#but it's what he gets until the shoes I ordered for him arrive

[see-arcane]

"Seeking Out Signals" - A Pre-Podcast Story

Another boost for my favorite not-yet-a-podcast podcast, @starstrider-productions' Dracula: 2004, as there are only 15 days left to get this beautiful queer horror time capsule of a production funded and only 44 backers thus far. Time for another bloodstained carrot.

I might do a decent doodle now and then, but my main wheelhouse is always going to be scribbling. So, in the Dracula Season spirit, here's a quick one-shot to pair with a certain scene I keep chewing on with regard to the story's setting:

Jonathan Harker, minus a phone charger, battery dying, looking for all the other things missing in Castle Dracula. Like a phone signal.

And people.

And unlocked doors...

Indiegogo campaign is here!

Ao3 link is here. Full story below the cut:

He emptied everything onto the massive slab of the bed one item at a time. Every piece of clothing, every toiletry, every little carry-on distraction, even the case of paperwork and reference texts. He’d checked every pocket and looked in his shoes. Groped around the edges of the wardrobe and along the bottom of the completely barren drawers in the writing desk. It was as he caught himself pawing frantically under the bed that denial finally broke apart. A steady sandcastle kind of crumbling as reality splashed and ate it away. Once it was dissolved in full, Jonathan clambered back out and put his things back in order. Even smoothed the rumpled bedding before he sat.

Thinking. Knowing.

The phone charger is gone.

Specifically, it was gone from the nightstand where he had left it neatly coiled beside his glasses. The phone itself he’d taken to hugging in his sleep, just on the off-chance that Mina could somehow miraculously breach the castle’s stony resistance to making or receiving calls. To his knowledge, the only other phone in the fortress was in the Count’s locked office, supposedly able to call and receive despite its make. Jonathan thought of the evening he’d spent just yesterday—yesternight?—with the old man attached to him like a grinning shadow while Jonathan gawped at the rotary phone perched neatly on the broad ebon desk.

 “I am a man stuck in time,” the Count had shrugged. “And perhaps in foible. I have made up my removed world here with antiques, being one myself. This,” his sharp nail had tapped the gleaming black handset, “is one of the original Model 102s first produced in 1927. It still works and, with my apologies to your generation’s toys, it serves to avoid such cluttering distractions as ‘voice messages’ and the endless pattering children will do in the small hours.”

 But Jonathan had done no pattering. Not in voice, not in text. Charge all he liked, his phone refused to reach out to Mina or to Hawkins. Now there was this.

On the nightstand. Always on the nightstand. In the flat, in the hotels, here. Glasses. Phone. Right there. That and another ‘toy.’

His heart tightened as his hand went to his trouser pocket. The Dictaphone was still there. He’d been so exhausted from staying up for another round of entertaining his host until the crack of dawn that he’d not bothered with changing before flopping on the bed. If he had left it there on the little table…

You’re being ridiculous. Why would he have his staff take your Dictaphone? Or the charger? You just misplaced it somewhere.

Where? What room would he have casually taken the charger to in a castle that was plainly, even proudly lacking for outlets? Count Dracula had needed to play tour guide on that aspect alone when he arrived, his apologies for the inconvenience mingled with a sort of veiled glee at the place’s adamant refusal to modernize by more than an inch. Jonathan had gotten the impression that he might have made up his will to leave Castle Dracula to some historical society for preservation as a landmark. That, and the more understandable blockade of sheer difficulty in wiring such a fortress without having to partially dismantle the masonry, had been excuse enough for it. Discovering he had a place to plug in with his bedroom at all had been a relief.

Jonathan eyed the little plastic face set incongruously among the stonework. Its black socket eyes seemed to stare back at him with empty innocence.

‘What? I didn’t see anything. Perhaps you left it back at the Golden Krone. Or in the rattling ride up the mountain.’

Or maybe it had been stolen.

And if that was the case: Why?

Jonathan looked at the flip phone sitting patiently in his palm. Scuffed plastic ornamented by a lonely little charm of a Dalek, also scuffed. He held his breath and dared to switch it on. The battery was down to two thirds.

Switch it off, tell the Count about it. If his people were in your room and just—just mislaid it somewhere, or if somebody has a charger of their own to share, you could still work with this. It doesn’t have to be a big thing. Just ask. Find someone.

“I haven’t seen anyone since I got here,” he whispered to the screen. “Not one person. Just the driver and the Count. That’s it. He said they were all asleep that first night, but it’s been near a week now. And no one.” His throat felt thick and glassy. Likewise his eyes. “But someone was awake enough between morning and noon to come and get my charger while I slept. So where does that leave me?”

No answer came from within or without. He willed the green screen to offer him a single bar. A jingle. Anything.

More nothing. Jonathan had gotten nothing but nothing since he arrived. Hell, since the drive up from Borgo Pass began. A dull shock struck him as he realized he was more afraid now than when the wolves had come surging up to the black car as the driver puttered around chasing will-o’-the-wisps. He screwed his eyes shut against the room and its silence—he’d not heard so much as birdsong up here, only the cursory squawk of a rooster���and tried to imagine Mina’s voice in his ear. What would she say?

‘Nothing’s gained from being static. Get up. Take an action. What do you need right now? More than a charger?’

A signal. But he’d been trying on and off every night and day already.

‘And have you checked every corner of the castle while doing so?’

No. Not yet.

In surreal parody of a dowsing witch, he held the flip phone up and away from him and began to hunt. His strides were measured but quick, stalking along all eight sides of the octagonal chamber outside his room before making use of the few unlocked doors in their walls. These amounted to one, his bedroom’s, two, the library’s, and three, the dining hall’s. No signal. Heading through the dining hall, he gravitated to the windows as he went, cracking them open to try for a bar even as he was frustrated by the ornate casements that caged the panes. Onward, onward. Along a hall, down the stairs. The obvious route was to step outdoors and out of the stone cage of the castle.

In truth, the whole place reminded Jonathan of an impressive cave system unearthed and perched outside the mountains that had birthed it. Even with the afternoon daylight leaking through the windows, the corridors were startlingly dark. He kept expecting the ceiling to come alive with bats or for some skulking creature to shamble out of a corner at him. But then, that would mean proof of someone other than himself and the Count inhabiting the space. And though it was absurd, each echoing step through the castle made the idea increasingly unsettling and—he tried and failed to laugh—plausible. Because really, truly, where was anyone?

He had walked right past the latest cold breakfast left for him at the dining table, instead trying to hunt down the people who must have laid the meal out. But so many doors were locked that he couldn’t begin to guess where the kitchen might be, or the servants’ quarters, or anything else. His ears strained against the quiet for another footstep beyond his own, a whisper of conversation, the shuffle and breath of people existing somewhere, doing something. But all the sounds were his. The loudest one he made that day would be at the monolithic front door.

Unchained, unbarred.

And locked.

 Jonathan stared at the weighty handle, still frozen in place. His mind almost skidded off and away from this latest surprise; after all, the castle was the old man’s home. If he thought lurking up in the mountains wasn’t enough security, why shouldn’t he lock his door? But the excuse slipped in a puddle of its own anxiety as his eyes landed on the more salient point:

There was a handle. Below it, a keyhole. But no latch. No bolt to thumb. It was a lock designed not to keep people out, but to keep people in. Sprinting after this revelation was—

Is this not a near perfect replica of the exterior handle on your bedroom door?

—a spike of panic that had him pocketing the phone and taking to the handle with both hands, wrenching and fighting with the ancient iron. The door didn’t budge any more than the metal.

“Someone,” Jonathan heard himself croak from some high and dizzy place in his head. “Someone, please, I—is anyone there? I need to step out. I-I think I’ve left something in the car. Hello?” Somebody had to have a key. It couldn’t just be the Count. Staff needed spares and a castle needed staff and somebody would come, somebody had to come if he made a nuisance of himself, come and look at the skittish little Englishman scared over a stuck door, ha ha, somebody, anybody— “Hello!”

His own voice rebounded back to him. Hello, hello, hello. Silence again.

The battery was draining.

Jonathan no longer walked, but jogged. The jog turned into a run. After that, a race. All directions, up, down, across, around, flip phone now strangled in his hand. No door opened. No one came. Nor did any signal. He tasted his own heart clogged at the back of his mouth, his pulse all thunder in his ears and rain threatening at his eyes. It was as he passed an open south-facing room that he finally came to a stop. Half to pause in the act of fumbling at his glasses, wiping frantically at the new phantom smudges on the lenses, half to be sure of the view.

A magnificent window took up most of a wall here, facing a valley that would make a painter weep. Jonathan saw the bowl of the mountains as they tapered away to a distant serrated ridge and the floor of the earth that lay furred and verdant with wild forest. Silken streams of water caught the late afternoon light. As he noted the shift of the shadows already spilling over one side of the valley, his stomach growled in reminder. His breakfast was still waiting for him. He’d have to head back soon and make himself eat to avoid suspicion.

Suspicion from who? About what?

Just as briskly, Mina’s voice returned:

‘Jonathan. He isn’t here. You don’t have to pretend. Not right now.’

True. But it made the dread no more bearable.

‘Keep the dread for later. Look at the window. Really look.’

He did and saw what his first glance had missed for its sheer obviousness; there was no blocking casement over the glass. Jonathan opened the pane with trembling fingers. Then made the mistake of looking down.

“Oh.”

 He’d seen hints so far from the encased windows, but this view made it all horribly evident that Castle Dracula wasn’t exactly perched upon a solid foundation. Jonathan had assumed otherwise from his squinting in the moon-etched dark of his midnight arrival, finding no evidence in the gloom that the fortress wasn’t tucked neatly into the rock. Instead, it seemed the castle was balanced on a precarious jut of stone with cliff faces dropping from three sides of the fortress. Said sides descended so far down to the earth that Jonathan could imagine it taking minutes rather than seconds to hit the ground if he fell.

Regardless, this was as near to open air has he had. He swallowed, fished out the phone, dried his palms, and held the device out in his hands, gripping tight. Nothing. Nothing. No—

Ping!

Jonathan’s eyes ballooned and his drumming heart smacked itself flat into his ribs. There it was. One single bar. He stretched his arms out a little further, just a bit…

Another bar.

A noise too winded to be a laugh slipped out of him as he clutched the phone in one hand and started punching Mina’s number with the other. At which point a dark spot fluttered in his peripheral vision. There was just enough time to mistake it for a bird; one whole second before he recognized the flapping of knuckled leather wings and a shrilling rodent-cry. At the end of that second, the bat collided with his arm. Jonathan yelped and swung and clung, coming within inches of  avoiding the inevitable. But the animal darted straight to his hand, fastened at his sleeve, and bit hard into the thin meat between his thumb and forefinger. Jonathan keened; then choked.

He’d lost his grip.

“No.”

The phone was already gone from his bloody palm, tumbling through space—

“No!”

—as he grasped at the window frame and stared after the somersaulting grey speck. The Dalek made a tiny clatter of plastic against plastic as it went. Jonathan lost sight of the phone well before it finished its fall. He couldn’t guess where it landed. No more than he could tell where the bat had fluttered off to. A feeble consolation piped up, patting his back for being so mindful as to get updated on all his shots before heading out of Exeter. No worries about the bite.

  Jonathan regarded his bleeding hand through a blackening veil spotting over his vision. He stood there staring at it until the blood stopped trickling, then used his shirt to blot off the stains on the window frame as best he could. Silent and slow, he cradled his folded fist back to his bedroom to clean and patch. He put food in his mouth at the table. Practiced a lie about a slipped bread knife—

Put it down. He’ll notice if it’s missing.

—and whispered dully to the Dictaphone in his bed.

Nightfall brought his host. The sight of Jonathan’s hand drew immediate interest to the point that the Count took it up in his own strange pelt-spotted grip, turning it over and over like a man inspecting a jewel. Jonathan hadn’t even gotten out the story of the bread knife before the old man was prying the plaster off.

“Might I inspect?” the Count asked as the plaster was flung away. Cold thumbs kneaded at the bite as if trying to crush open the new scabs. “You must take care how you cut yourself, my friend. There is no doctor in easy reach. If something were to befall you, I fear no call, however urgent, would bring a man up in time. My driver might manage a trip down, but the trek itself is a peril.” His tongue clicked and tutted. Jonathan thought nauseously of snakes scenting the air. “On the topic of calls, have you managed to speak yet with our friend Mr. Peter Hawkins or any other? I know I have asked forgiveness for my home’s stubborn resistance to accommodate modern advancements, but I had supposed your device to be an exception to the fickle nature of our spot, being of newer, stronger design. Any luck?” The Count watched Jonathan from over his trapped fingers, the cold white spiders of his own digits still clinging.

This is a test. If you say yes, he’ll want you to show him where you achieved the miracle. And you will prove you have no phone along with no charger.     

“No, sir,” Jonathan breathed, surprised at his own evenness. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the opportunity to speak with anyone since I arrived.”

 “I had feared as much,” another cluck-taste of the air. Then Jonathan found himself being towed after the Count by the hand, led like a child to the locked office. The Count picked the key from his ring, shaking his pale head all the while. “You see why I must throw up my hands and displace myself to your London? A lover of antiquity I may be, but I should like to have some taste of the living world before I am due to exit it. What can I obtain up here beyond little glimpses in DVDs and magazines? It is good fortune even to have spoken with your master—pardon, employer—with a clear connection…”

On he went as he brought Jonathan up to his desk, switched on its dim lamp, and bid him to sit. The Count slid the rotary phone up to the desk’s edge.

“I only wish you had said sooner that you were having trouble. Please, call our Mr. Hawkins and whomever else might be expecting your call.” Jonathan felt hope rise, crest, and die in his chest as the Count stepped away by exactly four paces. There the old man settled himself in a plump armchair and began to thumb through the nearest magazine. A pointed ear was aimed toward him among the thick white wilds of his mane. A page was turned. Skimmed. Another riffled after that.

Jonathan picked up the handset. Touched the dial at the first digit of Mina’s number—

“You have his business number memorized?” from behind the pages. Riffle, turn. A ruby eye level with his hand on the dial. “I have it on paper and in my head if you need it.”

—and moved it to the first digit of the firm’s head office.

“No, thank you. I remember.” He hooked number after number after number, wincing at the turning click-ick-ick of its steady turn, before plugging his other ear with his palm. The tone in the line was all static and scratches. Hawkins’ recorded voice was barely intelligible down the line. Jonathan got as far as, “Mr. Hawkins, it’s Jon—,” before a sudden crack fired into his ears. One from the phone, another from the whipping of the sky overhead. It was the breaking of a thunderhead, followed by the stone-muted hiss of rainfall. Jonathan put the handset back in place.

“Did it not go through?” from the armchair. Riffle. Turn.

“No, sir. I heard the recording for a moment, then nothing.”

“Such is the way when the storm walks through. Ah, well. It can be attempted in a dry hour.”

“Or email.”

“Hm?”

“Email.” Jonathan pinned his line of sight firmly to the cover of the Count’s magazine, surprised to see it was a glossy image of the Underground. Bradshaw’s Travel Tips blazed at the top. “Mr. Hawkins mentioned that a large part of your correspondence happened via email. He said he’d had trouble with the phones on his end too. So you worked out the initial exchange details for Carfax online.”

“That we did.” The magazine shifted and Jonathan made himself meet the Count’s stare. It somehow failed to soothe him when he saw the old man grin. “Have you not tried to compose an email on one of those…ah, the word has left me. The computer you fold and take along for travel?”

“A laptop. No, I didn’t have one to bring. Still on a desktop setup at home.” He swallowed and found it was like trying to drink sand. “If it doesn’t impose, sir, might I—?” The Count held up his hand, still smiling.

“You need not ask. Here.”

The Count stood. Jonathan tried to scramble up out of the chair, but in a blink the Count’s grip landed on his shoulder and planted him back down. The other hand idly unlocked one of the desk’s drawers with its own tiny key and slipped out a single sheet of stationery and a pen. The drawer was just as swiftly locked again.

“Write what you will and I shall take it to my private chambers and my own computer’s account to send. You will forgive me, I know, for what appears at first an untrusting maneuver. But with such assets and colleagues as those I mingle with to consider, there are business matters of dire confidentiality to consider. If it were to get out that I had let a stranger, even so sterling a companion as yourself, gain access to my personal devices, there would be no end of havoc as my fellows fretted and clutched their pearls. This is best, you see. And in the same vein of propriety, I implore you to keep your messages as succinct and devoid of personal matters as possible. Conversation is one thing, but to have another man eyeing your private life on paper is another. Briskness is best, my friend. For your sake.”

So saying, Count Dracula returned again to his chair. This time he didn’t bother to hold up the magazine. He sat immobile as a statue to watch his guest pen a single paragraph out to Peter Hawkins. Mina’s address floated with idiot-temptation across Jonathan’s mind before he blocked it out. He handed the note over. The Count folded it into a square and slid it into an inner pocket.

“It shall be sent out in the morning,” he hummed, rising to his feet again. This time he pulled Jonathan’s chair out himself and offered his hand as if inviting a dancer. His spade nail picked again at the scabbing bite. “How did you say this happened?”

“I made a mistake,” Jonathan said through a smile held together with nails and prayer. “An accident with the bread knife.”

“A curious accident. I would almost take this for the tearing of an animal bite. But it is no matter; there are ways to mend all things.”

The night almost refused to end. Daylight brought separation, the Dictaphone, sleep. A dream of clinging desperately to a cliff as a bat flitted down to gnaw and suckle at his hand. When he plummeted, he woke to find that the scabs were gone.

Around them, the skin was damp and raw.

[soulhollow]

[gojover]

the courtship affairs of a common man

summary: nanami kento prides himself on his discipline, efficiency, and ironclad work ethic. you, on the other hand, are a paragon of spontaneity and relentless optimism. as ceo, you’re used to getting what you want—and your next business venture? winning him over.

⇢ pairing: secretary!nanami kento x ceo!fem!reader ⇢ contains: fluff, mild angst, smut (oral sex, desk sex, protected sex, angry sex, slight dirty talk), office romance au, grumpy x sunshine, profanity, alcohol consumption, parental pressure to get married, corrupt corporate companies, implied misogyny—please let me know if i’ve missed anything! ⇢ word count: 17.9k ⇢ art credit: pinterest | read on ao3 here.

Nanami Kento is a man of routine. At precisely 7:26 A.M, he heads out of his apartment with his tie knotted perfectly and his shoes shined. At 7:43 A.M, he reaches the coffee shop he always frequents, and by 7:54 A.M, he walks out with an iced coffee with three shots of espresso (for himself) and a Mocha Cookie Crumble Frappuccino (for you). 

If he drives fast enough, he can clock in at his workplace by 8:28 A.M, and by the time he reaches his desk, it’s 8:31 A.M. He waits patiently for you to arrive sometime between 8:36 and 8:49. Usually, you arrive exactly at 8:45 A.M, and until then, Nanami works on making a list of all the tasks scheduled for today, in order of greatest priority.

It’s when the clock starts inching towards 9:25 A.M and you still haven’t arrived, that Nanami Kento starts to get a little bit worried.

At 9:26 A.M, Nanami finally sets down his pen. He isn’t the type to fidget, nor is he the type to worry unnecessarily, but there’s an undeniable itch in his chest—a quiet, nagging thought that something is off. He checks his watch. Then his phone. No missed calls, no unread messages. Highly unusual.

The drink he bought for you sits untouched on your desk, the condensation already forming a damp ring on the pristine surface. You always take the first sip as soon as you walk in, mumbling some variation of how you need caffeine to tolerate capitalism.

He waits exactly three more minutes before standing.

If anyone notices the way he strides towards the elevator with more urgency than usual, they don’t comment. The building’s lobby is its usual mess of suits and hurried footsteps, but your usual entrance—heels clicking against polished tile, a cheerful “Morning, Nanami!”—is absent.

He exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly as he debates his next move. Calling you outright would be overstepping. You are his boss. He is your secretary. If you were simply running late, you would text.

That means something must have happened.

Nanami adjusts his tie and makes the call anyway. The phone rings. Once, twice, three times—and then, finally, your voice; groggy and unmistakably hoarse.

“...Nanami?”

He clenches his jaw. “Where are you?”

You pause, followed by a rustling sound, as if you’re shifting under blankets. “Oh, shit.”

“You overslept,” Nanami states.

“Uh,” you say intelligently. “Maybe?”

Nananmi doesn’t sigh, though he wants to. You’re an excellent CEO—brilliant, quick-witted, sharper than most people twice your age. But responsible when it comes to your own well-being? Absolutely not.

There’s more shifting on your end, followed by a muffled groan. “I might be a little hungover.”

“Of course you are.” His glasses have slid down the bridge of his nose, so he adjusts the frame.

“Listen, it was my friend’s birthday—”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“Okay, mother.”

Nanami does sigh this time. He glances at his watch. If he leaves now, he can get to your apartment in twelve minutes, fifteen if traffic is bad. “I’m coming to get you.”

“Wait, what?”

“You’ll waste another thirty minutes trying to function. I’ll be there in twelve.”

There’s a long pause. Then, in a voice that’s entirely too suspicious for someone who just admitted to being hungover, you say, “...How do you know where I live?”

“I fill out your paperwork,” the secretary says.

Another pause. “This feels like an invasion of privacy.”

“You list it under the company address.”

“Well, I could be lying.”

“Are you?”

Silence. Then, begrudgingly, you admit, “No.”

Nanami does not have the time for this. He’s already halfway to the parking garage, briefcase in hand, and his patience—though formidable—is starting to wear thin. “Stay put. Drink some water. Don’t make it worse.”

You hum. “Define worse.”

“Don’t make me regret my employment here.” 

There’s a chuckle on your end before the call clicks off. Nanami shoves his phone into his pocket and fishes for his car keys. The headlights of his white Toyota Corolla blink back at him. He slides into the driver’s seat as quickly as possible and starts the engine.

Nanami Kento does not speed. He is a very responsible driver. Yet, here he is, at 9:41 A.M, speeding towards your apartment because you overslept, are likely still half-drunk, and have a board meeting in less than an hour. Objectively speaking, this should not be his problem. But Nanami has long-since accepted that you are his problem.

There is a margin of error in his schedule now, and he does not like it. His mind is already running through the necessary steps to minimise the damage.

Best Case Scenario (Highly Unlikely): You’re already awake, dressed and hydrated. You recognise the consequences of your actions. You get in the car immediately. The meeting proceeds as planned. (The probability of this happening is about the same as Gojo Satoru from HR filing his paperwork on time.)

Most Likely Scenario (Unfortunate but Expected): You answer the door in your pyjamas. You have not consumed a single drop of water. You groan at him, complain about work, and stall for at least ten minutes. He has to herd you into productivity like a kindergarten teacher. He gets you to the office just in time—barely.

Worst-Case Scenario (God Forbid): You’re still in bed. You refuse to move. You throw up on his shoes (he will quit). You open the board meeting by saying something absurd like, “Gentlemen, what if we invested in a company that just makes really big spoons?” and Nanami Kento gets fired.

He adjusts his tie at a red light. No, he refuses to let it reach that point.

By the time he pulls up to your apartment, he is ready. He checks his watch once more. 9:53 A.M. Nanami forgoes the elevator in favour of climbing up the staircase two steps at a time. Your apartment is on the fifth floor, and he knocks twice. Firm and precise.

The door swings open, and you are—well. Exactly what Nanami had expected.

You’re standing in the doorway wearing an oversized hoodie and what are definitely not your pants. Your hair is a tangled mess, mascara faintly smudged beneath your eyes. Nanami is not a man easily shaken, but this is certainly not how he expected to start his morning.

“You look awful,” he says.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

Nanami steps into your apartment uninvited. The place is surprisingly not a disaster, though for a luxury apartment, it does seem a tad bit shabby. An empty wine glass balances precariously on your coffee table, next to a half-eaten slice of cheesecake and—God help him—what appears to be a sequined tiara. 

He chooses not to ask. Instead, he sets his briefcase down, rolls up his sleeves, and heads straight for your kitchen.

You blink. “What are you doing?”

“Fixing this.” He pulls open your fridge, scanning the contents with a critical eye. It is, to his horror, mostly condiments. “When was the last time you ate a proper meal?”

You scratch your cheek. “Um. Last night?”

He shuts the fridge a little harder than necessary. “Cheesecake doesn’t count.”

“Rude. That cake was expensive.”

Nanami ignores you, opting instead to fill a glass of water. He hands it over, watching as you take a slow, reluctant sip. “Drink all of it,” he instructs.

“You sound like my mom,” you say, squinting at him.

“Yes, well, if your mother were here, I assume she wouldn’t have let you drink half your body weight in alcohol the night before a board meeting.”

“Wait.” Your eyes widen. “The board meeting.”

Nanami resists the urge to point out that this should have been your first concern, not the last. “Yes,” he says, “the one that starts in thirty-five minutes.”

You suck in a breath sharply. “I need to shower.”

“Obviously.”

“I don’t have time to do my hair.”

“You’re wearing it up.”

“I don’t have time for makeup.”

“You keep a bag in your office.”

You scowl. “You’re very annoying, you know that?”

Nanami gives you a pointed look, taking your empty glass of water from your hands. “Yes.”

You grumble something under your breath before disappearing into your room, the door clicking shut behind you. Nanami sighs. He takes off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose, before rolling his shoulders. He deserves a pay raise.

By the time Nanami drags you into the office, you’re at least functioning. He’s made sure of it. He forced you to drink two full bottles of water and a homemade electrolyte mix (which you gagged on); stopped you from wearing a sweatshirt that said Eat the Rich (your argument was that it was thematically appropriate); shoved a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich into your hands (which you sullenly ate in the elevator, glaring at him the entire time); and silently questioned all of his life choices.

And now, he stands beside you in the conference room, arms crossed, expression stoic, while you sit at the head of the long, polished table, addressing a room full of corporate executives.

To your credit, you’re holding your own. Your voice is even. Your sentences are concise. Your data is accurate. If Nanami didn’t know that you had been half-dead in bed forty minutes ago, he wouldn’t be able to tell.

The board members—a collection of old money, new money, and at least one guy who definitely inherited his position from his father—watch you with varying degrees of interest. Some, like Flower Bandana and Secret Tattoo from Marketing, nod along. Others, most notably, Wire-Rimmed Glasses and Charcoal Pants, pretend to skim the reports in front of them. Nepotism Baby, however, is very obviously checking golf scores under the table.

Nanami clocks all of it. Still, you power through.

“—and as you can see, our projected quarterly growth remains steady despite recent market shifts. However, to maintain momentum, we need to prioritise long-term investments in—” You pause. Nanami notices it immediately—a brief hesitation, a flicker of your fingers against the table.

You’ve forgotten what you were saying.

To the untrained eye, it is imperceptible. To Nanami, who has spent an ungodly amount of time observing you, it’s as obvious as a flashing neon sign. 

Before you can recover, Salt-and-Pepper Board Member—the one who always speaks in a tone that suggests he hasn’t been happy since the Reagan administration—leans forward. “Miss CEO,” he says, adjusting his gold watch, “before we move forward, I’d like to address something.”

“Of course,” you reply smoothly, though Nanami catches the way your hands tense against the table.

Salt-and-Pepper clasps his hands together. “While we appreciate your insights, I have to ask—” a pause, carefully calculated for dramatic effect— “what exactly is your long-term vision for the company?”

The room stills. It’s a trap. A carefully laid, passive-aggressive, MBA-scented trap. Nanami watches you closely. He knows this type of boardroom maneuver—an underhanded way to question your competence without outrightly saying it. Testing the waters to see if you’ll crack, so to speak.

You, as always, rise to the occasion.

“My vision?” you repeat, tilting your head slightly, voice measured. “That’s an interesting question.”

Nanami presses his lips together. He can see the gears turning in your head.

You lean back in your chair, lacing your fingers together. “If I had to sum it up, I’d say my long-term vision is simple: Growth, innovation, and ensuring that this company doesn’t crumble under the weight of its own outdated bureaucracy.”

Salt-and-Pepper’s eyes narrow just slightly. You continue.

“Because let’s be honest, gentlemen—” (Nanami notes how you conveniently exclude the few women in the room; they could do no wrong in your eyes) “—we could sit here, shuffle numbers, and pat ourselves on the back for maintaining the status quo, or we could actually build something for the future. Something sustainable, something adaptive. Something that doesn’t leave us scrambling every time the market shifts.”

Impressive. Nanami hides his amusement behind a neutral expression. You’ve managed to say absolutely nothing while making it sound like you’ve said everything. A skill only a true genius could master. Salt-and-Pepper’s eyebrows pinch. He opens his mouth—likely to challenge you—but before he can, Nanami steps in.

“Further details on our strategic initiatives can be found on page five,” he says, flipping to the appropriate section in the report. “You’ll find that the CEO’s approach aligns with our projected financial goals and ensures continued shareholder confidence.”

Translation: Shut up and read the damn report. Salt-and-Pepper huffs in irritation.

The meeting continues. Charts are analysed. Projections are debated. Wire-Rimmed Glasses tries to poke holes in your marketing budget, only for Secret Tattoo to shut him down with three lines of data and an unimpressed eyebrow raise. Nepotism Baby suddenly develops an interest in the conversation only when someone brings up potential tax incentives.

Throughout it all, Nanami stands beside you like a quiet, immovable force of nature, ready to step in whenever necessary—though, to his silent chagrin, you seem to be having fun.

“You know,” you say, after redirecting a particularly obtuse question from Charcoal Pants, “I was going to bring this up later, but since we’re already on the subject of outdated models—”

Nanami immediately dislikes where this is going.

“—I’d love to discuss our executive compensation structure.”

The temperature in the room drops several degrees. There’s a long, pointed silence. Salt-and-Pepper visibly tenses. Wire-Rimmed Glasses stops pretending to read his report. Charcoal Pants blinks very fast. Nanami sighs. You are testing his patience. He’s not sure what you’re trying to achieve by discussing potential salary cuts to the Board of Directors, but it is too late now, and he is in too deep.

“Compensation structure?” Salt-and-Pepper repeats, as if you’ve just suggested setting fire to the stock portfolio.

“Yes,” you agree. “As you all know, our yearly executive bonuses amount to a significant percentage of our net profits. While rewarding performance is important, I believe we should also explore options that align with our long-term company health.”

One of Salt-and-Pepper’s eyes twitches. “I see. And what exactly do you propose?”

“A more balanced structure. Something performance-driven, sure, but also weighted in a way that ensures we’re reinvesting into the company and our employees. After all, a company is only as strong as its people.”

“That’s a… bold suggestion.” Salt-and-Pepper smiles, but it is a smile in the way a wolf bares its teeth.

“Oh, I know.” You flash him a blindingly fake grin. “But that’s what visionaries do, right? Think boldly?”

The discussion moves forward. The board members clearly have no interest in discussing executive pay cuts, and after five minutes of unproductive back-and-forth, Nanami steps in to smooth things over.

“We can table this discussion for another time,” he offers. “Let’s return to our key agenda items.”

Translation: You are all embarrassing yourselves. Move on. Thus, the meeting drags to an exhausting close. As the last board member exits, the conference room falls into silence. Nanami breathes out slowly. He turns his attention back to you—where you sit, still slumped in your chair, spinning a pen between your fingers. 

You look pleased with yourself. Of course, you do.

“You’re mean,” he says plainly.

You grin, unapologetic. “But you’re still here.”

Nanami presses his lips together, but he doesn’t deny it. You’re right; he is still here. Still standing beside you, still following you through your commitments and obligations, still making sure you don’t self-destruct before lunch, let alone the fiscal year. Still watching.

Nanami Kento isn’t blind to his own habits. He is not a man given to sentiment, nor is he someone who allows himself to be distracted. He has spent years cultivating a certain discipline, a carefully maintained distance between himself and his work. 

Yet, here he is.

Here he is, noticing things. Like the way your fingers tap absently against the table when you’re thinking. The way you tilt your head ever-so slightly when someone challenges you, as if already preparing a rebuttal. The way you wield charm and sharp wit like a weapon, disarming a room full of men who think they can rattle you.

Here he is, memorising things. Like the exact cadence of your voice when you’re amused versus when you’re irritated. The way you argue, not just for the sake of arguing, but because you genuinely believe things should be better.

Here he is, wondering things. Like why the sight of you so thoroughly holding your own in that room makes something in his chest feel curiously, infuriatingly warm. 

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t worry about you, shouldn’t be so aware of the way your presence has begun to take up space in his thoughts.

Nanami isn’t sure when it started. Maybe it was the first time you dragged him into a fight you had no business winning, arguing down a board member twice your age with nothing but facts and deduction. Maybe it was the morning you shoved a coffee into his hands without preamble, grumbling something about corporate capitalism slowly draining the life out of him. Maybe it was when he realised that despite your recklessness, despite your exhausting tendency to push every limit—

You were trying. 

Maybe that’s why he stays. Not because you’re impossible. Not because you test his patience on a daily basis, but because, despite it all, Nanami believes in you. Maybe—just maybe—that belief is starting to feel like something else entirely.

He clears his throat, shaking off whatever momentary lapse has settled over him. “Your next meeting is in fifteen minutes,” he says, already turning towards the door. “Try not to fall asleep before lunch.”

“No promises,” you call after him, and Nanami forces himself not to look back.

The next morning, you arrive at 8:45 A.M on the dot, and though you don’t greet Nanami with a chipper good morning wish, you do shove a neatly-wrapped roll of melonpan into his arms. 

“For yesterday,” you explain. “Thanks for picking me up even though it’s not a part of your job.”

Nanami stares at the melon bread in his hands. It’s soft, and still warm, wrapped in crinkly butter paper. For a moment, he simply blinks at it, as if it’s some kind of foreign object, something misplaced in the orderly structure of his morning routine. (It is.) 

Then, he looks at you. You’re already at your desk, halfway through flipping through a manila folder, scanning through documents with your brows furrowed in concentration. But Nanami catches it—the way your fingers loosely hold the paper, the way your shoulders aren’t as stiff as they were yesterday. It’s an offering—but more than that, it’s you remembering, because the name of the bakery printed on the butter paper is his favourite one.

He sets the melonpan carefully on the desk beside his coffee. “It was never not part of my job.”

“Huh?” Your head snaps up.

“Looking after you.”

Your brows knit together in something Nanami recognises as your default setting: Suspicion. “That’s not in your job description.”

“It should be,” he says, shrugging.

Your expression flickers—just for a second—before you roll your eyes. “Great. So I’ve officially become a liability. Good to know.”

“You’ve been a liability since day one.”

“Wow. You’ve been holding onto that one, huh?”

“I’m simply stating facts.” Nanami picks up the bread, breaking off a piece, and takes a bite. The outer layer of cookie dough is crisp, and it melts on his tongue with just the right amount of sweetness.

Your lips press together, like you’re trying to fight off a smile. “So?”

Nanami chews, swallows, and nods once. “Acceptable.”

“Oh, shut up. You love it.”

He says nothing, merely covers up the bread with the butter paper once more and places it next to his coffee once more. You look pretty today, he thinks. You’ve recovered from yesterday’s series of meetings. You’re smiling more. It might turn out to be a good day after all. Nanami doesn’t allow himself to linger on the thought. He reaches for his coffee, taking a sip, while you return to your documents, flipping a page with a little too much force.

“You have a meeting at ten,” he reminds you.

“I know.”

“And a working lunch with Legal.”

You make a noise of protest. “Not the suits. Again.”

“They have concerns about the expansion,” Nanami says mildly.

“They always have concerns.” You sigh, tilting your head back against your chair. “I swear, they enjoy making my life difficult.”

Nanami hums noncommittally. It’s not an argument he’s inclined to entertain—mostly because he knows you’ll win, and you’ll be smug about it. Instead, he glances at his watch. “You have exactly ten minutes before the executive team starts pestering me about your whereabouts.”

You make a face, dropping your folder onto your desk with a soft thud. “Can’t I just—skip?”

Nanami gives you a look. You groan and stretch your arms above your head, letting out a soft sigh before reaching for your pen. He watches as you jot something down in the margins of your notes. You’re still tired, he realises. Maybe not visibly, not in the way you were yesterday, but he sees it. The way you rub your temple when you think he isn’t looking, or the way your posture shifts just slightly when you exhale. It’s ridiculous, really, how attuned he is to you.

He clears his throat. “I rescheduled your two-thirty to tomorrow.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

“Because you’ll need the break.”

You purse your lips, considering this, and for a second, he thinks you’ll argue. But then, to his quiet surprise, you nod. “...Okay.”

The ten o’clock meeting is exactly as tedious as Nanami expects it to be. The executive team drones on about projections and budget allocations, with at least three separate tangents about “synergy” and “maximising operational efficiency.” Nanami watches as you nod along at all the right moments, feigning interest while you fiddle with your pen. He knows you’re not actually absorbing any of it—your attention is already elsewhere, likely preoccupied with the looming meeting with Legal. 

(He knows this because, at one point, you doodle a tiny stick figure on the margins of your notes. When the CFO asks for your thoughts, you barely miss a beat before delivering a perfectly rehearsed response.)

When the meeting ends, he follows behind you. You stretch discreetly, rolling out your shoulders, and when you glance at him, your expression is a silent plea for mercy.

Nanami sighs. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you expect me to spare you from your next obligation.”

“But you could,” you say, all mock innocence.

“I won’t,” he answers.

You heave a sigh. “You’re heartless.”

“I’m efficient.”

“Same thing.”

“You have twenty minutes before your next meeting,” Nanami says instead. “Eat something.”

“Okay, boss.”

Your secretary rolls his eyes. “You’ll thank me later.”

You do, albeit reluctantly. The legal team’s working lunch is predictably dull, full of jargon and contingency plans and hypothetical risks that you pretend to take notes on. At some point, you throw Nanami a look so filled with unspoken suffering that, if he were a softer man, he might have pitied you. 

See? your expression seems to say over the rim of your coffee cup, eyes flat with boredom. This is my suffering.

Nanami lets his mouth twitch upwards. You’ll survive.

You don’t know that. You narrow your eyes at him.

You do survive—just barely—through an hour of suffocating legalese, sitting through discussions on compliance policies and liability frameworks with a blank notepad and polite nods. You haven’t written anything down except Help me in the margins, which Nanami had caught a glimpse of when you’d shifted the notepad slightly. When the meeting finally, mercifully, ends, you slump back in your chair, stretching your legs out beneath the conference table with an exaggerated groan.

“I deserve a reward for making it through that,” you mutter.

Nanami flips through his schedule. “Your reward is not getting sued.”

“That’s a terrible reward,” you retort, scrunching your nose.

“It’s an important one.”

“You’re no fun, you know that?” you say, but there’s no real bite to it. Just annoyance, not directed at him.

“I do,” Nanami says, without missing a beat.

You huff a soft laugh, shaking your head before pushing yourself to stand. He follows suit, gathering his notes. It’s only when you step out of the conference room that he notices it again—the way your fingers tap absently against your arm, the slight crease in your forehead.

You’re preoccupied. Not just with work—no, he’d recognise that kind of stress easily. This is something else.

Nanami doesn’t pry. He never does. If you wanted to talk about it, you would. But when you step into the elevator and don’t immediately pull out your phone or launch into complaints about Legal, he speaks before he can stop himself. “What’s on your mind?”

You turn to him, mildly surprised. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been distracted all morning,” he says evenly.

“It’s nothing serious,” you say, a little softer than usual. “Just… something personal.”

That’s more than he expected you to admit. Nanami nods. He doesn’t push further or demand an explanation, but he asks, “Do you need anything?”

“I—” Your fingers still against your arm. “No. I’m fine.”

Nanami Kento doesn’t believe in prying. He’s spent years making sure the lines between professional and personal stay intact, clean and neat. You, however, have spent just as long ignoring those lines completely. He could leave it at that. Should, probably. It’s not his place to push, not when you so rarely let people in. But the problem is, he knows you too well—or, at least, better than most. He knows you well enough to recognise when you’re on the verge of running yourself into the ground, or to see through the half-hearted distractions you use to keep yourself from thinking too much.

The elevator doors slide open, and you step out first, wringing your hands like you’re physically squeezing out whatever was on your mind. He doesn’t comment when you pick up your pace, diving headfirst back into work as though you were never distracted in the first place.

It’s strange, he thinks, this feeling that lingers in his chest as he watches you settle back behind your desk. He’s always known his role in your life. He’s your secretary, your buffer against boardroom politics, the person who keeps your world running just a little more smoothly. He arranges your meetings, reorganises your schedule, and reminds you to eat when you’re too caught up in your work to remember.

Still. 

There are moments like these—moments where the boundary blurs, where the concern twists into something deeper. Moments where he finds himself wanting to do more than just keep you organised. 

It’s a dangerous thought, one he has no business entertaining, so he doesn’t.

Nanami Kento is not a morning person. He is, however, a responsible person, which means he is usually awake at a reasonable hour, even on weekends. Today is no exception.

His apartment is quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall—the minute hand inches towards 7:42 A.M—and the occasional rustle of a turning page as he reads. A fresh cup of coffee sits within reach, steam curling lazily into the air. It’s black, strong, and exactly the way he likes it—no unnecessary sweetness, no frills. This is how he prefers to spend his time off: A slow morning, a good book, and silence.

Then his phone buzzes. Nanami glances at the screen, frowning slightly at the name that appears. You. He sighs, already feeling a headache coming on. Nothing good ever comes from you calling him on a weekend. Or at all, really. 

Still, he picks up. “What?”

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence on the other end. Then he hears you take in a breath, like you’re working up the nerve to speak. “Hey, um— Are you busy?”

“It’s my day off.” Nanami closes his book and leans back in his chair, his fingers pressing against his temple.

“I know,” you say quickly. Your voice sounds a little different—softer, almost unsure. That alone puts him on edge. He isn’t used to you hesitating. “That’s… actually why I called.”

His frown deepens. He recognises this setup. This is how people sound right before they ask him for something. Nanami shifts the phone to his other ear, already resigned. “What do you want?”

“Okay, first of all,” you say, defensive already, “I resent the implication that I only call you when I need something.”

“That is the only time you call me.”

“...Okay, fine. That’s fair.”

Nanami sighs again. He swears he isn’t the sighing sort of person, but you seem to bring out sides of him he never knew existed. “What is it?”

There’s another pause, longer this time. He hears the faint sound of movement—maybe you shifting your weight, maybe you fidgeting. He almost rolls his eyes. 

“There’s a flea market today,” you say, but there’s something different about the way you say it. Your voice is notably quieter, almost hesitant. “I, um… I wanted to go, but I don’t really have anyone to go with.”

Nanami stills. You? Hesitant? You, who has no problem bossing him around at work, who never hesitates to demand his time and attention, shy about asking him for a favour? Something about the way you say it makes his chest unfurl with warmth.

“So,” you continue, voice uncertain in a way he isn’t used to, “I was wondering if maybe you’d wanna come with me?”

Nanami doesn’t answer right away. He could say no. In fact, he probably should say no. It’s his day off, and he has no interest in spending his weekend surrounded by noisy crowds, looking at secondhand trinkets he doesn’t need. 

He exhales, already regretting this. “What time?”

“Be ready in an hour?” you ask hopefully. “Dress casual. But, like, not too casual.”

“I’m hanging up now,” he says.

“Wait—”

Nanami places his phone down on the table and stares at his coffee like it has personally betrayed him. How did this happen? One moment, he’s enjoying his peaceful morning. The next, he’s been roped into spending his day off at a flea market. It’s fine. He can handle this. He just needs a plan.

Best Case Scenario (Highly Unlikely): You’re already waiting outside when he arrives. You haven’t made any impulse purchases within the first ten minutes. You respect his personal space. You finish browsing in a reasonable amount of time, and Nanami returns home with his sanity intact. (This is about as likely as Gojo Satoru from HR suddenly developing the ability to stay awake for longer than five minutes during important meetings.)

Most Likely Scenario (Unfortunate but Expected): You’re ready, but you’re too excited. You get distracted by every shiny object at the market. You see a vintage typewriter and suddenly develop an unrealistic dream of becoming a novelist. You haggle dramatically over an item that costs the same as a cup of coffee. He ends up carrying all your bags.

Worst-Case Scenario (God Forbid): You’re waiting outside, but you’ve already made three online purchases while waiting. You spot a tarot card reader and decide he needs his fortune told. You find a vintage sword and somehow convince him to buy it. He loses you in the crowd and considers leaving you there. He doesn’t. (Unfortunately.)

Nanami arrives exactly on time, at 8:42 A.M, dressed in a dark olive button-up with the sleeves neatly rolled to his elbows, paired with well-pressed slacks and his usual leather shoes. His watch glints under the afternoon sun as he adjusts his glasses, scanning the crowd until his gaze lands on you.

You’re waiting near the entrance, shifting your weight from foot to foot with barely contained excitement. You’re wearing a breezy sundress, the colour bright against your skin. A canvas tote hangs from your shoulder. You rock onto your toes when you spot him, waving as if he might somehow miss you in the small crowd. Nanami sighs. You look pretty, he thinks, but when has he ever not thought so?

Just like that, Nanami Kento finds himself being led—against all better judgement—towards the market, where the streets are lined with stalls draped in colourful awnings, and the scent of saffron and cherries mingles in the air. Vendors call out their wares, old books are piled up in uneven stacks on wooden crates, and delicate silver necklaces and earrings gleam in glass cases. Somewhere, a musician plays a soft tune on a violin, the notes drifting through the air like the slow unraveling of a ribbon.

You walk slightly ahead, turning back every so often to ensure Nanami is still there, as if he might bolt at the first opportunity. How stupid of you. As if he’d go anywhere else. The man doesn’t miss the way your shoulders are loose, the way you no longer hold tension in your frame like a coiled wire. This is why weekends exist, he supposes.

When you reach a stall selling secondhand books, you stop abruptly. “See? This is nice,” you say, running a finger along the worn spine of a novel. “Better than sitting in a meeting with Legal.”

Nanami hums. His gaze is on you. You pick up a book with a cracked leather cover, flipping through its yellowed pages. Then, suddenly, you turn to him, holding it up.

“Tell me,” you muse, lips curving. “Have you ever been wooed in a flea market before?”

He blinks. “I don’t think so.”

You clear your throat and read aloud: ‘...and he regarded her with a most admiring countenance, struck by the quickness of her wit and the sharpness of her tongue…’

Nanami crosses his arms as you hold the book open like a scholar about to present a groundbreaking thesis. The corners of his lips twitch, but he schools his expression into something neutral. “Is that so?”

You nod solemnly. “A most admiring countenance,” you repeat, tapping the page. “That’s what it says. I think that’s a very poetic way of describing how you look at me all the time.”

He looks at you, ready to say something horrifically stupid, probably, but then you grin, mischief shining in your eyes, and he shakes his head with a quiet sigh. “You do realise that’s from a romance novel.”

“Oh, I’m very aware. I just thought, maybe, if I read enough passages, you might be so swept away by the romance of it all that you’ll fall madly in love with me.”

There it is. That ridiculous, absurd, entirely unserious thing you do—teasing him just enough to see if you can get a reaction. Nanami knows this game well.

“Hm.” He tilts his head slightly, his voice even. “And if I say it’s working?”

You blink. For once, you don’t have a quick-witted reply. Your fingers tighten around the book as you search his expression for something—anything—to indicate that he’s joking. But Nanami is frustratingly unreadable, his gaze steady, the sunlight catching the sharp planes of his face.

You shift, looking back at the book. “Then I’d say I need to find more material,” you mumble. “Something more compelling.”

He chuckles, amused at the way you retreat when met with your own words. “Of course.”

You huff, flipping through the pages again. He watches as your fingers dance over the old paper, as you scan each line with an almost childlike curiosity. There’s a sort of reverence in the way you handle books, as if each one holds a tiny universe inside. Nanami understands. He takes a step closer, just enough to catch the scent of your perfume—light, familiar. You’re so engrossed in your search that you don’t even notice. 

“This one’s nice,” you murmur, tapping another passage with your fingertip before reading it aloud. “‘To be looked at with such devotion… it is a wonder she could bear it at all.’ Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

Nanami doesn’t say anything. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. 

You brighten instantly. “So you are being wooed.”

He hands over a few bills to the vendor without acknowledging your comment. “Just buy the book.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, barely holding back a laugh, before placing the book inside your tote bag. Your fingers brush against his briefly—just the lightest touch, gone too soon. The transaction is done, and the book is safely tucked away, but Nanami doesn’t know why his mouth suddenly feels too dry, or his clothes feel too warm.

“You’re a very easy target,” you say, tilting your head up to look at him.

“Enlighten me.”

“Well, for one, you act all stern and no-nonsense, but you just bought a book because I read one romantic passage out loud. That, Nanami, is the behaviour of a man who is, against his better judgement, deeply susceptible to my charm.”

Nanami doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he turns and starts walking down the narrow aisle between the market stalls, knowing full well that you’ll follow. You fall into step beside him. “Hey, I wasn’t done talking.”

“I know.”

“You’re so rude.”

“You’ll live.”

You roll your eyes and he lets you get distracted by the next few stalls—one selling mismatched ceramic mugs, another displaying old postcards with faded ink scrawled across them. You pause at a stall selling silver jewelry, fingers trailing over delicate rings arranged on a velvet-lined tray.

Nanami watches, hands in his pockets, as you try on a ring, twisting it around your finger before putting it back. “Not getting one?” he asks.

You shrug. “I don’t know. I like the idea of having one, but I don’t think I’d wear it often enough to justify it.”

He glances at the tray, his gaze settling on a simple silver band. He briefly considers buying it for you, but the thought unsettles him for reasons he doesn’t want to examine too closely. He says nothing and waits for you to move. 

You wander through the market together, stopping here and there—laughing when you find a truly heinous painting of a cat, nudging Nanami when you spot a tarot reader just to see his reaction, groaning dramatically when he refuses to let you buy a vintage sword. (He doesn’t trust you with a sharp object. This is a reasonable stance, he thinks.)

By the time the afternoon sun hangs high, painting the streets in gold, Nanami finds himself carrying a small bag of your purchases despite his earlier aversion—not because you asked, but because, without thinking, he took it from you when your hands were full, and somehow, neither of you mentioned it.

Nanami Kento is brushing his teeth, already halfway through his night routine, when his phone buzzes against the bathroom counter. He considers ignoring it—nothing good ever comes out of late-night calls—but then he sees your name flashing on the screen, again. He closes his eyes. He spent half the Saturday with you at the flea market. It’s a Sunday night, and he’s already thinking about the miserable Monday morning waiting for him. He doesn’t need whatever nonsense you’re about to tell him. Still, he picks up the phone.

A sigh leaves him, muffled by the toothbrush in his mouth. He spits, rinses, and presses the call button. “What?”

“Nanami,” you say, pathetically slurred.

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

“No, listen, listen,” you insist, voice wobbly. “I have—a problem.”

“Of course, you do,” Nanami says. “Where are you?”

“At home.” There’s a rustling sound on the other end, like you’re rolling around on a couch, or maybe tangled up in a blanket that you don’t have the coordination to escape from. “I made it home all by myself. I think that’s really impressive. You should say you’re impressed.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re so mean,” you whine. Then, lower, in a voice so pitiful he almost snorts, “I think I’m dying.”

Nanami checks the time. 10:34 P.M. He should tell you to drink some water and go to sleep. He should just hang up. From the other end of the line, you let out a tiny, miserable noise. It’s barely a sniffle, more like a small whimper of distress—pathetic, and fleeting, but it sits wrong with him. He stands there for a moment, staring at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror, waiting for the irritation to take over. It never does.

Instead, his eyebrows furrow in something that isn't quite a frown, but close enough. Then, he grabs his coat. If he leaves now, he can reach your apartment in twelve minutes, fifteen if traffic is bad.

Your apartment is unlocked when he gets there. Nanami pushes the door open, stepping inside and toeing off his shoes. He barely has the time to take in the mess—your shoes kicked off in two completely different directions, your bag lying lifeless in the middle of the floor, clearly dropped mid-stride—before you come stumbling out of the kitchen, gripping a glass of water like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this world.

“You came,” you breathe, eyes wide. “My saviour.”

He frowns. “Why is your door unlocked?”

