#and you deserve all the nice things in the entire world | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

The KCSC sent more than 20K requests to delete posts related to prostitution and porn to Tumblr from January to June 2017.

#and you deserve all the nice things in the entire world

wolfish-trickster · 2 days

Text

I would've chosen if I could've

Gojo x fem!reader, Geto x fem!reader

Part 3

Previous part

Word count: 3.2K

Summary: after a talk with Geto Gojo realizes few things and even though he plans on doing better he decides to give both himself and you a little break before trying to ask for forgiveness. Geto however has a plan of his own.

Warnings: bad grammar (possibly), typos, angst, very little comfort

Taglist: @ilovebattinson @catobsessedlady @tqd4455 @nanao4k

@abcdefghijklmmopqrstuvwxyz

By the time their little "therapy" ended the sky outside changed from clear blue to clowdy gray. One would think rain will fall any minute now. The only thing that fell however was the air preassure.

Since Gojo was always one of the sesitive ones he quickly fell asleep. Geto offered him his big bed to take a nap in but Gojo proclaimed "he deserved to sleep on a floor for what he did". They settled on a compromise in a form of a couch. As Gojo was snoring away, more mentally tired than physically, Geto got into thinking. His entire conversation with his best friend took a mental toll on him too.

Thinking back to his relationship with you, he never really spotted any problems. The amount of times Geto spaced out while Gojo gushed about you at the begining of the relationship made it seem like he would set the world on fire if you as much as hinted you felt a little cold. He just couldn't wrap his head around how Gojo could fuck all of that up in the span of one day. Or several years. Has he been like this since the begining? When did Gojo start lying about you being too busy to hang out with him and Shoko? Was there a breaking point for Gojo? Did you do something that made him realize he just isn't the type for serious relationships?

For the first time in his life Geto Suguru couldn't answer any of these questions about his best friend.

Sun began to set. First raindrops hit the window. Soon a soft rain turned into a heavy storm. And yet even that couldn't wake Gojo up. 'He must be so exhausted,' Geto thought as he pulled a thin blanket over his sleeping figure. Even unconscious Gojo looked hurt. Geto was as well. Both from what happened and what he's about to do.

It has been a tough day on your mentality. After packing majority of your clothes into your favourite backpack you ran out the apartment with no real plan in mind. Nowhere to go either. You roamed the city for hours until you saw a short haired brunette girl smoking in the distance. After running up to her it turned out to not be Shoko to your disapointment. But it wasn't pointless. Noticing the girl made you remember Gojo and Geto's friend.

You walked to her place as if on autopilot, letting your muscle memory carry you. What would you say once you come to her door? She was the one to help you get together with Gojo in the first place. Did she know something like this would happen? She has known him for as long as Geto did.

The thought of Geto made you shiver. If it wasn't for him none of this would've happened! You were sure he was just enjoying pulling Gojo away from you, keeping him to himself and himself only. Did he ever planned on making you and Gojo break up? If so, he succeeded masterfully. You wondered if Gojo was sad even a little bit about you leaving, and if so if he was calling Geto about it, telling him he needs more time without him. You smiled. It would be nice if that was happening. Such a shame you won't find out.

Soon you arrived at a small house with old dark brown door and a worn out mat. The only thing that changed from your last visit was one of the windows at the front. It's glass was new. At the begining of your and Gojo's relationship Shoko and Geto wanted to have a small sleepover to get to know you better. Shoko was really warm and welcoming, so was Geto, even though in a lesser extent. He didn't touch you in any way, no hug nor hand shake, and when it came to laying out sleeping bags in the living room he placed his as far away from you as possible. Gojo then started teasing him and after all testosteron fully kicked in they ended up breaking one of the windows. You panicked and quickly looked over at Shoko. She just lit a cigarette and told you you'd get used to it.

You smiled. It was a nice memory. Back then when everything was simpler and somehow calmer. Still, one thing was weird to you. How Geto was pulling away from you since the begining.

You shook your head. First he started occupying your relationship and now your thoughts? No fucking way. He doesn't get to win. (A/N if you understood the reference you get a cookie 😉)

Your hand hovered a little above the old wood of Shoko's door but in the end decided to softly knock. You heard shuffling behind the door before surprised Shoko opened it, definitelly expecting someone else instead of you. She was dressed casually in jeans and some basic T-shirt, but you could tell she was trying to make herself look a little nicer than just 'casual'.

"Hi, what happened?" she asked and reached out to caress your cheek. You must've looked horrible.

You sighed and as best as you could explained the gist of what happened. Somehow you could do so in just three sentences and no crying. Did you already run out of all your tears?

She accepted you into her house and made you some calming lavender tea. "You can sleep over if you want," she said.

"Thank you. And sorry for bothering, I just... I had no other place to go," you admitted and sipped on the purple steamkng bevarage. You never had a lavender tea. Tasted like a hug in a mug. Something you desperately needed in these tough times.

"Don't worry about it," she rubbed your back comfortingly, "that's what friends are for."

You smiled at her and leaned jnto her hand. "You don't have to stay and take care of me. You were just about to go out, right?" You gestured at her face half covered in make up. Realizing yku must've ruined her most-likely date made you feel even worse about yourself.

Shoko just waved her hand. "It was just a movie thing with Geto. It's fine tho, you need me more now."

She mentioned two things that broke you: Geto and you being put above all else. You collapsed into her arms and cried out bunch of apologies and words about ruining her chance at findjng a relationship for herself. You weren't fond of Geto at all right now, but you knew Shoko and how single and alone she must've felt with her two male friends being always away.

Now that you think about it, you were surprised she even went above and beyond to help you. They were three before. Then came you and took Gojo away. And then Gojo took Geto away from her too. You felt sick. She was all alkne because of you.

You must've said all of this out loud tho, because Shoko pulled you from a tight hug to an arm's length away from her and made you look into her eyes. "Don't. Just don't. You didn't make anyone leave me. Me being alone isn't your fault. If anything I should be thanking you. Those two have been hogging my free time for a long time and with them finally focusing on other things I had more time to study and got my grades from 'barely passing' to 'top of the class'. Besides, I was always more into femboys," she winked which made you laugh. Such a shame not everyone was like Shoko. She was truly a ride or die kind of girl.

You hugged her as tight as you could and just held her. Feeling another body's warmth brought you calmness, no matter who it belonged to.

Unfortunately, not every good thing lasts forever. And neither did this moment.

Shoko's phone vibrated. She pulled it put of her backpocket and looked at it. "Shoot, I almost forgot. Would you mind if I-?" she pointed at her phone with Geto's contact shining brightly on her screen.

You shook your head, even though seeing Geto's relaxed smile in that contact made your chest hurt. That bastard doesn't even know what he did.

Shoko smiled and walked into her bedroom to make the call. You stayed sitting her kitchen, sipping on your tea, looking around. There were little peaces of paper with some medical notes written on it taped on random places all around the place. You figured it must be her way of studying.

After a while she came back from her bedroom and sat across from you. "Gojo's at Geto's."

"Of course he is," you scoffed and went in to take a sip from your tea only to realize you've drank it all.

Shoko sighed. "Geto told me he'll speak with him," you rolled ypur eyes, "and quote 'take care, both of you'," she added.

You looked back at her surprised. "He what?"

Shoko smirked. "Not even gonna ask about your beloved boyfriend?"

You frowned. "Shoko, please stop."

"Sorry, I just wanted to lighten up the mood."

"And he's an ex."

Shoko raised her eyeybrows. "So, it's official now?"

"Yeah. I mean, packing your things and leaving couldn't be taken as anything else, right?"

It felt weird saying that. Ex boyfriend. You've had few in the past, but most of them were in your youth while you were still figuring out your place in the world. To be honest, you were still figuring it out but now you were a little closer to finding it out than before. You thought you would be able to find out completely with Gojo by your side. He wanted someone else by his though...

"Right," she answered.

The rest of the day was pretty calm. You talked, cooked something together, and then watched the rain drops race on a window. It felt nice. Not thinking about what was happening in your life.

As the night time approached so did tiredness. The entire day did its number on your psyche and you desperately needed to sleep it off. Shoko offered you her bed, making up an excuse she needs to study fro her upcoming exams, but you weren't having it.

"Listen girl, if you really want me to stay in my bed we can be in there together and cuddle," Shoko smirked as she helped you prepare the couch for the night.

"You snore so no thanks."

She stuck out her tongue at you and you giggled. It felt like having an older sister.

You both said goodnight and went off to sleep, her in her bed and you on her couch. You have slept on many couches but Shoko's was by far the softest. So warm, so comfy. You were minutes away from falling completely asleep when you heard a small ding, startling you wide awake.

It came from the kitchen. What dinging thing did Shoko have in the kitchen?

You turned on your side, thinking it was just a one time thing. Right as this thought bloomed in your head you heard two more dings.

Annoyed you dragged yourself to your feet and using your phone's flashlight tiptoed into the kitchen.

The noise source wasn't even trying to hide. Shoko's phone was shining like a lighthouse right under a window, where you both had your droplet race. You picked it up just as its screen turned black. You wouldn't want to read the messages as to not invade Shoko's privacy. Even if the curiosity was stronger.

Even though... it could be something from her school, right? It wouldn't hurt just to check. You'll bring it to her right after. Yeah, that's what you'll do!

You turned the phone on and you nearly puked. There was a notification about 3 new messages from Geto Suguru.

Do you want to know?

Yes you do.

You unlock the screen and went straight into messages.

hi, i just wanted to tell you i had a talk w/satoru and he's doing rly bad. he has no idea what he wants in life, but he also swore he never wanted to hurt Y/N. he also promised to become better and have a talk with her, so dont be surprised if he shows up at yours tmrw

oh and btw how is she doing

You stared at the phone. Should you reply? Should you just pretend you saw nothing and go back to sleep? As if you'd fall asleep after that. As horrible as it sounded you were kinda glad Gojo was doing bad. It showed he cared about you. And Geto saying he's willing to change for you? One part of you was glad things would go to normal. And the other one was screaming at you to notice the next sentence of Geto's message. Gojo has no idea what he wants in life. That little fact could be interpreted in so many ways.

Before you could think of any the phone in your hand dinged again. A new message.

y are you silent? i can see you reading this

Oh crap, you forgot he could see if the reciever read the message or not.

It was time to act. Pretend to be Shoko and find out stuff they would never tell you or admit you're you and risk losing the spicy information you could pull out of Geto.

As much as you hated to admit it Geto was really important for you right now.

"I'm so sorry Shoko," you whispered as you typed away.

I was just thinking, that's all. What exactly did Satoru tell you?

promise you won't tell Y/N? it would hurt her even more

Geto Suguru... cares about you?

Okay, I won't tell.

good, good. well basically he told me he has no idea what to do. that he doesnt want to choose any of us in fear of losing the one he doesnt choose. worst thing tho is i think he isnt really ready to be in a relationship. said he felt trapped but also not. idunno, it was messy

oh and did you know he lied all those times? everytime we invited both of them he said Y/N was too busy to attend, he told me he just wanted to feel like old times again.

They what? Invited you? You ahve to think fast. If you weren't you but Shoko, what would you reply?

Damn.

Yup, the only sensible thing coming to mind.

It worked though.

yeah, my thoughts exactly. how is she doing by the way?

You thought for a while. Then you began typing.

She's better. I made her a tea, talked with her, had fun.

okay, thats good

He wasn't replying for a while. You thought this was the end of it but then another message popped up.

i'm kinda surprised youre not saying anything

Check the clock mister, I'm tired.

i didnt mean that

Then what did you mean?

cheering me on in pursuit of Y/N

What the actual? Pursuit of you? In what way?

Your legs couldn't take it anymore so you sat down on the cold kitchen floor, head resting against one of the table legs. After your heartbeat slowed down a little you were ready to find out more.

As I said, too tired.

so all it took for you to stop teasing me about my crush was being too tired? where was this info three years ago?

Crush? Your fingers began to shake. This can't be. Geto Suguru, the source of your anxiety, the reason for your break up, the best friend of your now ex boyfriend has had a crush on you this entire time? And Shoko was teasing him because of this?

You have to keep a calm mind.

I don't think it's a good idea to act out right now.

yeah, no shit

what i said still stands tho

satoru is my best friend. and even if the girl that has been haunting my dreams the past few years is single now i cant possibly do it to him

You said it yourself, didn't you? Satoru doesn't know what he wants in life. What if he didn't want Y/N either?

You had to play these cards in order to find out more. More about Geto's crush, more about what Gojo really told Geto.

after what i heard today i think theres a possibility for that. but look, this is the first real relationship he has. that boy has been sheltered half of his life. tomorrow he will come to yours and have a chat with Y/N. the rest is up to her.

And what if she chooses to get back together with him? It would break your heart.

wouldn't be for the first time.

besides, as much as id want satoru to be single for a while to figure out his shit on his own i cant really wish Y/N told him to gtfo. at the begining she looked so happy

Geto...

yeah

You waited for a while but no more words came from Geto's end. The conversation died and you were even more confused than before.

Morning came. A sleepless night now behind you, Shoko's phone still in your hands and bunch of questions in our head. As well as anxiety.

What will you tell Shoko? Sorry girl, your phone wouldn't shut up so I impersonated you and texted with the best friend of y ex and also the reason why he's my ex in the first place and by the way when did you want to tell me he has had a crush on my and that's why he was acting all hot'n'cold with me ever since we met?

Even more, will Gojo really come and try to win your trust again? Before yoi read Geto's messages you would be even willing to try, but after? You weren't sure anymore. Especially after one specific sentence that kept you up all night. 'After what I heard today I think there's a real possibility of that.'

Shoko's bedroom door creaked open and in came a half asleep Shoko. Blindly filling up the tea kettle she turned to you. "Do you want some coffee?"

"No thanks," you said and placed the phone on the table infront of you. This will be bad. "Hey, Shokoy I have to tell you somethi-"

You were interrupted by loud knocking on the front door.

Both you and Shoko looked at the door than at eachother. Rubbing her eyes she walked over there and looked through the peep hole. "It's Gojo. Do you want me to let him in?"

You hesitated. Adrenalin was running high in your system, anxiety was clawing at your chest like never before.

And against all your better judgement you nodded.

A/N: i'm so sorry for ending it like this but it's really fucking late and i only have time at night to be creative... i don't know when the next chapter/chapters (i have at least three more planned) will come out but i promise i will try my best to post them by the time next monday comes. See ya ✌️

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jjk gojo x reader #gojo angst #gojo satoru angst #geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #jjk geto #jjk geto suguru #geto angst #geto suguru angst

103 notes · View notes

lizthewriter · 3 months

Text

messy / regina george

PAIRING regina george x fem!reader

SUMMARY you and regina have been secretly hooking up for months, but she breaks up with you when you ask for more. after she gets hit by a bus, you fear for her life and whatever relationship you have left.

TAGS regina george x fem!reader, hurt/comfort, angst, happy ending, queer!, reneé rapp is so fine 😫😫, internalized homophobia, use of d-slur (lesbian slur)

QUOTE "half of all my exes regret me, / but none of them will ever forget me, / loving me gets really messy," - messy by reneé rapp

WRITTEN 1.13.2024

WORD COUNT 1.3K

A/N everytime reneé showed up on screen, i literally started banging my fists against my seat because she SERVED CUNT!!!! SHE WAS SO FINE!!!! literally after the movie, my best friend said to me: "i think you're just gay. i think you're a woman kisser. you might just have a little fruit in your cup."

slammed up against the wall, you felt regina's teeth clash furiously against yours. it was all hot passion - how your lips ran feverishly against hers as though you'd never get to feel her touch again, the way her hands ran up and down the sides of your body as though she needed to memorize the shape of you. days the two of you had gone without a moment to yourselves. days you had spent fantasizing about her pressing you up against the wall. it wasn't that you didn't want a normal relationship. it wasn't that you didn't want to kiss and hold hands and go on cute dates, but . . . that wasn't regina's style. she was closeted. heavily. actually, you weren't sure that she even understood that making out with girls was perhaps the most gay thing she could do, but you were willing to take what you were given. it was regina george, after all.

she pulled away from you by biting gently down on your lip, letting go when she could no longer stretch it any longer. "god, you're so hot," she whispered with a smirk, unbuttoned the first two buttons of your shirt. she reclaimed the control she had over your body, pressing her lips to your collarbone. your hands somehow found their way to her beautiful blond locks, scraping her scalp with the sharp edge of your nails. fantasy was nothing like reality. you had forgotten how good it felt, but how terrible it was all at once. as her warm breath tickled your skin, doubts that had been haunting you the past few days filled your mind slowly. was this healthy? didn't you deserve a healthy queer relationship, one that would be open and free and full of love, real love?

you wanted it all. you wanted the life you saw other queer girls have all around the world. going on cute picnic dates with homeade muffins and favorite books, sitting in the lap of your partner and doing their makeup, snuggling on the couch while watching a movie. holding hands while strolling the town center. it was hard to keep these thoughts back any longer. they overflowed.

you felt regina freeze as you gently pushed her away from where she had latched onto your upper chest. "can we, um, talk?" you ask. she could hear the tone in your voice. you knew she could. the way her eyes met yours made your stomach twist with discomfort.

"talk?" she asked in an incredulous tone, pulling away.

"it's just that, well, hear me out first. i like you. i really like you, a lot! that's why i really want us to be more than . . . making out in the custodian's closet after school and sneaking into your room while your mom's asleep," you explained nervously, stumbling over your words. finally able to meet her eyes, all hope was shattered as you felt her icy stare fixed upon your flushed face.

"i thought we made a deal when we started this. nothing more than this." she barked out a bitter laugh and fluffed out her hair. "what, did you think i was some kind of dyke or something? this was supposed to be fun. nice job stamping out that fire." she opened the door to the closet and waltzed out like nothing had happened. as if you didn't spend the entire last three months building a bond. heart: broken.

fear couldn't describe the emotion you felt driving to the hospital. it was gut-wrenching, blood-curdling, heart-tearingly excruciating. the rumors swirling around made your sick with worry. could she really be dead?

you weren't there when it happened. you had been driving home and then doing homework, hiding your phone away in a drawer somewhere to keep you distracted. it wasn't until hours later that you checked your notifications to realize she had been admitted to the er.

you rushed into the hospital, demanding to hear about her condition.

"are you immediate family?" the nurse at the desk asked. of course you lied. of course you said yes. she gave you the room number and told you that you could wait in the hall - the doctors were talking with her mother and you would need to wait until she woke up herself.

when you arrived at the door to her room, you were afraid to look inside. you weren't sure why. she was alive, yes. maybe you were afraid she was still upset with you. or worse, she had amnesia and forgot about you completely. dejected, you collapsed into the very comfortable plastic chair next to her room.

a few minutes later, the door opened and the doctors and mrs. george exited the room. you stood up suddenly, expectant in your expression.

"she's fine. she's going to heal 100%, she just needs to wear a corrective neck bracelet for several weeks," the doctors assured you. you could relax, just a little. they walked down the hall, chatting softly. mrs. george grinned at you - you had met before, of course, being introduced as one of regina'a friends.

"well, look who we have here! did you hear the news? they said my name on the evening," she told you excitedly, as though her daughter weren't stuck in the hospital from injuries resulting for being hit. by a bus. "head on in darling, those cute boys said she'd be awake soon." her eyes trailed down the hall to the two doctors that had revived regina. with a mini-wave and a "toodle-doo!" she was down the hall and full on flirting with men much younger than herself.

the doorknob to regina's room stared back at you with intimidation so strong you almost turned around and drove home. you reached out a closed your hand around the cool metal, slowly turning it until you were passing through the doorway and standing feet away from her bed. it didn't feel as scary as you thought, entering her room, staring over at her bed. she looked more at peace then you had ever seen her, she looked prettier than you had ever seen her. without her mean-girl face, she seemed a lot more genuine. a lot more like the regina that opened up to you that one chilly night in december.

you silently pulled a chair next to her bed and sat there, waiting for her to wake up. you didn't mind the wait, in a way. because she was sitting there next to you, and she was going to be okay.

when regina awoke, she seemed more confused than anything. her brows furrowed as she looked around the room, her eyes finally landing on you.

"hey," you said all of a sudden, sitting up straight. "you're okay, you're fine. you're . . . in the hospital."

"what are you doing here?" not snappy or bitter or angry. genuine.

"i heard you got hit by a bus," you said, biting your bottom lip anxiously. would she yell at you? tell you she never wanted to see you again? "i heard . . . i you died. i just had to see for myself, to make sure you were okay. i'm sorry, if you don't want me here, i'll -"

"don't leave!" she shouted, grabbing your hand. you stared down at the place where her skin met your hand. this wasn't happening. this couldn't be happening. her fingers intertwined with yours and you find her eyes to be pleading you. "please, just don't leave."

"regina -"

"just shut up and listen, okay?" she told you, sounding upset, but it didn't seem to be an emotion she was directing towards you. you sat back down and scooted your chair closer to her. "i want us to be something more too . . . okay? i like you, loser."

you narrowed your eyes at her. "is this regina george trying to be nice?" you asked dubiously.

"don't ruin the moment or i'm taking everything i said back."

"no," you said quickly, shaking your head with a smile. you placed your other hand on the one clasped in hers. "it's a good look on you. really."

#— [ glizzy posts ☆ ]#regina george x reader #regina george x you #mean girls 2024 #mean girls musical #mean girls #my writing #fanfiction #my fanfiction #my fic #writing #fanfic #renee rapp #reneé rapp

2K notes · View notes

heartsforhavik · 4 months

Text

what if the mk1 men were down bad for you…

upon seeing you walk into the room, johnny cage flexes his muscles ever so slightly and suddenly he’s telling the funniest story in the world to whoever he was already speaking to. he wants to catch your eye and gain your attention so badly. for you, he would make himself look like a fool. only as long as you look his way and give him even a slightest bit of attention, he’s satisfied.

when kuai liang notices you nearby, his entire body feels as if it’s on fire and he immediately worries about his appearance. does he look good? is his hair neatly tied up? he would make an attempt to approach you as soon as he got the chance, and try to strike up a conversation with you. if he didn’t at least say “hi,” he would feel like a fool for missing a great opportunity to engage in a conversation with you.

bi-han pretends he isn’t staring at you every time you’re in a room together. he is the grandmaster of the lin kuei, he must not engage in a romantic relationship. but he can’t help but feel his dark, cold heart light on fire at the sight of you. he yearns to go up to you and say something every time he sees you, but he holds back and settles for just admiring your looks from afar.

tomas vrbada is not afraid of showing his affection towards you. he believes that everyone should make the most of their limited lives, so he is very open about his advances towards you. the problem is, he’s a bit awkward and his efforts come across as more anxious than flirtacious. he would give himself a small pep talk before he talks to you, and he would be full of confidence and hope that the interaction would go well. but he would end up stammering or messing up his words when he speaks to you, and then he would just give up and run away. (he went to johnny for some advice after his mess-up, and it still didn’t work.)

zeffeero doesn’t think of himself as someone deserving of love. when he sees you close by, his heart beats fast and his face feels as if it’s on fire. he knows he has feelings for you, but he resists the urge to make a move. he could if he wanted to. but he doesn’t think he deserves to be joyful and in love after everything he’s done. he just hopes that someday you’ll be happy with someone that deserves you. he desperately wishes it could be him, but the last thing he wants is your sanity or reputation ruined in a relationship with him.

it’s very obvious that syzoth has feelings for you. his tail would sway from side to side, and his eyes would brighten as soon as they fell on you. he listens intently every time you open your mouth, and he never interrupts you when you are speaking. but he doesn’t exactly understand how humans court each other, so he would express his feelings in his own endearing way. for example, he gives you little gifts, similar to offerings. but they’d usually be shiny objects he thought was pretty and it reminded him of you.

raiden is so kind and humble, that he leads you to think his affection is strictly platonic. he’s been staring at you all day? oh, you probably just have something on your face and he’s too nice to let you know. he gave you a gift? he’s so generous, he probably does that with all his friends. no matter what he does to try to hint at his feelings for you, you would assume you weren’t special and he probably does it with everyone else he is acquainted with. he could even confess his love to you and you would just be confused on whether he meant it platonically or romantically.

2K notes · View notes

wqnwoos · 11 months

Text

seventeen & touch-starved s/o (hhu ver.)

an / entirely written for a friend of mine but here. also whoever is reading this i love u have a good day 💓💕💖💗💞💘💝💖💞💕💗

vocal unit ver.

SEUNGCHEOL.

bear hugs that are somehow simultaneously gentle but also tight

props his chin on your head/shoulder

murmurs in your ear a couple times to make sure you’re alright

“hello?”

“hi,” you say softly into the phone. “um. it’s me.”

you can hear the smile in your boyfriend’s voice when he replies. “hi, baby. everything okay?”

“yeah!” you respond, too quickly with a voice pitched slightly too high. “everything’s fine! just… gonna go to bed now, i think.”

“i’m on my way home right now.” cheol answers the unasked question with ease. “don’t worry, baby, you’ll get your cuddles.”

which is why he’s unsurprised when you’re waiting by the door the moment he arrives home, clad in your pyjamas with a freshly-washed face, flinging your arms around his neck the moment he crosses the threshold.

WONWOO.

will quite literally let u do anything

most patient man fr

his hands, his hair, his thigh — it’s free real estate (but only for you)

it’s nearing 1 in the morning when you start missing wonwoo’s touch.

he’s not far, just on soonyoung’s couch. dinner had turned quickly into drinking games — you’d sat out, instead volunteering to clean the kitchen with vernon and jihoon. which was nice and fun and whatever, but as you sidle up to where wonwoo’s sitting on the sofa, you feel the sudden intense urge to just… cling.

that’s how you end up next to him, with his large hands in yours, you fiddling with his fingers, tracing his palm lines — comparing hand sizes and stroking his knuckles. he doesn’t even flinch, just listening to jeonghan’s story and nodding in all the right places; at some point, he even raises your joined hands to his lips and brushes a kiss over your knuckles, leaving you blushing with the slightest smirk tilting his lips.

MINGYU.

will drop everything to give you the hugs that you need and deserve (and i mean EVERYTHING)

good luck trying to get him to let go

the things i’d do to be hugged by him… those arms probably feel like the safest place in the world

it’s been one of those days — long and tiring and just wrong. which is why when mingyu hugs you in greeting as you step inside, it takes you all of two seconds to burst into tears.

“baby? are you — oh, sweetheart,” he gasps, as you start to shake into his chest. “don’t cry. c’mere. my baby, what is it? what happened?”

you can’t do anything but blubber helplessly, but he doesn’t mind in the slightest, pressing loving kisses everywhere he can reach. his arms stay around you the entire time, as he guides you to the couch, pulls you into his lap and soothes you with gentle touches and quiet murmurs. before he eventually starts cracking jokes — “i’ll buy out your company and never make you work again, if you want.” — and ordering your favourite takeout.

VERNON.

lets you do anything to him (2)

he’s so funny i feel like sometimes he’s just calling you dude but also he might just come out with the smoothest shit right when you don’t expect it

probably fiddles with your hair when he hold you

“vernon?”

“mm?” he glances up from him phone to find you standing in the doorway of the bedroom with round, pleading eyes. he knows immediately that you want something, and also knows immediately that he’ll grant you whatever it is. he always does, when you look at him like that.

you hesitate. “can i get a hug?”

as if he’d ever deny you that. he slides off the bed in one fluid motion, opening his arms and dropping his phone. “of course. come here.”

about a minute later, he attempts a pull away — you whine and tighten your arms, speaking into his shirt with a muffled plea. “just — a little longer? please?”

“as long as you want. i’ve got all day for you, baby.”

#seventeen x reader #seventeen fluff #seventeen fic #seventeen imagines #seventeen headcanons #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo fluff #wonwoo comfort #seungcheol fluff #seungcheol x reader #seungcheol comfort #mingyu fluff #mingyu comfort #mingyu x reader #vernon fluff #vernon comfort #vernon x reader

4K notes · View notes

neil-gaiman · 11 days

Note

Hi Neil.

I know you are flooded with asks and this somehow became extremely long. Too long. “Why am I suddenly telling this poor man my life story?” too long. “I think I’d rather he work on the GO3 script than read this wild beast” too long. “He’s going to think you’re criminally dangerously insane” too long. If you never get to it, I’m good with never seeing a response from you. Maybe it’s better that way? Maybe an anon would have been nice here. But, it’s 2024, so I say “we ball.” It’s a privilege to be able to send this to you at all. You get a lot to this effect and I hope they give you good feels, so maybe what’s the harm, yeah? Because this is not an ask. This is a thank you letter.

First, thanks for reblogging my therapist post, I hope it amused you. I nearly sent you “How am i supposed to explain this to my therapist?!” But refrained. At that time.

So, therapy. What is therapy really? Well…

Things have been really rotten for as long as I can remember. Bad health, bad doctors, bad relationships, bad coping mechanisms, bad all kinds of things. (Yeah, bad is a weak and unhelpful word, my therapist reminds me, but we’re doing this.)

Well, things got even more really really rotten and BAD these last few years. Health declined further, coping mechanisms declined further and more intensely, packed up my life, applied for disability, moved back in with my parents across the country.

Then 4 years ago last week I watched my fiance die of a sudden heart attack. I was 29. Two years later my best friend died. Then last summer I sauntered vaguely into a cancer scare. Not long before an operation my cat who has been my companion through so much garbage died as well. I’m not entirely in the clear on the cancer scare front. All my attempts at going back to work, volunteering, going to grad school - they collapsed on me because I couldn’t get through this STUFF.

(Sometimes when I talk about this, when I tell people, I think “they are going to think you are a raging pathological liar.” Because I’m not sure I would believe someone if they told me all of this happened to them. In such a short time period. All before they were 35. And hell if that hasn’t been isolating. You know how it sounds? Lonely. And it is.)

I did the hypervigilant and sensation/experience chasing stage of PTSD. It got me in a lot of trouble in all kinds of ways. I had to do a lot of medical and psych advocating because things kept getting worse. That was exhausting. Then that peaked. I went into the thick of the “I feel absolutely nothing” stage for a long time. I didn’t feel fatigue or hunger or thirst. Not people, feelings, a reason. Not hope.

But of course, like seems be for a lot of us, I somehow found Good Omens at just the right time. I was a very “I’m so cool and intellectual I mostly consume non-fiction media” person for too long. Like, what? How is that even a real thing? And it wasn’t real. It was just part of this curated autism mask that I don’t think anyone really bought anyway.

I think I got to a point where I’d just had too much reality. I needed fantasy. I didn’t realize I always needed it. But I denied myself for too many odd and painful reasons. Maybe I thought it was an escape I didn’t deserve.

But as it turns out, it wasn’t an escape. I watched both seasons last fall, and then this light came on. I watched it again and again.

I came to tumblr because I needed more. I found this fandom. I stepped into this beautiful world of fanart and fanfiction and brain flexing meta writing and a sense of community and wonder that you and Terry created - that everyone involved in the show inflated - exploded in the right way - like fireworks if fireworks were some kind of autocatalytic reaction - a self perpetuating force.

It’s not a “saved my life” feeling. Not a “getting my life back” feeling. It’s been a “maybe it’s time for you to have the life you’ve always been denied - that you’ve denied yourself” feeling.

I’m creating. I’m not “great” yet. Not terribly “good” at all. Maybe “behind” as far as the “proper” timeline for starting. I know there isn’t one, not really, but boy does that society machine make ya feel like there is. And sure, I started and stopped a lot in the past. But the second it got hard I always gave up. I felt like if I didn’t get it “right” to begin with, then I just didn’t have it in me at all. But for once I’m really in it. I’m writing and trying to draw things that look less like fever dream five year old drawings. (Not that there’s anything wrong with those, is there? 🙃) I’m eating better. I’m sleeping better. I reach out to old friends more. I’ve made new friends who share this love of Good Omens.

My therapist has been floored by the change in me. After that first funny mini flop, he has been so encouraging about it. I saw him this week and I said “Maybe this is helping me get prepared to start living again. Maybe it’s a springboard.” And he honest to god said “But You ARE living. This is YOU LIVING. Why does it have to be a springboard? Why do you have to turn this into ‘work?’ Just let yourself have this for once in your life.”

But there were two more added elements that made it all work. And I can’t help but think this whole brainrot thing wouldn’t have happened without them. So many things just happened all at just the right time - a proper coincidence.

In all of the madness of the last few years I finally got the memo that I'm autistic. i figured I was for a while. But it finally sunk in for me and my docs and my people. So I’d been working on unpacking that. Grieving the life that could have been entirely different, shedding the mask. I let myself hyperfixate openly instead of hiding it and hating myself for “spiralling” or “obsessing” like others -!like ‘I’ always punished myself for before we knew that it was a trait and not a personality flaw.

Then over the last few months my therapist and I started trying this new exercise. One session he stopped me and said “in the last 20 minutes you have responded to what I’ve said with 9 ‘I knows.’” My response to that? “Ugh, I know.” So we started this “I know” swear jar type situation. Really, I’ve been afraid of not knowing. I couldn’t let myself “not know.” Because it meant I was “dumb.” I was just drowning for so long in guilt and self loathing for the “I knew better and screwed up anyway.” Or “I should’ve known better - I should know that by now.”

As it turns out, there’s a lot of things I don’t know. That I didn’t know. Things I will never know. And refusing to admit all of that kept me from learning a damn thing. Kept me from asking questions. Kept me from trying new things because it was scary to do something new - something unknown - and I "knew" how it would all turn out anyway. Kept me from connecting with people because it was painful or embarrassing when they knew things I didn’t and it seemed like I already should have. Kept me from getting better at making art, music, writing. Kept me from forgiving myself. Kept me from growing. And kept me from moving forward. Maybe not on. I don’t know if we ever “move on” from things. But we can move forward as we carry them. And as we do, the weight gets less. We’re able to carry it better. But only if we can admit that we don’t know how. Only if we don’t treat ourselves like this is something we do know or should know and we’re just failing because we’re less than. Not good enough. Not strong enough. Not deserving. We have to be able to say “I don’t know how to do this.” And then we can start looking for the answers. We can ask. We can learn.

I thought about the apple. Being able to tell the difference between good and evil. Aziraphale’s years and years of watching what he “knows” to be true be proven wrong. Crowley’s need to ask questions…

The simple and enormous gift of “Knowledge.” The “Knowledge” of the difference between Good and Evil. The “Knowledge” that can only be gained by realizing, accepting, admitting that there are things we don’t know. Asking the questions. Sometimes we get answers we don’t like. Sometimes the consequences of asking hurt us. And unless you want to stay in that painful place that painful knowledge got you, well, you’ve got to let yourself learn how to get out.

So all of this good? I never expected this. I never thought I deserved it. Joy and belonging and this sense that “Yeah, maybe things can get better. Maybe things can be good.” Because I said those things, not truly believing them, to the people I thought needed to hear it. But it couldn’t save them. It was hollow. The proof for us wasn’t really in our orbit or on our radar at the time. And now they’re gone.

People always say “it’s never too late.”

One of the people I lost said “it’s later than you think.”

I jokingly would respond “it’s already too late.”

It was for him in the end. For them. For some people I guess it really is. But maybe a lot of the “too late” people are there because they think “they know” that things will never be good for them. So they stop looking, they stop asking, stop finding. And eventually they just stop.

Then there came Crowley’s “It’s always too late.” The first time I heard it I thought “For sure, Crowley-cakes, I KNOW.”

But then…I just needed to rewatch the whole thing. And lines like that…familiar things…familiar themes…I was suddenly identifying with these characters. I suddenly saw myself. And the realization hit - I connected with something! Something new. And I FELT THAT. And that tiny little crack that made in the wall was just enough to start breaking it down. Yeah, when you start letting yourself feel after not feeling for so long, opening up to the good feelings means opening up to feelings and then the bad ones come out too. But when there IS good … it helps you balance. You can deal with the bad a little better because you’ve got the good thing to lean against when it gets too much. And now you’ve got feelings. You’ve got good and bad. You’ve got sticky foggy grey. You’ve got life.

Whew.

So, TLDR, thank you. From the bottom of my slowly healing heart, thank you.

And to sign off with some shits and giggles… I couldn’t find this in existence as a sticker so I had to custom order. Perhaps this will spread misery and panic among the humans of my city - or at least a malignant and creepy sense of unease.

Or maybe they’ll say “wtf” and go home and google it and they’ll fall into the Good Omens hole they never knew they needed too.

Thank you for this. I never quite know what to say to messages like this apart from I am really glad that it helps. (It becomes the weird extra piece that I worry about when writing season 3 -- hoping that it will be that thing again. Not just a story, but something that helps people feel and helps with healing and helps with love.)

1K notes · View notes

evilminji · 7 months

Text

You know... >.>

My Dad always used to tell me, if I get a Genuine Genie(tm)? Get a lawyer first. Before I make my Wishes(tm), so they can help me word them correctly.

Obviously, a human lawyer would not be foolproof... BUT! What about a Ghost Lawyer?

Like? Obviously Desiree would be PISSED. How DARE you twist HER wish twisting! Her THING is "what you believe is your heart's desire always comes at a terrible cost" which is what she DIED to learn.

So obviously she would NEVER, willingly, bend her Obsession for ANYONE. And you'd have to make a DAMN good case to that Lawyer for why he ISNT breaking the law by helping you. Probably some "you can: save the life of an unconscious person against their will/shove an unobservant person OFF the train tracks, even if they get hurt, to save their life" clause.

Like? Using a ghosts Obsession against them? Bad. Illegal.

Using it against their will, to save OTHER ghosts, who are in immediate danger? Not illegal, but they will be PISSED. Still not great though, you will want to apologize and fast.

So like??? Reality Bending Power. Patrick Star Method of "what if we MOVED the city... somewhere else?" Considered at 1am. Team of Ghost Laywers, acquired.

Amity and all Limnals are REMOVED from the DP-verse.

Wish worded juuuuust so. Any ghost that forms there? Yoink! Instantly removed to the Zone. Natural Portals? Cut off. Let the whole Reality fade out at an accelerated rate, as no NEW energy is fed into the system. Entropy will do, what entropy does. Exactly as they wished it.

They hated Death so much, they speed up the heat death of their ENTIRE universe by Eons. Congratulations, you guys "Won". Enjoy the wildly more fragile flora, fauna, and general ecosystems. Now that none of you have that ambient Ectoplasm strengthening your bodies. Yeah, the things you used to shrug off? Those are gonna maim or kill you now.

Doesn't MATTER if you "learn your lesson" though! Cause this is WAY past that point! This is "cutting off the tumor before it kills us" territory, and buddy? Amity ISNT the tumor. Go forth a grow, just like you wanted.

They won't be here to fix your messes anymore.

Because Danny got himself a dictionary thick "I Wish..." contract. Which was worded, as it needs to be, in one loooooooong run on sentence. Shouted "I Wish what's written on THIS, as it is currently, and without any form of editing or negotiation!" As fast as he could. Yote the document in Desiree's direction. And Flew like an INCANDESCENTLY pissed off Genie was trying to set his everything of fire.

Which she was.

Thankfully, Paulina came in clutch with her History of all things Jewelry, world fashions, and Make-Up knowledge. That, coupled with the Power Of Rich Friends(tm)? (Sam. Her mother was THRILLED to take her Jewelry and clothing shopping for something other then blacks and dark purple. They went on a jet setting whurl-wind tour. Sam actually kinda liked a some of what she found.)

They have Apology Bribes.

They shamelessly HIDE behind the mountain of Apology Bribes, while they explain themselves. Is Desiree HAPPY? No. But those bracelets are magnificent and she DOES deserve nice things. Those silks will really bring out her eyes. And she... DOES... admit...

Maybe...

That things are not... SAFE. Any longer. Danny TRIES. Everyone else can see it. And he's made incredible strides! Even convinced his lunatic parents. Though they're still not quite POPULAR. (WAY too pushy and invasive with their questions, for most people.) But the fanatics in white?

They nearly killed Box Lunch. If her father hadn't BEEN there...

And the poor man will have that scar on his back for the rest of his afterlife. Desiree can see why Danny is pushing. Does she LIKE it? No. But...

She supposes she will content herself with the suffering of the Fanatics in White and all who support them. THEIR wishes, twisted. Their ugly heart's desires.

Fine.

"SO YOU WISH IT. SO IT SHALL BE!"

And? The ghost town of what WOULD of one day grown into Amity, had the witch's there not been found by those they had fled from, which sits in long rotted ruins, amongst the trees in nowhere Illinois? Poof! Two "Towns" are switched.

The roads out of town coming to a clean line stop, meeting not even goat paths. Just trees. Old growth.

But it's not ALL of Town, is it? Faces missing. New, confused, faces from every corner of the map, taking their place. No Limnal left behind. No supporter of the GIWs genocide, brought along. Family's kept together where they could be. But by the few, scared and upset, green flashing eyes of children in the crowd?

It seemed for some, it was easier to fear and hate, then love their children.

Already they were being gathered up by school teachers and PTA parents. As everyone tried to figure out what had happened. Concerned, quite muttering a dull roar as everyone tries to coordinate.

Red Huntress joins Danny and Dani in the Sky. She doesn't get a word in. Wanted to know what the HELL was going on. She was with her dad in Chicago! Dani was in Taiwan! Literally! As in, sitting in a SUBWAY station one second, the next? Outside!

But they don't get to demand those answers. Because there is a sonic boom on the horizon. And then? Floating... weird... not ghosts?

Uuuuuuhhhh?

Hi?

That much blue... sure is a Statement. Like the cape and... bloooomers? Shorts. Bikini bottoms? It.. it's a Cool Look, dude! No, really. They are being VERY supportive here! If YOU like it? That's the only thing that matters!

Red Huntress smacks the Danny/i's Repeated upside their heads and demans to know what the Not-Ghosts are doing in their airspace.

Oh YEAH. Good point! What she said! And can it WAIT? They're kinda going through A Thing right now...

Kon? Wants it on record he loves these guys. They're hilarious. The LOOK on Clark's FACE?? He wishes he could frame it. Preserve it for future generations. Thing is? There was NOT a town here a second ago.

Well, bout 30 minutes or so, but you get the idea. One moment? Tree noises. Bam! Thousands of people! Obviously the checked it out. Only to be met with two... three maybe? Heros who have NO IDEA who they are.

Clear Reality warping shenanigans. Might be time travel or multiverse. Question is... are they STAYING? And if SO? What now...

@hdgnj @ailithnight @the-witchhunter @nerdpoe @dcxdpdabbles @mutable-manifestation @hypewinter

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dc x dp #dcxdp #dc x dp prompt #danny phantom #minji's writing

2K notes · View notes

txttletale · 29 days

Note

genuine question--would you mind clarifying why the use of trans lesbian is bad in reference to a trans person who is a lesbian? am i missing some context? i tried googling but i got mostly just a lot of vile garbage. nw if you're done talking about this topic, that is understandable. have a nice day (saluting emoji which i dont have but please imagine it here)

sure. 'trans lesbian' is, like, a compound word that means specifically 'a trans woman who is a lesbian', and not just 'someone who is trans and a lesbian', in the same way that idk a 'little finger' isn't just 'a finger that is small'. & obviously i am all for recognizing that labels are just labels, that words are not the things themselves, but 1. this is not, like, some weird backformation or super restrictive definition that people make up to mean arguments, it's how that word is used in common practice by queer orgs, media outlets, the UN, and 2. i think that there is context here that makes it pretty important to be extremely clear about who is and isn't a trans lesbian in this sense.

the context is that trans lesbians (ie, trans women, who are lesbians) are like at the center of the hurricane of transphobia across the world right now. ray blanchard, the fucking pioneer of modern pseudoscientific transmisogyny, specifically singles out the 'autogynophiles' (as opposed to the 'homosexual transsexuals, who are trans women attracted to men') as dangerous perverts. TERF's most hateful transmisogynistic caricatures and canards of trans women as dangerous sexual predators who are threat to Women's Spaces are implicitly about the Trans Lesbian. it's a term that sent the entire transphobia industrial complex into overdrive when it was used in some UN org's tweet:

these headlines are not about Trans people who are also Lesbians--both these articles are filled with all the usual bile about how trans women are really sexually predatory men who want to infilitrate womanhood. neither of the people writing these articles would like leslie feinberg for sure, but they also wouldn't think of hir as a Dangerous Predator Infilitrationg Women's Spaces. & so when the trans lesbian is the fucking like cultural boogeyman that politicians are determined to performatively target and punish, i think that using that language to describe people who aren't transfem is diluting our ability to talk about this kind of transmisogyny.

& i mean like, this is not just an abstract concern, right, because the instant that i initially took issue with was someone essentially saying 'wow, why do you think that people who obsess over SBB specifically and The 80s more generally as the end-all be-all of Queerness and Lesbianhood tend towards a transmisogynist view of thoes things when leslie feinberg is literally a trans lesbian.' like it is explictly and obviously a rhetorical sleight of hand which is why i treated that ask with the contempt it deserved.

#ask

887 notes · View notes

greenglowinspooks · 1 month

Text

(DCXDP) The obligations of a rogue versus those of a parent (Pt. 5)

—

Tw: torture scene (GiW agent receiving), general angst, canon-typical violence (DC), nobody is having a good time

Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually

(Masterlist/subscription post)

—

It was pretty easy for Danny to forget that Dr. Crane was a rogue at times.

Most of the time he wasn’t comically evil, like what he’d expect of a Gotham rogue. He was helping Danny, even if only because he didn’t want to be taken in by the GiW as well. He was even downright nice most of the time, or at least neutral.

Sure, he had a strange obsession with fear and psychology, but that wasn’t really out of the ordinary for Danny. It didn’t feel like living with a rogue, just like…staying with a distant relative, or something.

He seemed like just an ordinary person.

Today, though, Danny was brought back to reality.

The GiW agent they’d tracked down together writhed on the ground, screaming in pain and terror. Scarecrow was sat a few feet away, setting up a syringe of the antidote he’d made.

After a few more moments, he injected the man with the antidote, watching him like a hawk the entire time.

Suddenly, the man surged forward, lunging at Scarecrow with a feral scream.

Unluckily for him, though, he was still weak from the fear toxin in his system, and from the beatings he’d received prior. Scarecrow easily wrestled him to the ground, settling himself on the broad part of the agent’s back with a vice grip on one of his arms.

“Let’s try again,” he said sharply, all of the warmth Danny had grown used to gone from his voice. “Where is the GiW base of operations?”

The agent took several shuddering breaths before spitting at Scarecrow, defiance and hatred written all over his face.

For just a moment, the room was utterly silent.

“Fine, have it your way.”

Scarecrow began to twist the man’s arm further. It wasn’t long before the agent began to squirm, then writhe, beneath him. Danny’s stomach churned.

“You know,” Scarecrow began, almost conversationally, “there are plenty of jobs that one can get without the use of their legs, especially with the level of education you have. Anything that doesn’t involve hard labor, really.”

The man’s face was beginning to turn red in his struggle not to scream. He took in gasping breaths, the way that his mouth moved almost reminding Danny of a goldfish.

(He felt awful for the comparison, but it was true.)

“However,” Scarecrow continued, “I find you’d be rather hard-pressed to find a job without the use of your arms. Especially in a place like Gotham, where you can always be replaced by someone eager to do your job for even less money. Of course, you could most likely coast off of savings and severance pay for a while, but…”

He leaned closer to the man’s head, his voice lowering.

“Would you be able to live like that? To live with yourself, if you no longer have a purpose?”

He allowed the agent a few seconds of rest before increasing the pressure on his arm. The agent gasped, letting out a strangled hiss. His arm bones were making fascinating noises in response to the strain. Danny felt sick.

“You seem like a rather driven young man. I’m sure your family would hate to see you unmotivated, directionless. Would they resent you, do you think?”

“Fuck you, you—”

The man was cut off by his own scream as Scarecrow finally allowed his arm to break, audibly splintering into thousands of useless shards of bone.

He had the exact pressure memorized. Clearly, he had done this before.

This was wrong. This was wrong.

Shouldn’t Danny step in, do something?

“That won’t heal cleanly. Even with the best medical care in the world, you’ll end up with permanent damage.”

The man below him wheezed and sobbed, choking on air as Scarecrow let go of his arm carelessly, letting it flop back onto the ground.

“Just the sort of thing something like you deserves,” Scarecrow hissed, his voice cold.

“You tortured a child, and you enjoyed it. You laughed with your friends about it. In your notes, one of your friends complained about the screaming,” Scarecrow brought his leg around, grinding his boot into the man’s broken arm. He howled in agony, writhing uncontrollably.

“Was it inconvenient to him, do you think? Too loud? If you were joking about it, clearly you thought so, too. I could fix that as well.”

He drew out another needle, this one once again filled with fear toxin.

“Scarecrow, wait,” Danny choked out.

Scarecrow turned to look at him.

Even his posture was different than usual. He looked… stiff, more like an animal than a man. When he tilted his head at Danny in a silent question, it looked like something in his neck had snapped, his head lolling to the side.

Danny wondered if he was consciously moving like that, or if it was habit at this point.

“You—we don’t have to do this. We can get information some other way, right? You don’t have to…”

Danny looked down at the GiW agent below Scarecrow. He didn’t even have it in him to glare up at Danny like he had before. Instead he laid limply on the ground, tremors rolling through his body uncontrollably.

“We’ve exhausted every other option and you know it,” Scarecrow said, his voice low, “this is the only way we can move forward.”

“Still, I—I don’t,” Danny swallowed, his throat tight, “this isn’t—this isn’t right. Isn’t there some other way to do this? Like—a truth serum, or something?”

“Truth serums are notoriously unreliable. They’re almost as bad as lie detectors. We’re much more likely to get a reliable result from this.”

Danny just stared at the GiW agent and his splintered, ruined arm. He began to weakly wriggle in Scarecrow’s grasp, which was graciously ignored.

He vaguely remembered himself doing the same thing when he was on the operating table; even if he knew there was no chance of escape, he still thrashed and screamed, desperate to get away. The jagged I-shaped incision on his torso felt uncomfortably warm.

What was there left to say?

“The Bat does the same thing at times, you know,” Scarecrow said, “him and the rest of his brood. By using my toxin, I’m actually lessening the amount of permanent damage that I’m doing. Physically.”

“Still, that doesn’t make it right,” Danny said desperately. “Even if—even if everyone in the world did this, it wouldn’t make it right.”

Scarecrow hummed.

They were both silent for a moment.

His next words were gentle, absurdly so when compared to the scene in front of him.

“I would love an alternative. But…”

He shrugged, hand coming to rest on the break in the GiW agent’s arm. Even without applying any pressure, the man stopped squirming immediately.

“There aren’t any other options,” Danny repeated, his voice flat and his body numb.

“Yes,” Scarecrow said. “I’m sorry.”

There was a pause. No one moved a muscle. Eventually Scarecrow spoke again, his voice strangely empty.

“You can stand outside and keep watch, if you’d like. At such a short distance their radars won’t pick us up.”

Danny said nothing, leaving the room silently.

He sat outside for quite a while.

He was grateful that Scarecrow had, with his help, dragged the agent to one of his previous hideouts. It was soundproofed, after all.

He was glad that he didn’t have to hear the rest of what Scarecrow did to the man.

After what felt like an eternity, Dr. Crane left the building, joining him outside. He guided Danny back to his beat up old truck and they drove home in silence.

“Did you at least…do you know where they are, now?” Danny asked as they entered the apartment, his voice small.

“They didn’t share the details of all of their locations with any one person. I know where one of their locations are, but not their main base of operations.”

Danny felt disgusted. With himself, with Dr. Crane, with the GiW.

He was disgusted by the agent, too. Did he just hate the restless dead so much that he would prefer to be tortured than to give them the upper hand? Did he really think he was in the right?

Was there a chance that he was?

Danny felt very, very small, and very stupid. Stupid and weak and cowardly.

“Danny,” Dr. Crane spoke, his voice soft.

“I’m truly sorry that this is happening to you. I really, truly wish that you didn’t have to endure my company. I…”

He fell quiet. Danny wondered if he was just saying this to pacify him, or if he truly meant it. He wondered if it really mattered in the end.

After a few moments of silence, Dr. Crane sighed, looking truly pained.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

Danny was quiet.

“I’m going to bed early,” he finally said, turning away and leaving without a second glance.

—

#dcxdp #dc x dp #dp x dc #dpxdc #dp x dc crossover #dc x dp fic #liminal scarecrow #this kinda shit is how the fic got its name btw.#like yeah obviously it’s also in reference to the contrast between crane and danny’s actual parents #but it’s also about doing what you need to survive vs what is best for the people dependent on you #tshirt that says I love moral quandaries I love when no matter what you do you lose I love torturing characters #Scarecrow: why isn’t torturing everyone who wronged you healing this child. it worked for ME #meanwhile Danny is undergoing the torment nexus #and red hood is doing some doomguy shit #getting swarmed by GiW agents bc he’s one of the only ones showing up on the radar #Tucker voice Wow Mr red hood this is kinda fucked up. can I use the bat computer to hack the pentagon btw

641 notes · View notes

cherry-leclerc · 7 months

Text

certain way in stages ☆ cl16

genre: childhood friends to lovers, yearning, humor, slow-burnish

word count: 10.5k

Being in love is bittersweet at times. You and Charles both lived proof of that. It’s been a long time coming.

inspired by this !

Growing up, you always wished for the most perfect meet-cute a girl could ever experience. For instance, you dreamt of a grumpy millionaire suddenly having a soft spot and falling for your undeniable charm. Or perhaps you would fall in love with the boy from your nearest ice cream parlor, who would always give you an extra scoop just because, though both of you would know that wouldn’t be the case.

As you grew older, you came to terms that stuff like that didn’t really exist. You weren’t living in a romcom. You weren’t living in your favorite love story. Over and over, you would remind yourself that it was fine and you can make do, but just the tiniest piece of you still wondered.

“Darling, true love does exist. I can reassure you." Pascale comforted you as you sat in front of her. It was summer, she was braiding your hair, you were eating ice cream out of a carton, and you just went through your first heartbreak. All of this made it pretty hard to believe.

“I’m sure it does, but I suppose it’s just not for me,” you mumble with watery eyes, bringing your knees to your chest and rest your chin atop.

Pascale lets out a sad hum as she ties your hair. As you turn to look at her, she pats on the couch signaling you to take a seat next to her.

“Listen,” she starts as she grabs your hands gently. “Heartbreak isn’t nice, believe me, I know.” Suddenly, you feel like the biggest jerk in the world. How could you ever compare your silly little grief with someone who has lost the love of their life? You’re about to apologize before she presses on your hand. “Like I said, it isn’t pretty. Things like this make you feel as if it’s the end of the world - God - you almost wish it was… but there’s always more out there. Something that will shift your entire world on its axis if it hasn’t already, and you will love and enjoy it so much that it will overpower any type of pain you have ever endured.”

“What if I’m not lucky enough to have that? Who could ever want someone like me?” you whisper. You hated to make it all about yourself, but things like this always kept you up, in a way you wish it wouldn’t.

“Anyone would be lucky to have you.” She brings you in for a hug and you wish you believed her words the way they flowed. “You just have to allow yourself to get to know what you need, not just what you want.”

“Trust me, I thought Noah was all I needed…”

Pascale brings up her hands to her temples, gently massaging, watercolor eyes narrowed down on you. “No, no, no. He never deserved a pretty little flower like you.”

“Maybe…” You chew on your bottom lip, slightly flinching at her stare. “Yeah. I know.”

Both of you end up curling up on the couch, gossiping about all the latest surrounding the small Monaco streets. She's getting real riled up when Charles walks in.

“I’m back!” He takes his jacket off. Once he makes his way over to Pascale, he notices you. Giving her a kiss, his eyes shift. “Lapine, what are you doing here?”

You glare. “Can’t a girl just come over to see their best friend?” Popping some kettle corn into your mouth, you continue. “When I saw you weren’t home I came to talk to your mom.”

He frowns a bit. “Sorry, I thought you knew I wasn’t going to be around. Remember it was my an-”

Immediately, you jump off the couch. “Your anniversary!” Guilt eats you up. How could you have forgotten? “No, Charles, I should be the one apologizing. Crap, I forgot.”

He smiles at your current state. “It’s alright, it went well either way…” The Monegasque shoots an eyebrow up before winking, well, his own attempt at it. You pretend to throw up at the same time Pascale makes a run for her room.

The brunette and you both plop onto the warm couch. He quickly grabs a handful of your snack before he gobbling it down. Snatching the bowl from him, you hold it close against your chest. “This is my popcorn,” you greedily say. His hand reaches out for more which you swiftly swat away.

“Hey!”

“Hey you! I told you this is mine.”

He furrows his brows. “You were just sharing some with my mom!”

“You said it. With Pascale. Not Charles.”

The green eyed boy lets out a huff. “Okay. Do you want to talk about it?” Your vision gets blurry before you even have a chance to pretend you were totally fine, but you’re not. Not even a little. If anyone could tell it would always be him.

“It’s Noah.” You look away because it’s only a matter of time before Charles’ judgy face makes an appearance. You always knew he never liked him, but now was not the time for that reminder. “Nevermind.”

Shifting his body to face you Charles says, “You know I’m always here for you. You can tell me anything.”

Your chin begins to wobble and all the sensitivity in the world is beginning to catch up with you.

Sobbing you begin. “I wish I could tell you where it all went wrong, but God I wish I knew myself.” Your shoulders shake up and down by how hard you’re crying. “I don’t know what I did! I mean I never did anything wrong, but Charles the way he looked at me made me feel as if I did! I’ve never felt so…so…dirty.”

First thing Charles thinks is how much he wants to go pay Noah a nice little visit and second is how much it hurts him to see you like this. He’d pay an endless amount of sum if that meant you would go back to your natural, cheery self.

So, with sobs echoing through his family home, he grabs your hands. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Staring back at him with glassy eyes, you let out a wet laugh. Slowly, you start to cackle. Charles finds himself wondering if you’ve gone mad.

“Yes I did. I just know I did,” you press as you wheeze, fresh tears pouring out. “Like everything else around me, I just had to go out and ruin things. God, I feel so pathetic.” Pulling your hands away, you stand up and begin to pace the room back and forth. “If I had just been enough for him then maybe Noah would have chosen me and not her. I mean how could I blame him? I would choose her too.”

Charles instantly stands up and grabs your shoulders. “Listen,” he says as you stare down at the floor. “Lapine.” You dig your nails into the palm of your hands as you lift your attention to him. “You did absolutely nothing wrong.”

You roll your eyes. “Are you a broken record or something? You already said that.”

“No, you must be the broken record here by the way you keep blaming yourself when I know you’re smart enough to decipher that none of this is your fault. He’s a fucking dick.” Like always, when you’re losing your mind, Charles is always there for you in a way you're almost embarrassed to say no one else is.

Wearing a weak smile, you go in and hug him. “I just wish for once I was someone’s first choice,” you mumble into his chest.

God, Charles thinks to himself. If only you knew you were mine.

“She’s so sweet, so lovely!” Pascale squeals as she makes her way into the kitchen with a handful of daisies tied together with a sad looking ribbon.

Charles and Arthur are cleaning their helmet visors as they munch on crackers. “Maman, you’re dropping dirt everywhere,” Charles states as he stares at the now dirty tiles.

“Well if we’re playing that game, then there’s crumbs everywhere.”

The Monegasque shuts up right away.

Later on that same day, he decides to go on a bike ride. He’d just gotten one for his 8th birthday that he was dying to brag out. Running out the door, Pascale warns him: “Only around the neighborhood, Cha!”

“Oui!”

Just as he was tying his shoelaces, he spots a girl around his age walking up to him. She’s so pretty, he remembers thinking.

“Hi!” you chirp as your right arm remains behind your back. “I’m new around here. Just moved to the house next door.” You sheepishly point to the cream-ish house that sits next to his.

“Nice.”

You squint your eyes at slightly before kicking the dirt surrounding your Mary Janes. Your arm makes an appearance with the same daisies he remembers his mom adding into a flower vase. “These are for you! I hope you like them.”

He reaches out to accept before dropping them next to his helmet. Your stomach churns.

“You don’t like them?” Your pretty little eyes begin to well up. He quickly panics, hurriedly getting on his knees to pick up the wilted flowers.

“What? Of course I do!” he yelps as he brings them up to his nose to take a whiff. “Smells good too!”

A few tears roll down your cheeks as you begin to walk away. “It’s fine. Keep them. Throw them. I don’t care.”

He bolts after you before grabbing your hand. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I never meant to make you cry!”

Wiping your warm tears away, you looked down at your locked hands. He lets go.

“Take me on a bike ride and I might just forgive you,” you challenge.

So he did. That same day he crashed it when your hair flew into his face and didn’t let him see where he was steering, and while he might have cried a bit, he didn’t really care. Because that was the day he met his best friend.

Charles fell in love with you when you were both seventeen. Maybe a bit later than expected but it was as sweet as it could get.

“She so likes you,” Arthur tells him one day over a round of video games. Charles quickly pauses the game before turning to his younger brother.

“You really think so?”

Lorenzo, who was sitting nearby reading his book, perks up. “It’s as clear as daylight. You guys are meant for eachother.”

Charles was on a sudden high; I mean if everyone else saw it, it just had to be true. Without finishing a second thought, he dashed up the flight stairs so fast that he almost face planted a couple of times. Rapidly, he runs to his window where he knows he would find you sitting in your room.

Laying on your bed with your legs kicked up against the wall, he could tell you were on a phone call.

Psst, he hissed as he tried to catch your attention. You look around your room confused. I’m right here, he speaks up as he dangles a bit over his open window. Sweetly, you excuse yourself, hanging up, and making your way over.

“What’s up?”

All of a sudden, he doesn’t know what else to say. Bright eyes stare back at him and his heart thuds loudly, hands nervously sweat. “Uhhh…”

Weirded out, you walk to your closet and grab your shoes. “Wanna go for some ice cream?”

Like always, you both met outside as you began to walk to the nearest ice cream parlor. “What flavor are you getting?” you asked as you twiddled with the ring he had gifted you for your fifteenth birthday.

“Strawberry. You?”

“Not sure.” You curiously squint at the nearby tourists.

Walking in, Charles orders his own cone as you stroll around trying to decide. “Lemon? No. Sherbert? Ah, gross…” He takes a seat while you mumble to yourself. “Um, what about-”

“Rocky Road?” a voice recommends. Both you and Charles look up and find a tall looking boy with shaggy hair. Your heart quickens as you begin to blush. “Rocky Road sounds good, I’ll take one.”

Charles felt his stomach churn with an unfamiliar feeling. Jealousy. He rises up, sourly making his way. “She doesn’t like chocolate.”

With a cold stare, you scowl towards the Monegasque. “I actually love chocolate.” Hastily, you turn your attention back, beaming kindly. “Strawberry and chocolate, please.”

As you both sit on the benches outside, you hum quietly. “Would you mind telling my mom I’ll be home for dinner on time?”

It was still early when you asked, so he pondered on why you wouldn’t just be walking home with him. “Can’t you tell her yourself?” He knows he’s being rude - and there was truly no reason for that - but he felt bitter. He knew why.

“Charlie. Please. You know Theo asked me out to go watch a movie with him at the drive- in!” The way your eyes glimmered and glistened had him wishing they were shining like that for him and not Theo from the ice cream shop.

“Fine.”

Walking back home, he felt like the same wilted flowers you had gifted him when you were both younger. The brunette kicks a mountain of rock, flinching.

If I had just asked her out sooner. Late. Late. Late. Always too late.

It's been a few months now since your break up and you were feeling better. You don’t even remember why you even loved Noah in the first place. Realizing he never really cared enough to try was a tough pill to swallow, but you managed to dig yourself out the hole.

Twirling around in your heels, you walk up and down the hallway, presenting yourself with an awful catwalk. “How do I look?” Steady hands grip your hips as you lean playfully and blow a kiss.

“Beautiful!” Pascale squeals, clapping.

“Lovely,” Lorenzo follows up.

“You clean up nice, I suppose,” Arthur jokes with two thumbs up. You throw a quick scowl in his direction.

“I wish I could bring you guys along, but sadly I only got a plus one.” Tonight you would be receiving your diploma for graduating Uni, all before the actual graduation that would later follow up in a few weeks. You had decided to string Charles along since he was one of the main reasons you were even here, in this very moment. Endlessly, he would always quiz you with flashcards you would prepare.

“Nitrogen!” you yell out as you hold onto the edge of your seat. It’s been a long day and you were staring to lose it.

“Wrong. Try again.”

“Iodine!”

“We’re going over history, what does any of this have to do with the elements?” He laughs, laying the cards onto the coffee table. “You could use a break.”

With a stubborn frown, you roll over. “Taking a break won’t help. I have to keep going.” Charles studies you a bit before standing up. “Where are you going?” you interrogate, peeping an eye open.

“Why don’t we go for a swim?” he proposes.

“Oh. No. God no. I have to study.” Swiftly, your hands shoot out for the index cards.

This leads for your best friend to grab onto your legs, tugging you off the couch. You squirm, trying to hold on to the nearest pillows. “No!”

For a while, you both continue this little dance, though as you slip his grip, he ends up tugging your socks off. Charles lets out a groan as his back hits the cold floor.

Speedy, you jump off the couch. “On second thought, a swim sounds nice!”

It’s been 20 minutes of waiting and though you weren’t late for your event quite yet, you knew you had to get going. “I think I should call a cab now...” You sigh and grab your purse.

“That boy, when I get my hands on him-” Pascale doesn’t have a chance to finish her sentence before Charles casually walks in through the door. His eyes glint when he sees you standing like a doll.

“Woah. You look beautiful." The Monegasque tints pink but you only roll your eyes. Annoyed is an understatement.

“Good to hear,” you spit out. “Anyway, I should get going.”

“Date?” Charles dares question and you try not to explode in front of his family.

Turning around slowly, your hands still remain wrapped around the knob. “Yes, Charles. A date. Just me and my diploma, going on a date.”

His face goes completely pale. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Charles harshly rubs his hands over his eyes, clearly stressed out. “I’m sorry! I was out with Charlotte, I must have lost track of time.”

Looking over at his brothers and Pascale, you decide to hide your embarrassment with a shy smile. “No worries. I get it.” You were telling the truth; you did understand. Just the fact that he forgot is what hurt. He knew this was important to you. How hard you worked for this and how the only person you wanted to share this moment with was him.

With a slight wince, he excuses himself to go change. “Don’t bother,” you yell out after him. Standing on the wooden steps, he turns to see you and he could tell he's ruined it. He messed up. You couldn’t help your eyes filling up with tears and he couldn’t help but notice them. You lamely shrug your shoulders. “Lorenzo, I mean you always dress up pretty fancy,” you point out. “You seem ready. Would you mind accompanying me?”

“Of course,” he says, a trace of hesitance evident when he reaches to grab his jacket and car keys.

As the Monegasque watches Lorenzo and you drive off, he can’t help but feel angry at himself.

“It’s always her!” Charlotte yells out as Charles rests his head against the wall. This was slowly becoming a routine.

“You know it’s not like that,” he justifies.

“Oh please, do us all a favor and tell us how it is."

“I messed up,” he admits. Pascale and him had settled into a road silence, overlooking her garden.

“Yes. You did.”

Quietly, Charlotte crouches down next to Charles. “Hey,” she starts, pain lacing through her voice. “Look we’ve had a nice run, but maybe it’s time we just stop pretending that it was always going to be me.”

Charles weakly apologizes by making you a plate of pasta.

“Mmm,” you hum. “Crunchy.”

He smiles a toothy grin as he claps his hands, slightly startling you. “Crunchy is good!” As soon as you make a face and scrunch your nose, his smile fades away.

“Not your best work, C.” A shy smile escapes. Charles groans as he throws his head back, chair tipping over. A loud smack follows.

“Holy shit!” you screech, jumping off your seat. With a dizzy look, he rubs his head before mumbling with a low, I’m fine. You help him to his room where he throws himself on his bed with a thud. “Don’t you dare fall asleep.”

His eyes shoot open with alert, jumping off the bed. “Let’s go for a drive.”

The late night ride is always peaceful; you both don’t really have many moments like those. Sharing a bag of chips, you both enjoy the view from his Pista. It’s always been this place ever since you both discovered what you like to call, The Nicest Place In All of Monaco.

“Truth or Dare?”

The young driver should know better than to fall for your little games but he still finds himself playing, “Truth.”

You close your eyes and tap your chin. “Oh! Have you ever hooked up with a fan?” Curiosity always gets the best of you, you can’t deny it.

His face scrunches up with disgust. “I’m not talking about this with you.” A deep frown forms, pinching his forearm.

“That’s not fair, you already said Truth, so Truth it shall be.”

He squints his eyes watercolor eyes. “Says who?”

“Says me! Now spill.”

The brunette grows weirdly quiet for a nanosecond. “Yes.” When your eyes go wide with excitement he knows he should stop this before it goes on any further. “Only once, okay? No more questions.”

Theatrically zipping your lips, he chuckles and returns the question. “Dare.” He narrows his eyes and you get a queasy feeling. “Take it back. Truth.”

His mouth drops open, screeching how you couldn’t change your choice. “It wouldn’t be fair!” he tries to reason with you.

“Says who?”

“Me! I say so!”

“Bullshit. I said Truth.”

“Fine. Have you ever been in love?”

Suddenly, it feels like you're eating cardboard. Swallowing, you make a duh movement. “Yes. Of course. Noah.”

“You know that doesn’t count.”

Looking out the window, you know what he said was true. You once thought you loved Noah, but you never truly did - it was almost all an illusion.

“You’re right. It wasn’t love that I felt for him, but I’ve been in love with someone else.”

Charles wants to press you on it. Who is it? Since when? His name, age, address? Do you still think about them from time to time? But he knows you better than anyone, and as expected, you cut the game short, just as quick as it started.

“I’ll drive,” you murmur, cllimbing out of the passenger's seat.

Theo ended up moving to Boston for college, and while you were a bit bummed out, you didn’t really care too much. It was nice while it lasted.

On the other hand, Charles felt as if this was a sign from the universe. You were both eighteen now; he could make big boy moves if he wanted to.

The Monegasque takes you karting with him one day since you’ve been begging him for so long. He even helps you with your helmet as your adorably work on slipping your gloves on. “Should I cover you with bubble wrap?” he mumbles.

“I think I’ll be okay.”

“You think?” he shrieks, immediately taking the helmet off. “If you think you’ll be fine then why are we even here?”

“Dick. You know I’ll be fine!” Grabbing the helmet, you throw it over your head once more. As you both walk over to your karts, you eagerly wave over to your parents who are busy conversing with Pascale. Your mom blows a kiss as Pascale sends you two thumbs up.

The drive was as good as it could get.

“You suck!” Charles exclaims as soon as he jumps out of his kart. Like a lost puppy, follow after him with a confused look.

“What do you mean? I’m basically a pro!”

Charles sharply turns, causing you as you take a step back. “Pros don’t crash in every corner and cutely follow up with a slight 'oops’.” Arthur snickers.

Arms cross over your chest, breathing out. “You think I’m cute?” The brunette awkwardly begins to blush.

“Wha-what? I think you must’ve banged your head against the wheel too many times.”

You let out a soft laugh, spoking your tongue out. “Calm down, I was just kidding.” As he watches you walk away, Charles couldn’t help but kick himself because this would’ve been the perfect opportunity to let you know just how much you take over his mind. Just seeing you attempting to learn his favorite sport had him filled with pride and affection towards you. Sure, it was quickly replaced with him being worried every time you would crash, but that’s besides the point.

“So stupid,” he mumbles to himself, drooped shoulders, pinched eyebrows, making his way towards you and his family.

“Have you thought about it?” Charles questions where you sit on his bed while he packs his suitcase. It had been a while since he had brought up the idea for you to go with him to the Canada GP, and you were still with no answer.

“I’m not sure.”

“Why not?”

“I never directly said no.”

“Yet you haven’t said yes either.”

Biting down on your lip, you balance out your options. Either you can stay here and sulk your summer away while Charles is out traveling and having fun or you tag along and join him and his crowded schedule.

“I promise I’ll get you your dream stack of pancakes with authentic maple,” he tries bribing you. And damn it, it worked.

“You've got yourself a deal.”

Chomping on your warm pancakes, you scroll through your phone as you giggle at the following Twitter thread. You giggle so hard you choke. Carlos and Charles walk in with their suits around their waist.

“Dios mío, are you okay?” Carlos checks up on you, handing his water bottle with the obnoxiously long straw. You take a sip before handing it back to him.

“I’m fine, but look.” You gesture towards your screen. Once he sees it, he looks between your phone and his teammate.

“Identical.”

The Monegasque chirps a quick; “What is it?” You hand your phone over to him as you continue slicing pieces. Carlos discretely steals a bite.

“What the fuck? I don’t even look like him,” he mumble between him and the pictures on your screen.

“His name is Lightning McQueen,” you object as you lean against your chair. The Monegasque huffs out, continuing his scrolling through people's tweets and how everyone seemed to believe they might as well be the same thing.

Carlos lets out a snort as he bumps his shoulder against yours. “Look, his face is even turning as red as the little car!” You both laugh loudly, Charles frowning. Standing up, you brush your hands against your jeans as you excuse yourself to the restroom.

Sitting down in original seat, your best friend chews up a few bites that lingered on your plate.

“Does she know?” He stops chewing.

“Knows what?” he muffles, cheeks full with bread.

“That you loveee herrr,” Carlos teases in a sing-songy voice. He immediately starts to choke. The Spaniard hands him his water bottle and he quickly downs it.

With a slightly raw voice he says, “I don’t love her. Not the way you’re thinking, at least.”

“Tell that to someone who will actually believe you.”

“Is it that obvious?” Carlos nods. “Shit.” He begins to get nervous, rubbing his hands against his face. Brown locks grows tangled when he desperately runs through it.

“Don’t worry,” the Ferrari driver tries to ease him. “She doesn’t even know it.” When Charles looks at him confused, he continues. “I mean everyone else seems to see it but her. You’re fine. Have you told her though?”

“No.”

“And what is it that you’re waiting for? I mean you’re a single man longing for the girl next door. If anything, you both should be married by now.”

“Believe me; I’ve tried three times already.”

“So, what happened?”

“Well, the first two times I kind of missed my opportunities for being too naive,” he starts before pondering.

The Spaniard holds up two fingers. “What happened the third?”

“What didn’t happen the third?”

Proud was an understatement. He had worked hard and people were truly beginning to see his full potential. It's well deserved.

Running up to him, you embrace him in a tight hug. “Congrats!” A smile presses against his firm chest. Pulling away, he grins, eyes crinkling.

“Thank you. I almost can’t even believe it myself,” he admits, walking slowly down the busy paddock. Though he was wearing his Alfa Romeo suit, you both knew it wouldn’t be long before that changed.

“Driving for Scuderia Ferrari in your early twenties is a huge deal, quit acting humble.” Walking up to his car, you both enjoy each others company on the way to the hotel. Once you walk into his room, you both plop onto the bed, exhausted. The day had been long, filled with interviews and meetings and wonderful fans, and he could never say he didn’t love his job, but it was tough keeping up.

That night, you both go to the club with a few drivers from the grid to celebrate Charles’ new contract. Swaying your hips, you stand on top of a table.

“Get down before you break your neck,” Charles yells over the music blaring through the club.

“No fun,” you sourly say as you poke your tongue out at him. Taking a sip from your drink, which Charles has been taking care of for you, glossy eyes roam the club. Lando leans against the wall nearby where he is attempting to grab a girl's number. A moment passes by before his watercolor eyes double in size. He excuses himself, making his way over. “What happened?”

“She turned out to be forty-five.” The Brit groans and hides his face in embarrassment. Throwing your head back laughing, you clutch onto Charles' arm.

“Stick to girls you know you actually have a chance with,” the Monegasque voices, taking a sip of his drink, smirk dancing through. Lando rolls his eyes.

“Same to you."

The Monegasque silently thanks the universe that you’re too busy talking to George now to even notice. But for once in his life he thought; fuck it.

Excusing himself, he grabs your hands, leading you away with no excuse. If this went south, and they all witnessed it, he would never live it down.

“I need to tell you something!”

You scrunch your face like a piece of paper, cupping your hands like a microphone over your mouth. “What?” Nervously, he grabs your hands, and bewildered, you stare back.

“I love you.”

You stand there, but when you don’t seem shocked, butterflies erupt inside his stomach. Well, what now? “Ah, Charles, you know I love you too,” you yell as you make a duh movement. Frantically, all his confidence begins to slip away - you don’t get it.

“No,” he says, “I love love you. I think about you all the time. Sometimes all I can think is how I would give up my entire career just to be with you, even for a second. Do you know how crazy I feel for even considering something like that?” he rambles. “I mean, I’ve worked so hard for this, and trust me I love it, but not as much I love you. You’re my only option in this life. In the next. In every lifetime; it’s so clear that it will and has always been you.”

Chewing on your lip, you glance around the club to see bodies dancing. Though the room is packed and filled with people kissing and grinding on each other and taking body shots, in too many sinful ways, it just feels like it's just you two at that moment.

He gulps. “Will you go out with me?” There. He said it, and surprisingly, he felt good.

“Charles…” you begin as you try to find the right words. “God, um… We’ve been best friends for so long…” You trail off as his eyes look back in despair for you to continue. “You’re my best friend and this…I mean it wouldn’t feel right.”

Dropping your hands, he swore he felt your words punch him where it hurt the most. Like a mother trying to calm down their child at a candy store, you wrap your delicate hand over his wrist. “I just wouldn’t want anything to change between us,” you try to explain as he nods his head with a tight lipped smile, not even his dimples popped out.

“No worries, I get it. I wouldn’t want things to change between us either.”

With two hands over his head Carlos screeches out: “It happened that night? No wonder you were both awkward the rest of the party.” He remembers now, the way you both kept a careful distance as if you each had some kind of rare disease.

Nodding, Charles shrugs and takes the last bite. “After that we just continued as if nothing had happened and a few months later, I met Charlotte.” His teammate looks at him in pity but still nods. He’s about to comfort his sulky teammate, but holds back as he catches a glimpse of you walking towards them.

Noticeably, a frown maps itself onto your lips. “Where’s my pancake?” You're pissed; darting between the two Ferrari drivers.

Charles finished it!

Carlos!

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “You owe me a plate.”

After his two prior failed attempts as a teenager, Charles never really went on to make any more moves. He didn’t want to tarnish your friendship for some silly confession that is probably only one-sided. Also, he was starting to get busier in his Formula 2 career.

With tears springing out of your eyes you whine. “I’m going to miss you.” You blow your snotty nose with a nearby Kleenex.

Slowly, he pats your hand, friendly. “I’ll be coming back home any chance I get, y’know that. Can’t stay away too long from you,” he teases. Innocently, of course. You giggle, brushing your rats nest far away from blotchy face. “You look like a bunny when you cry.”

Shriek, you run over to the mirror. Your lips and eyes are swollen, lashes wet, your nose is painted red, cheeks maroon: you looked bloody crazy. I look awful!

He lets out a chuckle. “That’s crazy talk. You’re one of the most beautiful girls in this world, if not the most.”

The compliment is thrown at you to make you feel better, but you couldn’t help but feel your heart beating against your chest in a way you’ve never felt before.

The day Charles left, you missed him a scary amount. The two were always finding things to do, typical, Don’t do it and I’m going to do it duo. You found yourself countless times reaching for your phone, so much so, that you began to consider entering yourself into a mental institution. To get your mind off things, you decided to go on a run.

Monaco was a beautiful place to live in and you had always appreciated that, but as you lightly jogged you noticed that it didn’t carry the same color it did as before. Somehow, it had become a bit dull, something that you would never say out loud, because how is that possible?

Your phone buzzes against your hand as you pick up without seeing who it is. “Hello?”

“Hey.”

And just like that, just by hearing his voice, everything became vibrant again. In a single moment like this you knew. You were in love.

Knocking on the bathroom door, Charles presses his ear against the cold wood. “Can you please hurry?” A fist bangs back as a warning; he flinches.

“Give me a second!” Frustration is evident in your voice as he hears a commotion that is beginning to cause concern.

“I wouldn’t pressure her if I were you,” Pierre shares from the other side of the room. Kika, who is sitting right next to him, displays a pleased smile as she nods in agreement.

“I’m about to piss myself!” The brunette shrieks, letting out a small dance. The Frechman lets out a loud snort.

“Wow. Use those dance moves at the Gala!” He sends a death glare and he flips him off. Just then, the door swings open and you walk out wearing a gold dress, hands reaching behind your back. He stops breathing for a second.

“Can someone zip me up?” Hurriedly, his long legs rush over. “Not you. You go pee.”

Kika and you giggle as you sip on champagne, both of you try to take it easy as it is a fancy event but you were buzzing. “Can you believe we’re casually drinking $7,000 champagne?”

Kika squeals, swallowing the rest of the gold liquid, signaling for the bartender. “I know! It's almost embarrassing because how am I supposed to know when to stop?"

Behind you both, Pierre says, “How about now?” The two of you gasp, attempting to hide the glass behind your back when you turn face them.

“What are you talking about? It's only been two,” Kika squeaks, pointing at her squeaky clean glass. Charles eyes you suspiciously; you gulp. Marching over, he levels down to your height before gazing a little too hard. You want to look away, but you know that would only make him grow more skeptical.

“Are we interrupting something?” Pierre whispers to his girlfriend who shushes him.

His green eyes start to get you so dizzy, you want to tap out. “How many did you drink?” he demands. Shutting your right eye, you look up at the ceiling before counting on your fingers. 1, 2, 3….8, 9….

“Ten!” You visibly wince at his booming tone. “What the fuck are you doing here drinking ten goddamn glasses of champagne?” Your facade seems to slip as you cover his mouth with your hand.

“Charles, try it before you go all crazy on me,” you mumble your words and drunkenly throw a hand over his broad shoulder. “You know what,” you propose, slightly slurring your words. “I’ll even take one with you!” Clumsily raising your hand, he quickly yanks it back down, fumbling against you.

“No. I think you’ve had enough.”

At the same moment, Fred makes his way over to your small group, flashing a warm smile. Straightaway, you try to regain your lack of composure. The older man winks, then shakes your hand.

“Charles, so nice of you to bring your girlfriend.”

“Oh- she’s not…She’s not my girlfriend,” Charles stutters. “She’s my best friend from back home, remember?”

The older man nods. “Right! Age is getting the best out of me.” He theatrically taps his head for emphasis. You grin, too afraid to speak. "Anyways, how are you honey?” You smile and nod, digging your nail into the palm of your hand. He quirked an eyebrow. “Easy flight over here?” he tries. You repeat the same actions and throw in two thumbs up.

Too many drinks? Charles nods, protective arm wrapped around your waist, trying to balance you.

“I was just trying to get to sixteen!”

“Sixteen?”

From a certain perspective, you regretted ever feigning indifference when it came to your feelings for Charles. Part of you wishes you had admitted it yourself. Yes, I swear I love you more than a friend, too. You realized this all too late.

“...and her name is Charlotte,” he tells you, eyes glowing. You hated it. You hated knowing that it could’ve been you he was gushing about and there was truly no one to blame but yourself, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Being friends with Charles was all you’ve ever known. Never would you risk losing something as important as that.

“Wow. She sounds great.” A sincere smile plays out, and yes, she did sound amazing. She was everything you ever swore to be.

A pleased smile makes its way through as he grabs his phone and starts texting. So, that’s what life became. He would try to discreetly shoot sneaky messages or make phone calls any time you two would hang out together, but the feeling kept growing rapidly, that you just felt you were interfering; so slowly, you grew apart.

“His name is Noah,” you beam a few months later, drying a stack of dishes. Over the phone, he raises a brow, comedically.

“I’m happy for you,” he complies, nevertheless. Behind, you could distinctively hear her calling his name and you almost let out a snicker from how fast he begins to shut off his stimulator. “Got to go, mate. Having dinner out tonight.” Then, the line run cold.

Ha. Mate.

He should’ve known to never listen to Pierre.

“All I’m saying, mate, is that you only live once and you should just stop acting whipped and do something about it.” Pierre takes a swing of beer before he gaws at the bottle. “Fuck,” he lets out. “Germans just know how to do it.”

Everyone around shakes their head in warning. “No,” Max begins. “Whatever you’re thinking, just no. Matter of fact; don’t even think at all.”

“That should be pretty easy,” Lando mutters from the nearby couch where he was supposedly taking a nap. The Frenchman kindly flips him off.

Charles lets out a breath, before claiming his seat next to Alex. “Seriously guys, think.” The group gathered around more than two hours, compiling possible ideas for him to follow in order to confess his undying love for you - again.

“To be honest, I would’ve given up,” Yuki admits. Concerned, the Monegasque grows quiet. Should I?

Pierre fiercely makes a fiasco to gain his attention once more. “Don’t listen to him!” Once all eyes circle back to him, he paces the room with his no-good thinking face.

“Well, if it helps, maybe you could-”

“Got it!” Pierres shrieks, rapidly clearing the coffee table. Glass shatters.

“Dude,” Lewis groans as he stares at the mess now made in his suite.

“Sorry.” Everyone rolls their eyes at his unnecessary childlike behavior, but not Charles. “Just a thought, what if we play a little round of Cupid?” Groans erupt, but the green eyed boy seems rather intrigued.

“What were you thinking?” Fingers play with his rings.

“First of all; how bad do you want it?”

“Pierre, she’s not a fucking object.”

“Of course not! Let me rephrase…” He runs a large hand over his mouth. “What are you willing to do in order to get the girl of your dreams?” The whole room cringes.

“I would do just about anything.”

The first phase began with Lando.

“Alright, so all you have to do is get to know her,” Pierre schemes, scribbling down on a piece of napkin.

The Brit blushes, then runs a hand through his curls. “Isn’t that Charles’ job?” he croaks.

“All I’m asking for you to do is to get some insight on stuff she likes. Y’know…hobbies and shit like that. You don't have to kiss her, dimwit."

“Got it.”

The following day, he finds you walking through the paddock, exchanging a string of hello's with almost everyone, it seems. Seeing that it was barely Wednesday, it wasn’t busy at all. He jogs up to you. “Hey.”

Throwing a hand over your heart, you jump up in surprise. The Brit grins, apologizes, then you a waffle. Beaming happily, you thank him, greedily stuffing your cheeks full.

“Boy, I sure hope I have some time to golf before the race…”

“I'm sure you will.” More bites.

“Sweet! So you love to golf?” he questions, hands fixing his backwards hat. You shake your head.

“God, no. I’m more of a tennis girl.” As soon as you spot Ferrari's motorhome, you share a quick hug and make your way.

She fucks with tennis, he texts Pierre. Boom. Done.

Next, went Alex.

“You have to make him look like the shit,” the Frenchman tries to explain as Alex sits there with a bored expression.

“Charles, just be upfront with her. It’ll work trust me,” he shares as the Ferrari boy nods hesitantly. Yeah, maybe-

“Can anyone just follow instructions?”

Lily got involved the moment her boyfriend mentioned the shitty plan.

“Oh, this is so cute!” she screeches, dragging him closer by Williams shirt. “I want in.”

Walking hand in hand, they make their way to you as you sit with Lando, who for some reason, keeps questioning you on every little thing.

“...what about tacos?”

Desperate, you wave over at the couple. “Falls right in the palm of our hand,” Lily whispers excitedly, already yanks her boyfriend towards your direction. The Brit immediately excuses himself once they take a seat.

“Thank God,” you exhale, expert hand flying up to tie your hair. Pushing a few loose strands behind your ears you say, “I love him, I do, but the boy has been driving me crazy.”

“Preach that sister,” Alex shoots as he throws an arm over Lily. Under the table, she quickly pinches him. He yelps and scoots away. “Speaking of someone who drives me absolutely crazy, yeah, uh, Charles!” Raising an eyebrow, you stare back confused.

Lily coughs awkwardly, then pats her lap. “Yeah, I mean I was just telling Alex just how sweet Charles seems.” She turns her attention to him as he quickly nods. Super sweet lad, he exclaims. “It’s just…he’s so young and handsome, might I add, so I’m just a tad bit surprised no one has snatched him up already.”

Crossing your arms over your chest, wary eyes blink back at them. “Trouble in paradise?” Eyes wide, they both shriek a quick: No! “Good." You smile, standing up and gathering your stuff. “Take care guys!” you yell out.

“Bloody handsome, I tell you!” Alex makes one last attempt as you throw your head back in laughter. His girlfriend stomps her foot in frustration.

“We fucking suck at this.”

I’m sure she thinks Lily is interested in Leclerc.

Alex clicks send.

“You guys are probably wondering who’s next?”

“We’re not-”

“Well, don’t you feel lucky; it's you, Max!”

The two time World Champion throws his head against the couch as he waits for instructions. “See, now you’re not going to like it…” The Dutch lifts his head up, blue eyes swirling with confusion. “You have to let Charles win.” He scoffs.

“No. No way in hell.”

“Mate!” Pierre shrieks as he eagerly displays his scribbles to the group. Messily drawn, is Max handing over a crappy looking trophy to the Monegasque. At least that’s what it looked like. “I’m only asking for this one thing from you.” Max continues shaking his head.

“You’re right, you’re asking…Beg.”

The entire room goes silent, except for Lando who has fully awoken from his forty minute nap. “Holy shit, this just got real.” Carlos, who is curled up next to him for some odd reason, quickly hushes him.

Pierre claps his hands loudly, chuckles, and looks over to where Charles bites down on his nails. He’s about to protest in defense for his long time friend before he raises his hand. “Please. Would you please do this as a favor for this lovesick motherfucker?” He points over at the Monegasque.

Max closes his eyes, clicking his tongue. “No. Beg on your knees.”

“Holy fucking shit,” Lando squeals with a muffled mouth, instinctively pulling out his phone, ready to record. The Spaniard doesn’t even try to stop him, instead he sits at the edge of his seat.

With whatever dignity he has left, Pierre gets on his knees with his hands pressed together as if he’s ready to pray. “Queue,” he mutters under his breath. The Dutchman raises a hand against his ear and hums. “Max…would you be considerate enough to hand over my dear, dear friend Charles, a win in order for him to stop moping over a girl and actually get her attention for once?”

The blue eyed Dutch stands up firmly in front of him as Lando and Carlos continue to giggle like little girls, waiting for whatever might happen next. Walking to serve himself a glass of water, he finally speaks out. “Fine. Pole. Not my win. Take it or leave it.”

Pierre and Charles share a high five as Lando and Carlos let out a sigh.

“I always knew they were a little fruity. Look, he even had to take a sip of water after their interaction."

“Congrats!” you yell out in pure happiness when you congratulate your best friend for pole. He jokingly polishes his nails.

“It was nothing, really.”

He’s describing his strategy to you as you happily listen, when Max walks up to you both. “Congrats, mate.” They both share a quick side hug. Wait, what is it that Pierre said to do? Something like-

“He drove like a monster. I couldn’t even taste his dust. I wouldn’t mess with someone like him, in fact, I would marry someone like him.” It's robotic, it's fucking weird, but yeah. He completely nailed it.

“Are you okay?” Bringing your palm up against his forehead, you teasingly curl a neat brow. He swats your hand.

“Of course! So good. I’ll leave you two alone!” Hurriedly, he makes his way back to his motorhome.

Your plan is shit.

Send.

“And we save the best for last.” Pierre walks along the grid, tapping each of them on the head as he goes, almost like a game of Duck Duck Goose. A loud smack follows.

“Cabrón,” Carlos groans as he rubs his head. The Frenchman quickly scatters across the room.

“Harder than I intended,” he mutters. “Anyhow!” His speech is cut short when his phone begins to ring. A panicked look draws itself in place as he turns his screen. Everyone gasps.

“She’s going to fucking know. She’s gonna know and she’s gonna run off and tell her...” Charles begins to curse, nervous ticks.

“...and get a grip. Hellooo? Fine, I didn’t want to do this.” The Monegasque doesn’t have time to react when the right side of his face starts to ring. He groans in pain.

“You punched me!”

“Yeah, he just feels like doing stuff like that today,” Carlos spits out, annoyed, holding a bag of ice against his head. He hands it over.

“You both have to learn to listen!” he tries to defend when Charles jumps over the couch towards him.

“You can’t! I’m going to answer!” He swipes along the bright screen, putting the phone on speaker. “Kika!”

“Pierre, where are you?” the Portuguese complains as he shoots a distressed look towards his friend. Shit. They had-

“Dinner, remember?”

The Frenchman rapidly puts the phone on mute, rushing his way over to Charles. “What the fuck do I say?” he screeches, staring at the phone like a ticking time bomb.

“Tell her we’re on our way. Keep it simple.”

He nods. Unmuting, he says, “We’re trying to decide what to wear, give us ten minutes, we’ll meet you at the lobby.”

“You’re getting ready together? Like some sort of fashion show?” Your sweet giggle makes an appearance and everyone is beginning to aww before Pierre throws his hand up. They all keep quiet.

“Exactly. Now give me and Charles some space. Ten minutes, max. Love you, bye!” Launching his phone over at the couch, he smirks. “Where was I?”

Carlos finds you talking to a few of the engineers.

“Waffles?” Round orbs glimmer at the sigh of a fresh plate with whipped cream on top.

“Gimme."

“Charles actually got them for you. I’m just the delivery boy.” You hum, noting to thank your best friend after the race. “Since we’re talking about Charles, boy, he drove so well yesterday, don't you agree?” You nod with a cheesy smile. You’re about to speak before he shoves another piece of bread into your mouth. “Oh! Did he mention during testing he was able to do some donuts? Get this; with one hand.”

“I think Daniel has done that too." He pushes in another piece.

“Yeah? Well, he’s extremely good at chess!”

“He’s shit. I always win,” you confirm as you finish swallowing. Another forced bite.

“But have you ever beat him at tennis? Because he’s really good at that too and handsome!” Eyeing him suspiciously ,you throw the rest of the nasty waffle into the nearby bin.

“I always win,” you muffle once more, annoyed. He groans andpulls out his back-up waffle behind his back.

He feeds you one last time as you attempt to push his strong hands away. “Yeah? Well, did you know that he's still in love with you?” The garage grows quiet and they all turn to look at you. You’re covered in whipped cream as he wears a proud smile over what he’s done. Soon, it dawns on him as he rushes to his room.

I ruined it.

Send.

The grid goes out for a group dinner, though Lando, Lily, Alex, Max, and Carlos all avoid you. You were all celebrating yet another Verstappen win.

“Good race, Max,” you say as he shares a tight smile. “You too, Charles. Third place with pole is good considering the box you drive.” Max cracks a devilish smile towards the Monegasque.

“It’s the best I could have done, but I’m not too upset about it. It was a fun race overall.”

“Anyone interested in desert?” the waitress asks as she scribbles down a few orders. “Our waffles are actually the most recommended!” she persuades as she makes eye contact with you. You wave your hand in dismissal.

“After this trip, I don’t think I’ll never be able to eat waffles again.” The Spaniard sheepishly hides behind his menu.

You’re too busy gossiping with Daniel about his return to F1, that you don’t even notice when Charles and Pierre slip away. “What do you have so far?” the green eyed boy presses, occasionally looking behind, making sure they were definitely alone.

The Frenchman lets out a sad sigh, laying a large hand on his friend's shoulder, displaying his sympathy. “Very well…” Charles’ eyes begin to buzz with excitement. “Not anything worthy or good.” He immediately deflates.

“What happened?”

“So, apparently she likes some guy named Dennis. Fucking him too, from what I was told. Um, she also wasn’t too impressed with this race weekend as much as I thought she would be…” The Monegasque stops breathing for a second. Did he really ruin his shot once again? Pierre continues with a more light hearted tone. “I was told Carlos didn’t do his part, but look on the bright side! You might have a shot with Lily! Heard she thinks you’re cute.”

Charles is in the middle of rubbing his temples, when he suddenly stops. “Pierre; Lily and Alex are dating.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

Max, Lando, Alex and Carlos all make their way to the back of the restaurant as soon as they receive the urgent text from Pierre. Meet in da back lol. “What is it now?” Max groans as he adjusts his rolled up sleeves.

“You see, we were just thinking, how could Lily be interested in Charles when she’s in a stable, happy relationship?” So she says, Pierre finishes.

Alex rolls his eyes, seemingly annoyed. “She doesn’t like him like that! She was just trying to make you look good but it came out wrong.”

“Maybe…but the whole Max part went to shit because like always, he just had to win!” The Dutch shrugs.

“Mate, you knew my terms and conditions. Plus, she was so happy for Charles regardless, I don’t even think she cares that he didn’t win.” Pierre hums.

“What about Carlos, huh? You said you ruined your shot! You didn’t even do your part, so let’s all just back off, and not blame me for killing Charles' love life.”

“Ay, ay, ay,” Carlos groans into his hands. “I did my part just the way you said but I did also kind of ruin it,” he shyly adds. “I crossed the line, sorry, but I might’ve ratted you out when I told her you still lo-”

“Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyways.” Charles released a shaky breath. “She’s already seeing someone else.” Besides being quite done with Pierre’s poor plan, they still spilled out apologies for their friend.

“Ugly name, too. Have you ever met a good looking Dennis? Cause I haven’t.” Pierre’s voice lathers with a typical matter of fact, leaning against the wall. Lando fiercely turns his attention.

“Dennis?”

“Yeah, that’s what you told me. You said, ‘She fucks with Dennis.’”

“I said tennis. She fucks with tennis. As in, she likes the sport!” The Brit wheezes hysterically as they all begin to share a panicked look. The Frenchman slowly starts backing away from the group.

“Holy shit, I think Kika is calling me.” Dashing away, he trips over his own feet, shoes squeaking against the glossy floor. Charles is left there more confused than what he was at the beginning of all of this.

“What do I do now?” he groans, running two hands over his face.

“Maybe just do what we’ve been telling you to do all along…” Alex suggests as the rest follow in agreement. The Monegasque wears a helpless smile.

“Thanks, but I’ve already tried that before and it’s never really gone my way.”

“Mate, if you really love her, then you have to tell her again. Things could end up differently this time,” Max adds. “All you need to do is say how you feel, and please; never listen to Pierre ever again.”

That night, before you both walk to your own hotel room, the brunette holds onto your hand. “Why don’t we go on a walk?”

“Charles, it's too late, I’m tired, and I’m sure you are too. How about tomorrow?” you mumble, clumsily balancing on your feet that have become too sore from all the walking. Desperately, he shakes his head.

“No. It has to be now.”

Nervously, you follow him and it’s like you’re twenty all over again - the first time he told you how he felt. Part of you wants to run away and not deal with any of this, but the more mature side wants to stay. When you were younger, you weren’t ready to face your feelings and that was something you regretted everyday. There was no way you were going to repeat that again.

Taking a seat on a bench, you both watch the traffic lights. This place might not be home, but being with Charles seems to be the closest thing to it and that itself eases you.

“Okay…” he awkwardly starts, shifting his sight to face you. Deep down; he also wanted to call it a night. Part of him believes that if he got rejected again, then that would be the end of it all, and things would never be the same, but he had to do this. “Do you remember how we first met?”

You let out a soft laugh. “Duh. You made me cry when you dropped my flowers.” The Monegasque cringes at the image.

“I dropped your flowers,” he confirms. “But I swear to you right now that I won’t ever do that again.” Heartbeat quickens, chest tightens. “I want to be a part of everything that has to do with you; I need it. I need all the sweetness that you’ve brought into my life since we were eight, I need a reason to get up at five in the morning to make waffles or pancakes. I need to hear your laugh because of something stupid I might’ve foolishly done, and I… What I’m trying to say is…you know I need you, but all I’ve ever wanted was for you to need me back.”

Like a deer in headlights, you gaze back, analyzing the way he’s nervously waiting for your reaction. And like the first time around, your eyes soften. “Charles…” He knows it too, because again, this takes him back to that one night at the club. But he doesn’t want to go back there.

“I’ve loved you for the longest time and my only regret has been not fighting for you. Back when we were twenty, I was young, I was naive, and I let myself be tricked into thinking that not having you was ever going to be okay, but it’s not. I’m a complete fool for you and the thing is that I don’t mind it! Sometimes, I feel like if I keep getting pushed away it won’t matter because I’ll still be here trying time and time again. And normally I wouldn’t do stuff like this for anyone but you’re just someone who always stays with me, so how am I supposed to easily forget about you?”

As his words reach an end, you try to speak, but nothing comes up. “I get it,” Charles adds in a bittersweet tone.

“You’ve made me cry countless times.” It’s a declaration - an odd one, too - and Charles is puzzled. Though the little smile drawn onto your rosy lips is a confirmation.

“I know, but I promise that won’t ever happen again. I’m sorry I ever made you cry.”

“Well, if you kiss me…I might just forgive you.”

#charles leclerc #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc x reader #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc f1

1K notes · View notes

justporo · 8 months

Text

Even more fluffy relationship headcanons for Astarion and Tav

Listen guys, I'm not done yet. For now, as soon as I get one idea out, three more pop up in my mind and since you guys seem to really like these (it's seriously and positively insane to me), I'll happily provide you more as long as I am able to. So, let's-a go: more headcanons and little ideas about them being together!

(Gif from here!)

You love when Astarion smiles at you - just openly and full of joy; the sort of smile you've rarely seen from him during your adventures but they keep getting more and more, also they make him look just so young and carefree and beautiful and your heart just... melts

When Astarion quickly notices how you basically faint whenever he does this, he starts employing it to work his charms on you when he needs it - not the real big and joyous smiles though because they are so real and cherished to him he wouldn't dare use it to tease or manipulate you - they're only reserved to make you happy

Charming you is like breathing to Astarion though, you are just so helpless against his flattery and flirting because why would you resist if you could just give him everything that makes him happy?

When you mention once though that you'd hope to gain some immunity to it some time, Astarion is insulted: "No, love, making you blush is my favourite thing in the world. You are so beautiful with your cheeks all flushed. As long as I have a say in it, we will never stop!"

Tav likes teasing him just as much as Astarion enjoys it the other the way around: "You know if you would stop drawing your brows together all the time, it'd take fifty years off your face immediately." Moments of silence in which Astarion is just utterly shocked by your burn, then: "Who taught you to be this brutal, darling?" You raise an eyebrow at him, he helplessly lifts his arms: "Yeah right, I have only myself to blame."

Also, Astarion and Tav are definitely the kind of power couple that throw each other meaningful sassy looks when they're with other people and those are talking shit or something

Also, afterwards they will most definitely discuss and gossip over everything they experienced

Astarion is definitely the kind of man that would shower Tav with gifts, from coming home with a single beautiful flower that "reminded me of you, my beautiful blossom" ("How cheesy..." "Ah, so rather a gouda next time?") or a nice bottle of wine to share to bigger gestures like jewelry or expensive dresses ("When am I ever gonna wear this, Astarion?" "I don't know, we'll just make an opportunity!")

Tav loves all of his gifts but probably the small ones or the hand-crafted ones the most, she's happy with the little things but Astarion insists she deserves the big ones just as much

One time though, Astarion comes home with something else entirely; it's pouring outside and he's completely drenched and hiding something in his doublet jacket; "What do you have there, Astarion, a wheel of cheese?" Astarion carefully opens up his jacket to reveal a small white kitten that is just as drenched as him and is desperately trying to cling to the vampire's chest. "I found her all alone in a dark alleyway, cold and completely soaked, I thought maybe we could take care of her and she could be friends with Scratch?", he says while he carefully lifts up the small ball of fluff with an incredible softness in his eyes. Your heart is thoroughly melting as you walk over to them and you give Astarion the most loving of kisses

Well, the last one would almost be a drabble on it's own, I saw a similar post that made me think of this (I will find and tag them later!) Hope you enjoyed and I'm late for work now, whoops...

This is the post I mentioned before, by @mushy6902 (I hope it's okay I wrote a somewhat similar idea, thanks for inspiring me!)

#astarion #fanfiction #astarion ancunin #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #baldurs gate #bg3 spoilers #astarion x mc #astarion x oc #astarion x reader #astarion headcanons #headcanons #fluff #domestic fluff #also kittens #poro headcanons

2K notes · View notes

shadowandlightt · 3 months

Text

Of Nightmares and Memories | nine | Azirel X reader

Series Warnings: Kidnapping. Mistreatment. Cursing. Pining. Violence. Depression. Talks of suicide. Eventual smut

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight

A/N; *to the tune of Britney Spears* OOps I DID IT AGAIN. Also I'm more nervous about this part than I have been for this entire series, so be nice and kind and I hope you enjoy <3

Mor showed up a few days later. She appeared as you were lounging in a chair, attempting to read some random romance novel you’d come across.

“He’s taking her to The Weaver,” She stated in lue of a greeting.

“Well then he’s a fool,” You snorted, not looking up from your book.

“YN,” She warns, “He’s taking her to The Weaver.”

“Yes I heard you,” you roll your eyes and look up, “What difference does it-”

You stop upon seeing the look on her face. The worry and the pain hidden there. You swallow the lump in your throat at the sight. She looked at you like you would break at any moment, and maybe you would. Maybe she saw the truth in you.

“They’re mates, aren’t they?” You question, voice sounding strange.

She only nods and moves to sit on the couch across from you. You nod slowly in understanding. You wanted to be happy for them, but somehow you couldn’t feel it. Like there was something wrong with you. Like you were broken.

“I had a feeling,” You tell her, “From the moment she became Fae and he came for her the first time. I had a feeling.”

It was true, you did have a feeling. Something deep within you told you that they were drawn to one another in ways that neither of them could explain. You often wondered if that was the same with Azirel too. If you were secretly mates, you used to pray for it as a child. Because you couldn’t imagine a better mate than him

To this day you still couldn’t imagine a better mate. But how could he want you now? Mate or not. You’d never have the same relationship that you had before. Nothing would be the same. How could you pretend to be the same person you were when you were taken when everything around you was different? You weren’t sure how you were going to do any of this.

“Please come home,” Mor begged.

“I can’t,” You try to keep your voice from breaking, “I can’t go back there.”

“Why?” She demands, standing from the couch, “Why are you denying yourself this? It’s Valaris! Your favorite place in all the world! You hate being here, you always have.”

“Maybe I deserve to be here,” You mumble, “Maybe I deserve to be away from all of you.”

“What are you talking about?” She questions.

“I didn’t try to run when I could have. I gave up. I fucking gave up and accepted my fate there,” You explain, slamming your book shut, “I let myself become Tamlin’s little play thing, I allowed him to strip my powers away. I let him do everything to me and I never fought back.”

“You never deserved what happened to you,” She shook her head, “I’m not so sure that I wouldn’t have given up either, if I’d been in your shoes.”

“I spent fifty years thinking all of you were dead.”

“Oh, Y/N.”

“I really did give up then. Because I realized Rhys wouldn’t be able to come for me. Up until that point, up until she took him, I was convinced he would come save me. That all of you would somehow find out I was still alive and come marching into the Spring Court and raze it to the ground.”

You shake your head, trying to clear the thoughts that were swirling about. Your back ached along the two big scars. Everything about you just hurt. Your skin, your head, your chest, your heart…everything. You just wanted it to stop. You needed it to stop.

Mor sat back down and reached over to take your hands in hers. There was nothing but love in her eyes, no sign of the pain that you saw when she first arrived. You want to pull away from her, pull away from the tender touch that reminded you too much of your mother.

“You survived,” She swore, looking deeply into your eyes, “You made it out. You were brave and cunning and you survived. That’s all that matters now.”

Your head shakes again, “No, it’s not all that matters. You can’t understand, none of you can.”

“Then help me understand,” She begs, “Help me understand what’s going on. Help me help you.”

“You can’t help me, Morrigan,” You said, standing up and ripping your hands away from hers.

You walked to one of the large widows, wondering how bad it would be if you flung yourself from the Palace. How much would it hurt when you crashed into the mountain below? Would it be enough to bring you the release you so desperately craved? Would Mor be able to stop you in time?

You thought long and hard about it, but in the end you turned away from the window. Hating yourself for even thinking such a thing. It would destroy Rhys to get you back only to lose you again. You couldn’t do that to him. That was the only thing stopping you.

“Azriel knows we’re hiding something,” She says from her spot on the couch, “I’m not sure how much longer we can hold him off.”

You nearly cringe at the sound of his name. Cauldron, what is he going to do when he finds out about you? How will he react? Will he even want to be in the same room as you? Will he be able to stand to look at you after everything you’ve done?

“I don’t care,” You lied, “I don’t give a fuck if he thinks you’re hiding something. You don’t tell him about me.”

“Yes I know, Rhys’ order was very clear,” She rolls her eyes.

“You should go,” You tell her, “Before they wonder where you are.”

She sighs and gets up from the couch. You can tell she wants to say something else but decides against it. You watch as she disappears into darkness. You finally felt that you were able to breathe once she left.

You fell deeper and deeper into the darkness as the days went on. The feeling in your chest only got worse with time. You wondered what would happen if you went down to The Hewen City. What would they do if their princess suddenly reappeared after so many years.

You wondered if they’d kill you, just to spite Rhys. Or if they’d bow down to you like they used to. But then you remembered one of the last conversations you had with Azriel, and how he hated the way so many of the males talked about you and you felt sick.

Everything surrounding Az seemed to make you feel that way these days. You could feel it deep in your chest, the sort of ache you always seemed to feel whenever you were away from him. After all of these years it still hadn’t subsided. In fact it seemed to be getting worse as each day passed by. Like being back in the Night Court and being so close to him was making it worse. Or maybe it was the fact that the Faebane was finally starting to wear off and your powers were coming back.

No matter the reason, you weren’t sure that you could go on like this any more. You didn’t know how you could live with the constant ache forever. Because you never planned on going back to Valaris, you couldn’t face the city you loved after what you did. After how you allowed your mother to be killed. She loved Valaris, and loved flying over the city. And it was your fault she was dead, no matter what anyone else said. You were to blame.

You didn’t expect Rhys to appear several days later. He looked tired. You wanted nothing more than to wrap your arms around him and tell him that it was going to be okay. But even you didn’t believe that. You couldn’t believe that it would be okay. Too much had happened.

“We’re going to the Summer Court,” He tells you, “Feyre, Amren, and myself.”

“Enjoy.”

“Little Star, tell me what to do,” He begs, stepping closer to you, “Tell me how to help you.”

“I’ll tell you like I told Mor,” You sigh, “You can’t help me.”

“Come back to Valaris, be with your family.”

Your head shakes. You couldn’t bear to face Cassian and Azriel. Not now, maybe not ever. It’s something Rhys could never understand. He was able to readjust easily after Amerantha. But he hadn’t spent hundreds of years being beaten and mistreated. He wasn’t starved and drugged every day. You couldn't be mad at him, as much as you wanted to be. Because you knew he suffered too.

“I can’t come back.”

“You keep saying that but you never say why,” he challenged.

“Because it’s all my fault!” you finally broke, tears streaming down your face, “It’s my fault, Rhysand. She could still be alive if I had just done something. Anything. But I didn’t.”

“If you’re to blame, then so am I,” He countered, “It should be just as much my fault. I told Tamlin where you would be. I’m the one who didn’t come to meet you as I promised, I left you undefended.”

“It’s not your fault, Rhys,” You felt anger boiling up in you now.

Because you didn’t blame him. You never did. He had duties to attend to that day, you understood that he couldn’t get away. He trusted Tamlin. The son of spring had him fooled, and that was not Rhys’ fault. Not in the slightest.

“Then it isn’t your fault either,” He gently argued.

You can’t help but shake your head again. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand. He wasn’t there. He didn’t hear her. He doesn’t see her every time he closes his eyes, he doesn't hear her screams in his nightmares.

“You don’t understand,” You cried, “She didn’t even beg for herself. Even as they cleaved her wings from her body, she only begged for my life. Begged for them to set me free. Even as they hacked her to pieces, she cried for me.”

“Y/N-”

“I’ll live with that knowledge forever,” You sob, “Do you have any idea what that’s like? To know that you failed your mother? That she died for nothing, because you are nothing?”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why? It’s true. I have nothing left to give,” You shrug, fighting back the tears, “There’s nothing left for me.”

He surges forward and grabs your shoulders, “Don’t say that. Don’t you even think about it. Never think about something like that. There is so much left for you in this life.”

“It doesn’t feel that way, Rhys,” You feel numb all of the sudden.

The void is back. And you’re once again a shell of yourself with no fight left to give. You sag against Rhys’ hold on you, wishing you could just crawl back into your bed and forget that this conversation ever happened.

You wish he would just leave already so you could just disappear within yourself again. You wished he would just leave you alone to waste away. It seemed to be the only thing you could think of doing these days.

He looks into your eyes and goes silent for a moment. You know the look he has, he’s speaking to someone, mind to mind. You feel anxiety well up within you, because you have no idea who he’s speaking with and what he’s telling them.

You can only hope that it’s Morrigan and nothing else. You can only hope that he’s trying to ascertain how serious you are about having nothing left. But then shadows ripple in the room, subtly at first, but enough that you realize it. And it’s not you calling to them

“You promised me,” You cry, hitting his chest, “You fucking promised.”

“I won’t let you wither away to nothing,” He says sternly, “Not when there’s someone who can stop it.”

The shadows take form. You rip yourself from Rhys’ grasp and try to run but you hardly make it out of the room before the man is then flesh. You know the second he’s here, because you can feel it in your very bones. Like a song in your blood. You try to keep moving but your body betrays you and stops. You think that maybe he won’t take notice of you. Maybe he’ll be too focused on Rhys. But then you hear footsteps. So hesitant, so light you hardly hear them.

You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, or maybe it’s his. You think you might drop dead here. Right in front of both of them, and then where would they be? Your hands are shaking, just like the rest of your body. But you keep your back towards him, too afraid to turn around.

A hand reaches for your shoulder. His touch is featherlight, but you can feel his scars through the thin material of your shirt. You knew it was him, long before he touched you. You could smell him better now though. Could feel that void in your chest slowly starting to fill.

As if his very presence was enough to bring you back to life.

Hesitantly, he speaks. Voice so silky and deep, just as you remembered it in your dreams. Only now it’s a dream made real, and he’s here. You’re alive and he’s alive and suddenly he’s gently spinning you around to face him.

There are tears in his eyes as he opens his mouth, “Y/N.”

It’s the only thing you hear as he studies your face. Your lip trembles as tears fall anew. You can feel the air filling your chest, nothing but the scent of him filing your nose. For the first time in years you want to smile, because he’s here. And more devastatingly beautiful than you remembered him being.

“Az,” you cry out softly.

He pulls you into his chest, holding you there tightly. For the first time in a couple of hundred years, you felt complete. You nuzzle into him, still crying, getting his leathers wet with your tears. You couldn’t bring yourself to care though, because it just felt right. You could feel it deep within your chest, the part of you that always seemed to connect you to him.

“You’re alive,” You can hear the disbelief in his voice, and the wonder too.

“You’re alive,” You cry, finally allowing the words to sink in.

He was alive, after all of these years. He was untouched during Amarantha’s rule. Valaris was untouched. Everyone that you loved was okay, and so were you. Somehow, for the male holding you and your brother, you would fight to be okay.

He pulls away from you and cups your face. You watch as he looks you over, carefully scanning your body. Any of the lingering bruises from Tamlin had faded away into nothing. There was nothing to prove that anything happened at all besides the two long scars on your back.

“Y/N,” He whispers again, “Oh my Y/N.”

Then he leaned in to kiss you and it was as if your whole world shifted to just him. He was the only thing that mattered. Just Azirel. Always only Azriel. Your Azriel. Your perfect, beautiful, scarred Azriel.

Tag List

@historygeekqueen @queerqueenlynn @hnyclover @thelov3lybookworm @witchymomfrien @one-big-fangirl @amara-moonlight @annamariereads16 @maddybraps @saltedcoffeescotch @wallacewillow0773638 @minnieoo @st0rmyt @hunterksmith @sleepylunarwolf @sh4n @emryb @mikatanazaki @nickishadow139 @ilovespideyyy @mysticalfuncollectorus @judig92 @tele86 @oksloan3 @darling006 @dr4g0ngirl @weasleyreidstyles @ren-ni @sstrohma @fleurrreads

#acomaf #acotar #acotar fanfiction #azriel #azriel x reader #azriel x you #acotar fic #azriel acotar #azriel fanfic #azriel shadowsinger

489 notes · View notes

tightjeansjavi · 3 months

Text

knead

A/N: so after rewatching Narcos all weekend and staring at the screen with big ole heart eyes for the infamous Javier Peña, I decided that he, like Joel, deserves nice things 🤍

~word count: 1.2k~

Summary: Javier Peña desperately needs a fucking break and to be kinder to himself <3

Pairing | Javier Peña x f!reader

Warnings: angst, mentions of guns, cigarettes, implied death(s) due to an unsuccessful raid, established relationship, fluff, hurt and comfort, Javi is incredibly hard on himself, takes place during season 3 of Narcos, both Javi and the reader speak Spanish, reader has no physical descriptions, no age gap, +18 minors dni!

Lo entiendo, hermano. - I understand, brother.

No lo entiendes, hermano. Nadie lo entiende - You don’t understand, brother. No one does.

No tienes que esperarme despierta todas las noches, querida. Tu sueño es importante también, cariño. - You don’t have to wait up for me every night, querida. Your sleep is important too, baby.

Jav, yo quiero asegurarme de que has llegado bien a casa. - Jav, I always want to make sure you’re home safe

Javi, No tienes que disculparte por nada. Por favor, mi amor. - Javi, please don’t apologize for this. Please, my love.

Siempre tan bueno conmigo - Always good to me

Te quiero con todo lo que pueda ofrecerte, cariño - I love you with everything that I have to offer, cariño

Te quiero más a ti, Jav - I love you most, Jav.

When he comes home, he’s still in his olive green tac vest. His hair is strewn about in a sweaty mess across his face. He reeks of gunpowder, stale tobacco, and disappointment. It drips from his pores and lands in a puddle at his shoes, once shiny, now dull, scuffed and speckled in blood. A failed raid. Innocence lost, and disappointment. So much fucking dissapointment that swallows Javier Peña alive.

An anonymous tip leading to more fucking bloodshed. So much for things being done differently this time around.

A hero? Hardly.

Javier doesn’t feel like a hero. Not when all he’s done is failed over, and over again.

We’ll get them next time, Javier.

Will we?

Of course. You know the Cali Cartel like it’s the back of your hand, Peña. We’re this much closer to bringing them to justice.

Justice? He laughs. If there was any justice in this world, I would be in fucking jail right now.

Lo entiendo, hermano.

Javier laughs, voice rasped in bitterness. He swings his keys around on his pointer finger, jaw ticked, muscles aching beneath the sweat stained fabric of his shirt.

No lo entiendes, hermano. Nadie lo entiende. Javier responds coldly and unlocks his car door before climbing into the driver seat.

He thinks hard on his failure the entire drive home. He doesn’t listen to the radio. He sits in silence, puffing away on a stress cigarette even though he swore he was trying to quit.

In the lowlight from the hallway, Javier is able to make out your sleeping mass under the colorful patterned quilt on his couch. He swings the door shut softly behind him and quietly locks it.

His back and shoulders are tense, aching with each step he takes. Another jab and painful reminder of his failure tonight.

Despite Javier’s protests, you always wait for him to return home. He appreciates this more than you realize. It’s his one sense of comfort that he feels he’s undeserving of.

No tienes que esperarme despierta todas las noches, querida. Tu sueño es importante también, corazón.

Jav, yo quiero asegurarme de que has llegado bien a casa.

The worn couch cushions gradually press down from the weight of his body as he slowly sits down in the unoccupied space between your covered feet. He winces when he feels that annoying pinch in his lower back and brings his hands over his face, dragging them down over his alquine nose with a heavy sigh. He pulls out his gun, badge, cigarettes, and lighter. He tosses them onto the coffee table and leans back just as you begin to stir awake from the sound.

“Jav?” You murmur softly and subconsciously reach for him over the blanket.

“Its me, cariño.” He rasps. His hand reaches towards you in the dark, finding you soon after. He laces his fingers through yours.

“Are you okay?” You ask softly, sitting up and facing him.

“No. I’m not okay.” He admits.

“What happened?”

He looks over at you through the darkness and shrugs his shoulders. “What didn’t happen.” He clarifies. His thumb skates across the back of your hand gently.

“Do you want to talk about it?..”

“No. I just..I’m tired, querida. I’m tired of failing all the fucking time.” He sounds exhausted. You know just how much his job truly weighs on him.

“Javier, my love, you are not failing all the time. You aren’t. No one thinks that you are a failure, Jav.”

He makes a snuffling sound through his nose that comes across more like a scoff. His movements cease when he feels your freehand grasp his jaw and pull him in close. Even in the dark, your eyes are soft, gentle, and laced with concern.

“Everyone tells me that I’m a hero, cariño. I’m not a hero. I’ve never been a hero.”

“Javi, you don’t have to be a hero. People mean well with their words. I know they do, but you have to try and not let it get to you this much. Okay? Javier, you have one of the toughest jobs out there. No one but yourself is going to understand how you feel. Whatever happened tonight, does not make you a terrible person, or a failure. You’re doing everything you can to take down the Cali Cartel.” You reassure him.

“I feel like I have to be the hero. Javier Peña, the dashing DEA agent that took down Pablo Escobar.” He laughed. “Cariño, I was told that this time things would be different, but they were wrong. Everytime I try to ensure that innocent lives won’t be lost, someone gets caught in a crossfire. A civilian. A child. An unsuspecting bystander. It weighs on me. It fucking weighs on me more than I’m willing to admit.” He said in an exasperated tone.

You saw the tears begin to brew along his waterline before he even realized he was crying. You detected the strain in his voice, and sprung into action. Your hand dropped from his face only to then pull him into a hug with your hand gently cradling the back of his head and your fingers slipping through his hair, nails scratching his scalp gently in hopes to soothe him.

His arms instinctively wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his lap so he could be closer to you. His warm palms slid under the thin fabric of your shirt along your lower back and he buried his face into the crook of your neck.

“I’m sorry.” He sniffled. “I don’t want you to see me like this, cariño.”

“Javi, No tienes que disculparte por nada. Por favor, mi amor.”

“You’re so good to me.” He kisses the exposed skin on your neck, the tips of his mustache tickles you as you hug him tightly, rubbing your hands up and down his back and shoulders in a soothing motion.

“And you’re good to me, Javier. Siempre tan bueno conmigo.”

He nuzzles you affectionately, wishing he could crawl inside of you and live there forever. “Cariño, can you do something for me?” He asks softly, dragging his lips across your skin once more.

“Anything, Jav.”

“My back and shoulders are fucking killing me. Can you—” you cut him off before he even has a chance to finish his sentence.

“Of course I can.”

He breathes a sigh of relief through his nose “Gracias, cariño”

He slowly drops his arms from around your waist so he can remove his shirt. He undos each button with meticulous precision and slowly slides the fabric down from his forearms. He lays his shirt along the side of the couch while you slide into the space behind him, with your thighs wrapping around his torso. He leans back into your touch, lashes fluttering shut when your hands work their way up from his lower back, kneading the tender strained muscles there.

You work your way upwards and pay close attention to the areas where he’s feeling the most pain. He murmurs praises in both Spanish and English under his breath when you slowly and delicately work through a particular nasty knot between his shoulder blades.

Your gentle, yet firm touch sends the DEA agent into a state of bliss, and he’s putty in your hands in no time.

Your chin comes to rest along the crook of his shoulder, pressing a soft kiss along his jawline. He hums and tilts his head to the side, finding your lips in a gentle kiss. A thank you. An I love you, and an I appreciate you can be tasted through the kiss. He rests his hands along your thighs that are wrapped around him, gently kneading the soft flesh with his strong, yet gentle hands.

“Te quiero con todo lo que pueda ofrecerte, cariño”

You smile against his lips, kissing him deeper while your fingers gently brush through the wispy tendrils of hair along his forehead.

“Te quiero yo más, Jav.”

Banners made by the lovely @saradika 🤍

I no longer have a taglist so please follow @tightjeansjaviupdates for fic updates and notifications.

499 notes · View notes

lucyandthepen · 9 months

Text

love on the floor - i. | njm

exactly when does vice president na turn from the company’s worst nightmare into your favorite daydream?

pairing: chaebol!na jaemin x secretary fem!reader rating: vaguely M, but will very quickly escalate into a hard R in coming chapters genre: romance, fluff, (eventual) smut (in later chapters), chaebol!au warnings: jaemin isn’t really a total asshole but he isn’t great at the beginning either and i think that should be a warning, there’s probably some language use that deserves a bit of caution i GUESS, but tbh nothing much here because we want to pretend that this is a fic of chaste circumstances and not a lead-up to raunchy, depraved smut word count: 16.4k

author’s note: first of all, the development of this fic is absolute SHIT because i love context too much and refuse to shut up at the beginning only to get antsy for the ending so if the pace is a little stop and go … it’s because i’m a Fewl !! and i totally own up to that !! and second of all, this is actually just a set-up for about two more shorter (?? what’s shorter) works that i’ve already been wanting to write but felt like i would be remiss in doing so without some kind of build-up to the relationship so :^) here we are ! heavily unbeta'd and miss lucy is a bit rusty but we carry on for the sake of enjoying oneself (and practicing writing once again) muah enjoy!

At least this job gets you free medical.

Actually, all things considered, this is an excellent job with limitless benefits. You never have to worry about the three-level insurance, you have monthly paid-for visits to the dentist, and you sometimes get to use the company car for personal errands for as long as you meticulously check everyone else’s schedules and butter up the head secretary, Son Seungwan, just enough so that she feels mollified enough to let you have this favor (but not too much to the point that she catches on and gives you a ten minute lecture on the rising prices of gas post-the-turn-of-the-decade). Your rent’s well paid-for, and the apartment you’re staying at is comfortable, albeit a little smaller than most, although that’s just because you prefer spending your money on once-in-a-lifetime type things, like front row seats to a Paul Kim concert. You get 50% discounts at the company cafeteria, which boasts a pretty nice salad bar with more than just perilla leaves as the greens. The bathrooms even have luxury soap installed into the automatic hand dispensers, so you always come out clean and fancy smelling.

All in all, the job’s pretty perfect, to the point that you don’t think leaving will ever truly be in the cards — except for the fact that you barely see your boss, which, as nice as it sounds on paper, is actually the most stressful part of the position.

You’ve always been of the opinion that if Vice President Na Jaemin put his mind to something, he’d actually do it very well, but the running issue is that he hardly ever puts his mind to anything, especially when it comes to work. In fact, the only thing he ever seems to take seriously is having eleven hours of uninterrupted sleep, which you personally think is an extremely hard thing to achieve, leading you to the firm belief that if he channeled that energy into something less dead-to-the-world and a little more productive, things would be amazing.

And maybe things would also be a little less distressing if his family would just accept him for who he is instead of expecting too much (or, actually, anything) from him, but Vice President Na is the only son of the family that owns the largest telecom company in the country, so his parents have a ton of huge expectations for him. His father, in particular, is clearly trying to prepare him to take over the entire business, something that the Vice President clearly isn’t keen on doing, based on the many arguments you’ve had to sit through alongside Head Secretary Son. The result is a lot of tension that’s only exacerbated by the Vice President’s desire to avoid more conflict, which he does by suddenly disappearing from the office for hours — sometimes days — at a time.

So for as much medical, dental, and reasonably priced caesar salad as you’re getting from this job, you’re not entirely sure how worth it those things all are if they come with the task of you having to sit through twenty minutes of lecturing in place of Vice President Na Jaemin himself.

“This is the last time,” President Na roars — not necessarily at you, but at you, in your general direction, while you stand helplessly in front of his desk, your hands folded across your lap and your head hung low. You don’t really feel terrified or hurt — more than knowing that the President isn’t shouting at you for your incompetence, you’ve also gotten used to being on the receiving end of these weird, indirect lectures and have thus come to know the exact standard of ‘sorry’ that you have to look for it to be over as quickly as possible. Still, you’re kind of annoyed that this particular spiel is taking up precious minutes from your afternoon break. Then again, you don’t know what you’d expected to begin with when you’d come back from the cafeteria after lunch and found the Vice President’s chair abandoned, leather cold, indicating that he’d been gone for quite a while. It’s about four o’clock now, and he still hasn’t come back, and all your messages to him have gone unread, as you’ve also grown used to. “You tell my no-good son if he isn’t back within the hour, he can live the rest of his life without my last name.”

You’re not sure if the implications of that will really sink into the Vice President’s heart enough to trigger the guilt it’s clearly trying to elicit, but you know better than to voice your opinion. You nod once, then bow at a perfect ninety-degree angle. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Four years of this, and he hasn’t learned a single thing,” the President continues, completely ignoring your useless and vaguely insincere apology. “Where’d he run off to this time?”

You don’t know. You never really know. Since he actively tries to avoid all work-related things, he also actively tries to avoid you, something he does by never picking up the phone or telling you the details of his daily schedule anyway. You can only share what you do know, which is very little and, therefore, extremely useless, but you try to say it in a way that appears relatively helpful. “His schedule says he was supposed to have lunch with the foreign investors that are trying to connect Prime Video to the Korean market, but it seems he didn’t show up for that.”

Which essentially translates to: you have no clue. Again, all parties in the room — inclusive of Head Secretary Son, who constantly has to bear witness to the many threats Vice President Na receives via you — know this isn’t your fault, but it doesn’t make the vein that’s about to pop out of the President’s temple any less pronounced, nor does it stop you from bowing and apologizing again when he says “get him back in here before five o’clock or tell him he’ll never be able to step foot in this building again!” even though you know that the threat would probably sound more like a gift than anything else to Vice President Na.

“And you,” the President points a vaguely accusatory finger at you. Your eyes widen slightly in surprise. “If he isn’t back here at that time, you can kiss your job goodbye too. You go ahead and tell him that. Let’s see if Jaemin will finally get off his ass if he knows someone else is going to have to suffer for his behavior.”

The only person who sees your jaw fall open is Head Secretary Son, who’s now leading you away from the President’s desk and towards the door; the President has taken to staring at this huge family picture of himself, his wife, and the Vice President that’s hanging just behind his executive’s chair, all looking considerably happier than anyone in this situation feels. You hear him mutter something that sounds like “where did I go wrong with you, you punk?” before the door shuts close behind you.

“I’d say he doesn’t mean that, but we don’t actually know to what lengths he’ll go to get the Vice President on board.” Head Secretary Son admits, lifting two fingers to gently shut your mouth, still agape. “If I were you, I’d figure out how to keep him on a leash. The fact that he’s never around is probably ninety-percent of our current problems.”

“I can barely get him to respond to schedule reminders,” you groan; your fingers pinch the bridge of your nose like this will somehow stop the oncoming migraine. “Let alone get him to stay still. I was just about to put in a down payment for a car of my own, too.”

You’ve never really been considerably attached to this job, mostly because there isn’t much to actually attach yourself to, but if you think about it now, it really is better than most, and this economy isn’t really kind to people who get fired from their jobs. You feel like puking at the thought of losing the free unlimited coffee in the pantry and trading it in for a life behind a convenience store counter, which is probably where you’ll end up, pessimistically speaking.

You excuse yourself from Head Secretary Son, who has the heart to look a little pitying as you trudge towards the elevator. You don’t even know where you’d start looking for the Vice President, especially since he spends quite a lot of his efforts trying to avoid having to communicate with you. You don’t even know what his habits are, which means you can’t make educated guesses on where he might have run off to, so the only route to go is to look in the immediately surrounding area and widening your search diameter as time passes.

Until five o’clock, of course — a deadline that, if unmet, will likely mean you also won’t be returning to the office either.

You start off at the nearby bookstore, extremely skeptical that the Vice President would ever willingly go to a place that requires more effort even after you make a purchase. As expected, he isn’t there, but he isn’t in the nextdoor candle shop (also unlikely) either, nor do you find him in the hand-cut noodles shop next to that as well. You walk down the entire street for a good twenty minutes, pressing your face against the windows of stores shamelessly, to the ire of many startled and disgruntled staff, trying to look for a familiar head shape in the small crowds in them, but to no avail. Then, you think about calling him again, but when you pat the pockets of your jacket, you realize your phone is still on your desk, where you’d left it when you’d been summoned to see the President. With a loud groan and an annoyed clip clop of your heels as you stamp your feet on the pavement, you walk back to the office.

In your frenzy to find the Vice President, you’d gone quite a distance, and your shoes simply aren’t made for long, aggravated walks; they start hurting your feet halfway back, and you’re pretty sure you have a blister behind the strap of the left one. Pride would tell you to tough it out, but you’d thrown that out at the thought of losing your job at the expense of a single man, so you don’t even hesitate to take them off and run back to the building. The big digital clock above the elevators says you have ten minutes left to find your boss, and you start thinking about using that time for better things — like packing your stuff up neatly in a box for when you get sacked.

With the situation seemingly hopeless, you trudge to the first floor cafe, where the return counter has a pitcher of water and a stack of tiny paper cups. They’re tiny tiny, like the size of your thumb, so you have to keep refilling it just to start feeling a little more human.

You’re on your third refill when you hear a giggle come from across the space. The barista’s just finished laughing at what must have been an extremely hilarious joke, or she might be flirting with whoever’s leaning over the counter to talk to her. A whoever that seems to be the exact same height and build as the elusive Vice President of this company.

You accidentally toss the paper cup in the plastics bin in your desperation to get moving, worried that if you’re not fast enough, he’ll disappear into thin air again. Luckily, his attention’s completely focused on the barista, so he can’t go anywhere when you finally reach his side and huff, loud enough to interrupt what seems like an intimate-ish conversation between them.

“Sorry, I was just — oh, it’s you.” The Vice President’s smile fades when he sees it’s you, someone he can’t charm out of what they’re supposed to be doing. You don’t think you’ve ever seen the Vice President smile at you in any capacity, anyway, except for maybe one or two slightly sarcastic smiles that are probably more fit to be classified as grimaces. “What do you want?”

“I’ve been looking all over for you, sir,” you say, stiffly and a little quietly because you still don’t want to embarrass him in front of the slightly confused barista. “You haven’t answered my texts.”

You don’t have any way to check, but you’re pretty sure this is a safe enough assumption, which is corroborated by the Vice President bringing his phone out and checking the screen lazily before turning it back off.

“Sorry. I don’t answer unknown numbers.”

You guess it makes sense that he wouldn’t want to save your number when he hates hearing about work, which is all you really try to communicate with him about, but it still stings considering it’s been two years and you’ve been using the same number since high school. It’s fine, you think. You really can’t expect much from him.

“Well, your father’s been looking for you, too. He wants to meet you.”

“I’ll take a rain check, but thank you.”

“Sir,” your voice quivers with poorly quelled exasperation. “This isn’t an optional thing. This is very serious.”

“I can see that, Briar Rose,” his eyes are trained towards your shoes, still dangling from your grasp, with a level of unabashed amusement. “Did he summon me from deep within the woods, or is this a new casual Friday look I should get in on?”

When his words are met with a stony silence, he sighs, pushing himself off the counter. His half-finished Americano is collecting a small pool of condensation under it, and you offer him the little handful of tissues you had gotten from the return counter and had originally been planning to use to wipe your tears in case you cried after getting fired so that he doesn’t waste time looking for something to hold his cup. He takes them without even a word of thanks, opting to instead say ‘lead the way, miss.’ You don’t miss the fact that he meets the barista’s eye with a considerably more genuine grin, raising a hand in goodbye to her before he strides ahead — before you even get a chance to lead the way at all — towards the elevators with you, hobbling on one foot to slip your shoe back on, not far behind.

The President’s office must be sort of soundproof for instances like this. For the first time, you’ve been asked to wait outside with Head Secretary Son as the Vice President gets chewed. It doesn’t matter; you don’t really want to be in the middle of yet another round of shouting that has nothing to do with you in the same afternoon, plus you also know how the conversation usually goes: the President making very agitated threats and talking about his heart condition (even though the medical reports from their private doctor say he’s in perfect health) that the Vice President, who just spends the time looking boredly at his nails, will inevitably trigger. When you press your ear to the door for a minute, you actually hear something like ‘... strike you out of the will so that when you kill me, you won’t get a single won!’, and you can imagine Vice President Na’s exasperated sigh punctuating the statement.

Ten minutes later, the room has gone quiet, and you step aside just in time for the Vice President to open the door and step out. You don’t even understand how he can look so unaffected after being ripped apart, but you suppose he’s also heard the lecture as many times as you have and is pretty much immune to all the insults. He doesn’t really have to make a show out of not caring, though, with his hands in his pockets and his lips pursed to allow him to whistle idly as he strolls down the hall to his barely used office. He’s been in it so few times that after long, inexplicable vacations, he sometimes forgets how to get there. You’ve always had to walk behind him just in case he gets lost or, worse, tries to make a run for it. You’ve never had to tackle him to the ground reciting the Miranda warnings, or anything, but he has faked left a few times just to give you a mild heart attack for the fun of it all.

This time, he just walks, not bothering to joke you into trying to create a human wall he could just as easily push away. When he gets to his office, he lazily plops down onto his couch, extracting the Rubik’s cube he’d been working on for a few weeks now from underneath himself and spinning the top layer idly. He’s only ever finished the blue side.

You just stand there, kind of perplexed and unsure of how to start the conversation. He’s still whistling, and you’re not sure if talking over him will count as interrupting him, which isn’t something you’re supposed to do. Thankfully, he stops after about two minutes of fiddling with the yellow side of the cube, looking up at you with a slightly surprised expression that somehow makes you want to cry.

“Can I help you with something, Secretary ___________?”

“Well, I…” You stutter for a bit, unsure of how to politely point out that he should be asking you for help with his job instead of the whole other way around. “Because… I just thought…”

“You can always leave a message with my secretary if you need time to figure it out.” He grins. “Oh, wait a minute.”

“Sir, don’t you think you should… I don’t know. Figure out your schedule, or something? Prepare for… anything?”

“What’s that smell?” He lifts his nose to the air, suddenly curious, and because he looks so serious, you also start sniffing, but you can’t really smell anything out of the ordinary. “Smells… fresh. Very clean. A little like green tea.”

“Oh.” You awkwardly shift your weight from leg to leg. “I think that’s my perfume, but I don’t see w—”

“You smell very expensive, Secretary _____________.” He sounds genuinely surprised that you do, like he’s somehow saying he hadn’t expected you to have good taste. You have no idea where this conversation is coming from, so you chalk it up to him wanting to derail you from talking about work. “I like it. Very classy. Not too strong.”

“Sir, I don’t think now’s the time to be talking about perfume scents.”

“You’re actually quite pretty.” He sounds genuinely surprised again, but this time, it stings a little more. “I never noticed that before. How come?”

You want to say that it’s because he spends most of his time and energy playing long-term hide-and-seek with you, but there’s also no polite way of putting that into words; even if there were, with the way you’re now bristling under his gaze, you’re not really sure you’d go the courteous route, anyway. You just decide to ignore the comment and question entirely, which you almost get to do.

“Wouldn’t you like to take a look at some of our upcoming projects? For instance, we’re just about to start negotiating the terms of this new partnership with Huawei —”

“You’re pretty, but you’re also pretty tense.” He cuts you off again, now looking a little dejected at this newfound information. You can’t understand why this disappointment in you actually hurts your feelings a little. “I think the cafe downstairs serves some tea, if that kind of stuff helps you.”

“Sir,” the one syllable is laced with weariness, and you knot your fingers together in front of your lap. It probably looks polite, but it’s mostly so that you can feel like you have some semblance of control over anything, even if it’s just your own body fighting off the urge to grab him by the collar. “Please. If you could just take a look at your schedule — even just for tomorrow —”

“What’s the point?” His shrug is nonchalant, and he’s turning the cube over in his palm now, more interested in looking at it than witnessing your tired expression. “It’s almost six o’clock. I’ll deal with tomorrow tomorrow, you know what I mean? If my dad finally loses his marbles, I’ll deal with it all then. In fact, I might actually be okay with losing this department if it finally actually gets him off my back. I’ll also deal with that when it happens, probably.”

Another long, uncomfortable silence blooms as his words sink in; not for the first time today, President Na has threatened the existence of your job, now alongside a good twenty other people’s, all for the sake of snapping some sense into the Vice President. However, like everything else, it seems to just be backfiring; Vice President Na doesn’t seem to care about anyone else in this department, most likely because he’s barely interacted with anyone else. You’re surprised he even remembers your last name, considering he once called the department accountant ‘Heejin’ even though her nametag clearly spelled out ‘Jinhee.’

It makes sense that the threat of abolishment means absolutely nothing to him, but it doesn’t make the knowledge of that any less distressing. He watches you curiously as you tug back at your ponytail, like it’ll once again stop the crawling migraine.

“Sure a cup of chamomile tea isn’t in the cards today? I think I have the company card in here somewhere, although I can’t be sure that it hasn’t been cut off, based on my dad’s last threat—”

“I’m fine; thank you.” You mumble, checking the clock. He’s wasted what’s left of the hour anyway, and the lack of change in his position just means he’s not going to change his mind for the rest of the time. “At least let me give you tomorrow’s agenda.”

“Boring, but okay. Give it to me, then.” He yawns to make a point, and you offer him the tablet you tote around with you everywhere you go, just in case Vice President Na finally decides he wants to do his job. To clarify: that’s two whole years of you carrying that heavy thing around, with the Vice President only having touched it a handful of times. You’re mildly shocked that he actually opens it to check, because he barely does even that, but that all goes away when he yawns again, his expression glassy as he scrolls down aimlessly. “This is a lot. Can’t you just clear my schedules tomorrow? Actually, if I can make demands for real, I’d like to clear out my schedule for the rest of the year.”

He stretches when he stands, ignoring your slightly agog expression as he pats you on the back, smacking his lips sleepily. “Good day’s work, Secretary _____________. Want to grab a beer? Have ourselves a little intra-department party? I’m pretty sure ‘intra’ stands for ‘us two,’ or am I wrong?”

You sincerely hope he doesn’t mean a goodbye party, but with his attitude right now, that might very well be. You shake your head, and he shrugs, like he wasn’t really expecting you to agree in the first place. “No thank you, sir. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He’s already halfway out the door, waving dismissively with his back turned to you. When you peek out of the space he leaves by opening the door, you can see about half the entire department’s watching, not even bothering to pretend to scurry back to their seats as he saunters out of the office. He calls out to you, his voice ringing clear even though he’s already out of sight.

“We’ll see about that.”

You come up with a master plan, but not before you scope potential jobs.

You actually stayed an hour overtime at your desk looking for positions, but all of them pay lower than average or are about an hour’s commute away from where you live, so none of them seem worth it. The search ends when some people from the department come over to say goodbye and see your computer open to SaramIn, at which point they connect the dots and start to panic about their insurance. You shut your monitor off and spend another useless twenty minutes calming Jinhee, who’d started having a mild panic attack.

In that time, your resentment builds. Why can’t Vice President Na simply get his act together? You suppose that there’s some indescribable burden to being in his position, but between him, a rich heir who owns two sports cars and lives in a paid-for house, and you, a public-transport-using, pays-by-the-month nine-to-five worker, you can’t really understand why he would be having it worse than everyone else who works under him. If he worked even just half as hard as everyone else did here, he might scrape by.

You can’t know if President Na’s anger was only short-lived or if he actually meant to downsize the company by getting rid of your department entirely, but you also know that if he’s serious, then there’s nothing much you can do about it, short of terrorizing the Vice President into stepping into bigger shoes.

So, that becomes your master plan.

It isn’t very refined, mostly because you think about it on the bus home, but the heart and spirit are there, and those are probably the most important things anyway. It’s that heart and spirit that motivate you to get up an hour earlier than you usually do, dressing quickly for the day before taking the company car from your place to downtown Apgujeong. You usually don’t take it on days that Vice President Na doesn’t come into work, which is practically every other day, but this time, you’re determined to see him into the office. The ride with Hyunsung, his official company driver, is quiet, save for the question he asks when you roll up to the Vice President’s driveway.

“Are you sure about this?”

“No,” you admit. He’d probably seen you chewing down on your thumb, some of your confidence taking a hit when you belatedly realize you could be shot with a huge privacy lawsuit if this doesn’t go the way you plan. But you do know a lot of secretaries that do the morning calls for their superiors, so this should be fine. Not that you’ve ever heard from those secretaries ever again.

Vice President Na’s laziness seems to extend to all aspects of his life, including the fact that he doesn’t ever change his door’s passcode; it’s still the same numbers as it had been when he first bought the house a year ago and had you install his lock while he was missing in action from work, yakking it up with some farmers up in the Netherlands. He likes to do that — ‘see the world,’ or whatever, even though his wanderlust makes everyone else’s lives very difficult. At least it makes your life easy now, and you step through the door and walk quietly across his unnecessarily large living room.

You’ve never been in here exactly, and you only realize very belatedly that this house’s design would be very frustrating for a break-and-enter criminal because nothing seems to be where it’s supposed to be. You learn the owner’s suite is actually on the basement floor, so all the climbing of those slippery stairs was for nothing.

Vice President Na’s bedroom is bigger than your whole apartment, which also means he has a sizable bed and, thus, is completely out of sight under his gigantic covers. The only indication that he’s even still in there is that they’re rising and falling in a rhythmic pattern. You stand by the edge of the bed, on the side he’s closest to falling off of, clearing your throat at the tuft of hair peeking out from under the comforter.

“Vice President Na? It’s time to go to work.”

Your voice has been tempered down by years of this professional work, and this is easily the loudest and most demanding you’ve ever heard it. You’re not even sure you can do it again, but the muffled groan from under the covers is all the motivation you need to try.

“Sir, you have a ten o’clock meeting with Samsung’s representatives for Apple. President Na also asked that we contact Amazon right away to reschedule the Prime Video deal.”

“How,” his voice comes out first before he does, squinting up at you, completely disoriented. “The hell did you get in here?”

“Sir, I’m your secretary.” You sigh, skimming over the fact that you’d walked into his big kitchen twice through two different entryways before coming into his bedroom. “I’m supposed to be able to get in here.”

“Except this is a first.” You think he’s about to get up, but he just shifts his weight, rolling over so he can cocoon himself tighter into his blankets. “Goodnight. There are eggs in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

“I’ve already eaten, like a normal, functioning human being with a very important job that starts precisely at nine o’clock would.”

“This seems like a very targeted comment, Secretary ____________. I’m not sure I appreciate it.”

“Since we’re already having this conversation, I’m guessing you’re conscious enough to get dressed.”

To your relief, he actually does throw the covers off of him, leaning up on his elbows. You try not to balk at the fact that he’s shirtless, although you’re also not sure why this should surprise or bother you to begin with. He doesn’t even seem to mind; he just yawns, wide and unashamed, as he looks over at the clock.

“It’s seven-thirty. This is insanity.”

“No, this is a wake-up call.” You offer him a neatly folded towel that he eyes suspiciously. “We need to get you in the office on time.”

“There’s really no point,” he sighs, scratching his head idly. “It’ll just be another boring day of talking to people I don’t care about. Someone who cares about it should talk to them. You care about it, don’t you?”

“I won’t talk to them for you, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Because, frankly, I don’t get paid enough to be doing that.”

He once again stares at the towel like he’s trying to will it to evaporate, but in the end, he only sighs louder and takes it from you, kicking his blankets off completely. You look up at the ceiling, not in prayer but to avoid the more embarrassing fact that he’s only in his boxers after all. Well — it’s embarrassing for you. He doesn’t even seem to care.

“Something’s different.”

“Usually I don’t wake you up,” you offer the painfully obvious. “Or come here. Or talk to you.”

“Yeah, all that stuff,” he says dismissively, halfway through a yawn. “Did you have a life-changing experience recently?”

“Something like that.”

“Couldn’t it have been one where you decided to leave me alone for good instead?” He grumbles, more to himself instead of to you. It doesn’t matter, anyway; you already see he’s up and fishing socks out of his drawer, so you’re marching out of his room to avoid having to hear more of his complaints (and, quite frankly, to avoid looking at his broad back).

However, the day thereafter doesn’t go as planned. You thought that waking Vice President Na up for an early day of work might shock him into doing something with the knowledge that it was urgent, but you’re not sure why you didn’t anticipate a scenario in which he’d fall asleep in the car on the way to work and you’d have to shake him into waking in the stuffy parking lot. He spends the rest of the morning out of sorts, ignoring you point blank when you try to brief him on the meeting. The meeting in and of itself doesn’t go any better, with him excusing himself fifteen minutes in by saying the pitch doesn’t seem all too exciting and innovative. You didn’t even know he knew the word innovative and, by the shocked faces of the Samsung people, they were of the same mind.

By lunch time, you’re more exhausted than you’ve ever been, and a part of you is wondering why you wanted Vice President Na in the office in the first place when you’re already used to the much simpler routine of get up, work, eat lunch, get yelled at, work again. Sometimes, on slow days when Vice President Na is completely out of town for the week and President Na is out of things to yell at you about, you even get to just sit back at your desk and play old crossword puzzles.

Now, you’re basically handholding him, but the weight that keeps him down is so heavy that you’re being dragged down, too.

“You mean people do this every single day?” He shuts the folder with a contract that requires his signature that you’d given him just now, not even bothering to peruse the first page, much to your rapidly increasing ire. “This is ridiculous. Working makes no sense.”

“All employees come to work to do that, sir. It’s literally what makes up half their lives.”

“Except it shouldn’t,” he sighs, like this is a true global issue and not a problem of his own making. “Everyone needs to be able to do what they want and live life to the fullest.”

“Not everyone can,” you point out flatly. “Some people don’t have the luxury of time even for that.”

“Then, they should. The more I’m in this situation, the more it feels like it might be better for everyone to have a little work break for — I don’t know. The next year or so.”

Vice President Na has his arm outstretched, handing the folder back to you. You don’t know if it’s what he says that causes your blood pressure to rise, or if its the completely unconcerned look on his face, or if it’s the fact that he’s holding the folder so lazily that the papers are starting to slip out on your end, requiring you to use two hands to keep them all from falling apart and creating a mess you’ll end up having to clean up anyway. Whatever it is, you snatch the folder from him with a little more aggression than necessary (or that you’d even care to admit). Even though it’s out of place, you can’t help but feel a small sense of triumph at the slight surprise in his eyes.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No, sir.” You pause, mostly because you can tell he doesn’t believe you — Vice President Na is nonchalant, not stupid — and you want to give yourself a little bit of time to grapple with your pride before you admit the truth. “Yes, sir. It isn’t fair to your entire department for you to talk that way.”

“I’m saying the entire department doesn’t have to work this hard. It’s senseless. How are you supposed to live a good life if all you’re doing is sitting behind a desk?”

“Like I said, not everyone has the luxury of living your life. If they want even a little bit of that comfort you enjoy, they have to work very hard for it first.”

“Then they should at least do something they enjoy. If this department goes down the drain —”

“If this department is abolished,” this is your first time interrupting a superior, and it already makes you want to throw up. “Then people will have a very difficult time finding a job in this market. More than that, a lot of people enjoy working for this company — quite genuinely, in fact. I don’t think it’s right to think that they’ll be happy while they’re jobless and floundering in this economy.”

“So you’re happy like this? You really want this job — this whole working under me situation?”

“Well…” you trail off, your voice taking on a slightly thoughtful tone. It’s been a relatively long time since you’d entered this job, but you do faintly remember the feeling of excitement at getting this position — the desire to want to learn from the best in this industry, the anticipation of being able to meet and network with interesting and important people. Your first few weeks of work had involved wanting to spend as much time in Vice President Na’s shadow, in case you could pick up some important business tidbits from an entrepreneurial master… until, of course, you realized there wasn’t much you could stand in the shadow of to begin with. “These days, it isn’t ideal. But this job is a really good thing for most of the people who work here.”

“Then it sounds like you have more to gain from me working hard than I do.”

You can’t contain your disapproving frown, and your voice comes out a little sharper than you intend. “Doesn’t it bother you at all, sir? Knowing almost twenty people could lose their jobs in the blink of an eye? Think about all the people who look up to you and rely on you — they’ll have to suffer because of this. They might never find a job that matches their needs, and a lot of them have families to take care of, too. If you can do something to make sure they have these good lives you keep talking about, why not do it? I know you’re capable of that. You’re capable of doing much more than what you’ve been doing thus far.”

Vice President Na is quiet for a moment before leans over on his desk, lacing his fingers into a loose combined fist and putting his weight on his forearms. One of his forefingers detangles itself from the pile of digits and curls inwards, beckoning you closer. Your grimace is probably obvious, and you lean in a little warily. He lifts himself off his chair slightly so he can whisper in a low voice, as if you two aren’t the only people in this wide office.

“If you care about it so much, then ask a little more nicely.”

Your light breakfast almost makes a reappearance, and you draw back in mild shock. He also leans back, significantly more relaxed than you, looking unperturbed as he settles back against his chair. You two engage in a very uneven staring match, until he gestures for you to proceed, looking expectant.

“You want me to beg for my job?”

“Not what I meant, but I could accept that,” he hums. “I just think you could throw in a please while you’re guilting your boss, at least.”

Gawking probably doesn’t suit you, but you do it anyway, wondering how you managed to find yourself in this position. This morning, you had been strictly guiding him through what to do, and now you’re paralyzed in front of the Vice President, feeling very foolish for saying so much out of turn. You couldn’t even get through a whole work day before seeing your grand master plan slip down the drain.

But there is, at least, some small comfort in what he said — the part about guilting, which, if you squint hard enough, seems to be implying that this conversation has left him with a small amount of guilt. You don’t think it’s that much, but it’s a miracle he feels it at all, so you take the horribly subtle win and inhale deeply.

“Please, sir.” The words are very thick and reluctant, unsticking from your throat. “This department really needs you.”

He stares, very unnervingly, without saying anything, but there’s something in his gaze that makes you vaguely certain he’s actually thinking about it. In fact, he actually looks a bit serious, which isn’t anything you’d ever think you’d be able to characterize him by. That impression easily falls apart when he claps his hands, once but very loudly, startling you into jumping a little.

“Ah, how could I turn down such a nice request?” Vice President Na is grinning from ear to ear, something you’ve never seen him do in the context of the office, much less a few feet away from you. His smile is actually kind of nice, if you don’t think about the fact that it seems to be smug at your expense. “Since you asked, I guess I’ll have to try my best, or whatever it is people do in this damn company. I guess that means you owe me now, Secretary ____________. You’re very welcome.”

The silence that once again blooms as you stand, motionless, in front of Vice President Na is suddenly interrupted by the sound of chairs scraping back all at once. The floor vibrates a little as the entire department troops out to the elevator area so they can go to lunch. You only watch stupidly as he also stands, shrugging off his jacket and flinging it over the back of his chair. “See you, then.”

“Where are you going, sir?”

He looks a little surprised that you even ask. “To lunch. Do I have to ask for your permission for that, too?”

“Are you… coming back?”

“You want to come along with me and make sure I don’t run away?” He smiles even wider, which you didn’t even think was possible. It makes you awkwardly uncomfortable to know he’s taking a lot of pleasure in joking around with you, mostly because you were kind of hoping you’d get him to take things seriously in a serious manner, not in a … whatever this is that’s making you feel like you’ve lost a game manner.

“A little bit.”

“Ask a little more nicely, then.”

“Never mind,” you mumble. “Have a good lunch, sir.”

He snaps his fingers a little comically before turning to the door, flinging it open so he can join the now thinning throng of people leaving the floor. “Thought I almost had you there. Well, if you need me, you know where to find me. Or not.”

In the end, to your utmost relief, Vice President Na does, in fact, stay inside the entire time he has lunch. You’re not sure if this is the product of you sitting two tables away, trying to will an imaginary chain to his wrist so he doesn’t bolt off or because he’s still feeling a little affected by everything you said earlier on, but whatever it is, it works. He just eats his club sandwich in peace, picking off the crust easily and double dipping the fries that come with it in his ketchup. At some point, he looks up and notices you burning holes into his torso, so you quickly have to avert your eyes in shame. You think he laughs at this, but you can only see out of your peripheral vision at this point, so you can’t be sure.

You’re supposed to have one hour for lunch, but he eats quickly and gets up before the whole hour is over, so you end up throwing your half-eaten wrap and following him. Again, you’re not sure what’s funny, but he’s chuckling to himself as he holds the elevator door open, waiting for you to run in next to him.

“Relax, miss secretary. I already said I was going to do my best.”

“No offense, sir, but I don’t know what that looks like, so I have to be careful.”

“Fair enough.” He hums, letting the door close on its own. “But you should still take it easy. You’re pretty t—”

“Tense. You said so yesterday, sir.”

“That’s two times you’ve cut me off in a single day.” He doesn’t sound very annoyed about it; in fact, he’s still got that amused, inside joke tone to everything he’s had all morning. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were gunning for an insubordination report.”

You don’t think that’s fair for him to say, especially since you haven’t really had much of an authority figure to be subordinate to for most of your career in this company, but you keep your mouth shut since saying so is exactly what would be on the first line of an insubordination report.

When you arrive back at his office, you take the time to discuss what you should be doing from now on. It’s an extremely messy exchange, with you two grappling between terms you can’t agree on. For instance, Vice President Na thinks that it seems only fair that he should really only be coming in after one o’clock, but you’re insistent on making sure he gets to work on time, since most important meetings happen within that time period (a fact he already seems to know but chooses to ignore anyway). You end up agreeing on bringing him in for the standard nine-to-six for as long as he never has to work overtime. You also find it necessary to iron out the fact that if he has lunch outside, he has to actually come back, a statement he once again finds very amusing for some reason, as if you’re the weird one in this conversation.

And to his credit, he tries to stick to his word. It isn’t exactly a walk in the park, especially not during the first couple of weeks, but you suppose that habits are very difficult to break when they’ve been so easy to acquire and nurture over many years. More than once, you’ve arrived late to meetings to the disapproving gazes of Head Secretary Son and President Na. However, the latter finds he has less to say these days because Vice President Na’s presence in said meetings had, before this time, been nothing but a pipe dream for everyone.

You also notice he starts taking the time to ask about things he doesn’t understand, as opposed to his initially brash or sometimes completely unresponsive approach, which has turned out better results when it comes to business lunches with investors and potential partners. Even the Samsung people, who are extremely wary of him during the callback meeting, come out of their next encounter with the Vice President looking vaguely more satisfied than they did the last time (the bar isn’t that high, considering they’d left shell-shocked previously, but you’ll still take the improvement).

Of course, with all the time you end up spending with, chasing after, and vaguely lecturing (only when the need truly arises) Vice President Na, you also learn some things about him that you hadn’t expected, like how he doesn’t really like milk in anything he drinks (but especially coffee) and that every third Sunday of the month, he meets his old high school friend Lee Jeno, the son of the guy that owns half the residential high rise condominiums on this side of the Han. Apparently, they play badminton together — he had told you that when he’d caught you wondering about the super out of place little kid’s karate trophy among other more adult, official ones in his living area. The trophy goes to whoever wins the match of the month, and according to the Vice President, he’s been ‘wiping the floor with that bastard’s handsome face for half a year straight.’ Although you can’t verify this by anything more than the slight blanket of dust on it, you think it takes nothing out of your pride to applaud him like this is an amazing thing. It also does you no harm to see him swell with misplaced pride about a kid’s karate trophy.

You also notice that despite how healthily he eats at the office, he has a bad habit of craving deep fried food in the afternoon, which is why, over the last few weeks, you’ve been accompanying him to the corndog street stall two blocks away, a few days a week. He’s even had to borrow loose change from you a few times to because he always forgets that no street vendor likes to receive crisp, fresh-out-of-the-bank fifty-thousand won bills, but you just let him have it; his heart’s in the right place when he orders an extra one for you without even asking. You realize that he has a fairly good memory for as long as he’s concentrating, and that he likes to spend late nights watching the shittiest horror movies ever known to man (his words, much to your bemusement), and that when he listens attentively to you telling him about the day’s agenda, his left ear twitches a little when your voice hits it.

Somewhere along the way, you realize that Vice President Na is a charming, outgoing, and fairly capable person, and in doing so, you also realize that he seems to be, for lack of a better word, your style.

You can’t really believe it either, and you’re not even sure when it started. In between sitting with him in the company car and handing him forty-page agreements he has to look over carefully (very carefully, as you’ve taken to reminding him, so often that he starts saying it before you do now, which has only somehow endeared him further to you and not annoyed you the way you were sort of hoping it would), the small non-work related part of your consciousness had decided that it needed a more complicated situation now that things were going relatively well.

To be fair to yourself, liking him isn’t a huge distraction; most of the time, you’re both so engrossed in something you desperately have to finish that you don’t even have time to think about it. Instead, it kind of catches you off-guard, like when he’s double dipping his french fries into his ketchup, or when he smiles at you (politely to him, probably, but overwhelmingly charmingly to you) before he leaves the office, or when his brow’s furrowed in (a total shocker) concentration as he reads.

Then again, everything about Vice President Na seems to be catching you off-guard these days. This much is proven by the fact that instead of the normal silence that you’ve grown accustomed to being greeted by when you enter his house, there’s a lot of noise coming from one area that can only mean either that someone had broken in to mug him or for some reason, he’s up before you need to wake him.

It’s nothing you have to call 911 for, but it still paralyzes you to see him, surrounded by opened jars and a particularly dirty bread knife as he stands in front of his fancy toaster, drumming his fingers on the counter impatiently.

“If you have a minute to spare, could you bring my laptop into the car?” He asks without turning around. His hand, still holding the bread knife, points towards the bar counter on the far end of the kitchen, where the laptop is still whirring away.

“Of course, sir. Um,” you gingerly shut the monitor, putting the laptop to sleep and tucking it under your arm. “Were you… working this morning?”

“No, I was playing a riveting game of bridge against the computer AI.” He turns to you, grinning. “Of course I was working, miss secretary. What do you think I’d be up this early for?”

You try to think of an answer, but nothing comes to mind — Vice President Na hasn’t ever woken up early for anything to your knowledge, anyway — so you just nod and bolt, unwilling to bear witness to his smile this early in the day. When you come back, particularly less red in the face, you find him topping one of two sandwiches with the last slice of bread to complete it. He takes one, as you expect he would, and you stand there, trying to look polite as you essentially observe him eat.

This isn’t something very unusual; ever since the first time you’d done it, you’ve been watching him out of habit. So far, only the motivation’s changed from you wanting to make sure he doesn’t bolt to you simply enjoying the view of his profile when he eats. Of course, he probably doesn’t know this, but he’s also just gotten used to you watching him and probably finds it funny — as suggested by his perpetually amused expression — that you still think, after all this time, that he’s going to make a run for it. You don’t actually mind it; you get to watch him for free, and he has something to laugh about, so everyone kind of wins.

He’s halfway through the sandwich when his expression turns quizzical. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“Eat,” you echo hollowly. “Eat what, sir?”

“A delicious, handmade, gourmet peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich.” When you don’t move, he pushes the plate with the untouched sandwich forward towards you like he thinks you can’t understand anything he’s saying. “What? Are you allergic to something?”

“No, but…”

“But?”

There’s no but; you don’t have a good reason to decline other than the fact that accepting it feels weird, but refusing him when he’s looking at you this expectantly is just as awkward. You rub the back of your neck as you walk over, not missing the look of triumph that crosses his face as you pick up the sandwich and take a bite. It’s good, but you don’t really think that has anything to do with his culinary skills, based on what it is; still, he looks like he’s patting himself on the back for this feat.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Secretary ____________, I hope you can count this as a momentous occasion for the both of us.” He chuckles. “You get free breakfast made especially for you by your direct superior in the comfort of his own home, and I finally get to learn what all the settings on my toaster are for. Between you and me, I think mine’s the better achievement.”

You’re still in the middle of eating when you laugh, and you hastily raise a hand to cover it — only Vice President Na catches your wrist halfway through, so quickly you vaguely choke on the bread that’s only partially down your throat.

“I’ve never seen you laugh,” he looks as surprised as you feel, although probably for a different reason. “I don’t even think you’ve ever smiled at me, specifically.”

“Oh.” You need time to respond, mostly so you can swallow but also because you need to collect yourself from your shock. There seems to be a lot of that going around this morning. “Sorry. Should I do that more often?”

“I mean, if you ask like that, it’s kind of disingenuous,” he laughs. “But I like it. I like knowing you’re not just in a constant state of stress because of me. Feels even more momentous than the toaster thing.”

He loosens his hold, and you manage to take your hand back, now refusing to meet his eye. “I’m not… stressed by you.”

“Not anymore.”

“Not anymore,” you agree, and he looks particularly delighted when he sees the corners of your lips turn up again. “Not for a while. And not that my opinion matters, but you’ve been performing above expectations, sir.”

“You’re right,” he hums, taking the plate and putting it in the sink — a problem he seems to be saving for later. “It doesn't matter. But I like it, all the same.”

You’re willing to chalk the morning off as a wonderful anomaly, especially since the rest of it passes as it normally does, with a generally quiet car ride (you’ve also learned that Vice President Na likes to listen to rap music on days when he wants to avoid falling asleep in the backseat, which is equal parts amazing and amusing) and a fifteen minute briefing of what he has on his plate today. He disappears for the better part of the morning and even the whole lunch hour, but you expect this because he has a business lunch with the representatives for some Norwegian appliance company that’s looking to break into the Korean market. You can’t imagine many people want a state of the art rice cooker alongside their monthly internet bill, but it’s polite for him to go anyway, and the prospective partner seems very on edge about company secrets. It’s one of those meetings you aren’t allowed to come along to, which means that you’re missing out on a few hours of Vice President Na trying to iron details out with a couple of old guys.

While you eat, you’re once again struck with the random notion that it feels weird not to be around the Vice President. You’ve been working together regularly and in a very close capacity, which basically means that you’re always in his shadow. It’s the life you were kind of hoping to have at the beginning and were deprived of for a good two years. Now that you have it, it feels weirdly natural — so natural that it’s unnatural to not have his voice ordering you around in that easy tone or his aftershave lingering in the air directly above you.

You throw the tissue you used to wipe the oil from your egg toast off your mouth onto the table, crumpled and wilted.

You miss him, which is ridiculous considering you don’t even know what there is to miss. Your relationship, while admittedly lightyears ahead of the starting point it had been at back then (again, not a great standard, considering you didn’t even have a relationship before this period of time), is nothing close to the point of being what it should be for one to miss the other.

And yet, you look forward to seeing him, watching him do something from afar, helping him whenever he needs you. You like the fact that he still sometimes fakes left when you’re accompanying him back to his office, and you do this thing where you pretend to be annoyed even though it makes you happy to know he won’t go anywhere. You like the little sounds he makes when he eats his super unhealthy corndog as if he’s eating it for the first time every single time (see: very unnerving and slightly disturbing but altogether amusing mmmmmmmmmms). In fact, if you didn’t have a vivid memory of telling him off from way back then, you feel like you could easily convince yourself that things had always been like this — that you two had always been together, happily at work.

You’re not surprised that he isn’t back from his meeting even when you get back to your desk after lunch, but you do feel a pang of dejectedness that lasts for a few more hours — time which you spend lazily looking over a contract he’d signed yesterday that needs a fair amount of amending and re-signing. It’s hard to pretend to care today, for some reason, especially since your mind keeps going back to peanut butter sandwiches and some ridiculous vision of Vice President Na standing in the middle of your tiny studio apartment’s kitchen area.

Your reverie’s broken when an envelope falls onto your desk, covering the page of the contract you’d been glassily staring at for the last hour and a half. You’d drawn the same circle about twenty times already, and the paper’s all dented from your efforts. When you look up, Vice President Na is staring down at you, grinning from ear to ear.

“Miss me?” He drums the envelope, the paper muffling the noise of it all. “Oh? I was joking, but it looks like you actually did. That’s twice in a single day, Secretary ____________. You’re setting a very high record.”

You try to tamp down the smile on your face upon seeing him, clearing your throat so that you have an excuse to press your lips together. You guess it doesn’t work because he just keeps smiling, anyway, or maybe he’s just in a really good mood. “Did your meeting go well, sir?”

“Is Lotteria the national fastfood chain? Too bad I don’t work for anyone because it kind of feels like I deserve some kind of reward.”

“Could we say that this partnership is its own reward?”

“It doesn’t have the same ring to it,” he sighs. Once again, his forefinger taps the envelope, calling your attention a little more clearly to it. “I know we’re on a tight schedule for this, and I hate to ask this so late of you, but —”

“Of course, sir; I’ll have it in your hands first thing tomorrow.”

You’re already gathering it up along with your other (vaguely unfinished) paperwork when his whole palm comes down, trapping the envelope and everything else you’d been intending to carry under it. Your hands go up like you’re being held at gunpoint, your eyes wide.

“On second thought,” Vice President Na muses, a little too serene for someone who’d just scared the living daylights out of someone else. “How about I take care of the Samsung deal you’re looking over, and you can handle the Norwegian contract?”

“I haven’t… really made a lot of headway with it, if I’m being honest.” You’re hoping he doesn’t ask you why because you’re too embarrassed to come up with a lie on the spot and will inevitably have to confess your random attraction to him under these terrible circumstances if he does. Luckily, he just shrugs.

“All the more reason to split the work, then.”

The still mildly stern part of you is begging to point out that he’s giving you a whole new set of documents to look over anyway, so it’s not even like you’ll have less to do, but the larger, more endeared part of you tells it to shut up and mind its own business. “I thought the crux of our agreement was that you’d never have to work overtime.”

“Because I look like such a stickler for the rules, don’t I?” He snorts, waving you in with the same envelope, and you concede.

Working next to Vice President Na isn’t anything new to you; you’ve been doing it everyday for a while now, especially if he needs you to be quick on call. Ever since you’ve realized his presence makes your heart beat a little faster, you’ve promised yourself not to let that fact show at all when he’s around, something you’ve been quite careful about perfecting.

Something’s different, though, when it’s after official hours. Maybe it’s because the floor is quieter than it is during the day, so there’s nothing you can listen to but the sound of pen scratching on paper and Vice President Na’s steady breathing. The only real interruption is when Hyunsung knocks on the door to ask if the Vice President is going home; the look on his face is panicked and confused, like a puppy that’s just been dropped off at the mouth of a dumpster site, when he’s told that Vice President Na will drive himself home, so he can just leave the keys.

Maybe it’s also because it’s pretty dark outside, and while you’ve worked into the night a few times, it’s usually alone or with some other poor sap that has even more backlog than you do — it’s never been just you and the Vice President, who seems supremely unperturbed by the fact that he isn’t at home doing… whatever he does at home after work. You can only guess at it (or wish you knew).

That makes one of you that’s keeping busy, although you know it should be two. The fact that you’re distracted by his presence all of a sudden is only exacerbated by the mutually exclusive headache that the paperwork you’re looking over gives you. You don’t know why you had expected it to be in Korean, but you and your intermediate level English struggle to keep up with all the little things you have to look through. Sometimes, you can’t tell if the clauses are actually confusing or if you’re just the poor product of your middle school education. It strikes you more than once that Vice President Na had gone through this, somehow, himself — talked to people in a completely different language, probably with ease. You can at least be proud of yourself for being right: for as long as the Vice President puts his mind to something, he’s able to do it — perhaps even well.

What shocks you after an eternity of silence is the hand that extends towards you, forefinger lightly nudging your chin. You sit up straight like a bolt of lighting had gone through you, meeting Vice President Na’s thoroughly and inexplicably amused expression. Your jaw slackens in shock, but his finger just stays there, like it isn’t invading your personal space. Like it just belongs there.

“What are you doing?”

“What—” you splutter, bemused at the fact that you hadn’t asked the question first. “What are you doing?”

“You keep moving your mouth. What — are you praying or something?”

“No, I —-” You gesture at the contract page you’ve been trying to stumble through for the past twenty minutes. “No, I’m just… I’m reading?”

“You’re…” The start of a laugh escapes him, and you really don’t know what’s so funny. “You’re reading aloud?”

“I wasn’t making any noise, I think,” you grumble, sounding a little more defensive than you’d care to admit.

“You read silently aloud, then.” His eyes twinkle at this information, although why it should elicit this reaction also completely escapes you. “Why? Because it helps you memorize it or something?”

“My English isn’t that great,” you admit begrudgingly, suddenly feeling a little exposed. “Sometimes I need to mouth the words to understand it.”

And he does the most outrageous, inexplicable thing: he gently cups your chin, making sure you can’t turn your head to look away in embarrassment. Now you have to look at him, red in the face and close to exploding.

“Don’t you think that’s a little too much, miss secretary?”

You can’t ask what; your voice isn’t working. You just open and close your mouth around the syllable, and after a couple of attempts, he starts copying you, evidently having a better time than you are based on the grin stretched across his face.

“What? What? That you’re doing something this cute in front of me is what I mean. You’re obviously going overboard, and I don’t think it’s very nice.”

He retracts his hand as quickly as he’d used it to close the distance between you, and your hand immediately comes up in its place, almost cupping your jaw like he did. It definitely doesn’t give you the same tingly feeling, so that’s an obvious bust.

You and Vice President Na have a sudden staring contest with amended rules: you blink a hundred times a minute at him while he laughs quietly, leaning back on his chair like he doesn’t have a care in the world. It confuses you and kind of enrages you, but you also find your heart thumping away in your ears like it’s trying very hard to remind you that Na Jaemin makes you feel alive.

“I— I just—”

“Coffee? I could use some coffee. You look like you could use some too.” He stands, buttoning his blazer with one hand like he has someplace important to go. You’re still so shell-shocked that you don’t even try to stand up to help him, a fact which he notices very clearly. “Oh no, I’ll do you this favor. You sit tight and read your contract. I’ll be back. Keep doing that cute thing with your mouth.”

Vice President Na finds you exactly as he left you: still wondering if you should be offended at his teasing or enamored by his touch and, more importantly, what the hell his deal is. You have a million questions that need answering, but the only thing you blubber out when he comes back is “Why?”

“Because you’re amazingly fun to tease,” he responds simply. “And because it’s true. I find it extremely cute. I find you very cute, Secretary _____________, in a kind of good girl, cool girl kind of way. It’s a little confusing to me too, but I think this slightly stern but overall gentle aesthetic of yours is actually growing on me a little.”

“Sir, I—”

“While we’re taking a break,” he interrupts you. You guess it’s probably the right time for a break considering there’s no way you can work in peace now. “Do you constantly have to call me that?”

“What else would I call you?”

“My name,” he suggests, taking a sip of coffee. You ignore the shit, that’s hot that comes out of him as he puts the paper cup down gingerly on his desk, looking a little bit betrayed by his drink. “Jaemin. Many people call me that.”

“People who are close to you, you mean. Like your family or… your friends.”

“Are you saying you don’t think we’re close? Or that we aren’t friends?”

“Sir, I work for you.”

“So by that alone, we simply can’t be friends? Et al?I think you really are being too much now, Secretary ____________.” He folds his arms across his chest, tutting disapprovingly as he leans back on the edge of his desk. You try not to think too hard about the fact that he does it very close to you, at an angle optimal for viewing the leanness of his form. “After all those times you broke into my house—”

“To get you ready for work.”

“— walked into my bedroom—”

“Only whenever necessary—”

“— gone through my things while I’m half naked in bed like you’re trying to organize a charity drive—”

“Because you need to get dressed, not because I have some perverted agenda —”

“—eaten the food off my kitchen counter, too—”

“You told me to!” You get to your feet, the contract slipping from your lap in your enthusiasm to defend yourself. “You offered it to me!”

Whatever happens next is completely out of your control, and you know this because the room spins without you moving by your own will. Vice President Na must have been an expert dancer in his past life, or something, because after that one dizzying moment, you find yourself leaning against the edge of the table he had been just a second ago. Warm hands are on your waist, tucked under your cardigan, the heat bleeding through your shirt.

And the Vice President’s smile is inches away from your face, still mischievous but much gentler than any other time before.

You’re not sure if you’re paralyzed or if you just don’t want to move, but the reason doesn’t affect the outcome: all you can do is stare up at him, once again dumbfounded after a small outpouring of words that ends in some kind of forced defeat. Except this particular surrender doesn’t feel so sore, for some reason.

“Even when you’re angry, you’re still pretty, you know that?”

“I wasn’t… angry,” you mumble under your breath, afraid that talking louder will scare him off. You don’t even think he’s listening all that much to you, considering that all he does is tuck your hair behind your left ear and completely change the topic.

“So, tell me, Secretary ____________. Is this still a situation where we’re not close at all?” He pauses for a moment, probably to let you answer, but you don’t say anything. You’re pretty sure your swallowing nervously is the only true sound you make. He seems to be eager to do a lot of the talking anyway, which is absolutely fine by you. “Or have I completely misread all your cute little signals?”

“Well — no, but I didn’t send any signals.” Obvious ones, at least. You’d been pretty sure you had tried to keep it under wraps as much as possible, but you’re starting to realize it’s a little possible you’re not as great at pretending as you think you are.

“Not on purpose, probably. Although you really almost got me with the one-man show vibe you have during lunch hour.”

“I… didn’t think you knew, if I’m being honest.” Honesty is the only thing you have right now, anyway, especially since Vice President Na has pretty much confirmed, in his own way, that he knows about how you feel. Now you can only wonder if he’d noticed before you even came to terms with it yourself, and the thought of that being a real possibility urges you to grab the still-steaming cup of coffee and douse yourself with its contents.

“For a while, I was pretty sure you were messing with me. I would never,” he adds just as you say it too, mimicking your astounded tone up to the lilt. “Which is why I started thinking about why else you might be looking at me so intently. You weren’t sitting there objectifying me, were you, miss secretary?”

“Sir, I would never,” you repeat, and he mouths the same words again in his amusement, although silently this time.

“I think I would have been okay with it if you were. Or would be, even until now. For the record.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You sure? No shame in it. Totally fine. Not sure about anyone else, but I’m totally okay if someone else thinks I’m eye candy in the privacy of their own minds. I am, I think, a fine specimen of a human, if I do say so myself.”

“I really wasn’t, sir.”

“You should have, then. Lost opportunities.””

“I could argue that I was just worried you’d leave and not come back.”

“You know I wouldn’t do that to you,” he hums. “Not anymore, anyway.”

The ‘to you’ is what stumps you into another silent spell, but this time, Vice President Na doesn’t attempt to fill in the void. He just starts running his eyes over your face, like he’s trying to read something there or maybe memorize your features, or something. At some point, you start thinking about how this kind of silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, contrary to your expectations and with interesting consideration of the fact that he’s still holding your hips. Apart from the idle skimming of his thumb over the curve of your pelvic bone, he doesn’t move — nearer or closer, which is probably for the best since you don’t know which one you really want more at this point.

Again, when you gather some part of your wits, the only thing you still know how to ask is “Why?”

“Because,” he replies immediately, simply, like the answer has always been very clear and you’ve just been too ignorant to figure it out. “You said that I could, not that I had to.”

It’s hot. Isn’t it hot? You don’t know what he’s talking about, but your body already reacts on principle, and you have to stand-half-lean there with your entire face burning and Vice President Na’s body heat washing over yours like an electric blanket.

“I don’t know what that means, sir.”

“It means I didn’t do this for my dad or just because you told me off in the comfort of my own office.” He bites down on his lower lip to keep himself from laughing (yet again) at you as he witnesses, from the best seat in the house, your face turning almost purple with the effort of keeping down your embarrassment. “Although that played a bit of a factor in it. I couldn’t tell if it was rude of you to say so much or kind of cute that you did despite knowing you were being rude. But that’s besides the point.”

Good, you think. If he manages to hit you with another cute in this timeframe, you may easily cease to exist.

“You know firsthand, anyway, what my dad always says. You must take on the responsibility you were born with. You have to do your job. You must remember that you owe your life to my achievements.” He mimics his father’s gruff, booming voice amusingly well, to the point that you can’t stop yourself from laughing. His facade breaks easily, and you think you hear him mumble cute under his breath again, although you choose to ignore it so your knees don’t buckle completely (something that you think would be very embarrassing with you so close to him). “I don’t think he’s ever once said an encouraging word to my face. And if there’s anything I can confidently say I won’t do, it’s doing what people only say I need to do. It’s my life, you know what I mean? I’ll do what I want.”

“You’re saying you suddenly wanted to work because I said you could?”

“More like I wanted to see if you were right.” He muses. “I was pretty sure I didn’t have the personality for it. Or the attention span. Or the skill, either.”

“I think a couple of those things are still up in the air, sir.”

“One compliment and you’re already gunning for another insubordination report.” Vice President Na’s voice is a low, casual hum, but you notice the grip around your waist tightens for a brief moment. “At first, I figured I’d just show up to get everyone off my back, but I realized along the way that I’m pretty good at this being at the helm business. I’m sure you’ll agree. Hopefully because you want to, not because you also have to.”

“I do agree.” Your reply is wholehearted, and the Vice President’s smile widens. Your chest swells so much that you think you might explode right in front of him. “Because I want to.”

“Please don’t misunderstand me, miss secretary. I’m not attributing all my successes to your impulsive words.” He teases, although his eyes stay gentle despite his tone. “The efforts were still all mine. However, I’m not too proud to admit I had a very responsible first mate by my side, for whom I am very grateful. Although I hope this doesn’t mean she’ll pluck up the courage to ask for a raise considering how well I pay her. I think. Does she get paid well? Maybe I should ask Park Jinhee from accounting.”

“She won’t,” you laugh softly, not missing the fact that he’s finally learned her name. “And she’s not really doing this for the salary, even if it is a nice bonus.”

“What’s she doing it for, then?”

As a job, this was really mostly about yourself — or it was, in the beginning. You’d terrorized Vice President Na to some degree because of the innate tendency towards self-preservation, and when that felt a little one-sided, you also considered everyone who might lose their jobs if the department got cut. It had been, for the most part, an act of pure desperation, so strong that you were willing to point fingers and raise your voice (only a few decibels, because you’re not a crazy person) at your boss. Now… that wasn’t really part of the equation. Maybe you had gotten used to the fact that the Vice President wouldn’t be going anywhere, so you’d stopped worrying about your and everyone else’s jobs, which all seem to be on a smooth path alongside the captain of the ship.

But if you had to be honest to yourself, part of the reason you’d grown a bit complacent about thinking about the fate of the department also had to do with the fact that you genuinely enjoyed being next to the Vice President. Mornings spent helping him prepare for work were regular highlights in your week, and the looks of approval you received from him every time you helped him finish a particularly difficult task were second to none. Always being close to him, always being the first and last to see him in the day, simply being able to look at him -– silly as that all sounds, they now play an undeniable factor in your desire to wake up and go to the office every single day.

“I did it for you.” You answer, and because the answer’s honest, it feels completely natural to say. A pause slowly lengthens between you two, though not nearly as tense or borderline uncomfortable as you thought it might be this time around. A slow smile stretches over the Vice President’s face, but his words don’t easily take the straightforward route this time, either.

“Should I take up with the human resources department the fact that you’re outright breaching the terms of our contractual workplace relationship? How am I?” He speaks over, with you again, your voices overlapping. You can’t help it — you laugh at the absurdity of how well he’s come to know your responses, from the word choice to the lilt in your voice that signals some level of affront. When, exactly, did Vice President Na start committing the things you said and did into memory? “You’re seducing me, miss secretary. Before you say you’re not — you are. You are, without even knowing it. You’re winning me over, telling me all these sweet nothings to tickle my heart — I believe in you, Jaemin. I love working with you, Jaemin. I did it all for you, Jaemin, because you’re obviously the best in the whole world, ho ho ho.”

“I never said it like that.”

“You might as well have.”

“Should I stop believing in you so that we can avoid a scene, then, or is the damage to your good standing too far gone?”

“Rather than stopping something already in full motion, I think it might be better to make certain amendments to our current agreement.” Vice President Na reaches for the pen tucked into his breast pocket — the gold clip catches the fluorescent light and momentarily blinds you as he brings it up between you. He brings it to one side, then to another, and your eyes follow it, amused but also admittedly a bit hypnotized.

“What kind of trance are you putting me under, sir?”

“The kind that gets you to stop calling me that,” he chuckles. “Among other, more important things on my agenda.”

You have an excellent view of Vice President Na’s stellar smile from the back of the meeting room.

The deal he closes three days later goes even better than expected; not only does he bring Amazon into the fold after weeks of (surprisingly consistent) hard work and no small amount of beguiling charm (owing to the fact that he’d offended said Amazon representatives earlier on in his still relatively short-lived career), but he also manages to snag Samsung Electronics’ participation. As an already existing subscriber to the company-provided phone plan, you’re pleased to find out that you’re entitled to twelve guilt-free months of Prime Video as part of a new promotional deal, which you can now enjoy on nights you aren’t working overtime — something you’ve racked up more of as you’ve found yourself striking more of a work-life balance, thanks in large part to the Vice President’s steadily active involvement in all things on the ‘work’ aspect of the scale. Your first goal is to finally get past the first episode of an animation everyone in the department is raving about (but that you haven’t seen more than five minutes of, in actuality, because the horrible subtitles and sluggish 144px stop motion-esque have, until recently, adamantly deterred you from enjoying anything about the story).

Standing a fair distance away from the executives, you wait for the flurry of handshakes and accompanying congratulatory statements to die down; it takes quite a while, considering the sheer volume of people, and the thickest throng has come to gather around Vice President Na. At one point, all you can see of him is the slightly unruly lick of hair that’s sticking out above the rest of the considerable crowd of balding men around him (the sole crow’s feather a mountain range of gray). All their voices overlap, and you’re only able to catch key phrases — brilliant young mind… knack for business! … just like the President… bright future ahead, you know?

Fifteen minutes of conversation and bellowing guffaws pass before Vice President Na emerges, adjusting the front of his blazer as a result of too much handshaking. Behind him, still speaking to one of the marketing executives, is President Na, who shoots his son a surreptitious look you’ve never seen him wear in your considerable number of years in the company’s employ — one of triumph and pride. The Vice President, however, is intently loosening his tie and scanning the room, stretching himself just a fraction taller above everyone else to get a better view throughout.

You wait, wondering if he’s looking to speak to someone, lost in that host of black and gray suits — the Amazon media director, perhaps, or the in-house designer that also seems to be trying to catch his eye, for some reason (you sense the needy greed for a sudden promotion that seems highly unlikely in such a setting), but even though his vision passes over them, however briefly, Vice President Na doesn’t seem satisfied.

That is, until his eyes land on the corner of the room you and Secretary Son have backed yourselves into to allow the higher-ups room to mingle.

One beat later, and the corners of his mouth are pulled up — a soft, knowing smile directed in your general direction. You glance at Secretary Son, maybe out of instinct, maybe somehow out of panic — as though you worry she’ll somehow come to chastise you, but she’s too busy trying to re-buckle her thin coat belt with rapid-fire tsks. She seems acceptably preoccupied, so your eyes flit back to the Vice President, whose eyebrows are now slightly raised, the telltale signs of a growing grin now playing on his lips as the front of his teeth begin to peek out from the seam. Another cock of his eyebrows, lifting them higher, tells you he’s waiting for some kind of message — an indication that you see him too, maybe, or… perhaps, oddly, any sign that you’re as proud of him as everyone else in the room is.

You can’t help it — you laugh, louder than you’d have originally liked to, a hand coming up over your mouth as Secretary Son’s head snaps up from her waist, bamboozled at your quick but sudden outburst. She throws you a look that suggests she firmly believes your mind has snapped, quite like a stale breadstick in a derelict Italian restaurant, but it’s worth it; Vice President Na looks satisfied at this — though, why he would be, you haven’t a true clue.

As the managers and members of the board file out of the room, both you and Secretary Son inch closer to your respective direct superiors; you both stand a few steps away as the last of the executives drag their feet, still hoping to share one last handshake with either of the two, until an elderly Mrs. Kwon’s surprisingly firm grip is finally shaken off by a sheepish President Na. He turns to his son, who’s still hosting the remnants of a genial smile on his lips, clearly poised to say something. For some reason, you expect the senior to berate the former, simply out of sheer habit, but he does nothing of the sort.

“Jaemin-ah,” his voice is gruff but not at all begrudging; it’s a low rumble of triumph. “Who’d’ve thought? My boy… you brat…”

“Don’t tell me you’re getting sentimental now, dad,” the Vice President teases, to which the President chortles heartily.

“Old men like me have the right, much more than anyone else.” You’ve never seen the President wear an expression even remotely close to softness, but you see it in his gaze now; it strikes you, then, that although you’ve always known the two to be related, this is the first time you can confidently say they resemble each other to the cores of their being — a view of happiness, somewhat mirrored in each of them. “I’m proud of you, son. You did everything I hoped you would — no, no… more than that, even.”

“I’ll take most of the praise, thanks,” Vice President Na replies with his characteristic cheek. For a moment, so quickly you think you may have missed it, his eyes flicker to you. “But I can’t say I could’ve done it alone.”

“Punk,” President Na snorts, yanking on his son’s earlobe; you and Secretary Son have to avert your eyes with expert speed to avoid being caught snickering at the slightly juvenile “ow, dammit,” that the Vice President groans out. “One big closed deal, and your head’s this big? I better not catch you floating away to a Las Vegas casino after all this.”

“Give me some credit; I’d at least visit the desert first.” This time, when the Vice President glances at you, his father’s head turns too, and you stand up straighter at the unprecedented onslaught of attention. “Besides, I’ve got someone here to keep me anchored now.”

“Good work, Secretary ____________,” President Na offers you a rare smile that truly has you feeling like the world has turned upside down: the President in an agreeable (almost ecstatic, though you’d never say that out loud) mood, the Vice President doing his job not just in general but actually commendably well, and not a single strand of baby hair sticking up from out of your ponytail. Inconceivable.

You bow, murmuring a thank you, and Secretary Son quickly follows suit for the formality of it all before she strides over to the President, who’s leaving his son with one last thunder-like clap on the back before he’s leaving the meeting room, still jovial when he catches up with the suspiciously lagging figure of Mrs. Kwon by the door.

Vice President Na starts to follow suit, walking towards the other end of the meeting room; you quickly scurry behind him, still clutching your tablet, blinking a low battery warning, to your chest. You’ve come to grow accustomed to the ‘secretary’s pace’ over the last few weeks as well — always close enough to help, never too close enough to step on a superior’s toes.

But in the moment you fumble to silence your device, you end up stepping into someone’s shadow; glancing up at the Vice President, you find yourself looking at not the familiar view of his back but that of his side profile (one you’re actually also familiar with, though you refuse to admit to the level of familiarity). He’s slowed his pace considerably, allowing you to naturally fall into step with him, and even this, he expects a response from you somehow — he asks for it with yet another wiggle of his eyebrows. You laugh again, shaking your head, and yet, inexplicably, it seems to be exactly the reaction he hopes to see.

The department floor erupts into applause when the two of you pass through the glass doors; a flash of mollification crosses the Vice President’s features before he’s back to his signature light humor, raising a palm up in receipt of praise. Park Jinhee is clapping with only her left hand smacking the side of her mug, a few drops of coffee streaming down the handle side on impact. One of the team managers rushes forward, eager to shake Vice President Na’s hand, and, riding his high, also yours, pumping it up and down with so much vigor that you mumble a quiet ow behind a strained smile. Only the Vice President’s hand on your shoulder, steering you away, saves you from what feels like possible dislocation.

He’s still waving at them like this is a pageant and not his day job, even as he guides you towards his office door; you have to use your elbows to push it open and effectively help you both avoid ramming into frosted glass. The applause dies down as your somewhat conjoined figures disappear through the doorway — you first, albeit convolutedly, your heel still holding strong in the job of keeping the door wide open enough for Vice President Na to saunter through before you let it swing shut to a now relatively silent office floor.

His hold on your shoulder doesn’t let up, though; it’s still urging you forward, towards his desk, and you open your mouth to say something along the lines of I’m gonna break my hip if we keep going this way, but just as your throat conjures up the first syllable, he turns you around, letting you rest light against the edge of the table.

In a pattern reminiscent of three days prior, Vice President Na’s hand finds its way to your waist, utterly comfortable in a way that mystifies you; he acts like it belongs there, as natural as the smile that’s still playing on his lips.

“Sir, you realize it’s the middle of the day?”

“You realize that we had a deal,” he corrects you, brow furrowing in feigned sternness. “Hold up your end of it, miss secretary.”

“Only if you stop calling me that.”

“Now, that absolutely was not part of the contract.”

When you laugh this time, he chimes in; there’s a harmony in your voices that has your posture softening. You feel airier, your heart much lighter, and when you look up at him, you can’t help but flush at his expectant gaze.

“You realize it’s the middle of the day,” you repeat, carefully, the words suddenly somewhat unfamiliar on your tongue — the next two syllables, most of all. “Jae… min.”

Odd as it is, you’re rewarded with the pleased look that takes over his features; he takes a moment to exaggeratedly revel in this new occurrence.

“Better. Much better. You could still be a bit more comfortable with it, I’d say, but… baby steps?”

“Please re-prioritize your day, si— Jaemin.” The terse tone you’re going for is brutally marred by your blunder, which has his shoulders shaking from laughter. “Someone could very easily walk in.”

“Who’s going to fire me?”

“I can think of one person.”

“You heard him. I’m proud of you, Jaemin. You’ve completely exceeded my expectations, Jaemin. You are the light of my life — my favorite son, Jaemin, ho, ho, ho.”

“Sir,” you sigh. “You’re his only son.”

“We had a deal,” he repeats, letting the return to habits slide, and there’s a laughably childish air to his words. “I’ll… file an insubordination report. Breach of contract as well. Tsk, tsk, miss secretary. Not on such a momentous occasion.”

“Some might classify this as threatening behavior.” Your eyes are soft, though, when they meet his humored gaze. “If you want a reward… ask a little more nicely.”

A soft snort — his fingers dig lightly into your waist, and the next second, he’s lifting you off your feet and settling you lightly atop his desk. his palms never leave you, even after you’ve been placed; they’re increasingly warm beyond the fabric of your top.

“____________,” he murmurs, saying your name so naturally that you could almost believe he’s referred to you as nothing else for as long as you’ve known him. “Kiss me.”

Your own hands find their way behind his neck, but he does most of the work in closing the gap anyway; you’re not even sure who, between the two of you, gave that first sigh of longing, of relief. Perhaps it was both of you, all at once.

Jaemin still tastes like the coffee you’d given him this morning — not a trace of richness, but a bittersweet and earthy twang that’s signature post-Americano. There’s even a hint of mintiness from the nervous handful of Tic Tacs he’d had just before the meeting started; you find that out the moment his tongue swipes against yours, leaving behind the invisible bite of menthol. And then there’s you, a clean taste that settles against his teeth, subtle first but growing stronger until you’re satisfied with the notion that you may linger there for some time — even after you pull away, slightly breathless.

“Congratulations to me,” he breathes out, trademark grin flashing bright again. “So what happens if I close next month’s Disney Plus deal?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer; his hand’s already skimming down, over your hips, following the path of your thigh. Your hand reaches out on instinct to stop him, but he’s oddly more aware of his surroundings than you give him credit for (or maybe, you’re just that predictable to him). He meets your palm, fingers lacing into yours and allowing him to lift your wrist to his lips. There, you feel the warmth of his kiss again, and he uses his hold to bring himself even closer, until he’s able to press his face into your neck.

“Sir—”

“Jaemin. You call me Jaemin from now on, remember?”

“Sir.” You’re adamant. “It’s work hours.”

“You’re not tense.”

He doesn’t move his head; in fact, you feel him burying his face further into your shoulder. In this position, there’s no real way for you to pull away — there’s also no real desire for you to do so, anyway.

“No, I’m not.”

“Good.” Warmth again on your skin — his lips leave an invisible mark just above your collarbone. “I like you best like this.”

“What? Not tense?”

“Happy,” he corrects for accuracy. “Happy that you’re with me.”

You fall silent, not because you’re not sure of what to say, but because you don’t need to tell him that he’s right.

Moments later, his fingers find their way into your ponytail; the index hooks into the elastic, bringing your hair down. You feel his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, he’s inhaling your perfume again.

“Green tea. Something floral. Jasmine? Maybe a little bit of citrus.” He lifts his head but stays close, warm breath washing over you. “It’s so you. Fresh. Pure. Beautiful.”

The gap between the two of you doesn’t last for too long thereafter; he kisses you again, and your heart lifts to find that your taste still lingers somewhere there. It’s longer because it’s slower — less playful and more exploratory, until he pulls away to a much more breathless you. How he finds the air to talk even after is miraculous to you.

“Be mine, miss secretary.”

You blink — once, twice, at his serious expression, wondering if it will break and give way to more humor. But he waits, unwavering, until the last piece of resistance you’ve clung onto is washed away — the last thing that made you, for a second, deny that you were in love with him.

His smile slowly mirrors yours as it grows.

“Like you could ever get rid of me, Na Jaemin.”

1K notes · View notes

spicycinnabun · 2 months

Text

pt. 1 2 4 5 6 7 💐

The third time Eddie stopped by Harrington Floral, it was simply because he felt drawn to it.

The world had been dumping on him lately, and looking at the arrangements was a nice distraction from another college application rejected, another job prospect gone down the toilet because he just “wasn’t the right fit”, his friends leaving Hawkins because they had gotten into colleges, Corroded Coffin officially disbanding, and losing his D&D group, having passed the torch on to Will after he graduated.

Real life wasn’t shaping up to be very metal at all.

The only good thing to transpire was the news Wayne had broken to him last night over their Swanson TV dinners. He had met the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

They had been dating for a few months now, much to Eddie’s surprise. Wayne said when you got to his age, you didn’t fuck around with time. When you knew, you knew.

He wanted Eddie to meet her before he popped the question—not that he needed Eddie’s blessing. It was great for him. He deserved to have someone, especially after going so long denying himself the chance.

Maybe Wayne could finally start his own family that didn’t include his mooching failure of a nephew.

Eddie had about a month to get his shit together, find a (legal, decent paying) job, a place to live, and scram. Wayne told him he didn’t have to be so hasty, that the trailer was his home and he could stay as long as he damn well pleased, but there was no way Eddie was about to crash Wayne’s newlywed life.

It was time for Eddie to finally make his own way in the world. He just wished he knew what direction to take.

In his pocket was the phone number of a dude who needed a roommate. He’d torn it off an ad he found taped to a payphone outside the mall.

He would call tonight. Maybe it would pan out. Maybe it wouldn’t.

The When I Think of You bouquet had long since been sold and replaced. The new one in the display window was called Wedding Bells, Eddie guessed, because it had bell-shaped flowers. They were an assortment of white, reds and yellows, with baby’s breath layered in between.

Maybe Eddie would place an order for Wayne’s wedding. He wondered, too, if he would ever get married. Probably not. It wasn’t legal and most likely wouldn’t ever be.

Not only that, but he would have to find someone willing to spend their entire life with him. That seemed… as likely as hell freezing over. Eddie knew he was a lot to handle for a single week, let alone years or a whole damn lifetime.

Eddie leaned over to smell one of the dramatic, bridal white Angel’s Trumpets.

He’d always enjoyed flowers. He had a tattoo of one on his inner arm, another small ode to his mother, but he wanted more. He wished there wasn’t such a stigma about men liking them. It wasn’t fair, but neither was most shit in life.

🌷🪻🌻🌹

co-writing this with @batty4steddie 💕

steve’s pov is next!

#fic #wybmb #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #steve x eddie #steddie fic #steddie au #florist au #stranger things #florist!steve harrington #wilted flower eddie #🥀#little bit of angst

424 notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs