch the race.” Oscar said sitting on the bed feeling useless for not being able to do something.

She’s seeing the planes leaving and arriving from the big crystal walls. “Are you trying to get me more mad?”

The same times, she told him that she can’t be with him at every race. She likes to think watching the race is the minimum she can do for him, in a way to be with him even in the distance.

“It’s my fault, ok? You know I don’t have trouble with waking up the next day… This time my alarm doesn’t work as it should.” She slipped on the floor one more time. “I’m sorry I can be with you tomorrow.”

“Can you do one thing for me instead?” Oscar smiles at himself.

Y/N chuckles. “Without a question.”

“Go home, sleep, you probably need it and watch the race tomorrow as you eat something delicious.” She feels her heart squeeze as his tenedernes. “I’ll make sure to fly as soon as I finish everything here. George wouldn't mind giving me a ride.”

She giggles seeing the same status of her flight: cancel.

“I’m…”

Oscar shakes his head and cuts her. “One more apology and I swear to you I’m going to be stressed for tomorrow.”

“NO!” She feels shy when multiple eyes land on her sitting on the floor. “Sleep, and focus on the race, that’s all you need to do.” She breathes in and resigns herself to missing the race. “I’ll be watching you ok?”

Oscar smiles and nods. “I know.”

Y/N plays with the zip of her suitcase. “I love you.” Oscar definitely knows how to comfort her.

“I love you too, I know we’ll be celebrating you at the top… You’re a monster on track Oscar, believe it.”

Oscar closes his eyes, seeing the charm he always carries with him, next to the bed.

In the drivers parade he keeps focus, he talks with some pilots but his mind is control and focus, he knows having Max at his side in the first position it’s always a beating risk, still he’s not afraid.

Getting inside of the room, he changes his clothes in calmness, when a knock on the door distracts him.

Tom, his engineer, appears in the room. “Oscar, let’s go.”

Oscar nods, watching one last time their photo with a pair of tape at the four corners.

“She couldn’t come huh?” Tom knows who Y/N is, he must know the girl who is being so discreet about their relationship, still so unbothered each time she needs to show Oscar how much he cares about him.

“Sometimes I hate the commercial flights!” He shouts in whisper touching the photo before walking to the garage.

With the last indications of the team Oscar goes inside of the car taking mental notes of the telemetry and the indication of the team.

“Ok, Oscar, radio check.” He hears once he’s inside of the car.

“Copy.” He answers, making sure all inside it’s all right.

“Ok Oscar, before we start we want to run one last test.” Oscar sees in front where all the engineers are but any of them turn around, one last test in the last minutes? “We call it missed assistance.”

Oscar scoff. “Is it legal?”

“It’s a valid test with no virtual witness.” Oscar is more intrigued, but they don't ask him more questions.

“Radio check.” Her voice put in alert all the senses of Oscar scanning over and over the garage in the front part.

He giggles. “Copy.”

“That advance is technology, huh?” Oscar is sure she never imagined how much he loves her rambling. “Talking through my phone to the helmet of an F1 driver.”

Oscar let his head back under the cheeky eyes of his team. “Not any formula one driver.”

“Right! Sure, I forgot to specify.” She laughs. “Oscar Pastri helmet, which will result in my boyfriend, it's an out of world experience.”

Oscar laughs, at the other side of the garage Lando is shaking his head before going inside of the car, you don’t have to question yourself who is calling him.

“Now, Tom told me to be short.” She cleared her throat. “Drive safe, focus and it’s useless to say but stay calm, and the most important thing…”

“Have fun.” Even though he refuses to bring that feeling he wishes she could be there to hear those words as she is resting among his arms and her arms around his neck.

“NO.” She raises her voice. “Win that race!”

Oscar laughs harder this time. Even Zak can hear him, looking at Tom who has a proud smile on his face.

“I’m joking.” She stops laughing too. “Have fun, ok?”

“God! I wish you were here.” Oscar whispered.

Before Tom interrupts them. “Ok, baby doves, it’s time, one last word Y/N please.”

“I love you.” Who said it first doesn't even care, the important thing is the last words they heard from each other.

#f1 #oscar piastri x reader #f1 imagine #formula 1 #f1 x reader #oscar piastri fanfic #f1 fanfic #f1 x female reader #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri

250 notes · View notes

emphasisonthehomo · 1 month ago

Note

Writing prompt! No. 10, desperate kiss 👀

10. A... desperate kiss.

This got longer than anticipated, whoops.

Bobby lives au because I say so.

•

Buck knows he might be to too close to this. Scratch that, he absolutely is. He doesn’t think anyone else has noticed yet. If they have, they haven’t said anything. He should say something. The 118 and the 135 are just here for emergency medical support, LAPD is taking the lead on this. Everything is still developing. Hostage situation at the Apple store.

Tommy’s truck is parked in front of it.

It’s absolutely Tommy’s truck. Even if it didn’t have the tiny crystal sun catcher hanging from the rear view mirror, Buck knows what Tommy’s license plate number is. But it could mean nothing. This is an outside mall, there are a lot of stores in the area. Tommy could be in any of those. There’s a bakery nearby that’s the type of place Tommy would go. He’s got a sweet tooth.

After the lab, after the helicopter, Buck had planned to bring him some cake. A lackluster ‘Thank You For Stealing A Helicopter’ but a thank you all the same. After the hospital, after the close call with Chimney and Bobby, Buck had forgotten. Regret sloshes in the pit of his stomach.

They don’t know what LAPD is up to. The hostage negotiator has barely arrived, and the command center tent has just finished being set up. It looks like they’re settling in for the long haul. Laid out in front of the wide glass windows of the Apple store, Buck keeps his eyes fixed on what he can see of the hostages.

Several people are laid out flat on the floor, hands on their heads. He hasn’t seen Tommy yet. He might not see Tommy at all, there’s tables and other hostages in the way. The glare on the glass from the sun makes it difficult to see anything specific.

“There’s no use peering into windows, Buck,” Bobby says looking amused, “I doubt they’ll let us much closer.”

“…Yeah,” Buck says distractedly, not taking his eyes away from the windows.

Hen hums to herself and checks her phone. Ravi leans against the engine. Chimney follows Buck’s line of sight and says–

“Is that Tommy’s truck?”

Yes.

“It might be,” Buck says, keeping his voice careful and flat, “I don’t see him in there though.”

He hopes. He hopes.

He can feel panic, starting to build inexorably at the back of his brain, can feel adrenaline fighting to burst into action. He keeps himself still. After all, there’s no confirmation Tommy’s even inside. Tommy could be anywhere else nearby. There’s a movie theater nearby, maybe he’s there. It’s fine. He’s fine.

There’s no noise, but he knows everyone is staring at him now, can feel the prickle of their attention on the back of his neck.

“Buck,” Bobby says gently.

“It’s fine,” Buck says, hating how his voice has gotten shrill, “He might not be in there.”

The universe hates him.

Gunshots crack through the quiet tension. One of the huge windows of the Apple Store shatters, falling apart in slow motion as it showers shards across the street and the store. People start screaming.

Buck’s moving before he realizes it, jolting out into the parking lot, his long legs carrying him ten feet before a strong hand grasps his bicep.

“-uck!”

Buck turns around, panic well and truly sinking in. Bobby’s grip is like iron. Hen’s soon joins it, grabbing his other arm.

“Wait,” Bobby says firmly, “Wait. I know it’s hard, but you help nothing running in there right now.

“But–”

The screaming grows. Without looking behind him, Buck knows the Apple store has collapsed into chaos. He can hear people yelling through a megaphone, can hear running footsteps. There are more gunshots. His entire body flinches in response.

“Wait,” Bobby repeats, his face serious but his eyes gentle, “It might not even be his truck.”

“It’s his truck!” Buck insists, twisting against them.

Chimney’s gotten behind Buck somehow and has a careful hand on his back. They start ushering him back to the engine, to where Ravi is watching this all with huge eyes.

“I never–,” Buck knows he’s being irrational. He doesn’t care, “I n-never said–”

He never said so many things. Never said ‘Thank you.’ Never said ‘I’m sorry.’

Never said ‘I’m in love with you.’

“Wait,” Hen’s voice is calm. Quiet.

Buck waits.

He waits, trying to ignore how it feels like he’s buzzing out of his skin. He waits and he stares at the broken window and hopes to god Tommy’s not in there. He waits until the chaos calms down, until LAPD gestures for them to head in. There’s thankfully only one major casualty.

“Buck,” Bobby says like a warning when he follows after Hen and Chim.

“I’m good,” Buck insists.

And then it doesn’t matter, because they’re running in through the broken window. There’s someone in a ski mask face down being cuffed, but Buck’s eyes glance over more broken glass, broken computers, abandoned purses and sees–

Tommy.

There’s blood on his hands, some of it smeared on his face, and he’s clearly in work mode. A middle-aged woman is laying on the floor next to him, tear tracks visible in the makeup on her face, as Tommy holds pressure against her heavily bleeding leg. Tommy speaks to her, low and reassuring, and glances up as Hen and Chimney get close.

“See?” Tommy says, glancing up. His eyes widen in surprise when he sees Buck, but his tone doesn’t waver, “Told you, you’re gonna be in good hands.”

Relief swamps Buck from the top of his head and floods down to his toes. Hen and Chim drop down to take over, and he barely hears as Tommy rattles off what he knows about the patient. Irene, 55, type two diabetic.

“Hey,” Tommy’s standing now, arms held awkwardly away from his body.

Tommy’s in a pair of jeans and a white henley. There’s blood on his shirt. Buck’s at work. There’s something he should be doing right now. Checking up on the other hostages, checking on any cuts and bruises. There’s a lot of broken glass scattered around them. Instead, Buck reaches out, hooks a hand around the back of Tommy’s neck, and pulls him into a rough, desperate kiss.

It’s a stupid thing to do, but he honestly doesn’t care. Tommy’s lips are slightly chapped, and he makes a surprised noise against Buck’s mouth. Tommy’s hands clutch at his middle immediately, a familiar weight and heat that he’s missed.

