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kathaelipwse · 7 days ago

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The Fine Print || J.Wonwoo

Pairing: CEO!Wonwoo × Fashion Mogul(CEO Of A Fashion Line)!Fem Reader

Trope: Enemies to Lovers | Fake Dating | Revenge Pact | Forced Marriage Fallout

Warnings: Mentions of material coercion, non-consensual marriage, sexual assault (not with wonwoo), trauma (not with wonwoo), alcohol, revenge, corporate manipulation, and emotional healing, WORK OF FICTION, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE

Word Count: 9525 words ; Reading Time: 35-ish mins

Synopsis: In a world driven by power and appearances, a successful fashion CEO finds herself trapped in a toxic, loveless marriage for the sake of reputation. After discovering her infertility and surviving the cruelty of her husband, she walks out—scorched but not shattered. To destroy him completely, she calls on her old university rival, Jeon Wonwoo—now a ruthless tech tycoon and her biggest critic. His help comes with a condition: pretend to be his girlfriend. What begins as public spectacle spirals into nights of vulnerability, unspoken truths, and a romance neither saw coming. Because sometimes… even the coldest rivals can burn the brightest together.

Author’s Note: Writing this helped me cope with the reality that Wonwoo’s enlistment in the military hasn’t given me an ounce of peace. Instead, I poured my delusions into this fierce, messy, powerful enemies-to-lovers fic to survive the drought. To everyone else feeling the same? This one’s for us.

Request's are closed <3 I will be working on the requests I have got in my inbox!!

The weight of the midnight blue silk dress felt like a cruel mockery against your skin. It was the centerpiece of your latest collection, a flowing testament to the fierce, independent spirit you poured into every design, every meticulously stitched seam of your burgeoning fashion empire.

Yet, tonight, the luxurious fabric felt less like the armor of a CEO and more like the suffocating drapery of a gilded cage. You stared at your reflection in the antique, gold-framed mirror of the ballroom’s powder room, the soft, strategically placed lighting doing little to mask the subtle shadows of exhaustion that clung to the corners of your eyes. (Y/N), CEO of a fashion house whose innovative designs were rapidly gaining global recognition, your name a whisper of power and creative vision – a stark and bitter contrast to the carefully constructed role you were forced to inhabit within the confines of your marriage.

Your husband, Julian Thorne, the formidable CEO of OmniTech Industries, a colossus straddling the international tech landscape, was the architect of this elaborate charade. Your marriage, a highly publicized union touted as a groundbreaking synergy of fashion and technology, had been conceived in the sterile environment of boardrooms, fueled by ambition and sealed with a handshake that felt colder than any winter frost.

Your father, a man whose own dreams for your fashion legacy had become intertwined with the allure of Thorne’s immense technological might, had championed the union with a relentless enthusiasm that still left a bitter taste in your mouth. He had seen potential, synergy, an elevation of your brand to unprecedented heights. He had failed to see the steel in Julian’s gaze, the calculating glint that spoke of acquisition rather than partnership.

Julian was a man sculpted from ambition and devoid of genuine warmth. His interactions were precise, his words measured, and his affection, if it could even be dignified with such a term, was strictly conditional, tethered to his almost obsessive desire for an heir. He spoke of children with a possessive gleam in his steely blue eyes, viewing them as another meticulously planned acquisition, another crucial element in securing his legacy, a tangible extension of his power.

You, on the other hand, felt a cold dread coil in your stomach every time the topic surfaced. Your energy, your passion, your very being was poured into your company, into the tangible beauty you created from sketches and swatches. Motherhood, especially under Julian’s cold, controlling gaze, felt like a distant, blurry concept, a role you were profoundly unprepared and unwilling to embrace, not with him, not yet.

The memory of that night, months prior, still had the power to send icy tendrils of fear snaking through your veins. It was a violation that had stripped you bare, leaving you feeling hollowed out and irrevocably tainted. The forced intimacy, his relentless insistence despite your whispered protests, the chilling certainty in his eyes that your body was his to command – it was a deep, festering wound that no amount of time seemed capable of fully healing. He wanted a child so desperately, the cruel thought would surface unbidden, a bitter reminder of your powerlessness, he didn’t care about you, only the outcome.

The subsequent months crawled by with agonizing slowness, each one marked by Julian’s increasingly impatient inquiries, his subtle pressure escalating into thinly veiled accusations. The hopeful anticipation that had initially laced his voice slowly curdled into suspicion, then resentment, and finally, outright hostility.

The air in your shared penthouse apartment grew thick with unspoken tension, punctuated by his sharp demands and your increasingly strained silences. Finally, the sterile, impersonal environment of the doctor’s office confirmed your deepest anxieties, though the revelation was far more complex and devastating than you had ever imagined. You were infertile.

The diagnosis, delivered with a clinical detachment that mirrored Julian’s own emotional landscape, landed like a physical blow, knocking the breath from your lungs. But the true agony wasn’t the medical pronouncement itself; it was the volcanic eruption of Julian’s rage that followed.

His disappointment twisted into a venomous fury, his words sharp and cruel, like shards of glass tearing at your already fragile sense of self-worth. “Useless,” he had spat, his face contorted with contempt, his eyes devoid of any semblance of human compassion. “Barren. You can’t even fulfill the one fundamental purpose of a wife. You’ve failed me.”

Those brutal, unfair words, delivered with such cold conviction, finally shattered the last vestiges of your carefully constructed composure. The fear that had kept you compliant, the ingrained obligation you felt towards your family’s carefully laid plans, all crumbled into dust under the crushing weight of his unfeeling cruelty. That night, as Julian slept in the master bedroom, oblivious to the seismic shift within you, you had quietly contacted your most trusted legal counsel. The divorce papers were drafted with swift, efficient precision, a silent declaration of war, a decisive act of rebellion against the suffocating confines of the gilded cage you had allowed yourself to be trapped within.

Now, standing amidst the opulent yet suffocating atmosphere of the farewell party your parents had insisted on hosting – a final, polite, and utterly insincere nod to the spectacular failure of your “strategic alliance” – you felt a strange, unsettling mix of liberation and lingering pain.

The forced smiles and empty congratulations of the guests felt like a surreal performance, a final act in a play you were desperate to escape. You were bruised, emotionally and mentally battered by the relentless onslaught of the past months, but beneath the surface, a core of resilience remained unbroken. The chains, though they had left their mark, were finally, irrevocably severed.

As the polite chatter and forced pleasantries of the departing guests swirled around you, a sense of profound isolation settled in your chest. You longed for the quiet solitude of your own space, away from the judging eyes and hushed whispers. Your fingers instinctively brushed against the small, unassuming business card you had almost forgotten, tucked away in a seldom-used compartment of your elegant clutch. The stark black ink on the crisp white paper was a stark contrast to the pastel hues of the ballroom.

“Jeon Wonwoo – CEO, Stellaris Technologies.” A ghost of a wry, almost cynical smile touched your lips. Wonwoo. Your intellectual sparring partner from university, the infuriatingly brilliant mind who had challenged your every assumption, whose sharp wit and relentless drive had both exasperated and secretly impressed you. Your rivalry had been legendary, a constant clash of intellect and ambition across lecture halls and late-night study sessions. He was, without a doubt, the last person on earth you would ever have considered turning to for help.

But as you looked down at that simple card, a flicker of a desperate, audacious idea began to take root in the barren landscape of your despair. He was ruthless, undeniably brilliant, and possessed a strategic mind capable of dissecting complex systems and exploiting their weaknesses with surgical precision.

He was also, you vaguely recalled, known for his…unconventional methods. And right now, dismantling Julian Thorne’s smug, self-satisfied world, piece by calculated piece, was the only prospect that offered you even a sliver of the peace you so desperately craved.

With a newfound resolve hardening your gaze, a spark of something akin to grim determination igniting within you, you slipped the card into the deeper recesses of your pocket. The cool, smooth edge against your fingertips felt like a promise of a different kind of power – the power of retribution, wielded not through tears and pleas, but through strategy and calculated moves.

The chapter of forced obedience and silent suffering was finally, irrevocably closed. The next chapter, you vowed, would be written entirely on your own terms, even if it meant forging an alliance with your most formidable adversary.

The phone felt heavy in your hand, the polished glass a stark contrast to the nervous tremor that ran through your fingers. You stared at the contact name displayed on the screen: "Jeon Wonwoo." It was a name that had been relegated to the dusty corners of your memory, a relic of late-night study sessions fueled by lukewarm coffee and the adrenaline of looming deadlines, heated debates that often devolved into playful (and sometimes not-so-playful) intellectual sparring matches, and a rivalry that had defined your university years.

You hadn't spoken to him in years, not since the somewhat stiff and formal handshake at graduation, when your paths had diverged with a palpable sense of finality, his towards the fiercely competitive world of tech startups and venture capital, yours towards the intricate and equally demanding tapestry of the fashion industry, a world of silk and strategy, of aesthetics and sharp business acumen.

Taking a deep breath, a conscious effort to steady the frantic rhythm of your heart, you pressed the call button. The line rang, each electronic pulse echoing the profound uncertainty that gnawed at your resolve. Finally, after what felt like an agonizingly long wait, a voice, smooth as polished steel and laced with a familiar, almost infuriating hint of intellectual arrogance, answered. "Jeon Wonwoo speaking."

"Wonwoo," you began, your voice surprisingly steady, a testament to years of projecting confidence in high-stakes negotiations, despite the tempest of raw emotion churning within. "It's (Y/N)."

There was a brief pause, a beat of stunned silence that stretched into an unnerving eternity. You could almost hear the gears whirring in his sharp mind, processing the unexpectedness of your call. "Well, this is…unexpected, (Y/N). Haven't heard your voice in…what, five years now? To what do I owe this sudden, nostalgic outreach? Did you finally realize my thesis on neural networks was superior?" His tone was carefully neutral, betraying little, but you could detect a subtle undercurrent of amusement, a ghost of the old competitive spark that had always simmered between you.

You ignored his characteristic jab. "I need your help, Wonwoo." The words felt foreign on your tongue, a humbling admission to the one person who had consistently pushed you to your limits, the one person you had always strived to outsmart.

Another pause, this one heavier, laced with a newfound seriousness. "Help with what, (Y/N)?" His voice lost its playful edge, replaced by a cautious curiosity.

You laid out your proposition, the words tumbling out in a rush, a torrent of pent-up anger, pain, and a desperate need for retribution. You spoke of the calculated betrayal of your marriage to Julian, the cold, clinical nature of your interactions, the forced intimacy that still haunted your sleep, leaving you feeling violated and irrevocably scarred. You detailed the casual cruelty that had chipped away at your self-worth, the subtle manipulations and outright lies that had become the foundation of your life with him.

You then moved on to OmniTech, the seemingly impenetrable fortress of his success, hinting at the intricate web of lies and deceit, the carefully constructed facade of ethical business practices that underpinned its flawless reputation, the whispers you had overheard in hushed boardrooms, the inconsistencies you had noticed but, in your naivete, had dismissed. And then, you made your request, blunt and direct, stripping away any remaining pretense. "I need your help to destroy him, Wonwoo. I need you to dismantle OmniTech, piece by agonizing piece."

There was a longer silence this time, heavy with unspoken implications, the digital connection crackling faintly in your ear. You could almost hear the intricate cogs turning in his brilliant, ruthlessly calculating mind, analyzing the situation, weighing the potential benefits and drawbacks, assessing the sheer audacity of your request. "And why me, (Y/N)?" he finally asked, his voice low and dangerous, a silken threat that sent a shiver down your spine despite the distance. "Why come crawling to your sworn enemy for help? Surely, a woman of your considerable resources has other avenues she could explore. High-powered lawyers, disgruntled former employees…"

"Because you're the only one who can do it effectively," you admitted, the stark truth echoing in the tense silence of your apartment. "You have the specific skills, the intricate network within the tech world, the understanding of how these corporations truly operate. You have the resources, the intelligence, and the…the ruthlessness necessary to pull something like this off. You understand the intricacies of the tech world in a way I never will, and frankly, in a way that would take me years to even begin to grasp."

Wonwoo chuckled, a low, sardonic sound that sent a different kind of shiver down your spine this time, a prickle of something akin to reluctant admiration mixed with apprehension. "Ruthlessness? You wound me, (Y/N). I prefer to think of it as…strategic efficiency. But I digress. Even if I were inclined to indulge your…vendetta, what makes you think I would risk my own reputation, my own company, to take down a behemoth like OmniTech? What's in it for me? What could you possibly offer that would make it worth my while to go to war with a company the size and influence of Julian Thorne's?"

You had anticipated this, of course. You had spent hours crafting your counter-offer, trying to anticipate his motivations, what could possibly tempt a man who already possessed considerable wealth and power. You offered him a significant percentage of your company's shares, a stake in your rapidly expanding fashion empire. You proposed a substantial sum of money, an amount that would likely raise even his perfectly sculpted eyebrows. You even dangled the prospect of exclusive partnerships and collaborations within the high-stakes world of luxury fashion, connections that could open doors to a different kind of influence, a world beyond algorithms and microprocessors. He listened patiently, a faint air of detached amusement in his tone, and then dismissed each offer with a dismissive wave of his metaphorical hand, a slight curl of his lip indicating his utter disinterest. "I don't need your money, (Y/N). And I certainly don't need a piece of your empire. I have my own, and it's doing quite well, thank you. As for fashion…let's just say my aesthetic leans more towards functional than flamboyant."

There was a beat of silence, the weight of his rejection hanging in the air. You had played your strongest cards, and they had fallen flat. Desperation began to gnaw at the edges of your resolve. "Then what, Wonwoo? What do you want?"

He paused, the silence on the other end of the line stretching taut. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped to a low, almost conspiratorial murmur. "I want something else, (Y/N). Something…more interesting. Something that appeals to my…sense of the dramatic."

You waited, your breath held captive in your chest.

"I want you to be my fake girlfriend, (Y/N)."

The words hit you like a physical blow, stealing the air from your lungs. You could only manage a stunned, disbelieving whisper. "What?"

He chuckled softly, a low, knowing sound that sent a shiver down your spine. "A mutually beneficial arrangement," he explained, the smirk practically audible in his tone. "We play the part. Public appearances, carefully staged dinners, strategically leaked photos at clubs, the whole glamorous, scandalous shebang. It'll give me a certain kind of leverage in some…ongoing business dealings that require a certain…public image. And it'll give you the perfect, utterly believable cover to execute your…plans without raising suspicion. Everyone will be far too busy dissecting our 'relationship,' speculating on the salacious details, to notice what you're really up to."

You hesitated, the sheer audacity of his proposal leaving you reeling. It was outrageous, bordering on insane. But as the initial shock wore off, a strange, unsettling intrigue began to take hold. It was undeniably clever, a high-stakes gamble that played perfectly into the public's insatiable appetite for scandal. It was a dance with the devil himself, a pact forged in mutual need and a shared, albeit unspoken, desire for…something beyond mere revenge. "And what exactly happens when this…arrangement is over, Wonwoo?" you asked, your voice tight with a mixture of apprehension and a flicker of something akin to reckless excitement.

"We go our separate ways," he said, his dark eyes, you imagined, glittering with an unreadable emotion, a flicker of something that might have been amusement, or perhaps something far more complex. "No strings attached. No lingering expectations. It's purely business, (Y/N). A transaction of appearances. Think of it as…mutually assured destruction for our public images, if either of us deviates from the script."

