#then emails the scan to the client

[ms-demeanor]

You may have posted about this before, but im very curious about you saying "email was a mistake" because it's such a cemented part of online communication. Is it the technology?

Email became infrastructural in a way that it was never intended to be and wasn't designed for.

There is too much momentum toward email being the primary means of business communication that unless there is a massive technology shift we're unlikely to see wide adoption of an alternative and email takes up so much space in the IT space that it's hard to say what the alternative would be.

Much of what used to be email now happens in company chat apps, which I think is an improvement in many ways, but you chat with your coworkers in a way that you're unlikely to chat with a client or send a quote to a prospect.

A huge amount of effort goes into making email better, and making email systems talk to each other, and making email secure because it is so ubiquitous that you can't realistically ask people not to use it.

But it's fucking terrible and we're asking too much of a set of protocols that was supposed to send small, not-very-private, communications between academics.

Why can't you send big files via email? Because that's not what email is for.

Why is it a pain in the ass to send encrypted emails? Because that's not what email is for.

Why aren't your emails portable, and easy to move from one service to another? Because that's not what email is for.

Why are emails so easy to spoof? Because they were never meant to be used the way we use them so there was no reason to safeguard against that fifty years ago

It's like how social security cards were never meant to be used as one of your major super serious government IDs where all of your activity through all of your life is tracked, because if they knew they needed a system for that they probably would have built a better one in the first place.

Nobody who sat down and developed email looked more than half a century into the future and went "so people are going to be using this system to create identities to access banking and medical records and grocery shopping and school records so we'd better make sure that it's robust enough to handle all of that" because instead they were thinking "Neat! I can send a digital message to someone on a different computer network than the one that I am literally in the same building as."

We think of email as, like, a piece of certified mail that is hand delivered in tamperproof packaging to only the intended recipient who signs for it with their thumbprint and a retina scan when it is, instead, basically a postcard.

It would be absurd to try to do the things people do with email with postcards, and it's *nearly* as absurd to try to do them via email.

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Life Lessons || CL16

Summary: After an embarrassing secret is shared Charles accepts some help to learn a few things about female pleasure.

Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, fem rec oral, sex ed

WC: 2.9k

Charles - The Lazy Lover - Leclerc. That was what the wag gossip pages all shared in their stories and Charles’ cheeks grew red with embarrassment as he read the latest caption. The supposed ‘inside source’ had recounted the disappointment his past girlfriends had found in Charles’ bedroom activities. They cited him as ‘vanilla’ and ‘a missionary man’, but none of those hurt more than the sentence that described his oral capabilities as ‘nonexistent’.

He didn’t think he was bad in bed, and he wouldn’t have called himself selfish, but he couldn’t help asking some of his exes for the truth. Each of them denied sharing the information to the gossip pages, but they all replied with the same consensus.

Charles chased his own pleasure and they didn’t feel comfortable telling him what they needed to reach their own high too. He felt guilty, wondering how many of the relationships would have ended differently or not ended at all if he had paid more attention - to their sex life as well as the rest. He certainly hadn’t been the most attentive in any aspect of his last relationship with Alexandra.

“Don’t laugh,” Pierre started the conversation seriously, something that immediately caused concern for Charles. “I know someone who knows someone that can help you. She’s a private tutor, of sorts.”

“Do you know how fucked I would be if news broke I went to a hooker?”

“She’s not a hooker,” Pierre assured him as he wrote an address down on a napkin and slid it across the table. “It's already taken care of, 8pm tomorrow.”

Charles looked at the address and sighed. “This is in Paris.”

“Of course, City of Love, my friend.” Pierre finished his coffee and rose from the table, pushing a pair of sunglasses over his eyes. “You’re welcome.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Charles mumbled, still uncertain about the whole idea of having a stranger teach him how to be a better lover. “I guess.”

Later that afternoon, Charles received an email with a rather detailed questionnaire about his experiences in the bedroom as well as a small dining and drinks menu to select from. He figured he couldn’t be any more embarrassed than he already was and took his time to honestly answer the questions.

—

Charles debated turning around at least three times as he climbed the stairs in a modern apartment building. He had caught a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower from the stairwell window and paused as the lights danced along the metal, wondering if he was in the right place. He was still in half a mind that Pierre had sent him to a brothel, but this didn’t fit the stereotype he had in his head of a Parisian whorehouse. He definitely imagined more Moulin Rouge lighting and seedy alleys.

He reached the 3rd floor and found only one door on the landing, his finger barely able to aim for the doorbell with its shaking. He didn’t know what to expect when the handle started to turn, but it certainly wasn’t a bright welcoming smile and the delicious smell of fresh baking.

“Hi, you must be Charles,” you greeted your newest client. “Come in, please.”

You could tell he was nervous as he hesitantly stepped inside and his eyes scanned your home, taking in the artwork on the walls and the candlelit table with two place settings. You tried to ease his mind with a quick introduction about who you were while you poured him a glass of wine.

“Help yourself,” you said as you took a seat and waved a hand to the fresh bread and cheeses he had selected from the menu. He took a breath and sat down opposite you, the candlelight catching the sharp jawline and angular features of his handsome face. “So, Charles, what is your goal? What do you want to get out of this?”

“I, uh, to be able to please a woman?”

“You don’t sound sure,” you teased as you watched him spread an olive tapenade over the fresh toasted bread.

“No, no, I am,” he said a little more forcefully before sighing. “I didn’t realise I was…bad…in bed, until recently.”

“Well, rest assured, we will change that. But first, tell me a bit more about yourself, there’s only so much I can learn from the questionnaire.”

—

Charles began to relax the more he shared. He knew he was protected by the NDA you had sent with the rest of the paperwork and the anonymity that came with baring his ugly truths to a stranger helped to ease the discomfort of what he was doing. He still wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing but your encouraging smile kept his words flowing, like he was finally doing something right.

He hadn’t realised how quickly time had passed until the grandfather clock in the entrance chimed the hour and he saw he had eaten his fill of the meal he chose.

His overnight bag still waited on the hall table, the list of what to bring had been ticked off and double checked. His calendar had been cleared for the weekend and his phone turned off. Everything he needed to remember could be jotted down in the small journal that sat beside his used cutlery.

“So, um, what happens next?” he asked as his eyes darted to the bedroom door.

“Whatever you feel comfortable with, Charles. Come,” you rose from the table and grabbed his bag, taking it to your bedroom as he trailed behind. His feet rushed before slowing down as he caught his own eagerness and frowned to himself. It was common. There was a blurred line between of uncertainty on whether they were here to get laid or here to learn.

You placed his bag beside the large desk that covered one wall of your room and pointed to the computer chair where he took a seat. “Every woman is different and there isn’t a universal button to make us come. But, by understanding the physiological functions and anatomy, I will teach you the tools to find the right spots to make her fall apart.”

“A-anatomy?” he stammered.

You took a step back and unzipped your dress, letting it fall to the floor and bare your nakedness. His eyes widened and he swallowed deeply as he drank in your body. A soft breath fell from his parted lips when you climbed onto the desk and spread your legs either side of him. “I could show you a textbook, but I find this much more effective.”

His throat bobbed as he tried to keep eye contact and the act brought a little laugh from your chest, forcing him to look at your breasts bouncing with it. “You can look, in fact that is exactly what this first lesson is about. Look, Charles.”

His eyes closed but when they opened he was staring at your core, his chest inflating with his deep breath. “Do I just start?” he asked hesitantly, wetting his lips with his tongue.

“Just look for now,” you said with a smile as you reached down your body. “Everyone has erogenous zones, places that feel good when stimulated, and these can be found all over your body, men and women. Thumbs, wrists, behind the knees, inner thighs, neck. Simply kissing and sucking these spots can feel just as good as foreplay.”

“Really?” he eyes widened in surprise and his eyes scanned all the places you had mentioned.

“Really, and I want you to find mine.” You bared your throat and relaxed back on your elbows. “You’ll watch for the physical reactions to confirm it. Deep breathing, moans, eyes closing, jaw slack, forehead pinched - they are some of the outward signs of pleasure.”

“Are you okay with this?” he asked as he found your bent knee the closest point to his lips and his tentative touch warmed your skin.

“I am, and I am pleased that you asked for consent.”

He smiled proudly at the praise before he lifted your leg and kissed the back of your knee, his eyes watching your face as he dragged his tongue along the tendon and crease. Your head fell back and he grinned. “There.”

“One,” you confirmed with a nod before he moved up to your thigh, trying the same thing with a kiss and a lap of his tongue. A giggle bubbled up and you squirmed away. “That’s just ticklish.”

“So not that one?” he double checked, and you shook your head. “Okay…”

The man was thorough and he made sure to find which ones were good for you and which ones weren’t. He paid attention to the signs and more than once he paused to jot down a note in the journal you had provided.

“You’re a good student,” you praised.

“I have a good teacher.”

You smiled at the compliment. “Would you like to explore lesson two tonight or rest? We have all weekend.”

His eyes gave away his answer before his lips did and you climbed off the desk. “Let’s start with the basics then. The first thing you want to do is make yourself comfortable. Craning your neck from where you lie between her legs isn’t comfortable and won’t encourage you to stay there if things take a little longer,” you explained as you moved into the bed and tossed him a pillow. “So, pop one of these under the small of her back.”

He looked at the pillow and shuffled forward. “Now?”

“Mhmm,” you hummed, lifting your hips up so he could lay it in place. “Two things happen here, one, it lifts her hips higher for better access which your neck will be thankful for, and two, it tilts her pelvis down and makes it much easier to work her g spot.”

“I thought that was a myth.”

“Why don’t you find out?” you dared. “Did you clip your nails before you came?”

He looked at the short nails and wiggled his fingers with a nod. He had followed every instruction in the email.

“Good, the last thing you want is to accidentally cut a partner with a sharp nail. Now the technique most people find effective is palm up, one or two fingers, gently work your way inside - it’s all about timing, take it slow and build to begin. Once your fingers are inside, curl your fingers up and you’ll feel the tissue is softer, almost spongy. Massaging pressure over that stimulated the g-spot, and if you are good at multitasking you can then add pressure from the outside too. Just place a hand low on her abdomen, slightly above the pelvic bone - don’t press too hard though as it will push on her bladder. First though, you’d probably want to start with warming her up with some cunilingus, eating pussy.”

Charles hopped off the bed and grabbed the journal, quickly jotting down the instructions with quiet eagerness.

“You can practice if you feel comfortable,” you invited when he put the pen and page down.

“Uh, yeah, please,” he stammered as he knelt on the bed and shuffled closer.

You reached into the bedside drawer and grabbed a bottle of lube. “I don’t need this,” you said and he smirked as he saw the other outward sign you had explained - arousal - it already lubricated your slit with the thought of what Charles was going to do to you. “But you should always keep a bottle at home. All women are different, some are drier than others no matter how aroused they get. Or, it’s handy for other areas of play like anal, or even a sensual massage.”

You put the bottle back and settled among the pillows. “Use me, explore, feel the different textures and I’ll guide you if you need it. Remember to look and listen to the signs of pleasure.”

Charles nodded and settled between your legs, getting up close and personal with your pussy. His indecision held him frozen as he wondered where to begin so you offered some guidance. “Finding the clit is a good starting point and then exploring around it to find the sensitive spots. Lick, suck, kiss, try it all.”

Encouraged, he laid a tentative kiss on your slit, his eyes rolled up to watch for your reactions. Seeing nothing, he took aim and tried again, his lip brushing over your clit and a soft sigh reached his ears. More confident, his tongue flicked out and caught your clit making you jolt.

“Was that good or bad?” he asked with a frown.

“Both, that spot is very sensitive - think of the slit at the tip of your cock. When it’s primed and ready that feels amazing but straight off the bat it is a little shocking to the system. You’re in the right area though, so keep exploring.”

This time he circled his tongue around and your moan was louder. You could practically feel his smile on your skin.

“That feels good,” you hummed as warmth spread through your body and he reached up on his own initiative, massaging your breasts. “Oh, you’re a natural now.”

Inspired, he explored further, his tongue lashing along your slit, dipping into your cunt. Your back arched off the bed with a gasp so he delved deeper, fucking you with his tongue as a familiar tightening grew in your core.

“Now would be the perfect time to try to find the g-spot,” you murmured as you fought the urge to succumb to the pleasure, but the lesson wasn’t over.

His rhythm faltered with a fresh wave of nervousness and he pulled back with shiny swollen lips to drag his fingertips through the mess he had made. The slick digits started gently, dipping inside your cunt a little deeper each time until it met the resistance of his palm.

“Feel around for the different textures and then curl your fingers a little.”

He did as instructed and his lips parted in surprise as he felt the spot. “Oh, wow, I’ve never noticed that…”

Your laugh made your pussy clench and he chuckled as your walls tightened around his fingers. “I like that feeling,” he commented with a flirty smirk.

“I thought you would,” you said with a wink. “I also do lessons on male stimulation if you’re ever interested.”

“Like…gay?” he asked quietly, a frown starting to form on his brows yet it wasn’t a look of distaste.

You were intimately aware that he still had two fingers curled in your cunt but it was good that he felt comfortable enough to hold a conversation at the same time. “It’s about learning the male anatomy, like what we did here. Whether that knowledge is used for self pleasure or with a partner, male or female, that is up to them.”

He contemplated the idea for a moment before he remembered what he was doing and began to work his wrist, curling his fingers in sync so they dragged over that delicious spot. He watched your sordid reaction with fascination before he grew bolder, his tongue finding your puffy clit.

“Oh fuck, yes,” you moaned loudly as your pussy tightened in anticipation. He had read your body perfectly and flicked the tip of his tongue over your clit but this time you were primed and ready. Your orgasm began with a tingle through your hair, leading to a fine tremor that danced down your spine, it raced down your legs and curled your toes. “Oh, Charles!”

He moaned against your clit as his wrist snapped forwards and back, the wet sounds of your body filling the room as his fingers fucked you through the explosion. Your cunt clenched and spasmed around the digits and stars spotted your vision. Your head fell back into the pillows with a cry and liquid gushed over his fingers with the release.

Disoriented and overstimulated, you reached between your legs and placed your hand over his. “Please, too much,” you whispered with a hoarse voice and rough aftershocks snapping at your thighs. “That was so fucking good, Charles. I, I just need a minute.”

You threw an arm over your head, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you waited for your heart rate to calm again. A small laugh bounced from your chest as you came down from the high and you finally had the strength to prop yourself back up on your elbows.

“That was perfect, Charles, you are a very quick learner.”

He was busy staring at his hand, your release coating his palm and running down his wrist. “So that’s what an orgasm feels like?” His brows pinched as he realised he had never felt that before.

“It’s what this one felt like. They can be different based on what areas are stimulated, the intensity, intimacy, lots of factors.” You could see he was still disappointed in himself for his previous ignorance and you sat up slowly, crossing your legs as you faced him. “Just because a woman doesn’t orgasm it doesn’t mean she didn’t enjoy the experience. Does a blow job feel good before you cum?”

He shrugged, still a little unconvinced. “Yeah.”

“See, forgive yourself and move on, now you know what to do for next time.” You carefully climbed off the bed on unsteady legs and offered your hand. “Last lesson of the night, aftercare.”

He stood up and froze, looking down at his pants. “Sorry, I kind of, uh, um…”

“Why are you sorry?” you laughed, drawing his attention away from the damp patch on his trousers. “You are meant to enjoy pleasuring your partner. Never apologise for that, Charles.”

[heesvnqie]

Loose- Park Jongseong!Jay

pairing: Park Jongseong (Jay) x f!reader genre: smut, romance, angst, gym trainer AU, slow-burn warnings: explicit sexual content (18+, minors DNI), unprotected sex (wrap it up IRL!), oral sex (m receiving), rough sex, light bondage (wrists tied), dirty talk, teasing, begging, strong language, alcohol consumption, workplace tension, jealousy, emotional intensity word count: 6k a/n: Jay stans, this one’s for us. Thanks for the love!

Seoul’s skyline glitters like a promise, all sharp edges and neon dreams, and you’re right in the thick of it, chasing your own. You’re 22, fresh off a promotion at your marketing firm, and you’ve traded your small-town roots for a sleek apartment in Gangnam. Life’s fast here—meetings, deadlines, rooftop bars with clients who think they’re gods—but you thrive on the chaos. You’re not the type to shrink from a challenge; you meet it head-on, heels clicking, smirk sharp, always three steps ahead. Your colleagues call you a siren in a suit, and you wear it like armor. But there’s one place where your confidence wobbles, where your swagger’s a little less sure: the gym.

You’ve never been a fitness junkie. Sure, you’ve jogged a bit, done some yoga to destress, but weights? Machines? That’s a foreign language. Your new job, though, comes with expectations—image matters in Seoul’s corporate world, and you’ve noticed the way your fitter coworkers carry themselves, all sleek lines and quiet power. Plus, the stress is starting to creep in, tight in your shoulders, heavy in your chest. You need an outlet, something to ground you. So, you sign up at Iron Pulse, the trendiest gym in the city, known for its elite trainers and clientele who look like they’ve stepped out of a K-drama.

Your first session’s tonight, and you’re nervous—not that you’d admit it. You’ve spent an hour picking your outfit, settling on black leggings, a cropped tank, and sneakers that cost more than your first paycheck. Your hair’s in a high ponytail, your makeup subtle but sharp, because even if you’re about to sweat, you’re doing it with style. You’re bold, not reckless, and you’re not walking into this gym looking like a newbie.

Iron Pulse is intimidating from the jump. The lobby’s all glass and chrome, with a juice bar that looks more like a nightclub. The air hums with hip-hop beats and the clank of weights, and the people—god, the people—are sculpted, confident, moving with purpose. You check in, your heart a little faster than you’d like, and the receptionist points you toward the training area, where your trainer’s waiting.

You spot him before he sees you, and your breath catches, because fuck. Park Jongseong—Jay, your trainer, according to the email—is leaning against a rack of dumbbells, scrolling through his phone, looking like he was carved from marble. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair pushed back, a few strands falling into his eyes. His black compression shirt clings to every muscle, and his sweatpants do nothing to hide the power in his legs. He’s not just hot—he’s devastating, all sharp jawline and quiet intensity, with a presence that makes the room feel smaller.

You swallow, squaring your shoulders, because you’re not here to drool—you’re here to work. You stride over, your smirk in place, and he looks up, his eyes locking onto yours with a focus that makes your stomach flip. “You Y/N?” he asks, voice low, smooth, with a hint of a smirk that says he’s already sizing you up.

“That’s me,” you say, tilting your chin, matching his energy. “You’re Jay, I’m guessing? The guy who’s gonna make me regret signing up?”

He laughs, a soft, warm sound that catches you off guard, and pockets his phone, stepping closer. His cologne hits you—something woody, clean, like cedar and spice—and you have to remind yourself to breathe. “Only if you half-ass it,” he says, his eyes scanning you, not in a creepy way, but like he’s assessing your form, your potential. “You look like you can handle a challenge. Am I right?”

You grin, liking the bait. “I don’t just handle challenges, Jay. I eat them for breakfast.”

His smirk widens, and he nods, like he’s impressed but not surprised. “Good. Let’s see if you back that up. Follow me.” He turns, leading you through the gym, and you follow, your eyes traitorously glued to the way his shoulders move, the flex of his back. Focus, Y/N, you tell yourself, but it’s hard when he’s built like a goddamn Greek god.

He takes you to a quiet corner with a treadmill, some mats, and a rack of weights that look like they could crush you. “We’re starting simple,” he says, handing you a water bottle, his fingers brushing yours, sending a spark up your arm. “Warm-up, then we’ll test your baseline—strength, endurance, flexibility. I need to know what I’m working with.”

You nod, taking a sip, your lips where his might’ve been, and you catch the way his eyes flick to your mouth, just for a second. “Fair warning,” you say, setting the bottle down, “I’m stubborn as hell. Don’t go easy on me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, stepping onto the treadmill beside you, setting it to a brisk walk. “Keep up, and tell me about yourself. Why’re you here?”

You match his pace, your sneakers hitting the belt, and you give him the short version—new job, high stress, wanting to feel stronger, sharper. He listens, really listens, his eyes on you, not judging, just absorbing. “Sounds like you’re carrying a lot,” he says, when you finish, his voice softer now. “Gym’s good for that. You can leave all that shit at the door.”

You glance at him, surprised by the empathy, but you play it off, smirking. “What, you moonlight as a therapist too?”

He chuckles, upping the treadmill speed, and you curse under your breath but keep up. “Nah, just seen a lot of people come through here with baggage. Including me.” He doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t push, but there’s something in his tone—something real, raw—that makes you want to know more.

The warm-up’s brutal—sprints, lunges, push-ups that make your arms scream—but Jay’s there, counting reps, correcting your form with a hand on your back, your shoulder, light but firm, sending heat through you every time. He’s professional, but there’s an edge to his touch, a spark in his eyes when you nail a set, like he’s proud but also… something else. You’re dripping sweat by the end, panting, but you feel alive, electric, and he’s grinning, tossing you a towel.

“Not bad for a first day,” he says, wiping his own face, his shirt clinging even tighter now, and you have to look away before you do something stupid, like lick your lips. “You’re tougher than you look, Y/N.”

“Don’t let the heels fool you,” you say, catching your breath, your grin sharp. “I’m a lot.”

He laughs, low and warm, and steps closer, handing you your water. “I’m starting to get that,” he says, his voice dropping, his eyes holding yours a beat too long. “Let’s cool down. Stretches.”

The stretches are torture, not because they hurt, but because Jay’s hands are on you, guiding your hips, pressing your shoulders, his voice low and steady in your ear. “Breathe into it,” he says, his fingers brushing your lower back as you bend forward, and you do, but it’s not the stretch making your heart race. You’re bold, but he’s got you flustered, your usual swagger faltering under his touch, his gaze.

By the end, you’re a mess—sweaty, flushed, and embarrassingly turned on. He walks you to the locker room, his demeanor back to professional, but there’s a glint in his eyes, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “Same time Wednesday,” he says, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, biceps bulging. “Don’t be late, or I’ll make you do extra burpees.”

You smirk, recovering enough to fire back. “Only if you do them with me, Jay.”

He grins, shaking his head. “You’re trouble,” he says, and then he’s gone, leaving you buzzing, your body humming with want, your mind already counting down to Wednesday.

The next few weeks are a dance of sweat and tension. Jay’s your trainer three times a week, and every session’s a masterclass in restraint—his and yours. He pushes you hard, adding weights, upping reps, but he’s always there, spotting you, praising you when you crush it, calling you out when you slack. His hands are everywhere—correcting your squat, steadying your plank—and every touch lingers, every glance burns. You’re drooling over him, and you’re not subtle, but you’re not crossing that line, not yet. He’s your trainer, and you’re his client, and that boundary’s a tightrope you’re both walking.

You’re not alone in noticing him. The gym’s full of women—and some men—who eye Jay like he’s dessert, whispering about his abs, his smile, his everything. You hear it in the locker room, see it in the way they linger by his station, but Jay’s oblivious, or at least he acts like it. His focus is on you during your sessions, intense, unwavering, like you’re the only person in the room. It’s heady, addictive, and it’s driving you insane.

Your best friend, Min-ji, is your lifeline through this. She’s a graphic designer, all sass and zero filter, and she’s been screaming at you to “just jump him already” since you told her about Jay. You meet her for drinks at a rooftop bar one Friday, spilling everything—his smirk, his hands, the way he says your name like it’s a secret.

“Girl, you’re drooling,” Min-ji says, sipping her cocktail, her grin wicked. “I mean, I get it. He sounds like sex on legs. But what’s stopping you? You’re not exactly shy.”

You groan, leaning back in your chair, the city lights sparkling below. “He’s my trainer, Min-ji. It’s… complicated. Plus, what if I make a move and he’s not into it? I’d have to find a new gym, and I’m not starting over.”

She rolls her eyes, tossing her hair. “Please. The way you describe him looking at you? He’s into it. He’s just playing by the rules. You need to break them.” She leans closer, her voice dropping. “Wear something extra hot next session. Push his buttons. See how long he lasts.”

You laugh, but the idea sticks, because you’re tired of waiting, tired of the game. You want Jay, bad, and you’re not above playing dirty to get him.

Wednesday’s session is your breaking point. You take Min-ji’s advice, showing up in a new set—tiny black shorts, a sports bra that’s more fashion than function, your hair loose because you know he likes it that way. Jay’s waiting by the squat rack, and when he sees you, his jaw tightens, just for a second, before his smirk slides into place.

“New gear?” he asks, his voice neutral, but his eyes are anything but, lingering on your legs, your waist, your everything.

“Thought I’d switch it up,” you say, brushing past him, your shoulder grazing his arm, sending a spark through you. “You like?”

He clears his throat, stepping back, but you catch the heat in his gaze. “Looks… functional,” he says, but his voice is rougher, and you grin, knowing you’ve got him.

The session’s brutal—squats, deadlifts, bench presses—but the real torture’s the tension. Jay’s closer than usual, his hands firmer, his voice lower, and you’re pushing back, matching his energy, flirting with every rep, every stretch. You catch him watching you in the mirror, his eyes dark, hungry, and you know you’re both close to snapping.

During the cool-down, he’s behind you, guiding your hips into a stretch, his hands hot, his breath on your neck. “Lower,” he murmurs, and you comply, arching your back, feeling him tense behind you. You turn your head, catching his eye, and the air crackles, thick with want.

“Careful, Jay,” you whisper, your voice teasing, daring. “You’re playing with fire.”

He chuckles, but it’s strained, his hands tightening on your hips for a second before he steps back, his smirk shaky. “You’re the one lighting matches, Y/N,” he says, and then he’s walking away, leaving you panting, your body screaming for him.

That night, you’re home, pacing, your mind a mess. You text Min-ji: I’m gonna lose it. He’s too fucking hot, and I’m too weak. She replies with a string of laughing emojis and a voice note: “Babe, he’s weak for you too. Next session, make your move. Life’s too short for this slow-burn bullshit.”

You know she’s right. You’re bold, you’re fierce, and you’re done waiting. Jay’s your trainer, your tormentor, your everything right now, and you’re ready to risk it all. Wednesday’s a line in the sand—either you cross it, or you burn out trying.

You’re not the type to lose sleep over a man, but Park Jongseong—Jay, your gym trainer—is making a liar out of you. It’s been two weeks since that first session at Iron Pulse, where his hands, his voice, his everything left you rattled in ways you didn’t expect. You’re bold, always have been—your career’s built on sharp words and sharper decisions—but Jay’s got you second-guessing your game, your swagger, your sanity. Every session’s a war between your confidence and the way he makes your pulse race, and you’re starting to think you’re losing.

It’s Monday evening, and you’re back at Iron Pulse, the gym’s neon lights buzzing overhead, hip-hop pounding through the speakers. You’ve upped your game since last week, wearing a new set—crimson sports bra, matching leggings that hug every curve, your hair in a sleek braid because you caught Jay’s eyes lingering on it last time. You’re not here to play subtle; you’re here to push his buttons, to see how long he can keep that professional mask before it cracks. Min-ji’s voice echoes in your head: Push his buttons. See how long he lasts. You’re ready to test that theory.

Jay’s by the cable machines, setting up for your session, his black compression shirt doing unholy things to his biceps, his sweatpants slung low enough to make you glance twice. He’s focused, adjusting weights, but when he sees you, his eyes darken, just for a second, before his smirk slides into place. “Y/N,” he says, voice smooth, like he’s saying your name for the first time. “Looking like trouble again.”

You grin, dropping your gym bag with a thud, your chin tilted up. “Trouble’s my middle name, Jay,” you say, stepping closer, close enough to catch his cologne—cedar, spice, a hint of sweat that’s unfairly intoxicating. “You ready to keep up with me today?”

He chuckles, low and warm, crossing his arms, his biceps flexing in a way that makes your mouth dry. “Question is, can you keep up?” he says, nodding toward the machines. “We’re hitting legs and shoulders today. No slacking, or I’m adding sprints.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re buzzing, your blood already hot from his challenge. “Bring it, boss,” you say, brushing past him, your shoulder grazing his arm, sending a spark through you. He doesn’t flinch, but you feel his eyes on you, tracking your stride, and you know you’ve got his attention.

The session’s brutal—squats, shoulder presses, lunges that set your thighs on fire. Jay’s relentless, counting reps with that steady voice, his hands correcting your form, light but deliberate, leaving heat in their wake. “Hips back,” he says, his palm on your lower back during a squat, and you comply, but you arch just a little more, knowing it’ll drive him nuts. His fingers tense, just for a second, before he steps back, his jaw tight.

“Good,” he says, voice rougher now, and you smirk, catching his reflection in the mirror. He’s watching you, not just your form, but you—the sweat on your neck, the way your braid swings, the curve of your hips. You’re winning this round, and it feels fucking good.

Halfway through, he hands you a water bottle, his fingers brushing yours, lingering a beat too long. “Hydrate,” he says, but his eyes are on your lips, and you take a slow sip, letting a drop spill down your chin, wiping it with the back of your hand, never breaking eye contact.

“Thanks, Jay,” you say, voice sweet but sharp, and his smirk falters, his gaze dropping to the floor before he recovers. Got you, you think, but you’re not sure who’s got who anymore.

The session ends with stretches, and this is where he kills you. He’s behind you, guiding your arms into a tricep stretch, his chest brushing your back, his breath warm on your neck. “Hold it,” he murmurs, his hands on your shoulders, pressing gently, and you do, but you’re trembling, not from the stretch but from him—his heat, his scent, his voice. You turn your head, catching his eye, and the air shifts, heavy, electric.

“Careful, Y/N,” he says, voice low, a warning wrapped in want. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”

You grin, leaning back just enough to feel him tense. “Maybe I like it hard,” you whisper, and his hands freeze, his breath hitching, before he steps back, his smirk strained, his eyes dark with something you’re dying to name.

“Session’s over,” he says, voice clipped, but he’s not moving, not looking away, and you know you’re both teetering on a line you’re desperate to cross. You grab your towel, tossing it over your shoulder, and saunter toward the locker room, feeling his gaze burn into your back. Game on, Jay.

The next few sessions are a dance of push and pull. You’re bolder every time—tighter outfits, cheekier banter, brushing against him “accidentally” during sets. Jay’s a pro, keeping his cool, but you see the cracks—his jaw clenching when you laugh at his jokes, his hands lingering when he spots you, his voice dropping when he says your name. You’re drooling over him, and you’re not hiding it, but he’s got you just as bad, and you both know it.

Min-ji’s your hype woman, meeting you for coffee between sessions, her eyes glinting with mischief as you spill every detail. “He’s gonna snap soon,” she says, stirring her latte, her grin wicked. “No man’s that disciplined. Keep pushing, babe. Wear that red set again, but, like, accidentally forget your water bottle. Make him chase you.”

You laugh, but you’re already plotting, because Min-ji’s right—Jay’s holding back, but he’s human, and you’re ready to break him. Your next session’s Wednesday, and you’re planning to up the ante, but life throws a curveball first.

Friday night, Iron Pulse hosts a “client appreciation” event—a fancy term for a gym party with free drinks, a DJ, and a chance to mingle outside the usual sweat-soaked setting. Min-ji convinces you to go, because “Jay’s gonna be there, and you need to see him in something other than a compression shirt.” You’re skeptical, but you show up, because if Jay’s there, you’re not missing it.

The gym’s transformed—lights dim, neon strobes, a bar set up where the juice counter usually is. The crowd’s a mix of trainers, clients, and fitness influencers flexing for Instagram. You’re in a black dress, tight enough to turn heads, heels that make your legs look endless, your hair loose because you know Jay’s a sucker for it. Min-ji’s beside you, in a sparkly mini, already scanning for her own target—a cute spin instructor she’s been eyeing.

You spot Jay across the room, and your heart stutters. He’s in a fitted black blazer, white shirt unbuttoned just enough to show his collarbone, dark jeans that hug his thighs. He’s laughing with a group, a drink in hand, his hair styled back, and he’s so fucking gorgeous you forget how to blink. He hasn’t seen you yet, and you take a moment to compose yourself, sipping your vodka soda, your smirk sharpening.

“Damn, he cleans up nice,” Min-ji whispers, nudging you. “Go get him, tiger.”

You’re about to, but then you see her—a leggy brunette in a red dress, all smiles and touches, leaning into Jay’s space, her hand on his arm. He’s not reciprocating, but he’s not pulling away either, and something hot and ugly twists in your chest. You’re not jealous—not exactly—but you don’t share, and you’re not about to let this slide.

“Hold my drink,” you tell Min-ji, handing her your glass, your grin dangerous. She cackles, knowing shit’s about to go down, and you stride across the room, your heels clicking, your confidence a blade.

“Jay,” you say, sliding into his group, your voice sweet but sharp, cutting through the brunette’s laugh. His eyes snap to you, and for a second, he’s speechless, his gaze raking over your dress, your legs, your everything. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Having fun?”

He recovers fast, his smirk sliding into place, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “Y/N,” he says, voice low, like it’s just you two in the room. “You look… good.” The way he says it, it’s not just a compliment—it’s a promise, and you feel it in your bones.

The brunette glances between you, her smile faltering, and you don’t bother hiding your smirk. “Thanks,” you say, stepping closer, your hand brushing his blazer, deliberate, claiming. “You’re not looking too bad yourself. New look?”

He chuckles, sipping his drink, his eyes locked on yours over the rim. “Trying something different,” he says, but there’s an edge to his voice, like he’s daring you to keep this going. The brunette clears her throat, trying to interject, but you’re already in, and Jay’s not stopping you.

“Mind if I steal him for a sec?” you say, not waiting for her answer, grabbing Jay’s wrist and tugging him toward the bar. He follows, no resistance, his laugh low and warm behind you, and you feel the brunette’s glare, but you don’t care. You’ve got his attention, and you’re keeping it.

At the bar, you let go, leaning against the counter, your smirk sharp. “She seemed nice,” you say, voice dripping with sarcasm, and Jay raises an eyebrow, leaning close, his elbow brushing yours.

“Jealous, Y/N?” he asks, his voice teasing, but his eyes are serious, searching. “Didn’t think you cared who I talked to.”

You laugh, tossing your hair, but your chest’s tight, because he’s right—you do care, and it’s pissing you off. “Please,” you say, stealing his drink, taking a sip, your lips where his were. “I just saved you from a bad decision. You’re welcome.”

He grins, stepping closer, his hand brushing your hip, light but deliberate. “Maybe I like bad decisions,” he murmurs, his voice low, and you feel it everywhere—your skin, your pulse, your core. You’re bold, but he’s got you reeling, and you hate it, love it, want it.

“Careful, Jay,” you say, your voice steady despite the heat in your veins. “You’re playing with a pro.”

He laughs, his hand lingering, his breath warm on your ear. “Oh, I’m counting on it,” he says, and then he steps back, grabbing a new drink from the bartender, leaving you buzzing, your body screaming for more.

The night’s a blur after that. You dance with Min-ji, laugh with strangers, but Jay’s always there, a shadow in your peripheral, watching, waiting. You catch him with the brunette again, her hand on his chest, and you grit your teeth, downing a shot, because fuck that. You’re not possessive—not usually—but Jay’s different, and you’re done pretending he’s not.

Min-ji pulls you aside, her eyes glinting. “You’re about to snap, aren’t you?” she says, handing you a water because she knows you’re tipsy.

“Not letting go,” you say, your grin sharp, because you’re in too deep, and you know it. You’re bold, you’re fierce, and you’re ready to burn for this.

Wednesday’s session is a fucking warzone. You show up in the red set Min-ji loved, the one that’s basically a dare—tiny shorts, a bra that’s more straps than fabric, your hair loose, wild. Jay’s waiting by the deadlift platform, and when he sees you, his jaw clenches, his eyes dark, hungry, like he’s fighting every instinct to stay professional.

“Y/N,” he says, voice clipped, but his gaze is anything but, roaming your body like he’s memorizing it. “You trying to distract me?”

You smirk, stepping close, your hand brushing his arm, deliberate. “Is it working?” you ask, voice low, and his smirk falters, his breath hitching.

“Focus,” he says, but his voice is rough, and you know you’ve got him. The session’s intense—deadlifts, pull-ups, kettlebell swings—but the real battle’s the tension. His hands are on you, correcting your grip, your stance, and every touch is electric, lingering, making you ache. You push back, flirting with every rep, every stretch, and he’s struggling, his composure cracking.

During a break, you’re both panting, sweat-slicked, and he hands you a towel, his fingers brushing yours, not pulling away. “You’re killing me,” he murmurs, so low you almost miss it, and you freeze, your heart slamming, because fuck, he just said that.

“Good,” you say, stepping closer, your voice a challenge. “Maybe you deserve it.”

He laughs, but it’s strained, his eyes locked on yours, and you’re so close you could kiss him, right here, in the middle of Iron Pulse. But then a client calls his name, and he steps back, his smirk shaky, his eyes promising later.

That night, Min-ji drags you to a group outing—a dive bar with some Iron Pulse trainers and clients, including Jay. It’s casual, all beer and laughter, but the air between you and Jay’s charged, every glance a spark. You’re in jeans and a crop top, nothing fancy, but Jay’s eyes are on you, dark and intent, like you’re the only one in the room.

You end up next to him at the bar, your thighs brushing, and he leans in, his voice low. “You’re making this real hard, Y/N,” he says, his hand on your knee, light but possessive, and you feel it everywhere.

“Hard’s my specialty,” you say, sipping your beer, your grin sharp, and he groans, low and quiet, his hand tightening.

“Fuck, you’re trouble,” he murmurs, but he’s smiling, and you know he loves it. You’re both tipsy, loose, and when he pulls you onto the dance floor, his hands on your hips, your bodies moving to the beat, it’s like foreplay, every touch a promise, every glance a dare.

You’re grinding against him, your back to his chest, his breath hot on your neck, and you feel him, hard and wanting, pressed against you. “Y/N,” he groans, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you closer, and you turn, your lips so close you’re sharing breath.

“Jay,” you whisper, your voice all want, and for a second, you think he’s gonna kiss you, right there, in front of everyone. But he pulls back, his forehead against yours, his breath ragged.

“Not here,” he says, voice rough, like it’s killing him to stop. “Not like this.”

You’re panting, your body screaming, but you nod, because he’s right—this isn’t a quick fuck in a bar. You want him, all of him, and you’re willing to wait, but not much longer.

The next session’s a fucking nightmare. You’re both raw, on edge, the bar night a wound you’re both picking at. You show up in black, tight and unforgiving, and Jay’s in a grey tank, his arms glistening with sweat, his focus razor-sharp but brittle. The workout’s brutal—box jumps, battle ropes, planks that make you shake—but the real torture’s the silence, the way you’re both holding back, afraid to break.

During a plank, he’s over you, checking your form, his hands on your hips, and you collapse, not from exhaustion but from him—his touch, his scent, his everything. “Y/N,” he says, voice low, worried, and you roll onto your back, panting, looking up at him, your eyes saying what your mouth won’t.

“Jay,” you say, voice cracking, and he kneels, his hand on your wrist, his thumb brushing your pulse.

“You okay?” he asks, but it’s more than the plank, and you both know it.

“No,” you say, sitting up, your face inches from his. “I’m not okay. You’re driving me fucking insane.”

He freezes, his eyes searching yours, and then he laughs, soft and broken, his forehead against yours. “You think you’re the only one?” he murmurs, his voice raw. “I’m losing it, Y/N. Every fucking session.”

You’re trembling, your hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat, fast and hard, matching yours. “Then do something,” you whisper, your voice a plea, a dare, a prayer.

He groans, his hand on your jaw, tilting your face up, and then he’s kissing you, hard and desperate, like he’s been starving for this. It’s not sweet—it’s a clash, all teeth and tongue, your hands in his hair, pulling, his gripping your waist, pulling you closer. You’re on the gym floor, the world fading, just you and him, sweat and want and finally.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he gasps, pulling back, his lips swollen, his eyes wild. “We can’t—not here.” He’s right, the gym’s not empty, and you’re both crossing lines, but you don’t care, not when he’s looking at you like that.

“Then where?” you ask, voice rough, desperate, and he laughs, standing, pulling you up, his hand on your lower back.

“My place,” he says, voice low, a promise. “Friday. After the session. No more games.”

You nod, your heart slamming, because Friday’s two days away, and you’re not sure you’ll survive the wait. But you’re bold, you’re fierce, and you’re ready to burn for this.

It’s been three weeks since you walked into Iron Pulse, all confidence and sharp edges, expecting to own the gym like you own everything else. Instead, Jay’s got you drooling, flustered, your bold facade crumbling every time his hands graze your skin or his voice drops low. That kiss last week—desperate, messy, on the gym floor—was a grenade, and you’re both still reeling from the blast. Now it’s Friday, your next session, and you’re ready to burn it all down.

You’re in the locker room, prepping for battle. You’ve gone all out—black sports bra, barely there, with crisscross straps that scream look at me; leggings so tight they’re practically painted on, hugging every curve; your hair loose, because you’ve seen Jay’s eyes linger when it’s down. Underneath, a red lace set, because Min-ji’s voice is in your head: Wear the red. He’s done for. You’re not just here to lift weights; you’re here to break him, to see how long he can play professional before he’s begging for you. Your phone buzzes—Min-ji, of course: Babe, u gonna snap his neck or his dick tonight? Either way, I want the tea. You laugh, texting back: Both. Stay tuned. She sends a skull emoji, and you’re grinning, because she’s been rooting for this chaos since day one.

Iron Pulse is alive tonight—neon lights pulsing, hip-hop blaring, the air thick with sweat and ego. You stride in, your heels swapped for sneakers, but you’re still carrying yourself like you’re in stilettos, all swagger and steel. Jay’s by the squat rack, setting up, his grey tank clinging to his chest, sweat already beading on his forearms, his dark hair pushed back, a little messy. He’s a fucking sculpture—broad shoulders, narrow waist, thighs that could crush you—and when he sees you, his smirk falters, his eyes raking over you, dark and hungry, like he’s already fighting himself.

“Y/N,” he says, voice low, smoother than the whiskey you downed last night. “You’re late.”

You smirk, dropping your gym bag, stepping close enough to catch his cologne—cedar, spice, a hint of sweat that makes your head spin. “Worth the wait, though, right?” you say, tilting your chin, letting your hair fall over one shoulder, knowing it’s driving him nuts.

His eyes flick down—bra, waist, thighs—before snapping back to yours, his jaw tight. “You’re here to work, not distract,” he says, but his voice is rough, like he’s convincing himself, and you know you’ve got him on the ropes.

“Multitasking’s my specialty, Jay,” you say, brushing past him, your shoulder grazing his arm, sending a spark through you. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”

He laughs, low and sharp, but it’s strained, and you’re already winning. The session’s brutal—squats, deadlifts, bench presses that make your arms scream—but the real torture’s the tension. Jay’s hands are everywhere—on your hips, correcting your squat; on your shoulders, steadying your press; brushing your waist, guiding your form. Every touch is electric, lingering, and you’re pushing back, flirting with every rep, arching just a little more, grinding just a little harder, watching his composure crack.

“Lower,” he says, his palm on your lower back during a deadlift, and you bend, slow, deliberate, your ass brushing his thigh, making him hiss under his breath. You straighten, catching his reflection in the mirror—eyes dark, jaw clenched, like he’s one second from losing it.

“Like that?” you ask, voice sweet but venomous, and he steps back, his hands flexing, like he’s restraining himself.

“Focus, Y/N,” he says, but his voice is gravel, and you know you’re under his skin. You’re both sweating, panting, and when he hands you a water bottle, your fingers brush, and you don’t pull away, letting the contact linger, your eyes locked on his.

“Thanks, Jay,” you say, taking a slow sip, letting a drop spill down your chin, wiping it with your thumb, and his gaze follows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Got you, you think, but you’re just as fucked, your body screaming for him, your pride the only thing keeping you from jumping him right here.

The session ends with stretches, and this is where he kills you. He’s behind you, guiding your hips into a lunge, his hands hot, his breath on your neck. “Breathe,” he murmurs, his fingers digging into your waist, and you do, but it’s not the stretch making you tremble—it’s him, his heat, his control. You turn your head, catching his eye, and the air crackles, thick, heavy, like you’re both daring the other to break.

“Jay,” you whisper, voice low, daring, and his hands tighten, his breath hitching, because you’re not just stretching—you’re teasing, pushing, snapping.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Y/N,” he says, voice a growl, his chest brushing your back, and you lean into it, just enough to make him groan, low and quiet.

“Good,” you say, your voice all fire. “I like danger.”

He laughs, but it’s rough, and then he’s stepping back, his smirk shaky, his eyes burning. “Session’s over,” he says, but his voice says we’re not done, and you know it’s happening—tonight, his place, no more games. “Meet me outside in ten. I’m driving you.”

You nod, your heart slamming, because this is it—the line you’ve been dancing around, ready to cross. You grab your bag, change into a tight black crop top and jeans in the locker room, keeping the red lace underneath, because you’re not just bold—you’re fucking lethal. Min-ji texts: U alive? Or did he kill u with those arms? You reply: Heading to his place. Send help tomorrow. She sends a string of screaming emojis, and you’re grinning, because you’re about to burn it all down.

Jay’s waiting outside, leaning against his car, black jacket over his tank, looking like sin on legs. He opens the passenger door, his eyes raking over you, and you slide in, feeling his gaze like a touch. The drive’s quiet, the city lights blurring past, but the tension’s a living thing, thick and pulsing, your thigh brushing his as he shifts gears, his hand grazing your knee, deliberate, electric.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice low, glancing at you, and there’s something softer there, like he’s giving you an out, but you don’t want one.

“Never been surer,” you say, your hand on his thigh, firm, claiming, and he groans, low and quiet, his grip tightening on the wheel. “You scared, Park?”

He laughs, sharp and dark, pulling into his building’s garage. “Scared? Nah,” he says, killing the engine, turning to you, his eyes black with want. “Just hoping you can handle me, Y/N.”

You grin, leaning closer, your lips inches from his. “Handle you? I’m gonna break you, pretty boy.”

He groans, and then he’s out of the car, rounding to your side, pulling you out, his hands on your waist, pinning you against the door, kissing you hard, hungry, like he’s been starving for this. You kiss him back, just as fierce, your hands in his hair, tugging, your body pressed against his, feeling him hard through his jeans, making you moan, loud and shameless.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he gasps, pulling back, his lips swollen, his eyes wild. “Upstairs. Now.”

You follow, your pulse racing, his apartment a sleek blur of glass and city lights, but you don’t care, because he’s on you the second the door shuts, his hands on your hips, pushing you against the wall, kissing you like he’s starving. You kiss him back, just as hungry, your hands in his hair, tugging, your body arching, needing more.

“Goddamn, you’re trouble,” he murmurs, ripping your tee off, leaving you in your black lace bra, and he pauses, staring, his breath ragged. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

You grin, yanking his tank off, your hands greedy, tracing his abs, his pecs, every line of him a fucking masterpiece. “You’re one to talk,” you say, your lips on his chest, kissing, biting, making him groan, his hands on your jeans, unbuttoning, sliding them down, leaving you in your lace panties.

He steps back, eyes burning, and pulls his belt off, slow, deliberate, looping it in his hand. “Hands,” he says, voice low, commanding, and you raise an eyebrow, but you’re too turned on to argue, holding your wrists out. He ties them, loose but firm, the leather cool against your skin, and you’re trembling, not from nerves but from want, because this is new, raw, and you’re all in.

“On your knees,” he says, voice rough, and you drop, the floor hard, your eyes level with his jeans, his bulge obvious, making your mouth water. You look up, smirking, because you’re bound but not broken, and he’s about to learn it.

“Make me beg, huh?” you say, voice teasing, and he grins, unbuttoning his jeans, shoving them down with his boxers, his cock hard, thick, right there, and you lick your lips, because fuck, he’s gorgeous.

“Not yet,” he says, his hand in your hair, gentle but firm, guiding you closer. “Show me what that mouth can do first.”

You laugh, low and wicked, and lean in, licking a slow stripe up his length, making him groan, his hand tightening in your hair. You take him in, slow at first, your tongue swirling, your lips tight, and he’s cursing, low and filthy, his hips twitching, trying not to thrust. You’re in control, even on your knees, and you work him, sucking, licking, taking him deep, your bound hands behind you making it hotter, dirtier.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he gasps, his voice wrecked, his hand guiding you, faster, deeper, and you moan around him, the vibration making him shudder, his control slipping. “You’re so fucking good.”

You pull back, just enough to speak, your lips wet, your voice raw. “Untie me,” you say, because you want to touch, to take, and he grins, kneeling, undoing the belt, freeing your wrists.

“Bossy,” he murmurs, kissing you hard, tasting himself, and you’re up, pushing him toward the couch, because you’re done waiting. He sits, pulling you onto his lap, your panties still on, your hips grinding, feeling him through the lace, making you both groan.

“Ride me,” he says, voice low, a dare, and you grin, sliding your panties down, straddling him, your hands on his shoulders, his on your hips, guiding you. You sink down, slow, taking him inch by inch, the stretch perfect, making you gasp, your nails digging into his skin.

“Fuck,” he groans, his head tipping back, his hands bruising your hips, and you move, slow at first, grinding, feeling every inch, every thrust, your moans loud, shameless, the couch creaking, the city lights a blur outside.

“Jay,” you moan, your hips faster, harder, and he’s thrusting up, meeting you, his hand on your neck, pulling you down, kissing you messy, all teeth and tongue. His other hand’s between you, teasing your clit, slow, torturous, making you tremble, making you snap.