You wave a hand, dismissive. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

“Why are you mad?” You blink at him, wobbling slightly where you stand, and tilt your head like he’s the one being unreasonable.

Nanami presses his lips into a thin line. Instead of answering, he reaches out to flick you on the forehead. You yelp, nearly dropping your glass. “That’s for being careless.” He folds his arms. “How much did you drink?”

“Mm. Enough.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Enough to want to die, but not enough to actually die,” you clarify, solemn. “Does that help?”

“No.”

You snicker at his flat tone, but it quickly turns into a hiccup. Eyes wide, you slap a hand over your mouth, until you relent and start giggling uncontrollably. Nanami watches you, expressionless. He has never been more tired in his life.

Without another word, he moves past you and into your kitchen. “Sit down. I’ll make you something to sober up.”

“I don’t wanna sober up,” you whine, trailing after him.

He eyes you critically, pulling open a cabinet in search of honey and ginger. “What’s your excuse for getting drunk this time? Another friend’s birthday party?”

You snort. “Don’t be silly, Nanami. You’re the only friend I have.”

He stills. You blink at him, swaying slightly. He ignores the warmth creeping up his cheeks, and tells you to sit down before you fall over. You huff, but oblige, dragging a chair out and collapsing into it. Your head flops onto the counter, cheek squished against the cool surface. “You’re kinda good at this,” you mumble.

Nanami doesn’t bother looking at you as he fills the kettle. “It’s just tea.”

“No,” you say, voice thick with something close to admiration. “Like. Taking care of people.”

His hands still for a fraction of a second before he returns to slicing ginger. He doesn’t acknowledge your words, but something in his chest twists. It’s not like it’s hard to take care of you—you stumble through life with the kind of reckless abandon that practically demands someone step in before disaster strikes. He glances at you. Your arms are folded under your head, body lax, but your eyes are distant, slightly unfocused.

He asks, “What happened?”

You blink sluggishly, turning your head just enough to look at him. “Huh?”

“You don’t drink like this for no reason,” he says. “What happened?”

Your lips purse. You look like you’re debating whether to brush him off or tell him the truth. Then, with a hiccup and sniffle, you mumble, “My parents want me to get married.”

“What?” 

Your nose wrinkles, like the very thought is giving you a headache. “It’s stupid,” you grumble. “They want me to meet some guy, settle down, be stable or whatever. Like that’s something I can just do.” You lift your head slightly, eyes glassy, lower lip wobbling. “I don’t wanna get married.”

Nanami swallows. There’s something painfully childlike in the way you say it, as if you’re afraid of being forced into something you can’t escape from. Your face is flushed from the alcohol, but your expression is unguarded. He could be rational about this—tell you that you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, that it’s your life. But he knows that’s not what you need right now.

Instead, he reaches out, pressing his palm against the top of your head, warm and steady. He hears your sharp intake of breath.

“You don’t have to get married if you don’t want to,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “No one can make you.”

You stare up at him, wide-eyed. The room is still. The only sound is the quiet whistle of the kettle coming to a boil. Then, like a switch has flipped, you sniffle, rubbing at your nose with the sleeve of your sweater. “You’re so nice to me, Nanami.”

“I really am.”

“I should marry you,” you say seriously.

He pulls his hand back immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?” you say, lips quirking into a lazy grin. “You afraid you’d fall in love with me?”

Nanami levels you with a flat look. “I’m afraid you’d forget that we ever got married in the first place.”

You cackle, unbothered, and he shakes his head, exasperated. The kettle clicks off. Nanami turns back to the counter, pouring the hot water into a mug. He stirs in the honey and hears you sigh behind him.

“I mean it, though,” you say, softer now. “I don’t wanna get married. Not to someone I don’t love, or ‘cause my parents think I should.”

Nanami glances at you over his shoulder. Your face is half-hidden behind your arms again, but your eyes are clearer now, a little more serious despite the alcohol buzzing through your system. He walks over, setting the tea down in front of you, and says, “Then don’t.”

You blink up at him again. He nudges the mug towards you, and you wrap your hands around it, staring down at the amber liquid. 

Nanami inhales slowly. “Now drink your tea and go to bed.”

You hum, blowing gently on the surface before taking a sip. Then, peeking up at him through your lashes, you say, “Will you stay?”

He hesitates. It’s late. He has work tomorrow. You have work tomorrow. But when he looks at you—tired, drunk, a little lost—he knows he won’t be able to leave until he’s sure you’re okay. “...I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

You smile sleepily, satisfied, and take another sip of your tea.

The board votes. 

Salt-and-Pepper calls it. Wire-Rimmed Glasses raises his hand first, the corporate equivalent of a teacher’s pet. Charcoal Pants follows, though his fingers twitch with uncertainty. Nepotism Baby—who has been thoroughly checked out for the past forty-five minutes—glances up from his phone just long enough to nod vaguely before going back to whatever meaningless app he’s scrolling through. Nanami watches you from the corner of his eye. You don’t move.

Salt-and-Pepper looks pleased. “Well, that’s that. We’ll move forward with drafting the initial—”

“Wait,” Secret Tattoo from Marketing cuts in. “Are we seriously doing this?”

Salt-and-Pepper’s eyebrows rise, as if he hadn’t expected resistance. Foolish of him. “Is there an issue?”

An issue? Oh, where to begin. Your fingers drum once, twice, against the table. “Zen’in Industries.” You say it like you’re testing the words, rolling them around in your mouth to see if they taste any less like poison. “That’s the best we could do?”

Wire-Rimmed Glasses adjusts his frames. “They’re the most viable partner given the timeline.”

“That’s debatable.”

“The most viable approved partner,” Salt-and-Pepper clarifies. “We’ve reviewed the alternatives.”

“You reviewed them wrong,” Flower Bandana mutters under her breath.

Secret Tattoo leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “I don’t like it either.”

“This decision was made with careful consideration,” Salt-and-Pepper says. His left eye twitches, and he turns back to you. “Miss CEO, while I understand your concerns, business decisions must be made pragmatically, not emotionally.”

Translation: Suck it up and sign the damn papers.

You tilt your head. “Right. And pragmatism is why we’re aligning ourselves with a company whose leadership has been, let’s see, sued five separate times in the last decade for fraudulent business practices, labour violations, and—oh, my favourite—potential ties to organised crime?”

Wire-Rimmed Glasses clears his throat. “Those cases were dismissed.”

“They barely avoided a federal indictment,” you say.

Nepotism Baby suddenly chimes in. “Zen’in’s big. They’ve got resources.”

Nanami resists the urge to sigh. Yes, genius, that’s how companies work. You shoot the boy an unimpressed look, and say, “They also have a history of—how do I put this politely—being absolutely terrible.”

Charcoal Pants shifts uncomfortably. “That’s a bit—”

“Am I wrong?”

Secret Tattoo raises a hand. “Would now be a bad time to remind everyone that they also had an entire warehouse shut down for safety violations?”

“That was an isolated incident,” Wire-Rimmed Glasses says.

“Was it?” you ask. “Because my notes say it happened twice.”

Nepotism Baby leans towards Wire-Rimmed Glasses. “Wait. Twice?”

Salt-and-Pepper clears his throat. “Miss CEO, I assure you—”

“No, really, help me understand.” You lean forward, elbows on the table. “Because last I checked, we weren’t in the business of giving ethics violations a seat at our table.”

“This partnership will allow us to expand at a rate we can’t achieve alone.”

“Uh-huh. And remind me again, what’s the exact rate we’re aiming for? Because if you’re simply going to say something like, faster than usual, I feel like there are other ways to do that. Like, I don’t know, hiring more people. Investing in R&D. Not selling our souls to a family that definitely has bodies buried somewhere.”

Nepotism Baby looks even more alarmed. He leans back towards Wire-Rimmed Glasses. “Wait. Bodies?”

“Metaphorically,” Charcoal Pants says weakly.

You click your tongue. “Probably.”

“The decision has been made.” Translation: Sit down and deal with it. Salt-and-Pepper’s patience has officially run out. Flower Bandana shakes her head. Secret Tattoo mutters under her breath about corporate bootlickers.

Your fingers curl around the pen in front of you. Nanami, ever the observer, sees it immediately—the way you stiffen, the way your expression shutters, before you school it into something blank. “Fine,” you say coolly. “If that’s what the board wants.”

Salt-and-Pepper nods, pleased. “I’m glad we could come to an understanding.”

The meeting adjourns. The board members leave. Salt-and-Pepper sniffs condescendingly in your direction before stepping out. Nepotism Baby stretches, lets out an obnoxiously loud yawn, and wanders off. Charcoal Pants moves quickly, as if afraid you might call him back, and Wire-Rimmed Glasses follows him. One by one, they filter out, until the conference room is empty, save for you and Nanami.

Your fingers uncurl from the pen you’ve been gripping so tightly that there are deep grooves in your skin. You set it down. Tilting your head back, you stare at the ceiling for precisely three seconds before letting out a single, humourless laugh.

“Well.” Your voice is calm, but only barely. “That was fucking awful.”

“You handled it well,” Nanami says.

You let out a breath, somewhere in between a scoff and a sigh. “I shouldn’t have had to handle it in the first place.”

That’s fair, he thinks. You drag a hand down your face as if trying to smother the frustration bubbling just beneath your skin. It doesn’t work. “I knew they’d pull something,” you mutter, “but Zen’in? Of all the goddamn companies in the world, they want them?”

“It’s a strategic decision.” He knows it’s not what you want to hear, but he says it anyway. 

You drop your hand and turn to him. “Say that again, and I’ll replace you.”

“I’m only pointing out the obvious.”

You sigh, but don’t argue. You both know the board sees nothing but numbers, nothing but projections and timelines and carefully-worded justifications. They don’t care about anything outside the bottom line. 

“I don’t want to work with them, Nanami,” you admit.

He already knew that. But hearing you say it—softer now, tired—settles something heavy in his chest. He doesn’t like it. “You won’t do it alone,” he says simply.

Your lips twitch upwards, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

You study him, searching for something, but whatever you find must be enough, because you sigh and push yourself up from your chair. “Guess we’re stuck with this mess, then.”

“Seems that way.”

“If I’m suffering, then you’re suffering with me.”

“Unfortunate,” Nanami says, but he knows you know he doesn’t mean it.

You guffaw, tension easing—slightly. He can tell it’s still there, simmering beneath the surface. He’s still thinking about it, watching you as you head for the door. He sees the way your jaw is set too tightly, the way your shoulders are stiff. You’re angry. Not just irritated, not just frustrated—angry. It’s not just about the board’s incompetence. It’s Zen’in Industries.

“Let’s get something to eat,” Nanami says.

“God, Nanami. Are you asking me to lunch?”

He stiffens slightly at your teasing, but he doesn’t say anything. He just walks past you, already heading to the elevator. You laugh, falling into step beside him.

At lunch, you pick at a Greek salad with disinterest, stabbing a piece of feta cheese with your fork. The restaurant is a nice place—not overly extravagant, but tasteful in a way that suits Nanami’s particular preferences. He hadn’t put much thought into where to take you. He just needed to get you out of that boardroom. 

Now, though, as he watches you pick apart your salad, he wonders if it even helped.

You roll an olive on your plate with your fork. Across from you, Nanami takes an absent sip of his lime soda, only half paying attention to the taste. The silence is not uncomfortable, but he feels awkward regardless. He should be focused on the partnership, on the logistics, on the long list of ways this shouldn’t be as much of a problem as you’re making it out to be. But instead, his mind drifts.

To you.

To your sharp edges and sharp tongue, to the way your expressions flicker just a little too fast sometimes, as if you’re trying too hard to rein yourself in. To the way you are so painfully aware of everything around you: Every person in a room, every slight shift in tone, every implication buried in corporate jargon.

You are, objectively speaking, a brilliant CEO. Ruthless when you need to be, charming when it suits you, but most of all, uncompromising. Yet, when it comes to this—when it comes to Zen’in Industries—your anger is not just professional. It is personal.

Nanami doesn’t like personal. Personal is messy. Personal gets in the way of logic, of utilitarianism, of clear-cut and efficient decisions.

He tells himself that is why he is still thinking about this. Not because the tightness in your shoulders makes his chest ache. Not because he has never once seen you almost falter the way you did today. Not because he has spent the past half-hour cycling through every possible reason for your reaction and coming up empty.

No, he tells himself, it is because this is a complication he cannot account for, and that is what bothers him.

You press your fork into the olive, just enough to puncture the skin. Then, so casually, you might as well be commenting on the weather, you say, “Did you know that I was in a relationship with Zen’in Naoya?”

Nanami freezes. His brain—normally so methodical, so efficient—comes to a screeching halt. There is no quick calculation, no immediate strategy to deal with this information. There is only the sound of your voice, so stunningly normal in its delivery, juxtaposed against the implication of the words themselves. His grip tightens around his glass of lime side. He doesn’t set it down or react outwardly—but he shifts in his seat.

Zen’in Naoya.

He knows the name well. Anyone even remotely involved in business does. He is a member of the Zen’in family—one of those Zen’ins. A man with power, influence, and a reputation that precedes him. Not for anything good, either. Nanami has never met him in person, but he’s read enough and heard enough to know that he would not want to.

He finally sets down his glass. For once, Nanami Kento does not immediately know what to say.

“Nothing to say?” you ask lightly.

Nanami studies you carefully. You are not looking at him, but he recognises this version of you—the one who pretends you’re fine, who deflects with indifference. The one who would rather fill the silence than allow it to become suffocating. 

“You never mentioned that before,” he says slowly. It is not a question; just an observation.

You attempt to smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. “It never came up.”

Nanami is many things, but he is not stupid. The warble in your voice, the way your fingers tighten ever-so slightly around your fork—this is why you were so angry in the meeting. This is why you stiffened at the mention of the Zen’ins, why you dug your heels in so hard. He should have realised it sooner.

He breathes out slowly. “And now it has.”

“Yes,” you say simply. “Would you like me to tell you about our first date?”

Nanami does not react. He makes sure he sounds neutral when he answers, “No.”

You hum, feigning disappointment. “It was terribly boring, anyway. He took me to some overpriced restaurant with a six-course meal, and every single dish had foam in it.”

Nanami ignores the way his stomach twists at the thought of you on a date with someone like Naoya. It is illogical. Unnecessary. 

“I was nineteen,” you continue. “Very stupid. I thought I knew everything. He was older, and it seemed impressive at the time. He said all the right things. I was easily impressed back then.”

Nanami’s fingers curl against the table. Back then. As if there is a before and after to who you are. He doesn’t like the insinuations of that. “You’re not now,” he says.

“No, I guess not.” For the first time in the conversation you look up at him. Nanami does not look away. You lean back in your chair and say, “So, now you know.”

Now he knows. Nanami doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge. It sits uncomfortably in his mind, wedged there like a stubborn wooden splinter. For now, he does the only thing he can do. He nods, takes another sip of his lime soda, and says, “Eat your salad.”

You laugh. It’s a short huff, but it almost makes Nanami smile.

 “Miss CEO,” one of the Zen’in representatives—a wiry, balding man who sweats too much—says, visibly struggling to remain polite, “surely you understand that our current offer is more than fair.”

“Fair,” you echo, as if testing the word on your tongue. “That’s an interesting way to put it.”

Nanami—who has spent the last three weeks enduring these negotiations—already knows where this is going. He resists the urge to sigh.

“Would you care to elaborate?” Balding Man asks. He keeps his tone professional, but there is an undeniable sense of annoyance in his eyes. Nanami takes a deep breath. You, however, smile.

“Well,” you say. “I just think it’s funny—”

Oh, no. Nanami shuts his eyes for a brief moment, pressing his fingers to his temple. He has heard you say this exact phrase at least five times this week, and every time, what follows is never actually funny. It is, usually, a goddamn nightmare.

Balding Man shifts in his seat. “Funny,” he repeats cautiously.

“Mhm,” you hum. “I just think it’s funny that, in your latest revision, you’ve somehow—” you tilt your head— “conveniently removed the profit-sharing clause we originally discussed. The one your team proposed, by the way.”

“That was an adjustment made to account for—”

“—what, exactly?” you interrupt, leaning forward slightly. “Because as far as I can tell, it was an attempt to quietly slip in a clause that benefits your side while offering absolutely nothing in return. Now, I’m sure that’s just a simple oversight, right?”

Balding Man opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again, like a fish flopping around outside water. Nanami watches this unfold with an increasing sense of frustration. 

You are doing this on purpose.

This is not a necessary discussion. The contract could have been finalised two meetings ago, but you have spent the last three weeks turning every single interaction into an exercise in endurance. You nitpick everything. You argue over semantics. You demand last-minute revisions on things that don’t even matter. At one point, you outright rejected a clause you had originally asked for—just to make them go through the process of re-drafting it. 

And because Nanami Kento is your secretary, he has spent most of his time smoothing things over before the Zen’ins lose their patience entirely. It is, frankly, exhausting.

“We can revisit that clause,” Balding Man says tightly.

“Oh, we will,” you say, with a delightfully insincere smile. “In fact, let’s go ahead and set up another review meeting.”

Nanami finally steps in. “That won’t be necessary,” he says, voice clipped.

Your head snaps to him so fast that he almost regrets speaking. Almost. 

“Excuse me?” Your voice is deceptively calm.

Nanami meets your gaze, unwavering. “Dragging out negotiations benefits no one.”

Balding Man exhales, muttering something under his breath. You, however, do not look impressed. Your fingers drum once, twice, against the polished surface of the table. “I wasn’t aware I asked for your opinion, Nanami.”

A sharp silence settles over the room. Nanami’s fingers curl into his palm. You do this all the time. You argue, you challenge, you push every meeting to its breaking point. When things spiral, he’s the one left cleaning up the mess. Now, when he finally intervenes, you’re mad at him? Fine.

Nanami sets his jaw. “I’m only saying what needs to be said.”

The corners of your mouth turn down—just a fraction—before you lean back in your chair. Without looking at him, you say, “Let’s wrap this up.”

Nanami doesn’t allow himself to feel relieved just yet, but at least you don’t push back any further. The rest of the meeting crawls towards a conclusion, with the Zen’in representatives clearly eager to be anywhere else. The moment the last pleasantries are exchanged, Balding Man all but scrambles out the door, leaving you and Nanami alone in the conference room. The silence is razor-thin, stretched taut like a wire about to snap.

“That was productive,” you say, standing up.

He closes the folder in front of him with a controlled snap. “It could have been productive three weeks ago.”

You don’t even look at him. “Tragic, isn’t it?”

He levels you with a stare, but you keep your attention on straightening the cuffs of your blazer, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. The dismissal is blatant. His patience thins. “You’re making my job harder than it needs to be,” he says.

At that, you finally glance at him. “Then maybe you should stop getting in my way and embarrassing me in front of our collaborators.”

“I’m doing my job.”

“Are you? Because from where I’m standing, it looks more like you’re doing theirs.”

The words are like ice—controlled, but cold enough to cut. Nanami’s fingernails dig crescents into his palm. “You’re dragging this out for no reason,” he says evenly.

You hum, turning towards the door. “If you think that, then maybe you should stick to taking notes instead of giving opinions.”

That stops him in his tracks. You don’t wait for a response. You step out of the conference room without another glance, the steady click of your heels the only sound in the empty hall. Nanami exhales, fingers flexing at his sides. 

You’re shutting him out. If that’s how you want to play, so be it.

It starts with the coffee. Nanami always brings it to you in the morning when he reaches his desk at 8:31 A.M—black for him, a complicated order with enough sugar to kill a lesser man for you. He knows the exact amount of cream that you like, and the precise temperature it needs to be when you take your first sip. But the morning after the meeting, when he sets his cup down on his desk, there’s no second cup. He hears the slight pause in your typing when you notice. A small shift of paper against paper.

“Nanami,” you say.

He doesn’t look up. “Yes?”

“Did you forget something?”

He smooths his tie down over his chest, eyes still on his tablet. “I assumed you wouldn’t need my help with something so simple.”

There’s a long, brittle pause. He knows you’re looking at him. He can feel your eyes upon him from across the room. But he doesn’t glance up, doesn’t shift. Finally, you close the file in front of you with a muted snap and rise from your chair. Your heels click sharply against the floor as you pass him, pausing just briefly at his side. “Hope your schedule’s clear,” you say, voice like glass. “You’ll need to redraft the acquisition proposal by noon.”

“Fine.” His mouth tightens.

He retaliates with paperwork. Nanami knows exactly how to drown someone in administrative hell without breaking a sweat. The next morning, he leaves a neat stack of contracts, memos, and reports on your desk, all unlabeled. He knows you hate that. The revised budget is buried beneath the expense sheets, and the acquisition report—still missing a key section—has no notes attached. He hears the scrape of a chair, followed by the clipped sound of your heels striking the marble floor as you stalk towards his desk.

“Did you think this was acceptable?” you say, tossing the report onto his desk. Nanami’s hands are still on his keyboard. He doesn’t look up. “The section on profit restructuring is incomplete,” you add.

“I assumed you’d prefer to review it yourself,” he says, “since you were so insistent on final approval.”

“Correct it,” you say, voice low. “And put it on my desk by the end of the day.”

Nanami closes his laptop with deliberate care. “Of course.”

Meetings become a war zone. He starts cutting in before you’ve finished speaking. You return the favour without hesitation. One afternoon, during a strategy meeting, he hears you inhale and knows exactly what you’re about to say. “Actually—” he begins.

“I don’t need clarification,” you say flatly, not even looking at him.

“It’s important to avoid miscommunication,” Nanami says. His eyes flick towards you.

Your smile is thin. “Then stop talking.”

Nanami’s mood darkens. Balding Man, sitting across the table, looks like he’d rather fling himself out of the nearest window. Nanami doesn’t care. You’ve made it clear how little you care about his input. If you want to micromanage everything, he’ll stop bothering to clean up your messes.

He starts adjusting your schedule. Meetings appear on your calendar without explanation—overlapping appointments, double-booked sit visits, late-night briefings. At one point, you get a notification for an 8 A.M call with the accounting department, only to find out Nanami cancelled it an hour earlier. You stride into his office. He doesn’t look up from his tablet.

“I thought you handled scheduling,” you say.

“I must have misunderstood your preferences,” he says without inflection. “Since you’ve made it clear that you prefer to handle things yourself.”

You stare at him. He still doesn’t look up. Finally, you scoff under your breath and leave. Nanami watches the door swing shut, something sharp and pointed pressing into his chest.

Lunch becomes unbearable. You still sit together—out of habit, perhaps—but the silence is cutting. Nanami eats his neatly-packed bento with steady, measured bites; you stab aggressively at your pasta, tearing the penne apart like it’s personally offended you. Once, you push your tray an inch towards him and say, “Taste this.”

“I’m allergic to it,” Nanami says, scrolling through some news article on his phone.

“You’re not allergic to chocolate mousse.”

“I could be.”

You make a noise, sharp and irritated, and push the tray away. Nanami doesn’t look away from his phone. He feels the tightness in his shoulders. He hates this. He hates that you’re angry. He hates that he’s angry. Most of all, he hates that he can’t stop himself from pressing harder.

The final blow comes during a boardroom meeting. One of the department heads starts talking in circles, and Nanami—already at the edge of his patience—starts to cut in. “We already—”

“I think it’s important to clarify the terms,” you say smoothly, before he can finish.

Nanami’s gaze snaps to you. His eyes narrow. “There’s no need to clarify anything.”

“Just making sure,” you say, flashing him a bland smile.

Nanami closes his laptop with unsettling calm. You start gathering your papers. His hands curl into his lap. “If you want to manage everything,” he says quietly, “I’ll stop bothering to give input.”

You look at him; your eyes are ice when you say, “Maybe you should,” and walk out without another word. Nanami watches the door shut behind you. He clenches his jaw so hard, it begins to hurt. This is untenable, he thinks.

Nanami hears the clock ticking.

It’s past midnight, and the city outside the office windows glows faintly beneath the dark sky. The only light in the room comes from the soft, sterile glow of your laptops, casting cold shadows across the polished table. His tie is loose around his neck, and the sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows. Across from him, you sit with your laptop open, eyes fixed on the screen. Your hair is slightly disheveled. There’s an untouched cup of coffee beside you, gone cold hours ago.

It’s quiet, except for the sound of typing and the low hum of the air conditioning. Nanami reviews the document in front of him, trying to concentrate, but it proves to be a difficult task when his gaze keeps drifting towards you. He observes—the tightness in your jaw; the slight furrow of your brow; the way your fingers tap a little too hard against your keyboard. He knows you’re frustrated. You’ve been frustrated for weeks. So has he.

He hears the sound of a key sticking, followed by an annoyed exhale. “Fucking hell,” you mutter under your breath.

“You should take a break,” he tells you.

“I’m fine,” you snap.

Nanami sets his pen down. “You’re not fine. You’ve been working non-stop for—”

“I said I’m fine.”

He leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “Yes, clearly. That’s why you’ve been rereading the same page of that draft for the past thirty minutes.”

Your head snaps up. “I’m sorry, are you the CEO now?”

“Are you trying to sabotage your own company?”

“Oh, fuck off, Nanami.”

“Gladly,” he bites out, closing the folder in front of him. “Maybe then you can stop wasting my time.”

Your chair scrapes loudly against the floor as you push back from the table. “I’m sorry I’m such an inconvenience,” you say sharply. “God forbid you actually have to work for a change.”

Nanami’s expression darkens. His hands press flat against the table as he stands. “It’s not about the work. It’s about you actively making it harder for yourself—and for me.”

“And here I thought handling me was part of your job description.”

“I don’t mind doing my job,” he says icily. “I mind when you refuse to let anyone help you and then act surprised when things don’t go your way.”

“Then why don’t you quit?” you say, chin lifting. “If you hate working for me so much, why don’t you just leave?”

“Maybe I should.”

You suck in a breath sharply, shoulders tense, mouth tightening. Nanami knows he’s gone too far. He sees the flicker of hurt in your expression before you smooth it away.

“Do it, then,” you say coldly. “Walk out. It’s not like anyone’s forcing you to stay.”