Hen clears her throat loudly. Buck jerks away like he’s been burned. Tommy’s eyes are huge and shocked.

“Awww,” Irene says, from where Chimney and Hen have shifted her onto the gurney. Mascara is streaked down her cheeks, but she’s calmed down, “Are you two married?”

Tommy’s face goes pink.

“They’re exes,” Chim says with a sigh.

“For now,” Hen says sotto voce.

“Oh,” Irene sounds disappointed.

“Go help Ravi,” Tommy says, looking down at his still bloody hands. Avoiding eye contact, “I gotta… talk to the cops probably.”

There’s blood on Buck’s uniform now. He doesn’t care about that either.

“Can we talk later?” Buck blurts out hopefully.

Tommy looks at him then, eyes questioning. Maybe a little hopeful as well.

“Yeah,” Tommy says eventually, “I’d like that.”

#aron's fic #911 #bucktommy #tevan

225 notes · View notes

jxmis · 3 months ago

Text

You're Losing Me

Parings: Rosé Park x Reader

Summary: Y/N struggles with Rosé’s growing distance as fame consumes her. As their relationship slowly fades, someone unexpected is always there, offering comfort and understanding.

Warning(s): angst, bit of fluff, slight swearing, toxic behavior

A/N: Heyyyy.. kinda back.. kinda not lol. The pinks have been feeding us a lot recently. Been obsessed with them soooo here's this. I was driving this early morning and this song (You're Losing Me by Taylor Swift) came up after not listening to it for a longgg time and I immediately thought of rosé idk why. since i have a lot of free time rn.. decided to make a lil something. Plus i’ve had this lil graphic design made for monthsss now and i just wanna use it already 😭

The dim glow of Seoul’s skyline flickered beyond the glass windows of Y/N’s studio, the city alive with a pulse that she no longer felt. A year ago, nights like these were filled with laughter, tangled limbs, and whispered dreams. Now, the only sound was the steady hum of the speakers, a beat playing on loop—one she couldn’t bring herself to finish.

Rosé was overseas again. Paris, maybe. Or New York. The details had blurred together, lost in a schedule that no longer included her.

Their relationship had been an open secret among close friends. Between their packed schedules, stolen weekends in hidden corners of Seoul, and phone calls with whispered confessions in-between rehearsals, they had built something real. Something unshakable.

Or so Y/N thought.

Before everything started slipping, they had shared some of their happiest moments together.

"Yah, stop running away!" Rosé whined as Y/N dodged her attempt to smear cake frosting on their face. They had been celebrating Y/N’s first solo win at a hidden café in Hongdae, far from prying eyes. Jennie, Lisa, and Jisoo were there, laughing at their antics, while Jimin and Ryujin cheered Rosé on hoping for her to succeed.

"Baby, if you ruin my outfit, I'll make sure to trip you on stage next comeback," Y/N threatened playfully, making the girls cackle in the background.

"Oh, please, like you could ever hurt me," Rosé teased, but there was nothing but love in her eyes.

It was easy then. Love had been easy. So what went wrong?

That was before Rosé’s solo career took off. After finally taking charge of her own solo career path, outside of YG. In which you've been nothing but supportive and are very proud of her. However, you can't help but notice the slight ways your relationship has changed. How it's slowly dying.

Y/N traced absent-minded circles on the notebook in front of her, lyrics smudged by ink-stained fingertips. Their phone buzzed, the name flashing across the screen momentarily igniting something in their chest. My Number One Girl 🌹.

With a sharp inhale, she grabbed the device. "Hey," her voice was quiet, cautious.

"Hey, babe." The sound of music and indistinct chatter filtered through the call, Rosé’s voice distant. "Just landed in LA. I have a shoot tomorrow, but I wanted to check in. You’re good, right?"

Y/N forced a smile, even though Rosé couldn’t see. "Yeah, just working on some music. How’s everything?"

"Crazy, but good. Lisa and Jennie are here too. We were just talking about you!"

That should’ve made her happy. It didn’t. "Oh?"

"Yeah! Lisa was saying how we should all hang out when I’m back. We really need to!" Rosé’s laugh was bright, but Y/N noticed the way it felt... practiced. "Anyway, I have to go soon, but I’ll text you, okay? Love you."

"Love you too." But the line had already gone dead.

Y/N let the phone drop onto the desk, staring at it like it might somehow hold answers. She knew Rosé meant well. She knew Rosé loved her. But love wasn’t supposed to feel this lonely.

"She’s losing you, Y/N," Jimin said bluntly, stirring her iced coffee as they sat in a small café tucked away from the bustle of the city. "And she doesn’t even realize it."

Y/N sighed, slumping against the seat. "I know."

"Then why are you letting it happen?" Jimin’s dark eyes searched her face, concern evident. "You deserve more than just leftovers of someone’s time."

Ryujin nudged Jimin’s arm. "Not everyone can walk away so easily. Y/N and Rosé… they’ve been through a lot."

"But at what cost?" Jimin countered. "A relationship shouldn’t feel like this. Y/N shouldn't be staying in this relationship just because they've been through a lot together. What matters most is the present. And currently she’s being treated like shit."

Y/N ran a hand through her hair, frustration bubbling beneath her ribs. "It’s not that simple."

Jimin leaned forward, voice softer now. "I know it’s not. But you shouldn’t have to beg to be remembered. Shouldn't have to beg for someone's time and effort. A relationship goes both ways. It can't always be you giving and giving while getting the bare minimum.. mostly nothing in return."

----

That night, Y/N stared at the half-finished song on her desk, her chest tight. The words weren’t about passion or longing anymore. They were about absence. About someone slipping through her fingers like grains of sand, no matter how hard she tried to hold on.

Rosé was still hers. But for how much longer?

Days turned to weeks. The distance stretched further, Rosie’s messages growing shorter, the time between them longer. Y/N kept telling herself she was fine. That this was temporary. That Rosé would come back and everything would be as it was.

But when Rosé finally returned to Seoul, nothing felt the same.

They sat in Y/N’s apartment, the city buzzing outside. Rosie looked tired, but radiant. The kind of glow that came from living in the center of the world.

"I missed you," Y/N said softly, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Rosé’s ear.

Rosé smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "I missed you too."

Lies tasted sweet when spoken softly. Y/N swallowed them whole.

They tried. They really did. But something had shifted, and no amount of whispered promises or late-night apologies could stitch them back together.

And then, one night, Y/N stopped waiting.

Jimin found Y/N on the rooftop of the company building, knees pulled to her chest, a cigarette burning between her fingers.

"You don’t even smoke," Jimin remarked, plucking it away before Y/N could argue.

Y/N exhaled, the cold air biting at her skin. "It’s over."

Jimin sat beside her, silent for a moment. "Did she say that?"

"She didn’t have to. She’s been saying it in every missed call, every canceled plan, every excuse," you respond, your tone filled with nothing but acceptance.

Jimin’s fingers brushed against Y/N’s hand, tentative. "I’m sorry."

Y/N turned to look at her, really look at her. Jimin, who had been there through every breakdown. Jimin, who never forgot to check in. Jimin, who was always waiting in the wings, never asking for more than Y/N was willing to give.

And for the first time in a long time, Y/N felt seen.

The rooftop lights cast a soft glow around them, the city stretching endlessly beyond. Y/N’s heartbeat was steady, a slow rhythm against the chaos of her mind.

She didn’t know what this was. Not yet.

But maybe, just maybe, she was finally ready to find out. However, a soft buzz from her phone pulls her thoughts away.

[ROSÉ]: Just landed back in Korea. I miss you. I’ll see you soon, love.

You stare at the message, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Why is she suddenly messaging you this now? Love… Rosé texting that seems foreign to you now. It feels out of place, like a word from another lifetime.

You keep staring at the message, your mind racing. What once felt like a natural connection now seems like a puzzle you can't quite solve. Time seems to stretch, and what feels like hours pass. You’re lost in your own thoughts, so absorbed that you forget Jimin is sitting right next to you. Her concern grows as she watches you, her eyes flickering between you and the screen, unsure if you're okay.

"Wanna go grab dinner at your favorite hotpot place? It's on me," Jimin asks suddenly. The softness in her tone catches you off guard, snapping you out of your spiral of thoughts. You blink a few times, trying to process everything. The quiet care in her voice stirs something in your chest, making you realize just how much you’ve been blindsided recently. How wrapped up you've been in everything else, only to now notice the concern in Jimin's eyes and the offer to be there for you.

Now, a choice stood before them.

And for the first time, Y/N wasn’t sure if they would choose Rosé.

⚝──⭒─⭑─⭒──⚝ ⚝──⭒─⭑─⭒──⚝ ⚝──⭒─⭑─⭒──

The end.

#rose blackpink #rosé park x reader #roseanne park #park chaeyoung #park chaeyoung x reader #blackpink #blackpink fic #yu jimin x reader #karina x reader #aespa #itzy #jennie kim #kim jisoo #lisa manobal #blackpink x reader #blackpink roseanne

233 notes · View notes

wardenparker · 2 days ago

Text

The Secret of My Success, ch 1

Harry Castillo x plus size reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

When not even a professional matchmaking firm can help Harry Castillo find love, he turns his attention to helping his best friend meet their soulmate instead. The surprise of finding his own in the process will challenge the attitude Harry has taken toward dating for his entire life, and open up a whole new world of romance.

(This story picks up where the last chapter of The Unbearable Weight of Perfection leaves off, and will weave in a few other soulmate characters from previous stories just for fun. Don't worry if you haven't read those stories though! I'll be dropping the pertinent references in each chapter's note section to read along with Harry and his soulmate's adventures.)

Rating: M for Mature but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 12.6k Warnings: *Reader is nicknamed Mack* Continuous warnings for: food/alcohol consumption, tobacco smoking. Mentions of past bullying and mistreatment, a bit of humanizing judgmental behavior. Summary: Harry attends his best friend's engagement party, only to find that Percy's old childhood partner in crime is quite charming in her own right. Notes: In this first chapter, we have references to Tamara's friend the fashion designer whose husband is from Mallorca. Wave hi to Javi G and his amor as you read!

The ringing telephones and buzz of activity from even down the hall doesn’t reach the plush, insulated capsule of this office. The windows are encompassing, giving a sweeping view of the city that would stun visitors and impress investors. The power harness from floor to ceiling views of the most powerful financial district in the world. His back is to that view, phone pressed to his ear as he talks. “I think that with that kind of margin, we would be stupid to invest.” He says bluntly, aware that the news won’t be well received but that’s not his problem. “No, they’ve significantly overstated their assets and at this point, it’s looking more like fraud than idiocracy.”

The knock at the door draws Harry Castillo’s attention, making him look up and frown as his best friend motions for him to wrap up the call. Shaking his wrist and looking at the Patek Philippe watch on his wrist makes him wince. “No, I understand.” He murmurs. “Tom, we will have to discuss this later. Think about what I’ve said.” He tells the man on the other end of the line, rolling his eyes with annoyance when the entire point seems to fly right over that man’s head. “Uh huh, uh huh.” He stands. “Yes. Well, that’s an interesting way of looking at it.” He shakes his head, nodding towards Percy Stokes, rushing him along. “Okay, well, I have a meeting that I’m walking into, so I’ll get back to you on that.” He says abruptly, finally managing to break through the endless monologue before saying a hurried goodbye and pulling the phone away from his ear.

“Come on.” Percy huffs. “We’re gonna be late.” He shakes his head. “And Tamara will kill me.”

Harry grins, sliding his phone into the inner pocket of his suit and pulling down the edge of his jacket to straighten it out. Luckily his tie was still straight and he hadn’t run a hand through his hair. “She would if you were late to your own engagement party.” He agrees.

“Which is why we’re not gonna be late.” Percy says with absolute certainty. He’s waving Harry toward the door with enthusiasm, checking his own appearance in one of the mirrors build into the walls of the office. Harry is technically his boss but he’s far more of a friend. He’d become that along the way, as they both came up through the financial game together. The Castillo family’s connections were pure gold and Harry hadn’t minded being a sort of big brother figure to the new guy in the family firm when Percy had started years ago. Now they’re each other’s number one fan and best supporter in work and out of it.

“Do you have her gift?” He asks, knowing that it’s customary to give your fiancée a gift before the wedding. He had voted on the Tiffany earrings, but he didn’t know what Percy had chosen.

Percy pats the breast pocket of his suit jacket and beams. “The earrings were perfect,” he tells Harry as they dash for the elevator. “I went with the platinum setting. Matches her engagement ring that way.”

“Nice.” He holds the door open for Percy and steps in after he’s in the car, pressing the button for the lobby. “The car is outside; we should be there with time to spare.” He promises.

"Only because your guy finds like...pocket dimensions to drive through." Percy jokes. Harry's driver, an older man named Stanley with a sharp tongue and a hell of a sense of humor, is a goddamn treasure and everybody knows it.

“He’s driven in Manhattan.” Harry snorts. “That qualifies as a combat tour.”

"You're not wrong." Percy snorts. He leans back in the elevator car as it drops swiftly down the controlled track from the thirtieth floor down to the ground. He's jittery and excited and can't stop grinning. Tonight is going to be perfect.

“So who all is Tamara gonna invite from her end?” He asks. “I know that you’re moving to L.A., but we’ve planned all the wedding activities here.”

“She’s got some family coming down, and a few people in from LA.” His Canadian-born fiancée seems to have friends and family everywhere, and he fiddle with the cuff of his shirt sleeve where it lays over the white ink maple leaf tattoo he has from her. “Basically her family and her bridesmaids. If I read the guest list correctly for tonight, the husbands are all home with their kids and the girls are making a weekend of it.”

“That’s a shame.” Harry chuckles. “Seems like I’ll never get to meet the famous Javi Gutierrez.” He jokes. “People say we look like we are related.”

“He’s coming to the wedding,” Percy assures him as the elevator touches down on the ground floor. “His wife is one of Tam’s bridesmaids and apparently he loves weddings, which doesn’t surprise me after having met a bunch of their friends.”

Harry hums as the doors open. “Good, I’ve been wanting to talk about property in Mallorca.”

The two men stride out the glass doors of their office building and slide into a car, but Percy scoffs even before they get settled. “So that’s the travel obsession this month? Mallorca?” Harry itches to travel but never makes the time for himself and everyone knows it. Last month he had been pouring over travel itineraries for New Zealand.

“Yeah, I was thinking that it could be a good investment.” He admits. “Maybe a diversity into a resort style property.”

“You’re going to buy a hotel?” Percy’s eyebrow ticks up skeptically.

“Why not?” He shrugs slightly. “No different than owning the apartment buildings in SoHo.”

“From finance heir to real estate mogul.” The younger man laughs, nudging Harry’s shoulder. “Hey man, if that’s what you want to do? Enjoy it. Make sure they keep an owner’s suite ready for you to drop by whenever.”

“Exactly.” He grins as Stanley guides the car out into traffic and away from the skyscraper. ‘Castillo Holdings’ is proudly proclaimed in large gold letters at the top of the building and on the plaque mortared into the stone pillar beside the doors. “Name it ‘Harry’s Place’ or some whimsical kind of thing.”

Percy snorts. “This from the man who gets a giggle out of taking business dinners to Harry’s instead of Delmonico’s. Of course you would call it Harry’s Place.”

He smirks slightly, tapping his fingers on his knee. Forcing himself not to trace the scars on the side of his thigh like he would do if he was alone. “Like you wouldn’t do the same.” He huffs back playfully.

“Percy’s Palace,” he answers without hesitation, smirking right back at his friend. “Gotta have that alliteration.”

“Palace, huh?” He chuckles softly, nodding in agreement. “I like it. It would be a place that people would talk about.”

“Hell yeah they would.” Taking the approval as a compliment, he grins. “Build it right on the Vegas strip. Blow Caesar’s out of the water.”

“Now you’re talking serious investment.” It’s almost immediately that his mind starts turning over that information. Running the numbers.

"Tam loves Vegas." Percy reveals, his smirk slipping into something much more besotted. After meeting at that fateful Met Gala a month ago, he and Tamara had flown to Las Vegas for a week and spent time wrapped up in each other learning everything they could about the soulmate they had been searching for, for so long.

“You’re lucky.” Harry will admit that easily, not a hint of jealousy, even though he knows that he hides really well. “Honestly, she’s perfect for you.”

"You're next." Percy insists. He leans back in his seat and watches Manhattan roll past the windows, contended as a house cat. "I know you're bummed about not having marks, but I know we can find you the right girl."

“Yeah.” Harry nods, not willing to bring down Percy with his own depressive thoughts. He had tried that route, went logical. Lucy had ended up breaking up with him. “She’s out there.”

"Who knows?" He's trying to be encouraging, but Percy is in that giddy, dreamy place of a new relationship where everything is love-centric. And more than that, his love-centric. "Maybe it's one of Tam's friends?"

“It’s possible.” He chuckles, doubting it. He honestly doesn’t know if he’s meant for love. Maybe he doesn’t have marks because he’s not suitable for that kind of relationship. It happens. It’s just convincing his mother than it’s not the universes fault.

They're a little bit quieter by the time they arrive at the party. The Clover Club is a favorite bar with excellent crafted cocktails, unique beers, and gourmet bar food that is a perfect choice for the intimate engagement party of two people who grew up casual but like to indulge in the finer things now that it's not out of budget.

Tamara, radiant in a white dress with pink flowers, squeaks with delight when she sees the sleek, black Maserati pull up to the curb. She is getting out of an Uber with her parents and little sister but her focus has immediately shifted.

“There she is.” Percy barely waits for the car to stop before he is jumping out. Harry chuckles as he follows behind him a moment later after the car actually stops rolling. “See? We arrived at the perfect time.” He calls out to Percy, waving to Tamara politely even though she only has eyes for her soulmate at the moment.

The couple murmur to each of quietly for a moment, savoring a few sweet kisses after three impossibly long days apart. When Tamara can finally do something other than gaze adoringly into Percy's eyes, she sighs happily and looks back to the people around them. She introduces her mother, father, and her sister to her newly-minted fiancé and Percy introduces Harry in turn.

They seem like nice people, although it’s clear that they are a little out of their depths. He doesn’t miss the speculative looks as they try to take everything in all at once.

"It's our first time in New York City," Tamara's sister Renee explains. "It's...a lot."

"It's beautiful," her mother sighs happily.

"We can't wait to show you the sights." Percy ushers everyone inside. They're the first arrivals, and others will be coming momentarily, but he wants to have everyone settled. "Harry's going to come look at venues with us this weekend but I promise we won't overwhelm you with it. We'll have fun while you're here."

“Yes.” Harry nods, motioning everyone towards the doors. “Honestly it should be quick to pick the venue.”

"Mack is coming too, right?" Tamara asks, glancing over her parents' heads at her soulmate as he holds open the door for everyone.

"Absolutely." Percy nods emphatically. "She's going to be our best ally."

“Mack?” Harry frowns slightly as he looks towards Percy. “The roommate I’ve never managed to actually meet?”

"She works nights a lot," Percy reminds him, waving it off. When Tamara's parents look curious, he goes on. "My best friend growing up became a wedding planner. The event business that she works for offered her a transfer from a smaller office so she took it. She only got to the city a few weeks ago, so there hasn't been a lot of chance to get everyone together yet."

Harry rolls his eyes at the slightly protective tone to his friend’s voice. He had asked about this friend, only to be stonewalled. It had made him a little apathetic about meeting “Mack”.

"You're gonna like her." Percy predicts, pointing one knowing finger at Harry. He'd been cautious about the introduction because he's protective of his friends, not because he thought they would butt heads.

There is no more chance to talk about it though, as they step into the club and Percy turns his attention to the staff. They've booked the event space for the night and paid premium for plenty of the gourmet food and drink options for all of their guests, and he wants the night to be perfect. As perfect as Tamara is. As perfect as their wedding and their future will be.

The warm lights reflect off the brick walls. Gleam against the tap that line the wall, but Harry is more interested in the whiskey. He slides up to the polished bar and taps his fingers lightly, eager for a drink.

"What can I get for you tonight, sir?" The bartender assigned to the private event space is a beautiful young woman with a bright smile and platinum blonde hair swept up in a ponytail. She slides over to him with ease, measuring him up at a glance just the way everyone does in this city.

He shoots her a small smile. “Double Highland Park.” He orders. “Straight up.”

"Coming right up." Her interest at least momentarily piqued, she takes another glance before sauntering away to pour the whiskey that was so very rarely ordered. That's a hell of an expensive glass. Maybe this won't be just another average party after all.

“Thank you.” Harry watches her pour, admiring the way she makes it look elegant. The smooth amber colored liquor in the heavy crystal cut glass is slid across the bar to him and he nods. “Thanks.” The twenty in his palm is left in the lacquered top as he takes the glass to lift it for a quick sip.

There is a commotion at the door as more friends pour in. This seems to be a particularly punctual group of friends and Harry tucks that information away appreciatively.

Music starts to pour in through the speakers, a little more festive than most parties, but it’s fun.

Jovial chattering fills the space as more and more people arrive, and people come and go from the bar around him as guests truly join the party. About ten minutes into the stream of arrivals, a tall woman in silk walks through the door to be greeted by raucous shouts from Percy.

Turning towards the commotion, Harry watches as Percy grabs Tamara’s arm and rushes forward to wrap his arms around the woman and squeeze hard enough to make her squeal. Intrigued by the display and wondering if this is the Mack Percy had been talking about.

They're almost of a height, Harry notes with interest — Tamara being fairly tall for a woman he doesn't suppose that she often meets others her size. But the new arrival is decidedly curvier than the willowy actress.

"Let me breathe, Perce!" The woman is laughing, shoving Percy with an air of sibling playfulness. "And let me say hi to Tam Tam, for crying out loud!"

Harry finishes his drink, watching the entire time as the statuesque woman pulls away from Percy and gives Tamara an equally enthusiastic greeting. Whoever she is, she is confident. Many women might be intimidated by the radiating beauty and obvious size difference between her and a famous actress, but not her.

"My mother Bernadette, my father Joe, and my little sister Renee." Tamara introduces her family in turn. "This is Mack. She's been Percy's best friend since they were kids."

So it is Mack. Harry hums, trying to figure out how he is feeling about this development. Percy had never mentioned that his roommate was positively beautiful, confident and voluptuous.

"Next door neighbors," he hears her explain to Tamara's family with ease. "Our mothers served together and we ended up in the same class at school. We were pretty much connected at the hip for a long time."

"I thought you moved a lot when you were a kid?" Renee asks, trying to place all of the story's ducks into a neat row.

"Oh, I did," Percy nods. "We both did. We ended up in Fayetteville when we were...twelve?" Mack nods and he goes on. "I had been in Florida before that, and Korea. But I was born in Illinois."

Harry moves back over to the bar, asking for another refill as he continues to watch the introductions and the way that this friend interacts with the people closest to Tamara and Percy. Sometimes he wonders if he’s too detached, but he also likes to people watch. He learns things about people that way. Reading them.

"We're not doing official business tonight." He hears Mack insist. "We're here to celebrate, not split hairs. I'm gonna go get a drink before you start quizzing me on vendors."

The sharp click of heals announces the approach and he has the new glass of whiskey in his hand right as the figure draped in black silk approaches.

"Hi honey." You smile when the bartender comes over and it's a bright, confident dazzle of white teeth and red-painted lips. "What's the best thing on your menu for a rum drinker?"

"Do you like mint?" The bartender asks. When the woman identified as Mack say yes, the bartender smiles back. "I've got just the thing. Give me one second."

Harry studies you up close as you turn to appraise him. Noting the carefully crafted makeup, professional but bold with the red lipstick. Like you had come from work and dressed up the look with a quick trip into your cosmetic bag. “Rum is best on a desert beach.” He jokes. “Burned to signal a ship to rescue you.”

"Only if you're a snob," you counter, leaning against the bar and noting his simple, straight glass of brown liquor. A subtle whiff reveals it's whiskey. "Sometimes it's okay to just enjoy things because they're fun."

Okay, not a Pirates of the Caribbean fan. “And rum is fun?” He asks curiously, tilting his head as he watches you judge his drink. He lifts his brows and offers it to you to try.

"Oh fuck, that was from a movie?" You snort, laughing at your own self for being the actual asshole in this scenario. "Sorry, no, I clearly haven't seen it. Them? I'm more of a Star Wars girl." When he motions to his glass you raise your own eyebrow in turn. "What is it?"

“Expensive, snobbish, whiskey.” He smirks, wiggling the glass enticingly. Playfully. Something that is a little surprising to him, normally very serious in life. “Highland Park.”

"Sounds like something I can't afford to breathe near," you joke, but since it's just a sip being offered to you by a ridiculously handsome man at a private party being thrown by your best friend, you figure it's safe enough and also too intriguing to pass up. "Cheers." You raise his glass to him and tip it back, taking just a sip but immediately shutting your eyes and practically sighing over the deep, complex flavors.

The smirk turns to a genuine smile as he watches you appreciate the whiskey. The bartender brings back a drink and announces the name “Queen’s Park Swizzle.” She grins and Harry nods. “Another glass of Highland Park.” He orders with a wink and nod towards you. “I think she’s stolen mine.”

"Well I do drink pirate liquor," you joke, and have another sip since he's offered. Once you put the glass down again, you hold out your hand. "I'm Mack." The nickname is more than a decade old now, something that you've absorbed into who you are and made a part of you. So much so that it's obvious who knows you intimately versus who knows you through business based on what they call you. Friends and family? They've all called you Mack since you were fifteen.

“Harry.” He takes your hand and instead of shaking it, he bends down and presses a kiss to the back of it. Smelling the fruity, spicy fragrance of whatever lotion you have used.

Motherfucker. He's charming, too? Your stomach twists, but only because you're not used to this kind of thing. Gentlemanly behavior, most people call it. The men you spend your days around are usually either very in love grooms or very out of love grooms. The former can look right at you and still not see you, which is somewhat sweet. And the later are decidedly not gentlemen. It's such a distracting moment that it actually takes you another few seconds to process who he is. "Wait, Harry Harry? Like Percy's boss? Apparently the only competition I've ever had for the position of that weirdo's best friend?" You motion over your shoulder with one thumb and make a mental note to smack Percy soundly for not telling you his other best friend was so hot. "It's really nice to finally meet you."

“I was starting to wonder if you were real.” He admits as he smirks, standing tall but not letting go of your hand just yet. “Percy has been frustratingly tight lipped about you.” Now he wonders if it was because you were not built like supermodel, but he would hate to believe that Percy thought he was that snobbish.

"A lot of people..." Finance bros "find it weird that we're still friends after so long. They expect one of us to be gay, or for there to be some secret romantic history or something. And there's none of that. We're kind of...extra siblings." Maybe that's why he hasn't said much. It is certainly why you tend to be tight lipped about him to people you aren't sure of. But then...Percy is sure of Harry. He talks about him all the time. "Well, here I am. And here you are. Maybe he didn't introduce us before because he thinks we'll get along too well."

He contemplates that and shrugs. “Who knows?” He snorts after a moment, “maybe it’s because he thinks we wouldn’t get along.”

"Maybe." That has you smirking as you tip back another sip of the whiskey that you're sure costs more than your car payment. "You are a snob."

He chuckles, tilting his head as he picks up his new drink after it’s been delivered. “Tend to be.” He can admit that. “Only about certain things.”

"Like whiskey." Which, you have to admit, he's right about.

“I have been known to drink Jack Daniels.” He admits. “At gunpoint.”

You snort, shaking your head at him. The last sip of the pricey whiskey is gone a moment later, and you set the empty glass aside. "You would not like my liquor cabinet."

“Let me guess…..” he narrows his eyes playfully and looks up and down at you. “Tito’s vodka, a bottle of Whipped Smirnoff, Sailor Jerry, Captain Morgan Original…” he takes another sip of his whiskey. “Annnnnd a bottle of Malibu.” He grins. “The original coconut one.” He points a finger at you from the hand holding his glass. “How did I do?”

"I was just going to say there's no whiskey there, but damn!" Clutching your proverbial pearls, you are doubled over laughing on the bar as you try to recall what is actually on your bar cart at home at the moment. "The vodka is definitely Tito's, but the rum is Kraken. Yes to the Malibu, but you missed the tequila. El Jimador Silver. Which is so much better than anyone gives it credit for."

“It actually is a good tequila.” Harry admits with a grin. “But I prefer Tapatio 110.” He doesn’t have anything against any of the alcohol you’ve listed, if he’s honest.

"That's an excellent choice." He has good taste, you'll give him that without hesitation. The cut of his suit is another, much larger, indicator of that. "So what do you do, Work Friend Harry, other than judge other people's liquor habits and quote movies to strangers?"

He chuckles. “I work.” He admits, shrugging slightly.

"I think we've solved the mystery of how we've never met." You pick up your cocktail now, enjoying the feeling of the cold glass and the sweet, sharp, sour scent. "We're both workaholics."

“Wedding planning, right?” He asks, even though he knows that what you do. “I bet you do a lot of business around Valentine’s Day and oddly enough, Christmas, right?”

"New Years Eve is popular these days, too. And all summer long is pretty constantly busy." You've also been seeing a rash of people lately getting married on their birthdays, which is kind of fun as long as the marriage is a happy one.

“I don’t understand that trend.” He admits, shaking his head. “It smacks of selfishness. Making all of your guests give up their holiday, plus all the staff.” He huffs, watching you switch to your swizzle. “Making them give up their holiday to work a wedding is just wrong.”