“Beg,” he murmurs, his voice rough, his fingers slowing, keeping you on the edge, and you’re shaking, your pride gone, your body his.

“Jay, please,” you sob, your voice raw, desperate, your hips bucking, chasing his touch. “Make me cum, please, I need it, need you, fuck, I’m begging.”

“Good girl,” he growls, and then he’s relentless, his fingers fast, his thrusts deep, hitting that spot that makes you see white, and you’re gone, your orgasm crashing over you, hard and blinding, your body clenching around him, screaming his name, raw, primal. He fucks you through it, his groans loud, his hips erratic, and then he’s cumming, hard, his face in your neck, his breath hot, ragged.

You’re both still, panting, tangled in sweat and lace, the air thick with sex and something heavier—something real.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, laced with awe. “You’re…so good.”

You laugh, breathless, nuzzling into his chest, his heartbeat grounding you. “Told you I’d wreck you,” you say, but it’s soft, because you’re wrecked too, and you’re okay with it.

He tilts your chin, kissing you slow, sweet, like a promise. “You’re mine,” he says, voice low, and you feel it, deep, true. "And sometimes we should let our desires loose."

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

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[synity]

I just had a dream about this and please consider writing about it haha

Woozi (idol//svt woozi) suddenly gets a red string tug while at a concert/event. Y/n is like a fan and it was their first time attending an event. Woozi doesn’t do anything about it at first but he suddenly sees her EVERYWHERE HAHAAHAH u can do whatever u want with it..thank you❤️‍🩹⚡️

RED THREAT

(Lee Jihoon x FemReader)

*Fate, Romance, Slice of Life Soulmate AU*

Y/N’s POV

The screen blinked again.

That same cursed blinking cursor at the top of my Google Doc. The blinking mocked me a reminder that I hadn’t typed a single word in over forty-five minutes. Not because I didn’t know what to say, but because I couldn’t feel my brain anymore. Everything inside me was heavy, like molasses had been poured through my skull and was slowly dripping down into my spine.

It was 3:07 a.m. again. Another night that bled into morning without permission.

My office was technically my apartment, but the line between the two had long disappeared. My desk was littered with empty mugs and sticky notes full of passive-aggressive reminders to eat. I hadn’t touched my paints in a month. My house plants were turning gray. Even the playlist I usually loved filled with SEVENTEEN’s songs that once felt like warm sun through glass had begun to feel distant, like music from another lifetime.

I loved my job. Or… I used to. I worked in design. Logos, branding, pitch decks, ad campaigns clean lines, color psychology, subtle messages. I was good at it too. That’s what made it worse. Because being good meant people kept asking. Deadlines kept piling. And somewhere along the way, being good became more important than being okay.

I blinked again, staring at my laptop. My to-do list had bullet points so long they needed sub-bullets.

Client proposal

Fix formatting

Adjust color scheme

Make it “pop” whatever that means

Call with team lead at 10 a.m.

Email Sophia back

Try not to cry before lunch

That last one had been added half as a joke and half because I wasn’t sure I’d make it otherwise.

I pushed my chair back and stood up. My knees cracked. When did I last move?

My eyes scanned the apartment. It looked like someone had moved out halfway and never came back. The easel near the window stood bare, canvas untouched. My coat still hung on the door from a week ago. The mirror across the room showed a girl in an oversized hoodie with hair shoved into a messy bun and dark circles that looked like shadows under her eyes.

I didn’t recognize her.

I sighed and grabbed my phone. I scrolled without looking, out of habit, not intention. Just numb thumbs moving. Doomscrolling. Nothing new.

Until I paused.

SEVENTEEN WORLD TOUR: SEOUL FINAL NIGHT – TICKET RELEASE (LIMITED QUANTITY)

The header burned like neon into my dry eyes.

I’d been a fan since college. Lee Jihoon Woozi was a name I used to whisper into the night with awe. His songs made me feel understood in a world that often moved too fast. His lyrics reminded me I could still create beauty when I was tired. But concerts were always too far, too expensive, too risky to plan. Until now.

I stared at the post. My finger hovered over the link.

“You need to sleep,” I muttered to myself.

But I didn’t move.

I thought about the endless Zoom meetings, the moments where my chest hurt from holding my breath. I thought about how I hadn’t painted in weeks. I thought about how much I missed... feeling something.

What if I just went?

I blinked again. My heart pounded in my chest.

“Just one night,” I whispered. “You can work around it.”

It felt like madness. Like buying a parachute before checking if the plane had crashed.

But something deep in me something that still had color was whispering: Go. Please, just go.

I bought the ticket before I could change my mind.

The next day, I didn’t tell anyone. I just sent in my work, rescheduled one meeting, and packed a bag.

I took the train to Seoul, sat with my forehead pressed against the window. The city rushed past, buildings like blurs, light and metal and motion. For the first time in months, I didn’t check my emails.

When I arrived, the air felt different. Not freer, not magical. Just… clearer. The kind of air that reminded you you’re still alive.

At the hotel, I let myself take the longest shower of my life. I curled my hair loosely, put on light makeup, wore the SEVENTEEN shirt I bought two years ago and never had a reason to wear.

I still wasn’t sure what I was doing. I felt stupid for running away like this.

But when I looked in the mirror again, there was a flicker of someone I remembered.

I looked… a little more like myself.

And somewhere in Seoul that night, a red thread waited in silence, ready to pull.

I hadn’t realized how loud a concert could be. The bass shook my ribs in time with my heartbeat, the crowd’s cheers layering like crashing waves. It was almost overwhelming almost. But there was a strange comfort in being surrounded by people who felt the same rush of adrenaline and joy. People whose eyes sparkled at the same melody. Whose voices lifted in the same chant.

"SAY THE NAME!"

"SEVENTEEN!"

The stadium roared.

My seat wasn’t too close somewhere in the middle rows. But honestly, it didn’t matter. Even from here, the members looked like stars dipped in light. The screens gave glimpses of their sweat-soaked dedication, the way their eyes scanned the crowd, and how their bodies moved like music was born in their bones.

And then there was him.

Woozi.

Lee Jihoon.

His dark black hair was slicked back just slightly, revealing his forehead. His face was flushed, skin glowing beneath the lights, eyes sharp and focused as he sang his verse with that voice that had once saved me without knowing. A voice that felt like a hug around my tired heart.

Every time the camera zoomed in on him, I found myself breathless. Not in the silly fangirl way I thought I’d grown out of, but something quieter. Something deeper. Like looking at a lighthouse you’ve seen in your dreams.

It had only been two songs, but I already felt myself loosening. The tight, brittle shell I had been dragging around for months was cracking in the best way. I let myself scream, sing, wave my lightstick. For once, I wasn’t the girl behind the screen or the project. I was just a person here, alive, overwhelmed, free.

They started “Don’t Wanna Cry.”

My heart squeezed.

This was the song I played when deadlines piled up, when my breath caught in my chest and I didn’t know why I was crying at 2 a.m. It wasn’t just the lyrics it was how it sounded like someone else knew that same quiet ache.

I didn’t even realize I was crying until I felt it: warm tears rolling down my cheeks.

I laughed softly and wiped them, embarrassed even though no one around me noticed.

Then came the bridge. And for a moment, the stage lights dimmed.

And that’s when it happened.

I looked up just as Woozi’s eyes swept across the crowd—and stopped.

Because for the briefest moment in this world, I swore he looked right at me.

I froze.

He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t even doing anything dramatic. He just… paused.

His gaze slowed.

Sharp, aware eyes.

And somehow, my heart knew.

He sees me.

We were so far apart. There was no way he could truly make out my face. I told myself it was just a coincidence. A flicker in the lights. My imagination reaching for fantasy in a place designed for dreams.

But something told me it wasn’t.

Because his stare lingered just a second longer than it should have.

And then he blinked. Just once.

Almost like

Recognition.

My lips parted.

And then the music swelled again, and the moment passed.

But I couldn’t move.

The crowd jumped, lights flashed, chants continued and I stayed frozen, clutching my lightstick like it anchored me to earth.

My chest rose and fell too fast. My ears buzzed. I didn’t understand it. There was no logic here. No reason for my soul to stir like that.

Unless…

Unless there was more to this night than I had expected.

The song ended. The members bowed. Woozi turned away.

But I could still feel it.

Like an invisible thread had tugged at my chest, unspooling from somewhere deep within and reaching across the stage. Wrapping around him. Wrapping around me.

Tying something neither of us could see.

I took a shaky breath and pressed my hand against my heart.

And for the first time in months, I smiled without effort.

Woozi’s POV

I’ve always said the stage feels like a dream.

The lights blur. The voices of thousands melt into one long, echoing ocean of sound. Everything becomes rhythmic: the beat, the steps, the inhale before a note leaves your throat. Time doesn’t pass normally here. You don’t think you just perform. You move. You feel.

But then it happened.

Right in the middle of Don’t Wanna Cry.

I looked into the crowd like I always do. We’re trained to. Engage with the fans. Make them feel seen. Keep your eyes moving, let them believe you're looking just at them. And sometimes you are.

But this time

This time, I stopped.

A flash of a lightstick. A girl with tired eyes. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. The kind that goes bone-deep. A sadness that felt hauntingly familiar.

Her gaze was soft, but full of something I couldn’t name. Something real.

It was her.

I didn’t know how I knew that. I just did.

For a moment, the song faded behind me. The crowd fell away. And there was only this stranger whose soul looked like it had lived through the same kind of silence I carry. Who looked like she didn’t expect to be seen.

But I saw her.

And then the tug came.

Not literal not like some ghost hand yanking my shirt but inside. A tug in the center of my chest. Sharp. Sudden. Unignorable.

My brows knit together slightly before I caught myself. I blinked once. I moved on. I had to. There were still verses to sing, cameras trained on me, fans watching.

But the feeling remained.

Even after we left the stage for a quick break, I couldn’t shake it. I tried to distract myself joking with Seungkwan, drinking water, adjusting my in-ears. But my head kept turning toward the crowd, scanning, searching.

I didn’t even know who I was looking for.

Just that I needed to find her again.

Was she really there? Was I making it up?

But no. That look. That feeling. The way my heartbeat stuttered when our eyes met that wasn’t nothing.

I’ve never believed in fate.

I’m a realist. A skeptic. I make music because I trust structure, not signs. I believe in effort, not destiny.

But now?

Now I wasn’t so sure.

I’ve looked out at the crowd a million times. Every night, it’s a sea of lights, signs, and faces all blurring together in flashes of color and sound.

But tonight, it’s different.

Because somewhere in that crowd… she’s still there.

I’m supposed to focus on the stage, on the fans, on the performance. But my eyes keep drifting. Searching. Yearning. For what who I don’t even fully understand.

“Hyung, you okay?” Dino’s voice cuts into the darkness backstage as we get ready for the next set.

I nod, almost too quickly. “Yeah.”

But I’m not.

I’m off tempo. My heart is drumming too fast. My thoughts won’t settle. It’s like I’m being pulled from the inside as if someone tied a thread around my ribs and is gently tugging, asking me to come closer.

A red string of fate.

That old legend I never believed in it. But now? With how my entire body tensed when our eyes locked, how her face keeps replaying in my head like a looping melody i’m starting to wonder if the universe is trying to write something I can’t read yet.

I step back on stage, microphone in hand.

The next song is slower. More vulnerable. And when the music starts, my eyes instinctively search the crowd again.

Please be there.

A flash of silver. A movement in the middle row.

There she is.

She’s standing still not waving a lightstick like the others. Her hands are by her sides, clutching the edge of her sleeves, her eyes wide as if she’s just as startled as I am. I can tell she’s trying not to blink, like if she does, I’ll disappear.

And I’m doing the same.

There’s a second where we just stare.

A second where I forget how to breathe.

I sing, but I don’t remember the lyrics. I move, but my feet feel heavy.

Because something’s happening.

Something important.

And I can’t ignore it anymore.

When the concert ends, the others are buzzing with energy laughing, wiping sweat, taking selfies in the dressing room. I’m quiet. Distant.

“Yah, Woozi! We did great!” Hoshi claps my shoulder.

I smile or try to. “Yeah. It felt good.”

But my head’s somewhere else. Out there. Still on her.

Who is she?

Was she alone? Did she come for us, for me? Or was she just a face I was meant to find today?

I grip the towel tighter in my hands.

This shouldn’t be happening. I don’t know her. And yet it feels like I’ve always known her.

Like her soul knocked on mine and it finally answered.

I look back toward the stadium one last time before leaving for the car.

She’s gone.

But I know this isn’t the last time I’ll see her.

The thread’s been tied.

And I’m going to find out where it leads.

I didn’t sleep well last night.

My body was exhausted from the concert, but my mind was wide awake trapped in that moment where her eyes met mine. I replayed it in my head over and over again. The stillness in the chaos. The way her gaze softened, even from a distance. Like she recognized me first.

Like she’s been waiting too.

I wake up before my alarm. The sky is still tinted with early morning blue. I rub my eyes, drag myself out of bed, and brew coffee, trying to shake the fog in my chest.

It doesn’t work.

She’s still there in my head.

I’m not one to believe in fate, but what if…?

No. I need to get out.

I’m halfway through my second cup of coffee when my phone buzzes.

From: Hoshi Bro come out. I’m near the river. Let’s walk.

He’s one of the few people who won’t accept “no” for an answer, so I toss on a hoodie, sunglasses, and head out the door.

The Han River’s quiet at this hour. Runners, a few people walking their dogs, a couple teenagers with takeout sprawled on a bench. I spot Hoshi ahead and start walking toward him

And stop in my tracks.

No way.

There. Sitting under a tree. A small sketchpad in her lap, headphones on, eyes focused like she’s capturing something nobody else sees.

It’s her.

I almost laugh or scream. What are the chances? How?

Hoshi calls out to me, waving. I raise a hand, but my eyes are stuck on her.

Maybe she feels it. The weight of my gaze. She turns slowly.

And for the second time in two days, our eyes meet.

This time it’s closer. Sharper.

I swear my heart drops into my stomach.

She blinks. Her lips part. She knows.

She knows me too.

I force myself to keep walking past, my pulse hammering in my ears. I hear Hoshi say something, but I barely catch it.

“Hyung, you okay?”

I nod.

But I’m not.

Because now I’m sure this isn’t coincidence.

Later that day, I decide to stop by a café I used to go to when I needed peace. One that doesn’t play my music. Where the ahjumma behind the counter always adds extra honey to my tea without asking.

The bell chimes as I step in. It’s quiet thank God.

I place my order and walk toward my usual booth.

And nearly trip over my own feet.

Because she’s here.

Again.

This time sitting by the window, stirring something in her cup absentmindedly, notebook open, pen tucked behind her ear. The sun paints a warm halo around her.

I freeze.

She hasn’t seen me yet.

What are the odds?

I sit down in a booth across the café, out of her sight. My tea comes. I don’t touch it.

Instead, I keep watching.

She hums something. A melody. Barely audible, but familiar.

My own song.

She was there for me.

And now she’s everywhere.

Over the next few days, it keeps happening.

I walk into a convenience store late at night she’s standing in front of the ramyeon aisle, biting her lip in concentration.

I pass a bookstore I haven’t visited in months she steps out with a tote bag full of art books, looking up at the sky like she’s wishing something would fall from it.

I run into her again in a quiet alley near the company when I’m coming back from practice. She’s crouched beside a stray cat, offering it her sandwich. When she hears me approach, she looks up startled. But not afraid.

Just… confused. Like I am.

“Hi,” she says softly, like she’s not sure if I’ll hear.

I do.

But I can’t speak. I just nod and keep walking my throat full of words I can’t say.

Yet.

Back in the studio, I can't focus.

I try mixing a new track can’t get the layers right. I open lyrics I’ve been working on for weeks every line starts to sound like her. Everything I create feels tangled up in her presence.

It’s not just obsession.

It’s recognition.

I take a deep breath and look down at my wrist.

Invisible. But undeniable.

The thread is still pulling.

And I’m not going to fight it anymore.

YN'S POV

The morning after the concert, I woke up sore. Not just from standing on my feet for hours, but from… something else. Something deeper.

Something had shifted last night.

I couldn’t explain it not even to myself but the moment our eyes met, something ancient in me stirred. Like I had known him before. Like the universe had whispered his name into my soul long before I’d ever heard it.

Lee Jihoon.

Woozi. The name so many knew him by. But last night, in that split second when our gazes locked, it didn’t feel like I was seeing an idol.

It felt like I was seeing him.

Still, life had to go on.

Or at least, I tried to pretend it did.

I was back in my studio that morning, surrounded by canvases, brushes, and the faint smell of coffee and oil paint. Deadlines loomed like storm clouds. My manager had texted me three times, reminding me about commissions I hadn’t finished.

I needed to work.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

I shook my head and dipped a brush into crimson.

Focus.

I painted in silence for hours, only moving when my stomach grumbled or my hands started to cramp. I must’ve been hunched over for too long, because when I finally stood up, the entire room spun for a moment. My shoulders ached. My vision blurred a bit.

You need fresh air, I told myself.

So I grabbed my sketchpad and headed to the riverside.

It was quiet just the way I liked it. The wind brushed against my cheeks, cool and gentle, a stark contrast to the sticky summer nights that had been weighing the city down. I found a tree I liked, tucked myself beneath it, and began sketching whatever came to mind.

At some point, the pencil in my hand started drawing him.

I frowned at the realization trying to erase it but the outline remained.

His side profile. The delicate curve of his nose. His brows, knit in thought. His lips, slightly parted.

I groaned and leaned back against the tree, covering my face with my hands.

“This is getting ridiculous,” I muttered.

But then…

That feeling again.

That static in the air. That tug in my chest.

I looked up.

And there he was.

Again.

Walking. Hoodie pulled low. Sunglasses on. But I knew.

I knew.

His eyes found mine like magnets unmissable, inevitable.

And this time, it wasn’t a concert. It wasn’t a crowd.

It was just us. Him. Me. The tree. The wind. The silence.

Time didn’t freeze, but something inside me did.

Then he passed. Just a nod.

But that one second unraveled me for hours.

Later that afternoon, I decided to stop by my favorite café a tiny place near my old art college. The owner, an older woman with dyed red hair and endless gossip, always made me laugh. I needed normalcy. Something grounding.

I walked in, ordered a chamomile latte, and picked a sunny seat by the window.

The bell chimed again shortly after.

I didn’t look up at first.

But then I felt it.

That same weight in the air. That thread tightening around my ribs.

I lifted my gaze, and sure enough there he was.

Again.

This time sitting at the far end, barely moving, eyes hidden behind dark lenses. But I could feel his presence like a fire in the room.

I looked away quickly, heart pounding.

What was happening?

Why did I keep seeing him?

Was I just noticing him more now?

Or was the universe playing some strange trick?

The next few days were… eerie.

I saw him everywhere.

At the bookstore near the station standing a few shelves down.

At the boba place I swore no idol would ever set foot in waiting quietly with his cap low.

Even in a quiet alley near my building, where a stray cat always waited for me because I usually brought it leftovers.

I was crouched beside it, tearing off pieces of a sandwich when I felt someone approach.

I looked up.

And there he was.

He looked just as surprised.

I said hi, unsure if I imagined the whole thing. He just nodded lips tight, eyes unreadable.

Then he walked away.

And I was left there, surrounded by silence, a half-eaten sandwich, and a cat that meowed like I owed it answers.

That night, I lay in bed, eyes wide open.

I didn’t believe in soulmates. In fate. In red threads.

But now I was starting to wonder.

What if something really was pulling us together?

What if this was more than coincidence?

What if for once I wasn’t imagining things?

Woozi’s POV

He saw her again.

Fourth time in less than a week. It couldn’t be coincidence anymore.

She was crouched next to a stray cat, feeding it bits of her sandwich with a gentle smile. Her coat was too thin for the late evening breeze, but she didn’t seem to care. The wind tugged at her hair, and he caught the softest hum in her voice. She was talking to the cat like an old friend.

Jihoon stood frozen just around the corner.

He wasn’t wearing anything that would scream "idol" today. Hoodie. Beanie. Mask. Even so, she recognized him he could tell. Just like at the concert. Just like at the riverside. At the café. At the bookstore. It was always the same:

Her eyes would meet his.

His chest would tighten.

That damned invisible thread would pull.

And he’d walk away.

But not this time.

He stepped out.

She looked up, startled. Her lips parted in surprise.

They didn’t say anything for a second. The cat meowed and pawed at her knee, breaking the stillness.

“Hi,” she finally whispered, almost as if unsure whether he’d speak back.

Jihoon swallowed.

He wanted to say something smooth. Collected. Something that didn’t sound like his heart was clawing its way out of his chest.

But instead, he muttered, “We keep meeting.”

Her brows knit together in a small, amused frown. “Yeah… I noticed.”

He smiled slightly beneath his mask, then pulled it down just enough so she could see his face see that he wasn’t here as Woozi the artist, but as Jihoon the man. The stranger who felt inexplicably drawn to her.

“Listen,” he began, walking closer, “I know this is going to sound crazy, but… are you feeling it too?”

She blinked. “Feeling what?”

He paused. Looked up at the moonlit sky. “That pull. Like… there’s something connecting us.”

There. He’d said it.

She stared at him, silent. He could see the hesitation in her eyes — the same hesitation he’d been wrestling with all week.

Then she nodded, slow and careful. “I thought I was going insane.”

His heart skipped.

For the first time in days, the confusion in his head settled. He wasn’t imagining this. She felt it too.

“Why didn’t you say something before?” she asked softly, standing up and brushing off her coat. “All those times?”

“I didn’t know if it was real,” Jihoon admitted. “And I didn’t want to scare you. I’m… not used to this kind of thing.”

She smiled a little, tugging her coat tighter around her. “Neither am I.”

They stood there, under the orange halo of a streetlamp, neither quite sure what to say next.

So Jihoon just blurted it out.

“I want to get to know you.”

Her eyes widened.

“I don’t know how this works,” he said, voice quieter now. “But I keep thinking about you. Not just because I’ve seen you everywhere. It’s something else. Like… I already know you.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, clearly flustered. “I’m just a regular person.”

“Maybe that’s what I need,” he said, smiling.

The cat meowed again, circling their feet.

Jihoon looked down at it, then back up at her. “You want to walk for a bit?”

“…Sure,” she said, smiling and he could tell it wasn’t forced.

They walked slowly through quiet streets, the cat trailing behind for a block or two before giving up. Jihoon listened to her talk about painting, about overworking, about chamomile lattes and messy deadlines and getting yelled at by her manager.

He found himself laughing more than he had in weeks.

And when she teased him gently for being nothing like his stage persona, Jihoon flushed.

“I get that a lot,” he mumbled.

“Because on stage, you’re intense,” she grinned. “But off-stage? You’re kind of…”

“Kind of what?”

“…Adorably awkward.”

Jihoon groaned. “Don’t say that.”

She laughed, that soft, bell-like sound he already knew he’d chase if she ever walked away.

When they stopped at a vending machine, he bought them each a warm drink. She got milk tea. He got black coffee.

As they stood there sipping, Jihoon looked at her profile again.

The way her lashes curled naturally.

The smudge of graphite still on her fingertips.

She wasn’t just pretty.

She was real.

And for once, he didn’t want to walk away.

As they reached her building, Jihoon hesitated.

“I want to see you again,” he said.

“You will,” she answered, smiling.

“But not just by chance.”

She looked at him.

“Let me make it intentional this time.”

She bit her lip, eyes flickering with something soft. Hopeful.

“…Okay.”

That night, back in his apartment, Jihoon stared at the ceiling long after the city fell asleep.

The red thread tugged again.

And this time, he tugged back.

Y/N’s POV

Jihoon asked her out the next morning.

Not a fancy, over-the-top plan like she might’ve expected from someone famous. It was simple quiet.

“Would you… want to go somewhere? Just us?” “Anywhere in mind?” “Somewhere you don’t have to think.”

So that’s how she ended up in a small corner of Seoul hidden away from the main streets wearing her softest cardigan and sneakers, hair loosely tied. Her phone buzzed.

Jihoon: I’m two blocks away. Stay warm.

A smile slipped onto her face. She hadn’t stopped smiling since last night, honestly.

She tugged her coat tighter and waited on the bench, heart jittery. This wasn’t like the casual cafe sightings or shared glances. This was a real moment. Something that had intention. Choice.

And when he finally turned the corner hood up, mask on, hands in pockets she recognized him instantly. Not because he was famous. But because that invisible thread between them practically glowed.

“Hi,” she greeted, standing up.

“Hi,” he echoed, voice quiet.

They stared at each other for a second before both laughing. A little awkward. A little nervous. But it felt good.

“Ready?” he asked, nudging his head toward the sidewalk.

“Yeah.”

They walked.

No crowds. No managers. No schedules.

Just them.

Jihoon led her through narrow alleys and tiny shops she’d never even noticed before. They stopped at a bookstore so cramped it barely had space to turn, and she caught him watching her run fingers along the spines of old novels.

“You read romance?” she teased, holding up a worn-out paperback.

He made a face. “Only if someone forces me.”

“Oh no, you’re one of those.”

“Hey,” he chuckled. “Mystery and sci-fi have feelings too.”

She giggled, slipping the book back onto the shelf.

Then they stumbled into a vintage vinyl shop, and she caught him humming along to something under his breath.

“Is that your own song?”

Jihoon froze, then looked mortified. “Maybe.”

She grinned. “Cute.”

“You’re dangerous,” he muttered, cheeks pink.

“Why?”

“Because I never let anyone see this side of me.”

She looked at him then. Not Woozi the producer. But Jihoon the man who hid behind beanies and sarcasm and long working nights. The man who felt like home.

“Maybe that’s the side I like best.”

By afternoon, they ended up at a rooftop café tucked above an old building. The sky had turned soft with sunset, spilling orange light across Jihoon’s face as he sipped a caramel latte she’d made him order.

“You like caramel,” she said.

He blinked. “I do?”

“You made a face when you saw it on the menu. The good kind of face.”

He looked down at the drink, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re observant.”

She shrugged. “Only with people who matter.”

Jihoon grew quiet.

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out something wrapped in tissue careful, like it was breakable.

She tilted her head. “What’s that?”

“It’s… nothing huge,” he muttered, handing it to her. “Just thought of you.”

Inside was a tiny charm. A silver paintbrush.

Her breath caught.

“It’s silly,” Jihoon added, nervous now. “I saw it while walking past a craft store. Reminded me of you.”

She stared at it this small, thoughtful token and felt her heart twist.

“No one’s ever done that for me,” she whispered.

Jihoon reached across the table, brushing his fingers against hers.

“You deserve it,” he said.

They didn’t rush the day.

They let the silence breathe. Let the tension settle between shy glances and nervous laughter.

And when they got back to her apartment, the sky already dusted with stars, she hesitated at the front door.

Jihoon did too.

“Thanks for today,” she said softly.

He nodded. “I’m glad you said yes.”

She opened her mouth to say something else but he stepped forward suddenly.

Not too close. Just… enough.

His hand gently brushed her cheek, and for a moment, he looked like he was thinking too much again. Always overthinking.

So she leaned in first.

Just a little.

And that was all it took.

His lips met hers soft, warm, unsure. Not urgent. Just enough to whisper I’m here.

When they pulled back, he didn’t speak.

He just rested his forehead against hers and exhaled.

“I’m really glad I followed that thread.”

She smiled, heart racing.

“Me too.”

4 days later

The city felt different today.

Less rushed, softer somehow.

Maybe it was because Jihoon had asked her out again.

Not for a fancy dinner or a show, but something more low-key a quiet picnic by the Han River. Just the two of them, away from the noise, the cameras, the crowds.

She had spent the morning preparing snacks in her tiny kitchen. Nothing complicated, just sandwiches, venoiseries, juices, some fresh fruit, and her favorite iced tea. As she packed the basket, her hands trembled just a bit nervous anticipation fluttering like butterflies in her stomach.

When Jihoon arrived, he was carrying a folded blanket and a small portable speaker. He smiled at her, that same shy warmth she was starting to recognize.

“Ready?” he asked.

She nodded, slipping her hand into his as they walked to the subway station.

The riverbank was peaceful when they arrived, soft breezes playing with the autumn leaves. Jihoon spread the blanket carefully, and they sat side by side, sharing food and stories.

“Do you ever get tired of all the attention?” she asked quietly.

He looked out over the water, thoughtful.

“Sometimes. But it’s not the attention. It’s the expectations. The pressure to always be... perfect.”

She reached over and squeezed his hand.

“You don’t have to be perfect with me.”

He turned to her, eyes sincere.

“Really?”

“Really.”

For a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them, the rustling leaves, and the golden sunlight.

Jihoon pulled out his phone and played a soft melody one of his unreleased songs. She closed her eyes, letting the music wash over her.

“I wrote this for you,” he confessed.

Her heart skipped.

“Me?”

He nodded, cheeks pink.

“Every note is a promise.”

Tears pricked her eyes, and she blinked them away.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He smiled and brushed a stray hair behind her ear.

“You make me want to be better.”

They spent hours talking about fears, dreams, and the little things that made them who they were. Jihoon told her about his childhood, the loneliness he’d felt despite the crowds, and how music had been his only refuge.

She shared her own stories how painting saved her on dark days, how she sometimes felt lost in her own kindness, like the world was too harsh for someone like her.

Jihoon listened. Really listened.

And that made all the difference.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting pink and purple hues across the sky, Jihoon reached into his pocket again.

“Wait,” he said, pulling out a small box.

Her breath caught.

“Open it.”

Inside was a delicate bracelet silver, with a tiny charm shaped like a music note intertwined with a paintbrush.

“It’s for you,” he said softly. “A reminder that we’re connected, even when we’re apart.”

She slid it onto her wrist, feeling the cool metal against her skin.

“I love it.”

He smiled, eyes shining.

“So... about that kiss last time.”

Her cheeks warmed.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Me too.”

Jihoon leaned in slowly.

This time, the kiss was deeper full of the promise of more moments like this, more days spent discovering each other.

Later, as they packed up to leave, Y/N felt a warmth she hadn’t known she was missing. Maybe fate really did pull strings, and maybe, just maybe, those strings were leading her somewhere worth going.

[nickistuffs]

Hello Again Pt. 1

Pairing: Harry x Designer reader (curvy or plus size whatever you feel they should look like. This is my preference 😌)

Summary: This feels fated to meet again and again and again

Word Count: 3.07k

Warnings: None. It's It's just fluff and also a slow burn.

Read Chimed Encounters first to start before this one.

✨masterlist✨ read the rest of Harry x Designer Reader there

...

A ping from your email broke your concentration on work. You sighed, already assuming it was one of your manufacturers asking for yet another confirmation about a product you’d been working over for months. Without much thought, you clicked on the notification, ready to fire off a quick response.

To your surprise, the email wasn’t from a manufacturer—it was from Sam, your old friend and occasional collaborator. His subject line read: “Job Offer You Can’t Refuse.” Intrigued, you opened the email and quickly scanned its contents.

It seemed Sam had found you a project that piqued his interest—and yours. The pay was good, the timeline was tight, and the concept sounded straightforward.

You immediately picked up your phone and called him. No need for formalities; this was Sam, after all.

“Hey, Sam,” you said as soon as he answered, skipping any pleasantries. “What’s this mysterious job offer you’re dangling in front of me?”

“Oh, that.” He sounded smug, which only made you roll your eyes. “I’m under an NDA, so I can’t say too much, but it’s a pop-up store project. The whole thing needs to be modular and removable, so it can be packed up and relocated in two months. Easy, right? You in?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “Of course, I’m in! Sounds simple enough. Send over the contract and details, and I’ll get started.”

“I knew I could count on you,” he said with a grin you could practically hear through the phone. “See you onsite, Y/N.” ...

The day of the meeting arrived, and you were ready—or so you thought.

Sam couldn’t make it and had entrusted you to lead the meeting solo, but you were used to working independently, so it wasn’t a problem. Dressed in a professional outfit that balanced comfort and confidence, you walked into the office where the meeting was being held.

As you glanced around at the product displays, your heart skipped a beat. You could already tell this was a high-profile client. Their products, branding, and visuals exuded quality and creativity.

As you tried to calm your nerves, the conference room door opened, and a group of people filed out.

A friendly woman approached you, pulling you back to reality.

“Hello, are you Ms. Y/N L/N?”

“Yes,” you replied with a polite smile, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “I have a meeting with your visual merchandising manager.”

“Perfect, you’re our two o’clock appointment. Please come in.”

You stepped inside the sleek, minimalistic conference room and began setting up.

“Our lead designer just stepped out for a quick break,” the woman explained, handing you a water bottle. “They’ll be back in ten minutes and a few other designers. Is there anything else I can get you while you wait? Coffee?”

“Water is fine. Thank you,” you replied.

You opened your laptop, pulled up your notes and sketches, and jotted down a few ideas in your journal. You were mid-thought when the door opened behind you.

You turned, ready to greet whoever entered, but the words caught in your throat.

It was him. Harry Styles.

...

You both stared at each other, completely stunned. Of all the people you could run into at this meeting, it had to be him. You hadn’t seen Harry since your last encounter at Felice’s Café.

For a moment, it felt like the world had slowed down, your mind scrambling to process his presence. He looked just as effortlessly charming as you remembered, his warm green eyes flickering with recognition and surprise.

Finally, Harry broke the silence, his voice smooth but slightly uncertain.

“Hello, I’m Harry Styles. I’m the owner of the company. Nice to meet you…?”

It took you a second to respond, your voice catching in your throat. “It’s Y/N. Y/N L/N. Nice to meet you as well.”

He smiled, extending a hand toward you. You scrambled to your feet, standing taller than you’d expected, and reached out to shake his hand.

Your hands met, and you shook it—a bit too long, you thought as the realization hit. The warmth of his hand lingered, making you feel like time had momentarily stopped again.

You quickly dropped your hand and clasped it behind your back, your face heating up.

For a split second, an awkward silence filled the room. Harry seemed like he was about to say something, his lips parting as if to speak—

But just then, the door opened, and a small group of people filed into the room, shattering the quiet bubble you’d both been trapped in.

“Ah, great,” said a cheerful man from the group, clapping his hands together as he approached. “Harry, you’re here. And this must be Ms. L/N!”

The moment was gone. Harry straightened, his expression shifting seamlessly to one of polite professionalism, though you caught a flicker of something in his eyes as he glanced back at you.

You offered a polite nod to the newcomers, forcing yourself to focus as introductions were made. Yet, as the meeting began, you couldn’t help but feel like something important had been left unsaid.

And judging by the way Harry occasionally glanced your way, he felt the same.

...

As the meeting progressed, Harry found himself quietly observing you. Initially, he’d assumed you might be shy or reserved—perhaps because of the nervous energy that had lingered when you first met. But as you delved into your presentation, he realized just how wrong he was.

The confidence with which you spoke captivated the room. Your tone was steady yet approachable, and your words were carefully chosen to articulate your vision. You presented your design concepts with precision, highlighting the intricate details and practical functionality behind each element.

Harry leaned forward slightly in his chair, his interest piqued. The way you seamlessly balanced creativity with logic was impressive. He could tell how much thought you’d put into this project—every choice seemed deliberate, every detail purposeful.

What surprised him most, however, was your ability to command the room. You weren’t just presenting; you were selling the design, painting a picture of how the concept would come to life. And the team was eating it up.

He stole a glance around the room. His team, typically quick to interject or challenge ideas, sat quietly, nodding along with your points. Even he couldn’t help but admire the way you navigated through the questions and feedback with such ease.

When you paused for questions, Harry cleared his throat and spoke, his voice cutting through the room.

“I really appreciate the thought you’ve put into the design—it’s incredibly well-considered. I do have a question, though,” he said, his tone genuinely curious. “You mentioned incorporating natural textures into the layout. Can you elaborate on how those elements will remain modular while still maintaining their aesthetic appeal?”

You turned to him, locking eyes for a brief moment. His question wasn’t just thoughtful—it showed that he’d been paying close attention to your presentation.

“Thank you, Mr. Styles,” you began, your voice steady. “That’s a great question. For the natural textures, such as reclaimed wood and stone-inspired finishes, I’ve ensured that they’re lightweight and easily removable. The modular framework uses a system of interchangeable panels, so the aesthetic can be retained without compromising functionality.”

Harry nodded, clearly impressed. “That makes sense. And it aligns well with what we’re trying to achieve here—something unique, but also adaptable. Nicely done.”

You gave him a polite smile, though inside, his compliment sent a ripple of pride through you.

As the meeting continued, Harry couldn’t help but feel drawn to the passion and expertise you brought to your work. There was something magnetic about the way you carried yourself—so composed and articulate, yet with a spark of creativity that set you apart.

And as the session wrapped up, he found himself wondering if this serendipitous reunion might be more than just a chance encounter.

As handshakes and congratulations were exchanged, the manager gave a final nod of approval, and Harry himself followed suit, offering his praise for your presentation. It had been a resounding success.

With most of the team filing out of the room, the buzz of conversation slowly faded, leaving you alone at the conference table, still stuffing your things into your bag. You were on a high from the meeting—everything had gone so smoothly, but the exhaustion from a long day was beginning to catch up.

Suddenly, you heard a soft cough. Looking up, you were surprised to see Harry still standing near the door.

“Oh, sorry,” you said, startled. “Are there any more questions you need from me, Mr. Styles?” You quickly adjusted your posture, feeling a bit flustered.

Harry smiled, the easy warmth you remembered from your past encounter resurfacing. “You can call me Harry,” he replied with a casual, almost reassuring tone. “I’m not too big on formalities. Can I call you Y/N?”

“That’s alright with me,” you answered with a smile, pleased by the friendly tone of the conversation. It felt much more natural now that the formality had faded.

A beat of silence passed before Harry spoke again, his eyes twinkling with a hint of curiosity. “So, how long have you been eating breakfast at Feli’s Café?”

You blinked, a bit taken aback by the question. It was unexpected, but not unwelcome. “Oh, I’ve been going there for a while now. I usually grab a matcha latte and sometimes a sandwich. Feli’s a good friend of mine—she’s the one who got me hooked on her menu.”

Good thing I found your journal, your presentation was fantastic. Harry complimented.

Thank you again for giving it back. and sorry I was on a time crunch that I didn't introduce myself.

Harry chuckled softly, his expression warm.

You felt a sudden shift in the air between you two, the unspoken moment starting to surface. But before either of you could delve deeper into the conversation, a voice from the hallway interrupted the moment.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the manager popped his head back in, looking around. “But I just wanted to confirm we’re all set for the next steps, Y/N? Can we count on you for the design rollout next week?”

You gave a nod, quickly snapping back into professional mode. “Yes, everything is in order. I'll start on the proper revisions needed for the plans."

“Perfect,” the manager smiled, satisfied. “Thanks again for your excellent work today.”

As he left the room, you turned back to Harry, who was still standing near the door, clearly reluctant to leave just yet.

“I guess I should let you get back to your day,” you said, trying to break the lingering tension. “I’ll see you around, Harry.”

Harry’s smile widened, and he nodded slowly. “Definitely.”

...

It had been a month since you completed your work for Pleasing. You scrolled through their Instagram, admiring how your designs brought their brand to life. Seeing people lining up to buy their high-quality products filled you with a deep sense of pride.

You’d only seen Harry a handful of times during the project, but he always seemed busy, caught up in meetings or surrounded by other people.

Sighing loudly, you collapsed onto your bed, letting the exhaustion of the day wash over you. You had plans to join an art market this month, where you’d sell your prints, stickers, and other handmade knickknacks. It was something to look forward to, at least.

“Will we ever meet again?” you murmured to yourself, staring up at the ceiling. “I mean, what are the chances?” You already knew the answer before you even finished the thought. Harry was probably the busiest person you’d ever met, and you were just a nobody in his world.

Your heart felt heavy as you grappled with the cold, hard reality—he might have only been a fleeting moment in your life, a beautiful memory to cherish but not something meant to last. ...

A month had passed, and Harry still hadn’t been able to properly speak with you. He had been trying—desperately, in fact. He’d gone to the café where you first met, hoping to run into you again, but you never showed up, or you came at different times. He even tried catching you after work, but you were always whisked away to other locations or surrounded by people.

In a final act of determination, Harry had even approached HR for your contact information, but they refused to give it to him. Frustrated and defeated, he began to think maybe it wasn’t meant to be.

As he walked home one evening, his eyes caught on a brightly colored poster advertising an upcoming art market at the same location he frequented. He stared at it for a moment, a flicker of hope sparking in his chest before he brushed it off with a sigh. Maybe it was time to give up. Maybe it was never destined to happen.

But something about the poster lingered in his mind—a quiet, persistent thought that made him decide, almost on impulse, to go to the market anyway. Perhaps, by some happy chance, fate would intervene.

You were busy setting up your booth in the bustling market, carefully adjusting misaligned prints and rearranging trinkets to create the perfect display. The air buzzed with chatter and laughter, the atmosphere lively as other artists greeted passersby and showcased their work.

“Your paintings are just lovely, dear,” an elderly woman remarked, her eyes sparkling as she pointed to one of your pieces.

“They really are,” her partner chimed in with a warm smile. “We could hang one in the hallway, couldn’t we?”

“Excuse me, miss,” another potential buyer interjected, holding up one of your prints. “How much is this?”

“For the A4 size, it’s 25 pounds,” you replied with a friendly smile.

More people began to gather, drawn by the charm of your artwork. You did your best to keep up, answering questions, wrapping purchases, and making small talk with the growing crowd. It was a whirlwind, but you couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride seeing so many people appreciating your work.

...

Walking through the bustling market, Harry wandered past the stalls he always loved to visit. He admired the fresh vegetables and fruits, browsed through racks of thrifted clothes, and flipped through stacks of vinyl records that always piqued his interest. But today, something different caught his attention—a special event featuring local artists who had been invited to showcase and sell their work.

As he turned toward the next stall, his eyes landed on something—or rather, someone.

It was you.

There you stood in front of your stall, surrounded by your artwork, speaking to customers with an energy that radiated warmth and passion. The light in your eyes, the way you animatedly gestured while describing your creations, the genuine smile that lit up your face—it was everything he remembered and more.

For a moment, Harry froze, rooted in place as he took it all in. You looked so at home in your element, effortlessly captivating the people around you. His heart raced, a mixture of excitement and nervousness coursing through him. But before doubt could creep in, before he could second-guess himself, he moved.

Harry started walking toward you, his steps quick and purposeful. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions, but there was only one clear thought that anchored him: now or never.

This was his chance to finally talk to you—to close the distance that had been lingering between you both for far too long. He wasn’t going to let it slip away again.

...

It has been a good day so far. People were buying your prints, admiring your stickers, and complimenting your craftsmanship. You smiled to yourself, feeling content with the steady stream of visitors who appreciated your work.

Just as you reached for your water bottle, a familiar voice interrupted your thoughts.

“Hello, again, Y/N.”

You froze, the cap of your bottle slipping through your fingers. Slowly, you turned toward the source of the voice, your heart skipping a beat.

There he was—Harry. Standing there amidst the sea of market-goers, looking as effortlessly charming as ever in a white T-shirt, jeans, and sunglasses perched on his curls. His lips curved into a small, knowing smile as your eyes met.

“Harry?” you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I thought it was you,” he said, stepping closer. His gaze flickered over your stall, taking in the vibrant prints and trinkets on display. “This is all yours?”

You nodded, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah, just a little side project I do. How…how did you find me here?”

“I didn’t,” he admitted with a chuckle. “I was just wandering around, and there you were. Funny how the universe works, huh?”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head. “Yeah, funny.”

He looked around at your stall again, picking up one of your prints—a delicate watercolor of flowers intertwined with abstract shapes. “This is beautiful,” he said earnestly, his fingers brushing over the edge of the paper. “You’re really talented.”

“Thank you,” you said, warmth spreading through your chest at the compliment.

“Do you take commissions?” he asked, his tone casual but his eyes intensely focused on you.

“Sometimes,” you said, tilting your head. “Why? Are you looking for something specific?”

“I might be,” he replied cryptically, his lips curving into a playful smirk. Before you could press him further, he added, “But first, do you have a break coming up? I was thinking I could buy you a coffee.”

Your breath caught at his unexpected offer. “A coffee?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging like it was the simplest thing in the world. “You’ve been on my mind lately, Y/N. Thought maybe this time we could actually catch up without a room full of people or work deadlines in the way.”

Your pulse quickened as you tried to process his words. Was he really asking you out, or was this just Harry being Harry—charming and polite?

“Well,” you started, glancing at your stall. “I do have a little time before the market closes…”

“Perfect,” he said with a grin. “I’ll wait for you to pack up, or we can just grab something nearby. Whatever works for you.”

As he spoke, the faint hum of the market seemed to fade into the background. For the first time in weeks, the heavy feeling in your chest lifted just a little. Maybe this wasn’t just a fleeting moment after all.

...

Okay, this is actually too long I’ll make it into two parts. Give you guys some suspense. Thank you for reading everyone! ☺️

…

Hello, Again Pt.2

Here’s part two loves hope you enjoy it!

[kinda-super-hot]

I Want More. (3)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, more coming soon

Pairing: Harvey Specter x F!Lawyer!Reader - friends to enemies to lovers <3

Part 3 Summary: Y/n joins Mike and Harvey when they go to see a client. The client flirts with Y/n, and she makes the best of it, hopefully landing some clients. Harvey is not happy.

Warnings: Reflecting on past relationship, some yelling

Word Count: 2570

A/N: Thank ya'll so much for the support! The more you comment and like, the faster I write. Love ya'll enjoy!

I’m typing away an email when my intercom goes off. “(Y/n), Harvey needs you in his office.” Donna’s voice rings out and I feel nauseous.

               “Ok, thanks, Donna.” Wait. “Donna?”

               “What’s up?” She asks in a sing-song voice, and I can hear her fingers click-clacking against her keyboard.

               “How long has the intercom been on?” The click-clacking stops. I let out an incredulous laugh, “Have you been listening this whole time?” The intercom beeps and I know it’s been shut off, probably for the first time since I’ve been here.

               I smile and stand from my desk, throwing on the black blazer that was previously sitting on the back of my chair. There’s a pastel pink handkerchief tucked in the breast pocket that matches my blouse.. that also matches Harvey’s tie. What a weird coincidence.

               I walk the short distance from my office to Donna’s desk. “Good morning!” She hums all too happily at me. I give her a raised brow and cross my arms. “It’s nothing personal, I hear all around here. That’s why I’m so good at what I do. I’m Donna.” She flicks her hands in the air with flair.

               “Of course.” I smile at her mischievously. “If you hear all around here, Donna, what have people been saying about me?” I’ve been wondering, but had no way of finding out, until now.

               “Well, obviously I’ve heard the she’s smoking comment more times than I can count.” She laughs. “Louis thinks your one joke away from going to dinner with him.”

               “Shoot, I don’t want to give him the wrong impression.” I scold myself and bite my lip.

               “What, you don’t date anyone in the office?” She questions, but it’s off. Her tone, something about it… I lift my eyes to meet hers and she has a devious smile.

               “You know.” I exhale and lean on the desk. “God, does everyone know?!” I whisper yell at her. I do a quick scan of my surroundings, and I don’t see anyone looking. I hesitantly take a quick peek into Harvey’s office.

I pause my frantic behavior when I see him. He’s sitting at his desk on the phone and Mike is on the couch. I can tell he’s charming whoever is on the other side of the phone, because even though they can’t see him, he has his prince-like smile on him. My heart swells for him.

“That’s how I know,” Donna whispers in my ear. I jump, I didn’t even see her get up. She gives me a pointed look. “Yesterday, I saw you look at him when you two were first ‘meeting’” she gives air quotes, “and I could see the way you look at him. You couldn’t keep your eyes off-”

“His puppy dog eyes.” I cut her off, but my eyes are still strained on him. I have to tear my eyes away from him to bashfully look at Donna.

She nods with a smile, “The rest I’ve put together from bits and pieces of everyone’s conversations.” She shrugs cockily. “You know,” She stops herself; I can tell she’s debating whether or not to say what she’s about to say, “This isn’t my first time hearing about you.”

My heart flips. I want to question her further, and I’m about to until I smell expensive cologne and a familiar musk. I turn my head to see Harvey just leaving his office with Mike in tow. He sees me and smiles, trying to charm me. Oh god, he’s trying to play me!

Back in the day, I knew Harvey better than I knew myself. So now I know he’s trying to get back in my good graces, what I don’t know is his end goal.

“G’morning, Donna,” He greets Donna and then his eyes slowly trail to mine. “(Y/n).” He has a close-lipped smirk on his face, one he knew made my knees weak in law school. This may be harder than I thought.

I give him a polite nod but don’t give him any more attention. He may still give me butterflies, but I’m still pissed. I turn my attention to the younger man beside him. “Mike.” I greet him with a smile but there’s some tension exuding from me. I haven’t forgotten what he said to me the other day. “Y’know, our conversation the other day inspired me,” I put my hand on his shoulder and squeeze it. “I think my next vacation might be in Paris…France.” I say bluntly and drop the smile I was faking as I side-eyed Harvey.

His eyes dart from my face to Mike accusingly. “Yeah, ha-ha,” Mike laughs nervously. “It’s a beautiful place. The architecture, the landscape-“

“The people?” I question in a demeaning way with a smile on my face. I see Harvey tense and he licks his lips. He’s uncomfortable. Good. Harvey’s hand goes to Mike’s back, and I can tell he’s probably giving him a hidden pinch. Ooh, I know that hurts.

