Mandatory Fun
Work Husband Horangi x Reader
The HQ conference hall looks like someone tried to cross a recruitment fair with a wedding reception and then gave up halfway through. Too-bright lights hum above rows of round tables draped in regulation gray. Someone thought a chocolate fountain would “boost morale,” but it leans to one side like it’s considering desertion.
You hover near the door, already mapping escape routes. The smell of overworked catering—lukewarm meatballs, aggressively buttered rolls—hangs heavy in the air.
“Five minutes late,” a familiar voice cuts through the hum. “Unacceptable. I’ve been suffering alone.”
Horangi materializes at your elbow like a well-tailored shadow. He’s ditched the mask tonight—mandatory for “approachability”—but somehow still looks like he’s planning an extraction. Dark suit, open collar, sleeves pushed up like he’s seconds from a fight. With someone else, or himself, that is anyones guess.
“You look like you’ve been here for hours,” you reply, scanning the sea of forced smiles.
“I have.” He gestures toward the buffet table with a faint tilt of his head. “I’ve already identified every weak point in the perimeter. None of them are edible.”
You bite back a laugh. “Strategic assessment of the hors d’oeuvres?”
“Critical mission,” he deadpans. “First casualty: my dignity.”
Someone from Admin barrels past holding two flutes of sparkling something. Horangi sidesteps smoothly, then steers you with a light touch to the small of your back—barely there, just enough to make your skin spark.
“Someone owes me combat pay for this,” you murmur as he guides you toward the bar.
“I accept payment in drinks,” he says. “Preferably something not fluorescent.”
The “bar” is a folding table dressed in a white cloth that does nothing to hide its wobbly legs. A logistics officer with a novelty bow tie and the dead eyes of a man who’s been pouring flat champagne for two hours takes your order. Horangi collects two glasses and slides one to you.
“Careful,” he warns, lifting his own to the light. A single little bubble rolls along the inside of the glass until it pops alone and sad on the surface. “Tastes like betrayal.”
You clink anyway. “To surviving mandatory fun.”
“To the only person here worth talking to,” he counters, eyes glinting as the glass meets his lips.
Heat creeps up your neck before you can blame it on the room. You focus on the dance floor, where a junior analyst is attempting karaoke with the enthusiasm of a man trying to summon demons or pronounce the furniture at IKEA.
Horangi leans in, voice pitched low for you alone. “That song is a war crime.”
His breath brushes your ear; the tiny hairs on your arms stand to attention. You swallow a laugh—and maybe something else. “Think we can get extraction before the next chorus?”
“I have a plan,” he says, straight-faced. “Requires two co-conspirators. One of them is holding my drink.”
He reaches for your glass, fingers grazing yours in a deliberate, slow slide as he “tests for poison.” The contact lingers just long enough to make the air between you crackle.
“Well?” you manage.
“Definitely poisoned,” he says, handing it back with a smirk. “I’ll need another sip to confirm.”
Before you can fire back, a senior officer stumbles over to congratulate you both on “team spirit.” Horangi smiles with the politeness of a predator forced to shake hands with its prey. When the officer finally moves on, he exhales like he’s just defused a bomb.
“Minimum attendance requirement fulfilled,” he murmurs. “Time for exfil?”
“Tempting,” you say. “But what about the mission-critical chocolate fountain?”
He tilts his head, eyes dancing. “Already compromised. No tactical value.”
You laugh, louder than intended, and a few nearby heads turn. Horangi’s gaze flicks to them, protective without breaking his easy façade. Then he leans closer, voice low enough that only you can hear.
“Besides,” he adds, “why stay when the only worthwhile intel is standing right next to me?”
The words land with the precision of a well-placed charge—quiet, calculated, impossible to ignore.
You’re still searching for a comeback when he offers his arm, a small, deliberate gesture that feels both old-fashioned and conspiratorial.
“Come on,” he says, mouth curving into that half-smile that always makes you suspicious and curious in equal measure. “Let’s leave before someone asks for a motivational speech.”
You slip your hand into the crook of his elbow, the contact warm and steady. Together you weave through clusters of colleagues too distracted by free food to notice your escape.
At the door, he pauses just long enough for you to feel the brush of his shoulder against yours. “I knew you’d show,” he murmurs, quiet enough that the words feel like a secret.
“Wouldn’t let my work husband suffer alone,” you reply, matching his low tone.
His smile sharpens—pleased, satisfied, maybe a little dangerous. “Good,” he says. And just like that, you slip out together, leaving the chocolate fountain to collapse in peace.
