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dilf-docs · 3 months ago

Text

My Baby's Fit Like A Daydream

husband!pedro pascal x younger!reader

summary: your relationship is finally out to the world. now, pedro and you will explore what it feels like to have your love out in the open.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, smut, FLUFF, the empire of bad humor strikes again, hurt/comfort bc all roads lead back to angst, a brief mention of bodyshaming, this is lowkey pwp my bad, dirty talk, fingering, p. in v., bathroom sex ijbol, exhibition kink (they be fucking everywhere but in a bed), degradation kink (he calls her a slut twice), the one and only creampie (twice), so naturally: breeding kink, ALSO pls stop the husband!pedro reqs, i beg. a delulu girl can only take so much 💔

word count: 10,991 words

side note: not one but two requests to be fullfilled! this is as a sequel to call it what you want. also, spam time: i happen to write in wattpad as well, and i have a pedro pascal social media fic going on :) but it's on spanish tho. if u speak the language and would like to tune in, read it here AND spam again but speaking of the ptwt dynamic, why don't we become moots? check my (new) stan twitter account here (i had one in 2022 that i had since 2016 but entered a crisis and deleted it lol)

part: prev | masterlist | next

The news had spread like wildfire.

As soon as you hit the red carpet, hand on hand, rings finally on display―shining under the spotlight, your phone had been blowing up nonstop: every show, podcast, tabloid, news outlet and social media had been talking about it. California had turn into an easter egg playground; everyone was eager to know it all.

(They had found the church where you married, the dress boutique, jewelry shop where Pedro bought the rings―the employees ratted him out, even sharing pictures of the moment, your husband posing with them without knowing of the future treason. They too had found the place where the reception took place, and even the name of the priest who had married you, but he refused to give the hungry press any details. God Bless)

In short, it had been a hell of a week. You figured dissapearing for a while was for the best, but with some interviews still left, that option had been discarded. Still, doesn't mean you couldn't retreat for a couple of days to the tranquility of your home while it was time to show up again. Well, as peaceful as it could get, since reporters were camping near your house and roaming around Hollywood Hills like vultures; the neighbour's nagging was just another layer of problems in your shit cake.

"I'm sorry, Louis. Walks will be postponed for a while" you talk to your cat, but the lazy bastard just stretches and lays down again. "Yeah, I can see you're affected. Don't cry"

"It's not the cat's fault" Pedro emerges from behind, "don't take it out on him"

He takes a sit next to you, two mugs in hand. He gives you the one with a chocolate steam, a souvenir he bought when you visited your home country last summer. You wonder if that's a trip you'll ever be able to make again.

"I'm not. Just- It's horrible that I can't even go outside my own house and walk the same roads I've walked in four years because the press is hidden with cameras in, I don't know, bushes!" you exclaim, quiet rage carried within your words. "It's unfair, really. All I want is to walk my damn cat without a flash up my ass"

Pedro nestles his face in your neck, nose carressing the skin. Giggles leave your lips, the sensation ticklish.

"It'll pass. It always does" he says, voice assuring, probably because he's used to the violation of privacy, but you're not. Getting bigger, is this the price to pay for making a name for yourself and claiming out loud who you love?

"I hope so" you murmur above the quietness of your home, a sound as eerie as fake, devoid of it's tranquil nature as a world of invasion awaits outside.

"Do you trust me?" Pedro speaks, voice unwavering. He holds your gaze, steady brown challening your shaky orbs.

"I do" you speak up, yet you wish you could believe it. You believe in him, there's no question to that, but do you believe in yourself? That the love you'd put out to the world would be treated with the same care and respect you have treated it in secret? For a fleating moment, you miss the secrecy.

"Then trust me this will be over sooner than expected" he presses a kiss to your lips, soft and sweet, feeling remanents of chocolate he licks away, as you mockingly yell ¡Qué sucio! but it's devoid of malice. "In time, this will become another anecdote we'll share with our kids, and laugh with our grandkids when we get older"

You smile, feeling tears in the corner of your eyes. Oh, doesn't he turn you into a pathetic sappy wife?

"Well" you sniffle, giggling to push back the tears away. "About the old part..."

He playfully kicks your side. "Uno ya no puede ser romántico, que le salen con estas cosas. Your generation could use some respect, you know?" (one can't simply be romantic anymore)

Pedro gets up, picking the mug from your hands as both rings brush together, the gold shinning under the morning Californian sun.

"And your generation could take a joke" you quip, lips curled up like you hadn't in weeks.

"Very funny, y/n. Thought you loved me" but then he's pressing a kiss to your temple like kissing you once isn't enough, promising to return after washing down the mugs.

"I do!" you shout to his dissapearing broad frame as he enters the kitchen, and he playfully makes a dissmissing move with his palm.

The laughing dies when your phone chimes next to you.

You shouldn't really, but the curiosity that draws you in is as intense as a magnet. The phone burns on its position, screaming for you to open it, despite being told by your husband that the best was choice was to ignore it until the buzz had died down, but you're afraid the turmoil isn't nowhere to be finished. Comments can be mean, he'd said, they can hurt you. Pedro said he'd learn with time to ignore it, but he was experienced. You weren't, so naturally, as your husband and protector, he wanted to shield you from the pain.

Although, both of your fandoms had been pretty supportive of your relationship, some user even claiming to suspect it, making threads full of easter eggs and connections that validated the theory which was now a reality. I've connected the dots, followed by pictures of you sharing wardrobe, slips on interviews, similar backgrounds in your posts across social media, and of course, the two Gladiator Ii interviews. Many resorted to making edits or screaming over your pictures in the premiere, demanding for more content you had yet caved in to share (there was a gigantic carpet of evidence sitting heavy in your cloud).

So, in a way, this support made it hard for you to truly dimension the hate Pedro warned you about: all you saw was fans being happy and showering you with love, making paparazzi to be the only problem as for now.

That's it.

You cave in, turning the phone on as you bite your lip, searching first your Instagram: a bunch of new followers, many with variations of ispunk on their usernames, as well as a swarm of comments on your recent posts. There's a small voice in your head telling you to turn away, but your thumb moves without thinking, clicking on pictures of the red carpet―a carrousel of you and then a picture of you both at the end, one fans had been gushing about the last couple of days, rings on display, practically up their noses. You were smiling, and Pedro was looking at you fondly, his other hand holding Lux but his gaze never leaving yours; he was too perfect to be real��yours.

You unconsciously smile at the captured moment, love obvious on your faces, so you open the comments, thinking it would be the same support or love radiating of the comment.

But boy, weren't you wrong?

It was all the same, support lost between waves of hate. Variations of bodyshaming, age shaming and even gold digger claims were on full display across the comment section. "She's ugly" "In it for the money, am I right?" "I thought Pedro had better taste, lol" "She got the role in Gladiator II because of nepotism. Or cocksucking" and then a cruel answer that read "Right, threesome with Ridley. Ew, what a whore!"

Worst of it all, some even had Pedro profile pictures, or usernames and accounts dedicated to him.

Your heart was beating like crazy, chest heavy and hollow, face red with emotions you couldn't quite place (embarrasment? fear? rage? sadness?) as you kept searching across Twitter*, doing a quick skim of the trendings that included you. The same hate speech pattern was all over the timeline, some betting for divorce in a couple of years (even months!), while others took their time dissecting your looks and relationship. As if they knew. Long gone were the edits and harmless threads: the hate wave was here to stay. Some where even being a bit racist, the irony of it all, being Pedro himself was latino and didn't shy away from it, rather proud as he didn't miss an opportunity to shot out his dear Chile. Or any social issue, as a matter of fact, very vocal on his political beliefs.

This was fucking ridiculous, and if the cameras were an issue, this swarm of negativity is what really took a toll on you, the flashes as you went grocery shopping now barely a scratch. No, this was worst. All you wanted to do was cuddle in a blanket while wearing one of Pedro's shirts and dissappear. Too much noise. Too much hate. You can feel it creeping up your body, tainting your soft curves, wrinkles, acne scars and face. It's like rough hands, tugging harsh, ripping your vocals because you can't scream; no words to express this pain.

You knew one day it would come, but never imagined the hurt and to what extent people were capable of. Cruelty. Dissecting your life and body like it was a show for them to be entertained: your marriage was a circus and your body a joke.

It hurt their condescending dismiss of your love, questioning as if the gap were only numbers and not a pillar of your relationship that made you and Pedro closer, despite the bridge in age. You were reduced to a middle-age crisis, and he to a filthy man pinning for a younger girl. Your body was turn apart, despite no real flaws existing. Humans are meant to be so, not perfect, but real, and that was the problem: you had turn into an object―a target for their dards to pierce through.

Your body shakes violently with cries, deafening your ears that you don't hear when Pedro walks in.

"Why are you crying?" he rushes to your side, panic on his voice. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

You barely manage to shake your head, and then his eyes scan all over your features, until they land on the phone on your hands. The worry turns to anger as he asks:

"You looked at them, didn't you?"

He isn't yelling, but it would be better if he did. This contained fury, fading into dissapointment, as if you were a naive child scolded by their parents makes you feels small and stupid, as if you knew no better.

"I'm sorry-" you manage to choke out among tears, "I know you told me-"

"I told you" he interrupts, words laced with wrath, "so this wouldn't happen. See what happens?"

"Why are you talking to me like it's my fault?" you yell, and Pedro sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation. "I didn't ask to receive all this! Do I deserve the death threats, shame and hate?"

He walks past you, and it's like a slap to your face. Was he going to behave like this? Didn't it matter how you felt, or was it something childish that could be brush to the side like nothing? Insecurities you hadn't even think of come crashing down on you, doubts creeping up and attacking you from all sides. It's horrible. You try to hold onto the good memories, praying you don't loose him. You can't. You just can't.

"Answer!" you demand, tears spilling like a broke dam.

"I was just closing the windows. Or do you want to fuel the talk, huh? Give the hungry hoard more to bite?" Pedro then stands to hold your gaze, and you hate that you can't place his emotions. Anxiety corrodes your brain: was this really the beginning of the end?

"Do I?" you dare to speak up, and even if its loud, it comes out drowned, the exhaustion from the emotional turmoil taking its toll on you. "Do I deserve it?"

"No, you don't, carajo!" Pedro bursts. "You don't deserve any of that, which is why I didn't want you looking at those things!"

He sighs, realizing the anger is misdirected.

"I'm sorry"

Your broken wails are the only thing to be heard. He hates himself for being a part of it, even if not the biggest.

"No, I'm sorry for being so stupid" you sob. "I-I just wanted for people to be as happy for us as I am with you"

"Come here" but he's the one cutting the space to embrace you.

His scent calms a part of you, body still rocking with violent shakes.

"You're not stupid. Nor ugly, or any of those things people are calling you. No, mi amor. You're beautiful, smart and talent. They fail to realize I'm the lucky one. So please, don't be hard on yourself, yeah? I can't bear to see it. Less if I know it's not true. You didn't ask for it; you don't deserve all that bullshit"

He presses a kiss to your temple, arms that hug you tighter holding you close close up to the point his heartbeat melts within your own.

I won't let you go. You won't fall as long as I got you.

"We'll get through this, yeah? Think of the future, and what's to come. It's hard, that I know, but let us enjoy the moment. Life is too precious to waste it away" he brushes stray tears with his thumb, softly and full of love that words aren't enough to express. "I'm here" the out loud, "and I'm not going anywhere. That's a promise"

Later that day, Pedro posts a carrousel of unseens, even one of your wedding (a video of your first dance), telling people to leave you alone. That he loves you, and that no malicious news, fans or comments will ever change that―suck it energy laced within his rageful statement.

Safe to say, in the next weeks, hate is barely a small voice whispering in the back of your neck, one that hushes down with each kiss and/or words uttered by your one and only devoted husband.

mandoshoney: y/n protection squad pull up, we ride at dawn starlightt180: unhing3dprincess WHERE ARE U??? PTWT IS IN SHAMBLES AND NEEDS U MY SHAYLAAAAAAAAAA elysyannemimi: i feel like a kid scolded by their dad. pedro has achieved the ultimate daddy status bobgirlll: is no one going to talk about how rageful/protective pedro sounded in that story????? NEED MORE FERAL PEDRO RN GRRrrrr ps. photos so cute, wish that was me lol pyramiidsf: i hope y/n is okay, ppl can be so cruel sometimes but at least she's got pedro on her side <3 he's such a perfect man :,)

It had been days since your fight.

In an sweet attempt to cheer you up, Pedro had taken you out for dinner to a fancy restaurant you can't remember the name of. If they'll snap pictures of my wife without my permission, I might as well show you off. So, per his petition, you had wore a little black dress that hugged every curve of your body perfectly and pushed your tits to the top. Stunning, he had growled, and it had been hard to push him off as he devoured your mouth in your house's doorstep.

"Let's give them talk" you had agreed.

So now you sat at the restaurant, Pedro filling your cup of wine for the third time in a row, talking about all and nothing: about politics, the weather, your siblings, Louis the cat, upcoming gigs around your home you wanted to go to, how support had risen and the hate had dwindled, the numerous calls of job offers and interviews to keep on milking your relationship... life had never been more hectic.

"You know, maybe the dress was a bad idea" he takes a bite of his meat, tone nonchalant.

"Yeah?" you challenge, cheeks flushed with alcohol, "why's that? I thought I had to look good. What changed your mind?"

"Turns out" he looks at you, gaze piercing through your body, brown warm eyes darkening, "I figured something"

You know your husband. It's still fresh in your mind the first day you took a notice of it: jaw clenching, gaze fixated at nothing and white fists balled up on to the sides, arms swinging while fingers itched. A vein on his forehead would pop, and brows would melt together in a furrow. It happened when you got recognized by a fan, on your early days, and he had taken a picture of you, uploading it to social media. Dating Pedro had been going on for little to five months, and the way this guy hugged you from behind, hand resting above your ass, had made your then-boyfriend see red. His posture stiffened, demeanor changed and face adquired all the characteristics above. There was only one correct answer: Pedro was jealous, so fucking jealous.

So here he is now, jealous to the bone, alcohol increasing the rage.

"And that is?" you push his buttons, something you normally wouldn't do, but you're drunk and God, so sex-starved. His possesive side was always hot, yet now? It had a layer of allure it didn't have before, the idea of calming him down long lost.

"You know what it is" he answers, but you tilt your head to the side, acting confused. Pedro growls, clenching the glass a bit too tight; you fear it'll break.

"No, I don't" you serve more wine in your glass, savouring the liquid. Some spills into your mouth, and you lick it while not breaking eye contact. "Enlighten me"

"Turns out" the words come out strained, a whirlwind of emotions burning in the tip of his tongue, "that I wanted people to look at my wife, but I looked their looks and realized I don't like how they look at her"

He rambles the words out, speech pattern slurred and ideas clashing into one another, clearly drunk.

"I see" you draw out, demeanor calm, but your panties have started to get wet.

"No" he hits the table, making your eyes go wide and people turn to your table. You should be embarrased, but you're only aroused. "You don't see what I see. And I hate it, I fucking hate it" he seethes, words spit out over your unfinished meal.

"Dessert?" the waiter appears from seemingly nowhere, menu on hand.

Pedro doesn't even look when he answers, "Sure. Bring your best"

"The chef's suggestion is Soufflé, a classic dessert from his country"

"That'll do" Pedro looks at you, but his brain seems to be somewhere else. Like he's thinking. "How long will it take?"

The waiter ponders the answer, yet doesn't think any weird of it.

"About twenty to thirty minutes. Would that be alright? Or would you prefer to switch to one of our quick-fixes? They're as delicious as our fresh and-"

"No" your husband interrupts, eyes shinning with something akin to dangerous. "We'll take the soufflé. Just want my wife to eat the very best"

The waiter smiles. "Sure, will be back in a few. More wine?"

Pedro stops the action, removing the bottle's neck from pouring more red liquid in your glass.

"Won't be needed"

They excuse themselves, leaving both of you alone. The restaurant bubbles with chat and instrumental music from a band playing on a corner, but all you hear is his heavy breathing and your heart.

"I wanted more wine" you pout, not even knowing why you said it.

He smiles devilishly. "I'll give you something better than that"

How does it happen, you have no idea, but then Pedro gets up with a brash move, chair making a sound that draws attention. He smirks, his auburn reflecting on the candle glowing in the center with a light that's menacing.

"I'm going to the bathroom" an announcement that feels like a threat that runs through the newfound tension; it could be cut with even a butterknife.

You sit there in silence, too stunned to speak. Your phone chimes in what feels like an hour (it's been a few minutes, probably three). You open the notification, a single text from Pedro.

I'm waiting.

So this was his plan all along, huh? Maybe he's gotten bored of sex on a bed and room like normal couples, because ever since that time you sucked his dick in his trailer, Pedro has shown an appetite for public sex. Well, more like just shown but never done. Guess that changes as of tonight.

I'm coming.

Truth is, after the reveal and fight, you hadn't had sex since that time before the London premiere. Press tour hadn't finished, and the movie was still playing in theathers, but it feels much longer the time you had gone without having his dick rearranging your insides. That changes as of tonight.

You practically leap out of your sit, rushing to the restroom, which is too fancy for your liking. You're unsure how to proceed, and it should be because you realized how stupid and reckless this is, but it's more because you don't know which door Pedro is behind: men or women.

You knock softly on the ladies room first. "I'm here" you speak, voice small.

After a few seconds, a muffled voice from behind replies: "Me too"

You giggle as he pulls you inside, mouth devouring yours in a hot kiss.

"The lock!" you squeal, yet Pedro is busy buring his face between your breasts, pulling the dress down until he's nipping at the skin before licking the spot with his tongue. Your back is pressed against the tiled white wall, cold meeting your now heating skin.

"Mmm, missed this" he mumbles in a drunken state. "Needed my girls so bad"

His words elicit a moan out of you, a way to comunicate that your body too had been aching for this.

"Please, Pedro-" you whimper, trying to get rid of the pretty dress. He doesn't say it, but his movements command for power, big hands dragging your dress down until the black cloth falls to the floor in a sound filled with grace, it feels merciful.

"Black panties? But I thought I was a man with a plan" he groans, calloused digits ghosting over the wet patch in the middle. He smells your arousal off his fingers, and this is so nasty but you're so into it.

"Two can play" is all you answer, eager fingers unbuckling his belt as you unbutton the formal pants and pull them down to his knees, so with his underwear.

"Sure thing" he chuckles darkly. "Just look at you, baby. So loud, but you gotta be quiet. ¿Quieres que alguien entre y te vea así? Fucking slut, begging for my cock" (do you want someone to come in and see you like this?)

He's always been sweet-talking you through sex, and you know he doesn't mean it aside from being lewd words, but you also didn't know you could be aroused by it. Change is welcome, to say the least.

His hard dick is immediately stroking at the apex of your thighs, like he's got no time to loose, kissing you roughly like he hasn't eat and your mouth is his meal.

"Twenty minutes" he grumbles, groaning.

"Or thirty" you add, whining when his cock brushes dangerously close to your dripping folds.

"Can't believe you're this wet already" he chuckles, but it sounds more like a breathy sigh, lost in the inside of your mouth.

"I've been wet since before we left the house and you kissed me"

"And I kissed you" he adds. "No sé ni por qué putas te traje si sólo quería quedarme en casa y comerte" (i don't know why the fuck i took you out if all i wanted was to stay at home and eat you out)

You moan at his dirty mouth, clicking your tongue as a way to say so.

"You dirty old man-" it dies in your throat when he glides inside your folds with ease, a finger slipping in, then two, as he curls them. Your head rolls back, landing against the door with a hollow thud.

"Dirty? But you enjoy this, don't you?" his fingers buried up your hilt. Your eyelids flutter, whimpering drowned by your lips, bitten so deep you think you start to taste blood. "Bad news, mami. You're as dirty as me"

You choke in your words. "No-"

"No what?" Pedro mocks, sliding his digits out of you and shoving them inside his mouth, sucking on them while looking at you. You whine at the display and loss of them, knowing he's tauting you for fun. "Don't tell me you don't want someone to come in here and see you acting like a dirty slut? To see you almost coming here and now with just two of my fingers"

"Fine. What if I want to, huh? Just give me your damn cock already and quit teasing"

Words were lewd, but Pedro smiles with adoration.

"That's my girl"

His length springing free to slap against his now smooth stomach, your mouth drooling.

"Sit"

He glares back, "in the toilet?"

"Well, do you happen to see a couch or bed?" you quip. "That's right: you were the one who chose the bathroom, desperate old man. So needy, aren't you?"

You see your husband turning around, ashamed, and you laugh. "I didn't think it through" and you avoid to add a that's quite obvious snarky type of reply.

"Want me as much as I do?" Pedro doesn't protest anymore, grunting some spanish curses before sitting on the cold surface. "Good. Then comply"

You swing a leg over his lap, not afraid if the thing breaks, dragging your wet folds against his cock. He moans, gripping your thighs hard, biting at your lower lip to hide a growl that seems to erupt from deep within his chest.

"Gonna ride you, baby. Is that okay?" you take the lead, and Pedro gets frustrated that you're taking up a plan that was originally his. Despite such, he just finds himself nodding wordlessly like a fool.

You line up, desperate to have him inside of you. But you go slowly down, taking his size, maybe because you're drunk or because you'd never fucked in a bathroom before. Because, really, how will you even try to explain your PR team a broken bathroom?

You gasp as he bottoms out, struggling to catch your breath with the relentless push. His strong arm cages your waist, as he moans in your ear, bodies going up and down in sync. His slides are smooth across his length, helping you find your pace.

"Fuck" you whimper, legs starting to shake. "I think I-"

"I know" he interrupts you, a quick kiss to your earlobe. "It's okay; I've got you, linda"

He thrusts upwards, toilet creaking as Pedro keeps you in place.

You bury your teeth into his shoulder to muffle your moans, skin slapping against skin loudly, his movements becoming faster. The pressure keeps on adding, until the tightness on your walls is too much, and you're collapsing over his chest, folds spasming as he empties his load inside of you, seed deep in your walls, dripping down your legs.

"Oh, shit" you gasp, "Pedro!"

"Perdón!" he shouts, then covers his mouth. "Mierda, no quise ser tan ruidoso. Ay, carajo. Didn't want to spill all over you-" (sorry! didn't mean to be so loud. oh, fuck)

"There's a sink" you start, "and toilet paper. We'll manage"

"Right" he looks at his watch, "we got about ten minutes"

You smile, cheek resting against the warm skin of his neck. "If the chef took the whole thirty"

"There's only one way to find out" he gasps for air. "Pero, ¿no estás llena? Still up for dessert?" his big hand finds it's way to your tummy, you still contentedly stuffed full of him. It lingers, and when you look into his eyes, he averts his gaze, ashamed of whatever he thought. (but, aren't you full?)

"After this, I need some sugar to make it home" your eyelids drop. "I'm starving"

He presses a loud kiss to your head, "that's my girl"

"Yours" you pull back to rest your forehead against his. "Just yours"

He jolts forward, capturing your mouth in a hot kiss, and you smile into it.

"Good. Now, I'll give my good girl what she deserves" he takes some toilet paper to clean his spilling load out of you, kisses running from your face to neck. Then, gently so, lets you dress in again, exiting the bathroom first to give you some cleaning up space. When you come back to your table, the Soufflé is there.

"Eat" he commands, voice thick and rough. You smirk, giving it a bite as you look into his eyes: hair disheveled, puffy lips and droopy eyes. The bite mark seems to shine, or maybe you need to lay down for a while. "Y no mires atrás, ¿sí? We got ourselves a crowd" (don't look back, yeah?)

That night, you upload a story with a picture of the dessert with a caption that reads: best meal I've ever had. The context is lost until news of your bathroom affairs hit headlines next morning, but you don't notice: your phone happens to be dead, and you're too busy getting railed in what could count as round two to charge it.

pompeiianbollockr: hello just woke up and saw the pictures WTF TMZ??? did they really do #that 😭 bring back public shaming unhing3dprincess: i bet my grandma they fucked in that fancy ass restroom ㅤㅤmostannoyingbillioner: unhing3dprincess QUEEN U ARE BACK 😭 BETTING UR GRANDMA AGAIN? OH IKTR WE WERE LOOSING THE ANCIENT TEXTS poppysplayground: ohhhhh they're so nasty (do u want a third) ㅤㅤann-gell: poppysplayground fr like INVITEN

The interview for Entertainment Weekly's behind the cover for Gladiator II was supposed to just include Paul and Pedro, but taking advantage of the free publicity and buzz your announcement made, they added you. Especially after the news about your restroom affair had hit, courtesy of TMZ; the rumor wasn't taken into account in the beginning, but now added gasoline to the gossip fire. Just what the movie needed: free promo.

You're sat in the middle of the two men, dressed in white as well, to match their attires with a flowy dress that loosely resembles that of Rome's. Then, Paul begins to speak.

"I saw the film for the first time when I was about 13 with my dad" he talks about the original movie.

"I saw it in the movie theater when it came out" you imagine a young Pedro lined up to see Russell Crowe's magnetic performance and let out a small smile. "I saw it twice, because of how emotional the movie was. Obviously it's incredibly visceral, and epic and the kind of movie you rarely get to see made, uh, these days"

You look at him, elbow resting on the arm chair as your body is all turned to his side. Truth is, you love listening to him, especially when he seems so invested, love for the subject rooted in each word.

Pedrito, you'd affectionally call. Ésto es una conversación, no un monólogo. And he'd blush embarrased, only for you to laugh it off, saying you would turn mute if that meant for him to continue speaking. (this is a conversation, not a monologue)

"It had an impact emotionally. I remember that, I guess, sadistically I was drawn to a second time go back again because, weirdly, it was very comforting. I remember it perfectly came out in year 2000. Right?" he asks, and Paul and you agree with a yeah. "I can remember what theater I was in and everything-"

"What theater was it?" Paul interrupts his passionate talking.

Pedro stops, "It, uh-" he rambles, before you all laugh.

"What about you, y/n? Were you even born?" Paul jokes, making you roll your eyes at his antics and deliberate desire to keep nagging you like some older annoying brother.

"I was like, born a year after you, Paul. But I didn't watch the movie until I was fifteen" you feel the gaze of both men fall upon you. "The first Ridley Scott movie I watched was Thelma and Louise, as you all know. Then my dad insisted I should watch it, and finally, at fifteen, when I had given up on my dreams to go on one last epic trip to the Grand Canyon, he played it. My eyes, they were, like, glued to the screen. I couldn't stop thinking about it for a while" you leave a small lingering touch on Pedro's arm, "just like he said: epic and emotional. Also, I had a huge fat crush in Joaquin Phoenix that lasted until I was twenty"

"That was like, seven years ago!" Pedro yells, making Paul snorts. "I feel deceived"

"Qué dramático. We're both married, you big baby!" you laugh, then make a joke before the next conversation starts: "You wouldn't think he plays an epic Roman General, would you?" (how dramatic)

They film some shots of you and the boys before moving to the next talk.

"I was doing a play in London at the time. I'd met with Doug and Lucy who are the producers of the film in LA, and then a zoom was set up and I spoke to Ridley for about 5 minutes about what Gladiator was going to be about. And then we spoke for the next 25 minutes about like, gaic football and dogs, and then I thought we'd do like camera tests and- but no, he just-" he shrugs. "I found out about two weeks later"

Now it's Pedro's turn.

"I knew that the project existed. I knew that Paul was doing it. I think it started with an actual like meeting with Ridley to go and sit down with him and I, whether or not the movie was going to happen for me or not, I was like I'm going to go meet Ridley Scott" he jokes, making you both chuckle. "It wasn't even about getting the job, it was like I'm going to go and sit down maybe five minutes, ten, twenty, as many minutes as I can"

"It was in LA" you speak up, "in his offices"

"Yeah, and thankfully he was willing to talk about all the things I wanted to know about, in terms of other movies, and that's what it really turned into"

"He's a wonderful Storyteller" Mescal compliments. "You could sit down with Ridley for-"

Pedro makes a joke, speaking over him. "Give me another one, give me another one-"

You still kind of hate the guy after his supposed comments on your husband's weight, but won't talk bad about a man who gave you work and your biggest role to the date yet, so you explain how it happened to you.

"I wasn't even planned to appear on the movie. As a matter of fact, my character was squeezed in last minute. Ridley is, just as they said, indeed, a storyteller" you smile. "The truth is, I worked with Cuba, his granddaughter, on a proyect together, a photography one. I was in London at the time, auditioning for a movie, when we met"

"London?" Paul asks.

"Yes" you laugh, ashamed. "I traveled to London with some of my savings, because you know what they say about not doing and then regretting. But I do regret it; I cried for my money to be back!"

"You didn't get the part" Pedro adds, barely containing a snicker.

"I didn't" you sigh, "Cuba saw me sitting alone on a café, eyes red with tears of failure and talked me into capturing such vulnerable moment. She didn't know me but made my day better, and she took some of the most beautiful pictures I've seen of myself. So, in a way, I won. I mean, she's the reason I got the role: my name came up on a phone call with Scott, as I had already made a name for myself, and showed him the pictures. He got in contact with my agent and I got the role after auditioning. Call that friendship nepotism"

"Didn't Pedro tell you about it? I find it funny that he was in the movie and didn't get you in" Paul comments, curiously.

"We were supposed to remain a secret, and the sudden connection when we had barely interacted according to the public, would've been weird. So no, Pedro rubbed his role on my face and then I came home with the new script as he received his. We both won our roles separately, and until we got it both, we realized just what it would mean"

"But now we're here" Pedro speaks fondly, taking your hand. "Rome conquers it all"

You can only hold his and stare back lovingly.

"Oh" the Irish man feigns disgust, "don't get all lovey dovey on me!"

The topic changes again, as Paul speaks.

"We meet early in the film, and this is again kind of Ridley's genius. He shoots it in a way that it feels plausible, but in like- the real action of that there's no way-"

They start talking ovwe each other excitedly about the process of filmaking, Pedro listing all the settings were the epic action takes place.

"We lock eyes" Pedro jests, "we lock eyes"

"All right" Paul plays along. "Three, two, one"

"i'm right here" you say, pushing your body to the front. "You got me third wheeling in my own marriage"

Paul laughs, breaking contact.

"Time for you to get a taste of your own medicine. You've made the rest of this press tour unbearable!" he protests, but his tone is devoid of complain.

"Marcus Acacius represents like-" Mescal then speaks about your husband's character, "he's a Roman general"

"No, he is the general of Rome" you correct, smirking.

"Be careful, princess. Don't let the emperor see you all over his General" the blue-eyed man next to you mocks, and you roll your eyes again.

"Will you ever let me live?"

Paul then talks about his character. "I'm like a lieutenant in the numidian Army. I kind of see Acacius as this, he- he represents everything that I hate about, uh, the Roman Empire"

"Well, the Roman Empire is expanding and expanding" Pedro takes the word, "and invading Numidia just to gain more and more power, and we realize that there really is kind of no ceiling to the lust of that power"

"And that's to do with the Emperors, right? Like, played by Joe and Fred who are wonderful" Paul adds, complimenting both actors in the process. "And let's not forget our Empress too"

You make a face at that, feeling in the need to defend your character.

"Empress Alba is tragedy. I think she embodies well the feelings of helpnessless all women felt during that time. She's an object, another shiny possesion subjected to her husband's amusement, so she drowns in all pleasure available to forget her existence. Lucius hates her because he sees all the filth of Rome in her, like, this whole debauchery and squandering while the people beg for scraps. But it's a pattern seen across history, isn't it?" you pause. "I think it's interesting to compare her to Lucilla, because she's loved by the people, seen as human- despite being noble. It's sad because it's until too late that Lucius realizes she's a victim of the system he hates"

Pedro smiles at your little intervention, loving the way you explain a character you'd play so graciously. One of your favorite movies is Marie Antoinette, by Sofia Coppola, so probably it felt personal to you in some level. God, hadn't you made him watch it at least ten times?

"It unravels through the film that I've kind of miscalculated who I think Acacius is, just as with Alba" Paul comments.

"His character misunderstands my character just like Paul misunderstands us" Pedro quips, making both of you laugh.

"Then it kind of culminates in a big fight that we have in the-"

"Doesn't it always?" you add. "Wouldn't be an epic without it"

"Do you want to talk about it?" Paul dares, jokingly.

"No we're not talking about it" he cuts him off.

"Who's the better fighter'" Paul asks after some silence. Pedro dares him with a go on.

"I would say I'm better the better share. What you think?"

"I would say Lucius is the better fighter"

"Lucius is the better fighter" Pedro repeats slowly, incredulous. "Do you want us to fight? Lucius is a better fighter than the general of Rome, who survived decades and conquered" Paul tries to defend himself but Pedro doesn't let him. "I fight four men before I get you, and I call it off!"

"Yeah, but I think if you hadn't called it off -"

"You don't think I would have do some sort of mature aged learning-"

They end up discussing a bit more until you clear your throat.

"Why don't you ask for a third party to break your tie?" and you point towards yourself, mouthing a cute me with your painted pink lips.

"No!" Paul immediatly opposes, "It would be biased, silence her!"

"Have you seen Acacius' arms?" you gauge Pedro's arms, biceps flexing under the white attire. "It definitely isn't biased, at all"

The conversation carries on after some more shots. In some, you pose seriously, but in between such, you laugh along with them, Pedro even hugging you and Paul from behind in one of both. No kisses yet, but you know fans will be rabid just with the lingering touches and flirty undertones in your interactions.

"We began together in Morocco, and I think seeing that set and the scale of the production so quickly, desensitized me to the scale of the of what- Malta was in the Coliseum, and Ridley moves at such a pace, which I actually think really helped me because you don't have time to kind of sit there and and kind of bask in the wonder of it" Paul talks. "Because you're shooting three or four scenes, build your expectations of how to meet the size of, it or anything 'cuz 'cause it's impossible" Paul looks at Pedro and asks: "and I think Ridley; did I tell you what Ridley said first day of shooting to me? He came out to the tent while they were dressing the set, thousands of extras, everything fire, camels and he comes in, and he's- he's smoking a cigar, and we're all stood around and he's like Are you nervous? and we're all like No and he slaps me on the back and goes Your nerves are no good to me, before we filmed anything. But I think it was like- it's funny, but it's this idea that this is your playground, and you have to kind of step into it and own it. So, I-I don't actually really remember my first walking into the Coliseum, 'cause I feel like I lived in the Coliseum for about three or four weeks"

"You lived in the Coliseum of your mind" Pedro quips, making Paul laugh.

"I do remember, you know, when I first walked into the Coliseum, you know. It- it gave me chills. Like, literally chills. Look! I still get the goosebumps" you point your arm. "Honestly, all of it felt just too real, and I couldn't help but for a moment, think I actually was in Rome- that I belonged to nobility"

Pedro takes your hand and kisses it gently. "That's because you do, princesa"

"One of the things that I have never experienced on a movie before, is that there was so little left to the imagination" Pedro expresses. "Me and the rest of the ensemble are together in the emperor's box, and there's this enormous battle that's taking place, and Ridley composed all of the off camera for us in the emperor's box, with Paul leaping from one ship to another taking two men down what would you call that?"

"A cloth line flying" Paul answers.

"Clothes line?" you try.

"A flying- a flying clothes line" Pedro decides, carrying on "just so that we could know what we were looking at. I couldn't f*****g believe it"

"That's true" you remark. "The result goes so hard- I mean, it looks amazing" you sheepily laugh. "The action, the violence, the epic... it all shines through. It just- it makes sense"

The conversation shifts again.

"The legacy of the first film is so profound, and has such a strong place in so many people's, like, hearts and minds, it's inescapable, but I was looking at it- and I was like" Paul shares. "The screenplay does a lot of that work for you in terms of like, the rubbing the dirt between the hands. the kind of DNA and the genetics that Lucius inherits. I remember reading the script and there's like, a moment in the script where it's Lucius puts on the breastplate and it's written like Lucius now becomes Maximus"

"But Lucius, despite being a son, is also a man" you counter. "He isn't Maximus"

Paul agrees.

"I kind of tried to park that to one side, because ultimately, where Lucius is coming from at the start of the film, he has a very different journey than Maximus does, and I was hoping that whatever DNA- and even just the physical gestures, was going to be one part of- a kind of small part of the performance" he explains. "What I tried to do is figure out exactly who Lucius was and where those differences lay between Lucius and Maximus"

"One of the things that I loved most about my character is that he's introduced in the beginning of the movie, in this very epic battle sequence, that I think in its own way homages the first film" Pedro shares. "But even better, because we follow him back to Rome and discover his direct connection to one of the only characters that is living and with us from the first movie, and I loved being a a kind of thread, an invitation, into what we know from the first movie by being Connie Nielsen's man"

Paul looks at you silently, before poking your side: "Someone is real quiet with that comment"

You narrow your eyes. "I have no idea what you're talking about"

"I am Connie Nielsen's man as Marcus Acacius, but as Pedro Pascal, I'm all y/n's"

Your face goes red at how easily you are to be understood, your husband answering just what you wanted to listen.

"Ha! Look at your face, I was right!" Paul ridiculises you.

But after such an embarrasing moment, he shifts the conversation again.

"There's a moment where Pedro has this, uh- it's so clever from a- from an acting standpoint, but also in the in the script like, you see this brutalizing Force come into Numidia, and there's this section where there's the burning of the bodies, and that it's one of my favorite shots in the film" Paul muses. "It's this closeup on Pedro, when he says Vae Victis to the conquered, and you feel like it's a really difficult thing to communicate in one line, that you see: Oh, this General is, kind of wearing this responsibility with great difficulty and shame"

"I wasn't doing that at all" your husband deadpans. You stiffle a giggle.

"You were very good in it" Paul argues back with a smile.

"That wasn't what I was playing" he insists, serious but Paul asks What were you playing? and you all laugh.

"If I had a favorite scene, I'd say it'd be naval fight" you mention. "The colliseum is filled with water, and it's this- it feels like a thing that has never been done before, and with the people cheering and the buzz, and the announcement and echo of the drumming, it's as if you were there, in the crowd. The tension is palpable, the violence is thrown at your face but the scariest one, is the one that lies underneath. Uh, Lucius character tries to attack the General while we, you know, the royals and especial guests, are sitting at our box, and he gets so close, it serves, I think the bottom climbing the ladder to bite the ankles of the top. Obviously, that before we know who Lucius actually is, but I think it's kind of cool"

The interview is ending, the last of your twelve-minute conversation being filmed now.

"I am really excited for everyone to see Paul" Pedro beams, making the younger one laugh. "I'm sorry but it has to be said. You are sensational in the movie" then adds, "and pretty easy on the eyes"

"Everyone in this movie is easy in the eyes" you quip, looking at your side. Pedro coughs a bit before speaking again, even if a faint blush is coating his cheeks.

"-And he worked so hard, and I got to see that happen like, in front of me, and on the day and just lead with Ridley, this enormous crew and this enormous cast... To get to see that, on the big screen, is really exciting and I think people are going to- they're going to love it"

"That's very kind" you exclaim softly with a smile, then add. "I'm sure of it, especially if you were a fan of the first. Both are very interwined, although each film is its own thing" you comment.

"For a lot of us, the actors, we haven't worked on a film on that scale" you violently shake your head "and I think, there's a little bit of trauma bonding that went on with, kind of having to- kind of feel like, total impostor syndrome within it all. But to see your friends operate at that level on a film of that scale, doing like incredible work. I think, across the board, I haven't seen a film on this scale for a long long time rhat's rooted it has the scale and the performances, and I personally think it's one of Ridley's greatest pieces of work"

senhoritamayblog: y/n was SO REAL holding pedro's arm and talking abt how he'd beat paul bc he's beefy ME WHEN moltisantiii: you know what i think ridley's greatest piece of work is? giving us this trio youlooklike-clarabow: y/n is truly a princess 🥹 i don't know if i want to be y/n to be with pedro or pedro to be with y/n ㅤㅤann-gell: youlooklike-clarabow well, she's the people's princess after all!

You haven't even left the room when Pedro is all over you, kissing your neck on that sweet spot of yours that elates a little breathy whine. Doesn't he know you well?

"What are you doing?" you manage to squeak out as his needy big hands grope your body, flesh soft under the flowy white dress. He grunts when he catches your panties, embarrasingly wet already at just a few sloppy kisses and eager touches.

"What do you think?" he whispers against your ear as you both try to walk away from where voices can be heard, and then Pedro is guiding you to a room, closing the door behind him. If he was able to walk to the room while kissing you, he must've seen it in a passing. Had your husband plan this all along? Greedy needy old man.

"What I think, baby, is you're forgetting something" you push him off, giggling. He makes a little pout, making it hard to keep your ground. "Now that everyone knows we're married and we suddenly both go misteriously missing at the same time, they'll just put two and two together. I mean, does it really take a smart person to figure it out?"

Pedro doesn't back down, still caging your frame against the locked door.

"So?" his annoyed and tense voice only makes you laugh more. That turned on was he? Pedro seems annoyed at your fit of laughter, his pants tight.

"What do you mean so? We almost got caught by Paul last time!" you chuckle amused. "And, are you seriously going to pretend TMZ didn't air our bussiness just about last week?"

"Well, maybe you should've thought about it before" he goes back at the task of attacking your mouth, words spewing in between hungry kisses. You mouth a little taunting innocent looking Before what? and then Pedro is talking while his gaze is glued to yours, tightening his arms around you, and the answer is just about that. "You should've thought about it before getting all flirty with me, grabbing my arm in front of the camera like the naughty girl you are. So fucking needy you can't hide it for a few hours, can't even go through an interview without touching me, looking at me, being possesive at a fictional marriage even" your face burns hot with embarrasment at that. Oh, was he being nasty on purpose? Why bring that up? "Haven't I taught you manners?"

It's hard to force yourself to hold his gaze while standing still. Taunting. Defiant.

"José Pedro Balmaceda Pascal" you chastise, "do you want people to know we are raw dogging in the dressing room? That's the manners you so badly talk about"

His face goes red, his demostrations stopping for a bit as he studies your now serious face.

"Wait, do you want to raw dog in the dressing room?" he gasps at the boldness in your words, which, to be fair, is kind of exaggerated, as you both have said worst stuff before. "That's not what I had in mind"

"That's not?" you arch an eyebrow. "Oh, no. Absolutely not. You can't just kiss my neck greedily and touch my body eagerly like a goddamn starved horny idiot, and then expect me to not act up on it, you old man"

There's silence before he speaks up again. "Y/n, you talked about manners"

You take a deep breath in, making sure the door is actually locked.

"Well, fuck them manners"

You capture his lips on a hungry kiss, same kind of force you had made fun of him, just minutes ago. He's pushing his tongue inside of you, as his hands move up to your shoulders and back down to your waist. You rub yourself against him, looking for some kind of friction, and his big calloused hands pulls your waist closer in an attempt to do the same.

"Manners maketh man" he's reciting, and such stupid proverb and line from one of his old works shouldn't turn you this much. Pedro lifts up the dress until your body is devoid of the cotton, murmuring about how unfair it was for you to taunt him with translucent cloth, tender flesh hiding under the white. So hard to focus on interviews, mami, when you're close to me or something like that, as you're too lost in the fire. No bra? Fuck, baby. Do you want to kill me?

"Sofa" you command, eyes darting to the furniture so you can show him where. "Now"

You take off your panties in a go, revealing the slick that's just a few seconds from running down your legs.

"I see, my legs won't be the only thing drooling" you mock his agape mouth. He takes off the blazer with shaking hands, sitting as you get on top of him. Pedro kisses his way down your neck, sucking on the skin. How will you get out of here without comfirming suspicions? Surely, there must be something inside here that could be of help.

"Well, I've wanted to do this for a while" he mumbles against the now red patches of before honey-ed skin. Again? you think.

"Have me or fuck again in public?" you ask out loud, and even if you're laughing, there's a layer of fondness in your voice. "I'm starting to wonder if you have an exhibition kink, papi"

He breathes a little no before biting right above your collarbones, his tongue then releaving the pain with a wet slick move over the flesh as you let out a whine.

"Busy schedule, mami. A husband's gotta find a way to make time for his pretty wife, even if it means fucking her in the goddamn dressing room" he says into your ear. Pedro had done more interviews than you, and between that and filming for his other projects, he's right. "So what if they find out? Need them to know who you belong to. I'm just a devoted husband, will you punish me for that?"

You caress his face, pristine hair now disheveled, the gel succumbing to the heat and sweat trapped in the room.

"Look at you, naughty boy. El burro hablando de orejas" you laugh, "but of course I won't. Need you too so bad" (look who's talking)

His finger wanders down to your pussy, big hand roaming around the area. His middle and ring finger run over it, the golden band starting to shine with your arousal. Fuck, that just made you wetter.

"Shit, baby. You're so eager... wasn't lying when you talked before"

"Needed you since you kissed me today, when you woke up" your teeth grit at his lingering digits. "Your dick rubbed against my bare thigh, fucking hard"

Truth is, you're always horny; being married to Pedro Pascal does that to you. But mornings? Waking up to that handsome face and girthy dick? You really be testing yourself sometimes.

"Jesus, mami" he whistles. "So fucking dirty, thinking about me all the interview because my morning wood grazed your skin, you dirty naughty girl"

Pedro finally slides his fingers inside of you, making you squirm under his gaze as your back archs. "So fucking beautiful, can't believe you're all mine" he moans and you squeeze his shoulders, nails digging and bruising his skin under the shirt that sticks to his skin, body heating up like a furnace.

"Please, Pedro" you plead, lip biting your under to supress a whimper. "Please curl your fingers, need to have you- feel you inside. Fuck-"

Your words cut off as he moves his fingers with learned ease, his thumb rubbing your clit as a treat.

"Mmm" you murmur with pleasure, back arched again, your tits too dangerously close to his face. Without much thought, he licks your nipple and then devours the whole breast with his mouth. All while looking at you, this absolute horndog. Your nails dig in deeper as you pronounce his name in a shaky exhale. Wanting more. Begging for more.

"Mmm? That's right" his palm on your waist squeezes lightly, more pressure on his grip. "Can't speak 'cause I'm making you feel so good, huh?"

You don't answer, instead throwing your head back, nails digging deep to the point he winces, making a face by the pain. You mouth an apology, but then he licks your nipple again, and teeth move to your nibble your earlobe―you're not sorry anymore.

"S-stop" you choke out, body shivering.

"What? Can't take what you asked for? No muerdas más de lo que puedes masticar, niña mala. Bad girl" (don't bite off more than you can chew, bad girl)

His lewd words elicit another moan out of you.

"I-I can. In fact, I want- no, need more. I don't want to cum on your fingers" you whisper in his ear, hot breath probably why he shivers. "Pull down your pants, pretty boy, because I want to cum on your dick"

"Fuck, mami. What a dirty mouth" he moans.

Eager hands try to lower his pants as your fiddle with the same feel, the borrowed wardrobe struggling to get off in the current position. His underwear goes next, and you squirm as he aligns his tip with your dripping entrance.

You moan and he grunts, as his dick enters your tight folds, sounds clashing onto each other as so do your bodies, fitting perfectly. His hands travel from your waist to ass, his head against the back of the sofa, your hands that were before on his shoulders now on his chest.

"Such a pretty view you're giving me, wifey" he tries to laugh, but the sound comes out strained along each powerful stride of his cock that buries inside of you, each bouncing harder, his hands pathethically running over your ass, back, hips, and legs, as his eyes devour the way your tits jiggle with each thrust, tongue burning with desire to suck on the skin again. "So beautiful, and all mine. Only mine. Mía"

His words drip with devotion and wordship; all the love in the world. Pedro calls you beautiful, goddess, and a string of spanish words crossed with adoration. Mami. Linda. Princesa. Diosa. Hermosa. It has your orgasm looming over, head spinning and pussy stretched, walls tightening.

"I'm close" you whisper, riding him with soft-paced movements as his turn sloppy.

You see stars, walls almost kicking his dick out as you coat it in your slick, arousal dripping down until it's coated his balls and smeared the white attire. Fuck. Now Pedro's moving his waist, hunting for his own orgasm.

"Me too" he breathes out, "stay with me"

His hands travel sloppily to your waist, lazily holding you still with his calloused digits.

"Quick, baby" you breath out, "I'm sensitive"

"I'm almost there. Just hold on a little longer" then a whine before shakily pleading. "Please, please, just wait for me"

You move your hips slowly, aroused by his needy pleads, robbing a moan out of him. "Cute" you praise, making his cheeks redden with sweat and blush.

He is cute: hair messed up, mouth red and puffy, and brown puppy eyes.

"I love you so much" Pedro let's out, and it sounds like a confession, despite being married for so long.

"I know, baby, I know" you reach for his face, removing some sweat beads from his forehead, and he leans on the touch, closing his eyes as another gutural growl erupts from his chest. "I love you too"

You keep on riding until you feel his dick twitch inside of your walls.

"We need to stop doing this" you pant out.

"Too late for that, bonita. At least no one found out this time" Pedro laughs. "But you like the talk, don't you? Gonna give 'em something to talk about" he pants, "will fill you up so good you won't be able to walk without my seed spilling from you" sweat beads from your face fall onto his. He obscenely licks the salty drops. "Te voy a dar tantos hijos, que no cabrán en la casa. That way they will know you're mine" (will give you so many kids, they won't fit in the house)

You moan loufly, folds now coated on thick ropes of hot cum, as his movements come to a stop, slowing down until all that can be heard is your uneven breaths trying to recover.

And on cue, there's a knock at the door. Shit. You both remain silent, as if it would stop, but the knocking turns persistent.

"Pedro, I know you're in there"

It's Paul freaking Mescal, again. You might just have to invite him next time if he keeps showing up like that.

"Should I go?" Pedro whispers, and you shrug, stating it would be weirder to pretend he wasn't if Paul knew he was. "How do I look?"

You eye him up and down, eye glistening with dissaproval, red cheeks giving away your thoughts as if the furrowed eyebrows and ashamed gaze didn't already.

"We are fucked"

"No" he giggles, "we just fucked"

"That's not funny!" you roll your eyes, playfully smacking his chest. "Please, look into the mirror and try to fix yourself a bit. If not, we're doomed to be remembered as a horny couple. Oh, we were going so well! Fans will make fun of us and the press will call us horndogs" you lament, exaggerating your voice.

"Oh, shush. We wanted to be able to be in public. This is what it feels like"

You blush. "Maybe we can reduce the public aspect a bit..."

Pedro snorts before doing a quick fix to his appearance, walking to the door where Mescal patiently waits behind. Oh, of course; that little fucker. After the TMZ news dropped, he connected the dots and know that whatever happened in that trailer when Pedro told him to fuck off, wasn't holy at all. Now, he's probably laughing or scheming.

"Paul!" Pedro opens the door. "W-what's up?"

The younger man does a quick scan of his friend, barely able to hide a laugh.

"Looking radiant, my friend" he answers with a shit-eating grin. "They need to do some re-shootings. Have you happen to seen y/n? She just keeps dissappearing when you- oh, when you do!" he mocks. "Well, if you ever happen to find y/n, tell her you both need to get a good fix unless y'all want to show up on TMZ again. I'm pretty sure you can find something in this dressing room to cover those marks, yeah?"

He finally breaks down laughing in front of Pedro's shocked face.

"Ah, you guys are the absolute worst" he folds in a fit of laughter, "so fucking horny you end up fucking in bathrooms and dressing rooms!"

Your voice can be heard from inside as you growl, face red with fury and shame:

"Hijo de puta" (son of a bitch!), "don't make me bring Daisy Edgar-Jones into this!"

l-u-n-a-m: they're just milking their relationship atp for promo but i'm not complaining need more pictures of the photoshoot NOW vnightx: istg if they don't stop flirting in front of my single ass face. i need a gun at0michips: have i gone insane or does pedro have love bites ㅤㅤmybritishstyle: MI HIJO DOES NOT HAVE LOVE BITES. HE JUST FELL DOWN THE STAIRS

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @trashcora / *i'm never gonna call twitter as X. it's still twitter, and will always be. fuck that ugly bigot filthy billionaire hoe called elon-trump-cocksucker-musk.

#dilfistwrites #gladiator II #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal x you #pedro x reader #pedro pascal fluff #taylor swift #reputation #call it what you want #paul mescal #call it what you want series

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jungwnies · 13 days ago

Text

f1 grid (1/2) | forgetting their birthday

୨ৎ : featuring : max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri (click here for part two) ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by @holycastles) : pretending to forget their birthday but actually having a huge surprise for them planned

୨ৎ : genre : romantic comedy ୨ৎ : word count : 3719

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : god FORBID you forget one of their birthdays... i fear everyone but verstappen and piastri might overreact a tEEEEENY bit...

ʚ・max verstappen

you knew max didn’t love big birthday celebrations. he wasn’t exactly the cake and balloons type. but still, he deserved something special. and if you had to fake forgetting the day just to throw him off? so be it.

it started that morning. he came into the kitchen, hair sticking up on one side, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. you were already at the stove, flipping pancakes like it was any other tuesday.

“morning,” he mumbled.

you glanced back over your shoulder. “morning.”

that was it. no ‘happy birthday.’ no mention of it at all.

you saw the subtle twitch of confusion in his brows, but he didn’t say anything. just grabbed a mug and poured himself some coffee.

you didn’t feel bad. okay, you felt a little bad. but it would be worth it.

by the time afternoon rolled around, max was quieter than usual. he’d disappeared into the simulator room for a couple hours, re-emerging only to plop onto the couch and scroll aimlessly on his phone.

“everything okay?” you asked, settling beside him.

he shrugged. “yeah. just… thought today might feel different.”

you leaned your head on his shoulder. “tuesdays are weird like that.”

he didn’t answer.

but when you stood up a bit later and said, “i’m just running out to grab some groceries, be back in an hour,” and kissed the top of his head, he nodded, not suspecting a thing.

what he didn’t know was that the "groceries" were actually a mad dash to finalize the surprise party you’d been planning for weeks. all his closest friends were already at the venue. there were red bull-themed decorations, his favorite food, drinks, and even a mini go-kart course set up just for him.

when you texted him an hour later, “hey, can you come meet me at this address? i need help carrying stuff,” he didn’t hesitate.

he pulled into the lot, looking around curiously. then walked inside.

and everyone yelled, “surprise!”

max blinked. for a second, you saw that classic verstappen processing face, the one he made when someone overtook him unexpectedly. then he turned to you.

“you little liar,” he said, breaking into a grin.

you shrugged. “thought tuesdays were weird like that.”

he pulled you into a hug so tight your feet almost left the ground.

“i really thought you forgot,” he murmured into your hair. “i was trying not to be upset.”

“i know,” you said, pulling back to smile up at him. “that’s how i knew it would work.”

max kissed you, soft and slow and a little overwhelmed.

“simply lovely,” he whispered.

and it was.

ʚ・lewis hamilton

you figured lewis wouldn’t throw a fit if you forgot his birthday. he wasn’t that type. but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt him.

and that’s what made the plan a little risky.

the morning of, you played it cool. real cool. too cool.

“morning,” you said, breezing past him in the kitchen as he fed roscoe.

he looked up with a sleepy smile. “morning, love.”

you kissed his cheek, grabbed a banana, and scrolled through your phone. no ‘happy birthday.’ no card. not even a cheeky joke.

you saw the faint change in his expression. his smile dipped, just slightly. like he wasn’t even sure if he was allowed to be disappointed.

but he didn’t say anything. just nodded and went back to scratching roscoe behind the ears.

you left the house an hour later, saying you had errands to run. lewis stayed behind, probably expecting you’d come back with cake or something. but you didn’t. at least, not right away.

the rest of the day, he barely said a word. he worked out, took roscoe for a walk, sat out on the balcony with a tea. every now and then he checked his phone, like he was expecting someone, maybe you, to send a text. a call. anything.

nothing came.

you got home just before sunset, acting casual as ever. “you hungry? i was thinking we could order thai tonight.”

lewis looked at you, finally speaking after what felt like hours. “you didn’t… have anything else planned today?”

you tilted your head. “should i have?”

that hurt flickered in his eyes. he hid it well. but you noticed it, because you always noticed him.

he nodded slowly. “nah. just wondering.”

you stepped closer, and before he could pull further into himself, you said, “actually… yeah. i do have something planned. but i need you to come with me.”

he raised an eyebrow.

you handed him a hoodie. “put this on. we’ve got somewhere to be.”

the drive was quiet, but you saw the gears turning in his head. he was curious now. hopeful, maybe.

when you pulled up to the small venue you’d rented for the night, he looked confused.

until he walked inside.

there was soft music playing. his closest friends, family, and team were all there. dim lights, candles, vegan food lined up buffet-style, and roscoe’s favorite treats in little bowls around the room.

photos of lewis through the years played on a loop on a big screen. gp wins. childhood go-karts. that time he dressed up as batman for halloween. all of it.

he turned to you, eyes wide.

“you didn’t forget?”

you shook your head, stepping closer, arms wrapping around his waist. “how could i forget? you just had to let me lie a little first.”

he pulled you close, forehead pressing to yours, that quiet smile finally breaking through.

“you got me,” he whispered.

“i always do.”

lewis kissed you like he’d been holding his breath all day. and maybe he had.

later that night, after the crowd thinned and it was just the two of you swaying in the soft light, he said it again.

“i really thought you forgot.”

“i know,” you murmured. “and i’m sorry for letting you think that.”

he looked at you for a long moment, thumb brushing over your cheek.

“this… this was perfect.”

and you could tell he meant it.

ʚ・george russell

you knew george would make a thing out of it.

the man had a flair for dramatics. you loved that about him. but it also meant pretending to forget his birthday was going to be a test of your own acting skills.

you woke up early on purpose, slipped out of bed before he opened his eyes, and left a post-it on the mirror that said, “went out to run errands, be back later x.”

no ‘happy birthday.’ no breakfast in bed. not even a cheeky wink.

the silence from your end was deafening.

by the time you returned home mid-afternoon, george was sitting on the couch like a man freshly betrayed. wrapped in a blanket, arms crossed, tv playing some mindless nature documentary that he was definitely not watching.

you dropped your keys on the counter and glanced over. “hey. everything alright?”

he didn’t move. “oh, splendid. never better. just enjoying the slow decay of time.”

you bit your cheek to stop from laughing. “cool. i got almond milk, by the way.”

“oh, fantastic. we can toast to that instead of, i don’t know, birthdays or being alive another year.”

you blinked. “was it someone’s birthday today?”

he whipped his head around, lips parting like you’d slapped him.

“i cannot believe this,” he said, standing up and letting the blanket fall like a cape. “you’ve forgotten. i’m going to spiral. i’m going to become a menace to society. this is your villain origin story.”

“i think you’ll survive,” you said, barely holding it together.

he threw a hand to his forehead. “i wore the nice socks today. the ones with the tiny stars on them. i thought we’d at least go out.”

you walked over to him, leaned in, and kissed his cheek. “get dressed, drama queen. we’ve got somewhere to be.”

george paused. “wait. what?”

“no more questions. just put on something that won’t wrinkle when you sit down.”

still confused but too intrigued to argue, he changed into something sharp, because of course he did, and let you drag him into the car.

you drove for about twenty minutes before pulling into a private racetrack on the outskirts of town. george stared.

“you didn’t.”

“oh, i did.”

there was a single vintage aston martin waiting on the tarmac. helmet. keys. and a sign that read “happy birthday, t-pose king.”

he looked at you with the most ridiculous expression of glee and disbelief. “you made me think you forgot. you let me sit there in existential crisis mode, wrapped in fleece, contemplating my place in the universe.”

you nodded, smirking. “and now you get to race a car that costs more than both our kidneys combined. so… you're welcome?”

george burst out laughing. “this is evil. i love it.”

he pulled you into a hug, rocking you side to side like a goof. “you are insufferable. i was actually about to text my mum.”

“and say what?”

“that you were a monster. but now i take it all back.”

you handed him the keys and grinned. “happy birthday, george.”

he kissed your forehead and gave you the most dramatic bow he could manage. “best gift ever. even if you did emotionally traumatize me first.”

“adds character.”

and with that, he took off toward the car, already shouting something about lap times and not crashing it.

you just shook your head and laughed.

he’d never let you live it down — and honestly, you didn’t mind one bit.

ʚ・carlos sainz

carlos wasn’t the type to make a fuss.

he didn’t expect fireworks or a giant party. but a little something? a kiss, a card, maybe even just a soft “happy birthday, amor” in the morning? that didn’t seem like too much.

so when he woke up to an empty apartment and a quiet kitchen, he frowned.

you were already gone. no message, no balloons, no surprise breakfast. just a sticky note near the coffee machine that said “be back later <3.”

that was it?

at first, he tried to reason with himself. maybe you were planning something. maybe he was overthinking. he went through his normal routine — showered, made coffee, and replied to dozens of “happy birthday” texts from friends and family.

but with every hour that passed and nothing came from you, the more that quiet little sting in his chest grew.

you didn’t call. you didn’t text anything special. just a casual “need anything from the store?” and a “don’t forget to hydrate.”

hydrate? on his birthday?

carlos wasn’t mad. not exactly. just… disappointed. the kind that sat heavy in his chest and made everything feel a little dull.

by the time you got home that evening, he was sunk into the couch, arms folded and mouth pulled into that very specific pout he swore wasn’t a pout.

you walked in like everything was normal, bags in hand, smile in place. “hey. you okay?”

he didn’t look at you. “fine.”

he was not fine.

you sat beside him, and he barely shifted. “you sure?”

he shrugged, voice low. “i just thought maybe today would be a little different.”

and there it was. not angry. just honest. soft, but it hit you like a punch.

“i didn’t forget,” you said gently.

he turned his head, eyes meeting yours. he didn’t say anything, but his expression asked all the questions he couldn’t put into words.

“come with me,” you said, standing up. “just trust me.”

carlos followed. quiet, still wearing that guarded expression, like he didn’t want to hope just yet. like hoping would make it worse if he was wrong.

you drove for a while, and he didn’t ask where. he just stared out the window, wondering if he had overreacted. maybe he had. maybe he hadn’t. but it still kind of hurt.

and then you pulled up to the beach.

he recognized it immediately — the quiet spot just outside the city. no tourists, no noise, just the waves and a little stretch of sand. it was the place he told you once reminded him of summer nights in mallorca.

when he stepped out and saw the setup, he froze.

there were candles tucked into the sand. a low table, set for two, his favorite food already waiting. soft string lights swaying in the breeze. a bottle of wine. a tiny chocolate cake with “feliz cumple, mi campeón” written on top.

his chest actually ached a little.

you stepped beside him. “i wanted it to be private. just us. i thought you’d like that.”

carlos stared at you, overwhelmed in that quiet way only he could be. he ran a hand through his hair and shook his head with a small laugh.

“you really let me sulk all day.”

“i didn’t think you’d get that sad.”

“i had a full sadness, cariño,” he said, grinning now. “i almost went for a drive just to feel something.”

you laughed and leaned into him, arms slipping around his waist. “happy birthday, carlos.”

he kissed your forehead, arms wrapping tightly around you. the kind of hug that said thank you and i missed you and you know me better than i know myself.

“don’t think i didn’t notice the silence,” he whispered. “you were evil for that.”

“but you love me.”

he rested his chin on your head. “unfortunately for me,” he said, smiling, “yes. i really do.”

ʚ・charles leclerc

you didn’t mean to emotionally destroy charles. but, to be fair, you also kind of did.

because pretending to forget his birthday seemed like a harmless little prank. he was dramatic anyway. he overreacted if the grocery store ran out of his favorite chocolate mousse. he once said “this is betrayal” because you changed the netflix profile photo without telling him.

so yeah, forgetting his birthday?

he would be insufferable. but it would be hilarious.

and it was.

it all started when you woke up and kissed his cheek, said “don’t forget to take out the recycling,” and walked away. no “happy birthday.” no breakfast in bed. no gift.

charles blinked at the ceiling for a full five minutes like he was processing a national tragedy.

by mid-morning, he was fully spiraling. you ignored his very obvious attempts to fish for attention — him humming happy birthday under his breath, sighing deeply while scrolling through birthday messages, and dramatically opening and closing drawers just to see if you’d hidden something.

nothing.

at noon, he facetimed arthur and told him, loudly, “yes, it’s been a very lonely birthday, merci.”

you were in the other room.

by the time 4 p.m. hit, he was flopped across the bed like a man who had lost everything. face down. motionless.

you peeked in. “charles? you good?”

he didn’t lift his head. “i have been disrespected.”

you laughed. “come on. you’re being dramatic.”

“i am a monegasque man. i feel things.”

you rolled your eyes, fighting a smile. “put on something nice.”

he finally lifted his head. “why?”

“just do it. i’m taking you out.”

he narrowed his eyes. “out where?”

you shrugged. “it’s a surprise.”

he sighed, loud and exaggerated, but he got up. grumbling. mumbling something about emotional wounds. but he followed you anyway.

you drove up the hillside to one of his favorite spots overlooking monaco. he liked it because it was quiet. and because the view reminded him of home in a way that didn’t involve flashing cameras or team meetings.

when he got out of the car and saw the little table set up, the candles flickering, the box of pastries from his favorite bakery, and the tiny red-and-white checkered flag stuck in the cake… he froze.

“you didn’t forget?”

you grinned. “of course i didn’t forget.”

his mouth fell open like you’d told him you were actually a secret agent. he turned around in a slow, dramatic circle.

“you let me mourn. i was mourning.”

“yeah, i saw that.”

“i told arthur i was emotionally abandoned. you made me lie to my own brother.”

you handed him a fork. “eat your cake, romeo.”

charles laughed, stepping closer and pulling you into the tightest hug you’d ever gotten from him.

“you’re terrible,” he whispered.

“but?”

he kissed your forehead. “but i love you. even if you are a little monster.”

you smirked. “happy birthday, drama king.”

“never do this to me again,” he said, full pout back in place. “i aged five years today. emotionally.”

ʚ・lando norris

you didn’t actually forget lando’s birthday.

you just didn’t say anything right away.

why? because watching your boyfriend slowly unravel in quiet confusion while trying so hard to act like he doesn’t care? prime entertainment. especially when it’s lando and you know his first response to emotional distress is going live on twitch like a victorian child playing the piano in a thunderstorm.

you left him a kiss on the cheek that morning. said something casual like, “i’ve got errands today, might be gone for a while.” no happy birthday, no gifts, no hints.

he blinked. “okay… cool.”

then you walked out.

lando sat there for a while. fully dressed in his comfy hoodie, expecting a “surprise!” to pop out from the bedroom or kitchen or shower. nothing. the apartment was silent.

he gave it an hour. then opened twitch.

“yo,” he mumbled into the mic. “what’s up, guys.”

chat immediately popped off:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY KING!!!

WHERE’S Y/N??

ISN’T IT DATE NIGHT??

YOU STREAMING ON YOUR BIRTHDAY?

BE FR, ARE YOU OK

lando forced a smile. “yeah… nothing planned today. just thought i’d chill with you guys instead.”

he sipped his red bull dramatically. “no big deal or anything. just a regular day. like any other. i’m not sad.”

he absolutely sounded sad.

even his “poggers” had less energy than usual.

at one point he read a message and went, “no no, she didn’t forget, i don’t think… i mean, probably not. right?”

silence.

he died in-game two seconds later.

an hour into the stream, he looked directly into the camera and said, “if anyone asks, i’m emotionally strong. like… very mentally resilient. super fine.”

right on cue, your voice came from the door behind him: “hey, lan?”

he turned around so fast he nearly fell out of his chair. “yeah?”

you peeked in. “can you come downstairs real quick?”

“what for?”

you shrugged. “just come on.”

lando hesitated, told chat “brb maybe she finally remembered i exist” and followed you downstairs.

waiting outside was a surprise birthday setup on the rooftop deck of your building. pizza, cake, his favorite snacks, party lights, a mini projector set up to play shrek 2 (because of course), and all his closest friends quietly waiting with party hats on.

he blinked. then laughed. then rubbed his face like he was overwhelmed but also completely relieved.

“you’re evil,” he said, pulling you into a hug.

“you were really about to stream all night, huh?”

“i was playing the long game. guilt stream.”

“happy birthday, twitch boy.”

he looked around at everything, grinning like an idiot. “okay yeah. worth the emotional damage. ten out of ten.”

ʚ・oscar piastri

you weren’t actually going to forget oscar’s birthday.

please. you’d had the whole thing planned for weeks. the idea was simple: pretend to forget, act super casual all day, then hit him with a surprise dinner, a stack of his favorite snacks, and a handmade card that said “happy birthday, nerd <3” in glitter glue.

classic. easy. foolproof.

except there was one flaw in the plan: oscar literally didn’t care.

the day started normally. you woke up, kissed his cheek, got out of bed like it was just any other morning. no mention of birthdays, no presents, not even a wink.

he just stretched and went, “do we have any cereal left?”

you expected some reaction. a confused glance. maybe a suspicious squint. but nope. he poured cereal, sat at the table, and started talking about tire degradation in the australian grand prix like it was a normal tuesday in april.

you were still waiting for the shift. for the "heh… you forgot something?" moment. it never came.

by lunchtime, you started to panic.

you casually said, “nothing special going on today?”

he looked up from his sandwich. “nah. not really.”

no sarcasm. no hint of drama. just full, honest indifference.

that’s when it hit you: he actually didn’t care that you hadn’t said anything. not even a little.

and that made you spiral.

“oh absolutely not,” you whispered to yourself, already grabbing your bag.

by the time oscar finished his sim session, the apartment was unrecognizable.

the lights were dimmed. candles were everywhere. a blanket fort was in the living room, fairy lights tangled in the sheets. on the table: pizza, garlic bread, a mini chocolate cake, and a birthday card shaped like a tire that said “p1 in being born.”

he blinked. “uh.”

you appeared from behind the couch, slightly out of breath and holding a party hat. “sit down. we’re celebrating your birth. no arguments.”

oscar raised an eyebrow. “i thought you forgot.”

“that was part of the plan. but then i realized you didn’t even care, and that was way worse.”

“i really didn’t,” he said honestly. “it’s just not a big—”

you shoved garlic bread in his mouth. “it is. you’re my favorite person and you were born today and that is a top-tier event.”

oscar slowly chewed. then smiled a little. “this is ridiculous.”

“you deserve ridiculous.”

he sat down, pulled the party hat over his hair with zero resistance, and looked around at the chaos.

“i seriously didn’t expect this.”

you nudged the cake closer to him. “good. i wanted to catch you off guard. you never let people do stuff for you.”

he paused. “yeah. i guess i don’t.”

you sat beside him. “well, too bad. today’s not about what you think you need. it’s about me forcing love upon you in the form of carbohydrates.”

he let out a quiet laugh, eyes soft as he looked over at you.

“thank you,” he said. “really.”

you smiled. “happy birthday, oscar.”

and for a guy who “didn’t care,” he looked suspiciously close to being emotional.

but he just picked up a slice of pizza and said, “do i at least get to pick the movie?”

“absolutely, birthday boy.”

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just-some-random-blogger · 4 months ago

Text

Double Dutch

The twins walk in on you as you talk about your stupid, fit neighbor. Wonder who that is.

George Weasley x Reader (x Fred Weasley) | 1k+ | cw: fem!reader, fred lives stfu, harry potter lore noob, fluff, rizzler!Georgie, typos, etc.

A/N: this is a continuation to Sweets & Sweeties but both can be read individually for the most part. GUYS IDK MUCH ABOUT HARRY POTTER LORE SO PLEASE KEEP CALLING ME OUT IF YOU NEED TO COS WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERES AN UNLOCKING SPELL HAHAHAHAHAH | cross posted on ao3

"And they didn't just use Alohomora?"

You giggle as you momentarily lean on your mop to turn to your phone, "that's what I'm saying!"

Your friend snorts from the other side of the line.

"But," you continue mopping, "to be fair, even I didn't think of it in the moment. I was just glad they helped me get back in my shop when it felt like I'd be locked in forever."

Your friend groans, "you can be so dramatic. Why would you be locked forever from your shop?"

"Stop it. I was seriously debating throwing rocks at my window to get in."

"Wow," your friend laughs, just as the bell on your front door rings, "you're just as stupid as your neighbor."

You look over your shoulder mid-mopping, "sorry, shop's not..."

You grip your mop tightly as the tall man raises a hand, "mornin'."

"... open yet."

His smirk is lopsided as he raises a brow, "not even for your stupid neighbor?"

Your stomach drops and blood rushes up your neck.

"Bloody hell," your friend's voice on loud speaker reverberates in your empty bake shop, "did your fit neighbor walk in?"

The said man chuckles and you nearly whack your phone with your mop. You quickly end the call and grit your teeth in embarrassment, unable to turn back to the red haired man that was laughing yet again.

"Fit neighbor, huh?"

You clear your throat as you decide to put a brave face on and feign ignorance. You turn to him with a dramatic hair flip and shrug.

Fred or George Weasely smiles then hums, crossing his arms. Which one he was, you couldn't tell. "Glad to know you find me fit, love."

"I-" you clear your throat, "that wasn't about you."

His brows quirk and his lips part. He scoffs in offence but his smile is still visible, "don't tell me you think I'm stupid and my brother's fit." He walks over, shaking his head, clicking his tongue, "you have terrible taste in men."

You snort to mask the feel of your face burning, then pretend mopping is more exciting you really think it is, "I-" you clear your throat as you clean the tiles in front of your cake display, "don't even know which one you are."

The sheer dramatics of his gasp forces you to look back at him. The Weasley has a fist on his chest, pretending he was stabbed. He grunts in faux pain, "you're telling me I look exactly like Fred?" He rests the back of his hand on his forehead and turns away, "the horrors."

The laugh he pulls out from you is dangerous. It's full and giddy. It's more than amusement, it's full blown endearment that makes your belly roll. You stifle your laughter with your sleeve, feeling warmth linger on your cheeks. Your heart races as he, as George, saunters in front of you, hands smoothly sliding into his pockets. He tilts his head with a sigh, "might have to get even for that terrible remark, my..." he looks around the shop, "sweet neighbor."

You look up at him, pursing your lips to withhold your smile. You shrug, "I doubt a boy named Georgie can do so much damage."

He snorts and shakes his head, "cheeky bugger."

You tense when he leans forward.

"Did you just dare me to do you some damage, sweetheart?"

You open your mouth, but a strangled gasp is all that leaves you because he places his hands atop yours as he takes your mop from you.

"I feel like you don't need anymore damage, considering you did just break a mug."

You stare at him as he haphazardly starts mopping around. Your belly reacts to how he circles around the mop and shoots you a grin. You gulp, "how did you know I broke a mug?"

"Pfft," he scoffs, straightening up, resting his elbow on the top of the mop. Damn, he was tall. "I heard it break. Why do you think I came over here? To check on you!"

Your brows furrow as he puts the mop aside, "how'd you know it was a mug though?"

Georgie shrugs, "well, cause I'm a genius."

You give him a look.

He mirrors your look, then slowly begins to lean forward again, "d'ya want me to prove it?"

Your heart races as you slowly lean back, "w-what? No?"

"Wicked," he grins, straightening up, "you think I'm a genius, do ya?"

"W-What?"

"I just called myself a genius and you agreed," he puts his hands in his pockets and moves towards your cake display. He points, "that looks really good."

You compose yourself by brushing your hair back, "shop's not open yet, genius."

Georgie turns to you with a grin. He breaks into a chuckle, "why not?"

"I'm still cleaning."

He looks around the room and pulls out his wand from his pocket, "I-"

"No!" you raise your hands, "I like cleaning!"

He lowers his wand.

"I don't have anything to do before opening, and cleaning, you know..." you trail off and look away.

"No, I don't actually," he tilts his head in interest, "cleaning what?"

You shrug as you look back at him, "it gives me something to do."

He purses his lips and raises his brows, "wouldn't you rather do something fun?"

You chuckle and shake your head, "that's easy for you to say. You own Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes."

Georgie shakes his head and raises his hands, "that's ex-"

"And you have your twin brother."

"... so?"

"You have someone to have fun with. I bet you never get homesick at all."

"Oh," he lowers his hands, "distraction for the loneliness, is it?"

You purse your lips and shrug, "yeah."

He offers you a soft smile, "I'm not a genius actually," he points his thumb over his shoulder, "your broken mug pieces are on your counter."

You turn to said object and counter, feeling bashful that you forgot about it, "oh, that's-"

"And I didn't come here because I heard you break it," he buzzes his lips then rubs his ear, "I don't think my ears are good enough for that."

You raise your brows, "I mean, I figured. I don't think anyone's ears are good enough for that."

"I did come here because I wanted to spend time with you."

You freeze.

"Want," he corrects, "I want to."

You feel blood rush up your face.

"That is," he motions vaguely and shrugs, "only if you want to take back what you said about me being the stupid one and Fred being the fit one."

"You think I'm fit?"

You both turn to the front door, only realizing now the bell had rung. Your face was burning, "I-"

"This isn't about you!"

Fred walks in, "oh, ho, ho, I do beg to differ."

Overwhelmed by the two Weasley men who begin to bicker in front of you, you step back unable to do anything but watch for a moment. That is until George says:

"No, I told you I think she's cute."

Fred scoffs, "I totally said she was cute first!"

"Keep lying, you liar."

"I literally told you the moment she w—"

"SHOP'S STILL CLOSED!" you blurt, making them turn to you. You gulp as they turn to you, and exaggeratedly clear your throat, "though I appreciate you both," cough, "think I'm cute, I have to prepare things."

"What things?" they ask in unison.

You stutter, "t-things!"

"I can help," they say at once, turning to each other, "Jinx. Double jinx. TRIPLE J-"

"GET OUT!" you point to the door, "respectfully."

The twins visibly deflate. George smacks Fred on the chest, "this is all your fault."

"Mine?" Fred scoffs, "you're the one that-"

You cut their bickering off short by pushing them towards the door. They begin to protest but do not try to overpower you to stay inside. You huff once you manage to kick them out and wave them goodbye.

"I thought we could drop by at any time for a cuppa?!" George calls out.

Fred huffs and cups the sides of his mouth, "liar!"

You chuckle softly under your breath, face warm as ever as you give them a look, "later! Once I open!"

They both huff and turn to each other. Fred says, "that's not any time, now is it."

"No, it isn't," George agrees.

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thewinter-eden · 18 days ago

Text

That Your Man? pt. II

pairing: Lee Minho x fem!reader rating: mature, dark themes summary: mugger!Minho patrols his usual haunts, one of which being the parking lot where you first met. One night, mid-mugging, he sees you through the window of the coffee shop where he first bought you cake--but you're there with the man he thought you were going to break up with. He decides stealing girlfriends (or, rather, you) is now included in his job description.

warnings: Mugging, Minho still has a gun, asshole bf (still), evidence of past successful muggings, cats, fake boyfriend, angst, Ateez (one member), more crack/slice of life than horror.

Author's Note: I don't even know what to say about this. It just kind of happened and then it kept going. Oh well. Here we are.

Word Count: 15k

series info PART 2 INFO

< part 1

You’re newly single, newly apartment-broke, newly jobless. Happy birthday to you. Your alarm wakes you at 5am even on Sundays, your phone battery refuses to last longer than two hours unplugged, and your printer is sick of spitting out wads of mangled cardstock for your resumes.

Three weeks after that fateful birthday night in the parking lot, when Jake gave you the last bit of persuasion you needed to stop putting up with his cool detachment from your relationship, and you’re already struggling to make ends meet. You hadn’t quit your job, nor would you ever have dreamed of it. You’d worked and schooled infinite hours to get it, at last landing the vet tech job of your dreams in a private boutique clinic, only to lose it with one phone call.

You’d never realized how very small Jake was until he coped with your breaking up with him by informing your place of work that you were implicated in an armed robbery.

It’s not true; the police never even looked you up after Minho called them and reported that some nondescript, unidentified woman had been robbed; your name wasn’t in any reports or investigations, but Jake had decided since it was his company card that had been stolen and maxed out on gift cards, you must have given it to the mugger (and, technically, true enough).

But the phone call was more than enough reason to your vet clinic, and they let you go without even a week’s warning.

You’re halfway through a stale, microwaved breakfast burrito, sitting in the dark at your kitchen table with only the painful light of your laptop screen beaming stubbornly through the tinted lenses of your blue light glasses when an email pops up in your inbox. The subject line reads INTRODUCTORY INTERVIEW - WAYWARD STREET CAT HOTEL.

You’ve never clicked into an email so fast.

A quick scan tells you they liked your resume, they want you to come in for an interview tomorrow afternoon, and their address is only four blocks away from your apartment—a major plus when you don’t have a car and you’d rather avoid public transportation if at all possible.

Typing back a hurried—and quadruple spelling checked—response accepting the invitation, you immediately add the appointment to your calendar. It fits snugly between two other interviews, one with a coffee stand that just barely promises to pay minimum wage, and the other for a receptionist position at the biggest commercial vet clinic in town, that made sure to inform you in their very first email that there were over a hundred other applicants being considered.

You don’t want to be a drive-through barista, and you don’t want to diminish your college degree to a receptionist job (although a foot in the door is a foot in the door), so your heart is fully set on Wayward Street Cat Hotel. There’s so much bubbling hope in your chest that you have to close your computer and eat the rest of your burrito in the dark, praying with all your might that the hope doesn’t pop.

Trudging through your full day of first interviews (and one second interview that definitely doesn’t seem like it’s going to lead to a third), you finally make it back home and crash into bed, barely managing to change out of your day clothes and brush your teeth before sinking into disappointed slumber.

Night turns to day, and after another chalky burrito and another cup of cheap coffee, another fruitless morning of refreshing your email inbox, you step into a fresh set of professional interview attire and try to face the day with renewal. It’s not like you try to anticipate another booked schedule of unsuccessful interviews, but after so many days of getting punched by one rejection after another, it’s difficult to approach each appointment with an open mind.

After a pleasant but uninspiring meeting with the manager of the drive-through coffee stand, you leave the interview with basically the promise of the job if you want it, but you don’t see yourself jumping at that opportunity until you absolutely have to. After the two remaining interviews of the day, you may reassess, but you withheld your commitment until you could actually be sure that it was your only chance.

The Wayward Street Cat Hotel is a charming little house-like structure on the corner with a picturesque coffee shop and a small business ice cream shop on one side and a positively blooming little florist on the other side.

As you approach the door, there’s a number of cat-related signs on the window. “No dogs allowed,” “This property is protected by attack cats,” “Free range cats at work, please knock before opening.” The soft and quaint feel of the warm green door and front step of the facility draws you in immediately, thinking of those hand-drawn greeting cards or water color canvases that portray little cottages surrounded by flowers. You knock on the door.

Not even a full minute later, a young man’s face pops into view, dimples cratering his cheeks as he tosses you a wave and then gestures for you to wait. You smile back awkwardly, watching as he bends down and scoops up a small white cat into his arms, cradling it to his chest and hurrying to close it into a room in the back. Moments later, the man comes jogging back, unlocking the door, and letting you inside.

“Hi there,” He greets cheerfully. “You’re the interview?”

You nod, pressing your hand into his palm to shake, and tell him your name.

He gestures for you to come in and sit with him at the tiny desk in the back, picking up a clipboard and brushing cat hair off of his black shirt. “I’m San. I’ll be heading our conversation today, is that okay?”

You’re confused. “Um. Yes?”

“It’s just that I’m only an employee, and that the owner won’t be in until tomorrow. But I promise I’ll be thorough in my notes.” He grins at you, encouraged by the polite laughter you give him as you wave off his concerns.

“That’s completely fine, no worries.” You spend the next few minutes discussing your education, your work history, and your personal experience with animals. He’s polite, charming, and pleasantly engaging as he runs you through a list of scripted questions, pausing between each one to pen down your answers and offer kind little comments as you bounce back responses.

“Okay!” He sets the clipboard down at last and fixes you with another dimpled grin. “Well, I feel good about this. You seem great, and I love your background for this. Why don’t you accompany me on my rounds this morning and we’ll see what you think of the actual work?”

This suggestion thrills you. No polite, tight smiles and tense handshakes and empty “We’ll be in touch” promises. Even if he decides that you can’t be trusted to work in cat boarding, at least you get to meet some kitties before you go home and cry into a vat of ice cream. You get up, leaving your bag on the chair you were just sitting in, and quickly follow him back towards the door.

The facility is a single large room, one half wall dividing the front from the back, with the desk you just had your interview at set on the back side of said wall. At the front of the room, there’s a sink, a set of cabinets, and a supply closet on the same wall as the door you entered through. To either side of you, the walls are lined with doors, all the way to the back of the room.

Each door is solid on the bottom and grated at the top so you can look in and see the kitty guests lounging in their own private rooms, blinking lazily at you as you pass by the windows. It’s not what you would have thought—all of the cat boarding facilities you’ve seen online look like sterile vet environments, with boxes in the wall that have barely enough room for a cat bed and a portable litter box.

This is small and cozy, but genuinely akin to a hotel for cats.

“So we have two shifts per day—but the boss said maybe we’d add a third since we’re looking for another worker. Every morning I come in around six am and check on everybody.” San begins, peeking into all of the rooms. It’s almost noon, so you figure he must have done all of this already, but that doesn’t stop him from chatting blithely about his entire morning routine.

When he’s finished his spiel, he guides you to a room about halfway down the row. “This is how far I got before your appointment. This is Bbam.” He steps aside so you can peer in and find the big gray tabby lounging comfortably on a plush bed. “He’s either an animatronic cat or a changeling.”

You give a shocked laugh at his playful words, but as you look at Bbam, you realize exactly what he’s talking about. The gray tabby has perfectly round eyes, about half the size of golf balls, which he pins to you the moment you appear in his line of sight. He meows at you, and when he does, his mouth hinges down at the jaw like a robot kitty. He does look like an animatronic cat. “Oh my god, he’s kind of freaking me out.” The moment you speak, Bbam’s eyes flick to the side, then down to the floor, then back at you—like he’s actually understanding your words.

San laughs at the sudden look of discomfort on your face. “Yeah, he appears in my nightmares sometimes. I frequently ask him not to answer me, if he has the ability to do so. Just in case. But he’s a huge sweetheart. Step back.” San turns the knob and swings the door open, and Bbam immediately jumps down from the bed and winds himself around your feet. “He’s a total love, once you get past the horrible expression on his face. So, he’s here for three more days—his owners went to Costa Rica.” He tells you every detail about the cat as he shakes out the blankets and the bed, sweeps the floor, cleans the litter box, changes the water, and then fills the food dish. “He gets totally nutty about meal times so he gets a Prozac at dinner.”

“Aw, poor Bbam.” You’ve spent the entire demonstration crouched in the doorway, letting the kitty bonk his head against your knees and curl himself around your hand and purr deep guttural grumbles at you. “He’s just a hungry little guy.”

“Bbam weighs thirty-one pounds.”

“He’s a hungry big guy.” You’re totally in love. Bbam the freaky animatronic changeling cat is the sweetest thing you’ve ever put your hands on, and every little mew he gives you digs right into your heart.

San notices the dumbstruck puppy love look on your face. “You haven’t even met the kittens yet. Come on.” He takes you all through the facility, introducing you to each of the cats and talking to them sweetly in a low, soothing tone. Some of them jump out and practically maul you for affection, while others tuck themselves safely under the stools that are set up specifically for the purpose of hiding. Every time one of them hides from you, San seems to know exactly why.

“She just got here this morning,” He’ll say. “That’s Bobae, she’s still nervous. She probably won’t eat her food tonight but I put just enough in to cover the bottom of the bowl, so I can see if she’s comfortable enough to try.”

Or— “That’s Kyong, he’s a little nervous. He hisses but as soon as we open the door he’ll run over here and start demanding affection, hissing all the while, see?—yep, there he goes. He won’t hurt you, just wants to make sure you know he’s a big scary cat.”

You follow along, soon jumping in to hand him things or going ahead to read the charts and starting on the food prep, even taking a few litter boxes from him to clean so he can focus on tidying up the rooms. By the time you’ve helped him finish his shift, your head and heart are chock full of cat information and your interview clothes are positively covered in kitty hair.

“Yeah, so that’s the morning shift. Evening shift starts at 4, and we do pretty much exactly the same thing, and then in between washing dishes and doing laundry we take care of emails and phone calls. It’s really simple, really rewarding if you like cats—you just have to hope the clients are nice. Most of the owners are little old ladies, and it’s kind of hit or miss with their temperaments.” San beams at you, standing back after letting you wash your hands and borrow one of the many lint rollers. “So? What do you think?”

“I think you must be the most peaceful person on the planet, if this is your day job.” You respond, somewhat in disbelief at the calm atmosphere and the instant gratification of seeing all of your efforts be either appreciated or at the very least quietly tolerated by all of these cats. “But I was wondering how our schedules would work? Like would we swap mornings and evenings, or do you do full days?”

He passes you a towel to dry your hands. “Since right now it’s just me and the boss, we’ve been trading days. I do the first half of the week, we both work Wednesdays, he does the second half of the week, and we alternate so that we can have weekends off. If he likes you and hires you on, then we’ll have more flexibility, which I’m excited for.”

You can’t think of a single better place to work right now, where your still emotionally-reeling brain can take a break and get 6-8 hours of kitty love as your day job. “That sounds great. So, um…” You clasp your hands. “I guess you’ll call me, or?”

He flinches a little, like he totally forgot that you weren’t a done deal yet. “Oh, gosh, yes. Hold on.” He runs back to the desk and returns to you with your bag, passing it to you as he scribbles a note on his clipboard. “The boss told me if I like you for the interview and the rounds both to go ahead and invite you for the morning shift tomorrow. I get here at 5:30, drink my coffee, look at emails and the schedule for the day. You’re welcome any time between then and 6am. Just knock on the door and I’ll let you in. If he signs off on you by the end of the day, I’ll get you your own door code. This is my personal cell number in case you need to reach me, and the internal email address for employees.” He gives you the piece of paper.

You hold it like treasure, your hands shaking as you tuck it carefully into your bag and then double check that it’s safely inside one of the pockets.

“I say employees,” He laughs at himself. “Right now it’s just me and the boss. But we both check it every day, so don’t hesitate to email for any reason. I’m kind of a stickler for punctuality, so please shoot an email or a text if you’re going to be late for traffic or something. Sound good?” He sticks out his hand, and this time you’re greeted with a warm and friendly handshake rather than the tight ones that reek of hand sanitizer from all of the other places you’ve been to this week.

“It sounds great. Thank you so much for having me in, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” You’re practically vibrating with excitement. He sees you out the door and waves through the window as you head for the sidewalk, and as you all but bounce your way home, you couldn’t pry the toothy grin off your face with a crow bar.

You don’t go to your next interview.

Instead, you finally take the time to cook yourself dinner. The first real meal you’ve had since the night you got robbed at gunpoint by a strangely considerate criminal who bought you cake on your birthday. You actually use pans and cutting boards and the oven fan and an egg timer and by the time it’s done, your stomach is growling so loudly that it’s automatically the best food you’ve ever eaten.

You take the time to shower, and wash your hair and shave your legs and then moisturize your skin until you’re glowing and pink in the dingy light of your cramped bathroom. You’re five seconds away from tumbling into bed in a set of matching cotton pajamas and a microfiber towel turban and the book you’ve been dying to read but haven’t had the energy to even look at when your phone dings.

Your heart slams like a jackhammer.

What if it’s San? Or the owner of the cat hotel?

What if they changed their mind?

You can just see the text—’sorry, we’ve selected another applicant. Don’t bother coming in tomorrow.’

You snatch the phone off the nightstand, thumbing past the password and blinking hazily down at the dim screen. It’s not San, or anyone who works at Wayward Street Cat Hotel.

It’s Jake.

‘911—need to talk to you. It’s urgent.’

Your eyes reflexively well with tears, the raw edges of your heart still bleeding from the difficult emotions of breaking off your lengthy relationship, and you feel a clenching in your chest. Despite knowing that nothing Jake has ever thought of as urgent has ever been actually urgent, you glumly type back a response and get an address in return.

You blink at it in disbelief.

It’s that coffee shop.

The one in the parking lot that you got robbed in. The one in the parking lot that Jake left you in, with an armed robber. The one across from the McDonald’s where Jake tried to make you eat (and pay for) your birthday dinner. The one across from the movie theater where he made you feel like a child for crying through a sad movie on your birthday.

The one that Minho took you to and begged you to eat from after your heart broke into a million little pieces.

It doesn’t matter. Jake says it’s urgent, so you have to go. You toss back your covers, dig through your drawers for something to wear—and you’re far too committed to the comfort you’re currently wrapped in to go for any of the jeans, so you pull out your coziest sweats and swap one cotton set for another.

Shaking out your hair, scrubbing your fingers through the stringy wet tendrils, you fold it into the fastest, sloppiest braid you’ve ever embarrassed yourself with, grab your purse, and head out the door. Cool air wraps around your damp throat, digging fingers into your dripping scalp, laying it’s icy palm against your back where your hoodie is catching all of the water from your hair.

One hasty Uber and about twenty minutes of anxious hand wringing and mentally chanting reassurances to yourself, you arrive at the coffee shop with almost rock-solid certainty that you’re going to be able to face Jake without completely falling apart.

Yeah, you’re the one who broke up with him.

Yeah, he definitely had it coming, and you definitely deserve better.

But you’ve been with him for so long that sometimes you still feel like he’s missing from you, and to see him again after three weeks might just be the straw that breaks you. Running your hands over the awkward fly-aways that float around your hairline, already feeling the knobby lumps of your terrible braid but not wanting to prolong the inevitable by stopping to fix it, you make your way up the sidewalk, adjusting your jacket collar under the hood of your sweater.

In the darkening light of evening, the coffee shop glows a warm golden light out onto the sidewalk, and you take a deep breath to brace yourself. You can see him just inside, in a thin t-shirt and a pair of jeans that you’ve seen a million times before—clothes that he barely manages to drag on before going out in public without a care.

You feel just a little miffed. This meeting had better be an actual emergency if he pulled you out of bed to spend money on an Uber and didn’t even bother to dress appropriately for the high-dollar coffee shop.

A bell rings softly when you push the door open and step inside, instantly enveloped in a rush of warmth. The air smells like hot sugar and cinnamon and rich coffee, and your eyes automatically slide to the display case full of aesthetic cakes.

Even after your hard earned dinner, your stomach grumbles at the thought of that cake.

You make your way to the small table where your ex is seated, going around to stand across from him, one hand gripping the straps of your purse in a fist. “What is it? What’s wrong?” You didn’t realize your voice was going to come out with such a hard edge, but it’s too late to soften your approach now.

Jake looks up from his phone, brow furrowing at your words. “Can we talk?”

Frustration fills your entire chest cavity. “You said it was urgent. What’s wrong?”

He pushes his phone away and drops his hands into his lap, staring at you pitifully. “I just want to understand. I don’t get it. Why would you throw everything we had away like that? How could you do that? I thought we loved each other.”

You want to scream with disbelief and anger and the heartbreak that is rapidly evaporating to be replaced by incredulous resentment at the utter gall of this man. “What am I doing here, Jake? What do you want?”

He gestures for you to sit, and you stare at his hand blankly. “I need closure, babe. Please. I want to understand. I think we could give this another chance if we just talk about it.”

You slam yourself down in the seat and have to stop your body from lunging across the table and strangling the living daylights out of him. “You texted me 911 so that you could get closure? I was in bed, Jake. I have work in the morning—and don’t call me babe.”

His lips twist in confusion. “What work? I thought you got fired.”

You’re about two seconds away from having a psychotic episode in the middle of a coffee shop. “Yes. I got fired. Because you lied to my boss. And you expect me to come here and hold your hand?”

“I called your boss after you broke up with me. That’s not why you ended things. I want to know why. Was it the mugging? You know I called you all night long. I was worried sick about you, babe, I just wanted to make sure you were okay, and you ignored me.”

All you can do is breathe.

Just keep breathing.

“I just think you could have at least talked to me before you ended it. I took you out for your birthday. I gave you a scarf, do you know how much that cost?”

“Yeah, about a buck fifty.”

He blasts right past the revelation that you somehow knew he thrifted it out of the clearance bin. “I was up the whole night just hoping you were okay, and the next thing I hear from you is a full 48 hours later, breaking up with me. How can you think that’s fair? How can you say I deserve that after everything we’ve been through?”

A waitress swoops by the table then, smiling sweetly at you. “Can I get you guys anything? Our cakes are incredible, or we have savory options as well.”

“Just a coffee for her, but I’ll take a slice of the chocolate cake, please.” Jake says softly, giving the waitress his most pitiful smile, and then fixes you with the same look. “Babe, please. Please, I just want to work this out.”

Your mind is so completely blown by everything that’s just happen that you can’t even pull a facial expression to reflect the shock consuming you. “What did you do?”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“For the 48 hours. What did you do?”

Stammering, surprised by the question, he lifts one hand in a pointless gesture. “I…I waited around. I mean, I had to go to work, of course. And then I caught up with a friend for dinner, because they were going out of town the next day, but you understand that I had to go. But I waited around for you the whole time, just hoping. I couldn’t even sleep, baby, I was so worried.”

“You left me. You left me there.”

“The guy had a gun! Everybody makes mistakes. Not everybody responds well under pressure. I was stupid, and I regret it, and—oh my god I’m just so glad you’re okay.”

His gushing words fill you with revolted disgust. “Please stop.” Nausea floods your senses. “Seriously, just knock it off. We’re done, Jake. There’s no talking about this, there’s no fixing anything. I will never consider it okay, or just a mistake, that you left me with an armed robber in a dark parking lot. You left me there.”

You don’t say anything about the fact that you ended up feeling safer with the armed robber than you had felt with Jake in a long time, because that’s entirely beside the point.

He doesn’t need to know that.

“I would never do that again. I could never dream of leaving you. Please, baby, please, I swear—”

“So this is the jackass, huh?” Somebody slips into the booth next to you, and you’re startled to find a warm arm looping around your back, fingers tickling you where they brush softly at your sides. “He looks like an accountant.”

Both you and Jake turn to the newcomer, wide-eyed, but you recover first.

Minho is sitting next to you.

Minho, the armed robber who held you up on your birthday. Minho, who took pity on you when you cried your eyes out in the cold. Minho, who took you to this very coffee shop and bought you warm food and a warm drink (with your boyfriend’s card) and told you that you were worth more than he made you think.

For a second, your gaze snaps to Jake, terrified that your cover is blown and that he’ll only be further convinced that you and your mugger were in cahoots against him—when you remember. Minho had taken his mask off only after Jake had burned rubber out of the parking lot.

You recognize him.

Jake does not.

Your ex straightens, instantly offended by the cool smirk and downward gaze of the criminal who currently has his fingertips playing with the hem of your sweater. “Who is this?” Jake snaps at you, scooting his chair back. “You moved on from me already? You were cheating on me, weren’t you? Who are you—what the fuck are you doing with my girlfriend?” He’s practically combusting with derision.

Minho just blinks lazily up at him, reminding you of the way the cats from the boarding facility earlier calmly stared at you as you walked with San. “I’m the one who knows everything about you, and, may I say, this charming display is entirely consistent with what I’ve heard.”

You gawk at him, only managing to close your mouth and swallow your surprise when he gives your side a little pinch. Clamping your jaw, you let him tug you into his side and smile smugly at your ex as the other man sputters angrily.

“This is why you broke up with me? You had some fucker on the side?” He snaps at you, and you really wish you had an answer for him, but you’re just as surprised as he is.

“I never cheated on you, Jake, this isn’t—”

“I think you should leave.” Minho says simply, interrupting you. “You’re disturbing the customers here, and your voice irritates me.”

“You expect me to stand here and believe that this guy with his arm around your waist isn’t some secret boy toy that you’ve been screwing while I’ve been taking care of you? Do you know how hard I worked to provide for you? I was going to give you safety and security and—”

“And McDonalds every year for her birthday? That she pays for and you bill your company for?” Minho finishes lightly. His hand slides up your side to smooth over your shoulder and then drag back down to your hip. Every inch of his touch is possessive and unthreatened by Jake’s presence. “I think she can do better. Can’t you, jagi?”

Your stunned expression meets his cool smile, and he blinks at you in a way that somehow very clearly and very subtly tells you to stop your gaping and pretend that you’re comfortable in his arms. Strangling the part of you that wants to ask just as many questions as Jake is asking, you force your eyelids to lower to a normal degree and finally turn to face Jake again. “We’re done, Jake. You should leave.”

Jake bursts out of his chair with frenzied outrage. “I asked you here to give you another chance, but that’s over.” He snaps, jabbing a pointed finger at you.

Pressed against you, you feel the solid muscles along Minho’s side tense as he closes his hand firmly around your hip and narrows his eyes at your ex.

“Don’t call me. Don’t text me. Don’t even fucking try to explain.” He yanks his jacket off the back of his seat and then slams the chair up so hard that the edge of the table thumps harshly against your ribs at the impact.

“Then stop throwing a fit and get on with it.” Minho says harshly. “And calm down before I make you.”

From anyone else it would sound like your average amount of masculine posturing, designed to make the other man uncomfortable and test the boundaries of respect, but from Minho—the man who spends his nights holding people at gunpoint—it strikes you as a sobering promise.

Jake shoots you one last petulant glower and then storms out of the coffee shop, slamming the door behind him.

The moment he’s gone, you twist yourself to face Minho, seeing the cool smile drop from his face as his arm slides away from your back. “What are you doing here?” You hiss. “What was that? Last time I saw you, you were robbing me. And now you’re pretending to be my boyfriend or some shit? Are you bipolar?”

His eyes are hooded, and he picks up the coffee that the waitress left for you and sips at it quietly. “So you do remember that night,” He says. “And do you happen to remember the part where we discussed getting rid of assface?”

Your mouth falls open. “Excuse me? The part I remember is you pointing a gun in my face.”

He rolls his eyes, leans forward, hooks his finger on the lip of the plate with Jake’s untouched cake, and drags it towards you. “Eat. I saw you eyeing the cakes when you came in here.”

You push the plate away. “Minho.” The name is hissed through gritted teeth.

He pops an eyebrow at you. “And you remember my name. I’m flattered, jagi, you’ll make me blush.” The smirk drops once again and he scoots the plate back towards you. “It’s nine o’clock at night and you look like you got your hair caught in the door of a car. Eat the cake and go home.”

“I don’t want to eat the cake. I want you to tell me what the hell you’re doing here—and how long have you been watching? What do you mean you saw me eyeing the cakes?”

“I’ll tell you if you eat it.”

“I don’t want to eat it. I don’t eat in public, remember?”

“You do with me.” He’s watching you, expressionless, firing back responses as quickly as you can scrounge up an argument.

“I was under the unique pressure of being held at gunpoint.” You snap under your breath.

“I wasn’t holding you at gunpoint when we had birthday cake together. Eat it while I’m still trying to persuade you unarmed.”

You grab the fork on impulse, a jolt of fear striking you before you realize he’s kidding. His eyes are tracing your face, reading the reflexive terror as it rises and then fades slowly, and he settles on a small smile when you breathe again. “I don’t feel like eating this here.” You tell him quietly. “I still have the—” You break off, filled with frustration. “Look, I’m already thrown off by you being here, sitting here, I don’t really want to feel even more vulnerable by eating in front of you, too.”

“I want you to. See? I can be vulnerable too.”

“Why are you being so damn pushy? Who cares about the cake? Why won’t you just tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”

“Because you’re shaking. And you’re uneasy, and eating the cake will distract you. And you deserve it after that prick didn’t let you order one for yourself.”

God, how long had he been watching?

“That’s because it’s embarrassing.”

“It’s cute. Your face scrunches like a baby’s, like you’re afraid of what you’re eating but you want it anyway. It’s cute. Eat it, jagiya, I’ll answer your questions.”

You scoop a bit of the cake onto the fork and stare at him, heart pounding. “Are you sure?” Like you’re giving him an out. This fucking criminal who has inserted himself into your personal space and considered it a personal favor that he’s not pointing a gun at you while he’s doing it. There’s no reason for you to be offering him the chance to not be seen in public with you, twitching every time you take a bite.

“I’m sure, babyface, just eat it.”

You scowl. “Don’t call me that.”

“Then eat it.”

You do. Finally, after practically wearing yourself out arguing over your biggest, deepest insecurity, you begin to eat the cake, and do your best to ignore the warmth you feel when Minho’s arm settles against your back again.

“I was outside with…some friends, when I saw you show up. I recognized you, I got curious, and imagine my surprise when I see you meeting good ol’ assface for coffee, like we hadn’t already promised each other we were gonna break up with him.”

“We?” You mumble around the tiniest bite of chocolate cake. “I don’t remember us being in that relationship.”

“Tell me you haven’t been dating him all this time.” Minho leans back with a sigh, watching you pick daintily at the cake, his fingertips walking up your spine to tug at the lumpy, damp braid that’s still soaking through your sweater.

“I haven’t. He said he needed to talk to me. Said it was urgent.”

“It’s always urgent.” Minho mumbles, and you feel him picking at the end of your braid. Suddenly the elastic is gone, your hair stiffly unwinding against your shoulders. “Tell me you didn’t go back home to him that night.”

“I didn’t.” You twist your neck around to see what he’s doing, but he puts one finger to your temple and turns your head back to face your cake, and then continues unraveling your hair. “I went home. To my apartment. I didn’t talk to him for two days and when I did, I broke up with him. I didn’t even get my iPad back from his house.”

“Good girl.” He twists your hair into a firm knot at the base of your skull and fastens it with the elastic. “There. Try not to contract pneumonia next time you get played by your ex.” He pats your back firmly, and it’s jarringly platonic after the tenderness of his hands threading through your hair. He pushes himself to his feet and holds his hand out, palm up. “Come on. Bed time.”

“Bed time?” You repeat, absolutely stunned.

Whatever he’s expecting from you right now is nowhere near what you’re prepared to give to the man who has at one point pulled a gun on you.

He turns his hand and flicks your arm softly. “Stop your blushing. I know you took an Uber here. I’m taking you home. You said you have work tomorrow, so let’s go.”

You just blink at him. “I’m not riding home with you. You have a car?”

“Of course I have a car, I’m not destitute.”

“You rob people.”

“It’s really more of a hobby.”

“Yeah, I’m definitely not going home with you.”

“Again,” He flicks your arm once more. “I’m not taking you home with me, I’m taking you home. Your home. Finish your cake and get up.”

Moments later, you are making the second inexplicably foolish decision of your life to follow Minho across the parking lot to the small gray car in the shadows. He opens the door for you, waits for you to get inside, and then closes you in to spend the next few seconds wondering if you’re going to survive the rest of the night.

Because there is stuff everywhere.

Purses. Backpacks. Wallets. A gun in the floorboard. A small document safe, busted open on the back seat. A crowbar. Numerous disposable masks. Multiple boxes of latex gloves.

The instant that Minho crosses around to the driver’s side and gets in, your fingers are grasping for the handle, seconds away from leaping out into the night. He frowns at you as he puts the keys in the ignition. “What? Where are you going?” As you gawk at him, terrified, his eyes skate the condition of his car. “Oh. Shit. Right, sorry.” He leans into your space, scraping up a handful of purses and wallets and tossing them in the back seat. He ducks back down one more time, grabs up the gun, tucks it in the glove compartment. “You can put your feet anywhere, it’s fine.”

You gape at him. “Minho, this is—”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t be such a prude. I robbed you, too, and look at us now. I’m a nice guy, I swear.”

“Have you ever killed anybody?”

“Would you believe me if I said no?”

“I…don’t know.”

“Well, let me know when you figure it out, and I’ll give you my answer.”

He wheels the car smoothly out of the driveway, and when he asks for your address, it takes an infinity for you to decide to give it to him. You live in a nice apartment building, with good security, and watchful neighbors. Even if he’s been nice to you so far, possibly scoping you out and getting you to trust him, it should be difficult for him to actually gain access to your apartment later.

“Block his number.” He tells you quietly, one elbow propped up on the window sill. “Don’t go chasing after his 911 texts anymore.”

“Why do you care?”

Silence.

Streetlights and traffic signals shine into the space between you, flashing over his face and illuminating the quiet consideration that he wears in place of the smug expression he had only moments ago. “I care.”

“Why?”

“God knows.”

He drops you off at your apartment, peers at you quietly through the window as you back away from his car, your eyes dubiously fixed on him as you scoot backwards into the building, and then he’s gone, racing off into the night, and taking all the evidence of his transgressions with him.

By some stroke of cosmic grace you get yourself to bed and convince your brain to abandon all thoughts of Minho and get a bare minimum amount of sleep. By the time your alarm sings its obnoxiously cheerful jingle at you, it feels like you only just closed your eyes. But it’s 4am and you have a day of kitties ahead of you, so you put your feet on the floor and trudge to your bathroom to get yourself awake.

Two pieces of toast, the last of your Folgers instant coffee, and one glass of water, off-brand orange juice later, you’re bundled up in your favorite winter jacket, watching your breath appear in the dark of morning as you walk to the Wayward Street Cat Hotel.

By the time you knock on the warm green door and watch San’s head pop around the corner of the half wall, your nose is pink and your fingers are cold but it’s only served to get your heart pumping and your brain wide awake.

San approaches the door with a sauntering gait and a dimpled smile that is far too kind for 5:30 in the morning, but he unlocks the door and ushers you into the golden warmth of the facility. “Good morning!” He greets, standing back as you unzip your jacket. “You are prompt, right on time.” He holds out a hand and takes the garment, showing you to the storage closet where he hangs it next to his own jacket.

“I hoped you might be punctual, so I brought you a coffee. Cream and sugar on the side, you can fix it how you like. Is that okay?”

You’re warm all over. “That sounds amazing, thank you.”

He leads you back to the desk and pulls up your chair for you. “So right now I’m just going through emails—oh, here.” He passes you a blue paper to go cup and a handful of cream and sugar packets. “If all goes well today, give me your usual coffee order. The boss pays for coffees on Wednesdays to warm me up for when he comes in and extends the shift by two hours.”

“By two hours?” You repeat, popping the lid off and dumping four of the creamers into the dark liquid that smells about a thousand better than your Folgers instant. You’re halfway through wondering if you should be reassessing your excitement for this job, adjusting your hope for success today and a contract by evening, mentally filing through labor laws, when San waves your worries away with one hand.

“Accidentally. He doesn’t make me stay, but I usually stick around and do emails or laundry and it gives me two more hours on my time sheet, so who cares? If you work here, he’ll let you go home at your normal time, don’t worry.”

“How does he make it so much longer? Is he a slow cleaner or something?”

“No, no, not at all. He’s the one who taught me how to be as efficient as I am, and he can still clean a room about two minutes faster than I do. No, he runs an Instagram page so owners can see their kitties while they’re gone. So when he comes in on Wednesday, he takes all kinds of photos and videos—plus he’s a total lush for cats so he spends like ten minutes with each one, just hanging out with them.” He sips from his coffee and lets out a slow hiss as the heat hits his tongue.

“Oh.” You blink, pressing the lid back onto your cup. “That’s sweet.”

“Yeah, he’s really great. I think you’ll enjoy working with him, if you’re good with rolling with a wry, dry sense of humor. He’s super chill and easy going and even though he looks at you sometimes like he can’t remember your name, he’ll listen to anything—even if you’ve forgotten for the fifth time how to print out the daily schedule.”

“Is this…experience speaking?”

San chuckles, ducking his head and sighing at his keyboard. “Ahhhh, yes, unfortunately. I was so nervous my first day. I thought he hated me until I asked him my hundredth inane question of the day and he noticed how bad I felt about it and he just took the time to kindly walk me through it again.”

You’re a little nervous now, both about the complexity that the shifts must be if San was so psyched out about it, and about the apparently closed off demeanor of your potential boss. “So, he’s nice about it, though?”

“Oh yeah.” San clicked through a couple of emails and then leaned back in his chair, spinning it lightly back and forth. “No he will full on stare at you like you’re speaking another language and then just when you think you’re going to cry for being the dumbest person on the planet, he starts talking to you in this very sweet, like, don’t-spook-the-kittens voice and answers whatever you’re unsure about and then tells you that you aren’t completely hopeless.”

“Aw,” You’re laughing at the utter embarrassment on San’s face.

“I had such a hard first day. I was so nervous. So please, whatever you feel about today, barring a medical emergency, it can never be worse than mine.”

You’re at ease almost immediately after that, relaxing in your chair and sipping at your coffee as he chatters about the process of checking emails and showing you where the form letters for rote responses are, and showing you how to use the database to check the schedule and make bookings and check kitty records.

By the time 6am rolls around and San pushes himself back from the desk, he’s finished his coffee. He shrugs out of his hoodie and gets up, instructing you to start on one of the rooms while he gets started on the other. For the next hour, you clean kitty rooms, check the database for feeding and medicating instructions, refresh water bowls, and clean litter boxes, all the while getting positively coated in kitty affection.

San keeps up a regular dialogue, occasionally breaking off to laugh as you react to whichever cat you’re interacting with at the moment, from a couple of calico kittens who jump on your shoulders while you clean their litter box, to Kyong hissing at you whilst demanding affection, to a little old lady cat who meows at you like she’s been smoking for fifty years.

“Why don’t you go do the last room and I’ll start washing the dishes.” San suggests at some point around 7, gesturing for you to go get started on a little black cat named Jia, who has been not so patiently waiting for her turn to be fed since you started. He begins pulling on dishwashing gloves and setting to cleaning the previous night’s dinner dishes while you hurry to comply.

“Hi Jia.” The moment you open the door, the older cat scoots out into the hallway, winding around your legs, whisper-meowing up at you constantly. She follows you back into the room, pawing and headbutting you as you shake out her blankets and sweep the floor. It takes you a few minutes to clean little splatters of her drool off the floor and sift out the litter box, but finally you scoop her up in your arms and begin the less pleasant task of giving her her daily medications.

“This is gonna be so fast, baby.” You whisper, letting her lean her head back against your chest. “Just a couple of nasty pills and then it’s canned food galore, I promise.” She squirms and cries at you as you push the pills into her mouth, and in a matter of seconds she’s swallowed both of them. “See? You did so good, and now it’s all over. What a good girl,” You lean over and pick up her bowl of wet food before she can get too upset about swallowing the tablets. “See? There you go, pretty girl.”

You lean back on your heels and stroke her as she abruptly forgets all about the terrible medication and chirps her way through her breakfast.

“Look who the cat dragged in.”

Before you can shoot San an unimpressed look for his very unoriginal one-liner, you realize that that wasn’t San’s voice. And the not-San voice sounded very, very familiar.

You twist around, nearly falling on your ass in the middle of Jia’s room, to see fucking Minho staring down at you through the window in the door, that smug smirk on his face. His eyes glance to Jia, then around the room, then to you. “She’s sweet, isn’t she?”

Jumping to your feet, thoroughly appalled by his sudden appearance, you glare through the grate. “What are you doing here?”

He blinks at you. “I’m the owner.”

Your eyes fall back down to Jia. “Oh. Yes, she’s very sweet. She took her medicine very well and her appetite is fantastic this morning. Are you checking her out?” You don’t remember San saying that Jia was going home this morning.

Minho’s smirk widens. “Isn’t it cute the way she whispers?”

Your patience is thinning. “Yes, Minho. She’s very cute. Can you just take your cat and go?” You’re praying, hoping beyond hope that San or the boss doesn’t show up and watch you snarl at a client, but you cannot cope with running into your robber for the third time.

This is it.

You’re going to lose another job before you even get the chance to have it, all because of the same night that lost you the first job.

You hate him.

You hate Jake.

You hate Minho.

You hate everybody right now except for Jia, and the knowing look on Minho’s face is not helping matters.

It is too early in the morning to be playing mind games with a criminal.

“Why are you still here?” You hiss. “Why are you even here at all? If you want your cat, take your damn cat.” You see San approaching from behind Minho, tossing a dish towel over his shoulder.

“Maybe I just can’t stay away from you.” Minho raises an eyebrow at you, eyes trailing down your body to examine the long sleeve button-up and soft, stretchy slacks that you’re wearing whilst crawling around on your knees in cat rooms. “You’re just so damn enchanting.”

“Do not bullshit me right now—” Your hiss is broken off and transformed into a sweet smile as San sidles up next to Minho and smiles that cratered smile at you.

“Looks like you’ve met the boss, huh? She’s pretty great, right, hyung?”

Your entire body stops functioning. Minho’s lips are spreading into a cheshire grin, watching your face go through all the stages of grief, looking one hundred percent pleased with your sudden inability to form words.

“Like I said, I’m the owner.” Minho tells you. “Of Wayward Street, not Jia. Though she’s quite the little sweetheart. I could just take her home with me.” The significance of his words settles on you with horrible weight, and your mouth falls open.

“Right, right, yes, this is Minho, he’s the boss. Hyung, this is our new prospective worker. She’s already done half of the rooms by herself, and I gotta be honest, she just took the routine and ran with it. She’s got it down.” That means a lot coming from him, especially now that you know his first day had been an utter disaster.

“Is that so?” Minho’s humored eyes haven’t left yours. “Does she maybe want to let Jia eat her breakfast and come back to the main room now?”

You scramble to grab up your cleaning supplies, leaving the kitty with one final scratch between the ears, and follow the men back to the desk. Minho sits before the computer, glancing at the empty email inbox, and sets his own coffee down next to your cup. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come in at 6 this morning, San, I had a task to do. Looks like the rooms are already done?”

San nods proudly. “All done. I just finished dishes and I was about to fold the clean laundry. Other than the floors, we’re pretty much good to go.”

Minho glances to the schedule. “Any appointments this morning?”

“Dakho and Hei are going home at eight, Ppang goes home at ten, and we get Mihi into room 4 at nine thirty.” San rehearses easily. “I’ve got Dakho and Hei ready to go, and I just need to prep Mihi’s room.”

Minho glances between you and San, San who is eager to get through the rest of his tasks, and you who is both too mortified and too frustrated to meet his eyes. “Alright, teach the newbie how to get Ppang ready to go, and show her how to reset room 4 for the new one. Then have her greet clients with you.” His eyes settle on you. “You can stand there and listen, just let him do it and pay attention.”

You nod quietly. “Will do.”

“Alright. You two get to work and let me know if you need anything. I’ll be reaching out to upcoming reservations so just give me a yell.” Minho meets San’s gaze, ensures that he’s been heard, and then shoots you another sideways glance. That same wicked smirk plays at the edges of his lips as you turn to follow San to Ppang’s room, your shoulders hunched almost painfully.

So much for your fresh beginning.

So much for your new start.

So much for Minho being an isolated incident—or even two isolated incidents.

You spend the rest of the morning shift doing exactly as you’re told, expertly finagling Ppang into his kitty carrier—a skill you acquired at the vet’s office and impressed San with when you completed the task with a few soft words and firm hands and got away without a single even attempted scratch. He chit chats companionably as you clean the room and start a load of laundry with the old blankets and beds that Ppang had used, washing the dishes and sanitizing the entire room from floor to ceiling.

Minho’s eyes can be felt on you as you move back and forth from the sink and the supply closet to Ppang’s room, hurrying to do San’s bidding, careful not to disturb any of the other cats with any clanging noises or anxious energy. The two of you handle both of the kitty pick-up appointments and Mihi’s intake, settling her into a freshly prepared room and leaving her to hide under her blankets until she feels comfortable enough to come out on her own.

When the shift is finally over, Minho dismisses San for the day and then turns to you with a levelling stare. “While I admit that we have a rather unconventional relationship that we just can’t seem to get away from, I want you to know that your performance is being fairly assessed.”

He’s giving you the courtesy of professionalism (sort of), so you relax into the role of prospective employee and fold your hands in front of you. Even so, you’re not entirely sure that you’re hoping you get the job anymore. While the work is simple and the cats are thoroughly enjoyable to be around, you can’t see yourself reporting to a known criminal every day.

That’s not ethical, right?

Shouldn’t you report him?

“Wayward Street is very important to me.” Minho says solemnly, eyes hooded as he speaks to you in a lazy drawl. “I won’t have some stranger come in and automatically be given trust over my cats without consideration for her existing or non existing ability to properly care for them.” His eyes scan you again. “No matter how intriguing I may find her to be.”

Heat rises in your cheeks and you look away. It bothers you that he’s speaking so frankly, but you’re not decided about your plans for the job yet, so you don’t say a word.

“I’ve arranged for San to take the evening shift off so that I can watch you work more closely. Come back at 3:30 and be prepared to take the reins. I’ll be available for any questions you might have. It’s not a trap, the work is just as straight forward as you’ve seen so far. I want my cats and my people and my company to be cared for. Do you understand?”

You nod soberly. “I understand.”

“If your work tonight satisfies me, I will be happy to offer you the job.” He leans forward in his desk chair, the cunning gleam finally disappearing from his eyes. “I also want you to understand that you can choose not to take it. It will not be offered with some kind of implicit agreement that you are expected to keep silent about my extracurricular activities. If you choose to go to the police, then so be it.”

You’re surprised by the sudden claim of accountability. Perhaps it’s some form of manipulation, that he’s wanting you to shirk away from accusing him while he’s being so kind to you, or that he thinks you’ll take pity on his boarding business and save it from going under if he were to go to jail. Either way, you’re now watching him with guarded interest.

“Additionally, if you choose to take the job and work here, with me, you can consider our previous interactions a wash.” He observes the slight confusion on your face and taps his fingers on the desk. “My behavior towards you to this point, extracurricular activities notwithstanding, would be inappropriate for an employer to express towards a subordinate. I will not be pursuing any kind of dynamic which might make you uncomfortable. Do you understand?”

You feel strangely calmed by this. “I understand.”

He leans back in his chair and slides his eyes back to the computer. “Come back at 3:30. Dress for comfort and utility. This business casual get up you’re wearing now is fine but it’s unnecessary. San prefers to work in a t-shirt and joggers, as the job requires us to be down on the floor quite a lot. You’ll see me in jeans most days. Please represent my company appropriately and choose attire that reflects self-respect, and that will suffice. Do you have any questions?”

He’s not looking at you, not smirking at you, not even treating you like he’s witnessed you bawling your eyes out and being humiliated by your ex boyfriend. “I don’t.”

“You can go, then. I’ll see you this evening.”

You check your watch. It’s only 10am. With hours of 6am to 10am and 4pm to 7pm, you have a good majority of your afternoon to do with as you please. You collect your things from the closet and head out into the bright, sunshiney morning.

When you return for evening shift, you’ve changed your clothes. Minho lets you into the facility with a quick glance at your cotton sweatshirt and breathable pants and gives an approving nod. “Did San show you how to answer emails?”

You nod.

He gestures to the desk. “Go ahead and start there. Ask me if you have any questions.”

You sit at the desk and spend half an hour shooting back emails, updating bookings, making reservations, and filing vaccination records. He watches in silence, occasionally spending time on his phone to give you space. When you finish, he follows you as you begin the rounds. He lingers quietly, doing little tasks like refreshing water and handing you supplies, but he lets you take the lead.

When clients arrive for pick-up and drop-off appointments, he chats with them pleasantly but lets you discuss care instructions and payment info on your own.

At seven o’clock, you’re standing in front of him, hands clasped once again in front of you, surprised to find yourself hoping that he’s pleased with your work. He sits at his desk and pulls a few pages off the printer. “I think the first thing we should talk about is whether or not you want this job.” He says quietly. “I think we’ve assessed each other fairly well today, don’t you?”

He’s right. His constant presence today has been one of steadiness and stability, not at all someone that you were worried to turn your back to or feel nervous questioning. He had been polite, unassuming, helpful, and temperate all day—excluding your brief fiasco with Jia.

“That depends.” You hear yourself say softly.

“On what?” His eyes are gentle, wondering, searching.

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

A light smile plays at his lips. “You’ll trust my answer?”

You will. He can see that on your face.

“I’ve never hurt anyone. I swear on my cats.” The words are delivered with a playful smirk.

You take a deep breath. “I don’t appreciate your extracurricular activities.” He watches your eyes dart around the desk, watches your mouth form the words. “But I do love your business here. I think I demonstrated a fair command of the work today, and if you’re willing to take me on, I would be grateful for the opportunity to be employed here.”

Minho grins at you. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He slides the pages from the printer towards you. All of a sudden you’re signing your contract, setting up your banking information, receiving a door code. He discusses a schedule with you, and the next time you meet his eyes, you have a job.

“Thank you, Minho.” You tell him quietly.

“I’m glad you want the job.” He responds. “I liked the way you handled Jia this morning.”

Your face scrunches in confusion. “The way I handled Jia?” Trying to think back to the moments before he made his presence known and made you assume he was here to take the little black cat home, you struggle to come up with whatever he’s referring to.

“She gets nervous when she knows the pills are coming. You were sweet with her, and she recovered with no hurt feelings. You’re good with them. You’re kind. I want someone like that taking care of my guests.” He leans back in his chair and places his palms flat on the table. “Now, if you’ll walk me out to my car, I’ll let you get home and we can start over again in the morning.”

You balk immediately. Follow him out to his car? What happened to him not trying to make you uncomfortable?

He sees the apprehension in your eyes and he gets to his feet, a chiding expression on his face. “Don’t look so scandalized. You’re safe with me. I just have something of yours in my car.” He scoops up his keys and tosses his jacket over his arm, gesturing for you to follow. “Keep your distance if you must, but it’s really no big deal.”

Resentfully, you follow him to his car.

He digs around in the passenger seat for a minute and then turns back to you, producing a familiar purple case. It’s your iPad. The one you had left at Jake’s house and never gone back to get. You gawk at him, snatching the device from his fingers. “Where did you get this?”

“You don’t want to know.” He’s smirking again.

“You robbed him? Again?”

“Shhh.” His eyebrows lower, glancing around the dark sidewalk. “I’d rather not announce it in front of my place of business.”

“Oh my god.” You can’t help the grin that tugs at your cheeks at the thought of him breaking into your ex’s house and robbing him without a care. “Thank you, Minho.” You shouldn’t be thanking him. You really, really shouldn’t be thanking him. But god, does it feel good to be holding your iPad and knowing that it’s only back in your possession because a smarter man than Jake got it back for you.

Minho struggles to control his own smile, forcing an aloof shrug. “Couldn’t have you coming up with any more excuses to see the assface again.” He shuts the passenger side door and moves away from you, around to the driver’s seat. “Go home. I’ll see you in the morning.”

You walk home with the iPad clutched to your chest, shocked and a little disappointed in yourself that you’re actually excited about how the day turned out, despite everything that’s happened to try to persuade you otherwise.

The next few weeks are spent accompanying San and Minho on their shifts, working under their supervision while they finish training you and getting a solid feel for your ability to manage the dynamic workspace and client concerns. San grows fond of your presence rather quickly, and soon enough you’re often getting lunch together after your morning shift.

Minho maintains a strict air of professionalism with you. He’s gentle, available, and cautious about your space, and it doesn’t take long for you to all but forget about the strange way in which you first met him.

Finally, at long last, you’re given your first independent schedule away from both San and Minho. It’s your first weekend by yourself, and the facility is yours to run and enjoy in solitude. Everything goes peacefully and beautifully well, until Sunday morning, when you step into your last room of the shift, and little Jia doesn’t wake up.

Your heart shatters.

You call San first, weeping over the phone in garbled words that he barely understands, until suddenly he gets the gist. “Calm down, it’s alright. I’ll call hyung, and I’ll be over there in two minutes. It’s alright. It’s not your fault, alright? I’ll deal with it. I’ll come deal with it. Sit down at the desk and wait for me.”

Less than a minute later, the phone rings, and it’s Minho. You answer in a storm of tears and apologies, your heart breaking into a million pieces over the phone. “I’m going to call the client,” He tells you. “I’ll handle it. I’m a little farther away than San is, so wait for him to get there. Just sit tight and wait, okay?”

You can’t stop crying. You can’t stop apologizing.

“Just wait for San. I’ll call the clients.” He hangs up the phone.

San arrives shortly after and finds you slumped over the desk, pouring out your tears into the keyboard, fighting the memory of discovery. He immediately shrugs off his jacket and pulls you into his embrace, letting you fling your arms around him and cry. “She was an old cat. She was old, it’s not your fault.” He holds you tightly, rubbing your back, letting the moments pass slowly. “You didn’t do anything wrong, okay?”

It doesn’t help.

You know you didn’t do anything wrong, but it doesn’t help.

The little bell chimes and quiet footsteps approach the desk, and then San is easing away from you. You lean your weight on the counter and try not to listen to him telling Minho that he’s going to go back there and take care of Jia so you don’t have to. The next thing you know, Minho is kneeling in front of you, tapping your hand lightly with a finger. “Hey. I talked to them.”

You turn your eyes to his and find him tense with anger, and your heart sinks. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Minho, I don’t know what happened.” The clenching of his jaw and the tightening of his fists fills you with guilt. “I’m so sorry.”

“You did nothing wrong. You hear me?” He covers your hand with his. “The client told me that Jia’s been sick. She got a new diagnosis about two months ago, and they chose not to take her in for the treatments. They said they didn’t expect her to last until they got back.”

His words feel like a punch. “They knew she was going to die?”

“They left her to die with us.” He confirms. The outrage on his face makes more sense now, that it’s not directed at you, but rather at the negligent owners who preferred to send their cat away to live the rest of her weeks with strangers and keep their vacation plans. “You did nothing wrong, okay?”

Your head droops, tears rolling down your cheeks, and he tilts your chin up with a finger. “You hear me, jagi?” The words are barely a whisper.

He doesn’t have a chance to apologize or take back the endearment that he promised he wouldn’t use anymore, because you’re blinking at him tearfully. “Can I not be your employee?” You ask brokenly.

He blinks, disappointment flooding his expression.

“Just for a second?” The rest of your sentence breathes past your lips.

Now more confused than anything, Minho’s brow furrows in consternation. “Okay.”

In the next second your arms are around his neck, your face buried in his shoulder, clinging to the comfort of the person who chose to comfort you when he was supposed to be robbing you; searching desperately for the man who protected you from your ex instead of just leaving you where you stood.

Minho returns your embrace without hesitation.

He holds you so tightly that he pulls you out of your chair, falling to your knees on the floor in front of him, trying desperately to close your ears to the sound of San taking care of Jia. “It’s alright.” Minho murmurs. “It’s okay.” But he’s fuming. He’s on fire with rage, mind racing through a dozen plans to access client records and track down their address and make them regret ever doing such a cruel and calloused thing, and leaving you to deal with it.

It takes a few minutes for you to pull yourself together, awkwardly shuffling out of the half-in-his-lap position that you’d fallen into and seating yourself back at the desk. He kneels on the floor and remains quiet as you wipe at your face, sniffling pathetically into your sleeve. “I’m sorry.” You say again. “I’m so very sorry, I know that this weekend was my first time in the hotel by myself, and I know it was supposed to be an exercise of trust and faith and everything went wrong—”

“Jagi.” Minho lifts himself on his knees so that he can better look you in the eye. “Everything didn’t go wrong. Something happened that was out of our hands before you ever got a job here. Don’t put this on yourself.”

Your eyes close painfully. “Minho, you trusted me with your cats and one of them died. Tell me you don’t have even a second of doubt about trusting me.”

“Not a second.” He says immediately. He takes your hand again. “Not even a second.”

“You don’t know me.”

Minho’s gaze traces every inch of your face, slides down the shaking length of your arms, watches your fingers clench into fists on the surface of the desk. “I do now.”

“Here you go, girlie.” San puts your usual coffee order down on the desk in front of you, pulling up a chair to peer at the computer with you. It’s been just over a week since the incident with Jia, and you’ve finally managed to come to work without feeling heart-shattering panic every time you approach any of the kitty rooms. You smile at him, accepting the hot beverage with grateful hands.

“Thanks San, I’ve been jonesing.”

“I can tell, your foot is doing that twitchy thing.” He rubs your shoulder and props one elbow on the desk. “We busy this morning?”

“Looks like five appointments, most of them pick-ups. We’ll have a lot of rooms to clean.”

“I’ll help.” The voice is succeeded by Minho’s sudden appearance around the corner of the half wall, carrying a pink donut box. “We’ll get it knocked out in no time.” There’s a second of shuffling papers and office supplies around so he has a place to set the donut box, and then he comes around behind your chair to peek at the screen.

You fight a shiver as his breath hits the back of your neck.

“Oh, Ara goes home today.” He murmurs, a touch of wistfulness in his voice. “I’m gonna miss her.”

You’ll all miss the tiny Russian Blue who stares at you patiently as you clean her room, and then makes her request with a single, kitten-pitched chirp so that you’ll pick her up and let her snuggle her little head into your throat and purr all your troubles away.

“Have a donut, girlie, he got your favorite.” San picks up an old fashioned cake donut wrapped in a napkin and passes it over to you.

You accept the pastry in silence, feeling Minho’s eyes on the side of your face as you pick crumbs off of it and try to nibble as minutely as you can manage. “Looks like we also have a cat named Bong coming in at eight.”

“Bong’s a sweetheart, he sits on my lap while I do emails.” San says, glancing at you right as you take a small bite and feel your cheek twitch involuntarily. He gives a soft snicker, mouth opening immediately to comment on it, but he never gets the chance.

“Do me a favor and go get started on food prep, would you, San?” Minho requests abruptly.

Glancing at his watch in surprise, San lifts his eyebrows and stands slowly. “Sure thing. Don’t eat all the donuts.” He grabs his coffee and disappears to the front of the facility, leaving you with Minho at the computer.

The boss comes around to sit in the seat that San had vacated. “Can you print the client info for Ara?”

“Of course.” You click around the screen to do as instructed. It’s easy now, navigating the database and booking system, and San regularly complains about how much faster you picked it up than he did. “He wasn’t laughing at me.”

“Sorry?” Minho’s voice is a light hum, but he knows what you’re referring to.

“San. He wasn’t laughing at my face. He knows about the twitch. You’re not the only person I’ve ever eaten in front of.”

“You really know how to make a guy feel special, don’t you?”

You meet his eyes, surprised. “You are special. In an armed mugger kind of way.”

He nudges his knee against yours, jabbing a finger into your ribs at the risk of your voice carrying to San at the front of the room. “Would you shut up?”

“So sorry, boss, I thought you wanted to feel special.”

He frowns, rolling his eyes at you and focusing on the printout you’ve given him. The displeased silence is rolling off of him in waves of tension, striking you with sudden realization.

“Oh my god.” You utter, gaping at him. “You want to feel special.”

He scowls, closing off his expression entirely. “I want to feel like you’re about to get up and do your job.”

The interaction sticks with you for the rest of the shift, tumbling through your thoughts at every turn. No part of it is a surprise or revolutionary in anyway, not after he called you jagiya five minutes after meeting you, or after he basically took you on a sorry-your-boyfriend’s-a-douchebag-but-I-can-do-better date on the night of your birthday, and then he strongly suggested and fully intended for your ex boyfriend to believe that he was your new boyfriend.

No, his attentiveness and interest and softness towards you, while inexplicable, is not a surprise.

What is a surprise, however, is the girlish fluttering happening in your chest at the realization that this man, dubious morals or not, just became flustered in the place of business that he owns because you teased him.

An entire world of possibilities opens up to you.

Possibilities that will come with a very firm, very condition-heavy conversation, but exciting possibilities nonetheless.

Your entire demeanor shifts by the time evening shift rolls around. Punching in your door code, already knowing that San won’t be here since most of the appointments are already done, you shuck your coat and bag into the supply closet. Minho is already here, you can tell by the scent of his laundry detergent and subtle cologne, and for a minute you wonder if he ever left after the morning shift.

He’s in the back with two white kittens named Choco and Nabi, sitting cross-legged in the floor and letting them scamper all over him with frenzied energy.

“Look how cute.” You ease yourself down to the floor next to him, wiggling your finger at Nabi and smiling as she immediately engages in a series of pounces.

“Good evening,” Minho greets flatly, once again maintaining his detached mannerisms.

Your shoulder brushes his as you lean forward to play with the kittens, and you feel him immediately move away from you.

“You can go ahead and get started on rooms whenever you’re ready.” He says, and moves to get up.

“Oh, sure, but, Minho?”

When he turns around, he finds you looking up at him, hand extended for him to help you to your feet as well.

“What?”

“Help me up?” You smile at him, eyes wide and innocent.

He frowns at you, begrudgingly stabbing his hand out to hoist you upright. “Let’s get our work done quickly, I have some things to do tonight.”

“More people to rob?” You chirp cheerfully, like you’re asking him if he’s going to run to the grocery store.

Minho’s expression flattens into severely unimpressed. “Are you never going to let that go?”

“Are you never going to stop mugging people as a hobby?” You grab the broom, dustpan, and trash can, and move into the first room to begin cleaning.

“My personal hobbies are none of your business.”

“They became my business when you held me up on my birthday.”

“I didn’t know it was your birthday.” He steps into the room, leaving a bowl of food for Eun, a big brown tomcat who immediately bumbles over to bury his face in the dish. “And I didn’t mug you.”

“You did, too.” You fire back, sifting the litter box.

“I stole the assface’s company credit card, bought gift cards, and used them to buy kitty litter and latex gloves and cat food. Fucking sue me.” Minho takes the water dish and dumps it, filling it fresh from the tap.

“No, you robbed me, too.” You flash him a sweet smile as you move from Eun’s room to the next one, saying hi to Bobae as she stretches and comes out from her covered bed.

Minho’s face appears in the door window, frowning with confusion. “I’ve never taken anything from you.”

You fake a gasp, pressing one hand to your chest like you’ve been emotionally injured. “You stole the very thoughtful and expensive gift that my loving boyfriend gave me for my birthday.”

There’s a second of recollection before Minho rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Fine, you can have it back.”

You immediately hold out your hand expectantly.

He just gestures to the supply closet. “It’s in there. We use it to clean the litter boxes.”

Your mouth falls open, shocked laughter bursting from your lips. “Oh my god, you’re so bitter.” You turn back to Bobae, kneeling down to run your hands over her white coat. “He’s so bitter, Bobae, baby.” She blinks one blue eye and one green eye up at you. “I think he’s jealous of the assface.” Bobae purrs loudly, bumping your hand with her freckled nose.

“I am not jealous of the assface.” Minho’s voice comes from the front of the room, and then he’s grumpily bringing a bowl of Churu for Bobae. “Here you go, sweetheart, don’t listen to the bad lady.” He scratches her between the ears, shoots you a surly look, and leaves with the water bowl.

“I think he is jealous.” You continue, shaking out the blankets. “Big bad Minho couldn’t even point a gun at me without feeling bad about it, Bobo.”

“Stop lying to my guests.”

Your voice lowers into a sweet croon. “He bought me cake and coffee, and called me cute names, and he told me I deserved better than the sucky boyfriend who forgot I existed.” You pause in sweeping to scratch Bobae’s back. “I think he’s secretly a softie, Bobo.”

“Are you done being delusional?”

“And right when I thought I was never going to see this insane psychopath again, Bobo, you’ll never guess what happened. Guess what happened? That’s right, he found me in trouble again, and jumped in to rescue me again. Does that sound like a big bad man to you, Bobo? I don’t think so.” You get on your hands and knees to run a sterile wipe over the floor, keeping Bobae up on her shelf while it dries.

“Do you mind not feeding your lies to my innocent cats?” Minho glares at you as you exit Bobae’s room and step into Kyong’s. Past the lowered brows and clenched jaw, you can see a flush of heat tingeing his ears a delightful pink.

The big orange cat immediately jumps off his shelf to greet you, no longer hissing his empty threats as he winds around your legs and demands affection. “You would probably understand him better than anyone, wouldn’t you Kyong? Why would a big bad mugger have mercy on me and choose to keep helping?”

“Maybe because he’s used to pathetic charity cases and can’t help himself.”

You start the cleaning process on Kyong’s room. “Why do you think he insisted so strongly that I get rid of my ex boyfriend? Huh, Kyongie? Do you think he likes me? Do you think maybe the big bad mugger Minho likes me just a little, teensy, weensy bit?”

He’s had enough of your ribbing, all delivered in a condescending baby voice for the sake of your adoring kitty guests. Minho opens Kyong’s door, drops off a bowl of food, and stands there, glaring at you. “Are you done making a spectacle of your boss, or are you going to keep talking your way out of a paycheck?” His ears are bright, flaming red.

You turn your back on him, shrugging innocently. “I’m just wondering when my big bad boss is going to go back to being the guy with his arm around my waist who called me jagi like he couldn’t remember my name.”

Utter silence follows in the wake of the bravest thing you’ve ever said to another human being—who carries a gun.

You’re too scared to let the silence fester. “What do you think, Kyongie, do you think he doesn’t like me anymore? Did I put my big fat foot in my big fat mouth? Wasn’t that silly of me? Yeah, I think it was—woah!” You’re halfway through bending down to scoop Kyong up off the floor and set him on his shelf when a pair of hot hands land on your hips, yanking you backwards away from the big orange cat.

The hands slide to your waist, spinning you around, and then you’re pressed into the chest of your boss, who is both entirely fed up with your patronizing crooning and just barely containing his evident excitement at the words that you’re saying to the cat instead of him. “Say that again.” It’s almost a whisper, breath tickling over your cheekbones, arms circling your waist like he doesn’t actually need you to say whatever you’re supposed to be repeating.

“Say what?” You can’t speak, you can’t breathe, you can’t feel anything but the hard lines of his body pressed against the soft ones of yours, and the frantic slamming of your heart.

“The part you didn’t say. The part you implied. The part that makes me think that this is exactly what you wanted to happen.” His eyes are darting back and forth between yours, hooded and piercing as they search for the words you haven’t had the guts to say directly.

“I think you like me, Minho.” Somehow you manage to peel off your latex gloves without ruining the moment, resting your clean, bare hands against his chest and breathing in the scent of him, feeling the hammering of his heart against your chest. “I think you like me, and I wish you would stop trying to make me comfortable and just say it.”

His arms tighten around your waist. “And if I say it?”

“You can’t mug people anymore.”

“What about really, really bad people?”

“You can’t be mugging anyone.”

“What if the person is the assface and he definitely deserves it?”

“Maybe I make an exception for the assface.”

“And if I stop mugging people?”

“I’m serious, Minho, I’m not going to jail for aiding and abetting or harboring or whatever crime I automatically commit by doing this.”

“Tell me what you’re doing.” His hips are pressed into yours, his face so close to yours that you’re breathing the same air, and you’ve only got a few more seconds of strangled focus before he completely breaks.

“I’m really, really hoping that the guy I like won’t make me kiss an active criminal.”

You can feel when his heart starts thudding infinitely faster. “No more mugging.” He breathes.

“Just like that?”

“Nothing bad will ever happen to you because of me, jagi. Just like that.”

This is nothing like how you thought this would turn out. You thought you would test the waters, see if your assumptions were correct, spend a little time teasing him and see if you could get a reaction. You never thought you’d lay him bare to a bunch of cats and wait for him to shut you up. You never thought you’d be crushed to his chest, breathing him in, watching his molten eyes burn into yours.

“Are you going to keep distracting me from Kyong or are you gonna do something?”

He kisses you. Hard and feverish, tugging you impossibly closer, his hands gripping your waist like you’re about to slip right through his fingers. Your hips feel like they’re going to give, your knees pressing together to keep you up. This is everything you never thought it could be.

Your hands go around his neck, letting him drag you up against his chest. His mouth presses and sucks and moves against yours, closing around your bottom lip, pushing at your top lip, and when he pauses to see just how badly you regret teasing him, you chase him.

He’s walking back, hitting the wall, fingers kneading at your hips, uttering a low groan as your teeth scrape his lower lip.

“I hope you don’t treat all of your employees like this,” You gasp when you break for air, your body leaned against his and his hands holding you securely by the waist.

He smirks that cunning, catlike smirk at you. “San doesn’t usually pressure me to kiss him this much.”

You scoff, smacking a hand against his chest, only to bite your tongue as he ducks in for another kiss, stealing your breath away. “Just let me do one more job.” He whispers against your mouth.

Your brain physically blinks. “No, Minho.”

His nose pushes at your cheek, lips littering kisses across your jaw. “Please. I promise they’re really sucky people.”

“No, Minho.”

“I’ll bring you back something pretty.” His lips latch to your throat, tongue tickling your skin as you beat lightly at his chest in protest.

“No, Minho!”

“What if they’re really, really sucky people?” He’s making his way down your throat, back up your throat, across your jaw. “What if it’s something really, really pretty?” His lips seal over yours again. You melt into his touch, wishing it didn’t absolutely reduce your brain to mush to be kissed and held by this relentless deviant, but you are completely enchanted by the heat of his touch.

“No more mugging.”

“God,” He kisses you again. “Fine. No more mugging.”

“Are you going to let me finish Kyong’s room?”

“Kyong can wait five more minutes. I’m not done with you yet.”

< part 1

bonus feature banner because I probably won't write a separate cat cafe Choi San fic but the vibes are too good:

tag list : @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @estella-novella @babyphotos0325 @softfor-svtptg @furfoxsake22 @tubelightanyaa @kayleefriedchicken @rockstarkkami @sp1derst0rrr @eastjonowhere @its-stayville-forever @allenajade-ite @naraportokala @jinniejjam @blackberryrains @feetoffthemalfoy @highandalive @scarlet789 @ramadiiiisme @thecutiepieme @lemonn015 @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @dreamingartist13 @ebnabi @bangtan-sonyeondamn8 @lemonn015 @thepoeticpurplepotato @brbwritingfanfic @skzlover24 @stephanieeeyang @my-neurodivergent-world @xgridx @igotajuicyass @annovaz @robinnotgood24 @butterflybananabread @tirena1 @nougatjade @wickedbutlovely @justiceforvillains

#skz #stray kids #lee know #lee minho #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #lee know x reader #lee minho x reader #skz x you #stray kids x you #lee know x you #lee minho x you #crack horror #choi san #ateez #san #minho #fluff #angst

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firewasabeast · 7 months ago

Text

Make It Ours

aka the one where Tommy asks Buck to move in

It started a little ridiculously. Buck didn't usually decorate his place for Halloween, but in his excitement over Bobby being back he'd gotten way too much for the firehouse and had a lot left over. So he took some paper bats home and hung them from his ceiling.

That should have been the end of it.

“We've got enough candy for a small army, I'm sure,” Buck said, resting his head on Tommy's chest, a hand softly rubbing over his pec.

“We don't really have any kids that come out to Harbor. A few of the kids whose parents are on shift will stop by, but that's about it.”

“Were you a Halloween fan growing up?” Buck asked, chills running up his spine as Tommy's fingers massaged his scalp.

“Oh yeah. We didn't really have the money to afford costumes, but I'd make stuff from old sheets or clothes that didn't fit me anymore. There was one year where-” Tommy stopped suddenly, and Buck looked up at him to see him staring out over the loft. “Are your bats animatronic?” he asked.

Buck's eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

Tommy nodded his head in their direction. “They're moving.”

“Oh,” Buck glanced back briefly. “Probably the air coming on. Makes them swing sometimes.”

Tommy halfway settled back into the bed, but it didn't last very long, because soon enough one of those “decorations” started flying directly into the bedroom. Then there was another, and another.

“Evan, you have bats!” Tommy exclaimed.

“I- oh my God, I have bats!”

Ironically, Tommy did not love all things that flew. Buck had known this since they went to the zoo two months into their relationship and ventured into the butterfly exhibit. That's when he saw Tommy dripping with sweat, barely taking a breath and clutching Buck's hand until he asked what was wrong.

And now, watching a 6'2 man made mostly out of muscle race to put on a shirt and shorts, foregoing underwear completely, so he could duck out of the loft with a yelp was truly fascinating.

The fact that he only stopped briefly to give Buck a kiss and tell him to grab his things and meet him at his place was the icing on the cake.

That man was inside me twenty minutes ago, Buck thought, a baby bat swooping above him. He felt nothing but pride.

Within an hour, he was bringing a suitcase and work duffel into Tommy's place. Tommy, on his part, had emptied him two extra drawers to go along with the one he already had there. He'd made space for him in the bathroom as well, and cleared a section of the kitchen counter because, “I figured you'd bring some of your cooking stuff with you.”

He wasn't wrong.

It took a few weeks for the bat issue to be resolved, due to the fact that Buck's landlord was out of town and no one else seemed to know what to do.

Once the place had been cleared of the bats, it took extra time for Buck to be able to air out his place and clean the droppings that had been so graciously left behind.

It didn't help that he had a pretty busy schedule, taking extra shifts before he knew he'd have a bat problem.

Eventually, Buck ran out of reasons to keep himself at Tommy's place.

One morning, as he got ready for his 24 and Tommy got ready for his 48, he decided it was time. “I think my place is now free and clear of everything the bats left behind,” he said, pouring coffee into Tommy's travel mug, then swapping it out for his own. “I'll be able to pick up all my stuff after my shift and get out of your hair.”

“Hm," Tommy hummed. "You should just move in here." It was so nonchalant it sounded the same as when he ordered his usual from the taco bar down the street.

Buck froze mid pour. “I- I should what?”

“Move in with me,” he repeated with a shrug, “if you want.” He walked over to Buck and pressed a kiss to his temple. “Think about it, Babe. I gotta go. Love you.”

“Yeah, I- I... I love you too.”

Tommy grabbed his mug off the counter and headed out the door, leaving Buck feeling like a deer in headlights.

Part of him wanted to chase Tommy out the door and ask, “How dare you ask so casually?!” The other part was eternally grateful Tommy exited briskly and gave him time to think it over.

Because, wasn't it too soon? He'd only ever done this moving in together thing one other time, and that wasn't exactly for a good reason.

They'd only said I love you for the last couple months. The words still sounded new, still made his heart swell every time they came out of Tommy's mouth. Still blushed when he said it back.

And did Tommy actually mean it? He did have a dry sense of humor that was sometimes easy to miss. Maybe this was one of those times. It was just a joke and he was meant to brush it off with a laugh.

He wasn't sure how long he actually stood there with a half filled mug of coffee in front of him, but eventually his phone dinged and pulled him out of his thoughts.

Stop panicking. Yes, I meant it. Seriously, just think about it.

Buck rolled his eyes, but couldn't help the smile that rose on his face.

Hate you. Be safe.

He only had to wait a few seconds for a reply.

Love you too. You be safer.

*****

“I'm kind of freaking out,” Buck said as Maddie grabbed her lunch from the fridge.

“Why are you freaking out?”

“Tommy asked me to move in with him.”

She paused briefly, eyebrows going up as she stood at the counter. “Really?”

“Yeah, yeah. Wh- Why really? You think it's too soon, don't you? It's too soon. That's what I thought when he asked, well suggested is more like it. He suggested I move in, and then told me to think about it, and then he left for work and then I left for work. And he told me not to panic and that he actually meant it, but-”

“Buck, I didn't mean anything by my really,” she interrupted, reaching out and squeezing his hand. “Honestly, I figured that was gonna happen once you stayed with him during the whole bat thing.”

“Really?” he asked, surprised. “I- I mean, you did?”

“You already spend more time at his place than your own. The bats were taken care of, what, almost a week ago?”

“Yeah.”

“And how many nights have you stayed at your place since then?”

“Well... Well, I had to work a couple of those days,” he tried to reason, “and then it made more sense to go to his place because we wanted to see each other but we were both tired from work.”

“You don't have to explain yourself, Buck,” she assured him. “I'm only saying it's not actually all that surprising.”

When Buck didn't look any more relieved than when he'd come into the call center, Maddie continued, “Have you made a pro/con list?”

He pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket and laid it on the countertop for Maddie to take. “Of course I did.”

She picked it up and read it over. “Great butt is number three? Did not need to know that.”

“It- It's a very detailed list,” he replied seriously.

“I can see that,” she agreed. “Although I can't help but notice there are no actual cons on this list.” She slid the paper back to him.

“That's why I'm freaking out.”

“Is this a bi crisis?” Josh asked, walking into the break room. “Because, if so, I feel like I should be involved. Also, I've been listening and I have something to say. May I?”

Buck nodded his head, resting his hands on the countertop. “Please. I- I could use all the help I can get.”

“Great. First of all, why are you trying to talk yourself out of it?”

“Because... Because, seven months ago I didn't even know I was bi, and then there was Tommy. And it's been great. He's funny, and kind, and he listens, and he's so hot-"

"Okay," Maddie waved for him to move on.

"Even when we argued, you know, we stuck around and worked it out. It's the healthiest relationship I've ever been in. It's the happiest relationship I've ever been in.”

“God, this sounds awful,” Josh deadpanned.

“Yeah, listen, Buck, if you don't want him I'll take him,” Maddie added with a smile. “I don't think Howie would mind.”

Buck grinned. “I'm just saying, it all seems so fast. I keep trying to think of reasons to say no, or wait a few more months, but I- I can't.”

“Okay, maybe you can't think of a reason to say no, because there's no good reason to say no,” Josh replied. “How's it been staying with him while the bats took over your place?”

“It's... It's been great. I thought there would be a big adjustment, but there really wasn't. He hasn't seemed bothered by my stuff being there, and it's been nice having someone to, ya know, come home to,” he added, a blush rising on his cheeks.

“Have you had any of the big conversations yet?” Maddie asked. “You know, kids, marriage, stuff like that?”

“Mhm. We agree on everything.”

Josh glanced at Maddie before replying. “I really don't see the problem here, Buck.”

“You don't think it's too soon?”

“I think,” Josh sighed. “I think life is really short, which you probably know better than anybody. And if Tommy makes you as happy as it sounds like he does, then you're the only one stopping you from that happiness.”

Buck rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a deep breath. “Sometimes, I still feel like a fraud,” he admitted. “Like it all came too easy. You know, I- I've heard how rough it was for Tommy to come out and all the crap he went through for years. I figure out I like guys and get a boyfriend in the same day, six months later he's asking me to move in and I can picture my entire life with him.”

“I think that's your brain messing with you,” Josh said. “Because to me, it sounds like you've had thirty-three years of searching for something that feels real, and good, and settled. And you've found it with Tommy.”

Maddie nodded. “I agree. He's good to you, Evan. Everyone can see you two love each other. I can honestly say I've never seen you happier or more sure of yourself. You don't need to doubt that. You need to let yourself have a win.”

A smile started to grow on Buck's face. He was pretty sure he'd already made up his mind, but there was still one thing that worried him. “What if it doesn't work out?”

“Then you do the opposite of what you're about to do,” Josh answered simply, “and you move back out.”

*****

Tommy already knew Buck was at his place before he got inside. The giant Jeep in his driveway was always a dead giveaway.

Half of him expected Buck's things to be neatly packed up by the door, ready to move back into his loft until his lease was officially up.

The other half expected him to be sitting on the couch with a downcast look on his face that said I'm not ready to move in with you without having to actually say it.

What he didn't expect was the door to swing back on him due to it slamming into boxes.

Once he managed to hold the door open and scoot inside, he looked around at well over twenty boxes that were littered around the entryway of his place, leading into the living room.

“Evan?” he called out, a smile already on his face.

“Here!” he exclaimed, exiting Tommy's bedroom and hurrying down the hall. “Here, I'm here! So-” Buck paused briefly to give Tommy a peck on the lips, then continued through the maze of boxes as he headed for the kitchen, Tommy following behind. “This isn't everything, obviously, but I don't actually think I'll be bringing all that much from my place. The bats pooped on a lot. Like, a whole lot. Plus, I like your furniture. The kitchen will have to have some new appliances, but I already ordered what the bats, you know, pooped on. You need to let me know what appliances have a family history for you- if that's a thing- before I throw them out. Some of this stuff is, well, it's terrible. Why don't you sharpen your knives, Tommy? Mind blowing. I know the boxes are kinda a mess, but I didn't want to unpack without you because that feels like me just taking over, ya know, and I don't wanna-”

Buck was stopped by Tommy grabbing hold of his hand and pulling him in close. He wrapped his arms around Buck's waist, and Buck's arms rested over Tommy's shoulders.

“I'm guessing this is a yes to moving in?” Tommy asked, nose scrunching up in a smile.

Buck let out a deep breath, grinning back. “Yes. It- It's a yes.”

“You didn't freak out too much?”

“I didn't freak out at all,” Buck protested weakly.

“Evan.”

“Okay, I freaked out a little,” he replied, ducking his head, “but not for the reasons you think.”

Tommy tilted Buck's chin so their eyes met. “What reasons?”

“I... The fact there wasn't a reason to say no. I- I freaked because it felt like it should feel too soon, but it didn't. It doesn't. It feels right.”

That's when Tommy leaned in for a kiss far less chaste than the one Buck had given him when he opened the door.

“Do we have to start unpacking tonight?” Tommy asked when they parted, resting their foreheads against one another.

Buck shook his head. He brought his hands to the nape of Tommy's neck and drew him in again, his tongue parting Tommy's lips. Clumsily, they began making their way toward their bedroom without letting one another go.

“Maybe we could work on christening the place then?” Tommy suggested, his nose brushing up against Buck's cheek. “For good luck or whatever.”

“Mmm,” Buck moaned, grabbing at the hem of Tommy's shirt and pulling it over his head quickly, tossing it on top of a box. “You have the best ideas, roomie.”

Tommy snorted at that, his head tossing back in laughter. “God, I love you.”

Somehow, they managed to make it to the bedroom, and Buck gently pushed Tommy down before crawling over him, leaning down to whisper against his lips, “I love you too.”

#bucktommy #911 #tommy kinard #evan buckley #ive got my clown nose on and I'm ready for buck to move into tommy's place #let me live #also when you aren't sure how to end a fic #an i love you always works

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buckets-and-trees · 9 days ago

Note

What would happen if It Fit Too Right!Steve showed up for a filthy booty call only to find you a pathetic sick mess burrowed in bed and near delirious with a fever? 🥺

Wifey, you dropped this in my box last June, and I have known EXACTLY what would happen since then, and I've been just waiting to share (since I decided to post the pieces somewhat corresponding to the time of year they would happen).

I Felt More When We Played Pretend

Characters/Pairings: soft!dark and rough Nomad!Steve Rogers x Female!Reader Word Count: 3k Summary: April 30, 2018. See above.

Content/Warnings: illness, breaking and entering

Author Note: It was a year ago this week that I wrote the very first drabble for this duo! And then they evolved into a full series. Can you believe it? I feel like they're such a deep part of my writer heart and a constant fixation of my muse.

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↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You jerked awake with a start, feet tangled in the throw blanket you'd cocooned yourself in earlier. Your feet are burning up, sweaty and uncomfortable. With a groan, you kicked the blanket off, shivering slightly as the cool air hit your overheated skin. You groaned as the motion triggered a coughing fit that scraped at your already raw throat.

The television was still playing in the background, Paul Hollywood critiquing someone's focaccia with that stern look of his. Bread week. It had definitely been cake week cake week when you were last awake and somewhat coherent. But you could tell it was at least still afternoon light coming in through your windows.

You reached for the half-empty mug of tea on the coffee table. It was stone cold, but you drank it anyway, grimacing slightly. This cold had knocked you flat for nearly a week, leaving you in a perpetual state of exhaustion and congestion, still nowhere near feeling human.

You ran a hand through your greasy hair, wincing at how disgusting it felt. But not feeling human, a shower hadn’t been something you’d pursued in days, wandering from your bed to the couch and then the bed again as you simply rotated where you took your exhausted shifts of sleeping, only downing cold medicine and a myriad of typically-useful home remedies.

You reached for the tissue box on the coffee table, pulling out the last one and blowing your nose with a sound that would make anyone cringe. The pile of used tissues beside you was embarrassingly large. You should really clean up, but the thought of moving hovered on the edge of possible but also too exhausting. You sighed and willed yourself to actually look at the pile to assess how much longer you could let it pile up.

Only it was gone.

One lone tissue only there - the one you’d just dropped.

Your frowned.

You tilted your head.

Your brain was fuzzy and slow.

Where did your disgusting pile go?

A clatter from somewhere else in your apartment made you tense. You were absolutely certain you'd been alone all day, all week even. Your muddled brain tried to make sense of this. Who else would be here? You have no roommates. Had you called someone? Had your mom learned you were sick, made a roadtrip to take care of you, and somehow gotten a key to your place?

You heard more noises from the kitchen, and your heart started hammering in your chest because another foolish thought crossed your cold-addled thoughts…

And then that thought appeared before your eyes.

“Hey invalid,” he greeted, and Steve came into the living room, holding a tray.

You burst into tears.

The suddenness of your emotional reaction seemed to catch you both off guard. The sob that escapes you is so sudden it triggers another coughing fit. You cover your mouth with your elbow, shoulders shaking as you try to catch your breath through the tears and coughing.

"Whoa, hey," Steve soothed, quickly setting the tray down on the coffee table. The ceramic mugs clinking against the wood as he sunk onto the couch beside you, one large hand coming to rest on your back. "Easy, breathe."

You couldn’t answer, your tears mixing with your already congested sinuses until you were a snotty, hiccuping mess.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he apologized.

You shook your head, wiping at your tears with the back of your hand. "It's not that," you managed.

It was mortifying. You were sick, disgusting, and now a blubbering mess in front of this man who kept appearing in your life like some beautiful ghost. You haven't seen him in weeks, and he shows up now? When you're at your absolute worst? It wasn't fair.

"I'm sorry," you said, sniffling. "I'm just—I'm disgusting right now."

Steve's hand continued to rub soothing circles on your back. His touch was gentle, so at odds with how he usually handled you.

"You're sick," he corrected, his voice soft. "Not disgusting."

You looked up at him through watery eyes. He was as perfect as ever—that irresistible beard, hair neatly combed, wearing a simple gray henley that stretched across his broad chest. Meanwhile, you were in the same ratty t-shirt and sweatpants you'd been wearing for at least three days, hair unwashed, face puffy from crying and congestion.

"I made you some soup," Steve said, nodding toward the tray. Soup and tea.

You hiccuped, trying to gather yourself. "I just... I didn't expect to see you. And I'm a mess and I feel horrible and..." You trailed off, gesturing vaguely at yourself.

Steve's expression softened. "You think I care about that?"

You couldn't meet his eyes. "This isn’t what you came here for.” You reached for another tissue, because even though you had stopped sobbing you were still crying, so exhausted from being ill, so overwhelmed by him being here. “I can’t bear you seeing me like this. I haven’t showered in days. I can hardly… I’m so tired, and I just–”

“Hey, hey, listen to me,” he firmly interrupted you, voice soft but firm. He cupped your cheek in his hand, turning your face up to look at him. “I came here to spend time with you, and that’s what I’m doing."

Your breath hitched at his words. This wasn't the Steve who fucked you against walls and made you scream his name. This was something else entirely. You searched his face for any sign he was just being polite, but found none. Only genuine concern reflected in those impossibly blue eyes.

"You're really not here for..." you gestured vaguely, unable to even say the word 'sex' in your current state.

Steve shook his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "Not everything has to be about that."

He reached for the mug of tea on the tray, passing it to you. The warmth seeped into your palms, the steam carrying the scent of honey and lemon to your clogged nostrils. You took a tentative sip, the hot liquid soothing your raw throat.

"This is good," you murmured, taking another sip. The honey coated your throat, bringing blessed relief.

Steve watched you with an expression you couldn't quite read. "I wasn't sure if you had food in the house. I brought groceries."

You blinked, processing his words slowly through your congested haze. "You... brought groceries?"

He nodded, reaching for the bowl of soup. "Chicken noodle. Nothing fancy, but it should help."

Your fingers trembled slightly as you accepted the bowl, warmth seeping through the ceramic and into your palms. The steam rising from the broth carried the comforting aroma of chicken, herbs, and vegetables. Your stomach rumbled in response—when was the last time you'd eaten a proper meal?

"Thank you," you whispered. The domesticity of it all was so jarring compared to your usual encounters, you truly didn’t know what to think.

Steve settled beside you on the couch, close enough that you could feel his warmth but not touching. The British baking show continued playing in the background as you cautiously spooned the soup into your mouth. The flavors burst on your tongue, a well-seasoned chicken broth, tender vegetables, soft noodles. It was exactly what your body needed.

"This is really good," you said between spoonfuls. "Did you make this?"

Steve nodded. "It's my mom's recipe. Well, as close as I can remember it."

The mention of his mother surprised you. Steve rarely spoke about his past, especially not the distant past before the war and the ice. You glanced at him, curious.

"She used to make it whenever I got sick," he continued, his eyes distant with memory. "Which was pretty often, before the serum."

You were struck by the moment, but continued eating the soup.

"How long have you been sick?" he asked, genuine concern in his voice.

You took another spoonful of soup, not realizing how much you needed it after days of barely eating. "Almost a week," you admitted. "It hit me hard Wednesday night."

Steve frowned, his eyes scanning your face. "Have you seen a doctor?"

You shook your head. "It's just a cold. A really bad one."

"Hmm," he hummed, not sounding convinced. His hand came up to rest against your forehead, checking your temperature. The gesture was so tender, so caring, it made your chest ache with something that had nothing to do with your congestion.

"You're still warm," he noted. "After you’ve eaten, you should take a shower.”

“Cause I smell?”

He chuckled. “You do,” he admitted, “but I think it will help you feel a little better, too.”

The thought of a shower was both appealing and exhausting. You wanted nothing more than to feel clean again, but the mere idea of standing upright for that long seemed impossible.

"I don't know if I can stand that long," you admitted, setting the now-empty soup bowl back on the tray. "I get dizzy."

Steve's eyes softened. "I'll help you."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, so matter-of-fact. In all your encounters with Steve, this level of care, of tenderness, was uncharted territory. You'd seen glimpses of it, fleeting moments after sex when he would clean you up or hold you close, but nothing like this.

You set your now-"Steve, you don't have to—"

"I want to," he interrupted gently. His eyes held yours, and there was something in them you hadn't seen before—a vulnerability, a tenderness that made your breath catch. "Let me take care of you."

Those five words hung in the air between you. This was so far outside the parameters of whatever it was you had with Steve that you didn't know how to respond. Sex was one thing—intense, but the thought of him seeing you so vulnerable, so weak, had you feeling hesitant.

But this was Steve. The man who had seen every inch of your body, who had made you come undone in ways you never thought possible. Why was this so different?

"Okay," you finally agreed, your voice small.

Steve helped you up from the couch, his strong arm wrapping around your waist to steady you. The room spun slightly as you stood, and you leaned into him gratefully.

"I've got you," he murmured, his voice close to your ear.

The walk to the bathroom was slow, your legs shaky beneath you. Steve matched his pace to yours, patient and solid beside you. When you reached the bathroom, he turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature with one hand while keeping the other on your waist.

Steam began to fill the small space as hot water cascaded from the showerhead. Then Steve turned to you, his hands coming to rest at the hem of your t-shirt.

"May I?" he asked quietly.

You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. Steve gently lifted the shirt over your head, his movements clinical and careful. There was nothing sexual in his touch, only care. You felt oddly shy as he helped you undress completely, his eyes never lingering inappropriately. It was so different from every other time he'd removed your clothes.

"Almost ready," Steve said softly. He helped you remove your underwear with the same gentle efficiency, then guided you toward the shower. "Can you stand?"

You nodded, though you weren't entirely sure. "I think so."

"I'll be right here," he promised, helping you step under the warm spray.

The water felt heavenly against your skin, washing away days of fever sweat and lethargy. You closed your eyes, letting it cascade over your face and hair, breathing in the steam that helped clear your congested sinuses.

For a moment, you felt almost human again. You reached for your shampoo bottle, but your arms felt like lead weights, and you swayed slightly.

"Easy there," Steve said, quickly stepping into the shower behind you, having discarded his own clothes. His strong hands steadied you, holding you upright as the water cascaded over both of you. The sudden feeling of his bare skin against yours was startlingly intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex.

"I've got you," he murmured, reaching for your shampoo bottle. He poured a generous amount into his palm and began to work it through your hair, his fingers massaging your scalp with gentle pressure. You closed your eyes, leaning back against his solid chest as he washed your hair with careful, methodical movements.

The feeling of his hands in your hair was hypnotic, soothing in a way you hadn't expected. This wasn't the Steve who pulled your hair during passionate encounters—this was someone else entirely, someone tender and nurturing.

"Turn around," he said, gently turning you in his arms so you faced him.

The warm water flowed down your back as Steve carefully tipped your head back, rinsing the shampoo from your hair. His hands were gentle as they worked through the strands, making sure every bit of soap was washed away. You kept your eyes closed, dizzy from the heat and the proximity of him, though not in the way you usually were around Steve.

Once your hair was rinsed, he reached for your body wash, squeezing some onto a washcloth. With methodical care, he began washing your body, starting with your shoulders and working his way down your arms. His touch was clinical, respectful in a way that made your heart ache.

"This okay?" he asked softly.

You nodded, unable to find your voice. There was something so personal about this moment, something that transformed all the physical encounters you'd had into something more meaningful, more real. Steve continued washing you, his movements gentle but thorough. When he finished, he helped you rinse off, supporting your weight as the warm water cascaded over both of you.

"Better?" he asked, his voice low.

"Much," you whispered. The combination of the hot water, the steam, and Steve's gentle care had eased some of your misery. Your head still felt stuffed with cotton, but the heavy weight of illness seemed slightly lighter.

"I think I need to get out now," you murmured, your legs starting to feel like jelly beneath you.

"Okay," Steve agreed, turning off the water. He stepped out first, quickly wrapping a towel around his waist before reaching for your fluffy bath towel. He enveloped you in it as you stepped out, using another smaller towel to gently blot the water from your hair.

The bathroom was warm and steamy, but you still shivered slightly. Steve noticed immediately.

"Let's get you dressed," he said, his voice gentle but firm. He kept one arm around you for support as he guided you into your bedroom. The familiar space was welcoming, though you noticed immediately that the tangled sheets and scattered tissues that had been in here too were gone. The bed was neatly made with fresh sheets, a glass of water and your medication waiting on the nightstand.

"You cleaned my room," you murmured, touched by the gesture.

Steve shrugged, the movement casual but his eyes watchful as he steadied you. "Thought it might help you feel better."

He helped you to the edge of the bed, then moved to your dresser. "What do you want to wear?"

"T-shirt, second drawer. Underwear in the top left," you instructed.

Steve returned with a soft t-shirt and a pair of comfortable cotton underwear.

"Arms up," he instructed softly, helping you into a clean t-shirt. His hands were gentle as he guided the soft fabric over your damp hair and down your body. Next came the underwear, Steve kneeling before you to help you step into them. The role reversal was striking—you were usually the one on your knees before him.

Once you were dressed, Steve guided under the covers. The fresh sheets felt heavenly against your skin as you sank into the mattress. Steve tucked the blankets around you with careful hands, then sat on the edge of the bed.

"Better?" he asked, his voice soft.

You nodded, your eyelids already growing heavy. The shower had helped clear your head somewhat, but it had also drained what little energy you had.

Steve reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. "You should take your medicine."

You obediently took the pills he offered, washing them down with water. As you handed the glass back, your fingers brushed his. "Thank you," you whispered, your voice thick.

Steve brushed a strand of damp hair from your forehead, his touch lingering against your skin. "You should rest."

"Will you..." you hesitated, suddenly unsure. This was uncharted territory for both of you. "Will you stay?"

Something flickered in Steve's eyes—surprise, maybe, or something deeper. "Of course, I'll stay," he promised softly, “for as long as you need me to.”

You felt a wave of relief wash over you.

"Thank you," you murmured, your eyelids growing heavier by the second. The combination of warm soup, a hot shower, and clean sheets was quickly pulling you toward sleep.

You expected Steve to leave the room, perhaps go watch television or sit in the chair in the corner. Instead, he stood and shed the towel from his waist, quickly pulling on his boxer briefs that you now noticed were sitting on the dresser. The bed dipped as he slid in beside you, his body radiating warmth as he settled against the pillows.

Without thinking, you shifted closer to him, seeking his warmth. Steve's arm came around you, drawing you against his chest. You rested your head in the crook of his shoulder, your body fitting against his as naturally as breathing.

"Sleep," he murmured, his lips brushing your temple so naturally.

As you surrendered to unconsciousness, your last thought was that while you would recover from this awful spring cold, you didn’t think you would ever recover from this.