"I get wanting to make your event memorable." After all, wasn't that the goal for pretty much everyone? To remember their event forever? "I just think it's an unfortunate truth that sometimes people forget the staff that work these things are actual people with their own families and lives."

Harry nods, thinking about Lucy’s John. It’s strange to think about her again so often lately. Maybe it’s because he met her at his brother’s wedding. “Just promise me you won’t put me at the single’s table?” He snorts. “I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

"I promise." Not that there's even been any discussion of how tables will be set up at all, but you'll find a way to make it work. Something about Harry is very endearing despite being so easy to tease. He's a likable guy. "No bribe necessary."

He chuckles. “So how will it work being both the planner and a part of the wedding?” Other guests are mingling and talking but his focus has stayed on you since you’ve joined him at the bar.

"One of the junior girls from my firm is going to help out during the ceremony. It will help her get her footing on a big wedding with a safety net in place, because I'll still be there." The whole thing was already worked out, of course. You weren't the first planner at Sparkling Nights to ever plan a wedding they were in.

“Do you ever work with Adore?” He asks.

Your nose wrinkles, but you nod. “The matchmakers? Yeah. Our firms have a contact but I don’t like to work those events if I can help it.”

He lifts a brow again, noticing the judgement in your voice and expression. “What, you don’t like them?”

“Those girls are…deeply judgmental, at best.” Have you done some judging tonight too? Sure. But nothing like what they do. “Not in the every day way like we’ve done. Drinks or taste in movies or whatever. The ones I’ve met are all shallow to the bone and turn people into math equations. They talk shit about their clients behind their backs all the time, which is just horrifically unprofessional.”

He hums as he finishes his drink. Seeing how it could be seen as judgmental when you job is to literally assign value to someone as if they were an asset. He had stopped his subscription over a year ago, because it seemed like the women just kept getting younger and more obvious in their want of being a trophy wife without having any substantive value beyond their looks. “Well,” he says after he swallows the last burn of his drink. “Worked for my brother.” He tells you. “Married two years.”

Well shit. You glance down at the glass in your hand and remember all over again that there were multiple reasons why you got made fun of in school. Not being able to keep your mouth shut was a pretty old problem. “Good for him,” you manage, feeling very much like you’ve put your foot in your mouth.

“Um hmm.” Harry sees Scott Bledsoe behind you, motioning to him to capture his attention and call him over. “Excuse me.” He murmurs politely, setting his drink down and pulling another twenty out of his pocket to put on the bar. “I see someone I need to speak with.”

"Fuck..." you mutter under your breath, groaning at your own idiocy as he walks away.

******

The party has been going on for hours. Harry has spoken to, or greeted every person in this room and it’s sad to say that his thoughts still drift back to the conversation at the bar. He shouldn’t have walked away like that, it was rude, but it had kind of cut him when she was insulting a service that hadn’t even been successful in finding him a partner. He’s had a few more drinks, probably more than he should have, so he’s outside to clear his head and secretly craving a cigarette.

The scent of smoke is distinct, he knows there is someone out here enjoying the thing he is craving — but it’s to his dismay when that person happens to be a tall, curvaceous woman in black silk.

Harry assumes that you don’t see him, standing farther down the railing and looking over the surprisingly nice view from the roof deck. Groaning quietly when the fresh puff of nicotine wafts his way.

“Would you…like one?” That particular groan is the sound of an ex-smoker who misses it, but there’s definitely a risk that he might be offended by the offer because he’s quit. At this point you’re well aware this man doesn’t like you, but that’s your own fault. You just don’t want it to be too difficult for Percy during the wedding planning.

“I shouldn’t.” His answer is automatic, but he’s moving towards you. Towards the rich and sweet smell of burning tobacco. “My mother always scolds me, but I can’t help it.” He tells you as he pulls an ornate zippo out of his pants pocket.

"I won't tell on you." The antique cigarette case you found at an estate sale ten years ago is still with you, and you click it open to offer him one of the ill-advised treasures inside.

The case is beautiful, sterling silver and trimmed in gold. He plucks a slender cigarette out the case and nods as he puts it up to his lips.

"I'm sorry I put my foot in my mouth earlier." It's the adult thing to do, to apologize, and you'll do it even if it's only to keep things smooth for Percy. I had just come from a meeting at the Adore offices and I was still all riled up about them. I have nothing against the people who use the service, I just think it's shitty the way some of those girls talk about their clients."

He chuckles and shrugs after taking a long drag off the cigarette. Groaning slightly at the taste and approving of the flavor. He glances over at you. “You never talked back about a client before?”

“Not to another professional in any kind of connected field,” you insist. He looks good smoking. A little more rugged. Less like he’s been sculpted from marble. “Usually only to Percy, if I’m honest.”

“So the problem is that they are analytical.” He hums. “And you are emotional.” It makes sense. You probably have an emotional connection to every client you work with by the end.

"The problem is that they treat analysis like the only answer and demean anyone who believes in emotion." You have to qualify it, since you feel like he's barreling toward being upset with you again, and you're trying to prevent that. "Again, I'm only talking about the half a dozen or so women from that office that I've met."

He’s relaxed a little not that he’s figured out that you are malicious. He shrugs slightly. “It’s a numbers game to them. Basic addition and subtraction.” Dating Lucy had given him some insight into that world. It hadn’t been too far from his own, surprisingly.

"How do you figure that?" If his brother had used Adore then he might have some perspective on the whole thing that is different from your own.

“It’s simple.” He takes another drag of his cigarette. “Some men want a 5’6” woman who weighs less than 130 lbs, preferably with natural blonde hair and reasonably well educated.” He watches as your eyes narrow and wonders if you think he’s listing off his own preferences. “If 47% of their female clients don’t meet that specific criteria, then they have to narrow it down to what fits in that remaining 53%.” He chuckles. “It’s a numbers game. What adds up and what can be overlooked to get to that match that you could possibly tolerate grinding teeth or leaving the towel on the floor for the next 25 years.”

"I guess I don't understand why people care about the height and weight of their partner , or even the hair color, instead of their joys and hobbies and passions." Although, from his estimation? It certainly does hit home how you're still single. It stings like a burning welt but you don't flinch, just cast you eyes down at your cigarette and swallow a sigh.

“Not everyone is blessed to carry scars from their soulmate.” Harry hums with a shrug of one shoulder. Hating how he doesn’t carry them.

"And some of us have them but still haven't made that match." You just shrug, pretending — or pretending to pretend — that it doesn't matter. "It is what it is. I don't believe you have to find your soulmate to be happy. It's just one way of many."

“I can understand what you mean.” He admits. “You don’t have to like those ladies. They are just providing a luxury service to a lot of assholes.” He jokes.

"I guess I just don't like that the ones I've met act like they're the only right answer and still don't respect the people who use their service." A dry, low chuckle escapes you and you shrug. "Or maybe I'm just a bitter, single, fat girl. Who knows?"

He huffs slightly. “You aren’t fat.” He counters, frowning as he looks you up and down. “Not a part of you is disproportionate.” Yes, are you thicker than most women hoping to bag a rich husband in New York? Maybe, but your confidence is refreshing and it doesn’t seem to be steeped in arrogance.

"I don't think I am, either. But to most of New York, it's a sin for women to enjoy food." Either way, you wave it off and take a last drag from your cigarette.

He chuckles. “But they love to go out and be seen.” He reminds you with a smirk. “Where’s your favorite place to eat?”

"I've only been in the city a few weeks." You smile at the question, taking it to mean that he isn't one of the people who thinks eating is a sin. "So far I really like the sandwiches from the bodega at the end of my block."

“You should go to Keen’s.” He suggests. “Real old world vibes and the steak is good.”

"Should I?" A smile curls your lips up, red lipstick unbothered and un-smudged by smoking, and when faced with an abundance of Fuck it energy and the hottest man you've ever spoken to in real life, you sort of throw up your proverbial hands. "Is that where you take your dates to impress them?"

He tilts his head as a curious look enters his eyes. “Only if she’s a steak woman.” He admits. “If it’s sushi, I take her to Sushi Noz.” He arches a brow as he waits.

"I sincerely hope you're not too attached to the sushi idea now that you've said it. I'm definitely a steak kind of girl." The mischievousness of your smile hides the uncertainty there, because you don't necessarily have a lot of experience with guys like this. And even less success. But why not try? "What time should I pick you up?"

You’re bold. His curiosity turns into near amusement, lips smirking slightly as he takes another drag of the cigarette, his last. He grinds out the coal and blows out the smoke. “8.” He decides, chuckling.

"Eight." You echo it, tucking away the disbelief, and nod. You'll have just enough time after the appointments tomorrow to go home and change into something far more flattering and less practical. "Sounds good."

He nods, “sounds good.”

Wandering back into the party so you don't ruin the beautiful (and slightly unexpected) tension of the moment, you find Percy and Tamara by the bar when you slide up to get another drink.

“Sooooooo.” Tamara grins, still riding the high of actually celebrating being engaged this man, as she clings to his arm. “Tell me what you think about our choices for venues?” She asks.

“It will depend on the size of your guest list and how faithful to Manhattan you want to be,” you remind them, but extract a small notebook from your purse anyway. You know they want to stay in the heart of the city and they’re both fairly traditional. “Places like the Central Park Boathouse, Sony Hall, or the Foundry all have very different vibes but still give the traditional elegance you’re looking for.”

“Too bad we couldn’t have the Met.” Tamara sighs dreamily. “Since we met there.”

“You can,” you remind her. They have the budget, after all. “It’s just booked two years out.”

She sighs softly and shakes her head before turning those big, expressive eyes up to Percy. “I don’t want to wait that long to marry you.” She admits softly.

“Me either.” He leans down, kissing her twice and then a third time for good measure. “Wouldn’t it be easiest to book a hotel ballroom?” He looks back at you. “We’re going to have guests flying in from all over.”

“We can certainly do that,” you nod and glance back at your list. “And book a block of rooms for your guests in the process.”

She hums and looks over at Percy. “Where did Harry’s brother get married?” She asks softly. “Maybe we can book there.”

“Lotte?” Percy looks to you and you nod. “It was beautiful. And they were pretty easy to work with, I think.” Expensive, obviously, but he doesn’t care about that. He can afford it and Tamara is worth it.

“Exactly.” He had struggled with the idea of moving himself, but he knew that Tamara needed to live in LA.

“Buck up, soldier,” you tease, nudging his arm. “This is another adventure. You’ll love LA.”

“I know.” He tilts his head and shoots you an apologetic sigh. “I just wish that the timing was better.”

"That's sweet of you," you promise him. He really is your best friend for a reason. "But who are we if we can't handle a curveball here and there?"

“Have you had any luck?” He asks. “You know I can just keep paying rent.” He reminds you.

"You don't need to do that." The little two bedroom in Washington Heights that he welcomed you into when you arrived in the city had been more than enough for him alone and it was just enough for two. Without him, your savings will stretch a few months before you start to struggle, but you just can't let him pay rent on a place that he isn't living in anymore. It doesn't sit well with you. "I have a couple of interviews next week, we'll see if any of them pan out."

“This is my fault though.” He insists. “At least let me pay until you find someone.”

“We’re not talking about rent at your engagement party,” you scold. Truth be told you’ve been looking at moving out to Brooklyn or Queens as soon as his lease is up and there’s not too terrible options that way. Nothing fancy, but you don’t need fancy.

“We’ll discuss it later.” He points at you playfully. “For real.” You had a nasty habit of changing the subject if you were uncomfortable with the subject, and your finances were one of those touchy things for you.

“Sure.” An off-hand dismissal of the topic is pretty on point for you, but you squeeze his arm before turning back to the bar to order another drink. You’re not trying to be flippant, but this is a celebration.

Harry rejoins the party and mingles with the other guests. Laughing and trading jokes, telling stories about when Tamara and Percy met, proud that he had facilitated the entire thing. He chews on his lip as he considers getting another drink and decides that it’s a little too soon for another so he wanders over to the buffet spread.

“Have you tried any of the food yet?” Percy comes up on his side and picks up a small plate with an artfully styled piece of fried chicken with some kind of slaw on it. “It’s incredible here.”

“No,” he admits with a small grin. “I’ve been drinking my dinner so far.” He glances over towards you and then back to the artfully arranged appetizers.

“Any reason for that?” He isn’t going to pretend he didn’t see Harry talking to you earlier. Or that he doesn’t smell like your cigarettes now. You’re the only person he knows who still smokes Camel Turkish Royals and Harry always buys American Spirits when he stress smokes.

“Annoyance.” Harry snorts. “Intrigue.” He admits a moment later. “Ever met someone you shouldn’t like, but you do?”

“Plenty of times.” The two men stand in bespoke, expensive suits and eat gourmet finger food, surveying the pastry around them. “But I assume we’re talking about something a little more striking than a professor or coworker?”

“I’m apparently going on a date tomorrow night.” He snorts softly and picks up a plate with two teriyaki meatballs on it. “I guess I should call and make a reservation.”

“You sound…” Percy frowns. “Less than excited?”

“Given my history with dating?” Harry asks, lifting a brow. “I guess I’m not exactly hopeful.” He admits.

“So you’re not grumpy about it because of the girl, but because you don’t think it’ll go anywhere?” He’s itching to ask who. To find out if the glances he saw amounted to anything. But he doesn’t want to spook Harry too early.

“It never does.” Harry taps the plate and looks around the room. The very symbol of love existing is right here, but it always eludes him.

“It only has to be different once,” Percy reminds him.

He huffs slightly, unable to argue with that, but it’s so vague. “Of course.” He doesn’t want to bring his best friend down, tonight of all nights. “There’s plenty to look forward to, after all.”

“Not to be nosy,” Percy smirks. “But I’m gonna be nosy. Why did you ask if you weren’t excited about her?”

“I didn’t ask.” Harry admits, although his lips twist up slightly in amusement. “She did.”

“Oh shit.” That promotes the younger man to burst out in a fit of surprised laughter, though Percy quickly smothers the sound and peaks it down to an amused giggle. “Are we talking about who I think we’re talking about?”

“I’m sure we are.” Harry rolls his eyes at his friend as he picks up a meatball on the slender toothpick and takes a bite.

“Well shit.” Percy repeats, grinning at Harry like he’s just gotten the best gossip ever. “I mean, I’m not surprised, but I am impressed. I that makes you the third guy that she’s asked out ever.”

“Bullshit.” Harry pulls a disbelieving face because he isn’t swallowing that load of garbage for all the money in Manhattan. “That woman has only asked out three men?” He huffs, nodding towards where you are clearly chatting happily and smiling almost flirtatiously with an older man. He’s old enough to be your grandfather, but still.

"Don't let the extrovert exterior fool you." Lowering his voice, Percy glances over at you and then back to Harry. "That's a girl who lives on romance novels and period dramas, dreaming about her soulmate sweeping her off her feet." He huffs softly under his breath. "But kids are mean. She when through a hell of a lot of shit in school and got bullied pretty mercilessly. The big, brassy, bad ass thing is...it's a defense mechanism. If she asked you? She went out on a pretty big limb."

“I think she felt bad about insulting me.” Harry chuckles quietly. “She was talking shit about the women at Adore.”

"She...kinda hates them." Percy laughs along with him, but he meets Harry's eyes meaningfully. "She was telling me about the meetings she's been having and how shitty they are to her. Personal attacks. She said one of the women in the office had done a statistics sheet on her and it was awful."

“That’s because she doesn’t fit the assumed vision of what a valuable woman in this city is.” Harry agrees, knowing exactly who would have done that statistic sheet on her. “It doesn’t really mean it’s personal to them.”

"No," Percy agrees. "But it's personal to her."

“Believe me, I can understand that.” He had been encouraged to not discontinue his engagement of Adore but he hadn’t seen the point when no one had been compatible.

"All I'm saying is that if she asked, it's not out of guilt. It's genuine interest." Percy does take a moment though, letting that sink in to Harry's mind. "But if you're not really interested in return? I'm gonna ask, as both of your friend, that you tell her up front."

Harry frowns slightly. “So you don’t think this is a good idea?” He asks.

"I want you to accept because you want to," Percy says. "Not because I want you to."

“I would have said no if I didn’t want to go.” Percy should know him better than that. He sighs softly. “I guess I’m just worried that it will turn out badly.”

"No one is saying you have to marry her. But you both deserve a good date." Eternally honest Percy shrugs again. "You've both had a string of bad luck lately, that's all I'm saying."

“We are going to Keen’s.” He tells his friend, knowing that he can count on the other man’s opinion. “She’s gonna pick me up.”

Percy smirks, this time because he knows the restaurant vice was Harry’s. You would have picked Italian. “Her favorite flowers are zinnias. Just…in case you were wondering.”

“Zinnias.” Even though he hadn’t thought about getting flowers just yet he tucks that bit of information away. “Any particular color?”

“Reds. Oranges. Pinks. Yellows. Anything that reminds you of sunrise.” Patting his shoulder twice, Percy is still smiling when he steps away. “Tomorrow is going to be a hell of a day.”

Harry stares down at his plate. “Yes it will be.” He murmurs softly.

******

The morning is a complicated and energetic affair. A large, black rental car arrives in the heart of Washington Heights to pick you up with your best friend and his fiancée inside, then it’s off to get Tamara’s family from their hotel and finally Harry from his place in Tribeca. You’re in business mode this morning, dressed professionally and carrying your necessary resources. Today you’re more than the groom’s best friend. You’re the wedding planner.

Today is casually business. He dresses down, if he’s honest. Jeans, a sweater and a sports coat. Formal enough for some places but casual enough to not scream uptight. Tonight, he’ll change into something else before taking you dinner.

You go over the list of appointments for the day with everyone in the car, because everyone had (of course) had an opinion in where the wedding should be held. Even Percy’s parents had called you to give their opinion, despite currently being deployed overseas. Thankfully, the hotel that Percy and Tamara had mentioned to you last night had actually had availability today to be seen. They’ll be setting up for another wedding while you’re there, but that isn’t a bad thing.

“The hotel is fine.” Harry assures them. “Peter and Charlotte loved it. It held everyone and the staff there is very discreet.” He chuckles. “Uncle Phil got too drunk and they escorted him up to his room without any issues.”

“Everybody has an Uncle Phil of sorts,” Tamara chuckles, thinking specifically of an aunt of hers. “When in the day are we going to the hotel?” She asks, keenly interested in that particular location.

“Second,” you assure her. The earliest appointment of the day is the venue that her parents were most interested in, though you think there’s very little chance of Percy or Tamara falling in love with it. Neither of them cares much for rowing. “The Central Park Boathouse is first. It’s a beautiful venue that will hold your whole guest list with a little room to spare. And it’s perfect for some lovely photos so you wouldn’t have to leave the property for them.”

“I still wish we could book the Met.” Tamara sighs fondly as she snuggles into Percy’s side. “But I don’t want to wait two to three years.”

“I did it in a call this morning,” you let them know, but qualify it carefully. “If they have a cancellation, we’re on the waiting list.”

“Ohhhhhh you’re the best.” She beams and is a hopeful gleam to her eyes. “Whenever.”

“We’ll keep our fingers crossed, but I have a good feeling we’ll find something we love today.” If you’re honest, you don’t hold out hope for the Met. But for Percy you’d try just about anything that would make him and his soulmate happy.

“I think you have to align your expectations with reality.” Harry hums quietly. “It would be nice, but it’s a lofty goal.”

“It’s a dream,” Tamara admits. “But there are no shortage of beautiful places in Manhattan to get married.”

“That is very true.” He agrees. “You just need to find the venue that matches what you two have dreamed about together.”

It doesn't surprise you when the Central Park Boathouse isn't to their taste. You can tell almost instantly that they aren't going to take to it, and while Tamara's parents ooh and ahh and encourage them, everyone ultimately agrees that it isn't right. Focusing on professionalism means you are doing your best not to be distracted by how good Harry looks dressed down for the daytime.

You are dressed very professionally, although he can tell that the carefully crafted outfit has been one that is well used. Still, he admires that your outfit is tailored to your body, fitting it perfectly and enhancing your curves rather than detracting from them.

On the ride over to the hotel, you review numbers with Percy and Tamara. Their guest list stands at just about 150 people and all the places they’re looking at can accommodate that easily. It will feel luxurious and intimate, rather than bustling or crowded.

“Here we are.” Percy pulls the rental car into the hotel’s parking lot and smiled up at the building. He’d been a guest at Peter Castillo’s wedding and thought it was nice, but hadn’t been thinking about his own wedding at the time. The girl he had been dating at the time was…not exactly long term relationship material. By her own admission.

“The bridal suite and groomsman suites are very nice.” Harry assures them. “Separated by a floor but there is a stairwell between them in case you need to access either party.”

“Your brother got married here?” Tamara’s mother asks, remembering that had been mentioned the night before.

“Yes madam.” He tells her with a proud smile. Charlotte and Peter aren’t soulmates, neither one of them has marks either, but they have created a strong and meaningful bond. “Very wonderful societal event.”

“But did you enjoy it?” That is the important part to her. Their family isn’t a part of anyone’s society. They’re not looking to climb into it, either.

“I enjoyed it.” It wasn’t to his taste. It wasn’t even to Peter’s taste, but it was what his bride wanted so he had happily conceded. Peter had always talked about a wedding on a beach. Harry had no idea what he would want.

His tone is soothing. Smooth and reassuring, and she smiles happily, momentarily mollified. The girl is large and grand, more imposing than welcoming, but Tamara has hearts in her eyes. “Even if we don’t have it here,” she hums excitedly. “This is where everyone should stay. We can book a block of rooms.”

“The hotel is a great place to host a large group.” Percy agrees. “The room service is amazing.” Even though he had not been a part of the wedding party, he had booked a hotel room, making a little weekend of it.

“Well let’s get inside and see what you think of the event spaces,” you urge, bringing them into the lobby with you. They can Oo and Ah while you check in at the desk.

This is a space that Harry is quite familiar with. There is a charity function held here every year, so he doesn’t walk with the others. Instead, he hangs back as you talk with a sharp dressed concierge.

The woman in all black with nearly done hair and sharp make up speaks with you for a few seconds before nodding and stepping away. “You’re not going to have a look around?” You ask Harry, surprised to find him wandering toward you as the others inspect the lobby with interest.

“I’ve been here enough.” He shrugs, taking note of the way your back straightens slightly and the toe of your heels is scuffed. “How about you?”

“Never.” You shake your head, suddenly far more focused on the man in front of you than the hotel. “I haven’t had much time to explore since I got to New York.”

“Well then we should change that.” He huffs. “You have to be able to be completely blasé about every venue.” He jokes.

“Is that what’s required out here?” You let out a soft chuckle. “Raleigh has a…we’ll call it a slightly different vibe, but that’s an understatement.”

“Absolutely. New Yorkers aren’t impressed with anything.” He tells you. “They’ve seen it all, done it all and will complain the entire time.”

“Well,” you shrug. “I’ve lived in plenty of places and seen plenty of things. But I don’t mind enthusiasm.”

He chuckles. “Give it time.” He jokes. “You’ll be just a sullen as everyone else.”

“I hope not.” But rather than judgmental, your smile is beaming. Like you’re daring the city to take away your joy. “Or at least I hope it takes a long, long time.”

“You just have to find the beauty in the small things.” He suggests. “Or sarcasm.”

“Or both.” Why does he make you smile like this? It’s like your stomach is doing flip flops.

“Now you’re thinking like a New Yorker.” He jokes. “‘Why not both’ should be etched onto the Statue of Liberty.”

“That would sort of change the tone of the thing,” you joke with a grin.

“Maybe.” He snorts, shrugging slightly. “Never actually seen her up close.”

"But..." you startle, actually taken aback by that. "You live here!"

“And how many times do the locals avoid the tourist traps like the plague?” He asks, arching a brow.

That makes you huff, albeit playfully. "If I find out you've never been to the Met, I'm changing our date tonight."

He chuckles and tilts his head. “No, I’ve been to the Met.” He hums in amusement. Apparently Percy had never shared how he had met Tamara.

"Right..." you realize it just a second later and flinch, hating that you've said something stupid. "Never mind. Forget I said that."

Thankfully, like an answer to your awkward prayers, the event coordinator for the hotel appears in the lobby in the same instant and you don't have to see the realization dawn on Harry's face that his date tonight is with someone who speaks before they think.

Harry watches as you hurry away, embarrassment bloomed on your face and it finds it fascinating. You don’t weigh or measure your words around him. ‘No filter’ his mother would say. He likes it. Makes him wonder what you will say next.

The tour is fairly standard. The ballroom is available for you to tour while it is being set up for tonight’s wedding but the bridal suites are not — for precisely the same reason.

“It’s got enough space for everyone plus dancing.” Harry reminds Percy. “And we can honestly use the penthouse for the after party if you want.”

"The best man?" The event planner asks you with a knowing half-smile. The extra guy in the group who is talking about the after party? At this stage in the game, that is absolutely the best man.

"Of course." Your return smile falters a little, just in the second afterward when you catch her give Harry an appraising sweep of her eyes. Do you have any right to be jealous of someone else checking him out? Absolutely not. Yet? You can't help it.

Percy has already gone off on a tangent about the after party vibe, Harry encouraging him with an arm around his shoulder. The wedding would be for family, for memories. The after party was gonna be for getting wild.

"What do you have as far as available dates?" While Percy, Harry, Tamara, and her parents are all watching the ballroom be set up, you are going to get a little business done. Maybe it will help distract you from that touch of irrational jealousy, while you're at it.

“The first date we have is in nine months.” She rattles off a date with a smile. “There are weddings booked every weekend until then.”

Making note of the date for yourself, you know that's a little longer than Percy and Tamara are eager to wait but they seem to really like this place. "And if the couple were interested in booking a block of rooms here for there guests as well?"

“Of course.” She clicks her tablet and looks at the bookings for that date. “The bridal suite is available as well as a large block of rooms we can hold in reserve for the guests.” She clicks through pages. “We can reserve floors 5,7,9,10,11 and 14.”

"And your team is prepared to work with extra security for the night of the wedding?" Percy isn't willing to take any chances with Tamara's safety and you don't blame him. Being a Hollywood star has its benefits, but also some distinct drawbacks.

“We are equipped to handle all manner of security.” She assures you. “Though some do decide to hire independent advisors as well.”

“Of course. One can never be too careful.” She’s given you a packet of information — printed statistics and suggested floor plans along with contact information for preferred vendors — which will best going over with Percy and Tamara. You’re about to open your mouth for the next of many questions when your work phone rings.

Normally it would be on silent while you’re in a client meeting. Your personal cell phone certainly is, but the cell given to you by your company buzzes insistently in your pocket. And since there is a minimal chance of hearing from some vendors today, it’s good that you left it on. “Excuse me,” you offer the woman a polite smile. “I’ve got to take this.” The number looks familiar but you can’t remember which of the twenty calls you’ve made in the last twenty-four hours it could be returning, so you just excuse yourself to the lobby to take it.

“Hello, this is—” You use your legal name for business, and answer accordingly, “from Dragonfly Events, how can I help you today?”

“Good morning, this is Charlotte Evans, event coordinator for the Met.” She speaks clearly, albeit, a bit rushed. “I believe you had spoken with one of our assistants about being placed on the cancellation list?” The only reason she is calling is because of the name you dropped. Tamara Wilson is one of her niece’s favorite actresses and she had been given so much grief when she had learned that Auntie Charlie had breathed the same air as Tamara the night she met her soulmate.

“Yes, good morning. Thank you for calling me back so promptly.” If this is a polite refusal, as you expect, the call should be over with quickly.

“Of course.” She clears her throat. “The notes say that your clients are Tarama Wilson and Percy Stokes?” She asks. “Would that be the actress, Tamara Wilson?”

“Yes, that is correct.” And you absolutely left their names of purpose. “My clients met at the Met Gala this past May and are quite keen to be married in the same place they met.”

“I see.” Her voice doesn’t betray the wide, excited grin on her face. Auntie Charlie is gonna be the favorite for years to come. She doesn’t add that she had literally been there that night, but hadn’t realized it until the People article came out revealing the announcement about the soulmate pairing. “Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately for your clients, we have just had a cancellation this morning.”

“Oh?” Tamara is going to lose her mind with excitement. “And what would the date be for that?”

She gives the date and pauses. “That is sixty-two days from today. I do understand if that is not plausible for your clients.”

“Are there any constraints with that date?” You ask, not wanting to blurt out that they’ll be thrilled to have a date so soon. “Vendors with contracts that must be honored, or anything to that effect?” Your own pauses, Mid note taking. “And could you tell me please, what portion of the museum the cancellation is for?” Met bookings for different areas accommodate different numbers of guests. You want to have all the information before you go talk to Percy and Tamara.

“That is actually why I contacted you first.” She says, saying without saying, that she thought famous clients would appreciate this more than anyone else. “The previous contract had booked the entire venue.” She tells you. “Although the catering contract was booked with the venue, So that would also have to be absorbed into the new contract.”

“That is perfectly fine with us, as my clients have not booked a caterer yet. Can I have their name?” The entirety of the Met? That is hundreds upon hundreds of guests, or a different location for every single part of the wedding. They’re going to scream when you tell them.

Charlotte gives you the name and telephone number of the catering service. “They are quite good, and luckily the menu has not been contracted, so there is that.”

“Wonderful.” Looking down at the notes in your book, you know this is going to work. This is going to be perfect. “I’ll speak to my clients, of course, but I’m prepared to say that we will accept the cancellation slot and the reservations that have already been made. May I call you back in about five minutes to confirm?”

“Please do.” She hopes that you will. “If not, I will have to contact others who have been requesting to be informed about cancellations.

“Five minutes,” you promise her, before politely saying goodbye and pocketing your work phone again. There’s no way it will take that long for them to decide, but you want to be sensitive to the woman here at the hotel who has taken time from her day for a last minute appointment.

Zipping back into the ballroom, you catch Percy’s eye and shoot him a grin. “Pardon me,” you reinsert yourself into the conversation politely but definitely. “If I could check in with my clients for a moment?”

Harry had drifted away but he catches your grin and knows that something is up. He quickly walks over to the very nice coordinator. “While they are talking, would you tell me about hosting cooperate events?” He asks.

It doesn’t take much effort for Harry Castillo to utterly charm just about anyone into conversation, and as he lures her away you make a note to thank him profusely tonight if the date goes well.

“So…” you wave Percy and Tamara over to you and lower your voice so it won’t echo. “The Met called.”

Percy cocks up, attuned to your mannerisms and he knows it had to be something good. “Please don’t tell me the wait time is five years now.” Tamara groans.

“They had a cancellation,” you tell them, barely containing your grin. “It’s fast, but I think we can make it happen.”

“How fast is fast?” Percy asks, eyebrows raised.

“Sixty-two days.” An amount of time that seems fleeting, but your first wedding planner job had been at a soulmate agency. You can do fast and you can do it well.

“Sixty-two days?” her eyes widen and her heart sinks. There is no way that a wedding could be pulled off in sixty-two days. Not the way that they had dreamed of. “Oh god. No. I don’t—”

"Tam." Reaching out, you set one hand on Tamara's arm and smile reassuringly. "I promise you, I can do this if you want to say yes. The previous client had rented out the entire museum, and the caterer comes with the reservation. I've got a florist that owes me a favor and a photographer who will move mountains to be able to take your wedding photos."

Her eyes widen and she tries to let the panic subside. Pushing aside the little voice of doubt in the back of her mind. Her gaze darts to Percy, but he’s already nodding. “Yes.” She whispers, clutching his hand. “Yes!”

"How do we feel about booking that block of rooms while we're here, and even the penthouse if you want that after party?" You know Percy will want it, and it was Harry's idea, so this is going to be a good bridge. It will help the hotel here feel a touch less slighted after pulling out this appointment for you, and it will still get Percy and Tamara the wedding of their dreams.

“I think that is best.” Percy nods and looks towards his bride for her input. “It’s central to all the attractions and just a half dozen blocks down from the Met.”

Tamara hesitates for just a second, but looks to you with pleading eyes. "Do you really think you can do it?"

"I do." A little nod to wedding vows is cheeky, but you mean it. You do think you can do this for them. "I really do, and I think it will be great."

“I really want the Met.” Tamara admits. Grinning at Percy and batting her eyes playfully. “Are you okay with two months? Or should we wait longer?”

"Tam..." Percy takes both of her hands in his and faces her, placing a kiss on the tip of her nose. "I would marry you at the bottom of the Gowanus Canal with nothing but mutant fish for witnesses." They both giggle — the weirdos. But they're cute weirdos. "Two months in the place we met sounds perfect."

“Are you sure?” Despite wanting this more than anything else in the world, she wants to make sure it’s what he wants too.

"I love you," he reminds her, with a sort of bashful, gleeful expression. "That's all that matters."

“I love you too.” She promises. “If you told me you wanted to get married in the subway, I’d question your sanity….” That makes him laugh and she giggles. “But I would do it. But it seems like the universe wants us to have this.”

"So we're going to do it?" You ask, letting them have their moment and a sweet kiss to seal the sentiment. When they excitedly say yes, you pull your phone back out. "Let me call Ms. Evans back and get this settled. And then we can get the rooms and the penthouse booked here, as well."

“Not the bridal suites though.” Tamara tells you. “I don’t want another couple to have to book that somewhere else because I was selfish.”

"That sounds more than reasonable." This place probably has a dozen rooms gorgeous enough to host a newlywed couple, so you aren't worried about them having a nice place to crash that night. Not at all. "Let me make this call so we can really dig our fingers into planning."

“Okay.” She is immediately turning and pressing close to Percy. Both of them whispering in excitement. Harry glances over several time as he listens to the many amenities the hotel can offer for a conference or corporate event. He normally just holds any events at the penthouse, but he’s seriously considering this for the year end party.

It takes only a few minutes to step away and make the call, but when you come back to your friends they have their dream wedding venue booked and ready. All you have to do is drop off the deposit check before the museum closes tonight.

The next half hour is spent with the very nice woman who took the time to meet with you today, and she seems more than happy to be able to book the penthouse for a private party along with two full floors of rooms for wedding guests. It may not be the full night, but it is certainly a large check and damn good business for the hotel.

Harry is pulled aside by Percy, hearing the good news and smiling happily. Congratulating the couple and agreeing that it feels like the stars have aligned for their wedding.

By the time the six of you are leaving the hotel not too long after, it seems silly to think anything else could be more productive today. "Well," you tell them, grinning as you mark of Friday, August 6 on your phone with Percy and Tamara's initials. "I know we made a big decision but we have a lot to do now in not a huge amount of time."

“I already have my dress.” Tamara tells you with a happy sigh.

"And we did agree on colors already," Percy reminds you. A clean palate of white and silver with small accents of blue will be doable with any caterer, and blue bridesmaids dresses will be easy enough to achieve. His groomsman probably all own blue ties in the right shade.

“And the caterer has already been decided, right?” Tamara asks. “What’s the meal?”

"They booked the company but they hadn't picked their menu yet." Which was an incredible boon, and feels like it's a little too lucky. "I'm going to give them a call and see how fast we can set up a tasting."

Harry hums. “What’s the name of the company?”

"It is called..." Double checking your notes, you find it scrawled under the guest count for the museum. "Stand & Deliver."

Inside, Harry is groaning quietly but he nods. "They have good food." He assures them. "They catered Peter's wedding." He tells Percy, immediately making his best friend nod and grin.

“Perfect.” Tamara is grinning so widely that her face is threatening to split in two. “So what do we do now?” She asks you, bright with excitement and anticipation.

“Today? Go and enjoy having your parents in town,” you tell her, holding in your private sigh of relief. “I’m going to spend my afternoon setting up appointments for you to meet with your vendors as soon as possible so we can get everything squared away.” Looking at the group of them, you see a hell of a lot of work in those joyful faces, but it will be worth every second. “Why not take your Mom shopping for her mother of the bride dress, or even visit the Met?”

Harry watches you manage the nerves, the expectations with an aplomb that leaves him impressed. “Why don’t you take them to lunch?” He suggests. “I can help her with anything that she needs.”

“There’s a sit down restaurant in the museum,” Tamara remembers, perking up brightly.

“Then that’s what we’ll do.” On the sidewalk, Percy gives you a squeezing hug. “Text me appointment info when you have it?”

“I promise.” There is even a pinky swear involved. A long held tradition from childhood that is an unbreakable promise. “You guys go have fun. Harry and I will take care of some business and I’ll talk to you later.” It’s sweet of him to offer, and you won’t say no, but you also don’t really expect him to want to sit around while you made phone calls and scribble notes to yourself for a few hours. Especially not when you’re supposed to be taking him to dinner tonight.

“I’m assuming the Met needs a signed contract and a payment to reserve the space?” Harry asks when you’re alone for the first time since landing their dream venue. He checks his watch as he estimates how long it would take to get there.

“We have an appointment to sign the papers tomorrow.” You had made sure that was acceptable, otherwise you would have rushed over today. “I’ll have to drop off the physical deposit check today but we’ll give them the rest tomorrow.”

“What do you need to do today besides that?” He asks.

“Phone calls. Lots of phone calls.” His expression is so earnest that you soften a little, feeling your cheeks burn. “And I was going to change before I picked you up tonight,” you admit.

“Do you have an office or do you normally work from home?” He asks, unsure of your business model.

“I do have an office.” You were going to go hang out on your couch with some leftover pizza for lunch, but something nagging in your stomach doesn’t want to separate so quickly. “Are you asking to see my cubicle?” You ask, tone teasing like he has asked to see you naked or something equally as scandalous.

He snorts and shakes his head, amused by the way you are asking. “I actually was going to offer you my conference room if you needed a space to work.”

“That sounds fancy.” There’s still teasing in your voice, but it’s softened.

“Espresso machine.” He ticks off with a small smirk. “There’s a vendor that caters lunch in the breakroom.” He shrugs. “Changes every day. Not sure what today is.”

“You have enough people working on a Saturday to warrant a catered lunch?” In your office, your company was just part of one floor. Staff are in and out all the time because of the nature of what you do. You hadn’t figured his family’s financial empire had anything but a 9-5 existence.

“It’s for the people who come in to work on the weekends.” He tilts his head. “Sometimes normal working hours don’t fit our business. We try to treat everyone like we care.”

“That is…” Your head tilts a little, considering him as much as the offer. “Both unexpected and very nice to hear.” He has a warmth to him that makes you want to believe he knows every employee by name and every birthday, anniversary, joy, and hardship. It’s easy to picture Harry giving a shit about his staff. So easy that you catch yourself smiling again — maybe even a little dreamily. “Alright, sure. Let’s go to yours.”

He nods and he finds himself smiling back at you. You have this way of slipping past his defenses. Making him go on instinct and try to figure you out like some kind of puzzle. “Good, because I’m hungry.”

------ Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal fanfic #Pedro Pascal character fanfiction #Harry Castillo #Harry Castillo x reader #Harry Castillo x female reader #Harry Castillo x f!reader #Harry Castillo x plus size reader #Harry Castllo x ps!reader #plus size reader #Materialists #Materialistis fanfic #soulmate au

153 notes · View notes