#making a complete shape (expect for circles of

[astrolook]

🌌 Retrogrades in a Birth Chart - Some Roots Take Time To Grow 🌿

Note: These are all my personal observations and patterns I've noticed over the years. Take what resonates with you more and leave the rest. Lemme know in the comments if it hits home! A single placement or aspect isn't enough to conclude and the whole chart has to be analyzed!

Mercury Rx - I think in essays, speak in tweets. 🧠✍️

Mercury Rx natives sometimes overshare or say nothing at all. They think fast, speak slower. They edit their sentences in real life. These natives pick things up quickly but lose focus just as fast. Their projects start strong, then get abandoned or revisited later with a whole new mindset. Mercury Rx can have grand ideas in mind but struggles to put them into words or into reality. Usually, Mercury Rx natives are better at texting, writing, and drawing than talking. Two Mercury Rx people can either understand each other on another level or be completely out of sync with each other and can talk in circles. Mercury Rx natives can change the topic mid-convo and go on like nothing happened. Mercury Rx natives can be good at stirring the pot for entertainment. They are good at negotiating, convincing people to believe their ideas. Can make money out of thin air. These natives have selective memory.

For example: Mercury Rx in 6th/8th/12th natives are so good at twisting narratives to suit their needs and are good at lying. You don't even know whether they're telling the truth or not. Their opinions can change like seasons, and they can struggle sticking to a certain mindset. However, this is a great placement for fantasy writers, journalists, bloggers, media-related jobs in general, lawyers, filmmakers, actors, programmers, etc. Mercury Rx in 5th/11th natives are bad at lying. They can be involved in too many things at once only to abandon them. Mercury Rx in 3rd/9th loves to prank others or the other way around. they love DIY and crafts and might follow niche communities. Online trolls.

Venus Rx - I ghost myself before I ghost you. 👻😅

Venus Rx natives are either impulsive in love or avoidant. These natives give mixed signals to their partners. One day they're warm and giving, the next they're building walls and won't let anyone in. Love either comes too soon, or when the timing is off, or never comes when they need it the most. These natives will remember how the other made them feel, whether it's rejection, not being enough, unwanted, too much, or ignored. It lingers in their mind, and it shapes how they view love. These people don’t “date around” easily. They wait for people to choose them. They test their partner to check if they're worth it! Late bloomers in love. Sometimes, they might even lower their standards and expectations just to feel any love, only to end up feeling drained and exhausted. They might choose partners who treat these natives like a backup plan. However, these natives will remember it and instead of letting go, they carry that disappointment into the next person, the next connection, the next version of themselves. Depression. They sometimes would be loyal to the wrong person just because they have "history."

For example, Venus Rx in 6th/10th can attract envy from women, discrimination in the workplace, judged by their appearance or clothing styles. People might underestimate them or won't take them seriously. So, these natives overcompensate and work overtime to prove themselves that they deserve it. Still, their co-workers/ peers would think they slept their way to where they are or not that talented. Venus Rx 1st can be the target of harassment or could have been called crazy for their lifestyle choices. People tend to attack these natives more easily than others, whether it's racism, appearance, religion, ethnicity, or other factors. They could be either old-fashioned or into niche fashion.

Mars Rx - I argue better three days later. 🕒😐

If a dormant volcano were a person. People think these natives are calm. But no, they're holding it in. Sometimes for years, until their anger turns volcanic and their words spew out like lava. Unfiltered. Their regret shows up in action, not words. They might look or seem lazy, but they often feel stuck between wanting to act and being unsure how. They second-guess their instincts. They might want something badly, then sabotage it out of fear or confusion. In conflict, they’re unpredictable. Either they avoid it completely or burn the whole thing down. Some pick fights just to feel something, others disappear to avoid hurting anyone. They don’t always know the difference between defending themselves and attacking. Sometimes they hurt people with words, then feel guilty forever. Sometimes they say nothing and carry resentment for years. Desire is complicated. Some of them feel numb to it. Others have urges they don’t understand and would be chasing people, projects, or things that don’t make sense. Some isolate when they’re mad. Some turn pain into action like breaking things, quitting jobs, and blocking people. Others turn it inward and self-destruct first. When they finally stop holding back, when they choose action over avoidance, their energy becomes exact. Focused. Intense. Unstoppable. The storm clears, and they learn how to move without destroying everything in their path.

For example, Mars Rx in 8th/12th bury their anger six feet deep. They definitely hold grudges quietly and would strike at the worst time for the person who hurt them. The other person won't even know that the native is behind it. Mars Rx in 2nd can either overspend or hoard things. These natives might not get a reward for their work, or it may be delayed. Mars Rx in 7th can attract passive-aggressive partners or become one themselves. When snapped, they can go from silent tolerance to full-blown blow-ups over small things.

Jupiter Rx - I left faith on read. ✝️📱

Jupiter Rx natives practice 3 different religions within a year and still feel unsure. Teenage crisis. What people call expansion, they call noise. Their lessons come from within, not from gurus or traditions. They don’t believe in blind luck. They believe in trial and error, and mostly error. Wins feel delayed. Guidance shows up late. Things eventually work out, but rarely in the way they are planned or wanted. Once they let go, things would happen to them in the most harmonious way possible. When good things happen, these natives won't give a happy or butterflies-in-the-stomach reaction. Instead, they would be suspicious of it. After believing it's for them, they would still maintain a composed posture. These natives are liberal minded, agnostic/irreligious/atheist, and can still be spiritual. These natives come off as skeptical, cynical, or too “in their own world.” They hold on to past decisions too tightly or judge themselves for outgrowing past beliefs. They often feel like they're behind their peers until one day, these natives get 10 levels ahead of them once they surrender and let things happen. The beauty with Jupiter Rx is that luck doesn't knock on their door. They're the luck. It just takes them years to find that out.

For example, Jupiter Rx in 5th natives' children would be lucky to have the native as their parent. Jupiter Rx in 7th or as 7th lord, their spouse would be lucky to have the native as their spouse. Jupiter Rx in 4th can mean that the native's family would feel lucky to have the native as their child or having them as their family member.

Saturn Rx - I work smart. Or not at all. 🛋️🧠

Saturn Rx natives don't trust authoritative figures, including their own. These natives learn early that rules don't always protect you. they might have a figure in their family who was basically a "rules for thee, not for me" type. Grow up too fast. Responsibility was either too much too soon or avoided until life forced them to deal. Afraid of failure. One thing with Saturn Rx is that when these natives are scared, they would never admit it. They don't want to feel weak. Some might even avoid crying in front of others, including their family. They would go to great lengths to hide their weakness instead of working on it. Build walls instead of asking for help. They stay in jobs, habits, even relationships way past their expiration date just to feel safe. They don’t like being seen trying. Effort is private. So is shame. If they fall, they do it behind closed doors. Smart workers. Knows the shortcuts to achieve success in life, but some won't take them. Impostor syndrome. Can be unemployed for months at some point in their life. Once their career takes off, these natives become unstoppable. Saturn Rx here is protecting these natives from troubled career paths and only gives them the right path at the right time.

For example, Saturn Rx in 7th can mean an absent father figure. Their older spouse can be laid back or take a back seat in their career after marrying the native. Attract partners who are serious and long-term and have little to no options for dating here for many with this placement. Saturn Rx in 10th can mean that these natives can have long gaps in resumes or even unemployment. Might get into jobs that don't reflect their real skills. For some, their career takes off in their 30s or even 40s. Saturn Rx in 2nd can mean that these natives can come from a low-income family or a household with financial struggles. Might get into connections with people just to feel secure. Money grows after 30 and only after they have learned to earn the right way.

Uranus Rx - I forget on purpose. Or do I? 🤫📂

Uranus Rx natives can look traditional on the outside but rebel on the inside. One may never know what these natives are capable of, as they're good at deceiving others. They can easily blend in with the crowd and seem agreeable. Deep detachment, sudden rejections, and quiet cut-offs are their recipe to stay chill. These are the people who smile at the dinner table while silently unsubscribing from the whole dynamic. A Uranus native doesn't trust "the system". But a Uranus Rx native won't even trust their own family, community, co-workers, religions, and even themselves at times. A lot of them appear to follow the rules, but only because they’re rewriting them behind the scenes. These people outgrow people fast. But they don’t always let them know. Instead, they disappear or would make it impossible for them to reach the native. Distance becomes their protection. It’s easier to vanish or become out of reach than to explain their evolution to someone who wouldn’t get it anyway. Their memory is selective but sharp. They forget what they ate for breakfast, lose their keys, ignore calls, but remember exactly what you said five years ago during a fight. Hard to pin down, but impossible to fool. One may never know what they're thinking, but that's what these natives want. When they snap out of the blue, these natives end friendships/ relationships, move cities, shift careers, or even move countries without mentioning a word to anyone. These natives' relationships are either all-consuming or ice-cold. Freedom matters more than comfort. Their unique trait is that they can be loyal and distant at the same time. They’ll ghost you and still think about you every day for a year. Wrong them once, and they will get over you within 30 seconds and never look back. You're already dead to them.

For example, Uranus Rx in 5th can have a crush on someone and obsess over them for months, only to change their mind after finding out that their crush did something they don't like. Would break up with someone over text and not look back. They would reject the same person they fell for before it even begins. Uranus Rx in 7th can be unpredictable in love. Do they even have a type? They long for stable relationships but routine feels like a trap. Uranus Rx in 4th could have had a tough home life or been unconventional. Single-parent households, stepdaddy/ mommy figures, stepsiblings, etc can be seen here in some cases.

Neptune Rx - I’m softer than I look. Colder than you think. 🧊🫀

Neptune Rx people are hard to fully know and half the time, they don’t even fully know themselves. They second-guess what they feel, what they see, and who they are on the inside. Reality blurs. Memory twists. They’ve been gaslit or emotionally manipulated, sometimes without even realizing it. These people learned early how to hide. How to escape. How to shape-shift into what was needed. Truth became flexible, and so did identity. They have powerful inner worlds. Too powerful, sometimes. They’ll fall in love with a fantasy version of someone and ignore all the signs. They’ll convince themselves they’re okay when they’re drowning. They might cry alone and then act totally fine in public. They pick up on energy they can’t explain. Can have imaginary friends or talk to self in private. They talk, sing, and dance when no one's looking. They can actually fake their persona depending on the person they're with. They don’t show the full truth until they’ve seen yours.

For example, Neptune Rx in 4th always dreams of the perfect family, home, and everything since they didn't get it in reality. These natives often move countries/cities and stay away from family members to live their dreams. Might live in a toxic family household where everyone thinks they're fine and happy. Neptune Rx in 8th natives has intimacy issues. They don't know if they're the victim or supposed to feel sorry for the one who hurt them. They're good at reading others, bad at reading themselves. Neptune Rx in 11th natives never feel truly fit in anywhere. There’s a pattern of feeling invisible in groups or being part of social circles that don’t reflect their actual self.

Pluto Rx - I outgrow myself annually. Stay tuned. 🔁🖤

Pluto Rx natives are always going through some kind of inner death. You may not see it, but they’re constantly burning bridges inside themselves. It's like they burn their old versions, dead emotions, people they haven't spoken to in years, and toxicity every year like a ritual. These are the ones who don’t show their breakdowns. They disappear, transform, and return new. The world never really sees their mess, only the rebirth. They upgrade themselves each year. These natives would keep secrets, even from the people they love and trust. They're deep, but not always emotionally open. They fear being exposed, especially when they’re vulnerable. So, they test people. Push them. Watch how they react before deciding if they’re safe. They either face their wounds fully, or they run until life forces them to. Their biggest breakthroughs happen in silence. One year, they’re one person. Next, they’re unrecognizable even to themselves. Physical transformation is possible too. They outgrow people, places, even entire identities, like it’s an annual process. Some might change their name or have a "stage" name in their career.

For example, Pluto Rx in 1st natives are either obsessed over by others or hated by others. Always in survival mode. They rebuild their self-image every season, and no one's ever truly met the real version of these natives. Pluto Rx in the 3rd natives can be good at coding, writing, drawing, etc. Can be cryptic in the way they speak. Ghost friendships out of the blue and would never look back. Pluto Rx in 5th natives pour their trauma into art or through their creative outlets.

💌For readings, check out my pinned post for pricing! ✨💌🪐

[1v31182m5]

İt ain't

[sysig]

Things discovered: Charm is stupid amounts of fun to draw in the WOY style (Patreon)

Bonus:

Spider bites are already round and soft-shaped!

[solaceseven]

more than friends?

things they do that make you second-guess your friendship featuring: gojo satoru, geto suguru, kento nanami, ryomen sukuna, toji fushiguro.

GOJO - being touchy.

you’re used to gojo’s touch.

the way he drapes himself over your shoulders like a human scarf, pulling you into his side without a second thought. the way his hand finds the small of your back when he guides you through a crowd, his palm pressing firm against you, like he’s staking a silent claim. you’ve grown accustomed to the way he plays with your fingers absentmindedly—twisting your rings, tracing circles over your knuckles—while he rambles about something completely unrelated.

it’s always been like this.

that’s what you tell yourself, at least. that it doesn’t mean anything. that he’s like this with everyone.

but lately, it’s been getting harder to believe that.

because his touches have started to linger. his fingers don’t just graze your wrist anymore—they rest there, warm and grounding, his thumb brushing slow, deliberate strokes against your pulse. when he reaches for something above your head, he doesn’t just stretch over you; he presses his chest against your back, close enough that you feel the heat of him seep into your skin.

and then there’s the way he looks at you.

like right now.

you’re both sprawled out on his couch, half-watching some random movie he insisted was a classic (it’s not), when you feel it—his fingers, absentmindedly tracing shapes on your wrist.

you try not to react, try to focus on the screen, but your breath catches anyway. if he notices, he doesn’t say anything. he just keeps going, slow and lazy, the pads of his fingers skating along your skin like he’s mapping out something only he can see.

your pulse jumps when his fingers move up—tracing the inside of your forearm now, featherlight. it’s not accidental. you know it. he knows it.

but he doesn’t stop.

you sneak a glance at him, expecting that usual smug grin, but he’s still staring at the screen. too casual. too relaxed. he’s testing you.

like he’s waiting for you to do something about it.

you should move your arm. you should pull away. you should call him out.

but you don’t.

because the way he’s touching you now—it’s not friendly. it’s not casual. it’s not something he does with anyone else.

and the worst part?

he knows you know it.

GETO - never correcting people when they assume you’re his partner.

you don’t think anything of it at first.

you and geto move through the grocery store like you always do—bickering over which brand of cereal is better, tossing random snacks into the cart, laughing when he makes fun of your terrible attempts at balancing fruit on top of an already overflowing pile of groceries.

it’s easy. it’s comfortable. it’s just you and him.

and then you get to checkout.

the cashier, an older woman with kind eyes, watches as geto effortlessly lifts the heavy bags before you can even reach for them. he does it without thinking, just like how he had taken the cart from you earlier, just like how he always opens doors for you, just like how his hand had rested on the small of your back when guiding you through the aisles.

she smiles warmly.

“you two make such a lovely couple.”

you freeze.

your brain short-circuits for a split second, mouth already opening to correct her, but then—then you hear nothing from geto.

not a single word of clarification. not even a chuckle or a shake of his head.

nothing.

instead, he just hums, tilting his head slightly as if considering the statement. he doesn’t deny it. doesn’t laugh it off. just lets the words sit there, completely unbothered.

your head snaps toward him, eyes wide.

he meets your gaze, entirely too calm, a slow smirk forming at the corner of his lips. and then—because he’s absolutely insufferable—he leans in slightly, voice smooth as silk.

“you hear that?” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. “we’re a lovely couple.”

you want to strangle him.

your reaction must be obvious because the cashier just beams, clearly convinced she was right. “oh, young love is so sweet. you take good care of them, dear.”

geto chuckles, and before you can protest, he effortlessly places a hand on the back of your head, ruffling your hair like you’re some flustered little thing.

“always,” he says smoothly.

you don’t remember the rest of the transaction. you’re too busy contemplating whether it’s legal to strangle someone with a grocery bag.

as you’re walking out, geto leans in again, voice dripping with amusement.

“you could’ve corrected them,” he muses, lips dangerously close to your ear. “but you didn’t.”

your stomach flips. you hate that he’s right.

NANAMI - always taking care of you.

you don’t plan on staying this late.

but time slips away between deadlines and last-minute emails, and before you know it, the office is nearly empty, the sky outside painted in deep shades of navy. you sigh, rubbing your temples, already dreading the long commute home.

by the time you step out onto the quiet street, the city lights glowing around you, your phone buzzes.

you don’t have to check to know who it is.

nanami: where are you?

your stomach flips.

you: just leaving work. why?

the message is barely delivered before another one comes in.

nanami: stay there. i’ll be there in five.

you frown at your screen. he was nearby?

true to his word, exactly five minutes later, a familiar figure approaches.

nanami, dressed in his usual crisp attire, looking entirely too put together for this hour. he doesn’t say anything at first, just glances at you, scanning you over like he’s checking for any signs of exhaustion.

“you should have left earlier,” he says, voice even, but you catch the slight furrow of his brow.

you roll your eyes. “yeah, well, i got caught up.”

“hm.” he exhales, the sound bordering on exasperation, before tilting his head toward the direction of your apartment. “let’s go.”

you blink. “what?”

“i’ll walk you home.”

you huff a laugh. “nanami, it’s fine. i can handle walking alone.”

he gives you a flat look, as if the idea is so ridiculous it doesn’t even warrant a response. Instead of arguing, he simply starts walking, fully expecting you to follow.

and—of course—you do.

it’s not the first time he’s done this. You know it won’t be the last.

he doesn’t hover, doesn’t lecture you about staying late. but his presence is solid beside you, steady and unwavering. his hands stay in his pockets, but you know—if anything were to happen, if anyone so much as looked at you the wrong way—he’d be on them in a second.

as you near your building, you sneak a glance at him. “you didn’t have to do this, you know.”

nanami sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like you’re the one giving him a headache. “i know.”

“…then why do you?”

he stops walking. turns to face you, studying you for a long moment.

then, with a sigh—like he’s so tired of explaining the obvious—he simply mutters:

“because you don’t take care of yourself.”

and that’s that. no room for debate. no further explanation.

your heart stumbles in your chest.

because he doesn’t say i worry about you. he doesn’t say i do it because I care.

but he doesn’t have to.

the truth lingers in the quiet, in the way he watches you, in the way he makes sure you’re safe—every single time.

and when you step inside your building, looking back one last time, you catch him still standing there. waiting.

making sure you’re okay.

like he always does.

SUKUNA - being unreasonably jealous.

it starts off as nothing.

a passing comment here, an unimpressed scoff there. sukuna has always been blunt, always had a sharp tongue and an even sharper glare. but lately, you start to notice a pattern—one that becomes impossible to ignore.

it happens again tonight.

you’re out with friends, the atmosphere light and easy, laughter filling the air. you’re mid-conversation with some guy—a friend of a friend, nothing special—when you feel it.

that presence.

it’s not loud or obvious, but it’s there. a weight lingering at your back, pressing into your skin before you even turn around.

and when you do—

sukuna is already watching.

seated across the table, one arm draped over the back of his chair, his gaze locked onto you with an expression that makes your stomach flip. bored. blank. irritated.

you try to ignore it. you keep talking, keep laughing at whatever the guy is saying, but it doesn’t matter. because every time you sneak a glance in sukuna’s direction, his eyes are still on you.

unwavering. unrelenting.

you swallow, trying to shake the weird tension creeping up your spine. but then the guy leans in slightly—just slightly—and that’s all it takes.

there’s a sharp scrape of a chair against the floor.

and then sukuna is there, standing beside you, a hand dropping heavily onto your shoulder.

“alright,” he drawls, voice slow, lazy, but carrying something unmistakably sharp. “this conversation looks thrilling.”

the guy stiffens. you do, too.

you glance up at sukuna, narrowing your eyes. “what are you doing?”

“listening.” his fingers tap idly against your shoulder, his weight sinking into the space beside you like he belongs there. “should i join? or is this, what—special?”

your brows furrow. “are you serious?”

he tilts his head slightly, feigning confusion, but you know that look. the glint in his eyes, the smirk barely tugging at his lips—he’s enjoying this.

the guy across from you clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “uh—i was just—”

“no, no,” sukuna interrupts smoothly, finally dragging his gaze away from you to look at him. “you were just what?”

the guy hesitates, then shakes his head. “never mind.”

and just like that, he stands, mumbling something about needing another drink before walking away.

you whip around to face sukuna fully, shoving his arm off your shoulder. “what the hell is wrong with you?”

he doesn’t move, doesn’t even pretend to be remorseful. if anything, he looks amused. “relax,” he hums. “didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

you scoff. “oh? and how exactly was he looking at me?”

sukuna shrugs, completely nonchalant. “like he could have you.” his head tilts, eyes flickering over your face. “and he can’t.”

your heart stumbles.

you open your mouth, then close it. because what do you even say to that? what does he even mean by that?

he smirks at your silence, reaching out to flick your forehead lightly before leaning in—just close enough that your breath catches.

“relax, brat,” he murmurs, voice deep, low, too much. “i’m just looking out for you.”

you should shove him away. roll your eyes. call him out for acting like an overprotective asshole.

but instead, you just sit there, pulse unsteady, second-guessing everything you thought you knew about this friendship.

because you know sukuna. and you know damn well—

this wasn’t just him looking out for you.

TOJI - flirting with you consistently.

it starts small. barely noticeable at first.

a lazy smirk here, a lingering touch there.

you don’t even think much of it in the beginning. it’s just toji being toji, right? he flirts with everyone—cashiers, waitresses, random people in passing. it’s just how he is.

except… it’s different with you.

because when he leans in close, voice dropping lower just for you to hear— “that color looks real good on ya, sweetheart. what, tryna drive me crazy?”—his eyes don’t leave your face. because when his fingers skim the small of your back, guiding you through a crowd, they stay there a second too long to be casual. because when he throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his warmth, he’s comfortable like he belongs there—like he’s claiming that space.

and then there are the compliments.

not just the casual you look nice or that suits you. no, never that simple.

“bet guys lose their damn minds over you.” he says it so offhandedly, like it’s just a fact—just something everyone knows.

you scoff, rolling your eyes. “yeah, sure.”

“i mean it,” he murmurs, and you hate the way your stomach flips when his gaze settles on you, something dark and unreadable in his eyes. “if i were them, i wouldn’t let you outta my sight.”

you tell yourself you’re imagining it—that he’s just messing with you. that’s what he does.

but then it keeps happening.

every single time, without fail.

you’re just trying to grab something from a high shelf? suddenly, he’s behind you, reaching over your head, his chest nearly brushing against your back. he doesn’t have to get that close. he knows it. you know it. but he does it anyway, voice low in your ear as he hands you whatever you needed.

“next time, just ask me, yeah? don’t gotta strain that pretty little neck of yours.”

you push him away, muttering something under your breath, and he just laughs, all smug amusement.

he’s always touching you, like he can’t help himself. a hand grazing the back of your neck when he adjusts your hoodie. his palm resting against your thigh when he leans in to say something. he doesn’t cling to you, doesn’t make a big show of it—but it’s there. subtle. constant. a quiet, unspoken thing.

and then—then, there are the moments that really get to you.

like when you’re out with friends, sitting side by side, and his fingers find the hem of your sleeve. absentmindedly playing with the fabric, rolling it between his fingertips. he doesn’t even seem to notice he’s doing it, just listening to the conversation, relaxed and completely at ease. like touching you is second nature to him.

or when you’re waiting in line for something, standing close, and he leans in just slightly, dropping his voice low.

“keep looking at me like that, sweetheart,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your lips for half a second. “gonna start thinkin’ you want somethin’ from me.”

your breath catches.

and the worst part? the absolute worst part?

he sees it. every damn time.

sees the way your pulse flutters at your throat. sees the way your fingers twitch, like you don’t know what to do with them. sees the way you avoid his gaze, pretending like your entire body isn’t reacting to him.

and every time, without fail—he just smirks.

like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. like he’s enjoying it. like he’s waiting—patient, unhurried—for you to break first.

and the thing is…

you think he knows you will.

eventually.

[everlastingserenitys]

thinking about robotics nerd!sylus who makes you a special vibrator and asks you to use it in front of him...

"present for you." sylus said, shoving a box in your hands before he stepped back and stared at you with a serious look, watching your reaction intently.

you opened the box and was met with a toy, that was of course a vibrator... but it didn't look like any ordinary vibrator, the design looked pretty and rather...expensive?

"where'd you get it?" you ask, juggling the toy around in your hands, analyzing the design.

"I made it."

oh.

"and I wanted you to test it... to see if it works y'know?" sylus said, well it sounded like a complete lie, there was no way he made it just for you to test it.

"when should I try..."

you stop talking when sylus' large figure shadowed over you, his glasses illuminated a shine that almost flashed you. sylus grabbed the toy from your hand and with his free hand he slid his fingers under the waistband of your pants, lightly tugging at them.

"dont look.." he mumbled, crashing his lips on yours before he slid your pants down, pressing the toy against your clit, rubbing small circles on it before gliding the toy further down, lightly pushing it inside you.

he pulled away and clicked a few buttons and that's when your reaction started to come in.

"hold onto it, and use it." he asked in a low voice, grabbing onto your wrist and placed your hand on the vibrator, once your fingers were locked on the toy he nodded and stepped away, watching you squirm in your spot.

loud moans and pleas filled the room, you didn't expect the vibrator to feel this good.

"how is it, sweetie? did I make it correctly?"

"mmgh–mhm!" you manage to get out, you cant even bring yourself to mutter any words.

"syl–ungh"

"are you close?" he teased, his breath started getting ragged as he continued to watch you pleasure yourself with something he made. he watched your every move, your shaky legs, hands, breath, anything that captivated him.

"dont cum yet, can you hold it in?" he muttered, getting up from his seat, a low groan escaped his lips as he got up. it was obvious he was already aching down there.

you shook your head and dramatically plopped on your knees when you came unexpectedly.

panting on the ground, you slowly pull the vibrator out of you and look at the mess dripping down from it, sylus chuckled and took it from your hand.

"bet ya didn't notice our initials engraved on it."

would it be cooler if the vibrator was shaped like his...haha nvm!!!

[stunie]

NO BRAKES ! ᯓ⭑ 1.2K wc. ft. dabi x f!reader

summary: oh, so you wanna ask him “is that all you’ve got?” while he’s balls deep inside you and see what happens? here’s a lil hint for you: he’s not gonna be very happy with you.

contains : explicit smut (18+), brat taming, overstimulation, mentions of squirting, pet names, teasing, creampie, cw blood (his staple tore a lil bit), slight cw degradation (calls u dumb, but he also calls u cute !!), his dick has piercings <3, hate sex ??

note : okk here’s my response to this thirst ! ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა

“Look at you,” you hear Dabi growl from just above you, his hand pushing your face deeper into your couch as soon as you’re trying to spit a slew of curses at him, “What’s the matter? That’s quite the face you’re making.”

His pace doesn’t falter, still relentless even when he’s jutting out his tongue to quickly swipe at the blood that’s begun to drip down the side of his mouth, the result of the way his lips are overly stretched in a scary smile— his mouth spreading a bit too far from the way he’s laughing at how you’re squealing underneath him. “S-shut up,” you try and bark back, voice trailing off into a loud gasp when he hits a particularly deep spot inside you. “It’s t-too much. You gotta.. gotta slow down..!”

“Aww, you poor, poor thing,” he’s feigning sympathy, a terrible job at it— but the thumb that was previously pressing into your cheek a moment ago is now rubbing soothing circles against the skin. It does absolutely nothing to comfort you, only making your eyebrow twitch in annoyance at the mere thought.

“But.. i wouldn’t be complaining if i was you, little girl.”

You can smell the familiar scent of smoke as soon as he’s lowering himself to loom over you, the cold staples that line his chest now pressing against your back as you shiver. The movement has him suddenly reaching even deeper inside you, your eyes rolling further back into your skull when you feel a mixture of his cum and your juices spill out onto the fabric beneath you.

He was big enough as is… had already emptied himself inside you once tonight, got you completely filled up to the brim and yet you’re still somehow able to vividly feel the piercings lining his dick drag along your walls with each and every thrust.

The same walls he’s been so insistent on training. The same walls he’s always having to force to stretch out for him, make them open up and accommodate his thickness. It’s always been a mystery to him as to why you— down to your pussy, always act like such a fucking brat with him. Just how many times has he taken you by now?

Bent you over your couch, your table, he’s even taken you right on your welcome mat. But no matter how many times he buries his cock in you, he still has to spend his time working his fingers in you, get you all stretched out and ready to take him.

How much longer’s it gonna take for your pussy to ingrain the shape of his dick in its little mind?

He wants to make that happen tonight.

You hear Dabi loudly grunt above you before he’s suddenly grabbing you by your face, fingers digging into your cheeks as he forces you to crane your neck and peer back of him, cock twitching when he sees you shoot him your best attempt a glare.

“Ahh, still a fuckin’ brat,” he acknowledges, “looks like our practice has been helping your stamina.” His voice is steady and low, and if it wasn’t for the hungry and crazed look in his eyes— one you can easily recognize as the same look he gets when he wants to see you screaming and shaking under him.. you’d probably think he was bored otherwise.

“You know… if you didn’t have such a cute face,” he’s leaning in, and he has to stifle a laugh when your eyes flutter shut in expectance. Oh— you cutie. Did you really think he was about to give you a little kiss?

How adorable of you. So you really can be sweet sometimes.

There’s a tight squeeze to your cheeks to get you back to looking at him, your tired eyes meeting with his again as your lips are forcefully puffing out in a pathetic pout from his grip. “There you are. Said that if you didn’t have that face, then it’d be my foot pushing your head down on that couch and not my hand.”

“Consider yourself lucky.”

“..Huh?” you ask incredulously, and he’s immediately taking back what he previously thought about you being sweet, not with that attitude you’re giving him. Your voice is breathless, and he can tell your mind has already started to go dizzy from how good he feels, but you still have your pride if nothing else— much to Dabi’s dismay. “Y-you’d better not..” you’re panting now, “put your grimy feet anywhere near my face.”

He only laughs. God, he’d never even dream of ruining that pretty face.

“Yea, yea,” he coos, abruptly letting go with a disappointed shrug of his shoulders as you yelp, hands coming to catch yourself as you fall back onto the couch. “Not that it’d even matter, dollface… ‘s not gonna change the way you’re looking right now.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to retort, hands gripping around your hips now as he repeatedly pulls you back into him, bullying his achy cock into you over and over, ecstatic with the way you have to scramble to get a tighter grip on the couch, keep yourself braced and grounded so he doesn’t fuck you right off onto the floor.

And you’re being so loud. Did you really even hate him? Your neighbors wouldn’t think so. In fact, no one in a one mile radius would think so.

They would think you loved him.

“How cute— you’re already looking ruined.” There’s a subtle shake to his voice, a tell-tale sign that he’s starting to get close to his high, and the way he’s slamming so deep inside you is only a second confirmation of that. “Completely ruined. How’s that feel?”

“‘M not,” you spit back, glare contorting to a lewd expression as soon as he finds the spot that’ll have you creaming in seconds. Close. You’re so close, and it’s always about now when he starts fucking you like you’re nothing but a toy.

“Yeah?” and you absolutely hate that you know him well enough to be able to tell that he’s grinning ear to ear at the way you’ve started to tremble under him. “You’d break into pieces if i took off the brakes.”

“But you asked for it huh? Want me to destroy you and turn you into my dumb little cocksleeve?” He’s louder now, raising his voice so you can hear him over the shrieking sound of your moans. “Don’t needa ask twice, doll. now shut that bratty mouth of yours up already.”

[catchastarorten]

—Pause the game.

Pairing: the salesman/recruiter x wife!fem!reader

Summary: your husband had some ‘work’ to take care of with the two people that had been trailing after him all day, but when your call came in, and when he found out that you felt sick, you became much more important than whatever he had going on.

Warnings: mainly fluff, mentions of Woo-seok and Jeong-rae following snd spying on him, some parts of the Russian roulette game, he’s soft for you, he misses you, English isn’t my first language, mistakes should be present, not proofread, sorry!

Word count: ~ 1.4k

The day had been long, even by his standards. A hundred lottery scratchers, a hundred loaves of bread, the park, the homeless. He had been up to a little ‘social experiment’. Even then, he caught onto the two men who had been trailing behind him since the subway station.

He wasn’t stupid. Someone was after him, and these two lackeys were clearly here to track him down. His best guess? Seong Gi-hun.

Woo-seok and Jeong-rae had been following him like shadows—clumsy ones, attempting to blend in with the surroundings every time he stopped, as if they expected him to turn around and strike at any moment. And eventually, he did.

He had let them tail him, then to his surprise, they made the first move down an alleyway to avoid losing him. By the time they realized they had made a mistake, it was too late. He had taken them down quickly, efficiently, the way he always handled these things. No emotions, no hesitation.

Jeong-rae had gone down first, crumpled to the ground. Woo-seok tried to fight back with the poor attempt of using a small knife, but a sharp blow of the suitcase to his head had knocked him out.

Now, they were sitting across from each other, bound to chairs, tied up with ropes, their mouths gagged, their muffled groans filling the dimly lit room. They couldn’t scream, couldn’t beg—just incoherent muffled noises as they squirmed like trapped animals.

He slowly circled the two men, then stopped to place a hand on each of their shoulders, eyes filled with amusement at their looks of terror.

“We're going to play a game now... Rock, Paper, Scissors, Minus One. I trust you know the rules.” his gaze flickered from Jeong-rae to Woo-seok, a smile forming on his lips.

“You form a shape with each hand, then take one away. The game is decided by the remaining hands. Of course, there’s a penalty for the loser.” he picked up the nearby revolver and inspected it, then pressed the barrel to his temple. “Russian Roulette.”

Their muffled protests grew louder, their bodies twisting against the ropes in a futile attempt to escape. The two men were shaking, their breaths heavy as he leaned closer, his finger on the trigger.

Click.

Empty.

His smirk widened as he backed away slowly.

“Alright. Now, let’s play. On my count.”

But then, as he was getting ready to spin the cylinder of the revolver, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

His brows furrowed, the interruption pulling him out of the carefully constructed moment. He pulled the phone out, and the sight of your name on the screen made him pause.

He froze for a moment, staring at the screen as his heart softened. It wasn’t like you to call him in the middle of the day. You knew he was busy—always busy. The ‘work’ he pretended to do required him to keep odd hours, to vanish without explanation, and you never questioned it. You trusted him. And he loved you for that trust, even if he didn’t deserve it.

His thumb hovering over the answer button before taking a deep breath and sliding his mask of indifference back into place. But when he answered, his voice betrayed him. It was warm, gentle—a tone he reserved only for you.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft, the edge it had carried a moment ago completely gone. He shot the two men a warning look, his eyes narrowing as if daring them to make a sound.

Turning away from them, his tone dropped into something almost tender. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

Your voice came through the line, quiet and tinged with vulnerability. “I… I didn’t mean to bother you. I just… I’m not feeling well.”

He could hear the catch in your throat, the faint rasp. “Are you sick?” he asked, straightening.

There was a pause on your end, then a soft sniffle that nearly broke his heart. “Yeah. Just a cold, I think. My head hurts, and I’m all stuffed up.”

He closed his eyes, letting out a slow, steadying breath as guilt twisted in his chest. You sounded miserable, and he hated that he wasn’t there to take care of you. Hated that he was here, in this cold room, when he should’ve been home with you.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured. “I know you’re busy. I just… I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said quickly, his voice gentle but firm. “You can call me anytime, okay? I mean it. Anytime.”

There was a pause, and then he heard another sniffle on the other end. It made his chest clench. “Where are you?” you asked. “Are you coming home soon?”

He glanced down at Woo-seok and Jeong-rae, their wide, panicked eyes watching him like trapped prey. The revolver gleamed on the table beside him, a stark reminder of the life he led when he wasn’t with you.

For the first time all day, he felt a pang of guilt—not for them, but for you. For the life he kept hidden from you. You had no idea what he did, the darkness he waded through every day. And he wanted to keep it that way. You were his light, his one connection to something pure and good in a world full of shadows.

“Soon,” he promised, his voice softening even further. “I’ll be home soon."

You didn’t reply right away, but he could picture you nodding, your lips pressed into that small, tired smile you always gave him when you were sick. He could see you in his mind—wrapped in a blanket, your hair messy, your cheeks flushed from the fever.

“There’s soup in the fridge,” he added gently. “I made it this morning. Heat some up, okay? And the heating pad’s in the bottom drawer. You’ll feel better if you use it.”

“Okay,” you murmured, your voice tired.

“I love you,” he said, the word coming out more vulnerable than he intended.

“I love you too,” you replied, and he could hear the faint smile in your voice despite the cold.

His chest tightened at the sound of those words. He glanced away from the two men on the floor, his jaw clenching as he fought the sudden wave of emotion that threatened to rise. “Now go rest, my love. I’ll be home soon.” his voice was thick with sincerity.

When the call ended, the room was silent. He stared down at the phone in his hand, his mind still on you.

For a moment, he let himself imagine walking through the door of your shared apartment, dropping his keys on the counter, and finding you curled up on the couch. He’d press a kiss to your forehead, make sure you were warm, and hold you until you fell asleep. That was all he wanted.

But instead, he was stuck here.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and turned his attention to Woo-seok and Jeong-rae. His expression hardened once more. “Well,” he said. “Where were we?”

He reached for the revolver, spinning the cylinder with a practiced flick of his wrist. The sound echoed through the room, sharp and final.

“Rock, paper, scissors,” he said, his tone almost mocking. “Loser gets to test their luck with this. Simple, right?”

He crouched down in front of them, his movements slow and deliberate, as if savoring their terror.

They shook their heads frantically, their breathing heavy, protests muffled by the gag. He sighed, standing up and running a hand through his hair. “You know,” he said, his voice almost casual. “I’d love to stay and play, but I’ve got someone waiting for me at home. So let’s not drag this out.”

Their muffled protests grew louder, but he didn’t care. This was his world. His game.

And when it was over, he’d go home to you. To the warmth of your love, the softness of your touch.

You didn’t know what he was. What he did. And he intended to keep it that way.

Because as long as you were safe, as long as you loved him, he could pretend—for just a little while—that he was someone worth loving.

[sometimeslwish]

Sleeping Naked (f!reader version)

Summary: Imagine waking up to Sylus warmth beside you, one arm heavy on your waist as you play chase with sleep– you're the mouse– and alternate between being awake and asleep.

(m!reader version)

The beginning is loosely inspired in my struggle to wake up these past few days (one of the many signs of my imminent period) I finished this on (June 4th) which is both earlier and later than expected; later because I wanted to finish it on the same day I started writing it (June 2nd) and earlier because– drum roll please– Surprise, it's @comatosebunny09 birthday!!!! Perfect fucking timing, in my humble opinion.

Bunbun, japiverdei!! I hope you have a great day and get to enjoy it!!! I already planned on dedicating this fic to you, but it's even better that I get to make it a birthday gift. I hope you enjoy ^-^

Word count: 1,831

Tags: Sylus x afab!reader, established relationship, sleeping together (at first), bit of somnophilia at the beginning (consensual), Sylus toying with your pussy, waking up to sex, lazy morning sex, cuddle fucking, p in v, creampie (wrap it before you tap it), pet names (Sweetheart, sweetie, sweet thing, baby, sweetness)

You're aware he's there with you, but you're still too tired to fully wake up.

You can't do more than blink your eyes open for a few seconds at a time before you're going back under. So you go for the next best thing: put a leg over both of his and grab his hand.

Sleep drags you away to the feeling of his lips on the back of your hand, a dopey smile on your face.

There's a ticklish feeling between your legs, right at your pubic bone. Your underwear works as a barrier from it, so you can't tell what it is. You know the touch is light, tracing, drawing shapes that you can't make sense of, moving downwards before coming back up.

You shift your legs a little, opening them more, but make no other move as sleep's unrelenting grip pulls you back under.

The touch continues, still light, but with your quiet consent it doesn't stop its descent. It traces circles over your labia and your entrance before going back up and circling around your clit without applying any pressure, and then back down it goes.

The movement is lazy, unhurried and slow, stimulant enough to bring attention but not enough to bother you– it's not intense enough to wake you and keep you with him.

It's oddly comforting, and it doesn't help with your fight to stay up instead of falling back asleep.

Are you even asleep? You can't tell anymore, your dreams have always been vivid.

Fingers dip closer to your entrance, trace around it without going in, collecting the wetness on it. Then they go back up to trace gentle, barely there circles on your clit. Your hips twitch towards it, the pressure isn't gratifying enough.

The mischievous chuckle beside you is deep and rich; it melts you further in place. You hum softly and cuddle closer to the warmth beside you, still sleepy, still barely there, still unable to tell between dream and reality.

You feel lips against your temple before fabric is pulled aside and a finger breaches your entrance. It pulls a soft little sigh from you, and he can't help but think you're adorable. How receptive to him you are, even while asleep. His chest swells up with pride, with love, because you trust him this much to be completely relaxed and unworried.

“So perfect for me, baby.” He whispers to himself and starts fucking you with it, slowly, like he's got all the time in the world. And when the slide becomes easier, he adds another one. That addition pulls a sleepy gasp from you, a subtle hitch in breath he wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't paying attention. The hum and clench around his fingers that follow makes his cock throb against your thigh, but he ignores it in favor of seeing how much farther he can push it before you wake up.

One of your hands shoots up, jerky and stuttery in its movements as it sneaks under his clothes, before fingers wrap loosely around his cock. You give one faint squeeze around the head, and he considers you might be awake, eyes closed and all, but you make no other movement. The next breath he takes is shaky, mouth against your shoulder as he leaves a kiss there.

His fingers resume the movement inside you. The pace slowly picks up, along with the pressure and soon enough, he's watching– in awe and in love– as your hips start chasing after his fingers. He stares, takes in every detail. The slight frown on your face, the light sheen of sweat, feels you clench uncontrollably around his fingers, the shake of your legs as you cum on them; it all makes his cock throb.

Even when you close your legs around his hand and grind into his palm, you still don't wake. He wonders what you were dreaming of, what has got you this gone into your dreams? He waits until your legs fall back open, and then he moves.

The first thing to go is your underwear, as beautiful as it looks on you, he wants it off. Wants nothing between the both of you but warmth and love and affection. Next is gently guiding you into lying on your side, your back to his chest. You go fairly willingly, curling up against him as he wraps an arm under you to keep you close.

Then go his boxers. He's more lazy with taking them off, desperate to be inside you, so he pulls them down to his thighs but doesn't kick them off. He's one handed as he guides his cock between your folds, bites back a groan as he grinds against them to coat his cock with your slick. The promise of what's to come makes his sight hazy and he has to focus on keeping control.

You moan when he slides in, finally all the way home.

“So good for me, sweetheart,” He praises, because he can't help it, incapable of keeping his mouth shut when he's inside you, of keeping the words in, “taking me so well.”

He sighs against your nape and leaves open mouthed kisses there, kneads your boobs and plays with your nipples in the same soft and lazy way from earlier. He knows you're awake when you shift to move and still when you find your movements limited.

“Sylus.” You call out to him and he swears he sees heaven when he hears your sleepy voice calling out to him.

“Good morning, baby,” He whispers, voice raspy with poorly held back desire. And god, isn't it so hot to have it so close to your ear? Good fucking morning indeed.

He rises to fully see you, and leans to kiss you, saving you the hassle of twisting your body to look at him. He kisses every area of your face he can reach, nose, eyelids, forehead, cheeks and finally, your lips.

The kiss is slow, languid, and filled with things left unsaid, things neither of you need to say out loud. Your soft sigh against his lips makes him smile and he can't help pulling away to look at you.

“Dream of anything?” He nuzzles his nose against yours before trailing off to kiss your cheek, all the way down to your neck.

“Had a fun one.” He hums, a hand reaching down to caress your thighs, your stomach, your ribs, “It was a little weird, but still fun and cool.”

“What was it about?” One of his fingers rounds your areola, touch feather-light as it keeps swirling inwards until it reaches your nipple. He flicks it once, before pinching and pulling. You arch into it, mouth falling open with a gasp.

“Sweetie, answer the question.” He reminds with a whisper, teeth nibbling your shoulder in warning.

“I was… somewhere– a spaceship.” You blink, frowning as you try to pick up the sand like pieces of your dreams while he keeps distracting you. “Delivering cargo for some organization. You were there too.”

“Oh?”

You whine when you feel him start to pull away.

He shushes you gently, “It's okay, sweet girl.” before thrusting back in. His thrusts are slow, deep and toe curling. You can't help concentrating on the feeling of the slow drag of his cock against your walls.

“Keep going, sweetness, why was I there?”

You huff in frustration, “I don't know, I think the cargo was for you.” You moan at the change of angle, and grip onto his forearm like your life depends on it. Every drag of his cock against your sweet spot makes your eyes roll and stars burst behind your eyelids.

“What happened after?”

“Ah– after what?” You clench around him and he groans.

“After you dropped the cargo.” As unaffected as he tries to sound, his breathing starts picking up. You're so warm around him, clenching on him like a vice, so perfect and soft.

“You– you took me to your office and–” Your combined moans take over as ambiance for the room, along with the squelch of your pussy as it clings to his cock. The claps of your skin start to join in the melody as your moans rise in pitch. He furrows his brows, groans with the effort to keep the rhythm steady– to not let go and move his hips faster, harder.

“And?” He hides his face in your neck, nuzzles the skin there and keeps you moored to him, arms coiled around you like a clingy octopus.

“You were… being a little shit, as usual,” he can't help but chuckle at your choice of words. It sends a wave of shivers down your spine, tingling all the way down to your cunt, “kept walking around a-as if you were a vulture and cornered me against the– fuck– the desk.”

“Oh no,” you can feel his grin against the crook of your shoulder. He's not even trying to hide it, not in his voice and not in his actions, “What else did I do?” One of his hands starts snaking down your stomach, the back of his nails raking softly down your skin and leaving goosebumps behind as they go. “I couldn't have possibly done–” his fingers reach your clit and start pressing slow circles into it– “something like this?”

Your consequent moan makes him throb inside you, and you can't help the way your hips buck.

“Sylus, please.” You whine. You're close, he can tell, can feel you clench around him like a vice, feels the way your back arches away from him, sees the way your hips move.

He still decides to be a little shit about it, “Please what, sweetie? Use your big girl words.”

“Wanna cum.”

“Yeah? Don't want me to stop?” He hums at your string of ‘yes’s and nibbles at your earlobe, “Go ahead, sweet thing, come for me,” hisses when you pull at his hair, “Let me feel you.”

You come with his name on your lips, and his voice whispering sweet nothings on your ear, eyes rolling to the back of your head and your sight going crazy with colors.

“Fuck, where do you want it, princess?” He's breathless, desperate for release but still holding back for you.

“In, inside, please, please, please.” That's all it takes for him to follow. His hips slam once, twice, before he's buried as far as he can go inside you and cumming. He groans into your neck, biting at the skin as his hips still.

It's quiet for a while, where both of you spend the time catching your breaths. He licks at the teeth marks and kisses them before trailing a path of kisses down to your shoulder. You're the one to break the peaceful silence by stretching out of his hold and turning your body towards him with a grin.

“Good morning, Sy.”

He returns the grin, and slots his body against yours as you kiss. Here comes round two.

[whirlybirbs]

— NOISE COMPLAINT ; eijiro kirishima ; 切島

summary: red riot feels really bad about absolutely wrecking the shit out of your treasured plants, or eijiro kirishima falls in love at first sight. pairing: f!reader / pro hero!red riot word count: 3.7k tags: mutual pining, fluff/comfort, humor, very gentlemanly make-out, reader is a fan of red riot, mention of ingenium thirst (truth) a/n: kiri might be a twenty-seven year old pro hero in this fic but he is an absolute lovesick virgin who gets all his romantic cues from k-dramas. you cannot force me to think otherwise.

This is exactly the sort of night you needed.

The television, low and quiet, drones on as a deep-dive video on terrariums plays. Your apartment is clean — dishes done, laundry folded and trash taken out. There's a new candle burning on the coffee table, and a Dynamight-themed, cucumber-melon eye mask plastered to your delightedly thoughtless expression.

It's supposed to be good for dark circles. It kinda burns. You wonder if maybe that's, like, part of the gimmick. Y'know. Burns. Dynamight. 

Whatever.

No thoughts. Only the pleasure of turning everything off — brain included — for a perfect Friday night, complete with a mediocre glass of wine and no pants. 

The oversized Red Riot t-shirt clinging to your frame is your favorite. You've had it since college — it's a simple red tee with REAL MEN RIOT blazoned across the front, complete with your favorite hero popping a cheeky, shark-like grin and a double bicep. It's faded, stretched out, and broken in but it's also clean, and it smells like fabric softener and comfort.

This is the life. 

Even Twitter is decidedly pretty calm tonight. 

You're scrolling through your timeline, snickering at your friends' recent thirst tweets over Ingenium's recent GQ Japan shoot when it starts.

Apparently, your upstairs neighbors are home.

You thought those guys were out of town for the week. 

You've had beautiful, silent bliss for too long. The buck stops tonight, you suppose.

There's a shout overhead, then a scramble. Another voice joins the fray, and you swear you hear someone call someone else an idiot. You frown deeply as your eyes trail upwards. You wait, expecting more noise, but unsettling silence follows.

Your eye twitches.

Annoyance tips into a simmering rage.

The apartment complex is old. It's in decent shape, and the rent isn't half bad, but the walls are thin. Your upstairs neighbors have been like this as long as you can remember: shouting, stomping, fighting... Some nights it's like being subjected to musical chairs, modern contemporary tap dance, and experimental sound drum solos all at once. 

Your first week was the worst. You dragged yourself up the back to knock on their door and politely negotiate some silence — but the man who opened the door was less than pleased to have his little dude-bro circle-jerk interrupted. He told you to fuck off, get bent, and leave him the fuck alone. 

Then, before he slammed the door in your face, he procured the sort of audacity only assholes possessed and laughed at your Red Riot shirt — which is just plain unforgivable, frankly. 

"That guy's a fuckin' pussy." 

Sure, sure, sure, right, right, right.

The interaction told you everything you needed to know about the two (or four?) men who lived upstairs. They were losers. And they were fuckin' annoying. 

And, as it turns out, manufacturing bad batches of Trigger. 

You don't know that yet, but truth be told it isn't exactly shocking.

Maybe it's your fault for picking an apartment complex in this part of Tokyo. This part of Arawaka Ward is rarely found on those top-ten-neighborhoods-for-young-professionals lists, but it's affordable! And for day laborers like you, it worked. And hey, in recent months, the crime rate has gone down at least 5% — which only quelled the anxieties of your mom and dad by about the same percentage. 

The candle on the coffee table flickers, and you're about to turn back to your slow Twitter feed when there's another bang upstairs — this one admittedly loud enough to send a wave through your wine beside you. You slip your eyes slowly to the glass, perched on a coaster, as another bang rattles your apartment. You reach to still the vibrating glass on the side table. 

That's when the shouting really starts.

And it's when you notice the growing brightness of red and blue lights outside the window.

The apartment complex is pretty big. There are about sixty residents and six floors. You lucked out and managed to snagone of the last available Western-facing studios with a balcony — which made for a perfect plant haven. 

It was a recent hobby, but one that quickly became your calm after the chaos of the day-to-day. Working for the city's Heroics Response Department left you picking up the physical pieces (literally) of a lot of lives. Your quirk might be the usual, run-of-the-mill strength-based ability, but it comes in handy in the aftermath of property damage due to — what the Nation's Safety Commission has labeled — "villain-aggressed encounters". 

All in all, it's a good gig. It's physically demanding but rewarding. The pay is good, you've got union benefits, and you even have a per-diem schedule. It keeps you busy, and though it's not your father's construction business, it's a career path your parents are proud of. 

The slice-of-heaven balcony is bustling with plants. Some are happier than others, sure, but it's pretty. You've admittedlyformed an emotional bond with those vines, leaves, and flowers. 

It's perfect.

It's also perfect for snooping whenever things like this go down in your complex, or the sister complex across the parking lot. 

The shouting match upstairs is escalating, and you take the moment to tip-toe towards your balcony door to peek outside. It looks like two or three police cruisers have pulled up outside. Maybe someone called for a noise complaint? Maybe the property manager was tired of dealing with those losers?

Cackling to yourself, and hoping for a vindicating show of revenge (NO ONE CALLS RED RIOT A PUSSY), you yank open your balcony door and slip outside just as the sound of a pot crashing meets your ears.

Then:

"Shit, shit, shit—"

There's someone on the balcony. That someone's boot is currently stuck in an empty terracotta pot you were saving for spring. Your eyes are wide as you watch the shadow leap to his other foot, lose his balance, and unceremoniously knock over your entire, six-foot-tall, and well-treasured plant stand. You slap a hand over your mouth mid-shriek, hands flying to try and save whatever you can. 

You fail.

Eijiro Kirishima freezes.

What the fu—

It takes a second.

Like, a full second. Maybe even two. Your brain can't make sense of the sight before you. Neither can his, really. 

There's a girl on this balcony. A pretty girl. Like, mega pretty. Like soft and warm and cute and you smell kinda like vanilla — and there's... You're wearing his merch. His merch and... nothing else. Nothing else but a Dynamight eye mask and a pair of fluffy socks. 

...Is this what it's like to fall in love at first sight?

Shit.

Red Riot is on your balcony.

The Red Riot.

Red Riot, the hero in question, catches himself staring. His wide eyes openly wander over your figure (woah, okay, hello thighs), and the second he realizes it, he quickly snaps his eyes up to your face with a mortified expression. "Uh... hi!"

"...Hi...?"

Your expression is tied between shame, fear, and sheepishness as you blink once at him, then twice at the mess of your hobby's destruction. There's dirt everywhere, a plant stand blocking the doorway, and carnage. Your precious babies have been murdered. 

By Red Riot.

And... Red Riot is on your balcony. 

You repeat: Red Riot is on your balcony. 

Abort mission, abort mission.

Your lips part, your mouth hangs open, and every single thought in your head seems to stutter. Kirishima winces as you look down dejectedly at your plants (or, what remains) before he speaks.

"I, uh— is it cool if I..." he points upwards, "Use your balcony?" 

You're speechless.

You draw your mouth shut and nod hurriedly.

"Thanks," he grins, giving you a thumbs up — and a smile. A toothy, cute, nervous smile, "Lemme just... I gotta handle something. B-But, I'll be back. I'll help fix this mess — just... five minutes, okay?"

It hits you suddenly that his voice sounds different from all those interviews you've watched. It's a little warmer, a little raspier, a little less heroic. It's cute. 

Your brain is still having a hard time connecting the words coming out of his mouth to the scene before you — like, yes frontal lobe, this is real. This is happening.

Red Riot is real and Red Riot is on your balcony. 

He's shockingly gentle when he finally frees his boot from your terracotta pot, setting it down with purposeful delicacy — he even whispers 'please stay' as he props it upright — and then steps back to eye the balcony above yours like an athlete remembering a gameplan. 

He's trying to figure out the best way up. 

How he even got up here is news to you. 

(It was Uravity, as it turns out. They've been patrolling together more in this Ward.)

Red Riot is huge. Like, huge. 

Broad shoulders, rippling biceps, and long, fluffy crimson hair. It's daunting to realize how tall he is in person. The guy is a beast — everyone knows it — but his chivalrous nature is that thing that usually draws in his fans. It's no secret that Red Riot is sweet. He openly champions the need to be a good role model for men everywhere. Y'know, you can be strong and nice!

A sharp canine glints in your apartment's light as he pokes his tongue out and thinks for a second. 

Then, he settles on his plan. 

"You might wanna head inside," Red Riot says as he rolls his shoulders and bounces on the balls of his feet; he's readying up for a fight — and you blink as the beautiful realization dawns on you, "This could get kinda loud."

Loud?

Oh my god.

Is he here for your upstairs neighbors?

Oh my god, he is. 

Your jaw falls open as you bark out a laugh — it's an incredulous rasp that sends you into a spiral of joy; you're not a vengeful person by any means but...

"They're gonna shit themselves," you grin, your eyes alight with pure delight and a spark of something that reminds Kirishima a lot little bit of Bakugo, "They called you a pussy—"

Kirishima's brows shoot upwards as he pauses. He was about to jump and dig his hands into the underside of the balcony, but his quirk is stalling at your words. There's a roaring fire blazing in your eyes, one that screams retribution. 

It's... comical.

You cackle again at him with a wide grin, hissing conspiratorily. "They made fun of my shirt!"

You point down at the REAL MEN RIOT tee with both hands, your face set in a look of vindicated glee. Then, the second realization of the night hits — that you've got no pants on, and that stupid, goofy Dynamight eye mask is still on your face. You make a soft sound of embarrassment and tug your shirt down lower, trying to cover up. He cannot see your underwear. No. No way, no fucking way. Without a single word, you reach up, snatch the Dynamight eye mask off your face, and whip it off the balcony without a second thought. 

Slowly, Kirishima's face splits into a pointy grin. 

Holy shit, he's so fucking hot. 

"Oh, man," Red Riot rumbles, his face cracking into a sharp, playful smirk, "That's real rude. I might have t' teach these guys some manners."

Your smile returns, washing away the wobbly look of embarrassment sticking to your cheeks. 

Man, it sure is cute.

You are really cute, Kirishima realizes.

"Right! And who calls Red Riot a pussy?" you counter excitedly, before reigning it in and awkwardly lowering your arms as you try to tug your shirt down to hide the tops of your thighs again. Your glee has stifled a little bit, but it only reaffirms Kirishima's duty to wrap this all up. 

"Yea, that's, like, super misogynistic," he muses as his quirk kicks in and his hands flick into a hardened state. It's insaneto witness the way his large hands transform into weapons with a single breath. You can see the jagged extension of his quirk working up his large arms, too, "Lemme just have a lil' word with these boys, alright? Head on inside, I'll be back in a sec'."

Then, with graceful ease, he hops upwards with a little hup before latching to the base of the upstairs neighbor's balcony. 

It's insane how effortless it is for him to haul himself up the balcony, his hands dug into the cement. His upper body strength is insane. He's scaling the terrace, alternating his grip. He disappears into the dark, swinging his body upwards and reaching his destination.

You tamp down your awe in favor of heeding his directions: head inside.

You're closing the balcony door when you hear Red Riot's voice greet the unexpecting gaggle.

"Hey, fellas! I heard you guys are some super fans. Got anything you want me to sign?"

You snicker to yourself as you hear the beginning of a fight. 

Again, as it turns out, the guys upstairs sucked. Like, mega sucked. They'd been responsible for several recent Trigger overdoses; Uravity and Red Riot were working with law enforcement to track the small-time manufacturers — which explains why they'd been so quiet lately. They suspected someone was on their tail. 

As Red Riot scaled their balcony, law enforcement waited to break down their door. They arrested the four men (Seriously? Four? In that studio?) without much incident — however, you did spy a broken nose on one of them as they were hauled into the back of the awaiting cruisers. 

Sweet, sweet revenge. 

By the time your neighbors are carted off, you've shimmed into some sweats and made a half-assed attempt to look sort ofpresentable, all while firing off a few contextually incomprehensible texts into your group chat.

red riot has seen me in my underwear wtf do i do know kiss him?

You're really weighing your options when there's a knock on your balcony entry. It's gentle and cordial. You turn, head snapping, and spy that trademarked (and a dozen times retweeted) smile through the glass. He waves. 

Your heart leaps into your throat. You try to remember to breathe as you shuffle over and tug the balcony door open. The night air is cool.

Be like the night air.

Stay cool.

Eijiro feels so silly. And guilty. And honestly? Really into you. 

You're still wearing that shirt — the one with his face on it. You have opted to put on pants, but Kirishima still reminds himself to keep his eyes on your face. No ogling. That's not very gentlemanly. 

There's a beat of awkward silence as the two of you wait for the other to speak, and Kirishima is the one to break it with a raspy laugh.

"I wanted to apologize about your plants," a large hand moves to rub the back of his neck, "I cleaned up as best I could. I'm really, really sorry."

You wave him off, leaning into the doorframe. "No, it's okay! It's nothing I can't... fix. I think?"

You look beyond him to the catastrophic mess of plant matter. He must have tried tidying up while you rattled off the rapid-fire texts in the group chat. 

Red Riot's face warbles into something tied between mortification and guilt. "Please forgive me."

"Seriously!" you cry, waving your hands as you try to placate his dejected expression, "Please don't feel bad. It's a fair trade, y'know. Those guys upstairs were, like, the worst."

"I can only imagine," Eijiro concedes, frowning a little, "They didn't give you too much trouble, did they?"

You shake your head and laugh a little, "Aside from insulting my favorite hero to my face? Not really."

Kirishima can feel his face get a little hot. He shifts from boot to boot. His smile is a little woozy. "So... you're a fan?"

You don't need to tell him the underwear you have on matches the shirt — red, with an embroidered RR on the front. You keep that to yourself. You just nod happily.

"Really?" his grin cracks into something so excitable it makes your entire stomach flip, "I don't meet a lotta fans who are..."

His words drift off.

He's staring at your eyes. You're so... soft. Warm. Your eyes are swirling with quiet, astonished adoration and it's making Kirishima feel like he's floating. 

"Who are...?" your brow quirks as you lean deeper into the doorframe, trying to coax out the rest of the sentence.

"Gorgeous," he breathes, his posture relaxing a little as he soaks in your expression.

It's like getting sucker punched to the sternum.

All the wind rushed out of your lungs.

The soft moment only lasts a beat, because suddenly Red Riot's face screws up and he waves his hands hurriedly. "Wait, no. Hold on, I mean — all of my fans are gorgeous, because, uh, they're my fans and I love them, right? It's not like they're not gorgeous, I just — I'm... I... My fans are, like, usually dudes? A-And that's totally cool because dudes can be gorgeous, too, y'know? But—"

You're laughing.

Kirishima is realizing he was not paying enough attention in his agency's PR training last month and you're laughing.

"I get it," you giggle, crossing your arms and grinning up at him, "I mean, I definitely don't think I'm gorgeous but—"

"You are," he assures firmly, his expression serious.

Are you dead?

Are you, like, literally ascending to a higher plane right now?

There's no fucking way this is happening. 

Your lips part in quiet shock as you bite back a smile that threatens to cramp up your cheeks. Kirishima eats it up, his posture perking up at the way you seem to melt at his compliment. His smile is boyish — almost dizzy. 

You duck a bashful look towards the tiled floor of the balcony, not really giving a singular shit that your beloved monstera has been stomped on.

Kirishima clears his throat, then — in a move he totally hasn't swooned over in those K-dramas he's secretly obsessed with, that'd be ridiculous — he props his arm up against your door and leans over you. Your faces are close in the warm light of the balcony. 

Your eyes stutter up his abdomen, chest, jaw, lips, and eyes. Kirishima notices. It's really, really cute.

"Are you, uh... Are you seeing anyone?" 

Of course, Red Riot would ask that. Red Riot, the king of chivalry. How is something like that so endearing? For the tenth time tonight, he makes your stomach flip.

You shake your head no, a little too stunned to speak.

"Cool," Eijiro musters over a shake of nerves, "Cool. Okay. Uh, then would it... would it be okay if I bought you some new plants?"

You nod, swallowed entirely by his shadow. He's so fucking huge. 

"And if I took you to dinner?" 

Another nod.

"...And — shit. You're, like, so cute," the smooth persona he's put on melts a little as his eyes roam your face; you feel so... shy, "I was gonna ask you something else but..."

"My number?" you offer, fiddling with the hem of your shirt as you maintain eye contact. 

Is it hot? You're sweating. Is he sweating? He's hot. 

Eijiro nods, absolutely mesmerized by the way you tug your lip between your teeth. "That. Yea."

He has to fight back the urge to bite his knuckle when you turn away and move towards your kitchen to snag your phone. Kirishima stays put, allowing himself one moment of ogling. When you turn around, he's clearing his throat and crossing a boot over his ankle. 

He's still leaning up against the doorway.

"Here," you slip him the phone.

Eiijiro takes it — then hesitates for a second.

"...You're not gonna leak my number, are you?"

You have to laugh. You rub your cheek and shake your head before crossing your arms and looking up at him. "If you think I'm going to do anything to fumble this, you're wrong." 

Fumble this? Fumble him? He's the one that is at risk of fumbling, are you serious?

Eijiro barks out a surprised laugh as he enters his number, shoots a quick text his way then ignores the buzz in his back pocket. He hands your phone back and tries so fucking hard to ignore the way your fingers brush his. 

He got your number.

Holy shit, he got your number.

"Hey, Red Riot?"

He blinks down at you. "Y-Yea?"

You gesture for him to come closer, and he obeys easily — he bends a bit at the waist, his hair falling along his shoulders as he smiles down at you in the threshold of your apartment.

"Is everything alri—?"

You pop a chaste kiss against his cheek. 

Or, try. 

As you hop up onto your tippy toes to kiss his cheek, Eijiro is turning his head at the sound of Urvaity calling his name simultaneously. Trajectory failed, and now it's lips and lips instead of lips on cheek — and honestly? He owes Ochaco one for this. 

Red Riot melts — actually, truly, genuinely melts. His posture slumps down as you let out a shocked little sound of apology. But, Eijiro doesn't mind, and fuck, neither do you — because one hand braces against the doorframe above your head while his other hand is suddenly on your waist. He steadies himself, and damn. Damn. 

He breaks away when Uravity calls his name again. Kirishima is breathless and blushing, and your knees feel like jello. 

"I... Uh, I gotta go—"

"Yea, totally," you breathe, swallowing down the burn of unfiltered attraction, "Sorry, I was trying to kiss your cheek—"

Another call of his name. Red Riot curses softly before hollering a 'COMING!' over his shoulder, out past the edge of the balcony. 

When he turns back, he's fast to sweep you into another kiss — this one hotter than before. This one draws you into his chest, sending your hands colliding with the hot skin of his chest. There's muscle and scars and heat beneath your fingertips. His hand curls around your lower back, and you nearly moan. 

He peels himself away with an apologetic look as he backs towards the edge of the balcony. "I gotta go — I'll text you once patrol is over. Is that okay? I'm serious about the plants. And dinner." 

All you can do is nod.

Eijiro is kinda proud of himself for stunning you stupid with that kiss.

This is exactly the sort of night you needed.

[makis-eyebrows]

Little Polesitters

After Y/n meets George Russell's daughter, a new version of her sparked out of her, making Alex question how and when it all happened.

Race Weekend – Silverstone Grand Prix

The paddock buzzed with energy and anticipation—drivers preparing, fans cheering, cameras flashing. But amidst all the grown-up chaos, two little girls were the center of a different kind of attention.

Seven-year-old Y/n Albon, daughter of Alex Albon and his girlfriend Lily Muni He, had always been the quiet type. She’d cling to her mum’s leg during press days and would hide behind her dad’s arms when new people tried to talk to her. Soft-spoken, shy, and gentle—Y/n was the polar opposite of the roar of Formula 1.

That was, until she met Amelia Russell.

Amelia, George Russell’s equally seven-year-old daughter, was a ball of sunshine and endless energy, much like her mother, Carmen Montero Mundt. Curious, bold, and unapologetically chatty, she had no trouble striking up conversations with anyone—even if they were triple her age or size. When the Russells and Albons first met up for a playdate during the Spanish Grand Prix a year ago, nobody expected a spark like the one that happened between the girls.

“Hi. I like your shoes,” Amelia had said with a wide smile, bouncing in her pink Crocs.

Y/n had blinked, unsure of what to say. She glanced down at her own Crocs—yellow, with tiny panda pins clipped into the holes.

“They match mine! See?” Amelia pointed. “Wanna play?”

From that moment on, something shifted. Y/n nodded. And just like that, they were inseparable.

Fast Forward to Silverstone

Lily adjusted the little denim jacket on Y/n’s shoulders while the girl impatiently wriggled. “She’s here! I saw her car!”

“Okay, okay, hold still for one second—” Lily laughed, trying to fix the heart-shaped hair clip that was moments from falling off her daughter’s head.

Just then, Amelia came racing through the hospitality gates in a pastel purple dress, holding her dad George’s hand and nearly dragging him along.

“Y/N!!!”

“AMELIA!!!”

The paddock turned at the loud, unfiltered joy coming from two tiny humans. Y/n bolted from her mother’s side and collided into her best friend in a whirlwind of giggles and matching glitter sneakers.

“LOOK! We matched again without even trying!” Amelia squealed.

Y/n’s eyes sparkled. “And your hair clip is the same as mine!”

George and Alex stood side-by-side, shaking their heads with amused smiles as their daughters began to dance in circles together.

“Did they text each other again?” Alex asked.

“Mate,” George chuckled, “they don’t even have phones. Amelia made me call Lily just so she could describe the outfit she wanted to wear today. In detail.”

Carmen walked over with Lily, both laughing as they watched the chaos unfold.

“They’re like two little fireworks,” Carmen smiled. “It's hard to believe Y/n used to be so quiet.”

“She still is,” Lily said fondly. “Except around Amelia.”

Later That Day – Inside the Williams Motorhome

Between interviews and race strategy meetings, Alex popped into the hospitality lounge. The girls were huddled in a corner with crayons and markers, drawing what appeared to be a giant heart-shaped racetrack, complete with little stick figures of themselves holding trophies.

“We’re gonna be racers too,” Amelia declared.

“Yeah,” Y/n nodded confidently, her shyness nowhere to be seen. “We’ll be team... Al-Rus.”

Alex burst out laughing. “Al-Rus, huh? That sounds terrifying.”

“Terrifyingly fast,” Amelia grinned, throwing a wink at George, who had just entered.

George knelt down beside them. “You two better be nice to your pit crews.”

“We are the pit crews,” Y/n replied, looking very serious.

The entire room melted.

Back on the Grid

As the race weekend unfolded, the two girls remained joined at the hip—matching hats, shared snacks, and even coordinated cheers for both their dads.

Y/n still wasn’t much of a talker with most people. But Amelia? She had flipped a switch inside her.

Whenever someone asked about her best friend, Y/n would always answer the same thing, with a small but certain smile:

“She makes me feel brave.”

And that's number 2 for me. I actually quite like doing this, honestly.

I was told I should turn my previous story into a series, but I'm not too sure cuz I'm scared I'll lose the plot, then I'll look slow.😭

But other than that, yall are still open to send requests and stuff.

That's Gang Gang out!!!♡

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - off the record (part four)

part four ; prom: white house edition

warnings ; alcohol consumption, oc spiraling hard af, emma and paul ?? deserves its own warning

prompt ; in which you’re paired with your insufferably charming ex-academic rival turned coworker to cover a congressional scandal, and suddenly, professional boundaries becomes the only thing holding you two apart.

note ; *comes out from behind corner, tucks hair shyly behind ear* heyyy.. how yall doing..?

pls no tomatoes thrown at me for how long this part took. mommy was unfortunately quite busy AND this story is taking a complete left turn in my brain. let’s unpack that real quick, shall we? initially, this story was supposed to be a clean ten part fic. however i got inspired by one of abby jiminez’s books and could not restrain myself from exploring a longer slowburn with these two because it fits them SO WELL. so, moral of the story, is you’ll be seeing more of them. how many parts you ask? idk, ask someone else fr

anyways! onto this part — there’s a lot going on here. this whole White House gala is just jungkook circling oc like a hawk and her slowly, sloooooowly softening at the edges (but not too damn much). forgive my girl for not immediately succumbing to him, she grew up in a poor family and doesn’t like to feel the weight of the world on her shoulders (lol see what i did there)

please enjoy to your heart’s content, and read slow (like it’s legit 12k words. what you in a rush for??!!) ALSOOOOSDKD MAJORRRRR MF shoutout to @httpsincity, one of my cutie little beta readers who listened to me spiral about being true to their characters for like an hour and struggled to use box.com😔

playlist here

series masterlist here

The red dress was a mistake of catastrophic proportions. 

You’ll be paying the consequences of it until you’re 85 and muttering about shapewear in a retirement home with subpar pudding. 

It pinches at your hips, digs into your ribs, and you’re walking like someone has a gun to your back. You’re also sweating in places you didn’t know you had sweat glands.

You had pitched every excuse to not attend the gala known to man for the past week. Claimed to have contracted a rare airborne virus (possibly made up), hinted at a tragic scalp burn from a curling iron incident, even floated the idea that you were morally opposed to large public gatherings.

Jenna wouldn’t budge. 

“It’s good optics,” she called it, waving you off like an uncooperative wedding planner. 

You could give two shits about optics. What you do care about is being home in your sweats with a charcoal face mask on and Season 4 of Suits playing in the background while you judge Meghan Markle’s legal ethics. 

Now, you’re trapped beneath an arch of peonies and imported orchids that you're quite certain cost more than your entire salary. You’re lingering — loitering, really — by this floral monstrosity, heels already in mortal pain.

To add insult to injury, three interns glide past you, high on sparkling wine and great expectations. “Did you see the dessert table?” one of them squeals. “It’s shaped like the White House!”

Avoid the dessert table at all costs. Got it. 

You stare after them, slack-jawed. There is simply no way on God’s green earth these interns are going to have a better time at this event than you. You skipped Suits for this.

Pushing off the floral arch, you roll your shoulders back, and decide that if you are stuck here, if you are doing this, then so be it. 

If this is the hand life is going to deal you, then you might as well not bite it off. 

Tentatively, you step into the Hay Adams ballroom like you’re being lowered into a trap. The lighting is spilling warm buttery hues across the room, strategically placed crystal fixtures drawing people under them like moths to a flame. The marble floors are polished so well that when you look down, you can make out every pore on your face. 

There are waiters floating through the crowd, balancing trays of drinks you don’t recognize and appetizers that look too sophisticated to actually enjoy. Some band is playing near the front, but it’s jazz so it mostly just sounds like everyone forgot the melody at the same time. 

You pause a few steps in, eyes scanning the room, instinct already kicking in: assess, categorize, survive. There’s a burn in your chest, a familiar swoop of anxiety that overtakes you. 

You’re mid-gaze into the ballroom, performing what can only be described as an elite-level social avoidance, when something — or rather, someone incredibly clumsy — collides with your left side. 

“Where the fuck have you been?!” Emma’s voice accuses, latching onto your arm desperately, like she’s afraid you might jump out the nearest window. There’s still enough time that you might. 

She smells like a perfume counter had a passionate affair with the open bar. Her lipstick has migrated slightly north of her mouth, body vibrating with the energy of someone who discovered the champagne fountain approximately four glasses ago. 

“Good lord,” you mutter, finding your balance both literally and metaphorically. “How long have you been terrorizing this event?” 

“Unclear,” she grins stupidly. “Time is fake. You look hot by the way.”

You blink at her, absorbing her physical assessment of your appearance. You can't say hot is what you were going for. Scary, maybe. Not hot. “I’ll take it.”

“You absolutely should,” she insists, squeezing your arm. “Wait, did you just get here?”

The way Emma’s looking at you tells you that you probably need to lie, need to tell her you got here precisely an hour ago and she just somehow missed you. However after years of working together, there’s nothing that gets past her. You whine, shoulders slumping, “C’mon, you know I hate this stupid fucking gala.”

She rolls her eyes, yanking your arm as if she’s dragging her reluctant cat to the vet. “You say that every year and still end up at the after afterparty at someone’s penthouse.” 

Okay, it was one time. You were 24, way too drunk off Moet & Chandon, and the man you were with smelled like a mix of bergamot and cedar. It was nice. Sue you. 

Your heels betray you on the slippery marble tiles, sending you forward. “Emma, I really don’t—”

“No, absolutely not,” she declares, voice dropping to a dangerous register that means she’s made an executive decision about your night. “The ‘silently judging everyone’ portion of tonight’s programming has been canceled. You’re not allowed to roll your eyes in corners until you get drunk enough to start socializing.”

You attempt to come up with a plausible defense, but she’s already steering you past the dessert table, which has become a feeding ground for the interns. One of them clutches what appears to be the Capitol dome covered in chocolate ganache. Your soul recoils instinctively. 

“Have you tried the constitution-shaped cookies?” another squeals, eyes wide with wonder. 

“Who the fuck let them in here?” you whisper mostly to yourself with narrowed eyes. 

Emma catches it, laugh bellowing off the walls and above all the chatter as she guides you around the ballroom like her emotional support pet. “Be nice. They still believe journalism might save democracy. It’s adorable.”

You scan the room, heels skidding with each step Emma drags you. There’s the reporter who “borrowed” your framework for his feature, the communications director who used to hook up with Jenna before she remembered she had a Hinge+ subscription, and that insufferable New York Times correspondent who once corrected your pronunciation of ‘bipartisan’ so smugly you considered a career change. 

Several other journalists you recognize make eye contact across the room. Paul also looks over at you, gives you The Nod, a universal signal that communicates professional acknowledgement but could also mean you look hot (based on Emma’s drunken opinion). 

Emma navigates you closer to the bar, halting right in front of two barstools, “Okay. You need alcohol. I need you to have fun. Both seem fairly easy to accomplish with the help of the other.”

“Just so you’re aware, I despise everything about this,” you sneer, fixing the strap on your shoulder that threatens to fall loose. 

“You say that like it’s breaking news.” 

It isn’t. You hate the lighting designed to flatter the undeserving, the artificial laughter, the way everyone pretends to be off-duty while mentally writing Monday’s opinion piece. You hate the performative glamor and calculated smiles and the overwhelming pressure to network when all you want is to dematerialize through the nearest exit. 

Emma’s already ordering you a vodka soda, draped halfway across the bartop, projecting her voice as if she’s sober enough to make decisions for either of you. You catch her saying “absolutely no lime—I can handle my liquor” and you log out of that conversation so fast before you can do something stupid like get involved. Emma gets hot-headed when she drinks, and although it’s not often, you’ve learned to turn a blind eye when the inevitable does occur. 

You let your gaze perform a sweep of the room, mentally cataloguing emergency exits for once it hits midnight and all hell starts breaking loose. 

Paul, three people over. Awkward eye contact, check. You both give the other a tight-lipped smile and move onto the next person in your line of sight. 

Gavin’s talking to his wife enthusiastically, gesturing in a way that suggests he’s either four rum and cokes deep or recounting a professional tale where he singlehandledly saved journalism. His narrative reaches a dramatic pause as he catches your eye mid-sentence. Your internal alarm system flashes a bright, unambiguous absolutely not across your forehead. 

Your eyes glide past the dessert station, beyond another towering floral display that looks like the florist had a meltdown, and land on Sana in the far corner. She’s laughing at something, body angled like she’s engaged fully in what the other person is saying. There’s a soft radiance about her tonight — not that she hasn’t always been stunning — and it reminds you that she’s one of those people who’s universally beloved with no effort. Hell, even you love her when she gives into your interrogations and spills Fox’s insight into certain current events. You take an imaginary sip from your yet-to-materialize drink and mentally file away a good for her with approximately sixty percent sincerity. 

But then, a few strategic inches to her left, you discover exactly who Sana is honed in on.

Jungkook. 

He’s standing with one hand in his pocket, head tipped towards Sana, listening intently. His shirt is white, crisp and fitted, sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow. Enough that you can see his tattoo sleeve — bold that he would do that at White House prom but, whatever, to each their own. 

His tie is loosened, a glass in his left hand, half-full with something dark and his watch catches the light when you look at it. 

Which is not to say you’re looking. 

You’re scanning. It’s a sweep. An environmental awareness thing. Nothing more. 

Except then he nods at something Sana says and mid-turn, his eyes snag on you. 

Those dark brown eyes flick up, mouth relaxing. His brows twitch upward slightly. You nearly step backwards from the intensity. 

His gaze travels downward. A flicker of assessment so understated yet brazenly deliberate that your skin erupts into goosebumps under the fabric of your dress. Suddenly, it feels like your body is operating at a temperature that violates several laws of thermodynamics. There’s also a weird pit in your stomach that feels like you just went barreling 100 miles per hour down a rollercoaster. 

His eyes snap up to meet yours again. Your skin prickles with a wave of awareness that starts at your nape and cascades downward. 

If you’re not totally blind, you’re about ninety percent sure Jungkook just checked you out head to toe. 

Are you drunk? Did Emma somehow magically slip you a roofie when she stumbled across the ballroom with you?

Jungkook, the same dude who got caught re-watching your press briefing, the one who’s been purposefully making your life hell since you were a freshman in college. 

Your breath catches somewhere between your lungs and your throat, suspended in the no-man’s-land of Things We Will Not Be Discussing. Those eyes of yours are getting you into more trouble than you’d like. You swivel your body away from him, redirect your attention back to Emma, who’s now negotiating with the poor bartender like she’s brokering Middle East peace talks, all for a drink you're not entirely sure you want anymore. 

The last real interaction you had with Jungkook was Tuesday, when you discovered him perched on the steps of the west wing, watching your press pool briefing like he was some championship chess player contemplating their opponent’s queen.

Monroe came down with some vague “flu” that’s kept her out of meetings, which — to your luck — means you haven’t had a reason to step into the same room as him since then. Honestly it’s been a little peaceful. No hallway stalking, no press conferences, no internal panic about whether he’s going to pull the rug out from under you with another cheating tactic. 

But still, seeing him here now, in that shirt, sends a weird ripple through your body. Like vertigo. Like nausea. Like—

No. It’s clearly too hot in here. It’s just the combination of societal oppression and your body’s sudden, urgent desire to evacuate itself from your consciousness.

Emma thrusts an overflowing vodka soda into your hand like she just negotiated a hostage release. “It’s a little strong. I tipped extra in cash so he gave me a pour that’s probably illegal in three states.”

You nod numbly. Sip, And then cough because, yeah, it’s mostly vodka. Apparently, Emma’s definition of “a little strong” means “practically moonshine with ice.” 

You take another substantial sip — purely medicinal — and direct a silent, desperate prayer to whatever deity oversees your life that Jungkook has found something more interesting to look at than you. Sana, please, keep that man engaged. 

“So, hear me out.”

Yes, Emma, that is exactly what you’ll do to keep your brain occupied from Sana and those tattoos and the glance that got thrown your way that feels dirty. Borderline explicit. 

“Hm?” you hum, taking another massive gulp of your vodka with a splash of soda, trying to calm the storm of unwelcome feelings swirling inside you. 

She leans against the bar, holding her own martini glass hostage. “We should go talk to those guys over there.”

You squint at the ominous tall figures her nail is pointing towards. She can’t possibly be serious. “What guys?!”

“Those ones!” She tilts her head so aggressively it’s a miracle her earrings don’t fall off. “You know, Paul, his friend in the blue tie.. He’s like, kinda hot.” 

You guess, but refusal is your middle name right now. 

“I do not want to do that.” You deadpan at her, bewildered, sharing a look reserved for work best friends who have clearly crossed several lines of judgement. 

Emma’s basically vibrating with excitement as she studies the two men like she’s just discovered an all-you-can-eat buffet after a week of intermittent fasting. When you follow her gaze, sizing up the two men, you realize… you don’t really know that dude in the blue tie. Never seen him a day in your life. And you happen to know every correspondent that walks through those doors. 

The first thing you notice is his height — six feet tall at the minimum. He has shaggy brown hair, clearly possessing fortunate genetics, and has a wholesome, eager energy about him that just screams “golden retriever.” 

You could probably eat him for dinner.

Emma whines beside you, stomping her heel down, “Come on, what happened to the old [Y/N]? Remember… a few months ago… we went to that bar on 9th street…”

Now that she mentions it, you’ve been actively trying to scrub that entire night from your hard drive until Rosalie brought it up a few days ago.  

“Some memories are meant to remain buried in the graveyard of my brain, Em,” You cut her off, desperately trying to prevent your most embarrassing memories from being aired in public. 

“Just a little fun?” she nudges your shoulder. 

“I don’t—”

But Emma, the hot-headed drunk she is, is already moving, your hand gripped tightly in hers. Your vodka soda tilts over the edge, spilling a little on the marble floor. There’s something admirable about her complete disregard for social conventions, the way she approaches interpersonal chaos. 

She weaves you through the crowd, mumbling ‘excuse me’s’ and ‘pardon me’ at a rate that earns her a few crass side-glances. You find yourself apologizing for each shoe she accidentally steps on.

You’re trying — genuinely attempting to embrace the evening, live in the moment, take a page out of Emma’s book. But your dress has developed its own mind tonight, the air feels thick enough to bottle, and every time you perform a quick pass over the room, you feel like your heart is going to leap out of your chest like a caterpillar escaping its cocoon. 

The entire experience feels like standing in a glittery fishbowl where everyone’s pretending the water isn’t slowly reaching to a boil. 

You begin after another few steps in what feels like the wrong direction. “You know, I really think—”

She barely looks at you over her shoulder, “Respectfully, shut up.”

Yes, sergeant Emma. 

You attempt to reorganize your posture, rolling your shoulders back in a futile effort to project confidence. Trying to breathe without appearing like you’re still actively monitoring those emergency exits (although you did spot one in the far right corner). Trying not to look like you’re not cataloguing every face in the room while Emma drags you through the depths of this crowd, as if it’s some march to your final breaths. 

All things considered, you’re not looking for anyone specific. 

Obviously. 

That would be ridiculous. 

Except… your gaze does go rogue again.

Again, those basic survival instincts are just kicking in. But there is this inexplicable gravitational pull, this soft magnetic curiosity that keeps dragging your attention, past the florals, past the swarm of interns at the dessert table. 

Before you can even think of moving your eyes to that far corner again, you take a sip of your drink forcibly. The vodka burns a straight line down your throat. 

Emma parks you in front of Paul and his blue-tied buddy, releasing your hand almost immediately upon contact. “Heyyyy, Paul. How’s the night treating you?”

Her voice is sickly sweet, completely and totally unlike the Emma you see five days a week in the CNN press room. 

He blinks heavily. “Pretty good, Emma. You doing alright?”

It’s endearing how he’s trying to act all cool, calm and collected while clearly having no idea what to do with Emma’s sudden attention. By all means, he really wouldn’t know how to handle all of her. Her long brown hair cascades down her back, tan skin glowing under the golden tone of the chandelier, eyes piercing into his own. 

You think he might cream his pants. 

“Oh, I’m fantastic,” Emma purrs, leaning in intimately. You want to disappear into the nearest floral arrangement. “You know, I was just thinking — we don’t really talk much around the office.”

Paul blinks again, looking genuinely confused. “Yeah, well, you did say I was weird for listening to NPR during my lunch break.”

“NPR, sh-menPR,” Emma waves dismissively, as if yesterday’s mockery was merely a charming misunderstanding rather than a full-on ten minute roast session about his “geriatric taste in current events.”

Somewhere in the distance, a male voice bellows with laughter. You wish there was something to laugh about at this exact moment.

You’re having trouble processing the fact that Emma — who literally just yesterday compared Paul’s open-toed office shoes to a cry for help in leather — is now batting her eyelashes like he’s the last available bachelor in the D.C area. 

Meanwhile, Blue Tie Guy’s gaze has been ping-ponging back and forth between you and Emma. You can practically see the calculations happening behind his golden retriever eyes: Who’s her friend? What’s the dynamic here? Are we running a two-man?

No, Blue Tie Guy. You are not running a two-man. 

You remain silent while Emma blabbers on, mouth super-glued to your vodka soda, which has become alarmingly depleted despite your memory of only taking a few sips. 

Blue Tie shifts his weight, obviously debating whether to introduce himself to you or stare awkwardly into the distance. You take the final sip of your drink and pray that Emma’s sudden lust for Paul doesn’t require you to participate in whatever bizarre social experiment she’s conducting. 

Paul’s now doing that thing that guys do where he tries to lean casually against something that isn’t there, catching himself before gravity betrays him. “So, uh, what changed your mind? About the whole… talking thing?” 

He’s helpless. 

Emma flashes a smile that could probably power a small grid. “Maybe I’m just full of surprises tonight.”

“Right…” Paul nods. He spares a passing glance at you, an afterthought to his attraction to Emma. “Surprises. That’s… good?”

You’re witnessing what can only be described as the world’s most awkward mating dance… if mating dances involved this much uncertainty about whether anyone wants to be actually participating. 

Emma’s radiating pheromones. “I like your tie.” She reaches out, feeling the fabric beneath her fingers.

Paul’s entire face turns an embarrassing shade of red. “Thanks. It’s, uh… my grandpa’s.”

“Vintage,” Emma hums solemnly. “Very nice.”

You’re so absorbed in this exchange that you almost miss Blue Tie Guy’s approach, an expression of friendliness on his face that means he’s been psyching himself up for this interaction for the past five minutes you’ve stood there. 

Why the fuck did you wear this red dress again?

“I’m Steve,” he says, extending his hand.

You accept his handshake against your better judgment. This wasn’t exactly penciled into tonight’s agenda, which had primarily consisted of avoid making eye contact with anyone who might expect conversation.

“[Y/N],” you respond, and Steve grins, teeth on full display. He definitely had braces in middle school. Professional teeth whitening too. 

Theoretically, he seems charming. Steve (Rest in Peace, Blue Tie Guy) is objectively attractive. He definitely photographs well at family events. 

But the problem is your brain has apparently decided that a pleasant conversation with an attractive stranger falls somewhere below a voluntary root canal on a list of things you want to do tonight. 

“So what do you do for work?” 

Oh sweet, sweet Steve. 

Any man who’s gotten laid before knows no woman wants to talk about work. They want to talk about anything but deadlines, their coworkers, and their boss. 

“Correspondent.” 

That’ll be all for tonight, folks. 

It’s pretty clear he’s Paul’s plus-one, and while you also were afforded the luxury of bringing one, you didn’t really have anyone. Rosalie left mid-week on another voyage with her Daddy, and you were honestly still a little weird with her after your last conversation. 

“Oh, cool. I work in private equity not too far from here.” He tilts his body into you, body language sending you all the signals. Steve puffs out his chest a little, like that’s supposed to have you begging him to bend you over the dessert table. 

“That’s nice,” you tightly smile. “How long you been in D.C?” 

And then your mind drifts off to your cozy little apartment. He’s definitely making sounds, mouth moving with hand gestures involved but you’ve completely dissociated into the land of face masks and Netflix.  

You catch fragments of it: best opportunities in private equity are where the politicians are, passionate about bridging the gap between financial institutions and government (yawn), all the ex-New Yorkers are moving out here (fake news).

You nod politely, ignoring how barren your glass seems now that you’re talking to someone who isn’t Emma. 

“I just think your job is really cool, like, how politics is evolving. Like the digital landscape is changing everything, you know?” 

He has the energy of a paper towel. Like the inside of a dentist’s office. Your brain has started playing elevator music. 

He smiles, pleased with himself as if he thinks he just said something incredibly profound. 

Glancing down at your glass, you stare at the melting ice. Still empty. Fantastic. “Yeah, totally.”

“Paul said you work with him at CNN?” Steve’s eyes light up. 

You shake your head agreeably. You don’t really know when they exchanged information about you but you don’t really want to ask. 

“That’s so cool,” he rushes to say, “I was actually talking to someone at Politico the other day about all this. It’s just like.. your work is so important.”

Damn you, Jenna. This is exactly what you had nightmares about. 

If you’re running right on schedule, the Reuters editor should be appearing at any minute now to perform a drunken rendition of WAP, exclusively singing Cardi B’s verse. 

You open your mouth to say something bitter but close it again. You’re almost certain he’s trying to sleep with you, which is fine, you guess, but you really just want to go home at an acceptable hour. 

You offer a polite smile and nod again, and that encourages him to continue. You are now being held hostage by a man with the least amount of edge on this forsaken planet. 

“Paul says you’re a killer in press briefings,” he lowers his voice, leaning in. “I’d love to see that sometime.”

“It’s… all on YouTube.”

This topic should be completely irrelevant to you. Who cares? Every press briefing has been filmed since the dawn of time. 

And yet, a flash of a distant memory you tried to bury wanders to the forefront of your brain — Jungkook, planted on those West Wing steps, with a notebook splayed open, laptop playing your section of a press briefing. 

The memory crawls up your spine, leaving behind a shiver that you immediately blame on the air conditioning. 

“Right,” his cheeks flush a little. “No, yeah. I meant like.. In person.”

Please, Steve. We don’t have to do this. 

“Hm,” you utter passively. “Maybe at the next briefing.”

Steve chuckles like you’ve made a joke, even though you absolutely have not. “That’d be so fun,” he says as if you just invited him to Disneyworld. “Do you get called on, or is it random?”

“It’s not a raffle.” 

“Oh, obviously, I didn’t mean it like that,” he laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant it’d be cool to see you in action. I bet it’s intense.” 

It is. It’s cutthroat. You argue with men on the daily, fight to get your question in. But right now, none of those words are making it past the dull throb in your temple or the vodka-less self-awareness happening inside your head. 

You glance down at your cup. It is, without a question, empty. A ghost of ice. 

“Yeah, definitely that.”

Steve leans in, undeterred. “You ever get nervous?”

Is he really flirting via patronization?

You flash a tight smile. “Not really.”

He laughs loudly at that, beaming at you like he just successfully completed a meet-cute you’ll be telling your kids about. 

It’s obvious to you he’s waiting for something. For what, you don’t know. More insight into the wonderful world of journalism? A Linkedin connection? You’re not sure, and you also don’t want to find out. 

“Excuse me,” you say as nicely as you can manage. Most women have gathered this skill by the age of five; learning how to exit conversations with just the bat of their eyelashes to avoid harsh confrontation. “Gonna go grab a refill.”

You wave your empty cup in front of him, and there’s a gleam in his eyes that suggests he’ll try and follow you to the bar, use this as some kind of excuse to get you nice and drunk. 

But you’re turning around quicker than he can move, and all you hear behind you is “Cool! I’ll be here!”

Of course you will Steve. 

You glance over your shoulder once you’re a safe distance away, ensuring Emma hasn’t been abducted or listening to NPR with Paul. But nope — there she is, giggling with him like they’ve known each other since birth. Her hand is resting on his bicep, and he looks like he might explode if she doesn't remove it soon. 

This night is absolutely fucking bonkers. 

A red dress is getting you in the worst situations, your coworker is flirting with a man she’s spent years publicly ridiculing, and somewhere in the midst of it all, you feel completely out of place. 

You slam your elbows onto the mahogany and slightly damp surface of the bartop, chin dropping into your palms, social battery exploding in a shower of sparks. 

“Vodka soda, please,” you tell the bartender the second you make eye contact with him. “And a shot. Dealer’s choice. Surprise me.”

You’re feeling dangerously open to possibilities. 

The bartender raises an eyebrow but nods. You don’t particularly care if he serves you tequila or rum or battery acid, but at this point, if it burns going down, it’s doing exactly what you need it to do. 

You let out a deep exhale through your nose. You’re fairly certain you came here with some kind of plan — something involving networking, the word ‘optics’ and liquidating the open bar. But the details have become frustratingly unclear after what feels like several hours trapped in a room with too many floral arrangements. 

The bartender returns, sliding both drinks towards you sympathetically. You contemplate the shot — some yellow liquid, kind of fruity — and decide a sip of your vodka soda to cleanse the palate is probably the best way to go.  

And then you feel it. An unfortunate warmth behind your body, the heat of a person near you. You swear to god, if Steve followed you, you’ll call security—

“Wow,” a voice begins, smooth like honey poured over a knife. “So we’re just letting civilians into press galas these days.”

The sigh that escapes you could probably be heard from space. 

One of your hands, the one not clutching your drink, promptly facepalms. 

“Please don’t start,” you mutter into your palm. “I’m one drink away from faking a fainting spell.”

But then your stomach does that thing again. That ridiculous little drop it did earlier in the night, followed by a flutter that feels suspiciously like anticipation wrapped in nausea. Your rational brain would very much like to blame this on Emma’s nuclear-strength vodka concoction rather than acknowledge it as anything resembling interest. 

That would just be inconvenient, and absolutely not something you’ll process while you’re wearing a red dress that’s already testing your limits. 

You don’t turn around. Some survival instinct within you is warning you that eye contact with the origin of that voice would be the equivalent of staring into a solar eclipse.

Hopefully, if you ignore him long enough, he might dissolve back into whatever corner of the ballroom he emerged from, taking with him the reminder that your body now apparently has formed opinions about him that your brain would like to shut off. 

Apparently, peace was not something the universe promised for you tonight. 

He moves around the bar to claim the space beside you, hips angled and shoulders brushing the air near yours. The dark brown liquid in his cup sloshes as he adjusts to the small centimeters of wiggle room. 

The scent of him hits you in waves — first his drink, all expensive whiskey, followed by his cologne that always smells like bergamot and cedar. It’s familiar. Nice. 

You stare down into your own drink and the untouched shot that’s sitting beside you, mocking you. 

“Didn’t peg you for a vodka soda girl,” Jungkook observes. His rings catch the lighting as he raises his own glass. Your eyes stay locked on them. “Figured you were more of a dry martini, twist-of-lemon kinda girl.” 

You refuse to grant him the satisfaction of eye contact. “I don’t want to be perceived tonight. Somehow I feel like ordering that kind of drink is asking for it.” 

He laughs, and the pit in your stomach drops even further you’re certain it’s on the marble floors. “Ah. Hiding in plain sight during this event? Classic CIA. You sure you not a narc?”

You finally turn your head to look over at him. Naturally, he’s already intently looking back. 

His chin is tilted, a little curve playing at the corners of his mouth. His hair is disheveled, top strands doing interesting things near his temples. 

His lips —and wow, your observational skills have apparently decided to become deeply unprofessional tonight— are glossy, something that normally happens when someone’s spent the night drinking liquor. A flush washes over his cheekbones, and you take a peek at the scar you noticed the other day on his cheek. 

You briefly wonder where he got it from. 

“You’re staring.” 

You blink. He is insane. You are not. 

“I’m assessing,” you correct, taking what you can only hope looks like a casual sip of your drink. 

“Assessing what, exactly?” 

My escape route, you think, but instead say, “Whether you’re drunk enough for me to win an argument.” 

His laugh is easier this time. “Not even close. You’ll have to rely on insults other than my appearance or work ethic tonight.”

“Damn,” you mumble, peering into your glass. Somehow, despite yourself, you barely notice you’re almost smiling. “There goes my strategy.” 

“Ah, I’ve missed this,” he begins. “You, snapping at me. The thrill of not knowing if I’ll make it out of the room alive.”

You arch a brow. “You’re a masochist.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I just like watching you be better than everyone else in the room.”

That lands in your chest like a dropped weight. Just drops right into your ribcage and sits there. Did everyone in the room inhale laughing gas before you got here?

But he doesn’t let it sit there too long for you to overthink it. “I mean, not that the bar’s high,” he adds, “Half of any briefing room’s asleep on their feet.”

“Don’t.” you warn, lifting your drink to your lips. You’re not entirely sure what you’re asking him not to do. Don’t be nice? Don’t notice things? 

He continues on, eyes twinkling, “With Monroe out, I haven’t even gotten a chance to try and give you a run for your money.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, “She’s out sick, not dead.”

“Right. The flu.. Or the plague. Whatever it was.”

“She’ll be back by Monday.” You roll your eyes. “And if not, I’ve got about twenty pages of questions I’m emailing her way.” 

“Mm.” The sound rumbles in his throat as he swirls his drink, and your eyes can’t help but flicker down to his rolled-up cufflinks, his tattoos peeking out underneath. “True.”

A pause unfurls between you two, and you want to crawl under the bar and die. 

“You know..” he says casually. “I thought you'd been avoiding me this week. Which would be adorable, if you weren’t so obvious about it.” 

Literally what on earth is he talking about? The only reason you haven’t run into him is because your only shared project is out on indefinite leave due to the plague. 

You chuckle uninterestedly at that. “Avoiding you implies I think about you long enough to plan my schedule around you.” 

“Right,” Jungkook’s eyes stare into yours, and you immediately fidget with the straw in your drink. “So, you not coming into the Fox room once this week to ask about any new updates to the student visa crisis..”

“Got my own intel.” 

“Didn’t show up at happy hour on Thursday to make fun of my new piece?”

“Calendar management. I had better things to do.” 

His smile unfolds slowly. “Of course. My bad.” 

Your brows pinch before you can stop them. A soundless what leaves from your parted lips. There’s a lag in your brain, like someone forgot to hit play again, and you just… stand there, Processing. 

What you thought was just fortunate coincidences was apparently strategic hiding tactics. You weren’t doing it on purpose, not one bit. It’s not like you sat down with your calendar and a red pen, plotting routes that would minimize Jungkook encounters. But now that he’s pointed it out, you’re forced to confront the uncomfortable possibility that your body has been making decisions about your proximity to him before your brain can. 

You do your best to puff your chest out. “Don’t flatter yourself.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he quips, but his eyes suggest otherwise. Suggest, unfortunately, that he’s been doing his own study on you and reached some conclusions he will indeed be sharing. 

“Well, clearly, you have been.” You take another sip of your drink, hardly noticing you’re down to your final few sips. 

“Every time I look around lately, I don’t see you or hear your little opinions. It’s hard to miss.” The smile on his face imprints deeper into his skin. 

You snort, placing your drink down. “Congrats, you’ve finally scared me off.” 

“Oh come on,” he leans in, far past your comfort zone, and now you’re inhaling too much of him and your head is slightly spinning. “You’re not that easy to scare. I’d know.”

“Really?” you scoff incredulously. “You’d know?”

“I would,” he tuts, bumping his shoulder with yours. You move your body an inch farther away. 

“I guess it’s not all that weird you think that,” you agree, letting your gaze wander the overstuffed ballroom before landing back on him. “You are practically studying me.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, and that pit in your stomach returns when you realize how big his biceps look from this angle. “Studying you?”

“Steps of the West Wing ring any bells? My voice echoing out into the universe, your notebook wide open..?”

The image burns into the crevices of your brain. And now that you’re rehashing it out loud, you’re admitting something incredibly mortifying. Him, sat upon the steps in the sunlight, has been haunting the halls of your mind like an uninvited guest. 

He has the audacity to smile like this is some charming story you’ll share at the holiday party this year. “Ah,” he shifts his weight onto his other foot. “That.”

“Yes, that,” you echo drily. “Care to explain? Because from where I was standing, it looked like you were trying to copy me for the next press briefing.” 

There’s a flicker of amusement that appears on his features — mixed in with surprise or appreciation for the directness of your words. Like he wasn’t expecting you to address it head-on, which makes you wonder what kind of avoidant people he usually deals with. 

“You want the truth?” He ducks his head towards you, looking around like he’s about to impart the president’s nuclear codes.

“Is that even possible coming from you?” Your pointer finger jabs into his chest. Truthfully, both the alcohol and the way your head is reeling from the proximity of him have the move lacking any real punch, but it still leaves you a little bewildered. 

His laugh comes softer this time. Beneath your finger, the muscles are hard and his heartbeat stable. Then you realize you’re still touching him and withdraw your hand as if you’ve put your palm over an open flame. “I was trying to figure out how you do it.” 

“Do what, exactly?” 

“Make it look effortless.” He gestures vaguely into the open air. “You ask questions that make people tell you things they didn’t plan to reveal. It’s… intriguing.”

You tilt your head and shift your weight onto another heel. A quick glance over your shoulder like maybe someone else heard this too, because surely you didn’t hallucinate whatever the hell just came out of his mouth. 

“So you thought the best approach was to… lurk my stuff? Like a stalker?” 

“When you put it like that, it sounds significantly less charming than I thought it would be.” He takes a final swig of his drink. 

“You’re a fucking freak, Jungkook.” 

His eyes never linger from yours, almost daring you to keep going, like this is some sick, twisted game he enjoys playing every night. 

It feels as if the room is closing in on you. 

“Sounds like it left a bit of an impression on you,” he replies smoothly. 

“Oh I’ve told my therapist allll about it,” you bite back. “Right after we finished unpacking how you got your little paws on Kara Devlin’s quote.”

He pauses for a second before chuckling under his breath. Something involuntary and deeply stupid happens in your chest cavity. You stare down into your melted drink and remind yourself that Jungkook has been unreasonably irritating and easy to look at since you met him eight years ago. None of this is breaking news. 

“So you’re still mad, I’m assuming.” He shakes his head. “Come on, it was nothing. Name of the game. You liked arguing with me before we were paid to do it.”

“Oh yeah, totally,” you deadpan. “You know what really gets me going? Espionage.”

He grins at that, but not with a mean expression. “Same here.”

You side-eye him before turning back to the bartender who’s now juggling 45 drunk orders, “I’m going to need another drink if you’re gonna stand here all night.”

“Make it two,” He downs the rest of the liquid in his cup down his throat and you shift away from him when his elbow brushes against yours.

Emma’s favorite bartender is busy arguing with a New York Times correspondent, so you opt for the girl who seems more interested in texting someone back on her phone than taking your drink order. 

Your mouth parts open to speak when she finally puts her phone down, sauntering over to you while fixing her hair as she spots Jungkook beside you. “Hi, can—”

“Can we get two vodka sodas please?”

He’s far closer than you’d like him to be, warmth radiating off him like a human furnace. Jungkook’s displaced himself behind you — just a smidge, with one hand pressed onto the bar, caging you in — enough for the girl bartender to notice, sigh and nod before pulling up two clean glasses. He’s in your nostrils with that smoky scent of whiskey, in your ears with the hoarseness of his voice. 

God, why is he so close? Why is he standing like that? Why is your skin doing that thing where it feels like it’s been plugged into an electrical outlet?

Please, please let this bartender be the kind of professional who minds her own business. The last thing you need is someone else cataloguing the clear tension crackling between you two like a livewire. 

You fixate on her bartending skills, terrified to acknowledge anything else. He moves behind you again, his other elbow brushing against your back as he puts it somewhere. 

That stupid, treacherous flutter returns. A whole swarm of butterflies or something more like wasps that you immediately begin exterminating mentally. Get away, you absolute pests. 

“Here you go,” she presses her lips in a tight smile as she slides the two drinks towards you both. She takes another moment to eye Jungkook before moving on to her next victim. 

But he’s not looking at her. 

When you turn around to hand him his drink dismissively, he’s staring down at you. “Thanks,” he whispers, taking the glass. 

“Whatever.” 

You whip back around, managing down a few colossal gulps that you’ll remember tomorrow morning as your last ones. A bit of it spills down your neck onto your chest, but all you care about is how it feels going down. 

Setting the glass down, you wipe your mouth and some of the residue with the back of your hand.

When you whip around to make your way back to Emma (and potentially let another lethal comment fall from your lips), you realize Jungkook’s gone. 

No comment lingering in the air like cigar smoke. Gone as if he’d never been there at all. 

You know he was, though, because your whole body still feels like it’s recovering from it. Like standing next to him required physical exertion. 

Somehow your mouth is dry even though you just chugged half a vodka soda. 

You don’t even know why you notice it, or why those wasps in your stomach slowly replace themselves with something else. On the bartop next to you, is the citrusy shot you never ended up taking. It taunts you, condensation melting onto the surface. 

Your eyes dart around, looking wildly. Searching for Emma, duh. But you’re also looking for a sleeve of tattoos that you just spent an abhorrent amount of time with. 

Treason of the highest fucking order.

With that, you swivel back around, wrap your fingers around the shot glass, and down it in one go. It faintly tastes tart, going down like molasses. It’s heavy in your throat and you mash it down with saliva. 

But even with the extra liquor in your body, his absence feels louder in your mind than his presence ever did. 

Four. That’s how many it’s been. 

Four lemon drop shots — because that’s how many Jenna, who has now appointed herself the Chief of Boosting Morale, decided was an appropriate amount. She stopped keeping tally after two. 

After each shot, she says something stupid like “To journalistic integrity!” Declining her felt like admitting defeat in some endurance competition, so you’ve been silently suffering while each shot drags you further and further down the drunk rabbit hole.

Jenna’s husband is too polite to say no to a round so he’s been glued to her side the entire time, whereas Jenna’s arm has been threaded through yours, laughing at something her husband finally contributed to the conversation. Something about a senator using an emoji in a tweet. 

It’s not even that funny, but you’ve reached that point of the night where everything feels a little like a sitcom. 

“Oh my god,” Jenna wheezes, tightening her grip on your arm. “Do you remember when our editor tried to convince us to use ‘yeet’ in a headline?”

You snort into your fifth vodka soda (or is the sixth?), barely dodging a splash up the rim. “No. No. I blocked it out like a traumatic memory.”

“He said it meant to throw??”

“It does mean to throw!” Her husband interjects. 

“Yeah, but the headline was about the debt ceiling,” you giggle. 

Jenna’s husband chuckles politely while his eyes scan the room, probably wondering when it’s socially acceptable to go home and watch a movie.

Jenna is in a very rare form. She’s always put-together, but tonight her dress is perfectly tailored, makeup hasn’t budged an inch, and her nails are a crimson red to match her lipstick.

Tonight, you’re incredibly grateful for her. Grateful she came, grateful she’s kept you busy.

You swish what’s left in your glass and blink through the haze. 

It’s starting to hit, that warm syrupy lag behind your thoughts. Liquid confidence that whispers lies about your ability to be graceful and sophisticated. 

“You know, I don’t know how half those pieces fucking run,” Jenna sips her espresso martini. 

“Don’t you just, like, put a stop to them?” You’ve seen her do it before. 

“I physically intercept like a human firewall, yes,” she grins with all her teeth. 

“We all owe you a medal.”

You both erupt into cackles, and her husband — poor, sweet Greg or Grant or whatever he said his name was — offers a little smile as if he has even the slightest clue of what’s going on.

Your gaze drifts across the ballroom, and Jenna follows your line of sight, brows lifting amusedly in recognition. 

“Would you look at that,” she elbows you gently in the ribs. “They’re still talking.”

Emma and Paul. Paul is upright like a soldier, like he doesn’t fully trust his legs to hold up under the pressure of Emma’s approval, while Emma lounges against the dessert table you swore off.

“I give it twenty minutes before she asks something like ‘can I see your Spotify Wrapped?’” you mutter, rolling your eyes. 

“Ten,” Jenna counters. “And if she sees any NPR podcasts, she’s bolting.”

“He probably listens to Benson Boone. Gives me that vibe.” 

“Maybe he has layers,” she shrugs, leaning her head lightly against your shoulder. “Not that it matters. I’m just glad you haven’t ditched me for a man.”

You turn your head slowly to meet her expression. “Ew. At this event? Literally not a soul worth my time.”

She breaks into laughter, lifting her head up, "Right, right. How dare I?”

“I would never do you like that,” you clutch your chest dramatically. “Who else am I going to split an uber with later while we trash every senator we saw leave with someone who isn’t their wife?”

“That’s why you’re my favorite.”

Your head turns sharply, eyes narrowing. “Wait, what?”

She gives you a sly smile over the rim of her glass, “I said what I said.”

It hits a second later, like a stone dropped into a still lake. A single splash, followed by a thousand ripples. Your chest tightens and there’s a flutter of pride making a home in your heart. 

She hasn’t brought it up again since your one-on-one on Monday. Where she may or may not have hinted at you getting the promotion of your dreams. You’ve done an exemplary job of playing it cool ever since. No prying, no follow ups. 

Hearing the word favorite, however, feels like someone pressed a thumb right into your sternum. 

“I’m touched,” you exclaim. “Even if I know you tell that to everyone.”

She scoffs while looping her arm through her husband’s, “Please. You think I say that to Emma?”

“Fair.”

She takes a final swig of her caffeinated martini, a little tipsier than she was earlier. “Just promise you won’t forget me when you get to my role, okay?”

You snort. “Never. But we still gotta Uber together always.”

“Deal.”

Your eyes wander again around the ballroom. Like clockwork, they land where they always do. On that kaleidoscope of tattoos you can’t miss. 

But you don’t look at him or who he’s talking to for too long. Maybe long enough to question your intoxication but as soon as the moment comes, it goes, and you’re back to Jenna, who’s now talking to her husband sweetly. 

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the two sharpest women in Washington.”

It’s like the universe has a vendetta against you. Did you accidentally trip over a time traveler or steal candy from a baby in a past life?

It’s an overconfident voice you hadn’t heard in a while that sets off an almost Pavlovian reaction in your brain. 

You and Jenna turn in tandem like a pair of synchronized swimmers. Sure enough — and to your detriment — it’s Mike Montgomery. 

Mike is one of the editors you work with, and has the face of someone who’s probably been told he looks like a young Richard Gere and has never once disagreed. He once unironically told you ‘let’s circle back.’

Last year at the gala, you allegedly had a thirty minute conversation with him near the end of the night where the phrase aesthetic fascism in political media kept getting tossed around freely. But who’s to say. Last year was also the year you had tequila sodas instead of vodka sodas so really, the whole universe was off course.  

“Mike,” Jenna starts, tone flat. She doesn’t even fake a smile, which further proves your love for her. “You remember Greg.”

Greg. Right. Yes — her husband. You mentally file that away. 

“Of course,” Mike sticks out his hand. “Man of the hour.”

Greg blinks back at him like he was plucked straight out of his daydream. “Hey.”

Raising your eyebrows, you tease. “Man of the hour?”

Mike shrugs, letting out a little chuckle, “Well anyone who can keep up with Jenna at one of these things deserves a prize right?”

“He’s had some drinks and a shrimp cocktail. Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves.” She pats Greg’s chest lovingly, and that seems to bring him back to life.

Mike laughs loudly at that. He always laughs too loud, like he wants everyone’s attention in the room. 

“So how’s the correspondent life?” he asks, glancing between you and Jenna like he’s forgotten which one of you he’s more afraid of. “Still dealing with the same old bullshit?”

You purse your lips, cross your arms over your chest. “Are you under the impression the bullshit ended?”

“Fair,” he tries to laugh but it comes out more like a cough, “Yeah, I’ve been currently working on a little passion project, something about profiles of influential parties in media. You two came up, obviously.”

A look is exchanged between you and Jenna. You don't remember agreeing to be profiled. 

“Oh. Cool.”

“Yeah,” he shoves one of his hands into his pocket. “Just really trying to dig into the psyche of the rising class, you know? What drives you, who you look up to.”

Your arms squeeze tighter around your chest. “Sounds like a very healthy exercise.”

Mike smiles at that. You take an extra long sip of your drink and imagine throwing it directly in his face.

Greg, bless him, tries to nod along, although he has no idea who this man is or what series he’s referencing or why Jenna’s throwing daggers with her eyes.

Mike keeps going. “Anyway, just wanted to say hey. You know. Been a while since I edited your stuff.”

“Funny. I’m actually still waiting for the piece you were supposed to factcheck before publishing last May,” Jenna’s smile is poisonous. If looks could kill, he would be floating in a box down the river. 

Mike clears his throat. “Technical error. I think there was a glitch last time..”

“Mmm,” Jenna nods slowly. “Happens to the best.”

Mike readjusts his tie, sensing perhaps this might not be the enthusiastic crowd he’d envisioned. His eyes flit towards you briefly like he’s about to pivot into a new strategy. 

Please, god, let this man go flirt with an intern. 

“So,” he draws out the word for like, four seconds. “I don’t think we ever got to talk. You and me.”

There’s two routes you can go down. Play dumb, which somehow feels like the smarter decision. Or play smart, which feels like the dumber decision. 

“Yup. Tragic that we never spoke.”

Playing dumb it is. 

He bellows out a laugh, like you’ve just made the world’s wittiest joke instead of insulting him. 

“I always read your work,” he clarifies. “Your coverage during the midterm elections was really impressive.”

You glance over at Jenna, whose lips are now pressed together like she's trying to restrain herself from intervening. Meanwhile Greg (and you will not forget his name this time), has spotted someone he knows but is trying to find the courage to approach them. 

“That’s… nice.” You’re unsure what else to offer up. You can’t tell if he’s flirting or awkwardly trying to send you journalistic admiration. 

Mike’s lips stretch wider. “I get it, you know? Women like you don’t always get credit, but for what it’s worth, you’re one of the best out there.”

You nod, already looking past his shoulder at the crowd. Your drink is also damn near empty, and that simply won’t do. Time for drink six (or is it seven?). “Thanks. Appreciate that.”

He leans into you, “If you ever wanna talk shop.. Or, you know.. not shop.”

He’s so goddamn insufferable. 

You frown, not because you’re offended but because you literally have no comprehension right now. “Not shop?”

“Yeah, like… not about work?”

“Oh. Uh..” you blink, glance down at your drink, and then look back into his eager eyes. “I think I’m good.”

A long pause fills the air. Long enough for Mike to register the rejection, though he recovers fast, snapping back into a cocky grin like nothing demoralizing happened. 

“Open invite,” he says with a wink that makes your molars grind. “In case you change your mind.”

You hum noncommittally before angling back towards Jenna, who has a brow raised and a husband who’s gone from her sight. 

Jenna inquires, “You didn’t clock that?”

“Clock what?” You shrug your shoulders, scrambling for nonchalance. 

She shakes her head, smiling to herself, “Nothing. You’re still my favorite.”

And that makes you feel better than anything Mike could've said. 

“Alright, I’ve gotta get a refill before I lose my mind.” You shake your drink at her like it’s going to magically refill itself. 

"I've gotta go find Greg,” she sighs. “Text me when you’re down to leave?”

“Duh.” You flash her a salute, then pivot toward the bar, slipping back into the current of people. You nearly step in a puddle of what you hope is someone’s spilled gin and not a gastrointestinal emergency. 

You snake your way forward, elbow grazing someone’s sequined bag, catching the edge of someone’s shoulder and finally land in a spot wedged between a man in a tux and a woman who shoveled a half-eaten shrimp into a napkin. 

“Vodka soda,” you tell the bartender when she makes brief eye contact, and you lean your forearms on the table. The bartop is sticky again. 

You haven't checked your phone all night. Part of it was intentional. Nothing good happens on your phone at events like this. Nothing you want to deal with, anyway. 

But you’ve got a few minutes while your drink’s being made and your feet kind of hurt and you’re incredibly tipsy and suddenly the soft glow of your phone screen feels too tempting to ignore. 

So you dig into your purse. Pull out your device. 

When your phone boots to life, you lazily scroll through the notifications. A few texts from your college group chat. Texts from Emma asking ‘where are you??’ even though you’re maybe 50 feet away from her. You snort under your breath. 

And then, below that, a message from Rosalie. 

Rosalie❤️: hey, did jungkook ever say anything abt me?? dmed him when i was drunk and never heard back :( lol 

You stare at the screen like it’s displaying launch codes in a foreign language. 

There’s this erratic rhythm tugging at your heart, like someone’s tapping impatiently against your ribcage. 

It’s fine. Obviously, it’s fine. Who cares about Rosalie’s romantic DMs or her apparent inability to handle rejection with grace? You could have predicted this development from three miles away, honestly. Rosalie drunk texting someone tracks with her pattern of impulsive behavior. 

But.. you are curious. That’s all. Curiosity is a natural human reflex. 

Why would she message him despite your entirely fictional narrative about STDs? And why, more importantly, do you find yourself genuinely invested as to why he didn’t respond to her?

You lock your phone and shove it back into your purse. 

“Vodka soda,” the bartender slides the drink towards you and you grip onto it like a life raft. 

You barely get a full step away from the bar before that voice — his voice — is haunting your ears again. 

“Careful. You keep showing up at my favorite spot in the room, people are gonna start talking.”

Mid-step, you pause and inhale once through your nose like you’re gathering patience from thin air. 

Slowly, you swivel to meet his eyes. His tie is long gone, brown hair even more unkempt from when you last saw him. You lean back against the bar with all the theatrical grace of someone who’s had four, maybe five, lemon drop shots and has decided, for once in her life, not to flee when Jungkook starts speaking to you. 

God will strike you down for this. You can feel the lightning forming. But whatever, you’ve had a long week. You’ll repent tomorrow. 

“Are you gonna sneak up on me all night?” you ask flatly, raising your glass to your lips. You’re not even going to try and hide the exhaustion in your tone. 

“Potentially,” he takes a step closer. “Everyone here’s boring.”

You cock a brow. “What? No one here worth your time?”

He tips his glass a little, watching the ice swirl. The liquid is clear. It looks unusually familiar… like a vodka soda. You wonder if it’s the same one from an hour ago or if he ordered one on his own merit. “Nah, you know I like to be intellectually stimulated.”

Your laugh comes out dry. “Oh, so I stimulate you?”

His eyes lift to meet yours. They’re darker despite the hue of the chandelier you’re standing under. “In more ways than one.”

“You’re fucking gross.”

“Mm,” he hums, and it’s definitely not an apology, but moreso an acknowledgement. Like he’s well aware of the filth he peddles and would sell it to you wholesale if you gave him the chance.  “You set that one up.”

“Did not.”

He takes another step closer. The man that was beside you earlier has fled the scene, and Jungkook wedges himself into the open spot. When did it get so crowded in here? 

“Did too.” His fingers tap lazily against his glass. “You know, you always act like conversation with me is a federal offense.”

You roll your eyes. “Because every conversation with you is like stepping into quicksand.”

“You haven’t left me yet, so am I winning?” His eyes are twinkling with amusement. 

Scoffing, you deflect. Deny. “I’m tipsy. I make bad decisions when I’m tipsy.”

“Noted.” His gaze flickers down to your mouth for a millisecond. The gesture lands somewhere in your stomach, sending an embarrassing, vodka-amplified flutter cascading through your body. 

God, you need a priest. Or someone to physically remove you from this ballroom. 

“I saw you talking to Mike earlier,” Jungkook casually says, like he’s commenting on something trivial like the weather or whether or not vodka sodas are his new go-to drink. 

You groan immediately. “God, don’t remind me.”

“That bad?” His lips twitch as he settles his glass on the bartop.

“He tried to flirt with me, I think. According to Jenna.” You want to mentally facepalm at the memory. 

“Mike?”

You give him a look. “Yes, Mike.”

Jungkook whistles softly, shaking his head as if this is genuinely a tragedy. “Wow. I always thought his type was more fresh out of college and terrified.”

“It probably is,” you agree. “I thought maybe he was doing community service.”

“Hmm,” he looks deep in thought. Surveys the room for a beat. “What did you mean by according to Jenna?”

You shrug, lifting your glass to your lips to take a quick sip. “I don’t know. She caught onto the flirting before I did, I guess.”

“Oh.” His expression shifts a little, into one you can't make out. After knowing Jungkook for eight years, you’ve gotten familiar with the faces he has. But this one is unrecognizable. “You always that clueless?” 

“I guess,” you concede. He looks like he wants to say something more to that but decides against it. 

“So, what did he say?” 

“Something about how we never really speak, which is just rich coming from him considering we had a long ass conversation at last year’s gala about fascism.”

Jungkook chokes on his spit. “No.”

“Oh yes,” you nod solemnly. “He also pronounces Kremlin as Krim-lin. I rest my case on him.”

You expect him to chuckle or at least fake one, but it doesn’t come. He looks at you for a second, drinking you in. It almost feels like you’re back on the steps of the West Wing, where he was seeing every part of yourself you bore to the world. Like he’s been listening this whole time, which is somehow worse. 

“You’re funny when you’re off-duty,” He smiles into his glass. 

“When am I ever off-duty?”

“Right now,” he gestures toward you with his cup. “Sort of.”

You narrow your eyes. “You think this is me relaxed?”

“I think this is you after a few shots,” he jokes. “And slightly less terrified of being seen with me in public.” 

“Bold assumption, buddy,” you quip. You need to find your sanity and walk far away as hell from this conversation. 

“Is it wrong?”

You hesitate long enough for that to be a confession, and the look on his face says I win. 

“Exactly.” And there’s that smug tone you know so well. “Maybe I’m growing on you.”

You let something between a snort and laugh fall from your mouth. “Like a tumor.”

But the smile you’re biting back makes it a little harder to sell the insult. 

You clear your throat and straighten up slightly, ignoring how the vodka seems to have settled in your bloodstream like a warm compress. 

“Anyway,” you say, “How’s your coverage going for Monroe?”

He raises an eyebrow haughtily. “Pivoting? And to Monroe?”

“I just don’t think I’m in the mood to talk about how you think I’m growing on you.” 

Jungkook’s smile could light up half of DC. “You started it.”

“Ending it right now.” 

“You always think you’re the one ending things,” he counters. 

You shoot him a look, then echo louder this time “How’s your coverage going?”

He leans an elbow onto the bar, glass resting loosely between his fingers. “Good. Bet you’re dying to talk to her again, though.”

You shrug nonchalantly, pretending to scan the room like you’re searching for someone — Emma, Jenna, literally even Blue Tie Guy at this point — but all you really find are name tags you don’t care about and plates of passed shrimp. 

“Not my fault she came down with that rare plague. But it is weird she came down with it just after we had our first session with her,” you mutter. 

“You sound disappointed,” he points out. To be honest, you are. She has a hell of a story to tell and you want to write it. 

You glance at him again. “What?” 

“You miss her,” he coos at you playfully, “Now admit you miss me too. It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone.”

You roll your eyes, using the motion to buy yourself a few seconds of mental reorganization. “I miss being able to ask real questions.”

He nods, fingers drumming thoughtfully against the glass. “Yeah. You're good at those.”

You gape at him through your lashes. They’re just words that are perfectly arranged in an ordinary sequence that just so happens to reference your competence. But now it’s one time too many that he’s praised you for something, and you're running out of fingers and toes to count on.

It lands in your chest with a quiet thud, like he tossed a coin into a wishing well you didn't realize was inside you. 

You shift your weight and conduct another sweep of the ballroom. Still no Emma, no Jenna. 

“I really should find Emma..” you trail off, eyes darting across the room like a prisoner looking for a fire escape. “Before I start enjoying this conversation and lose all sense of who I am.”

Jungkook leans into your body. His cologne hits you again square in the face. “That would be tragic… if you forgot you hated me.”

You clench your jaw. “Please. I don’t hate you, that’s too much energy. I just think you’re—”

“Objectively infuriating?” he offers. 

“Exhausting.”

“Better than forgettable,” he smirks. 

You grip your near empty cup and wish you had something better to throw at him. Or honestly, something else to look at — something that doesn’t talk like him, look like him, smell like him. 

And as you’re searching in your repertoire for that something, your brain decides to shove Rosalie into frame. 

Her text. That stupid little ‘lol.’ The digital ghost of her face.

The alcohol in your body is doing that unfortunate thing where your filter stops working but your nerve hasn’t quite kicked in yet. And his cologne — Jesus, it’s warping your actual brain chemistry, 

Before you can stop yourself, you blurt the words out. “Have you.. heard from Rosalie?”

“Rosalie?” He cocks his head, scratches his jaw. 

You shake your head up and down, suddenly extremely interested in the ice melting in your cup. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Slow furrow of his brows. “Rosalie from college?” 

You aim to keep your expression cool but your stomach does something distinctly uncool. Like a fish flopping on the deck. “The one and only.”

Jungkook blinks at you. His body is still, but his face guards itself. He’s squinting as if he’s scanning you for the motive behind your question. 

You hate how well he reads people. You hate that he’s doing it to you right now.

“Why?” he treads lightly.

You shake your head quickly, “Just tell me.”

He hesitates. It’s pretty obvious to you both this isn’t a nothing question. 

“Yeah,” he says finally, “She reached out to me.”

Your throat goes uncharacteristically dry. 

The lightness from before — his little jabs, the crooked smile — it’s all taut now. Like he’s waiting to see what this really is. You also would like to know what this is. 

You scramble for a reason, anything to make this make sense outloud.

Feeling caught, you busy yourself with one of the bracelets on your wrist. “She’s my best friend,” you shrug like it’s no big deal. “She tells me everything.”

He flinches subtly, a brief twitch in his jaw. “Well,” he utters finally. “I didn’t answer her. If that’s what you want to know.”

And that is when your chest does the thing again. 

It’s an awful, disloyal twist. It heard the words and immediately reached for them, clutching at some fragile thread of relief you didn’t place there.

You inhale, trying to drown it back down. The thump thump of your heart, the tiny voice in your conscious going, good. 

The wasps are back too. Buzzing and furious and unavoidable, even as you swipe at them with your mental fly swatter, one by one. 

You feel regrettably stupid. Now you’re standing there, tipsy and humiliated and flinching at your own internal reaction like a girl in some cheap romance novel where the brooding rival turns out to be a chill dude and your panties fall off in chapter eight. 

No thank you. Not today. You are a professional, a fully grown woman with access to two-factor authentication and press credentials.

You do not feel things when Jungkook says things like “I didn’t answer her.”

Though, clearly you’re having trouble leaving it alone. Clearly, that little skill of yours of asking the right questions — the one people applaud, the one Jungkook complimented an hour or two ago — has decided to clock in right now, under a chandelier and several ounces of vodka. 

You meet his eyes even though your gut is screaming don’t, and say, “Why didn't you respond?”

Air leaves his lungs, barely. His jaw tenses for a fraction of a second. One flicker of thought behind his eyes before he smoothes it all back out. 

The silence looms over you two like an unsuspecting fog. Your stomach starts writing its own obituary. 

You’re about to take it back, about to say never mind ha ha silly me asking about your DMs, when he finally responds with, “She’s not who I’m interested in.”

There’s a hiccup in your brain. Like someone pulled the emergency brake on the subway and your neurons are just stuck, powering down and firing blanks.

She’s not who I’m interested in. 

You don’t dare blink, breathe, or even think, which is crazy because thinking is your whole personality. His pupils practically eat up his entire eye as he peers down at you, 

A whole rolodex of faces spins through your head. Maybe someone new started at Fox? There was that blonde you passed in the cafeteria, maybe that’s his type. Or maybe… maybe he made a move on Sana tonight. He and her always had that weird click, right? They have matching resumes, wouldn’t that just be poetic? Full circle and all that.

Your voice is crawling up your throat again, forming something stupid like oh yeah? Who’s someone you’re interested in? Because apparently vodka and lemon drop shots have taken control of your frontal lobe and are now driving the bus.

But before the words can land, there’s a blur of movement from your left. 

“Where the hell have you been?” 

Emma materializes beside you in a cloud of perfume, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. 

Your neck whips to her. “Jesus.” 

She latches onto your arm immediately. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she’s breathless. “Did you die? Be honest.”

“I was just —” You flick a glance at Jungkook and regret it upon impact. 

Emma doesn’t notice or care, undoubtedly in a bubble of her own. “Ugh, I have so much to tell you, I feel like I’ve been living a double life tonight.”

Right, and that’s cool and all. But your body is still humming, tingling under your skin as if someone left a speaker buzzing in your chest. She’s not who I’m interested in. 

Your brain is dying to ask then who the fuck is?

Emma’s too busy blabbering away to care about any of it; your facial expression, Jungkook’s eyes that haven’t moved from you, the way your hands are slightly trembling as they hang loosely down at your side. “Okay, I know I’ve ignored him for the past few years but Paul is actually so funny. He told me this story earlier about his dog and I was crying. Literally crying. I’m just like, why have I never given this man the time of day—”

She pauses suddenly, looks over at Jungkook. Freezes mid-sentence like she just saw a coworker she drunkenly sexted. 

“...Well.” Her voice drops multiple octaves. “Whatever.”

Words aren’t coming to you as easily as you’d like. 

Emnma clears her throat, forcing her gaze back to you. “Anyway. You’ve been summoned.”

“For what?” you question, but your voice comes out thinner than when you practiced it in your head. 

“Afterparty,” a sinister smile makes its way onto her lips. “Duh. Do you not realize what time it is?”

“No, Emma,” you bite back. “You don’t realize what time it is because you’ve spent the past few hours eye-fucking Paul.”

Emma shrugs. “Okay and? I told you, he’s kinda funny.”

You sink your teeth into your lower lip. 

“And he also knows about the current crisis in Venezuela,” she adds proudly, like that qualifies him for marriage. “Which is honestly more than I can say for half the men I’ve dated.”

You sigh. “I’m not going to an afterparty.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes.”

“Emma—”

“You owe me. For that night.”

You do actually owe her. That night a few months ago, where you went home with that random guy, she went home alone and buried her face in a Dominos pizza while you had mediocre sex. 

Your body is already 40% vodka and 60% bad decisions, and you’re hovering alarmingly close to making another one—

She turns to Jungkook. “You’re coming too, right?”

You whip your head toward her. You absolute fucking traitor, Emma. 

Jungkook’s grin is so infuriatingly cheerful that you’re torn between wanting to punch him in the teeth or seeking refuge behind the bar, anything to avoid that smile.

“I mean…” he replies. “If she’s going..”

Why are you the deciding factor in all of this?

Emma snorts. “Oh, she’s going.”

“I really wasn’t—” you start, but then realize they’re making eye contact over your shoulder like they’ve coordinated to ruin your night. 

“I’ll… see you there?” Jungkook asks, shooting Emma a look you don’t miss.

You can't help but daydream about what it’d be like to toss all your worries out the window, party like there’s no tomorrow, drown yourself in whatever booze is lying around the afterparty, and wake up to the faint memory of a random hookup who’s definitely ghosting you before you even finish your breakfast. 

You, a tipsy bundle of bad decisions, look at Jungkook — his hair a windswept disaster, eyes twinkling like he's just heard the world's worst joke, and those tattoos dancing on his golden skin — and as tempting as it is, you remind yourself you really should just say no and sprint away from this mess, while dreaming of a life where the world isn’t dragging you down like an anchor in a swimming pool. 

But… you have always been dangerously open to possibilities after a few shots. 

You drain the rest of your drink and go, “I’ll see you there.”

masterlist + ask

taglist ; @somehowukook @lovingkoalaface @moroe-blog2 @almatiarau @hanamgi @yooniepot @strawberryberrygirl @rossy1080 @libra04 @kenzierj11 @senaqsstuff @dtownbae @xumyboo @bellefaerie @chimchoom @satisfied18 @arcanekookz @vintagemoonsstuff @brokebitch-101 @taolucha @songbyeonkim @oopscoop @mochibites00 @whatevevrerr @lessthantmr @nesha227 @mar-lo-pap @jazzyb22 @lachesismoonmist @indyuhhhhh @sky-23s-world @swimmingweaselzineegs @jiminshi20 @khadeeeeej @withluvjm @anishasingh1233 @jksusawife @btstrology @youphoriajk @jadestonedaeho7 @diamondjeon @sharplycoldpaladin @annafarrr @tteokbokibyjk @prxdajeon @tatzzz-25 @magicalnachocreator @younhakim29 @purplelanterns @134340-kr @amarawayne

[koalaflower]

sae itoshi !

has a thing for kitten play ⋆｡°✩

includes. GRAPHIC smut. afab!reader. kitten play, dom!sae, mating press, penetration, multiple orgasms.

a/n. idk what demon possessed me to write this at 4am but lord forgive me. long fics will make a comeback soon 😚

word count. 730

“hnghh… fuck, sae,” you whine pathetically, hands pushing at his hips to get him to slow down. you were beyond overstimulated, pressed into the mattress and folded like a ragdoll for what seemed like the sixth time that night.

you meant nothing weird by it, really. it was just a silly idea. a little surprise involving cat ears and a heart-shaped collar. you knew about sae’s fondness toward cats, had caught him in the act of stroking their furry little heads when he suspected no one was looking on multiple occasions now. it was cute—the way his fingers glided through soft fur, their quiet purrs masked by hands half the size of their bodies. the complete opposite of how he was handling you now, blunt nails biting into the already reddened plush of your thighs as he fucks you dumb with his throbbing cock.

“this what you wanted?” he asks, hands propped on either sides of your head. “all dressed up f’me.” fingers dig into the groove of your velvet black collar, mesmerized by the soft jingle of the little golden bell around your neck. you were making such pretty faces, lips kissed-red and streaked with saliva. he presses your legs closer against your chest, tilting his hips slightly before pistoning into your g-spot.

“s-sae..! too much… ‘ts too much.” your words fall on deaf ears, each syllable punctuated by a hard thrust. he scoffs, pushing your arching back right back down onto the bed. you shudder violently, legs circling his waist.

his pretty little kitten.

“you can take it.” he doesn’t give you a chance to squirm away, holding you wide open for his hungry gaze to feast on. you sputter out, tired moans staggered by the relentless pace of his hips. “c-can’t—“

he’s had enough of your whining and bitching. honestly, what did you expect? strutting into his room like that? like a little kitty walking into a lion’s den. he just had to have you.

“shut up.” he pulls out suddenly, rough hands flipping you onto your stomach. he presses his hard on flat against your ass, smearing the residual cum from previous sessions around with his pink tip. “gonna stay still ‘n let me fuck this tight little hole, yeah?” you whine, drool dribbling past your lips as he thrusts into you again, filling your insides to the hilt. he groans, eyes fixated onto the point where he ends and you begin, fat length disappearing in and out of your greedy pussy. you’re so tight, wrapping around the base of his cock like a vice.

“fuckin’ whore,” he spits, thumb pulling the hood of your folds back before swirling around the swollen clit. “teasin’ me all night.” despite cumming so many times already, you feel the familiar heat pool in your stomach again, face smothered against the pillow. his hands wrap around your wrists, tugging them back behind you until you’re flush against his chest, gasping.

“fuckfuckfuck,” you cry out, and he can tell you’re close by the way you’re clamping down around him. “gonna fuck you ‘til you can’t take anymore,” he murmurs, head dropping onto your shoulder and kissing the sensitive skin there. he brings a large hand down onto your ass, giving it a hard slap as you cum, gushing all over his cock. thick ropes of hot semen paint your insides as he follows after, kissing away the salty tears on your cheeks.

“s’pretty.” he reaches down, scissoring your pussy open and stuffing all the oozing liquid back in.

he ignores your little whimper, a bead of sweat rolling off the side of his face as reverent hands pull you back to his body. you’re too fucked out to protest, too busy catching your breath and blinking away the haziness to whine when his flushed tip rubs over your puffy entrance again. sae pries your legs apart as far as they go, and god are you a sight for sore eyes—all docile and pliant, tears wetting your lashes, and soft, cat-like ears still firmly in place. he reaches up to flick the little silver bells, cock twitching back to life at the little jingles.

“didn’t think i was done yet, did you?”

[rainrot4me]

Rain’s Kinktober 2024 - 08

Laughing Jack x Male Reader - Wet Dream/Somnophilia

SMUT WARNING MINORS DNI

TW: Somnophilia, gentle non-con, anal, creampie, wet dreams, dream manipulation, forced sleep, praise, size difference, analingus, rimming, felching

Tag: #rainykinktober2024

Words: 2.6k

It’s not your fault that you’re always coming home from work to the point of exhaustion, being overworked every shift.

And it’s also not Jack’s fault you’re just so pliable in that state…

He can’t help himself, can’t bring himself to do the morally right thing and leave you to get a good night's rest- not when you’re only wearing an extra baggy shirt with nothing but boxers underneath.

You’re just too handsome. Your skin is so soft, your hair smells so good, your ass is the perfect shape, your moans are so lovely, and your cum is just so sweet- the list could go on forever.

Everything about you is perfect- especially the way you never know he’s there. Completely oblivious, completely at his mercy.

“Hello, my love…” The clown purrs, perching his long limbs on your dresser and watching silently as you settle and turn in your sleep. Your soft snores are so cute, eyelashes lay so elegantly on your freckled skin. He could just sit here forever watching you like this. But his cock twitching painfully in his slacks urges him forward, his breathing growing uneven.

In the silence of your dark bedroom, the only light is the humming static of the television nestled in the corner, the white light illuminating your sleepy features and flushed skin. Jack wants to take his time, wants to ease you in- you just make it so hard when you’re practically beckoning him in every night.

Adjusting in your sleep, you round onto your side, curling tight as you hold your pillow. Jack presses in, the bed dipping under his weight as he slides beside you.

The clown can feel you stir when he presses against your back, wrapping his long arms around your torso and pressing your back against his large chest. He swallows you whole, intertwining his legs with yours and holding you tight.

It doesn’t help that you lean in, arching your back into his and pressing your plump ass against his crotch. Jack has visited you enough, spent his nights in this bed enough that your body comes to expect him- craves him. He can see it, can sense it in the way you breathe just a little slower when you feel his weight.

The clown knows you need him, maybe even more than he needs you- but he wants to make it a little easier, a little more enjoyable.

It’s always the same dream, always the same release he wants to give you. Your head feels so heavy, unconsciousness lingering deep in your brain as foggy images circle. The clown manipulates your dream, phantom feelings of warmth around your limp cock or a warm tongue running up your skin. He’d show you anything you wanted, anything that made your hips jerk and press back against him.

“Wanna make you feel so good, love…” He hums, the feathers from his collar tickling your skin as Jack buries his face into your neck. Pressing open-mouth kisses against your neck, he slides a claw up your shirt, palming at your warm skin underneath.

Pinching his claws against your skin, you huff, gasping at the sensitivity. Jack groans, breathing in your sweet scent as he rides your shirt up, pinching at your nipples. You’re so much smaller than him, fitting so perfectly.

Rutting his hips gently, Jack reaches to undo his suspenders, sliding the straps off of his shoulders. He’s so enveloped in your taste, your sweet skin warm under his eager tongue as he nips and bites at your neck. You’re gasping, the clown tugging your shirt up and over your head to get better access to your shoulder.

“So lovely… so warm…” Burying his face between your shoulder and the extensive amount of pillows you have swallowing you both, Jack can feel you stir, shifting against him. He flexes your dream, pressing more lovely feelings into the haziness of your mind and leaving you a softly moaning mess. Pressing his claw against your stomach, you settle back, pressing the roundness of your ass perfectly on his clothed cock. The clown huffs, minding his nose as he licks a stripe behind your ear, goosebumps freckling across your legs. It doesn’t go unnoticed the way your cock twitches instinctively beneath the thin fabric of your boxers, the clown smiling.

“Hard already? It’s alright… I know what you need…” He grins, the deep sigh you let out when his claw slips beneath the band of your boxers egging him on. Your thighs instinctively part, his large hand swallowing your wilting cock, pumping it so gently- just enough to make your hips jerk with the motion. He’s meticulous, dragging each pull with gentle, thorough movements. You grind back against him, completely oblivious but absolutely thriving in the stimulation he’s providing you.

“Good… Just like that…”

Jack wants to wake up you, needs to see your face as he provides you with every amazing feeling- but he knows it’s not time yet. The clown is keenly aware of how you never look for a relationship, never finding the need for a hookup, or any sexual release because he provides it for you every night. Your body doesn’t want for anything because everything is already given so graciously by him. Your body needs him, your mind needs him… So, he’s willing to stay under the cover of nightfall to happily provide.

Pushing your boxers past your plump ass, Jack is repositioning, tugging the covers further down as he slinks between your thighs. Rolling you onto your stomach, the clown helps you relax into the pillows, hugging one close to your chest as the glow from the television kisses your features. He smiles, pulling your boxers off of your ankles and tossing them to the side.

Cupping his arms under your hips, the clown lays on his stomach, his large figure nearly too big to fit on the bed, but he makes it work. You’re so encapsulating, back arching just enough to display your puckered hole, so pretty and mouthwatering. Jack brings himself close, his claws digging into the mounds of your ass and tugging them apart to give him better access. He’ll try to be gentle, adding a little more pressure to the dream he’s concocted in your head- just to make sure you don’t wake up.

Slipping his tongue from between his spiked teeth, the long muscle takes a long lap against your warmth. You gasp, exhaustion heavy on your body as you press back, knees digging into the soft covers. Your shirt is riding up your back, little marks and half-faded bruises from previous encounters placed meticulously so you wouldn’t be able to see them; they’re only for Jack to admire, in this position specifically.

Digging his nails into your flesh, he goes in again, his tongue forcefully bullying against the tight hole. You’re huffing into the pillow, rutting your hips back lazily the more he has to work. No matter how many times Jack works you open- fucks you open- you’re always so tight and he loves it. It takes some force, but finally the warm muscle slips in and he smiles at the long groan you let out. You taste so good, so warm, and tight around his tongue. Clasping his lips down, he presses in further, letting his eyes flutter shut as the clown gently eats you out.

He takes his time, soaking up every writhing and jerk of your hips, capturing you with every slide of his warm tongue against your insides. The muscle is long, reaching deeper and pushing pressure against your walls- you feel so full, unable to really press back far enough to reach that lovely spot inside. 

Jack can read your impatience, massaging your ass while his saliva builds against the tight ring, preparing you for him. Your wonton cries muffle into the pillow you’ve cradled against your chest, cheeks dark and puffy as you begin to pant. Jack follows, slowly fucking his tongue and stretching you open, spit dribbling down his chin. Jack knows you feel good, knows his tongue could never do the job his cock could- but he needs to make sure you feel your best. Always do your best.

“You’ve go’ it, ma’ love,” He grovels against your hot skin, letting his tongue slide out to lap against your puckered hole, flinching and ready. “Jus’ a lil’ more…”

Your tired whines grow, mumbling incoherently as Jack plunges back in, bullying his tongue back in. He should take more time, he should really make sure your plush walls can handle him- but you’re both ready. He can feel it, see it in the way your twitching cock dribbles pre onto your sheets messily. Jack isn’t much better, his cock nearly hurts under the constraints of his pants, length whining to be inside of you already.

He forces his tongue out, your hips following back at the loss of stimulation as you huff. Normally, you would’ve woken up, realizing the feelings weren’t just that of a hyper-realistic dream. But the clown is careful and precise with how he sways your consciousness, forcing you into a deeper slumber the more stirred you get. To you, it’s just a glorious wet dream. To him, it’s everything.

Pushing up onto his knees, Jack barely has time to unbutton his pants and drag his heavy cock out before you’re rutting your hips into the mattress, chasing an absent feeling. The clown smiles, running a hand through his tangled hair and pushing it out of his face before he slides back to your side.

Instinctively, you lean into him, back pressed against that familiar weight. Jack chokes out a gasp when your soaked ass glides back against his cock, hole fluttering against the warmth. Even in sleep, you beckon for him. 

“God. I’m going to make you feel so good.” With tender touches, Jack wraps himself back around you, wrapping his arm around the small of your waist to hold you closer. Reaching down, he grips his cock firmly, sliding the girth between your ass to collect his spit and stroke himself slowly.

Your jaw hangs, tiny gasps when his bulbous head presses against the tight ring of your hole and begins to press in. You’re tight, incredibly so, that Jack has to nudge his hips a little each time to finally pop his cockhead inside of your warmth. You’ll have to forgive just how much larger he is than you, his cock no exception.

“Mhnn… So tight, so warm… Does this feel good, my love?” You unknowingly answer with jagged breaths and loud gasps that have Jack smiling against your skin. He praises you with sweet kisses up your nape, whispering praises into your hair until you’re nearly shaking against his hot breath.

His cock ruts against your tightness, bullying its way further and further inside, the sloppiness echoing in the quietness of your dark room. The taste of your skin, the swell of his cock, every noise you let you- it just elevates every overwhelming feeling.

“It feels so good right…? I make you feel so, so good…” Jack moans into your ear, cupping a claw under your thigh to separate your legs and fuck himself deeper. He’s going as gently as he can, as easily as his hips will allow as you arch your back, beckoning to him. The clown latches his lips onto your shoulder, suckling obscene hickies that only he’ll get the pleasure of seeing, just out of your sight in the mirror. 

You’re gripping him so tight, gasping and moaning every time his cock brushes that sweet spot deep inside, your fingers digging into the pillow. When Jack attempts to speed up, to spill himself, you begin to squirm- you’re just so full, the pressure building. Pre dribbles from your heavy cock onto your sheets, your flushed face hot and sweaty as he sensually fucks you with deep, thorough thrusts, making sure he’s buried at the hilt. Jack wants you to feel all of him, no matter how much your body writhes and tries to get away- he knows you want it.

Unconsciously, you reach a hand back, clawing through Jack’s shaggy black strands. He nearly cums, heart swelling with pride as you purposefully accept him, call to him. His cock swells, ravaging your walls and forcing its way to the hilt, the clown straining not to take a welting bite out of your shoulder and wake you up. “God, so good… You’re doin’ so good, love.”

Your jaw hangs, lips parted to sweetly when Jack heartily fucks against your prostate, ramming his wilting cockhead against that nerve. Moans and shrilled gasps hang on every thrust, the clown clawing against your skin, pulling your knee back further so you feel every inch of him. Through heavy eyes, he watches your cock spill, each thrust pushing a stripe of cum onto your stomach as your body twitches and jerks from the overstimulation. “There you go… Finish for me… I know you needed it…”

He becomes dizzy, so cockdrunk on you that every inch he tugged out was a race to get it all back inside, back into your warmth, back to making you feel good. You just fit around him so perfectly, made for him. One day you would see him- he was becoming too restless just to have you at night…

“Give it to me just like that… Gonna give you what you want…” Jack swore, wrapping a claw around your chin and pulling your face back to his, forcing you into a kiss. You panted into his mouth, Jack forcing his tongue between your lips and tasting every inch of you. The clown let his eyes close, his thick cock heavy and begging to spill as he groaned and bit against your plump lips. Another accidental tug of his messy hair as the last of your orgasm washed over you and Jack was cumming, heaving as he thrusts his hips up once, twice-

Popping off of your mouth, the clown grits his teeth, a shrill groan as he comes deep into your warmth, filling you slowly. He claws into your skin, tugging at your thigh as he buries himself, riding out every wave that hits him, the pit in his stomach so heavy.

Afterward, Jack will take his time, breathing slowly as he pulls himself out and watches his cum dribble down the side of your leg. He cleans you, lapping his tongue across your stomach and into the glorious swell of your ass to taste himself mixed with you. Each kiss on your skin is followed by a whisper, a small compliment to leave you with. He takes his time, the gentle line of the morning sun just barely pressing into the sky. He knows you’ll be up soon, wondering why you feel so light and sore, your body riddled with relief you didn’t know you needed.

Jack will be there to watch you stir awake, face flushed with the thought of the crazy dream you had the night before, arms reaching behind to search for a body that isn’t there. He’ll admire you as you get ready for work again with a little more spring in your step than the day before, and wait patiently for you to return.

The clown prays for the day he can watch your handsome face smiling at him, truly call to him- but until then, he’ll wait.

He can’t have you during the day, but he’ll gladly take you every night.

Thanks for reading!

Comments and reblogs are appreciated! 𐚁₊⊹

Thanks to my wonderful editors @h3llw1 and @solarbites!

[yestrday]

― YANDERE! GENSHIN ACADEMY AU. pt one | two | three | four | five | six

⇢ alhaitham, kaveh, tighnari, cyno + ayato, baizhu, mika / gn! reader

introducing! from sumeru hails teyvat's brightest minds, and it's no surprise that many of the academu's smartest are true-blood sumerians. a lesser known fact is that these are less skilled in the workings of the heart, and therefore, a bit more unstable than the average lad.

warning! yandere, obsessive & possessive behavior, unhealthy relationships, master-pet dynamics, mentions of bullying, physical wounds

— STOIC ACADEMIC TYPE. alhaitham | الهيثم

[ “if you’re looking to get my help, i’d rather you just outright say it than dilly-dallying around.” ]

⇢ one of the geniuses in your second year, haitham is a no-nonsense type of guy that has that air of arrogance around him. he’s quite hard to approach, and he doesn’t care to socialize with any of your circles. he has, however, taken a liking to you, and will usually just drag you around whenever he feels like it.

⇢ expect forced study sessions with him in the library. he’s very keen on making sure your grades are in tip-top shape, even though you never asked him for help. it’s obvious that he takes a bit of sadistic pleasure when you ask him for his help. when you ask him on how to solve a problem, he stops whatever he’s reading and scrutinizes you with those stoic eyes, before a small and smug grin forms on his face. sometimes you’re not sure if he truly wants to help you or he just likes to hear you plead and beg.

⇢ kinda likes to see you screw up as well. seeing you excel (because he helped you, after all) is all nice and good, but he likes to see you fumble it every once in a while. sometimes you get a bit arrogant, refusing his help and insisting that you can do it by yourself, only for it to backfire in your face. when you run back to him with your begging and pleading, he puts on a show of being nonchalant about it. didn’t you say you were fine? so why bother him now, and especially in the middle of a good book?

⇢doesn’t hide the fact that he sort of treats you like a pet, with the way he drags you to and fro. his blunt everyday tone makes everyone feel like he’s looking down at them, but even more so with the way he talks to you. stay, he says when you start approaching him. sit, he tells you. whether you follow or not is up to you, and while he does love having an obedient pet, there is some fun to be found in keeping a bratty one.

⇢likes to see you rely on him. is it out of genuine care or because he sees you as a complete fool who can’t do anything on their own, time will tell, but he’s strangely insistent about you depending on him. he doesn’t make it very obvious, especially when he acts like he could give two shits about anything, but when you mention having troubles, he says things like “that is what you’re having trouble with?” without offering his help, you usually start nagging him for the answer.

⇢haitham isn’t one for praise but… he does get a kick off you praising him. not because he’s starved for it (he’s had heaps of that ever since he showed his academic prowess) but because it felt just right. he does help you a lot, doesn’t he? taking the time out of his busy day to help you with whatever silly thing you need. the least you could do is thank him for it.

[ “honestly, you ought to be more grateful with how much i’m always helping you.” ]

– PASSIONATE TYPE. kaveh | کاوه

[ “oh yeah, uh, i guess i did win that! do… do you like it?” ]

⇢ your senior kaveh who’s been all over you ever since your first year. he’s a bit clingy with his touches, holding onto your arm while you walk and greeting you with hugs ever since the two of you got close. whenever the two of you see each other in the hallways, he immediately latches onto you and doesn’t let go. will drag you around while chatting your ear off.

⇢ often starts to show off when you’re around. he tries to be really nonchalant about it too, like casually trying to slip in his accomplishment in the middle of a conversation to make it seem like he’s not trying too hard. when you smile and compliment him, he starts to stutter and blush, losing the cool composure he tried to maintain just moments ago. the others tease him for being a senior who wants to impress his junior and he quickly denies it (“they’re just saying what they want!” he’d huff to you), but you can’t deny the red blush and the pleased smile on his face.

⇢ always trying to help other people out, even if he’s too busy. while he’ll drop everything he’s doing when you ask him a favor, he also doesn’t have the heart to say no to others. some days, he gets a bit disheveled by dismissal after helping out so many people at once. when he starts whining to you and he becomes even clingier, be understanding and let him. he’s had a rough day, after all.

⇢ everyone knows the shenanigans that occur around you in school and kaveh is no exception. so he’s made a bit paranoid every day, wondering when of your crazed suitors will snap and just kidnap you. he could just do it himself and not worry about being separated from you, but he thinks he’s above such things (true, but only without the proper motivation). to compensate for this, he spends every second with you like it’s his last.

⇢ did you just hold his hand?!? that must mean something, right?! he conveniently forgets that you’ve held hands with numerous other people in this academy, but you can’t blame the poor dude, he’s the type to overthink stuff like that. he’s gone over seemingly normal moments between you two countless times in his head, wondering if any of that meant something. at the back of his head, he knows he’s overreacting. but then he remembers when you gave him some papers and your fingers lingered for some seconds then he starts squealing in his pillow, absolutely deluded by his fantasies.

⇢ he’s not the jealous type…! really! he knows how kind and sweet you are. he knows that the praises you have for him are genuine and the way you look at him in admiration is all real. you’re not the type to fake those after all…! even so… even so, you continue to look at others with that same look, and praise them with the same praise. it’s not that they don’t deserve it but… is he not just good enough? to have your praises reserved for only him… was he just not worthy of that?!

[ “did i… did i do something wrong…? please, just talk to me, look at me!” ]

— SASSY TYPE. tighnari | الطغنري

[ “those idiots… honestly, they could at least treat you with a little more care!” ]

⇢ straightforward and no-nonsense, tighnari is well-respected among his peers for being an academic with an honest personality. especially in a school where anything can just tip anyone off, tighnari does not care about who he has to offend to make them back off. as such, many suitors can’t just do their trickery to you whenever he’s watching, lest he call them out on the spot.

⇢ he’s very concerned about your wellbeing. he’s often warning you about the dangers of the men you surround yourself with. whether you believe him or not is up to you, but that won’t stop him from trying to prevent anything from happening to you. obviously, he can’t just say that someone’s killed someone— he doesn’t want to ruin your life like that— but he’s often cryptic, hoping that you’ll figure it out for yourself.

⇢ very naggy, though he nags like a disappointed mother rather than a caring one. you and cyno are often at the end of these rants when you two do something stupid (either together or as individuals), but it’s a sign that tighnari truly cares about you. he could care less whether haitham cut himself on one of his books, but when you do he’s immediately all over you and berating you for being stupid and careless.

⇢ becomes too smug whenever you show a preference for him. he loves feeling when you choose him over anyone else and the suitors stew in their anger when he shoots them a haughty grin. cyno often has to remind him that he’s being too much, but he knows how much tighnari delights in defeating the other harem members without even having to do anything. you chose him out of your own free will, and that says a lot more than having you forced to pick him.

⇢ being raised on botany and all its properties, tighnari’s almost an expert in all things plants and that includes their… chemistry. it’s no surprise that he’s one of the suitors who are capable of concocting their little mixtures. when using it on other competitors, he’s not one to dirty his hands. he often has cyno slipping a thing or two in their drinks (or in special cases, an overly desparate kaveh). but when it comes to tampering with your drink? well, he reserves that special privilege for himself, all for the pleasure of watching the chemicals slowly affect you.

⇢ a smart guy, who knows that the way to your heart is not intimidating you into it but instead playing the nice and concerned friend. poor you, always being chased around by these unstable men. why have them who will only hurt you, when you can come to him, someone that you can trust? even if your vision is slipping away, your body becomes heavy… you can trust him, no matter what~

[ “feeling sleepy already? dear me, your body is really fragile… and cute ♪” ]

— GUARD DOG TYPE. cyno | κύων 

[ “if they’re bothering you again, talk to me. i’ll be the one to handle it.” ]

⇢ serious cyno who amuses you with his corny jokes delivered with a stoic expression. despite looking so mature, being with cyno often gets you two into trouble that he didn’t foresee. it has something to do with that intimidating expression and the way he’s ready to fight anyone who nears him. people mistake him for challenging them to a fight, and more often than not you’re left watching cyno beat down opponents in self-defense.

⇢ when people aren’t busy trying to fight him, cyno’s always seen patrolling the campus halls as head of the security committee. you can tell who’s been caught by him before by the way they flinch and avoid his piercing gaze. even many of his admirers are a bit terrified of him, and all they can do is just watch him walk over to you and whisper in your ear. they think you’re in trouble, but in reality, he’s telling you to meet him at the same meeting spot because he wants to show you this rare genius invocation card he just bought.

⇢ no one in his friend group takes him seriously anymore, not when he’s busy challenging all of them to a tcg fight every get-together. they tend to get roped up into his antics, and you can see how boys really will just be boys as the four of them begin to one-up each other into petty competitions. and cyno’s always been the most competitive out of them.

⇢ cyno seems to have a habit of suddenly showing up moments before one of your suitors plans to do something. they might start to sneak into your lockers to steal something when they see cyno leaning casually against the wall with a knowing glint in his eye. or when one of them spikes your drink and cyno unhesitatingly takes your glass and dump it on the floor, without breaking eye contact with the suspect. the guard dog that you don’t know about.

⇢ part of the protective stalker group within your suitors who make sure to follow you from the shadows whenever he has free time. these stalkers are often chill with each other, nodding at each other in acknowledgment whenever they bump into each other in one of their stalking escapades. he keeps a close eye on you at all times, with your security purely his concern and nothing else.

⇢ indifferent to getting his hands bloody. he’s not unreasonable— he knows that he can’t kill someone just because he’s jealous or something like that. he can’t risk doing something that will have an impact on you. but justice has to be served, and when he sees someone hurt you or become a threat to your safety… he just can’t help it. whether it’s mixing nari’s poison or simply giving them a cold, swift death, everything he does is because he loves you so.

[ “hush, there’s nothing to cry about. they’re gone, no one will hurt you. i have served you justice.” ]

— SCHEMING TYPE. kamisato ayato | 神里綾人

[ “oho? it pains me that you’re so wary of me, even after all these years!” ]

⇢ senior ayato who always has that gentle but calculating mask on, socializing with many people but never close to any of them. when people start realizing that you might have caught his interest, they have warned you about him and whatever shady motives he might harbor. but whenever he approached you, he was so kind and generous with his offerings… not that you were fooled.

⇢ he’s always showering you with gifts whenever you’re together like he’s trying to flex his wealth. bump into him at the mall? he tells you to walk with him for a bit, but you leave with a luxury item you eyed for a few seconds. bundles you up in his scarf when you’re feeling chilly, however when you try to return it to him on the next day he just tells you to keep it so casually like the fabric doesn’t cost you your life savings.

⇢ when class isn’t keeping them both apart, thoma is always seen attending to ayato’s side. it’s not a secret that thoma can go to school because the kamisatos are funding his education, so no one really questions it. they do get a little bit suspicious whenever the two seem a little… intimate, but in the end, who really cares?

⇢ you should really heed others’ warnings about ayato, because it’s clear that he’s a dangerous fellow. he seems to know everything about everyone. once, he had threatened your bullies off with a thinly veiled threat regarding their shady pasts. you don’t know how he got hold of such rare information, but it seems that he’s one of the many people at this school with an information network under their fingertips.

⇢ while he does view you with adoration, it’s clear with how he talks to you that he doesn’t view you as his equal. with the way he talks you down sometimes like he’s talking to a pet rather than a fellow student, you sometimes feel a bit… demeaned. but when ayato tucks your hair behind your ear so tenderly, you have to second-guess your apprehensions.

⇢ the difference between you two is clear. he is the elite of the elite and you are… you. and he takes advantage of this without guilt. it starts as off remarks, about how you wouldn’t survive a day in their society, then it transforms into something bigger. before you know it, he’s criticizing your clothes, your posture, your personality… anything to nail in the fact that you. are. different. till you lose your pride and self-worth. till ayato makes sure that you won’t have the willpower to fight back once he begins his schemes.

[ “but i’m not lying, am i? you are different, and we can’t really do anything about that, can we?” ]

— SUSPICIOUS TYPE. baizhu | 白术

[ “another trip to the nurse, i see… if i didn’t know better, i would think you were here to see me.” ]

⇢ senior baizhu is head of the health committee and is often seen helping out at the nurse’s. his kind and gentle nature makes the sterile place feel a lot more comforting and he attends to each patient without complaint. but when you come over, the nurse remarks how baizhu seems a bit more stressed whenever he frets over you. you’re not quite sure… after all, baizhu has always been so caring towards you and everyone else.

⇢ he’s sickly himself, so sometimes he has to rely on others for help. he does seem to ask you for help more so than the others, but you really shouldn’t mind. after all, he’s done so much for you! he’s prone to fainting, thankfully not that severe, but you have to catch him in your arms before he hits the floor. the way he thanks you and softly utters your name has you almost dropping him, and you swear there’s a cheeky grin on his face that’s gone a second after.

⇢ although his reputation is generally favorable, there are whispers that he and his family are involved in shady medical research. baizhu, when asked about these, will always only laugh and shake his head. ‘let them say what they want to say’, he would tell them. ‘what matters is that i’m capable of tending to them when they come to me for help.’ such thoughtful words often erase whatever doubts they have about baizhu and even make them guilty for even falsely accusing him.

⇢ but they’re right, though. they are a big pharmaceutical company, and every massive corporation has its shadows. a solo research that he’s been working on is in the area of immortality. in recent years, he’s been working on it with much more fervor now that he’s met you. back then, his goal for immortality was always directionless, only researching for the sake of curiosity. but now he has a clear goal: to spend eternity with you and for you.

⇢ he’s an expert businessman and your harem members are well aware of that. among them, he’s known to make many shady deals, especially since he’s so knowledgeable in… drugs. he makes a lot of profit from this, but another clear advantage is his time with you. though these rich students could just buy their drugs literally anywhere, no one quite provides the safety of not being caught like baizhu.

⇢ … might make those deals because more often than not, they end up with you in the nurse’s office. whether bruised from the bullying of another suitor or disoriented from some sort of poison, you rush to the nurse before things get worse for you. you’re so smart, he’d praise you as he tends to the wounds. there is a pleasure in bandaging you up, knowing full well that he could easily dig his nails into the cuts and leave you more in need of his help.

— ANXIOUS TYPE. mika schmidt 

[ “they’re very cool but i… maybe i shouldn’t get too close…” ]

⇢ lil bro gets pushed around by the meaner people in his year and he doesn’t even question it. it’s just very easy to take advantage of him, with his eager-to-please personality and his notable ability to do almost anything exceptionally well. it takes him being adopted into the first-year harem group before the bullying dies down (mainly because most of the people there are well-known and powerful). he doesn’t quite understand how they could bond over a person (you) and was originally quite frightened at their almost fanatic worship of you.

⇢ no one would think he’s part of your harem, not with the way he desperately tries to avoid you. in fact, you could count the times you’ve talked to him on two hands. on all times he was a blushing and stuttering mess to the point that he was incoherent. xingqiu seemed to take a kick out of his embarrassment, while aether softly coaxed him into forming a full sentence in front of you. what stuck with you was how he refused to shake your hand, to which xingqiu bowled over laughing. 

⇢ when he got a little bit more comfortable with you, he was still shy albeit not much to the point that he wasn’t willing to offer you help. you’d often bump into each other while you’re on your errand, and he takes half the workload. most of the time, the two of you work in silence, with mika taking frequent glances at you. when you’re done, he says a meek ‘goodbye!’ and sprints off.

⇢ stalks you around school like a little creep, but thankfully not to the point where he follows you home. he’d peek from around a corner, watching you in the distance with wide eyes in admiration. you’re always so hardworking and excellent… it’s no wonder you have so many admirers! he was almost caught by you a few times, but thankfully you’re none the wiser. his stalking is painfully obvious to the other harem members, but they think him harmless enough that they don’t pay him any mind.

⇢ things that you need the most are always miraculously appearing in your bag, locker, table, etc. when you had complained to thoma about not bringing your lunch, later that day you’d open your locker to find a freshly made lunchbox. when you grumble to yourself about running out of correction tape, a pack with the plastic still on appears on your table. you’re perplexed, albeit grateful. after all, this isn’t the first time some creepy shit has happened to you.

⇢ he really really wishes he’d work up the courage to talk to you face to face without having to be so nervous… but he can’t help the jitters whenever you’re just in front of him! your voice has his ears ringing, your scent has him dizzy, and you’re just so, so cool that he feels so small compared to you! how could he ever talk to you like this…! maybe in the future, when mika would be more capable and dependable…

[ “a–aah… how could i talk to them! they’re too…!” ]

[messenger-of-babel]

Picture Perfect

Summary: You and Bruce have the picture perfect relationship, but all it takes is a picture for it to be undone. (Bruce Wayne x fem!reader)

Word Count: 2.0K

Notes: So sorry for the late post! I know I'm posting at 1am but I had so much to do for work it's been a really rough week. I do often post late at night since that's when I get back, but I try to have then in before midnight at least. Not many warning for this one, only lightly edited due to busy at work. I'll work extra hard to make up for it~

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If there was one thing about Bruce Wayne that you'd like to pass to the tabloids, it would be that he knew how to fuck up a Saturday dinner.

You'd gone out on his arm as usual, dolled up to the nines. It was hard not to, when he all but insisted to line your pockets with cash and pay for any trouble of yours to disappear. When you refused that, he settled for wrapping strings of diamonds around your neck and wrists. He'd do it with soft touch, grin lopsided as his chest pressed along your back to fasten them. When he looked at you with that twinkle in his eye, you could only wonder how long it'd take for him to put a diamond on your finger and complete the set.

You had both been dating steadily for eleven months, casting ripples across the delicate pond that was the Gotham high life. You had sworn it was only going to be a one-night stand, to go home with the most eligible bachelor for one night just to try him out. Well, you could say that he had definitely lived up to the expectations, but neither of you had expected to catch feelings. By the third gala you had gone home together, the Gazette was already in a tizzy, headlines running about how the billionaire playboy had been seen with the same socialite on his arm for nights in a row. Well, they damn well ran out of ink when you and Bruce became official at that year’s Winter Gala.

Despite the rumours fluttering around Gotham, you and Bruce were quite happy. He worked late nights, something you had come to realise the further your relationship got. It didn't bother you too much, as you were often in your office anyways. Since your father had died you had become the head of the company, and a woman being the head of the company was enough to stir the sharks below you, fighting to wrestle it out of your hands. Sometimes when you were doing paperwork you imagined Bruce in Wayne Tower himself, pouring over his own work. The thought brought a smile to your face, and it always made the nights feel less lonely.

You were so sure in your relationship that when you walked through the door of the restaurant he had taken you to, you hadn't noticed anything different about the stares that followed you both into the private booth. You were unaware of the eyes that scanned the palm branding your back, oblivious to the way women turned to whisper to each other with pitying voices.

It had been the best night after a rough week, wanting nothing more to end the night with a glass of expensive wine and Bruce's bedsheets wrapped around your legs.

It was shaping up to be the perfect night, but like they say, ignorance is bliss.

As you had been walking to the car, Bruce opening the door for you, a reporter had come into your face, camera flashing before you had a chance to react. "Hey, personal space." Bruce had growled, putting a hand on the other man’s chest and pushing him away. The reporter acted like he wasn't even there, eyes trained on you. "How do you feel about the current news circling Bruce Wayne? Do you think you both will survive this?"

Your blood freezes as you look at the reporter, Bruce's warm hand on your shoulder snapping you out of it.

"No more questions, please." he says gruffly, helping you into the back seat and climbing in after you. With a hand signal, Alfred had pulled away, hurriedly taking you to Wayne Manor. You felt numb sitting next to him, eyes staring forward at the seat in front of you. You didn't know what he meant, but the anxious feeling in your throat told you that the eyes following your car were more than usual.

Like all good things, they all come to an end. Unfortunately, that also happened to include your relationship with Bruce. you're surprised that your breath is as even as it is right now. Tears burn forcefully at the back of your eyes, standing in the foyer of the manor.

"What is this?" you hiss out, holding up a paper by your face.

'WAYNE SEEN WITH SELENA KYLE STARLET, GOTHAM PLAYBOY RETURNS', reads the headline, with a picture of the pair kissing on a staircase. Your heart feels as crumpled as the newspaper in your fist, lips trembling. "You feel like explaining?" you force out, hating the way the break in your voice echoes in the empty foyer. He looks down, guilty. "It wasn't anything, I swear-" he tries to defend, arms coming out to try and reach for you. You scoff, turning on your heel, lips wobbling as you hold back your sobs. "Don't give me that bullshit," you scoff, tears finally slipping loose. "You don't get to say anything, you don't deserve to."

you cover your face with your hands, fingers coming away with smeared make up. Alfred had quietly slipped away, expression solemn. "God, I really thought that we had something, Bruce." you cry softly. "Why?"

He looks at you softly, hands trembling. "I can explain, please, let me explain." His hands come up to make a soothing motion, gently approaching you like you're a wild animal. "It isn't what it looks like. We aren't together. I love you; you know that. She came onto me, I swear."

You roll your eyes, although they're blurry from tears. "That's what all the rich billionaires say." you say deprecatingly.

"Not me." he says firmly, eyes wavering with a tinge of fear, fingers itching for something to hold. For you. "We can work past this. We can work it out, I assure you. This tabloid isn’t true. It isn't as bad as it seems."

That snaps something in you, almost doubling over from the angst welling up in your chest. "Not a problem? Not as bad as it seems?" you whirl on him, letting him see the destruction written across your face. "You humiliated me!" you scream, hand clutching your chest, other waving the paper. "Our relationship? Did it mean anything? Even if you're telling the truth, the problem is that half of Gotham pities me now. Did you not even have the decency to tell me before we went out? Just paraded me around while everyone else knew about our relationship trouble but me? How is that fair, Bruce?" you cry, feet feeling weak in your heels. "You know, I really thought I came to see a new side of you. I thought I knew all of you. My friends told me that I should be careful, that you were a skirt chaser. But no. I trusted you, Bruce." you say, voice rising. "I trusted you!"

His face shatters, grimacing at your cries.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart." he says, voice thick. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Sorry doesn't fix this!" you cry, relieving the paper from your grip and it flutters to the ground. "It doesn’t fix us." you say weakly. "Did I…did I even mean anything? Or was I just another girl to string along?"

"No." he says firmly, taking a step towards you. "You weren't just another girl. you were my everything, you are my everything. I never meant to hurt you."

you shrug, tears falling down your face. "I'm a laughingstock." you cry softly, defeated. your fingers itch for your phone, to check the news, but you knew nothing good would come from scrolling the gossip columns. "I've got half of my father's board at my feet trying to get control through shareholder stocks. The other half were the elites mad I had taken you off the market," you jab a finger at him. "And now I'm nothing more than a floozy in the eyes of the public. I’m going to lose the respect I fought so hard for."

you run your fingers through your hair, stressed. Tears continue to stream down your face, heart rabbiting in stress. "I've never been this humiliated in my life." you weakly choke out.

He closes the distance, palms coming to cradle your face with thumbs stroking your cheeks. "I can fix this." he says desperately. you just shake your head, resigned and overwhelmed. You had always thought how special Bruce was, down to his calloused palms that were so different from every other highbrow man you had dated. "You still cheated." you grit out, eyes coming to meet his blue ones. Even though you wanted to relax so badly into his hold, to pretend like it had all been a dream and let him whisk you away into the bedroom, you pulled away.

you could see the flicker of pain that rippled across his body at your rejection, and the sight made your heart twist. "I need space." you say shakily, adrenaline making your world spin and chest tight. "Tell Alfred I'm going home."

The words feel heavy in your throat and even heavier when you see the panic in his eyes.

"Love, please don't-"

You hold a hand up to stop him.

"No. you, ‘please don't’." you say softly, head tilting down to the floor. "Just…don't. I need to find Alfred." you say as you follow the direction the elderly butler left in. Bruce can't do anything, rooted to the spot as he watches you hurry away. His body feels cold, and if he didn't know better, he'd say that this is what dying must feel like.

The old man is kind when you find him, and you can't help but cry on his shoulder when you break in front of him. He takes you out the kitchen door to the side, leading you to the car and opening the door silently. "I'm assuming you'd like some space for now, ma'am?" he says gently, not commenting on the tears and smeared makeup across your skin. you nod, and he closes the door after squeezing your shoulder comfortingly.

The ride back to your place is cold, hardly ever riding in the Wayne car without the warm presence of Bruce beside you. Your forehead presses against the window, staring out of it blankly. Staring out at the city that gossiped all about you now for sure, who'd eat you up in the coming months if you faltered. That was just the kind of place that Gotham is, especially in the elite circles.

When you click your phone back on, you make a conscious effort to resist the urge to respond to Bruce's string of frantic messages. Instead, your fingers trail over to the news tab, even though you know you shouldn't. Your face and Bruce's fill the pages, stages of your relationship depicted, all the way up to the photo the reporter snapped tonight. Your eyes are wide, lips parted in surprise. scrolling further down you encounter the fateful kiss and your heart clenches, mouth going dry. It was hard to believe that it was the same Bruce who kissed you so sweetly at night when he dropped you home or sent flowers to your office when work got hard.

It got so hard in fact, that all you could do was shut off the phone screen before any more tears could distort the colours on the screen. It flashes once with an incoming message from Bruce.

"Please let me fix this."

You shake your head to yourself, heart bleeding. Gotham was going to eat you alive. Despite your control your fingers typing out a message before backspacing.

"You shouldn't have broken us in the first place." remained unsent, as Alfred drove you to back to Old Gotham. Tears still dripped down the bridge of your nose, and you wished, desperately hoped, that the shame wouldn't follow you under the covers of your bed tonight.

The sheets that despite it all, you would still imagine to be Bruce's.

[asce-of-hearts]

i feel like ace’s cock is so wildly out of proportion with his lanky-ass body its almost like a cartoon gag how big it is..

imagine yandere!ace showing you his cock for the first time and you burst out crying cause youre scared its gonna hurt and he just reassures you that he’ll do what he can to make you happy-cry from cumming for ur first time </3

Confessions

Contents: Yandere!Ace taking gn!reader virginity.

more Ace content here

TAG LIST

WARNINGS: DUB-CON, NSFW, PORN WITH A LITTLE PLOT, VIRGIN!READER, AFAB!READER, SIZE KINK, PENETRATIVE SEX, SOFT YANDERE, LITTLE TO NO PREP.

You felt a bit pressured.

But he was right, Ace was a pirate and a man. He had needs, needs that needed to be satiated fast because he was going to disappear at sea in any second, minute or hour. So there you were, in your room. Both shirtless, his freckled skin warm under your fingertips. His body was nice, comforting when it held you, like a big blanket that wrapped over you protectively.

"I've never done this before." The first confession leaves your lips as a whisper. And his honey golden eyes widen, gleaming with something akin to anticipation, something predatory hidden under an understanding smile. He takes your hands, squeezes them as he entwines your fingers together.

"That's great, sweetheart," His words are always warm, tender, melting against your skin. "Just means I get to show you how great it feels to belong to someone," A kiss is pressed against your temple, scorching hot. "I'll make you mine, in all the best ways..."

He climbs on top of you, caging you against the mattress. And he lowers your hands, allowing them to palm at his growing erection. It feels big enough under his trousers, you try and paint a mental image, but you find yourself unable to, you've never seen one after all. And then, you feel it, when he lowers them and it springs right out, palming against your leg. You curse at him internally because his shoulders prevent you from looking under and taking in whatever is going to be inside you in what feels like mere seconds, but he continues to suck hickeys and pepper wet kisses all over your neck and collarbone. Still, like it was magic, he senses your impatience, and gives you another warm smile as he pulls back, allowing you to take in the sight of his cock.

"Whatcha think?" He asks, a lazy grin on his face. He has broad shoulders, even when the rest of his body is lean, almost lanky, not too overly buff. But his dick... his dick is something else. That object seems almost comically foreign between his legs. Heavy, you felt it when it pressed against your leg. And girthy, and big, so terribly big. In your mind it's the size of your forearm, even when you know it's an exaggeration. You've never seen anything like it, the tip, a mushroomy shaped, angry red colored thing that just continues to leak pre-cum in syrupy blobs that start to soil your sheets, aching to go past the gummy walls of your cunt. "Speechless, eh?" He teases at your lack of answer, and then the waterworks open. You're full on sobbing, hiccuping. You're terrified, completely horrified at the thought of that even being close to your insides. You will die, it will puncture a lung and you will die and bleed out impaled on his cock.

"It's so big." You whimper, and continue crying. And his smile becomes sheepish, he was always certainly proud of his size, but your tears seem anything but tears of joy.

"I... I know," He murmurs, and hugs you again, letting you cry on his shoulder as he rubs soothing circles on your back. "Wanna... wanna touch it? Get to know each other, y'know." He tries to not sound as dorky and stupid as he thinks he does, the attempt, as expected, ends up futile when you end up crying harder. He takes a deep breath, and finally pulls you away from him, hands on your shoulders, looking at you in the eye.

"It'll hurt so bad." You cry again, and he tries to ease it by pressing a kiss on your forehead.

"Don't cry now. Tell you what... I'll just stick it in, yeah? You'll know that... yes, it does hurt a bit, but once you get used to it it'll feel great," The idea is stupid, even if you were wet enough sticking it in without prep will hurt like hell, but surprisingly, you agree with a nod. "Yeah? Trust me, baby. Soon those tears will be happy tears from how great you'll be feeling, you'll be begging for more."

Slowly, he lays you over the bed. Kissing you as his firey fingertips rub at your clit, getting you slick for him. Without breaking the kiss, he slowly starts to fuck past the tight entrance, the rim of muscle that refuses to let his enormous length enter without a fight. With a forceful push, and a choked scream, he manages to bottom out. You feel him in the bottom of your stomach, almost as if he was going to fuck and rearrange the rest of your organs.

"You will never have anyone love you like this, ___."

i need him so bad

hope you enjoyed this!!!!!

have a great day/night

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