repost from chwerio / bf vernon who lets his partner do whatever they want :D
vernon doesn't say anything. not when you stick holographic tabby cats on the side of his headphones. in fact, he doesn't even move a muscle from where he's sitting, as if he were paying you no mind at all.
he isn't oblivious to your chest leaning into his side or how your chin rests on his shoulder out of boredom. to him, it had always been your way of letting him know that you needed some sort of attention.
only this time, while he was mindlessly scrolling through his phone, you had other ideas in mind.
in his peripheral vision, he notices the excessive amount of times you raise your hand to the side of his head, suspiciously pressing something small onto the black surface of his headphones.
at first, he assumes you were fidgeting or brushing off fluff from his hair. but after a few minutes, he takes his eyes off his phone screen and turns his head to you, catching a glint of something shimmering between your fingers.
he tilts his headphone off one ear and glances at the abnormal number of sticker sheets on your lap. "cats?" he asks flatly.
"tabby cats," you added, using your empty hand to guide his chin back to its original position. you place the sticker next to the other cats. "with holo finish. very shiny."
vernon puts his phone down to remove his headphones fully, only to be met with half its surface decorated with cat chaos. he has to give you credit, though, for how lovingly you arranged them: sleepy cats, angry cats, rainbow cats, and... a banana cat?
you nuzzle your cheek further into his shoulder and mumble, "you don't like?"
his eyes quickly meet with yours, which stare right at him. "no, i do. i do like them. a lot," he says, pointing at one with his thumb, nodding, "i like this one in particular. rainbow cat."
you hum in response, going quiet once he puts his headphones back on. your fingers rest on his arm while he resumes scrolling--but he's not really thinking about his phone anymore.
"you can put more on if you want," he murmurs.
you look up at him. "you want more?"
he taps the surface of the opposite ear, grinning. "well, i can't have one side untouched."
without a second thought, you grab your sheets and smile wildly, crawling over his lap to snuggle in on his other side. he barely reacts to the sudden shift onto him--just adjusts to make room for you.
"i'm going to make you very, very, shiny, babe..." you say in a hushed tone, already peeling off stickers, earning a snicker from him.
content - drabble, fluff, established relationship, vernon is very loving here! (possibly a teensie bit ooc), reader has a little anxiety in crowded places, slightly suggestive (kissing, allusions to sex [barely])
word count - 1.2k
summary - three ways in which vernon uses the belt loops of your jeans not for its intended purpose.
a/n - hello… im just gonna repost all my works… slowly
WHEN YOU'RE DEFIANT, it's usually out of pettiness. Though you aren't directly opposed to it, there's lingering annoyance in your demenor. Vernon knows that when your chin turns away from him, it's a disapproval of your loss in rock-paper-scissors. Well, losers weepers.
"So, I guess it's pasta tonight," he says, following behind you. You can hear the cheekiness in his voice, that of a winner's tone.
You slow down your strides on the sidewalk, making room for him to walk beside you. "Guess so."
He's trying. He's really trying to resist the smile that creeps up on his face, but right now, you need coddling because you just lost a pizza night again.
At the crosswalk, Vernon notices the distance between you guys. He notices the stubbornness in your stance, the way your arms are crossed, and your pursed lips. For a second, he actually thinks you're upset, but he knows you well enough that you'd speak up if you had concerns.
"Why do you propose a game of rock-paper-scissors when you never win?" He asks. "You know, we could just get pizza--"
"That'd be cheating!" You exclaim. "And since you won fair and square, we should make… pasta."
Vernon only smirks, nodding to your words. "Right. It would be unfair since I won--even if I was offering to have your choice tonight."
"Exactly." You murmur, watching the crosswalk's signal.
He rolls his eyes, adjusting his leather jacket. Your eyes remain set on the light, avoiding his gaze.
When the signal changes, you’re just about to step forward before Vernon gently tugs at your waist, fingers hooking into your belt loop, making you catch your breath. He casually pulls you closer, then unhooks his fingers and throws his arm over your shoulders.
“You’re a sore loser,” he mutters closely, just loud enough for you to hear.
Your pace falters and becomes one with his, and despite his playful insult, you let one arm wrap behind his back. You exhale through your nose--half laugh and sigh. “Is that offer for my choice still available?”
Vernon clicks his tongue in disbelief, shaking his head. “Oh, I’m not too sure about that. You already turned it down and made a very good point on how that would be cheating.”
You glance up to be met with his dorky grin. “Yeah, you’re right. Pasta it is then…”
He tugs you closer, quickly pressing a kiss on the side of your head. “We’ll save pizza for next time, definitely. No games, alright?”
"Fine, no games." You giggle.
WHEN IT'S CROWDED, it's a mutual agreement that losing each other is the last thing you need happening. Whether it's a concert, downtown, or heck, even a rave, you both agree that you must stick together.
In the sea of bodies, Vernon navigates you to the nearest wall at some house party Mingyu invited you both to. The bass is not favourable. The songs pounding through the speakers are so loud that you don't even hear what reassuring comment Vernon makes every time he looks back at you.
You lip-read, I dislocated my shoulder, and you know that's not what he's really saying--it's the music's fault, you think to yourself. All you can do is nod awkwardly as he leads you in further.
It feels endless, the shoulder bumping and the occasional running into. Until it actually hits you, well, a body that is. You're inadvertently shoved back by a stranger who profusely apologizes once you catch your balance.
"No, no, it's okay, really!" You assure them. Except, it really wasn't okay. You've lost Vernon.
You don't remember feeling this nervous in a place like this. The bodies around you move like waves, not giving you a chance to look over them. And sure, you have been to parties like this before, but maybe you forgot what those are like without Vernon.
Let's find the nearest wall, was what he said before you entered the house. It plays over and over in your head until you feel something pull at your waist.
When you look to your side, Vernon's fingers hook into your belt loop, pulling you flush to his side. He slips his fingers out and places a hand on your lower back, ushering you to a more secluded area.
He lowers his head right by your ear, quietly whispering, "Are you okay?"
"Y-yeah, I'm okay," you whisper back. "Thanks, though. I was actually a bit freaked out when I couldn't see you anymore. It's crazy in there, I don't know where Mingyu would even enjoy himself."
"Beats me," he chuckles. "There's for sure way too many people in this house. No way that's allowed, right?"
You hum, the weight on you feeling a lot less now.
Vernon takes your hand into his, raising it up to his lips to lightly peck. "Let's just hold hands for the night so we don't lose each other again, okay?"
Gosh, if your heart could not feel even warmer than it already was, Vernon was there to prove you wrong.
WHEN HE NEEDS YOU, he'll never outwardly say it. It's not that he can't verbally express himself; it's just that this is a different feeling. Instead, he'll show you, or there will be signs that your boyfriend is craving your touch.
Whatever mundane chore you're doing right now, he's watching. Not watching how you handle the mugs--he's watching you.
As he shyly approaches the counter, he places his phone on the marble with a light thud to make his presence known, just so he doesn't startle you.
"Hey, Nonie," you chirp, placing the mug back down. Your attention averts to him, who is stalking closer until he stands on the opposite side of you.
"Hey," he quietly says, resting his lower back against the counter, "need help?"
You sigh, turning your back to continue sorting the cups. "No, I'm just about done now. Sleep well?"
"Mhm… yeah," Vernon mumbles, voice low. He shifts his body lazily against the counter, his hands acting as anchors on its edges. "Was kind of cold, though, y’know, since you woke up early ‘n left me." he adds, hoping you'd pick up on what he really means.
And here you are grinning to yourself because you know exactly what he wants--no, needs.
"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that…" You say, giving him faux sympathy.
Vernon doesn't immediately respond, only letting out a scoff jokingly. He notices that you're not out of arm's reach, so with his hand raised, he sneaks his fingers into your belt loop, tugging you back lightly.
You're glad you aren't holding any glass cups because you barely manage to ground it on the counter before your back meets with his chest.
His head dips to your neck, lips brushing your skin, and he finally mutters, "You can make it up to me."
When he removes his fingers from your belt loop, you feel his hands grip each side of your waist, gently spinning you around so that you're facing him.
"That bad, huh?" You laugh, throwing your arms over his shoulders. "Since you're so cute, I might as well…"
Vernon flashes you his wide smile, hugging you closer. His head leans towards yours, capturing your lips with his. As his kiss deepens, it's a bit lazy but with intent, the kind that expresses himself without needing to say it out loud. Boy, is he glad to have you.
PAIRING: Vernon x f. reader
SUMMARY: Modern problems call for modern solutions, including naming a random stranger in the book store as your boyfriend to avoid an embarrassing encounter with your ex. The problem? The stranger is Vernon and he’s not supposed to be a stranger at all - he’s your coworker, and now everyone at the office - including your ex - thinks you’re dating.
WC: 20,296
AU: Faking dating, Coworkers to Lovers, Romcom
GENRE: Smut, some fluff and crack
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: Reader has some insecurity about how her working hard is perceived, some ranting about Being A Girlboss, a little bit of inner angst, my bad attempts at humor, reader’s ex boyfriend SUCKS sorry to all the Minho’s of the world I named him after, explicit language, some minor commentary on power dynamics, Star Wars Lore, explicit sexual content including unprotected vaginal sex (never do this), oral (f. receiving), nipple play, vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, a little bit of a handjob, some cum eating if you squint, Vernon was supposed to be a freak but I made him soft instead, mutual pining.
A/N: Thank you to @camandemstudios for allowing me to be a part of the Lonely Hearts Collab. I’m honored to be among such amazing writers and I cannot wait to see what everyone else wrote.
A/N 2: Thank you to the (w)hor(e)anghae squad @daechwitatamic @eoieopda and @jihopesjoint for beta reading this and letting me blind pass it over so I wouldn’t have to read it again because I don’t like it :)
MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAG LIST | ASK | LONELY HEARTS CAFE COLLAB
WHOSOEVER SLAYETH CAIN SHALL SUFFER TENFOLD... OR WHATEVER IT IS THAT THE BIBLE SAYS. You haven’t slayed Cain and you’re not really sure you believe in anything in the Bible, but you’re certainly suffering sevenfold. Eightfold. Ninefold.
Sevenfold had been earlier this morning when you dropped your glass of coffee on the ground, shattering your favorite cup and staining your white tile. Several Clorox wipes later, there is still brown stuck to the grout, looking a bit like you had an unseemly accident in the middle of your kitchen.
Eightfold had been when you decided to fix your weekend by heading to the bookstore. Surely purchasing books that you were going to let sit on your shelf months before reading would fix your day - until someone rear-ended you in the parking lot, leaving a good dent and an apologetic exchanging of numbers and insurance information.
Ninefold comes when you least expect it, standing in the aisle with a stack of books in your hand, eyes flickering over the different titles and ornate covers. You already feel better than you had this morning. The smell of paper, the whisper of turning pages, and the hum of the cafe brewing coffee in the distance immediately puts you at ease.
You swear nothing can put a damper on a good hour spent between shelves - until ninefold walks around the aisle corner.
The stack of books in your arm nearly drops to the ground when you see your ex-boyfriend hand-in-hand with his new girlfriend. You wheel around so fast you slam into the person behind you, which does knock all the books from your hands onto the floor.
A hissed curse leaves your lips followed by a quick apology. You drop to your knees, picking the books up as quickly as you can. The dude you’ve collided with has also dropped his books, the amalgamation of your soon-to-be-purchases making it more difficult for you to pick up your shit and leave the scene before Minho sees you.
Minho says your name, surprised.
“Fuck,” you whisper, fingers going rigid on the stack of books in your hand. You shoot to your feet and spin around, breathless as you come face to face with Minho and the new girlfriend that you definitely didn’t look up on social media a few weeks ago. “Hi, Minho.”
“Wow, it’s nice to see you not in the marketing department for once.”
“Well, I work there…” You offer a bit sharply, tapering to adjust to a nicer tone. “Hence, you know - finding me there.”
“I meant you rarely leave there.” He laughs and you feign a grin, eyes flickering over to the rosy-cheeked and very glossy-haired girl on your ex’s arm.
Good for her, you think. I wonder what hair product she uses.
“This is Mina.”
“Mina?” You ask, sticking your hand out as you shuffle your books awkwardly to the crook over your elbow. She smiles - god she has good teeth - and shakes your hand. “Mina and… Minho. Easy to remember.”
“It’s nice to meet you. Minho tells me you’re the only ex he’s ever left things on good terms with.”
Your eye twitches.
Good terms was a serviceable way to put it, you suppose. Sure, there had been no fighting or infidelity or long distance that put a strain on your relationship. In fact, you hadn’t been aware that there was a strain on your relationship until Minho was sitting you down on his couch and letting you know that it just wasn’t working for him anymore.
That had been confusing. You hadn’t asked any questions though, opting to sit and stare at him while clenching your teeth, nodding along while he explained that your inability to leave work at work and enjoy home while at home was wearing down on him.
You’re not saving lives, he’d said. He had been earnest too, which is the crux of it. You’re in marketing. You need to take a breather.
As if he didn’t come home in a bad mood after shitty sales calls all day, as if he wasn’t stressed when he didn’t hit quota, or didn’t complain about how long the department meeting went - you know. You were there, too.
So sure, you were on good terms. But only one of you seemed to have been unhappy with where things were going, and only one of you seems to have moved on to someone with really good hair genes and great dental hygiene.
Your tongue runs over your teeth, suddenly worried that you’d forgotten to brush them this morning.
“Yeah,” you agree, clearing your throat and choking a bite. “Good terms are always the goodest - best way to end things.”
“He’s really hopeful you’ll find someone,” she sighs, looking up at him dreamily. “He’s always wanted the best for you.”
A vein bursts in your head. Well- no. You wish the vein you feel throbbing in your head would burst and knock you out so you’d no longer have to suffer through this ninefold moment of suffering. Perhaps, even, a very attractive medic with glossy hair and good teeth could come save you and fall in love at first sight.
The genuine way that Minho and Mina look at you tells you that they’re serious, that they see you as something that deserves love too. Said in a cooing voice, said patronizingly, said with a pat on the head and a firm pout.
You turn with your free hand, grabbing the sleeve of the man who is hovering behind you and pull him over to you, grin growing sevenfold. Eightfold.
“No need to worry,” you assure them. “My boyfriend is right here! The stars really did align for me, just like you hoped and dreamed.”
Your seconds-old-star-crossed-lover looks entirely startled, looking between you, Minho and Mina. His books are cradled against his chest, his brown eyes wide. He’s actually incredibly cute, his glasses a little askewand his brown hair a little unruly.
“You’re dating Vernon?”
You look at Minho, blank. “What?”
Minho looks at your Very Real Boyfriend. “You’re dating Vernon? From IT?”
Ninefold, meet Tenfold.
“Of course,” you answer slowly, looking at your partner of now thirty seconds. “I am dating Vernon… from IT.”
Vernon (from IT) looks like he would rather be anywhere else than standing in the middle of the fantasy novel aisle with you at a bookstore, your nails digging tighter into his sleeve and your crazy eyes telling him to get with the program.
Vernon (from IT) clears his throat and nods, looking over at Minho. “Yeah. Hey, Minho.”
“Wow. This is really unexpected.”
“It sure is.”
Your nails dig in harder and Vernon (from IT) tries to pull away from you but you step closer, leaning toward him while flashing Minho and Mina a smile. “Anyway, no need to worry about me finding a relationship. I am very happy.”
“Figures you found someone at work again.” He laughs, but the comment lands like a blow. You feel yourself flinch, smile going too tight. “You really don’t leave enough to find anyone else, huh?”
Vernon (from IT) seems to notice, shifting toward you to slide his arm around your waist. The move startles you, drawing your attention to his face. He really is pretty this up close, his lips the perfect shade of bubblegum pink, his cheekbones high and hidden beneath the rim of his glasses, the tangy scent of citrus on his clothes.
“I like women who work really hard,” Vernon (from IT) assures Minho. “I’ll never get tired of resetting her password over and over again because she loses all her sticky notes everytime the cleaning crew comes through.”
If Minho senses the shift, he doesn’t let on. He’s never been great at social cues anyway, which is what makes him a decent salesman. Still, you’re eager to get out of their way and the glare of Mina’s shiny hair.
“Well,” You state. “We have to get going.”
“For sure. It was nice seeing you outside of work!”
With a final nod, Vernon (from IT) tugs on your waist. You both navigate awkwardly down the aisle, steps not quite in time and hips bumping. It’s uncomfortable and uncoordinated, but as soon as you’re around the aisle and away from your encounter, the two of you separate.
Vernon (from IT) looks anywhere but you. His cheeks are tinted pink as he looks up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to foot while you regain all your books in your arm. Embarrassment and gratitude both well up inside of you, one beating the other out.
“I am really sorry,” you blurt, voice a little loud. The people around you startle and you lower your pitch when Vernon (from IT) looks at you, chewing on his lip. “Thank you - I don’t even know how to say thank you for doing that.”
“I didn’t have much of a choice.”
Your cheeks heat. “Right.”
“Happy to help, though. You can thank me by swapping books with me, though.”
“What?”
He gestures to your books. “I was standing behind you because you grabbed my books after you ran into me.”
Oh. Right. You look down at the pile of books in your hand and see a few titles that you own, but did not plan on buying today. You divest yourself of his selections, taking the ones he’d collected off the ground from there.
“So you really work in IT?”
He snorts. The sound is… a little off. You glance up at him, but his face gives away nothing. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t know.”
His smile is off, too. “I know.”
You’re unsure how to reply to that, but you’re also uneager to let him go, suddenly. Vernon (from IT) stands there for a second, lips pressed in a firm line and studying you. He really is beautiful, the light hitting his eyes in a way that turns them molten gold and-
“Alright well,” he interrupts your thoughts. “See you later or something.”
The urge to stop him strikes you, your mouth opening and closing. No words come out. You don’t know what to say - or why you want to stop him, just that you do. He walks toward the front of the store to purchase his books, leaving you standing in the middle of the store and wishing you’d met Vernon (from IT) under different circumstances.
-
Routine is important to you, especially during the weekdays. Wake up, snooze your alarm for at least fifteen minutes, get up when the second one goes off. Groan as you feel every single joint in your body pop after sitting up in bed. Wonder if you really need a corporate job to pay your bills (decide the answer is yes), and get up to feed the furious beast yowling from the bed.
The ferocious beast in question has a routine as well. Perhaps not as important as yours, the cat knows when he’s supposed to be fed and when it’s even a minute past feeding time. Halloween takes his meals very seriously, which you respect.
Your morning continues with the monotonous rhythm you’ve learned to appreciate: make coffee, shuffle back to your room into the ensuite bathroom for skin care, start your morning proper. The only thing that isn’t the same thing every morning is your playlist and your outfit of choice, leading both items up to fate to decide.
A hint of spring is in the air when you step outside. It’s that kind of sunny day with a cool breeze that promises longer days of sun ahead, despite still being brisk in the morning and biting when the sun sets.
Mornings during the days that hang between winter and spring are your favorite. You roll the windows down a little on your drive to work, fingers drumming against the steering wheel as you crawl along with all the other commuters.
Buildings shoot up toward the sky on either side of you. Dozens of banks, private firms, buildings with multiple different businesses and food courts become your entire world as you navigate to the parking garage. It’s already full of cars, but you get special parking.
Well - special as of your promotion just a few weeks ago. The designated parking spot and title bump was all that had come with the promotion, though, much to your dismay.
Still. You’d worked for this particular publishing house in the marketing department for close to a decade now. You weren’t quite as far up the ladder as you wanted to be, but you were trying to get there little by little.
So close. No cigar.
The elevator of the parking garage opens to reveal other office workers already filling the mirror-walled space. You step in as everyone makes room, clutching their bags and briefcases a little closer. You see Mingyu from creative and flash him a polite grin, which is answered with a bright one of his own and a small wave.
When the people not associated with your company shuffle off on other floors, Mingyu slides over closer to you. He’s one of the many designers in the art department, and definitely several rungs below your position, but you started the company at the same time together.
“How was your weekend?” He asks, wagging his brows up and down.
You frown. His questions suggests there’s something salacious to your wild weekend spent reading books with Halloween, but you don’t think burning the bagel you ate for girl dinner or staying in the same shirt for forty-eight hours straight is what he’s looking for.
“It was fine?” It comes out as a question. “How was yours?”
“Hm. It was good. We went out to catch the big game. Seokmin got so drunk he vomited, and Vernon won all of the bets we placed before.”
Mingyu leans forward, looking at you like you’re supposed to understand something. You don’t get it, looking him up and down with a pinched brow.
“That’s nice?” Again, it comes out as a question. “Not for Seokmin, I guess.”
His eyes narrow. Pin you to your spot against the elevator wall.
Then the elevator dings, signalling that you’re at his floor. Creative is an entire level down from marketing, all dim lights and glowing screens for the designers hard at work. Mingyu gets off, still looking suspicious as the elevator doors close and you shoot up another floor.
Instead of focusing on it, you shrug it off. Mingyu has a penchant for being weird - a creative thing, in your opinion. As soon as the elevator door opens, his behavior is long forgotten as you slip into work mode.
Everyone greets you with a polite smile or small wave on the marketing floor. The main office is filled with grey-walled cubicles, employees popping up to peer over walls with mugs of coffee and protein shakes and breakfast items as they ask their neighbors how the weekend was.
A glass wall in the far back denotes the executive and director offices. You head for the one in the back, right corner. Instead of turning on your lights, you let the natural lighting from the floor-to-ceiling windows filter in, keeping the ambiance muted and relaxing. The only additional lights you flick on are the monitor light at your desk and a small salt lamp wedged between the books on one of the many shelves behind you.
Your office is still slowly being decorated. You’d only moved in after your recent promotion, and it’s still bare of personalization, save for the salt lamp and a few things you’d moved in from your cubicle.
And the coffee machine - your own private, blessed coffee machine in the corner on a small bar cart. That might be your favorite thing about your office. You like your coworkers - for the most part, anyway - but being able to bury yourself in your work without having to interact with all of them every time you want coffee is nice.
Sitting down, you roll your shoulders. When your monitor flashes to life, you see the number of emails in your inbox and try not to groan out loud. You’re thrilled to be the new Senior Director of Marketing, but you’ve gone and made the mistake of becoming too important at work, most things unable to move forward without you playing some part in it.
In theory, that was one of the reasons Minho had broken up with you in the first place. Too buried in work, too many late nights at the office, too many dates or movie nights interrupted by the blue glow of your phone screen on your face while you answer urgent emails.
The thing is - you don’t mind. It doesn’t bother you to pause and send a quick email, or to stay late and help get something launched. You like the intricacies of being a problem solver, and with as fast as your company is growing and publishing new titles, you’ve got challenge after challenge ahead of you.
It’s easy to fall into the monotony of answering emails, joining virtual meetings and striking your pen through your to-do list. It fills three pages, but it feels good to cross something off, even if you’ve only completed two things.
By lunchtime, someone is knocking on your window. You look up, surprised to see Seungkwan sticking his head in. He’s the Manager of Digital Marketing and Social Media and he’s dubbed himself as your assistant.
Other duties as assigned, he always jokes, but you are thankful for him.
“You have to eat,” he reminds you in a singsong voice, crossing his arms over his chest. His glasses are pushed up into his blonde hair. “Maybe you can take me to lunch and divulge every detail about your new romance.”
That makes you sputter. “My what?”
Looking like the cat that ate the canary, Seungkwan slips into your office, clapping his hands together. He sits on the edge of the couch in front of your desk, bounding with energy.
“Come on,” he whispers, looking at you earnestly. “Everyone knows - you don’t have to keep it a secret anymore!”
“Keep what a secret?”
He rolls his eyes. “You’re dating Vernon!”
You stare. “Who?”
“Vernon! From IT!”
It comes back in tunnel vision. Ninefold meeting tenfold, Minho and Glossy Hair Mina, Vernon (from IT). Suddenly you’re hot all over, feel it creeping up your neck and blooming across your cheeks. You clear your throat, leaning back in your chair as your fingers reach for your water.
“I’m - oh!” You escape answering for a second by gulping down copious amounts of water, trying to cool the panic that is licking flames up your skin. “Right. Vernon… from IT.”
“Honestly, he’s cute.”
“Ha. Ha. Yes. Um. Yeah.”
“You’re so cute when you’re flustered. How long have you been dating?”
“Uhh very new. Yes. Super new. I’m sorry - how did you hear about this?”
“Mingyu told me, but Soonyoung told him and Joshua in sales told Soonyoung because Minho told the Always Closing group chat.”
“The what?”
He sighs. “Ugh, do you keep up with anything? The sales floor has a group chat. It’s where Soonyoung gets all his tea because he and Joshua room together.”
“Who the fuck is Joshua?”
Seungkwan stares. “It is a wonder you even know who Vernon is. I swear you don’t know people you’ve worked with for years.” A thought seems to strike him and he gasps. “Oh my god is that why you’re always going to him for your fucked up passwords?”
Something Vernon said comes back to you vaguely. Something about forgotten passwords when the cleaning crew throws out your sticky notes. Of course, no one would throw out your sticky notes if you weren’t dropping them all over the floor, but that’s neither here nor there.
Bolting from your seat, you startle Seungkwan, whose brows disappear in his hairline as he stares up at you.
“Actually, I can’t do lunch today.”
He sighs. “Boss, you have to eat.”
“I am! I am going to lunch with my…. Vernon from IT.”
“Oooo.” He leans back, shaking his head and grinning at you. “Go on then. Make sure you wrap it before-”
“If you finish that sentence I will revoke your privilege to my coffee cart.”
Seungkwan’s grin only gets wider. “Enjoy, boss.”
In a flurry, you leave your office. Eyes follow you as you go and suddenly you’re unsure if people are looking at you because you’re walking so fast that you’re almost running, or if it’s because they think you’re dating Vernon).