You are, he wants to say. Because you are, whether intentionally or not. Nanami finds himself drawn to you, like a moth circling a very bright flame. If he was a sunflower, he thinks you’d be the sun. Nanami doesn’t say any of that. He steps towards you, walking around the table until he’s right in front of you. “Don’t—”

“Or what?” You smile, sharp-edged and bitter. “You’ll finally stop pretending to care?”

Nanami’s hands curl into fists. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” you demand, turning away from him and bracing your hands on the desk. The papers underneath your hands crumple. “Stop trying to make sure my company doesn’t go fucking bankrupt, or stop—”

“I’m trying to help you—”

“No,” you say, breathless with rage. “You know asking for help means I can’t handle everything myself, and—”

“You’re so stubborn,” he says, finally. His heart hammers against his ribs. “You’re impossible to work with right now.”

“I am under pressure!” you yell, whipping around to face him. “You think I’m being difficult on purpose?”

Nanami stares at you, breathing hard. His hands brace against the table to keep from shaking. “Then what the hell is this?”

Your hands are trembling. Your eyes shine with something dangerously close to tears, but you don’t let them fall. “My parents are pressuring me to get married. And on top of that, I’m trying to close a deal with my ex’s company because of my stupid board of directors—never mind the fact that the Zen’ins engage in borderline illegal practices—and I have to sit across their representative and pretend I don’t know Zeni’in Naoya once tried to steal intellectual property from me. And the only person I trusted to be able to help me out has been treating me like a fucking liability.”

Nanami’s breath catches. “I’m not—”

“Then do something, Nanami,” and you sound pleading when you say it, and Nanami’s chest tightens.

You’re an anomaly in Nanami’s perfectly-structured, perfectly-planned out life. He has known this for a while, only he never acknowledged it until now. The thing is, Nanami thrives on order; on logic; on neat, clean lines and predictable outcomes. He works best when things make sense, when he can anticipate every possible outcome and adjust accordingly. He’s built his life around that certainty—disciplined and unwavering.

But there’s you.

You, who he can’t predict. You, who challenges him in every conversation, who barreled into his life with no premonition. You, whose moods shift so easily—stern one moment, playful the next, always just a little out of reach. You, a hurricane in the body of a woman. You, you, you. 

You are the only thing in his life that doesn’t fit into a box. And yet, somehow, you’re the only thing he doesn’t want to let go of. You barreled straight through his rib cage and settled deep down inside his unsuspecting heart, and he does not think he could pry you away, now.

Nanami breathes hard. His pulse is a frantic, erratic thing beneath his skin. It echoes in his ears as he stares at you—eyes flashing, chest rising and falling.

You’re close—close enough that he can see the tremor of your hands where they’re braced against the desk. Your mouth is parted and your breath is unsteady. There’s a flush creeping up your neck, and your eyes—God, your eyes—burn into him like they’re trying to carve him open from the inside out.

Nanami should step back. He knows this. He should take a deep breath and turn away before one of you says something you can’t take back. But his feet feel rooted to the ground. You look at him—really look at him—and whatever thread of control he’s holding onto snaps clean in two.

His hand moves before he can stop it, fingers brushing along the line of your jaw. Your breath hitches. You don’t pull away. He tilts your chin up, his thumb resting just beneath your lower lip, and your mouth opens slightly beneath his touch. His palm is warm, and then his hand slides to the back of your neck.

And then you’re moving—closing the distance between you without hesitation. Your mouth crashes against his, rough and desperate, and Nanami’s hand tightens at the nape of your neck as he kisses you back, hard.

It’s messy. Too fast, and too much. Your teeth catch against his bottom lip, and he exhales harshly, his other hand sliding down to your waist and yanking you forward until there’s no space left between you. Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt; you tug him down to you. His lips part against yours, and you deepen the kiss, all gasping breaths and frantic movements.

Nanami’s head spins. His hand slides beneath your blouse, finding the bare skin at the small of your back, and you shudder. You press closer, and he feels the quick, uneven flutter of your heart where your chest is pressed against his.

You break away first, just barely. Your breath ghosts against his mouth, shallow and ragged, before you lean in and kiss him again—slower this time, softer, but still aching with urgency. Nanami’s hand slips into your hair, his thumb pressing gently behind your ear as your lips part beneath his. You sigh into him.

Nanami knows he should stop. He knows he should pull back before this spirals out of control. But you breathe his name against his mouth, quiet and pleading, and Nanami’s resolve shatters.

He kisses you deeper.

Nanami doesn’t think—he’s past the point of rational thought. His hands slide down the curve of your waist, settling at your hips as he walks you backward, step by step, until the edge of the table presses against the back of your thighs. You’re breathless, flushed, lips swollen from his mouth. He watches your chest rise and fall, watches the slight tremor in your hands where they curl into his shirt.

His hands are on your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the polished surface. Papers scatter beneath you, forgotten, as his mouth trails down the column of your throat. His lips are soft, his breath hot against your skin, and you gasp when his teeth scrape lightly over the sensitive spot under your jaw. His hands are firm at your hips, sliding beneath the hem of your skirt as he coaxes your legs apart.

Your hands find his shoulders, clinging. He drops to his knees in front of you. His gaze lifts to yours, golden in the low light of the room. His hands slide down your thighs, spreading them wider, and his mouth curves slightly when he sees the way your breath shudders.

“May I?” he asks, a little bit hoarse.

You nod. “Yes,” you breathe out.

That’s all he needs. His mouth presses to the inside of your knee, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the soft skin of your inner thigh. Your head tips back when his lips brush higher, his breath hot against the lace between your legs. He pulls your underwear aside with a tug.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, thumb brushing along your inner thigh. His breath hitches as he watches your slick shine between your folds, already glistening with arousal. His thumb traces the line of your slit, parting you with a slow, teasing drag. “So wet for me already.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours. “Did you need this that badly?”

You open your mouth to answer, but you shudder when his thumb presses against your clit, rubbing a slow, lazy circle. A broken sound escapes you, hips twitching towards his hand. Nanami hums in approval, and says, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

The first stroke of his tongue is slow, like he’s savouring the taste of you. Your thighs twitch, but his hands find purchase beneath them, anchoring you firmly against the table as his mouth works against you. His tongue flicks over your clit, and your hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the strands. He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against you as his lips close around you and suck.

“Oh, my God—Nanami—”

He hums against you, pleased. His tongue slides down, dragging through your folds before pressing back up to your clit. He’s focused, the same way he is with everything else—this time, though, his only goal is to make you feel good. His fingers flex against your thighs. Your hips jerk, but he presses you down with a firm hand. His mouth leaves you for half a second, just enough time for him to say, “Stay still.”

Then, he’s back on you, tongue sliding over you in slow, wet strokes. His lips close around your clit again, sucking softly before flicking his tongue over it until you’re gasping. Your thighs threaten to close around his head, but his hands keep you pinned open. 

“Nanami—Nanami, I’m—”

His mouth seals over your folds, tongue curling against you just right. Your back arches, a broken moan slipping from your lips. You sag against the table, breathless. Nanami presses one last kiss to your thigh before standing. His mouth glistens.

“Come here,” he tells you, and this time, he’s the one who sounds pleading.

He kisses you, hard and hungry, and makes sure you taste yourself on his tongue. 

Nanami’s breath is ragged when he pulls back. His hands slide down your sides, steady even as his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths. He undoes his belt with one sharp pull, the metallic jingle ringing in the quiet room. The sound makes his cock twitch, already painfully hard from how wrecked you look beneath him—forehead beaded with sweat, lips swollen, legs still trembling from the way he just made you come.

He draws himself out, cock slapping against his abdomen. He wraps a hand around the base, and strokes himself once, slow. His cock is thick and flushed, the head glistening with precome. His jaw tightens. He’s already so close, but he wants to take his time. He wants to savour this—savour you.

“Are you on the pill?” he manages to ask.

You nod, desperate and frantic. “Yes, yes—fuck, please—”

“Bend over,” he says, voice low.

You hesitate for a second, blinking up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. But his hands are already on you, guiding you up and turning you until you’re facing the table. His palm slides down the curve of your back, pressing your forward until your chest is flush against the cool wood. His hand lingers at the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he leans over you.

“You’ll let me have you like this, won’t you?” His mouth brushes against the shell of your ear. “Spread your legs for me.”

You do, and Nanami’s breath stutters. His hands slide down to your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there as he pulls you open. His gaze drops to where you’re still slick from his mouth, the sight making his cock ache.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath.

He lines himself up, dragging the flushed tip of his cock through your folds, coating himself with your arousal. He rubs the head against your entrance, teasing—but he’s barely hanging on himself. His cock throbs, and his grip on your hips tightens.

“Nanami—” you gasp out.

He sinks into you in one slow thrust. The stretch makes him moan, the tight heat of you wrapping around him inch by inch. His forehead drops against the back of your shoulder. He bottoms out, his hips pressing flush against you. “God,” he breathes, voice strained. His fingers curl against your skin, hard enough to bruise. “You’re so—”

He pulls back, almost all the way out, and then thrusts back in. You shudder beneath him. Nanami groans low in his throat. The sound vibrates against your skin as he sets a steady pace, hips rolling into you with each thrust. Each drag of his cock against your walls makes him see white behind his eyes.

“So tight,” he mutters, more to himself than you. His hand slides up your spine, spreading his fingers between your shoulder blades to press you down. His other hand grips your hip hard, holding you still. His cock stretches you open so perfectly that he can barely think straight.

He watches the way you take him—how you flutter around him each time he pulls back, how your legs shake when he thrusts deeper, how your eyes close and your lips part with pretty moans just for him to hear. He wants to see more. He slides a hand down to your front, his fingers finding your clit. He rubs quick circles, and the way you clench around him makes him hiss through his teeth.

“Nanami—” Your voice is wrecked, gasping, breaking.

“I know,” he says through gritted teeth. His thrusts quicken. His chest presses to your back as he leans over you. His mouth finds the side of your neck, and he sucks hard. “Let me—”

You come with a sharp cry, and the way you tighten around him makes his rhythm falter. His cock throbs as he fucks you through your orgasm, dragging out every last tremor. Your walls flutter around him, slick and hot and perfect. Nanami groans against your skin. His thrusts grow shallow and uneven, his breath ragged.

He comes with a low, guttural sound, hips pressed deep as he spills inside you. His hand stays on your hip. He presses his mouth to the back of your neck, groaning.

His breath is still ragged as he carefully pulls out, the feeling of his cum slipping out of you making his chest tighten. He slides a hand down your back, smoothing your hair away from your face as he leans over you.

“Stay there,” he murmurs, his mouth brushing against your shoulder. His voice is soft now, almost tender. “Let me take care of you.”

He tucks himself away, smoothing down his shirt before his hands return to you—lifting you gently from the table and letting you lean into his arms. “Nanami,” you say.

“Yes?”

“We’ve ruined all the contract papers.”

The office feels too quiet the next day.

Nanami sits at his desk, but his mind isn’t on the stack of reports in front of him. His pen hovers over the paper, unmoving. His thoughts drift back to last night. To you.

The way you looked beneath him, flushed with heat and trembling. The way your breath caught in your throat when he touched you. The sound of his name falling from your lips, breathless and perfect. Nanami exhales, trying to clear his mind. He pinches the bridge of his nose, but the memory clings stubbornly to the edges of his mind. His hands curl into fists. He should not be thinking about this—about you.

But it’s impossible not to. Especially when you’re right there.

He hears your voice before he sees you. He hears you let out a quiet laugh from across the room, the sound tugging at his attention like a thread pulled tight. His eyes lift automatically and he finds you standing at your desk, flipping through a folder with that little crease between your brows you always get when you’re focused.

You glance up, your gaze meeting his. Neither of you move, until you give him a small, polite smile and look away.

Nanami grits his teeth. His pen presses hard against the paper as he looks down, trying to will his pulse back to normal. Pathetic, he thinks.

He should be able to handle this. He’s an adult. A professional. He has handled far more serious situations with more composure than this. Every time you walk past his desk, his gaze follows you. Every time you speak, his attention hooks onto your voice like it’s a lifeline. His fingers itch to touch you—to brush a hand along your arm, to tip your chin up and steal a kiss.

It’s getting unbearable.

It’s not just the memories of last night that haunt him—it’s the aftermath. Because you’re acting… normal, and that’s the problem. You greet him the same way you always have. Your smile is the same. Meanwhile, Nanami is fighting for his life every time you walk within ten feet of him.

This morning, you’d handed him a report with your fingers brushing over his. “Morning, Nanami,” you’d said, bright and sweet.

His hand had twitched. “Morning.”

You’d walked off while he sat there, wondering how a simple touch could make him feel like his entire nervous system was short-circuiting. 

But the worst part is that he’s not subtle about it. Not at all. It’s a problem.

Like when you walked into the office this afternoon, holding a cup of coffee, looking pretty in your blouse and trousers. Nanami had glanced up for half a second—and in that half-second, he’d managed to knock his pen holder off his desk.

“Are you okay?” you’d asked, setting down your coffee and crouching to help him.

Nanami had stared at the mess on the floor. “Fine.”

You’d smiled at him, amused. He’d looked away quickly, feeling heat creep up his neck.

Or earlier today, when you had stopped at his desk to ask about a meeting. “Did you get the email from Gojo?” you’d asked, leaning slightly over his desk.

Nanami had blinked at you, his mind immediately spiraling back to last night—the feeling of your body beneath his hands, the way you had gasped when he—

“Nanami?”

“Hm?”

“The email?”

“Yes. Yes, I saw it.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

You’d looked at him for a long moment, eyes narrowing slightly. Then you’d shrugged and walked away. Nanami had exhaled once you were out of sight, rubbing a hand over his face. He’s being so obvious, and that’s unacceptable.

“Nanami, could you grab those papers from my desk?” you ask that evening, glancing over your shoulder as you pack up your bag.

“Of course,” he replies, already standing. His legs carry him towards your desk before he can think better of it.

Your desk is neat, everything in its place—except for the book. It’s placed on the edge, slightly worn from use. He recognises it instantly. It’s the one he bought you at the flea market weeks ago, when you’d read out a few sentences in an attempt to “woo” him. He hadn’t expected you to actually read it.

Curiosity tugs at him. His hand drifts towards the book. The spine gives under his touch, loose—like it’s been held too many times, thumbed through on quiet nights. It falls open easily. There’s a dog-ear marking a specific page. Nanami reads the passage beneath the crease:

‘It hit him all at once, like the sun breaking through the clouds. That the way his chest ached every time he saw her smile was not fear of confusion—it was love. Had always been love. And how foolish he’d been, not to have known it sooner.’

Nanami Kento freezes. His fingers press lightly against the paper. He thinks of the way you smile at him; of the soft, half-lidded look you give him when you’re tired; of the way you always seem to find him first in a crowded room. He thinks of the warmth in your laugh, and the way you lean towards him when you talk, like you don’t even realise you’re doing it.

How had he not known?

His heartbeat stumbles. His gaze lifts to you, across the room.

You’re still packing up, tucking a notebook into your bag. Your brows crease slightly in concentration, the corners of your mouth tugging down. You push a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Nanami swears he forgets how to breathe.

Had you known before he had? Is that why you marked this passage and left it there for him to find? Or had you dog-eared it for yourself—because you had some sort of silly, idiotic hope that it was true?

You look up. Your eyes catch his. You smile—small and soft, easy as breathing. Nanami’s throat tightens. His chest aches in that quiet, unbearable way that’s starting to feel familiar. He sets the book down. You zip up your bag and turn around to the door. His gaze follows you without thinking.

Oh, he thinks, heart pounding. How foolish of me.

It hits him that night, when he’s in bed and thinking about you. You’d said that Zen’in Naoya had stolen your intellectual property once. His eyes widen, and he sits up straight, reaching for his phone that’s charging on his nightstand. He dials in your number.

You pick up after two rings. “...Hello?”

You sound sleepy. When he looks at the time, it’s almost midnight. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“Yes, but—” he hears you yawn— “it’s fine. I should savour the occasion, actually. It’s rare that you call me first.”

“Yes, well.” Nanami’s cheeks burn. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Go on.”

“That night— The night we—” Nanami feels his entire face heat up. “The night we argued,” he settles on. “You mentioned that Zen’in Naoya stole your intellectual property.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. He hears you shift, the rustling of sheets punctuating the silence. “That was a long time ago,” you say quietly.

“What happened?” he asks.

“It’s… complicated.”

“I have time,” he says, settling back against the headboard. His hand presses over his mouth, his thumb resting just below his jaw.

“It was when I was still with Naoya,” you say carefully, like you’re trying not to give away too much. “I was working on a pitch for an international partnership. It was something I’d been preparing for months. And I—I made the mistake of showing it to him.

“He said he just wanted to look it over. But then he brought it to his family as his own work. Word-for-word. Even the phrasing in the executive summary was identical.”

“And no one said anything?” Nanami questions.

“People noticed,” you reply. “But it’s the Zen’in family. No one wanted to stir the pot, you know?”

“What happened with the pitch?”

“It tanked. Naoya didn’t bother to prepare for the follow-up meetings. He couldn’t answer half the questions that came up. It was humiliating—for both of us—but I was the one who took the fall. No one was going to take my side over Naoya’s. His uncle’s practically running the whole board. It was easier to let me look incompetent.”

Nanami feels his teeth press together. His free hand curls into a fist against his knee. “You should’ve told me.”

You huff out a laugh. “I didn’t know you at the time, Nanami. All this happened while I was working for the Zen’ins—before my dad retired and handed me his company.”

The Zen’ins hadn’t been circling your company. No, it had been Salt-and-Pepper who brought them in. The timing had been suspicious. The Zen’ins’ reputation is tainted—financial mismanagement, aggressive acquisition tactics, borderline illegal practices. The last thing you needed was to be tethered to a sinking ship.

But Salt-and-Pepper had managed to convince over half of the board of directors. Wire-Rimmed Glasses had been on his side from the start. So had Charcoal Pants and Nepotism Baby, albeit reluctantly. 

“This isn’t just a business deal. Right?” he asks you. He understands, now, why you’d made negotiations with Balding Man—Zen’in Industries’ representative—so difficult. You’d tried to drag it on for as long as you could, trying to stall the deal from going through.

You stay quiet on the other end. Nanami takes that as confirmation.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Okay. We can figure this out.”

“What are you thinking, Nanami?”

Salt-and-Pepper’s financials. His holdings. Any private deals with Zen’in Industries or overlapping investments. Nanami has access to all of it—board records, meeting minutes, even expense reports. If there is a paper trail, he would find it.

“Do you think,” he says, “you can handle a meeting with Legal tomorrow?”

It happens quickly after that.

Past papers are uncovered. Shady deals surface. It’s almost too easy. Nanami knows how these things work—no paper trail is truly invisible, no backdoor negotiation is as airtight as it seems. People talk, especially when the money starts moving.

Nanami digs through your company’s internal records the next day, tracking down the original licensing agreements for the software framework. The timeline doesn’t add up. Zen’in Industries’ supposed “internal R&D” was completed two months before the initial product proposal had even been drafted. That’s not just suspicious—it’s impossible.

He finds the buried reports: Memos from Salt-and-Pepper’s office, quiet requests to “streamline” the internal approval process. He finds—perhaps most damning of all—a forwarded email chain from Wire-Rimmed Glasses to Balding Man.

Need to close this by Q3. Zen’in Industries’ team will take over full oversight post-merger.

The date on the email reads for two weeks before the first joint meeting had even been scheduled.

He goes to the Accounting department next, via the internal compliance office. Someone from accounting had flagged a discrepancy in the financial statements weeks ago, but it had quickly been buried. There were payments made to an offshore account—small enough to be overlooked at a glance, but steady and consistent. It was linked to a shell corporation in Singapore.

A shell corporation owned by Zen’in Industries.

Nanami doesn’t hesitate. He sends the information to your private office line under encryption. The paper trail is too neat. This wasn’t just about a merger. It was a quiet takeover.

Salt-and-Pepper had gotten sloppy. He had to convince the board to sign over proprietary assets through the collaboration over the new product. Let Zen’in gut the tech. Then quietly dissolve the partnership and walk away with the intellectual property rights. Your company would be left holding the framework—and the financial fallout.

Salt-and-Pepper would walk away with his cut.

You’re surprised to see him when he walks into your office. His tie is askew. His shirt is rumpled. He is not the usual, put-together man he is. How could he be, when your own board of directors was secretly conspiring against you?

“Nanami?” you ask, setting down your bag.

He slides a folder towards you without a word. 

The next day, the partnership with Zen’in Industries is called off, and Salt-and-Pepper is stripped of his position. (Translation: He was fired.)

When Nanami Kento officially decides to ask you out—because he has, officially, let the fact that he’s in love with you sink in—it is supposed to be methodical. He had planned out the worst-case, most likely, and best case scenarios in his head, as he always does.

Best Case Scenario (Highly Unlikely): You say yes immediately, without even pausing. He takes you to that quaint French place he knows you like, and the waiter winks at him approvingly because you’re clearly out of his league. You’re charming (you always are), and he’s witty (for the first time in his life). At the end of the night, when he walks you to your door, you kiss him. It’s perfect. Birds are singing. Angels are weeping. The stock market hits a record high the next day.

Most Likely Scenario (Fortunate and Expected): You blink at him, and then laugh—a little nervous, a little delighted—and agree to go out with him. He takes you to a good restaurant. You order something a little too expensive, but he doesn’t complain. You’re charming (you always are), and he is… passable. He doesn’t embarrass himself. He even manages to make you laugh once or twice. Instead of kissing him at your doorstep, you punch his arm lightly and say goodbye. He fist-punches the air like a teenage boy when you close the door.

Worst-Case Scenario (God Forbid): You reject him. You say you only think of him as a friend and nothing more. He blacks out for approximately five seconds. You stop bringing him melonpan. He stops walking with you to the elevator. He will probably leave the company. Years later, he hears you’re married to someone who’s the complete opposite of him (probably a racecar driver). He dies alone.

(He’s accounting for margin of error, obviously.)

Nanami reviews his options with the same level of focus he usually reserves for quarterly reports and balance sheets. He weighs the pros and cons, considers timing, and factors in your general mood over the past two weeks. You’ve been in good spirits since Salt-and-Pepper’s departure. An excellent sign.

Still, when he finally stands outside your office, his heart is pounding hard enough to disrupt his thought process. Which is utterly ridiculous. He’s a grown man. A professional. He’s closed million-yen deals under pressure, right by your side. There is no reason he should be standing here, debating whether to knock.

The door swings open before he can decide. “Nanami?” you say, blinking at him.

His mouth opens. His mouth closes. He’s completely blank.

You tilt your head. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he says, except it sounds completely unconvincing. “I wanted to ask you something.”

You give him a curious look, stepping back to let him in. He follows you inside. His heart rabbits inside his rib cage. This is fine. He’s prepared for this.

“You look serious,” you say, sitting on the edge of your desk. “Is this about work?”

“No.” His hands are in his pockets. He takes a breath. He needs to rip the bandaid off. “Would you—” He stops. Closes his eyes. Starts again. “Would you like to have dinner with me? As a date.”

You don’t say anything—not right away. Instead, you snort.

Nanami’s eyes snap open.

You’re covering your mouth with your hand, but it’s not enough to muffle the sound of your increasingly uncontrollable laughter. Your shoulders are shaking with the full-body kind of laughter.

“Are you…” Nanami feels like his brain is short-circuiting. “Are you laughing?”

“Oh, my God,” you wheeze, tipping your head back. “You— You’re asking me out?”

“That is… generally how this works,” he says stiffly. His cheeks prickle with heat.

You dissolve into another fit of giggles. Nanami’s heart sinks. He’s about five seconds away from accepting defeat and leaving the country after changing his identity. 

But then you slide off the desk and point an accusing finger at him, still laughing. “Nanami Kento,” you say, breathless, “do you have any idea how hard I’ve been trying to get you to notice me?”

“...What?”

You groan, wringing your hands together. “I have been trying to get you to notice me for months. You are literally the most oblivious person on the planet.”

Nanami opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His brain is working overtime trying to process the implications of what you’ve just said.

You hold up a finger. “First of all—the book.”

“The book?” Nanami echoes, very intelligently.

“Yes, the book. The one you bought me at the flea market? You didn’t have to, so I figured you might feel the same way ‘cause you do a lot of the stuff I ask you to do, even though you don’t have to, and no one’s forcing you to. And the time you came over because I was drunk and I called you up and you made me tea and stayed until I fell asleep. And here I was, overthinking everything because I like you so much—too much, probably, and—”

Nanami steps forward, closing the distance between you in two long strides. Your eyes widen slightly as he places his hands on your waist, steady and warm. His thumb brushes the hem of your shirt.

“You,” he says, “talk too much.”

Your mouth opens—to protest, probably—but Nanami leans down and kisses you before you can say another word.

Your breath hitches, and then your hands curl into the front of his shirt. You melt into him. His lips are soft and sure, and the way you sigh into the kiss makes his heart stutter. He feels you smile against his mouth. 

When he pulls back, you’re breathless, a little flustered. But your eyes are bright and happy, and that, Nanami thinks, is always good.

“Oh,” you murmur. “Was that the best case scenario?”

“Birds are singing,” he says. “Angels are weeping.”

“Stock market?”

“Remains to be seen.”

You grin and pull him down for another kiss.

Nanami’s apartment is quiet in the way he likes best. His bedroom is dark, save for the small pool of golden light from the lamp on the nightstand. His bed is warm, and so are you—curled beneath the blankets, your hair spilling over his pillow.

The book he bought you is sitting on the nightstand. There’s a new crease in the spine and a bookmark tucked partway through because he’s been reading it. He never used to care for fiction, but you’d smiled so brightly when he picked it up that now he finds himself reading it when he gets the time.

The mug of honey and ginger tea warms his hands. You blink sleepily when you see him, sitting up when he approaches the bed. Your hair is mussed, and you have a mark on your cheek where you’d turned into the pillow. His heart does that foolish, undignified thing where it stumbles in his chest.

“Tea,” he says, handing you the mug. “Drink.”

You smile when you take it. He sits down on the edge of the bed and watches you lift the mug to your lips. His hand finds your hair almost without thinking, fingers threading through it.

“We’re meeting my parents this weekend. You remember, right?” you ask, resting the mug on your knee.

“Are you turning into my secretary now?”

“No,” you say, and tilt your chin up defiantly at him. “Just so you know, I’m marrying you whether my parents approve or not.”

“Noted,” Nanami says.

“Good.”

“Why are you asking me?”

You shrug, a tad playful. “I don’t know. Thought you might’ve come to your senses.”

He makes a quiet sound—something like a laugh, though softer. “That would be difficult.” His thumb brushes the curve of your cheek. “I lost them a long time ago.”

You smile like that means something. Nanami leans back against the headboard, his arm resting across your shoulder as you tuck yourself into his side. The book is still sitting on the nightstand, waiting for him. He’ll pick it up later, after you’ve fallen asleep. For now, he lets himself breathe you in—warmth and honey and ginger.

“We have work tomorrow.” He tilts his head, and his lips brush against your hairline when he says it.

You laugh under your breath, your cheek pressed to his shoulder. “I am your work, Kento.”

Nanami smiles. He kisses your head again. His heart feels unbearably full.

Thus, he thinks, the courtship affairs of a common man have come to a very satisfying close.

⇢ a/n: as per usual, thank you to the inimitable @mahowaga for listening to me ramble about this fic & helping me out whenever i got stuck. this fic is pretty much dedicated to her. thank you for reading & i hope you have a wonderful day!

[pathologicalreid]

too violent for tears | s.r.

in which you get a Secret Service agent assigned to you after receiving a threat against your life (Spencer is less than thrilled)

who? spencer reid x fem!reader content: angst content warnings: death threats, jealous/protective!spencer, blood, guns, snipers, emetophobia warning, anxiety, trauma/shock. word count: 3.53k a/n: this was supposed to be like 1k, not sure what happened there.

You were tapping the toe of your shoe against the carpeted floor in the elevator, the fibers stomped down by FBI agents over the years. When the door dinged, Felix, your newly assigned Secret Service agent, nudged you behind him, leading the way out of the elevator and to the bullpen.

Giving a wave to the familiar face who held the door open to you, you and your escort quickly garnered the interest of the BAU. Members had started trickling out for the day, but the A-team was still around. The last to leave, as always.

Your boyfriend was flipping through a book when he glanced up to see you, his expression softening at your arrival but morphing into confusion when he noticed the well-dressed man who would under no circumstances let you walk in front of him. Instead, you followed him single file until you could lean up against Spencer’s desk. “Hey,” you greeted him casually, hoping he’d ignore the six-foot former football player standing in his midst.

He peered up at Felix, sizing him up before rising to his feet, “Who’s your friend?”

“I’m borrowing a member of the president’s goon squad,” you offered, half-heartedly trying to make a joke.

Shifting on your feet, you watched as the two men reached across the desk between them and shook hands. “Agent Felix Sheffield, United States Secret Service. I’ve been assigned to Miss Y/L/N’s detail for the foreseeable future.”

“Detail?” Spencer responded quizzically, raising a brow at you as if to say What the hell is he talking about?

Your shoulders slumped forward helplessly. “You didn’t answer your phone when I called,” you tried to explain yourself. In your defense, you’d called his cell three times before deciding to put it off.

Knowing Spencer, his cell was probably buried somewhere, covered by enough papers and pens to fully muffle the sound of your ringtone. “What is going on?” He asked, glaring at your assigned agent as if he was the enemy.

“So, I was checking my email this morning, and I found an email that made me laugh, so I showed it to my boss, and it turns out it’s a death threat, and they take that stuff seriously,” you told him, your voice fading to a whisper toward the end. Even with your hushed tone, you felt the eyes of every member of the BAU train on you. To your embarrassment, Hotch and Rossi were now peeking out of their respective offices, trying to see what was going on.

Spencer’s eyes shifted to you. “You showed a death threat to the White House Press Secretary because you thought it was a joke?”

“Actually, she showed it to the Chief of Staff,” Felix interjected, playing the devil’s advocate.

You frowned at the Secret Service agent. “Aren’t you supposed to be on my side?”

“I’m just supposed to keep you safe,” he clarified, nodding as if he was proud of himself. He smoothed out his suit jacket, fixing the button before he looked back to Spencer. “Don’t worry, I’ve got her.”

Spencer crossed his arms in front of his chest, straightening up and staring Felix down. “Well, you don’t need to stick with her while she’s here,” he said, adjusting his suit jacket so his firearm was visible.

Felix tilted his head to the side. “I have orders.”

You took a step back, wary of the turf war that was beginning—over you, no less. “Hey, guys—”

“I understand that,” your boyfriend interrupted, “but your UnSub isn’t going to get in here.”

The invading agent gave Spencer a dubious look. “No one armed has ever gotten in here when they weren’t supposed to?”

You cringed, recalling a few stories Spencer had told you about people in the bullpen, including an incident where the glass door needed to be replaced. “I’ll keep her safe,” Spencer assured him.

He didn’t like that answer. “My orders are not to leave her unless she’s safe inside her home.”

“And when I go to the bathroom, hopefully.” You tried to get yourself back into the conversation, but the two men had resorted to glaring at each other.

You glanced over your shoulder, sending a pleading look to JJ, but she didn’t seem any more ready to jump in than you were.

Mercifully, Felix’s phone rang just when you thought he was going to break. You took the opportunity to get closer to Spencer. “I thought you guys were seconds from breaking out the ruler.”

“What?” Spencer asked, furrowing his brows.

You shook your head. “Nothing. Hey, it’s just an email, but they have to take this stuff seriously. I was visible in a briefing today, and people had things to say.”

Spencer didn’t respond, waiting for you to elaborate on the content of the email you received.

Swallowing thickly, you shifted on your feet as you recalled the message that you would not soon forget. “I just… we made a statement about the NRA, and they took it personally. Sent some photos of a rifle and what they wanted to do to me,” self-consciously, you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself. “People get, uh, creative,” you told him, though you were sure it wasn’t new information to him.

Spencer looked pale, but if he had any concerns, he didn’t voice them to you. He didn’t have time because once Felix was off the phone, he was back to torment him. “I definitely recognize you from somewhere,” he said, pointing at Spencer with his cell phone.

Hesitantly, you sat down on the edge of Spencer’s desk, his warm hand resting casually on your shoulder. “He scored the winning runs at the FBI-Secret Service game last year,” you said.

Felix’s smile dropped from his face, recalling the loss that had been personal to many on the opposing team. “Are you ready to go?”

To his chagrin, you ended up sticking around the BAU for another hour, waiting for Spencer to finish some paperwork before the Secret Service drove you home. You’d been warned against the metro. You’d been warned against most public places.

Ditching Felix at the front door, you were introduced to Caleb and Sally, who would be positioned at your front door and balcony, respectively. In an exhausted haze, you and Spencer ended up on the couch, pressing yourself against him so closely that you were practically sitting on his lap.

You were supposed to be reading; that’s what you usually did after dinner. Your book lay open in your hands while you stared at the jumble of letters on the pages, next to you, Spencer turned yet another page, keeping his place with his fingertips.

Nothing was making any sense to you; even the familiar leather of your couch felt foreign beneath your legs. Things like this were never supposed to happen to you. You were a low-level staffer in the White House, but the one time you end up on camera, it turns into a case.

Spencer turned another page, so invested in his book that he hadn’t noticed your bookmark was still in place.

Your eyes flickered to the balcony. Sally was facing the street, and you knew that Caleb was right outside the front door. Thumbing the worn corner of your book, you considered asking Spencer if you could just go to bed, but his eyes seemed so affixed to his book that you didn’t want to interrupt him. You didn’t want to go alone.

It’s just a guy with a sniper rifle; you tried to convince yourself that it didn’t mean anything. People in the public eye received them all the time. If you ever wanted to further your career, you’d have to develop a thicker skin.

It’s just a guy with a sniper rifle; you repeated to yourself, shifting slightly on the couch. You moved away from Spencer, cheeks warming when he moved his placeholder hand to pull you back to him. Squeezing your thigh before returning his fingertips to the page he was on.

It’s just a guy with a sniper rifle; you leaned your head on Spencer’s shoulder, smiling despite yourself when he placed a soft kiss to the crown of your head. You relaxed into him, looking back at your book when it happened.

A loud popping sound came from the street. You practically tossed your book in the air in panic, looking around for a place to hide while Spencer calmly set his book down on the side table. “Hey,” he said with no harshness in his tone. His voice was so gentle that it was almost a coo. “It’s okay,” he put his arms around you while you watched Sally talk into her radio, “It’s just a car backfiring.”

You tried to take a deep breath, air catching in your throat and leaving you to choke on nothing. You erupted in a fit of coughs, covering your mouth with your arm while Spencer rubbed your back.

“You’re safe in here,” he whispered, letting you rest your head on his shoulder. “No one’s going to get in,” he reassured you, propping his chin on top of your head, enveloping you in him.

Feeling like a fool, you’d forgotten that your first line of defense was Spencer. He wasn’t going to let you get hurt. “I’m okay,” you muttered, keeping your eyes wide open when all you wanted to do was close them.

He hummed like he didn’t believe you, and he was right to think so. “It’s alright to be scared.”

You shook your head, pulling away from him and wiping a hand down your face. “I’m not; it’s just a guy with a sniper rifle,” you said your mantra out loud this time.

Spencer’s gaze narrowed at you. “Just a guy with a sniper rifle?” He was clearly bothered by your lackadaisical attitude toward your current set of circumstances, but letting him think you were indifferent was better than letting him know you were terrified. “You do know what sniper rifles do, right?”

His question was rhetorical, but that didn’t stop you from lifting your chin to respond, “They’re like giant party poppers.”

Relaxing his posture, you watched as recognition flashed in his eyes. You didn’t mind the fact that he was actively profiling you, so long as it meant he’d stop asking questions. You were afraid that with too many more questions, you’d break, and that was something you couldn’t afford right now.

So, he let you deflect, leading you into your shared bedroom with both hands, keeping your fingertips in his. You wondered, not for the first time that night, if asking to get his gun from the safe and leave it on the nightstand was too much.

Refraining, you laid down on the bed, sighing as Spencer dragged his hand up and down your spine, waiting for you to fall asleep before he considered it for himself.

“Really?” Felix asked, putting his hands on his hips while you crouched to tie the laces on your shoes for the nth time that day. “You’ve spent more time tying your shoes than we have walking,” he observed.

You hummed in response, “They keep getting untied.”

“Double knot them,” he suggested unhelpfully.

Rising to your feet, you took your coffee cup from the Secret Service agent and took a sip. “Then I wouldn’t be able to get them off. They’re new; the laces just need some grip.”

He didn’t look impressed with your explanation. “You should’ve worn different shoes then,” he chided you, turning around when you motioned for him to keep moving through Quantico.

Unfortunately, these were the only non-work shoes you owned, and they’d be easier to run in than any of your heels. That was, after all, the reason why you elected to wear them today. “Have you always been this way?” You asked begrudgingly, “Or have you been jaded by years on the job?”

“I’m not jaded; I’m just doing my job,” he responded, looking out warily for any sign of danger. Oddly enough, you felt safer here than you did at work; the presence of people you’ve known for years brought you comfort. It helped that your boss suggested you take a day off—a rarity in your line of work.

You stumbled slightly, a flash of light out of the corner of your eye disoriented your vision, exacerbated by your untied shoelace. “Wait,” you said to Felix, getting him to turn around and handing him your coffee again, but he refused to hold it, leaving you to set the cup on the pavement.

Crouching again to tie your shoe, you were pulling on the laces when you heard a sharp whistle. It’s only ever been described to you before, but you looked up from your shoes to see Felix just before he toppled over. You ducked out of the way of his body, frantically holding your hands over the fresh wound on his chest before you realized he wasn’t moving.

If you had been anywhere else, you would’ve been surrounded by chaos, but all around you were agents pulling their weapons from holsters and looking to the sky. You stood on shaky legs, allowing them to carry you to a corridor. You stumbled over your shoelace and rounded a brick column, gripping the cold stone as you hurled into the bushes, the distinct burn of coffee poisoning the foliage in front of you.

Dry heaving, you slid down the column, covering your hyperventilating chest with your palm and trying to listen to the cacophony of the world behind you. Everything was muffled, and your eyes had blurred despite the lack of tears in them—why couldn’t you cry? Someone had tried to kill you; you should be inconsolable. Instead, you were numb, so remarkably unfeeling that you might as well be dead. Your nose stung, and you moved your hands, the blood covering them had begun to dry, sticking a violent handprint over your heart.

You started to hear things, your name being called, familiar pet names thrown into the wind, but it all felt so far away. People were speaking in an entirely different universe than the one you were currently residing in. You tugged your skirt over your knees, your eyes pausing on the dried blood, encrusted between the ridges and fine lines of your hands. It was like you’d been through some sort of gruesome fingerprinting ritual.

Brown hair curtained in front of you; someone ducked their head behind your column, relief flooding her eyes as she knelt next to you. It took you a moment to recognize that Blake was speaking to you. “Huh?” Your voice felt like it was coming from someone else; a doppelganger sat on the concrete next to you.

She held her phone to her ear, inspecting your eyes as she talked on the phone. Her fingers pressed to your wrist, checking your heart rate. You weren’t sure if it was racing or slowing, you wanted to ask, but it felt as though your mouth had been filled with cotton.

You couldn’t get yourself to stand; the dexterity that you’d developed as an infant escaping you while you sat limply on the ground, flinching when footsteps seemed to shake the earth around you.

The golden eyes in front of you glowed in the sunlight, your cheeks cupped by familiar palms, forcibly pulling you out of whatever hell you’d buried yourself in. The world seemed to move very fast before it completely stopped, your head lolling to the side for a moment before Spencer righted it for you.

You didn’t remember much of the interim, and somehow, you’d ended up on a bench. Spencer was on the ground in front of you, gingerly cleaning debris from scrapes on your knees before bandaging them.  

“Do you guys need anything?” JJ stopped by to ask. You knew everyone was trying to keep their distance from you, giving you space to breathe. Rossi draped a blanket over your shoulders in silence.

Placing a gentle kiss on your knee, Spencer looked up at you before responding, “Could you try to find a water? Or juice, something cold.”

The blonde nodded, giving you a concerned look before walking back into the building, taking Penelope with her. The technical analyst had come out after the all clear was declared; everyone wanted to check in on you. Even Matt Cruz was out, over by an ambulance talking with Hotch and some agents that the Secret Service had sent out.

You took off your shoes, sock-covered feet touching the concrete in an attempt to ground yourself while Spencer tried to take one of your hands in his. You had a death grip on the bench beneath you, and he peeled your fingers off of the metal one by one so he could start to wipe off the dried blood. “He said he always had to be in front of me,” you spoke, your voice nothing more than a mumble, but Spencer had years of practice decoding it.

“That’s protocol,” he reminded you softly. Of course, you knew that. Somewhere in your trauma-addled mind were the rules that the Secret Service had presented you.

You pursed your lips, “But if he’d—”

“Honey, you’ll drive yourself crazy if you try to think of what could’ve been different,” he told you. A sharpness emerged in his voice, one you only heard when he was worried about you.

When your instinct was to run, you hadn’t thought what it would be like for Spencer to run outside and find your protection dead and you missing. He hadn’t yet had the opportunity to read the initial email, but he’d likely figured enough to know that the person who was after you had no interest in keeping you alive. “I didn’t…” You gasped, “I wasn’t…”

Spencer’s face fell, pulling himself up so he was sitting next to you on the bench. “Hey, it’s okay,” he hummed. “Just breathe, I’ve got you.”

You looked around frantically. “Did they get the shooter?”

He nodded. “You’re completely safe.”

Behind him, Felix’s body remained under a sheet, preventing anyone from taking photos, but outside of the cover, you could see his blood. It had seeped out of his body, mixing on the concrete with the coffee you had knocked over during your escape. When Spencer reminded you not to look, you went back to watching him meticulously clean your hands. “I threw up,” you told him, why you felt it was pertinent, you weren’t entirely sure, but you told him anyway.

“That’s okay,” he reassured you. “It’s a manifestation of stress when you go into fight-or-flight.” He didn’t add the fact that you hadn’t consumed anything other than coffee, which likely didn’t help your nervous stomach.

Confused, you frowned at him. “I didn’t fight.” You corrected him, “I ran.”

He paused for a moment, squeezing your hand even though feeling hadn’t returned to your extremities, “You told me you tried to help Felix before you hid, and that’s a fight in and of itself.”

“I did?” You asked, not remembering that prior conversation.

Spencer was solemn in front of you. “You’re in shock,” he observed as if your question had been the final clarification he needed to diagnose you.

You shook your head. “I’m not bleeding.” Though, looking at all of the blood that had gotten on your clothes, it would be easy to make that assumption.

“Emotional shock, baby,” he reminded you gently. “That’s why you can’t feel your hands,” he said.

The memory of telling him you couldn’t feel your hands evaded you, trying to think of the moment you’d told him you were numb, but nothing rose to the surface. You couldn’t even remember the moment your hearing had returned; at some point while Spencer and Morgan helped you walk to the bench, you thought. “My head hurts,” you murmured, shifting uncomfortably on the bench.

He raised his eyebrows. “Did you hit it when you fell?”

“I don’t remember,” you admitted. You didn’t even remember falling until Blake had brought Spencer bandages for your knees.

Nodding in understanding, Spencer set down the damp towel he had been using and looked at your eyes, probably checking your pupils before he carefully wrapped his arms around you. You buried your face in the crook of his neck while he spoke to you gently, “I’ll keep an eye on it. You don’t have to worry about anything, okay? I’ll take care of it.”

You hiccupped back a sob, moving your face to allow for easier breathing. Tears seared your lash line before you finally blinked them out, quiet cries muffled by Spencer’s shoulder as your body finally felt the release it had been seeking.

“Oh, honey,” Spencer cooed, pulling you closer to him. He didn’t care about who was watching; he only worried about being there for you. “I’ve got you.”

His words rang in your ears as you sobbed, your trembling arms reaching around him, pins and needles striking your fingers as you gathered the fabric of his jacket in your hands. Oddly enough, a sigh of relief escaped your lips.

[sugusatosluut]

World’s best Grandma

Synopsis: you and mark finally meet your baby, Debbie gets to meet her grandchild.

@mystar-girl57

Telling Debbie that you were pregnant with Mark’s baby and her first and probably only grandchild, needed to be very special. This was Debbie we were talking about, this woman has survived the worst, married the craziest, and has to deal with her boys being super heroes. At least she had her son’s girlfriend to keep her company when she wasn’t off being a hero herself.

You and Mark waited quite some time to figure out a good way to tell Debbie you were having her grandchild. Cecil had a team ready always to check on the status of the baby after every mission. You and Mark wanted to know that your baby was safe and would make it to term. This was very stressful for Mark, having a girlfriend who doesn’t know when to slow down was hard, but having a pregnant girlfriend who didn’t know how to slow down was harder. By the time you were ready to tell Debbie, you had already hit your two month checkup.

“Baby’s healthy, but I do have some concerns about the heart rate. Have you been on any missions lately?” The doctor asked

“Yes—against medical advice and the advice of the baby’s father and her employer.” Cecil complained.

“Yeah, kinda hard to get this one to relax.” Mark sighed sitting in the chair.

“If you don’t stop you’re putting the baby at risk and possibly yourself. It’s a miracle you’ve been able to keep the baby this long with the rate you’ve been going at. I’m recommending you light duty until a little after maternity leave.” The doctor said.

You sighed, you felt like an ass, you put your boyfriend and your child through so much already with your hard headed nature. Maybe it was time to suck it up and finally tell Debbie instead of hiding it. She never did anything wrong to you, it wasn’t fair that you’d been stressing her son and grandchild out already before she even got to know about it. The doctor left the room and Cecil left on official business. Mark sat in the chair with his eyes closed.

“Let’s finally go tell your mom.” You said, caressing his arm while you rested your head on him.

“Really?” He asked.

“Yeah, I promise I’ll follow the doctor’s orders. I’m sorry for not realizing i was doing too much.” You said sighing,

“Alright let’s go, I think I know just the thing.” He smiled.

You both arrived at Debbie’s home, her soft personality greeting the two of you and hugging you both tightly.

“My little Mark, I haven’t seen you guys in a while, what sweet surprise is this?” She chuckled.

“Mom, we just wanted to spoil you and let you know you’re appreciated.” He said hugging her back.

“Yeah we got you some stuff while we were out the last few weeks, we figured it was finally time to sit down and have you open the things we thought you would enjoy.” You said.

You all sat down, your legs crossed over Mark’s while you both sat in front of Debbie. She opened everything one at a time.

“Oh- these earrings are so cute! They’re the ones I was looking at online a couple months ago, how sweet! —-ugh and these shoes! I love them, the color is so nice. Wait Two tickets for a cruise?! What kind of favor did you have to pull for these? Are you going to space again? I cant handle when the two of you are in such danger.” She said placing the back of her hand on her head jokingly.

“Yeah, there’s not going to be any space trips for a while.” You joked.

“Good- aw look! A little mug.” She smiled.

She pulled the mug out, not thinking anything of the uktrasound picture printed onto it.

“Aww, is this my ultrasound picture of Mark?” She smiled.

Then she pulled out a shirt.

“What’s this? Best..grandma in the world?” She read aloud confused.

Shock filled Debbie’s face.

“Surprise!” You both smiled at Debbie.

Her face went through many different emotions until you were finally able to read her excitement. She was so happy she started to cry. She didn’t know how what to say. You both got up hugging her, she took the time to look at the extra ultrasound pictures that the two of you had gotten printed for her.

“You two- this is such big news, im gonna be a grandma! You’re both going to be parents.. this is all happening so fast.” She said wiping a tear from her face and sniffling.

“Do you know the gender yet?” She asked.

“No, we were hoping you would come with us to find out tomorrow.” You offered.

“Yes-I’d love that. I cant believe I’m gonna be a grandma.” She said clutching the picture close to her chest.

So Debbie joined you guys for every appointment, basking in the joy of being a grandma. Mark ended up proposing to you during a family outing and had invited a bunch of friends to your ceremony in the gardens. You both made the announcement at the ceremony that you were pregnant with a baby girl, everyone congratulating you both and hugging. Debbie helped you guys prepare your house for the baby, building a crib with Mark, helping you to appointments when Mark had to save the world, she was so happy that you and Mark had given her the ultimate gift, another little life with a big impact on her own. Someone she’d be able to share her love with and care for and watch grow.

You were due any day now, Mark was putting together the go bag for the hospital and the car seat for the baby. You were sitting in the rocking chair and Debbie was on her way back from the cruise with her boyfriend. Mark turned the music up a little and walked over to you, your peaceful face scrunching up when he caressed your soft face. Your eyes fluttered open and you smiled, getting up slowly with his help as you danced together. You both swayed to the music as Mark held you from behind, picking up your belly to relieve the weight off your back.

“Thank you, you’re gonna be the best daddy.” You smiled.

“Only because our little girl’s gonna have the best mommy.” He hummed.

“Mark.. I love you.” You hummed back.

“I love you more.” He spoke just loud enough for you to hear.

Mark gently lowered your belly, and just as you turned around, you felt pressure and then your water broke. It splashed on the floor, alarming Mark. He turned quickly as you stood completely still, holding the rocking chair for support.

“Y/n..?” He asked.

“Mark im not ready I can’t do this.” You freaked out suddenly. The weight of this baby actually coming out of you was becoming too real. You were scared.

“Hey- hey listen we can do this. We went to classes, we did the birthing plan, we did everything the way we were supposed to. We did everything right. Let’s have our baby girl.” He said coaching you as he held both your hands, leading you to the car.

Mark hurried and installed the car seat correctly, then grabbed the go bag and grabbed your hand after making sure you were buckled in. The contractions were far apart, but you definitely felt them. Your cries of pain and labor filled the car.

“Ahhh-Aaagh- whoooooo!” You let out squeezing one of Mark’s hands.

“I know baby, almost there.” He said as he parked the car.

Mark parked the car, then picked you up, running you to the front of the hospital where you were given a wheelchair and taken to the labor and delivery room. Debbie wasn’t too far behind. She was able to wait in the waiting room with her boyfriend as you and Mark prepared to deliver your baby girl. Mark sat behind you on the bed, massaging your shoulders and rubbing your belly as you made all the loudest noises imaginable. The delivery team entered the room the epidural you requested started to kick in. You hated needles but if it helped reduce pain it’s what you wanted. This was it. Mark helped you with your breathing exercises and you were instructed to push.

“Push! Come on push push push!” The delivery team was coaching you.

Mark moved positions, getting to help you deliver your baby was something he’d taken very seriously.

“Come on baby, push, y/n push! You’re doing so good babe, I can see her head!” He said excitedly.

So the team helped you push and take breaks. You were delivering your baby for hours, labor was a bitch a six hour labor just to successfully push out a six pound seven ounce baby girl. Mark was so happy to cut the chord and hold his first born child, his little baby girl. She looked just like him.

“She looks like you Mark.” You smiled, your body exhausted.

“Give her some time, im sure she’ll take after her beautiful mom.” He said as you both lied in the bed admiring her little features. You kissed him as she grabbed on tightly to one of his fingers.

After a few hours, Mark went to go tell Debbie, Oliver and Paul they were more than welcome to come into the room to meet your baby. They all came into the room, first checking on you.

“Oh honey congratulations.” Debbie whispered.

“Thank you, we couldn’t have done it without your help.” You hugged her.

They all hugged you and the baby was brought back into the room.

Mark picked up your baby and handed it to his mother who was in tears. Paul was happy for you and complimented the both of you, congratulating you on parenthood. Oliver held the baby and was so entranced by how little she was.

“You used to be that tiny too.” Debbie said.

“She’s so cute. She’s gonna get her powers soon just like us! Right mark?” Oliver asked with joy.

“No quite buddy. But when she does, we’ll teach her. You’ll be the best uncle ever.” He poked Oliver’s nose.

Your little family was complete, and this was all you could ask for.

[norrisradio]

SOME KIND OF FAITH

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "I'm not a religious person but I do sometimes thing God made you for me." - sally rooney, normal people

ᝰ PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader | ᝰ WC: 1.6K ᝰ GENRE: fluff, angst, some religious themes, oscar yearns, mentions of australia 2025 ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: welcome to the first installment of line by line! super excited to bring all of your favorite quotes to life ꨄ︎ requested by anon!

send me an ask for my line by line event!

Oscar’s never been a religious man.

Not when his mum made him sit through Sunday mass as a boy in Melbourne, his little legs kicking the pew out of boredom. Not when the chaplain at boarding school passed around wafers that stuck to the roof of his mouth like paper. He was never moved by sermons or scripture.

But something shifted the first time he met you.

It was raining sideways the day you arrived—one of those rare cold weeks where the wind curled under the doors and the air smelled like damp textbooks and wet leaves. You’d transferred mid-term, shoes still caked with mud from wherever you were before. The hallway buzzed with whispers as you trailed the headmaster to your new dorm, expression unreadable and hair sticking to your cheeks.

Oscar was fifteen and mostly quiet. He liked things with order—lap times, smooth apexes, knowing exactly when to downshift. But you were chaos in sneakers. You rolled your eyes at the dress code and laughed too loud in the library. You asked him what he was always scribbling in the back of his notebook, and he lied, said it was maths. You caught a glimpse of a gear diagram and raised a brow. “That’s not maths. That’s obsession.”

He didn’t argue. You didn’t press. And that was the beginning.

Friendship came slow and steady, like watching frost melt in sunlight. One day he was ignoring you in Chemistry, the next you were shoulder to shoulder on the floor of the common room, arguing about whether Interstellar was overrated. You slipped into his life so easily he didn’t realize you were already a part of it until months had passed and your shampoo lived in his shower caddy. Until you were stealing his hoodies and he wasn’t asking for them back.

Now, years later, you’re still here. Not next to him, but close enough. Close enough to send voice notes that ramble and laugh and drift off like you're thinking aloud just for him. Close enough that his hands still remember the weight of your wrist during three-legged races at school carnivals, the smell of bonfire smoke in your hair when you fell asleep on his shoulder on that one frigid field trip.

He thinks about those things more often than he admits.

Oscar’s never been a religious man.

But he finds himself praying in traffic. To red lights that hold long enough for your voice to stretch across the Bluetooth. To quiet corners of hotel rooms, where the only thing he wants is to hear you laugh like the world hasn't chewed at your edges. To whatever force keeps you picking up his calls, even when you're half-asleep or halfway through dinner with someone who isn’t him.

He never says what he really means. Not directly.

And lately, he’s started to feel it again—that creeping, silent thing lodged in his ribs. That ache that doesn't quite have a name. Especially when you call him at 11:47 p.m., voice groggy and slow.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you say.

Oscar is thousands of miles away, in a hotel bed that smells faintly of bleach and stale air. He stares at the ceiling and closes his eyes like maybe, just maybe, you’ll appear there.

He doesn’t ask why you called him of all people. He just listens.

Sometimes you talk about your day. Sometimes about nothing at all. Tonight, it’s a story about some guy who tried to get your number at a conference—a guy who ordered for you without asking and called your job “cute.” You laugh about it, but Oscar hears the edge in your voice.

“Sounds... promising,” he says, but it comes out stiff. Like swallowing a stone.

You don’t notice. Or maybe you do and let him get away with it. You’ve always been kind like that.

There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just quiet.

You breathe into the receiver.

And not for the first time, he wonders if God is cruel — to make someone like you for him, and then keep you just out of reach.

He thinks it when you hum without realizing. When you say his name like it's a safe place. When your silences are the only kind that don't make him restless.

He never says it. Of course not. He just tells you to get some sleep, soft and low.

And when you do—when your breathing evens out and your side of the line goes still—he doesn’t hang up.

Just lies there in the dark. Listening.

As if you might stir. As if you'll whisper his name in your sleep. As if prayers ever worked for people like him.

Oscar’s never been a religious man.

But he starts bargaining with the sky the moment the rain begins to fall Sunday morning.

The plan had been simple. Seamless. Like the clean arc of a lap executed perfectly: maiden pole, win, you in the paddock. His home crowd thundering in his ears, champagne dripping from his suit, and you waiting for him at the barrier with that look that always melted him down to the screws.

It was supposed to mean something. He’d visualized it all week—crossing the line, holding your gaze as the national anthem played, telling you what he’s been holding in his chest for years, letting it spill finally, finally, now that he had something to give.

But the rain – the rain. 

It’s light at first, mist curling along the halo, soft enough to ignore. But it thickens during lap 40, silver threading through the clouds like a warning. He feels it in his chest before it even begins—the wrongness of it. The crack in the air.

Still, he clings to the plan.

You’d said yes to the race two months ago. Your first in person since uni. You’d booked flights around conference dates, rerouted your thesis schedule. You’d smiled when you said it, too—"Wouldn’t miss your home GP for anything, Oz."

And he had smiled back, because the timing felt divine. Like something had shifted in the universe just enough to make room for both of you again. He’d even practiced what he would say in the driver room after.

But then the rain came.

One corner. That’s all it took.

The rears locked just enough. The front twitched. The car was gone. Onto the grass, the gravel biting like teeth. Cheers turned to gasps. Gasps turned to the hiss of radio static and his own voice, low and stunned: “I’m off.”

He clawed it back. Ninth. Eight places from where he’d started. Every lap was a punishment he bore alone, helmet fogging, tyres screaming, the track never quite drying, never giving him what he needed.

And then there was media. Cameras, microphones, a parade of tight smiles and repeated questions—Walk us through the mistake. What were you feeling in that moment? Do you think you let the fans down?

He repeated the same phrases like rosary beads: "The rain caught us out." "It was my fault." "I should’ve handled it better."

Every word was a cut. Every smile, a lie.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do when he sees you. For a moment, he considers disappearing. Ducking the debrief. Flying straight back to Monaco. Avoiding the sting of it, the shame. He rehearsed a podium speech. Not this.

By the time he makes it to his driver room, his race suit feels like a wet second skin. His shoulders ache. He wants to disappear into the floor. He wants the world to stop spinning long enough for him to catch his breath.

He doesn’t expect you to be there.

But you are. Sitting quietly, back against the wall, a bottle of water balanced on your knee. You look up as he enters, eyes catching his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like the universe hadn’t just tried to drag him under and failed.

You don’t say anything at first. Just look at him like he matters. Like he didn’t just choke in front of his whole country. Like he isn’t unraveling by the seams.

And then you whisper it.

Soft. Gentle. “Oscar.”

And it breaks him. That’s all it takes.

And the way you say his name—

It feels like absolution.

He crosses the room in three steps, falls into you like gravity was always leading him here. You catch him like you knew how. Like you’d been waiting.

He doesn’t mean to say it. Not like this. Not in a rain-soaked race suit, with his hands still shaking and his throat dry from lies. But it slips out anyway, cracked and quiet into the fabric of your jacket.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I love you.”

You freeze.

Oscar’s never been a religious man. But he knows faith when he sees it. And he sees it now, in the way you hold him tighter, in the way your lips brush the shell of his ear like gospel.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. And he’s not sure what you’ll say. But you just touch his cheek, thumb running over the smear of dried rain and sweat.

“I thought you knew,” you say softly. “I’ve loved you since boarding school.”

He exhales, shaky. Half-laugh, half-relief.

The fluorescent lights above buzz. Somewhere outside, the sound of an engine roars as the next session begins. But here, in this small driver room filled with silence and sweat and grace, time feels suspended.

Oscar presses his forehead to yours.

And maybe Oscar’s never been a religious man.

But if this is what absolution feels like— Your arms around him, his name said like it means something, your heartbeat steady under his cheek— Then maybe he’s starting to believe.

[waternilly]

“You’re flustered.” “Yeah, so?”

Fandom: MCU Ship: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader (race neutral) Word count: 1.4k Genre: Fluff Warnings: none Ao3 link: here Summary: A rather boring night gets better when you meet Bucky during one of Tony's famous parties at Avengers Tower. | Based on the prompt "You're flustered." "Yeah, so? Never seen anyone fall for your charm before?” from this list.

You breathed in with difficulty, the air around you saturated with perfume, sweat and smoke. A sip from your iced drink barely cooled you down, clothes clinging to your skin as it vibrated to the rhythm of the bass. Your feet were aching, trapped in uncomfortable shoes, and all you wanted was to get out of here. As usual, you were not even sure why your boss had asked for you to accompany them at this supposedly professional event, when they ditched you ten minutes after your arrival at Stark Tower.

Apologies, Avengers Tower, as it had recently been renamed. The new title still felt foreign in your mouth while old habits died hard. It was not as if the building had gone through a whole lot of change aside from the name. You'd know, you had been here many times in the past, your boss dragging you around every chance they got. After all, what would they do without their trusty secretary, always present to change their agenda on a whim?

Right. That's why you were here.

You sighed, looking down at your phone to check the time. Another hour and you would be free to slip away without trouble. Pursing your lips, your eyes scanned the darkened room. Ambient lights of different colors allowed you to recognize familiar faces: Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, and even the big man himself, Tony Stark.

Not that you'd ever spoken to any of them, aside from a polite greeting to the latter. Tony made a point of welcoming people one by one to his parties, and you always showed up with one of his best business partners. You assumed that was why he had never protested your presence either. In exchange, you always made sure to indulge in the free drinks offered at the bar. You would not want your host to think you did not appreciate his generosity.

Tipping back your glass but coming up empty handed, you realized it was time for a refill.

The counter was not overly crowded anymore, and you settled on one of the stools to rest your feet. Catching the barman's attention with a wave, you ordered a new glass. He nodded in understanding and got started on the drink.

"Nothing more expensive?" a voice sounded from your left.

You turned in its direction, eyebrow cocked.

"Not tonight, no," you answered. "Unless you're offering to pay."

The man, seated next to you as it turned out, let out an airy laugh.

"I would, but I fear everything is on the house anyway."

A new glass was placed in front of you then, atop a coaster. The stranger lifted his drink. You picked up your own and clinked them together.

"I'm Bucky," he presented himself after a sip.

Swallowing, you put the glass back onto the coaster, then offered your own name.

"Are you new here?" you asked, eyebrows furrowed.

His face was somewhat familiar, but you could not replace him. He was not part of the Avengers, or at least not publicly so, nor was he one of your boss' contacts. You had all those people memorized like the back of your hand, better than your parents' birthdays.

He chuckled.

"Yes, you could say that."

You both sipped from your drinks again, desperate for something fresh in the intoxicating atmosphere.

"You are not, I suppose?" he wondered.

Chuckling, you shook your head.

"I've been here more than I care to or can remember."

"Good nights?"

"Some better than others," you admitted.

"Is this a good one?" he asked, leaning in closer.

You met his gaze, curious and teasing.

Corners of your lips tugging, you first allowed your eyes to detail him: dark hair pulled back into a bun, black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled back, black trousers. You were not sure how you had overlooked the metallic arm until now, but you spotted it resting onto the counter. He was undoubtedly strong, well-built, but you liked how relaxed and welcoming he felt.

Locking eyes again, you finally answered: "It's just gotten better."

"What brought you here then? Are you a friend of Tony's?"

Oh, so they were on first name basis.

"No," you shook your head. "I'm just being a good secretary."

Bucky's eyebrows shot up.

You nodded in the direction of someone across the room. "That's my boss."

He looked over his shoulder to spot the person you were referring to, lost in a conversation with Steve, who frantically flashed his eyes left and right, you assumed in search of an escape.

"They drag me here every chance they get."

"That does not sound very fun," he commented, lips upturned.

"Like I said," you took a sip, "depends on the night."

Glancing to your boss, you admitted under your breath: "At least they're not bothering me this time."

Bucky's shoulders shook under a chuckle.

"Aren't you easily amused?" you teased, a grin spreading over your features.

"I'm only happy your boss isn't bothering you." He flashed you a smile. "Because it means I can do that instead."

You rolled your eyes and suppressed a smile.

"So what brought you here? You a friend of the big man?"

"Do you mean Tony?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed.

You nodded, lips attached to your glass.

"Big is not exactly the adjective I'd use for him."

You snorted and swallowed with difficulty.

"I suppose you're right."

"But to answer your question, yes, I know him."

"Duh, everyone here knows him."

"I'm not sure he knows everyone though."

"Good point."

You paused.

"So does he know you?" you asked, eyebrows raised.

"Yes," answered Bucky. "Though I wouldn't call us friends, so to say. Think of him more as my... landlord?" His brows furrowed, eyes squinted and head tilted.

A bright chuckle escaped you. "You don't seem very convinced yourself."

"As you put it so well, I am rather new here."

You smiled.

"It's my friend Steve that I have to thank for being around," he said, pointing over his shoulder without looking back.

Glancing to where he motioned, the gears in your head finally turned. You tried to keep your facial expressions under control as you realized who you had been chatting with, but you could feel the heat rising to your cheeks.

"Bucky fucking Barnes," you whispered under your breath before biting your lip to hold back your smile.

"Hm?" he turned to you again.

"Nothing," you answered in a hurry, shaking your head, avoiding his gaze.

"You're flustered."

It was not a question.

He was grinning.

And leaning closer. Your knuckles almost touched.

"Yeah, so? Never seen anyone fall for your charm before?"

His eyebrows shot up.

"Wait until you see me at my best, doll."

"Are you saying you're not even trying right now?"

"I am. Trying that is." He sipped. "I am also exhausted though. In fact," he leaned closer for only you to hear, "I was about to leave when you sat down."

"Why stay then?" you teased.

"Couldn't pass the opportunity to speak to the most gorgeous woman at this party."

Your cheeks felt warm and your heart fluttered.

Not backing down however, you met his eyes and answered: "The pleasure is all mine."

His breath ghosted over your skin, leaving goosebumps in its trail. Any closer and you would be kissing. Without looking away, his hand found yours in your lap, brushing your knuckles with the tips of his fingers. You could feel the callouses on his skin despite his gentle touch.

The cologne that clung to his neck smelled of moss and lemon grass, both earthy and fresh. You caught a sight of silver, a chain peeking from under his top.

His lips, upturned slightly, looked soft and inviting. You were willing to bet that he would not pull back were you to lean in. His eyes were set on you, hungry for more. You noticed his Adam's apple as he swallowed.

"Can I give you my number?" he asked without moving away. "So I can show you what I'm like at my best?"

"Wanna fluster me again?" you teased.

"I'd like that," he admitted with a nod, eyes lingering on your lips just a second too long. "Very much."

A/N: I cannot believe this is the first time I post a Bucky fic. I had written some in the past (looong ago) but never shared them. Likes, comments and reblogs are very appreciated 🫶

[mywritersmind]

NOT SO HAPPY HOLIDAYS - LN4

↳pt.1

christmas special

next part

summary : Spending Christmas with my brothers best friend isn’t my ideal way to celebrate. With my parents in the maldives and my ex calling me non stop, I was hoping for a small town cozy christmas! I was going to get that with Max and his girlfriend until Lando Norris worked his way into the mix.

listen up : suggestive comments! dual pov! swearing! hope you like this!! comment to be on tag list <3

words : 2638

⋆｡‧˚⋆

Persistent knocking at the door forces me to pull myself off my nicely made bed and slump down the stairs. Max, Piertra and I are staying in a cabin for Christmas because our parents have decided to go to the beach.

It’s rustic and smells like cinnamon everywhere, the roof dusted with the snowfall from the night before. I hurry down the stairs in my airplane outfit because I haven’t even had time to unpack.

As soon as I rest my hand on the cold door knob and open it to see who’s waiting, I regret it. “Merry Christmas!” A smiling Lando Norris stares back at me, bags in hand and snow on his curls.

I slam the door in his face. I should have looked through the peephole, maybe he would have given up. “Max!” I yell, hearing the pattering of his feet on the hard wood and his head peaking out his door. “There’s a thing at the door for you.”

His face breaks into a grin as he runs down. He all but pushes me out of the way to get to his best friend, opening the door and hugging him.

I roll my eyes and start to walk away but Lando’s voice rings out behind me, “Welcoming as always, sunshine.” That fucking nickname makes me turn, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of meeting my eyes.

“Max, I thought you said we ordered pizza, not your childhood best friend.” Max gives me a look which makes me cross my arms. He never understood my hatred for Lando, probably because he was the one pissing me off with him.

Yet I think he’s grateful that I stay as far away as possible. Still, Karma is real and Max’s nightmare is having his baby sister even close to his reckless friend, that’s why Lando takes every opportunity to flirt with me.

“Play nice, Y/n. It’s Christmas, you know, kindness and joy?” I narrow my eyes at Lando who steps inside and shakes off the snow on Max, “We’re spending this as a group! A group that loves each other!” My brother pushes him away, shutting the door to block the cold air.

Lando blows me a kiss as P comes around the corner, Max leaving Lando for his girlfriend, “Lando, you’re here!” the traitor says as Max hugs her from behind, “Come in! I’m making hot chocolate!”

⋆༺

Lando Norris and I have never been best friends. He saw me purely as his best friend's little sister and someone to annoy. I saw him as my brother's annoying friend who was constantly in my way.

Or I guess I should say ‘see’ instead of ‘saw’ because our childhood banter has continued through to adulthood. I can’t stand him, he’s cocky and annoying. I don’t know why he flirts with me, maybe it’s partly to annoy me and partly to get to my brother who yells at him anytime he so much as calls me pretty.

I like to think I'm more mature than my thirteen year old self who would scream at Lando for tying my shoes together, but as Lando makes an absurd amount of noise in the room adjacent to mine, I can’t help but slam my hand on our connecting doors.

We arrived at night so I was in bed quickly after dinner. I wish I was warm and cozy in my bed, but Lando blinks at me innocently after opening the door.

My eyes betray me when they leave his face and look at what he’s wearing. Or what he’s not wearing… Shirtless and in sweats, Lando looks all too smug.

“Can you shut up? I’m trying to sleep.”

“Can you stop checking me out? I’m on facetime.” He holds up his phone to show a dark screen, I can make out the sleepy face of Carlos Sainz. I push his phone back down, a bit embarrassed in my quadrant hoodie.

“Just keep it down, Norris. Can’t you and your boyfriend catch up later, like in daylight?”

That devious smirk makes its way back on his face, “Jealous, Sunshine?” That fucking nickname makes me roll my eyes, “I heard about the breakup… I feel horrible for him. Seemed like a nice guy.”

I grind my teeth together at the mention of my ex. How does he even know!? That was months ago. “Like you’re one to talk, losing the championship couldn’t have been good for your dick.”

His brow quirks at me playing back, “How often do you think about my dick, Sunshine?”

I put on my best sweet smile, my hand on the door, “When i’m in bed…” he leans closer, nodding, “Alone…” his brow raises and It makes my smile grow, “Getting sick at the idea and the alcohol in my system.”

His face drops as he stands straighter, “Why do you insist on lying to yourself? It’s not a good habit.”

“Why do you insist on being an asshole? Go to sleep.” I shut the door, giving him no choice but to back up quickly into his room.

“Sweet dreams, sunny!” He calls as I sigh and get back into bed, hoping for a good night's sleep and my headache to go away.

⋆༺

lando

Max makes me get up early so we can get breakfast before all the menus switch. I’m pushed out the door with Y/n by my side, her hair curled and looking far too put together for this early.

She has on jeans, a sweater, and a light blue puffer jacket over. Although she looks put together, I realize she’s just as tired as I am when I accidentally nudge her while walking to the car.

She pushes me back roughly as if it was my intent to touch her. Max and P are holding hands and walking ahead of us, so he doesn’t see his sister harassing me.

“Hey!” I’m lucky I didn’t slip because of my hands firmly in my jacket’s pockets. I feel like a marshmallow, I'm fully covered from a beanie on my head to seven layers and boots on my feet.

I go to push her back but the look she gives me reminds me that I know better. “What’s got you in such a good mood today, sunshine?”

She eyes me when I say the nickname I started calling her at fifteen. “I didn’t sleep.”

“I slept extremely well. Nice dreams too.” She rolls her eyes and opens the car door, the two of us sitting in the back while Max drives.

“I’m so happy for you.” She says, sarcasm dripping from her voice. She leans her head against the window, her breath showing on the glass.

“Wanna know what I dreamt about?” I smirk, clicking my seatbelt as she doesn’t move. “I’ll give you a hint.”

She looks at me, her cheek squished against the window that I know is freezing. “Would you like my foot up your ass?”

I ignore her, “You were there.” Max and P turn on the radio as we leave the driveway, speaking quickly about something and definitely not paying attention to us. “It was really hot… complete opposite of the snow. We had to strip.”

I’m leaning in closer, just in case. I don’t feel like getting my ass kicked by her brother today. “Sounds like it was a dream for a reason.” Y/n blinks, pulling my seatbelt back so it locks and I have no choice but to sit back in my seat.

God she’s hot.

⋆༺

We spend most of the day looking around the town, peeking into shops and going to the grocery store. We end up at a christmas tree farm about thirty minutes away from our house.

“I feel like I'm in a hallmark movie.” I think that should be a bad thing but they are my guilty pleasure. P and I wander down each row of trees, hot chocolate in hand and the boys arguing behind us.

“I’m so glad we’re here!” the blonde squeals next to me, “I know you don’t love Lando but he’s still fun. Plus no one should be alone on christmas!”

I raise a brow, “Why would he be alone?” I never really wondered why Lando was with us, but now I realize that it probably wasn’t just to fuck up my own holiday.

She shrugs and keeps looking for trees, talking about our plans to ski and snowboard tomorrow and yelling at Max to remember to find gingerbread houses.

“This one is perfect!” Lando runs up to the biggest tree in the lot, he looks extra small next to it.

“There’s no way we’re getting that in the house.” I say, crossing my arms and watching Lando shake his head vigorously.

One thing about Lando is that once he knows he wants something, he sets his mind to it in an almost urgent fashion.

“Have a little Christmas spirit, Sunshine.” he mumbles as he looks around the tree, then to a worker, “We’ll take it!”

“I’m not helping you two get that in the house.” P shakes her head as they start to drag the huge thing to the car.

As soon as they realize it won’t fit in our car, Lando pays a random man who has a truck to bring it to us. We’re back home soon after, Max going on about how he hopes our tree isn’t being stolen.

Our tree is thankfully not stolen and is outside our house when we get there. The man that helped us refuses the money and asks for a picture with Lando instead.

I’m very aware of Lando’s fame, but at moments like this, it’s still shocking. To me, he’s still the little shit who would beat me in karting and shove it in my face.

P and I sit on the couch eating cookies and making sure my phone is silenced while Lando and Max struggle with the tree for almost an hour. By the time it’s up, it’s dark and I'm hungry.

“I can’t reach!” I groan, standing on the side of the couch and trying to put ornaments higher up on the tree.

We’re a bit screwed considering the lot of us are quite short. I give up and just throw it up there, luckily it catches on a bit of green and stays there.

“Here.” Lando says to me, handing the star that we bought today at a local shop. “Try not to break it?”

I mimic him and stand on my tippy toes, trying to reach but being nowhere close. “Christ, Someone help her out.” Max cringes as he watches from his comfortable position on the couch.

I turn to him, “You could help, you know!”

P laughs, sucking on a candy cane and sorting through the decorations on the floor. I turn back to the tree and am taken severely off guard when Lando’s hands appear on my legs.

“Norris!” I scream as his head goes between my legs so I'm sitting on his shoulders. It’s an absolute ambush by a man in a too tight white shirt. “What are you doing!?” I grab onto his hair as he groans from me pulling it.

“It’s called a solution, Sunshine.” He stands up on the edge, wobbling a bit. I pull tighter but he retaliates by gripping my leg.

I roll my eyes and don’t dare look at P who I know has her phone out. Lando lifts me like it’s nothing, looking up at the top of the tree and seeing it far closer than it was.

I pop the star onto it and expect Lando to put me down but he just hops off the couch, “Norris, I swear-”

Max has a smile so big that my heart immediately starts beating faster. I can’t see Lando’s face but I know he’s smirking. “Don’t swear, it’s bad manners.”

“Right, cause you’re a great example of good manners.” I tug on his hair again and make him look up at me, he stops on the way to the front door. “Put me down.”

“Ask nicely.” Even from upside down he's hot. I let go of his hair but don’t accept defeat.

“Max, help!” I kick my feet against Lando as he opens the door, “Pietra!?”

I can’t see anything but the front yard, covered in snow. I’m freezing as soon as he steps out and I star fighting harder when I realize why Max is laughing so hard.

That’s when I start screaming. Our neighbors would probably think someone’s being murdered but this house is in the middle of nowhere!

“Norris! I’ll kill you!” I’m trying to get off but he’s just too damn strong, “Lando!” And then I go face first into four feet of soft snow.

I’m practically wrestling him by the time I get up, “I slipped! I slipped!” He yells as I shove his face into the snow. “Uncle!”

I’m laughing now, his face white and hair covered in snow, “Stop trying to murder my friend!” Max watches from the door, popping chips into his mouth as he lets us go at it.

I throw a snowball at my brother.

Lando takes my distracted position and throws a handful of snow in my mouth. I start coughing and slapping every part of him that I can. “Come back inside! You both are gonna get hypothermia.” P says from the door, wrapped in a blanket.

Lando stands up first, holding a hand out to me, a smirk on his face. I don’t take his hand, standing up on my own and pushing past him to walk inside.

Max messes with my hair as Lando shakes the snow from his curls on my brother like a dog. “Movie time!” P claps her hands together, “The grinch or elf?”

I groan, brushing my hands through my hair as Lando leans against the kitchen table, his arms flexing under the pressure and thoroughly distracting me.

“I hate elf.”

Lando’s jaw drops along with Max’s, “How can you hate elf!?” Max scoffs, “You are not my sister.”

“How can anybody hate elf!?” Lando shakes his head, “P, we’re watching elf.”

P laughs, “I’m a bit sick of the grinch, Y/n. Sorry.” Max puts his arm around P, shrugging and walking into the movie room.

Lando pushes off the table, swiping a blanket resting on a chair and handing it to me, “You look a bit pale, maybe you should warm up.”

I take the blanket, narrowing my eyes, “Is there going to be a sex joke after that?”

He puts his hand onto his chest, looking appalled, “I didn’t know you had such a dirty mind.”

I know he’s messing with me but I can’t help but play into it. “You don’t know a lot of things about me.”

“I’d like to know more. More that involves one of our rooms’ temperature going up and not because of the heater.” Cocky bastard.

I hum and start walking away, “Ah, there’s the sex joke.”

Lando follows behind me. I wish his mouth would stay shut but I know I'm not that lucky. “I know you’d like it.”

“You don’t know anything.”

He stops me before we get to the door where P and Max are behind. “Let me prove you wrong, then we’ll talk.” I knows he messing with me. I hate him for it.

He’s got that stupid smirk on his face, his eyes are soft, teasing, and darker in this light. His hands are in his pockets and that damn shirt is still tight against his biceps. Just because I hate him, doesn’t mean I can’t find him attractive.

I let out a breath, eyeing him one last time before pushing the door open, “Stick to me in your dreams, Lan.”

[bunny-jpeg]

can I please order a fudge.. sticky toffee pudding.. with a coffee.. a hard lemonade.. and a root beer

luv ur writing 🫶

bakery menu!

want to submit your own orders? then hit up the menu! thank you to all of those who had submitted, i hope this one is just as good as the others! thank you and enjoy!! there is so much going on with these prompts and i love it!! you said i could choose between max or lewis and i chose max!

fudge ("your father is pissing me off.") + sticky toffee pudding ("the only way this is ending is you getting pregnant.") + coffee (rivals) + hard lemonade (possessive behaviour) + root beer (filming/recording) served by max verstappen

cw: smut/pwp, rivals au, driver!reader, wolff!daugther, breeding kink (slight), possessive behavior, non consensual filming, rough sex, doggy style, secret relationship

another email from toto wolff, another request for some of his time to entice the driver towards coming to mercedes. max knew what it was going to entail. toto wolff wanted the champion on his team, and was rather comfortable sending many emails and discussing the possibility with the press.

"your father is pissing me off." max said almost casually at the paddock, but there was an edge to his tone. his arms crossed with annoyance across his face.

you shrugged, "not my problem what my father does. i'd suggest just keep declining him until he gets the message." max's large hand was still on your thigh, "max."

he gripped tighter, "i thought you didn't care about your old man." call it rivals, call it lovers. they were two sides of the same coin. both fueled by passion. except instead of your exchanging blows, you usually ended up blowing max.

"what about the others?" you asked.

he shrugged, "what about them? fia is already giving me community service. what more could they do?' and while no one was watching, max leaned in to kiss you on the lips. his hand on you tightly as he gave you his room number.

it was a common affair. so after free practice, you went to his hotel room. you gave some excuse to your father who had a habit of lingering like a storm cloud around you while you raced. max's hands on your hips after you arrived to the room eased you. max was like a storm cloud in his own way, but it was the kind of storm you needed.

soon max's hands were on your breasts, he kneaded them with affection with his lips at your neck. he said, "i'm afraid if i said you did a good job today, that'll on create problems."

"what my ego will get as big as yours?"

max chuckled, "no as big as your father's. i hope you know, the only way this is ending is you getting pregnant."

you looked at him and said, "that's a shit joke, max. don't joke about getting me pregnant."

he pulled you closer to him, "why not? you'd make a perfect mother. make the future champion. that would drive your father crazy. the wolff name replaced with verstappen." he pressed his clothed cock up against you.

you whimpered against his touch, almost melted at the feeling. something sick inside of you curled at the notion. to be married and have a family with max. you knew it would drive your father nuts. he wanted max on his team, not in his daughter.

"think about it. if it wasn't for racing, do you think this all would've been different?"

you looked at him, your hands in his shirt, "i don't think there is a universe where you're not racing." he pulled you closer to him by your ass. pressed further against him.

max remarked, "you and i in school together? i bet i'd get you knocked up by the end of first semester."

you kissed the corner of his mouth and replied, "you're insufferable." but still you kicked off your shoes and headed to the bedroom like you owned the place. with max close behind you. you could feel his gaze on your ass which prompted you to sway your hips from side to side.

max soon had you pinned on the bed from behind, your ass up against his clothed erection. his kisses on your neck were rapid and you felt the leap of your heartbeat in your throat. he undressed you quickly, there was little time he wanted to waste. you were thankful he didn't tear the clothes off of you.

"your father is pissing me off." max said.

you rolled with your eyes with a groan, "get in line, verstappen." his kisses left you breathless.

both of your clothes were on the floor, or on the edge of the bed. you pushed yourself further up onto the bed with your face in the pillows. at least you could get comfortable while max, the world champion, rearranged your organs.

there was little pleasantries as he sank his cock into your achy cunt. he watched your back arch with want. and it sent a thrill of excitement through him. oh, you were beautiful. that was one thing that max could give you credit for. you were beautiful when he took you apart sexually. your cunt made his brain flood with want as he started to move against you.

"shit." you groaned with heavy exhale. you could feel him deep inside of you. it was a good feeling. a little achy, but regardless you yearned for close intimacy with max. you wanted him dearly.

and he wanted you. it was a match made in heaven for the both of you. you'd happily meet in quiet hotel rooms and have the two of you tumble in the sheets till sunrise. you'd even let him take you out to dinner, even once he gave you the edge on the plan for red bull during that race.

being fucked on your knees allowed for the pleasure to move quickly through your body. you held a heavy want for pleasure as you gasped against the covers. your hands clutched onto the expensive sheets.

"fuck. max." you panted as he fucked you. your back arched a little as you felt the fuel in your belly. it all clouded your head. the intensity of everything. the raw passion and devotion that you held for max.

he pressed you further into the bed and picked up his pace. for a moment, he took his cock out of you just to the tip then slammed back into you which almost made you yell from the shiver of pleasure in your stomach.

it was aggressive and it was hot. if the press got wind of this, it would be the story of the decade. toto wolff's daughter in bed, in a relationship, with one of the top drivers of all time. it made you whimper a little. but the thoughts were soon driven away when he continued to hit right up against your sweet spot.

you were almost a puddle on the bed from the intensity that he fucked you with. it wasn't long before the urge to cum filled your body. the heat melted your brain as you gasped into the covers. the angle he fucked you with was perfect and rubbed against you just right. hard thrusts against your g-spot.

"i'm gonna cum!" you whimpered as your back arched once more.

"then cum for me." he said, his voice wavered as the pleasure climbed in his body. he was feeling it all too. and it made his heart jump with excitement.

you came with a moan and your tight cunt made max feel a certain heaven. they didn't call orgasm the little death for nothing. you both felt like you had died and gone to heaven. but max continued to work your body, feeling every last inch of you against him.

"i love you." you said, your mind blissed out.

he simply replied, "i love you too. more than you know." despite the lines in the sand about parentage and teams. max held fondness for you.

he quickly shoved every inch inside of you and finished. the feeling of climaxing inside of your cunt was always a treat. better than the condoms you often wrestled onto his achy cock. he wondered if you were still taking the pill.

not that max cared, let your father and the world find out that you were properly his. more than a rival, forever his lover. you two soon laid in post orgasmic bliss before you started to look for your clothes. the sweat cooled on your skin, but your hair was a mess.

and maybe max shouldn't have sent the photo to the team principal. maybe having a photo of a partially defiled daughter of toto wolff to begin with also wasn't a good idea. but when you went to get your clothes and max still in bed. he snapped a photo of you trying to find your shirt. you had your shorts and bra on, but the shirt was nowhere to be found.

max sent the photo to your dear old man with the message, "not even your daughter could convince me." then turned off his phone. the carnage would be dealt with later. for now he was going to shove your shirt further under the covers.

let you walk around in just your bra for a little longer

-

"there he is." max said as his hands snaked up your shirt, he could feel the slope in your belly, "is he causing you any problems?"

you looked over at max and said, "shouldn't you be with red bull?" you were dressed with the mercedes branded button up and pants that could fit over your pregnant belly.

you had to retire from racing after you found out you were pregnant. but, despite his initial anger, your father gave you a job assisting him. just because you couldn't race, didn't mean your talents had to be wasted.

the father of your child was max verstappen, the now four time world champion. and even though he wasn't racing with the team you worked for. he lingered around to see his wife.

max looked at toto from a short distance and smiled before he kissed your cheek, "wanted to see you before the race, wanted to make sure your old man wasn't asking too much of you. can't have you stress, good for the baby."

"everything is fine. if you want to be around here so badly, then get a contract." you said as you pushed away from your husband. but he only pulled you in to kiss him.

"no, i'm actually quite happy at red bull." then flashed toto a smile. toto wolff had in a way lost. he didn't nab a contract with max and the driver got you pregnant and married. it almost made the dutch driver prideful.

because that was one way to get toto wolff off of his case. <3

[sugarplumkneecaps]

Good day! I was thinking like the pocky stick game thing that partners do?? Could you write an oneshot on that with Shadow x Reader? Thank you have a good day!

A/N: I think this is such a cute idea! I took a bit of inspiration from my love of state/county fairs to set the scene hehe. Hope that’s alright! So sorry for the long wait on this, I hope you like it <3

Pocky

Pairing: Shadow x Reader C/W: none Genre: Wholesome, first kiss, fluff

The lights around the amusement park started to flicker on, a telltale sign that night was quickly approaching. You and Shadow had been looking forward to the fair for quite sometime, something you had gushed to him about from your childhood. You had lived close to the state fairgrounds, their tall rides and attractions towering over the highways surrounding it. You had explained that each year, you were granted a ticket from your school and your family made a day trip out of the affair. The only real experience he had with anything similar was Eggmanland, so you couldn’t blame him for being skeptical.

Regardless, he put his trust in your retellings that bordered the realm of magic with how fond of them you were. He surprised you with tickets on the opening weekend and you decided to make a day of it just as you once had long ago. Unsurprising to you, Shadow found a great deal of enjoyment in playing the carnival games. His competitive nature aided him in being awarded many prizes, of which he subsequently dropped into your arms with a smile. By the end of it, you had to make a bit of a deal with the staff about trading in prizes as it was too much to carry all at once.

The rides were your favorite as you got to experience a small taste of how you imagined it felt when Shadow raced through town with his air shoes. Shadow was more nervous than you had expected, the machinery making him wary.

“And this is... safe?” he grumbled, his hands gripping the edge of each car like a vice grip as the metal moaned and creaked. The first time or two, you reassured him that yes. It was safe. And even if something happened, you were certain he would protect you. After that though, each anxious query was met with a laugh as the ride would set off on its track.

Hours of this had made you feel a bit worn out and Shadow took immediate notice. “Let’s go get something to eat,” he offered, taking your hand in his. The food stalls were packed as the fair goers had grown exponentially in numbers since you both had arrived. It wasn’t until Shadow had mentioned food that you realized just how hungry you were. Your stomach growled as you looked about at each food stall sign, hoping that one would sound appealing enough (and have a small enough line) for you to stand in.

Just a short distance from the main strip, a lone ramen stand called to you. “There,” you pointed, pulling on Shadow’s hand to move through the crowd. It didn’t seem busy in the slightest as it was a bit hidden, which you were thankful for. You brushed aside the cloth covering leading inside the small bar counter eating area and plopped onto one of the seats. Shadow followed suit, looking about and nodding his head in silent approval.

The cook came around and looked at both of you expectantly before motioning to the menu before you. Looking it over, you could feel your mouth begin to salivate. “Let’s do... one large miso ramen, an order of mochi and... some pocky!” Shadow chuckled a bit before adding, “an order of shoyu ramen for me, thanks.” With that, the cook went off, leaving you two alone.

“Something tells me we should’ve taken a break a long while ago,” Shadow commented, gazing over at you fondly as he rested his chin in his hand. Your cheeks began to shift to a bright shade of red before you turned your attention away from him.

Not too long after, food was placed in front of you both, a welcome distraction from Shadow’s peering eyes. As you dug in, he took note of the bright red box placed between the two of you.

“Pocky? What’s that?”

You looked over at him and then down at the box. Slurping up the last bit of noodles in your bowl, you wiped your mouth clean and cleared your throat, “it’s just a small treat for us to take with us. Would you like to try one?”

He nodded pensively, watching you open the packaging and pull out the long Pocky stick. Shadow grabbed it from you gingerly, slowly nibbling at one end. The display was almost too cute for you to bear.

“You know, there’s a game you could play with these,” you comment, remembering your friends telling you about it long ago. Shadow looked up at you intrigued. A smile played at your lips as you brought a stick between your teeth, leaning forward to encourage Shadow to do the same. He looked at the Pocky and then back at you before mirroring you. Slowly, you bit down, keeping your lips on the treat. Shadow mirrored your small bite but pulled back, chewing slowly. You shot your hands above your head, finishing the stick in two bites, “I won that round!”

Perplexed, Shadow slammed his fist onto the bar counter. “What is the point of this game? I let you have the Pocky!”

You waved a playful finger near his round nose, “ah, ah! Whoever lets go first loses.”

He scowled at you for a moment before placing a stick in his mouth as you had before. You joined him on the other end, waiting for him to make the first move. He did, a blush reaching his muzzle as you dared a bigger bite than before. Shadow took another small nibble before pulling away again. Somewhat less triumphant now, you nudged his arm, “oh c’mon. You practically handed me that win!”

“What happens if neither of us pull away?”

You stopped for a moment, the reason for his shy reaction finally kicking in. Neither of you had kissed before, which meant that if neither of you backed off...

“We would.. uh- kiss?” Embarrassment crept up your spine, causing your entire face to burn.

An awkward moment of silence fell between you two before Shadow let out a determined sigh. Lifting another bit of Pocky into his mouth, he leaned forward slowly. You grabbed the other end between your teeth, your heart thumping loudly in your ears.

Inch by inch, Shadow’s breath tickled your nose as you both worked slowly to close the gap between you. Before you knew it, a singular move stood between you and Shadow’s lips meeting for the first time. It was his turn. You closed your eyes, prepared to feel the weight between your teeth disappear as you figured he would inevitably pull away, too shy to make the last move.

Your eyes shot open once more as you felt his tender lips press against yours, the shock causing you to clamp down with your teeth and break the stick between you. Looking into your eyes for a moment, Shadow sat back with a small bit of Pocky poking out from his lips. You were stunned.

In one swift motion, his tongue moved to place the remainder of the treat between his molars. He shot a sly smile your way before returning to his ramen once more.

“Looks like I won.”

[mirenproperty]

The routine of a proper wife

Her husband wakes up and sits on the edge of the bed. Kneeling on the floor, the woman sucks his cock so he can start his day with pleasure. He holds her nose to his balls as he cums straight down her throat. She swallows everything like the good bitch she is.

When he’s done cumming he doesn’t move, and pisses down her throat. Getting up to use the bathroom is too much work so early in the morning, and that’s what a woman’s mouth is for anyway.

The man finishes pissing and pushes the woman off his cock. She is naked, as is the case 24/7.

The woman dresses the man and fixes him breakfast, all without speaking. A woman’s mouth isn’t for speaking.

While the man eats breakfast, the woman kneels on the floor next to his chair. Furniture isn’t for women, and she must always be in her place beneath her husband and owner.

When the man finishes eating, he goes to leave, leaving the woman for the work day.

Once he leave, the woman eats a small breakfast, making sure not to indulge. She cleans the entire house from top to bottom as she does daily. She isn’t allowed to use the TV or any entertainment other than Property Magazine where she can learn all the tips and tricks to serve her husband best. When she finished her chores, but it’s too early to begin cooking dinner, she reads her magazine over and over again.

In the late afternoon, she cooks dinner so it will be ready before he arrives. The chicken, however, was slightly burned. She felt the shame all women feel when they don’t serve their husbands perfectly.

Finally, the center of her universe, her husband arrives. She is there waiting on her knees behind the front door.

Immediately, he fucks her throat and cums and pisses in her as he did in the morning.

The first words spoken to her all day are “Good bitch,” as he slaps her off his cock and walks to the dining room. The woman follows to kneel next to him and takes off his shoes and socks. He likes his feet to be kissed as he eats dinner.

At first, the dinner goes normally. The man digs in to his food, and the woman worships the man’s feet with her head down and ass up. However, the man soon noticed his slightly burned chicken.

“Cunt! This chicken is burnt!” The man said before slapping his property’s raised ass.

He pressed a foot on the woman’s head to pin it to the floor as he lay a barrage of slaps to her reddening ass and cunt. She yelps and cries, but speaks no words.

The man finishes once the woman’s bottom is as red as a tomato and she shakes beneath him.

“Stay, bitch.” The man walks into the bedroom before returning with a flared dildo as large as his forearm.

The woman screams as he shoves it into her ass without warning.

“This will not move until you make me an acceptable dinner tomorrow. If the dinner tomorrow is as disgusting as today’s it will stay until the next day. Respond.”

“Yes, Master.”

“I’m going to watch TV until 8. Wait on the bed. It’s a breeding night, I want you pregnant by next month. Respond.”

“Yes, Master.”

She does exactly as ordered, and waits the two hours for him to breed her. She has craved pregnancy since she was a girl. Being a baby factory is one of the most important duties of females. Her husband preferred using her ass and mouth, however, so she has avoided pregnancy so far. She pushes down her excitement at the prospect of being bred, knowing that she must think of sex as purely for her husband’s pleasure.

Finally, the man enters the room. He wastes no time, and gets on top of her to stick his cock in her cunt immediately.

He was only half hard when he enters, and waits until he is fully hard. In the meantime, he gropes and examines her breasts.

“Your udders are large and firm. A good sign for fertility. I’ll have to buy a milker in a few months and you’ll start to sleep in the stocks.”

He begins thrusting, speeding up until he’s practically jackhammering into her. He doesn’t care about her clit at all, but she still gets wet at the harsh treatment.

The man starts slapping her face and tits. He likes how she flinches and her udders bounce and jiggle.

The man becomes impossibly faster before stalling to pump the woman’s cunt full of his seed. He lets out a final moan as the last of his cum swims into her.

After a breeding session, the man always cockwarms the woman’s pussy so there’s a better chance of fertilization. He picks up a book and places it on the woman’s face to pass the time reading and occasionally playing with her nipples.

After about an hour the man pulls out and tells the woman to go to bed while he showers. He doesn’t want to clean her with the hose tonight because he doesn’t want to disturb the sperm. She slides off the bed and curls up on the floor. She is only allowed in the bed before and during a breeding session.

As she drifts off into sleep, she feels satisfied. She has a home, food, a providing husband to serve and obey, and soon she will become his baby factory. There is nothing more she desires and nothing more she deserves.

[sashaisready]

Starting Over: Chapter 1.5 - Before

Mob!Bucky x Female Reader

Series Masterlist

When Bucky throws you out of the house for a betrayal and won't listen to your side of the story, you know the only way out is through - it's time to start over. Maybe this was never going to be your happy ending. (Standalone series - not related to any other of my stories/characters)

Hello! I know I said this would be a 2 part series but this part of chapter 2 felt like it's own section, so I've created a mini chapter to bridge the two parts and keep us fed - this is a flashback. Part 2 still to come! Thank you all for the love and engagement you've given this story, as always reblogs and comments are appreciated!

💔

Around 18 months earlier…

This was the shift from Hell.

You must’ve accidentally cursed yourself; it was the only explanation for the non-stop chaos the day had wrought. Apologies to any magical being you may have offended.

The kitchen were somehow out of both maple syrup and hash browns. Roscoe must’ve messed up the inventory order again. The customers affected by this egregious error were certainly making themselves known when you broke the news, while Roscoe sheepishly hid back at the grill. You understood their anger, what kind of diner doesn’t have hash browns or maple syrup?! Sure, you shared their pain – but throwing a spoon at your head seemed unnecessary.

The soda machine had leaked all over your arm an hour into your shift and you couldn’t shake the sticky, goopy feeling no matter how many times you had washed your hands. Your shoe broke, the sole flapping against the floor with every step. A table who had spent their entire two hours there demanding an array of elaborate substitutions and ‘softer napkins’ stiffed you on the tip, despite you bending over backwards to help them out. You found yourself counting the minutes until you could clock out, go back to your shoebox apartment, and bury yourself in bed. Not long to go.

“Hon’, sorry…” Lou called out to you, in that tone he always used when he was breaking bad news, “I know you’re swamped – but can you take care of the gentleman in the corner booth? Marcy just went on break and I gotta cover her other tables and whip that jack-off in the kitchen into shape…”

You sighed wearily, you were due to clock off soon and were closing out your section. But you took a deep breath and nodded over at him, “alright, Lou, but only cos it’s you…”

“Thank-you Hon’,” he beamed at you gratefully, disappearing into the kitchen to go yell at Roscoe.

You wandered over to the corner booth Lou had pointed to, swallowing your frustration and fatigue. There was a man sitting by himself, his face obscured by the menu he held up to read. His fingers curled over the sides of the paper, littered with gold rings and scars. One of his hands seemed to be…metal? A strange glove, perhaps? You could see from the sleeves alone that the dark suit he wore was expensive. Not to mention what appeared to be diamond encrusted cufflinks…

Huh. You at least hoped you’d get a good tip out of him.

“Good afternoon, Sir, I’ll be taking care of you today,” you said sunnily as you pulled your notepad and pen from your apron. “What can I get you started with? Some coffee maybe?”

The man didn’t move. The menu remained upright. He was so still it wasn’t almost eerie. You briefly had a crazy thought that he may have died and nobody had noticed, then dismissing your silliness as quickly as it arrived. Besides, dealing with a corpse in the diner was the last thing you needed today.

A few beats passed, but he still didn’t respond. You cleared your throat and tapped your foot to alert him to your presence. Still nothing. You frowned, maybe he didn’t hear you. Maybe he had airbuds in or something.

“Sir…? Would you like to order?” you asked again, your tone a little more strained this time.

Silence. But you saw one of his fingers twitch so you knew he was still alive, at least.

You were used to rude customers, the ones who were outright hostile towards you, and the ones who treated you as if you weren’t there. This was nothing new. But the stress of your shift with the combined fuckery of everything that had gone wrong meant you were hanging on by a thread. Your usual hardiness and thick skin were weakened, and your customer service mask slipped.

“Look buddy…it’s incredibly rude to just ignore your waitress you know…” you snarkily told the hovering menu, “are you gonna order or what?”

You realised what you’d said too late, clapping your hand over your mouth as an amused chuckle came from behind the menu shield. Just as you went to apologise, the paper dropped to the table, revealing the mystery man behind it.

You blinked, a little stunned at the sight of him.

His chestnut brown hair was slicked back into a perfect bun, complimenting the light dusting of stubble on his cut-glass jawline. Pouty pink lips curled into a smirk as his large, bulky frame manoeuvred in the booth to get a better look at you. But you were most struck by his eyes, so blue and piercing that you could drown in them. Better women than you probably had.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I-” you flustered.

“Don’t be,” replied the man commandingly, his voice low but soft, “you were right. That was rude of me, I’m very sorry. I was lost in my own world there for a moment. I hope you can accept my apology”.

You gawped at him, surprised at his reaction. You felt your face flush with embarrassment. “Uh…yeah. Sure. Sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped at you; it’s just been a long day…” you admitted sheepishly.

He nodded and studied you carefully, his gaze sweeping you from tip to toe. It felt exposing to be looked at like that, but you couldn’t deny the hint of a thrill it gave you too.

“Well, I’m sorry to have added to it,” he smiled at you.

And what a smile. A knee-weakening smile. All white teeth and warmth. And maybe something…darker?

“My name is Bucky. Bucky Barnes…” he extended a hand towards you to shake, his smile dangerous yet enticing, “Doll, I’d love to hear yours…”

💔

[circumscribitwrites]

Bull of the Ball

The university's Halloween Boo Ball was, as far as college events go, a pretty big deal. From the dining hall to the library, you couldn't go anywhere without someone popping the question to their peer: Don't ghost me - take me to Boo Ball! Be the Igor to my Dr. Frankenstein!

As tacky as it seemed, you not-so-secretly hoped someone would ask you out. But as Halloween approached, you had no such luck. Until Bryce.

Bryce was an ass. He hadn't arrived at a single meeting of your English class on time. And when he finally showed up, he made quite the entrance. There'd be a sudden pounding on the door, and then Bryce would walk in: cheeks flushed, hair wet, his white shirt practically see-through from sweat. He'd fire off some finger guns at your professor - 'sup, teach? - before slowly dragging himself to the very back of the room, plopping himself into a chair, and proceeding to ignore what remained of that day's lecture.

As fall midterms rolled around, it was no surprise that Bryce was on track to fail. But you never expected him to corner you one day after class.

"Hey, uhh, you seem like you know what's going on here, yeah?" He said, lowering his voice, his bag slung over his shoulder.

"I think that's a fair assessment."

"Right, so, uhh, here's the deal. I can't really flunk this shit, okay? I mean if I do, Coach said I'm off the team. And that's….I can't deal with that. Team's my life, the guys are great. Not happening."

"And?"

"So can you, like, teach me this stuff? Like help me make my brain understand it. I mean, who's Trooman Caputty - "

"It's pronounced Truman Capote…"

"Right, Caputty."

You resisted the temptation to roll your eyes. "Okay, fine."

Two weeks later, you were poring over your exam results on a bench outside the English Department. Bryce wouldn't make the honor roll, but an 82 was nothing to sniff at.

"Fuck yeah, man! I did it. Let's go, dude!"

"I believe a thank you is in order?" In an instant, he pulled you into a hug and lifted you off the ground, your legs dangling in the air. "Not like that!"

"Oh, my bad." Bryce gently lowered you to the ground, blushing slightly. "I…uh…that's just something I do with the guys on the team, y'know? Like for celebrating…I didn't mean to…"

You brushed yourself off. "I'll survive. But a little warning would be nice. You know, Bryce…I'm proud of you. You're not as dumb as you look. Not that you look dumb, I just…oh, you know what I mean!"

He nodded slowly. "Yeah, no, I get it. But thanks for saying that - not the calling me dumb part, though." He paused. Long. Thoughtful. "So, random question. You wanna go with me to Boo Ball?"

"What?"

"Bro, come on! Don't be stupid. I like you. Like I, like like you." A smile crept over Bryce's face. "You know, with all that studying, we basically spent a whole buncha nights together. You're cute. And smart. And a little stuck up. But I like that, too." He pushed his leg against yours - just long enough that you could feel the heat radiating off of him. "So…?"

"I…yes. Yes!"

"That's what I thought. Call me tonight? Gotta figure out some ideas."

You FaceTimed Bryce - your date, how exciting! - that night. The call connected, and you immediately heard a low groan. You felt your cheeks grow red. Bryce's left hand was massaging his pecs, squeezing the mass of muscle up and down, side to side; his nipples strained against the fabric of his shirt.

"Is…now a bad time? You look like you're in the middle of something…"

"Nope, all good. Just a little sore from weights today." Another squeeze. Another groan. "Takes a lot to keep these bad boys in shape, hahaha."

You coughed. "So, you mentioned costumes? For the ball?"

"Yeah…I've been thinkin about that. I wanna be a bull. Already got the body for it. Just gotta get some horns and a tail, and maybe some shoes or boots for hooves? Easy peezy. And you could be a cute little - ah, fuck! - cowboy."

"What's wrong?"

"Sorer than I thought." You couldn't help but watch his fingers dig deeper into his thick, full pecs. "So…a cowboy and his bull?"

You thought for a moment. "Yeah, that'll work."

[incrtz]

How many times will it take..?

Part One

Pairing ⋆ sick! gojo x past lover! reader

Summary ⋆ You and Gojo have a past, but you still dislike him. ‘Unfortunately’, The Strongest Jujutsu Sorcerer managed to get sick & Yaga asks you to look after him. Will you & Gojo finally make it official?

Warnings ⋆ Smut, 18+ topics (MDNI), NSFW, flirty! gojo, grumpy! reader, rough, hate sex, condescending! gojo, cannon jjk world, younger gojo & geto.

Word Count ⋆ 2,492

I groan as I'm called into Yaga's office, taking a seat in front of his desk whilst I wait for him to 'bless' me with his presence. God I hate this old man, he thinks he's above everyone else. Such an ass. "Ah, (Y/N). I need a favour." Yaga says as he enters, his cold eyes narrowing down at me. "Hm?" I hummed, putting my hands on the back of my neck.

"I need you to watch over Satoru today. He's ill, and I don't need any unwanted visits." He slowly sat in his chair, his eyes dark, intently looking at me. I groaned, "Seriously old man? I have to babysit a grown man. Well, he is practically a man-child. He’s so insufferable." I spoke, my voice laced with annoyance. "Yes. Respect your elders (L/N)." He copied my annoyed tone. "Fine. Don't be surprised if he suddenly stops breathing." I stood up, "When do I have to go?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Now. Preferably until he's no longer ill." He states the obvious, I was just hoping I'd get some alone time first. I walk out the door and start taking slow but purposeful steps towards Satoru’s room. Satoru and I aren't... The best of acquaintances. Although it is mostly one sided, all he does is flirt with me and tease me. We've always been like that though, I've known him since birth.

You see, my eyes have a similar look to Satoru’s. It's quite infuriating since we're always matching, you know with the blindfold. The only difference in our eyes is that mine are green. I do really admire his looks though, he's extremely attractive don't get me wrong but... His personality pisses me off so much. He's the adult embodiment of a newborn child. He always acts immature, cracking silly jokes always at the wrong times, bragging about his abilities, his over-confidence. I hate it, but it's so attractive at the same time.

I have, basically the opposite abilities to him. I can warp reality, making physical laws meaningless, bypassing his infinity by rewriting the rules that govern his space. I also have a domain expansion that cancels out his abilities, well. I can totally control my domain expansion, as one of my abilities. I can decide what works and what doesn't, so simply putting Satoru in my domain expansion would render him useless. Although I have a few weaknesses.

…

Once I arrive at his door, I don't bother knocking and I just let myself in. I’m… familiar with his apartment, so I kick my shoes off at the door and head to his bedroom door, also letting myself in without a knock.

"Oh? (Y/N)? Missing me sweetheart?" He plasters a grin across his face as I shut the door behind me. I ignore his annoyingly attractive voice and look for a place to sit, his room is a mess. I take a seat on the edge of his desk chair and kick my shoes off. "Awww, are you here to take care of me." He pouts teasingly, I tilt my head backwards at him, folding my arms. "Yes. Orders from Yaga." I kick my legs up on his cluttered desk, turning my head back to the mirror sat ontop of the wooden surface. "Yaga." He tuts, "He's such a tease." He grins at me in the reflection of the mirror, his half naked body peaking through the covers.

I keep my eyes distracted, scanning the mess-ridden desk. I hate that I find him attractive, the thought of ever being with him genuinely drives me to jump off a bridge. "Come here gorgeous, you know I never have my Infinity on around you." He provokes me, pulling the covers over to create a space next to him. "No. You're ill. And frankly, I'd rather die." I lie through my teeth.

"Mm, that's not what you wanted last week." He teases, reminding me of last weeks events. We had a party, we got drunk and slept together. That was all. "We're adults. It was a one night stand." I retort, my mind preoccupied by the trash littered across his desk.

Satoru rolls his eyes, slipping further under the covers as he sinks deeper into his matress, "Don't wake me up." He grumpily tells me. "Wasn't planning on it." I mumble, reaching into my pocket to pull my phone out, kicking my legs off the desk and crossing them over each other.

…

He conked out for hours, snoring my ears to sleep until a rude banging filled my now awake ears. I turn my head to Satoru’s bed, he’s still snoozing. I close my eyes and let out a deep sigh before standing up from his desk chair, striding over to the door. My eyes meet his dark-brown orbs, “Oh thank god. I thought you were Yaga.” I sigh in relief, leaving the door open to let him follow me in. As I turn around suddenly, Satoru perks up. As if he’d been faking sleeping.

“There’s the patient.” Suguru chuckles a little, shutting the door behind him as he clambers over the messy floor to sit on the corner of Satoru’s bed. I look at him, “Can I go out for a bit? Is it ok to leave you to look after him… I can’t stand the sight of this room anymore.” I tap my foot on the floor as I wait for Suguru’s response. “Sure. I have somewhere to go in around an hour though, so don’t be too long.” He nods, reassuring me. “Aww, I’ll miss you.” Satoru winks at me. I scoff and shrug off his flirtatious behaviour, turning on my heels to the door instead.

…

I sluggishly lift my aching neck up, rubbing it as I look around the unfamiliar room. Oh yeah, I’m looking after Satoru. I turn my head back to his bed, he looks like he’s asleep. So I stand up and grab my airpods from my pocket, sticking one in my left ear to play my music. I look disappointedly at the floor, deciding to tidy his room up a little. I toss a few empty packets into a trash bag, rearranging some pieces of furniture and putting the clothes that were previously littered among the trash in the laundry. As I stood up, I felt a hard wall collide with my back, I knit my eyebrows together before feeling two hands slither around my waist. “Cleaning up? You’re not a butler.” He tells me as he lazily presses his chin against the top of my scalp. I press my head back, his chin falling to my forehead before he turns down at me, “Tired, love?” He coos, his breath brushing against my skin as his fingers squeeze my hips.

I sigh, lifting my head and readjusting the airpod in my ear. “Can I listen?” He tilts his head at me. I hesitate, “Fine.” I hum, as he slides his hands off my waist. He acts like we’re a goddamn couple sometimes. I fish in my pocket for my airpods, handing him the right-ear one. He smirks in approval and leaves the bedroom, dismissing himself to the bathroom temporarily. I’m assuming he brushed his teeth or something. Once he re-enters the room, he sluggishly climbs back into his bed and looks over at his desk, his eyes scanning my body. “Will you get in the bed with me now?” I think he’s asking, but it sounds more like a command. And to be honest, I’m way too sleepy to argue with him.

I sigh and look at him, kicking my legs off the desk chair. I crawl up his bed and into the sheets. "Ok. Now shut up." I said and leaned against the headboard, just like he was. I feel too vulnerable around him, I fucking hate it. He makes me feel weak. "Oh there's those pretty eyes." He grinned, ignoring my comment on his room, leaning his hand up, slipping my jaw inbetween his thumb and pointer finger.

This is the exact reason why Yaga needs to stop pairing us to do things together.

He grabs my waist, gripping it tightly as his mouth dominates mine. I have a feeling he was just lying about being sick, just as a ruse to get me in his bed. "I've been thinking about you all week." He groaned into the kiss, his hand slipping to my thigh and pulling it over him. I feel his erection on my leg, that's when my mind goes completely blurred, fuck his cock is so big, almost too big.

I give in to all of my instincts and climb on top of him, straddling his hips as he kissed me. He drops his other hand to my waist, firmly pressing me down to make sure I feel his hard-on. He smirks on my lips, bucking his hips into mine slightly. I whimper quietly, his tongue exploring every corner of my mouth.

His hand slides up to my back as he flips us over, pinning me to the bed. "Do you want me, baby girl?" He pulls away from our kiss, a string of saliva lingers between our mouths as he presses his forehead against mine. "Mm, you know I do, Satoru~" I seductively whisper his name, that seems to fuel him.

He reconnects our lips as his fingers fiddle with my shirt, yanking it off me in one swift motion. Then, his fingers press on the waistband of my pants. "I want you to beg for me, (Y/N)." He pulls his mouth off mine. "Behave yourself. Just fuck me already, Satoru." I bite my lip up at him, leaning my face to catch his bottom lip between my teeth. His lips curl into a smirk between my teeth, his hand sliding up from my waist to my neck, wrapping his long fingers around it.

Frankly, I have no idea what I'm doing or saying right now. This goes against everything I agreed to myself. And, we both still have our airpods in. Coincidentally, Monster, by Lady Gaga is playing. I smirk up at him as my eyes travel down his mostly-naked body. His white, Calvin Kleins hanging loosely on his hips as his outline becomes clearly visible.

"Mm, Satoru~ please… Please fuck me." I hum, his eyes darken as he looks down at me. He moves back and pulls my pants off, his fingers reaching for my panties. He slips his fingers in my underwear, gliding them over my core, "Mm, you're all wet for me baby." He hums, pressing his fingers inbetween my slick folds, slipping the tip of his middle finger into my hole. I whimper quietly, watching him as he pleasures me gently. He pulls his fingers out and grabs the elastic of my panties, pulling them off.

He smirks and looks down at my naked body, "Ah. Look at you, all pretty & ready for me." He teases, moving back over me. His bare chest presses on mine as he connects our lips again, I smirk and lift my legs, wrapping them around his waist and pulling him into me, his cock pressing on my pussy. "Ah~, fuck (Y/N)." He moans into my lips, his hand reaching down to his boxers. He pulls them down, grabbing his lengthy dick. He rubs his tip against my wetness, groaning into my mouth as he does. "You gonna take my cock like a good girl?" He pulls away from the kiss, looking down at me. I bite my lip and nod, spreading my legs further to give him better access.

He licks his lips, "Mm, I wanna watch your pretty little face as I fuck you." He tells me before pushing his full length into my hole. My eyes flutter, digging my nails into his back as he starts thrusting into me, at a rough pace. The sound of the headboard slamming on the wall, my moans and our skin smacking against each other fills the room, my back arching with each thrust. "Mm fuck, it's like your pussy was made for me." He grunts as he keeps his pace, roughly slamming into me.

After a few more thrusts I feel his dick throb inside of me, leaking out precum as I clench my walls on his length, my whimpers getting louder. He groans in pleasure, before he slides his hand up to my face, slipping his fingers into my mouth. "Not too loud, gorgeous." I roughly suck on his fingers they slip down my throat, his lewd groans burn in my ears as he reaches his climax. His abs tense as he comes to his orgasm, he slips his dick out of me and jerks it slowly, his seed releasing on my lower stomach in thick rope as I finish with him, his name rolling off my tongue in a whimper.

After a few more heavy breaths he stands up, pulling his boxers back up before disappearing into the bathroom. In an attempt to regain my composure, I begin to steady my breathing, closing my legs. He returns a couple seconds later, with some wet tissue, "Wanna know a secret?" He asks me as he presses the tissue on my stomach.

"Mm?" I raise an eyebrow at him.

"I'm not sick.”

dividers by @/cafekitsune

[spicybunni]

YANDERE MILLIONAIRE X FEM DARLING

This is based off a wacky dream I had about being kidnapped by a handsome millionaire. What does that say about my mental health? Absolutely nothing.

WARNINGS⚠️ : SFW / DUBCON TOUCHING / KIDNAPPING

🥀Your limbs were sore, aching to be released in their bent positions. The last thing you remember was going to bed on a normal night, nothing unusual about your day at work. Now you're awake feeling groggy, were you drugged? How long had you been asleep? so many thoughts and questions were running through your mind.

🥀'Help! Someone! Please help me!' Your cries echoed in the room. Everything seemed so empty and hallow all around you. You must be in some abandoned building.

🥀Breathing was becoming harder and harder as you cried out. Your arms were behind you, cuffed together and chained to a wall.

🥀Your thoughts pause as you hear footsteps coming, climbing up nearby stairs. Breathe quickening, you shove yourself against the wall to at least ground yourself. The door to the room opens suddenly. You hear two- no...4 people come through. They're all men, speaking in a foreign language you can't understand or name. You start to hyperventilate as the terror finally hits you. You don't have any shoes or socks on. Just the pajamas you went to bed with. You're so exposed.

🥀The steps come to a halt surrounding you. Your breath is coming out shaky now.

"P-Please....Let me go..."

🥀A male voice finally speaks out, sounding as if giving an order. You hear them approach you and feel hands on your arms, holding you in place as another one unlocks the chain from your cuffs.

The chain drops to the ground, making you jump from the loud rattle it made.

🥀You're brought into a van, the seats are leather and cold against your exposed skin. The men don't hurt you, in fact they seem hesitant to even grab you. In these scenarios you would expect them to be rough. they don't answer nay of your question or pleas inside. So you just wait.

🥀It felt like hours before the vehicle halts. You hear the men get out first before the doors roll open for you. They rip the blindfold off you so you can guide yourself. You realize its actually daytime when your eyes adjust to the sudden light. And as you guessed earlier you were still in your pajamas. Your comfy pants and loose shirt thank goodness. Sometimes you slept in just your underwear.

🥀You take in the scenery around you. From the round about fountain the van was parked in front of, to the expanding nature surrounding the mansion. They have brought you to an estate.

🥀The mansion you have arrived at is breathtaking. From the rose bushes and flower gardens, the roman statues posed in-between, and the wood carved doors that opened.

🥀A few maids come out surrounding a man you recognized. He was your boss's boss. You were just a cleaning lady at his company's building. He was a bit older than you, but by all means was handsome and powerful. You had a chance to meet him briefly a few times while walking through the building early in the mornings or at night. But what was he doing here?

🥀"There she is! How are you feeling sweetie?" He seems joyful to see you as he approaches. The weight of being kidnapped was sore in your throat from your cries and pleas. The effects of whatever you had been drugged with was slowly wearing off, but you were nowhere near sober. You were so exhausted, but not broken enough to just lean in. You take a step back making you bump into the guards behind you.

“W-What am I doing here? What do you want from me!” You hold your arms in front of your stomach.

🥀He has a crisp black suit on, dressing just as sharp when you would see him at the company building. His expression goes from excited to sympathetic at your response to him.

“You look real tired sweetheart... Why don’t you come inside and we’ll get you more comfortable.” He stretches his hand out to you. You weren’t going to take it until one of the guards taps your back with the barrel of his gun. Making you jump forward to his hand.

🥀He grins down at your frightened self as you shakily put your hand in his. His much larger hand envelops yours and he guides you into the estate with his other on your lower back.

"Please I don't know why you're doing this I-"

"My dear, I know this is a lot to take in. But have patience. Once you're all fixed up we can talk. Ahem - Ladies, would you kindly take her upstairs and make her comfortable?"

🥀He ushers you with the maids to have them clean you up and dress you. Your body was finally regaining its strength, expelling the drug from your system throwing up into the toilet. You felt so weak but knew you must save every bit of strength to get out of here. The maids gently held your hair up as you expelled yourself.

🥀You felt as though you were getting a spa treatment. They stripped you down to your naked body and guide you towards a steaming bath mixed with salts and flower petals. They attempted to wash you but you grabbed the sponge warning them off the idea and taking care of that part yourself. Whatever was in that bath did relax you a little. Your skin was absolutely glowing.

🥀They dress you in a weird vintage gown. It reaches below your knees and you have to wear a petticoat so the dress falls nicely. This was a major difference to the jeans and work clothes you would wear at your job and daily life. It was one of those traditional 50’s housewife dresses.

🥀Mr.Millionaire had his eye on you for so long since your first encounter with him. He thought that a woman of your caliber should be enjoying the finer things in life than scrubbing toilets. He found your kindness and humble nature endearing. His obsession went a bit further when he could make small talk with you in the morning. Of course he would be at his own building all hours of the day, so running into you a few times was inevitable. He would ask how your day was going and then slowly delve into personal questions. Many along the lines of “do you have a boyfriend?” “What are you doing tonight?” “Have you seen this movie?”

🥀You didn’t see why he would ask such questions to a maid. At the time you just thought maybe he was just trying to be nice to common folks such as yourself. You didn't see it as anything romantic because...well, you felt that he could have any he desired so why would he want you?

🥀Honestly, you should have seen the all the red flags at that point. Especially with what he had said after you answered his question of being happy with life. He saw how tirelessly you worked and rushed to exit to your next shift.

“Sounds like you are in need of a vacation from life my dear...”

You uncomfortably laugh at his joke.

“Right, right but bills don’t pay themselves sir…”

He held your gaze and nodded.

"No, they certainly don't."

🥀And you excused yourself after dusting and vacuuming his office. Not really wanting to continue the conversation further. But little did you realize you had sealed the deal. To him, you would be happier if you didn’t work or have to pay rent. At his age he should be married already anyway. He could use a cute wife like you to keep him company.

🥀Back to the present, the maids guided you to the living room of the mansion. You walk in and notice him by the fireplace sipping on a glass of whiskey.

🥀His eyes light up as he spots you coming in in your new attire. Letting out a low wolf whistle.

“Well how about that, the star got even brighter. You look great sweetheart.” He takes a final sip before setting his glass down.

“Come sit with me, won’t you?”

🥀He sees you glance to the doors where the maids hurried behind. Leaving the two of you alone finally.

“Ah-ah, I wouldn’t try that if I were you. You can run anywhere you’d like sweetie but I can assure you, it will not pleasant if you are found. Now, please …won’t you join me?”

🥀You glance back to him, shaking that he is already threatening you if you were to escape. Slowly stepping over to the leather sofa with him. The clicking sound of your mary jane heels halts as you seat yourself stiffly on the cushions.

🥀You cut right to the chase of why you are here again. He sighs, hoping you would have just figured that out by now. He gently takes your hand in both his large ones, his golden rings sliding against your palm.

"Sweetie, you are the one who gave me this idea. I mean - you looked so miserable cleaning and working day and night to make ends meet. I just wanted to make you happy and see you smile. And in return, you become all mine..."

"B-But you never even asked me! This is crazy!"

He tilts his head slightly with a condescending smile. He pulls your hand towards him, bringing you closer. You yelp at his actions, flinching when he leans into your ear.

"I don't ask for things that I want, sweetheart."

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

Pink lemonade

— Felix had always dreamed of the day he could finally gather enough courage to kiss you. Even in his wildest dreams, he never imagined it would be mid-sip of your pink lemonade.

@velvetmoonlght I'm so sorry this took so long to get out 😖 I tried to make it as amazing as possible but I kept finding faults in the telling and eventually just said fuck it and posted it soooo if this isn't particularly what you wanted feel free to let me know and ill try and redo it!!

xxoxo

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠・felix x best freind!reader

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞𝐬・fluff, a sprinkle of angst if you squint, best friends to lovers, first kiss, unrequited requited pining, one silly little old couple, request.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬・1.3k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬・literally nothing honestly

Felix is early.

Twenty minutes early to be exact, arriving on your front steps with a soft knock and a jingle of his car keys. He peaks his head into the sidelights, his freckled skin streaked by the incipient hues of the sunset he stood beside.

He flashes you a smile in greeting, and the one you return is sincere but muted, as if it pains you to move, to exist. You're sliding your shoes on when he lets himself in, announcing his presence with a palm clasping over your shoulder, drawing your tilted gaze up. There's a certain tightness to your lips, a labored rise and fall of your chest that lingers in his vision long after you slip into the leather seat, your head leaning against the car window, his worry trails him far into the arbitrary drive to nowhere.

"Which way?" he asks, laying a finger on his turn signal.

Slowly, weakly you manage to mutter "Left."

This is what you do when your hectic schedules have kept you apart for far too long: drive down random streets until the gas tank runs empty. You could end up anywhere—and maybe that was the thrill for you—but to Felix, it didn’t matter where the roads led; all that mattered was that you were there. And for him, that was enough.

"Bad day?" Felix finally asks, flicking his eyes to you.

"The worst," You return with a weak smile, lifting your head off the window.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, not really"

And with that, the silence returned. Setting your cheek against the car door, you watched as the sun kissed the trees, its lips settling upon the horizon's line. Your mind was in a relentless state of chaos—so loud, so distracting—that you almost didn't notice the road becoming bumpy beneath you, violently rocking your seat back and forth. Felix pressed his palm onto the steering wheel, swerving onto a familiar dirt road, slightly your shoulders softened.

Many moons ago, during one of the same late-night drives, you stumbled upon this very cafe, stopping mid-conversation to sprint out of the car at the sight of the words "fresh pretzels" posted in bold letters at the front window. It was on that day you discovered Felix's left cheek twitched when he tasted something he enjoyed—and that you were completely, irrevocably in love with him.

Your heart does backflips when he jogs to your side of the vehicle, pulling open the door to guide you out. You don’t see how his cheeks warm when your pinkies interlock, footsteps in tandem as you stroll into the café. The lounge is deserted, save for a single old couple whose wrinkled hands hold each other's on the table beside the window, sipping a large coffee from two straws. It is so sickeningly sweet that you almost forget about your horrendous day. Felix traces your line of sight, chuckling when he realizes what has you getting so teary-eyed.

Felix bows when he reaches the counter, ordering two pretzels and one large pink lemonade with two straws. The barista nods before slipping her pen between the cuff of her ear and walking into the back room. No sooner does she waltz in than she is waltzing right back out, this time with her hands full of food. Felix thanks the woman before gently taking your snacks to the booth right across from the couple, who are currently too lost in each other’s eyes to acknowledge that you’ve sat down. You don’t know if you want to form heart pupils and collapse in a heap of “awws,” or cry and throw up—hey, maybe you could do all three.

Felix's grin is lopsided and silly as he punctures the lid with two straws, simultaneously sliding your pretzel across the table. You gladly take it, sinking your teeth into the soft bread with a delighted moan. It’s truly unbelievable how quickly your mood changes from wanting to jump out of the car going 100 miles on the interstate to wanting to hop up and start dancing. You don’t, obviously, but the excited jitters are still there.

"Oh my gosh, Felix, this is the best thing I've tasted in my entire life! I don't know how to thank you!" you squeal around the pretzel half-stuffed in your mouth.

He smiles, bowing his head to take a sip of the lemonade. It is only through the barrier of the straw that he doesn't blurt—A kiss would do—though as the fruity liquid splashes across his tongue, all he can say is,

"Holy shit, this is delicious!" Felix gasps, the straw falling from his mouth. "Here, try it!" He urges, shoving the cup in your face. You blink, swallowing the remainder of your food. It can't be that good. Your lips wrap around the straw, and oh my gosh, how the hell have you gone your entire life without ever trying this?!

"Holy crap, you are so right! This is incredible!!" You take a greedy gulp of the lemonade. "Ooooh, Lix, you're the best—"

Nothing could prepare him for what you said next.

"I could kiss you right now!!" In your peripheral vision, you notice Felix's lips separate, emitting a soft gasp. Confused, you lift your gaze, and it takes you exactly one blink's worth of time to understand his bewilderment.

Somewhere between pressing his mouth to his straw and the present moment, you have drifted dangerously close to him. Close enough that you can feel the heat of his lips, that you can watch the warmth rise to his freckled cheeks—so incredibly close that you’re mere breaths away from erasing the line between friendship completely.

His heartbeat lodges itself firmly in his throat, and his eyes go so wide that they're all you can see. Felix couldn't count how many restless nights he spent imagining this moment—I could kiss you right now—it replays in his head like a broken record, over and over and over, and you're just sitting there, looking so effortlessly breathtaking; and he can't take it—he just can't take it anymore.

Mid-sip of your pink lemonade, Felix does what he's spent years aching to do. With trembling hands, he cups your cheeks, and with the intensity of a starved, desperate man, he leans in—finally, finally pressing his lips to yours.

First, you gasp. Then, you melt—oh, how you melt, melt like the drops of water slipping down your cup of lemonade, melt like thawing snow. For a minute, as the world reduces to liquid in your vision, you feel yourself sliding in and out of time, but you seek out his forearms, then his biceps, and then you settle upon his cheeks. Felix kisses you like you were his only outlet to breathe—you were. You so, so were.

He planned on savoring your lips until the sun arose, until the owner kicked you out for inappropriate behavior. But instead of the disgruntled grumbles of an annoyed manager yanking him out of the moment, it was the sound of... clapping?

Puzzled, you pull away, much to Felix's dismay, and it takes you about three seconds to find the two pairs of hands loudly applauding was the old couple from earlier?! They wear matching toothless grins, giggling about "young love" and the reminiscence of when "they used to kiss like that in diners." Felix turns his head, eyes wide and awkward, catching yours; his cheeks are flushed red, lips rolled firmly in between his teeth. Despite the heat that flares up your neck, you laugh—laugh with so much lighthearted carelessness that your freedom feels alien even in your own ears. Felix blinks once, twice, before eventually giving in and laughing with you—laughing like nobody's watching.

Even with the old couple in the back, the staff staring at you like you’re insane, and your lone pretzel sitting cold and half-eaten in front of you, he still hooks his finger underneath your chin, drawing you impossibly closer. His smile curves against your lips as he presses them to yours again and again and again.

Lifetimes—that is how long he has spent longing for you; and as you share one final shuddering breath, he can't help but notice you taste like lemonade. It was then that he knew he would spend a million more loving you.

cookie owns this don't steal my stuff, please. thank you.