There’s an awkward beat of silence. “Well.” Donna clears her throat, “You all should probably get going. Marshall is expecting you.” She urges.

“Ok, thank you, Donna.” I answer chipperly and turn in the direction of the elevators. In the reflection of one of the associate's monitors, I see Donna mouthing something demanding at Harvey. He mouths back something along the lines of ‘I know, I know!’.

I walk briskly to the elevators and press the button; I don’t even check if the boys are behind me. “So, where are we headed?” I ask, but I keep my head straight, facing the closed elevator doors.

They say nothing until I hear what I’m assuming is Mike giving Harvey a little arm shove. “Downtown-” Harvey starts, then clears his throat. I hear Mike stifle a chuckle. “-we’re meeting Donald Marshall. He’s the company lead for Shilton Suites.”

There’s a ding as the elevator doors open. I step onto the lift and stand close to the buttons. Both boys hesitate to enter. “Are you guys… coming?” They are being so awkward, ugh, boys.

Harvey shoves Mike into the elevator before him, he gets pushed into the wall. Harvey stands shoulder to shoulder with me. “How did you like your coffee?”

I think I’ve imagined his voice; he doesn’t move his torso to face me or even glance my way. I don’t answer right away, trying to process that Harvey is actually talking to me-not just a good morning. “It’s the best around.” He hums in a positive tone, and I see a small smile creep onto his face.

I hope he doesn’t think we’re going to be besties after apology coffee, but I might as well throw him a bone. “Louis wanted to go buy me one from Roaster Roos.”

“Roaster Roos?” Harvey finally turns his body to me and has an offended look on his face. My heart flutters and I wish I could beat it down with a hammer. “God, he has no idea what good coffee is.” He turns back to face the elevator doors, and I crave his gaze on me again.

I feel like I’m running out of time to talk to him away from prying eyes. The dinging of the elevator as we steadily drop feels like a doomsday clock. “He wants to take me to dinner.” I don’t know why I said that.

Harvey stops next to me, and I hear Mike’s strained breathing behind me. I forgot he was here. Once again, it’s quiet until he asks, “How would your boyfriend feel about that?” He’s playing the game- he wants to know if I’m seeing anybody. Touche Mr. Douchebag.

How do I tell him I’m single without being pathetic? “Let’s just say, Louis might have a fighting chance.” I shrug. “Why? Did Louis not ask you to dinner when you first came to the firm?” I tease with a smirk.

His demeanor changes and he has a playful smile on his face, just like the good old days. “Oh, please, Louis wishes he could handle all this.” He motions to himself. He still won’t look at me. I need him to look at me.

I smirk and eye him up and down till my gaze catches on his tie. It’s crooked, I notice. A quick fit of confidence comes over me and I reach for it. At first, both hands are on the knot, but then the other lays flat on his chest while the other straightens the tie out.

It’s just like it was in law school when I would get him ready for mock trials. Something so normal, so domestic, about fixing his tie. Finally, finally, he looks down at me. We’re all but inches apart. I look up into his dark eyes and I feel… odd. His warm breath fans my face and I have to force myself away.

Harvey’s eyes stay on me this time. I can sense Mike looking between the two of us and there’s another layer of awkwardness added to the lift again. “Sorry, I-”

“-Hate a crooked tie.” He finishes my sentence. Of course, he does. I can’t stop myself from looking up, and I know it’s a dumb thing to do before I even do it. Harvey is already looking down at me calmly with half-lidded eyes. I take a brisk look over the rest of his face (pause a little too long on his lips) and back up.

I move just a tad further away from him than I was when we first got in. What is wrong with me? I look towards the elevator buttons and keep my eyes strained there. My chest is rising up and down as I think about what I’ve done.

There’s a ding and the elevator doors open. I wait for him to step out so that I can collect myself, but he doesn’t budge. I side-eye him and motion towards the door, “Go ahead.”

I can feel him looking at me, “Ladies first.” He says and his voice makes my heart flutter. I look at him and he’s looking at me like I’m a sick dog on the side of the street that he feels bad for. I bite my cheek and step out.

The whole way to the meeting spot for the client, I’m a pace or two behind Harvey and Mike. Not just because they’re tall and have long legs, either. At one point, I could tell Harvey had slowed his walking pace so I wouldn’t be so far behind, but I resisted being any closer to him by slowing my pace as well.

I need to think. I’ve detested Harvey since we ‘broke up’, but I’m within his vicinity for TWO DAYS, and I can’t keep it in my pants! I watch his back as he walks and can picture the smooth skin beneath. That gets me thinking about his chest… the scratches I left on both… I shake my head, there is something seriously wrong with me.

We arrive at a parking garage and elevator up to the fifth floor. Luckily, this time I keep my mouth shut and my eyes far from his. The client is waiting for us on a fancy, cherry-red car.

“Harvey!” He shouts joyously. The guy is older with white hair, but he seems active and in good spirits. His gaze slides over to me and I feel like an object. My pace slows and I try to fade into the background despite his hungry eyes. “And who is this?” He looks his lips and I pray that it’s an unconscious habit.

“I’m Mike Ross.” Mike steps in the man’s line of sight. “I’m Harvey’s personal associate.” Thank God for Mike Ross.

But this guy’s determined. He nods boredly at Mike before motioning him to step to the side. Mike moves in stuttered motions and his eyes flicker between me and the client. I give him a face that says ‘What the fuck?’, and he gives me one back that says, ‘I don’t know!’

“You.” I look at the man and freeze. He smiles at me and goes back to leaning on his car, “What are you doing with this guy?” He nods his head to Harvey. I see his jaw clench out of the corner of my eye but otherwise doesn’t move a muscle. “With a face like yours, you could be on anyone’s arm.” The implication is clear.

Just as Harvey opens his mouth, I say, “He’s my boss.” I nod with a tight smile.

An idea floods into my brain and my previously uncomfortable posture straightens until it becomes arched. “Yep!” I pop my lips and sway my hips as I get closer to the car. “Until I get a client of my own, I’m gonna be stuck with this guy.” I point with my thumb to Harvey. “You wouldn’t know a guy who’d want to be my client… would you?” I bat my lashes down at him.

He's quiet for a second and I can feel him about to say something, but I want to make sure my answer is a yes. I slide onto the shiny hood of the car and partially lay on my hip. “Cool car by the way.” I bat my lashes once more, but now I’m looking up at him and I can tell he’s hooked.

“Love, I’m sure people would get in legal trouble just to work with you.” He flirts and scoots closer to me on the car. Play it cool.

“Y/n.” I hear Harvey’s stern voice behind me and slide off of the car.

The rest of the meeting goes without a hitch. The client, Donald Marshall, would occasionally throw in the flirty comment or look but Harvey would quickly interject. As soon as we got what we needed we headed out of the lot… Not fast enough to prevent Mr. Marshall from kissing my hand on the way out.

“What the hell was that?” Harvey asks as soon as we’re on the sidewalk. He puts his hands on his hips and appears to be fuming. “You’re gonna flirt with my client- in front of me? I should write you up.”

“Call it what you want, I’m going to have clients begging to have me represent them by the end of the week.” I pull out my cell to look up the nearest Ikea. I try to look unbothered, but my heart is racing.

“You can’t just flaunt yourself to get clients-“

I get in his face and shove my finger into his chest. “I can and I will do whatever I want to get me as far away from you as possible!” My words are laced with venom.

I hate him. Just because he still has those puppy dog eyes and sugary words doesn’t mean he didn’t lead me on and then tell me I was stupid to think there was something between us.

I breathe heavily and he does in return. There is fire in his eyes, and I don’t want him to look at me like that- but I know I’m looking at him the exact same way. “As soon as I get my first client I won’t have to look at your sorry face and I can pretend you’re not even there.” I turn on my heels to the street and raise my hand to signal a cab.

I am so over Harvey Specter.

Taglist: @technicallykawaiisoul @malfoys-demigod @notarobotipromise

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[fishfooddude]

More Than a Client

Carmen "Carmy" Berzatto x Reader

An unexpected neighbor leads to something more?

Part 2

The Bear Masterlist

My Directory

Carmy was obsessed with you, and the longer you ignored him, the more he wanted you. His messages had gone ignored for weeks, and you weren’t posting on OnlyFans. 

Carmy felt like an over-boiling pot; he needed to see you.

After a particularly hellish prep, he opened his phone, pleading for a link to your booking calendar in his inbox. His office door swung open as he waited for his phone to load. “What the hell, Carm?” Fak demanded, his brow furrowed in frustration. Carmy shot him a confused look as he placed his phone face down on his desk. “What?” Carmy asked, genuinely confused about why Fak was standing in the doorframe, ready to yell at him.

“Lucy!” Fak exclaimed throwing his hands in the air. Carm was even more confused, “You hooked up with her and never called her back?” Fak stated accusatorily. “I did...” Carmy cautiously said as Fak adjusted his hat before passively-aggressively sighing. “She’s pissed!” Fak plainly stated, Carmy exhaled, waiting for Fak to get to his point. “Seriously?!” Fak huffed, “She’s pissed at you for not calling her so now Madison isn’t talkin’ to me.” 

“Wait- you got Madison Thomas to agree to go out with you?” Carmy chuckled as he leaned back in his chair, not believing Fak had actually gotten her to hang out with him.

“Yeah! I’m a catch, Carm.” Fak rebutted confidently. Carmy fought to hold back his laughter. Fak glared at him as he noticed the smirk on Carmy’s face. “I am! Call Lucy dipshit!” Fak huffed as he walked out of the office, muttering to himself. Carmy sighed and retrieved his phone from the desk to see an automatic email response from your email, “bookings are on pause.” 

Carmy groaned as he reread the words. He wasn’t sure how much longer he would last without you.

~

“He’ll call her back, I promise, sweetie.” Fak sweetly spoke into his phone as Madison hugged from the other end. She’d been laying into him since the night Lucy ‘drove Carmy home’; Fake frowned as he patiently listened to her yell at him. “How about I bring him tonight? Invite Lucy. Carms, a good guy- the restaurant has been busy, but he’s a good guy. I know he won’t do this again.” Fak pleaded over the phone. Madison sighed and took Fak up on his offer before hanging up on him.

“Fak! Get your ass back in here!” Richie yelled from the back alley doorway. There was tension in the kitchen, and it was getting on Richie’s last nerve, so when Fak ‘took a quick break’ that turned into an almost 30-minute conversation, was almost his breaking point. 

“What crawled up Carmy’s ass and died?” Richie huffed as he moved to stand beside Syd at the expo station. She hummed in acknowledgment as she silently organized tickets. “He needs to get laid or something…” Richie mumbled as he scanned the tickets Syd had checked off. She shrugged, “I don’t disagree, but I don’t want to engage in this conversation with you,” she stated as she looked up at Richie. He shot her an annoyed glare before exiting the kitchen to check on the bustling dining area.

At the end of service, Carmy pushed his sweaty curls out of his face before going to the sink to wash his hands. “Hey, Carm, need a ride home?” Fak innocently offered, knowing Carmy’s car was in the shop. Being none the wiser, Carmy took Fak up on the offer, not wanting to take the train that night. Fak grinned and quickly texted Madison that he and Carmy were on the way to their impromptu double date night.

Fak tried to be discreet about where he was driving, but Carmy picked up on it when he noticed the unfamiliar surroundings. Carmy noticed the crossroads and looked at Fak. “Where are we going?” he questioned, leaning back in his seat.

“Shoulda just called Lucy…” Fak mumbled halfheartedly. He knew tricking Carmy wasn’t how this should’ve happened, but he couldn’t stand Madison being mad at him much longer. “You know, it's not easy for guys like me to date. I’m not some hotshot with a good job- I get paid minimum wage to fix toilets. Madison likes me, and I want her to be happy, setting her friend up with-”

“You didn’t set me up with Lucy- that just happened. I didn’t mean for it-” Carmy huffed, interrupting Fak’s explanation. “Carmen! You’re my best friend! Best friends help each other like this! Be my wingman! I want to ask Madison to be my girlfriend, she’s not gonna say yes if my best friend had sex with her best friend and never called her!” Fak’s gusto as he spoke surprised Carmy. 

He nodded, “Okay… I’m sorry. I just- I got stuff goin’ on…” Carmy’s vagueness pissed Fak off.

“Like what?!” Fak yelled, looking between Carmy and the road.

“It’s nothin’ just stuff…” Carmy grumbled, wanting to avoid explaining his animalistic obsession to one of his oldest friends. He and Fak had been through a lot together, but explaining he was in love with an OnlyFans creator turned escort wasn’t something he wanted to do.

“Fine. Don’t tell me. Just apologize to Lucy.” Fak rolled his eyes as he parked outside some dive bar.

As soon as the pair walked in, they saw Madison and Lucy by the bar, drinks in hand. Lucy made eye contact with Carmy, and he noticed how she blushed and looked away, whispering something to Madison. Carmy shot Fake a knowing look before joining the women at the bar.

“So. Why didn’t you call me?” Lucy challenged once she and Carmy separated from Fak and Madison. Carmy awkwardly laughed, “Lost track of time?” he offered as a weak excuse. Lucy rolled her eyes. “Try again.” She laughed, seeing through Carmy's lie. He chuckled, “Can't get anything past you, huh?” 

Lucy shook her head, “If you'd called me like you said you would, you'd know I'm a public defender. I see through lies for a living.”

“I apologize. I should've called you. Can I make it up to you by cookin' you dinner sometime?” Carmy sincerely offered. Lucy grabbed her purse from the counter. " Okay, I'll take you up on that offer now.” She explained as she downed the remaining bit of her drink. “Oh, okay…” Carmy trailed off, surprised by Lucy's enthusiasm. 

“Maddie is probably going home with Fak anyway.” Lucy brought up as she laced her fingers into Carmy's free hand. Carmy nervously chuckled and followed as she tugged him through the bar to her car. 

~

“Do you not have a screwdriver?” Your friend Danny laughed as he reviewed the instructions on putting your cat tree back together. You side-eyed him as you arranged your bookshelf. “I'll take that as a no…” he laughed, trailing off by the end of his statement, “I'll go see if I have one in my truck.”

You nodded and went back to what you'd been doing. Moving was a pain and a reminder of how unprepared you were for the whole process. Every time you had to put together furniture, it served as a reminder to buy a tool set from the hardware store, and every time you tried to get one, it was promptly forgotten when you saw the sign pointing to the sale section of the garden center. 

“You got some HOT neighbors in your building,” Danny announced as he returned to your apartment toolbox in hand. 

“Oh, do I?” you inquired, only half-listening as you stared at your bookcase, trying to decide how to curate it more aesthetically. 

“Yeah. I think he's across the hall- blonde curly hair, tattoos, and a girl all over him. He was practically neon from how much he blushed trying to push her off. He'd also probably be down to make content with you.” Danny explained as he settled on the floor to assemble the cat tree. “Mochi better start liking me after this fuckin headache of a cat tree.” He grumbled as he looked over the instructions. 

You hummed, “she's a diva, she only fucks with one man and you know it… You think hot neighbor would be down to make content with me?” You questioned as you finally computed what Danny had said before rolling into his Mochi the cat rant. 

Danny shrugged, “you're hot. He seems a little kinky… It's just the vibe I got.”

You rolled your eyes, “Dan, unless he's also a sex worker, I doubt he'd be down to make content with me.”

Danny shrugged again, making you shake your head in disbelief. “I'm gonna get more boxes from the car.” You laughed, excusing yourself from the apartment. 

~

“Shit- I don't have eggs… I'll be right back.” Carmy quickly excuses himself, leaving Lucy on his countertop while a pot of pasta boiled on the stove. She'd had no intention of actually eating when she accepted Carmy's dinner offer, but now she found herself watching him make carbonara at almost midnight. Lucy said something Carmy didn't quite catch as he rushed out the door.

As he closed his door, he froze. You were walking toward him carrying a large cardboard box, “Y/N,” he stated in disbelief. 

“Hey…” you passively greeted as Carmy reached out to help with the box you'd been struggling to carry. You allowed him to take it before opening your apartment door.

 “So… this is why you haven't answered my messages?” Carmy asked as you pushed your door open. 

“Do you live in this building?” you asked, hoping he'd been visiting a friend. Carmy shook his head. “I live across the hall, " he stated as he nudged his head to the plain brown door across from yours. 

“This is a sign.” Carmy slyly smirked, casually looking you up and down. You sighed and took the box back from him. “Carmy, I don't date clients.” You reminded him before entering your apartment. Carmy chuckled as he watched you kick your door closed. 

This was a sign. 

[gvshing]

「 ✦ Tattoo Artist Vi ✦ 」

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

CW: Smut warning 6.6k words Masterlist

You had been wanting a new tattoo for way too long, so when you finally scheduled an appointment, you were elated. Buzzing until the day of your appointment, you could barely hold your excitement in. You had found this shop on Instagram and meticulously scrolled through all their posts and individual artists before deciding. ‘ViTattoosThings’ catches your eye instantly. The diverse styles showcased on the page impressed you. From traditional to black work to fine line. It seemed unbelievable how multifaceted the artist was. Naturally, when you finally saved up enough money, you sent the artist an email. Working out what you wanted, the style, size, and how much it was roughly going to cost. You send over your deposit and wait anxiously for the month to pass until the big day arrives.

The month passes quickly, to your delight. The tattoo shop is nestled on the corner of a strip of buildings, a standing sign placed directly outside the main door. Pretty delicate writing scribbled across it, letting the public know that walk-in piercings are available. The large window dawning painted drawings of a summer scene. Flowers planted on bright green grass and a sun wearing sunglasses. You giggle at the scene, smitten by the cartoonish style. Taking a deep breath you turn to look at the black door. Staring at it for a few seconds, you take a step towards it, grabbing the knob and turning. A bell chimes above you and you walk further into the bright studio. To the left of the door when you walk in is a black leather couch with enough room for maybe 3 people placed in front of the large window. Your eyes trace your surroundings, landing on a front desk area that seems to be abandoned. You walk closer to it and peer over the desk to see a blue haired girl with her head down, apparently asleep. You’re not 100% sure what she’s doing. “Hello? Are you okay?” You say softly, hoping to not scare her. Her head pops up with a speed you’re not sure is human. “Hello! Are you here for a piercing?” She exclaims, a light in her eyes. A bright and wide grin gracing her face. “I’m actually here for a tattoo. I have an appointment with Vi. I may be just a few minutes early.” You explain. Her face drops into a theatrical frown. “Aw. I was hoping that would give me something to do. I’ll grab Vi, if you want to have a seat and fill out this paperwork for me!” You laugh slightly at her first comment and then nod, taking the clipboard of files. You walk back to the couch. You place your bag on the glass top table in front of the couch with a ‘clunk’ and sit down as gently as you can manage. You fill out the papers, your hands slightly shaking. No matter how many tattoos or piercings you have, you’re certain you will always shake with anxiety before you are actively in the chair and the service has started. After about 5 minutes the blue haired girl returns and you start towards her to hand her your paperwork. “She’ll be out in just a few minutes, she’s finishing up with a client right now. If you need anything, just let me know!” You smile wide at her, eyes scrunching up in the process. “Thank you!” You beam the entire way back to the couch. Pulling out your phone to waste the rest of the waiting time, you sit and scroll through Vi’s Instagram once more. Hyping yourself and admiring her work that will soon be added to your collection.

After about 10 minutes of anticipation, a man walks out of the back and starts talking to the blue haired girl, who you still haven’t quite caught the name of. As your eyes are concentrated on the assumed client, a red headed woman walks out of the back as well. She scans the room, eyes landing on you and a subtle smirk crossing her features as she gives you a once over. “Y/N?” She questions and you nod eagerly, grinning from ear to ear. “Hi! You must be Vi?” She nods and motions for you to follow her. You gather your belongings and trail behind her, inspecting the walls of art as you walk past. Your shoes click in time with Vi’s on the tiled floor, one after the other. Vi’s tattooing area is in the back of the studio, past 3 or 4 other booths, one empty and others with miscellaneous people getting tattooed or employees seemingly taking breaks. Arriving at the open booth, Vi tells you to have a seat while she gets ready. You observe the area, sheets of tattoo designs litter the wall directly above a black work desk with various scratches and scattered supplies gracing its surface. Vi is seated on a red rolling stool at the desk, jumping from task to task. A printer starts copying as she moves to start setting up her tattoo area. She pulls out new needles and sets her ink to the side, smearing Vaseline onto a tray and setting empty ink caps into the substance. Grabbing the paper swiftly, she cuts out the various sized stencils. “What do you think about these, doll?” You smile softly and look over at her sketches in amazement. You mull over your decisions and pick the second smallest one. “I think this one, maybe?” You look back up at her, uncertain of your choice. “It’s your choice, if I put this on and you don’t like it, that’s fine. I can resize or reposition however much you want.” She adds a shrug at the end of her sentence. Grabbing a black plastic razor and a spray bottle she turns towards you, “Where at, Hun?”

Halfway through the tattooing process, you and Vi get more comfortable with each other. Laughing together and small talk bouncing back and forth between you both. “When did you start tattooing?” You ask as laughter dies from your chest. “Uh…” She pauses her hand from continuing while she squints at the wall, memories coming back to her. “I was 16 the first time,” Her attention came back to your forearm, hand continuing its rigorous movements. “I did some really shitty stick and poke on myself, that I’ve since covered up. I’ve kind of been at it ever since. I started a mentorship pretty soon after highschool, which was incredibly lucky. Thankfully I had help getting into it, someone I knew already tattooed as a living. So, I was able to get good recommendations from him. Mentored for a long fucking time, got my license and started working here. Though just like most artists, my dream is to open my own studio one day. I did my sister's tattoo, the girl out there, as my first tattoo out of my mentorship. She followed me by going to be a piercer, copycat.” Vi rolls her eyes and smirks. You nodded, looking away from her to look up at the clock. About an hour had passed since she had started, she seemed to be about done. Your eyes flick back to your arm, Vi’s head bent over focusing on her work. You watch her work, sketching her art permanently into your skin. “We’re almost done,” she breaks you out of your staring spell, reminding you that this moment with her is only temporary. You blow out a breath, out of both relief that the pain of the needle pounding into your flesh will be over soon, and out of disappointment that the long awaited adventure is about to end. That your time with the red headed beauty is almost over. Even if you had already decided to schedule another appointment, the disappointment still radiated through your brain. “What’re you doing after you’re done here?” She asks, bringing you back from your spiral of self-deprecating thoughts. “Oh…” You trail off, eyes still fixed to her, studying her face. Through lashes, she gazes up at you, catching your eyes for a second before hers flick back to her finishing touches. “I’ll probably grab something to eat and then go home to relax.” Biting your lip, thoughts of your options swirling in your head. Vi glances up at you and draws in a sharp breath at your expression. She pulls her hand back, eyes darting in between you and the now finished piece. “Alright doll, you’re all done. Just gotta get you cleaned up and wrapped.” She wipes off the excess ink and puts a layer of saniderm over it. You roll your arm into different positions, inspecting the ink at all the angles. Your face lights up, happiness radiating from you. A small smirk finds its way to Vi’s face as she observes your giddy behavior. “You like?” “Love. Thank you! You’re the greatest ever!” You exclaim. Her face tints a light pink from your praise. “I’m glad you think so. You did a good job, you sat there very nicely. I’m impressed.” This time you’re the one with a face that is heating up. “Psh, you made it 10x easier to get through. I enjoyed your company, I’ve been tattooed by some interesting people over the years. You’ve definitely been my favorite artist and the one who made me feel most comfortable.” Vi cleans up her area, throwing all the uncleanable things away and putting away her tattoo gun after disinfecting. “I would hate to make a client uncomfortable, so I’m happy to hear that.” Vi glances at you “Let alone a pretty one like you.” You flash her a lopsided grin.

You and Vi discuss the final payment and get ready to part ways for the day. “So, anywhere from tomorrow to a week from today you can take the saniderm off and just clean it like normal. If you have any questions or concerns, call up here and ask for me, okay sweets?” With wide eyes, you nod in understanding. “Got it. Call up and ask for you.” Repeating what she said, she stares at you for a few seconds and you see her eyes flick around to look at her surroundings. “Actually, let me give you my number just in case I’m not here. And I only check my email so many times a day. I’d hate to miss you. But, don’t tell Jinx up there I gave it to you. I’ll never hear the end of it.” She scribbles her number on a piece of paper she ripped out of her notebook, slipping the scrap into your hand. “Call me whenever.” You look at the paper and tuck it away. “Would it be too forward to give you mine as well. You know, just in case you need anything from me?” You smirk up at her. She cracks a loud laugh and shakes her head. “Yeah, yeah. That would be okay. I would even enjoy that.” She rips out another scrap of paper and hands it to you along with the pen. You scrawl down your number and hand it back to her. Caressing hands as you exchange the paper. The feeling of her skin sends shivers through you. Holding your hand out a second longer than necessary before you bring it back, grasping for dear life onto your bag. You say your final farewells and turn to leave, a slight hesitancy in your step. Unable to convince yourself that there’s any way you can linger and procrastinate, you quickly tell yourself to keep walking. Waving a small goodbye to the front desk girl, who’s name you think was ‘jinx’ or maybe it was ‘Jenks’? You weren’t sure, you know Vi said it. But, you were having a hard time concentrating, all things considered. You rush home, excited to sit down and rest after an exhaustive day. Body overwhelmed from the intense experience. You racked through your brain, trying to come up with any question, just so you could text Vi and ask. You didn’t want to be invasive though, or cross any lines. You shake your head, ridding yourself of that thought process, the thought process of hoping something would go wrong just so you could contact the woman again.