Your finger nearly breaks as you slam the button over and over again to shoot a few floors down. It doesn’t make the elevator go any faster. When the doors finally close and you begin to descend, you turn to the mirror walls and panic, tucking stray pieces of hair back into place and trying to fix the mascara smudges from staring at your screen for four straight hours.
A knot forms in your stomach. You press your damp palms against your dress pants, wiping viciously to try and keep the moisture at bay. When the elevator dings and the doors open to the silent hum of the IT department, you think you might vomit.
Unlike the marketing floor, no heads turn as you go. You try to maintain a normal pace this time, marching down the rows of cubicles before you realize you have no idea where Vernon sits. You pause awkwardly, standing on your tiptoes to try and see over the walls of cubicles to spot him.
“Can I help you?” A man sticks his head out of his cubicle, his headphones around his neck. He looks you up and down critically. “You’ll have to have proof of submitting a ticket before-”
“Vernon,” you interrupt him. “Vernon from IT? Where does he sit?”
For a second, the guy narrows his eyes. Then a lightbulb seems to go off and he grins, leaning back in his chair. He looks far too pleased with himself, and there’s something oily and slick you don’t like about his gaze. “You’re her.”
“I’m a senior director, yes.”
That changes his tune immediately. He sits up, clearing his throat. “To the back on the left.”
“Thanks.”
Following his lead, you pass by several empty cubicles, everyone seemingly at lunch. You take the corner as instructed and find a handful of men sitting in the same cubicle, one sitting atop a desk and swinging his legs, another leaning against the cubicle wall, and the last one sitting in the seat.
The one sitting in the seat is the quarry you seek, his eyes going wide when he sees you storming toward him. He goes rigid in his seat, clearing his throat and slapping the leg of the man sitting atop his desk. He kicks at Vernon before spotting you and immediately jumping down, straightening his shirt.
Nervous energy crackles as all three sets of eyes settle on you. You stop right in front of his cubicle, trying to put on your bravest smile.
“Hi?” Vernon asks, looking at the two men on either side of him. “Did you forget your password again?”
“What? No. I don’t do it that often.” He looks unsure, brows raised behind his glasses. You huff, putting your hands on your hips. “Okay, I forget it sometimes. But no, that isn’t why I’m here.”
“Does your software need updating?”
“No, I-”
“Oh. I did forget to give Seungkwan that new phone he asked for on behalf of the social team. It came in last week - I’ll finish setting it up and-”
“Lunch!” You all but yell, startling all three men. “I came here for lunch.”
There’s a long pause. Vernon’s coworkers look like they’d rather be anywhere else than trapped by you. You ignore them in favor of a quick study of Vernon. He’s in dress pants and a button down shirt that is untucked and a little wrinkled. It’s a far cry from the casual way he was dressed at the bookstore, but it’s still not totally work appropriate.
Still he pulls it off. There’s something casual and cool about it, aloof in a way that still looks good. His hair is even styled neatly, though a brown lock falls over his eyebrow as he leans forward and asks, “Lunch? The cafeteria is on the first floor.”
The man who had been sitting on his desk kicks him. “She’s asking you to go to lunch, dude.”
“She’s not-” Vernon pauses and looks at you. “Are you asking me to go to lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Your patience narrows to a tight smile, your words pinched between your teeth, “Because that’s what loving girlfriends do, sweetie.”
The words land and have an immediate effect. Vernon flushes from the neck up, mouth opening and closing as he presses his palms against his thigh. The man who kicked him snickers and tries to hide it with a thinly veiled cough.
Your gaze narrows and he notices you watching, clearing his throat to stretch his hand toward you. “I’m Chan. It’s nice to meet… Vernon’s girlfriend?”
You shake his head and say nothing, eyes drifting to the man leaning against the wall. He gives you a small salute. “Seokmin.”
“Oh.” You blink. “The puker?”
His charming smile drops immediately as he looks at Vernon, smacking him on the shoulder. “You told her about that?”
“I didn’t tell her anything.” Vernon stands, shrugging away from both of his friends’ wandering eyes. “Sure, sweetie,” he answers you, giving you a plastic grin. “It’s your treat this week, right? At that very nice, very expensive steakhouse down the block.”
There’s a glimmer in his eyes that tells you Vernon will only play along if it’s by his rules. You’re at a disadvantage, so you grin and nod, willing to go by his rules for now. “That’s so right, darling. Let’s go.”
“Enjoy lunch!” Chan calls behind you as Vernon shuffles behind you, quickly trying to tuck his shirt. “Don’t do anything I-”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Vernon warns, quickening his step to match yours. “Sorry about him.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got my own version of him sitting in my office.”
The elevator ride down to the first floor and the walk out onto the busy street is silent. It’s not the comfortable, easy silence you might have with Seungkwan or Mingyu - if Mingyu could wrap his head around silence. It's awkwardly silent, both of you looking anywhere but one another.
You don’t know where you’re going, but Vernon leads you to a Michelin steakhouse down the block, true to his word. You glare at him when you step into the dark entryway where a host with hair as glossy as Mina’s greets you.
“Two?” You both nod and she grins. “Right this way.”
Vernon follows her first, shuffling behind her as she leads the two of you into the dining room proper. It’s a beautiful establishment with lacquered floors, rich wooden tables draped with fine tablecloths and the kind of glassware that looks like real crystal.
When you both sit down with menus in hand, the hostess leaves you and you lean forward, hissing, “How much money do you think I make?”
“More than I do in IT,” Vernon answers breezily, eyes roving the menu. For a second, his gaze flickers to meet yours over the top of the menu. It’s the first time he’s really looked at you since you marched into his office. “Consider it an apology meal for the mess you’ve got us in.”
“Hey! You played along?”
“You’re right, I guess I could have just super embarrassed you in front of your ex-boyfriend. That would have been very polite of me.”
That stumps you. You open and close your mouth, feeling a bit like a fish. You suppose that’s fair - what was Vernon supposed to do when you’d grabbed him in the middle of a bookstore and staked your claim?
Sighing, you lean back as your server gives you a moment of respite, filling your glasses with water and going over the specials. When they leave, you grab your glass and take several gulps of water, trying to cool your head.
It only works a little.
“I didn’t know Minho was going to tell the entire world.”
“Really? Minho has the biggest mouth at this company. You should see his Teams messages.”
“You can do that?”
“On the clock?” He asks. When you shake your head, assuring it stays between you, he nods. “Yeah, we can see everything you do.”
“Oh.” You think of all the terrible things you’ve searched on your work computer like how to get over a breakup and how to tell if my ex still likes me. “Anyway, I didn’t know he was going to say anything.”
The server returns to take your orders. You order some sort of steak salad at random while Vernon orders something blessedly modest. As the server parts ways, Vernon leans back in his chair and looks at you again, expression unreadable.
“Well,” he eventually says. “No harm done once you tell everyone we’re not dating.”
“Once I what?”
“Well you’ll have to-”
“No way.”
“What?”
“Do you know how embarrassing that would be?”
He raises a brow. “More embarrassing than grabbing some dude in the bookstore and claiming he’s your boyfriend.”
The air leaves your lungs and you melt into the seat, your misery showing. “I already said sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Just tell everyone you broke up with me.”
You snort. “No one would believe that.”
“Why?”
Instead of answering him immediately, you busy yourself unraveling silverware. It’s a hard question to answer, not because you don’t know the answer but because you don’t want to tell him. Vernon is quiet, though. Patient.
He doesn’t press you for an answer, happy to wait you out until you’ve folded your napkin and placed it on your lap, and once again drained the rest of your water. It does nothing for your nerves as you fixate on a spot atop the table.
“I don’t… date.”
“You dated Minho.”
“Yeah. That’s uh… it. It’s kind of a running joke that I am undateable.”
He frowns at that. “Respectfully, I find that incredibly hard to believe.”
“Thanks. I think.” You pick at a string in the tablecloth. “Anyway, no one would buy that I ended the first relationship I’ve had since Minho. I didn’t even end the last one and sort of clung to it in a way that was sort of embarrassing.”
“I see.”
You’re unsure if he really does. When Minho had broken up with you, you’d attempt to make arguments to keep him around. Offered less work hours, even said you’d go to therapy to talk about your insane need for success. He hadn’t wanted any of it, and you’d eventually realized that he just… didn’t want you.
They never did, when people realized what dating you entails. Everyone wants a woman who works hard. They like the illusion of it, the woman who gets up early in the morning and goes to workout before going to her corporate job and girl bossing all day long. They desire the woman who dresses fashionably, who wears designer tags and commands a room all day before coming home to make an effortless dinner followed by a luxurious night routine.
And you get it. You want to be that too. But the truth is most days you wake up past your alarm and rush to the office wearing shoes that don’t match, and sometimes you come home so late and burned out from your job that you eat a handful of shredded cheese over the sink with a stick of beef jerky, only to do it all again the next day.
That wasn’t what anyone wanted. At least, not in your experience.
“Anyway,” you clear your throat. “You’re right, or whatever. I should just tell them I lied. I’ve given worse news. Just you know - less personal.”
For a few minutes, Vernon is quiet. You don’t look up to meet his gaze. Instead you watch the ice cubes in your glass melt, little beads of condensation zigzagging down the curve of your glass.
A sigh makes you look up at Vernon. “What if we dated for like a month or something?”
“What?”
“I don’t mean really date,” he offers quickly, sensing your surprise. For some reason, that stings a little. You swallow it down past the knot forming in your throat. “It’ll get people off your back or whatever and we can just mutually end things.”
“Really? You’d do that.”
He shrugs a shoulder. “I guess, yeah.”
“You can break up with me,” you promise eagerly, leaning forward with the new promise of a solution to your problem. “Everyone will believe it. Just say I work too much and I’m too obsessed with my career.”
An uneasy gaze flickers in Vernon’s eyes. “It can be mutual,” he says firmly. “That way it ends nicely.”
“Fine. Everyone will think one thing anyway, you’ll get out without a scratch, trust me. Are you sure you’re willing to do this? I can… suck it up and tell everyone I made it up.”
“Do you really want to?”
“No,” you admit.
“Then it’s settled.” He shrugs, heaving a heavy sigh. “I’ll give you a month and then we can mutually end things.”
Sticking your hand over the table, you offer it for Vernon to shake. His mouth twitches a little as he smiles, leaning forward to take your hand. His is warm and softer than you imagined, enveloping yours firmly as he shakes.
“Deal,” you smile, feeling a glimmer of hope.
Just like that, Vernon (from IT) becomes Vernon (your boyfriend).
Sort of.
-
Vernon doesn’t consider himself anxious. He’s never really dealt with anxiety, and there are only a few things that can make him nervous in the world. The few times he remembers being nervous were when he was in a bidding war for a limited edition Millenium Falcon model, in line at a meet-and-greet for his favorite band when he was sixteen, and when he lost his virginity to Carley Waters in his sophomore year of college.
He’d won the bidding war and managed to not sound like an idiot meeting his idols, but he definitely came immediately after putting his dick inside Carley. Two out of three were pretty good odds, all things considered.
Vernon is more nervous than all three of those events combined as he checks himself in the mirror for the millionth time. Usually, he doesn’t really think twice about what he wears to the bar on the weekend. He has fifteen of the same shirt in the same colors, and his jeans all look the same, even though he thinks they’re different.
Now, though, he has the added element of you. He cannot recall a single time that you’ve ever agreed to go out with your work friends - and to your surprise, not his, you do have the same work friends - but tonight is different.
Tonight, you’re supposed to be dating.
It’s weird. Chan and Seokmin agree it’s weird. He keeps no secrets from them and had already told them about the encounter at the bookstore. They’ve sworn themselves to secrecy, though Vernon cannot fathom how they just go with it.
She’s really hot, Chan had said after a few sips of beer. Fuck it, right?
She’s the third most executive person in marketing, Seokmin warned. Be careful.
Both are true. Vernon had acknowledged Chan’s point the first time he’d seen you in Information Technology a little over two years ago. You’d been dating Minho then and entirely untouchable - still are, kind of - and Vernon had been the only person at the office early enough to help you out. He’d been new then, and often came in the earliest to get started on the overload of tasks he was always given as the junior employee.
Even then, Vernon thought you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. Sure, you had on mismatched shoes and there was a breathy chaos to you that would probably stress most people out, but he sort of liked it. Thought that it was different in a good way, and spoke to the sort of person who worked really hard and didn’t fake their way through the day.
Vernon had realized Seokmin's point right after he’d learned Chan’s. As soon as he helped you login to your computer, he’d realized you were a Senior Manager of Marketing. Not a huge title in a company so big, but high enough that Vernon thought twice about his attraction to you.
Now, both of their points are moot. You’re still attractive but that doesn’t really change the situation - makes it harder, even. Vernon had never really dreamed of an actual relationship with you and now that he’s found himself in a fake one, he’s not really sure what to do with the acknowledgement that he’s attracted to you.
Worse is that he doesn’t actually know if he’s allowed to date you. Vernon is a senior coordinator in the IT department and you’re a senior director. Perhaps not in his department or directly overseeing him, but it’s a high enough position that Sekomin is right - it could mean trouble if this goes poorly.
So why the fuck did he offer to fake date you for a month?
As someone in Information Technology, most people think Vernon is smart. He doesn’t consider himself to be above average intelligence, and as he slides his sneakers on his feet to go pick you up for a night out, he thinks everyone is wrong about him - he’s fucking stupid.
Looking in the mirror one more time, Vernon decides it’s as good as it’s ever going to get. Jeans, a black shirt and a hat facing backward is all he really knows how to style. He shoves his keys in his pocket, a tiny vial of contact solution just in case, and grabs his phone as he heads out the door.
Your apartment complex isn’t that far from his. He finds it with ease, surprised that you don’t live in one of those high-rise apartments that all the other executives live in. The apartment is pretty modest with only three floors and rows of respectable Toyota Camrys and Honda Civics.
When he spots you coming down the stairs, his traitorous heart does that same little staccato it had last weekend when he saw you at the bookstore. He hadn’t expected to run into you outside of work and only panicked for a split second before he realized that you didn’t recognize him.
And then you’d called him your boyfriend.
Recovering from the memory of it, Vernon stares as you open the door to his car, flashing a tight smile as you slide in. He doesn’t know what he thought you might wear on the weekend, but he’s surprised to see you in jeans, a black form-fitted shirt tucked in, and a simple purse on your arm.
“What?” You ask, a little breathless. He sees the sticky shine of lipgloss on your mouth and squeezes the wheel, fighting the urge to lean over and taste it.
Insane, he thinks as he puts the car in gear. He’s gone insane.
“Nothing. I guess I just thought you’d live somewhere nicer.”
“Oh.”
Your shift in tone makes him realize how it sounded. “Sorry - not like that. I thought it would be somewhere really fancy. You’re a senior director and all that.”
“I only got promoted a few weeks ago. And it was not a pay raise, trust me.”
“Seriously?” You glance sidelong at him, pausing like you’ve said something you shouldn’t. His lips twitch and he says, “Not on the clock.”
That gets you to grin, leaning back into the passenger seat. “Only came with an office and title bump. I was already doing all the work of a senior director so they felt like they needed to bump my title to protect themselves, I think.”
“That’s kind of shitty.”
You hum. “Is it like that in IT?”
“I think it’s like that anywhere.”
“Good point.”
A comfortable silence falls over the car. It’s not at all like the awkward, stilted lunch the two of you had at the beginning of the week. He had been sweating through his shirt that time around, though you didn’t seem to notice. He’d been a little angry with you too, for getting the both of you into this mess.
But… it had been his idea to help you save face. He didn’t have to. He didn’t owe you anything, and he believes you when you say you would come clean and admit you lied through your teeth. Maybe that’s why he offered to help anyway, your willingness to swallow the pain of embarrassment to relieve him of the facade.
Library is a hole in the wall bar that Vernon and his friends from work like to go to on Saturday nights. It’s sort of a funny joke, a bunch of professionals from the publishing industry getting drunk and eating shitty bar food in a place named for the very buildings they dedicate their life to, in a weird, roundabout, mathematical way.
Vernon has friends outside of work that come too, but tonight it’s just the usual crowd: Chan, Seokmin and Seokmin’s girlfriend, Mingyu and Soonyoung from creative, and some of the people from the sales team. The sales team is only there by virtue of Joshua, who is the only person from sales Vernon remotely tolerates.
Vernon isn’t exactly sure what a sales team does at a publishing company anyway.
When Vernon parks, he sees you take a deep breath. He averts his eyes, feeling like he’s intruding on a moment before you brace yourself and get out of the car suddenly. He makes a noise and panics to follow you. You’re already plunging ahead like you’re storming into battle, and perhaps in your mind you are.
He jogs to catch up. “Wait!”
You stop, turning to face him with a dubious expression. “What?”
“We should walk in together.”
“Oh.” You blink. It’s a bit cute but Vernon shoves that down. “You’re right. Sorry. I sort of… set my mind to the task and forgot.”
“You can’t approach this like you approach work.”
“I can’t?”
He laughs. “No. Relationships aren’t jobs - so a fake one isn’t either. You have to try and appear like this is natural. If you come in all to-do list and checkmarking the boxes, it’s going to look weird.”
“Oh.”
The confidence you had a second before deflates. He feels a little guilty, reaching out to take your hand before he realizes what he’s doing. Your hands are cold in his but he doesn’t mind, wrapping his fingers in yours as you stare at him like he’s grown three heads.
Maybe he has.
“We should walk in together. Maybe holding hands.”
“Right.” You lick your lips and he tries to give you a smile more confident than what he’s feeling. His heart is hammering in his chest, both at the way your hand squeezes his nervously and at the preposterousness of it all. “You’re kind of good at this.”
“I just have a different perspective.”
“The perspective of someone who knows how to date versus… whatever I am.”
He hears the joke in your tone so he lets himself laugh a little. He starts walking, tugging you next to him. “Not exactly. I just watch a lot of movies, including romances.”
“Really? What’s your favorite one?”
“Uhhh.” He thinks about it as you both approach the door. He doesn’t answer for a second while he flashes the security outside his ID. “I really like The Proposal. With Sandra Bullock.”
Instead the bar is filled with modern music at a reasonable level and small, wooden tables with chipped tops. There is nothing about the bar that actually looks like a library, save the single shelf shoved in the corner with beat up comic books and an insane amount of hentai that Soonyoung put there.
“You mean the one where the boss fake dates her employee… and they work at a publishing company?”
As soon as you ask the question, Vernon realizes the irony. He looks at you with a wide gaze, pausing at the entrance to look at you. Your mouth folds on itself, trying not to laugh as you too realize the irony of the movie.
“Yeah, so that’s weird I guess,” he admits. He tugs on your hand. “Come on, we always sit in the back.”
You follow him wordlessly. The crowd isn’t big inside, but there are enough people that you have to shuffle a little closer to him. He catches the scent of your perfume - it smells like sweet tobacco and vanilla, something that is subtle with a little bit of spice.
Turning around the corner of the bar, you see a wall entirely taken by booths with pool tables in the open space. Mingyu and Seokmin’s girlfriend are already fighting over the felted green as she points a pool cue at him, threatening. Seokmin is lounging in one of the booths, watching on with a dopey grin that makes Vernon roll his eyes.
Everyone else sits in in a variety of booths, an entire corner dedicated to the dozen or so of them who have made this their home for the last two years. Vernon keeps you close, feeling his hands go clammy when all the eyes turn to the two of you. Despite the rumor having spread far and wide, it’s clear that surprise ripples through the crowd at seeing evidence of your relationship.
The fake one, that is. Naturally.
Instead of going directly to the safety - or danger, in this case - of his friends, Vernon heads to the bar. He needs to take the edge off immediately, though he knows he can’t get too crazy. The drive home is short, but even if you weren’t in his car for the evening, he doesn’t like to tempt fate.
Next to him at the bartop, you drop his hand to press your palms against the sticky wood. You make a face and he laughs before ordering a simple rum and coke. You order the same but with a lime and the bartender flashes you a charming grin.
Vernon glances at you and realizes you don’t even register the bartender. You’re chewing your lip and fidgeting, pulling at the sleeves of your shirt and shifting from foot-to-foot. A pang goes through him.
“Relax.” You look up at him, eyes wide. “We’re going to do fine.”
“What if I fuck it up?” You ask, voice barely audible as you lean in. “They’re going to see right through me, Vernon from IT. They’re going to have one conversation with us and be like ‘no way is he dating that lunatic.’”
“For starters, you’re not a lunatic.” You give him a look and he amends, “Not in the way that’s bad, anyway.”
“How do you know? We barely know each other.”
You’ve got him there. The bartender comes back with your drinks and you take yours, draining half of it before remembering the lime. He watches you squeeze it into the drink while he contemplates his answer.
“I guess I just have a feeling for these things. You don’t seem very crazy to me.”
“Thanks.”
“And I guess I’m getting to know you, so there’s that.”
You sigh. “Right.”
“You’ll do fine. But maybe don’t call me Vernon from IT.”
“Right.”
“Come on.”
With wavering confidence, you follow Vernon over to the crowd from work. Everyone greets you warmly, though a little unsure. He notes the comments about being shocked to see you outside the four walls of your office, a joke you take in stride.
It’s clear you don’t know how to interact with everyone at first. It’s not to say that you’re stiff or awkward, but Vernon can see the rigid set in your shoulders and the way your eyes follow the conversation but don’t actually contribute.
You have an effect on others as well. For those who are a little more unfamiliar with you, they can’t seem to puzzle out why one of the higher ups is here guzzling down rum and cokes. And you are guzzling them down, carving a path to and from the bar at a rate that impresses Vernon.
“How are things going?” Chan slips into the seat you just vacated to march to the bar again. “She seems surprisingly normal.”
“Why is that surprising?”
Chan gives him a look. “She’s a suit.”
“I don’t think so,” Vernon laughs. “Trust me on that.”
Chan hums unconvinced, watching you at the bar. “She’s nice, at least.”
“Very.”
“Don’t fall in love with her or anything.”
“Weird thing to say, man.”
“Yeah, well. She’s attractive, nice, and no offense, a little weird. She’s exactly your type.”
That makes him frown. “What’s weird about her? Also, would that be so bad?”
“She knew the radius of the sun and the verbatim definition of parsecs. I’m not answering that second question because I shouldn’t have to.” Chan claps him on the shoulder, looking over Vernon’s head. “She’s coming back, but seriously. Be careful.”
Chan scoots away, flashing Vernon a look that makes the single drink Vernon has had sour in his stomach. Then you’re there, sitting down next to him, swaying a little bit. He smells sweet tobacco and vanilla, his eyelids fluttering for a second as you shift a little too close - or what would be too close, if you weren’t fake dating.
“What’s that look on your face?” You ask, sipping your drink. He wonders if it’s appropriate to ask if you need water.
“What look on my face?”
“You know, like-” You try to pinch your brows together and your mouth puckers downward. He feels himself smile and he shakes his head. “Sort of frowny.”
“Nothing.” You look at him skeptically. “Hey, I have a question.”
You pause, looking a little panicked. “Okay.”
“What’s the radius of the sun?”
“Oh!” You visibly brighten and it’s like watching the sun spill over the lip of the horizon, all gold and liquid, warm and bright. “432,690 miles. Surface temperature is about 5,772 Kelvin.”
Suddenly, Chan’s warning feels very, very real. Vernon tries to hide his smile, looking down at the table. Meanwhile, you start rattling off facts about the sun, not taking a single breath as you explain you memorized them from when you were working on the marketing for a line of textbooks about space early on in your career.
Vernon lets you talk. Lets you somehow divert back to work, watching as you animatedly walk him through the process of what you do. How you think. It’s fascinating, and he’s not really sure how anyone else could find it tiresome, seeing the way you light up when you tell him about a project that Seungkwan’s team killed it on.
Your pride is palpable, your energy shifting from unsure to confident.
Suddenly, you pause, leveling Vernon with a hard stare. He says nothing, watching the way you drink him in, something beneath the surface of your gaze he can’t quite read. “Can I say something?”
“On the clock?” he asks, grinning. You shake your head and he gestures for you to continue.
“You have pretty eyes. I still like when you wear glasses, though. They suit you.”
Yeah. Vernon thinks Chan’s warning is very real.
-
Running in heels is hard. You don’t know how anyone manages to do it in movies. Not that you think anything that happens in movies is real, but you can’t imagine how they make it work for the scene. You nearly break your ankle three times on your sprint to IT and you’re sure you scare the daylights out of Chan when you come tearing around the corner.
You shout a greeting over your shoulder but don’t stop until you’re hissing Vernon’s name while rushing into his cube. He flinches, turning around to look at you mid-task. You’re heaving, putting a hand on your hip as you straighten, trying to suck down air.
“Say no!”
He’s visibly confused. “To what?”
“Just say no!”
Before Vernon can ask you another thing, you hear Minho’s voice. Your heart thunders in your ribcage as you try to lean against the wall of Vernon’s cube, nearly missing it. You stumble a few steps and he catches you by the elbow, lightning quick as he helps steady you.
When he drops his grip, the place where Vernon had held you moments before is warm. You try not to think about it, heart thundering doubletime as you watch Minho approach, a lazy swing to his step and a smirk on his face.
“Funny I found you here!”
“Why would that be funny? My Vernon - my boyfriend is down here.”
From the corner of his eye, you see Vernon wince. You’re not doing a great job at keeping it casual, but you’re also still out of breath from sprinting down the stairs to beat Minho here and warn Vernon. Seungkwan had barely been able to give you the heads up that Minho was going to ask for a double date, and you simply couldn’t have that.
Even as you near the end of your second week dating - fake dating - Vernon, you’re unsure the two of you can get through a date with someone who actually knows you. Vernon might be able to give some details on the surface, but you dated Minho for a year - how could Vernon ever hope to keep up?
Minho leans against Chan’s cube. Luckily it’s vacant of its usual occupant - Chan hates Mihno, as you’ve recently learned through a lunch with him and Vernon.
“Glad I caught you together, then,” Minho says, though you think he’s not that glad. But what do you know? “I wanted to see if you were busy on-”
“Yes.” You flash him a too-wide grin with too many teeth.
“I didn’t even give you the date.”
“We’re always very busy.”
“Ah.” Minho scratches the back of his neck and gives Vernon a look akin to sympathy. “Never has time, does she? Always all work, no play. I wanted to see if you guys wanted to go to dinner with Mina and I tomorrow night, but…” He shrugs. “Same old.”
You try not to let your exterior crack, but Minho’s words cut right through your outer shell to the softness of you. Without fail he manages to highlight this obsession you have with work, making it sound worse every single time.
Behind you, Vernon shifts closer. You become acutely aware of him suddenly, warmth radiating from him as his chest presses against the back of your arm and his hand slips to the middle of your back, featherlight, like he’s afraid to touch you. He smells like ocean driftwood and salt, something that makes you think of warmer days. Fresh fruit. Cold water.
Fighting a shiver, you freeze up, hyper aware of him.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Vernon says gently. “She doesn’t work that much. She makes plenty of time for me.”
Minho’s eye twitches, the only sign he’s annoyed. As a trained salesperson, his tells are always subtle, nearly undetectable. But you know him inside and out, can see the sliver of annoyance there.
Satisfaction rules supreme, a smile tugging at your lips until Vernon adds, “We can make time for them, right?”
You snap your head to the side, eyes meeting his. Vernon has beautiful eyes. You’d said as much the other night when you had a little too much to drink, staring up at him without his glasses. He looks good without them, but you like the way the frames sit on his nose, the way they reflect light against the liquid brown of his iris.
Now, those eyes are staring back at you straight on. There’s something fierce in them, and though you barely know him, you have a sneaking suspicion Vernon is annoyed. Not with you but with Minho.
Still…
“Are you sure?”
Your question is gentle. For a moment, you forget Minho is there at all. You’re looking at Vernon, trying to puzzle out why he would say yes to something insane again. It was lucky enough he’d offered to participate in this little charade to save your pride, and now here he is doing it again, unprompted.
Vernon’s mouth twitches. He nods, hand pressing into your back a little firmer before he drops it away. You turn to Minho, who watches the two of you with a peculiar expression. “Alright,” you tell him. “It’s a date.”
“Great. I’ll send you the details.”
When Minho leaves, you turn to Vernon, the question on the tip of your tongue. He doesn’t give you a chance, shooting you a sidelong glance as he says, “Why is he always bringing up your work schedule?”
You wince. Vernon either doesn’t notice or is nice enough not to say anything. Instead of answering right away, you sit on top of Vernon’s desk, feet dangling a little. He makes room for you, turning his chair to face you and give you his full attention.
He’s dressed the same as always today, but you notice his shirt is ironed and tucked in neatly. Rubbing his brow, he slides his glasses up on his head, pressing his fingers along his eye sockets like they’re strained.
“What kind of stuff do you do?” You ask instead of answering his question. You gesture to his multiple computer screens. “Besides help me figure out my passwords.”
“Lots of stuff. It’s mostly small things like remoting into people’s computers to help them solve their issues. I spend a majority of my day showing people how to unmute themselves on their virtual meeting software.”
“Do you like it?”
He shrugs. “It’s got a rhythm to it that I like. I like having a to-do list every day and I can pretty much always know what to expect.”
“That does sound nice. And you can spy on everyone’s messages right?”
He raises his brow. “On the clock?” That makes you smile and you shake your head. “I could, but I don’t. There are a ton of people who forget us and HR can see all their shit, though.”
“Ooo like what?”
He sucks in air through his teeth, “Man, I don’t think I can tell you.”
You can tell he’s teasing and you scoff, kicking out with your foot toward his knee. He dodges you easily with a playful grin. “Come on!”
“I’ll tell you off the clock. Real off the clock.”
“Fine. Speaking of - are you busy tonight?” He raises his brows in question. “We should probably meet up and try to flesh out some details of our uh… relationship. I know some things about you but not a lot. Like, when is your birthday?”
“February 18.”
You slap your hand on top of his desk. “Vernon! That’s super soon! Are you doing anything for it?”
“Nah. I don’t ever want to make a fuss and it's close to Valentine’s Day so sometimes people are doing things retroactively.”
You hum, displeased with the answer, but you file it away for later. “So are you free tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool, you can come over to my place. Do you like pizza? You have to like pizza, right? You’re a boy.”
“A lot of boys like pizza, yes. Specifically me.”
“Good. Seven?”
“Seven.”
-
A knock at the door makes you look up from your computer. It takes a second for your eyes to adjust, the light outside the office windows long fading with the setting sun and the only other source the salt lamp behind you and the burn of the safety lights in the main cubicles.
Vernon leans against the door frame, resting his head against it as he peers at you. For a second, you forget about everything except the way he looks leaned against the frame, his glasses perfectly perched on his nose and hair soft with wear from the day.
Then, you lurch with realization, gasping and looking at your watch. “It’s seven.”
“It’s seven,” he agrees, laughing gently.
You bolt from the seat, groaning and grabbing things to shove in your bag. In the process, you knock over a cup and a curse flies out your lips. He pushes off the door, walking over to help you tame the chaos.
“Easy,” he admonishes. “All good here, don’t panic.”
“I’m really sorry. I got stuck working through this media plan that someone asked for and I completely lost track of time.”
“It’s okay.”
The panic welling up inside you calms down as you look up at him. Vernon says nothing further, picking up your cup and righting the pens that you’ve knocked over. His movements are casual, straightening the things on your desk until he’s satisfied and steps away.
You prepare for annoyance, for the same expression you’re used to when you’re late to an event or have missed a thing, when you’ve yet again lost track of time holed up in your office and yet… Vernon just gives you an easy smile and a shrug.
No annoyance. No judgment. Just… Vernon.
Perhaps tenfold isn’t so bad.
“It’s not pizza, but there's a tiny little bar a few blocks down that I really like. They serve food.”
“Yeah?”
He nods and hesitates. “It’s… themed, though.”
“That’s okay. I like a theme.”
The theme in question isn’t so much of a theme as it is an entire franchise. You stand in the doorway of Cantina Far Away, mouth parted as you drink in the sights and sounds of the Star Wars themed bar.
A circular bar sits in the middle of the small establishment. There isn’t a ton of room to recreate the iconic corner of the world where you were first introduced to Han Solo as a kid, but there’s just enough to make the magic work.
Kegs and other apparatuses hang from the ceiling of the stone top bar. Lights track underneath the bar top and in the ceiling, giving the dim illusion that it’s permanently dusk inside. Small, round tables fill the main space, with three booths lined against the back wall. An R2-D2 replica stands beside C3-PO in the corner, and a familiar soundtrack plays through the sound system.
“If you want to go somewhere else-”
“Do they have blue milk?”
Vernon pauses. “What?”
You look up at him, grinning. “Do they have the blue milk?”
“They have something on their menu like that, yeah. I don’t know what it is.”
“I always wanted to drink the blue milk as a kid.”
“Alright.” He gestures to the bar, which is mostly empty. “Let’s get you blue milk.”
Popping up on a stool, you can’t help but crane your neck upward to look at the bar from this angle. It truly looks like every part of it was taken from the movie set. You run your hand atop the bar’s surface to realize it’s actually wood that looks like stone, marveling at the smoothness.
Behind the bar, two bartenders move in sync, dressed in Jedi robes. When they approach, you both order the blue milk - you, because you demand to know what it tastes like, Vernon, in solidarity.
Vibrating with excitement, you turn to look at Vernon. “When I was a kid, watching Star Wars was one of the few things my mom and I got to do together.”
“One of the few things?”
You nod, clapping your hands excitedly when the bartender brings you whatever concoction the blue milk is. It comes in a tall glass and is clear, baby blue and frothy at the top. Leaning over, you take a whiff. It smells vaguely coconutty and you narrow your eyes, leaning forward to take a tentative sip.
Coconut rum hits your tongue and you cringe. Vernon does too, making a face and sticking his tongue out as he immediately shoves the drink away from him. You laugh, not even caring that you hate it. It tastes nothing like you expected and you don’t really like coconut, but it strikes a nostalgic chord.
“My mom was a single parent and worked really hard at a law firm,” you eventually answer, taking another sip and cringing. Vernon orders something more generic - a rum and coke for you both. “But she always made time on the weekend if I really wanted to do a Star Wars marathon and she took off work for all the prequel releases to take me.”
“That’s cute. My mom was really into it too. Want to know a secret?”
“Yes.”
“My first name is Hansol. A little inspired by Han Solo. I prefer to go by Vernon with everyone who isn’t my family, though.”
That makes you smile. “I like it, though. Your mom has good taste like mine. Think they’d be friends?”
He blushes. “Maybe.”
You realize how forward of a question it is. You avert your gaze to your blue drink, sipping it and grimacing. Vernon chuckles and says, “You don’t have to drink it.”
“I don’t have to do a lot of things but I do anyway.”
“Hmm. Like what?”
“Ugh. I don’t know? Attend meetings all day?”
“I think you do have to do that.”
You scrunch your nose. “Alright, fair.”
“Tell me about your job.”
You glance at him, brows raised. “You want me to talk about work?”
“It’s obvious you like what you do, and by the sounds of it, working hard runs in the family. Tell me what you like about it.”
That makes you sigh as you push the ice around in your glass. What do you like about your job? Well, you like a lot of things and you hate a lot of things. So you start listing them, telling Vernon that you like the routine and you enjoy having a rhythm to your day. You like feeling proud when you can solve a problem no one else can, or when you lead your team through chaos and they look at you like you’re a god who showed them the way.
You like that you can be an authority in the room but you don’t feel like a dictator, and that now when you talk, people listen. Your team is your favorite, loving the way you and Seungkwan work in tandem, and the way the creative department likes to pick your brain. Mingyu and Soonyoung are always asking for your feedback, even if your opinion doesn’t matter in the hierarchy of their world.
The dislikes though… well, you dislike that you never have enough time in the day. That you’re always in a meeting and feel like you leave your team drowning in work picking up the slack. Hate that you get time blindness and sit in your office for hours past dinner to get something right, to get something perfect.
Hate that because you like what you do, everyone thinks you don’t have a life or don’t want a life. And that leads you to the center of the entire issue with your relationship with Minho.
You pull away like you’re approaching a particularly purple bruise when you near the topic of Minho. Your blue drink is gone and you order something more normal instead. The coke and rum sizzles on your tongue as Vernon looks at you expectantly.
“I’m doing all the talking,” you mutter, a little defensive. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue.”
“What kind of blue.”
“Blue like that very nasty milk you just drank.” You stick your tongue out and Vernon smiles. His smile is like a burning star at the center of a solar system, glowing and bright and warm. It gives life. “What’s yours?”
“Deep red. Like… wine or burgundy. What’s your favorite movie?”
“Ah, not that question. I’m a bit of a cinephile.”
“Too bad. You have to pick one.”
Vernon thinks about it. The tip of his finger traces the condensation of his glass lazily and you hyperfocus on it, watching the way he catches the bead of liquid every time. He has nice fingers, you realize. The thought makes you clench and suddenly wonder if you need to walk out of the bar down to the church to confess the sin of your mind.
Not that you’re religious, but maybe you should be, with where your mind has wandered.
“I like The Princess Bride.”
You gasp, grabbing him by the wrist and shaking it excitedly. “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, prepare to die!”
Vernon’s laughter is infectious. You both fall into a fit of giggles, quoting your favorite parts of the movie. It’s nice - this is nice. It’s unexpected and you’re a little unsure how you got here, but Vernon makes the pressure of getting to know one another in preparation to fake date in front of your ex fade away.
Until, of course, you remember that’s why you’re at the bar and the thought suddenly sobers you.
Straightening, you ask, “Why’d you want to go on a double date, anyway? You don’t owe me that.”
“He seemed kind of smug. I thought it was annoying.”
You hum, studying him. “It’s a bit risky. I dated him for a year… if there’s anyone who knows anything about me, it’s probably him.”
“I can always just hack into your data and learn everything about you.” You stare at him, mouth opens. His grin grows. “I’m kidding. I mean I probably could but I’m not a hacker.”
“Are you sure? You’re a bit suspicious, Vernon Chwe.”
“Hansol.” You frown in confusion. His tone is gentle, eyes soft when he murmurs, “You can call me Hansol. You know… to make it um. Seems legit.”
“Hansol.” You try out the name, liking the way it fits on your tongue. His eyes are dark and you feel like you could fall into them - you kind of want to. “Hansol. I like it.”
Maybe you don’t need to go to that church to beg for forgiveness after all. What you think you need might be divine intervention to stop the butterflies in your stomach when you say his name, or the nervous shake in your hand when you see him smile.
Not Vernon (from IT) but Hansol.
-
Hansol (from IT) is late when he picks you up. For once, you’re just glad it’s not you. Your heart beats a little faster when you see him pull up in his nondescript, black RAV4. He waves through the window when he sees you, a shy smile on his face as he reaches to turn down the music.
Inside the car smells distinctly like Hansol - driftwood, salt, a little bit of the air freshener that has long since dried but still sways under his rearview mirror. He looks good tonight, dressed in ripped jeans, a black shirt and a black leather jacket. He’s sans glasses, and though he looks good, you miss them a little.
Hansol without the glasses is a little intimidating. Especially this version of him that grins when you settle into the seat next to him, his brows slightly raised as though to ask if you’re good. When you nod, his grin tilts upward again and he puts the car and drive, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gear shift tapping to the beat of the music.
It feels like you’re radiating nervous energy, but you relax as Hansol asks about your day. He’s good at that, eliminating whatever weight is sitting on your shoulders or whatever residual stress you’ve got from work. You don’t feel so… well. On the clock.
The thought makes you squirm in your seat, pulling the edge of your dress down your thighs a little. You picked it out as a last minute choice, unsure whether you’re trying to dress to impress or dress to show you don’t care what Minho thinks of you.
Hansol notices you fidgeting. “You alright?”
“Kind of nervous.”
“Any reason in particular?”
You blow out air, your head smacking against the headrest. “On the clock?”
“Off,” he says with a grin.
“I feel like I’m going to fucking blow it.”
“How so?”
“What if he asks me to kiss you?”
The words are out before you can stop them. It isn’t until you’re met with silence that you realize what you’ve said. You’ve certainly stuck your foot in your mouth on more than one occasion. You do it often, and quite wonderfully, truthfully. It has taken years of practice to stop flubbing presentations and pitches at work, but that doesn’t mean you don’t say insane shit.
Like right now, when you tell Hansol that of all the things you’re nervous about, the very slim, tiny percent of a chance of being asked to kiss him is at the top of the list.
And yet, because it’s Hansol, he grins and says, “Damn, Minho’s a freak like that? He likes to ask people to kiss so he can watch?”
Just like that, the tension eases. You laugh, hand flying your mouth to try and suppress it. His eyes are on the road, but they glitter when you catch a glimpse of his face in the headlines, flashing from dark to liquid gold for a split second.
“Okay,” you admit, laughter dying down. “He’s definitely not going to ask that. It’s just one of those irrational fears, especially with him.”
“Why especially?”
“I feel like he’s always trying to prove that he was right when he broke up with me. Or I guess, in general. He loves being right and sometimes it’s like he’s trying to force a gotcha moment.”
Hansol is silent as he turns into the parking lot. You say nothing, watching as he navigates to find a parking space. The restaurant is busy and there’s a valet, but Hansol is determined to find his own. He does - very close to the entrance - letting out a happy noise as a car backs out.
Car in park, he turns to look at you. “Can I say something? Not on the clock.”
Your heart skips a little. “Sure.”
“Minho is an asshole.” You smile, looking down at your hands folded in your lap. “And you’re going to get through dinner just fine because he’s an asshole, and you’re not.”
“Are you sure?”
His laugh is full. “I’m actually pretty confident in this. And if he does ask us to kiss, you have my full consent to lay one on me. Come on.”
You wish you felt as confident as Hansol seems. He slides out of the car easily, coming around to your side as you get out. He reaches out a hand almost instinctively, waiting for you to grab it. You look at him in surprise to find that he looks equally stunned at his own gesture.
Grinning, you take his hand. It’s warm in yours and he gives you a squeeze as you drop your linked fingers between you, walking toward the establishment like a real couple.
It feels real. You’re not sure what to do with that. The sudden realization of it churns in your stomach as you approach the dark interior of the steakhouse, immediately hit with a romantic ambiance that feels far too big for this tiny thing brewing inside of you.
Twelvefold? How many times have you suffered since that first day you ran into Hansol at the bookstore? You think it might continue through the evening, especially when he glances over at you on the way to the table to check on you, hand tightening for a split second.
As soon as you spot Minho and Mina, you’re glad that Hansol has a steady grip on you. Mina’s glossy hair is nearly blinding under the glow of the soft lighting and her smile is brighter still. You almost want to shield your eyes as they wave you over.
Neither of them seems to know if they should stand and greet you or what the protocol is. Good, you think, happy to see them as off kilter as you feel by this very weird and very unnecessary dinner date.
Why had Hansol agreed to do this again?
“She keep you late?” Minho asks Hansol, immediately reminding you why Hansol had said yes in the first place: he seemed kind of smug. I thought it was annoying. “You’ll get used to it!”
“Actually, it was me,” Hansol answers smoothly. He pulls out your chair for you, startling you again. You try to fein admiration - it’s not hard - and sit, looking up at him with a little bit of awe. Hansol sits, adjusting his seat so that it’s a little closer to yours. “I was working on an infrastructure request and lost track of time.”
That seems to shut Minho up for a moment. Then he laughs his businessman laugh and you wonder if it’s always sounded that way, hollow and fake and… well, annoying. “Damn, so you’re both like that?”
“Yep.” Hansol leans back in his chair, stretching his arm so that it rests over the back of yours. He doesn’t explicitly touch you, but you feel the warmth of him radiating like a furnace, a shiver snaking through you at how close he is. “Works well for us.”
You try not to frown. He’s not going to make it easy for your fake breakup. You’d assumed that you’d tell everyone you just didn’t have time for him, but with the way he’s talking to Minho now, you’re worried it’ll make the impending breakup a little less believable.
“That’s good, then,” Minho says eventually. “Just don’t schedule any vacations or you’ll both miss it.”
“I never did that,” you scowl.
Before he has time for a rebuttal, the server is there welcoming you to the restaurant. You shift in your seat, feeling irritated. Hansol senses it, the tips of his finger brushing against your bicep as if to tell you it’s okay. You relax, but only a little, still frustrated.
Again, you can’t help but feel like your faults are being exacerbated, like Minho is drawing them up to be far grander than they really were. You had missed some dinners and cancelled on some things, but you’d never gone as far as to miss a vacation or a birthday - never the big things. Never the milestones.
If the server can tell the energy at the table has shifted, they don’t let on. They pour glasses of wine that you let Hansol order while you’re spiraling in your head, and leave with the promise of coming back to take orders when the table is ready.
It’s Mina who restarts the conversation, glancing at Minho who sucks down the entire glass of wine in a single go. “So,” she says. “What is it exactly that you do?”
“Careful with that question,” Minho jokes. “She’ll talk to you about work for hours.”
“Which is what makes her good at her job.” Hansol’s voice is even. Smooth. Almost severe, a tone you’ve never heard from him before. Tension ripples from him for just a moment before he looks at you and smiles. “Her job is very cool.”
Unlike her blockhead of a boyfriend, Mina seizes the chance for normalcy and asks, “Marketing, right?”
Mina (with the glossy hair) is really nice. You like her almost immediately and strangely enough, you’re glad she’s there. Minho is like a stormcloud at the edge of the table, a little pocket of pressure that everyone can feel but tries to ignore.
Hansol makes your fake relationship look effortless. You have to mask your surprise when he recounts a detail about you that you didn’t expect him to know, or makes an observation that has you warming, ducking your face to hide the smile tugging your lips.
You know little things about him too. It’s almost like you weren’t aware until you’re saying them, all the small things about him bubbling to your lips like an instinct.
“He’s such an Aquarius!” You laugh, finish the rest of your steak. “The IT department is full of them, even and they’re all so effortlessly cool and have different interests. Hansol has the coolest case full of Star Wars collectibles and-”
“Hansol?”
Minho’s question catches you off guard. You blink at him a few times, confused until Hansol interjects, “That’s my legal name.”
“Damn. Should we be calling you Hansol?”
“Nope. Reserved for my mom and my girlfriend.”
“Wow.”
Minho sits back and observes the two of you. The plates have been cleared away for the evening and the glasses of wine have dwindled. You’re a little sleepy, ready to go home, but the appraising look in Minho’s eyes as they flicker back and forth between you and Hansol has you on edge.
Hansol seems unbothered, finishing his water. His arm rests against your back properly now and you almost melt when his fingers start to trace a pattern on your arm, almost absently. You’re so acutely aware of him that you’re nearly vibrating, telling yourself over and over again that this is just him committing to the bit. This isn’t something to overthink. His touch is for show.
You don’t want it to be for show. God, you don’t want it to be, but you try not to let it unravel right now, instead finishing your water under the heavy and calculating gaze of your ex-boyfriend, who, over the course of dinner, has made you realize you are so grateful is your ex.
“Huh.”
“What?” you ask, voice coming out a little more challenging than you intend. He has that look on his face like he’s trying to figure something out, like he’s trying to position himself in a way where he’s not wrong.
“You guys are really together.”
That makes you stiffen. Hansol’s fingers go still on your arm. “What do you mean?”
“You just didn’t really seem like you were dating at the bookstore. It didn’t even seem like you knew who Vernon was.”
“It was still new,” You lie. “I also wasn’t expecting to run into you both. That’s all.”
“I guess. Just… find it surprising, I guess. Figured you’d never have time for someone.”
It’s Hansol who says, “She has plenty of time for me. Speaking of time, it’s time we head home. I have to finish up some stuff for work tomorrow and she just finished an insane project and deserves some sleep.”
Again, Minho seems thrown for a loop. You could get used to seeing him like a fish out of water, trying not to let an evil smirk take over your face when Hansol beats everyone to the check.
There is an edge to Hansol’s movements. You observe him quietly, noting the way his mouth is pinched at the corners and the way his eyes darken when he looks at Minho. But when he looks at you, it’s like the world stops. Hansol’s eyes soften and his lips turn up at the corner, a gentle smile for you.
Only you.
You’re fucked. You’re fucked fucked fucked and it’s nearly all you can think about as dinner wraps up and Minho and Mina thank Hansol for paying. You want to smack him for offering to pay for the insanely expensive bill, but he takes everything in stride.
Outside, it’s a little cold. Hansol shucks his jacket off immediately, wrapping it around your shoulders while giving Mina some sort of computer advice that goes over your head because all you can focus on is the way Hansol smoothes the jacket over your shoulder, his hand dropping to your waist to keep you close.
You’re dizzy with it. Dizzy with him. You can’t recall a single time you ever felt this affected by Minho, much less anyone else. Despite having two glasses of wine, you know it’s Hansol and not the wine that has you buzzing. Hansol who has you warm, Hansol who makes it feel like there’s static in your brain when he glances at you to make sure you’re still okay after you’ve gone silent.
Hansol gives you a quick smile and turns to say farewell to the other couple. You’re happy to say goodbye - though perhaps you should have asked Mina her haircare routine - and you wave as Hansol leads you into the parking lot, fingers intertwined.
He turns to you, making you look up at him. “I’m going to kiss you,” he murmurs, barely giving you a warning. “Unless you say no.”
“I - okay.”
There is the barest of smiles on Hansol’s face before he leans in, pressing his lips against yours. It’s brief and gentle, so quick that you barely register he’s kissed you at all. He’s already pulling away when you blink, nearing his car as he does.
“He was a dick,” Hansol explains. “And he was staring at us when we left. So. Let him question what’s real now.”
Minho isn’t the only one questioning what’s real. You’re hung up on the kiss, despite it being nothing more than a peck. Your mouth is warm, thoughts spinning as Hansol helps you into the car. You say nothing, completely consumed by the feel of his mouth, the smell of driftwood and salt, the barest taste of wine.
The drive home is quiet but not uncomfortable. Hansol’s hand grabs yours instinctually over the center console, fingers tied together loosely as he drives. But there’s no one to perform for her, no one to show off too. No one who needs convincing.
It’s just you and the burning desire for him bubbling up inside of you.
You’ve lost count of how many folds you have suffered, but somehow, this one is a little less worse than the others.
-
Hansol cannot stop thinking about you. He’s pretty sure the last time he had brain rot this bad about another person, it was Larcy Dodsen in his senior year of college who had blown him to heaven and back. He’s had better (and worse) blowjobs since then, and doesn’t really think of Larcy Dodsen ever anymore.
But you. You.
You occupy every corner of his mind. He wavers back and forth between thinking about the way you smell or the way you laugh (a little reedy, but cute) and thinking about how bad he fucked up by kissing you that night.
Things aren’t exactly weird. The very basis of your relationship - or lack thereof - is weird. He’d agreed to be your fake boyfriend for a month, but with zero terms. No contract outline. No do’s and don’ts. No guidelines. No rules. No regulations. Just an agreement and a fucking dream.
Now, he’s wishing he had something to go off of, because what started out as an agreement to help someone out has turned into something else entirely.
Chan was right. Hansol is desperately trying to hide that fact from his best friend, but the way Chan side-eyes Hansol at lunch when he stares off into the distance, he thinks that the younger man might be onto him.
It doesn’t help that Hansol is buried in Help Desk tickets the weekend following kissing you, and you’re six feet under in a pile of projects. It isn’t until he goes a few days without talking to you multiple times that it’s occurred to him how much he texts you during the day.
Hansol finds himself checking his phone again at lunch, swearing that he felt it vibrate. This time, Chan catches him, putting down the fork and clearing his throat to gesture at the phone. “So it happened, right?”
“What?” Even Hansol winces at his own defensiveness. “I can’t check the time?”
“Do you check the time three times every five minutes? I know you can do math.”
“Just checking to see how her presentation went.”
Chan laughs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Right. So it did happen.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
He doesn’t. Chan knows it. Hansol knows it. Chan gets more specific anyway. “You like her. As in, you have feelings for her after… well. This weekend will make it a month. So wouldn’t that be your deal coming to an end?”
Hansol wants to think about anything other than that. “Everything is fine.”
Chan holds up his hand, a white flag. “You’re an adult. You can do what you want. Just make sure you know what she wants too, is all I’m saying.”
And that’s the crux of it. Hansol isn’t sure what you want. He assumed that you just wanted to get through this month and your fake breakup, but now he’s not so sure. He thinks of the way you’d look at him during dinner last weekend, the way your expression gets dreamy with a soft smile, eyes glowing.
Hansol doesn’t think he made it up - his creativity is good but not that good. He had been so sure that you felt something too, swears that you melted into him every time he touched you, every time he turned to check in on you.
And the kiss… it had been brief and born from wanting to rub it in Minho’s face, but Hansol had wanted to do it, too. Wanted it for himself. Wanted to allow himself a single, greedy thing. You’d been surprised but leaned into him, almost instinctual. It had been so short but it haunts his dreams, the phantom press of your mouth keeping him up late at night.
Even now, Hansol’s fingers trace his mouth, as though he can remember the feeling of your mouth against his. So maybe Chan is right. Hansol likes you - has feelings for you. There is a lingering sense that you might too, but he’s not sure.
He needs to be sure.
Finding a window to make sure, is tough, though. He only hears from you once throughout the rest of the day, and it's to shoot him a quick text that the presentation was moved to Monday and that you have to work all weekend on it.
He feels more disappointed than he lets on. He wonders if you remember his birthday is on Saturday. Not that you owe him that since you’re not actually dating, but in a perfect world Hansol thinks it might have been a good day to tell you how he feels. That he kind of wants to make this thing real.
On the bright side, you do remember his birthday. On the shitty side, he can’t spend it with you. You’re working on your presentation for the foreseeable future, and Hansol had hesitated to make plans with his friends knowing some of them were celebrating Valentine’s Day late with their partners and because he’d hoped to maybe spend it with you.
It feels stupid, thinking about it now. Of course you weren’t going to spend it with him. He knew what this was when he offered to do it. You were a bright burning star at the top of the company, and Hansol had been someone you barely registered.
By the afternoon, he’s still sullen. He’s thinking about just spending the evening eating pizza and playing video games online where he’ll get bullied by a bunch of high schoolers when he hears his phone ring and your name flashes across the screen.
Hansol’s heart soars. He all but throws the control across the room, diving to pick up the phone and answer, “Hi!”
“Please don’t hate me,” you rush out, completely out of breath. “I am panicking right now. My work laptop randomly got the blue screen of death and I’m in the middle of my project and-”
“I’ll come look at it.” He cringes, realizing how down bad he is. It’s his birthday and he shouldn’t have to work, but he’d rather come solve a problem for you than have a bunch of thirteen year old’s tell him that they’re fucking his mom. “I can come over in fifteen.”
“Oh! Uh… can you make that twenty?”
Weird. “Sure?”
“Great! Text me when you’re here and I’ll give you the unit number.”
Twenty minutes ends up being perfect, because Hansol goes through the mental anguish of what to wear, which is new for him. He showers as quickly and efficiently as he can, hopping with one leg in his jeans and the other missing the hole multiple times. He nearly runs into the wall as he’s pulling on a band tee over his head while also looking for his flannel.
Hair still damp, he pulls on a hat and twists it around backward, grabbing his glasses because he doesn’t feel like wearing contacts (and because you said you liked them) as he barrels out the house, radiating with nervous energy.
Hansol wonders if it’s appropriate to tell you how he feels today. It will be face to face but… no. You’d sounded stressed on the phone and he knows how important this presentation is for you, despite not knowing what it’s about.
He barely remembers the drive to your apartment, blinking and realizing he’s parked and texting you that he’s there. You give him directions to your unit and with shaky hands, Hansol turns off the car. He takes a few steadying breaths before getting out and heading to the stairs, his heart hammering with each step.
When he finally gets to your door, he double checks that it's the right one. His hands shake when he knocks, and he has to remind himself several times that he’s just here to fix your computer. Sure, he’s thrilled that he gets to see you, but this is on the clock. Not off.
You’re breathless when you open the door. “Hi!” You say a little too loudly. He raises his brows but you open the door and step aside, ushering him in. “Come on in.”
Hansol gives you an amused grin as he walks into your apartment. He’s confused as to why it’s completely dark, a question that he’s about to ask you as you shut the door, but you flick on the lights and he’s met with the world’s loudest shout of surprise he’s ever heard.
He flinches, hand flying to his chest in terror as the lights flood on and Hansol realizes that the reason they were off is to hide the obscene amount of Star Wars decorations covering every part of your apartment. He can’t even picture what your home is supposed to look like, just that it’s covered in streamers and paper Luke Skywalkers and RD-D2s, and filled with familiar faces.
Hansol’s mouth pops open as the crowd screams at him. Chan and Seokmin are at the forefront, phones in hand capturing Hansol as he stands there, dumbfounded. Soongyoung and Mingyu are blowing through noise makers with so much force that the paper on them breaks, and Seungkwan is leading an off-key rendition of happy birthday with Hansol’s friends you’ve never even met.
Slowly, Hansol turns to look at you. You’re standing behind him, hands clasped nervously and tucked under your chin as you watch him, terrified. You’re chewing on your lips, entire frame vibrating with energy.
He wants nothing more than to walk over to you and kiss you stupid. The flame of desire that licks through him is borderline impossible to tamp down, staring at you like the eighth world wonder as you slip over to him, scanning his face.
“Surprise?” You squeak.
“You did this for me?”
“Well, yeah.”
You say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He wants to pin you against the island counter behind you, but it’s fill with food and beverages and blue fucking milk. “Is that okay?” you ask, suddenly nervous.
Hansol softens and starts to laugh. “Yeah,” he shakes his head. “It is more than okay.”
Before he can say anything else, the crowd of people crashes into him. Seokmin and Chan are screaming in his ear, grabbing him and yelling for shots. Mingyu and Soonyoung are chanting his name and his best friend from college manages to squeeze in and give him a hug and a birthday greeting.
How did you even know Minghao existed? Or how to contact him? Hansol has no idea, but before he can ask you any questions about the how or the why, he’s swept into your kitchen for birthday celebrations he thought would never happen, orchestrated by the single person he wanted to see most.
Fuck was Chan right more than ever.
-
The thing about being a bad liar is that you found it nearly impossible to hide what you were doing from Hansol. The thing about everyone thinking you’re always busy, is that it was an easy facade to shield the sheer stress of trying to plan a surprise party for him.
Your apartment is filled with more people than you’ve ever dared to let inside. It makes you a little nervous for all of these people to see this new part of you, but with a little bit of rum and the released pressure of Hansol looking like he’s enjoying himself, you decide it’s worth it.
Squished in the corner of your couch, you watch as Chan leads a game of cards that he is losing very badly at. Most of these people in your apartment are casual friends, with the exception of Seungkwan who is playing DJ in the kitchen, but they’re all friends that Hansol would want at a celebration for him.
At least, that’s what Chan and Seokmin said. Recruiting them had been pretty easy, but during the process of them helping you plan this, you’re pretty sure they’ve caught on to the AT-AT Walker-sized elephant in the room: you are very much into their friend. In a very Not-On-The-Clock appropriate way.
Now, you watch as Hansol makes his way over to you, dodging people who stop to talk to him. He seems pretty determined to reach you, clapping someone on the shoulder and moving them aside to continue his journey to you.
Your stomach flips when he sits on the arm of your couch, perched perfectly next to you. He looks good today, dressed in jeans, a soft looking tee and a flannel. The backwards hat does wonders for you - which you will not be psychoanalyzing now - and his black frame glasses.
“How did you do all this?” He asks, shaking his head in wonder. “I just… what?”
“It wasn’t easy, but it worked, right?”
“Is this the presentation you’ve been working on all week?”
“Yes. Please don’t be mad at me for lying.”
He laughs. “I couldn’t be mad at you if I tried.”
An argument breaks out over cards, Chan and Mingyu yelling at each other about someone cheating. Hansol winces at the noise and you scoot a little closer to avoid the deck of cards Mingyu throws in Chan’s direction.
“Is there anywhere quiet we can talk?” Hansol asks, though he’s laughing at them. “They’re giving me a bit of a headache.”
You grin. “For sure.”
Getting up, you lead Hansol down the hall to your bedroom, which is off limits to the rest of the party. The good thing about adult festivities is that no one is a weirdo about going into rooms they shouldn’t, staying exactly where it’s appropriate to be.
Shutting the door behind you, the noise of the party dies down immediately. It’s dark in your room, save for the single lamp burning in the corner at a low setting. You realize it’s a bit messy, apologizing to Hansol as you kick clothes out of the way. You hadn’t intended on bringing him in here, and suddenly the implication of Hansol standing in your room tingles down your spine.
“I, uh-” You stammer, looking at him. “Sorry it’s a mess. I didn’t intend on anyone seeing this.”
Halloween yowls, getting up off your bed. Hansol makes a surprised sound and you apoogize again, “It’s just Halloween. He likes to sleep in here. Out, kitty!”
You open the door and Halloween bolts out, going to find Seungkwan who will give him snacks.
Hansol grins and wanders over to the bookshelf, looking over the titles. You take a few steps to follow him but keep your distance, suddenly very nervous. He points his finger at a title and looks at you, inviting you to step closer to read it in the dim light.
You recognize the title - you’d bought it the day you’d crashed into him and got some of your books mixed up.
“This one one of the books you accidentally swapped with me,” Hansol notes, running his finger along the spine. You zero in on his finger - his hands, in general. They’re pretty. You swallow hard, looking up at the ceiling instead. “Have you read it yet?”
“Not yet. I started one of the others but I’ve been having trouble breeding - reading lately.”
Hansol presses his lips together in a flat line and you can tell he’s trying not to laugh at you. Warmth floods your face and you want to die on the spot, especially when he turns to face you head on, leaning against your bookcase.
His eyes are dark, drinking you in. Your pulse skyrockets, thinking about that quick kiss he had given you the other night. It’s all you’ve been able to think about, too afraid to ask him if it was just for show and too busy trying to plan this party to work out what to say about it.
Now, alone in your room, the questions fizzle on your tongue at the nearness of him.
“Thank you,” Hansol says eventually. “For planning this. I… would never have expected you to do that.”
“I wanted to celebrate you.”
He blushes, ducking his head. “It’s sweet. It did make me nervous, though.”
“Why?”
“I thought you were avoiding me, kind of.”
You blink. “Why on earth would I be doing that?”
“Thought that maybe I took it too far with the kiss.”
“No. You didn’t.”
Hansol’s gaze falls on you. It’s razor sharp and there’s something there, burning just under the surface. You swear it’s something like desire, but you’re too afraid to name it. Too worried that it’s just what you want reflected in his glassy gaze, and not his.
Then, “Did I not take it far enough?”
The question hangs in the air. You cannot hear anything but the pounding of your own heart. It’s just Hansol in this dark room with you, looking at you with exactly the same hunger that’s been churning in your gut.
You don’t know when this hunger started. All you know is that the last few weeks, it’s been there. Every time you look at him you feel it ignite, the desire so raw that you don’t know what to do with it.
Now, you know he feels it too - see it, in the way he waits for your answer. Patient. Calm. Steady.
“On the clock?” You ask, voice shaky. He shakes his head no. “You could go further.”
That’s all Hansol needs. He’s gentle when he reaches for you, cradling your face in his hands. You barely get to suck in a trembling breath before he’s kissing you.
This kiss is entirely different from the peck he gave you in the parking lot last weekend. This kiss steals the breath from your lung, his mouth confident and sure as he slots his mouth against yours. He smells like the sea, all driftwood and salt and his lips taste like the tangy drink he’d been sipping on earlier.
Everything else fades to the background. Your hands twist in his flannel. It’s soft, but nothing compared to the softness of Hansol’s tongue as he licks at the seam of your lips. You let him in and he groans, pulling you in impossibly closer as the kiss turns more desperate.
You melt. He kisses you hungrily now, sucking your tongue into his mouth. It makes your head spin, the party long forgotten as you press further into him. The bookshelf wobbles under the weight of both of you leaning against it, making you break, both of you panting.
Hansol’s mouth shines with your spit in the low lamp light and you have the urge to lean forward and lick it. You resist, only for him to give into his urge. He leans forward, tongue pressing to the corner of your mouth gently.
“What about now?” he mumbles, voice muffled against your mouth. “Too far?”
“No.”
He makes a sound in the back of his throat, hands dropping to your waist. You let him grip you, backing you up toward your bed. It’s a bit clumsy but you don’t care, hands looping around his neck to keep him close.
“Tell me what you want,” Hansol mumbles. Your knees hit the bed and you let yourself fall backward. He follows you, caging you in with both of his planted on either side of your head. “Tell me how far you want me to go.”
“On the clock?”
“Fuck no. Nothing I want to do right now is on the clock.”
“Good. I want you to go as far as you want.”
He drops his mouth to your neck. A moan slips between your lips when you feel his tongue scrape across the soft skin of your throat. He sounds strained when he says, “You gotta tell me, baby. I need to know what you want.”
“You.” It’s the most honest thing you’ve said all month. “All of it. Everything. But for real.”
Hansol nods. He presses messy, wet kisses up your neck, along your jaw, stopping at your mouth. His nose nudges yours and he smiles against your lips, giving you a chaste peck. “You’ve got me. For real.”
Grinning, you slide your hands underneath his shirt. He moans, throaty and delicious. He twitches under your exploration but he lets you brush your palms up the warmth of his stomach, reaching around until your hands are gripping his lower back.
His mouth attaches to yours again. The kiss is messy and addictive, Hansol filling your senses as he lowers himself so that his weight is rested on top of you. It’s comforting and wanted, your knees squeezing his hips to hold him in place.
One of his hands leaves the mattress to drop to your hip, squeezing before he scratches his nails against your thigh. You shiver, feeling the stimulation through your jeans. His hand slips under you, gripping the curve of your ass to lift you a little, pressing you closer to him.
A moan slips through your mouth to his when he rolls your hips against him. The stimulation isn’t remotely enough but you like this version of Hansol. His touch is confident, his lips intentful as they leave a trail from your mouth to your collarbone.
With one last squeeze to your ass, Hansol traces his fingers over the tops of your thigh to drop between your legs. He presses his fingers to the apex of your thighs, working you through your clothes. You let out a desperate sound and you feel the way he smiles against your skin.
His touch sparks a flame. You tear at his flannel, peeling it from his shoulders. He helps you get it off of him but he’s just as eager to peel you out of your jeans and shirt. A deep curse leaves his mouth when he sees you in just a bra and underwear, your chest heaving as you pant, staring up at him, mouth swollen and tender.
Reaching for him, you grab the hat and throw it. “Hat is very hot,” you admit. “But I wanted to do this.”
You slide your fingers in his hair, curling them through the strands to tug him back to you. He smiles into the kiss, tangling his tongue with yours. His hand skims up your thigh, fingers leaving a trail of goosebumps as he goes until he slides his hand back between your legs.
A gasp leaves you as he presses his fingers back to your cunt, pressing the fabric into your aching clit. He whispers a string of curses when he feels how damp you are, resting his forehead against your shoulder for a moment as he teases you over your panties.
“Please,” you whisper, hips rising off the bed. “Want more.”
“Mhmm.” He lifts his head and gives you a quick kiss to the cheek. “I’ve got you.”
Hansol doesn’t make you beg. You like that about him. Your breath catches when he drops to his knees, reaching his arm up to pull the back of his shirt over his head, tossing it. The sight of him between your knees in just jeans, his hair mussed and mouth swollen is enough to make you dizzy.
You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching with hooded eyes as Hansol grabs you by the calves, spreading you a little more. His hands are gentle and warm, rubbing up and down while he takes his time pressing a myriad of kisses up the right side of your inner thigh.
It feels so good. Your lashes flutter a little, breath coming in quicker. Everywhere his mouth touches tingles, a little path of buzzing electricity as he makes his way closer and closer to your heat until he switches sides.
You make a sound of protest and Hansol looks up at you through his lashes, grinning. He looks smug, leaning forward to bite your thigh playfully. It stings but it feels good, making your fingers twist in the sheets.
“Feel good?” he whispers, pressing his tongue to soothe the sting. You nod, mouth parted, unable to speak. He smiles again, dragging his tongue down your thigh. You think you might die right there.
Hansol makes his way back up. He drags his burning gaze up to meet yours, deliberately making eye contact as he presses the flat of his tongue against your underwear. If it wasn’t soaked before, it is thoroughly drenched now. You suck in a sharp breath, knees closing on instinct to squeeze against his shoulders.
He chuckles, dragging his tongue upward where it presses against your clit momentarily. He brings one of his hands up, pressing his middle finger right against your hole. You feel yourself clench around nothing and you know he knows, his grin wicked.
"What do you like?"
"I... don't know."
He looks at you, pausing. "You don't know? Like what makes you come?" You shake your head and realization lights his eyes. "That jackass didn't make you come, did it?"
You shake your head and he groans.
“Don’t worry,” Hansol promises with another languid lick to the soaked fabric. “I will make up for all the times you didn’t get to come.”
“Fuck.”
Vernon (from IT) has been replaced with Hansol (the Menace). He hooks a finger in the crotch of your underwear, pulling them to the side. He drags a knuckle against your pussy on purpose, both of you groaning in unison.
Eagerly Hansol leans forward, giving you a teasing lick. Your fingers dig into the mattress anyway. You can do nothing but stare at him, watching the way Hansol drags his dark eyes up to watch you as he drags his tongue through your folds again.
“Shit,” you hiss at him, a shiver wracking your body.
He seems pleased, shooting you a quick smile before he brings his mouth to you again, sucking gently. He avoids your clit at first, working you up slowly. Hansol eats you out like he has all the time in the world, like there’s no where he would rather be than tonguing your pussy.
It drives you mad, his name slipping from your lips in little gasps. His tongue circles your clit, applying pressure indirectly, working you up and up until finally, he closes his mouth around the throbbing bundle of nerves, suckling.
“Ohhhh,” you laugh, half delirious. “That. Whatever that is.”
He hums, parting only to say, “You got it.”
You see God when he fastens his mouth to you, sucking your clit gently. Dropping back against the bed, you twitch and gasp under Hansol’s ministrations. He sets a rhythm, adding his fingers to the mix as they press against your entrance. He doesn’t push in, but rather traces a pattern, making you squeeze.
Panting, you drop a hand to his hair. He hums in delight as you tangle your fingers in the strands, bringing him closer to your cunt. You feel like you’re burning up, your sheets sticking to your skin, the room spinning as Hansol eats you out in earnest now.
No one has ever seemed this dedicated to your pleasure. He doesn’t let up for a second, fingers and mouth working in tandem to bring you to a cliff of insanity. All you have to do is jump and dive head first into an orgasm.
You do. Hansol works you right to the very edge and you topple over, falling into it hard. You go taught but he holds you down, fighting your spasm as you come hard. He doesn’t miss a beat, the obscene sounds of him slurping at you drowning out the pitiful, high pitched whine that leaves you.
In a wave of exhaustion, your orgasm subsides. You flop on the bed, still shaking as he removes his mouth in favor of pressing slick, cum-stained kisses to your thighs. You lift your head and his eyes meet yours, flashing wickedly.
He pauses, looking at your wet, messy cunt back to your face. “Want a taste?”
Hansol (the Menace) is going to kill you.
You nod and he smirks. He runs his tongue generously up your pussy, making sure to dip into your entrance just a little before he stands up and leans over you to press a filthy kiss to your mouth. You suck at his tongue greedily, tasting yourself and him, a combination you’ll never get tired of.
One of his hands snakes up to your chest, tweaking a nipple gently, testing the waters. You nod, breaking the kiss with a gasp, “Yeah.”
“Gonna work you open with my fingers,” he slurs. He kisses down your neck again, working his way to your chest. “That okay?”
“More than okay.”
“God,” he whispers. “You sound so fucking good when you come. Want to hear it again.”
There is no doubt he will. Hansol rids you of your bra before returning to suck greedily at your chest. Your nails bite into his shoulders, dragging down his sides as he presses a finger into your warmth.
“God damn,” he laughs. He plucks at a nipple with his teeth and you curse. “You’re so fucking wet.”
“On the clock?”
“Fuck no. My finger is in your pussy.”
“I am really turned on.”
He gives your other breast a playful bite. “Good. Now I want you to come apart on my fingers.”
That won’t be an issue. Hansol gets you there embarrassingly fast. He finds the sensitive spot inside of you with ease and doesn’t hold back, pressing another finger in. He works you toward another orgasm like it's easy - and maybe for the both of you, it is. Maybe Hansol was meant to have you like this, gushing around his fingers and babbling nonsense as you come again, his mouth pressed against your hammering heart.
Maybe he was meant to have you fucked out and light-headed by the time you’re helping him out of his jeans, sliding his briefs down his muscular thighs to free his cock. The tip is dark and sticky, weeping with precum when he pins you to the bed, catching you in a bruising kiss.
Gone is the patient Hansol who had started with gentle kisses to your thighs, replaced by his need to have you. To consume you. You let him, willing to let him do whatever he wants. You want his pleasure just as much as he wants yours, slipping your hand between your bodies to palm his cock, heavy and warm in your hand.
He whispers your name and it sounds like a prayer. His forehead presses against yours, letting you pump him slowly. His hips twitch as though he’s fighting to control himself, letting you have your fun before he growls and grabs your hand, lacing your fingers to pin above your head.
Hansol scoots you up the bed, putting you where he wants you. Gone is the sweet guy from IT, replaced with whatever this is. You like this side of him equally, listening to him when he asks you to lift your hips so he can slide a pillow under your ass.
With a kiss to your brow that feels sweeter than the moment allows for, Hansol lifts your leg, prying you open for him. His cock is heavy against your cunt and he ruts a little, making you both whine in tandem.
“You still want this, right?” He asks, voice shaking. “For real?”
“Yes.” You squeeze the hand he has laced with yours, pinned to the mattress near your head. “On the clock. Off the clock. Literally all of the hours.”
“What if I refuse to change your computer password?”
That makes you laugh. He gives you a glowing smile, kissing the tops of your cheekbones. “Even then,” you promise.
“Good. Try breathing for me when you come this time.” You give him a look and he smiles. “Did you think you were done? I told you I was making up for lost time.”
He doesn’t give you a second to retort, his cock pressing in at that exact moment. “Ohhh you fucker,” you moan and he laughs, which makes things worse. You squeeze around him hard, barely breathing as Hansol slides in to the hilt, the pressure and stretch divine. “You did that on purpose.”
“I did,” he admits before trapping you into an uncoordinated kiss.
With one hand holding yours to the bed and the other sliding under your ass to help lift you with the pillow, Hansol sets a slow pace. You continue to kiss him, just as slow as he fucks you. He is deep, cock brushing against your g-spot on every upstroke.
Your free hand slides to his lower back, urging him to keep going. His tempo is measured, perfect, the angle of his hips just right. You start to feel insane, mumbling his name, whining between kisses, making a pathetic noise when he increases his pace.
Hansol fucks like he knows exactly how you like it. Of course he does. Even from the moment in that bookstore, he had you figured out. No one else has been able to adjust to you like he has, no one else has been able to understand - to see you.
“Fuck,” he hisses when you start squeezing on him for harder and longer. He’s pushing you toward that edge again, so close you’re already seeing stars. “Pussy feels so good.”
He shuffles up the bed more, folding you a little. You make a wild sound, gasping as the angle pushes his cock in deep. “Holy shit, Hansol.”
“That the spot?” he asks, and you nod. He starts fucking you in earnest, pace picking up. “God damn I could do this all day.”
“Keep doing that and I’ll let you.”
He laughs and kisses you again, all tongue and teeth. You start to spasm, feeling the way your muscles clench as you near your third orgasm. This one is tight in your stomach, a pressure that is so compact you feel like you’re going to combust.
“Breathe through it,” he reminds you, out of breath as he chases your high. “You can do that, yeah?”
You nod, saving your breath for when he tells you to use it.
A few more hard strokes and you’re doing exactly as instructed, taking in a deep breath as your orgasm hits. You see white, shaking underneath Hansol as the warmth of your high blooms in your lower stomach and expands. It’s better than the first two, stretching longer, the feeling reaching to your toes.
You manage to breathe all the way through it, barely hanging on as he fucks you through the entire length of your high. He presses his mouth to your temple, slowing his pace to let you recover. You feel melted, like your bones and muscles have all gone on vacation, leaving Hansol to do the work for you.
“Good?” he asks, breath fanning your face.
You nod and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close. “You,” you mumble. It’s not a complete sentence, but he gets what you mean, kissing you quickly before chasing his own high, gritting his teeth.
As spent as you are, you do your part to help him get there, squeezing with what strength you have left, whispering his name, pulling him in close with a leg around his hip. It works, sending Hansol over the edge and spilling into you within a few seconds.
He curses into your shoulder, pace turning sloppy until he finally stops, hips pressed to yours, cock sheathed to the hilt. Both of you stay like that, trying to catch your breath in a sweaty pile of limbs.
Hansol recovers first, shifting so that he can lay next to you. He pulls out, a mess of cum and fluid going with him. You don’t care, rolling to your side to kiss him slowly. Softly. He rests an arm over your hip, keeping you connected.
“This is a great birthday,” he jokes, voice hoarse. “I uhhh, forgot there was a party. No one will think we’re fake dating now.”
You grin. “Whatever. We’re not on the clock.”
He kisses you again. “Thank god. Cause I really want to do this again in fifteen minutes.”
You smile, really glad that Hansol (the Boyfriend) is on the same page as you.
CORTIS (코르티스) is a 6-member South Korean boy group under BIGHIT MUSIC. The members are Martin, James, Juhoon, Seonghyeon, Y/N, and Keonho. They debuted on September 8, 2025, with their first EP, “Color Outside The Lines”.
NOW PLAYING ▶︎ #IT-GRL MIXTAPE
who’s that girl . . ?
⤷ in @ynism we trust
a look into the itgrlverse’s main character!
⤷ baddies only
meet the three girls that keep cortis’ only female member sane.
show me your world . . !
⤷ bieberchella?! ONE | TWO
when cortis happens to be in LA when justin bieber’s coachella headlining set is about to happen, there’s no way in the world you’d ever miss it.
⤷ skool luv affair
being the only non-high school dropout in cortis came with special occurrences that would only happen to you.
⤷ situationship! ONE | TWO | THREE
must boys really be this complicated when it comes to expressing their feelings?
— feel free to request what you’d like to see in this universe!
ⓘ ningning from aespa’s pictures will be used solely because she fits the cortis aesthetic. she is not a faceclaim - you are free to picture whoever you’d like! everything here is a work of fiction. don’t like? don’t read.
batfam x fantastic four x ultimate spider-man x spider-girl reader
word count . 1.4k
> i. welcome to gotham <
the air in gotham smelled of rain, jet fuel, and exhaust. the breeze was heavy with jet fuel and damp concrete. the 6 year old (name) found that out as she was getting off the plane. she thought the netherlands to be a better place than this sulfurous gothic metropolis.
the air stung her eyes — she rubbed at her watering eyes. she could not see a thing. her breath becoming shallow as she tried not to allow pungent smell into her lungs.
eight hours on a plane, and this was where she'd ended up. what a shithole.
rolling suitcases rattled across the floor as voices echoed through the terminal in a language she couldn't understand. boarding announcements crackled over the speakers while babies cried and children laughed somewhere nearby.
the airport buzzed with people coming and going, yet she'd never felt more alone.
“(name)? come on, let’s go! i’m sure your guardian would be worried if you stayed here any longer!” a kind eyed flight attendant called in dutch.
(name) liked this lady — she gave her sweets and cake through the long flight and gave her free wifi. though a old man with a belly bigger than his suitcase complained about everything the young girl did.
“coming!” she ran towards the lady, she dusted off her clothes before running after the flight attendant. the 6 year old ran as hard as she could, which wasn’t much.
finally she caught up with the lady, her breath ragged. “ik haat dit.” her voice monotone, lips being too pout.
“here. this is where you have to wait for your guardian to come pick you up. i’m very sorry i cannot stay— i have to go do my work.” (name) was sad, she had to go. she’d rather stay with this lady then go to strangers.
the lady gave (name) one last pat on the head before walking away. “bye..” (name) spoke. that was the only word of english she knew besides the common greetings.
sighing heavily, (name) unfixed her posture. she remembered her mother tried to teach her english though it failed miserably. a funny moment became of that.
the cold wind whipped against (name)’s bare face as passengers walked past her. the young girl wasn't stupid. she could understand bits and pieces of english—just not enough to speak it.
she scanned the crowd. somewhere beyond all these strangers was the person she'd be living with.
there were families reuniting everywhere she looked. children ran into their parents' arms, couples embraced after days apart, and friends laughed as they wheeled their suitcases towards the exit.
she had no one to run to.
well... someone eventually stepped forward.
he was tall. ridiculously tall. dressed in a black overcoat with neatly combed dark hair, looking far too serious to be picking up a six-year-old from the airport.
their eyes met.
"...(name) parker?" he asked carefully.
she blinked. nothing. right. he'd forgotten. she didn't speak english.
the silence stretched between them before another man stepped beside him. older. grey-haired. kind eyes. he offered her a warm smile before speaking.
"goedemiddag, juffrouw parker."
(name)'s eyes widened. "...u spreekt nederlands?"
"a little," the older man admitted with an apologetic smile. "i'm afraid i'm rather out of practice."
she didn't care. it was enough.
"mr. wayne is your guardian," he explained gently, gesturing towards the taller man beside him. "my name is alfred pennyworth. i am now your butler as i am to mr wayne."
(name) looked up at the man called bruce wayne. he looked... awkward. like he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do.
she understood that feeling. "...hello," he tried again.
she stared. "...hi"
"...i'll take that as progress," he muttered.
alfred hid a smile. the older man reached down and picked up her little backpack before offering her his hand. "shall we?"
(name) looked at his hand for a long moment before taking it. it was warm.
outside, gotham was even greyer than she'd imagined.
rain drizzled from the sky, coating the streets in a dull sheen as yellow taxis splashed through puddles. towering buildings seemed to swallow the little patches of daylight left between them.
"does it always look like this?" she asked quietly in dutch.
alfred chuckled. "always."
a long black car waited at the curb. its door opened before anyone touched it.
(name) frowned.
"technology," bruce answered automatically.
she didn't understand the word. she climbed inside anyway. the drive was quiet. (name) pressed her forehead against the cool window, watching gotham blur past. people hurried beneath umbrellas. police cars sped through intersections. graffiti covered brick walls.
everywhere she looked felt... tired. she missed home. she missed her mother humming while making breakfast. she missed her father's terrible jokes. she missed hearing dutch everywhere she went.
in fact she missed everything but somehow without realising it, she'd fallen asleep.
"(name)." a gentle voice stirred her awake. she rubbed her eyes. the car wasn't moving anymore. she looked out of the window. her mouth fell open.
wayne manor stood behind enormous iron gates, surrounded by towering trees that stretched towards the cloudy sky, guarded by trees that reached for the sky as far as the eye could see.
it looked less like a house and more like the castles she'd seen in storybooks.
"...people live here?" she whispered.
"are you surprised?," alfred replied not mockingly.
the front doors opened before they even reached them. the entrance hall was bigger than her entire home back in the netherlands; marble floors, towering staircases, paintings that seemed to watch her walk past.
she instinctively stepped closer to alfred. he noticed. he slowed his pace so she wouldn't feel left behind.
bruce noticed too. he wasn't sure why it bothered him.
"i'll show you your room," alfred said.
they climbed what felt like a thousand stairs before stopping outside a white door. alfred pushed it open.
soft afternoon light spilled through tall windows.
there was a neatly made bed, bookshelves waiting to be filled, a wooden desk, a small stuffed lion sitting neatly against the pillows, and a little blue-and-white delftware windmill resting on the windowsill.
it didn't feel like someone else's room. it felt like someone had been waiting for her.
"if there is anything you need," alfred said softly, "all you have to do is ask."
(name) stepped inside slowly. her backpack slipped from her shoulder and landed on the floor with a quiet thud. she turned in a slow circle, taking everything in.
it was beautiful. it wasn't home. but… for the first time since the plane crash… she thought maybe it could be.
the room was quiet. too quiet.
(name) stood beside her suitcase, looking out the window at the endless grey trees surrounding wayne manor. a knock sounded against the half-open door.
before she could turn around, someone walked in. he looked older than her.
maybe thirteen. maybe fourteen.
a piece of white was missing from his smile where one of his front teeth had chipped. "hey."
(name) blinked. "...hello."
the boy's eyebrows shot up. "you know english?"
"...hello."
"...right."
he scratched the back of his neck. "i'm jason but you can call me jay."
she stared. "..."
"yeah... forgot." he sighed dramatically before pointing at himself. "jason." then he pointed at her. "(name)?"
she nodded. his face lit up.
"cool! see? we're already communicating."
(name) had absolutely no idea what he'd just said. jason looked around the room before spotting the stuffed bear on the bed. he picked it up.
"this yours?"
"..."
"...okay."
he held the lion above his head. "name him."
(name) frowned. "..."
"no?" he made the lion wave at her.
"hello." she couldn't help it. the corners of her mouth twitched. it wasn't quite a smile. but it was close.
jason noticed immediately. "there it is!"
she blinked. he'd said too many words again. walking over, she gently took the bear from his hands.
"...bye."
jason laughed. "i just got here!"
she looked at him with the most serious expression a six-year-old could manage. "...bye."
"...am i getting kicked out?"
a voice cleared from the doorway. "master jason." alfred stood with his hands folded behind his back.
"i believe miss parker has had quite an exhausting day."
"...yeah." jason rubbed the back of his neck. "sorry."
he looked back at (name). "i'll see you tomorrow, okay?"
she didn't understand. but she recognized one word. tomorrow. instead, she gave him a tiny wave. "...bye."
jason grinned. "bye, kid."
as the door closed behind him, (name) looked down at the stuffed lion in her arms. for the first time that day...
• the day y'all decided to go public, it broke the internet.
• people were talking about you guys nonstop. it got to the point where you had to mute your notifications and resist the urge to post something else.
“it’s gonna be okay.” clark murmurs as he sets your phone aside. “just don't think about it too much.”
you snort. “easy for you to say.”
he squints playfully and furrows his eyebrows in a faux scowl and it makes you smile and lean into his warmth.
sighing, you decide it'll be a problem for your pr team. (you gave them a raise and bonus afterwards)
• obviously this stunt doesn’t go unnoticed by interviewers and talk show hosts. they take this absolute power move and ask about your blossoming relationship respectfully.
“he's… he's very nice and the perfect gentleman.” you nod with a wide smile on your lips. “it’s hard not to notice him so when i did, i found myself wanting to see him all the time.”
clark visibly blushes and gushes but all in the safety of his living room, where there are no cameras panning for a shot of his reaction. he has the dopiest grin and it matches yours.
• you gave the people crumbs like this but that's more than enough. they'll milk it forever.
ihearty/n: i waited 3 and a half years... WHITE MAN DID IT IN 1 WEEK 🥀🥀🥀🥀💔💔💔💔
sillyg00se: She looks so happy 🥹 I hope we always get to see her like this
lilist☆r: the new tomdaya… dare i say better
jacob: Bros in the big leagues now 😭🙏🏽 Rookie of the year type shi
WonderWomanIsMyGoat: There's a celebrity couple everyone cares about, this is mine 💯
D1y/nglazerrr: wait why he kindaaa 🌚🌚
saddler✨: isn't he the guy that interviews superman?! that's so cool wth!!
“wait, what do some of these mean?” clark asks with a seriously confused expression on his face.
• he's not all the way caught up on the new lingo.
• clark kent dating a celebrity gal means to be caught up online about what’s being said about him. he’s happy for the better part, but there are some comments that leave him thinking you could do better.
• he shouldn’t be taking online chatter seriously, but it’s kind of hard not to feel a little doubtful when he reads things like [i was fully expecting her to pop out w dylan o’brien i’m ngl] and [Nooo I really wanted her and Brenton Thwaites together 😭] and don’t even get him started on the [if she likes it, I love it] like what does that even mean?! what, is he just not good enough for the fans?
you’re there to dust his worries away. “you’re the one i come home to.” you murmur as you kiss his forehead, the worry lines instantly relaxing.
he sighs heavily, the doubts in his mind exiting his body once your hands tilt his gorgeous face up. your gaze pours into him and when he sees the man in reflection, he questions what he was even so uptight about in the first place.
• being romantically involved with an actress does come with its own perks though. he familiarized himself with what the internet calls “edits” of you, but he’s got quite the number of hashtags and edits himself. look at him already making a small fan club.
• people fawning over him is definitely a new sight but it also boosts his confidence. it seriously helps when you have some saved in a public collection too.
• clark kent dating an actress means there’s a little bit of you everywhere. you’re a muse to many and are mentioned in songs. famous artists drop your name in their lyrics and allude to clever metaphors and phrases, never in a vulgar way.
he’s at a grocery store and heard a line with your name, perking up at the speaker instantly, making a mental note to listen to the entire song later.
• actors also speak out about collaborating with you on a project. when asked about celebrity crushes, your name is dropped quite a few times.
“i was mesmerized by her. still am, if i’m being honest.” an actor confessed.
clark smirks to himself. “yeah, get in line buddy.”
• clark kent dating actress!reader means to always be bombarded with questions about you. he’s become somewhat of a celebrity himself at the daily planet.
“what’s she like?” steve asked with an excited look.
clark eyes him wearily before saying, “don’t you have something to do?”.
cat’s not too far behind when she pipes up. “do you think you can get me her autograph?”
and here comes jimmy, “can you set me up an interview with her?”.
• he gets the people what they want but he feels so bad.
“you don’t have to do this.” he says, sheepish. “you can still cancel. the won’t mind.”
you just kiss his cheek, leaving a pretty lipstick mark on it. “i think my boyfriend deserves some clout.”
• clark gets real nervous real fast when he's the center of attention, contrary to superman.
• your costars chat him up while you're giving a short little red carpet interview and they obviously dig him. what's not to like?
• clark thinks they're pretty cool as well. really funny and welcoming, plus they like you.
• he doesn’t get jealous, feeling secure enough in his relationship to know you only have eyes for him. even if your male co-stars are attractive and quite the catch, he knows they only see you as an incredible scene partner and dear friend, as do you.
• promoting movies means red carpets and interviews and endless marketing but he'll brave through it all for you. after all, his happiness lies in your success.
• and when the pictures of you and him together looking glammed up come out, you break the internet again.
• floods of comments stating how good you look, how great you both look together, and how cute of a couple you make.
you’re walking along the carpet when someone asks to interview him. evidently, clark’s surprised, his eyes wide in curiosity and nervousness.
you lean in and tell him, “i’ll be up ahead, ‘kay?”.
he’s in front of a microphone and camera now. “i think she’s exceptional at what she does, always working hard and wanting to improve.” he says before taking a quick glance at you. he relaxes when and finds you smiling wide, laughing. “she’s had a passion for acting and knows what makes a good film so, to me, her success has been forthcoming.”
• fans go crazy over his statement and behavior, dubbing him “white boy of the month” and in some instances, “white boy of the year”. they gush over how he looks when he looks at you, the way he looks at you, the way you always seem to lighten up and smile more around him.
“see, they love you.” you tell him as you read the comments.
his cheeks are tinged a rosy hue and shyly laughs, pushing his glasses up as he looks down.
• clark kent thinks a rule of dating an actress includes looking good all the time, having some things like a comb and breath mint on standby because you never know when the paps come crawling.
• you tell him that’s nonsense, he doesn’t have to look good all the time because your boyfriend looks good all the time. there's not one bad angle on this guy!
• clark’s parents are always asking about you.
“did she eat yet?”
“poor thing, she must be tired of having to be on her feet all day long.”
“oh, make sure she’s being fed well, clark.”
• whenever you can, you make it a point to visit them with clark.
• they love your show and even binged it in a week.
“john don’t really care much for television but he was hooked from the first episode!” ma giggles happily as you take a bite of their homemade cherry pie.
• as you and clark leave, they bag you some leftover pie with a note on the bag.
“come back soon, okay?” she asks as you hug her and she pats your back lovingly.
“oh, we will. i promise.” you say as you link your pinky with hers.
• clark watches as you hug pa, he says something that makes you smile and you hug him once more.
• he loves watching his parents fawn over you and you shyly and happily accepting it. he loves watching you be adored by hundreds of thousands of people as you take in the glory teary-eyed.
• you’re not a celebrity when you come home to him. you’re not a famous person when you’re around him. you’re not an academy award winning actress when you talk to his friends and family. to him and them, you’re just y/n; a kind spirited person who’s compassion and resilience are your defining traits.
Summary: you don’t tell him your last name. By the time Dean finds out, he’s too far gone to do anything but brace for impact. Falling for the ice-cold, vodka-drinking Russian freshman is one thing. Falling for Ilya Rozanov’s little sister is a death wish. Dean decides he doesn’t care
Warning: 18+ content
Read part one here
The last agonizing tremor of your climax finally fades, leaving your body entirely boneless against the tangled sheets of Dean’s bed.
You are staring blindly at the ceiling, your chest heaving as you drag oxygen back into your lungs. Your mind feels completely blank, blissfully scrubbed clean of everything except the heavy, throbbing ache between your thighs and the lingering heat of Dean’s mouth.
Dean shifts his weight at the foot of the bed. He pulls away from your wet center with a soft, indecent sound, resting his cheek against your inner thigh for a long second to catch his own breath. His blond hair is a messy, sweat-dampened halo, and his broad shoulders rise and fall rapidly.
Slowly, he pushes himself up, crawling up the length of the mattress until he is hovering over you.
He looks completely wrecked in the best possible way. His lips are slick and slightly swollen, his green eyes dark and blown wide. He drops down onto the mattress beside you, flopping heavily onto his back and letting out a long, exhausted groan.
He doesn’t give you any space. He immediately rolls onto his side, throwing one heavy arm across your stomach and pulling you flush against his warm, sweat-slicked chest. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, tasting you on his own lips.
“Jesus,” Dean murmurs into the quiet room. “You taste so fucking good, Y/N.”
“You are …” you start, but your voice comes out as a weak, raspy croak. You clear your throat, trying to summon a shred of your usual dignity. “You are very enthusiastic.”
Dean chuckles, the sound vibrating against your ribcage. “Enthusiastic. That’s one word for it. I was going for ’life-changing,’ but I’ll take it.”
You let your eyes slip shut, resting your head against the pillow and enjoying the heavy, comforting weight of his body against yours. The room is quiet, the only sounds the faint hum of the heating vent and the synchronized rhythm of your breathing. It is peaceful. It is perfect.
Which is exactly why your instincts tell you to ruin it.
Ilya’s voice echoes in the back of your mind. Men like that, they get attached. They get possessive. You shift slightly, trying to put an inch of space between you so you can clear your head, but Dean’s arm immediately tightens like a vise around your waist, locking you in place.
“Don’t move,” Dean says quietly. The playful, post-coital banter is suddenly gone from his voice. It is replaced by a low, serious tone that makes your heart give a hard, erratic thump.
“I am sweating,” you complain, though you make no further effort to move. “Your body heat is excessive.”
“Tough. You’re staying right here.” Dean props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you. The dim light from the bedside lamp casts sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the firm, resolute set of his jaw. “We need to talk.”
Your stomach drops. You hate talking. Talking leads to feelings, and feelings lead to a loss of control.
“If this is about your performance on the ice yesterday,” you deflect smoothly, keeping your expression perfectly blank, “I already told you that your gap control was acceptable. Not great, but acceptable.”
“It’s not about hockey, Y/N,” Dean says, refusing to take the bait. He reaches up, brushing a damp strand of hair off your forehead. His touch is incredibly gentle, completely at odds with the intense, unwavering look in his eyes. “It’s about us.”
“There is no us, Di Laurentis,” you remind him, clinging to the rules you established on day one. “This is an arrangement. It is mutually beneficial. It is casual.”
“Right. Casual,” Dean repeats. He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “I have a toothbrush in your bathroom. I know your coffee order by heart. You know my stats better than my head coach does. And I just spent the last twenty minutes making you scream my name in two different languages.”
He leans down, his face inches from yours. “Tell me again how casual this is.”
You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. “Those are just details.”
“Bullshit,” Dean fires back. He isn’t angry, but he is completely uncompromising. “It’s not casual for me. Not anymore. I’m not doing this halfway, Y/N. I want you.”
“You have me,” you point out, gesturing vaguely to your naked body trapped beneath his.
“You know what I mean,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, turning raw and gravelly. “I want all of you. I don’t want you going on dates with other guys. I don’t want you looking at anyone else. Hell, I barely want you looking at my teammates.”
“You are being ridiculous.” You push against his chest, finally managing to sit up slightly, though Dean simply shifts his weight to keep you pinned to the mattress. You pull the sheet up to cover your breasts, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed. “I do not go on dates with other men. I do not have the time or the patience.”
“But you could,” Dean presses, his green eyes locking onto yours. “You could walk out of here tomorrow and hook up with some finance bro from Harvard, and I wouldn’t have the right to say a damn thing about it.”
“And you could hook up with a sorority girl,” you counter, lifting your chin. “That is the point of being casual. We are both free to do as we please.”
“I haven’t even looked at another girl since the night you insulted my backhand,” Dean admits bluntly. The raw honesty in his voice actually makes you flinch. He doesn’t hide behind a smirk. He just lays his cards on the table, completely vulnerable. “I don’t want anyone else. I just want you. I want to be your boyfriend.”
The word hangs in the air between you, heavy and terrifying.
You stare at him, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You came to America to escape the suffocating control of the men in your family. You promised yourself you wouldn’t get tied down. You promised yourself you would always hold all the cards.
“Dean,” you say, your voice tight, your Russian accent slipping out heavily. “You do not want this. I am difficult. I am demanding. My brother is a literal psychopath who will probably put you in the hospital when he finds out.”
“I don’t give a fuck about Ilya,” Dean says instantly. “Let him try. I’ll take a beating if it means I get to keep you.”
“It is not just him,” you argue, shaking your head. Your chest aches. You hate how much you want to say yes. “We are entirely different. You are … you are Dean Di Laurentis. You are the party guy. You do not do commitment.”
“I do now,” Dean says simply.
“People do not change that fast.”
“Watch me.”
“I cannot do this,” you say, a genuine edge of panic creeping into your voice. You try to scramble backward against the headboard, desperate to put physical distance between you so you can think straight.
But Dean is faster.
He shifts forward, following you up the bed. Before you can retreat, his hands come up, gripping your wrists firmly but gently, pulling them away from the sheet you are clutching like a shield. He pins your hands flat against the mattress on either side of your head.
“Don’t run away from me,” Dean murmurs, his face hovering just above yours.
“I am not running,” you lie, your breathing turning shallow. “I am simply concluding this conversation.”
“The conversation isn’t over.”
Dean leans down, and instead of kissing your lips, he presses his open mouth against the pulse point just below your jaw.
You let out a sharp, involuntary gasp.
“Dean,” you warn him, though your voice lacks any real authority.
He ignores you. He traces the line of your jaw with his tongue, his breath hot against your skin. “You talk too much when you’re scared, Y/N.”
“I am not scared.”
“Yes, you are,” he whispers against your skin. He trails a line of soft, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, lingering on the sensitive spot right at the base of your throat. “You’re terrified. You like being in control, and right now, you realize you don’t have it. Because you want me just as much as I want you.”
“Arrogant,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut as his teeth lightly scrape against your collarbone. A violent shudder rips through your body.
“Honest,” he corrects.
He shifts his weight, sliding his knee securely between your thighs, forcing your legs apart. You are completely pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy, and the terrifying truth is that you don’t want to be anywhere else.
Dean releases one of your wrists, using his newly freed hand to slowly, deliberately trace a path down your stomach. His rough calluses drag against your soft skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He dips his fingers just below your navel, pressing lightly against your lower abdomen.
You arch your back instinctively, a soft moan escaping your lips. You are still so incredibly sensitive from your earlier climax, and his proximity is short-circuiting your brain.
“Tell me this is casual,” Dean challenges, his voice dark and raspy. He moves his mouth to the swell of your breast, his tongue swirling around the tight peak.
“Dean,” you gasp, your fingers curling into the sheets. “Stop playing fair.”
“I’m playing to win,” he mumbles against your skin, lightly sucking the sensitive flesh into his mouth.
You cry out, your hips bucking up against his thigh. Your defenses are crumbling. They are completely, utterly disintegrating under the sheer, focused intensity of his attention. He knows your body perfectly. He knows exactly how to dismantle you.
He slides his hand lower, his long fingers finding your wet, aching center. He doesn’t enter you. He just traces the slick folds, pressing firmly against your clit with his thumb.
“Look at me,” Dean commands softly.
You force your eyes open. The cocky, easygoing college boy is gone. The man hovering over you is lethal, focused, and entirely devoted to you. His green eyes are burning into yours, completely stripping away every wall you have ever built.
“Be mine,” Dean whispers, his thumb slowly, agonizingly circling your most sensitive spot. “Just mine, Y/N. Say yes.”
“If I say yes,” you grit out, your accent thick, your body trembling under his touch, “you are going to regret it. I will ruin your life.”
Dean smiles. It is a devastating, triumphant smile.
“Ruin it, then,” he says. “But you’re doing it as my girlfriend.”
He presses his thumb down harder, and you shatter.
“Fine!” You gasp out, the word tearing from your throat as pleasure spikes sharply in your core. “Fine, yes. I am yours. We are exclusive.”
Dean stops moving his hand. He freezes, staring down at you, his chest heaving. The triumph in his eyes is so bright it’s almost blinding.
“Say it again,” he breathes.
“Do not push your luck, Di Laurentis,” you groan, turning your head against the pillow to hide the flush creeping up your cheeks.
Dean laughs, a sound of pure joy. He releases your other wrist, using both hands to cup your face, forcing you to look at him. He kisses you — hard, deep, and impossibly sweet. It isn’t a demanding kiss. It is a promise. It tastes like victory and relief.
“My girl,” Dean murmurs against your lips. “God, I love the sound of that.”
“Do not get used to it,” you warn him weakly, though you kiss him back, your hands tangling in his thick blond hair. “If you do anything to annoy me, I am breaking up with you.”
“You can try,” Dean grins, pulling back slightly to look down at you. His eyes darken, the playful energy suddenly shifting back into something entirely carnal. He looks at your flushed skin, your bruised lips, your dark hair spread wildly across his pillows.
“And now,” Dean says, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly purr that makes your stomach clench. “For being such a good girl and finally admitting the truth, I think you deserve a reward.”
You raise an eyebrow, trying to summon your haughty persona, but it’s completely ruined by the way your chest is heaving. “A reward? You think you are training a dog?”
“I think,” Dean says, sliding his hand down your stomach to grip your hip firmly, “I’m going to fuck you so hard you forget how to speak entirely.”
Your breath hitches.
Dean doesn’t hesitate. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing a foil packet. He rips it open with his teeth, his eyes never leaving yours, and rolls it on with quick, practiced efficiency.
When he settles back over you, the air in the room feels thick enough to cut with a knife. He hooks his hands under your knees, dragging your legs up high and hooking them over his broad shoulders. The position completely opens you up to him, leaving you entirely exposed and deeply vulnerable.
“Dean,” you whisper, your eyes widening slightly at the intense, predatory look on his face.
“I’ve got you,” he promises softly.
He aligns his hips with yours, the thick, blunt head of his length resting against your slick opening. He doesn’t thrust right away. He just lets you feel the size of him, the heavy, pulsing heat waiting at your entrance.
“Tell me who you belong to,” Dean demands, his voice a low, rough rumble.
“I belong to myself,” you fire back stubbornly, even as your hips instinctively tilt up, silently begging him to enter you.
Dean chuckles darkly. He pushes forward just an inch, stretching your tight entrance, and then pulls back.
You let out a frustrated whine, your hands gripping the sheets. “Dean. Please.”
“Say it,” he insists, repeating the agonizingly slow, teasing motion. “Who are you exclusive with, Y/N?”
“You,” you gasp, your resistance completely snapping. “You. Just you.”
“That’s right.”
Dean grips your hips tight enough to leave bruises and drives forward in one long, brutal thrust, burying himself inside you to the hilt.
You scream, your head throwing back against the mattress. The feeling of him filling you completely, stretching you so deeply, is overwhelming. It is painful and pleasurable and incredibly intense. You are so wet from his mouth earlier that he glides in smoothly, but the sheer size of him makes you completely breathless.
Dean groans, his jaw clenching as he forces himself to hold still for a second, letting your body adjust. His chest is heaving, a sheen of sweat coating his skin.
“Fuck,” he grates out, his eyes squeezed shut. “You are so perfect. So tight.”
“Do not stop,” you beg, your accent thick and heavy. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his chest down flush against yours. You need the friction. You need him.
Dean opens his eyes, looking down at you with a gaze that is pure, unfiltered fire. “I’m not stopping until the sun comes up.”
He starts to move.
The first few thrusts are slow and incredibly deep. He pulls almost all the way out, letting the sensitive head drag against your entrance, before slamming his hips forward and burying himself inside you again. The skin-on-skin slap of his body meeting yours echoes loudly in the quiet room.
You sob out a breath, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Dean … oh my god.”
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice tight with his own strain.
You open your eyes, meeting his intense green gaze. He wants you to see this. He wants you to see exactly what he is doing to you, exactly who is making you feel like this.
He speeds up, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, and more punishing. The angle is devastating. With your legs hooked over his shoulders, every single stroke hits deep, striking that bundle of nerves that sends blinding sparks behind your eyelids.
The room spins. The only things anchoring you to reality are the heavy weight of Dean’s body, the burning heat inside you, and the relentless, driving rhythm of his hips.
“Are you mine?” Dean asks, his voice harsh as he pounds into you.
“Yes,” you gasp, entirely broken down.
“Just mine?” He thrusts harder, the head of the bed frame banging rhythmically against the wall.
“Yes!” You cry out.
“Good.” Dean shifts his grip, sliding one hand under your lower back to angle your hips even higher. The penetration becomes impossibly deeper. “Because I am completely fucking obsessed with you.”
The dirty, possessive words act like a match to a powder keg.
Your entire body goes rigid. The pleasure spikes so sharply it steals your vision. You feel the climax building in the pit of your stomach, tightening like a coiled spring, hot and frantic.
“Dean,” you sob, the syllables fracturing. You try to push back against him, chasing the friction, completely desperate.
“I know,” he rasps, reading your body perfectly. He leans down, capturing your lips in a messy, bruising kiss, swallowing your moans as he increases his pace to a frantic, relentless sprint.
He is relentless. He doesn’t give you a single second to catch your breath. He just keeps driving into you, deep and hard, pushing you higher and higher until you are completely teetering on the edge.
“Pozhaluysta,” you beg wildly against his mouth.
“Come for me, Y/N,” Dean growls, tearing his mouth away to look at your face. “Let it go.”
You shatter.
Your climax rips through you with violent force, a massive, overwhelming wave of pure ecstasy. You scream his name into the quiet room, your inner walls clamping down hard and fast around his thick length.
Dean shouts, a raw, guttural sound of triumph. He drives his hips forward two more times, impossibly deep, and completely falls apart with you. He empties himself inside the condom with heavy, shuddering groans, his entire body trembling as he collapses against you.
He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his weight crushing you into the mattress. His chest heaves against yours, his heart hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm directly over your own.
For a very long time, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is the ragged, desperate panting of two people completely wrecked by each other.
Slowly, the adrenaline begins to fade, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion.
Dean stirs first. He pulls out of you with a soft sound, disposing of the condom before crawling right back into bed beside you. He doesn’t give you a chance to retreat to your side of the mattress. He wraps his arms around you, pulling your back flush against his chest, and tangles his legs with yours.
He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your neck.
“Mine,” Dean whispers into the dark room, his voice completely satisfied.
You let out a soft sigh, too tired to argue, too happy to care. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of his body envelop you. You know you are going to have to deal with Ilya eventually. You know your perfectly controlled life is completely off the rails.
But as Dean’s hand rests heavily over your heart, keeping you grounded, you smile into the darkness.
Let the game begin.
***
The arena is absolutely deafening on a Friday night in early December.
You are sitting in your usual spot in the lower bowl, your heavy winter coat unzipped, the collar of your dark sweater pulled up against the chill of the rink. The air smells exactly the same as it always does — cold ice, stale popcorn, and the sharp, metallic tang of sweat and adrenaline.
Down on the ice, game is tied 2-2 in the middle of the second period against a viciously aggressive opponent. The play is fast, sloppy, and heavily physical.
“I still don’t understand icing,” Morgan says loudly, leaning close to your ear to be heard over the roar of the student section behind you. She is clutching a massive pretzel and shivering, despite wearing three layers. “Like, why can’t they just hit it to the other side?”
“Because it slows down the pace of the game and rewards lazy defensive zone breakouts,” you explain automatically, your eyes tracking the puck as it cycles behind the Briar net. “It forces the team to skate the puck over the red line before dumping it.”
“Right. Obviously.” Morgan takes a bite of her pretzel. “Are you going to Dean’s house after this?”
You don’t look away from the ice. “Maybe.”
“That means yes,” Morgan singsongs. “You guys are, like, practically married now. It’s actually kind of gross how obsessed he is with you.”
You finally tear your gaze away from the game, shooting your roommate a flat, unimpressed look. “We are not married. We have been exclusive for exactly one month. And he is not obsessed.”
“He literally brought you a coffee in the middle of a blizzard on Wednesday just because you texted him that the dining hall espresso machine was broken,” Morgan points out dryly. “He treats you like a queen.”
“I am a queen,” you say smoothly, turning back to the game. “He is simply acting accordingly.”
Before Morgan can argue, a sudden, massive shadow falls over your row.
The overhead arena lights are blocked out. The people sitting in the row behind you suddenly go dead silent. You feel a distinct, heavy shift in the air, followed by the undeniable scent of expensive Tom Ford cologne and a hint of winter frost.
“Move over,” a deep, booming voice commands in heavily accented English.
Morgan jumps, her eyes going completely wide. She scrambles to the left, practically throwing herself into the empty seat beside her to clear the space.
You turn your head slowly.
Dropping down into the newly vacated plastic seat next to you, completely unannounced and looking like a mob boss, is your older brother.
Ilya stretches his long, powerful legs out, resting his forearms on his knees as he peers down at the ice. He is wearing a dark, tailored wool peacoat over a black turtleneck, a dark beanie pulled low over his forehead. He looks entirely out of place in the sea of drunk college students wearing cheap synthetic jerseys, and yet, he looks like he owns the entire building.
“Ilya?” You ask, your voice dropping perfectly into Russian. “What are you doing here?”
“The Bruins have a home stand,” Ilya replies in Russian, not taking his eyes off the ice. “We played last night. We play again on Sunday. I was bored. And you were not answering your texts.”
“I am watching a hockey game.”
“You are watching boys chase a piece of rubber like blind dogs,” Ilya corrects, gesturing vaguely toward the ice as the opposing team fumbles a pass. “Look at this. The neutral zone is completely wide open. It is a tragedy.”
You sigh, rubbing your temples. “You cannot just show up to my university unannounced, Ilya. You are going to cause a riot.”
It’s true. Whispers are already breaking out in the surrounding rows. People are pointing. The Briar student section is heavily populated by hockey fans, and the Boston Bruins’ star center sitting casually in Section 104 is not going unnoticed.
“Let them riot,” Ilya says dismissively, switching back to English for Morgan’s benefit, shooting her a devastating, perfectly charming smile that makes her blush furiously. “Hello, Morgan. Are you learning about hockey?”
“H-hi, Ilya,” Morgan stammers, completely starstruck. “Yes. I mean, Y/N is trying to teach me.”
“Good luck,” Ilya snorts. He leans forward, resting his chin on his fist. His eyes narrow as he begins to analyze the play with ruthless, surgical precision. “Look at this power play. It is pathetic. The umbrella formation is too flat. The center is not moving his feet.”
You cross your arms, sinking slightly lower in your seat. “They are college students, Ilya. Not professionals.”
“They are pretending to be hockey players,” Ilya grumbles. “Ah, look. Number … sixty-six.”
Your breath hitches slightly.
Down on the ice, Dean receives a pass at the point. He looks incredibly sharp tonight, his skating fluid and effortless. He drags the puck along the blue line, walking it away from a diving defender, and snaps a crisp, perfect pass right into the slot for a waiting forward.
“Number sixty-six,” Ilya repeats, his eyes tracking Dean’s movement. “He is fast. I will give him that. Good edge work. But he is arrogant.”
“You are calling someone arrogant?” You ask dryly. “That is rich.”
“I am arrogant because I am the best,” Ilya states, entirely serious. “This boy, he plays with a chip on his shoulder. Look at his gap control. It is … acceptable.”
Coming from Ilya, the word ‘acceptable’ is essentially a glowing endorsement. It takes everything in your power not to smile.
“He is the leading scoring defenseman in the conference,” you point out casually, playing devil’s advocate.
“Because he plays against children,” Ilya counters immediately. “But he has good hands. And he hits hard.”
As if on cue, an opposing forward tries to enter the Briar zone with his head down. Dean steps up, dropping his shoulder, and delivers a clean, crushing open-ice hit that sends the forward flying into the boards.
The crowd erupts into cheers. You offer a small, proud clap.
Ilya nods slowly, a grudging look of respect crossing his face. “Okay. That was not terrible. He has decent timing.”
You turn your head to hide your smirk. Ilya is literally analyzing your boyfriend, completely unaware that the “acceptable” defenseman currently dominating the ice is the exact same boy who has been leaving bruises on your hips for the last month.
For the rest of the game, Ilya provides a running, highly critical commentary. He complains about the coaching. He complains about the referees. He loudly predicts every single play before it happens, much to the awe of the frat boys sitting three rows back who are currently taking notes.
When the final buzzer sounds, securing a 4-2 victory for Briar, the arena explodes with noise.
“Finally,” Ilya sighs, standing up and stretching his massive frame. “I was beginning to lose brain cells.”
“You only have three left to lose,” you tease, grabbing your purse. You look up at him. “So, are you taking me to dinner? Or did you just come here to complain?”
“I am taking you to dinner,” Ilya confirms, wrapping a heavy arm around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “But first, I want to see the locker room. I want to see where these boys pretend to be athletes.”
Your stomach drops. “You want to go to the locker room?”
“Why not?” Ilya smirks, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “I am Ilya Rozanov. I go where I want.”
You look at Morgan, who gives you a wide-eyed, terrified look. You promised to wait for Dean outside the locker room after the game. It’s part of your routine. Dean comes out, fresh from the shower, pulls you into a dark corner, kisses you senseless, and then drags you to his car.
Now, you are going to be waiting outside the locker room with the most overprotective, terrifying player in the NHL.
The game is officially up.
“Fine,” you say, your voice perfectly calm despite the frantic hammering of your heart. “Let us go.”
***
The hallway outside the locker room is usually heavily guarded, restricted to team personnel and family. But when a six-foot-four Russian tank with a multi-million dollar NHL contract walks down the corridor, the security guards practically stumble over themselves to hold the doors open.
You stand with your back against the cinderblock wall, arms crossed, trying to look completely unbothered. Ilya stands next to you, taking up half the hallway, looking around with a deeply unimpressed expression.
“It smells like wet dog,” Ilya observes loudly.
“It is a hockey locker room, Ilya,” you remind him.
The heavy double doors swing open.
The first person to walk out is Garrett. The Briar captain is dressed in a sharp suit, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, chatting over his shoulder to Logan.
Garrett steps out into the hallway, turns his head, and freezes.
He stops so abruptly that Logan literally crashes into his back.
“What the hell, G?” Logan complains, rubbing his shoulder. “Keep walking-”
Logan looks up. He sees you. Then, his eyes track to the right, and he sees the massive, brooding figure standing next to you.
Logan’s mouth drops open.
Garrett looks like he is going to faint. He is staring at Ilya with the wide, terrified, awestruck expression of a man who has just met God.
“Holy shit,” Garrett whispers.
Ilya raises an eyebrow. He looks Garrett up and down, his gaze heavily calculating. “You are the captain. Graham. Yes?”
“Y-yes,” Garrett stammers. His voice actually cracks. The captain of the Briar hockey team, the guy who fights defensemen twice his size on the ice without blinking, is currently sweating through his suit jacket. “Yes, sir. Garrett Graham.”
“I have seen your tapes,” Ilya says casually, though his tone is terrifyingly flat. “Your face-off percentage is acceptable. But you rely too much on your wingers to dig the puck out of the corners. You need to use your body more.”
“I will,” Garrett says immediately, nodding so fast he looks like a bobblehead. “I’ll do that. Thank you, Mr. Rozanov. Sir.”
“Do not call me sir,” Ilya grunts. “You make me sound old.”
Tucker walks out next, stops dead in his tracks, and slowly backs away until he is pressed against the opposite wall, trying to make himself entirely invisible.
And then, the doors swing open one last time.
Dean steps out into the hallway.
His blonde hair is damp from the shower, pushed back in a messy, effortless style. He is wearing a tailored grey suit jacket with the collar open, no tie, looking entirely too cocky for his own good. He is laughing at something one of the assistant coaches said inside.
He turns the corner, his green eyes scanning the hallway. They find you instantly.
A massive, devastatingly handsome smile breaks across his face. He takes a step toward you, his entire body language softening, lighting up with that intense, focused devotion he saves entirely for you.
“Hey, beautiful,” Dean says, closing the distance. “Sorry I took so long, I had to-”
Dean stops.
He is exactly three feet away from you. He finally realizes that the massive, dark-coated wall of muscle standing right next to you is not a security guard.
Dean’s eyes slowly travel up from the expensive black combat boots, over the tailored peacoat, and finally lock onto the dark, lethal face of Ilya Rozanov.
The silence in the hallway is absolute.
Garrett is holding his breath. Logan is slowly inching toward the exit, ready to call an ambulance. Tucker has closed his eyes, preparing for the gore.
You stand perfectly still. You look at Dean, and then you look at your brother.
“Ilya,” you say, your voice ringing clearly in the dead-silent corridor. “This is Dean Di Laurentis. Dean, this is my brother, Ilya.”
Ilya slowly turns his head to look at Dean. The casual, slightly bored older-brother aura completely vanishes. His posture straightens, his shoulders expanding, taking up every inch of available space. He looks down at Dean with eyes so dark and cold they could freeze the Charles River.
“Ah,” Ilya says softly. The Russian accent is suddenly much, much thicker. “Number sixty-six.”
Dean swallows. You can literally see the Adam’s apple bob in his throat. But to his absolute credit, he doesn’t take a step back.
He squares his own shoulders. He pulls himself up to his full height, refusing to cower. He meets Ilya’s terrifying gaze head-on, the cocky, playful college boy completely melting away, replaced by the stubborn, unyielding defenseman who refuses to give up his blue line.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” Dean says, his voice steady, offering his hand.
Ilya looks at Dean’s outstretched hand for a long, agonizing five seconds. He does not take it.
Dean slowly lowers his hand, entirely unbothered, tucking it into the pocket of his slacks. He holds Ilya’s stare.
“You are dating my sister,” Ilya states. It is not a question. It is an accusation, heavy with the promise of violence.
“Yes,” Dean says simply. “I am.”
“She is nineteen years old,” Ilya says, taking a single, slow step closer to Dean. He is invading his space, using his size to intimidate. “She is brilliant. She is perfect. And she is the only family I have that matters.”
“I know,” Dean replies, his jaw tightening slightly. “She talks about you all the time.”
“Then she has told you what I do to people who cross me,” Ilya murmurs, his voice dropping so low it’s almost a growl. “She has told you that I do not play games, Di Laurentis. I end them.”
“She mentioned it,” Dean agrees, his green eyes flashing with a sudden, dark challenge.
“Let me make this very clear,” Ilya says, leaning down slightly so he is perfectly eye-level with Dean. “If you make her cry, you will not have to worry about a career in the NHL. Because they will not find enough of you to bury in a matchbox. Do you understand me?”
Garrett actually whimpers.
You cross your arms tighter, watching Dean closely. Most men would apologize. Most men would stammer, back away, and promise to be perfect.
Dean just stares right back into the eyes of the most dangerous man in hockey.
“If I make her cry,” Dean says, his voice low, steady, and vibrating with absolute certainty, “you can have a free shot. You can break both my legs. But it won’t happen.”
Ilya’s eyes narrow to slits.
“Because I’m not going to hurt her,” Dean continues, leaning in a fraction of an inch himself, refusing to back down. “I’m keeping her.”
The tension is so thick you could carve it with a steak knife. The two men stare at each other, neither blinking, neither giving an inch. It is an absolute standoff of alpha male ego and fierce, unyielding protectiveness.
And then, suddenly, the ice breaks.
Ilya lets out a sharp, barking laugh.
He lifts his massive hand and claps Dean on the shoulder. The force of the hit is so hard it actually makes Dean stumble half a step, but Ilya grips his shoulder tightly, hauling him back up.
“I like this one!” Ilya booms, turning to look at you, his eyes sparkling with genuine amusement. “He has spine! He is stupid, but he has spine!”
The collective exhale from Garrett, Logan, and Tucker sounds like a punctured tire.
Dean blinks, totally caught off guard by the sudden shift in energy, but a slow, cocky smirk immediately begins to form on his lips. “I prefer the term confident, but I’ll take stupid if it means you aren’t going to murder me.”
“Oh, I might still murder you,” Ilya says cheerfully, releasing Dean’s shoulder. “We will see how the season goes. Your backhand is still weak.”
“It’s getting better,” Dean fires back effortlessly, leaning casually against the wall. The fear is completely gone, replaced by his usual, charming swagger. “Y/N runs drills with me. She’s a brutal coach.”
“She learned from me,” Ilya points out, puffing out his chest slightly. “The Russian system is superior.”
“I don’t know,” Dean argues playfully, crossing his arms. “The North American system focuses more on creativity. Let the players make plays.”
“Creativity is an excuse for a lack of discipline,” Ilya scoffs, waving a hand dismissively.
“Discipline doesn’t score the game-winner in overtime.”
“I scored the game-winner in overtime last night!”
As you watch them argue, a strange, creeping realization begins to settle over the hallway.
You watch Dean lean against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, a completely arrogant, completely self-assured smirk on his face. He is talking with his hands, completely relaxed, verbally sparring just for the fun of it.
Then, you look at Ilya. He is leaning against the opposite wall, one ankle crossed over the other, wearing the exact same arrogant, self-assured smirk. He is talking with his hands, arguing just to hear his own voice, completely thriving on the friction.
They have the exact same posture.
They have the exact same cocky, infuriating grin.
They radiate the exact same possessive, fiercely loyal energy hidden beneath layers of playboy swagger and ego.
You look over at Garrett, Logan, and Tucker.
The three Briar players are staring at Dean and Ilya with wide, horrified eyes. Logan slowly turns his head, making eye contact with you.
“Do you see this?” Logan whispers, his voice trembling slightly. He points a shaking finger between the two men. “They are … they are the exact same person.”
“It’s like looking at a multiverse variant,” Tucker mutters, completely disturbed. “Same font, different languages.”
“She’s dating the American version of her brother,” Garrett says, looking like he might actually throw up. “This is a psychological nightmare. Freud would have a field day with this.”
“Shut up, Garrett,” you hiss, your cheeks flushing violently.
But as you look back at them, you can’t deny it. Dean laughs at something Ilya says, throwing his head back in that rich, booming way that echoes down the hall. Ilya claps him on the shoulder again, offering a sharp, sarcastic insult that Dean immediately deflects with a perfectly timed chirp.
They are getting along flawlessly. They are practically speaking their own language — a language built entirely on hockey stats, trash talk, and massive egos.
And the scariest part? Neither of them seems to realize it.
“So,” Ilya says, pulling a sleek black card case out of his coat pocket. “You boys are hungry? I am buying dinner. The steaks in this town are acceptable. Come, Di Laurentis. You will sit next to me and explain why your power play is so predictable.”
“It’s not predictable,” Dean argues, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside Ilya as they start walking down the hall. “We run a one-three-one. It’s designed to open up the half-wall.”
“It is designed for lazy wingers,” Ilya corrects loudly.
They walk down the corridor together, completely ignoring the rest of you, deeply engrossed in an argument about special teams tactics.
You stand in the hallway, watching them go.
“Well,” you sigh, rubbing your temples again. “That went better than expected.”
Garrett slowly walks up next to you, his eyes still glued to Ilya’s retreating back. “Y/N.”
“Yes, Garrett?”
“Can you ask your brother to sign my chest at dinner?”
You close your eyes. “I am going to pretend you did not just ask me that.”
“Please,” Garrett begs, sounding entirely pathetic. “I have a sharpie in my bag.”
“We are leaving,” you announce, grabbing Garrett by the sleeve of his expensive suit and dragging him down the hall after Dean and Ilya. Logan and Tucker follow silently behind, both looking like they are still trying to process the sheer psychological horror of what they just witnessed.
As you catch up to them, Dean glances over his shoulder. He spots you, stops walking for a second, and waits for you to reach his side.
When you do, he doesn’t say a word. He just reaches out, sliding his large, warm hand around your waist and pulling you flush against his side. He presses a soft kiss to your temple, right in front of your brother.
Ilya stops talking. He looks at Dean’s arm around your waist. He looks at the way you lean into Dean’s side, completely relaxed.
For a second, the dangerous, protective older brother flares up in Ilya’s eyes.
But then, he looks at Dean’s face. He sees the absolute devotion there. He sees the way Dean looks at you like you are the only thing in the entire arena that matters.
Ilya huffs a soft breath, shaking his head. He turns around, shoving his hands into the pockets of his peacoat.
“Come on, children,” Ilya calls out, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. “Dinner is on me. And Di Laurentis?”
“Yeah?” Dean asks.
“If you order your steak well-done,” Ilya warns over his shoulder, “I will revoke my approval.”
Dean laughs, pulling you a little tighter against his side.
“Don’t worry, old man,” Dean calls back playfully. “I like it raw.”
You let out a long, exasperated sigh, hiding a smile against Dean’s shoulder as you all walk out into the freezing Boston night.
One arrogant, hockey-obsessed idiot was hard enough to manage. Now, you officially have two of them.
You really are going to need more deadbolts.
***
The Ottawa winter is absolutely brutal, the kind of biting, deep-freeze cold that makes your lungs ache the second you step outside.
“I don’t understand how people survive here,” Dean complains, his teeth actually chattering as he parks his sleek SUV in the sprawling, snow-covered driveway of the massive luxury estate. “It’s negative twelve degrees, Y/N. Negative twelve. The air hurts my face.”
“You play a sport that takes place entirely on a sheet of frozen water,” you point out dryly, unbuckling your seatbelt. “You should be used to the cold.”
“Arena cold is different from Canadian tundra cold,” Dean argues. He kills the engine and turns to look at you.
The dashboard lights cast a soft glow across his face. He is older now, his jawline sharper, his shoulders broader from years of NHL conditioning. He has a tiny, faded scar above his left eyebrow from a high stick three seasons ago, but he is still, undeniably, the most devastatingly handsome man you have ever seen. And the heavy platinum band resting on his left ring finger — matching the diamond currently sparkling on your own — is still the best decision you have ever made.
“Besides,” Dean says, reaching across the center console to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “Your brother chose to sign with Ottawa just to punish me. I know it. He wants me to freeze to death during the holidays.”
“Ilya did not sign a massive, eight-year contract with the Senators to punish you,” you laugh, leaning into his touch. “He signed it to be closer to Shane.”
Dean smiles, a soft, incredibly fond expression that he saves entirely for you. “Yeah, yeah. The greatest love story in the NHL. Come on, Mrs. Di Laurentis. Let’s go freeze.”
You brave the frigid air together, jogging up the salted stone steps to the massive mahogany front door. Before Dean can even ring the bell, the door swings open.
Shane stands in the entryway, wearing a soft grey cashmere sweater and looking every bit the golden boy of the NHL. He holds a can of ginger ale in one hand, his wedding band flashing in the warm foyer light.
“Y/N! Dean! Get in here before you let all the heat out,” Shane laughs, stepping back to let you both inside.
“Shane,” you smile, stepping into the sprawling, gorgeously decorated house and pulling him into a warm hug. “It is good to see you. Smells incredible in here.”
“Ilya’s making my mother’s brisket,” Shane says, rolling his eyes fondly as he claps Dean on the shoulder. “Good to see you, man. Rough game against Tampa on Thursday.”
“Don’t remind me,” Dean groans, shrugging out of his heavy wool coat. “Our penalty kill is a disaster right now.”
“Whose penalty kill is a disaster?” A booming, heavy Russian accent echoes from down the hall.
A second later, Ilya rounds the corner. He is wearing a dark apron over a black t-shirt, a wooden spoon in one hand, and a massive grin on his face. Years of professional hockey have only made him wider and more intimidating, but the sheer joy on his face when he looks at Shane, and then at you, softens his entire demeanor.
“Little bird!” Ilya drops the wooden spoon on a side table and crosses the foyer in three massive strides, scooping you up into a bone-crushing hug. He spins you around once before setting you back on your feet, kissing the top of your head. “You look beautiful. Marriage is treating you well.”
“I am managing,” you reply in Russian, smiling up at him.
Ilya turns his attention to Dean. He looks his brother-in-law up and down, his eyes narrowing in that familiar, hyper-critical way.
“Di Laurentis,” Ilya greets, his voice dropping into a flat, unimpressed drawl. “Your plus-minus this month is embarrassing. You are pinching too high in the offensive zone. Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”
“I play top-pairing minutes for a Cup-contending team, old man,” Dean fires back without missing a beat, a cocky smirk instantly appearing on his face as he shakes Ilya’s hand. “I can afford to take risks. Some of us actually have a reliable defensive partner to cover for us. Not all of us are busy staring at our own husbands across the ice.”
Ilya lets out a sharp, barking laugh, pulling Dean into a rough, one-armed hug. “You are an idiot. Come into the kitchen. The team is here. They want to meet the American liability.”
You follow the boys down the wide hallway, the sound of loud, overlapping voices and clinking glasses growing louder. Ilya and Shane’s house is an architectural masterpiece, completely open-concept, and right now, the massive kitchen and attached living room are overflowing with professional hockey players.
Half the Ottawa Senators roster seems to be lounging around the kitchen island, drinking beers and eating appetizers. When you and Dean walk in, the conversation stutters to a halt.
“Boys,” Ilya announces loudly, gesturing with his wine glass. “This is my little sister, Y/N. And her husband, Dean Di Laurentis. If any of you hit him on the ice next month when we play them, I will buy you a Rolex.”
A chorus of laughter breaks out. You recognize a few of the younger players staring at Dean with wide eyes.
Dean isn’t just a college player anymore. He is a bona fide NHL star, known for his lethal backhand, his punishing hits, and his absolute refusal to back down from a fight. To the young Ottawa players, seeing Dean standing casually in their captain’s kitchen is a surreal experience.
“Nice to meet you guys,” Dean says, leaning against the marble counter and effortlessly sliding into his charismatic, playboy-turned-superstar persona. “Don’t listen to Ilya. If you hit me, he’ll actually cry. He loves me.”
“I tolerate you because my sister likes your face,” Ilya corrects loudly, handing you a glass of white wine.
“Sure you do,” Shane murmurs, stepping up behind Ilya and wrapping his arms casually around his husband’s waist. Ilya immediately leans back against Shane’s chest, the massive, terrifying Russian practically melting into the Canadian. It’s a sight that the hockey world is finally used to — the league’s first openly queer, married power couple — but it still warms your heart every time you see it.
“So, Di Laurentis,” LaPointe asks nervously, holding a beer. “Is it true you guys run a completely fluid neutral zone trap in Boston? Because our coach showed us tape of your game against Florida, and your transition speed is insane.”
Dean’s eyes light up. Hockey is his second favorite topic in the world, right after you.
“It’s not entirely fluid,” Dean says, gesturing with his hands as he launches into a highly technical breakdown of his team’s defensive systems.
You stand back, sipping your wine, and watch the room.
Ilya naturally jumps into the conversation, loudly arguing with Dean about the merits of aggressive forechecking versus positional defense. They are standing mirroring each other — both holding their drinks in their left hands, both gesturing wildly with their right, both wearing identical, arrogant, infuriatingly handsome smirks.
“They are exactly the same,” a voice whispers next to you.
You turn your head to see Haas, the young forward, watching Ilya and Dean with a look of absolute awe and mild terror. He doesn’t realize he spoke out loud until you raise an eyebrow at him.
“Sorry! I mean, ma’am—Y/N—sorry,” Haas stammers, his face flushing bright red. “It’s just they’re both so … intense.”
“You can say cocky, Luca,” Shane laughs, joining you on the outskirts of the hockey debate. “We all know they’re cocky.”
“They’re assholes,” Boodram chimes in from the other side of the counter, keeping his voice low so his captain doesn’t hear. “But, like, in a good way? Like, they know they’re the best players in the room, and they want everyone else to know it too. It’s crazy.”
“It is a carefully cultivated brand,” you say dryly, taking another sip of wine.
“You disagree?” Ilya suddenly calls out, spinning around to point an accusing finger at Dean. “You think a drop pass on the power play entry is a good idea? It is a coward’s move! It slows the momentum!”
“It creates space, Ilya!” Dean argues back, his competitive streak fully ignited. He starts pacing back and forth in front of the island. “If you drop the puck to the trailer, you force the defense to step up, which opens the wings! It’s basic geometry!”
“It is basic stupidity!” Ilya roars, throwing his hands in the air. He turns to the Ottawa rookies. “Do you hear this? This is why the American system is flawed. They rely on tricks instead of brute force.”
The Ottawa players look terrified to be brought into the crossfire.
Shane sighs, setting his empty wine glass on the counter. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t yell. He simply looks at his massive, raging husband and says, very calmly, “Babe. Inside voice. And pass the salad.”
The transformation is instantaneous.
Ilya stops shouting mid-sentence. His chest heaves once, his eyes completely dial back from murderous enforcer to devoted husband.
“Yes, malysh,” Ilya murmurs softly. He picks up the salad bowl and hands it to Shane, the argument completely forgotten.
Across the kitchen, Dean is still pacing, completely fired up. “I’m telling you, the drop pass is statistically proven to increase zone entries by forty percent! It’s not a trick, it’s-”
“Dean,” you say.
Your voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the noise of the kitchen with absolute, undeniable authority.
Dean stops pacing instantly. His head snaps toward you, his green eyes wide and completely focused on you.
“Yes, sweetheart?” He asks, his entire posture softening.
“Stop waving your hands around,” you tell him smoothly. “You are making me dizzy. Come here and eat your protein.”
You slide a small plate of sliced brisket across the marble island.
Dean doesn’t hesitate for a single second. The superstar defenseman, the cocky, arrogant NHL playboy, obediently walks over to you, wraps an arm around your waist, presses a kiss to your temple, and spears a piece of meat.
“Sorry, Y/N,” Dean murmurs against your hair. “Got carried away.”
“You always do,” you reply fondly, running a hand through his blond hair.
You look across the island.
LaPointe and Haas are staring at you, and then at Shane, and then back to the two massive, highly dangerous hockey players happily eating their respective bread and carrots.
LaPointe leans over to Haaa, his voice a barely audible whisper of pure disbelief.
“They walk them like dogs,” LaPointe breathes. “It’s insane.”
“Terrifying,” Haas agrees in a hushed, reverent tone. “I want a marriage exactly like that.”
You catch Shane’s eye across the kitchen. The Canadian raises his ginger ale toward you in a silent, perfectly synchronized toast. You raise your wine glass back. The rookies are right, of course, but neither you nor Shane would ever admit it out loud.
***
Dinner is a loud, chaotic, incredibly warm affair.
Ilya’s brisket is perfect, the wine flows freely, and the dining room echoes with laughter, old hockey stories, and ruthless chirping. Dean fits in flawlessly with the Ottawa players, trading insults with Ilya that sound vicious to an outsider but are actually layered with deep mutual respect.
It wasn’t always easy. Those first few years after college were a brutal adjustment. Dean getting signed, the long-distance strains, Ilya’s terrifying protective streak flaring up every time Dean’s name was in the tabloids. But Dean proved him wrong. Every single time, Dean proved that his devotion to you wasn’t just a college phase, it was the defining anchor of his life.
By the time the Ottawa players finally clear out around midnight, retreating into the freezing snow to head home, the massive house is finally quiet.
You, Dean, Ilya, and Shane migrate to the sprawling living room. A fire is cracking in the massive stone fireplace, casting a warm, flickering glow over the leather furniture.
Shane is curled up on the sofa, his head resting in Ilya’s lap. Ilya is absently running his large, calloused fingers through Shane’s hair, looking completely at peace.
You are sitting on the oversized loveseat, your legs draped across Dean’s lap. He is gently massaging your calves through the fabric of your jeans, his thumb pressing into the muscles with practiced ease.
“Good dinner, old man,” Dean says quietly, staring into the flames.
“Yuna’s recipe,” Ilya replies softly, his eyes closed. “It is foolproof. Even you could not ruin it.”
Dean chuckles. He leans his head back against the sofa, his green eyes catching the firelight. For a moment, he is quiet, a rare, reflective look crossing his face.
“You know,” Dean says, his voice losing all its usual sarcastic armor. “Dykstra was asking me earlier about how I got signed m. About how I climbed the undrafted free agent projections.”
Ilya opens one eye, looking at Dean across the room. “You fixed your gap control.”
“Yeah. I did.” Dean’s hand rests heavily on your knee, his thumb stroking your skin. He looks at Ilya, the tension between them completely replaced by a deep, unspoken brotherhood. “But that’s not what got me there. I told him the truth.”
“Which is?” Shane asks gently.
“I wouldn’t be playing in this league if it wasn’t for you guys,” Dean says. He looks down at you, his eyes incredibly soft, and then back to Ilya. “If Y/N hadn’t torn my game apart that night in the lobby … if Ilya hadn’t spent that entire summer in Boston physically beating my ass on the ice … I would have coasted. I would have been a good college player, and then maybe played beer league.”
You feel a tight, warm ache in your chest. You reach out, lacing your fingers through Dean’s.
“You did the work, Dean,” you tell him softly. “We just pointed out your flaws.”
“You pointed them out very aggressively,” Dean grins, though the emotion in his eyes is entirely genuine. He looks at Ilya. “Seriously. Thank you. Both of you. For not letting me settle.”
“You are a good man, Di Laurentis,” Ilya says, his voice thick and sincere. “You are arrogant, and you talk too much, but you take care of my sister. And you are a hell of a defenseman. You earned your spot.”
Dean swallows hard, his jaw tightening as he nods. Coming from Ilya Rozanov, there is no higher praise on earth.
“But don’t think this means I’m not going to put you in the boards next month,” Ilya adds quickly, the gruffness returning to his voice. “If you try that drop pass in my zone, I will end your career.”
“I look forward to seeing you try, grandpa,” Dean fires back instantly, the cocky grin returning in full force.
Shane laughs, sitting up and stretching. “Alright, that’s my cue. If you two start drawing up plays on napkins, I’m going to bed. Goodnight, kids.”
“Goodnight, Shane,” you smile as Ilya stands up, pulling his husband to his feet.
“Sleep well, little bird,” Ilya says, pressing a final kiss to your forehead. He points two fingers at Dean, pointing them back at his own eyes in an I’m watching you gesture, before following Shane down the hallway toward the master suite.
The living room falls quiet again, save for the crackle of the fire.
Dean turns his attention entirely to you. He slides his hands up your thighs, gripping your hips, and pulls you effortlessly across the sofa until you are straddling his lap.
“Hi,” Dean murmurs, his hands resting warmly on the small of your back.
“Hi,” you reply, resting your forearms on his broad shoulders. “You are feeling very sentimental tonight.”
“Can you blame me?” Dean asks, his eyes tracing the line of your jaw, down your neck, and back up to your eyes. “I’m sitting in a mansion in Ottawa, playing in the NHL, holding the most incredible, terrifying, beautiful woman in the world. I’m a lucky guy.”
“You are,” you agree, completely unabashed. “But you earned it.”
Dean smiles, that devastating, million-dollar smile that still makes your heart skip a beat all these years later. He leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, incredibly deep kiss. It tastes like expensive wine, woodsmoke, and years of absolute devotion.
You kiss him back just as fiercely, your fingers tangling in his thick blonde hair. The heat between you flares instantly, burning just as bright and desperate as it did in that tiny college bedroom years ago.
Dean breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead against yours, his breathing slightly elevated.
“You know,” Dean whispers, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs. “The guest room is all the way on the other side of the house. Soundproof walls, too. I checked.”
You raise an eyebrow, your old, haughty confidence returning in full force. “You checked the acoustics of my brother’s guest room?”
“A good player always scouts the arena before the game,” Dean murmurs, his voice dropping into that rough, gravelly register that completely short-circuits your brain. He kisses the sensitive skin just below your ear. “What do you say, Mrs. Di Laurentis? Ready for puck drop?”
You let out a soft, helpless laugh, leaning your head back as his lips trail down your neck.
Some things never change. He is still arrogant, he is still incredibly demanding, and he is still, without a doubt, exactly the game you want to play for the rest of your life.
“Take me upstairs, Di Laurentis,” you whisper into the quiet room.
Dean doesn’t hesitate. He stands up effortlessly, carrying you in his arms as he walks toward the hallway, a triumphant, wicked smirk on his face.
You rest your head against his shoulder, entirely safe, entirely loved, and completely in control.
The Ottawa winter rages outside, but inside, you have never been warmer.
A soft, slow-burn romcom about a girl who makes everything feel alive, a boy who fixes things because it is easier than saying how he feels, and the cherry-red Chevy that started it all.
summary: justin decides that after weeks of flirting with you, he is ready to up the anti in the only way he knew how, with a song.
request: yes/no
warnings: sexual themes, p in v, swearing, drinking.
word count: 2.5k
authors note: this was very different to anything that I have written before but I must admit that I enjoyed playing around with the different aspects of it.
The first time you met Justin, he had called you trouble.
You'd been fresh off a three-goal win for the Briar women's soccer team, still wearing your practice hoodie as you wandered into Malone's with half the squad behind you. The place was already buzzing, students packed, waiting for the band setting up on the stage.
Justin was crouched beside an amp, tightening cables when one of your teammates accidentally bumped into his guitar case "sorry!" she called out as she backed away.
Justin looked up with an easy smile “no damage done." He shook his head as his eyes landed on you.
You had been looking at him first.
His muscle tee that had practically been made for his arms.
You didn’t know if you were meant to be jealous of the shirt or of the fact that he was clearly one of gods favourites.
Cute.
Very cute.
Justin licked his lips "you gonna keep staring?" he asked with a grin, "or help me pick this thing up?"
Your lips curved as you crossed your arms “what if I was just waiting for a show?” You shrugged as he laughed.
"Oh, you're one of those."
You furrowed your eyebrows “one of what?" Your teammates stood behind you enjoying watching the interaction unfold.
Justin put his guitar down "the girls who flirt before introducing themselves." He stood towering over you.
You held out your hand anyway and introduced yourself as he took it "Justin." You internally repeated his name letting it linger on your tongue.
The look he gave you made you smirk "you always this cocky, Justin?" You asked as you ran your tongue over your teeth.
Justin shook his head “only when pretty girls keep looking at me." You squeezed his hand once before letting go.
Your cheeks turned pink "confidence. I like it." As you walked back to the team who had found a booth, he called after you.
He fiddled with his guitar pick "what's your team?" You glanced back over your shoulder.
"Soccer."
He smirked as he looked you up and down “explains the ego." You laughed as you flipped him off earning a chuckle from him too.
From that night onward, flirting became your thing.
You'd arrive at Malone's every Friday and Justin would already be there, tuning his guitar.
Sometimes he'd save your usual table without saying a word.
Sometimes on the colder nights you’d steal his hoodie while he was distracted talking to the drummer.
Once you hid his guitar picks.
Another time he convinced the bartender to replace your usual drink with sparkling water just to watch your offended expression.
By the time you noticed it, Justin was already grinning as he watched you “you are the worst." You shook your head as he grinned.
Justin let his hands rest on his hips “you still came over." He shot back as you rolled your eyes “to yell at you."
He waved you off “whatever helps you sleep." You stuck your tongue out at him before you made your way back to the booth.
Everyone noticed.
Your teammates.
His bandmates.
Dean even had it as a new thing to tease you about during your Wednesday morning lecture.
One Friday, after Justin had spent nearly an entire set looking in your direction between songs.
Allie leaned over the counter as you came up for another drink "you know he likes you.” She brushed your elbow with hers.
You brought the straw to your lips "I know." You nodded as the girl scoffed.
"So why are you still flirting like neither of you knows?"
You shrugged, "it's fun,” she placed her hands on her hips as she shook her head.
She smiled knowingly, “you're scared,” she pointed her finger at you.
"I am not."
Justin caught your eye halfway through a song.
Without thinking, you smiled.
He smiled right back.
Allie couldn’t help it when she laughed “so what is holding you back from the boy that likes ya?”You looked away first as the question made you sigh.
Because truthfully, you didn’t have an answer to her question.
It wasn't just at Malone's anymore.
Justin started showing up to your games.
At first, you assumed it was a coincidence.
Until after one particularly muddy win, you spotted him leaning against the fence with two coffees, "you stalking me?" You asked as you waved goodbye to your teammates that were going to head back the other way.
He handed a coffee over as he shook his head "I prefer supportive." Justin corrected you.
It made you laugh "do you know the rules?” You didn’t mean it to be mean, but you had so many different conversations with Justin.
And he seemed to know enough to have found out that there are 11 players on a team on the pitch "I know enough." He nodded, clearly backing himself.
"Oh yeah?"
Justin thought back to some of his personal favourite highlights from the show “you yell at referees." You laughed, remembering how you mouthed off at the ref.
"They deserve it."
The image of how you scored lingered in his mind "you celebrated like you've won the World Cup." You shook your head ready to correct him.
"We're passionate."
Justin laughed as he looked at how your white socks were still stained by the muddy water “you shoved your teammate into a puddle." A giggle erupted from your stomach.
"She deserved that too."
Justin sipped at his coffee "I like watching you." The comment came out innocently.
Your eyebrows raised as you coked your head “you’ve been watching me?” You tried to mask your surprise.
Yet failed miserably when he nodded, “how many games?" You stepped closer to him as he avoided your gaze.
"Enough."
The boy mumbled as he looked up at the sky "Justin,” you placed your hand on his arm as his head snapped down making his eyes lock onto yours.
"Five."
You stared as your jaw dropped, “you've come to five games?" His ears turned pink as you laughed.
"They're fun."
You pointed your finger at him “you've sat through five full games of women's soccer-" he cut you off "twice it went into overtime."
You shook your head, “why didn’t you do her mention it to me?” He shrugged as he looked at the torn up pitch.
He didn’t expect to care you as deeply as he did as quickly as he did "I liked seeing you where you're happiest." For the first time in a long while, you didn't have a teasing response.
Because somehow, that was the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to you.
After that day you hadn’t seen Justin for a while.
But that wasn’t to say that he wasn’t consuming most of your thoughts.
Like clockwork, it was Friday and you were back in Malones watching Justin’s set.
Except this time he had offered a song up to his favourite athlete.
He hadn’t even mentioned you by name.
Not that it mattered, because everyone knew it was you.
Even if they didn’t say it, their eyes still lingered on you throughout the song.
By the time the band finished nearly an hour later, most of the crowd had started filtering outside.
You waited near the bar, pretending to scroll through your phone.
Justin appeared beside you a few minutes later, guitar case slung over one shoulder “so I’m guessing you’re into me?" You teased him as you laughed.
The boy had dedicated his cover of ‘Into You’ to you “glad you were able to get the hint.” He shot back as he placed his hands on the table.
You nodded as you crossed your arms “I think everyone got that hint.” Your words made his cheeks turn red.
He had to admit that he hadn’t thought out the possibility that you would have disliked it “you really hated it?" He frowned before he trailed off “was it the attention?"
You nodded as you sucked at your teeth “a little." You tucked your hair behind your ear “I like that your attention was on me.” Your words were honest as you put your hands into your pockets.
His expression softened, “it was always you." The words hung between you.
Neither of you joked.
Neither of you looked away.
And in that moment, you didn’t know if it was tonight that tipped you over the edge. But you knew that you wanted all of Justin in that moment and you weren’t going to wait any longer.
If the game the two of you played was one of cat and mouse, you knew you needed to pounce now.
You finally pulled him in close and you kissed him. It was aggressive, as if all the time flirting with him had built up to this.
You let out a whimper when he bit your lower lip. He pulled away letting his forehead rest on yours “come back to mine?” You asked as he cleared his throat.
“Lead the way pretty girl.”
Luckily, the walk was short back to your dorm hall.
If the walk was any longer than the five minutes that it was, you genuinely swore that you might have acrtually burst on the walk.
You got to the front of your building as Justin kissed you against, letting his knee slot between your legs “fuck I need you J.” You begged feeling the tension pool in your core.
Justin smirked “glad to see hear that you’re into me too.” The joke landed as he pecked your lips as you squeezed his hand, deciding that the little bit of patience that you had left you were going to use to get yourself to your room.
As he followed you up the steps, hand still wrapped securely around yours, you realised the tension that had been building for months had finally broken.
The two of you moved quickly through the hall.
Your hand fiddled with the key as the boy nipped at your neck “if you don’t let me unlock this door we are not fucking in this hallway.” You grumbled as you made him laugh.
Justin pulled away from you as he grinned letting his hands rest on your hips “didn’t take you for an exhibitionist.” His words vibrated in your ear as you unlocked your door “but tonight I’m glad we’re in here.”
Within seconds of you two getting into your room he had you pressed up against your door “c’mere.” You murmured as you cupped his cheeks.
His fingers tugged through your hair as his tongue swiped across your lower lip. The movements were messy, you were glad that your roommate was out of town.
Justin felt a tent form in his pants making him groan “fuck you’re gonna be the death of me.” He dropped his head to the crook of your neck.
His skin felt warm as you grinned letting your hand crawl up the inside of his shirt.
Your nails pressed against his skin “I know.” It was enough to hooking his fingers under your thighs as he was desperate to have you.
The soft hue from your LED lights made your skin glow as Justin set you on your bed “as hot as you look in this, I need to get you out of it.” His fingers tugged at your shirt as you nodded in agreement.
The movements were messy as all of your clothes landed in a pile on your floor and before you knew it you were on top of the boy “shit this pussy was made for me.” Justin grunted as he drove his head into your pillow.
Your hands pressed into his chest as you drove your cunt into his cock “all yours.” You babbled in agreement letting your head drop.
Justin’s hands cupped your tits, letting his fingers roll your nipples between them “perfect perfect girl.” His voice was a low groan, the vibrations rattled through your bones.
The singer brought his hips up to meet yours causing your core to burn “you feel so good.” You cried out as you let your teeth catch on your lip.
Justin was bigger than you were used to, he was in fact huge. It was clear that he was having the time of his life as he grinned, rubbing his thumb against your clit.
The sensitive bud made your body shake “don’t stop,” you pleaded leaning back as you let your hands rest on his thighs to give him better access to fuck your cunt.
It made the boy sit up, wrapping his lips around your nipple before you had a chance to question him “jesus fuck oh-” Justin smirked against your skin as the string of expletives slipped from your lips.
Justin shook his head as he looked up at you “what would your coaches think about your dirty mouth.” He had sat through one of your many rants about how the coaches wanted you to have a ‘cleaner’ mouth when you were on the pitch.
It made you squirm as you didn’t respond.
You needed the boy in such a carnal way that he probably could have said anything and gotten away with it. So you used your energy to grab a fistful of his hair as the sounds of skin slapping bounced off your walls.
The boy let out a grunt enjoying how the two of you had this rhythm that was like clockwork. His mouth found your other nipple, his teeth grazed over the sensitive peak making your body shiver.
His calloused finger against your clit made your body squirm as your eyes began to roll back “I’m close!” You blurted it out, the words coming out the strongest that your words had since Justin started fucking you.
The boy nodded in agreement “me too, baby.” His eyes focused on yours but your body seemed to be concerned about fucking yourself on his cock.
His free hand’s fingers caught your jaw, forcing you to look back at him “go ahead pretty girl.” His voice was sickly sweet as a cry broke through your voice.
You don’t need to be told twice and it felt like a floodgate had opened between your legs. Your back arched into him as your fingers gripped at the hair on the nape of his neck. As you came hard your eyes screwed shut with white specks casting across your vision while your thighs shook.
Justin had to resort to wrapping his arm around your torso so you didn’t fall.
Your body felt dizzy as pleasure coursed through your veins and as your hips began to slow down, Justin took over.
His erratic thrusts tipped himself over the edge as your cunt clamped around his cock, your walls practically suffocating him.
You felt boneless in his hold as your chest heaved and your head rested against his shoulder “that was-” you cut yourself off with a huff.
Justin ran his fingers down your back as if he wasn’t ready to let you go just yet “perfect, it was perfect.”
synopsis: hugo’s heart beating out of his chest when he sees you.
vivian hugo had been told, many times, that he was strange. strange as in the "why did you just make laser sound effects while opening a soda can?" kind of way. not that he really cared at the end of the day.
he liked weird things. he liked old sci-fi movies. he liked making little "beep beep" noises when backing away from people in crowded hallways. he liked staring at clouds and pretending they were spaceships.
love, however? love was stupid. love was inefficient. love was the reason half his teammates made terrible decisions.
then he saw you. and suddenly–
badump.
he stopped walking.
badump.
the world seemed to pause.
badump.
"... huh."
you were standing outside a café, sunlight catching on your sunglasses as you laughed at something on your phone. that was it. you weren't doing anything dramatic. you weren't rescuing puppies or descending from heaven or whatever. you were literally just standing there, like a normal civilian.
yet all hugo could hear was–
badump.
badump.
badump.
he stared. you looked up. your eyes met. you smiled.
and hugo, in all his brilliance, immediately walked straight into a street sign.
CLANG.
the sound echoed down the entire sidewalk.
for a second, everything went silent. then your eyes widened before your legs rushed over.
"oh my gosh, are you okay???”
before hugo could even process his own embarrassment, you were already hurrying over to him, concern written all over your face. your hand lightly touched his forehead as you checked for injuries, and suddenly the pain from the collision became completely irrelevant.
because you were looking at him. talking to him. worried about him.
BADUMP.
BADUMP.
BADUMP.
his heart was going insane. he barely heard your question over the sound of it. in fact, he was pretty sure it was trying to escape his chest entirely.
you were beautiful. kind. attentive. and you had rushed over to help a complete stranger who had just lost a fight against a metal pole.
there’s only one logical explanation, hugo thought as he stared at you, completely dazed.
ah. so this is destiny.
that had to be it. there was absolutely no other reason his heart had chosen this exact moment to start screaming.
vivien hugo x reader / warnings : hugo is a YAPPER, hugo is blunt asf, hugo is cute, reader is lowk kinda mean to him 🙁, reader likes chiikawa, reader had a tough time making friends, reader doesn't do well under pressure, ignore the time it doesnt matter
synopsis : hugo saw his future wife during his shift as a pizza delivery guy ... hes down bad asf ...
ouhhh hugo would sooo be the kind of guy who gets lovesick...
destiny this destiny that but if there's anything hugo is sure of, even without destiny's meddling, it's his love for you!
everyone has established this but i reiterate that hugo's middle name is clingy!! he sticks to you like glue, even blindly following you to the bathroom only to walk into the door just because you got up from the couch and he just followed cause it's his second nature.
he takes you with him to all his matches regardless of whether they're overseas, he just can't stand to be without you for longer than a day! hugo performs his best when he knows you're watching, after all.
i like to think that he hardly posts on social media outside of brand deals and the likes, but if you post anything, he's literally the mbappe "i will be there no matter what" meme... first like first repost and everything cause he's your #1 fan! (everyone calls him a simp but he holds the title proudly. yes he's a simp for you, so what?)
hugo genuinely getting antsy when you take longer than half an hour to reply to him because he's so used to your attention that he can't help but worry :(
definitely the first to say "i love you" because he knows for a fact that you're the only one for him... he doesn't strike me as the kind of person who takes relationships lightly, as in if he dates he intends for it to be long-term if not forever, so he truly does mean it when he tells you he loves you...
also has pictures of you as his lockscreen and wallpaper, and his gallery is like 95% pics of you that you may or may not know he even took... stares at them when he's feeling down or just misses you, it takes the weight off of him like nothing else ever could, knowing he has you to come home to everyday.
hugo truly feels like the luckiest person in the world just being by your side but especially when you kiss him. life truly can't get better than being with you, and the ring hiding in his drawer will soon be the most tangible proof of his love and devotion to you <3
summary: your other relationships with the ng11s didn't go so well... until you met vivian hugo, the man who changed everything.
a/n: this came to me in a dream /hj umm first time posting a fic i'm ngl
CW: relationship failures, slightly suggestive content (i'm sorry for making bunny evil), angst when it comes to the reader's thoughts, i promise this is fluff with hugo. i'm calling it football in this bc it makes more sense than soccer and also i'm watching the WC so i'm in the mood
does destiny exist?
it's hard to think so considering how your past relationships ended. honestly, you should get a participation award. you must've pissed somebody off in a past life to deserve this.
as an employee for a large international fashion brand that worked closely with sports, you've met many players throughout your time there. football players were your largest demographic.
you'd never been a huge football fan; you barely knew the game outside of "people kick balls and hands are a no no". but the players liked to talk, so you learned more about it through them. it was nice hearing about something people are so passionate about. football was life to these people. it was a refreshing change of pace. after all, your introduction to football wasn't the kindest.
it all started in japan when you were 11. your parents had booked a trip there and spent their time learning japanese and teaching you how to speak it as well. when you guys finally went, it was a lot of fun. your mom sucked at japanese, so your dad took over most of the talking while you got to stand there and look pretty (thank god, you didn't want to interact anyways).
at some point, you'd been given freedom to explore the nearby area. you were wandering around, forbidden from going too far, when you came across a boy your age practicing football. he had uniquely styled reddish brown hair with striking teal eyes, and a smaller and younger boy with the same eyes and dark green hair watched him with admiration.
you watched in fascination as well. his footwork was incredible. you'd never seen a football player up close, let alone one your age. so when you saw him, you were blown away. he noticed you quickly, and called you out for staring. that's where your relationship with sae itoshi began. he was your first love and your introduction to football. two years later, he moved to spain for a football academy.
neither of you ever said it out loud, but you both knew there was something there. he'd kissed you before he left for spain. you said you'd wait for him. you did, but you didn't realize a game could change someone so completely. sae unofficially broke up with you by 15 (unofficially, because you never dated). you should've expected that he'd do this eventually, he'd never asked you to be his, but it hurt so bad.
that same year, you had your internship with your current company. you'd been lucky to get it so early. you were immediately thrust into the life of interacting with foreign players, a job you loved. from there, you met bunny iglesias with his soft lavender hair with vibrant red eyes and a sideways cross shaped scar across his face. he was handsome, tall, and mysterious. so began your unraveling.
he'd spent all summer flirting with you. it was hard to resist a hot spainard being so openly interested in you, and it'd been forever since a guy showed interest in you. it was probably a bad idea to trip all over yourself after being so devastated by sae, but being a teenager was about dumb romantic decisions. bunny had the potential to be the one, right?
not only did bunny iglesias lead you on, but after he got what he wanted from you, he GHOSTED you. what the fuck man? isn't spanish supposed to be the language of love??? bunny clearly did not get the memo, because a whore's love means nothing.
the worst part is that you should've seen it coming. bunny always hated happiness. he said it made him want to die. and despite your heartbreak with sae, you'd stayed full of joy and whimsy, something that bunny pointed out constantly. it should've been a compliment, but from a guy like bunny iglesias, your misery is what makes him smile.
but out of all of them, michael kaiser broke your heart the most. he was an upcoming star when you met him, someone who'd been scouted recently and was making a name for himself. you'd met him the same time you'd met bunny, but michael never made a move the way bunny did. and with bunny preoccuping your thoughts, michael didn't have much of a chance to start with.
you guys got closer as time went on. you texted frequently. you were friends before he confessed to liking you, and the two of you started dating. you supported his career the most, being genuinely happy and proud when he succeeded.
he was your first boyfriend. the first person to ever put a label on it and be serious about it. neither of you had experience, you were both awkward teens. your first date ended with you both being rained on, your first kiss was shy, your first time together was a massive trial and error. yet it never made your love falter. you fought everyday to make it work, and he learned to trust you with his feelings.
you guys worked until you didn't.
michael loved you dearly. you both knew that. but the issue was that he didn't think he deserved forever, and he knew you wanted forever. so he left before he promised you anything.
in a way it was mercy. he was letting you go, allowing you to move on and find somebody worthy. but it wasn't what either of you wanted. you cried, you argued, and you both said "i love you" before finally splitting up. his fear of messing it up made him dump you before he could make you hate him. nothing you said would've changed his mind.
michael moved on faster than you did. he started dating some model two years later, and that fact became public because she threw a fit when he dumped her. funny how none of the relationships after you lasted.
he'd become a player to the public, someone who couldn't make a relationship last a year, but you knew better. the michael in those relationships wasn't the michael you had, and for a while you'd haunt yourself with that knowledge, wondering if he'd ever come back.
would he realize he was wrong? was something you asked daily. at some point you gave up on that hope. he told you he was gone, and begged you to move on. he'd moved on, so it was time for you as well.
except you couldn't. after three failed romances, you'd convinced yourself you were unlovable. you kept their hearts warm until they discarded you for something they actually wanted. sae wanted his career, and he saw you as an obstacle in it. bunny wanted sex, and once he got it he left to go find another to seduce. michael wanted love, but didn't know how to receive everything that came with it and he ran away out of fear. every man that showed the slightest interest in you dipped.
you were soooo done with men. one more soul crushing breakup like michael and you'd never recover emotionally. the funny part about your exes is that all of them became part of new generation 11. ironic that you'd been involved with three of them. you met lorenzo and loki too, but they were just friends who treated you kindly and even suggested people you could date.
but one magical day, you met vivian hugo. someone who changed your life. it's an ordinary day that started with stress. some player was coming in for fitting adjustments because somebody in design fucked up his measurements, which meant more paperwork for you. you're annoyed since the week has already been rough with the english team complaining, the german team flying in (meaning you would have to avoid michael at all costs), the spanish team not liking their outfits, and now a french player having to be refitted by you because apparently no one else is competent.
you took a deep breath, resting your hand on the handle. you've got this. you're definitely not about to meet a scary player who will curse you out and maybe ruin your day. everything is fine. the french are friendly, right? with a dose of self-confidence, you pushed the door open.
football players are always so tall and muscular. yeah, that's the point of the sport, but it still freaks you out. especially since the man in front of you has burgundy hair with the most empty black eyes you've ever seen. he looked serious, but not unfriendly. he studied you carefully, eyes scanning you up and down. you couldn't tell if he was unimpressed, uninterested, or something else.
"um... hello." you said awkwardly.
"hello." he tilted his head. "are you here to fix my suit?"
"yes. we have to get the measurements done now so the tailor can fix it before your event tonight."
he paused, then nodded. "i apologize for the inconvenience."
"you're fine, its nothing to be sorry for. our design team messed up, so its our fault we have to rush." you held out a measuring tape. "extend your arm, please." he did as you asked. he was surprisingly obedient; most players argued or got impatient. he was silent the whole time, his abyss of eyes following you around as you moved.
"you're very beautiful." he blurted.
"oh." you paused, unsure of how to respond for a second. "thank you. i wasn't expecting that."
he hummed. another moment of silence before: "do you believe in destiny?"
you looked up from where you were measuring his legs. "what?"
"destiny. do you believe in it?"
"i'm... not sure i follow."
he pointed up at the ceiling, gazing up like he was looking at something beyond it. "every human is born with traits that make them suitable for something. that means they have a role to play and straying from this leads to unnecessary struggle."
"so we all have a path to follow?"
"precisely." he tilted his head again, "so do you believe in destiny? because i do. and i believe that destiny led us to meet today."
"...how?" you asked, nervously sorting a pile of books that didn't need to be sorting.
"isn't it obvious? we're fated to meet and fall in love."
you turned toward him slowly. "excuse me?"
"i'm in love with you."
"WHAT." you cleared your throat. "are you serious?"
"of course. why would i lie?"
"we don't even know each other."
"we can start. i'm vivian hugo. and you are?"
"i'm [full name]. nice to meet you as well. so like... why are you in love with me exactly?"
"you're pretty, kind, and competent. you are well-suited to the role you currently play and i admire that about humans. everybody should be more like that." vivian said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. "destiny has brought us together."
"right... well i'm all done now, and i will be off. cya, i guess?"
"can i have your number?" jesus, he was persistent.
"...fine. you may." full of suspicion and against your reasonable mind, you gave him your number. despite how cold he looked, he was surprisingly sweet. and determined. and also way more expressive and emotional than he seemed???
he had the most stoic face in the universe, but he beeped when he backed up like a car (who are you warning?? there is nobody behind you at the moment you're just walking backwards dude). once time he stuck his tongue out at you and said "bleh" so seriously you laughed. vivian had more of a personality than he seemed to. it showed with his passion for football, how frequently he talked about destiny, and his admiration for his teammates. he spoke about loki so highly you almost admired him too.
weirdly enough, vivian was content with being #2. instead of wanting to be the best in the world, he wanted to be #2 and control the whole playing field as a midfielder. it was a huge change of pace from the other players you'd met. it was like finding gold among pretty rocks.
he was still on with that "we're meant to be together, it came to me in a dream blah blah blah" stuff, but knowing more about him made you realize he was serious and not love-bombing. he genuinely believed you were somebody he was supposed to be with. you worried he might die if destiny failed him with how much pressure he puts on it.
vivian hugo was a passionate man. he slipped through your defenses when you least expected it and snuck his way over to your heart. still, the idea of falling for someone again was terrifying. what if he WAS love-bombing you? what if this was all a setup? you'd push him away sometimes just to see if he'd get tired and leave.
he didn't. he never did. which was annoying considering you wanted him to be evil so you had a reason to shut him out completely. his patience with you was infuriating as well. you'd snap at him, tell him to go away, say that you know he's faking it, and not speak to him for a bit. and he always came circling back like a damn boomerang. one time he mailed you flowers because you were mad at him for something stupid. another time he showed up at your door with chocolates and a teddy bear (which is insane considering he was supposed to be out of the country at the time).
"why do you do it?" you asked one day, curled up on the couch wrapped in warm blankets.
"do what?" vivian asked, stirring honey into freshly brewed tea because you were starting to get sick and he knew you liked your tea with honey.
"why do you stay?" it sounded silly but you had to get that weight off your chest. you had to know his motives.
he clinked the spoon against the cup to remove the extra liquid before placing it in the sink. he looked over at you. "because you're important to me."
"you didn't say i'm your destiny."
he frowned, "[name], i've said you're my destiny multiple times. it doesn't mean anything to you, so i opted for something different this time." he leaned forward, pulling up his sleeves to wash the dishes. "but look at us. i'm here, aren't i? i'm always here. i'm not leaving, not just because you are my destiny, but because i love you and i value you as a person."
tears welled up in your eyes. all you'd ever wanted was for someone to see and love you. "do you promise?"
"i do."
"do you pinky promise though?"
"of course."
you held up your pinky. "swear it."
a smile tugged at his lips as he mimicked your hand motion. "i swear."
"...can i have a kiss with that promise?"
"i thought you'd never ask." he came over, carefully bringing your tea with him. he set it down on the table carefully before leaning over and placing a soft kiss on your lips. it was warm and comforting, a silent vow of love and trust.
"thank you for choosing me." you murmured against his lips.
"i will choose you everyday for as long as you let me." you let yourself believe him. because vivian hugo was a man of his word, and he'd proven himself to you time and time again.
perhaps destiny was a real thing. either way, you're grateful that the universe brought him to you.
a/n: ty for reading!!! this was so fun to write, i might make more in the future
a/n: first hugo oneshot… if i mischaracterized hugo, i apologize!
title inspired by the song shut up and dance by WALK THE MOON! such a nostalgic banger (and when i heard this song at work, that’s when i thought of this hugo fic idea)!!
ac goes to the talented lovelyssae
the music was loud enough to shake the crystal glasses on the tables.
some luxury brand had rented out the entire rooftop lounge in paris for a private afterparty – models, athletes, celebrities, rich people pretending not to stare at the athletes, and rich people definitely staring at the athletes. the lights were dim gold and violet, the city glittering below like spilled diamonds.
and somehow, in the middle of all that expensive noise, vivian hugo looked painfully out of place. not because he wasn’t beautiful. goodness gracious, no.
he looked like he belonged on a magazine cover no one was ready for. black suit perfectly fitted to his tall frame, dark eyes half-lidded with that same unreadable expression he always wore during matches. calm. analytical. detached. he stood beside julian loki near the VIP section, holding a drink he hadn’t touched once.
“you’ve been staring at the same point for eight minutes,” loki said casually.
“incorrect. six minutes and forty-two seconds.”
“that somehow makes it worse.”
hugo ignored him. his eyes stayed fixed on the dance floor.
specifically, you.
you in that shimmering dress that moved every time you laughed. you throwing your head back while your friends screamed around you. you dancing like you couldn’t feel anyone watching, like joy itself had grabbed your hands and spun you into the center of the room.
your energy was… strange. strange in a statistically unusual way.
people gravitated toward you naturally. every few seconds someone touched your arm, leaned toward you, smiled at you. your friends were hyping you up like you were the main performer of the night.
“wow, you’re literally glowing!”
“i can’t explain it, your aura is EVERYTHING tonight!”
“i’m serious, i feel happier standing next to you!”
you laughed so hard you nearly stumbled and sprained both ankles in heels.
hugo watched all of it with the same neutral face. but internally? his brain was moving at terrifying speeds.
subject causes emotional elevation in surrounding individuals.
social influence level: abnormally high.
smile frequency observed in nearby people increased by approximately thirty percent.
why.
loki glanced between you and hugo before a slow grin spread across his face.
“ah,” he said.
hugo blinked once. “what.”
“you’re interested.”
“no.”
“you’ve analyzed her entire existence from across the room.”
“i analyze everyone.”
“not like this.”
hugo finally looked at him.
loki smiled like the devil himself. then shoved him. hard.
hugo stared at him with actual betrayal for the first time all night as his body moved forward involuntarily, straight toward the dance floor.
“julian.”
“go socialize, robot.”
hugo didn’t even have time to respond before the crowd swallowed him whole.
the bass vibrated through the floor beneath his shoes. lights flashed across moving bodies. people danced around him without care while he stood there stiffly, shoulders squared like he was preparing for a tactical briefing instead of entering a party.
then you noticed him. your dancing slowed. your eyes widened slightly. standing directly in front of you was the most intimidatingly gorgeous man you had ever seen in your life. and he was standing completely still. like someone had accidentally disconnected his charger.
you leaned closer, trying not to laugh. “are you dancing or buffering?”
hugo stared at you. you stared back. your friends immediately started losing their minds behind you.
“HOLY HELL HE’S HOT.”
“girl, he looks AI-generated.”
“why’s he standing like an NPC???”
hugo’s eyes shifted toward your friends briefly before returning to you. “… i do not dance.”
his voice was low and smooth despite the loud music.
you blinked. then grinned. “that’s okay. i’ll teach you.”
“unnecessary.”
“you came onto the dance floor voluntarily.”
“… that was not voluntary.”
“oh,” you laughed, “did your friends sacrifice you?”
“… yes.”
that got another bright laugh out of you.
hugo felt something strange happen in his chest. uncomfortable. and… warm.
you tilted your head, studying him curiously. up close, he was even prettier. sharp features. dark sleepy eyes. expression flatter than a hospital heart monitor. but not rude. more like… weirdly serious. like an exhausted genius forced into human interaction.
“okay,” you said decisively, “first lesson.”
before he could react, you grabbed his wrist. hugo froze fully. his brain stalled the moment your fingers wrapped around him.
“you’re too stiff,” you told him over the music. “relax your shoulders.”
“… what?”
“because you dance like you’re waiting for a software update.”
your friends burst into laughter. for the first time all night, hugo looked mildly offended.
“i am capable of rhythm.”
“prove it then.”
there was challenge in your smile now – playful teasing underneath, to which hugo looked at you for a long second. then, surprisingly he obeyed. his shoulders loosened a fraction.
you gasped dramatically. “WAIT. okay. yes. progress.”
“your standards are low.”
“i support small businesses.”
your friends almost collapsed. even hugo paused at that one.
he didn’t fully understand why his chest felt lighter around you. conversations usually exhausted him. parties exhausted him. people especially exhausted him. yet somehow, listening to you felt easy.
you moved closer so he could hear you better. “what’s your name?”
“vivian hugo.”
your eyes widened immediately. “wait– THE vivian hugo?”
“unfortunately.”
“oh my gosh, you’re way funnier than the interviews make you seem.”
“i have never intentionally told a joke.”
“that’s the best kind of funny!”
again. that warmth. that strange, dangerous warmth that he can’t put a name to yet.
hugo watched you dance while talking to him at the same time, somehow doing both effortlessly. your happiness looked natural. unforced. real.
he noticed how you included your quieter friends in conversations. how you complimented strangers’ outfits. how every person around you visibly brightened whenever you spoke to them. like sunlight taking a woman’s form.
and for the first time in a very long while, his calculations stopped making sense.
you grabbed both his hands suddenly. “okay, no more standing there looking mysterious. move.”
“define move.”
“oh brother.”
you physically guided him to the beat. left. right. small movements at first. hugo followed mechanically, expression still unreadable while you laughed in front of him.
“there you go!”
“… this feels inefficient.”
“dancing isn’t supposed to be efficient!”
“then what is the objective?”
“fun.”
“… ah.”
like the concept itself was foreign.
you softened a little at that. “you don’t have fun often, huh?”
hugo went quiet. then answered honestly. “not like this.”
something in your expression gentled immediately. “then tonight can be your first time.”
the way you smiled after saying that nearly killed him on the spot.
because suddenly hugo understood something horrifying. all his life, he believed in suitable destiny theory. every outcome predetermined by compatibility, logic, and probability. every person measurable through patterns.
yet standing here with your hands in his, his heartbeat uneven for the first time in years, he came to one impossible conclusion: statistics had failed him completely. no equation could explain why meeting you felt inevitable.
why your laughter cut through every layer of noise in the room until you became the only thing he could focus on. why, despite knowing you for less than twenty minutes, his mind had already accepted one terrifying fact: this woman is my destiny.
behind him, somewhere near the bar, loki nearly choked on his drink. because hugo – stone-faced, robot-nerd hugo – was dancing. badly. but dancing nonetheless.
and worse? he was looking at you like he’d already decided the rest of his life belonged to you.
blue lock boys with a famous model as their partner !
ʚ♡ɞฺ main m.list & bllk m.list ྀིᨯ — cw. fluffy established relationship stuff, the boys are yearners :3, kind of implied that yall are aged up btw !! these are just headcannons, doesn't follow a theme other than famous model reader
isagi yoichi is actually freaking out about it. internally only obviously. but when someone even slightly mentions you- anything remotely related to your interests, or your job, or who you are as a person. "oh, [name] does that too! did you know-" and it becomes a one hour tangent of just 'god i love them so much'
bachira meguru likes to attend your fashion shows, especially when he has a front row seat each time. whenever you're walking down, he's also somewhere in the crowd taking photos. oh but if you hear somebody shouting your name; it's him.
chigiri hyoma always has your best interests at heart, especially when you prefer privacy. he knows what it feels like when pressure gets to you, when it feels like you're isolated, and alone. he texts so often to the point teammates have been pointing it out.
rin itoshi feels himself fluster every single time you post him on your socials. tries to hide his face most of the time so it looks like you're trying to soft launch him. it's cute until it's not, you beg him just for one photo so people finally know who's your man LOL #avoidthemdatingrumors with anyone else.
sae itoshi knows the limelight well, so he uses it to his advantage whenever you have photoshoots elsewhere. comes along just to be able to post you on his socials this time. has you always somewhere in the photo to show you off to everyone... like legit one of the only posts on his profile is for your fifth anniversary, you and him posing with an amazing sunset in the bg.
ikki nikko is flustered not just by your crazy facecard, but also by the amount of people that recognize him now. one time got caught taking you out to a niche cafe and it blew up, so whenever shop owners see him, he gets a photo with said owners and gets it framed.
shoei barou is definitely mistaken as a bodyguard first. it's funny really, people thought your plus one was just someone to protect you while you attended your fashion shows. when you confirmed your relationship by kissing him on the cheek while walking down the red carpet. steals all your protein/sport related freebies.
seishiro nagi dreads your fame. loves you but doesn't like how some of your own fans ask him for photos. "...can we not do this here?" is a famous known quote your fans like to see him as on twitter. gets him even more popular and i tell you he DREADS it.
reo mikage LOVES all your brand deals. im telling you he could probably buy the company but he loves when the companies include the both of you in a shoot. literally skyrockets said companies' marketing by lots. could buy the company off... but doesn't because you enjoy doing shoots with him.
jyubei aryu loves to join your shoots too. literally invited by the companies to join you because you two just look fabulous as hell. not to mention how many freebies of skincare, and haircare, and... well whatnot?? loves to be able to walk down the streets and have people recognize both of you :3
kenyu yukimiya... oh my word, power couple may i start?! people literally call the two of you blinding (not meant to be a pun but i kinda laughed). please, the amount of companies and search for two of you on valentines. his favorite thing to do with you is quite literally just moments of peace.
otoya eita is shocked he scored. i mean whaaat, no he's a total catch! (and is extremely fucking weak for you). whenever he sees your smile, even in ads or just seeing you anywhere. you are his wallpaper, you are the initials he has on his phone case, and he the type to still message you 'u up?' even when you're right next to him in bed.
tabito karasu likes to hug you close when people take pictures of you!! by your waist, in front of you, side-hugs. but if you were to ask him about his favorite? he likes to hug you from the back and make sure it's close as hell. so at the very least the pictures they get of the both of you are cute.
ryusei shidou is loud about loving you. he's so messy about it (in the good way) and makes sure everybody he knows, knows you too. he likes to buy you things even when you can afford it yourself, proudly shows off what he buys on his story then posts another photo where you're wearing the necklace.
bunny iglesias is a man of subtle. you both have fairly huge followings, so soft launches are like a requirement. not cause he wants to hide you, but he likes teasing. so people would only ever actually find out when a totally coincidental photographer gets a photo of the both of you out for your first anniversary!!
hugo vivien has the promise ring you gave him when you two first got close around; aka when you two were kids, on a chain around his neck—so when interview questions ask whose is it, he feels a loud huff of pride announcing its you. just for safe measure, he asks your publicity team if its alright.
michael kaiser's ego boosts even more with how gorgeous the two of you are combined. the ads go crazy, and it gets people who tried to make rumors about you with another male model go nuts. completely disregard the other dude and gasp, when did the two of you get together?!!!?!!?
IM CRINE IM SORRY IF U SEE ANY FEM! READER IMPLICATIIONS/TERMS THIS IS NOT BETA READ AND I DECIDED MID WAY THROUG H THAT I WANT IT TO BE GN NOT FEM!!
synopsis. ꨄ︎ ragebaiting/trolling your bllk (ng11) boyfriend <3 !
featuring. ꨄ︎ fem!reader x sae, kaiser, hugo, bunny, loki, lorenzo (separate)
includes. ꨄ︎ cursing, pet names, joking violence, jealous bllk boyfriends, might be ooc (especially hugo, bunny, and lorenzo), ! slightly suggestive (sae and bunny’s) !
notes. ꨄ︎ guys i have practically no experience writing for anyone on this list besides sae and kaiser (obviously </3) but i basically love hugo now so expect him more on my fics :3
♪ track. ꨄ︎ n/a
end notes. ꨄ︎ guys i'm so sorry if this was ass, i didn't know what prompt to use initially and ended up developing the ragebait intentionally halfway thru (i love slandering my favs anyway). but i really enjoyed writing this esp bunny's (as a bunny opp...)