You considered his offer, the chaotic whirlwind of the past few months suddenly focusing into this one, bizarre, yet undeniably compelling proposition. The thought of Julian's smug downfall, the sweet, intoxicating taste of revenge, was a powerful lure, almost impossible to resist, especially now that a viable, albeit unconventional, path had presented itself. "Fine," you said, your voice firm, a newfound resolve hardening your tone. "Deal."

"Pleasure doing business with you, (Y/N)," Wonwoo's voice held a distinct note of satisfaction. "I'll have my people coordinate our first 'public outing' by the end of the week. Be prepared for the paparazzi."

The line went dead, leaving you staring at the silent phone in your hand. You had just made a deal with your greatest rival, agreeing to a fake relationship as a means to orchestrate the downfall of your ex-husband. The sheer absurdity of it all almost made you laugh. But beneath the surface of the shock and the swirling uncertainty, a seed of grim determination had been planted. The game had begun.

The week that followed your phone call with Wonwoo felt like stepping onto a brightly lit stage, the spotlight unforgiving and every move scrutinized. His "people" – a slick, efficient team you only interacted with via email and carefully scheduled phone briefings – orchestrated your public debut with the precision of a military operation. The first "sighting" was at a newly opened, ultra-exclusive restaurant, the kind where reservations were booked months in advance and privacy was a myth. You arrived separately, a deliberate tactic, only to "coincidentally" meet near the maître d's stand, the ensuing conversation captured by strategically placed paparazzi.

The photos the next morning were exactly as predicted: you, looking stunningly composed in a sleek black dress, a hint of a smile playing on your lips as you spoke to Wonwoo, who exuded an effortless charm in a tailored suit. The accompanying headlines screamed: "Fashion Mogul Finds New Flame?" and "Tech Titan and Style Queen Spark Romance!" The internet buzzed with speculation, your past marriage relegated to a footnote as everyone focused on this unexpected pairing.

Over the next few weeks, the carefully constructed narrative continued to unfold. There were "intimate" dinners where you and Wonwoo were photographed laughing, a shared box at the opera where his hand briefly rested on your back, a late-night exit from a trendy club, looking slightly disheveled but undeniably together. Each carefully curated appearance fueled the fire, pushing your "relationship" into the realm of scandalous obsession. Julian's name rarely surfaced in the gossip columns anymore, his downfall seemingly old news compared to the sizzling chemistry between you and Wonwoo.

Beneath the veneer of public affection, your interactions with Wonwoo remained strictly business. You met occasionally in neutral locations, his penthouse office a stark, minimalist space overlooking the city, or a quiet corner of a high-end hotel bar. Your conversations were clipped, focused on strategy. He provided you with information, subtle hints of the rot within OmniTech that his own sources had unearthed. You, in turn, played your part flawlessly, the sophisticated and alluring woman captivated by his intellect and power.

Then came the evening at the secluded Italian restaurant, the air thick with the aroma of truffle oil and hushed conversations. You had just returned from a particularly grueling photoshoot, the weight of the public charade beginning to feel heavy. Wonwoo was already seated at your usual table, a glass of amber liquid swirling in his hand. He looked up as you approached, a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eyes.

After the initial pleasantries, a comfortable silence settled between you, a byproduct of the weeks spent navigating this bizarre performance. Then, Wonwoo reached inside his jacket and slid a thin, folded piece of expensive, textured paper across the polished mahogany table. "I've been working on something," he said, his voice low and smug, a hint of predatory satisfaction in his tone. "A little…expose. Something I think you'll find…amusing."

You unfolded the paper he had passed, the crispness of it a stark contrast to the damning content it held. It was the draft of an anonymous article, the prose sharp and incisive, meticulously detailing the shady business practices and deeply unethical dealings that had become the bedrock of OmniTech's success. It spoke of manipulated quarterly reports that had artificially inflated the company's stock price, of aggressive and often illegal tactics used to stifle competition, of the exploitation of overseas labor masked by glossy corporate social responsibility campaigns, and of a series of suspiciously lucrative government contracts secured through means that were, to put it mildly, ethically dubious. The article even hinted at a culture of intimidation within OmniTech, where dissenting voices were swiftly silenced. It painted a devastating portrait of Julian Thorne, not as the visionary leader the public admired, but as a ruthless and manipulative businessman who had built his empire on a foundation of lies and exploitation.

As you read, a cold satisfaction bloomed in your chest. This was more than you had even hoped for. "This is…thorough," you commented, your voice low.

Wonwoo leaned back in his chair, a knowing smirk playing on his perfectly sculpted lips. "I pride myself on my thoroughness, (Y/N). Especially when it comes to dismantling my competition…or in this case, yours."

"And the anonymity?" you asked, your eyes scanning the carefully worded paragraphs.

"Crucial," he replied, taking a sip of his drink. "It lends credibility, makes it harder to trace back to a single source. It will plant seeds of doubt, create a groundswell of suspicion that Julian won't be able to easily control." He tapped the paper with a manicured finger. "I'm publishing it online anonymously tomorrow morning, through a source with a decent following and a reputation for investigative journalism. Consider it…the opening salvo in our little war."

The next day, the internet exploded. The anonymous article detonated like a carefully planted bomb, its shockwaves rippling through the financial markets and the court of public opinion. OmniTech's stock plummeted, the red numbers on the ticker screens a stark visual representation of Julian's crumbling empire. Investors, suddenly wary of the exposed underbelly of the company, began to pull out en masse. News outlets, initially hesitant due to OmniTech's powerful legal team, soon picked up the story, the anonymous claims gaining traction as more sources began to corroborate the information. Julian's carefully cultivated reputation, once gleaming and seemingly untouchable, was dragged through the mud of public scrutiny, his denials ringing hollow against the detailed accusations.

You watched the unfolding chaos from the cool, detached distance of your own office, a sense of grim satisfaction washing over you. It was a start, a significant blow that had clearly rattled Julian. That evening, you found yourself back at the same Italian restaurant, the atmosphere subtly different, charged with an unspoken energy.

Wonwoo raised his glass of deep crimson wine as you settled into your seat, the candlelight reflecting in his dark eyes. "To beginnings," he murmured, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

You met his gaze, a silent understanding passing between you. You lifted your own glass, the rich color mirroring the burning desire for justice that still simmered within you. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched your lips.

One down, you thought, the taste of revenge, sharp and intoxicating, sweet on your tongue. More to go.

A week after the digital bomb of the anonymous article detonated across Julian's carefully constructed empire, the tension between you and Wonwoo had shifted, a subtle undercurrent of something volatile simmering beneath the surface of your strategic alliance. His text that evening was curt, demanding: "Zenith. Now." The possessiveness, however implied, sent a shiver of something akin to anticipation down your spine.

Club Zenith was a decadent assault on the senses. The bass vibrated through your stilettos, the air thick with the mingled scents of expensive liquor and raw desire, the flashing lights painting the gyrating bodies in fleeting, lurid hues. You spotted Wonwoo in the VIP section, a figure of dark, controlled elegance amidst the vibrant chaos. His gaze, sharp and possessive, locked onto yours as you navigated the crowded space, a silent acknowledgment of your arrival.

The initial conversation was a cool dissection of OmniTech's rapidly unraveling state, a strategic mapping of the next phase of your calculated takedown. But the celebratory edge you had anticipated was absent, replaced by a palpable tension that mirrored the knot in your own stomach. As the night wore on, and the champagne flowed freely, its bubbles mirroring the dizzying swirl of emotions within you, the carefully constructed dam of your composure began to show cracks.

You found yourself leaning closer to Wonwoo, your laughter a little too loud, a little too brittle. The world around you seemed to soften at the edges, the faces in the crowd blurring into indistinct shapes. You knew you were dangerously close to the edge of coherent thought, a state you rarely, if ever, allowed yourself. "I'm perfectly alright," you insisted, your voice carrying a playful slur as Wonwoo's dark eyes narrowed with a hint of concern when you stumbled against his arm. "Just…celebrating our little victory."

Later, the music a primal pulse against your skin, the weight of the past week and the strange intimacy of your current arrangement with Wonwoo coalesced into a potent cocktail of vulnerability and reckless abandon. The memory of Julian's violation, the cold, dehumanizing act that still haunted your quiet moments, resurfaced with brutal clarity, a wave of pain and fury threatening to overwhelm you.

You reached out, your hand finding the smooth, cool silk of Wonwoo's shirt, your fingers clenching, a desperate need for physical connection overriding your usual reserve. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring the sharp lines of his face. You leaned close, your voice a broken whisper against his ear, the confession raw and laced with unshed tears. "He…he forced himself on me, Wonnie," you choked out, the shame and lingering trauma a bitter taste on your tongue. "He just…took what he wanted. Like I was his property."

Wonwoo went utterly still beside you, the sardonic mask he often wore dissolving, replaced by a stark, almost violent intensity. His jaw tightened, a muscle in his cheek twitching rhythmically. The hand not cradling his drink clenched into a white-knuckled fist. He didn't speak, but the air around him vibrated with a silent, furious protectiveness that resonated deep within you.

He gently steered you away from the throng, his hand surprisingly firm on the small of your back, guiding you to a more secluded corner of the booth. He didn't offer empty platitudes. He simply sat beside you, his presence a dark, solid anchor in your swirling emotions. He didn't touch you further, but the heat of his gaze, the barely leashed anger radiating off him, felt strangely…cathartic.

Then, fueled by the alcohol and a sudden, audacious impulse, you turned to him, your hand finding the sharp angle of his jaw, your thumb tracing the faint stubble. You tilted his face towards yours, your gaze locking with his dark, unreadable eyes, and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the corner of his lips. You lingered there for a breath, tasting the faint trace of whiskey, before trailing a languid series of kisses down the sensitive curve of his neck, inhaling the intoxicating blend of his expensive cologne and his own unique scent.

Finally, you reached his mouth, your lips parting slightly as you pressed against his, a silent invitation. You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your own eyes heavy-lidded, a blatant challenge in their depths. "Kiss me back, Wonnie," you whispered, the alcohol stripping away every last vestige of your usual carefully constructed composure. "Show me what you really think when you look at me. Please."

For a heartbeat, he remained frozen, his expression a turbulent mix of surprise, something akin to reluctant desire warring with his usual guardedness. Then, with a low growl that seemed to emanate from deep within his chest, he gave in. His lips met yours, the initial contact hesitant, then deepening with a sudden, almost desperate intensity. His hand, which had been hovering near your waist, now snaked around your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The kiss was no longer tentative; it was charged, electric, a raw exploration of the unspoken tension that had been simmering between you. Your own hands found their way to his hair, your fingers tangling in the dark strands, pulling him closer, demanding more.

But just as the kiss threatened to escalate into something far more consuming, your eyelids grew heavy, the alcohol finally claiming its due. You mumbled something against his lips, a slurred, provocative whisper. "That…cocky look you get…" you murmured, your fingers tightening their grip on the fabric of his shirt, a sleepy, undeniably suggestive smile curving your lips. "It's…surprisingly…doing things to me…..like turning me on even while we are on the verge of a damn argument" And then, you were gone, your head lolling against his broad shoulder, the world fading into a soft, black oblivion, the taste of whiskey and Wonwoo lingering on your lips.

Wonwoo watched you, his expression a fascinating study in conflicting emotions – disbelief warring with a dark, possessive hunger, amusement battling a tenderness he likely wouldn't admit to. He carefully scooped you up in his arms, his movements surprisingly gentle despite his imposing frame. He navigated the crowded club with an air of quiet authority, the bouncers clearing a path with respectful nods.

He carried you to your apartment after driving there, the city lights a blurry kaleidoscope through your unconscious vision. He used the keycard you had somehow managed to produce, his movements surprisingly deft despite the late hour and your dead weight. He laid you gently on your bed, his gaze lingering on your flushed face, a strange possessiveness flickering in his dark eyes before he pulled the soft covers over you. As he turned to leave, a hand, surprisingly strong despite your inebriated state, snaked out and gripped his wrist, pulling him back with unexpected force.

You were barely conscious, your eyes fluttering open like a drowsy invitation, but your grip was surprisingly tenacious. You tugged, and he lost his balance, a surprised grunt escaping his lips as he tumbled onto the bed beside you. Before he could fully process the situation, you had instinctively curled into him, your limbs tangling together with a shocking intimacy. Your head nestled perfectly in the crook of his neck, your breath warm and soft against his skin, your body molding against his with a familiarity that belied the briefness of your…interactions.

He lay there for a long, suspended moment, stiff and utterly still, the unexpected intimacy a palpable force in the dimly lit room. Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry a weight of both resignation and a dark, undeniable desire, he adjusted his position, his arm instinctively wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer as if claiming you in your unconscious state.

The next morning, you woke slowly, a dull, insistent throb behind your eyes and fragmented, intensely mortifying memories of the previous night’s brazen behavior. You were tangled in the soft duvet, and something warm, solid, and undeniably masculine was pressed intimately against your back. You shifted slightly, a low, husky groan rumbling beside you.

Your eyes snapped open, your breath catching in your throat. Jeon Wonwoo was lying next to you, his dark hair adorably tousled against the pillow, his sharp features softened in sleep. His arm was draped possessively across your waist, his hand resting low on your hip, his fingers splayed intimately against your skin. Your leg was thrown casually over his, and your hand was buried in the soft fabric of his expensive shirt, dangerously close to his bare chest.

A gasp escaped your lips, and you instinctively tried to pull away, a wave of mortification washing over you, hot and suffocating. Wonwoo stirred, his dark eyes fluttering open, still clouded with sleep. "Don't move," he mumbled, his voice a low, delicious rasp that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. His grip on your waist tightened almost unconsciously, pulling you closer against his warm, undeniably hard body.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the backdrop of your racing thoughts and the lingering sensations of his lips on yours, your hands on his body. The vivid memories of your drunken boldness, your blatant come-ons, flooded your consciousness. The intimacy of the present moment, the tangible evidence of your utterly uninhibited behavior, was overwhelming, mortifying, and yet…a tiny, rebellious part of you couldn't deny a flicker of something akin to…satisfaction?

Finally, Wonwoo's eyes fully focused, and a flicker of surprise, quickly masked by a cool, almost detached composure, crossed his face. He slowly, reluctantly, released his grip and backed away, creating a sudden, charged space between you. A strange tension, thick with unspoken words, lingering sensations, and the undeniable aftermath of your drunken boldness, filled the small room.

You scrambled out of bed, your cheeks burning with a heat that had nothing to do with the lingering effects of the alcohol. You mumbled a hasty, incoherent apology, avoiding his gaze, and practically fled to the sanctuary of the bathroom, the vivid image of his sleepy, rumpled form, the possessive way he had held you, and the memory of your own shockingly forward actions, seared into your mind.

When you finally emerged, dressed in a robe that felt more like a shield than clothing, the apartment was silent. Wonwoo was gone. On your bedside table, however, sat a tall glass of water, a blister pack of high-strength hangover relief tablets, and a small, folded note.

You picked it up, your fingers trembling slightly despite your attempts to appear composed. The handwriting was sharp and angular, undeniably his, and surprisingly elegant. It simply read: "Drink these. Don't mention last night, you talk a lot when you are drunk. - JW."

You stared at the stark black ink on the crisp white paper. A small, unexpected flutter stirred in your chest, a sensation entirely unfamiliar, a feeling that defied logic and your carefully constructed defenses. It was a confusing mix of embarrassment, a lingering thrill from your own boldness, and a surprising warmth directed towards the man who had witnessed your most vulnerable and perhaps most uninhibited self. Your heart, it seemed, had a penchant for the dramatic, capable of the most inconvenient and unexpected of reactions.

The following days were a blur of news reports and online outrage. A second anonymous article had dropped, this one far more insidious and personal. It detailed numerous previously unreported cases of harassment and discrimination within OmniTech, painting a toxic work environment fostered by Julian's own dismissive attitude towards employee well-being and, more damningly, implicating him directly in silencing several victims. The article included leaked internal emails and anonymous testimonies that painted a horrifying picture of fear and abuse.

The fallout was swift and brutal. Major deals that OmniTech had been on the verge of closing evaporated overnight. Investors, already skittish after the initial financial exposé, fled in droves. The carefully constructed image of a progressive, innovative tech giant shattered completely, revealing a rotten core of systemic abuse. Julian's public denials were weak and unconvincing against the weight of the mounting evidence. His empire, once seemingly invincible, was crumbling with terrifying speed.

That night, a frantic, insistent pounding echoed through your apartment. A hopeful smile touched your lips as you hurried to the door, your heart inexplicably lighter than it had been in months. You had grown accustomed to Wonwoo's unexpected appearances, his silent check-ins, the unspoken understanding that had developed between you. You peered through the peephole, your smile widening in anticipation… only to freeze, the blood turning to ice in your veins.

It wasn't Wonwoo. It was Julian. His face was contorted with a furious desperation, his eyes wild and bloodshot. Before you could react, before you could even think to lock the deadbolt, he was hammering on the door again, yelling your name, his voice laced with a manic edge.

Terror seized you. You stumbled back, your breath catching in your throat. He knew where you lived. He was here.

Suddenly, the flimsy barrier of the door shuddered under a violent kick. The lock splintered, and the door flew inward, crashing against the wall. Julian stood in the doorway, a dark, menacing figure silhouetted against the hallway light.

"You!" he roared, his eyes locking onto you with a venomous glare. "This is your fault! You and that…that snake Wonwoo!"

Before you could speak, before you could even scream, he lunged at you, his hands grasping your arms with brutal force. He shoved you back against the wall, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. His face was inches from yours, his breath hot and reeking of desperation and alcohol.

"You think you can ruin me?" he snarled, his grip tightening until you cried out in pain. "You think you can get away with this?"

Panic clawed at your throat. You struggled, kicking and pushing against him, but he was stronger, fueled by rage and a terrifying sense of entitlement. He pinned you against the wall, his body pressing against yours, the familiar, sickening feeling of violation washing over you.

"Please," you choked out, tears streaming down your face. "Just…leave me alone."

"Leave you alone?" he spat, his voice thick with fury. "You destroyed everything! You think you can just walk away after what you've done?" He leaned closer, his words a disgusting whisper against your ear. "You were always useless. Couldn't even give me a child. Now you'll pay for it."

His hands moved, and a fresh wave of terror washed over you. You screamed, a raw, desperate sound that tore through the quiet of your apartment building, you knew no matter how hard you tried its always a man's physical power winning against the women in most of the casses. "Help! Someone, please help!"

Just as his touch became unbearable, the doorframe behind him exploded inward with a deafening crash. A figure filled the doorway, silhouetted against the dim hallway light, radiating a raw, incandescent fury.

It was Wonwoo.

His eyes, dark and blazing, locked onto the scene before him. The carefully cultivated coolness he usually exuded was gone, replaced by a primal rage that was terrifying to behold. With a guttural roar, he launched himself at Julian, yanking him off you with a force that sent your ex-husband stumbling backward.

What followed was a brutal, visceral display of fury. Wonwoo, his face a mask of pure rage, rained down blows on Julian, each punch landing with sickening force. You watched in stunned silence, tears still streaming down your face, as your tormentor was finally met with a force that matched his own brutality. You had never seen Wonwoo like this, this raw, untamed fury a stark contrast to his usual controlled demeanor.

The sounds of the struggle were brutal – grunts, curses, the sickening thud of fists against flesh. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the sounds subsided. Julian lay on the floor, bruised and bleeding, whimpering in pain. Wonwoo stood over him, his chest heaving, his knuckles raw.

The sound of sirens grew closer, their wail piercing the tense silence of your apartment. Moments later, the police burst through the shattered door, their weapons drawn. Wonwoo, his rage slowly receding, raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

As the officers moved to apprehend Julian, Wonwoo turned to you, his eyes softening with a raw concern that mirrored your own shattered state. He rushed to you, his arms wrapping around you in a tight, protective embrace. You clung to him, your body trembling uncontrollably, the sobs finally wracking your frame.

"Why didn't you call me?" he murmured against your hair, his voice thick with a mixture of anger and worry. "I told you…you could always call me."

You buried your face in his chest, the familiar scent of his cologne a strange comfort amidst the lingering stench of Julian's desperation. "I…I thought it was you at the door," you choked out, your voice barely a whisper.

"Shhh," he soothed, holding you tighter. "It's over now. He can't hurt you anymore."

You clung to him, the reality of what had just happened slowly sinking in. Your body ached, your spirit bruised, but in Wonwoo's arms, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, a fragile seed of safety began to sprout.

"Thank you," you mumbled, the words inadequate to express the wave of gratitude and a burgeoning, unexpected emotion that washed over you. Your heart ached with the fresh trauma, but at the same time, a strange sense of healing had begun. You no longer saw Wonwoo as just an enemy, a rival, or a co-conspirator. You saw him as the man who had burst through the door, a furious protector, your rescuer in the darkest of moments.

Closing your eyes, you leaned further into his embrace, the steady beat of his heart a grounding rhythm against your ear. For the first time in a long time, surrounded by the wreckage of your shattered door and the lingering echoes of violence, you found a fleeting moment of fragile peace in the unexpected safety of Jeon Wonwoo's arms.

Three weeks had passed since the harrowing night at your apartment. The physical bruises had faded, but the emotional scars were still tender, a constant reminder of Julian's violation. Wonwoo had been a silent, steady presence in the aftermath. He hadn't pushed, hadn't pried, but he had been there, a quiet strength you found yourself increasingly relying on. The fake relationship had morphed into something…more. The lines between business and something far more personal had blurred, a consequence of shared trauma and unexpected acts of fierce protectiveness.

One afternoon, a text message from Wonwoo appeared on your phone: "Client meeting at the City Art Museum next Thursday. Accompany me?" It was phrased as a request, but there was an underlying expectation, a comfortable assumption that you would agree. And you did.

Thursday arrived, and you found yourself standing before the museum, the grand facade a stark contrast to the nervous flutter in your stomach. You had chosen a wine-red dress, the rich color a bold statement, the elegant cut accentuating your figure. You had taken extra care with your hair and makeup, a renewed sense of confidence blooming within you, a defiant refusal to let Julian's actions define you.

As you stepped inside, you spotted Wonwoo near a Rodin sculpture, engaged in conversation with a distinguished-looking older gentleman. He hadn't seen you yet. You took a moment to simply watch him, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead, the intensity in his gaze as he spoke, the subtle authority in his posture. A warmth spread through you, a feeling entirely new and unexpectedly tender.

Then, his eyes lifted, catching yours across the crowded gallery. A flicker of surprise, quickly followed by something that looked suspiciously like…awe, crossed his features. He literally paused mid-sentence, a slight choke in his voice as he finished his thought. He recovered quickly, a practiced coolness returning to his expression as he excused himself from his client and walked towards you.

"You look…" he began, his usual smooth delivery faltering for a fraction of a second, his eyes lingering on the curve of your neck exposed by the dress. He cleared his throat. "…appropriately dressed for an appreciation of fine art." It was a classic Wonwoo deflection, but you caught the genuine admiration that had flashed in his eyes.

As Wonwoo resumed his conversation with his client, you wandered through the museum, losing yourself in the brushstrokes of a Monet, the stark lines of a Picasso. You found a quiet corner admiring a collection of contemporary sculptures when a man approached you, his smile a little too wide, his eyes lingering a little too long.

He started a conversation, his tone overtly flirtatious, complimenting your dress, your eyes, his words dripping with a practiced charm that felt instantly insincere. You offered polite, brief responses, subtly trying to disengage, but he persisted, his compliments becoming increasingly bold. A familiar unease began to settle in your stomach.

Just as you were formulating a more direct way to excuse yourself, you felt a warm, possessive hand settle on your waist, pulling you gently against a familiar solid form. Wonwoo was suddenly beside you, his arm a firm, undeniable claim around your waist. He turned to the flustered man, his usual cool demeanor firmly in place, but with an underlying edge that sent a clear message. "Excuse us," he said, his voice smooth but with a hint of steel. "She's taken."

The man, clearly recognizing Wonwoo, stammered an apology and quickly retreated. You turned to Wonwoo, a teasing smile playing on your lips. "Possessive, are we?"

He shrugged, his arm still firmly around your waist, his gaze lingering on your face. "You looked…uncomfortable." His tone was casual, but the possessive grip on your waist spoke volumes. The air between you thickened, the unspoken tension simmering just beneath the surface.

The next eight months passed in a blur of shared moments, both public and private. The "fake relationship" had taken on a life of its own, evolving into something undeniably real. The tabloids still followed your every move, fascinated by the unlikely pairing, but the scrutiny felt less invasive now, more like background noise to the genuine connection that had blossomed between you and Wonwoo. You shared quiet dinners, late-night conversations that stretched into the early hours, comfortable silences that spoke volumes. He was still Wonwoo – brilliant, sharp-witted, occasionally infuriatingly cocky – but you had also seen his fierce protectiveness, his unexpected tenderness, the vulnerability he rarely showed.

The day of your Paris fashion show arrived, a culmination of months of relentless work. The Grand Palais buzzed with anticipation, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and nervous energy. You scanned the crowd from the stage, a familiar wave of pre-show jitters washing over you. You looked for Wonwoo, a small part of you hoping to catch his eye, even though he had explicitly told you that a crucial, unavoidable meeting would keep him away. A pang of disappointment, quickly masked by professional composure, tightened in your chest.

Your speech went smoothly, your voice confident as you presented your latest collection to the discerning eyes of the fashion world. The applause was enthusiastic, the reviews promising. But as you walked backstage, the adrenaline slowly fading, a wave of quiet disappointment washed over you. He hadn't been there.

Suddenly, as you turned a corner in the bustling backstage area, a hand clamped over your mouth, and another pinned your hands playfully above your head, effectively trapping you against the cool wall. A familiar, husky voice whispered in your ear, laced with a teasing arrogance that sent a thrill through you. "Someone missed me?"

Your heart leaped. You knew that voice. You smiled beneath his hand, relief and a surge of unexpected joy flooding through you. You nodded enthusiastically against his palm. His hands released yours, sliding down to cup your face, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks. You turned in his arms, your gaze meeting his dark, smiling eyes. Without a word, you reached up and kissed him, a rush of pure happiness bubbling up inside you.

He grinned against your lips, a flash of his signature cockiness. "Missed me that much, huh?" He pulled back slightly, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Be ready by seven tonight, ma créatrice." He winked, a promise of something special in his gaze, and then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he slipped away, leaving you breathless and grinning like a fool in the middle of the backstage chaos.

You shook your head fondly, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the Parisian air. Your earlier disappointment vanished, replaced by a giddy anticipation. Seven o'clock in Paris with Wonwoo? You had a feeling tonight would be anything but ordinary. You rushed to get ready, your mind already racing with possibilities.

A sleek, black car pulled up to your hotel, the Parisian twilight casting long shadows across the cobblestone street. The driver door opened, and Wonwoo emerged, looking impossibly handsome in a dark suit that accentuated his sharp features. His eyes held a playful glint as he approached you, a soft, silk blindfold dangling from his fingers.

"Ready for your Parisian adventure, ma belle?" he asked, his voice a low murmur that sent a shiver down your spine.

You raised a curious eyebrow. "Adventure? Or are you finally going to reveal your secret life as a notorious art thief?"

He chuckled, a deep, resonant sound. "Only one way to find out." He gently reached out, and you tilted your head, allowing him to tie the blindfold securely, plunging you into darkness.

As he guided you into the car, your playful banter continued. "You're not planning on taking me to some secret underground catacomb, are you? Because I am not dressed for subterranean exploration."

"Relax, mon amour," he replied, his voice laced with amusement. "Though the thought of you in the catacombs…intriguing. But tonight's destination is a little more…elevated."

The drive was filled with your teasing questions and his deliberately vague answers. "Are you going to kill me, Wonwoo? Is this some elaborate revenge plot for all those times I beat you in debate club?"

He squeezed your thigh reassuringly, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. "Darling, if I were going to kill you, it would be far more creative than a simple car ride. Besides," his voice dropped to a husky whisper, "I have far more interesting plans for you tonight."

The squeeze on your thigh, however brief, sent a jolt of anticipation through you, effectively silencing your playful accusations. You settled back in your seat, a sense of excitement bubbling beneath the surface of your blindfolded anticipation.

The car finally came to a stop. You could hear the muffled sounds of the city, the distant hum of traffic, but there was a different quality to the air here, a sense of vastness. Wonwoo carefully guided you out of the car, his hand firm on your elbow. You could feel the cool night air against your skin, a gentle breeze whispering around you.

He led you slowly, the sound of your heels clicking softly on what felt like stone. You could sense a change in elevation, a gradual upward climb. "Wonwoo, where are we going?" you asked, your curiosity reaching its peak. "This is straight out of a horror movie. Are there chains involved?"

He chuckled again, a warm sound close to your ear. "Patience, mon cœur. The grand reveal is almost upon us."

The ascent continued, the air growing thinner, the city sounds fading into a distant murmur. Finally, Wonwoo stopped. "Alright, ma voleuse," he whispered, his breath warm against your temple. "Prepare to be amazed."

His fingers gently untied the knot of the blindfold. As the darkness receded, your eyes struggled to adjust to the breathtaking panorama that unfolded before you. You were high above the city, the sprawling lights of Paris twinkling like a million scattered diamonds. The Eiffel Tower stretched majestically above and below you, its intricate ironwork illuminated against the vibrant canvas of the sunset. Hues of fiery orange, soft pink, and deep violet painted the sky, a breathtaking masterpiece that stole your breath away.

You were speechless, your earlier playful banter completely forgotten. "Oh," was all you could manage, your voice filled with awe. "Oh, Wonwoo… it's… not murder, at least. It's beautiful."

There was no response. Confused, you turned to look at him, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest. And there he was, bathed in the soft glow of the Parisian twilight, down on one knee. In his outstretched hand, a small, velvet box lay open, revealing a stunning platinum ring, a delicate yet substantial band set with a single, brilliant-cut diamond that caught the fading light.

Your breath hitched. You felt a wave of shock, disbelief, and an overwhelming surge of emotion wash over you. You could only stare, your mind struggling to process the reality of the moment.

Wonwoo's gaze was intense, his dark eyes filled with a vulnerability you had never seen before. He took a deep breath, his voice slightly husky as he began to speak. "From the moment I first saw you in that ridiculously oversized 'Intro to Philosophy' class, arguing passionately about existentialism… I was captivated. You were brilliant, fiery, infuriating… everything I never knew I wanted."

He continued, his voice gaining strength as he confessed the long-held secret of his heart. "All those years in university, the constant rivalry, the need to challenge you, to spar with you intellectually… it wasn't just competition, (Y/N). It was the only way I knew how to keep you close, to keep you talking to me. I was too arrogant, too afraid to admit how deeply I felt."

He paused, his eyes searching yours. "Even after… after your marriage to that… that man," his voice hardened with a flicker of the old fury, "I couldn't let go of the memory of you, the fire in your eyes. Pretending to just want to destroy him… it was partly true, but mostly it was about clearing the path back to you."

He took another deep breath, his gaze unwavering. "So, (Y/N) (Your Last Name), my brilliant, beautiful, fiercely independent thief… may I be yours completely? May I finally stop pretending and love you, truly and without reservation?"

"Thief?" you asked, a shaky laugh escaping your lips, tears welling in your eyes.

A genuine, heart-melting grin spread across his face. "Yeah. You stole my heart years ago, remember? You've been holding onto it ever since."

More tears spilled down your cheeks, but this time, they were tears of pure, unadulterated joy. You took a moment to gather yourself, your heart overflowing with a love you hadn't fully realized until this moment. "Fine," you managed, your voice thick with emotion. "Be my Mr. (Your Last Name)." You watched him, a playful glint in your tear-filled eyes.

He stood up, his gaze never leaving yours. "I don't mind having your last name," he shrugged, a hint of his old cockiness returning, but softened with pure adoration.

You giggled, wiping away a stray tear. "Though… I rather prefer yours after mine."

His grin widened, and he reached out, cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks. "Take whatever you want then… my thief."

And then, with the breathtaking panorama of the glowing city stretching out beneath them, Wonwoo kissed you deeply, a kiss that spoke of years of unspoken feelings, of shared battles and unexpected tenderness, of a future finally, beautifully, beginning. The cool Parisian air was filled with the warmth of their embrace, a promise of a love that had weathered storms and blossomed in the most unexpected of circumstances. Your heart, finally safe in his keeping, soared with a joy that illuminated the Parisian night even brighter than the city lights below.

-- The End <3

560 notes · View notes

brunchable · 5 months ago

Text

It's not a Meet-𝑪𝒖𝒕𝒆, it's a Meet-𝗨𝗴𝗹𝘆.

《 Chapter 5: Your Crying Shoulder. 》

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader Themes: It's not a meet-cute, it's a meet ugly, Grumpy Meets ✨️Sunshine✨️, Opposites Attract, Sassy Pet Matchmaker, Enemies-to-Lovers (Lite), Destined to meet again, Bucky is a hidden softie. Summary: When everything falling apart, you found yourself in the arms of the person you least expected. A/N: This story will be OUTSIDE of MCU but Bucky's traits will be mixed comics/mcu. This will be updated every FRIDAY(AEST). I can't help but place a TikTok meme in here somewhere lmao. Credits to me for the Banner lmfao. credits to @ khaer for the divider.

Mission Report - J. B. Barnes To: N. Fury Subject: Family Dynamics

Key Findings

1. Family Structure

Y/N Y/LN: CEO of The Emporium NYC, handling New York operations, public relations, and key corporate responsibilities.

Jonathan [Half-Brother]: Oversees Miami branch expansions and operational strategies. Professional but distant relationship with Y/N, characterized by mutual respect and a clear division of responsibilities.

2. Operational Observations

Financial Irregularities: Offshore accounts linked to Emporium subsidiaries display significant fund transfers with unclear purposes. Investigating their potential connection to Hydra-related activities is a priority.

Board Affiliations: Certain board members are linked to political figures and tech firms specializing in advanced security technologies. Their involvement requires further investigation for possible ties to Hydra.

Employee Turnover: Leadership restructuring followed Y/N’s promotion. Several former executives now hold external consulting roles, potentially redirecting focus from Emporium’s internal operations.

3. Personal Relationships

Rhys: Y/N’s boyfriend and the son of a global luxury hotel mogul. While not directly involved in Emporium operations, his influential family ties and potential connections to Y/N's network merit attention.

4. Behavioral Insights

Y/N demonstrates dedication to her role but shows signs of frustration with corporate pressures. She appears unaware of financial irregularities within the organization, suggesting compartmentalization of information.

No evidence connects Y/N directly to suspicious activities. Monitoring her relationship with Rhys could provide additional context, as his background and resources may intersect with Emporium’s broader dealings.

Recommendations

1. Background Checks: Investigate board members, financial consultants, and Rhys’s family business for any links to Emporium's offshore holdings and potential Hydra connections.

2. Monitor Relationships: Subtly observe Y/N’s interactions with Rhys and board members for indirect insights.

3. Enhanced Financial Scrutiny: Deepen analysis of offshore accounts to establish potential links between Emporium funds and Hydra-backed projects.

End of Report

× × × ×

Figaro pranced confidently into Bucky’s apartment, his tail held high, a familiar item clamped between his teeth. Alpine looked up from her spot on the windowsill, tilting her head as she watched him strut across the room.

“Alpine,” Figaro greeted, setting down the item—a soft, worn scarf that unmistakably carried your scent.

Alpine sniffed at the scarf, then looked at Figaro, a glint of curiosity in her eyes. “Your human let you out with… that?”

Figaro settled down next to her, casually licking a paw.

“Oh, she doesn’t know I took it,” he replied with a lazy flick of his tail. “But I thought you might appreciate a little reminder of her.” He gave her a knowing look, lowering his voice. “She was patching up your human’s busted lip the other night, by the way.”

Alpine’s eyes narrowed with amusement. “Did she now? And did you happen to notice the way he was looking at her?” she asked, her whiskers twitching.

“Oh, I noticed. He was all ‘I’m tough, but not too tough for you,’” Figaro said, imitating a dramatic swoon, then rolled his eyes with exaggerated flair. “Honestly, he’s got it bad. She was fussing over him, and he was eating it up like a kitten with a saucer of cream.”

Alpine purred thoughtfully. “Well, it’s about time. But he won’t admit that to himself.”

“Yeah, well, the issue,” Figaro continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone, “is that there’s another guy in her life. Rhys.” He spat out the name with as much disdain as a cat could muster. “Total bore. Calls her ‘baby’ like it’s some kind of magic spell. And he smells like cheap cologne. Honestly, his existence is an insult to felines everywhere.”

Alpine’s ears perked up. “So he’s competition?”

Figaro scoffed.

“Please. He’s like the knockoff toy they keep at the bottom of the discount bin. My human doesn’t even smile around him anymore; she just tolerates him. But every time your guy shows up, she lights up like it’s Christmas morning.” He stretched, his claws extending as if to make his point. “I’m telling you, we’ve got to get rid of him. For the sake of all that is right in the world.”

Alpine let out a thoughtful meow, eyeing the scarf Figaro had brought. “You know, if we could just keep nudging them together, maybe they’ll take the hint. They’re not too bright, but they’ve got chemistry.”

“Exactly!” Figaro said, his eyes gleaming. “Our owners are hopeless without us. This is a mission, Alpine. A noble mission. A mission to save her from that pathetic excuse for a partner.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “And frankly, if I have to listen to him call her ‘baby’ one more time, I might cough up a hairball on his shoes.”

Alpine let out a low chuckle, nudging Figaro with her paw. “Well then, Mr. Matchmaker. What’s the plan?”

“Oh, I’ve got ideas,” Figaro said, eyes narrowing as if deep in thought. “Plenty of ideas. After all, I’m doing the world a favor.”

× × × ×

There was cold silence since that tense encounter with Rhys, and though you’d pushed it to the back of your mind, his apology text had come through late tonight, begging you to talk. You decided, almost against your better judgment, to go. Maybe it was a habit, maybe just closure. But as you reached the hotel and made your way up to his office, a cold, uneasy feeling settled in the pit of your stomach.

The hall was dimly lit as you approached, your heels clicking softly against the polished floor. Then, as you neared the frosted glass door of Rhys’ office, you stopped in your tracks. Two silhouettes were visible through the blurred glass, close, intimate. You watched as Rhys pressed a woman—with a golden hair clip—against the glass, their forms locked together in a kiss that left little to the imagination.

Your throat tightened, a dull ache building in your chest as the weight of the betrayal hit you. To be honest, I felt like I already knew it, you thought, the silent admission somehow worse than the scene unfolding in front of you. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less. You tried to swallow down the emotions swirling within you—anger, sadness, and that unmistakable pang of disappointment. Being cheated on hurt, even when you’d mentally checked out of the relationship. It chipped away at something deeper, a quiet part of your self-worth you hadn’t realized still cared.

Water rimmed your eyes, but you blinked it back, refusing to let him take that from you too. You inhaled deeply, straightened your shoulders, and turned away from the office door, leaving as quietly as you’d arrived.

× × × × Fews days after

Bucky squinted, utterly baffled.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he muttered. He scratched the back of his neck, feeling absurdly judged by a cat.

Alpine huffed, letting out a short, dismissive meow, clearly unimpressed with whatever answer she’d decided on. She trotted off toward her food bowl, pausing just once to throw him a final, critical look before bending to eat.

“Alright, sure, just go back to ignoring me,” Bucky grumbled, watching her. But as he leaned against the counter, glancing down at the faint trace of your scent still on his sleeve, he couldn’t help feeling like Alpine had silently decided something about him that she wasn’t going to share anytime soon.

Bucky watched Alpine chowing down on her food, her tail flicking in satisfaction as she devoured each bite with gusto. He allowed himself a moment of peace, but then came the unmistakable sound of someone struggling with his lock.

“Oh, hell no,” he muttered under his breath, his mind flashing back to the night you’d drunkenly tried breaking into his apartment, mistaking it for yours. Swinging the door open, he was prepared for a repeat performance, only to be met with Sam, frozen in mid-action, his hand clutching a spare key. Behind him stood Steve, holding two large bags of takeout, and Nat, arms crossed with a smirk.

“Uh… hey, Buck,” Sam greeted, attempting a casual tone while quickly tucking the key behind his back like he hadn’t just been caught red-handed.

“Why are you trying to break into my place?” Bucky narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms.

Sam cleared his throat, glancing at Steve and Nat for backup.

“We’re, uh… your backup! Sent by Fury.” He flashed a grin that looked anything but innocent.

“Backup?” Bucky repeated, deadpan, as the three of them filed in with the casualness of seasoned intruders. “Fury said it was a simple assignment. Barely a mission.”

Steve rolled his eyes, giving Bucky a pitying look as he passed by to set down the bags on the table. “You really believed that? Seriously?”

Bucky opened his mouth to argue, but before he could get a word in, Nat had already made her way over to Alpine, who blinked up at her with the smug satisfaction of a cat who’d been expecting her. Nat scratched Alpine’s ears as Alpine purred, looking even more at ease than Bucky had ever seen her.

Just as Nat leaned down to pet Alpine, her gaze flicked up, catching sight of Bucky’s busted lip. She raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Nice lip, Buck. Trouble on the way to the door?”

Bucky’s hand instinctively went up to his mouth. “Oh, that? I… tripped over Alpine.”

Steve’s head whipped around, eyes narrowing as he tried to keep a straight face.

“You tripped… over Alpine?” He looked down at the serene, not-at-all-menacing cat sitting contentedly by Nat’s side, then back up at Bucky, clearly struggling to hold back a laugh.

Bucky crossed his arms, his expression turning defensive. “It’s possible, alright? She’s tiny but lethal.”

Sam let out a snort. “Yeah, sure. I’m sure the Winter Soldier can handle a battalion of Hydra agents but gets taken out by a house cat.”

“Don’t you guys have anything better to do?” Bucky just rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath as Sam already raiding the fridge like he owned it.

“Oh no, please, make yourselves at home. I’ll just find somewhere else to live, shall I?” Bucky’s voice was dripping with sarcasm as he watched the scene unfold.

“Buck, you have got to keep better beer in here. This stuff is practically water.” He settled on a bottle anyway, taking a long swig before glancing back at Bucky. “We’re just here to help, man. Think of us as… extended housemates.”

Bucky crossed his arms tighter, a look of utter disbelief on his face. “Extended housemates?” He gestured at the room. “You act like you already live here!”

Steve, entirely unbothered, started setting out the food, carefully placing burgers on plates and arranging napkins. “We thought you might need a little company. I mean, it’s a Friday night, after all.”

“I’m perfectly fine alone, thanks,” Bucky replied, his gaze narrowing as he watched Sam polish off half a beer in one go. “How about you go keep each other company?”

Steve chuckled, handing a plate to Nat. “You said the same thing last time we showed up. Yet, here we are. Again.”

Nat, now comfortably settled on the couch with Alpine, flashed him a wicked grin. “Let’s not be dramatic, Bucky. Just think of us as… spontaneous visitors.”

“Visitors don’t usually come with their own keys,” Bucky grumbled, his gaze settling on Sam, who was busy rifling through his cabinets for snacks. “And they certainly don’t bring takeout to make themselves at home.”

Sam shrugged, unfazed. “You think of it as invading your privacy; I think of it as improving the vibe around here.”

Bucky let out an exasperated sigh. “I swear, one of these days, I’m changing the locks.”

“Good luck with that. We’ll just get new keys.” Nat smirked, scratching Alpine’s head as if she were orchestrating a coup.

Bucky glared, but Steve was already setting a plate piled with ribs and a burger in front of him. “Eat up, Buck. Before Sam devours everything like the human garbage disposal he is.”

Sam waved his beer bottle, looking completely unbothered. “Hey, I resent that. This is strategic eating. Besides, with your ‘barely-a-mission,’ we need all the fuel we can get.”

“I’m starting to think Fury set me up.” Bucky rubbed his forehead, exasperated but clearly losing the battle.

Steve just grinned, popping open his own beer. “I’m sure Fury thought you’d appreciate the backup.”

“Or at least tolerate it,” Sam added, grabbing a handful of fries and popping them into his mouth.

With a resigned sigh, Bucky sank into a chair, shaking his head. “You guys are impossible.”

“Impossible is our specialty,” Sam shot back, raising his beer in a mock toast. “To back up, and to Buck finally admitting he likes having us around.”

“Let’s not get carried away.” Bucky snorted.

Alpine purred louder, clearly pleased with the lively atmosphere, while Nat smirked at Bucky. “See? Even Alpine agrees. You’re just a grump with a soft spot for us, admit it.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Fine. But next time, bring your own key.”

“Oh, we will,” Steve assured him with a smirk. “And maybe a couch, a pillow or two.”

Sam, now munching contentedly on fries, raised his beer again. “To crashing Bucky’s place—where every night is a mission, and the food’s free.”

Bucky took a reluctant bite of his burger, trying to ignore how comfortable his “guests” had made themselves. Just as he was starting to think the worst was over, Steve casually leaned over to Sam, as if sharing a quiet plan.

“We’ll grab the rest of our stuff from the car when Buck’s asleep,” Steve said, completely deadpan.

Bucky nearly choked on his burger, staring at Steve like he’d lost his mind. “The rest of your stuff? What are you talking about?”

Sam, without missing a beat, grinned. “Perfect. Nat can take the bedroom, and the three of us can crash in the living room. It’ll be like a sleepover.”

Nat raised her eyebrows, feigning delight. “I called dibs on the bed, anyway. I always knew Buck had the fluffiest pillows.”

“Hold on, hold on! This isn’t some youth hostel! You all have your own places!” Bucky’s face twisted in horror as he looked around the room.

“Yeah, but none of our places have a view of you panicking about your personal space.” Steve looked unbothered, casually unwrapping another burger.

Bucky glared.

“I’m not panicking! I just—” He waved a hand in utter frustration. “This is my place! You can’t just... commandeer my bed!”

“Don’t worry, Buck. We’ll all be snug as bugs on the floor, reliving those good ol’ days in the barracks.” Sam leaned back, looking way too comfortable for someone who’d apparently just broken in.

“Except Nat,” Steve corrected, “who will be enjoying Buck’s luxurious mattress.”

Bucky looked to Alpine, almost pleading. “You see what I deal with? Even the cat respects my space more than you three!”

Alpine simply blinked, looking rather indifferent to her owner’s plight as she happily settled on Nat’s lap.

“Oh, come on, Buck,” Sam said, reaching over to ruffle Bucky’s hair. “We’ll make it fun! Popcorn, ghost stories, some embarrassing truths about Fury… just like old times.”

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve added, grinning. “Think of it as team bonding.”

Bucky threw his hands up. “This isn’t bonding! This is trespassing! And I don’t want to hear any ghost stories or truths about Fury. I want my bed, my couch, and my fridge not raided!”

Nat sighed, patting Alpine who purred louder. “Look, Buck. Clearly, Alpine’s on board. You’re outvoted.”

“Traitor.” Bucky narrowed his eyes, looking at Alpine in betrayal.

Steve chuckled, leaning back with a smug grin. “Face it, Buck. Tonight’s already decided.”

Bucky let out a resigned sigh, shaking his head as he muttered under his breath. “Next time, I’m leaving the country.”

× × × ×

You strode into the dimly lit restaurant, greeted by a chorus of cheers and mock applause as Serena, Mei, and Jane raised their glasses, voices rising in unison. "Woooo, here comes the CEO!"

You shook your head, laughing as you took your seat, subtly glancing around the table. Your gaze caught on one unfamiliar face, though it took a split second longer for the memory to click into place. Carly. She was Rhys' new assistant, a realization that caused your brow to lift just slightly. You’d thought she looked familiar from somewhere else, but with her new polished appearance and newfound confidence, it was hard to tell right away.

Chloe, ever the instigator, nudged Carly forward with a smile that held a hint of challenge.

“Ladies, meet Carly. You might remember her, Y/N. She used to work at The Emporium,” she said, her words smooth but her gaze pointed.

You kept your expression cool, a practiced smile settling on your lips. “Ah, that explains why she looks familiar.” You gave Carly a nod, and she responded with a forced smile, her eyes holding something less friendly beneath the surface.

The evening moved along, filled with laughter and a few rounds of drinks. Serena, Mei, and Jane offered congratulations, and Sarah, as always, played the role of your unwavering cheerleader, throwing a few enthusiastic compliments your way. But as the night flowed, it was Mei who leaned in, her voice dipping into a sympathetic tone.

“So, I heard Rhys de Armande cheated on you.”

You blinked, not expecting the topic to surface so bluntly. You forced yourself to keep your expression neutral, though a subtle flicker crossed your face.

“You forced a light laugh, though your jaw tightened beneath it. “Oh, it was probably because I told him to take his bare minimum and keep it out of my sight. Pretty sure he wanted to vanish into thin air after that, especially since his entire office got to witness it.”

Jane, Mei, and Serena burst into laughter, clearly picturing the scene as you animatedly relayed the story.

“Oh my gosh, that’s incredible,” Serena giggled, shaking her head. “He absolutely deserved every bit of that.”

You let out a faint laugh, flipping your hair back and letting it settle over your shoulder as you raised an eyebrow. “Ugh, I’m too busy with work to be hurt by this kind of stuff,” you replied, feigning a casual air as you took a sip of your drink, though the words had a hard edge underneath.

“Do you know who the woman was?” Serena leaned forward, curiosity gleaming in her eyes.

Chloe’s lips curled into a faint smirk.

“I mean, with Rhys’ type, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s someone… eager to climb the ladder, if you know what I mean,” Mei said.

Sarah’s eyes flashed, and she opened her mouth, ready to retort, but you discreetly squeezed her hand under the table, keeping your expression smooth. You didn’t need her stepping in right now.

“You should’ve grabbed her hair!” Jane piped up, half-laughing, her fist in the air as if she were ready to throw a punch herself, “I respect the way you’re so laid back, because honestly I would’ve gone apeshit.”

“Oh, forget it. He’s the one who cheated. I couldn’t care less about her,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “She’s probably no different from him—anyways! Enough about him!”

As the words left your mouth, Carly’s face visibly tightened, her forced smile slipping as she pushed back her chair, muttering under her breath as she walked off toward the restroom. Her eyes flickered with a glare that lingered on you as she departed, barely concealing the frustration bubbling beneath her cool facade.

Serena raised her eyebrows, catching the shift in mood. “What’s with her? She was glaring at you the whole time.”

“Oh, who knows,” Sarah murmured, watching Carly’s retreating figure with a slight smirk, her hand still entwined in yours beneath the table, a sign of solidarity.

Chloe glanced after Carly, a subtle, knowing smile playing on her lips. “Probably just adjusting to her new… surroundings.”

You glanced down at your phone, barely containing the irritation rising within you as you took in the image on the screen: Rhys and Carly, cozy on a beach, his arms wrapped around her as if he hadn’t been apologizing to you just days earlier. It was from an unknown number, but there was no doubt in your mind who had sent it.

With a measured breath, you slipped the phone back into your bag and stood, offering your friends a polite excuse before following the path Carly had taken. You found her just outside the restrooms, leaning casually against the wall with a smug smile, almost as if she’d been waiting.

“Why did you send me that?” You stopped in front of her, gaze steady.

She didn’t bother hiding her grin, crossing her arms as she looked you over. “Because I wanted you to know.”

“Know what?” You raised an eyebrow. “That Rhys cheated on me?”

“No,” she replied with a sickeningly sweet smile, crossing her arms tighter. “That I seduced your boyfriend. You seemed completely fine with it.”

A scoff escaped you as you let out a dry laugh, crossing your own arms.

“Did you expect me to crumble just because I was cheated on?” You tilted your head, studying her. “Alright, let’s say you two ‘fell in love.’ Then you should be apologizing to me—”

Her smile faltered as she cut you off, her voice raising a fraction. “I felt guilty at first. But then you acted like it wasn’t a big deal. You weren’t curious about me, didn’t even acknowledge what I did. So my self-esteem? It just kept plummeting.”

You looked at her, incredulous, and chuckled coldly. “Wow—seriously? You’re such a loser—You’re blaming me for your self-esteem issues?”

Her lips pursed in irritation. “Why shouldn’t I? Why do you think I can’t do what you do? I can seduce your man and be just as successful—be just like you. But you never gave me the chance. Not only that, you took my opportunity at The Emporium away from me.”

“Ah,” you murmured, amusement in your voice. “So this is about me firing you?”

Her jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. “You didn’t deserve to be in that position. You act so high and mighty, like nothing can shake you. You have it all, don’t you? The job, the influence, the respect. But guess what? I can take what’s yours. I already did, didn’t I?”

You laughed, unbothered, shaking your head slowly.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” You stepped closer, gaze locked on hers. “If you couldn’t handle the job, that’s on you. Throwing this little tantrum only proves I was right about you. As for Rhys…” You shrugged, a smirk tugging at your lips. “You can keep him. My ex cheating doesn’t affect my work—but you? You do. So maybe I’ll have a word with his parents and see how your career fairs then.”

You turned to leave, but her voice came out sharp, dripping with venom. “You can’t pretend you’re not bitter about it. That’s why you’re here, right? To confront me?”

Pausing, you glanced over your shoulder, an icy smile on your lips. “Ever step on something nasty on the sidewalk? Hmm I don’t know like shit? It’s a pain, but you don’t let it ruin your day. You wipe it off and move on. That’s what you and Rhys are to me—Shit—something I’ll be glad to scrape off my shoe.”

Without another glance, you strode back to the table, your head held high. Your friends glanced up as you approached, a few eyebrows raised.

“Everything okay?” Sarah asked, eyeing you with mild concern.

You forced a polite smile, nodding as you picked up your bag. “Actually, I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow. I should get going.”

With a few quick goodbyes, you left, satisfaction settling over you as you stepped out, knowing you’d left Carly exactly where she belonged—behind you.

× × × ×

“Sarah! Open the noor! I know you're in there, Sarah! Open the noor!” Your drunken voice slurred through the quiet hallway, louder with every knock.

Inside, Bucky froze, instantly recognizing your voice. His eyes widened, and he shot a panicked look at the mountain of files scattered across his coffee table—the very files on you and The Emporium that he’d been piecing through with Steve, Sam, and Nat.

“Everyone! Gather the files, now!” he hissed, immediately jumping to action.

“What? Why? Relax, man, we’re not under attack or anything.” Sam raised an eyebrow, lounging on the couch with a half-eaten sandwich.

Bucky shot him a glare, practically yanking the files out from under Sam’s plate. “One of our ‘subjects’ is outside the door, Sam! Now MOVE!”

“Wait, you mean her?” Steve asked, eyes widening as the banging on the door got louder.

“Yes!” Bucky hissed, shoving an armful of files into Steve’s hands. “Now stop talking and start hiding!”

Nat rolled her eyes, stacking papers hastily. “Isn’t this a little dramatic? She’s probably just lost.”

“She’s not ‘lost,’ she’s drunk!” Bucky snapped. “And I’d rather not explain why I’m reviewing her life story with three nosy intruders!”

“Oh, we’re the intruders now?” Steve muttered as he clutched a bundle of files to his chest. “Could’ve sworn we were here for your mission!”

The banging grew even louder.

“Sarah! Don’t you ignore me, woman!” Your voice was muffled but determined, sounding like you were one step away from kicking the door down.

“Go, go, go! Get in there!” Bucky herded them like sheep, arms waving wildly as he tried to push them toward the bedroom.

“Ow, Bucky, stop shoving!” Sam complained, elbowing Bucky back as he tripped over a rogue sneaker. “Seriously, why are you acting like we’re about to be raided?”

“Because she’ll see this mess and ask questions!” Bucky shot back, pushing him forward again. “Just get in and be quiet!”

Nat stumbled as Bucky prodded her toward the door, muttering, “Why are you so panicked? Did you do something wrong, Buck?”

“Would you all just move?!” Bucky whispered furiously, practically bulldozing them all through his bedroom door. “I’ll explain later. Just don’t make a sound!”

Steve stumbled, catching himself with a loud “Ow!” as Bucky finally got all three of them behind the door. He shut it firmly and leaned against it with a sigh, only to hear a loud “Shh!” from Nat, Sam, and Steve bickering in hushed whispers.

“Move your elbow!”

“Steve, that’s my foot—ow!”

“Could you three not sound like an entire stampede?”

Outside, your voice grew louder, slurring but stubborn as ever. “Saarah! Come on, I brought sushiiii!”

Bucky took a breath and opened the door, his expression calm yet barely holding it together. There you stood, wobbling slightly, hair slightly mussed, and an unmistakable grin on your face when you saw him.

“Oh! Sarah, you changed! You look so much taller… and more... Bucky-like.”

“Uh, hi,” he said as he steadied you. “I think you might have the wrong door, trash panda.”

You blinked, frowning, and swayed a little closer. “Wrong door? But I brought sushi! And, wait—” You squinted at him, leaning in. “Bucky?”

“Yeah, Bucky,” he confirmed, holding back a chuckle as you gave him a suspiciously scrutinizing look.

“Ohhh…” you drawled, clearly trying to process it all. “Well, if you see Sarah, tell her the sushi is... sushi-ing.”

He nodded, keeping his tone light, even though his friends were probably eavesdropping as best they could.

“Will do. And, uh… maybe we should get you home?”

“Good idea. But you keep this. Looks like you could use some fish.” You nodded, albeit unsteadily, handing him a stray piece of sushi.

You gave Bucky a wobbly smile, one that looked a little too determined for someone in your state. Before Bucky could stop you, you swayed forward, making a beeline past him and into his apartment.

“Wait, Y/N—this isn’t… Sarah’s place!” he said, barely catching up as you staggered into his kitchen.

“Close enough,” you slurred with a grin, swaying dramatically from side to side as you reached for the fridge handle. Alpine, sensing a new friend in distress, trotted over, rubbing against your legs with enthusiastic little chirps.

“Oh! Hey, kitty!” you cooed, reaching down to pet her, then looking up at Bucky with wide, innocent eyes. “Sarah’s cat never welcomes me like this. See? She gets me.”

Bucky ran a hand over his face, half-amused, half-panicked. “Right. Because Alpine just loves guests raiding the kitchen.”

You opened the fridge door, inspecting the shelves as if on a mission.

“Where’s the… the ice cream?” you muttered, voice muffled by the refrigerator door. “Sarah always has chocolate fudge swirl, and I need it.”

“Seriously, you’re in the wrong apartment,” Bucky tried, sounding both exasperated and entertained as he reached out, but you sidestepped, one hand still on the fridge door, the other now waving vaguely in the air.

“Shhh, Bucky,” you chided, squinting as you leaned in further, peering deeper into the fridge with a sense of deep concentration. Alpine padded around you, her tail curling around your ankle, clearly thrilled to have you there.

“Listen, Bucky,” you slurred, not even glancing up, “all I want… is chocolate ice cream and maybe… maybe a good laugh. Do you have tissues? I feel like I’ll need them, like, a lot of them.”

Bucky couldn’t help the grin tugging at his lips. He tried his best to guide you away from the fridge gently, but you shot him a mildly annoyed look, shoving a stray pack of carrots aside as if they were personally offensive.

“Don’t you dare hide the good stuff behind the veggies,” you said, mock-scolding him as Alpine hopped onto the counter, watching the scene with wide, curious eyes, tail twitching.

“Really, Alpine?” Bucky muttered at his cat, who was clearly rooting for you and even pawed at Bucky’s hand as if to say, Let her have the ice cream!

“I knew you’d understand me, Alpine,” you cooed at the cat, as if she were your personal support group. “See, Bucky? Even she gets it. She knows.”

Bucky sighed, half-heartedly resigned. “You know what, fine. If Alpine says so, who am I to argue?”

Finally, you pulled out a random tub—yogurt, not ice cream—and peered at it in disappointment.

“Greek yogurt? Bucky, are you… are you okay?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, perfectly fine, thanks.”

You blinked at him, still clutching the tub. “Well, clearly, you’re living a sad existence if this is all you’ve got.”

“Or I’m just not prepared for unexpected trash pandas who raid my fridge,” he replied, crossing his arms, trying not to burst out laughing as you clung to Alpine for support, who purred loudly, delighted with the chaos.

“Fine, then!” you declared dramatically, patting Alpine’s head. “Alpine and I will fend for ourselves.” You turned on your heel (or tried to, at least), your balance giving out just slightly as you wobbled with an exaggerated sway. Alpine gave an encouraging “mrrp!” as if saying, Yes! Go forth!

Bucky finally took pity on you, grabbing a pint of actual ice cream from the freezer, waving it like a peace offering. “This? Will this make you happy, your highness?”

You lit up, the joy on your face as radiant as if he’d handed you a crown. “Now that’s more like it!” you cheered, taking the tub, your steps still swaying as you made your way to his couch.

Bucky followed you over, shaking his head as you sat down, giving Alpine a spot next to you. He sat down nearby, stifling a chuckle as you dug into the ice cream.

“So… just gonna crash here tonight, then?” he asked, leaning back with a smirk.

You waved the spoon dismissively, barely even looking up. “Obviously. And you, Bucky Barnes, need to get more ice cream. Greek yogurt’s just… depressing.”

He shook his head, chuckling. “Noted.”

You tore into the box of tissues, your frustration boiling over as you whipped open the plastic bag for trash with the precision of someone handling a life-or-death task. In one hand, you wielded the spoon like a weapon, in the other, a tissue you’d already shredded halfway. Bucky sat a few feet away, wide-eyed, clearly out of his depth. Alpine perched on the coffee table instead, her tail swishing in judgment, shooting Bucky a look that all but screamed, Fix this.

“You good there?” Bucky asked cautiously, his voice hesitant, like he wasn’t sure whether he should move closer or start looking for an escape route.

You let out a short, sharp laugh—bitter, too loud for the small space. “Good? Oh yeah, I’m great! I mean, how could I not be? My ex-boyfriend cheated on me with his assistant, who, surprise, also happens to be the same girl I fired for being utterly incompetent.”

Bucky, sitting stiffly on the couch, could only blink as you laughed. Not a gentle laugh, but one that bordered on hysteria, punctuated by short, sharp breaths. It wasn’t the kind of laugh that came from something funny; it was the kind that cracked through the tension when words couldn’t quite hold the weight of everything you were feeling.

“Oh, my God!” you exclaimed, raising your spoon as if to make a toast. “It’s just perfect, isn’t it? Fired her for being terrible at customer service, and what does she do? Rebounds as my boyfriend’s personal assistant. Like, how poetic is that?” You gestured with the tissue, accidentally flinging it onto the coffee table, but you didn’t stop.

“And then—get this—she blames me for her low self-esteem! Like, excuse me for not sending her a gift basket after she slept with my boyfriend. I mean—” You let out a bark of laughter, shaking your head as tears welled in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “You can’t make this stuff up!”

“And then tonight?” You gestured wildly with your spoon. “Tonight, I had to sit there, all smiles, pretending like everything was fine, because God forbid I let anyone think I’m not. And Carly—oh, Carly—had the audacity to act like she’s the victim. She felt bad about it! Isn’t that just hilarious?” You scooped another bite of ice cream, your laughter spilling out, sharp and brittle, filling the air like broken glass.

Bucky sat frozen, his jaw slightly ajar, his heart twisting as he watched you spiral. You leaned forward, still laughing, the sound echoing unnaturally in the quiet apartment. You looked absurd, sitting there with a tub of ice cream and tissues in hand, trying to force humor into something that was clearly tearing you apart.

“Y/N,” Bucky said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t seem to hear him, your laugh rising in pitch as you tilted your head back, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “It’s hilarious, really. Just the perfect little tragedy. I kind of saw it coming, you know? Rhys was always—”

“Y/N.” Bucky’s voice was firmer this time, cutting through the haze of your spiraling thoughts like a blade.

He moved off the couch, lowering himself to his knees in front of you, his steady blue eyes locking onto yours. The laughter caught in your throat as you met his gaze. There was no judgment in his expression, no pity—just an unwavering presence that felt like a lifeline. His gaze softened, like he was offering you something you weren’t sure how to accept.

“Just cry,” he said, his voice calm but resolute.

Your lips parted as if to argue, but the words wouldn’t come. The lump in your throat tightened, and for a moment, you thought you could hold it together. But the way he was looking at you—like you were the only person in the world—broke down every defense you’d spent the evening building.

“Don’t force yourself to laugh,” he added gently, his eyes never leaving yours. “It’s okay to cry.”

Your smile wavered, trembling at the edges before fading completely. You looked away, the dam bursting as tears spilled over, hot and relentless. A shaky breath escaped you, and your hands fumbled with the tissue box, but they were trembling too much to hold anything.

Bucky let out a soft sigh, running a hand through his hair as he glanced toward the closed bedroom door. He rarely, if ever, allowed anyone to see this side of him. Vulnerability wasn’t something he was used to sharing—especially not with his friends only a room away. But for you? He didn’t hesitate.

“Ah, screw it,” he muttered under his breath.

Alpine let out a soft “mrrp” of approval, watching as Bucky leaned forward, wrapping a careful arm around your smaller frame. He didn’t say anything, just held you close, letting you bury your face against his chest. His touch was gentle but grounding, the steady rhythm of his breathing anchoring you as you finally let yourself break.

He rested his chin lightly on top of your head, his other hand rubbing slow, soothing circles against your back. The weight of your head against his chest grounded him as much as he hoped it comforted you.

Alpine, perched on the coffee table, watched with what could only be described as smug satisfaction, her tail flicking contentedly.

Bucky’s awkwardness melted away bit by bit as he felt your breathing begin to even out against him. He let out a soft sigh, glancing down at you. Alpine’s watchful gaze was fixed on him, as if daring him to get this right. Bucky cleared his throat, searching for the right words, feeling more vulnerable than he’d admit.

“You know… you’re stronger than you think,” he said, his thumb grazing your shoulder without him realizing. “You take on so much, and you do it with so much grace. Even when you don’t have to.”

Your breath caught, and you lifted your head to meet his gaze, his blue eyes soft but unwavering.

“I know you don’t need me or anyone else to tell you how incredible you are. But, just… let someone see it, will you? Because you… you deserve that. And I mean every damn word.”

A smile tugged at the corners of your mouth, and you felt a rare sense of peace, your heart light in a way it hadn’t felt in so long. Bucky looked at you, his expression softening further as he took in the sight of your smile, his own heart skipping a beat.

Just as the warmth of Bucky’s words started to sink in, your phone erupted with an insistent buzz, breaking the peaceful moment. You glanced down to see Rhys’ name flashing on the screen. You groaned, but before you could even react, Bucky had snatched the phone from your hand, holding it up as it vibrated relentlessly.

On the fourth ring, Bucky pressed "answer," bringing the phone to his ear with a calm confidence that sent a thrill through you, his voice dropping to a dangerous calm.

“Rhys right? You know, she’s a little busy right now…” he greeted, the single word laced with a tension that could cut glass. “Here’s the deal: you’re gonna stop calling her. Got that?”

You watched, wide-eyed, as Bucky ended the call without waiting for a response and promptly shut off the phone. He set it down with an air of finality, his gaze meeting yours. Before you could form a coherent thought, a loud knock echoed through the apartment, making you both jump slightly.

“Y/N? I know you’re in there.” The voice outside was unmistakable—Rhys.

Your stomach churned as Bucky’s eyes flicked to the door, his jaw tightening.

“What the hell?” he muttered, standing up, his posture instantly tense.

“Bucky…” you started, but he raised a hand, silencing you with a look.

The knock came again, harder this time, followed by Rhys’ impatient voice. “Come on, Y/N, open the door! Let’s talk.”

Alpine, perched on the coffee table, let out an annoyed hiss, her tail flicking sharply as if she shared Bucky’s distaste for the situation. Bucky moved toward the door with deliberate steps, glancing briefly at the bedroom where Sam, Steve, and Nat were undoubtedly eavesdropping.

“Stay here,” Bucky instructed, his voice low and commanding. You watched as he reached for the door, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring.

The door creaked open, revealing Rhys standing in the dim hallway, his expression a mix of desperation and annoyance.

“What are you doing here?” Bucky’s voice was dangerously quiet, but the threat beneath it was clear.

Rhys crossed his arms, his gaze darting past Bucky into the apartment. “I’m here to talk to Y/N. This is between me and her, so if you don’t mind…”

“Oh, I mind,” Bucky shot back, stepping further into the doorway, blocking your view. “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“You don’t speak for her,” Rhys snapped, his voice rising. “Y/N!” he shouted, his voice cracking with frustration. “You can’t avoid me forever!”

The tension in the room was palpable, and you stood frozen, torn between staying put and stepping in. But before you could decide, Rhys’ voice dropped, and the words that followed sent a chill down your spine.

“I know what you’re hiding.”

Bucky’s entire body stiffened, his hand tightening on the edge of the door. His head tilted slightly, and though you couldn’t see his face, you could feel the shift in his demeanor. The calm before the storm.

“Excuse me?” Bucky’s voice was low, deadly.

Rhys scoffed, his tone dripping with false confidence, voice low while glancing shortly at you. “Don’t play dumb. I know about the Emporium. And I know about you.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, your breath catching as Rhys’ words hung in the air like a grenade waiting to explode. Alpine let out a sharp, warning hiss, her tail flicking wildly.

“Y/N,” Bucky called over his shoulder, his voice steady but laced with coldness that made your blood run cold. “Go to my room.”

“What? Why—”

“Now.”

The finality in his tone left no room for argument, and with a wobble in your step and the slight haze of alcohol still clouding your mind, you retreated into the hallway.

You staggered slightly, catching yourself on the wall as your eyes darted toward the only other door in sight: Bucky’s bedroom. Your curiosity—or perhaps your drunken instincts—propelled you forward. You weren’t sure why, but something about the tension in Bucky’s voice and the way he’d so urgently told you to leave made your heart pound faster.

The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly as you approached the door, your hand reaching out hesitantly toward the doorknob. You heard a faint shuffle from behind it—too faint for you to process fully in your current state—but enough to make you pause. Your fingers hovered above the cool metal, trembling slightly.

The voices from the other room grew louder for a moment before falling eerily silent, the tension almost palpable even through the walls. Your breath hitched as you gripped the doorknob tighter, the faintest click of the mechanism echoing in the stillness of the hallway.

The door began to give under your push.

Inside, Steve, Sam, and Nat froze mid-whisper, their eyes darting toward the door as it inched open.

tags: @winchestert101 @lomlbuckybarnes @lveegsoi @itsshellzy @almosttoopizza

@aami98 @hextech-bros @hzdhrtss @winterslove1917 @infqnitysblog

@ayayaeyato @blackbirdwitch22 @mostlymarvelgirl @bohoooitsme @crdgn

@yiiiikesmish @jae0515 @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @nikey-no-likey @aami98

@almosttoopizza @wisteriaandwafers @yiiiikesmish @marvelavengerspovs1 @xunquish-blog

@ppbhquinn @ziawbarnes @scott-loki-barnes @let-it-sn0o0ow @seven0714

@lostinspace33 @clockworkballerina @bonnie-bun

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eggcats · 4 months ago

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It's honestly so funny to imagine the canon timeline, except with the one difference that Alastor and Vox are together. They could have still sniped during Stayed Gone and Vox still sent a spy into the hotel, even. That's their enrichment.

Like, imagine Lucifer complaining about Alastor, and when Alastor - for the hundredth time - makes fun of him for his wife leaving, Lucifer snaps that at least HE had someone willing to put up with him!

And Alastor's just casually like, "Hmmm? Oh, I'm married, and MY spouse isn't missing, AND he welcomed me back with open arms when I returned from my sabbatical!" [Note: those open arms were so he could strangle Alastor, but that's besides the point.]

Lucifer doesn't believe a word. Every description Alastor gives about this Vox guy sounds more made up than the last. A television head? A tech mogul? The CEO and owner in charge of all of technology in Pride? The deer could have at least chosen something REALISTIC if he was so embarrassed about being called out for being single.

And then Lucifer MEETS Vox, and he's like, oh no. There's fucking two of them. Somehow, they just make each other WORSE. If Lucifer thought Alastor was bad on his own, now it's tenfold with Vox in the picture.

And Lucifer can't even SAY anything because the one time he tried, Alastor and Vox IMMEDIATELY went to Charlie to imply he was homophobic! He's not! They're just the worst and happen to be married! His issue ISN'T the relationship it's the fact that they make his life worse every second he sees them!

#hazbin hotel #alastor #vox #radiostatic #lucifer morningstar #hazbin alastor #hazbin lucifer #hazbin vox #staticradio

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dostoyevsky-official · 3 months ago

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The Crypto Plot Against America’s Gold Reserves

The crypto “industry” was one of the biggest spenders in the 2024 election. It practically single-handedly bought a U.S. Senate seat in Ohio, turfing out labor’s most reliable senator, Sherrod Brown, with $40 million in advertising. And it convinced Donald Trump to make a 180 with a big sack of campaign contributions. Back in 2021, Trump said crypto was a “scam,” but now he has his own coin, his media site is in discussions to buy a crypto exchange, and he’s fully bought into the claims that the industry is overregulated.

So now that crypto has bought great political influence, it’s time to cash in. How might this happen? The basic idea is to turn the American government into the biggest crypto bag-holder of all time. If the plan goes through, hundreds of billions of dollars of public assets will be spent or leveraged to buy a million Bitcoins, allowing the tiny minority of Bitcoin moguls to finally cash out their holdings into real money. It would be one of the biggest upward transfers of wealth in world history.

[...] Crypto shill Sen. Cynthia Lummis (R-WY) proposes the Treasury issue new gold certificates based on the market price [of American gold reserves], and use the resulting cash—$677 billion at current prices—to buy up Bitcoins. In total, her bill would require the government to buy up 200,000 Bitcoins a year for five years, until a “strategic reserve” of a million would be accumulated.

This is revealing on several levels. The whole ideology of cryptocurrency is that it’s supposed to be outside the alleged corruption of governments or the extant financial system. Instead of transactions taking place on platforms run by Wall Street and regulated by the D.C. swamp, fiercely independent crypto entrepreneurs would build new businesses doing … something … out in a fresh economic Wild West.

So why on earth would buccaneering crypto people want the government scooping up a million Bitcoins—or about 5 percent of all that exist? The reason is obvious: so paper Bitcoin billionaires can cash out their holdings into real money without tanking the market. [...] The fundamental value of Bitcoin is zero. Even by crypto standards, the coin is terrible.

[...] Therefore, for early Bitcoin adopters sitting on vast piles of purely speculative assets, there is a huge structural need to get new suckers into the market. For anyone concerned about the corrosive role of money in politics, think about what this means: The crypto industry spent something on the order of $100 million in this election to install a government that will lure sacrificial lambs to a digital asset slaughterhouse, and make a handful of big Bitcoin hoarders generationally wealthy in the exchange.

[...] No one has deeper pockets than the federal government. No need to directly pick the pockets of suckers looking for a get-rich-quick scheme if you can pick everyone’s pockets indirectly by looting a vast store of treasure held in trust for the American people. It’s a logical end point for a technology whose sole meaningful use case is enabling criminal extortion and money laundering: finally carrying out the bank robber’s dream of draining the value in Fort Knox.

#crypto

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seagulls-paradise · 3 months ago

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122 year old ghost ship, sitting abandoned in a Kentucky river. It was ridden a few times by Thomas Edison and appeared in a Madonna music video.

The U.S.S. Sachem was launched 10 years before the Titanic departed in 1902, initially a luxury ride for a railroad mogul and turned warship that powered through both world wars, including a few times with Thomas Edison aboard while he did wartime experiments.

During World War II the ship became outdated with new technologically advanced ships.

It was then purchased in the late 40s by a quickly-growing cruise line in New York City, and the Sachem became a recreational vessel once again used as a fishing and party boat, and later a sightseeing ship that ferried nearly 3 million people around New York.

It started her career as a cruise ship under the name, Sightseer, and eventually ending it as its final identity, the Circle Line V, in which the faded name that can still be found on her hull today.

How did it end up in its final location?

The vessel was purchased in 1986 by private owner Robert Miller with an attempt to repair it. But repairs didn’t go well. It reportedly took 10 days to move the ship from New York and after being navigated down the Mississippi by Miller and his crew, she was anchored on a small tributary off the Ohio River on Miller’s property. Water levels dropped so much that the ship became mired in the mud. Miller didn’t have the funds to move it so the ship sat there, never to sail again.

#maritime history #naval history #naval #pogi americano #naval artifacts

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firstoccupier · 3 months ago

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Setting Up an IRC Server for Secure Communication in a Future Insurrection

By WPS News Technical ReporterBaybay City | January 20, 2025 In an era marked by digital surveillance and control exerted by technology moguls, the need for independent communication platforms has never been more vital. As social movements and grassroots organizations rise to challenge existing power structures, the requirement for secure channels of communication is paramount. One viable…

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ghostlyarchaeologist · 2 days ago

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Leverage Redemption Season 3 Episode Titles

[Source]

E01 - The Weekend in Paris Job

On the run from a busted heist in Paris, the Leverage team finds themselves taking shelter among oligarchs auctioning off their home nations' precious resources. On the fly they have to create an entirely new con to take down the group's ringleader and save a well-intentioned activist.

E02 - The Digital Frankenstein Job

The team conducts a sting to snare a corrupt judge by using the perfect undercover briber - a completely virtual tech visionary generated by A.l. - only to watch as their "Digital Frankenstein" quickly spins out of control.

E03 - The Scared Stiff Job

Our team runs the ambitious "Christmas Carol" con on a wannabe cryonics mogul who coerces dying patients into exploitative contracts bankrupting the loved ones they leave behind. But when the mark escapes the artificial world the team has built, they must race to find his assets before the entire job is blown.

E04 - The Hustler Job

The crew takes on a phone scamming ring that uses deepfake technology to con their marks, run by an old school hustler who came up via the pool hall circuit. To infiltrate his organization, they have to best him on and off the felt.

E05 - The Grand Complication Job

When Sophie is abducted, rivals Parker and Astrid are forced into a desperate race against time to save her by securing the elusive "Grand Complication" Marie Antoinette watch. Unaware of each other's involvement, they embark on a high stakes quest to track her down before time runs out.

E06 - The Swipe Right Job

E07 - The Shakedown in Clone-Town Job

E08 - The Cooling Off the Mark Job

E09 - The Polygeist Job

E10 - The Side Job

#leverage #leverage redemption #season 3 updates #there are currently only the descriptions available for the first 5 episodes #also i am sure there used to be an episode called the end job #looks like its been renamed

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tobiasdrake · 1 year ago

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FUN FACT: Did you know Frieza had a finite amount of soldiers on Namek? (And he doesn't kill his troops.)

Also Appule is kind of important and there's a clearly marked place where Goku's six-day space journey happens in the timeline?

I have a laundry list of grievances with the Dragon Ball and DBZ animes. We're here to talk about one of those right now! The Z anime gives Frieza infinitely respawning soldiers that just seem to pour out of his ship whenever he needs them.

This interferes with a key plot point of Frieza's portion of the Namekian Dragon Ball hunt: That Frieza, for all his power, is rendered helpless when his attack on Moori's village goes south.

See these guys?

These guys ruin Frieza's entire goddamn week.

Get his ass, my Namekian thembruhs.

A consistent weakness of Frieza's forces is that they fight blind. By this point in the series, characters on Earth have been taught advanced fantasy martial arts involving manipulation of ki or chi. They can concentrate ki into attacks more powerful than the wielder, sense ki in other beings and feel incoming attacks without having to see them, suppress ki to become invisible to ki detection, etc. etc.

The Earthlings are goddamn amazing at ki manipulation, and the Namekians are just as good.

But Frieza's Planet Trade Organization represents the uncaring hand of capitalism. There is no artistry in their methods. There is no true discipline or understanding. They're a bunch of paid thugs with guns, looking to gentrify planets for their boss: a real estate mogul. So they rely on fallible technology that fails time and time again when put up against experienced martial artists.

The battle at Muri's village is no exception, as Frieza's forces get slaughtered by the "harmless" interlopers.

With only the elites vaguely understanding, from second-hand accounts, what they're seeing here.

Which, in turn, gives Muri the opening he needs to cripple Frieza's campaign by destroying the Scouters they're using to track down Namekian villages.

This is Muri's checkmate. Muri destroys the Scouters, the technology Frieza relies on to find Namekian villages on this planet and take their Dragon Balls. Meanwhile, his reinforcements wipe out Frieza's army.

That guy right is the only survivor of the massacre.

This is Appule. If you've ever wondered why Appule was so important that he got to be his own distinct character in Tenkaichi 3, this is why. Appule is the last grunt left standing.

Though Dodoria makes short work of the Namekian warriors, the damage is done. Frieza's lost his Scouters and he's out of manpower. He's going to have to fan his men out to search the planet, a planet larger than Earth, by looking around with their eyes. And the only men he has left to do that are Zarbon, Appule, and Dodo--

...are Zarbon and Appule.

So. Y'know. Frieza is two deaths short at this point of being completely and utterly fucked sideways.

As his two remaining men set out to search, Zarbon takes great care to tell Appule not to do anything that might get him killed.

It is absolutely pivotal for Frieza's campaign that these two live. There is no one else on this planet who can do the job. It's Appule who ultimately succeeds in finding the last Namekian village.

For some reason, in their eagerness to rewrite the story so that there are far more soldiers on Namek for some reason, the anime makes this Appule's vampire cousin?

Uh. Okay, man. Sure. In any case, it's Appule who finds the village and Appule who reports its destruction to Frieza. He's not a significant character by any stretch, but you can see why he warrants a bit more name recognition than Frieza Soldier #72. He has more impact on the plot that Cui does, that's for damn sure.

Too bad about Vegeta though.

It's a lot easier for Vegeta to get away with this gambit in the manga than it is in the anime. In the anime, somehow the infinitely respawning Frieza soldiers (who he regularly kills for funsies) flooding the halls don't give away the fact that Vegeta's still here.

But with Appule dead, Zarbon and Frieza are the only people left alive in the ship. It's a lot easier to distract two people for a minute than a limitless garrison.

In the manga, this is the closest Frieza ever gets to team-killing one of his own soldiers. Once he realizes Vegeta has stolen all five of his Dragon Balls, has a sixth Dragon Ball stashed away, and is now just one Dragon Ball away from immortality while Frieza's blind and understaffed? All because Zarbon fucked up?

He says some shit.

So. Yeah. He's not above killing his men when they fuck up so bad that they cost him immortality and give his most dangerous archnemesis the means to topple his empire and end him.

But that's a much higher bar to clear than shooting down his infinitely respawning dudes because, uh....

*checks notes* With the Ginyu Force on their way, Frieza can afford to kill his own guys because the Ginyus are better than them anyway. So he keeps them all in the ship and murders them for no reason despite the fact that Vegeta is actively making off with his Dragon Balls right this second and he has no idea to where.

Yeah. That's. Uh. That's a pretty significant story difference. In any case, Frieza's campaign grinds to a screeching halt when....

That's it. That is the very last one. Frieza's campaign is sunk. Until the Ginyu Force arrives, Frieza has no forces and no resources left. He is an unbelievably powerful man, the most powerful in the universe, and the only way he could ever hope to catch up to Vegeta is by flying aimlessly around a colossal planet and looking for Vegeta with his eyes.

I've often heard people express confusion about where Goku's six-day transit is supposed to fit into the Namekian timeline. This, right here? This is it. At this moment, it's over for Frieza. For the next five days, he is soundly defeated. He's out of the race for the Dragon Balls entirely.

And the only reason Vegeta hasn't won the race is because of that one Ball Gohan smuggled away from him.

So Frieza, defeated, is forced to sit in his broken ship with his thumb up his ass and wait for reinforcement.

Vegeta, with six Dragon Balls, is forced to sit on his balls with his thumb up his ass hoping the talented martial artist Earthlings currently suppressing their ki signatures get stupid and give him something to detect - knowing that if he leaves for a second, those little shits with the Dragon Radar might scoop 'em up from under him.

While Gohan and Krillin, with ki signatures suppressed, make the five-day trek at minimum power to Saichoro/Guru.

It's here. Right here. Where everything stops for five days to pass, and for Goku to approach the planet. All because Frieza ran dry on resources and manpower to keep up the hunt.

#dragon ball #dragon ball z #frieza

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audiobook00 · 7 months ago

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Discover the Visionary Journey of Elon Musk: Audio Book by Walter Isaacson – Now Free!

Dive into the captivating life of one of the most innovative minds of our time with Elon Musk by Walter Isaacson. This bestselling biography offers a deep exploration into the personal and professional life of the man behind Tesla, SpaceX, and groundbreaking technologies that are shaping the future. Written by acclaimed biographer Walter Isaacson, this audio book captures Musk’s relentless ambition, challenges, and his vision to change the world.

Whether you're an entrepreneur, tech enthusiast, or simply curious about what drives this iconic figure, this audiobook is a must-listen. Even better? You can get it for free! Don’t miss this opportunity to experience Musk’s journey firsthand.

👉https://amzn.to/4e5bBY6

Download today and be inspired by the story of a man who dares to push the boundaries of possibility.

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corzydoie · 4 months ago

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Plain Sight: Pt.1 - Veiled Whispers

Author's Note: After lying about my posting schedule for forever, I finally finished this piece. I kept getting caught up with school and having new ideas to add, but hopefully, this was worth the wait. I've already written the rest of the series and plan to post the next part later this week.

Summary: An unexpected connection between Fernando Alonso and an unconnected, unknown environmental activist blooms into a secretive romance. They bond in the shadows, navigating the pressures of fame and the struggle for privacy in a world where their connection must remain hidden. But apparently, Fernando isn't as good at keeping secrets as he thought...

Word Count: 4.4k

Content Warning(s): Use of the Word Slut, Age Gap (20s/40s), Dodgy Author Knowledge About Mentioned Topics, Briefly Proofread So Please Offer Some Grace!!

Don't Forget to Interact and Follow! Hope You Enjoy!

The hall buzzed with energy and light conversation as advocates, donors, sponsors, and simple celebrities mingled beneath the organization’s eco-friendly banners and flower canopies that gave the room a light floral aroma. Y/n scanned the room, her fingers tapping absentmindedly on the program between her manicured hands which contained a lineup of guest speakers, most unfamiliar to her. She’d agreed to volunteer today only after relentless encouragement from her friend, who had promised it would be “an eye-opening experience.”

Y/n’s passion for the environment had always driven her to unexpected places, but motorsports? She didn’t follow any series or know the names splashed across headlines. Her interest was in the development of green initiatives, the kind that could change communities and landscapes. This event, however, felt out of her element. It was difficult for her not to feel skittish and fidget with the recycled program in her hands as she prayed some motorsport mogul wouldn’t approach her.

A sudden ripple of murmurs swept through the crowd, pulling her from her thoughts. She turned to see what had captured everyone’s attention and found herself locking eyes with a man whose presence demanded notice. He was impeccably dressed with a charisma that hinted at fame she couldn’t quite place. He raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of amusement crossing his features as he nodded a polite greeting.

Unfazed, Y/n offered a curt smile before turning back to her duties. Whoever he was, he knew how to work a room. But for her, today was about one thing only: championing environmental causes, not mingling with affluent guests.

“Excuse me,” a deep voice interrupted Y/n’s concentration as she arranged promotional materials on the table. She looked up and found herself face-to-face with the man from earlier. Up close, his presence was even more striking, eyes sharp with a glimmer of curiosity.

“Are you one of the event coordinators?” he asked, tilting his head slightly as if genuinely interested.

“No, just a volunteer,” she replied, adjusting her skirt to calm her nerves. “But I care a lot about the cause, so I decided to help out.”

He smiled, a small dimple appearing that softened his otherwise commanding demeanor. “Good cause indeed. The intersection of environmentalism and motorsports is... not what most people would expect.”

“I know, right?” Y/n’s eyes lit up, her earlier reservations momentarily forgotten. “I think it’s fascinating how innovation in motorsports can actually influence sustainable technology beyond racing. It’s just that... well, people don’t seem to take it seriously. They assume it’s all about speed and luxury.”

He chuckled, nodding in agreement. “That’s true. Many don’t see past the noise and glamour. But there’s potential for change.”

Her gaze sharpened with enthusiasm. “Exactly. If these advancements could trickle down into everyday life, think of how much more efficient our energy use could be! Racing could be a testbed for new eco-friendly practices. It’s why I’m here—I want to support things that actually make a difference.”

Fernando’s expression shifted, subtly impressed. He’d expected polite chatter, not a deep dive into the intersection of green tech and motorsport philosophy. “You must know quite a bit about the field,” he said, keeping his tone conversational.

“Oh, not really,” Y/n admitted with a laugh. “I’m more of an environmentalist than anything. The motorsport side of this is a bit lost on me, honestly.” She raised an eyebrow. “What about you? Are you here as a guest speaker or just someone who supports the cause?”

For a second, Fernando hesitated, realizing you had no idea who he was. The familiar instinct to hold back, to maintain the thin veil of anonymity, kicked in. “More of a supporter. I’m mostly here to learn more about the cause,” he said, offering a noncommittal shrug. “I think there’s value in understanding how things connect, don’t you?”

She nodded, her expression brightening again, thankful she didn’t have to converse about motorsports, a topic she was clueless about, with a petrolhead that would quiz her on the significance of hybrid racing cars on track performance. “Absolutely. Connections are everything.”

Before he could respond, someone called his name from across the room—“Fernando!”—in a way that made it clear they knew him well. Y/n glanced at the source of the call, then back at him, curiosity sparking in her eyes.

But Fernando only offered her a subtle, almost secretive smile. “It was nice meeting you. I hope you find what you’re looking for here.”

And before she could ask more, he turned and blended seamlessly into the crowd, leaving her with a thousand questions, a sudden flutter in her chest, and a slowly creeping blush across her cheeks.

She didn’t see him for the rest of the night. Still, she thought of him during event cleanup, on her drive home, in the shower, and as she lay in bed unable to sleep, ultimately deciding to focus on what the next day might bring, as everything she came up with was boring enough to lull her into a dreamscape.

Y/n wanted to meet up with her friend the next day but decided against it. She knew the taunting that would come with retelling her meeting someone who ended up flooding her mind would be endless. Thankfully, Y/n already planned a vacation for a much-needed refresh away from the hustle and bustle of metropolitan living.

Fernando found himself on a white-sanded beach staring toward the endlessly blue horizon, secluded from the outside world that always seemed to have a camera pointed his way. After rough races these past weekends, he was thankful for some time off. He enjoyed the calming sounds of the waves and the lack of human presence until a faint mumbling could be heard not far from where he sat.

At first, he thought he might just be hearing things since he remembered being the only person on the beach when he arrived, but the sound drew closer and closer with each growing moment. He opened his eyes and saw what seemed to be a familiar figure, which looked in his direction. Fernando figured this person knew who he was as they sent him a shallow wave before walking in his direction.

He could recognize this person was a woman from where they originally stood, but as they drew closer, a faint memory from a charity event a couple of weeks ago flashed in his mind.

“Coincidence seeing you here,” the lady said as she shifted her sunglasses from her eyes to the top of her head. “Fernando, right? Mind if I sit here?” He instantly recognized her as the volunteer he shared a brief conversation with that day and gestured to the sand beside him, letting her know she was more than welcome.

“You were at the environmental motorsports event a couple of weeks ago, no?” Fernando asked as he watched her set down a floral beach towel. “Yep, that’s me.” The two sat in silence before the unnamed lady realized she had yet to introduce herself to Fernando properly.

“I’m Y/n by the way, apologies for not sharing that earlier,” she said as she reached a hand out for a handshake, which Fernando took in both of his, causing her heart to flutter slightly. “Pleasure to meet you again Y/n. So tell me, what brings you to this beach?” Although he initially meant for small talk to pass a couple of minutes, the two ended up talking on the beach for hours, eventually watching the sunset together.

Their conversations explored almost every topic under the sun, from Fernando’s ranking of the world’s best beaches and Y/n’s of nations with the largest carbon footprint to Fernando confiding in Y/n about the issues he faces in his life and career. Y/n could sense Fernando’s genuity from the way his posture relaxed and his words were purposeful to avoid any confusion about what he was feeling.

If he was being honest with himself, Fernando was a bit taken aback by the maturity she expressed in their conversations, and he’d be lying if he didn’t admit the attraction he felt that initially drew him to her all those weeks ago.

“I didn’t expect to find someone who could understand me at this stage in life, especially someone so young.” Fernando stared stoically into the sunset, trying to avoid eye contact with the beautiful young woman beside him, afraid his heart might flutter. He’d feel like a dirty old man being attracted to someone who appeared to be half his age, or even younger, who was sitting next to him in a bikini on what he considered the most beautiful beach on Earth.

“I never thought I’d connect with someone much older than me either, but life is crazy isn’t it,” Y/n said with a light giggle that caused Fernando to turn his head and smile at her. “Y’know, I’ve enjoyed all the conversations we’ve had so far, maybe we can connect again sometime?” she asked with a smile that signaled she was genuine about wanting to see Fernando again.

“Yeah, I’d like that!” Y/n immediately turned to grab her phone out of her bag to exchange contact information with Fernando while sharing parting pleasantries. Perhaps a small part of her felt like a whore, asking for an older man’s phone number, wanting to see him again, the uncontrollable butterflies she felt when their hands slightly brushed each other before parting ways. She knew this interaction and any future ones with Fernando would be kept close to her heart and locked in her mind, she was afraid of what her friends and family would think of her talking to someone like him. But a bigger part of her didn’t care, because she saw how he looked at her, and knew he felt the same.

After their chance meeting on the beach, Fernando and Y/n began exchanging messages sporadically. At first, their conversations were light and centered around the environment–Y/n sharing articles about conservation efforts and Fernando asking thoughtful questions that hinted at his growing interest in the topic.

What started as occasional texts quickly became more frequent. They discussed everything from their favorite books and movies to deep, wandering philosophical debates. Fernando found himself drawn to her passion and perspective, while Y/n appreciated his thoughtful nature and how he always seemed genuinely interested in their conversations.

When Fernando traveled for races, their messages became a welcome reprieve from his high-pressure world, while Y/n found their exchanges refreshing amid her demanding work. Over time, phone calls replaced texts, and their conversations stretched late into the night.

It wasn’t long before their connection grew undeniable. Fernando invited Y/n to meet him again, on a quiet beach near his home in Spain. He framed it casually–another chance to explore their shared interest in the environment–but his nervous excitement made it clear this meeting felt different. Y/n was equally curious and undeniably drawn to the man who had quickly become a comforting constant.

The sun dipped low over the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink as the waves lapped gently at the shore. Fernando and Y/n strolled along the secluded stretch of beach, their footprints the only evidence of life on the soft sand.

Y/n slipped her sandals off, letting the cool grains sink between her toes. She glanced at Fernando, who seemed lost in thought, his hands shoved into the pockets of his linen trousers.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she said softly.

He gave her a small smile. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous pastime,” she teased, nudging him with her shoulder.

He chuckled but didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the waves. “Y/n,” he began after a pause, his voice low and steady, “have you ever thought about how different our lives are?”

She stopped, tilting her head to study him. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, pulling a hand from his pocket to gesture vaguely. “You’re young, passionate, with so much ahead of you. And I…” He trailed off, looking down at the sand. “I’ve lived a lot of my life already. I don’t want to take anything away from you.”

Y/n frowned, stepping closer to him. “Fernando, where is this coming from?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not just the age gap. It’s everything. The world sees me differently than you do. I’ve built a life that people…notice. That comes with expectations and assumptions. And I worry what people will think when they see us together. What they’ll think about you.”

Her brows knit together. “Fernando, are you saying people will think less of me because of you? Or that I’ll think less of you?”

“No,” he said quickly, meeting her eyes. “Not you. Never you. But people might say things–things that aren’t true. They’ll question your motives, and assume you’re with me for the wrong reasons. And they’ll question me, too.”

Y/n stared at him for a long moment, the sound of the waves filling the silence between them. “I don’t care what people think, Fernando. I know why I’m here. I’m here because of who you are, not what you have.”

He studied her, his expression softening. “You’re sure? Even if it gets…complicated?”

She smiled, reaching to take his hand, “Life’s already complicated. You just have to decide who’s worth the complications.”

Fernando exhaled, a quiet laugh escaping him. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is,” she said, squeezing his hand. “We can worry about the rest when it happens. But for now, I’m choosing you. That’s all that matters.”

He stepped closer, cupping her cheek gently. “You’re remarkable.”

“You’ve mentioned that before,” she teased, her smile widening.

As the waves rolled in, cool water brushing their ankles, Fernando leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

Over the next few months, their connection grew through long calls and fleeting visits, each moment together strengthening the bond they had quietly formed. Though their lives often pulled them in opposite directions, Fernando and Y/n made time for each other, carefully navigating the delicate beginnings of their relationship.

On a crisp morning in the city, a few months into their romance, they found themselves at a quaint cafe, eager to share news that had been building in both their lives. They sat in a far corner, their usual spot regardless of the establishment, as they indulged in their choice of coffee and pastries. They’d been talking for hours, their laughter littering the atmosphere as they shared stories of their day-to-day lives. But as the conversation shifted toward something more serious, Y/n felt the need to tell him about her work.

“I’ve been working on some new projects,” she began. “The organization has been focusing on bridging the gap between sustainability and industries that often overlook it,” she explained as she took the finishing sip of her cappuccino.

Fernando looked at her with genuine interest painting his features, a slight smile drawn across his lips. “I think what you’re doing is amazing. It’s not easy, I bet.”

Y/n nodded, her eyes lighting up as she spoke. “It’s been a real struggle, but it’s worth it, you know? I’ve been mainly working on reducing the carbon footprint of the fashion and technology industries, but I’ve been diving deeper into how motorsports can play a role too.” She paused, then let out a slight chuckle, “I know it’s ironic, considering my complete lack of knowledge about cars and racing.”

Fernando reciprocated the chuckle, a hint of playfulness in his eyes. “I think you’d be surprised, you might have a lot more in common with motorsports than you think.”

Y/n slightly cocked her head in confusion, but before she could respond, she became aware of the slight murmurs coming from the rest of the patrons. Her eyes flickered around the cafe, noticing the subtle whispers and glances thrown their way. A few turned their heads, avoiding eye contact with her, while others held it as if trying to memorize Y/n’s face.

Y/n shifted uncomfortably in her seat, looking down at her empty cup, unsure how to react. Fernando noticed almost immediately, his brows furrowing in concern. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice laced with worry.

Y/n glanced around again before focusing on the man across from her. “Do you have any idea why people keep looking at us? Are we doing something weird?” she asked, slightly ducking her head, she now felt oddly insecure and self-aware.

Fernando’s expression softened as he took her hand, giving her a knowing look. “It’s not you,” he said simply, his voice quieter now. “It’s me.” Y/n tilted her head again in confusion, clearly not understanding what he meant.

“I’m a bit more…well-known than I think you realize,” Fernando continued, a sheepish smile playing at the corners of his lips. “People recognize me, whether I want them to or not. And when I’m out with someone…” he trailed off, a quiet understanding passing between them.

Y/n’s eyes widened in realization. “You’re…famous?”

Fernando nodded. “Something like that.” He laughed softly, though it was tinged with a hint of sadness. “I don’t usually talk about it much, especially with people who don’t know the motorsport world. It’s a bit much to take in sometimes, but it’s part of the package.”

Y/n sat in silence for a moment, processing the information. Her initial unease began to fade as she looked at him, but a new wave of curiosity washed over her. She never considered fame in the equation of their interactions, but now it felt like a weight had settled in the air between them.

“So, what’s it like?” she asked, almost shyly.

Fernando’s lips quirked into a small smile. “It’s a lot of eyes on you. A lot of expectations. A lot of whispers.” He paused, his gaze dropping to the table, a slight sadness creeping into his features. “It’s hard to keep things private when people know you.”

Y/n nodded thoughtfully, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. “I understand. You know, sometimes I struggle with the environmental work I do ‘cause it feels like everyone only has their eyes on the big guys. It’s hard to make your work known in such an overesaturated field.”

Fernando leaned forward, his tone shifting to something a little more serious. “I can help you with that, you know. With the work you’re doing, I mean. There’s an event coming up. It’s a big one, focusing on the steps motorsports are taking toward sustainability, and you’d be a great fit there. You could meet people in the industry, build some connections.” His eyes softened with sincerity. “It’s an opportunity for you to get your foot in the door.”

Y/n’s eyes brightened. “Really? That sounds amazing.”

He smiled. “Yeah. I’ll have you as my guest. I think it could be a good place for you.”

She smiled back, though her thoughts still lingered on the attention they were receiving. “Thank you, Fernando. I’d love to go.”

As their conversation continued, the stares from the other patrons in the cafe didn’t stop. Y/n couldn’t help but feel like the walls were closing in as more and more people gathered their courage to steal a glance at the couple. When they finally finished their coffees and stood up to leave, Fernando’s hand brushed against hers, and Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted.

A few days later, Fernando and Carlos found themselves on a sun-drenched golf course, the mid-afternoon light casting short shadows over the pristine grass. They had been friends for years, but there was something about how Fernando’s behavior had shifted recently that made Carlos more attentive than usual.

Fernando had been quieter and more withdrawn, and today was no exception. As they padded down the fairway, Carlos couldn’t ignore the subtle signs: the distracted glances, how his usually carefree demeanor seemed tethered to something more serious.

“You’re not yourself today,” Carlos remarked, glancing at Fernando, who was lining up his shot. “What’s going on?”

Fernando took a deep breath, setting the club down for a moment. “It’s…it’s nothing, really.” He turned to face Carlos, a rare vulnerability in his eyes. “It’s just… you know, there’s someone I’ve been seeing.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow, already sensing there was more to this than Fernando was letting on. “Someone special?”

Fernando hesitated. “Yeah, I guess so.” He glanced off in the distance, his eyes far away for a moment. “But it’s complicated.”

Carlos, ever the curious one, was quick to press. “Complicated how?”

Fernando’s gaze flickered to the ground, as though he was weighing the decision to share more. “It’s… the age gap. Between us. I’ve only told you because, well, I trust you. We’re keeping things low-key for now. People have a lot of opinions, especially about stuff like that.”

Carlos’ expression softened. He’d been Fernando’s friend through thick and thin, and while the news surprised him, he understood the need for secrecy. “You’re not the only one, mate,” he said, lightly patting him on the back. “Everyone’s got an opinion about relationships, especially in our world.”

Fernando nodded, grateful for Carlos’ understanding. “Yeah. So for now, it’s just between us.”

Later that evening, the glow of the event’s lights welcomed Fernando and Y/n as they drove up to the venue. Before they could leave Fernando’s Valkyrie, Y/n asked a question that was itching at the back of her mind.

“So what is it exactly that you do for a living?” Y/n refrained from searching for him online, afraid she would uncover something she would rather not know.

Fernando hesitated a bit, despite knowing it was better to come clean now. “Well, I’m a Formula 1 driver. This is an F1 event actually, all my colleagues will be inside.” When he turned to see Y/n’s wide-eyed expression, Fernando assured her she didn’t need to impress since nobody knew of their connection.

They stepped into the venue, which hummed with the energy of motorsport industry professionals, media personalities, and environmental activists alike. The venue was a sprawling, modern building, and the perfect backdrop for Y/n’s growing career in environmentalism. Fernando could see the spark in her eyes as she took in the scene, all hesitation from before evaporating.

But as they entered, Y/n immediately felt the need to distance herself, her instinct to blend in taking over. While Fernando introduced her to a few people, she spent most of the evening networking, making connections that would benefit her future work. She didn’t want to draw attention as someone’s girlfriend, especially Fernando’s. She kept her interactions professional, answering questions about her work the entire night, and steering the conversation away from anything too personal.

Fernando, however, wasn’t as good at keeping his emotions under wraps. His subtle mood changes didn’t go unnoticed by the drivers and other guests at the event. They could see how he smiled a little softer, how his eyes lingered when he looked at her. It wasn’t a mood they were used to seeing from Fernando–he usually kept everything too guarded to let his true feelings show. But tonight, there was a difference.

“Dude,” his teammate, Lance Stroll, asked him quietly, as they stood near the bar, “Is everything okay with you? You’ve been…different.”

Fernando blinked, his attention snapping back to the present. He offered a tight smile, trying to mask his swirling emotions. “Yeah, just…tired,” he replied, not wanting to reveal anything more. “Long day.”

But Carlos, who had been watching from a distance, could see through the façade. He pulled Fernando aside for a more private conversation.

“What’s going on, Fernando? You seem distant tonight,” Carlos asked gently, his voice carrying a tone of concern.

Fernando sighed, knowing it was time to acknowledge what kept causing his attention to drift. “The person I’m seeing, she’s here tonight. But I don’t want to draw too much attention to her.”

Carlos nodded in understanding. “You’re keeping it under wraps because of the age thing, right?”

Fernando gave a short, almost bitter laugh. “Yeah. That’s part of it. But it’s more than just that. We’re keeping things low-key because we don’t want the media or anyone making assumptions before we’re ready to deal with all that. It’s just…a lot, and she’s not used to it yet.”

Carlos glanced over to where Y/n was, still conversing with a group of guests, the contrast of her professionalism and the personal connection between her and Fernando hanging like a secret.

“I get it,” Carlos said softly. “But you can’t hide forever, Fernando. People are going to start asking questions, especially if your behavior keeps giving it away.”

Fernando sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I know. But this isn't just about me. It's her life, her work, her reputation. I want to protect her from the chaos in all of this."

Carlos' expression softened. "I understand. But if she's the one, and it sounds like she might be, you'll have to face it together at some point. People will talk, but if you're both sure about each other, it won't matter."

Fernando looked over at Y/n again, watching her with admiration and longing as her animated gestures lit up the conversation she was having across the room. She seemed so comfortable, so confident, even among strangers. That strength was one of the many things that drew him to her. He had always been the one to play things close to the chest, but this relationship–this person–felt different.

Carlos gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "For what it's worth, you look happier than I've seen you in years. Don't let anything get in the way of that."

“I know,” Fernando replied quietly. “But for now I want to protect her. And myself,”

As the evening continued, Fernando remained reserved, offering little more than polite responses to his fellow drivers. His connection with Y/n was too new and fragile, and he wasn’t ready for the world to know yet. Not until they were able to face it together. Their path forward wouldn't be easy, but Fernando knew as he watched Y/n laugh and light up the room, that she was worth every complication.

Written By: CorzyDoie <3

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