The next day you wake up, well rested from your adventure of yesterday. A groan escapes you as you stretch, burying your head deeper into the lush mountains of pillows. Rolling over you pat your nightstand in search of your phone. Grasping it you bring the device to your face, squinting at the bright screen as you scroll through your notifications. Stopping on one in particular, your eyes widen and heart races. ‘Hey It’s Vi, I hope I don’t make you uncomfortable when saying this, but I think you’re beautiful. And quite funny. Hope to see you in the shop again sometime.’ A squeal leaves your lips and you toss the phone onto your bed, now fully awake and upright. Staring at the phone for a few beats you hesitantly reach for it, turning the screen back on to re-read the text a few more times. With a deep inhale you calm yourself, fully opening the text to draft your reply. Is it too forward to ask to see her outside of the studio? She was forward first, so maybe it’s just a natural second step? You shake the overthinking away, trying to reason with yourself.  Typing a reply and hitting send before you can change your mind, you sit back and take a deep steady breath. ‘Thank you. I love my new ink, you’re so talented, and also so beautiful. Is it too forward to ask to see you outside of the shop? On a date even?’ You know it’s not professional for the artists to go on dates with clients, but if the client asks it’s different, right? You hope so at least. You could handle the rejection if so, though your next appointment might be awkward.

For the next few hours you ignore your phone, too scared of seeing what the red-headed woman might reply. You keep yourself busy with chores and prematurely getting ready for work, shift not starting for another hour and a half. With the chores being done you couldn’t in good conscience of the other people possibly trying to get in touch with you, ignore your phone much longer. You grab your phone off the charger and flick the screen on, mimicking your earlier actions of checking the notifications. You scroll for a few seconds, reaching the bottom of the list. You see a text from Vi at the very bottom, seemingly from a few hours previously, not long after you had sent the initial text. Gulping down a heavy breath you read it, nerves flooding through you like a broken dam. ‘Very forward, but I like it. Let me know where and when. I’ll be there, sugar.’ Your breath catches and you read it again, again and again. Words memorized at this point. Thoughts racing and heart beating out of your chest, grinning like the Cheshire cat, you send a quick reply. That was easier than you thought it would be.

When Vi sees your first initial text she was about to start a tattoo and needed to excuse herself for a quick silent scream in the bathroom. Butterflies she’s not used to bloom through her. Knowing it was unprofessional, she can’t quite tell anybody. Maybe Jinx, but she’s a gossiper, so she’s not sure she can trust the sister. She just has to calm herself and carry on like normal. It’s okay if the client asks, right? She’s not sure. She’s not certain it isn’t breaking some policy to go on a date with a client. She knows it’s against policy to reach out and say what she did say. Compliments are fine, for the most part depending on what they are. But, reaching out after the fact, and flirting with no shame? Absolutely not. She doesn’t know what she was thinking when she even sent it to begin with. She wasn’t thinking. She beats herself up for being inappropriate, but it’s not like you seemed uncomfortable with it? In fact, you seemed overjoyed. Vi was exalted at the outcome, actually. It could’ve been worse. This was the best case scenario, luckily. Vi sends her reply after her mini freak out and promptly getting back to work. In between clients she’s checking her phone, awaiting a reply from you. There’s no way she was being too forward now. She was trying her best not to freak out at your non-existent reply. All things considered though, she can’t help it. When you do finally reply, she’s practically jumping out of her skin with excitement. You both work out the details of the meeting and the waiting game begins.

Day of the date, you are buzzing with excitement. Vi sits at her desk, leg bobbing up and down anxiously waiting for the clock to hit 5:00. You and Vi had decided just to get dinner at a small diner down the street from the tattoo shop. Vi seemed to have been there and enjoyed it, but it would be your first time visiting. Vi was going to go straight from work to the diner and you’d meet her there. Vi felt weird not being the ‘gentleman’ she prided herself in being and picking you up for the date, you insisted this would be easier though. And you weren’t going to take no for an answer. When the clock finally hits 5:00, Vi is almost sprinting out of the studio. Sending Jinx off with just a quick mumbled ‘have a good night, text me if you need anything.’ Jinx raised an eyebrow at her departing sister. Confused about the anxious behavior. Not used to seeing Vi act like this. She shrugs her shoulders and goes back to her previous task. Vi reaches the diner and yanks open the door. A frenzy of racing thoughts clouding her. She almost doesn’t notice you already sitting in a corner booth, equally as nervous. You stand up to greet her and she feels the anxiety wash off her at the sight of your sparkling eyes and bright smile. The corner of her mouth quirked up as her eyes darted up and down your figure. Noticing her surveying you, your face flushes. She approaches you, confidence soaring through her now that the waiting is over. “Hey, doll. How was your day?” She leans down and gives you a half hug, pressing a swift kiss to your cheek. Sitting down at the booth you gleam at her, finally answering her question. “My day was good. I didn’t do much. Mainly just waited for our date giddily. And yours?” She smiles.

The rest of the dinner was filled with various conversations. “Dude, it was fucking insane. She was screaming at me and threatening to sue me? Which I thought was crazy, if you’re upset about the mutually decided price, why would you waste even more money to take me to court?” You laughed heartily. Shaking your head, you blow out an exaggerated breath. “That’s crazy. Like you guys had already discussed the price?” “Yes! That was the craziest part in my opinion. She had already said okay to the price and then once we finished the tattoo she was up in arms about it, as if it was the first time she’d heard about it.” You peered over at her, breath taken from how the sun setting shined on her features. Eyes glittering, hair illuminated by the glow, making the red color shine brighter than you’ve ever seen it. Instinctively, without thought, you reached up and tucked a piece behind her ear. Her eyes widen, her words trailing off from her sentence. “You’re very pretty, Vi.” You say quietly, almost a whisper. You see her throat bob as she swallows a lump down. “Thank you.” She mumbles, ears turning red. As you arrive at your car you lean against it and stare at Vi silently. Tossing around thoughts of what you should say or do, but Vi beats you to it. “I had fun tonight. Thanks for asking me to come out with you. Professionally I couldn’t ask you. I mean, I shouldn’t have even texted you in the first place, but I was willing to risk that much.” You smile shyly, her willing to risk her job just to text you was endearing. “I had to shoot my shot. I’m glad I did. I’d love to do this again sometime.” She nods enthusiastically at your offer. “Of course. Me too.” You decide to bite the bullet and ask her to join you at your apartment. What’s the harm? You thought. “Did you maybe… want to come hang out a bit longer at my place? You don’t have to obviously.” She smirks and laughs, eyes trailing down your body and coming back to meet your hopeful eyes. She nods.

Vi follows you in her own car, parking directly next to yours when you both arrive at the apartment. Laughing the whole way up to the apartment, certain that the neighbors could hear the symphony of giggles. Vi practically carries you with how hard you’re leaning into her, unstable from all the laughing you’re doing. You guys aren’t even sure what you were laughing about by the time you get to your front door. “This is my apartment! Welcome!” You gesture grandly at the open space, kicking your shoes off and dramatically falling into your couch. “Have a seat,” You pat the space next to you. “If you want. You can also stand there gawking if you want. I can find some enjoyment in sitting here staring at you as well.” Vi is observing your apartment, it’s so incredibly you. The colors splashing against all the walls with the art you have hung up everywhere. A soft plush rug sat under a coffee table in front of the navy blue couch you are inhabiting currently. She slowly walks towards you, watching your pupils dilate more and more the closer she gets. Your eyes track her movements, watching her walk closer before she sits down next to you, calculatedly gentle. She turns towards you, suddenly you’re nervous again. A tension grows as the seconds tick by. “So, what do you want to do?”

Deciding on a movie for the time being, you change into a pair of shorts and a loose t-shirt. Wanting to be comfortable now that you’re home. Legs thrown over Vi’s, she’s stroking long deliberate lines into your skin. Making you shudder when she gets higher every few minutes, seemingly testing your limits. Her hand caresses over a part of your thigh that makes you jump and gasp. She pulls her hand back, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t-” You cut her off. “No! I’m ticklish, that’s all. You can put your hand back, I don’t mind.” Vi slowly puts her hand back, lower than it was trying not to tickle you again. You half focus back on the movie, brunt of your attention still drawn to her soft hands. Mindless shapes being drawn into the smooth curves of your skin, your thoughts are quickly taken back over with the feeling of it. Vi seems none the wiser to you, her eyes drawn to the TV. In Vi’s head she can’t think of anything but the feel of your skin under her hands. The way your warmth combined with the softness of your flesh made it feel like she was touching heaven itself. You cleared your throat, catching Vi’s eyes as she flashes them towards the sound. “Have I told you that your beauty is ethereal?” She feels herself grow warm at your sudden compliment. “Not that exactly, no.” You smile wide at her. “Well I have now,” She rolls her eyes at your cockiness. “You’re welcome.” You whip your head back to stare at the TV, clearly not really watching it. She clicks her tongue and gives a small laugh. She leans over and grabs your chin, moving your head to look at her instead. “Have I told you that your lips look like they’re dying to be kissed?” You swallow hard, shaking your head ever so slightly. “Can I remedy that for you?” She purred. Glancing between lips and each other's eyes, she leans forward. As she presses a gentle yet needy kiss against your lips you feel a shiver go through you. Hair standing on end, you melt into her. Her hand reaches up and cups your cheek, stroking your skin with her thumb. Reaching your hand up, you grab a fistful of her hair and bring her closer into you, kissing her harder than before. Her other hand trails up your arm before falling back down to grasp at your waist, squeezing at the plush flesh. Biting back a moan from the feeling you pull back to catch your breath, foreheads resting together. Deep breaths are pulled from both of you. Scared you were going too fast, an awkward laugh leaves your throat. Vi tilts her head, a bemused expression splayed across her face. “Sorry. I’m just-” You stop yourself, you’re not sure what you were doing honestly. When she’s in front of you, kissing you like this, you feel drunk. Vi smiles softly at you. “We don’t have to continue. I enjoyed just sitting here in your company. I don’t want to rush you into anything.” You stare at her, mouth moving as if you said ‘okay’ but no sound leaves you.

She moves to lay back against the couch. Hands falling back down to your legs, almost immediately caressing the shapes of her imagination onto you. You stare at her for another beat, without thinking you’re swinging your legs to straddle her, blocking her vision of the TV. She laughs heartily at your actions. Your hands shoot to her hair, tugging at the strands to bring her closer to you. Her hands find their way to your waist pulling you down into her lap. You lean forward, stopping just shy of her lips, feeling her breath fan over your lips. You nip at her lips as gently as you can. Her mouth quirks into a smirk. “Tease.” She mumbles before pulling you into a rough kiss. You squeak at the motion. You suck her bottom lip into your mouth, pulling back with it stuck between your teeth, you let it go with a teasing giggle. “I’m good at it, sorry.” A soft groan leaves Vi’s throat. “Clearly, doll.” She pulls you in closer, too close for you to escape, and presses a desperate kiss against you. Teeth clink as she continues her assault on your mouth. Hands in a flurry of nerves are trailing all over Vi. Anywhere you can get them, they’re there. You both pull back to catch your breath. Sweaty foreheads resting together for a miniscule moment. Vi leans to press sloppy lingering kisses to your neck. Moaning when she reaches the dip where your neck and shoulders meet. Vi chuckles at your breathless sounds. “What’cha want, darling?” She breathes out in between kisses. “You.” You sigh out, head lolling back, giving her more access to your throat. She nips at the skin and leaves small marks over the pristine skin. Your hands rake through her red locks, tugging at the base. Vi lifts you up slightly to move your legs in between hers, pressing your core onto her thigh. Lifting her face up to kiss you deeply. Your tongues rolling over the others. Whimpering at the sensations, you rock into her. Intoxicated with need, you tug at her shirt signalling for her to take it off. Pulling away from your lips a groan leaves her at your incessant tugging, “Want me to take it off? Is that what you want?” You nod quickly, pleading eyes staring right through her. “Use your words then,” she demands. “I want to hear your pretty voice say it.” You whimper at her, giving in nonetheless. “Please, Vi. Take your shirt off. Want to feel you.” She mutters a curse and quickly does as you ask, taking the sports bra with it too. Your hands immediately find their way up to her chest, teasing her nipples. She lets out a husky noise at your touch. Feeling the smooth yet muscular skin under your palms. Vi places her hands at the hem of your shirt before slowly pulling it up and maneuvering it off of you. “So I have to ask but you don’t” You tease. She flashes you a look of cockiness. “Yeah, exactly.” You shudder at the rays of confidence she omits. God, you’re not sure you could survive this girl.

With her index finger she traces a line from the hem of your shorts up your waist and eventually landing on your breast. “And no bra? Were you truly just getting comfortable or were you expecting more this whole time?” You flush red at her accusation, shaking your head violently. “Just comfortable, I promise.” She makes a ‘hm’ sound, not sounding convinced. Before you can retort anything else she grabs your breasts, one hand on each, and kneads with a force that rides the border of pleasure and pain. A high pitched moan falls from you as you arch forward deeper into her touch. She smirks at the reaction and pinches your nipples, swirling the sensitive bud around her fingers. You bite back another moan, quite literally, teeth catching your bottom lip in an aggressive assault massaging over it until it’s almost bleeding. Vi reaches her face forward and trails kisses up to your ear, biting at the lobe softly. “You don’t need to silence yourself. I prefer it if you don’t in fact.” You let out the moan you're holding when she squeezes your nipple the smallest bit harder. “There you go.” She whispers. You trail your hands up her strong back, all the way up to her neck and grasp at it. Tugging her into you. Her hands leave your nipples and you let out a small whine. “You’re okay. Don’t be a brat about it now.” She chuckles at her own sentiment. You make a small ‘hmph’ and decide to press kisses against her chest, tongue slobbering all over her breast before taking a nipple into your mouth. Swirling your tongue around her erect nipple. She draws in a sharp breath and her hands continue on their original descent. Reaching the hem of your shorts she undoes the first button fast, but slowly unbuttons the next two in a teasing fashion, fingers brushing against your skin ever so slightly. You depart from the mounds and trail kisses up her chest to her throat. Reaching her mouth you place sloppy wet kisses against her lips, hands going down to fiddle with her belt. She laughs against your mouth at your struggle. “Getting impatient huh?” Lips curling into a smirk at her retort, you snap the belt the rest of the way off. “Extremely.” Feeling hazy from desire, you trail kisses down her torso. Making it to her jeans you unbutton them with your teeth, maintaining fiery eye contact with her. She mutters an expletive under her breath, head falling back as you pull her jeans down. Standing up and towering over her, you climb back into her lap. She places her hands on your waist and pulls you back into a kiss. She lifts your hips up mid kiss, softly laying you down next to her now straddling you instead. Hands finding their way down to your shorts, wiggling them down your legs and flinging them away into the void of your apartment. She wastes no time putting her hand down your panties, finding your wet cunt waiting for her. She rubs slick lines with two thick fingers down your slit. Arching your back up into her, a whine escapes your chest. Vi scoffs at your noises. “Feel good, yeah?” You nod fast, imitating what could be the word ‘yes’. “Good.” The word falls from her lips and you’re whining even louder this time. Her appendages halting their strokes, she finds your clit and rubs small circles around the ball of nerves. Panting at the sensations you moan for more. “You want more? What do you say when you want something, doll?” Your eyes rolled into the back of your head already, making it hard for you to roll them at her comment.

"More Vi, please.” Lips up-turning into a cocky smile she retorts. “As you wish, madam.” Just then, she’s crawling down your body, leaving small kisses in her wake. She tugs at your panties, almost ripping them down, throwing them wherever she threw your shorts earlier. Coming to your pussy she presses soft kisses on your pelvis before diving lower. You shudder at the feeling of anticipation. She presses more kisses on your puffy clit before licking one long line up your slit, causing you to jerk up into her mouth in surprise. Quickly getting to work lapping at your juices. Her left arm wraps around your thigh holding you in place, for the most part. Her right arm snakes its way up your thigh, caressing you, until it reaches your needy area. She parts your pussy lips slightly, allowing her more access to drink you up. Her tongue swirls around your clit, flicking at it occasionally. When she deems your lips thoroughly spread for her, she delves her middle finger into your leaking hole, not stopping until she gets to the knuckle. Feeling flushed at the overwhelming feelings you grasp at Vi’s hair, tugging at the strands. She groans into your pussy, sending vibrations through your heat. She sinks her finger in and out of you, eventually finding a rhythm that has you writhing in her palms. Vi unhooks her left arm from around your thigh and presses your stomach down, keeping you from escaping her rash movements. She adds her index finger and curls them up into you, causing you to cry out in pleasure. She switches her technique to pumping them with a curl to her fingers when she reaches her knuckles, continuing eating at the fleshy wet part of you. A coil of heat tightens in your stomach, moans spilling out. “Vi- Fuck, Vi! Fuck, don’t st- Don’t stop. Plea-” Becoming a stuttering mess you’re jerking all types of ways in Vi’s grasp. You glance down at where Vi is perched, look of satisfaction and adoration splayed across face, well, the parts that are showing. The parts not buried deep in your cunt. Mewling out small pants and whines as you get closer, you break out in loud strangled moans. The electricity inside you heats up as you start coming undone. Crying out Vi’s name and tightening your thighs around her head, vision momentarily leaving. Only hearing a light buzzing noise as you gush around her fingers. She slurps up your juices and helps you ride out the orgasm. Licking one long strip up your pussy, she starts pressing kitten kisses to your clit before she’s sitting up and smirking down at you. Desperately you reach your hands out to her and make a ‘c’mere’ motion with your hands. She chuckles at your starry eyed look. Leaning down to get closer you grab her cheeks and pull her down to kiss you. At first, the kiss is sloppy, tasting yourself on her tongue and wildly wiping off the juices from her face with your hands. The kiss dissolves into a sweet lingering kiss, channeling all your remaining energy into it.

Hands leaving her face when you’ve successfully rid her of the mess, you trail one down her torso. Landing on her boxers, you play with the hem for a moment before slyly slipping your hand into them. Vi lets out a small gasp at your bold move. You slide your hand through her soft bush and slide a finger past her wet slit. Instantly Vi is letting out small gasping moans. Your finger presses against her wetness and strokes, earning small mewls from Vi. You move to trapping her clit between two fingers. Going back and forth between pinching and rubbing small circles around it. Vi pants at the sensation, throwing her head into the crook of your neck, still straddling your figure. “Yeah? Feel good?” You whisper into her ear. She nods, nuzzling further into your neck. “So-” She pauses to shudder. “S’good” She gets out after a second. You grin at her suddenly shy nature. Leaving her clit, you slide a finger down and thrust a finger inside her, curling it rhythmically. She lets out a whine and what sounds like the word ‘fuck’. You continue your fast pace, adding a second finger when you think she’s ready, earning another strangled moan from her. You press kisses and small nips against Vi’s shoulders. Trailing one hand up to her hair, pulling at it to make her look up at you. Back now arched beautifully. Staring into her bleary eyes, you continue fucking her at a steady pace. You bring her face closer to you and pull her into a sloppy fast paced kiss, tongues swirling around. You pull back, a string of saliva hangs in the air as she pants and whines. “Fuck Vi, you’re so pretty. Especially when you look all fucked out like this. I can’t imagine what you look like when I have a strap buried even deeper inside you. Can’t wait to have you like that next time.” She huffs as good as she can manage. “Next time…” She pants out, breathless at this point. “Yeah. Next time.” You say, getting cocky about the fact there will be a next time. You don’t fuck on the first date and expect their not to be a next time. “Cocky.” she mutters out, eyes screwed shut. Tightening your hold on her hair, you smile at her expression. “Sure fucking am.” You say back to her before you shove her head back into the crook of your neck. You bring your thigh up to press against your hand and her pussy, adding a grind to the mix of sensations. As best as you can with your arm and her boxers being kind of in the way that is. Vi’s noises get quieter as she concentrates on reaching the finish line. Turning into breathless pants. She lets out a high pitched noise before crying out in pleasure. The frenzied heat in her stomach releasing into bursts of liquid gushing around your fingers and soaking her boxers. You slow your pumping fingers, eventually rescinding them and adding a small pressure to her clit, pulling smaller mewls through her lips. She shakes in your arms, uttering quiet ‘fuck’s every now and again. You take your hand out of her boxers and lower your stabilizing thigh down. Snaking your arm up to pull her into a hug and hold her tightly while she comes down. Littering small kisses against her head. Rubbing at her back, you trace the contours of her muscles. Squeezing at her shoulders, you place a few more kisses along the edge of her ear and whisper into it. “Thank you. You’re very beautiful, Vi.” She picks her head up to look at you, red faced and swollen lips from all the kissing and biting at them in pleasure. She mumbles a ‘thank you’ back at you and stares at you for what feels like minutes on end, though it was probably 10 seconds. You smirk at her tired and blissed out expression. “So, about my next tattoo?”

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

This was my first time writing smut in a loooong time. So I hope it made sense and was legible lmaoo. Thank you for reading <3

[someonegoood]

THE CORPORATE EQUATION chapter 2 ✫ jeon jungkook

a miscommunication in HR leads to a near-PR disaster when an important client’s demands clash with employee well-being. Jungkook’s rigid solutions exacerbate the problem, and you are forced to step in.

CONTAINS: corporate!au, ceo!jk, headofhr!reader, grumpy x sunshine, slow burn, accidental vulnerability, mutual pining, emotionally unavailable jk, bickering turned bonding, fluff & angst :)

NOTE: this will be a mini series. thanks so much for reading!! this work is not revised and english is not my first language :)

miiini taglist @haru-jiminn @parapiop7 @radcustoms @minniejim <3

my main masterlist! ❀ the corporate equation masterlist!

❀ chapter two: crossing boundaries

It was 7:00 a.m. The first sign that something was wrong came in the form of a frantic email. You were reviewing quarterly engagement reports when a notification pinged on your laptop.

Subject: URGENT Client Escalation

The email was from the PR team, outlining an issue with one of the company’s most important clients. Somehow, a key detail in the client’s contract had been overlooked by HR—an agreed-upon timeline adjustment had not been communicated to the production team. Now the client was threatening to pull out unless the project was delivered immediately.

You felt the familiar rush of stress prickling at your temples. The issue wasn’t just the oversight—it was the solution Mr. Jeon had already accepted: doubling employee workloads to meet the client’s demands.

For years, you had championed policies to ensure work-life balance. The HR team trusted you to advocate for them, and you weren’t about to let this crisis undo all that trust. Still, Jungkook’s reputation preceded him. The company’s young, exacting CEO wasn’t known for bending to opposition, especially when it came to business decisions.

“Let me guess, Mr. CEO decided to plow through without considering the fallout,” Soojin said, leaning over your desk. Her casual tone didn’t mask the genuine concern in her eyes.

“You guessed right,” you replied, sighing. “But I’m not going to let him ruin our team.”

“Good luck with that,” Soojin muttered as you grabbed your clipboard and headed for the conference room.

That’s how you found yourself walking into a room full of department heads besides Minho, your co-worker, ready to advocate for a solution that wouldn’t burn everyone out in the process. The absence of his usual level-headed support only heightened your nerves, but you shook it off.

Once inside, the tension was already palpable. As the head of HR, you were no stranger to high-stakes situations, but this one felt particularly personal. Employee well-being wasn’t just a talking point for you—it was the foundation of your work.

"We will win, alright?" Minho sat toward the back, offering you a reassuring smile but you scanned the room, noting the familiar faces of department heads.

Jungkook entered moments later, exuding his usual aura of control. His sharp gaze immediately found you, and you braced yourself. His assistant, Hajun, followed closely behind, setting a sleek portfolio in front of him.

“Let’s hear it,” he said curtly, gesturing for you to explain. You stood, clearing your throat before launching into your plan.

“We can revise the timeline and propose alternative solutions to the client that don’t hinge on doubling employee workloads. It’s a balanced approach that maintains employee morale while still delivering results.”

Jungkook frowned, his arms crossed. “The client doesn’t want alternatives. They want what they were promised, on time.”

“And rushing the team to exhaustion is your solution?” Minho countered.

“Burned-out employees won’t give you their best, and they certainly won’t stay loyal to this company. Then what?” You said.

Jungkook’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he’d snap back. You braced yourself for the inevitable clash, but before he could respond, Minho’s voice cut through the tension like a breeze.

“Okay, let’s not turn this into a cage match,” he said, with a lighthearted laugh. “How about we hash this out before someone flips the table?”

Minho’s grin defused some of the tension, and you shot her a grateful look. But Jungkook’s glare remained fixed on you, the battle far from over.

“Soojin should be here for this,” Jungkook said, glancing at the empty chair beside you. “Where is she?”

“Caught up with another issue,” you replied, your tone firmer than you felt. “But I can handle this, Jungkook.”

His eyes narrowed at the use of his name without the customary "Mr. Jeon," but he didn’t comment. Instead, he leaned back. "This is not what I asked for."

Unlike Mr. Jeon, most department heads seemed receptive—until Joohyun, the head of finance, cut in.

“This is impractical,” she said with a smirk. “The client won’t care about employee well-being if their deadlines aren’t met. HR isn’t exactly known for its strategic prowess.”

Her words stung, but you steadied yourself, opening your mouth to respond.

Before you could get a word out, Jungkook spoke up, his voice cold and firm.

“That’s enough, Joohyun,” he said, silencing her with a glare. “This company wouldn’t function without HR, and their strategy is the most reasonable approach we’ve seen so far. Let them do their job.”

The room went quiet, the weight of his words lingering. For the first time, you saw a glimmer of support in Jungkook’s eyes—a brief acknowledgment that maybe, just maybe, you knew what you were doing.

The hours after the meeting dragged like molasses, each moment more draining than the last. While you’d won a small victory in convincing Jungkook to let you move forward with your plan, the day’s battles were far from over.

The PR team descended on the HR office like a storm shortly after the meeting. You barely had time to glance up before Eunji, the PR team lead, plopped a thick stack of papers onto your desk with an audible thud.

“Care to explain how we’re supposed to salvage this without throwing the team into overdrive?” she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I don’t know, Eunji,” you said, your tone carefully even. “Maybe by working with HR instead of trying to steamroll over us?”

Eunji rolled her eyes, arms crossed. Behind her, a few other PR associates snickered. “Look, we get it—you’re all about employee hugs and yoga sessions, but some of us have real deadlines to meet.”

You inhaled sharply, willing yourself to stay calm. Dohyun intercepted. “Protecting employees isn’t just about ‘hugs,’ Eunji. If your team collapses from burnout, how are you going to meet any deadlines?”

One of Eunji’s team members muttered something under their breath, prompting more snickers. Soojin, who had been quietly typing at her desk nearby, finally stood up, placing her hands on her hips.

“Maybe if PR didn’t miss the communication in the first place, we wouldn’t even be in this mess,” she said, her voice sugary sweet but sharp enough to cut.

The PR team bristled, but Eunji pulled them away with a dismissive wave. “Fine, let’s see if your little plan works. Don’t screw this up, sunshine.”

You let out a shaky breath once they were gone, rubbing your temples. Soojin and Dohyun handed you chocolates from their drawer without a word, and you shot them a grateful smile.

By the time most of the office had cleared out, you were still at your desk, surrounded by drafts and scribbled notes. Your plan was solid, but getting it ready for client approval would take hours more.

You were so focused that you didn’t notice Jungkook approaching until his voice broke the silence.

“You’re still here.”

You jumped slightly, looking up to see him leaning against the doorframe of your office. His suit jacket was gone, and his tie was loosened—a rare, almost humanizing sight.

“I could say the same to you,” you said, turning back to your screen with an edge to your tone. “What do you need?”

He didn’t answer immediately, instead walking over and scanning the mess of papers on your desk. “You’re putting a lot of effort into this.”

“Well, someone has to,” you muttered, your irritation still fresh from the way he’d treated you in the meeting earlier. You expected him to bite back or make some condescending remark, but instead, he surprised you.

Jungkook pulled up a chair and sat beside you, his movements deliberate but uncharacteristically nonchalant. “Let me help,” he said simply.

You blinked, caught off guard. “You? Helping HR? Did I hit my head at some point today?”

He rolled his eyes, clearly uninterested in your sarcasm. “The faster we fix this, the faster we avoid another PR disaster.”

Your mind whirred. This was the same man who had dismissed your plan so curtly in the meeting, barely giving it the time of day. And yet, when Joohyun had criticized you, he’d stepped in to defend you with a ferocity you didn’t expect. The contradiction in his actions left you confused and more than a little annoyed.

After a beat, you handed him a stack of notes, though your hesitation lingered. “Fine. Just... don’t make it worse.”

For the next few hours, the two of you worked in an uncharacteristic rhythm. You were still simmering with unspoken frustration, but you couldn’t deny Jungkook’s methodical efficiency. He asked sharp, focused questions, cutting through fluff and refining your ideas in a way that almost impressed you. Almost.

At one point, during a lull, he leaned back and glanced at you. “You’re passionate about this,” he said, not unkindly. “Why?”

You hesitated, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. But the sting of his earlier dismissal was still fresh, and it made you hesitate.

“Does it matter?” you countered, your voice sharper than you intended.

His brows furrowed slightly, but he didn’t back down. “I think it does.”

With a sigh, you admitted, “Because I know what it’s like to feel overworked and unseen. I’ve been in jobs where I was just... a number. I swore I’d never let that happen to anyone if I could help it.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful. “I didn’t expect that.”

You tilted your head, your frustration bubbling over. “Why are you even still here? You dismissed me in the meeting like I didn’t know what I was talking about, but then you defended me like you cared. Why?”

He exhaled, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Because Joohyun was out of line,” he said after a pause. “And because... I didn’t dismiss your plan because it was bad. I dismissed it because I didn’t think it could work.”

You blinked, his admission catching you off guard. “So, what you changed your head?”

He sighed again, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t ask for this job. My father’s health forced me into it, and now... everyone expects me to know what I’m doing. Sometimes, I feel like I’m just trying to keep my head above water. I thought your plan was risky, but then I saw how you fought for it, and I realized... maybe you see something I don’t.”

His vulnerability left you momentarily speechless. For a moment, the hard edges of his persona softened, and you saw him as more than just your stubborn, workaholic CEO.

“You’re doing better than you think,” you said quietly, the tension in your voice giving way to something softer.

He looked at you, his expression unreadable, before turning back to the notes. “Let’s get this finished,” he said gruffly. But the silence that followed felt lighter, the unspoken understanding between you lingering in the air.

You couldn’t resist the opportunity. “So, CEO Jeon can admit when he’s wrong, huh?”

Jungkook’s eyes snapped to you, and you grinned, trying to hide your amusement behind a half-smirk.

“Don’t get too carried away,” he replied, though his lips twitched. “I didn’t admit anything. Just—acknowledged a change in perspective.”

“Right,” you teased, raising an eyebrow. “So you don’t think I’m the genius behind this whole plan?”

Jungkook rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress the ghost of a smile. “Keep talking like that, and I’ll leave you to handle the PR team alone.”

“Good luck with that,” you shot back, your tone light but filled with a touch of challenge. “You can’t keep up with me.”

He leaned back in his chair with a smirk, crossing his arms. “We’ll see about that.”

The week following the tense meeting had flown by in a blur of deadlines and intense focus. But amidst the whirlwind of emails and conference calls, you noticed a subtle shift. Employees seemed more engaged, and the PR team had been surprisingly cooperative.

It wasn’t until Friday midday that you received an unexpected email from Jungkook. The subject line simply read: Team lunch, my treat.

The moment you clicked it open, you saw his message:

"I know things got a little heated last week, but I want to take a moment to properly thank the HR team for handling the issue so well. You guys really pulled it off. Let’s do lunch together to celebrate."

You blinked, surprised but intrigued. Was this an attempt to redeem himself after the way he’d dismissed you in front of the directors? Or was this just his idea of a token gesture?

Later that day, you and your team gathered in the HR office, the air filled with an unusual sense of anticipation. Soojin, always the first to perk up at free food, was already checking the time, her phone in hand.

“Is this real?” Soojin asked, eyebrows raised. “The CEO wants to take us to lunch?”

“You mean... after everything that happened?” Minho said, his tone skeptical but intrigued. “I guess we did do a good job.”

Minji, who had been quieter than usual, leaned back in her chair. “I didn’t think he’d actually do it. But hey, free food, right?”

Dohyun smiled, leaning in with a teasing smirk. “I think it’s more of a CEO redemption tour. Let’s see how much he’s willing to dish out.”

You couldn’t help but smile at their banter, even as you reflected on Jungkook’s sudden change of heart. Was this his way of softening the corporate image he’d cultivated so carefully?

Moments later, the door to your office opened, and there he was. Jungkook, wearing his usual sharp suit, but this time his tie was a bit looser, and his posture seemed less rigid. He gave a slight nod toward the group as he stepped inside, his gaze landing on you.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice softer than usual.

The team exchanged curious glances, but they nodded, following him out of the office and into the elevator.

The restaurant he’d chosen was an upscale yet relaxed spot, with warm lighting and modern decor. A reserved table waited for you in the corner, a large round table that felt more personal than corporate. As you sat down, Jungkook took a seat at the head, but this time, the air wasn’t filled with tension. The casual vibe of the restaurant, combined with his slightly more laid-back demeanor, made the whole situation feel less formal.

“I’m not a big fan of these ‘team appreciation’ things, but I know when I’ve been outmatched,” Jungkook began, his voice still carrying that authoritative tone but with a touch of lightness. “You all handled the client issue far better than I anticipated, and I want to take this moment to thank you for that. Soojin, Dohyun, Minho, Minji... and you too,” he added, looking directly at you. “I know it wasn’t easy, and I appreciate your patience with me.”

You met his gaze, surprised at how genuine he sounded. His eyes weren’t as cold as usual, and there was a subtle vulnerability there—like he was trying to make up for something.

The team exchanged surprised looks, and Soojin, ever the one to break the ice, grinned. “Well, I’m glad to see the real CEO Jeon has made an appearance. Maybe he’s not as bad as we thought, huh?”

Jungkook smirked, his expression flickering with amusement. “I can’t help the fact that I have standards.”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “Standards? You mean the ones that almost had us working ourselves to the bone?”

Jungkook’s face flickered with something almost like regret, but he quickly masked it. “I was wrong about the approach. You all proved me wrong.”

Dohyun leaned forward, a cheeky grin spreading across his face. “Well, if you’re asking for forgiveness, you’re going to have to buy us dessert.”

Jungkook let out a short, dry laugh. “Fine, but only because I can’t let you keep making fun of me for this.”

As the lunch wore on, you found yourself enjoying the conversation, the occasional teasing, and the chance to see your team—his team—connect on a more personal level. Jungkook was still a far cry from being the warmest leader, but in this moment, he was something closer to approachable.

“So,” Soojin said, nudging you with a sly grin. “How about we plan the next one? This was a nice change of pace.”

You looked at Jungkook, who was sipping his drink with a relaxed air, and smiled. “We’ll see. I think someone has to redeem themselves more than once to really earn it.”

Jungkook smirked. “I’ll take that challenge.”

previous / next

[thelawfulchaotic]

Hi! As someone who is working through an undergraduate degree and is planning to pursue law school after, I have recently been diagnosed with Adhd and it's a little world shifting. I'm adjusting to the idea that it isn't me. That there's a reason for my behavior and life-long focus and motivational issues.

I saw you mentioned taking Adderall, I'm assuming you have Adhd too? What advice would you give for managing it alongside your studies? What is the hardest struggle with the disorder you faced during school or in your career?

I'm sorry, anon, and also congratulations. I was also a late diagnosis, mine was around age 25.

ADHD can manifest in a lot of different ways for different people. For me, it's been actually pretty bad. Administrative tasks -- timekeeping, paperwork, scanning in documents, returning endless emails and phone calls -- is a lot of the job. I had a very hard time finding ways to work through all of that on my own.

And I did have to on my own. Every time I reached out to my boss for help, he would find a "solution" that essentially amounted to "now you'll do it better, right?" He completely lacked an understanding of the brain with ADHD, no matter how much I tried to explain it.

This condition sucks, a lot, because it's made into a joke. There is no understanding in general culture about how ADHD can shape you. People get impatient with inconsistent performance, not realizing that the inconsistency is the sign that you have a condition, and not some fault in how you motivate yourself.

The key is systems, as I learned from doing Cognitive Behavioral Therapy for Adults with ADHD with my therapist. Finding ways to make error-checking a part of your day. Having something with you to help with both your moment-to-moment executive function and your week-to-week deadline management. Get a planner, get a new planner if you stop using it, get a smartwatch, it'll yell at you when you have to leave for places.

If you are a woman, which is pretty likely given the late diagnosis, then I highly recommend Women with ADD by Sari Solden. It's a little antiquated at this point, but helped me emotionally with my experience.

Once you have to maintain a home, with dishes and laundry and all, try the beautiful nonjudgmental How to Keep House While Drowning.

ADHD 2.0 by Edward Hallowell and John Ratey has some excellent more modern insights about the actual function of the brain and how it is disrupted by ADHD. (Summary: the Task Positive Network is what you're using when you're focusing; the Default Mode Network is what you use when you're ruminating; in most brains, either one is on or the other but in ADHD the DMN doesn't deactivate and keeps trying to interrupt the TPN. Moreover, the toggle switch is broken and you cannot easily shift from one to the other.)

Honestly I have a thousand tips. I could do a whole-ass TED talk about this. It's my biggest struggle.

It's also a gift.

Maybe your impulsiveness got you an Amazon purchase of 100 glow in the dark bouncy balls last week that will take you YEARS to give away. Maybe it got you to crack an incredible joke that got even the deputies laughing.

Your hyperfocus took you away from clients periodically for the last few months, but you learned enough Spanish to get conversational with your clients. (Yes, you can do things THIS AMAZING when you let ADHD pull you along rather than resisting it.)

God, okay, this post is too long. LAST THING: I find that I'm not rewarded by Finishing A Task the same way others seem to be. The task itself has to be rewarding. Learn to harness the moments when your mind and body are in sync enough to do stuff. Batch tasks. Make your storage see-through. Put extras of cleaning solutions and tools in every place you use them. Have a basket or a hook for your keys.

Last last thing: Vyvanse comes in chewable and you can split the pill so you can do multiple smaller doses during the day. You can wake up twice, the first time to take your meds, and then go back to sleep, then wake up again when they kick in, and you'll feel better and get out of bed easier.

Take of that what you like.

[saffusthings]

chapter 4: sacred new beginnings

ceo!oscar piastri x reader

summary: the one where things begin to shift into place.

word count: 1.2k

three | four | five

She didn’t mean to linger after the meeting.

But Laura had stopped her just outside the conference room, raising a brow with a faint smile. “That arbitration point? Solid. You just saved Alex three days of unnecessary emails. Possibly a full breakdown.”

Y/N blinked. “That wasn’t my intention. But I’m… glad it worked?"

Laura looked at her a beat longer, then tipped her head toward the corridor. “Come on. You look like someone who could use a drink.”

Y/N followed, cautious but curious.

"A drink? But aren't we—"

"Coffee. Top shelf stuff when it's all you've got."

The break area wasn’t large, but it was quiet—tucked between glass partitions and lined with minimalist cabinetry. A kettle, mismatched mugs, a few communal snacks were scattered about the room. One man was stirring sugar into a chipped Manchester United mug like he’d been doing it every day for a decade.

“I think I’m breaking protocol by inviting you in here,” Laura said. “This is usually where we retreat to complain about our bosses and forget we’re licensed professionals.”

Y/N cracked a small smile. “You say that like I wouldn’t fit in.”

She made herself a cup of tea —strong and no sugar— and leaned back against the counter. She didn’t say much. But she listened. And when someone mentioned a client who’d once tried to cite The Crown as legal precedent, she deadpanned, “To be fair, it’s very persuasive television.”

It earned a genuine laugh from someone in the corner. Just one, but it was enough.

The next day, someone left her a sticky note that said ‘Very persuasive television’ is my new defense strategy. No name, just the note. 

But Y/N tucked it into the back of her notebook like it was a sign she could belong.

The legal department’s floor had the kind of quiet hum that masked a thousand frenzied thoughts – fingers tapping on keyboards, the low click of a printer spitting out a contract revision, someone sighing heavily into a mug of tea. Y/N liked it more than she expected.

Her desk was tucked near a window—good light, enough distance from the partners to breathe. She’d been at it for an hour, sorting through onboarding documents and scanning previous case notes, when a low voice startled her.

“Don’t let ‘em rope you into Thursday drinks. They never leave before midnight.”

She looked up.

It was Daniel, one of the mid-level associates. Tall, handsome yet always slightly disheveled, with a pen stuck behind his ear and a reputation for being the token personality hire in meetings.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “And how would you know?”

He smirked, dropping a manila folder onto her desk. “Because I’ve made the mistake twice. You don’t strike me as someone who enjoys being peer-pressured into tequila by people who quote merger law for fun.”

Y/N tilted her head, smiling. “You’d be surprised. I’m a pretty quick learner.”

That got a laugh out of him, small and unexpected.

“Welcome to the floor,” he said warmly, and walked off before she could thank him.

Later, Laura passed her a compliance brief with a sticky note that just said, You missed nothing in the 11am call. Except Peter accidentally sharing his screen mid-Tinder swipe. Truly a legal milestone.

Y/N grinned and jotted a response: If he matched with in-house counsel from Ferrari, does that count as a conflict of interest?

The note came back five minutes later with a hastily sketched “YES” in red ink.

By the end of the day, she hadn’t exactly made friends—but something quieter had settled in. Recognition. Familiarity. Like people were beginning to know what to expect from her: precise language,  good humor, and a readiness to challenge someone if the logic didn’t track.

It wasn’t much. But slowly, the ice chipped.

In a restaurant in Mayfair filled with dark wood, warm light, soft jazz threaded through the air like silk.

Oscar sat at a corner table, posture relaxed but careful. He was always careful. A glass of red wine sat untouched before him, and he checked his watch, though not impatiently. Just… habit.

He was dressed well—crisp shirt, navy jacket, no tie. The whole getup was polished without being performative. He didn’t need to try to look expensive. It simply happened.

The maître d’ walked a woman to his table, and Oscar stood when she arrived.

Stevie was striking in that effortless, elegant way. She shrugged the long coat from her shoulders like water off glass, her long hair tucked neatly behind her ears. Her lipstick matched the soft curve of the wine glass she lifted from the server’s tray on instinct.

“Hi,” she said, smiling—wide, practiced. “Sorry I’m late.”

Oscar smiled too – not as polished. Warmer, smaller.

“I figured you’d show up eventually,” he said, pulling out her chair.

Stevie sat down, crossed her legs, adjusted her napkin. For a moment, they looked like any other beautiful couple out for a beautiful dinner. The waiter came and went. Orders were placed. She reached across the table to brush something off the cuff of his sleeve—a gesture so casual it felt lived-in.

And for a moment, it looked like the kind of life people envied.

But then, somewhere between the water being poured and the bread arriving, her hand drifted into her coat pocket.

She drew out a small ring with a simple band. It bore no large diamond, but one big enough to still be elegant and quiet, like a promise of something better to come.

After a moment’s hesitation, she placed it on the table between them., not with anger or ceremony. Just… placed it.

Oscar didn’t move.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said softly. Her tone was gentle, but not fragile. She wasn’t breaking. She was unraveling with precision. “About all of this. About us.”

His jaw tightened the barest fraction. “Yeah?”

“I love you,” she said. And she meant it. He could tell. “I do. But I’m not… I’m just not ready.”

There was a pause. 

“I thought I could be. I tried to be, I really did. But this… it’s not just you. It’s– It’s your whole life, Oscar, And I don’t think I can step into that, not without lying to both of us.”

She didn’t say what she really meant—not directly, at least. She didn’t say, I don’t want to be a mother, not like this. Or, I don’t want to come second to a child who doesn’t speak but still somehow is the most important thing in your life. She didn’t say, I don’t want the responsibility of someone else’s future when I’m just beginning to enjoy getting to build my own. 

But she didn’t have to.

Oscar’s expression didn’t change. If she wasn’t watching carefully, she would have missed the flicker of something behind his eyes, the tiny shift like a door closing soundlessly down the end of a long hallway.

Quietly, he reached out and picked up the ring, turning it over once in his hand like it had once meant something.

It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it?

“I, uh, appreciate the honesty,” he said. His voice was low, steady. Not cold, exactly, but distant now, as if something had gone out like a light inside him.

She blinked, like she’d expected more of a reaction. 

Oscar could often come across detached or even stoic, but he usually made an effort not to be that way around her. She’d seen him smile and laugh for her, which was probably why the return of the seemingly unfeeling expression on the man sitting across from her surprised her. 

Perhaps she’d expected for this to take longer, to feel some kind of pull as she pulled herself away from this dance they’d done for so long.

“You’re not… angry?”

“No,” he said. “You’re allowed to want the life you want.”

She smiled at that, sad and with a twinge of almost gratitude. “You really are the kindest person I know.”

But she knew that wasn’t true – kindness would probably have begged her to stay.

Oscar just nodded. 

And when the check came, he paid for dinner anyway.

a/n: finally came back around to this series, decided to test out the waters a bit... what do we think?

[unforced3rr0r]

THE DEAL || CA

————————————————————————

pt. 2, (previous part)

summary: Carlos hated having a PR manager, especially one who was his age. Convincing her to leave was the best plan he'd ever had, but what happens when he realises he doesn't want her to go?

pairing: carlos alcaraz x fem!reader

warning: diabolical tension

a/n: this is kind of all over the place because I’m trying to build up enough foundation before the tournament starts. I hope you like it (please tell me how much you like it, I need validation)

MASTERLIST

You sat in an uncomfortable silence typing away on your laptop. In your peripheral, you could see the Spaniard slowly moving to lie down on the sofa from his seated position.

"Don't fall asleep." A frustrated grunt came from Carlos as he repositioned himself slightly resting his head against the back of the sofa.

"Okay and if they ask you about potentially facing Djokovic?" Your eyes watched the screen intently scanning the prospective questions on your laptop.

"I tell them I've beaten him before and I believe I can again, especially with my new serve and resetting over the break." His tone was dull and his eyes watched the ceiling.

"Perfect, any questions about the back end of last season or concentration just try to redirect and talk about the work you've been doing over the break." Carlos nodded, scrutinising you're every movement with his gaze.

You wrote down notes that you could send Carlos on everything you'd been discussing. You leaned back against the sofa, gently falling into the cushions as you moved to sit cross-legged.

Carlos' eyes observed you as you intently stared at the screen, "D'you get bored doing this?" Your eyes flitted to the Spaniard briefly for the first time since you began going over questions,

"What do you mean?" You returned to doing work, shaking your head at the silly question as you watched the time in the corner of your screen tick by.

You were desperate to get this done so you could return to your room and sleep, doing your best to ignore the looming tension of the deal you had earlier agreed to.

"I get bored at you asking me questions, and I'm the player. Don't you get bored of writing up answers and managing my media presence?" You paused briefly, the condescending tone grating on you. You met the brown eyes that hadn't left your frame.

"I love my job, I get to see behind the sports in a way no one else does. Plus I'm good at it." He looked sceptically,

"I'd rather play." You shook your head in amusement, finishing up the final question.

"Unfortunately we can't all be professional tennis players Alcaraz." He smirked at your response, getting up off the sofa and heading to the kitchen area.

You emailed the Spaniard the work you'd done the evening, finally closing your laptop and letting relief flood your body.

"Luckily for you, we're done for the evening. I'd like some pyjamas and then I'll get out of your way." You stood up moving slightly towards the door, begging to leave the company of the man who held you with such contempt.

"Gracias a Dios" (Thank god) His thankful tone stung slightly, envying the time when your clients enjoyed your company, and you'd stay long after the work was done due to the friendships you had founded.

He disappeared down the corridor and you stood by the door awkwardly. The night had ended up being the easiest day you'd had since you started, and all it took was promising Carlos you'd quit.

You knew the next issue would be telling his team and Juan Carlos would no doubt try to convince you to stay. But the thought of enjoying your job again loomed in the back of your mind and pushed you forward.

Just over two weeks. That's all you had to get through and now with Carlos actually cooperating it should've been simpler.

You checked the time and the massive 00:00 glared at you on the screen. It was a busy day tomorrow that involved you waking up with the sun and the dream of a full eight hours sleep has slipped from your grasp.

Just as you began to mentally plan for the content and work you needed to do tomorrow, Carlos reappeared his 6-foot stature looming over you.

"I don’t have pyjamas, so this is just some joggers and a t-shirt." He handed you the clothing, his hand brushing yours which jolted through your nervous system. In the last six hours, you'd been closer to the Spaniard in the entirety of your time working for him.

You avoided the brown eyes looking down at you, taking the items and moving towards the door. "That should be fine."

You walked to the door, reaching for the handle and standing in the open doorway. Just before stepping out into the hallway, you turned to face the Spaniard, shooting him a small smile that he didn't return.

"See you tomorrow Alcaraz." He nodded and the door closed in front of you.

Defeated you trudged back to your room, slipping into the far too big-for-you shirt and joggers that the Spaniard had lent you. They were bathed in his cologne and the musky scent filled your nostrils as you climbed into bed.

As you lay there waiting for sleep to hit you, you thought of what this job would've been like had Carlos not hated you from the outset.

Watching him play was magnificent and you wanted to be a part of the team that helped him achieve greatness, not to mention his Spanish charm had won over so many.

Every cold glance he gave you cut deeper and as you drifted off to sleep you were haunted by the way he had looked at you the first time you met.

...

The sun beat down on the outdoor courts. You watched Alcaraz move diligently from edge to edge of the light blue tarmac. The heat permeated through your body as the light summer dress you wore did nothing to alleviate the temperature.

You gaze fixated on the Spaniard's taut muscles and how he slid to seemingly effortlessly receive the ball. You had your phone up, taking photos and videos to go on Instagram later, but really you found yourself distracted by each noise that left his lips.

Your sunglasses rested lazily on the edge of your nose, and as Carlos' arms hit the ball over and over, your eyes watched his biceps carefully.

You understood why he had a flock of women watching his every move, his physique and tennis ability pulling so many in. Then there was his annoying smile.

The ball hit Juanki's torso with Carlos letting out a loud laugh that echoes through your mind. Carlos looked to his team who also laughed over the moment and his eyes flickered to you.

When he saw that your eyes were already on him, he smirked. A smug look took over his face and he shot you a wink, your face turned red and you quickly moved your gaze back to your phone.

You sent the photo to Carlos and picked up your bag, heading onto the court.

"Alcaraz, interview time let's get going." The clock was ticking down and media day was calling, with Alcaraz lined up for a fairly full day of pre-tournament interviews.

"cinco minutos más." (five more minutes.) The Spaniard called to you calmly as he continued hitting the ball back and forth across the court.

"Alcaraz. Now. We're already late." Carlos rolled his eyes, Juan Carlos telling him to go. The Spaniard headed towards you, the smile long gone replaced with his usual grimace.

"Disfruta la vista allá atrás" (Enjoy the view back there?) he taunted, his large hands reaching down to grab his tennis bag that was by your feet.

While he bent down to grab the bag, he brushed your side, your breath catching in your throat as you felt his arms brush yours. Then leaning into your ear as he stood back up. "You were blushing."

"I was doing my job, you know, filming content for you. Plus it's hot out here, I was just flushed." Your tone stood strong, but your eyes were telling a different story. Your body was covered in goosebumps, the bench behind you stopping you from stepping away.

He finally took a step away, which allowed your shoulders to fall in ease. He began to walk off with the same smug look as before back on his face, "¿No tenemos una entrevista a la que llegar?" (Don't we have an interview to get to?)

You shook your head, annoyance for the man filling your body. Not only was he being difficult, but now he'd resorted to teasing and taunting which was somehow worse than his angry indifference.

You turned to face Juanki as you began walking off the court behind Alcaraz, mouthing 'I'm going to kill him' which elicited a laugh from the coach.

"Have fun you two!" He called out and was met with two frustrated groans. Carlos stood at the exit waiting for you to catch up and began trudging behind you.

Walking through the grounds, he smiled, waved, and took pictures with the multitude of fans who spotted him. You'd silently stand to the side or offer to take the photo when needed.

The consistent stopping slowed you down, but you didn't mind when you saw the giddy smile of every fan's face as they met with Carlos' warm demeanour.

You eventually made it to the conference room. Before stepping into the room, you grabbed Carlos' arm, pulling him out of the doorway. He turned to face you, his eyes analysing your fingers wrapped around his bicep.

As his gaze focused on your hand, you pulled away as if his skin had burned you. "Sorry. I just wanted to remind you of everything we went over. This is just pre-tournament chatter so you should be okay."

"I've got it. Why won't you just let me do it." His tone was sharp and you rolled your eyes, your arms crossing in front of your chest in annoyance.

"It's not that I think you can't do it, I just want to help." Carlos took a step back from you, scoffing at your plea.

"Well I don't need your help." He left your side, walking into the room before you had a chance to respond. You threw your hands up in pure frustration, but the Spaniard had his back to you so the action was mostly for yourself.

You moved inside the room and sat down in the front row, ready to take notes.

The questions started light and easy, talking about the Spaniards off-season, the changes to his serve, the added weight in his racket. He answered the questions diligently, following everything you'd been through the night before.

You couldn't help but smile as he answered perfectly time and time again, showing you how easy this job could've been and subsequently how needlessly painful the Spaniard had been making it.

But then it fell apart. The questions began to get more pointed. More trying, asking him about losing to Jannik, losing to players outside the top 20, another year of struggles at the US Open. Then the straw that broke the camel's back came.

"So Carlos, your performance declined rapidly at the back end of last year, especially after your loss to Novak in the Olympics. How does that affect your mentality coming into Australia knowing you could face him?"

Shit. You knew you'd prepared Carlos for the question but you also knew how painful the Olympics loss had been. You knew how he was dreading facing Novak and you knew by the look in his eye that he was caught off guard by the question.

Your breath shallowed while you tried to stay calm as he sat there looking from the interviewer to you, the unease clearly written on his features.

"Um." He paused, he caught your gaze and you tried to send him a reassuring look. He looked down to his hands, lifting his head to meet the interviewers' gaze.

"I think to say my performance declined rapidly is stupid." Shit. Your head fell into your hands and you held back an audible groan. Some in the press conference laughed but Carlos didn't join in.

"I also beat Novak at Wimbledon, so maybe he should be the one scared to face me, no?" The room fell into a tense silence. The stone cold look on Carlos' face put off any follow up questions.

Carlos stood up, his demeanour clearly agitated, ringing his hands at his sides. He left the room and didn't slow down for you like he usually did. You quickly left, thanking the interviewers and apologising for Carlos before you rushed after him.

"Alcaraz, wait!" He didn't turn around, instead turning a corner and disappearing out of sight. You turned the corner and found him resting against the wall, shoulders slumped and hands covering his face.

"What was that?!" You stood in front of him and he pulled his hands from his face.

"Oh come on Y/N, He was out of line!" Carlos raised his voice in frustration, a clear sign of how much the interviewer had got to him.

"And we had prepared answers, you didn't need to be an asshole about it." You rested on the other side of the hallway, your annoyed facade matching the Spaniard's.

"You have no idea what it's like to sit there and have everything you do, questions and torn apart." Carlos stood up straight, closing the distance between you with his angry ranting.

"Maybe I don’t, but I do know what it's like to have to deal with you being an asshole." His face was mere metres from yours. Your hands moved to rest on his chest as he moved his mouth down to your ear.

"Then it's a good thing you won't have to for much longer, isn't it?" His spiteful tone sent a cold chill down your spine as his hand slid to your waist.

"Counting down the days Alcaraz." His breath hit your neck and you snapped, pushing away the tennis player's large figure. He had a smirk on his face as he stumbled back slightly.

You moved away from him, turning away from him quickly and storming away from the interaction. Your heart was racing and your chest was pounding, unable to sense if it was blinding rage or maybe something else.

————————————————————————

taglist: @kcharlyy @champagnecoastca

[diamonddaze01]

hello tara it’s me

if you’re still taking prompts for your game could i maybe suggest 40 “Are you okay?” “Why do you ask?” “You’re wearing two different shoes.” for our seokminnie?

kthnxbaiiiii

mismatched

pairing: seokmin x reader | wc: 1.0k prompt: “Are you okay?” “Why do you ask?” “You’re wearing two different shoes.” a/n: BENNIE HELLO! i loved writing this and honestly it was just what i needed after work today lol

The day had been relentless. Emails piled up like bricks in a wall, each one heavier than the last. Deadlines loomed, impossible to meet, and the cherry on top was your client—someone who, apparently, had made it their life’s mission to leave you frazzled and questioning your career choices. By the time you got home, your shoulders ached, your head throbbed, and the walls of your apartment felt closer than ever, suffocating in their silence.

You didn’t mean to text Seokmin. At least, not like that. You had typed it out and hit send without overthinking it: "Today sucked. Can I call you later?" Short, vague, but enough to convey the weight pressing down on you.

Seokmin had always been good at sensing when you needed him. Maybe it was the years of friendship, the countless moments you’d spent together, teetering on the edge of something more but never quite diving in. Still, you hadn’t expected him to show up at your door less than twenty minutes later.

When the doorbell rang, you frowned, dragging yourself off the couch. You opened the door, and there he was, panting slightly as if he’d sprinted the whole way. His scarf hung lopsided around his neck, and his coat was barely on, one sleeve dangling at his side. His hair was tousled from the wind, and his cheeks were flushed a deep pink from the cold.

“Seokmin?” you asked, startled. ��What are you doing here?”

“Are you okay?” he asked, skipping right past pleasantries. His wide, dark eyes were locked on yours, scanning your face like he could piece you back together just by looking.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re wearing two different shoes,” you added, pointing to his feet before he could answer.

He glanced down, and the realization hit him like a truck. His left foot wore a white Adidas sneaker with faint blue accents, while his right foot was clad in a scuffed brown leather boot.

“Oh,” he muttered, ears turning crimson. “I didn’t notice.”

“You didn’t notice?” Your voice wavered between disbelief and the beginnings of a laugh.

“I came as soon as I got your text!” he protested, lifting his hands in defense. The plastic bag he carried swung dangerously close to hitting him in the face. “You said you had a bad day, and I thought maybe—maybe you needed me, or something.”

His words settled in your chest, warm and grounding. Your lips twitched despite yourself, the first hint of a smile breaking through the exhaustion that had weighed you down all day.

“Seokmin,” you said, stepping aside, “you didn’t have to rush over.”

“I wanted to,” he said softly, ducking his head as he stepped inside. His mismatched shoes squeaked against the floor, a detail so absurd it made you want to laugh and cry at the same time.

“What’s in the bag?” you asked, nodding toward the plastic he still clutched in his hand.

“Soup,” he said, holding it up like an offering. “And snacks.” He hesitated, then added sheepishly, “I panicked. I just grabbed the first things I thought might help.”

You couldn’t hold back the soft laugh that bubbled up. “Soup is a solid choice.”

He grinned at that, the kind of radiant smile that made your chest flutter no matter how many times you’d seen it. “See? I know what I’m doing.”

The two of you settled on the couch, and Seokmin insisted on heating up the soup despite your protests. You let him, partly because you didn’t have the energy to argue and partly because watching him move around your tiny kitchen—still wearing those mismatched shoes—was strangely comforting.

When he returned, he handed you the bowl with a dramatic flourish. “For the most amazing person I know,” he declared, settling beside you with his own bowl.

“Flattery won’t fix my day,” you said, though the corners of your mouth betrayed you, lifting into a smile.

“Maybe not,” he replied, “but it might help a little.”

And it did. As you ate, you told him about your day—the impossible client, the mountain of emails, the way your boss barely acknowledged your effort. Seokmin listened intently, nodding in all the right places and throwing in the occasional comment that made you laugh despite yourself.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” he said after a pause, his voice quieter now.

“Don’t start,” you said, though your cheeks warmed at the sincerity in his tone.

“I mean it.” He set his empty bowl aside and turned to face you fully, his gaze soft but unwavering. “You’re amazing, and I hate that you don’t see it.”

His words caught you off guard, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him. Before you could muster a response, he leaned in, brushing a soft, tentative kiss against your forehead.

Your breath hitched, and when he pulled back, his eyes searched yours, as if he was waiting for a sign that he hadn’t overstepped.

“Seokmin…”

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just—I wanted to make you feel better. Did it work?”

A small laugh escaped you, unbidden and warm. “A little.”

“Just a little?” He pouted, leaning closer, and before you could respond, his lips brushed yours—soft, warm, and lingering. The kiss sent a jolt through you, scattering your thoughts and melting away the tension that had clung to you all day.

When he pulled back, his smile was smaller this time, less teasing but no less radiant. “How about now?”

You laughed again, this time from somewhere deep in your chest. “Okay, fine. It worked.”

“Good.” He leaned back against the couch, propping his mismatched shoes up on the coffee table with zero shame.

By the time the evening wound down, your bad day felt like a distant memory, replaced by the warmth of Seokmin’s presence. You glanced at him one last time before heading to bed, and for the first time in hours, you felt okay. Maybe even better than okay.

send me an ask for my drabble game!

[starlightsuffered]

hi! I think I requested before but I heard about your last account so I just wanted to ask through here in case it was lost. Also, sorry about that, that must be so annoying. Could you do something with a reader who is dominate in all ways, except the bedroom? Like, the second they’re behind closed doors, she loves it when Timmy takes control, and overall babies the shit out of her. Maybe he can even be a little teasing about it, but still soft Dom’s her cause otherwise she’ll cry and be all pouty lipped?

A/N - I tried my best at this, I didn’t really know what to do

Working Girl

Info - soft dom Timothée, fingering, boss and agent relationship, a bit of pouting, teasing

“Hey y/n,” he called to me. I didn’t look up from my phone because I needed to finalize this last thing. Sighing, I hit send on the email, and finally looked up.

“Hey superstar,” I answered. My eyes felt tired and worn. So much planning, so much responsibility, it was all pulling me a hundred different ways. I did enjoy it. I liked being on top of my life and Timothée’s life.

“You look cute,” he purred, eyes scanning up and down my body. I rolled my eyes.

“So tomorrow, you are doing an interview on Fallon. After that you have a spa treatment appointment. You need to remember to be there about twenty minutes prior to the appointment. That stylist LOVES punctuality, it goes a long way with him. Then there’s that fitting you need to go to, and you have a call back for that role in the new Wes Anderson movie-“

“You’re just on top of everything aren’t you?” He asked with a smirk.

“Don’t be cheeky-“

“Well there is one thing you aren’t on top of that I’d love you to consider,” he began.

“There’s a gala on Friday. I’ve heard through the grapevine that you’re expected to wear something extremely unique so work on that please. I also borrowed your credit card to pay the bill you ran up at Viccidi’s.”

“You’ve sure done a lot.”

“You need to start thinking about what your acceptance speech for the BAFTA’s may be if you end up winning.”

“Maybe I do need to do that,” he mused. “But what do you need?”

He sidled closer to me. My resolve to never engage in this again was waning. I felt myself quivering under his granite gaze.

“Tim,” I gasped.

“Shhhh, you can let go baby girl. Let go of that control,” he soothed me.

“But, I’m, I need to- and it’s wrong on so many levels,” I mumbled helplessly.

I let him spin me, I let him push his long fingers down into my panties. I hissed as he dragged them through my folds. He lifted them to his magenta lips and slurped off the arousal.

“Mmmmmm, seems like you want me to take over,” he chuckled. He was slowly pulling down my pants. His large hands crept up my torso and grasped my breasts. He massaged gently, tweaking a peaked nipple every now and then. I was gasping for air.

I tried to find my voice, to find that confidence I’d had only moments ago. It was all gone. I knew this was wrong but I wanted to melt into his arms, and into the pleasure he could provide me.

“Timothée,” I gasped when he started on my shirt buttons. He quieted me with a slow rub of my clit.

Soon, I was all bare. My hard nipples were tingling in the chill air. My panties were around my ankles, and I knew I should stop him but the wrongness of it made it feel even more right!

“We shouldn’t- OHHHH!” I called out as he lifted one of my legs for me. It gave him much better access to my gspot as his fingers curled.

“S’okay princess,” he purred in my ear. My eyes nearly rolled back in my head. He kissed a wet trail up my neck. His cock was extremely hard against my ass.

This was heaven, and just how I liked it. He was shutting off my brain. I should have been embarrassed that my own client had me on display like this. He hadn’t shed an article of clothing but he had so much control and power over me.

I was panting as I listened to every wet sound my pussy made. He was crooning praise in my ear. I usually took compliments with a grain of salt. Everyone wanted to flatter the agent of Timothée Chalamet, but his meant the world to me.

“Such a good girl, planning all that stuff for me. You’re so strong and independent aren’t you princess?” He asked me as his fingers rolled my clit even faster. He almost completely supported me now. It felt amazing to be so reliant on someone else for once. I knew I could go completely boneless and he’d catch me.

“Yes,” was all I could manage to gasp out.

“Until you need some pleasure. You’re like a doll baby, letting me move you around. I love giving you the treatment you deserve. I just need to shut that pretty mind off for a while,” he continued to encourage me.

“That’s it, that’s it!” He praised as I made small sounds of need.

“Timothée, ohhhh, fuck, feels so good,” I whined.

“Haha, I knew you’d cave. You’re such a little slave for me-“

“Hey!” I snapped. He backed off, knowing his cocky hard dom attitude would turn me off immediately.

“I’m sorry baby. I didn’t mean it. You know you deserve this,” he cooed.

“That’s right I deserve it,” I moaned. I was bucking into his hand. I felt so amazingly good I could hardly breathe. I loved the way his hand still held my leg up, not making me do any of the work. My whole body was beginning to tingle and shake slightly.

“Yeah, you like to be babied don’t you? Huh? Let Timothée take Care of it,” he coaxed,

“Oh, oh, oh, I’m gonna, Tim, gonna-“

“Let go Princess,” he whispered.

I exploded. I swear I saw stars as my whole body ran cold and then fiery hot. My knees gave out but Timothée kept me up. My body jerked as pulsations of pleasure just bucked through my body.

The moment after was only filled with heavy breathing. He lowered us to the ground, holding me in his arms.

“Kiss me, kiss me please,” I begged him. After an orgasm like that I needed the soft touch of lips.

“Why don’t you kiss me, since you’re the responsible, confident, executive woman,” he teased.

“Please,” I pouted. I didn’t have the energy to beg much more. Thankfully he gave into me.

He leaned down, cupped my jaw and let his lips brush against mine. I deepened meeting of mouths. I wanted him to spoil me with kisses. I felt him smirk, but he didn’t deny me what I wanted.

@pmak2002 @softhecreator @plutoispurplw @sp1deyyf4ngz @seungcheol17daddy @jesschalamet @vvsdreaming @lovelyrocker @therealbeabodoobee

[theninjazebra]

Hi! I saw your commissions post and I was wondering if you have any more info anywhere? I don't want to dm you and potentially waste your time just to get info. Do you ship physical art pieces or are you just doing digital? What's the price range? What are you offering? Thank you!

Totally fair - last night's post was a bit impulsive.

contact me via emma.weakley@gmail.com or dm here. I reply pretty fast (timezone allowing)

Generally NZD$50 - $400, depending on the size and detail.

(Do check the exchange rate though - NZD$50 is USD $28 today for example.)

$50 gets you essentially a sketch/rough drawing, with or without colour. $400 will give you art you could use as a published book cover. I stopped using commission sheets just because I found it wasn't fair to either party. Every piece is unique and needs a proper price that works to the budget.

I can do physical art, but shipping from Aotearoa/New Zealand is a fucker, especially to the US. So I recommend digital/scanned drawings purely because the shipping is so dear and art is so easily damaged. If a physical painting or drawing is important to you though I can make it work, it's just going to cost a bit.

I'll draw most things, but as in all things retain the right to walk away if I'm not comfortable with the commission or how you're talking to me. I don't expect money until you're happy with the finished product, so nothing is on the line for the client.

the process is - email me the details, I can give you a proper quote for what you're after. I'll send some drafts, when you're happy with that I'll do the bulk of the actual drawing or painting, then we do some edits. When you're happy I send a paypal invoice for the quoted price.

The only time I charge extra is when either the job has grown in scope (say you start looking for a single pet portrait, and half way through drafting you want say, 4 dogs and 2 cats all in the same painting) or after the bulk of the work is done you want changes that would essentially mean starting from scratch. This mostly just means check the drafts carefully and I'll warn if what you're asking for will mean starting again.

Commissioning an artist can be intimidating, but I go out of my way to ensure we're both protected as much as possible. And if in doubt - ask :)

previous commissions (and gifts) (now that I'm on my computer and not phone) -

[ikeukiss]

LOVE IN RED INK 01. AT FIRST SPILL + 02. SNOW DAY

〔 𝒾 〕 One coffee spill later, you're dumbstruck by the older, attractive, and incredibly new partner at your job. It's not possible for such a magnanimous man like him to be interested in you, a mousy assistant with such little romantic experience. No way.

chapter 1 + 2 / 10 ⋮ 18+⋮ comedy, fluff light smut (in blurbs), non-idol!au, ceo!jake (technically), older!jake, feat! lee heeseung/park jongseong/park sunghoon/yang jungwon and winter of aespa and ryujin of itzy, jealousy, some terrible puns and jokes from mr. sim, some swearing, self-deprecating humor and kys jokes throughout ᯤ 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈: 𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 — 𝘸𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘦, 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶 — 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴, 𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶 - 𝘤𝘩𝘭𝘰𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰, 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 - 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘷𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦 — 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘰 𝘧𝘰𝘹𝘦𝘴, 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘮 — 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘺𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘯, 80𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 — 𝘥𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘺𝘯𝘯, 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 – 𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘵 MASTERLIST HERE

⌗ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 ── Reposted from my old sideblog @/heartikeu! Wanted to continue this even after deleting that blog, so here we go! Hope you enjoy the subsequent releases of each chapter!

01. AT FIRST SPILL

You set the bouquet in the vase on your small kitchen table, your apartment three times brighter thanks to the colors of the hydrangeas and peonies given to you by your new boss. Laughing to yourself, you think of how easily you said goodbye to him on the way to work after the names and pleasant apologies were exchanged. You were none the wiser about the day's events in store for you, especially when it came to Jake Sim.

It was normal, speeding into work with hot heels and a frantic brain. Documents needed to be scanned, emails to send out to antsy clients, Heeseung's ass that you needed to kiss diligently to gain another step up the corporate ladder. It was like a slideshow moving quickly across your mind. The pings of your phone continued in your skirt pocket as you raced to the elevator with your purse battering the side of your ribs.

Finally, making it to the double doors, you breathed a sigh of relief being in the building and getting a reprieve from the excursion of running.

Only did the sting of coffee remind you that work was still work, one huge fucking nightmare that never ended.

"Ow, jesus!" The hot coffee scalded your feet right through your shoes, the ballet flats doing nothing to protect you from the temperature of the drink.

"Dammit, I'm so sorry."

The pain only lessened a fraction when you looked up at the beautiful older man in front of you, but it meant the world. The gentleman's long hair was tucked under his ears as he put an arm on your shoulder to steady you and keep your balance from going off kilter from the sudden assault. "Are you alright? I swear to God, I didn't even see you!"

Your eyes widened, the coffee completely forgotten as you stumbled over how to respond. Yes, your tights felt sticky between your toes from the accident, but it was easy to forget about as you scanned over the stranger's chiseled face and attire.

Perfect ironed suit, gold Rolex wrapped around the wrist now holding his empty coffee cup, and perfect pillowy lips.

You both managed to walk into the elevator together as you insisted you were in the way of him somehow, that if you hadn't been standing right there he would've been fine. He brushes off your allegations with a shy smile and checks his watch again, then looks over the button you've pressed. The same floor as him, evidently.

"Maybe I can apologize properly if I see you again. Truly, that is not usually like me to do."

You blushed. "It's fine, really, Mr..." You realized you hadn't gotten his name then, only a hundred apologies instead.

The smile he returned made all your anxieties for the work day morph into jello, the only remaining thought being on his smile. "Sim. Jake Sim."

Jake tugs his necktie off recalling the memory from his new highrise, boxes still eager to be unpacked. He should work on quarterlies or something that can prove he's already an invaluable asset as the new head of the team, but all his thoughts can gravitate around is the beautiful girl that was presented on a platter to him and...he freezes, in the same manner he did eight hours earlier. He acted like a brainless teenager again, something stirring inside of him he hasn't felt since college, back before he even knew how to flirt, which he thinks he still can do.

The best thing he could've done today was give you those flowers; that way you know he's interested, at least. Or maybe you think he was coming on too strong.

Jake huffs and throws his suit jacket somewhere in the bare living room. He immediately flops on his mattress in the bedroom, stomach first. When he turns, hand encroaching upon his zipper with eagerness, he still has you you you wrapped around his head in the same cruel way you've now wrapped him around your finger.

02. SNOW DAY

── .✦ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧 (JOIN TAGLIST HERE):

@tinycatharsis @filmnings @innocygnet @xomakara @frenchkisstheabyss @gyubookeries @xylatox @jaylaxies @lovetaroandtaemin @lollipop3 @anormieee @jaays-moon @calilovesdilfs @rairaiblog @meowchella @invsomnixa1 @riqomi @yuyita-rosier @yuniesluv @lyks02 @seokjinthescientist @wonberries @lovenha7 @seungsoftly

© 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗜𝗞𝗘𝗨; 𝖣𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒, 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗀𝗂𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗓𝖾, 𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖿𝗒 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗌!