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dreamersparacosm · 7 days ago

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jeon jungkook - off the record (part five)

part five ; bergamot and cedar

warnings ; extreme alcohol consumption!

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.

a/n ; WE ARE SOOOO BACK. and before i get screamed at, this is 12k words worth of longing. slowburn to the max. i truly do not think i could have made this anymore devastating if i wanted to. on the one hand, we have oc who might be the blindest bat in all the land, and then we have jungkook who is just ready for the taking. open. honest. unfortunately and undeniably obsessed. (and if you thought they were kissing in this chapter or the next two, ha. i laugh. i read emhen and lynn painter for a living, i live laugh love slowburns. but also more one shots coming your way to hold over while we're in this drought) there's a LOT going on in this chapter so read slow my pookies, rome wasn't built overnight. i shall be waiting patiently on the sidelines!!! (also be gentle i crashed out in @httpsincity's dms already about how i lowkey hate this but oopsie daisy.) ENJOY!

playlist here

series masterlist here

Tonight’s no longer about your comfy blanket fort and ice cream binge while watching Suits.

Regretfully, your night now involves you, in a swanky penthouse while surrounded by unwelcoming coworkers, chugging some fancy Chardonnay like it’s the elixir of social survival.

You enjoy being just another face in the crowd. It’s like joining an exclusive club where the only requirement is to take up space. You've spent countless hours trying to fit into places that had all the warmth of a refrigerator, but tonight, you’ve squeezed yourself into so many nooks and crannies that it's starting to feel like a pro sport.

Blending in has become so natural that you’re starting to welcome it.

Rihanna’s currently belting out something about not stopping the music, and honestly, who knows what else she’s saying at this point. You’re three sips into your wine and the world’s gone a little fuzzy around the edges.

Emma? Yeah, you’ve completely misplaced her in this vortex of comfy couch heaven. Seriously, this couch is like a supportive, heavenly embrace that’s saying, “Stay here, forget about the outside world!” And let’s be real, no one needs the outside world when you’ve got a plush throne and this kind of wine buzz.

You take another sip of your wine and it takes all of your might not to spit it back out when you watch Emma wrap an arm around Paul like she’s the man in the situation.

You mentally file that for Monday’s debrief where you’ll inevitably make fun of her for her poor choices.

The guest list for this afterparty is pretty bleak. There’s twenty other correspondents from different news outlets, all mingling under one roof, not one remotely worth speaking to for more than five minutes.

After reluctantly agreeing to attend, you had opted to take a solo Uber to the location Emma texted you. When you arrived, Jungkook was lounging by the entrance as if he had been existing solely for you to push through the heavy glass doors. Luckily, you noticed him before he noticed you — you credit that to how you secured your spot on the aforementioned couch.

Plus there’s also this lingering scent of his whiskey and his cedar-y cologne and his newfound love for vodka sodas making a home in your nostrils, and it’s making you incredibly lightheaded.

From a young age, you’ve always been hyper-vigilant, attuned to details that often go unnoticed by others. You caught things other people would let fly under their noses. A raised voice behind a closed door. The sound of a car pulling into the driveway at the wrong hour.

It’s mostly why journalism fits you like a second skin. Control disguised as curiosity. Authority masked as observation. There’s power in knowing more than you’re supposed to, tucking details into the fissures of your mind.

If you can anticipate the story, stay one step ahead, maybe everything else will stay in its place. Maybe you will too.

(That’s the illusion you like best. That if you’re the one asking the questions, no one can ask them of you.)

Sometimes though — rarely, frustratingly, devastatingly — you miss things.

Hence why you overlook the sound of Jungkook’s footsteps crossing the penthouse. Or the way he grins as he flops next to you on the couch you were deliberately occupying alone.

You refuse to give him the satisfaction of a glance. He’s already won more than enough of your time. You raise your wine glass to your lips tentatively, eyes wandering across the room, trying to find anything else to fixate on besides him.

But then your eye twitches slightly when you look down to your right. You see the clear liquid in a glass cup in his hand, lime wedge resting silently on the rim. Hm.

There’s a growing list of unhelpful facts about Jungkook that your brain seems determined to catalog. Are you prepping for a bar trivia night (category Jungkook for 500 points) that you don’t remember signing up for?

“What’s up with these vodka sodas you’re pawning off me?” You’re still not looking at him. He’s really leaned on this copycat act heavily tonight.

“What’s up with you ditching the crowd for this couch?” He shifts ever so slightly beside you, as if testing the couch for its comfort to understand why you could possibly be holed up here.

“I’m evolving.” You snort, finally turning to peer at him. You don’t know why you do it but you regret it upon impact. Your body isn’t entirely sure what it’s looking for.

The soft glow from the overhead lights the structure of his jaw. You never realized how strong it is; he could probably chop wood with that kind of bone. In his hand, his drink looks comically tiny compared to the rest of him.

His brown eyes meet yours trepidly. “Well,” he starts, lifting his glass in some form of solidarity. “If you’re wondering, I only switched to vodka so I could end my night on a high note. Whiskey makes me introspective after one too many.”

“Oh, right.” Your eyes hone in on the cheek scar he has. Seriously, is this dude part of a secret fight club you don’t know about? Where would he possibly obtain such a thing? “I doubt your definition of introspection is the same as mine.”

“Hm.” He hums thoughtfully. “You’re in a mood now.”

Well, the invitation to the afterparty you didn't want to attend and the fact that he’s sidled up beside you all comfy and cozy definitely isn't contributing positively to your mood.

You tip your head toward him, skull landing right on the back of the couch. “I’m in a penthouse with people I barely tolerate, watching Emma flirt with a man who listens to NPR and Joe Rogan unironically. Shoot me now or forever hold your peace.”

He fake shoots a gun at you with his two nimble fingers before settling back into comfortable silence. His shoulder skims yours briefly as he exhales, and your spine jolts a little at the contact. It’s not intentional, but it’s enough to make you wonder why your body always seems to notice his.

You take another lengthy sip of wine. You wonder if he’ll let you have a sip of the vodka soda in his hand. You’re not sure what persona you were trying to slip into when you poured yourself a glass of the buttery wine.

“Kinda starting to miss my whiskey though,” he says after another moment slips by. “But I guess this makes more sense tonight.”

Your brows furrow. Numerous sharp comments twitch on your tongue, some you want to say out loud and others you want to mash down. You were never really good at swallowing your words, though. “You switching it up for me?”

The look that flashes across his features is filled with amusement. “Obviously. Didn’t want to smell like a distillery when I inevitably ended up next to you.”

Your pulse skips awkwardly. Luckily you’re trained to recover quickly, even when someone says something you’re not expecting. “Oh,” you clack your tongue against the roof of your mouth. “So you planned on sitting here.”

“You weren’t saving this spot for me?”

Your eyes dart around the room frantically, like you’re searching for someone you can latch on to save you from the rest of the conversation. What was once your safe haven couch has now become that old plastic-covered couch in your grandparent’s living room they refuse to get rid of and no one sits in but them.

But when you size up your contenders, you realize your options are desolate. Between Emma and Paul, and Jenna and her husband, and Sana, who has now even found herself a companion, there’s no one to run and hide with. No one but Jungkook.

“In your dreams, Jeon.”

“In my dreams, you do way more than just save this spot for me,” he retorts confidently.

The man clearly doesn’t have a single crumb of dignity left.

With a roll of your eyes, you let another sip of your wine drip down your throat. “Okay.” You brush past his previous comment with nothing but a clearing of your throat. "What's your take on the night?”

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “Bleak.”

Funny, you think to yourself. You thought the same earlier.

“Very bleak indeed.”

“I think I had a better time two weeks ago when I was watching that intern from Reuters try to flirt with the CNN correspondent in the elevator than tonight.” He sighs upon the memory re-entering his brain.

You let out a short giggle before catching yourself, and his eyes angle themselves toward you at the sound. As if his eyes and your laugh were two opposite ends of a magnet.

“Are you sure she was flirting? I’m also privy to being forced to speak to annoying ass coworkers,” you tease.

“She probably was.” His eyes flick down to the fabric of your red dress that has bunched up at your hips slightly, then back to your own glazed-over ones.

There's a moment of silence that lingers long enough in the air that, under normal circumstances, would be awkward. But because it's you and Jungkook, you’re grateful for the fact his voice isn’t blaring in your ear for once. Gives you a second to avert your attention to Emma or the bar or the glass doors or literally anything else.

“I mean..” He breaks you out of your thoughts. “..at least she was trying.”

You hum in agreement. “Is that what this is? You trying?”

You want to kick yourself the moment it leaves your mouth. Why the fuck did you just say that? If it was him trying, you wouldn’t even want that anyway. In fact, you detest it and—

“Would it work if I was?”

Your body turns to his fully, wine and vodka and lemon drop clouding your thoughts, your judgment. It brings you inevitably closer to Jungkook, knee brushing his, and you do your best not to notice. “Depends on what you’re trying for.”

His lips twitch gently and you look away. You know that if you continue to look at him, continue to make eye contact with his lips or his cheek scar, you’re going to need to get up, walk right out those glass doors, and order the fastest Uber of all time.

“I’m just talking.” His fingers tap rhythmically against his glass. “Thought we were allowed to do that now.”

It feels like a pebble has lodged itself in your throat. You’ve spent years perfecting your craft, avoiding any and all signs of potential thawing. Because if you weren't fighting him, what were you doing?

Jungkook being tolerable — let alone, likeable — is not something you’ll allow tonight or possibly ever.

You glance down at your hands awkwardly. “Right. Talking.”

He leans forward until he’s in your line of vision again. You catch a whiff of his scent, the cologne that now apparently lives in the folds of your subconscious. It hits you that he knows exactly what he’s done, that he’s perfectly aware of the effect he has on you — albeit, little to none, but still present.

He opens his mouth like a fish out of water, pauses halfway, and snaps it back shut. There’s a look on his face you haven’t seen before. An anxious swarm of bees buzz in your throat, and the more he sits there silently, the worse they feel.

But then it’s as if he went through a full system reboot, screen turning back on in high-definition. “So, what would you be doing if you didn’t come here?” He leans back against the couch.

A puff of air falls from your lips as if to expel the taste of Jungkook’s cologne from your mouth. “I don’t know. Probably watching Netflix. I also just got this new charcoal face mask I want to try. You?”

He takes a small sip of his drink. “Rewatching Suits right now. I had it paused on Season 3, Episode 5. Fucking love Harvey.”

Your head whips to face him. You don’t know why the idea of him watching the same exact show as you matters (because it doesn’t. Everyone watches that show.) but your heart does some ridiculous thing in your chest. You ignore it to the best of your ability, placing a hand over your ribs as if it'll ease it.

“You would love Harvey,” you retort, rolling your eyes so far back they nearly roll across the floor and order another glass of wine.

He furrows his brows, eyes glinting like they always do when he senses a battle on the horizon. “Harvey’s the man, so I’m not gonna defend myself.”

“Harvey would be nothing without Donna,” you remind him, pointing a finger in the air.

“Well, you are forgetting that Donna is madly in love with him.” He points out, swirling his drink, like he’s been spending considerable time analyzing fictional workplace dynamics.

“Oh, so you’re saying that a woman can’t be successful without the motivation of love?” Your eyebrow arches. There is a logical fallacy in this argument and now you’re way too determined to prove him wrong.

His own competitive instincts flare to life. “No. I’m just saying, they are a package deal.”

“If that's what you want to call it.” You take a contemplative sip, nearing the stem of your glass. “Plus, I'm pretty sure he was the one in love with her. Power dynamic was completely reversed.”

He pauses. Clearly considers your perspective. Then goes completely rogue in a league of his own. “Isn’t that the crazy thing about love? I swear, you can never choose who you want. It’s always someone ridiculous. Poor Harvey.”

“Didn’t know I was talking to the love prophet,” you say, and there’s genuine amusement in your voice rather than normal tactical mockery.

“I know a thing or two about a thing or two.”

“Is Jungkook Jeon a secret hopeless romantic? Do you spend your days reading Emily Henry novels and praying for a long lost love to show up at your doorstep?” Your body reacts before your mind can, poking him in his ribcage playfully. The muscle is hard and barely budges against your finger. There’s also an image manifesting in your head of Jungkook with a girlfriend, and the flutter from earlier snakes its way back into your stomach.

“No, you clown.” The word slips out with enough endearment to make you laugh. You hardly notice it, but he pauses to watch the sound fall from your lips. “I just… know things. I know how to love someone.”

The statement hangs in the air like it’s supposed to be some sort of confession. Like it’s monumental news to know how to love someone, or to be in love. It’s the most normal thing you’ve heard, but you’re not entirely sure you ever thought Jungkook was capable of it.

“Oh, really?” You lean into him gently, his knee brushing against yours again for a millisecond.

“I do.” He lifts his chin confidently.

“Prove it,” you answer automatically, brain operating solely on auto-pilot.

“Huh?”

The challenge lands with the weight of a gauntlet at both your feet.

“Prove you can love someone.” Your eyes hold his. He has incredible eye contact, even after a night of drinking. Maybe this dude really is the love prophet.

“What do you mean?” he asks, sincerely confused.

“Here.” You gesture between you two with your near-empty glass, creating an invisible stage for whatever performance you’re about to request. His knee moves away from yours, and your heart tugs a little at the seams. “Compliment me. Be nice. I know that might be challenging for you and all, but I really want you to dig deep in that heart made of ice.”

“How is that supposed to—”

“Can’t back out now, Jeon.” You only use his last name when you’re serious, and he knows this. It’s been established since your very first debate in college. “I’m wilting over here.”

“I–” He starts, then stops, and for the first time since you’ve known him, Jungkook looks genuinely uncertain.

“Imagine,” you barrel on. “I just slipped into the ballroom. I look around, overwhelmed by all the beautiful people. And then — oh, wow, there you are. The love of my life.”

The way he’s looking at you right now tells you that maybe this was the most abysmal idea of all time. You’re never going to drink alcohol again.

You clasp your hands over your chest dramatically. “I waltz over and—”

“I like your dress,” he blurts out. “Makes your eyes look really fucking nice.”

It’s a crude compliment. Superficial, even. But it comes out like it escaped from his brain. Your entire body tenses up and your ears ring and the grip on your wine glass disappears completely.

The glass falls to the couch with the same effect as a pin dropping. The ballroom fades into irrelevant background white noise, and it’s just you and Jungkook, who apparently uses curse words in compliments and sends nerve-ending tingles to your spine these days.

“Thats, uh—” You cough a few times while you rack the entire dictionary in your mind to find words that suffice. “That’s one way to do it.”

“Is that not a compliment?” There’s confusion laced into the words, eyebrows furrowing anxiously.

“Only if you mean it,” you manage to get out. Your voice sounds like you just swallowed a vat of cement.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

The question comes out so simply and matter-of-factly, that it makes literally everything worse. As if he’s genuinely confused as to why anyone would offer you an insincere compliment.

“Okay.” He takes over the conversation, which you thank God for, because your journalistic self is no longer in the mood to speak. “Now you compliment me.”

“Nuh-uh.” You shake your head stubbornly, reaching for your wine glass on the couch only to realize it is still very much empty. You need more liquor if you’re going to sit here all night. “That’s not part of the agreement.”

“We have agreements now?” He arches an eyebrow.

“Shut up. I am not complimenting you.” But there’s something panicked in your tone. Returning his vulnerability terrifies you more than great white sharks do.

“C’mon, one thing about me.” He leans into you again. He needs to stop doing that before you pass out from a new medical emergency you’re coining as fragrance inhalation.

You scramble to come up with something, eyes darting across the room like players on a football field. “How about I hit you over the head with my glass instead?”

“Oneeeee, come on,” he coaxes.

“No.”

“Okay, so you’re saying you’re a virgin loser who doesn’t know how to compliment a man?”

He always knows which nerve to hit to provoke a response.

“You’re hardly a man,” you snort. “But alright.”

“One.” He holds up a singular finger.

“This goes against my morals, you know that right?” You’re practically squirming now. Being nice to him conflicts with a very fundamental aspect of your worldview.

“The universe will make an exception.” He wiggles his eyebrows tauntingly.

And then you freeze before alcohol makes a decision for you.

“You smell really good.”

You realize that somehow, in the space of this ridiculous conversation, this is the most honest you’ve been in a while.

Compliments about appearances are one thing, but noticing how he smells — yeah, he’s going to make fun of you for this until the apocalypse happens.

The smile that was once beaming on his face slides right off. It’s gone with so much ease that you start worrying you said something wrong, like maybe he uses the same cologne that his dead grandpa gave him. But there’s no retort, no bite-back, nothing but silence amongst a rush of noise that seems to dissipate into the background.

But then a smirk slowly grows on his features and the moment is gone as soon as it came. “Hmm, wanna sniff me?”

You kind of feel like you’ve been hit by a freight train. He tuts disapprovingly, and you can't understand why you're suddenly struck by the desire to drop to your knees and beg for forgiveness for praising his scent.

“Bitch, where’s your drink?”

Emma’s voice slices through the noise, startling you enough that your shoulders shake and the invisible thread tethering you to Jungkook snaps in half.

You jerk your head toward her, eyes wide like you’re a kid who got caught drawing dicks on a library book. She towers over you, cheeks a rosy glow, hair tousled, Paul in tow behind her like he’s some kind of accessory.

“I…I finished it?” Your voice is still scratchy from your unfortunate confession.

Emma eyes you suspiciously. “Finished it? And you didn’t get another one because..?”

Great question, Emma. Didn’t get another one because you were too busy getting complimented by your arch nemesis and then promptly inhaling him right after.

You shrug. It’s not actually that serious. “I’m not an alcoholic.”

“Mhm.” She smirks and plops down on the other side of you, pushing Paul to stand up beside her like he’s her bodyguard.

“Anyway, hiii,” she sing-songs to Jungkook, finally noticing his presence. “Still here?”

All Jungkook does is nod, an unreadable expression on his face. For a moment, he actually looks… confused? Scared? You can’t piece it together.

Emma turns back to you obliviously. “You know what you need?”

“To go home?”

She scowls. “More alcohol, dumbass.”

“Fuck no,” you reply instantly. “Absolutely not.”

Alcohol has been your worst enemy tonight. One more glass of it and who’s to say what you’ll do next?

“Yes,” she insists, standing up and struggling to pull you by the wrists like your bones are made of rocks. “You’re being way too chill tonight. It’s creeping me the fuck out. Come on.”

And then your feet are betraying you and propping you upright. You flatten out your red dress a little. Now that you think about it, the dress isn’t actually as uncomfortable as you thought it was. Maybe you’ll wear it again.

As you mobilize away from the couch, away from Jungkook without a single word, you shoot a final glance over your shoulder.

Jungkook’s sprawled out, fingers wrapped loosely around the glass, cufflinks rolled up and showing off those tattoos. His head tilts as he locks eyes with you.

Your heart stutters like a scratched CD.

Damn it.

You look away before you can do something stupid like walk back.

How many glasses of wine has it been?

Three? Four? Perhaps two too many, considering you’re now having an existential crisis about grapes.

How is wine even made? Like actually made? There’s something having to do with stomping, possibly. Feet? Is someone out there just… squishing grapes with their toes in a field and packaging it up for your consumption? That feels illegal. You should look into it on Monday.

Shaking your head, you try to orient yourself in space and time but that makes the room spin a little. Who let you drink this much?

Oh, right. Emma did. (And Jenna, but you’ll spare her tonight.)

The penthouse has completely transformed. Where was once a coffee table has now been turned into a makeshift dance floor in the middle of the open-plan living room. It truly has no business being a dance floor; it’s slippery and someone’s shoe was abandoned in the corner.

Fifteen people remain scattered around the room. Five others have gone missing entirely — two of those being Jenna and Greg, who you last saw doing tequila shots with a Senior Correspondent from New York times.

Blue Tie Guy even made an exit too. Left Emma and Paul in the dust. Now it’s just you, lingering near them like an unpaid chaperone.

A 2000s hit blares over the speakers that makes your chest fizzle with nostalgia. It might be JoJo, or early Rihanna. Either way, there’s synth and bass and you’re quite enjoying yourself.

But, whatever. Back to the wine. How does one ferment wi—

“What are you thinking about?”

Emma’s eyes peer at you expectantly, as if you’re on the cusp of some great big revelation you need to share with her.

“I’m thinking about wine.” You blink back at her, a stupid drunk smile on your face.

She nods at your words. “As one does.”

You babble on, having been given the green light by Emma. “Also, like, how it’s made. Is it fermented? Or do people step on grapes and hope for the best?”

“Probably both. Maybe that’s how we got rośe, it’s like foot juice but cuter.” Emma’s cheeks are flushed, lashes batting furiously as one does when they’re trying to fight the alcohol haze out of their eyesight. You would know because you’re also trying to do the same.

“Cheers to whoever invented that,” You raise your glass to hers and clink it softly.

She turns her body away from her newfound lover, leans into you with all the subtlety of a booming explosion. “Also I’m pretty sure Paul and I held hands four times tonight.”

“Oh, god.”

That’s the only two words you can find in your vernacular to respond.

“He’s kinda good at it.” Her lips curve upwards into a sheepish smile, like she’s talking about her crush from the playground.

“Holding hands?” you ask incredulously.

“Very good.” She shakes her head in agreement. “Was his friend nice to you?”

Sure, if you qualify nice as the most boring man you’ve ever had the displeasure of speaking to.

“He was okay. Not my type.” You wave her off with your free hand, because from what you know about Emma, feeding into her delusions will never end well for you.

“And what is your type, missy? I swear I’ll never know.” She pokes your side, toothfully grinning at you.

The thing is, you’re not entirely sure. You’re not a complete loser, despite all signs pointing to yes, she is a virgin who has never touched a man. You’ve had sex with finance boys, nerdy guys, the whole shebang. However, you’ve only ever had one boyfriend, and you’re certain that if Emma met him, she wouldn’t find any striking resemblance to you.

“Not blue tie guy, I’ll tell you that.” You snort.

That answer seems to suffice for her, because she turns around to entertain Paul and leave you to your never-ending thought spiral again.

What is your type?

You guess, if you're being truly honest with yourself, you want someone smart. Someone witty. Maybe someone who smells good. Or someone who remembers things about you. That’s important.

In a world that makes you scream to be heard, all you really want is someone to listen to your whispers.

Your eyes peek over at Emma, ready to resume your jokes about the wine industry or ask if she has any of those shrimp cocktails left in her bag, only to be met with sheer horror.

She’s now dancing with Paul.

They are fully slow dancing in the middle of a penthouse with 2000s throwbacks blaring in the background. Paul’s head is tilted like he’s trying to smell her shampoo. You might die.

You giggle in disbelief. What the fuck. This is your friend, your partner in crime in journalism. You’re going to lose her to a man who owns loafers with tassels.

You’re also a little too drunk to care properly.

The song changes, right in tune with Emma and Paul’s dancing. More RnB, less college frat party based in 2006. A Doja Cat and Jack Harlow song you only recognize because Spotify has been pushing it on you for weeks.

It’s a pretty sensual song for a work afterparty. Who approved this playlist? Was it Emma?

You sway a little on your feet. A half-drunk, eyes closed movement where your hips catch the rhythm. The stem of your wine glass dangles precariously between two fingers.

“Enjoying yourself?”

He really needs to stop creeping up on you like this.

Your eyes shock themselves back into awareness. Out of all the five people who had left, it seems that Jungkook was not one of them. He’s standing right in front of you, tattoos on full display and the top few buttons of his shirt undone. You can see a bit of the hardened muscle underneath.

And suddenly your brain no longer cares about the music. It only cares about your red dress, his woodsy scent that lives in the crevices of your mind, tangled knees and crude confessions that probably shouldn’t have happened.

He’s holding another vodka soda as if the first ten weren’t enough. His big brown eyes glimmer under the light, like honey.

Damnit.

“Not everything is about you, you know?” you retort quickly. You spin the stem of your glass to keep your hands busy.

“Never said it was.” His eyes drop to your glass briefly. “Looked like you were about to make out with that glass though.”

“It’s been more dependable than most men tonight,” you taunt, crossing your arms over your chest protectively.

“Still no prospects?” He stares right through you. He’s smiling, but something you don’t recognize in his eyes has shifted.

You raise an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Gonna go and tell them all I have cooties or something?”

“Cooties is juvenile.” He replies with mock seriousness, and his eyes are fonder now before delivering the world’s most diabolical statement of all time. “Chlamydia seems more likely.”

Your jaw drops in actual shock. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He chuckles lightly, then lets his gaze drift over your shoulder. His face morphs into sympathetic horror. “Have they been like this all night?”

You follow his line of sight to Emma and Paul who are still engaging in some kind of mating ritual you don’t recognize. They might as well have raw sex in front of you two. “Yeah. they have.”

“God, I’m sorry.” And he sounds like he means it.

“It’s okay,” you shrug. “I’ve been enjoying the little dance circle I created on my own. Extremely sophisticated choreography going on here.”

As if summoned by your words, the music gets louder, and more people drift to the emergency dance floor. Jungkook tugs his bottom lip between his teeth, as if pondering his words before letting them tumble out.

“Can I join this dance circle,” he asks tentatively, “or is it a really exclusive membership situation?”

You tap your chin, pretending to consider the offer. There’s pros and cons to both (although the cons are gruesome.) “Oof. Just closed applications. Terrible timing on your part.”

“Anything I can do to secure entry?” He half-smiles at you. Why is he fighting so hard to join this imaginary dance circle?

Never mind that — what the hell are you doing? You’re creating hoops for him to jump through just so he can dance with you at an afterparty you should’ve left from 30 minutes ago.

But then you remember a very specific afternoon in your Public Policy seminar where Professor Chen posed some stupid question about market inefficiencies, and Jungkook — Mr. Always Has The Answer, Jungkook — completely spazzed on the answer. You’d watched him stumble through his explanation, clear as day that he was guessing. You’d raised your hand promptly after, mostly because the correct answer was burning a hole through your brain and you couldn't stop yourself. Ten extra points on the midterm exam later, Jungkook didn’t even say great job.

“Hmm.” you pause dramatically. “Negative externality and information failures are both examples of…”

He glares at you in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“Entry fee is an entry fee, Jeon.” You cross your arms again around your chest. “Standards must be maintained.”

Jungkook stares at you like he’s trying to figure out whether you’ve completely lost your mind or if this is part of the tango you two have awkwardly been doing around each other all night.

“Market failures.”

Damn. You weren’t expecting him to know that.

“Professor Chen is rolling over in his bed right now.”

His grin expands triumphantly. “So about that dance circle membership…”

Over the beat of your heart hammering away in your chest, you can barely think about anything but the terrifying prospect that maybe, possibly you actually want him to join your ridiculous one-person dance party.

“You want it that bad?” you say, softly.

His eyes don’t waver from yours. “What’s wrong with that?”

Jungkook says it so plainly as if desire is the most casual thing in the world. Like he hasn’t spent years purposefully interrupting you at briefings, cutting your questions short, stealing your quotes.

But now he wants to dance with you.

“I can think of five reasons off the top of my head.”

“Alright, let's start with number one.” He responds with a twinkle behind his eyes.

“You’re so…” you trail off. The words are in there somewhere. You just can’t get them to come out without sounding like you care. “...weird”

He lifts his drink in your direction. “Guilty as charged.”

“So… “ You let yourself study him for a second. Under this light, his tattoos are a sharp contrast to the rest of his golden skin. His biceps strain underneath his shirt. His lips are flushed, plump and pink and pillowy. “if I let you into my elite dance circle.. what’s in it for me?”

“Your one person party becomes a two person party.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, complete with a shrug. “Is that not good enough?”

To mask the sensation building within you — something you would label as shyness, if that term didn’t seem so utterly absurd, a feeling that radiates warmth from your core — you put on a facade of indifference and say, “Probably not, but you’re lucky I’m drunk.”

“Incredibly lucky. You don't normally spend this much time with me by choice.”

He’s not wrong. Sober you would’ve ejected him from this conversation approximately four hours ago.

"Didn't know you were itching for my time, Jeon.” You try to joke, but your voice comes out a little warbled.

He opens his mouth as words are about to exit, but decides against it. You need to say thanks but no thanks and go do something sensible like eavesdrop on the correspondent from Politico that’s somehow still here.

Your hand tugs at your dress, and Jungkook’s eyes follow your movement. There’s a pause where you look at the expanse of the dance floor behind him and really think about it. Mull over your options. There’s still time for you to go home. Some new Rnb song comes on, and you wonder if anyone else notices how suggestive this whole setup is.

Your breath trips over itself as you look back up at him. Your options are pretty dull right now, but the wine in your hand makes your mind up for you.

“I don’t really… dance.” The two of you hover at the edge of the crowd. You move to stand next to him, eyeing the stragglers that are left. He looks over at you, peers down through his lashes. You’re searching for any excuse, a distraction, anything else.

“Neither do I.” He replies nonchalantly. “I was gonna sway slightly and hoped nobody noticed my lack of rhythm."

“So we're both frauds,” you laugh. “Two people who can’t dance. What could possibly go wrong?"

“Everything.” He responds without hesitation. “Absolutely everything.”

He places his drink on a nearby side table. For a guy who claims not to dance, he’s stepping into you with all the confidence of a professional.

There’s probably a few inches of space between you. Maybe more. But his eyes can’t seem to leave yours.

You pick up your previous motions; sway left, to right. His body echoes the movement. You feel vulnerable, laid bare, completely open in front of a man who is basically a stranger to you.

His shoulder brushes yours gently. You can feel the heat of him like a sunburn before it settles in. You want to press down and see just how hot it is.

“This is terrible.” Your lips press into a tight-lipped smile.

“Horrific,” he whispers back. You have to tip your head back to read his lips. You never realized how tall he really was when you were busy arguing with him.

You burst out into a fit of giggles. It’s all too much — the dancing, the music, him.

Wine is a liar. Wine is whispering that his body heat mingling with yours is completely fine. Wine, you’re beginning to suspect, might be the most dangerous wingwoman you’ve ever encountered.

Your limbs feel like they belong to someone else. Looser and lighter. And then somehow your body is drifting closer to him like a maelstrom of water lapping on top of a shore. In this crowded sea of people, it’s just you and Jungkook.

You need to look away from him. This is bad, bad, bad news. If you stand even a millimeter closer to him, you’ll be close enough to finally analyze the moles on his face that connect like constellations in the sky. So near that you could just reach out and grab one with your hand.

Nothing about this is funny anymore.

It’s not funny that your mind flips back to Rosalie, back to the DM, back to your eyes in the dress you’re wearing, back to his scent that envelops you like a warm hug. It’s not funny that Jungkook is running through your mind like a flashback reel.

And before you’re about to do something monumentally idiotic, like ask who that girl was that he’s interested in, the universe stops you.

Your feet entangle themselves mid-step, and you trip forward into his body. Broad arms wrap around you, propping you upright before you can fully land on the floor. Jungkook looks down at you, lips slightly parted. His hands are warm against your skin. Really warm. Like a human furnace wrapped around your biceps.

Jungkook hums softly, his breath brushing against your face. There’s hardly any space left between you now. You’ve lost any and all trains of thought.

Fuck. If he were anyone else but Jungkook…

“I should… go home.”

You absolutely should. You know this; it’s crystal-clear certain. You’ve been skating dangerously close to the edge of a cliff for the better part of the night, pretending the ground beneath your feet isn’t steadily crumbling away. This is exactly the point in the night when sensible intelligent people would extract themselves from whatever quicksand they’ve stumbled into.

You should go home before you do something irreversible, like admitting that the way he’s looking at you right now makes your entire nervous system go into overdrive.

“Yeah, maybe.” Jungkook says and fuck, it shouldn’t matter that he agrees with you. But it does.

Because somewhere in your wine-soaked brain, maybe you thought he would protest. That he’d give you some ridiculous reason why leaving is a bad idea.

You find yourself cataloguing the exact shade of brown in his eyes and wondering what would happen if you just… didn’t go home. If you stayed in this moment where the rest of the penthouse fades to black and the only thing that matters is the way he’s looking at you like you’re a puzzle he’s finally figured out how to solve.��

“Right. Well, I’m going to go home,” you say again because apparently once wasn’t enough. You don’t know who you’re trying to convince — you or him.

Jungkook shifts on his feet, and it seems like only then does he realize his hands are still on you. He snatches them back so quickly it almost stupefies you. “Yeah, totally. Makes sense.”

You both blink at each other like two actors stuck in a scene with no director.

“I’ll… walk you out,” he offers, lifting his shoulders, trying to play it casual. His hands slide back into his pockets, knuckles twitching slightly when they disappear into the fabric, and your stomach churns with the knowledge he’s just as off balance as you are.

You pretend to hesitate. “That’s not necessary.”

“I know,” he replies, already moving towards the glass doors. “But I’m still doing it.”

Something simple and stubborn has exited his mouth yet again. You want to hurl your shoe at him.

The walk to the exit is eerily domestic. He trails behind you, as if to make sure you won’t slip and slide on these floors again. Once you’re past the heavy doors, you pass the hallway where someone’s making out against the wall — you check twice to make sure it’s not Emma and Paul — and Jungkook doesn’t even laugh, which is alarming.

You glance behind you. “No commentary? I expected at least one snide remark.”

He huffs a laugh through his nose. “I thought about it.”

At the end of the hall is the coat check. You give your name and the attendant disappears into an inconspicuous room while you two stand there in silence. Again.

You pull your phone out of your handbag just to have something to do, thumb brushing over the screen like you're monitoring something urgent, when really all you’re doing is checking the weather in Cupertino.

You have absolutely nothing to say to him. Nothing.

Your entire vocabulary — curated over years of university, sharpened through interviews with politicians — has apparently decided to go on leave. It’s honestly hilarious in the most mortifying way possible.

Your career is built on the ability to extract meaningful quotes from unwilling subjects. The irony isn’t lost on you that you, someone who gets paid to ask the right questions at the right time, have been rendered speechless by someone who you could normally argue with for hours.

The attendant returns with your coats, and you take it, fumbling with the sleeves. Jungkook grabs his own. Together, you walk towards the elevator, the sound of your shoes echoing like punctuation marks between thoughts.

You punch the button a few times with your pointer finger. An awkward silence spreads between you two, punctured only by the sound of Jungkook clearing his throat.

“Okay, real question,” you say finally, eyes boring into the screen as you watch the elevator jump floors to come and save you. “Are you trying to be nice? Or is this part of some scheme where you're gonna reveal you stole my credit card and you’re gonna hold it hostage until I agree to say something nice about your reporting?”

Jungkook cracks a smile. You can hear it in his voice when he speaks. “No evil scheme. Maybe I wanted five more minutes in a world where you don’t hate me.”

“Oh.”

What else are you supposed to say to that?

The elevator dings and opens up in front of you. It feels like your stomach dropped somewhere to the vicinity of your feet.

Jungkook coughs loudly. “Well? You going in?”

Your feet finally get the hint and trudge into the elevator. Your heart’s pounding loud enough that if he got just a little closer you’re pretty sure he could hear it.

Time ticks like molasses in that tiny box as it transports you down 40 flights of stairs. You just want to get out as quickly as possible. There’s no telling what your mind will do next, and what damage it’s already done.

Beside you, Jungkook doesn’t say a word. He stands a few inches away, looking like he’s trying to remember what planet he’s on.

The warmth from the penthouse evaporates instantly when you step out of the elevator, nodding a farewell to the doorman. Goosebumps race down your arms as you push open the door, cool autumn air enveloping you. Your dress is criminally ill-equipped for this weather.

You mutter something under your breath about climate change.

Digging into your bag with numb fingers, you pull out your phone, typing in your address furiously. Every letter feels unnecessarily complicated after liquidating the bar.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

You try to lighten the mood. “Ordering my uber. Unless you were planning to carry me home on your back, in which case I’ll cancel it.”

Jungkook snorts. “I mean, I did a pretty intense back workout the other day.”

You tap the confirm button on your Uber. “Okay, Hercules. Let me know when you’re offering sleigh rides. I’ll knit you a red suit and attach a bow to my head.”

Uber arriving in 4 minutes.

You tuck your phone back into your bag. He stands there, looming over you like a guardian angel. “You good? You’ve gone very… pensive.”

“A man can’t think?” He fights back a smile.

“Dangerous pastime.”

“Funny. You’ve said that before.” His eyes squint at you.

“Yeah, because that was the time you decided to challenge Senator Jones about his own voting history without your notes in front of you.” You chuckle at the memory.

“Boldness is a virtue,” he says, lifting his chin.

“Getting eaten alive is a consequence.” There’s an ache in your head slowly starting to take form.

“I was on my best behavior tonight and somehow I still got roasted.” He huffs out a laugh.

“I know.” Your breath clouds the air between you. “It was very unsettling.”

“I’ll take that as a thank you.”

There’s a hum of traffic, the sound of Washington bustling, even at this late hour, in the distant background. You feel the cold all the way to your kneecaps.

You wish the ground would open up to swallow you whole.

Rocking back on your heels, you mumble, “You know you really don’t need to wait. You can go back inside, or.. home.”

“I’ll wait to make sure you don’t get kidnapped.” He’s completely deadpan when he says it.

“Very noble of you.”

“I read a book about feminism once. Felt wrong to leave you alone.” He kicks a pebble with his polished shoe.

You scoff, pulling your coat tighter around you. “If you believe in feminism, then you should leave me be to fend for myself.”

“You’re drunk, [Y/N]. I’m fine right here.” He responds sternly, and that shuts you up.

The stars twinkle overhead in the night sky. You’re close enough to the suburbs that you can count every one if you wanted.

A pair of headlights round the corner. Your heads both snap at the sound of the engine, your Uber slowing to a crawl as it pulls up to the curb. The driver leans across the front seat and waves over at you.

Jungkook moves closer, squints into the window like your bodyguard. “This yours?” He turns his head to you.

“No, I'm just getting into strangers' cars now,” you mock, feet shuffling in the direction of the backseat.

Your hand reaches the handle, barely grasping your fingers around it before you hear “[Y/N]?”

“What?” You pivot and face him. You didn’t really think there was anything left to say. Unless he thought of the world’s wittiest comeback to your last dig.

The light from the entrance of the building casts little shadows across his features. His hands are jammed into the pockets of his slacks.

“Just… don’t let this get to your head or anything,” he pauses, swallows, looks you up and down again for what you think might be the millionth time in the past five hours. “You looked really pretty tonight.”

Pretty?

Your brain short-circuits. A full screen crash, blue screen, Mac rainbow wheel of doom.

It doesn’t look like he’s trying to flirt with you. On the contrary, actually. It looks like he just wanted you to know.

Your pulse is climbing Mount Everest. The memory of his voice saying those words is already stitching itself into the fabric of your red dress.

You nod at him, a small smile playing upon your lips. Your fingers fumble for the handle and this time, you rip open the back door. Slipping inside, the door slams shut behind you.

The driver doesn’t speak as he drives away from the curb, from the penthouse, from the afterparty you should’ve never went to, from Jungkook.

You don’t dare look out the window to check if he’s still there.

The driver pulls up to the parking attendant, sharing a few words as you shakily open your phone up. Your heart rattles inside your chest like loose change in a vending machine.

But what if he’s still there? you think, what if he’s waiting for you like he always does outside of press rooms and briefings to catch you?

So your head turns slightly to look out the back window as the driver ends his exchange with the attendant.

Jungkook is still waiting at the curb. Still waiting for you.

Monday rolls around with the grace of a semi-truck reversing over your skull.

Somehow, you’re still nursing the hangover of the century. Your head is pounding like it’s been struck by a baseball bat, and your stomach is flip-flopping around the lone bite of a chocolate chip muffin you managed to eat earlier. In total, you probably scraped together about 4 hours of sleep all weekend. Even your teeth seem to throb in protest.

You also spent countless hours trying not to replay Jungkook calling you pretty in your head.

Which, to your dismay, you failed at. You replayed it… a lot.

What was that exactly? A prank? You’ve spent 48 hours cycling through every possible explanation except the one that might actually be true.

And now, as reparation, you’ve been dropped right back into the gladiator pit.

In the dingy interview room, your elbows dig into the arm of your chair, notes scattered like landmines in front of you.

You need to recalibrate. You’re not going to let some Friday night fluke ruin your Monday morning murder.

It’s been a week since you and Jungkook were in contact with Monroe, and even though you know exactly what angle you want to play, there’s still some residual anxiety bubbling inside you. You reread a paragraph you wrote a few days ago about Monroe’s version of the vote count night, highlighter cap tucked between your teeth.

You hardly notice the door creak open, halfway through scribbling your opener when a familiar sigh breaks through the air, followed by the thump of a human sitting in the chair next to you.

“Hey.”

You blink at your notebook like you’ve forgotten how to read. Against your better judgment, you crane your neck to look over at him.

He’s in a blue shirt with the collar unbuttoned, eyes sagging like he too, lost sleep over the things that were said Friday night. There’s a stupid half-smile on his face you want to wipe off.

Your body is not behaving. It’s doing that inconvenient swoop again, the one where the birds and the bees and the butterflies have some meetup in your stomach. You’re going to buy a shotgun and kill each one of them.

“Hi.” is all you really have to offer this morning.

“...How are you?” His leg shifts uncomfortably.

“Don’t do that.” you warn, dropping the pen into your notepad.

He lets out a soft chuckle, “That good of a Friday night?”

“I’m still hungover, Jeon.” You’re not lying. You’ve gone through three Liquid IV’s already in the past 3 hours.

He takes a quick scan over your body, and you shrivel a bit into your chair. “I can see that.”

“And I feel like I partially blacked out on Friday.” you continue on, “which was probably the only reason I tolerated you so much.”

“Tolerated?” He sounds borderline offended. It makes your skin prickle with joy.

“Let’s make one thing clear.” You meet his eyes that are expectantly waiting for yours.

“Which is…”

You pick up your pen and play with it to give your brain something to focus on other than his brown eyes that resemble chocolate chips from the muffin you had earlier. “That thing you said? The… compliment?”

Compliment, confession, insult… they’re all blending together like synonyms.

“Yeah?” He leans back in his chair like he’s settling in for a show,

“Let’s just forget it. We can’t start being too nice to each other.” Your pen presses too hard into the note paper, ink bleeding into the sheet.

“Why not? I liked soft you better.” Jungkook shifts more into you, like he’s trying to get a better look at your face. Like he’s trying to see the you from Friday.

“I am not soft.”

You’re about as soft as a brick in a cashmere sweater.

“You are. You’re actually super nice when you’re wine drunk.”

And then you’re thinking back to those infinite glasses of chardonnay, the dance that should’ve been awkward but wasn’t. His comment about your eyes in the red dress. Pretty.

You clear your throat and adjust yourself in your chair. “I am— did you not just hear me?”

“I did, but I’m enjoying how angry you’re getting over it.” His smile is all picturesque white teeth and twinkling eyes.

You groan, facepalming. Your voice comes out all muffled. “Why are you the way that you are?”

“Ask my mom.” He shrugs.

“Okay, just, enough. You heard what I said. Let’s go with that.” This conversation needs to end now before you have an aneurysm.

“Whatever you say, bestie.”

You’re going to kill him and it’s not even the afternoon yet.

Halfway through your retort — “first of all, you calling me bestie makes me want to rip my skin off” — the door swings open, both your heads swiveling like you’ve been caught passing notes in class.

The woman at the door, the one with the mysteriously timed week-long illness, saunters in. Monroe looks more like she was at an exclusive spa in the French Alps all week, not battling a severe strain of the flu. Her hair is done in a perfect blowout, neither a frizz or flyaway in sight, and she’s donning unnecessarily large black sunglasses.

“Monroe,” you greet. “Glad you’re feeling better.”

“Oh. Thank you.” she exhales, tugging her sunglasses off and folding them delicately between two fingers. “You know how it is. Some virus, probably something my trainer’s kid brought back from Aspen. I was a mess.”

You peer over at Jungkook, who meets your eye. A silent exchange of Aspen? Aspen.

“We managed,” he offers up with a smile. “Hope you’re back to a hundred percent.”

“Close enough.” She waves her hand like she’s chasing off a mosquito. “I’ve been living off bone broth and IV drips. I’m as good as new.”

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek. You had a bag of hot cheetos and a three-day migraine. Maybe you should’ve looked into bone broth.

Monroe lowers herself into the chair across from you two. She smoothes a hand down her silk blouse, placing her phone screen down on the table. “So,” she starts, “do you two have anything good for me?”

The corner of Jungkook’s mouth quirks up.

“I’ve got about a thousand questions,” Jungkook taps his ballpoint pen against his lap. “But I need you to actually answer honestly.”

“Is that not what I've been doing?” Monroe asks innocently.

You glance up from your notepad. “Yes, but… this is still off the record. We want the truth. The honest truth, before we go public.”

There’s a brief pause on her end. Irritation flashes across her face. Or maybe it’s amusement — it’s hard to tell with women like Monroe. She’s polished to the point of opacity.

“A hell of a demand from a junior correspondent,” she retorts cooly.

“Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was worth it,” you say.

“At a certain point,” Jungkook adds casually, “we’d like to do these on the record.”

“As we agreed on,” you echo. Mark had made a very lucrative deal with you two. His end of the bargain needed to be held up.

“Hmph.” Monroe makes an indignant noise in response.

Your thumb brushes over the corner of your notepad. “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to go back to the very beginning this time.”

Her brows lift, but there’s not a wrinkle in sight. Her plastic surgeon is working overtime.

“Not the vote count night,” you clarify. “Before that.”

“Alright.” She’s visibly hesitant to your advances. Then again, she should’ve known what she signed up for when Mark sent two eager correspondents her way.

“So… when you two first met. What was that like?” you ask.

“That’s the angle you’re taking?” she snorts, delighted by your audacity.

“It is.” You cross one leg over the other, attempting to seem as nonchalant as you sound. But your pulse ticks behind your jaw. It’s always a gamble when you go off-script, and your opener had nothing to do with this whatsoever.

“Is this amateur hour?” She tosses her hair over her shoulder dramatically.

You snap your notepad shut. The sound recoils off the cream-colored walls. “Listen, public opinion right now isn't great. Without us, people think you’re just some money hungry cheater. If you want your story told, you’ll have to tell it right.”

She stares at you intently before pinching the bridge of her nose with her fingers. You can practically hear the thoughts in her head ping-ponging back and forth.

“You know,” Monroe remarks, “people always believe things without listening to both sides. I guess if you are listening to Delgado, you would think I'm some crazy obsessed woman.”

Oh. Oh. You’re getting somewhere.

“Are you not?” Jungkook asks, like that’s the most reasonable follow up in the world.

You shoot him a glare, but Monroe laughs loudly.

“No. I'm not. I’m normally very poised.” You imagine so. The woman probably spends her days hanging out with her personal trainer and delaying the aging process as much as possible.

“So, when you met him…” you press. You know you have her; her shoulders dip, her fingers toy with the hem of her skirt.

“Well,” Monroe sighs, “we met like most people do. We were at a retreat in Virginia. A policy weekend thing. I saw him in real life for the first time.. and, I don’t know. I’d heard murmurings of him, nothing good.”

“What did you hear about him?” you ask, flipping your notepad open, writing furiously.

She ticks off the words like items on a grocery list. “Arrogant. Obnoxious. Rich. Entitled. Do I need to go on?”

No, she doesn’t. Quite frankly, it sounds a lot like the man sitting next to you.

“Got it.” You scribble the words on your page. “So when you two were finally in the same room?”

“It was electric. He’s electric.” Her tone wavers a little as she recalls it, and the vulnerability takes you aback.

Your pen slows to a halt. “Really? This self-absorbed, entitled man?”

“Even the worst storms can light up a sky.”

That’s one way to describe a congressional sex scandal.

She hunches toward you both, like she’s about to impart vast amounts of wisdom. “Have you two ever met someone who, the minute you meet them, it feels like your whole world shifts? Like they were put on this planet to haunt you?”

You know about that in more ways than one.

“Maybe.” Jungkook says. You’re keenly aware of how claustrophobic this room suddenly feels.

Monroe nods triumphantly. “That was us. It took one look, one conversation, and I knew it was going to be like that.”

“Was it… like that? While you two were fraternizing?" Jungkook questions. The edge in his voice has gone dull.

She tosses her head back in laughter. “Definitely. He always had the upper hand, and I was chasing him while he dangled the carrot.”

A weird feeling settles in your stomach. You know what it’s like to chase, to want to matter to someone who doesn’t deserve it.

“That couldn’t have been easy,” you offer.

She exhales a slow breath. “You know, as a woman who’s incredibly intelligent, I’m used to men putting me down in rooms I’ve been made to feel like I don’t belong in. But with him, it was different. Like he wanted to hear what I had to say. I was important.”

Your pen stills again.

“So I chased him. I chased him until we couldn’t anymore.”

“So it wasn't one sided?” you ask without preamble.

She eyes you, lets her gaze drag along your figure. “You tell me.”

You hadn’t planned on answering honestly but something about the heat in the air, the sting of your half-sober Sunday still clinging to you makes you mutter, “I don’t think so”

Monroe points both manicured fingers at you like you’ve just won a game show. “Ding ding.”

“Women on the Hill are spectacles,” she says. Her stare pins you where you sit. “We’re all too smart for our own good, and sometimes we’re made to feel otherwise. Haven’t you ever felt like that?”

“I have.” you admit. “More than once.”

“I entangled myself with him because I was his equal. In the past, I’ve never been someone's equal before. Men adored me, sure. But they never matched me. I just wanted that for once.” Her bracelets clink softly as she gestures.

As you observe her, a wave of empathy washes over you. Each slight tremor in her voice reveals a vulnerability that calls out for compassion.

“I get it.” you say. The words taste sour on your tongue. “I’ve never had that.”

That earns you a sympathetic hum. “I’m sorry, dear. It’s exhilarating. When you find the man that loves your brain more than just you, you’ll understand why nothing else could ever work.”

Your laugh is stuck behind your ribs.

“The last and only boyfriend I ever had thought I was too smart. He said girls like me should be seen and not heard.” Your fingers tighten on your notepad.

And you don’t know when you ingested truth serum, but it flows out of you with ease. So easily that it makes you twitch in your chair when repeating the words out loud that have haunted you for years.

“What the fuck?” Jungkook blurts out incredulously, completely ignoring the audience in the room. It’s the first three words he’s said in minutes, and it punches through the room with force. His eyebrows are pulled taut, jaw tense. He blinks at you, like he’s trying to discern if he heard you right.

“What the fuck.” He repeats when you make no move to offer up a response or explanation. Not that you owe him one.

But you feel like you need to calm him down before he gets up and throws his chair across the room. “It was a joke,” you murmur. “He said it jokingly.”

“Oh,” Jungkook curses under his breath, then goes, “Hilarious. Real knee slapper.”

His jaw is still clenched so tightly you’re surprised it hasn’t cracked. His fingers flex on the armrest repeatedly.

Monroe’s eyes flicker between you both, intrigued. “Men are so fragile.”

Your pen tip presses an inky bruise into the paper.

“Now you see it,” she says, like she’s handing you a mirror. “Delgado enriched my mind.”

It’s a pretty sentence, a poignant reflection on the bittersweet reality of having someone unexpected love you for exactly who you are.

You flip a page in your notes. “Public opinion of you right now… is not great.”

“Oh?” One side of Monroe’s lips curl.

“They all think you did it for money.”

A humorless laugh escapes her. “That’s rich. I was never getting his money.”

You pause. Pen hovers above paper. “Then what did you want?”

“Him.”

There’s a desperate ache inside you that begs to be seen — not in fragments, not in convenience — but entirely.

“Have you seen what he’s been saying?” Jungkook switches his pen from his left to his right. It’s a beautiful shade of black. You’ve noticed his signature pens lying around rooms sometimes.

Monroe nods. “I have.”

“And?” He lets his pen fall to his lap.

“I can’t let it bother me. If I let every man rewrite my story, I’d never get out of bed.” She rolls her eyes.

“Well, I’d love to rewrite your story.” He props his elbow on the armrest, eyes twinkling the way all journalists do when they’ve been presented with the opportunity to write.

“We,” you correct. “We’d love to help rewrite it.”

There’s no way you’ll let him write this alone. This is your story as much as it is his.

“Right. Both of you.” Monroe bemuses, lips quirking.

We’d love to rewrite it.

We.

When the hell did that start happening?

Nine years ago, you had a boyfriend.

You didn’t necessarily want one. Didn’t go looking for it like most people did your age.

See, your plan was always this — college, job, and pay your parents back for everything they did for you. There was no line item for ‘boyfriend.’

Once, when you were too young to understand the logistics of the world, you had sketched out your life with the precision of an artist, every detail carefully outlined. A prestigious Ivy League university, a fulfilling career as a journalist, a charming home for your family — each element of your future unfolded like a well-rehearsed script. The house you envisioned was nestled just down the road from your parents, a lovely two-story home with three cozy bedrooms that danced in your dreams.

Even when you were ten, sharing a cramped bedroom with your family, you had determined that this would someday be your parents’. A token of gratitude for all their hard work, for everything they did to put food on the table.

Then came him — the soft-spoken classmate who unexpectedly wove himself into the fabric of your life during your senior year of high school. He was a gentle soul, effortlessly blending into the background of your AP English class. He drew little attention to himself amidst the bustling energy of teenage life.

And so you let your plan alter a little. You let yourself fall for someone to fulfill the void. You etched him into every crevice of your plan until there wasn’t a single part of it that didn’t include him.

Despite how easily he fit into it all, he made an effort to undo it. He pulled away at pieces of yourself until there was nothing left to give. He took and took and took.

And when you’re seventeen from a poor family that has had to make peace with owning nothing, you accept being taken from.

So when you walk out of the interview room after your time with Monroe is up, after spending an hour talking about a man who is taking more from her than he’s giving, you run. Speed down the hallway as quickly as you can.

When you turn the corner, leaning against the cold wall to ground yourself, a quick patter of footsteps follow you but you try to ignore it.

“Are you alright? You kinda ran out of there.”

Jungkook hides behind the wall, slightly out of breath, as if he too was maintaining your speed down the hall. His dark hair is tousled over his forehead.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You wave him off, hitching your bag higher on your shoulder. “Guess I’m still hungover.”

You attempt to laugh but it’s clear he doesn’t find that the least bit funny.

“I thought it might’ve been because of what you said in there.” His words land between you like a dropped match on dry grass.

“Huh?” You blink up at him.

“That thing you said.” He clears his throat. Looks up at the ceiling like it might have the answer on how to ask what he’s asking properly. “Was that true?”

You know exactly what he means. You’re just too busy trying to find an exit route from this hallway.

“What part?” you ask, because it buys you time. Maybe if you keep playing dumb, this whole conversation will dissolve and he’ll call you a dimwit so you can return to some sense of normalcy.

“About what your ex said to you?” he says, quieter. “That you should be seen and not heard?”

The memory has followed you into adulthood like a shadow that forgot to disappear at night.

“Jungkook, it’s fine.” You straighten your shoulders, looking down the empty hallway before looking back at him. “It was in the past. I don’t need you to pity me.”

“I’m not pitying you.”

“Sureeee.” You shift your weight onto your other foot. “Because this whole ‘intervention’ doesn’t feel at all like pity.”

“I’m not. I just… “ He struggles with the words for a second. “I just don’t think you should walk around thinking that he might be right.”

Hilarious, because that’s the exact thing you have been walking around thinking, ever since high school. Ever since someone looked at your ambition like it was a flaw, like being too intelligent made you less lovable.

“Trust me, I don’t.” You lie right through the skin of your teeth.

“Okay, good.” He pauses, eyes flicking from your chest that’s still heaving up to your mouth. “I wouldn’t have anyone to argue with if you started playing dumb for me.”

“I would never.” You push his shoulder playfully, hoping to blow out the fire behind his eyes. If anything, it just intensifies at your brief touch.

Your attention splits when you hear someone heaving down the hallway, and Jungkook’s eyes gaze behind your shoulder at the sound of a poor man dying.

When you turn, it’s Mark, who you actually forgot about a little after agreeing to write the piece on Monroe. You’re about to offer him an inhaler as he catches up to you, tie flung over his shoulder, bracing the wall for support, but he speaks before you can.

“I’ve been looking for you two everywhere.” he gasps, “You’re quite the runners, aren’t you?”

You meet Jungkook’s eyes for a second, barely containing your laughter.

“Did someone chase you down here or is this some kind of fitness challenge?” Jungkook folds his arms as if he also didn’t just run down a similar hallway.

Mark straightens, face blotchy. “I haven’t broken a sweat like that since the holiday party in 2019 when the heater combusted and it was like, a thousand degrees.”

Jungkook grins widely. “You okay, man? Need a defibrillator or something?"

“I need,” Mark pants, pointing between you both, “the two of you. That’s what I need. You’re not going to like it, but it’s urgent.”

Nothing good has ever followed a sentence like that.

“By all means, continue to ruin my day,” you mutter under your breath.

Mark pulls out his phone, ignoring your snide remark. “Delgado’s team just announced he’s holding a surprise press conference in Manhattan on Friday. Monroe’s team, in retaliation, is doing one Thursday morning.”

“Wait, so…” you deadpan.

“They’re going head to head, pretty much.” Mark turns his phone towards you, showcasing his calendar that is color-coded to a T. “In New York. They’re spinning this like it’s some truth tour.”

You have a feeling the truth won’t actually be told here.

“Listen, this could be huge. We need people in the room we can trust, people who know the case.”

Oh no. You know exactly where this is going.

Your hangover headache returns with a vengeance.

He must see it written in your face, because he goes, “I know what you’re thinking. But it’s all expenses paid.”

Your first instinct is to bolt. To fake a cough and say, “oh no, I think I have Monroe’s alleged flu.”

The last thing you need is a getaway to New York with Jungkook. You haven’t been in that city with him since graduation, when you took your respective seats as valedictorian and salutatorian. He tried to trip you as you were getting up to deliver your speech, but you dodged him in time.

Jenna leaps into your mind as if she’s always lurked in there. The promotion. Senior correspondent. The raise. The money you could use to buy your parents that home.

Mark keeps going, unaware of the war inside your brain. “Transporation is covered. Rooms covered. Media badges cleared for you. I can tryyy and squeeze you in the front row.”

Jungkook looks between you and Mark with an unreadable expression.

You have a promise to uphold to yourself — a vow you’ve been building your life around since you were old enough to know what the word ‘eviction’ meant.

“Fine. I’ll go.”

It surprises you when it leaves your mouth.

“Yeah,” Jungkook echoes. “Me too.”

Mark claps his hands together gleefully like you just agreed to be his groomsmen at his wedding. “Amazing. I’ll work on sending all details to your emails. God, you two are the best.”

He doesn't really say much more, spinning on his feet and clacking away on his phone already, whistling like he hasn’t put a dent on your weekend.

Your stomach knots itself into a bow, and you pray New York won’t take more from you than you have left to give.

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

#jeon jungkook #jeon jeongguk #jungkook smut #jungkook #jungkook x reader #bts jungkook #jungkook x you #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #bts #bts x reader #bts smut #bts x you

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btnclmrttn · 2 years ago

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L Lawliet NSFW HCs

[Some crumbs for the dying simps]

Actual hands-on experience is minimal. The amount of online and research he’s done is immeasurable. It was all curiosity, so he says

I said before that he’s switchy, but if you give me any character, I could make a switch out of them. Choosing between dominant or submissive, he’s dominant.

Boosts his ego if he can get you flustered, and will always try to do so. He wants to put that work in. When he gets you shy, he will dig to make it worse.

He will stare shamelessly at your body. Sometimes, his conversations are directed to your body. Will carry out an entire conversation talking to your tits. It’s not necessarily a “hint” either, just L being L, and he’s a pervert.

He always asks for consent with everything he does. You will never be directly surprised with anything just to be sure you’re okay. When he’s certain you are not busy with anything on your mind, he’ll sit you down and discuss things long before even trying. He never stops asking and talks you through everything. He understands how vulnerable things can get and would never want to put a strain on this kind of trust with him.

His curiosity could put him into a BDSM category. He wants to try everything. Everything. Now, he has a physical outlet to get mad curious. (Also why he takes your consent so seriously)

Something a lil specific: Remote-controlled vibrators. Interested in seeing how well you can hide your arousal when you’re among company/in public. You always get a nice reward for making it through his game.

No secret he’s got money. Lingerie fixation. What he wants you in, he’s buying. Has swiped your underwear on multiple occasions.

As for libido, it has phases. He handles high-stress cases well, but you're a big help. If a case is tough to crack, he just descends into this unhinged freak of whore nature. The same goes for if he’s too bored.

Prefers giving over receiving head. Like his sweet fixation, you earned a place up there and now considered a necessity to his overall well-being, so he says. (Certainly, it’s universally accepted that L is also good at it. You see how he munching his desserts?)

#death note #death note x reader #l lawliet n/sfw #l lawliet x reader #death note l #l lawliet x reader smut

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copperbadge · 6 months ago

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The new heated mattress pad is on the bed! So far, kitty approved.

I'm not sure I wholeheartedly recommend the brand I bought. The shady Korean importers let me down so I bought a Beautyrest brand queen-sized pad and it's....

Well, it has deep pocket corners, which I like because I have a tall mattress. It heats up well and gets very warm. Both things I pretty much required. It has dual controls, one per side, which I wasn't nuts about but at queen size and above they ALL do. Supposedly you can switch them on remotely somehow but I haven't figured that part out yet.

What I really dislike is that it also has two power plugs, so you have to use up a whole outlet (or get a power strip) to power both sides. That's downright irksome, especially since they don't want you to use a surge protector or power strip, but I ignored them and used a power strip anyway.

So we shall see, but at least the cats are happy :)

[ID: two photos of my bed; in one it is nearly made up and turned down, with a grey fitted sheet and yellow duvet cover. In the second image, Dearborn the Tortie and Polk the tabby are sitting loaf-style, only slightly suspicious looking, on the duvet.]

#dearborn and polk #bed looks

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suhkusa · 11 months ago

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EGOIST 20.

PAIRING. Atsumu Miya x f!Reader

CW. angst, hurt no comfort, the aftermath of past chapters

A/N. me when

-> MASTERLIST.

Everything you did was on impulse.

You acted before thinking things through rationally and it was chaotic.

Your heart and head hurt so bad, you felt like there was nothing more that you could do except sob and mull over your mistakes.

Mistake.

You felt absolutely stupid for thinking something was different. Something would change. But the universe came around and found the worse way, the worse person, to prove you dead wrong.

To make matters worse, you were depressed and jobless. At this rate, you’d have to move back home with your family and work at a local retail store, and you were not going back to that lifestyle if you could help it.

On the brighter side, your emails from news outlets and your notifications from social media had finally begun to slow. At this point, it’s been a week since the initial incident.

The only person you’ve kept in touch with from your former job was Kiyoomi. According to him, the emails hadn’t slowed on his end, but that was to be expected since he was the center of many fangirls’ attention.

He’d keep you at least a little sane when you felt your mentals decline.

As for the other man, you hadn’t heard or seen anything of him. Which was definitely for the best. You were actually surprised he hadn’t shown up at your door, because your threat to call the police if he came was half-empty.

And you absolutely hate yourself, because even though you know he did you extremely wrong, there’s a sliver of you that misses him. That wishes that he hadn’t been the cause of all your hurt so that he could be the one who is comforting you.

But the world is cruel and so was Atsumu.

———

You had expected it to take months to find a new job, but after you had helped manage a champion team, the calls came in faster than you could answer.

There were too many good offers, even offers from teams that MSBY had beaten. You took the easy way out of each call by telling them that you’d get back to them ASAP. You’d probably have to research the teams and players before really considering or accepting a job offer.

Other than job-hunting, you found yourself at home nearly all day. You’d play video games with Sakusa or just do some cleaning around the house. You’d found a new hobby with gardening in your spare time. Though, you weren’t very good at keeping them alive.

If not doing any of that, you’d be caught up in your head. Whether it be thinking of the past or worrying about the future, your line of thought would somehow find its way to him. You’d scold yourself every time, but you couldn’t stop the intrusive thoughts. You’re scared that if you were to see him, you’d crumble all over again. You don’t know if you had it in you to turn him away, even after everything.

A knock at your door causes you to jump. You quickly get up to open it to Kiyoomi.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” you bow to him jokingly, before he walks in.

“I was here two days ago, not too much,”

You laugh before the two of you walk to your living room, making yourselves comfortable.

“How has the unemployed life been treating you?” he asks as he begins to connect his Nintendo Switch to your TV.

“Good, actually. I got like almost 8 different job offers, I think one of them is actually from an overseas team,”

His eyes widen at that, “Impressive,”

You nudge at him, “Yeah, I’m actually considering that one, it might be in California? But it’s far, but at the same time maybe that’s not a bad thing,”

“Could finally get away from all this madness,” Sakusa adds, taking your remote to switch the source.

“Mm, yeah. But at the same time this is my home and I don’t feel like I got closure with—”

Sakusa’s head snaps your direction, his eyes look at you knowingly causing you to stop. “Don’t start,”

You groan in distress, “I can’t,” you throw your head back, “I’m a mess,”

He uses the Switch controller to select a game, giving you the other controller. “Maybe you should seriously consider that overseas offer. It’d be a nice change of scenery, and it’s not a forever thing. At the end of the day you could always come back. I think you being here reminds you too much of him, and it’s not doing you any good,”

Your eyes widen, “Woah, so serious, Omi,”

His eyes squint at you, “I am serious,”

You laugh, taking the controller into your hands.

“I will though,” you continue, “You’re probably right, I might just need to untether myself from this god forsaken country for a while. Too many bad memories,”

“Thank you, Kiyoomi,” you smile, clicking the button to ready up your character.

“Anytime,”

———

Atsumu considers going on hiatus. Contrast to you, you’ve been on his mind 24/7. Atsumu always hated those stupid “everything reminds me of them,” jokes, but now he seriously relates.

He can’t drown himself in other women or alcohol. Because it feels wrong. He finds himself needing and wanting to be loyal to you, even though he hasn’t seen you in more than a month.

Atsumu avoids asking Sakusa about you. Mostly because the last time he did ask, Sakusa told him off. He opted to make burner accounts to see what you were up to on social media. Unfortunately for him, you stopped posting almost entirely before turning your account private.

He knew he was getting borderline obsessive but he couldn’t help it. He was already fighting the urge to go to you himself everyday. To try and ask around to anyone and everyone who may know what you’ve been up to.

Atsumu knows all of this is wrong of him. He was the one who did you wrong. Nothing he’d do would ever make it up to you.

Everything was working against him.

After you left that day, he had told Angie off and blocked her once and for all.

When he found out you had resigned, he almost considered quitting.

He wanted to curse every higher being for allowing things to turn out this way.

But nothing could compare to how he felt the day he eavesdropped on Kiyoomi’s phone call. His phone call with you. He stood by the doorway of the locker room as he listened as closely as he could.

After so long he’d finally gotten something, crumbs, of what you were doing. Though it was definitely not what he had expected or what he wanted.

“You’re taking the job?” Sakusa sounds excited, Atsumu assumes he’s talking about you getting a new job, “That’s good, sounds like a good offer,”

There’s a pause, and he guesses that you’re probably saying something in response from the other end.

“Are you nervous though? The U.S is pretty far, but California is cool from what I’ve heard,”

Atsumu’s heart sinks to his stomach. California? You were leaving the country?

His mind is running wild. Atsumu obviously knew you’d eventually find a new job, but he had thought you’d still be within arms reach. Close enough for him to reach out to you when he feels like the time is right. But across the globe? Atsumu is so caught up in his own thoughts that he doesn’t register the sound of Sakusa ending the call with you or him coming out of the locker room.

Atsumu nearly jumps at the other man’s voice, “Oh, you,”

He has no words, and just stares at Sakusa. “You heard, huh?”

“Good for her, she’ll finally be able to get away from you.”

The words from Sakusa are like a slap in the face, and if he was talking about anyone other than you Atsumu would’ve let him have a piece of his mind. But Sakusa was right.

He didn’t want to sound conceited or boost his own ego, but he probably had some part in your decision making. And while in the past, he probably would’ve felt some sick gratification from driving you far away. But now it just made him feel sick. Just sick.

Atsumu is stuck between a rock and a hard place. He wants to see you, to try and change your mind, he knows his efforts would be wasted.

Still, would it really hurt to try?

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu angst #atsumu x reader #atsumu angst #haikyuu series #haikyuu atsumu series #atsumu x reader angst #haikyuu x reader angst #raeworks #atsumu fanfic

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elladreams · 10 months ago

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The Perfect Setup (Zandvoort) // LN4

summary: Zandvoort '24. A young engineering prodigy, recruited by McLaren to solve complex F1 challenges, grapples with media scrutiny and an undeniable chemistry with driver Lando Norris. As tensions rise during a crucial race, they must balance professional duty with their growing personal connection.

warnings: she/her reader, smut (18+), unprotected (shower 😳) sex, size kink.

words: 6.9K

The roar of engines filled the air, a symphony of power and precision that reverberated through the paddock. The smell of burning rubber and gasoline mixed with the salty breeze from the nearby coast, creating an intoxicating atmosphere that signaled another race was about to begin. The McLaren garage was a hive of activity—mechanics making last-minute adjustments, engineers poring over data, and drivers mentally preparing for the challenge ahead. Amidst the controlled chaos, you stood, a pillar of calm in a world of speed.

You have always stood out, a prodigy in a field where experience often outweighed talent. But here you were, at the heart of one of the most prestigious teams in Formula 1, your hands and mind guiding the finely-tuned machinery that could make or break a race. At just twenty-two, you were already a respected figure in the paddock, known for your brilliance in engineering and your unyielding dedication to the sport.

Your family had sacrificed so much to help you reach your potential. You were always miles ahead of the other kids. While they were playing with dolls or video games, you were more interested in how those things worked. At six years old, you were already taking apart remote control cars, not to play with them, but to understand the intricate systems that made them move. By the time you were ten, you were building small engines from scratch, fascinated by the power and precision of mechanical systems.

Your parents quickly realized they had a prodigy on their hands. They encouraged your curiosity, enrolling you in expensive science and engineering programs meant for kids much older than you. You thrived in these environments, always eager to learn more, to push the boundaries of what you could create. By the time you were a teenager, you had already won several national engineering competitions, earning a reputation as a young genius in the world of mechanics.

When you first discovered Formula 1, everything changed. The speed, the technology, the sheer complexity of the cars—it captivated you like nothing else. You devoured everything you could find about F1 engineering, learning about aerodynamics, power units, and the delicate balance between speed and control. While other teenage girls were dreaming of prom dresses and much older boyfriends , you were dreaming of being in the garage, fine-tuning the machines that drove the world of motorsport.

Your parents knew that pursuing a career in F1 was a long shot, especially for a young woman, but they supported you every step of the way. They worked multiple jobs and sacrificed their own dreams so that you could chase yours.

Thankfully, your talent didn’t go unnoticed. By the time you were 16, you had caught the attention of several top engineers in the F1 world, earning an internship with Mercedes. You quickly made a name for yourself as a technical genius, capable of understanding and improving complex systems that seasoned engineers struggled with. The paddock buzzed with stories of the young girl who was instrumental in Mercedes' dominance.

With your newfound fame came an onslaught of media attention. Reporters from major news outlets were relentless, hounding you for interviews and prying into every aspect of your life. They asked invasive questions about your personal relationships, sought your opinions on the sport's latest controversies, and even pressed you to address misogynistic rumors linking you romantically with certain drivers. The spotlight, once a place of professional pride, had become a battlefield where your every word was scrutinized, and your achievements were often overshadowed by baseless gossip.

Zak Brown fought tooth and nail to bring you to McLaren, recognizing that you were the missing piece they needed to conquer the new regulations. When it became clear that the team was struggling to master the latest specifications, he knew they needed someone with your unique blend of technical expertise and innovative thinking. Zak saw in you a mind that could bridge the gap between theory and practice, someone who could not only understand the intricacies of the new rules but also translate them into real-world performance on the track.

But today, on the day of Max Verstappen's home race, there was an unmistakable charge in the air—tensions were higher, the stakes more personal. It wasn’t just another race; it was a proving ground, not only for the car but for you, the team, and especially for the driver who had become both your greatest challenge and your fiercest ally: Lando Norris.

Lando, the young, fiercely talented star of McLaren, had a natural charm that made him a media darling, but it was his relentless drive to win that truly defined him. From the moment you joined the team, your relationship with Lando had been anything but smooth. Your strong wills collided over every detail, every decision. He saw you as a nuisance, someone who constantly questioned his instincts and pushed him beyond his comfort zone. To you, Lando was stubborn, even arrogant at times—a driver who needed to understand that perfection on the track wasn't just about raw talent but about achieving the perfect synergy between man and machine. And today, that’s exactly what you were trying to achieve.

Standing in the garage, you reviewed the data on your tablet for what felt like the hundredth time. You had pulled an all-nighter, fine-tuning an experimental setup that you believed could give Lando the edge he needed on this notoriously challenging circuit. But convincing him to trust your untested approach was another matter.

Lando stormed into the garage, the top part of his race suit hanging low on his hips revealing his fire proofs, his expression a mix of frustration and determination. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, glancing at the setup specs displayed on the screen. “This is what you’ve been working on all night?”

“Yes,” you replied, meeting his gaze without flinching. “This setup could give you the downforce you need through the corners without sacrificing speed on the straights. I’ve run the simulations a dozen times—it works.”

“Simulations?” Lando scoffed, running a hand through his curls in agitation. “Simulations aren’t the same as the real thing. We can’t afford to take risks like this, not here, not today.”

“This isn’t a risk, Lando,” you shot back, your voice steady despite the tension. “This is a calculated decision based on hard data. I wouldn’t be recommending it if I didn’t believe it would make a difference.”

He crossed his arms, his jaw set in that stubborn way you’d come to recognize all too well. “You’re asking me to trust a setup we’ve never used in a race, in front of Max’s home crowd, no less. What if it doesn’t work? What if it costs me the race?”

“And what if it wins you the race?” you countered, stepping closer to him. “You know as well as I do that playing it safe isn’t going to cut it against Verstappen on his home turf. We need every advantage we can get, and this setup is that advantage.”

Lando stared at you, his eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt. But you didn’t waver. You believed in this setup, and more importantly, you believed in him.

Finally, he relented, nodding slowly. "Fine. But if this doesn’t work, I swear I will never let you live it down."

“It will” you interrupted, a small tired smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “I’ll be right there with you, making sure it does.”

A ghost of a smirk played on his face, his eyes betraying the glimmer of a sparkle. For a moment, the garage was silent, the two of you standing closer than you realized, caught in the intensity of the moment. The intoxicating blend of his dark, amber-scented perfume mingled with the unmistakable and familiar scent of the paddock, created a heady aroma that threatened to cloud your senses entirely.

Your breath hitched as his gaze dropped to your lips, lingering there for a fraction of a second before flicking back up to your eyes. You could feel your cheeks burning as his gaze caressed you.

Lando cleared his throat, breaking the spell and stepping back.

"Well, let's get this done." he said, his usual light tone returning as he ran a hand through his hair again. "Wouldn't want to keep the adoring crowd waiting." He winked.

You rolled your eyes and smiled, thankful for the change in energy.

You both turned back to the screen to finalize the setup adjustments. As you worked side by side, the air between you felt different—not just charged with the usual tension, but with a deeper, more intimate connection. It was almost as if a switch had been flipped, and you had moved from being teammates to something more.

The race was minutes away, but for the first time, you felt like you were truly part of a team—Lando’s team. And that, more than anything, was what mattered. The moments before the race were a blur of final checks and hurried conversations. You stood by Lando’s car, your heart pounding with adrenaline, not just from the intensity of the race but from something deeper—something you were trying desperately not to acknowledge. As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a golden hue over the Zandvoort Circuit, you caught Lando’s eye. He was already in his race suit, helmet in hand, but there was a softness in his gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the connection you’d both been dancing around for months.

The starting grid was tense with anticipation. Lando had secured pole position in a spectacular qualifying session, and the team was buzzing with excitement. But everyone knew this race wouldn’t be easy—not with Verstappen starting right behind him, eager to impress his home crowd.

The lights went out, and the roar of the engines filled the air as the cars launched off the line. Lando got a good start, but so did Verstappen. As they barreled into the first corner, Verstappen made a daring move, diving down the inside and taking the lead. The crowd erupted in cheers, the sea of orange on its feet as their hometown hero took charge.

“Hold steady,” you whispered under your breath, your eyes glued to the screen. Lando had lost the lead, but the race was far from over.

The next few laps were a blur of precision and strategy. Lando stayed close to Verstappen, not letting him get away, but it was clear that the McLaren’s setup was allowing him to conserve his tires while maintaining pace. The tension was palpable, every corner, every straight a testament to the fine-tuning you and the team had worked so hard to perfect.

As the race approached its midpoint, an opportunity presented itself. Verstappen, pushing hard to maintain his lead, began to show signs of tire degradation. You watched the data closely, your fingers gripping the edge of the console.

“This is it, Lando,” you said over the radio, your voice steady but laced with anticipation. “His tires are gone. You’ve got this.”

Lando didn’t respond, but you knew he’d heard you. His driving became more aggressive, more precise, as he closed the gap to Verstappen. And then, on lap 47, the moment you’d been waiting for arrived. Lando set himself up perfectly coming out of Turn 9, using the slipstream to his advantage. As they approached the hairpin, he made his move, diving down the inside with the confidence of a driver who knew his car—and his own abilities—were more than a match for the challenge.

He retook the lead, and this time, he wasn’t about to let it go.

“Nicely done, Lando!” you cheered into the radio, unable to keep the excitement out of your voice. The entire team erupted in applause, but your focus remained on the car, on the driver who had just reminded everyone why he was one of the best.

The final laps were a masterclass in control. Lando maintained his lead, keeping Max at bay and managing his tires to perfection, while also building a substantial gap. As he crossed the finish line, taking the checkered flag, the McLaren garage exploded in celebration.

“You did it, Lando! You won!” The words burst out of you, the relief and joy evident in every syllable.

Lando’s voice crackled over the radio, filled with the same emotion. “We did it. The car came alive.” A flush of pride warmed your cheeks. This was your win, too—your idea, your hard work, your dedication to perfection.

As Lando pulled into the pit lane, the world seemed to slow down. He stepped out of the car, removing his helmet to reveal a smile that lit up his entire face. You had joined the team to celebrate alongside Lando. Before you knew it, he was walking toward you, his eyes locked onto yours. The team was cheering, clapping him on the back, but Lando didn’t stop until he was right in front of you. He reached out, taking your hand in his, the contact sending a jolt through you.

“Thank you.” He said simply, the words full of meaning.

Your smile widened as you squeezed his hand, the rush of adrenaline and pride filling you with a new kind of certainty. In this moment, the only thing that mattered was him, and you. You squeezed his hand, your heart racing not from the adrenaline of the race, but from the intensity of the moment between you. “Thank you for trusting me, Lando.”

There was a brief silence, the noise of the celebration fading into the background as the world narrowed to just the two of you. Then, with a quick glance around as if to check that no one was watching too closely, Lando leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, his breath warm against your skin.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” he repeated, a whisper that sent your heart into overdrive.

You smiled, feeling the warmth spread through you. “And we’ll do it again.”

The race had been a victory, but this moment—standing with Lando, the connection between you undeniable—felt like something even more precious. It was the start of something new, something that went beyond the garage and the racetrack.

—-

The podium celebration had been nothing short of electrifying. The roar of the crowd, the spray of champagne, and the sight of Lando beaming as he hoisted the trophy high above his head was a moment you knew you would never forget. As the McLaren team gathered to celebrate, you found yourself on the podium alongside Lando, representing the team that had worked tirelessly to secure this victory. It was a whirlwind of emotions—pride and undeniable joy.

But as you made your way back to the garage drenched in Ferrari champagne, the adrenaline of the win still pulsing through your veins, you rounded a corner and nearly collided with Chiara, McLaren’s senior PR manager. Her usually composed expression was tense, and you could tell immediately that she had something on her mind.

“Great job out there,” Chiara started, her voice measured but tinged with concern. “The team couldn’t be happier, but we need to talk.” Your stomach sank as a sense of foreboding crept over you. Chiara had been your main point of contact for media communication since joining the team, and you knew that if she was this worried, it must be something serious. You felt a knot form in your stomach. The way she was looking at you told you that this wasn’t just about the race. “What’s on your mind, Chiara?”

She glanced around, making sure no one else was within earshot, then pulled you aside into a quieter corner of the garage. “Look, I don’t want to rain on your parade, but we need to be careful about how things appear. The media and fans are already buzzing about you and Lando, especially after that little moment after the finish.”

Your mind flashed back to the celebration, to the kiss on the cheek Lando had given you, the way his hand had lingered on yours just a bit longer than necessary. It had felt private, special, but of course, nothing was truly private in the world of Formula 1, especially not when the cameras were always rolling.

“You know how it is,” Chiara continued, her tone softening slightly. “Fans are passionate, and the media loves a good story. They’ll spin anything to make headlines. I’m not saying you can’t have…whatever it is you have with Lando, but we need to manage the optics. The last thing we want is for this to distract from the team’s success.”

You nodded, understanding her concerns. The last thing you wanted was to give the press ammunition to turn your hard-earned victory into tabloid fodder. But the idea of keeping your newfound feelings for Lando hidden, of pretending there was nothing between you, felt like a bitter pill to swallow.

“I get it, Chiara,” you said finally, meeting her gaze with determination. “I’m not going to let them turn this into a scandal. Lando and I…we’re professionals first. We’ll handle this.”

Chiara smiled, relieved by your response. “I know you will. Just keep in mind that perception is everything in this sport. And right now, you both have the world’s attention.”

With that, Chiara gave your arm a reassuring squeeze before heading off to her next order of business. You stood there, rooted to the spot for a moment, letting her words sink in. The exhilaration of the victory still buzzed through you, but it was now tinged with the sobering reality of the situation. The weight of her advice pressed down on your shoulders, reminding you that nothing in this world came without its complications.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair, dislodging tiny droplets of champagne that sprayed out like glittering confetti. The sticky remnants of the podium celebration clung to you, a tangible reminder of the night’s highs. What you needed now was a serious shower—something to wash away not just the champagne, but the lingering tension from your conversation with Chiara.

As you made your way toward the team’s private quarters, the hum of activity in the paddock slowly faded, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Chiara’s words echoed in your mind, a reminder of the reality you both lived in—a world where every glance, every gesture, could be dissected and spun into a narrative you had little control over. The media would indeed be relentless, and the fans, always watching, would be insatiable in their curiosity. But how could you distance yourself from something—or someone—that had become so central to your life, to your happiness? The chemestry you shared with Lando was undeniable, and no amount of PR maneuvering could erase what you felt for him.

As you reached the lockers, you turned on the shower, eagerly anticipating the soothing warmth of the water to ease the tension knotted in your muscles. The promise of relief was a welcome thought after the intensity of the day.

You let out a small sigh, beginning to discard your champagne-soaked clothes. The polo that had clung to your skin now felt heavy, both physically and metaphorically, as you peeled it off and tossed it into the laundry bin. The day’s victories and challenges seemed to weigh on you all at once. The exhilaration of the win, the tension with Lando, the quiet moments where everything between you felt so effortless—they all mingled in your mind, creating a cocktail of emotions that left you feeling both intoxicated and exhausted.

You stood there for a moment, stripped down to your underwear, the cool air of the locker room a welcome contrast to the heat of the day. Lost in thought, you hadn’t even noticed Lando entering until you felt his presence, a subtle shift in the air that made the tiny hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The realization of how exposed you were hit you all at once—half-naked and vulnerable in more ways than one.

Your first instinct was to cover yourself, but something in the way Lando looked at you made you pause. His eyes, darker now with an intensity that was impossible to ignore, roamed over your body, lingering on the curves and lines revealed by your lack of clothing. The heat that flushed your cheeks had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the way his gaze set your skin ablaze. You couldn't meet his gaze fully, not when you were absolutely sure it would burn you from the inside.

He murmured your name, his voice low, vibrating with a tension that matched the fire in his eyes. The way he said it, the way his gaze traced over you, made it feel like a caress. “Look at me.”

There was a challenge in his tone, and you met it head-on, your breath catching as your eyes locked with his. In the fluorescent lighting of the locker room, his features seemed more defined, his jawline sharper, his lips fuller.

There was no mistaking the desire that simmered just beneath the surface, a reflection of the same need that pulsed through your veins. It was as if the world had narrowed to just the two of you, the space between you crackling with a chemistry that had been building for far too long.

Lando took a step closer, his gaze never leaving yours, and with each inch he closed, the air around you seemed to thicken, heavy with anticipation. He was close enough now that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, the scent of his skin—champagne and amber with a hint of the adrenaline that still lingered from the race—filling your senses.

The silence stretched between you, and yet, it was as if an entire conversation was taking place, unspoken but understood. Every fiber of your being was attuned to him, the tension between you palpable. "I can practically hear that big brain of yours working overtime." he said, his voice even lower now, almost a rumble. His hand reached out, fingertips brushing lightly against your arm, leaving a trail of electricity in their wake. The touch was gentle, but it was enough to make you shiver, your skin hypersensitive to every point of contact.

The last remnants of your resolve began to crumble, and you could see the same struggle playing out in Lando’s eyes. There was a flicker of hesitation, a silent question hanging in the space between you—whether to cross this line, to take what you both so clearly wanted.

But then he stepped even closer, his hand sliding up your arm to your shoulder, his fingers tracing the curve of your collarbone. The touch was light, almost reverent, but it carried the weight of everything unsaid between you. His eyes followed the path his hand made, and when he looked back up at you, there was no more hesitation, only a hunger that mirrored your own.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered, his voice rough around the edges, as though he was barely holding himself back.

You could feel the heat pooling between your legs, a familiar ache begging to be satisfied. With every brush of his fingers, you felt your resolve crumbling.

You tilted your chin up, your lips parting in invitation. The look in his eyes was pure need, a reflection of the desire coursing through you. He leaned in, his breath warm on your lips, his scent simply intoxicating now that it was mixed with the sharp fruity champagne.

It was as if time had slowed down, and all you could focus on was the heat of his body, the anticipation of his touch, the promise of everything that would come next. And then, finally, he closed the distance between you, capturing your lips in a kiss that sent a jolt of electricity through your body.

The feel of his lips on yours was electric, sending sparks racing across your skin. His mouth moved against yours, hungry and demanding, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips, seeking entrance. You opened for him, letting him deepen the kiss, savoring the taste of him. It was like nothing you had ever experienced before—the combination of the champagne, the adrenaline, and the sheer relief of finally giving in to the chemistry that had been simmering between you was enough to make your head spin.

As his hands roamed over your bare skin, igniting a trail of heat wherever they touched, you could feel your body responding, the desire building with every passing second. He kissed you like a man starved, and you met his hunger with your own, matching his pace. Your hands found his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart under your palms, the heat of his skin drawing you in like a magnet. He was solid and real beneath your touch, and you pressed yourself against him, the sensation of his body against yours igniting something primal and uncontrollable inside you.

Lando’s breath hitched at the contact, his hands splaying across your back, fingers digging in just enough to send a shiver down your spine. His mouth hovered just inches from yours, his breath warm against your lips, and you could feel the tension coiling tighter between you, ready to snap.

“Lando,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, more a plea than anything else.

That was all it took to break the final thread of restraint. There was no gentleness now, only the raw, urgent need that had been simmering between you for what felt like forever.

You kissed him back with equal fervour, your hands sliding up to tangle in his damp curls, pulling him even closer as his hands roamed over your back, your waist, every inch of skin he could reach. The heat of his body, the taste of him on your lips—it was overwhelming in the best possible way, drowning out every thought that wasn’t about him, about this.

Lando’s hands found the clasp of your bra, and with a practiced flick, he had it undone, the fabric slipping away as his hands moved to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples in a way that made you gasp against his mouth. The sound seemed to fuel him, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as he backed you up against the lockers, the cool metal a sharp contrast to the heat between you.

You could feel the solid press of his body against yours, his arousal evident as he pinned you to the lockers, his hands never ceasing their exploration. Reaching your panties, his fingers slid under the band, tugging them down in one smooth motion, his movements sure and confident, as if he knew exactly what he wanted. The sheer contrast of standing before him completely naked while he remained fully clothed amplified the raw vulnerability of the moment, making it feel intensely intimate and charged with a potent, almost primal, energy.

Your own hands moved lower, sliding down his clothed chest, his hard abs, until you reached the waistband of his pants. The feel of his muscles tensing under your touch sent another wave of desire through you, and you wasted no time in slipping your hand beneath the fabric, finding his impressive length and trying to wrap your fingers around him.

His forehead resting against yours as he sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes closing as the friction elicited a rush of pleasure that had him breaking the kiss to let out a curse. For a moment, he just stood there, his breath ragged, his hands tightening on your hips, as if trying to steady himself.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he muttered, his voice thick with desire, and the raw honesty of it sent a thrill through you.

“Good,” you replied, your own voice husky with need, your hand beginning to move with deliberate strokes that had him groaning, his head dropping to your shoulder as he tried to keep himself in check. He reached for his fireproofs and pulled them off, his movements almost frantic. You helped him, pushing the fabric over his hips, revealing the perfection of his physique.

You couldn't help but stare at him, taking in the lean, sculpted lines of his body, the taut muscles that flexed with each movement. You inhaled a sharp breath as your eyes finally landed on his cock, hard and swollen with desire. You were no stranger to the male anatomy as your hormones and curiosity had gotten the best of you in the past, but you were starting to become nervous about taking his impressive size inside of you.

Before your brain could spiral too far, you felt Lando's hands on you, his touch firm but gentle, his calloused fingertips sending shivers of pleasure through your body as he traced patterns along your skin, as if he was trying to memorize every inch of you. The chemistry between you had ignited into a full-blown inferno, and neither of you had any intention of putting it out.

In a fluid motion, Lando lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you over to the shower that had been steaming in anticipation. You giggled as the warm water hit your skin, the tension between you melting away as the shower cascaded over you both.

"I've been wanting to do this since the moment I saw you," he said, his voice low and rough, the sound of it sending a shiver of anticipation down to your core.

"Then don't make me wait any longer," you replied, a challenge and a plea, and the heat that flared in his eyes at the words was enough to make you burn for him.

He lowered his mouth to yours, the kiss slow and deep, a delicious contrast to the urgency. His hand reached between your legs, finding the wetness there and stroking with just the right amount of pressure, his thumb circling your clit and making you gasp into his mouth. He seemed to know exactly what you needed, and he used it against you, building you up slowly but surely, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter with every expert movement of his hand.

You clung to him, your nails digging into the slick skin of his back, a desperate attempt to anchor yourself against the waves of pleasure that threatened to consume you. He entered two of his thick fingers making you whimper at the stretch. His free hand was on the side of your face, tilting it up to capture your lips with his, kissing you with a tenderness that belied the urgency of the situation. You knew he was trying his best to prepare you for his cock, but it was a lot. He was a lot.

"I don't think you're going to fit," you whispered, feeling embarrassed, but he just smiled, his fingers still working their magic.

"Oh, I will," he promised, and you felt a jolt of desire shoot through you at the certainty in his voice.

The words sent a rush of heat through you, and you felt yourself clenching around his fingers, the pleasure intensifying as he stroked your g-spot with precision. Lando swallowed your moans, the feel of his body pressed against yours, the warmth of the water surrounding you, and the expert movements of his hand bringing you closer and closer to the edge. He was relentless, his fingers working you relentlessly until the pleasure became too much, the tension snapping and sending you crashing over the edge.

The orgasm tore through you, leaving you trembling in its wake, and Lando held you close, his hands gentle now as he supported you. You were gasping for air, the feeling so intense it was almost overwhelming. He murmured your name, his voice soft and low, the sound of it making something inside you ache.

You looked up at him, meeting his gaze, the intensity of his eyes almost enough to make you forget how to breathe.

"I've got you," he murmured, his voice full of emotion, and in that moment, you believed him.

Slowly, the haze of pleasure began to clear, and you became aware of the tension coiled in his body, the way his muscles were taut with restraint, the evidence of his own desire pressed against your thigh. He was still rock-hard, and you suddenly wanted nothing more than to feel him inside you, to experience that connection on a deeper level.

"I'm ready," you breathed, your voice laced with a need that you could no longer deny.

He nodded as he turned you around, pressing your face against the cool tile, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the water. Your breath hitched as he lined up his cock with your entrance, the blunt tip already threatening to breach you. He gathered some of your moisture by rubbing his tip against your folds, sending jolts of pleasure through your body.

"I'll go slow," he whispered, as his other hand grabbed your neck, forcing you to arch your back. He took a moment to burn this very image in his mind. He had thought about this moment countless times before, but now that it was happening, it was even better than he could have imagined.

With a slow, deliberate push, he was able to get the head inside. Your eyes shut as you felt the stretch, his girth much more than you were used to. You let out a whimper as you reached for the hand currently holding your neck, seeking his support. You could hear him mutter under his breath, the words too quiet for you to make out. You assumed it was a string of curse words, but you didn't dare look.

With his hand gripping your hip, he pushed deeper, slowly but steadily, inch by inch. You could feel every vein on his perfect cock, the stretch dancing on the edge of pain and pleasure. He kept stopping, pulling back a bit and then pushing deeper again. You could tell he was doing his best to let you adjust to his size, but it was still a struggle.

Once he bottomed out, he groaned as you let out a sound that you've never heard yourself make before. A mixture between a moan and gasp. His hands traveled up your body, finding your breasts and giving them a squeeze, before settling on your shoulders. You could feel the water trickling down your back as the steam created a haze around the two of you. You were both panting, trying to catch your breath. You could feel his hot breath against your ear.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice rough, a mixture of desire and concern.

"Yes," you answered, not even recognizing your own voice, "I'm just a little...full."

He chuckled at that, his cock twitching inside you. He slowly started moving his hips, the drag of his cock against your walls lighting up every nerve in your body. You couldn't string two thoughts together as he started creating a torturous rhythm. One of his hands travelled down to your bundle of nerves, pinching it with every thrust.

"Fuck," you cursed, "fuck, fuck, fuck." You couldn't believe how drunk you were on him.

He chuckled as he grabbed you from the now warm tile, resting you flat against his front. The new angle allowed him to reach deeper, making you whimper and whine with every thrust. His hands reached for your jaw, tilting it so he could stare deeply into your eyes. He was watching every reaction, every change in your expression.

"Tell me what you feel." he demanded, his voice hoarse, and you forced yourself to open your eyes, meeting his gaze. The intensity of his stare was almost enough to send you over the edge again, but you clung to the last threads of your self-control, desperate to prolong this moment.

"I feel...I feel everything," you gasped, the words barely more than a whisper. “I’ve never felt like this b—"

He silenced you with a kiss, swallowing the rest of your words. It was a clash of tongues and teeth, a battle for dominance that neither of you could win. The heat between you was unbearable, the need for release consuming every thought. You knew he was close, could feel the tension coiling in his muscles, the way his thrusts were becoming more erratic, less controlled. But you weren't ready to let go, not yet.

You pulled away from the kiss, forcing him to meet your gaze. "Please don't stop," you begged, your voice rough with need, "I need you, Lando."

That was all it took. His eyes darkened, and he let out a growl, his grip on your jaw tightening as he captured your lips again, the kiss almost violent in its intensity. It was as if a switch had been flipped, the raw hunger between you reaching a new level.

He fucked into you with wild abandon, his hips snapping as he chased his release. The pleasure was blinding, the sensation of his cock filling you, stretching you, sending you spiraling toward the edge. You could feel the tension building, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter until you could no longer hold back.

The orgasm crashed over you like a wave, stealing the air from your lungs as your body shuddered in his arms. Your eyes closed, the white light behind your eyelids pulsing in time with the waves of pleasure washing over you. You couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only cling to him as you rode out the storm.

Lando buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips finding the delicate skin there, sucking and nibbling. You could feel the pleasure building again, the combination of his cock inside you, his hands gripping your hips, his lips against your neck sending you hurtling toward another climax.

"I'm close," he panted, his voice rough with need, "so close, fuck."

The words sent a surge of heat through you, and you clenched around him, feeling him shudder as his own release washed over him. You grabbed as his curls, forcing him to look at you, the intensity of his gaze pushing you over the edge again, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.

"Fuck, I can feel you," he gasped, his cock twitching inside you as your core milked him, the sensation of his release triggering another wave of pleasure.

You both clung to each other, riding out the waves, the intensity of the moment rendering you speechless. You were both gasping for air, the aftershocks of pleasure coursing through your bodies. Lando buried his face in your neck, his lips ghosting over your skin, the sensation almost too much to bear.

You stood there for what felt like an eternity, wrapped in each other's arms, the only sound the steady beat of the water as it cascaded over you. You couldn't remember the last time you'd felt so sated, so utterly spent.

Finally, Lando pulled back, his eyes searching yours, his expression a mix of emotions—relief, contentment, and a hint of something else, something that sent a thrill through you. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle, almost reverent.

"That was...fuck," he said, his voice rough, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You grinned, the joy and satisfaction evident in every line of your body. You could feel him slowly softening inside you, and you reluctantly unwrapped your legs, letting him slide out of you. You gasped feeling yourself become sore already. He chuckled as he noticed, turning off the water and wrapping you in a towel, gently drying you off before lifting you up in his arms.

"You're gonna kill me," he muttered, a spark of humor in his voice, and you laughed, the sound echoing off the tiles, the sound carefree and light.

You kissed him, slow and deep, the kiss full of promises and possibilities. This was only the beginning, and you both knew it. You pulled back, gazing at him with a mixture of awe and admiration, your heart full of the realization of what you'd found, the connection between you now undeniable.

"Get that perfect ass to media duty before they start sending out a search party," you teased, a chuckle escaping as you watched the realization of his looming responsibilities flicker across his face.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, giving you a quick peck on the lips before setting you down, "but just know, this was the best shower I've ever taken."

You smirked, unable to hide the blush creeping across your cheeks. "I'll keep that in mind."

As he left, a sense of calm washed over you, the satisfaction of the moment lingering in the air like a sweet perfume. The memory of his touch, the weight of his body against yours, the deliciously filthy sounds he had coaxed from you, would stay with you forever, a private treasure. You sighed, reveling in the warmth and comfort that seemed to envelop you, the afterglow of your tryst still humming through your veins.

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mirrored-muse · 2 months ago

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ꜰᴇᴇʟꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ꜰᴏʀᴇᴠᴇʀ | ɢ.ɢ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 690

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ɢɪᴅᴇᴏɴ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘʟᴀʏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪᴍꜱ.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ɢɪᴅᴇᴏɴ ɢᴇᴍꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ x ꜰᴇᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴀ/ɴ: ᴅᴇᴅɪᴄᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ @ringa-starr ᴡʜᴏ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ʜᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴏʟᴇꜱᴛ ɪᴅᴇᴀꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ɢɪᴅᴇᴏɴ ꜰɪᴄꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴜᴘ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴏᴛ for ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ!

You had taken over Gideon’s PS4 with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t touched a console since high school. He’d handed you the controller earlier that evening with a lazy but fond smile, muttering something like, “Alright, sweetheart, knock yourself out,” not thinking you’d actually stay glued to it for going on three hours now.

Gideon had barely looked up from his phone since, he’d been scrolling aimlessly, answering a few texts, and letting himself enjoy the quiet while you sat cross-legged on his bed. You were focused, tongue peeking out at the corner of your mouth, eyes narrowed at the screen like you were defusing a bomb and not playing The Sims.

Eventually, his curiosity won.

“Alright,” he drawled, setting his phone aside and stretching his arms above his head. “What’s got you lookin’ so intense over there, baby?”

You smile, not turning around. “I made us.”

He blinked. “Us?”

“Yeah, In the game.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees to get a better look at the screen. “that’s me?”

There, on the screen, was a pixelated Gideon Gemstone, shirtless in swim trunks, wearing a cowboy hat and carrying a plate of grilled cheeses.

“Why do I look like I just got kicked out of a country music festival?” he asked, trying to fight off an amused smile.

You laugh. “It’s the only hat option that even remotely screamed ‘Gideon.’ Also, don’t complain, you’re living your best life. He’s on his way to the hot tub.”

“In the backyard?”

“…No.”

He squinted. “Is that-“ He pauses for a second, “why is the hot tub in the kitchen?”

You burst out laughing at his reaction, holding the controller a little tighter in your hands. “I wanted it closer to the fridge.”

He flopped back onto the pillows behind him with a groan. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You looked over your shoulder at him, eyes sparkling. “You don’t like it?”

“I mean, I do,” he said, smirking. “It’s just… you gave us a big ass house and we have a hot tub three feet from the oven. Kinda feels like a safety hazard.”

“Gid-“ you start, turning back to the screen, “this is my vision for us, respect it.”

He laughed under his breath and sat up again, finally intrigued. “What else we got goin’ on in your world?”

“Well,” you said, clicking through the menus. “We have eight kids.”

“Eight.”

“mhm..”

“Are you tryin’ to kill me in this game, or…?”

“It’s cute!” You defended yourself. “We have a big family, twin girls, twin boys, and four newborn babies. Our youngest is named Peach.”

“Peach?”

“Yeah, like your favorite fruit.”

“Oh my God,” he speaks, moving towards the end of the bed to be closer to you. “four newborn babies?”

You nod your head, looking at him like he was the crazy one for questioning it. “We also have a bowling alley, a haunted attic, a pet raccoon named Beans, and you’re a stay-at-home dad-slash-freelance woodworker.”

He looked back at you, eyebrows up. “And you?”

“Famous actress.”

He gave a little snort, fond and amused, then gently leaned into your side, watching you play, his head propped up against your shoulder.

“You’ve been busy, huh?”

“Yup, built it from the ground up. Took me like four hours and I set the kitchen on fire multiple times.”

He watched the Sim-you start painting something on an easel. “Okay, so I’m shirtless, you’re rich, our kids are all named after different kinds of fruit, and we have a hot tub in the middle of the kitchen. Honestly? Sounds good to me.”

You leaned back into him a little, his hand finding your knee, warm and relaxed.

“I like the way you see us,” he said quietly after a minute. “You know. Long-term. Not scared of any of it.”

You shrugged. “I’ve been daydreaming about our future together since we were kids. This just gives me an outlet.”

He kissed your cheek softly, before focusing on the screen again. “Guess I better get used to the name Peach, then.”

You smiled. “She’s gonna be your favorite.”

#gideon gemstone x fem reader #gideon gemstone x you #gideon gemstone fanfic #gideon gemstone x reader #gideon gemstone #the righteous gemstones x you #the righteous gemstones x reader #the righteous gemstones #trg x reader #trg #i love skyler gisondo #skyler gisondo x reader #might start writing for eric bemis #hehe

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anexperimentallife · 1 year ago

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The US far right has been working on their plan since AT LEAST the 1960s, when I was a kid listening to evangelicals talking about their plan to take over the US, and eventually the world. It's called "Christian Dominionism," and it's a fascist ideology which goes hand in glove with the GOP's plans.

Although it was not expressed so much to the world at large, this plan was OPENLY and FREQUENTLY discussed in far right circles. We kids, if we asked about it, were told that it was "God's Will." Ask any exvangelical about it, and they'll confirm. (Part of why I know so much about these dangerous and deluded folks is I WAS ONE OF THEM in my youth.)

And where has that plan gotten them? Well, the GOP recently released a hundreds of pages long document filled with their intentions if they win--including a nationwide abortion ban and a repeal of anti-discrimination laws, among other things.

Trump has already signaled his intent to create a military dictatorship if elected, by repealing laws against using the military against US citizens on US soil sp he can deploy them against dissenters, etc., and if the GOP pick up a few more congressional seats, he can do it. The GOP has already pushed to repeal presidential term limits, and Trump has indicated he'd like to be president for life.

So I'm amazed at all the people who think withholding their vote and letting the GOP win is going to somehow fix things and "push the Dems left."

You wanna know how to push US politics leftward? You're not gonna like it, because it takes actual work beyond stomping your foot and pouting and performatively showing everyone how "pure" you are by refusing to vote.

You have to start the same way the far right did (and again, they've been OPENLY talking about and pursuing this plan since I was a kid in the 1960s, AT LEAST)--they started by getting the most extreme right wingers they possibly could into any position they could. Positions like school board member, police chief, sherrif, city prosecuter, city council member, municipal judge, mayor, governor, hell, fucking dog catcher.

They encouraged far right extremists to become police officers and military personnel and work their way up the ranks to the point at which even the famously-racist FBI reported that major city police departments across the nation were pretty much taken over by members of white supremacist organizations.

In formerly reasonable churches, right wingers pushed for the hiring and training of more and more right wing pastors and mire right-wing theology.

More affluent right-wingers bought local papers and broadcasters, and as their political power grew, they changed laws to make it easier for a single entity to control the news--until now a mere handful of entities own nearly every major media outlet in the US.

And then they used every victory as leverage for the next one, and worked their way up. I mean, there's more, like the capitalization on economic and social anxiety and their inentional exacerbation of same so they could take advantage of it, but that's intertwined with the rest.

Essentially, they got this far because they put the work in.

If the US left is going to turn things around (and if it's not already too late), we've got to do the same, but it takes RESEARCHING and PROMOTING your local and state candidates, attending city council and school board meetings, and shit like that. It's actual fucking work to fix a country.

And then, after you've done all that--and after you've shown up to primaries to try to get any non-authoritarian leftist candidate you can nominated--then you vote for the leftest folks you're able to in the general. If there are no remotely leftist candidates, you vote for the centrist or right winger who will do the least damage.

Again, that's what the US far right has been doing for decades. Taking action. Wherever possible, taking new ground, but when they couldn't do that, ceding as little ground as possible. If they couldn't win, they made damn sure to do everything in their power to try to keep actual decent human beings from winning.

Actually doing the work doesn't have the emotional satisfaction of a grand gesture, but it definitely shows who is serious about making a difference and who would rather let everything burn than sully their imagined purity by voting for anything less than perfection.

Listen, Trump is not going to end the genocide in Gaza--in fact he increased tensions between the Israeli occupation and Palestine. And the GOP will never be persuaded. Hell, they want to let Russia take Ukraine and declare open season on asylum seekers.

The Dems suck. But the GOP is far, far worse, and will do MORE damage, and kill FAR MORE innocents. And if allowed to do so, will make it even harder to change the system than it is now. They've already PUBLICLY ADMITTED that their only chance of victory is keeping people from voting. Don't play into their hands.

Under current circumstances, you know what the Dems are going to do if Biden and a bunch of other Dems lose for not being pure enough? You think they'll be all like, "Oh, no! The left sure taught us a lesson by handing the country to the GOP! We'd better shift to the left!"

No. They're going to sip champagne in their multi-million dollar mansions and have meetings about how they need to move FURTHER RIGHT to win elections, because the left doesn't vote.

And if the US becomes a military dictatorship, most of the high ranking ones will simply take their fortunes and leave.

Yup, it'd sure teach ol' Joe a lesson to force him to spend the rest of his days sipping cocktails on the Riviera.

Look beyond the single battle and think strategically. That's how the GOP keeps gaining power. And refusing to act strategically is why the left is losing. We cannot take the hill we want right now. But if we lose the hills we've already taken, we risk losing the entire goddamn war.

So fucking vote. Work to get every leftist you can in any office you can. And if you can't do that, support the one who will do the least harm.

And if it takes voting for that shitbag Biden to keep Trump and the GOP out, hold your fucking nose and pull the goddamn lever.

#uncle rob gets political

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atomicpirateperson · 1 month ago

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why is rob so mischievous??

here's a yapfest of 6 reasons i came up with!

some of this is essentially canon and some of this is just theorization. i really like analyzing rob's character and if anyone wants to shoot me an ask about him i'll be grateful :]

1. to not die.

rob ended up in the void because he was useless to the show. if he couldn't die from the lack of food or water there, he would have spent an eternity in isolation. it makes sense that he's afraid of what happens if he becomes useless again, so he really needs a niche. his dilemma starts because the only niche available is the antagonist. in his monologue from The Disaster, it's clear that villainy is far from his dream job and he feels forced to act this way.

2. for revenge and closure.

of course, revenge against gumball is his most iconic and obvious motivation. however, on a deeper level, i think it's about more than the wattersons. despite his behavior, rob might have a strong sense of morals and justice. for example, in The Rerun he couldn't bring himself to end gumball's life after being saved, and his guilt was clear.

as for the closure part, he can't undo any of the traumatic events in his life, but because of this strong sense of justice, he still needs something to do about it. he still needs to resolve this somehow and he chooses vengeance.

truthfully, most of these vengeful thoughts should be directed at the void, but he can't enact revenge on the universe itself. so, he targets the closest thing to take his anger out on: gumball. in fact, as a villain, rob never brings up gumball's past offenses. who knows, maybe he doesn't even care what gumball did!

3. as a creative outlet and source of purpose.

there's no doubting that rob likes to be theatrical and extra in his villainy. there's definitely some real passion put into it even though he doesn't have a choice.

as a homeless orphan who doesn't appear to be in school, he probably doesn't have much to do in life. he's a creative and imaginative person for sure, so he needs a way to express and entertain himself.

it's easy to interpret his melodramatic moments as pure acting/exaggeration, but it could also be a genuine coping mechanism and/or way of venting, which ties into the closure thing.

4. for control.

with no house or family to provide stability or support, control is something he has been robbed of in life (pun not intended).

his shenanigans might help him feel in-control and safe by taking control and safety from others. this is especially prominent in The Disaster/Rerun with the literal remote control that sends him into a power trip.

also, while it's partially his fault, other people don't listen to him, so he has to get what he wants through force. this is probably the reason why he worked towards his benevolent goals so forcefully in The Inquisition.

5. for attention.

6. to defend himself.

this is pretty self-explanatory. real kids show attention-seeking behavior just from having inattentive parents. with no parents and little to no friends, this is probably the case for him as well. regardless if the attention is negative or positive, he really needs to be noticed and talked to by others. this would also be an additional reason for why his actions are often gumball-centric because that puts him on screen, at the center of attention.

this one doesn't show up often. i'm mainly adding it because of the scene in The Future where gumball and darwin charge at him unprompted. sure, he went into defense mode first, but he wasn't the ones who literally killed him first and asked questions later (actually, they never asked why he was doing that). the episode would have ended differently if they stopped to pick up on the many clues that this wasn't just typical rob shenanigans. (interestingly, gumball was less presumptuous in encounters before this. maybe he and darwin were angry because banana joe and his mom had nothing to do with rob's evil upbringing... but at the same time they don't always care about joe that much)

outside of that, rob's crimes might also serve to intimidate others to keep himself safe. a homeless kid alone on the streets needs to deter dangerous people as much as possible.

...and that's all i have to say :] again lmk your thoughts about this!

and before somebody acts like it is: this is not meant to say that all of rob's actions were completely normal and justified. it's just a villain analysis don't start

#tawog #the amazing world of gumball #rob tawog #dr wrecker #tawog rob #character analysis #death mention tw #death mention #tw trauma #tw trauma mention #trauma mention

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mariacallous · 3 months ago

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Since President Donald Trump mandated that remote and partially remote federal workers all must return to their offices, thousands of employees across the country have been figuring out how to navigate new commutes, seating arrangements, and a lack of supplies as basic as toilet paper and legal pads while still getting their work done.

One effect of all this, many federal employees tell WIRED, is that they are traveling long distances to spend all of their time in virtual meetings.

“I don’t directly work with anyone in the office that I am going into,” one employee at the Department of Housing and Urban Development tells WIRED. “So I show up and sit on [Microsoft] Teams calls.”

A Treasury employee says they spend most of their time at the office on video calls as well, “because of people working at other sites … and that’s hard when working from a cubicle. I definitely get less done because of the distractions.”

At the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, one employee says that the focus on the return-to-office mandate has meant a lot of chaos for people who actually need to do their jobs in person. “Some teams and groups aren’t even on the same campuses because space was so limited. So they’re coming to work just to sit on the same virtual meetings as always,” they say. “And all the chaos has made it more difficult for the lab people, who actually need to be on campus. I’d say with everything they get two-to-three hours less of meaningful work out of me each day.”

Over the past few months, Elon Musk’s so-called Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) has upended the government. In addition to firing tens of thousands of federal employees, before being forced by judges to rehire some of them, return-to-office mandates have resulted in chaos. Outlets like CNN and Reuters reported on the initial confusion and disarray caused by forcing tens of thousands of employees back to the office all at once, but weeks later, employees say the situation is getting worse.

Though Trump and Musk have claimed the mandate would result in huge productivity increases and financial savings, more than 30 federal employees at 17 federal agencies tell WIRED the return-to-office order has resulted in widespread chaos, plummeting productivity, and significantly reduced services to the public. It isn’t just traveling to work to sit on Zoom calls—it’s that there may be no place to take the call or no working internet to connect to it. WIRED granted employees anonymity to speak freely about their experiences, which some say are affecting their physical and mental health—and nearly all say are resulting in a lower quality of work and worse public services.

"The workplace environment is unpleasant, loud, people talk about whatever they want, and the workload is insane with the mass layoffs and hiring freeze," an employee at the Department of Defense (DOD) tells WIRED. "This is a terrible place to work." The employee says they cry almost every day after leaving the office.

Multiple government employees claim that there isn’t enough space in federal offices, or necessary equipment, to make their return worthwhile.

At a DOD building, one employee says, the influx of people now working from the office has made simply accessing the facility a daily struggle for them.

“We are on a secure military facility with only a few access points,” the employee tells WIRED. “There are not enough gate guards to open multiple access points so the traffic backs up onto the highway.”

At one Department of Homeland Security (DHS) office, during the first week of the return-to-office mandate in March, around 40 people were forced to work out of a single room. “I have lots of meetings every day, so I would have to go elsewhere to find some privacy, along with everyone else,” a DHS employee tells WIRED. Now, employees are not assigned office spaces until they arrive at work each day. “Every day, we have to go to one room to get an office assignment,” says the employee. “You don't know the assignment until the day of. If you are not assigned an office, you sit in a training room until that happens. My productivity has drastically decreased.” The offices are also so “gross,” the employee says, that they bring their own cleaning products to work.

Weeks after returning to the office, a Social Security Agency (SSA) employee claims there isn’t enough furniture for everyone. “If you're stuck on a floor without enough chairs, you're stuck standing for eight hours,” they say. “I'm unfocused, exhausted, and in pain. I'm certainly not at 100 percent.”

An employee at the Department of Agriculture (USDA) says he was ordered to return to his office on March 10, despite being hired for a fully remote position in 2022. There isn’t enough space for private meetings, so if he wants to talk to one of the employees he supervises, he says, he has no options. “For private staff calls I have to go out to my truck and use my personal phone,” he tells WIRED. “I have requested a government cell, but they tell me I won't get it since I'm back in an office.”

Tech issues have plagued the return of many federal employees.

The USDA employee claims that the internet connection at his new office is “far worse than it is at home. So much so that I have had trouble using Teams with my staff in recent calls.”

“We are getting hammered with RTO tickets,” says another source at the USDA, describing the number of employees making requests for equipment to do their jobs in-office. “We do not have the IT infrastructure to support this massive RTO mandate.”

The DOGE-enforced $1 spending limit on federal credit cards, enforced in February, has exacerbated the problem, leading to shortages of basic supplies.

“All the money we saved on decommissioning equipment, saving on having contractors run cabling, enterprise hardware savings, will all be gone,” the USDA source says. “This RTO will not only bring work completion down for people now having to commute and people are going to work exactly their eight hours and not any time over. The stoppage of IT issues will bring down a lot of this as well.”

At the Internal Revenue Service, which ordered its workers back to the office four weeks ago, the $1 limit caused significant problems for those back in the office. “They have no soap, toilet paper, or paper towels anywhere in the building. Their water machine is broken. Many cannot get on LAN, and the Wi-Fi keeps going down,” one IRS employee tells WIRED. Another SSA employee says that they were told to “ration paper.”

“Supplies are limited because no one has purchasing authority,” the Treasury employee tells WIRED. “It’s a running joke that we bring our own pens and paper. We have a bit of a stock of pens in my department but can’t order more. We are out of notebooks, though there are some partially used legal pads from meetings available.”

Employees say the return-to-office mandate has also negatively impacted their productivity. “My whole team had been, probably to a fault, working long hours on quick turnaround projects,” a source at the Army Futures Command, which operates under the DOD, tells WIRED. “We were able to do a lot of this at home after dinner in the evening, because we’ve all got kids and family obligations. [Return to office] has ended all of that.”

Some federal employees say the return-to-office mandates are having a negative impact on their health.

One employee at the SSA, who identifies as queer and uses they/he pronouns, is also disabled and suffers from chronic pain and mobility issues. Still, they were left with no option but to make the long journey from their home to the office once the return-to-office mandate was enforced.

“With no car, I am walking a mile to the train, and from the station to the office on concrete and metal, limping along, using elevators when I can,” they say, adding, “While I can ask for Reasonable Accommodations, our DEI offices were gutted, so despite being directed to apply through the proper channels, there's no one there to process them.” In the weeks since they’ve returned to the office, nothing has improved.

“I'm not sleeping well, I can't have access to chairs and desks and monitors at proper heights to make me more comfortable,” they say. “I've had to start revisiting my orthopedic doctor to pursue treatments and start physical therapy again.”

A USDA employee says that returning to an office has aggravated their long-dormant carpal tunnel symptoms.

“I got an old wooden desk that is not intended to be a workplace,” the employee tells WIRED. “As a result of the table being too high for the chair they gave me, my carpel tunnel has been aggravated with numbness and piercing pain in the hand. My carpel tunnel has not been an issue for about 25 years now.”

A Treasury employee says that people on her team have had to quit due to stress stemming from the return-to-office mandate and the uncertainty of what’s next. “People here love their jobs. We love what we do,” they say. “Getting fired would mean so much more than just losing a paycheck.”

Some employees say these fears, combined with the poor working conditions, are impacting their mental health as well.

“I’m just going through a depressive episode in part because of the nonstop uncertainty and stress,” says an employee at the DOD. “Even the hardcore military bros in my agency are feeling grim about everything that’s happening.” A USDA employee told WIRED that they are now dealing with severe depression due to these mandates and general fear.

The threat of a reduction in force, or RIF, remains a constant concern for employees as they return to federal offices.

“There is just a lot of very dark humor at the office,” the Treasury employee says. “I think all of us are expecting to get RIFd or fired or something, but we are just waiting. Business as usual while everything is on fire.”

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ominoose · 1 year ago

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𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐜 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐊𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐒𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐦 𝐇𝐂'𝐬

Character(s): Steven Grant, Marc Spector, Jake Lockley Summary: Not x reader, just random silly thoughts about the lads. Kinda summer themed. They're still in London. This came out more British than intended. Warnings: None

𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭

Now that he's not constantly tired and getting two hours of sleep every fifth night if he's lucky, the Brit goes between quiet moments with a book on the couch to hyperactive spiels with no warning.

The newfound energy also takes his sass and mischief to the next level. If Marc or Jake (usually Marc, Jake's too scared) piss him off he will not drop it. For days Steven will slyly bring it up, make offhand remarks or fully kick up the argument again. It's never serious, he's still the one to step in if the other two are at arms, but Steven is no pacifist. "Y'know I just bought all these ingredients to make a lovely homecooked dinner with enough leftovers for Jake's taxi shifts and Marc's workouts... But-" "Steven please, we're starving, come on." "Since my cooking apparently tastes like a grannies garden!" "Por favor, I didn't even say it, Marc did-" "But you didn't disagree bruv!"

Takes Eurovision seriously. He made a point of not watching the BBC broadcast this year, although he's kept tabs on it through other websites. He's still not over last year. Jake tried to look into it and made a small comment about listening to the winner, commenting on Sweden's contestant being good. Steven went on a rant for a good twenty minutes about how it was rigged before Jake learned this was a lot more than a friendly song contest.

Whines when its hot out and forces Marc or Jake to front outside. Then forces them to buy a Mr Whippy for him to front and eat.

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫

Gets really into British football. It started with hearing chants and noises outside on match days, the comradery and stupid sing-songs from fans in matching team colours bringing him a sense of nostalgia. He's still a diehard cubs fan, but going to the local pub to watch the match, getting a healthy outlet to yell and bang a table amidst others oddly suited him. Steven's just glad he's socializing.

Secretly folds up Stevens more "colourful" shirts and hides them.

Loves British chocolate, hates British crisps. He see's a packet of pickled onion Monster Munch and physically cringes away.

While Steven fronted and browsed through a charity shop, Marc spotted an old ds, just like one he had as a kid. The Brit could physically feel him eye it up from the inside and bought it. Now Marcs post-workout routine includes playing Pokemon.

Marc gets visibly sad and sighs whenever they phone in pizza because its never like the ones back home in Chicago.

Loves a greggs sausage roll.

𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞𝐲

Half the reason the other two found out about him was when the old lady that Steven scared off in the elevator to the point she avoided them like the plague suddenly smiled and offered them tea. Turns out Jake had been helping her carry the shopping back to the flat when they bumped into each other. Their odd tea and biscuit afternoons helped Jake keep tabs on the boys.

Naps in front of the telly, usually to some reality tv like Eastenders, snoring away. The moment Steven or Marc slowly try to control the arm holding the remote he jerks away, pulling it to his chest and telling them off because he's still "watching" it.

Knows Marc folds and hides Stevens shirts that he hates. He puts them at the top of the pile just before Steven fronts. Marc has no clue and it drives him nuts.

His favourite passengers to pick up are drunk women. They're always either very funny or tell the most downright devious gossip, never afraid to openly include him in it too.

Made a solemn vow to himself that if he ever drove past Rishi Sunak he'd egg him.

Since he prefers night-shifts, the cat distribution system seemed to give him an 90% chance of meeting kittens on the street. If he has a passenger when he spots the little critter he'll make a mental note to return after drop off, Jake Lockley will not pass a chance at checking up on and cradling a gatita. Marcs learnt to be somewhat present during these shifts to stop Jake sneaking home with several kittens in his coat.

#jake lockley #steven grant #marc spector #moonknight #omiwrites

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mikimakiboo · 4 months ago

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been far too long since ive committed headcanon robbery (wait- have I already hit you? Im losing count man 😭)

Put em in the bag, all ur headcanons- any character, any au!

(If you want obv lol)

Right in time lmao I was about to share a headcanon I had about Error for a long long time but always forgot to post

Thank you for the opportunity 👍🏻

Error is always compared to a computer the way he can crash and load and access to codes and I just thought I would go deeper with that, so let me introduce to you: Error with an internet connection in his brain

The man's brain is connected to the internet, if there is something he wants to search on Google he can do so from his mind, if he needs to calculate something he goes Google -> calculator and calculates, the whole thing is visible in his right socket

There is no limitation, if he wants to watch a movie he just has to open a new tab and go on a streaming site, he can do anything Google can do

Also his magic extends to electricity in general, basically anything that works on electricity, may it be plugged on an outlet or with batteries, he can control it

He can switch the lights off and on without touching the switch, he can turn the TV on and off, change the chanels without touching the remote, he can just control the stuff with the electricity

When he loses control of his emotions everything electric around him tend to turn on and off randomly

I think that's it :D

#original post #ask #kkpup #error sans #errortale #errortale sans #error!sans #error sans headcanon #headcanon

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siampie · 1 year ago

Text

Finding You||Chapter 6

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings/tags: pinning, childhood trauma, eldest daughter syndrome, mention of emotional abuse, mentions of SA

A/N: Enjoy this chapter, you guys. Comments and reblogs are always welcomed, greatly advised and strongly appreciate.

Previous Chapter || Chapter List || Next chapter

Masterlist || join my taglist

Tag list: @marytheweefrenchie; @sunflowersandsapphires; @schneeflocky; @danzer8705; @ebathory997;

@shouldbestudying41; @beezusvreeland; @lulukings92;

Dividers by @cafekitsune

“In the latest gangbang shooting, the young father of two was gunned down in this Dublin’s pub, last night.”

The news anchor was standing in front of the aforementioned pub. The guards surrounded the establishment, collecting evidences. You put down the remote on your coffee table, and moved in the kitchen.

“Caolan Moore was celebrating the birth of his daughter Leah, when the gunman entered the pub and shot him five times. Moore’s fiancée, Shannon Gogarty, said he was a loving father who enjoyed nothing more than spending time with his kids.”

You started a fresh pot of coffee before sitting down at the small kitchen table. It all had seemed surreal, last night. Everything all happening at once, your mother calling you, Michael being arrested. It all had seemed surreal and chaotic. Unfortunately, you were no stranger to chaos. You did grow up in a pretty unstable home, walking on eggshells around your father at times. The man was able to explode at the drop of a hat. Although, as he grew older, he became less violent and less controlling.

You stared out of your large kitchen window. The red and blue lights had flashed across your walls well into the night. The guards had swarmed the streets, coming in and out of Jimmy’s home, collecting evidences. The news of Caolan Moore’s death had hit the internet long before the news outlet got a hold of it. Words were that the Kinsella did it, specifically Michael Kinsella.

You knew those words to be true. You knew, deep down, that Michael had done it. You knew it was for revenge for Jamie’s death on behalf of his brother, Jimmy. It didn’t take a genius to know that. It also didn’t come as a surprise that it happened. After all, you had watched enough tv shows and movies to know that this was the next course of action for the Kinsella. It was bound to happen.

You let out a long breath. You weren’t all that thrilled to go to work on no sleep. You had been restless for most of the night, thoughts of your mother whirling around your mind.

“I’m in Dublin.”

Thoughts of her being in Dublin had you reeling. You didn’t know what to do, what to think. You had thought of calling your sister or your little brother but—you didn’t want to worry them. And now that Michael had been arrested, you didn’t think you should burden him with your own issues. He already had a lot to deal with. He didn’t need to deal with you on top of it all.

You were anxious, you could feel it in the pit of your stomach. You didn’t want to go out and take the risks of bumping into her, or bumping into him. And since they had your address, the chances of that happening were pretty high. But you couldn’t just stop living your life because they were in Dublin, because you might come face to face with them.

A black car pulled into your driveway. It was Birdy’s, you frowned up at the car through the window. Your breath hitched at the sight of Michael climbing out the car. He had been released. You stood up and moved to your front door, as the car pulled out of your driveway.

“Michael?” You called as soon as you opened your door. The man walked up to you. “Are you okay?” Your eyes roamed over him quickly.

“I’m alright, pet.” Michael answered, smiling softly at you. “Yer up early?”

“Well, I didn’t really sleep.” You shook your head quickly. “Do you want to come in? Have a cup of coffee and maybe some breakfast?”

“I’d love that, yeah.” He nodded before stepping in.

The night before had seemed surreal but was long forgotten. Michael had been released. You felt relieved to see him, sitting across from you, in your kitchen. Although, you had barely slept the night before, you somehow felt energized. And the coffee had nothing to do with it.

You felt like you could breathe again.

“So, not that I’m not glad to see you here,” you started, “but they released you early. I thought that they were supposed to keep you for—at least twenty-four hours.”

Michael let out a snort, amused by your question. “You know how the guards operate in Ireland already?”

You shrugged, “I couldn’t sleep last night. So, I did some research.” He hummed, taking a bite out of his toast. “Why did they release you so soon? Did something happen?”

Michael did not answer immediately. He looked down at the table, pondering whether he should tell you about his seizures or not. He didn’t want people to know. Somehow ashamed of his own weakness, reminder of what had happened the night Allison died. He would lie to his family without hesitation, they didn’t need to know. They had no business to know about his seizures. But to you—well, you were different. You left room for him to be vulnerable, you genuinely seemed like you cared.

Maybe he could tell you.

“You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.” You said, pulling him out of his thoughts.

Michael put down his cup, “seizures,” he simply said. “Or at least, that’s what they’re thinkin’.” He looked up at you. “They can’t question me after havin’ one. So, they released me this mornin’.”

“Oh.” You nodded. “Have you seen a doctor yet?”

“Gonna need to see a GP to find out what’s happenin’ really.”

“I’m sure—I’m sure you’re gonna be alright.” You tried to reassure him; his lips tugged up at the corner. “My dad had epilepsy for a while, and he did okay. So, trust me when I say, it’s manageable. And you’re gonna be alright. I’m sure of it.”

Your phone rang in the living room and you froze. It couldn’t be your mother. Not that early in the morning. And your brother had been definitely blocked, couldn’t be him either. It was probably Bessie calling to make sure you were coming into work. It was logical. Yet, you couldn’t help the fear you felt at the sound of it.

“Your brother still bothering ya?” Michael questioned and you weakly shook your head.

“Not my brother.” You took a deep breath. “Last night—my mother called. She’s in Dublin and she wants to meet up.”

“Alone?” Michael stood up with his plate, going to the sink.

You shook your head as a snort of disbelief pushed past your lips. “Chances are that—my stepfather came with her.” Your eyes followed him, “I can do that later." you protested.

“’S alrigh’,” Michael assured you as you stood, moving closer to the kitchen island. “What happened between you and your stepda?” He questioned.

Could you burden him with this? After what he had been through the night before. Before he appeared in your driveway, you thought it’d be a bad idea. But now that he was standing in your kitchen, offering to hear you out, you found it difficult not to confide in him.

You took a deep breath, “nothing happened. Not really.” You offered him a kitchen towel so he could dry off his hands. He leaned against the sink. His eyes on you, waiting for you to continue. “Let’s just say that—after my mother abandoned us, we didn’t hear from her for almost a whole year. And when she came back in our lives, she didn’t come back alone.”

“Yer stepda,” he stated.

You nodded, “in the beginning, he was nice enough. I even liked him but after a while—he started to—get a little handsy with me. Trying to get me to sit on his lap, massages, that sort of things.”

Michael clenched his jaw at your words, gripping the sink, his knuckles turning white. A barely contained rage making itself known at your words.

“I didn’t say anything at first,” you continued. “All I wanted was to see my mother, you know. But—uhm, one night—he went too far,” you paused. “Nothing happened, but I woke up to him standing in my bedroom, in the middle of the night. He was just standing there staring at me. And then, he sat on my bed and started stroking my hair. I didn’t move—I couldn’t—I just—I just froze.”

Michael crossed the space between you, pulling you straight into him. Without realizing it, tears had sprung from your eyes, your voice cracked on the last words. Your arms wrapped around his middle, eagerly. His arms felt as strong as they had before. His scent wrapped around you, offering you the comfort that you needed more than anything in this moment.

“Did he—?” Michael started but you cut him off.

“Didn’t have time,” you shook your head. “First thing I did the day after was told my father. He pulled us out of there as quick as possible. Tried to tell my mom too but she didn’t believe me.” You sniffed. “In the end she chose him over us. Over me. And I’ll never forgive her for this.”

Michael’s hold on you tightened, his large hands splayed over your back, running up and down your spine. You felt his chin rest on top of your head.

“Like I told ya before, I won’t let anyone hurt ya.” He said quietly, “I won’t.”

“I know.” You buried your face deeper into his warm chest, “I know.”

In spite of the chaos that was your life at the moment, regardless of the fear that was gripping your guts, you felt safe in his arms. You felt oddly content and at peace in his arms. He was offering you much needed comfort. And there in his arms, you felt less alone.

“Ya know what I did last night?” He whispered in your hair.

“I do.” You pulled away slightly, so you could look up at him. A frown was pulling his lips downward, his guilt filled eyes were roaming over your face. “It’s all over the news, and the internet.”

He didn’t need to say the words. The question was admission enough on his part. Michael had gunned down Caolan Moore, you already knew. And yet, he was willing to share this part of him with you. The darkness and the danger that came with it.

“And yer not afraid of me?” His hand came up to cradle your face.

“No.” His palm pressed further into your cheek, and you leant into his touch.

You weren’t afraid of him. You had been in the beginning, and then you got to know him. And the more time you spent with him, the more you realized that Michael was no threat to you. He had been genuine in the way he spoke to you, quiet and yet, eager to know more of you.

Michael Kinsella was a threat only to those who wronged him. Caolan Moore was a blatant proof of that.

Hope was shining in his eyes. Your hand covered his, as you held his gaze. Along with hope, there was affection, and a softness in his eyes. His thumb brushing against the apple of your cheek. A small smile graced his lips, wrinkling the corner of his eyes.

The world around you faded away as you held each other’s gaze. Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, your eyes falling on his. Your heart raced beneath your ribcage. The arm he had around your waist pulled you further into him as he leaned down. His nose brushed against yours, his lips inched closer to yours and he paused, leaving room for you to push him away. Hesitantly, you closed the distance, your lips meeting his. Making the final decision to kiss the man, putting yourself out of your own misery.

His hand left your cheek, to hold the back of your head as your kiss grew more passionate and heated. Your arms made their way around his broad shoulders, your fingers grazing the hair at the nape of his neck. Your chest pressed against his, heart pounding in your ears, panting and moaning, each time his lips briefly left yours.

Your hand had wounded up in his brown locks, soft and thick between your fingers. You gasped as he lifted you up, placing you on the kitchen island. His lips latching onto yours as he came to stand between your legs. Your legs locked behind his waist. His tongue slid into your mouth, warm against yours. His hands were on your thighs while your arms around his shoulders pulled him further into you.

You got lost into him, his scent, the touch of his hands, his lips. In everything that was him. You wanted him. You wanted to touch, and kiss every inch of his body, wanted his hands and his lips to roam every inch of yours. But as much as you wanted to see and feel more of him, you had to put a stop to it.

Not today, not like that.

You pulled away, bringing your forehead against his. Both of you breathless, shoulders heaving as you were trying to catch your breath.

“I have to go to work.” You regretfully told him. “I need to get ready,” you almost groaned letting your head fall back.

Michael pushed your hair away from your face, tucking a strand behind your ear. “''S alrigh'. I let ya get ready,” he grinned at you, “we can continue this on another time?”

“Yeah, you still owe me a date.” You bit down your bottom lip, a smile tugging at your lips.

“Is that so?” He snorted in amusement, his thumb tracing your bottom lip.

“It is so.” You huffed out a laugh. “Want me to walk you out?”

“That’d be grand, pet,” he helped you down the counter, his hand wrapping around yours.

You laced your fingers with his, he grabbed his jacket as you walked past the small table. Once you’ve reached the door, you turned to him, grinning up at him. Butterflies erupting in your belly, fluttering around in excitement.

“See ya later, yeah?” He asked.

“Yeah, see you later,” you nodded.

“How about I take ya out for a drink later tonight?” He suggested.

“I’d love that very much.” He leaned down and rested a soft kiss on your lips.

Michael released your hand, and opened the front door, you followed him on your doorstep. You watched as he walked up to his own door, you waved at him. And a large smile split his face in two, he waved back at you before disappearing into his home.

With a deep sigh you walked back into your home, closing your door behind you. You couldn’t help the grin on your face, your heart skipping away in your chest. Energized in a new way, and with something to look forward to, you rushed up the stairs to get ready for work.

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