#jenna chew | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

warlockslovetomeow · 2 months ago

Text

time flies...

when captain jenna assigns you to infiltrate an intel hub disguised as a jazz club in the N109 zone, you make one simple request to the universe: don’t let me run into my ex. that prayer goes unanswered. but others? you might just get lucky.

pairing: exbf!sylus x female reader warnings: MDNI, explicit sexual content, porn w plot, porn w feelings, exes w unresolved tension, possessive behavior / mild jealousy, loooots of banter, thigh rubbing build up, dirty talk, like filthy, bratty!mc, sylus wants you so bad, walk him like a dog sis, oral (m & f), eating from the back, fingering, unprotected sex, rough sex, mating press, cumming inside a/n: wrote this with one hand!!!!! i need this man so bad!!!!!!!! wc: 5.9k

"....located in the N109 zone. any questions?"

and then she shot you. captain jenna—your fierce and until approximately five seconds ago, loyally trusted commander—had just fired her pistol at you within point-blank range.

you swallowed the bullet lodged in your throat before responding, reaching deep within yourself to appear as neutral as possible.

"no, captain!"

damn it all. of course your previous experience in the N109 zone would put you at the top of the list for this mission. unknown to your captain though, you'd rather chew on knives than risk a chance encounter with your ex boyfriend.

but since the intel she's assigned you to look into involves a new strain of protocore tech that mimics wanderer signatures, making it nearly undetectable and dangerous for all factions, it was high priority. and unfortunately for you, the same thought was likely running through his mind.

it'd been months since your messy breakup, months since you've spoken to each other. he wouldn't dare try anything again, especially in a compromised place like a covert jazz club.

when it came to sylus, however, you knew better.

you run through the briefing details once more in your head. this intel hub operates like most others in the N109 zone: secretive and precise. a surefire way to get yourself killed in places like these is by looking confused or unsure.

your orders are to tell the bouncer you're searching for a man wearing green inside, the color being code for the information category. according to association intel, green signifies everything related to protocores. once inside, you're to head to the bar and order an emerald isle, the contents being a gin and mint martini. the mint serving as a tip-off that you're looking for fresh, new information.

from there, you're basically on your own. the guise of a jazz club is intentional, patrons are to fraternize with their drinks visible in hand, searching for people with similar colored ones. once you find someone, you relay what drink you ordered, and if they have information on such a topic, they'll take a sip from your drink.

the catch? no refills allowed. if the person has irrelevant information, you've wasted part of your opportunity.

you saunter up to the entrance of the club, your black maxi dress shaping your body perfectly and almost causing you to disappear into the low lighting, exactly as planned. if the situation were to get threatening, your dress wouldn't be a risk.

however, this mission required you to look enticing while eyes were on you. the low, fishtail back and thin straps were sure to prompt onlookers to approach you and chat. you'd keep them in line, if not with words then with your loaded gun strapped firmly to your thigh.

you smile sweetly at the bouncer, saying everything required and getting inside without breaking a sweat. the club is busy, but not overwhelmingly so. you do a full room scan and mentally note that there are around 8 people with green drinks in hand—all at different levels of fullness. after you order the emerald isle, you make your way to the floor.

time to hunt.

the moment you walked in, sylus choked on his drink.

of course you'd be the one sent here. of course the same woman who hadn’t so much as looked at him in months would stroll back into his life with a drink coded for protocore intel.

the very thing that blew everything apart.

you hadn’t changed a bit. still walked like you owned the room. still wore danger like perfume. and those straps clinging to your body? a challenge written in silk. that dress wasn’t for him, he knew that, but he couldn’t help but wonder if some part of you knew he’d be here. if some part of you wanted him to look.

hell, he was looking. couldn’t stop, actually.

he leaned back in his seat on the second-floor balcony, his eyes locked on your every move through the dim haze and low lights. moments ago, he’d been halfway through a trade with the scrawny male seated across from him. but now, the man might as well be invisible. sylus couldn’t care less about anything that didn’t involve looking at you.

he watched you flash that fake, pretty smile—the one you wore while you were on missions. no one else would know the difference. but he did.

when he saw the color of your drink, he almost laughed. no doubt you were here for information surrounding the new wanderer mimicking tech. the irony twisted like a blade between his ribs.

you hated him for hiding his connections to protocore manufacturing. said it was betrayal. said you couldn't trust someone who kept secrets like that. but you never saw the full picture. he was protecting you from yourself.

you didn’t understand, maybe you still don't, but he hadn’t been lying to hurt you. he knew what getting you involved would cost. he knew you, and the second you found out the truth about what exactly onychinus was sponsoring, it'd drag you into the depths of the mystery surrounding your aether core. he knew you wouldn't be able to stop pursuing it all, no matter what it did to you.

and now, here you were. wading waist-deep into the same fire he lost you to.

sylus clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around his glass. he should look away. should let you do what you came here to do.

but then some lowlife in a tacky rust-colored suit slithered up to you, requesting a dance. he was too close. acted too familiar. sylus watched your smile shift into something tight and forced. the kind you used when you were baiting someone.

no.

he wasn’t going to just sit back. not when you were back in his orbit, whether you meant to be or not. and not when he still wanted you just as badly as the day you walked away.

this had to be some sort of punishment. you must’ve pissed off the universe in a past life to end up pressed against a man wearing the ugliest rust-colored suit known to mankind. he smelled like sweat masked with cheap cologne. every inch of him screamed sleaze. yet, here you were, letting him touch you. because, of course, the filthiest bastard in the room had the most valuable intel so far. and with your drink nearly empty, you couldn’t afford to cut the dance short.

his grimy left hand rested on your waist—drifting lower with each passing second—while his other clung to his green drink like he planned to propose to it before the night was over.

"...only sold to the 1%, then trickling downwards to whoever can afford those prices. say darling, you oughta come home with me tonight. there's a lot more i can tell ya, you know, in private." his voice dripped like oil, and as he leaned in to whisper the last part, his fingers slid beneath the open hem of your back.

you resisted the overwhelming urge to pull out your pistol and really show him something private.

instead, you forced a breath and put on a tight smile. a smile that was nowhere near reaching your eyes, barely a curl on your lips. then you steered him back to the reason you were even still breathing the same air. “who are they buying from? is there no logo? no trace of manufacturing?”

“not a thing,” he said, grinning like he thought he was clever. “but I did hear some old abandoned buildings around the N109 zone have been lighting up lately. enough space to test high risk tech in those.”

you could barely hold back your eye roll. the way he spoke, like you owed him something just for opening his mouth, grated on every nerve in your body. and he looked at you like he planned to collect on that imagined debt in full.

“where’s the closest one?” your tone had a sharp edge now. his fingers kept wandering, and your patience was running thin. you needed this conversation over. and this man dead.

"hmm? not far from here. i'd say about—”

he didn’t get to finish.

a tall figure stepped between you and the creep, sliding a hand onto your waist in place of the one you'd been seconds from snapping in half. you didn’t need to look. didn’t need to double check.

you could recognize sylus by touch alone.

“mind if I cut in?” he said smoothly, his voice low and razor-sharp. “this man appears to be more thirsty than classy.”

you sighed. worst timing possible.

"no, thank you. that’s the idea,” you replied coolly, but it didn’t matter.

sylus had already made his move. the shorter man stumbled back, face ghost-white, mumbling something that sounded like an apology—or maybe a prayer—before scurrying off as if sylus had just rearranged his face with a look alone.

then, he turned to you.

he didn’t speak at first, only stared. like he couldn’t breathe, like he couldn’t believe you were real. his gaze swept over you, slow and starving, as if he were trying to memorize every inch before you vanished again. not a trace of a smirk, just a man who’d been sucker punched by the sight of you.

but eventually, sylus flipped the mental switch. he stepped closer, hand outstretched, voice as smooth as sin, "this place was dangerous before you walked in. now, it doesn’t stand a chance.”

you stared at him, unblinking, letting the silence hang just long enough to make your point. the theatrics didn’t impress you, but the corner of your mouth twitched anyway, a reflex you hated. with another sigh you stepped forward, your hand sliding into his like muscle memory.

before you could get a word in, sylus reached for the drink still in your hand. his fingers brushed yours, unhurried and deliberate, as he took it from you without asking to silently relieve the burden.

his other hand found your waist and you let yours rest on his shoulders, the familiar feel of him under your fingertips sending a shiver through you.

it was dangerous how easy it was. how quickly your steps matched the rhythm. how naturally your body leaned into his, like the time apart had never happened. the jazz music swelled around you and you both moved with it like something practiced in another life.

then his mouth was near your ear, voice dipping low as the air between you tightened. “careful. you dance like someone who remembers exactly how I feel.”

“i dance like someone who can’t wait for this song to end," you shot back, your tone sharp enough to cut.

"no," he said, like he knew something you didn't. "you dance like someone pretending the space between us isn't pulling you in.”

a tense beat passed.

"poetic. a bit too drab for my taste, unfortunately."

“you used to like the way I spoke when it was your name in my mouth.” his voice danced down your spine like a dirty promise, hot enough to make your stomach twist.

you hated it. hated that he still had this hold on you. that months later, you still reacted.

you bit back, voice steady and full of edge. “and you used to listen when I said no.”

“you never said no when it was just the two of us.”

his tone was so unbothered, so undeniably sylus. you hated how your chest ached at that. you'd buried that version of you with him a long time ago. or at least you thought you had.

you glared at him, trying to telepathically communicate how badly you wanted him to burn.

the song then faded into a slower, darker tune. like even the music knew how deadly this was becoming.

you stepped back, but only a hair. not enough to give him the satisfaction. just enough to remind yourself you still could.

his gaze followed the retreat like it hurt him to let you go. “how did you find out about this hub? did you come alone?”

you didn’t answer. instead, you turned from him. a clean, intentional break. you were done letting him circle you like he still had the right.

but his fingers caught your wrist before you could fully disappear from him again, placing your hand back on his shoulder.

“an emerald isle,” he murmured. “what intel are you here for?”

you looked him dead in the eyes, annoyance painting your features. “sooo many questions. do you always get this chatty when you're trying not to look desperate?"

god, he missed you. missed when you got like this with him. he loved nothing more than when you challenged him, rough and biting.

“just concerned, sweetie. especially if what you know brought you here…" his smile curled as he spoke. "…looking like this.”

“that's too bad. you don’t get to play protective anymore. that role expired." your voice came out flat and cold, like you had rehearsed the indifference.

“mmm. but it seems your feelings for me haven’t, kitten.”

“funny. i don’t remember ever admitting I had them.”

“no? then why are your thighs tensing like they remember everything?”

your breath hitched. not loud, but enough to make you furious with yourself. heat flushed up your throat, mortification and memory colliding in the worst possible way. you hated that he noticed. hated more that he was right. that your body reacted before your mind could catch up.

you didn’t let the silence stretch. couldn’t let it stretch.

"you're in my way."

sylus tilted his head, the smirk on his lips making your blood boil. “and you’re in my thoughts. every day. every night. doesn’t feel fair, does it?”

“what’s not fair is how your ego somehow survived our breakup.” you spoke through gritted teeth, still recovering from his last blow.

“you don’t have to say it," he was grinning now—the bastard. "i can feel it.”

“what, your neediness?” you practically spit back, the tension between you thick enough to choke on.

“yours, actually. you’re shaking, kitten."

“it’s rage.”

“mmm. is that what we’re calling want these days?”

before you could fire off something scathing, sylus wrapped his fingers around your wrist again and this time he pulls. not hard, just enough to close the last of the distance. chest brushing chest, breath mingling in the small space in between your lips.

“you think I don’t know that look in your eyes? that tilt in your hips when you dance near me? you want distance, yet your body keeps inching closer," his voice was low, fever laced into every syllable. "what am I to believe?”

“i'm working, sylus. this—” you gestured between your bodies, the closeness, the feelings, all of it. “—can’t happen again."

his smirk fades, but not into hurt. into hunger. “then tell me to stop.”

you don't.

his fingers trace the underside of your jaw, measured and daring.

“say it." he murmurs. "say stop.”

but you don't. you can’t. your lips part, but not for protest. then—

“is there a problem here?” a voice cuts through from behind, snapping the spell. a man steps between you and sylus, eyes flickering between your faces. “doesn’t look like you want to be with him, sweetheart. just say the word.”

“step back,” sylus says before you can even breathe, his tone icy. possessive. “you’re in her space. that’s the problem.”

the man falters, visibly unsettled by the sharp gleam of red in sylus’ eye. “i’m sure she’d prefer someone who doesn’t drag her around the dance floor.”

sylus smirks at him, deadly calm. “she’s exactly where she wants to be.”

it seems the man recognizes onychinus' leader, because that’s all it takes. the man backs off without another word.

you let the silence settle, pulse still fluttering from both the interruption and everything before it.

“jealousy doesn’t suit you,” you tease, turning your head just enough to draw his eyes back to your mouth.

“neither does watching you pretend you don’t miss me,” he shoots back, matching your quip as he always excelled at doing.

“i don’t.”

he smirks. “liar.”

your voice sharpens. “we’re broken up, sylus. don’t you recall?”

his gaze doesn’t waver. “i remember everything. your laugh. your skin. the way you used to—”

“don’t,” you cut in, voice like a blade. “you don’t get to say those things anymore.”

he leans in anyway, close enough that you can taste the desire radiating off him.

“then stop looking at me like that.”

“like what?” you hiss.

his mouth curved with mischief and warning. “like you want me to follow you upstairs.”

you blinked, heart slamming so hard it hurt. and for one breath, you let yourself feel it, all the pain he left behind.

then you swallowed it whole, and drowned in him.

as you both slipped out of sight from the crowded dance floor, sylus tugged you closer, kissing you like he’d been starved. your bodies stumbled up the stairs, hands tangled and desperate, a hunger between you that neither could deny. he pressed you against the wall at the top of the stairs, his lips trailing down your neck, each kiss an act of claiming. you felt his eagerness press against you and your head swirled deliciously.

“i can feel how badly you want me,” you taunt, chest rising as you fight for composure. “want me so bad you’d drop to your knees if I told you to, wouldn’t you?”

"you could make me beg for you. and more." he pressed into you, harder now. his body solid against yours as the air became thick with want. “but we both know you want to be the one on your knees."

you pull off him with a smirk of your own, opening the closest door and leading him inside. “you think you’re the only one who knows how to play this game?”

once you both stepped into the room, you shove sylus back onto the bed. his handsome face tipped up at you from where he landed, eyes cocky and smug despite being beneath you.

"i’m the one who taught you how to play, sweetie.”

you lock the door behind you with a click, leaving him on the bed to watch every calculated move you made.

you turn to face him. your steps unhurried, hips swaying like a predator with a plan. his gaze devours you as you reach the center of the room and spin your back to him.

the low hem of your dress dips scandalously, held up only by two delicate straps. you slide one down, then the other. the fabric sinks down your body, every inch a show for the man breathing heavier by the second.

the fabric hits the floor and you step out of it and cross the room. sylus sits on the edge of the bed, legs spread like he's trying not to burst at the sight of you.

you drop to your knees before him, fingers ghosting up his thighs.

you undo his belt like it’s second nature, because it is, but this time there's no soft glances or whispered promises. only tension, sweat, and the sharp edge of something darker.

you shift him out of his underwear and he's already leaking, throbbing for you. you pull him out slow, eyes locked on his like a dare. despite taking him plenty of times before, his huge length still intimidated you. and made your mouth water.

then, with his hard cock still in your hands, you tilt your head back and loll your tongue out with a dirty smile.

“fuck,” he breathes, before leaning forward and spitting directly into your open mouth.

you swirl it around with your tongue, exaggerated and filthy, before letting it drip from your lips straight onto the tip of his cock. you stroke him with it, twisting your wrist just right, watching him twitch and strain in your grasp as you spread the mess down him.

sylus manages a breathless smirk. “has our time apart made you dirtier?” his voice is wrecked. “or have you missed me this much?”

you drag your tongue up his length, lingering on his sensitive vein, then pull back with a wet pop. the action drives him wild, and he has to bite his lip to stop himself from groaning.

your eyes gleam with something wicked. “you’re so much more attractive when you’re moaning for me instead of talking.”

your lips part again, this time to take him in painfully slow. you twirl your tongue around his tip, the taste so familiar it makes your eyes roll back. the mix of fluids slick his cock all the way down to the base, your lips shiny and swollen around him.

then you sink lower and he can’t stop staring. can’t stop twitching in your mouth like he’s about to blow from just the sound of your gag. his hips jerk when the tip hits the back of your throat, and you pull off again with a sinful smirk.

“you always get so twitchy when i barely touch you,” you purr, stroking him with lazy precision. “what happened to that control you're so proud of?”

his jaw tightens at your jab, hands gripping the edge of the bed so hard his knuckles go white. while he did enjoy you challenging him, you were working his last nerve.

you lean in once more, smiling with satisfaction at his reaction. your movement light on his aching cock, suckling and teasing, never committing. your hands move unhurried, your mouth even slower, and his whole body is trembling from restraint.

sylus lets out a low, ruined growl. “keep teasing me and you'll regret it, kitten.”

“is that a threat or a promise?” you whisper, licking along the underside of his shaft. “because it sounds a lot like begging to me.”

his hands tremor like he wants to grab you, but you stay in control. for now.

you now take him with vigor, enough to make him moan, then stop. again. and again. always just a little more, never enough. he's throbbing in your grip, leaking like he could cum from this alone.

“fuck,” he mutters. “you’re gonna drive me insane.”

you pout with faux innocence. “what, this?” you give him a long, slow lick, eyes full of mockery. “close already?”

and then he snaps.

in a blur of motion, sylus grabs you by the hair, pulls you up, and throws you onto the bed, flat on your back.

you barely have time to gasp before he's on you, all passion and vengeance. he slides between your thighs, yanking your panties off like they personally committed your aggravating acts.

“you wanna tease?” he snarls, breath hot against your inner thigh. “then fucking take it.”

his mouth hovers just above your dripping cunt, teasing you now. his turn to play. he breathes against your folds, lips barely brushing, just enough to make you whimper.

“what’s wrong, sweetie?” he taunts, voice thick with revenge and lust. “thought you liked going slow.”

you reach down and twist your fingers in his hair, yanking his face into you with a growl of your own.

“eat. or i will ride your face and make you regret waiting.”

sylus keens at your words, tongue diving in like a man starved. he loved when you got rough with him, turning him on like no other.

you moan right back at the feeling of him, legs already starting to shake. there's no more teasing in his movements, he’s messy, frantic, seemingly obsessed. his mouth is somehow everywhere at once, like he’s trying to drown in your taste.

you writhe under him, losing every ounce of control you once held. and he doesn’t stop. not even when your thighs close around his head. not even when you scream his name.

there’s no finesse, just open mouthed hunger, his tongue and lips on a mission to touch every part of you. then he adds two fingers, slipping in deep and curling them just right, hitting that spot you never could on your own. you gush around them, soaking his hand, and he groans like the mess is a gift.

you clutch the sheets below you, the sensation too much and not enough. every time his nose nudges your clit, every hit of his perfectly angled fingers, your body jolts. the bed creaks below you as he pushes you closer and closer to that high you've been chasing for months. but nothing, nothing, ever touched you like this.

your orgasm starts barreling toward you and right when you're on the cusp of mind numbing pleasure—

he slows down.

right as your toes curl and your thighs tense, he pulls back. you whine, strung out and soaked.

you’re about to beg when you notice the bed is still shaking. not just from you.

sylus is grinding against the mattress. hard and desperate.

you let out a breathless, evil little laugh. “you’re humping the bed? i’m the one getting eaten alive, and you’re the one falling apart?”

you should’ve stopped there. you really should’ve.

but you smirk, lift your hips so you can meet his eyes, and whisper, “what, couldn’t wait your turn?”

his face changes at that, deep and pissed, then he grabs your hips and flips you onto all fours like you weigh nothing.

“should’ve filled your throat with cum to shut that mouth,” he hisses into your ear.

before you can reply, his hands are spreading you open and his mouth is back on you. from behind.

his tongue laps at your entrance, filthy and unrelenting, while his fingers sneak down to bully your clit in ruthless circles. your arms give out at the same time as your legs begin to buckle, but he doesn’t let you fall. one strong arm wraps around your waist whilst the other pleasures you without mercy.

you greedily grind your ass into his face and he groans at the action like he wants to live between your thighs. you clench around his tongue, fluids mixing together, and the mess just spurs you on further. spurs him on further. the building liquids slide down your legs, coating his face and all he wants is more.

you’re about to fall apart all over again when he pulls away in one fluid motion.

your body collapses onto the bed, shaking from the sudden change. you roll onto your back, dazed and desperate.

sylus wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, not even trying to be subtle, and spreads your legs wide. his eyes drink in the sight, as if your glistening pussy was some divine offering.

you pout, fingers drifting toward your clit, desperate to finish what he stole. but sylus grabs your wrist, pins it above your head, and lines himself up with you. his neglected cock dripping with precum as he slides it between your folds.

you bite your lip at how heavy and huge he is. the head alone makes your thighs tremble.

then he leans down, mouth right against your ear.

“you’re not cumming,” he murmurs, slow and cruel, “unless it’s on my cock.”

your breath stutters. it’s been months since you took him, months since your body was trained for that stretch. he was so big, it hurt. you swallow hard, pride burning at your own words.

"just… not too fast,” you say, trying to stay steady. “okay?”

he tilts his head, mocking you with that fake-soft voice. “of course, sweetie. whatever you need.”

he kissed your forehead like the lover he once was.

then slammed his full length inside you.

your mouth opens in a silent scream. he’s thick, obscene, and the sudden stretch makes your vision fade out. you claw at his biceps, nails digging in, but he doesn't care.

“you thought that bratty little attitude was gonna earn you favors?” he grits out, voice strained and dark with desire.

he pulls out almost completely, then drives back in deeper. harder.

“be good and take it.”

your mind is reeling, your body even worse. you're clenching around him like a vice, almost trying to force him to slow down. he doesn't.

in fact, he lets go of the hand pinning yours above your head and grabs your hips instead, tilting them up and fucking into you faster. he’d force you to take it. you always liked it rough.

"just needed some dick to shut you up, hmm?" he stated, each word hitting with the rhythm of his thrusts.

you almost choke. he was drilling so deep it felt like he was aiming for your throat. his hand then slid over your stomach and pressed down, and he grinned above you like the smug devil he is when he felt himself moving inside you.

"shut up—nghh—'n fuck me harder." you manage out, your tone not matching the challenge in your voice even slightly.

your body remembered him now. that stretch, that angle. you were soaking him, walls practically begging for him. his cock slipped in and out like he owned it. because he does.

sylus realizes it too, because he leans in, pushing impossibly deeper before gloating in your face. "this pussy missed me. she’s crying for it."

you try to snap something back, something sharp, anything to bite into his smugness. but it dies on your tongue the second his hips grind into yours. his cock drags deep and slow, just once, and your whole body locks up. the stretch is somehow overwhelming and perfect. like you were made for him.

your fingers scramble over his back, clinging to him for stability, but all you can manage is a strangled, “fuck, sylus—”

his rhythm falters, just for a second, but you feel it. his gaze snaps to yours, suddenly serious. his body stills then, cock twitching inside you. it seemed like he was searching for something in you that he was too scared to name.

he leans in once more, but this time not to hit deeper. to look at you, really look. his breath fanned your lips, your cheeks, your throat.

"you missed me too," he says. no question in it.

you want to lie. bite back with something petty and proud. but your pussy clenches around him like it’s answering for you, loud and shameless.

your chest heaves as you stare up at him. your throat aches from holding back all the things you swore you’d never say.

and still, you whisper it.

“yours.”

sylus goes rigid at your confession.

you feel a shudder pass through his entire body. he clenched his jaw while his hands trembled against your waist, grip tightening. then something breaks. he manhandles your thighs up and wide, body looming over yours.

“say it again.” he demands in between guttural grunts. “say you’re mine.”

you wail at the change in position, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes and pleasure twisting in your belly like a storm. “'m yours. fuck—sylus, i’m yours.”

his chest pins your thighs to your torso, folding you nearly in half. the angle makes your head dizzy, an entirely new world of bliss. you’re split open, completely at his mercy, and your cunt pulses around him like it knows it’s where it belongs.

“fucking say it while I ruin you.” his voice cracks, hips pistoning forward again and again. he’s completely unraveling, thrusts messier now, more desperate.

you chant it like a mantra. “yours, yours, yours—”

“look at you,” he grunts, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your chest. “taking me so good now. tight little pussy just needed a reminder.”

his pace is brutal and unrelenting. your thighs shake, pinned wide open, helpless to do anything but feel every inch of him. be filled by him.

his eyes don’t leave yours. there’s hunger there, but you also notice something raw too. that longing feeling you thought only you felt.

sylus dips down, lips brushing yours, and murmurs against your mouth. “you really gonna go back out there like this?”

you blink at him, dazed. “huh?”

“full of me,” he snarls, hitting deep enough to knock the breath from your lungs. “my cum soaking your thighs while you try to finish your mission. think you can keep it in?”

you moan loudly at his filthy words and he grins against your cheek.

“say you want it. say you want me to fill you up.”

you don’t even hesitate.

“yes please! sylus, want it!”

“say it right.” he commands, snapping his hips so hard the bed frame groans. “tell me who you belong to.”

“you! ’m yours—fuck—please cum inside me!”

he loses it.

his grip tightens bruisingly on your hips, dragging you down to meet every savage thrust. the drag of his cock is erratic, his body shuddering above yours.

“gonna fill you up,” he pants, “make you mine all over again—shit!—you’re gonna leak for me, kitten. gonna walk outta here with my cum dripping down your thighs and everyone knowing you let me claim you.”

the possessiveness in his voice sends you spiraling. your pussy clenches tight, fluttering around him like your body’s already begging for it. the tension in your belly coils impossibly tight. every hard, brutal thrust inside you making your vision blur.

“sylus,” you gasp, pitch high and breathless, “close, please—”

“you wanna cum on my cock?” he asked, slamming into you with the full force of his weight. “wanna milk me while I fill this cunt up?”

you nod frantically, tears spilling down your cheeks. “yes, yes! please, wanna cum with you, wanna feel you!”

sylus drops his head to your shoulder, teeth scraping your skin. "go on, then. show me how bad you want me."

and you do.

you shatter with a loud cry, your orgasm hitting like a wave that floods your senses. you clench tight around him in spasms that make your back arch off the bed and your fingers dig into his back to anchor yourself. you sob his name as your pussy pulses around him, your entire body wrung out and shaking.

“that’s it,” he moans deeply, his rhythm stuttering as your walls clamp down. “so tight—”

and he’s right there with you.

with a sharp groan, he drives himself deep to bury every inch inside. his hips jerk and his cock twitches as he spills into you, hot and thick. his voice breaks as he utters your name out like a prayer. one hand squeezes your thigh tight while the other trembles on your waist, trying to hold himself together while he fills you up.

you’re shaking, panting into his shoulder, pulling him close as his warmth spills into you. he doesn’t pull out. not yet. just stays there, breathing ragged against your skin, forehead pressed to yours.

your body trembles with aftershocks, cunt fluttering weakly around his cock, milking every drop from him like your body refuses to let him go.

“fuck,” he whispers, voice almost gentle. “you were made for me.”

you’re still dazed, your brain lagging behind the high. you can feel him dripping out of you already, warm and slick between your thighs.

he leans in, brushing a kiss to your temple, like the lover he is.

“you better squeeze those legs shut when you leave,” he murmurs, cocky smirk creeping back in. “i don’t want anyone seeing what’s mine.”

a/n(2): first time writing sylus, hope i did him justice >_< likes and reblogs r super appreciated, lmk your thoughts on this!!!

@mcdepressed290 here is your tag friend as requested. hope u enjoy!!!

2K notes · View notes

wol-fica · 1 month ago

Text

-Small In The Snow-

summary - ortega christmas party seems like a great family bonding time…until one nasty comment sets you spiraling

warnings - use of the f slur, mean old woman (DISCLAIMER: no hate towards Jenna’s family, purely for plot.)

an - so i know this isn’t the strip fic…i forgot this wasn’t posted and i haven’t done a jenna fic in awhile soooooo, here’s to help you get by :)

—————————

“Your family wants to what?” You asked, speaking into the phone while you cooked your dinner.

It was a late Friday night, and you had just got home from work about twenty minutes ago. You were planning on having a small snack and then crash on your sofa, but you girlfriend had called you and now you were here stirring up some pasta for dinner all because she scolded you about your eating habits.

“They wanna have you over for the christmas party tomorrow,” Jenna’s smooth voice flowed through the speaker, making your brain go a little fuzzy, “Abuela wants to see you again.”

You winced, your brain bringing up the moment when you first met Abuela at the Ortega Family Reunion. She had judged you left and right, from your posture to the small nick on the left side of your mouth. You were a little apprehensive to ever see her again, so for her to request you to be at the party made your stomach churn unpleasantly.

“I dunno.” You mumbled, pouring the pasta into the strainer, “She wasn’t that nice to me when she saw me last time.”

“That’s just how she is, I’m sure she likes you a lot.” Jenna replied, her voice sweet and coaxing, “Besides, I want you there.”

Your face went a little red, the heat of your skin causing you to smile. Jenna always knew how to weasel you into doing things for her, either with subtle flirting or just the easy way of asking for what she wants and then immediately kissing you so you would say yes.

“I know you do, but Abuela scares me.”

“Baby.” She sighed, and you swore you could see the frown etched upon her face, “Abuela isn’t that bad, just show up, be you, and everything will be fine.”

You paused, stirring the cheese into the pasta slowly while contemplating your options. You could A: go to the party, be embarrassed by Abuela in front of everyone, and go home feeling worthless. Or you could B: refuse and skip out on the party, and make your very beautiful and very emotional girlfriend pissed at you.

You also were trying to keep a small secret from Jenna, but skipping out on a christmas party probably wasn’t the best way to do it.

So you chose the first option.

———Time Skip———

“Ugh.” You gagged, pulling on the collar of your shirt, “This is so tight.”

“Stop doing that.” Natalie said from the stove, waving a spoon at you, “You’ll stretch out that nice shirt.”

You were sitting in the Ortega kitchen, the thick smell of tamales heavy in the air. Jenna’s mom was at the stove, finishing up the last couple dishes before they had to go out on the dining room table. Your girlfriend had picked out semi-formal clothes for you, saying that impressions are what make the atmosphere easier on the mind, and complimented your outfit

“I’m nervous, what if Abuela chews me out again?” You asked rhetorically, ignoring her statement, “I’m gonna be a laughing stock.”

“Y/N.” Natalie said, setting the wooden utensil down and turning to you, “You need to stop stressing, it’s not good for you.”

You huffed in annoyance, letting your head fall to the cool surface of the kitchen island counter. Your eyes fell shut, a groan leaving your parted lips. Footsteps drew closer from behind you, and the soft touch of a familiar hand on your back made you suck in a sharp breath.

Jenna’s hand ran up and down your back, her fingers dancing along your spine while she gently massaged the tension out of your shoulder with her other hand. You sighed, slightly leaning towards her as an invite to keep going, and she responded with a squeeze to your hip when her hand ran down that way.

“Is the food almost done?” Jenna asked her mom, staying near to you, “I think people are starting to arrive.”

“Yeah, I just have to put lids on the tamale trays.” Natalie said before walking out of the kitchen.

“Okay, perfect.” She said, smiling before turning back to you, “What’s wrong baby?”

“Nothing, I’m okay.” You mumbled, turning your head to look up at your girlfriend, “I’m just nervous.”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes at you, “You’re still on about that? C'mon Y/N you need to let it go.”

You cringed, tearing your eyes away from hers to stare at the marble counter. You despised when Jenna was mad or upset with you, and each time she showed her dismay, you would feel unpleasant and bitter. You knew she didn’t actually know what your nerves were about, but it still sucked when she was upset with you.

Fortunately for you though, she loved you way too much for her to actually stay angry with you, hence why her gaze immediately softened and she leaned down to be eye level with you.

“Sweetheart, I didn’t mean it like that.” She cooed, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” You said, pushing yourself up until you were standing up straight, “You don’t need to apologize, I’m just overthinking.”

“You don’t need to, it will be fine.” She soothed, pulling your arm around her waist so she could snuggle into your side, “And if something actually does happen with Abuela, then I’ll deal with it and we can go home.”

You hummed, turning to rest your cheek atop her head while her hands ran up your back. Her nails gently scratched against your skin, making your eyes flutter shut with a sudden warm feeling of relief.

“She will behave, I’ll make sure of it.” Jenna murmured, leaning up to press her lips to your jaw, “I got you, baby.”

You smiled, peppering some kisses to her face that made her giggle a little. “I need to use the bathroom though, gets the nerves out of me”

Jenna smirked, “Nervous shit?”

You flicked your middle finger at her as you walked away, watching her shake her head before you turned the corner to the restroom. Once you entered the room and finished your business, you made to exit before hearing a very familiar yet very loud voice.

“¡Jenna! ¡Mi chica!”

You tensed up, slowly drying your hands as to prolong seeing your girlfriend's grandmother. You heard Jenna’s family all conversing in the dining room, a small smile coming to your face when her laugh echoed through the hallway, but that was instantly wiped from your features when you walked into the room.

Abuela caught sight of you immediately, waving away Aliyah and making a beeline for you. You inhaled, preparing for the first wave of insults to come.

“Y/N!” She greeted shrilly, reaching for a hug, “You have gotten so tall…and so skinny, you need to eat more.”

“Hi Abuela, it’s lovely to see you too.” You grimaced, forcing a kind smile on your face, “How have you been?”

“Eh i’m alive, can’t get rid of my old bones yet.” She shot a glare towards Natalie, who sighed and took a larger sip of her drink.

You awkwardly laughed, scratching the back of your neck and glancing around, “Wouldn’t want you gone anyway.”

“These people keep hoping I die, but I still gotta a lot of energy left in me” She raised her eyebrows in a suggestive way.

“Abuela!” Edward scolded, motioning to the kids playing in the living room.

“Oh they don’t care, and besides I’m too old to try to be courteous”

He sighed, shaking his head and walking away into the living room where the rest of the family was.

Abuela chortled, poking her cane at your stomach before hobbling away, probably looking for a cushy chair to snore off into. You sighed, rubbing your eyes as you went to go get a drink in the kitchen. Mia was there, pouring some vodka into her orange juice to make a mimosa, and she smiled warmly when she caught sight of you.

“Hey Y/N, how are you?” She asked, putting the cap on the vodka bottle, “Want me to make you something?”

“Please.” You groaned, peering at the bottles on the table, “Could you make a Manhattan?”

“Of course I can, who do you think I am?”

You chuckled, checking out the platters of food scattered across the counter. You settled on the cheese plate, using a toothpick to try the various flavors.

“Soooo, how has life been? Anything crazy or fun going on?” Mia asked curiously, opening a jar of cherries, “Jenna told me you’ve been busy lately.”

“Yeah, my job has a tight grip on my neck. I barely get any free time anymore.” You replied, snacking on the smoked gouda in front of you, “And…other things.”

“Oh?” Mia raised an eyebrow at you and handed you your drink, “Tell me, I’m nosy.”

You smirked, giggling a little while you opened your phone to pull up a picture. It was a beautiful diamond ring, with the band being gold vines enveloping the modest jewel. It was a hard decision to make, being that you wanted it to be perfect for the perfect woman you have, but after a long time of thinking, the ring you chose seemed to be the right one.

Mia gasped, looking at you and then at the photo and then back at you. She squealed and threw her arms around you, trapping you in a large hug.

“You’re gonna propose!” She cried, jumping up and down while you frantically tried to keep your drink from spilling, “When will you? Do our parents know? How long have you had the ring?”

“Not sure yet, yes they do, and it’s been about a month now.” You smiled, setting your drink on the counter, “I’ve been trying to find the right time, but with me being so busy and Jenna filming constantly it’s been a tad bit difficult.”

“I get that, but you should let me help you out! I know the perfect place to do it!”

You nodded, pondering that idea, “Maybe, it depends on her schedule and mine.”

“Who’s schedule?” A voice said from behind you.

You jumped out of your skin, quickly locking your phone and shoving it into your pocket. Jenna walked into your view, leaning up to kiss your cheek before going to get a drink, “What are you two up to?”

You gulped, knowing you are a terrible liar, and looked to Mia for help.

“Just discussing Y/N’s busyness with work.” She replied smoothly, sending you a wink, “She needs to relax more.”

“You’re telling me.” Jenna quipped, giving you a look, “I’m filming all the time and I have more free time than her.”

“I wish I could take time off, they are just so strict with my hours.” You said sheepishly, twiddling with your fingers.

“Mhmm.” She hummed, a playful smile on her face.

You watched as her and Mia dove into a conversation, their voices fading out while you plainly stared at your girlfriend. Your eyes traced her features, indulging in her presence. No matter what day, what time, or how you were feeling, Jenna was always and will always be so incredibly gorgeous to you. The way her freckles splashed onto her face, the way her smile was always so warm and welcoming, and the way she so effortlessly made you melt with just a wink in your direction.

The ring flashed in your mind.

“So Y/N.” Mia turned to you, “What do you think?”

“Huh.” You said, zoning back in to find them both looking at you, Jenna giggling behind her martini.

“Who is the best in bed?” Mia asked, raising her eyebrows at you, “Out of everyone at this party.”

“I…uh..” You stammered, unsure of what to say, “How did we get here?”

“You’re supposed to say me.” Jenna deadpanned, taking a sip out of her glass, “Because I am.”

You shrugged, immediately ducking out through the doorway into the hallway when she chucked an olive at you. You snickered into your hand, not paying attention to where you were walking until you almost side stepped a short figure. A cane came out of nowhere, swinging right into your shins, making you yowl in pain.

“Fuck, ow!” You hissed, tripping on your feet and ending up on the ground.

“That’s what you get, vermin.” A very familiar voice said from above, “Thinking you can come here and act that way.”

You peered up, flinching when Abuela stood over you, holding her cane in her hand like a threat.

“Excuse me?” You questioned while standing up, not sure if you heard her correctly, “Did you call me vermin?”

She seemed to stare daggers into your soul, her sharp eyes boring into yours in a threatening manner.

“You’re a disgrace to this family, Jenna should have never given you a chance.” She growled at you, “Worthless faggot.”

The world seemed to slow down as you stood there, mouth agape. Abuela has always been snappy towards you, but she’s never insulted you that much, let alone use a derogatory slur towards you. Jenna had informed you of her homophobic perspectives, but she had said that Natalie was working on it with her and had made better progress.

Clearly not.

“I’ll never understand why anyone here accepts you.” Abuela snarled, hobbling in the direction of the living room, “Useless piece of intersex trash.”

You inhaled, feeling your anxiety rising quite fast. Tears welled up in your eyes, clouding your vision as you clutched your shirt.

Worthless?

Useless?

Trash?

Is that what they all thought of you?

You gingerly hurried towards the back door, slipping out into the cold air to get away from the sweat building on your neck. After rounding the house and crossing the backyard, you slid down into a swing on the swingset, letting yourself melt into the snow covered seat. Your chest felt tight, almost suffocating you as you tried desperately to breathe in the crisp wind.

You sat outside for a while, catching your breath in the winter air. It was freezing, especially since you did not have a coat on, but your mind was racing too fast to care about potentially getting a cold. Chatter and laughter sounded from inside, Christmas music softly singing out of the radio. In any other circumstance, it would feel nice and homey, but the noise just made you feel smaller. Distantly, you heard the screen door swing open, but you were too deep into your anxiety attack to care, only when a hand touched your shoulder did you jump back to reality.

Jenna was looking at you with worry in her brown eyes, her arms hugged around her waist tightly as she attempted to protect herself from the cold. Her cheeks were flushed red, and her hair seemed to shine as it softly blew in the wind, catching little snowflakes here and there. You stared at her, your chest still rising and falling rapidly as you attempted to ground yourself. She frowned when your bottom lip began to wobble, and moved forward to wrap her arms around you. You melted into her hold, feeling a huge chuck of anxiety fall off of you.

“Are you okay?” She asked after a moment, her voice soft and soothing, “I saw you through the bathroom window.”

You nodded, slipping your hands into her coat pockets. She bit her lip, running her thumb across your cheek before gently tilting your face up to hers. Your eyes were bloodshot, a drastic contrast to your pale skin, and Jenna felt a pang of hurt in her chest when she saw the tears streaming down your face.

“Baby, what's wrong?” She questioned, wiping the drops off of your face, “Talk to me love, I’m here.”

“It's fine.” You mumbled, choosing to stare at the ground, “I’ll be fine…just needed some air.”

She pursed her lips at you, not falling for your lie. Her hand took your chin, gently tilting your face back up to her.

“We both know that’s not true.” She spoke softly, stroking your cheek lightly, “You can tell me, you know.”

“I don’t wanna ruin your night.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Your bottom lip wobbled, either from your tears threatening to spill or the cold, and you felt your anxiety rise and settle in the back of your throat. Jenna was looking at you with such a loving gaze, so soft and sweet, and with the weight of Abuela’s words hanging above you, you broke down.

You buried yourself into her arms again, unsuccessfully trying to suppress your aggressive sobs against her chest as you told her about what happened. She shushed you like a mother to her baby, cooing soft praises of love to you while you cried. Her attention was on you, listening to each word with a pang in her chest from the broken tone of your voice.

“I got you baby, I’m here.” She whispered, pressing her lips to your scalp, “You’re okay.”

You sniffled pitifully, clutching onto her for dear life like she was potentially going to leave you forever. Jenna’s heart broke at the sound of your whimpers, her eyebrows furrowing in unhappiness due to your state of person.

“Hey, look at me.” She said, taking your chin in her hand to see your face, “Eyes up, love.”

You turned your eyes up to her, scrunching your nose slightly from the harsh glare of the porch light. Jenna smiled warmly at you, before leaning in and pressing her lips to yours. You basically went limp, letting her take control as your hands fell to her waist. She stepped closer to you, as if she could get any more, her fingers interlocking behind your neck.

“You…are incredible.” She murmured against you, brushing her nose on yours, “You’re not trash; you are so precious to this family.”

She gave you one last deep kiss, filling it with all the love and passion she could muster at that moment before pulling away to meet your unsure gaze.

“So precious to me.” She said, stroking your cheek, “You’ll always be worth so much to me.”

Your heart did a leap in your chest, and a smile of adoration finally graced your features from her words. With your hands still on her waist, you stood and pulled her into your body, nuzzling into her sweet-smelling hair as she hugged you in return.

“Thank you.” You mumbled, pressing a small kiss to her scalp, “I love you.”

Jenna hummed, her hands running up and down your back softly as you both swayed in the wind, “I love you too, my darling.”

———————

strip fic is so close to being finished; writing out the spicy scene is stressing me tf out i’ve redone it so many times oml

#wolfi random #jenna ortega #jenna #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega imagine #jenna ortega x y/n #jenna ortega fluff #jenna ortega x fem!reader #jenna ortega x fem reader #jennaortegaedit #jenna marie ortega #jenna ortega edit #fluff #angst

295 notes · View notes

dreamersparacosm · 1 month ago

Text

jeon jungkook - off the record (part three)

part three ; iced oat milk latte, no sweetener

warnings ; jungkook being a bitch, oc planning his murder once again </3

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

note ; hi, hello, bonjour, hola, ciao!!!! before we get into this whole mess, i want to start by apologizing for the hunger games reference… i fear i am rereading the series and all i can offer up is metaphors and similes having to do with katniss everdeen

anyway! we get a tiny tiny peek into a nicer jk (before he snatches that back up in his paw real fast), we meet monroe in all her political glory, and we also meet Rosalie!!!!! she is kinda maybe important (i mean, did you even look at the index… homegirl has an extra dedicated to her) so pay ATTENTION to those good ol context clues

ok that’s all i have to offer besides hugs n kisses. MWAHHH

playlist here

series masterlist here

Mondays in Washington D.C are a bloodsport.

You’re essentially Katniss Everdeen with a college degree, wielding a Macbook Air and a slightly chewed Pilot G2 instead of a bow and arrow, and tragically, there’s no Peeta tossing you bread.

You’ve accepted your role in the arena — not because you’re necessarily winning this specific Monday (though rewriting a headline three times while simultaneously ghosting two former sources does deserve some kind of medal), but because in this moment, you recognize just how good you are at your job.

This Monday, with Jenna sitting across from you in the cafeteria, a small, satisfied smile curved upon her lips and an iced green tea creating its own little puddle on the table, you feel like you’ve just shot an arrow through the Gamemakers’ roast pig.

“You,” she says, pointing at you with a manicured finger, “are single-handedly keeping CNN afloat.”

You arch a brow, leaning back into the faux leather chair, “Just me? Not the seasoned journalists or the guy in graphics who hasn’t taken a day off since the Obama years?”

“Okay, yes, but they didn’t just lock down the most exclusive interview of all time while also managing two live hits in one afternoon.” Her eyes are sparkling as she takes a sip of her watered-down concoction. “Honestly, if I were five years younger and less emotionally stable, I'd be deeply threatened by you.”

You grin, warmth flooding your chest. You’ve always admired Jenna; beyond her credentials, which includes three promotions before the age of 30, she also knows how to wield power with elegance.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was,” she settles her drink back down on the table. “You have been on fire lately. Monroe, the security reform story, that exclusive with Whitford’s aide… I’ve gotta say, you’re giving me a run for my money.”

The cafeteria isn’t busy at this time of day. There’s a few lingering presences, some interns loitering by the salad bar while they talk about happy hour plans neither of you will be invited to.

Your 1-on-1’s with Jenna have always been incredibly informal; the two of you opt to sit in the lunchroom, discuss any updates to stories you’re chasing down, and she pretends that she needs to edit anything you write even though she trusts you more than her own husband.

“Well, Monroe kinda fell in my lap,” you shrug. “Sheer stroke of luck.”

Jenna laughs, a full-bellied one that makes you feel like maybe you can breathe a little today. Hell, maybe you’ll take that “mental health walk” you keep scheduling on your calendar but happen to neglect every time it rolls around.

“I don’t even care,” she shakes her head. “I needed something real meaty this month. If I have to greenlight another story about the president’s favorite dog breed, I will walk into the Potomac.”

“Tell me again why you keep me around?” you tease.

“You might be the only person left who doesn’t make me regret going into journalism.”

“Flattery gets you everywhere, Jenna.”

She takes the hair tie off her wrist and pretends to launch it at you, and you both fall into a fit of giggles before she sits up suddenly like she just remembered she left her curling iron on. “Oh! Before I forget, the gala’s Friday.”

You pause in your tracks. Full record scratch, pause, tape spooling, rewinding. “The what now?”

“You know, the White House Correspondents gala. Annual festival of denial. Open bar, basically prom for people who peaked at Model UN? Ringing any bells?”

It’s actually ringing so many bells you feel like you’re in church. It’s Washington’s annual act of self-congratulation. Officially, it’s the White House Correspondents’ Dinner Afterparty, but everyone calls it what it is: White House Prom. A glitzy, overfunded fever dream where senators and editors and press reps drink bourbon under chandeliers, interns get stuck holding coats, and everyone pretends they haven’t been arguing over bylines all year.

A night where policy meets pageantry and somehow always ends with someone crying in the bathroom over budget cuts.

You groan obnoxiously. “God. Is that already here? I thought we canceled it after last year’s incident.”

“You mean when a Reuters editor sang ‘WAP’ on a table? Yeah, no. Tradition lives on.”

“I swear if I have to talk to one more sweaty political aide about how much they ‘respect the hell out of my work,’ I’m going to fake an international assignment.” True story, unfortunately.

You watch behind Jenna as the interns file out of the lunchroom after playing with lettuce and gossiping for five minutes straight.

“Still at the Hay Adams?” you follow up.

“Ballroom this year,” Jenna confirms. “Bigger space.”

You nod, mostly to yourself. It’s not mandatory, but it’s expected. Like flossing. Or staying neutral on Twitter.

“Yippee,” you grit out in faux excitement. “Lucky us.”

Jenna hums, then leans in with the type of expression normally reserved for the latest staffer-on-staffer affair. Your spine automatically mirrors her posture, because this is Washington and you can never predict what’ll come out of her mouth, even if it’s just about someone's bad Botox.

“Also, I probably shouldn’t be saying this yet..” she trails off, inspecting her nail polish, then glancing around as if the interns never fled the room. “...But you’re being considered for the next internal bump.”

You blink. “Bump?” Cocaine at this hour seems like overkill.

“Promotion,” she clarifies. “Senior Correspondent.”

Your whole body locks up, brain short-circuiting for a second before kicking into high gear.

You can’t tell if this is because of the Monroe thing or the Whitford aide or the years you’ve spent out-scooping your colleagues while surviving on six hours of sleep. Probably all of the above.

Either way, your heart is breakdancing. You’re really trying to look like it isn’t.

“That’s…” you nod slowly. “Cool.”

Cool. Cool? That’s what you go with? Jesus Christ. You sound like a hungover intern.

“Would you want to interview for it?” she asks amusedly.

Would you—

Okay. No. No squealing. No weird excited noises. No blacking out. Breathe and say something coherent that conveys hunger, capability, and an IQ higher than 119.

“I’d be open to it,” you say, like a person who hasn’t already mentally rewritten her resume and picked out what she’s wearing for the panel interview.

Jenna smirks knowingly. “Nice. I’ll let higher-ups know.”

“Does… anyone else know?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. You don’t necessarily know who you’re alluding to. Maybe Emma, maybe that guy Paul who sits two rows away from you and is always blasting NPR in his AirPods.

“If you’re asking if we’re evaluating anyone else for this, the answer is I don’t know,” she crosses her arms over her chest. “But… they do need my approval to go through, and I haven’t put anyone up for review yet.”

The ‘except for you’ is silent.

She pushes back her chair, grabs her mostly waterlogged green tea, now just a cup of sadness and regret. You follow her lead, still feeling slightly shell-shocked in the best possible way.

Walking out of the worn-down cafeteria with her, shoes tapping against the tile, mind already spinning with possibilities, you feel oddly at peace.

And maybe that’s why you love Mondays in D.C so much.

Not because they’re easy or slow or remotely tolerable.

But because sometimes, they remind you of exactly who the hell you are.

And that, makes the bloodsport kind of worth it.

The chair squeaks every time you shift, which wouldn’t be a problem if it wasn’t the only sound in the room.

The White House has many rooms. Historic ones, important ones, also some where actual history is made. This is not one of those rooms. This is one of the weird, vaguely depressing interview rooms they trot out for second-tier people. You know, deputy communications directors, committee aides. That one Assistant Secretary who went viral for being hot, then immediately got canceled for a tweet he wrote in 2011 about dogs wearing pants.

An overpriced chandelier slightly swings above you, lighting the space aggressively. Your chair is wooden, tilted approximately 97 degrees like it wants you to develop scoliosis.

Still, you made it. You’re here. Not even fashionably early. Stupidly early.

You blame the adrenaline. Your meeting with Jenna earlier left you jittery, and no, it had nothing to do with the four Celsius’ you ingested. The notebook in your lap, which currently looks like it’s been through six war rooms, is overflowing with questions — some carefully workshopped with Jenna, others you came up with alone while brushing your teeth this morning.

Your leg bounces. You flip a page, then flip it back. Your eyes fight to look at the clock without looking at the clock.

This is fine. You like prep time. You thrive on prep time.

The door creaks open behind you, and your heartbeat does a weird little thump thump behind your ribs. Your body refuses to swivel in the chair in case it’s her.

Here we go. Monroe. Congresswoman. Possibly the key to that promotion Jenna has promised you on a silver platter. Maybe, if you’re really lucky, Jungkook got hit by a car and you’ll be running this interview slot on your own. Time to sit up straight, flash your professional smile, channel your inner Barbara Walters and—

“Wow. Early. Didn’t know that was your thing.”

You slump completely into your chair.

Did the car you just imagined hitting him take a wrong turn?

You don’t dare turn to look at him, instead pretending to be incredibly invested in the chicken scratch on your notepad. “Wow. Late. Makes sense that’s your thing.’

The door closes behind him, and you hear him set his bag down by the entrance. “You know she’s not supposed to be here for another five minutes, right?”

You roll your eyes so hard you give yourself a minor headache. “That’s five minutes of prep time.”

There are approximately seven billion people on this planet. This is the one you’re stuck sharing a congresswoman with.

God is testing you.

Jungkook rounds your chair, and for a moment you prepare for impact — some offhand comment, a smug smile, a challenge disguised as a compliment. Standard procedure.

But instead, something cold and plastic materializes right in front of your face.

You blink away the blurriness of the object in front of you.

It’s a coffee cup. In his hand. Inches from your nose.

“What the fuck is that?” you ask, recoiling slightly like he just tried to hand you a live animal.

He sets it down on the table in front of you with dramatic flair. “Your coffee.”

You stare at it. Then at him. Then back at it. “You don’t even know what I drink.”

He doesn’t flinch at that. “Isn’t it still that iced oat milk latte thing? No sweetener?”

Your soul briefly detaches from your body.

“How—”

“You used to order it every day before Public Policy, and then show up with it half-empty already,” He shrugs casually like that isn’t deranged information to remember. “It stuck.”

What the actual fuck is going on?

He takes a sip of his own drink — hot, probably black, the beverage of overconfident men who think bitterness builds character. “Still think you’re weird for drinking something that tastes like oat-flavored water with no sugar, but hey. To each their own.”

You’re still staring at the cup.

“Why did you bring me this?” you ask, voice flat, because this feels off-brand. He’s not… nice. He’s Jungkook. He’s that dude you just imagined getting run over by a car, and then the car backed up and ran over him again while you smiled gleefully. “Is it poisoned?”

“Yeah,” he deadpans. “I stopped at the cafe and asked for the rat poison special. It’s just a little something to take the edge off.”

You level him with a look. He grins wider, those two bunny teeth poking out beneath his top lip. Bastard. He’s so… so.. (and when you find the right words, you’ll scream them from the rooftop.)

Then he finally sinks into the chair next to you and stretches out like this is a coffee date and not a battle for professional supremacy.

“I want a fair game,” he states matter-of-factly, eyes flicking toward the empty seat Monroe will soon occupy. “Need you caffeinated for that.”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy internally malfunctioning.

Because here’s the thing: he shouldn’t know that. About the oat milk (or the existence of it in general.) The lack of sweetener. The whole personality trait of a drink you depend on like a life jacket.

He shouldn’t remember.

Yet there it is. Sitting on the table, condensation gathering.

You cross your leg over the other and force yourself to look unimpressed. “You really came in here with a performance-enhancing latte to try and make me nervous?”

He smirks. “Is it working?”

Absolutely.

“Only because I’m wondering when the side effects kick in.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, and you hate the way your stomach sort of flutters. Like it forgot whose side it was on.

You pick up the cup anyway. Take a sip. Might as well see if he remembered the extra shot of espresso—

Damn it.

It’s perfect.

It’s exactly what Jenna brings you each morning.

There’s so much more you want to say but it all shrivels up on your tongue and dies.

He nods toward the cup. “Well?” he asks. “Up to your standards?

You pause mid-sip, raise a brow. “It’s drinkable. Could use a little poison though.”

“That’s the nicest thing you ever said to me,” he smiles widely, although you and him both know that was the farthest thing from a compliment.

“Don’t get used to it.” You let the straw clack gently against the lid. “I’m sure you’ll say something idiotic in the next thirty seconds to cancel it out.”

You think he’ll fight you on it like he’s been fighting you on everything since the first time you met. But he just smirks, one side of his mouth lifting, “Probably. But you’ll still drink the coffee.”

“Mm. Haven’t decided just how disturbed I am that you remembered my order from college.”

“I’m disturbed you’re still drinking it,” he shoots back. “Sounds like it tastes like shit.”

You’re about to launch into some detailed rebuttal involving Jungkook’s questionable taste in everything from shirt choice to headline structure to coffee orders when you hear the rusty doorknob turning.

This time, however, it’s not Jungkook barreling through the entrance.

Congresswoman Monroe hovers under the threshold of the room, stepping into it cautiously. At the noise, you and Jungkook both shoot up from your chairs like students caught gossiping mid-lecture.

She’s maybe mid-40s, though her face suggests she made a very lucrative deal with time around 31. Her dark hair is pulled back into a low, sleek ponytail, wearing a navy pantsuit that probably costs more than your entire student loan debt.

She pulls off her Celine sunglasses in one fluid motion — what is it with people on the Hill wearing sunglasses indoors? — and tucks them into her bag, giving you both a long once-over. You feel quite small under her gaze, despite her being shorter than you.

“Wow,” she raises a brow, “Look at that. The youth still believes in chivalry.”

You want to extend a hand to her for her to shake, but decide against it when you calculate the distance still between you two. “It felt appropriate. It’s nice to meet you, Congresswoman. We appreciate you taking the time to talk to us.”

She snorts at that, clearly entertained, “Well, I believe it was my overachieving press rep who lured you here, not I. He seems to have a way with words to convince two of the biggest outlets to speak to me off the record.”

Ah, yes. Who could forget the ever-so-eloquent Mark? You hope he’s doing better than when you last saw him.

“It’s no problem, really,” Jungkook reassures. “I know this story is fresh, so we’ll take anything.”

Monroe seems to accept that answer, striding forward and taking her seat across from you two with ease. You and Jungkook share a quick look before sitting back down, both your notebooks flipping open almost immediately. You want to say you know exactly where to start, but considering the circumstances, nothing feels sufficient.

She crosses her legs, leans back in her chair and looks between the two of you as if pondering which one of you will be brave enough to speak first.

Clearly, it won’t be you.

“Let’s start from the beginning,” Jungkook’s fingers twirl around his pen thoughtfully, like he’s John Hancock about to sign the Declaration of Independence, “Walk us through how you and Delgado got involved in the first place.”

You resist the urge to groan out loud. Classic Jungkook; start at square one, build some cute little narrative arc, win hearts and minds while you’re over here looking like you’re the world’s most submissive little sidekick. He’s laying groundwork like this is some Netflix docuseries and he’s the charming narrator.

You have approximately twelve smoking-gun questions and a left eye that’s starting to twitch.

Before Monroe can answer, she raises a hand. “Confirming this is off the record, right?”

Both you and Jungkook shoot your hands up in defense, as to prove there’s not some top secret recorder clutched in your palms. You answer quickly, “Completely.”

She gives you a look like she doesn’t fully believe you, but she’s too tired to care. Then she shakes her head in approval, crossing her hands and placing them atop her knees like she’s preparing to read from some memoir. “Well, it started like they always do. Good intentions but terrible, terrible execution.”

You immediately start scribbling, handwriting resembling of someone who’s having a medical emergency.

She goes on, “He said he needed to review the vote count with me. Said it couldn’t wait. Silly me for thinking he meant actual numbers.”

Your brain is already fifteen steps ahead, questions lining up in your head like little soldiers. You’ve done enough research on the story to know this much is true: it was more than just one night.

“So.. you weren’t aware there were eyes in the hallway when you left his office later that night?” you cut in before Jungkook can deliver a follow-up, because no way is he getting the juicy stuff first.

Monroe snorts, “I was aware of a lot of things. Surveillance interns weren’t one of them.”

Jungkook glances up from his Moleskine. “Intern had good timing.”

“Depends on who you ask” she responds drily.

“So when did it actually start?” Jungkook shifts forward in his chair, picking up his coffee and taking a sip. “A one time incident doesn’t usually come with three months of scheduling overlaps.”

Jungkook: 2. You: 1

“It doesn’t..” Monroe pauses, half for dramatic effect and half for introspection. “But clearly you’ve had some time to look at my calendar, so why don’t you tell me when you think it started?”

“Honestly,” you begin, flipping pages in the back of your mind, trying to remember that article you read three hours ago that dictated the timeline with color-coded graphs and blurry pictures. “I think it was back in June? July?”

She doesn’t answer that, just hums thoughtfully.

“Care to clarify how far back?” Your hand betrays you, reaching for the iced coffee on the table in front of you that has boiled down to some sad mixture of water, oat milk, and espresso.

Her lips twitch. “Far enough that I should’ve known better.”

You set the coffee back down after a prolonged sip. Beside you, you feel Jungkook’s beady little eyes trained on you. “Who else knew?”

“And who else was covering it up?” Jungkook jumps in.

It becomes a full-on ping pong match. You’re not even waiting for answers before volleying the next question. There’s something about an agreement, about Mark having an inkling, talk of going public before actually getting the chance to. You’re incredibly disappointed this isn’t on the record — this is the spiciest conversation you’ve had in years on the Hill. Jungkook seems just as intrigued as you, his own notepad filling up faster than quicksand.

It’s a dual — a bloodless one, for sure, but still mildly entertaining. Your cramping hand and the part of you that wants to scream every time he throws in a follow-up that actually adds value makes things slightly more complicated, though.

Worse: he’s enjoying this. Visibly.

And, okay, you’ll admit this much — you’re enjoying it too. Just a little. In the way you enjoy debating and working with someone who’s actually worth your time. In the way your competitive little brain lights up like oh, this again? Yeah, let’s fucking go.

You ask something else — who’s to say what it’s actually about? You just had to get it out before he did — and Monroe chuckles. “You two always like this?”

She seems quite amused by the two of you.

You open your mouth to say no, because professionalism or whatever. But then Jungkook shrugs and replies, “Sometimes. We’ve gotten better.”

No, you haven’t, but right now that’s neither here nor there.

“Well, at least I know I’m in capable hands,” Monroe beams at you two, the first real sign of human emotion you’ve captured from her since she sat down.

Capable is one way to put it, that’s for sure.

He looks over at you again (you might have to get a restraining order. This is now the tenth time and you’re starting to get scared.) It’s more in a this is fun, isn’t it? way. Which, ugh. Maybe it is. You’d never admit it but the absolute thrill of chasing a story with someone who also appreciates the highs that come with this job, while still trying to one-up each other? Yeah. It scratches a very specific, very messed-up part of your brain.

Still, he doesn’t get to win.

You lean forward, diverting back to the story at hand. “Just to clarify, did he ever explicitly threaten you with exposure if you ended things?”

Monroe’s gaze sharpens. “He didn’t need to. You don’t get involved with someone like Delgado without knowing he’s always got a spare knife somewhere.”

You write that line down so fast your pen nearly flies out of your hand. Jungkook mutters under his breath, “Jesus.”

The buzz of a timer goes off, jolting you and Jungkook upright like someone just yelled “Ten-hut!” to both of you. Monroe seems satisfied with that noise, opening her bag and retrieving her sunglasses from the depths, perching them on the bridge of her nose. “Well, that’s all we’ve got time for today, I presume? I’m sure Mark will be in touch soon for follow-ups.”

In some way, you think you’ll miss her. She might be the only congresswoman on the Hill that doesn’t have some 30-inch ruler up her ass.

“Of course,” Jungkook stands up on command, outstretching his own hand for her to shake. You follow suit like a lost puppy. She shakes both of your sweaty palms before acknowledging you both silently and heading towards the door, slamming it shut behind her.

In unison, you and Jungkook slink back down in your respective chairs, still in some weird post-interview daze. You’re not even looking at him. Not even a glance. Because glancing means acknowledging, and acknowledging means reacting, and you don’t do that.

Except, okay. Maybe you glance. Briefly. It’s for intel.

Weirdly, you don’t hate the way it feels to share something with him this closely. You both got exactly what you needed — the honest truth, a story that’s so compelling Shakespeare couldn’t even spin up this kind of narrative.

You don’t dare acknowledge that thought either. You bury it deeply. Somewhere right next to the memory of him bringing you your coffee.

When it’s nighttime in Washington D.C, it’s like a different dimension opens up and swallows the Earth.

Bars are filled to the brim with overexcited interns and senators on the prowl for their next cheating scandal. Coats are tossed across barstools like forgotten souvenirs. Chalices of beer are raised in the air as if people returned from a long day at the frontlines.

There’s some kind of magic that comes with it, like anything can happen because you’re finally not at your desk.

You’ve just turned off the lamp on your desk when your phone starts buzzing with urgency. See: magical. Anyone who knows you knows better than to call on a weekday night.

The only person who doesn’t know better, would be Rosalie, your best friend from college. Even the buzzing feels distinctly like her. As in, it’s probably not life or death but it’s definitely dramatic and may or may not have some form of light alcoholism attached to it.

You glance down at your phone screen, contact photo still the same blurry selfie she took freshman year wearing a tiara and threatening to drop out because your dorm had “zero aesthetic.”

You hesitate for exactly one second. It’s late. You’re tired. Your brain still smells like that cursed interview room from earlier and your notes from Monroe are a chaotic mess of arrows, question marks, and multiple phrases in all caps.

But, then again, it’s Rosalie. And when Rosalie calls, something ridiculous always follows. Like night after day. Like impulse after Amazon Prime.

Plus, you kind of want to give into the magic.

You swipe to answer, pressing the phone to your ear and scooping your bag onto your shoulder. “You’re either drunk, shopping, or about to fake your own death again. Which is it?”

Her voice bursts through the speaker, words rushing out. “Okay, rude. First of all, I never fake anything except for, like, orgasms and excitement about family obligated dinners. Second of all, surprise bitch!”

You furrow your brows in confusion, moving towards the exit of the CNN press room. “What?”

“I'm in D.C!” She shrieks like this is some normal update and not a major plot twist.

“You—what?”

“Like right now. I’m here. I just landed. I’m with Daddy.”

The first time you met her, she also referred to her father as ‘Daddy.’ It deeply troubles you, but you’ve come to learn there is literally no other way to name the man who’s a diplomat with a literal castle in Scotland.

“You were in London this morning,” you deadpan, struggling to do the mental math on time zones and emissions and mileage. You step out into the hallway, leaning against a cold wall.

“Yes, and now I'm here, on the hunt for a martini. It’s called globalization, babe.”

You cover your face with one hand and let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a snort. Rosalie has been your best friend-slash-financial cautionary tale-slash-roommate since freshman year at Columbia. Your first true peek into what money could look like when it wasn’t tied to survival. She grew up with private jets and trust funds and the kind of skincare routine that requires a prescription and personal esthetician.

You grew up with coffee from a deli and a FAFSA login engraved in your mind.

Somehow, your friendship works.

Maybe it was the way she made everything feel like a movie. Or the fact that she’d once threatened to sue your econ professor on your behalf because the “curve is misogynistic.”

But mostly, it was how she always made space for you.

Even if that space is currently filled with credit card debt, half-finished Master’s degrees, and a shocking amount of vintage Balenciaga.

You sigh, already smiling. “Rosalie, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“I just told you! I’m with Daddy, he had some kinda thing. International diplomacy or rich people drama, I don’t know, I tuned out. But I’m here, I miss your face, and you sound like you’re one day away from a nervous breakdown.”

She really does know you like the back of her hand.

“I literally am.”

“See? All the more reason to get drinks. I’m thinking an extra dirty martini for me, a vodka soda for you..” You can practically hear the puppy dog eyes she has on display right now.

“I could be convinced.” You readjust your bag on your shoulder, staring solemnly at the end of the hallway.

“Okay, this is me convincing you,” she pauses for dramatic effect. “I’ll pay.”

Perk #2000 of having a rich best friend.

“You got me there.” You’re now fully laughing, the sound echoing off the hallway, phone still pressed to your ear like you’re back in college, sneaking calls in between lectures to give unsolicited advice to her on her most recent love interest.

“Come onnnn, let’s be messy.” She pleads. You glance again down the ominous hallway. Your shoes are killing you today. Your brain is fried, eyes burning after hours of staring at words and headlines and formatting.

Still, none of it sounds that bad when you think of Rosalie and a really crisp vodka soda with two limes.

“Text me the place,” you’re already bracing for impact. “But if you order anything that comes with edible glitter again, I’m leaving.”

“You’re the best,” she exhales a breath as if she’s been holding it the whole time you’ve been on the phone, “Love you!”

There’s a disconnecting sound on the other end of the line, and you bring your phone down from your ear to stare at it in front of you. Nighttime in D.C always feels like this: the first lick of ice cream on a summers day, a comforting hug from a parent after months of separation, toes digging in the warm sand. Magical, and full of possibility.

The moose head is definitely judging you.

Mounted above the bar like a taxidermist’s wet dream, it stares down at you with cold, glassy eyes and antlers the size of a small aircraft. It’s wearing a sequined top hat for reasons unknown, and honestly, it’s the most stable thing in the room right now.

The bar name Rosalie texted you an hour earlier serves cocktails with unpronounceable bitters and has dim lighting that makes your outfit look ten times better than it actually is (and also doing a hell of a job at concealing your under eye bags.) The high-top table you two are perched at smells faintly of citrus zest, her YSL perfume and spilled liquor.

Even the leather booths and black matte menus screams place that is trying way too hard to stay afloat in D.C’s nightlife climate. There is a very specific brand of person who goes to these bars, and you and the moose are both trying to figure out if you fit the bill.

To your dismay, your vodka soda is alarmingly strong, which is unfortunate because you ordered it specifically as a keep-it-together drink. Sober-adjacent. Instead, it tastes like the blonde bartender at the front is going through the world’s most devastating breakup.

You’re a quarter through it and already considering whether food would be helpful or if you'll just end up eating three-dollar-sign fries you didn’t mean to order.

Across from you, Rosalie’s swirling her (extra) dirty martini, rambling on and on about her recent trip to London. Something about the fog or the rain. You watch her as she animatedly speaks, fur-trimmed coat moving with every flick of her wrist.

“Okay…” she says, one olive skewered dramatically on a stick between her fingers. “This city is like, aggressively serious. Everyone looks like they’re walking to a meeting even at 8 PM at night. What’s that about?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, swirling your own black straw around the rim of your drink, trying to dilute the vodka, “Probably some senate fundraiser going on a block away.”

Rosalie gasps, “That is so unsexy. Vibes here are rough.”

Only Rosalie would refer to the nation’s capital as ‘unsexy.’ You respect the brutal honesty; she’s not entirely wrong. The city is overrun by middle-aged fathers and misogynistic women. If that doesn’t scream unsexy, you’re not sure what does.

“You picked the place,” you mock, rolling your eyes.

“Well, yeah, but I was going for hot, mysterious energy, not—” she gestures wildly around the room. “—whatever this is.”

You look around. There’s a man in a vest swirling around an old-fashioned and a woman arguing with headphones on while sipping from a wine glass. “Rosalie, this is the most you bar I’ve ever been to.”

She almost turns as pale as a ghost. “This can’t be my brand.”

You can’t help but laugh, sinking deeper into your chair. It could be argued this is her entire brand; picking out places that will hand you a check worth more than your electricity bill for three months.

“So,” she begins, dramatically perching her chin in her hand, “how’s your glamorous life at the White House? Any closer to marrying a diplomat’s son?”

“Unfortunately not,” you take a sip of your vodka soda and grimace. “However the other day I did make prolonged eye contact with an intern. Although he might’ve been 20, so unsure if that counts.”

She nods like that checks out. “Oof. That’s not a good sign. Are you on any dating apps?”

Her expression twists in excitement, clearly holding out for some cute politically correct love story. You don’t have the heart to tell her that the only thing you’ve shown affection to in the past few months is a bottle of sauvignon blanc.

“Nah, you know me,” You stare down at your drink as you speak quickly to avoid her piercing gaze. “Enough about that, though. I heard you were maybe, kind of, accidentally starting a wellness brand?”

Rosalie perks up a little at that, although you can tell she doesn’t necessarily appreciate the segway from your dating life to her varying business ventures. “Well, Daddy’s investors wanted me to pick a niche, which is so toxic, because I believe in trying anything once.”

“I’m sorry—what?”

Rosalie’s business ventures have ranged from ‘mildly unhinged’ to ‘legally gray.’ In the last three years alone, she’s tried to launch a gemstone-infused bottled water line (now banned in three countries), an app that was supposed to match influencers with “friends” for Coachella, and a cashmere dog sweater subscription box that somehow lost her family $12,000 despite only having five customers — three of which were her own dogs.

It’s safe to say her being enrolled in graduate school was the unrivaled alternative.

She once asked you to invest in one of her projects. You bestowed upon her $5 and a random penny that had two heads on it.

“I’m a woman of many multitudes,” she explains with alarming speed. “You can’t put me in a box. One week I’m into adaptogens, the next I want to sell lingerie to housewives. You know how I get.”

“Rosalie,” you let out a noise resembling a snort. “This is all deeply unserious.”

“Exactly.” She plucks an olive off the wooden toothpick, popping it in her mouth. “But it’s fine. Daddy said if I stop spending money, he’ll really consider funding my wellness brand. So right now I need to chill the fuck out and realign my values.”

You don’t think she really understands what it means to realign her values.

“So… you’re basically unemployed.”

She gasps, slapping a hand over her heart. “How dare you use that word.”

You grin into your drink. It’s so easy to fall back into a rhythm with her. Even if she lives in a totally different universe. Even if she has never once felt the need to check her bank account before ordering a $22 cocktail.

Her lips press against the rim of her glass before she places it back down hesitantly. “You know, you really should get back out there.”

You should've known better than to assume this topic of conversation was done.

Out of the corner of your eye, you make eye contact with the moose. His (and you’ve decided it’s a male, bedazzled hat and all) eyes swallow you whole.

You tilt your head back towards the high ceilings to avoid catching Rosalie’s or the moose's eyes. “I’m perfectly fine in here.”

She doesn’t acknowledge your pun. “When’s the last time you’ve even had sex, you little virgin?”

Ha ha.

You actually laugh out loud. Which is probably not the response she was hoping for but — be serious.

When was the last time you had sex? Does emotional disassociation count?

Because if you’re going by strict technicalities, it was that one-night stand a few months ago when Emma dragged you out, told you to just “pick a guy,” and you went with the first one who made a semi-decent joke and could name one recent foreign policy.

It was… fine. Forgettable in the way dry toast is.

You’re pretty sure he called you babe halfway through and you pretended not to hear it because you were already nauseous from the amount of vodka sodas you consumed that night.

“Sex is a social construct used to avoid real human connection.”

You smile indignantly at your best friend, crossing your arms over your chest. There’s satisfaction rippling through your body. Try arguing with that one, Rosa—

“How long are you going to avoid real human connection before you end up all alone, surrounded by ten cats and all my wellness supplements?”

Okay, rude. A wake-up call at this hour isn’t really necessary. She sounds much too invested in this for your liking.

Statistically speaking, you are on track to die with your phone in one hand and a highlighter in the other. But also? You kind of don’t care.

You're good at exactly two things in this life: 1) your job and 2) being right, neither of which you plan on giving up any time soon. You’re not about to emotionally babysit a man who wears loafers without socks or tells you he’s “big on communication” but flinches when you ask what his ex’s name is.

Relationships are cute for people like Rosalie, who have time to dabble in them. You are booked out for the foreseeable future.

“You know I don’t care about that stuff.” You decide that’s an appropriate response to her worrying. “I just.. value my alone time. And you’ve seen how hard I work. I don’t have time to date.”

“What about your coworkers?” she muses casually. “Surely one of them, with the same work ethic as you, is a good option.”

You nearly choke on your drink so violently that the moose head looks concerned.

“What?” Rosalie blinks at you with full sincerity. “I’m just saying—it seems efficient. You could like, hold hands while rage-writing about the president.”

You stare at her blankly. “I’d rather go on a silent meditation retreat with Mitch McConnell.”

“You’re being dramatic. Walk me through the options,” She sits up straighter, voice rising at the end of her sentence.

“Okay…” you exhale, already regretting everything. “There’s Andrew, but he clips his nails at his desk and I can’t unhear it. It’s like ASMR for serial killers.”

She grimaces, tapping her polished nail against her glass. “Ew.”

“There’s Gavin, who’s technically married but also keeps asking if I’ve ever been to Greece in spring, so that feels like a no.”

Now that you’re running through the roster out loud, it’s pretty devastating.

“Paul.”

You say the name with hope attached to it, and Rosalie leans forward in anticipation, like she’s already envisioning her maid of honor dress and your pastel wedding invitations. “But.. he calls Slack ‘the Slack’ and that gave me the ick. Plus, he also listens to NPR, so that’s another minus.”

Rosalie groans and sets her forehead down on the table like this is your fault. “God, your workplace is bleak. What’s the point of being employed if you can’t seduce someone with a respectable title?”

“Believe it or not, I do actually work so I can get paid.” You take a sip of your drink, which has simmered down to a pool of vodka and watered-down soda.

She lifts her head from the table, “Not one hot little office romance? A private kiss in an elevator? Anything to feel alive?”

She’s really overestimating the Hill’s penchant for romance.

You give her a long look. “I write about current events. That is my version of a hot little office romance.”

She snorts, then tilts her head at you knowingly. Uh-oh. You know that look. It’s the look she gave you in college before she asked if she could set you up with her cousin, the 7th Earl of Douglas. “Wait.. do you still work with that guy?”

Your stomach drops. Like an elevator going down one floor too fast. “What guy?”

You’re playing dumb, which is not usually your move. But you are. Aggressively and visibly.

Rosalie shrugs like it’s no big deal. “You know, that guy from college. What was his name.. Jungkook?”

Damn her. You really need to stop telling her your work stories. Not that it matters anyway. She’s known him the same unfortunate amount of time you have.

You shift slightly in your seat. It’s a tiny readjustment but you’re fidgeting, leg crossing the other way, hand playing with your straw like it’s suddenly fascinating.

You absolutely do not glance at the moose for help.

“Yeah,” you say. “I do.”

Rosalie arches a brow. “He’s still as hot as he was back then. I saw his post on Instagram last week. Those cheekbones still working overtime, eh?”

You force a laugh, struggling to banish any and all flashes of his cheekbones that are currently flitting through your mind like pages of a scrapbook. They are oddly nice. But knowing him, he probably gets cheek filler or something. “I guess. If you’re into that whole overly symmetrical thing.”

“Who isn’t into it?” She picks up her martini glass, taking a massive gulp.

You can’t respond. You’re too busy hyper-focusing on your vodka soda and trying not to remember a very specific Friday night freshman year. One where you walked into some random room at the Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity house with jungle juice in one hand, only to—

Nope. Not going down that road.

Following in her footsteps, you take a big sip of your drink. Rosalie doesn’t notice the way your leg is slightly bouncing under the table. Or if she does, she’s sparing you the embarrassment. “I always thought he’d go into modeling or something,” she tosses her jet-black hair over her shoulder. “Didn’t peg him as someone who would go into politics.”

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, “even the devil wants press credentials.”

“Bet he still looks good in a suit though.”

Now it’s your turn to drop your head onto the tabletop.

Sure, maybe there are people out there with actual problems. Real ones. People who’ve lost their homes, who don’t know where their next meal will come from, who aren’t currently sipping overpriced vodka sodas while side-eyeing a moose in a hat. Compared to them, this whole moment is an insult.

And yet, in this precise, horrifying pocket of time, you genuinely can’t imagine a worse fate than Rosalie fawning over Jungkook like he’s a misunderstood bad boy.

If you’re being all Psychology 101 about your feelings (which you got an A in, so you are), you’re still annoyed about the coffee he brought you earlier. How dare he remember things about you like he’s some poor excuse of a friend. You don’t want to be seen, or be known, especially by him.

You lift your head up, sip the last of your drink, ignore the knot forming somewhere behind your ribs.

“Anyway,” you clear your throat and force the tightest smile your face can manage without cramping. “tell me more about those edible face masks you texted me about last week. Those sounded questionable.”

But Rosalie is a martini deep, so she leans forward across the table before you can finish the pivot. Her fur coat bunches against the edge, nails curling. “So, is there any chance he’s going to be at work tomorrow?”

“What?”

“Jungkook.” She looks at you like you're the crazy one. “Will he be there?”

You squint at her, like maybe if you narrow your eyes hard enough, the words will rearrange into something more coherent. “It’s a weekday. I assume so, unless he’s decided to pursue his dream of becoming a shirtless travel vlogger.”

“Perfect,” she leans back against the chair now. “I’ll be here a few more days.”

“I—what? Wait. Hold on. No.”

She pouts dramatically. “Why not?”

You sputter, and you feel your right eye beginning to twitch. “Wha—Why not?? Rosalie, what do you mean why not?”

“I mean,” she looks genuinely baffled. That makes two of you. “I’m single, he’s single, you work with him… you can’t not set us up just because you’re being weird.”

You’re about to flip this table over. “I’m not— what? I’m not being weird.”

She plays with the toothpick that used to hold her olives. “You do this thing sometimes where you act all chill but then your eye starts to twitch.”

You stare at her, openly horrified. “Rosalie, I do not. No—okay, look. First of all, I do not matchmake. That’s not in my skillset. I can barely order dinner for two without freaking out.”

You abruptly realize your hands are clenched in your lap, and the inside of your cheek is sore from how hard you’re biting it.

Okay — maybe you should let her fuck him. She’s an adult. You’re not her keeper, and thank God you’re not his either. You have no legal or emotional stake in this whatsoever.

But then you think about it for more than six seconds and suddenly the idea feels… bad. Like ethically bad. Cosmically cursed. Like watching someone about to pet a tiger because it looks “soft.”

Besides, why would you want to subject her to that kind of torture? Why would you offer her up to the emotional rollercoaster that is Jungkook when you’re barely surviving it yourself? Honestly, it would be cruel. A hate crime.

She gazes at you. You are going to start screaming spontaneously any minute now.

“Okay.. but like, why can’t you just help me out here?”

You sit there poker-faced. Your brain — already operating at half-capacity thanks to the vodka soda and the emotional trauma of this conversation — halts all function. You open your mouth, praying something logical will come out. A thoughtful excuse. A real reason. Maybe even a full monologue about professionalism or the fact that he drives you insane on a daily basis.

Instead, what tumbles out is, “Heard he gave someone on the Hill a STD.”

Silence.

It’s like every patron in the bar took a vow to participate in a well-timed moment of silence.

“Wait, what?”

You swallow thickly, saliva going down like molasses. “Yeah. I mean, don’t quote me or anything. But, you know how it is. Rumors.”

The words feel like wet socks in your mouth.

You eye her carefully, waiting for the inevitable laugh. But it never comes. “Oh,” she says, drawn out like she’s having a That’s So Raven-level flashback. “I mean, it’s not like we haven’t— “

She stops herself. Bats her eyelashes. Smiles quickly. “So, you were talking about my edible face masks?”

You go along with it. You’re not about to ask what she almost said.

You both brush past it like the moose above you isn’t watching in real-time.

Stirring your straw around the edge of your glass, you become aware of how warm the bar feels, how loud it’s gotten, how your face is doing that thing where it tries to stay neutral but ends up folding in on itself.

You don’t know when you became a liar. As a White House correspondent, your entire career was built on integrity and ethics. This is new territory for you.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. She can obviously have him. She can have his cheekbones and his annoying woodsy cologne that makes you irrationally upset and his coffee-bringing habits.

Take it all. Godspeed, Rosalie.

Something about being in the office with a minor hangover feels like a crime against humanity. A petty offense punishable by being trapped under fluorescent lights while liquor seeps out of your skin.

Every time Paul from two rows over makes eye contact with you, you feel a fresh wave of nausea roll through your body like a bad remix of last night’s (multiple) vodka sodas.

You don’t even know what he wants. Maybe he heard how you eliminated him last night from your list of potential suitors at the office. He probably can also smell the vodka dripping from your pores but that’s a separate story.

Your night, as it would only happen, ended with four more vodka sodas after the first one had been downed and topics of conversation that should never be repeated in a public setting. Apparently you also tried to steal the moose’s hat. So, yeah. Not really doing your finest this Tuesday morning.

You try to focus on your inbox, which is currently ten emails deep and pulsing with the words URGENT and MONROE EDITS. Tentatively, you open one. Close it. Open another. Realize it’s the same email. Close it again.

All higher brain power has been disabled until further notice. It’s just rotating between memories of Rosalie’s fur coat, the moose head, and the vague threat of vomit in the back of your throat.

Unfortunately, Jungkook sneaks his way in there too.

Which, no. You are not going to sit and think about whether Rosalie ended up DMing him. You’re not donating energy to the possibility of her sliding into his messages with a “hey stranger.” You’re not even remembering the comment she made on the curb outside while waiting for her Uber about “needing to reconnect with old friends.”

Everything is totally fine. (And you’re on the right track — your Advil is starting to kick in.)

“You look like you died at a party and were revived by the ghost of hangovers past,” Emma says as she plops into her chair next to you, placing her chocolate chip muffin on the desk. She had already been here when you arrived ten minutes past 9 AM, but retreated to the cafeteria for a breakfast pick-me-up.

You can’t even crane your neck to look over at her. “I think I’m being judged by Paul.”

Emma leans to peek over her desk. “He’s wearing those weird loafers again. He doesn’t get to judge anyone.”

“I think I’m sweating vodka.” You keep going down your list of woes.

Emma snorts at that. “Rough night?”

Another email gets opened but promptly exited out of. “Very. Met up with my college best friend.”

“The rich girl?” She pushes her glasses higher up on the bridge of her nose, re-opening her laptop.

“Yup,” you sigh. “Still rich.”

“Goals.”

You nod in agreement, fingertips hovering over your keyboard. “I wanted to be her when I was 19. Still kind of do.”

“If I had her money, I’d have fake boobs and a villa in Greece. I’d never answer an email again. I’d float off the grid on a yacht,” Emma muses dreamily, placing her chin in the crook of her palm.

“Instead, I’m here,” your mouth opens with the beginning stages of a yawn. “Rotting, in need of electrolytes. If I know her as well as I think I do, she’s probably getting a massage right now.”

Emma lets out a noise that resembles the familiar sound of laughter, opening up a new window on her laptop to resume her previous tasks. You stare blankly at your own screen. It mocks you with a NBC article you plan to tear to shreds and a to-do list you’re checking off just to say you did something, like the sheer motion will jog your brain into gear.

The cycle goes as such: open a new tab, skim an article, close it, reopen it ten seconds later because you already forgot what was said.

There’s this new policy rollout you’re chasing that’s somehow both deeply boring and disastrous. Two weeks ago, you had dinner with Kara Devlin, a junior legislative aide and some overachiever from Brown, and you pried as much intel as you could from her like a raccoon rummaging through garbage. She had given you a whole lot of nothing, but there was one quote you’ve been holding hostage.

Your eyes brush past a few local blogs. The Times. Politico. That one freelancer who insists on formatting his substack like a ransom note.

And then, you land on Fox. It’s not like you’re looking for suffering, but you might as well round out the masochism.

Your finger slowly moves down the touchpad of your laptop, scrolling down. Half of your mind is still hungover, the other half is trying to remember if you actually did Doordash those electrolyte packets to the building or if you just thought about it aggressively.

The article’s whatever. The usual. Misleading title, blurry infographics, some ominous use of the word “patriotic.” You’re on complete and utter auto-pilot, eyes glazed over in mild disgust, until—

Jungkook Jeon, Contributor.

Your finger freezes on the scroll pad. Aggressively go back up to the top. You sit up so fast you nearly dislocate your vertebrae. Your attention is piqued — not because he has any insight you particularly care about, not for policy clarity, but so that later, you can roast the living hell out of whatever lazy, metaphor-mixing nonsense he’s about to pass off as journalism.

You reread the opening lines again. Something about bipartisan stalling, vague reference to committee strategy, a few recycled phrases.. blah, blah, blah.

There’s a giggle that’s threatening to bubble up from your chest. It’s like the universe knew you needed this. You leisurely continue to scroll, unable to control the smile on your face.

Wait.

What did that line just say?

Your brain turns on like someone flipped the light switch in a haunted house.

There’s a quote nestled in the middle of the article. In big, bold letters, signed off with the name Kara Devlin.

Your smile gets wiped off your face in three seconds flat. Leaning into your screen, you murmur the quote under your breath: “The strategy for the senate is not to all agree to the same policy, but see how many back out due to its democratic ties. That’ll reveal where everyone’s intentions lie.”

No, no, no. That’s your quote. That’s Kara Devlin’s direct words, told to you under the flickering lights of a diner in Maryland after acceptable work hours. It’s now sitting in Jungkook’s article, chopped up and thrown in like seasoning.

Your hangover drops so far down the totem pole it’s practically underground.

You sit back in your chair, hands firmly gripping the armrest, mouth slightly open like you just witnessed a murder but aren’t sure who to call.

Three things immediately occur to you:

The writing is fine. But you would have tightened it, maybe removed some passive verbs, flipped the framing..

His quote placement is clunky. It’s shoved in there as if it’s not the backbone of the piece.

WHAT THE FUCK.

You reread the quote so many times it burns into your retina. Fuck Kara Devlin. Even after you paid for her three appetizers and her milkshake, she turned around and gave it up to Jungkook. She’s a slut (politically).

Emma glances over. “You okay over there?”

You’re too busy calculating how fast you can walk over to the Fox press room without murdering someone on the way to respond.

“Helloooo? Earth to [Y/N]?” She waves her hand in front of your face.

Your voice takes a second to boot back up, like an old car on a cold morning. “He used my quote.”

“Who?” she asks, dropping into the tone she uses for gossip.

You reluctantly swivel the laptop screen towards her like you’re presenting the murder weapon. “Jungkook. He wrote this piece and used my quote from Kara Devlin.”

Emma narrows her eyes at the article, lips moving as she whispers the words on the screen under her breath. Once she’s done, she gasps in horror, “Kara? Like the girl you took out to dinner?”

“The very one.”

“Oh, god.” She pushes your laptop away from her in disgust. “Even after you emotionally groomed her into trusting you?”

“Okay, maybe don’t say ‘emotionally groomed.’ But yes. Her.”

“Are we sure it’s the same one?” Emma offers.

“Of course I’m sure!” You throw your hands up in exasperation. “I was sitting right there across from her as she droned on and on about some other policy issue until this just fell in my lap.”

“Damn,” Emma shakes her head, lets out a tsk.

“How the hell did he even get his hands on it?” You slump in your chair, hands now covering your face.

Emma shrugs unknowingly. “Did Kara get hacked? Maybe Jungkook planted a wire in your bag?”

Both are plausible.

You groan loudly, “It’s not even just the quote that kills me. The placement is ludacris. He just shoved it in there like it’s… like it’s a garnish. It’s chives, Emma. He used my quote like chives.”

Emma winces, “That’s deep.”

“Now his stupid little name is tied to that quote.” Not to mention, you’ll also have to go on a wild goose chase for a new one.

Emma begins to unwrap her muffin that was lying untouched, “Do you want me to go slash his tires? I’ll wear a mask.”

“I’m not saying yes,” you mumble, “but I’m also not saying no.”

She drones on about her master attack plan, while you sit glued to your seat. Fine, you’ll admit it — this little cat-and-mouse game you and Jungkook play has always been fun. It’s fun in the way verbal sparring is, or how lighting a match just to watch it burn could technically be considered a hobby.

It’s not like you haven’t gotten your licks in before — stolen a quote here, intercepted a question there, once maybe ‘accidentally’ deleted his name off a media RSVP list.

But Kara Devlin was yours. She was earned.

Emma is still mid-rant about slashproof ski masks and the technical logistics of a ‘light’ tire slash, when you glance at the clock in the corner of your screen.

And then time slows.

It’s 10:02 AM.

Ten. Zero. Two.

Your pulse spikes, hair on the back of your neck standing up. You freeze completely like maybe time will reverse itself out of pity.

“Emma,” you cut her off mid-sentence. “I gotta go. Meeting. 10:30 AM.”

She blinks at you. “Oh! What kind of meeting?”

You’re already shoving your notebook into your bag with the panic of someone being chased, breathlessly speaking. “Legislative aide. Some Senate bill, I don’t know. It’s across the lawn, you know how long it fucking takes to get there.”

Emma pulls a face. “Oof. That’s rough. If you speed walk, you’ll make it by 10:25.”

You stuff your laptop into your bag too, nearly drop your phone, do a full spin because you can’t find your badge and then find it pinned to your pants pocket like a dumbass.

“Okay,” you mutter. “Okayokayokay. No time to dwell. I’ll process the theft later, either in therapy or in the bathtub with wine.”

Emma’s holding back a laugh, “Well. Let me know if you need company while you do that.”

God, she’s great. What an upstanding woman.

With that, you’re gone, storming out of the press room. Your bag keeps smacking your hip, hangover faintly lingering. You speed past a group of interns who part like the Red Sea, interrupting their morning gossip session.

You are an organized and professional woman who has simply spiraled about a journalist stealing your source and forgotten about a government meeting. It happens.

Today is going great. Perfect. Fantastic.

You burst through the glass doors, sun suddenly too bright on your skin. The air smells like fresh landscaping.

Usually, you love this part. This little stroll across the lawn, the strut in front of a stunning backdrop of democracy and white buildings that gleam. Normally, you take it all in.

Not today though. Today, you are head down, hair sticking to the nape of your neck, puffs of air inhaled into your lungs at an alarming rate. You break into a half-jog across the lawn, cursing your choice of shoes and the existence of time itself. Somewhere in the distance, a tourist points at you, probably thinking you’re someone important. You are not. You’re just late.

You're almost there, you can see the building rearing its ugly head. You’ll have about five minutes to fetch some water but it’ll do. Honestly, you’ve made great time, so that’s something to celebrate.

And then — you hear it. Your voice, off in the distance, echoing across the expanse of the lawn,

Weird. Not totally impossible, but unsettling.

You blink a few times, slow your pace, and instinctively whip your head in a few different directions like you’re the supporting character in a horror movie who’s about to get the axe.

Did you die? Did the hangover finally win? Is this what the afterlife is, a loop of your own voice haunting you across the lawn?

It really does sound exactly like you.

You peer up at the sky, as if God or maybe Jenna is pulling some weird power move. Like surprise! Time for a self-awareness ambush. Let’s listen to you talk for a change!

You slow to a crawling speed, confused and slightly nauseous. This could be a hallucination.

But then… you see it.

On the steps of the west wing entrance, past the security gate, near one of the stone benches, you spot a man with broad shoulders, back facing you. Watching something on a laptop that contains your voice.

You walk even slower than humanly possible, tiptoeing as you get closer. You realize he’s watching the press pool from a few weeks ago. You don’t remember which one exactly, they all blend together.

The inconspicuous man chuckles to himself.

Who the hell is that?

You take a few half-steps forward like getting closer will make any of this make sense. Just a casual stroll, nothing to see here. A curious taxpayer.

Squinting a little harder as the sun hits at an odd angle, you see a notepad perched in his lap, pen in hand.

That’s kind of sweet. Someone clearly looks up to you. Maybe it’s that intern you made prolonged eye contact with.

Oh. Oh.

He picks up his pen again, and you see them. The tattoos that litter his knuckles, clear as daylight.

You know those tattoos. You’ve known those tattoos since freshman year of college.

They look a lot like Jungkook—

Jungkook is sitting on the steps of the West Wing in broad sunlight, watching your press pool questions on his laptop like he’s studying you.

A gasp escapes you, and you slap a hand over your mouth but it's too late.

His head jerks around so fast he almost flings the notepad off his thighs. Those eyes widen when he locks them with yours, like a deer in headlights.

There’s probably a good two seconds that go by where you just stare at each other. Frozen in this very weird, dramatic standoff. Stuck in that horrible moment of recognition, like when your ex appears in your Hinge likes or you walk in on your sibling watching a thirst trap.

“What in the fuck are you doing?” you ask slowly, voice sharp and cold.

He flinches at your tone. “Jesus Christ, could you not sneak up on me like that?”

You creep forward, inching toward him like you’re hiding a knife behind your back. “Sneak up on you? You’re the one sitting on the steps in broad daylight studying my voice like a weirdo.”

Jungkook shuts his notebook quickly, “I’m not studying it—”

“Oh, really?” you snap, marching closer. You’re hovering over him now, your shadow looming on his body. “So you just casually watch old press briefings, skip to my questions and take notes for fun?”

Jungkook stands now, placing his notebook next to his laptop on the step. “Okay, relax. I was prepping.”

It’s annoying how much taller he is now that he’s face-to-face with you.

“Prepping?” you echo. “Prepping for what, exactly?”

“I was seeing how you phrase your questions,” he replies flatly. “It’s not illegal. You’re not copyrighted.”

You laugh sarcastically. You don’t know what compels you to stand there and say more. By all means, you should flip him off and walk away. Let him watch. Never think about it again. But you do the opposite. “Are you kidding me right now? You stole a quote from my source —which by the way, fuck you for that— and now you’re out here trying to take notes on my question phrasing?”

He shrugs casually. “What do you want me to say? You’re good.”

Yeah, you know. It’s how you got into Columbia. This shouldn’t come as a surprise, and yet somehow it does because he’s the one saying it, enough to stun you.

“Oh, fuck off. You don’t get to plagiarize my source and then compliment me.”

He walks down a step, still towering over you. “I didn’t plagiarize. I just published what I found.”

Your ears are ringing. “That’s your justification?”

“Wasn’t theft, just initiative.”

And it’s the way he says things like this, like the world exists to conform to all his desires, that sends you spiraling into a cocktail of blind rage and envy. When you’ve been losing things to Jungkook for as long as you have, you live in a constant state of acceptance that never really ends. It’s in how you brace yourself whenever his name is on lists outside of bulletin boards, how you sometimes catch yourself expecting to lose before you’ve begun trying.

All you can muster up is a heaving sigh before you reach down and slam the laptop shut, pausing your own voice mid-question.

He looks mildly offended. “Was that necessary?”

You gape at him, words barely forming, because the audacity is just so constant with this man. “What are you even doing here?” you gesture to the area. “Sitting here like some creepy ghost?”

“It’s a free country.”

“Don’t you dare use the constitution on me right now.”

“I like sitting here,” he says innocently. “I think here.”

You deadpan. “You… think here.”

“Yes.”

“In public.”

“God forbid I like to remember what this place is supposed to be about,” He raises his hands in defense.

“Oh good lord.”

“It helps,” he continues, completely ignoring you. “When I’m burnt out or pissed off or just need a minute to think, I come here. It reminds me why I got into politics in the first place.”

You scoff. “Which was..?”

He looks back toward the Capitol dome, eyes squinting like he’s about to say something that belongs on one of those mugs from the White House gift shop that you got your mom four years ago. “To do something that actually mattered,” he says. “To write about the government in a way that reminds people they’re still human. That we’re all humans.”

Now this monologue reminds you why you hate the guy. Who cares if he’s handsome or insightful or tall? He has deduced your career to a Pinterest-esque quote about journalism.

“Wow.” You start to slow clap, the sound of your palms slapping echoing across the lawn. “So poetic. Inspiring, really.”

He cocks his head, waiting for you to finish being theatrical.

“And also,” you put your claps away. Better to save them for your chat with the legislative aide, which you really should be getting to. “to apparently steal my tone, quote my sources, and stalk my voice.”

He rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Like I said, you’re good. Sorry I noticed.”

You clench your jaw, body buzzing. “Whatever. Enjoy your little identity theft picnic.”

You spin on your heel and march off toward the building you were actually supposed to be at. Your steps are fast, eyes trained ahead.

Even as your fists are clenched, you can’t stop the thing rising up behind your ribs. The stupid, aching realization that Jungkook has been watching you.

Like you’re the only one worth keeping up with.

You hate it all. You should demand CNN to scrub all footage. But none of it really matters because what you hate most viscerally, is that your brain whispers something treasonous like: at least he gets it.

Your face burns, heart pounding as you push past the wooden doors of the old building in the West Wing.

You hope the wind swallows him whole. And maybe his stupid notebook too.

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

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

212 notes · View notes

highprettybabyy · 2 months ago

Text

Seeing Red

Part 1 - The Last Person Alive

jenna ortega x fem!reader apocalypse au

summary: after weeks of surviving alone, Y/N executes a risky plan to clear out a nearby mall in search of supplies.

warnings: enemies to lovers, typical apocalypse stuff, violence, blood, zombies, gore

AN: grrr

word count: 3.4k

—//—

Your chest ached from the relentless sprint through ruined streets, the cold air burning your lungs with every breath. Your entire town was gone - consumed, broken, rotted from the inside out. Street after street teemed with the undead, their grey, sloughing bodies collapsing in on themselves as they shuffled forward without purpose. You could barely look at them anymore. The wet, rattling bellows that wheezed from their throats had turned the very air into something putrid and hard to breathe, like the world itself was rejecting what humanity had become.

You kept to the alleys, moving low between skeletal buildings and twisted fences, inching toward what was once your house - now fortified into something less like a home and more like a bunker.

It had been only a month and a half since the outbreak. Barely any time at all. The news hadn’t even caught up before the cities were overrun. Airports, subways, motorways - the virus spread faster than thought, faster than fear. Entire countries collapsed in under two weeks. Governments fractured. Military forces turned on their own to buy time. And none of it made a difference.

You remembered when it hit your hometown. One minute, the campus was buzzing with assignments, awkward coffee dates, and eye-rolls in the lecture hall - the next, blood smeared the corridors. Screams echoed through dorm rooms. Students leapt from windows. No one got a warning. Just a sudden, brutal end to the world you’d known.

After a careful check of your barricades, you slipped inside the safehouse. Your home’s entryway had long since been stripped of sentiment - the cheerful welcome mat now faded and torn, the door itself reinforced with scrap metal and bolts. You gave your shoes a wipe on instinct, a relic of old habits, before scanning the room with practised precision. Curtains drawn, lights off. No movement.

Only then did you flick on the lantern and drop your duffel bag onto the kitchen table with a dull thud. The metallic clatter of canned goods and the hollow thunk of tools echoed through the silence. Your fingers, still caked in soot and grime, fumbled with the zipper.

Inside: ten tins of food, a bag of potatoes, a hand axe, a machete, screwdriver, hammer, a few jars of jam and chocolate spread, crackers, two cabbages, and somehow - miraculously - an entire smoked ham. Not bad for one run. Your legs still ached from the weight of it, your speed in tight alleys compromised.

You chopped the cabbage and potatoes with dull focus, tossing them into the skillet with a slice of ham, letting the sizzle distract you from the quiet. Some salt, some pepper, a little drizzle of hot sauce, and done. You sat cross-legged on the living room floor, plate balanced on your lap, eating with absent urgency as your eyes flicked toward the papers scattered on the coffee table.

Survival lists. Supply logs. Plans. Everything mapped out in ink that was starting to smudge from repeated contact with dirty fingers. You chewed carefully, blowing on each bite even as steam fogged your eyes.

You picked up a pen and clicked it once. Twice. Three times. “Hammer… check. Screwdriver… check.” You scribbled down new notes, your handwriting slanting harder the further down the list you went. A generator was next. The solar panels on your roof were already beginning to fail - they’d been a miracle early on, but you weren’t an electrician. A book on wiring would help. Seeds, tarp, rain catchers, a trowel. You needed to think long-term now. Fresh food was a fantasy unless you grew it yourself.

The mall was always going to be dangerous. You knew that. But even you hadn’t expected it to still be this bad.

You crouched behind the ancient oak that overlooked the parking lot, eyes scanning the broken concrete stretch that used to buzz with Saturday crowds. Dust-covered cars sat in frozen disarray, doors hanging open, shopping carts tipped like skeletal animals on their sides. And zombies. So many of them. Maybe two hundred, all twitching and groaning and slipping around in loose circles like puppets on broken strings.

You opened your duffel and carefully removed a small CD player. No batteries, not yet. That would be suicide. You checked your jacket pocket. Lighter. Yes. Then - batteries. Good. You exhaled slowly.

The alcohol bottles clinked softly as you lifted the bag again, each one filled with potential destruction. You crept along the edge of the woods behind the mall, the path mostly clear - the natural world still hesitated to welcome the undead. You’d noticed that. Birds and bugs still scattered at their approach.

When you reached the clearing, you worked quickly. Three liquor bottles. Two vodka, one whiskey - didn’t matter. You stuffed them with lengths of rope soaked in ethanol from your last scavenged supply run, laying them in a rough triangle around the speaker. One side open. One long fuse, enough time to escape.

Once everything was in place, you inserted the batteries, snapped the lid shut, and slid the CD inside. The label was half-smeared, but you knew the track by heart. You checked the volume. Maxed out.

Breathe. You flicked the lighter and held it to the rope.

Go.

You lit the fuse and slammed the play button, already turning on your heel as the opening bars of “…Ready For It?” thundered out into the sky.

Adrenaline tore through your veins. You sprinted across the grass, back to the safety of the tree line, the thudding bass behind you acting as bait. You didn’t look back. Couldn’t. Not until you crested the hill and collapsed against the bark, gasping.

You peered down just as three stragglers came into view - slower, less coordinated, but still dangerous. Only three. A miracle.

You rose shakily and drew your machete. The first one went down easy, its head split clean from its shoulders. The second staggered into your swing, and your blade jammed in its skull.

Shit.

You tugged hard but the blade wouldn’t come free. The third was nearly on you, jaw slack, teeth barely attached to grey gums, its lower face practically disintegrated. Drool hung from its chin in strings. You gritted your teeth, heaved the machete sideways with the weight of the corpse still attached, and launched it forward, straight into the last zombie.

The impact knocked them both off their feet, sending them tumbling down the hill like grotesque bowling pins. By the time they reached the bottom, they were in pieces.

You blinked, heart thundering. “Blehhh,” you muttered weakly, dragging the machete through grass and bark to clean it. If you strained your ears, you could still hear the chorus of the song. The speaker was stronger than you’d thought.

You looked out over the fire. Smoke smeared the sky like bruises, and the horde below burned like a funeral pyre. The zombies hadn’t even tried to escape. They walked into the flames, mindless and relentless. You just hoped the fire wouldn’t reach the forest.

The wind was on your side.

You slid down beside the oak tree and watched them burn.

Surprised was an understatement. The halls were mostly clear, a few stragglers here and there, but nothing you couldn't handle with a strong swing with your machete. A few of the lights flickered, suggesting that the solar panels on the roof were giving out slowly. Dust, leaves and zombie grime covered the floors.

The mall was too quiet. A kind of stillness that made your ears ring. After weeks of shrieking, snarling, and the wet squelch of rotting flesh dragging across broken pavement, the absence of sound was worse than noise. You kept your steps light as you moved down the corridor, eyes flicking from overturned benches to shattered storefront windows. There were mannequins in pieces on the floor, stiff arms and pale, bald heads strewn about like dismembered remains. The daylight that managed to filter in through broken skylights was soft, filtered through soot and ash, painting everything in a grayish-yellow haze. But there was no movement. No moaning. No skittering. And for the first time in days, you let yourself hope.

You’d done it. You’d actually pulled it off.

The CD player, the liquor trap, the long fuse - everything had gone to plan. You’d lured most of the undead from the perimeter to the empty field beyond the mall’s edge, right into the fire. Their bodies were so dry, so soaked in decay, they caught like matchsticks. It had been a grotesque spectacle, watching them stumble forward into the flames without hesitation, drawn only by the sound. You felt sick as you watched it, but satisfied too. It gave you a chance. A real one. And now, walking through this half-collapsed temple of consumerism, it almost felt like you’d found a piece of the old world again. That illusion of calm, of stillness, almost made you forget where you were.

You exhaled a long, shaky breath and wiped your palm on your jacket. Your machete dangled loose at your side, and you took a moment to pause by an abandoned juice bar, eyes scanning for any signs of life, or death. Empty. Just like the last four. Your pulse began to slow, your shoulders relaxing just slightly as the adrenaline haze began to fade. For a second, you imagined making it through this trip without a scratch. Collecting everything you could carry - batteries, canned goods, maybe even a jacket that wasn’t torn to hell - and heading back home. Safe. Alone, but safe.

That was your mistake.

A sudden crack split the air behind you. Wood shattering, metal groaning. You spun on instinct, eyes wide as the gate to the sporting goods store exploded open. A flood of bodies spilled out, grotesque and twitching, their skin hanging in tatters. You didn’t even have time to curse before they were on you.

There were so many.

Fifteen at least, packed together in the dark back of the store like diseased rats, their hunger boiling over now that the door was gone. Their eyes were milky, their limbs jerking erratically as they lunged forward as one. You ducked back just in time to avoid the first swipe, your machete swinging up in a wide arc that took off the lead zombie’s head. It hit the tile with a heavy clunk, rolling once before stopping at the base of a broken vending machine.

The next one grabbed at your arm, and you grunted as you twisted free, plunging your blade up through its jaw. The crunch of bone and the warmth of blood reminded you that hesitation meant death. You moved quickly, slicing through arms and necks with swift, practiced swings. One went down. Then another. You lost count after eight.

Your breathing became ragged, sweat pouring down your back as the weight of exhaustion began to slow you. You could feel it happening - your arms shaking, your grip faltering - but you didn’t have time to stop. The ninth zombie barrelled into you, its body heavier than expected, sending you tumbling backward across the floor. Your back slammed into a metal display rack, pain blooming down your spine. You scrambled to your feet, driving the blade through its eye socket with a scream, and then twisted just in time to avoid another bite.

There were five left.

And nowhere left to run.

You were backed into a corner now, boxed in by collapsed beams and heavy furniture that had once been part of a demo area. You could barely lift your machete, your vision blurred at the edges, but you held your ground. Blood dripped from your cheek, your arms, your knees, you weren’t even sure how many wounds were yours anymore.

You gritted your teeth, raised your weapon one last time, and prepared to die fighting.

Then, a sound louder than anything - BLAM - and the zombie closest to you crumpled as its head exploded in a spray of black and red. Another shot. Another body down. You stared, stunned, as gunfire lit up the corridor, each blast echoing off the tile and metal until only silence remained again. The last of them dropped, twitching once before going still.

You blinked, your brain struggling to catch up to what just happened. And then you saw her.

She stepped out of the shadows like a ghost from your past. Combat boots, ripped jeans, a dirt-smeared army jacket hanging off her shoulders like she stole it off a corpse. A military-grade mask covered most of her face - one of those black, moulded types you’d only seen soldiers wear back when the military was still pretending they had things under control. She lowered her rifle with practiced ease, cocked her head slightly.

You knew who she was before she even took it off.

Jenna fucking Ortega.

You were so out of breath you couldn’t even muster a proper insult. “Jesus Christ,” you rasped, still dazed. “Jenna?”

She tugged the mask off slowly, like she had all the time in the world, revealing that familiar expression - that impossibly punchable smirk paired with eyes sharp enough to slice you open. Her hair was longer than you remembered, wild and messy, and somehow she still had the nerve to look good. She stared at you like you were a roach crawling out from under her shoe.

“Of all the people still alive,” she said flatly, voice edged with dry disdain, “it had to be you.”

Even now, covered in blood and ash, you managed a scoff. “Yeah, well, you’re welcome for the zombie barbecue out front.”

Her eyes narrowed, and for just a second, you saw something flicker behind them. Surprise? Relief? It vanished as quickly as it came.

You straightened up slowly, ignoring the ache in your knees. “You gonna shoot me next, or are you here to criticise my machete form?”

Jenna snorted, slinging her rifle over her shoulder. “Please. If I was gonna shoot you, you’d already be dead.”

Before you could reply, a long, low moan echoed through the mall.

You both turned your heads in unison.

The last few stragglers - four, maybe five - had been drawn by the noise. Shuffling from the lower floor, crawling over the rubble, stumbling straight for you.

You looked at Jenna. She looked at you.

“Truce?” you said.

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t make me regret it.”

--//--

AN: i hope you liked it grrrr <3

AN: haven't proofread as much as i probably needed to lol

Part 2

#jenna ortega x fem!reader #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x y/n #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega x you #lesbian fanfiction #lesbian #wlw #sapphic #wlw fanfiction #fanfic #hpb.fanfics #hpb.jenna #hpb.seeingred

221 notes · View notes

hislittleraincloud · 5 months ago

Text

We're quickly approaching the anniversary of Under Virgin Circumstances and while I was looking some MG shit up for something, I came across an article from last year

She honestly should have kept it in line with her stage play canon.

It will never be polite to tell the stories of young girls who seduce or kill (or both), never be PC to portray a young teen girl as the villain in anything, even though they can be. But the stories must be told as is; to censor them is to play into Purity Culture and create a permanent uncanny valley for the stories that are told. Young girls aren't perfect (neither are young boys, but I'm on topic here w MG).

And you can try to amplify Jon's complicity or the complicity of men like him, but straight, white AMAB cismen can be completely clueless sometimes. Christ, I deal with such cluelessness sometimes here and in my writing groups. As creators and storytellers, we have to accept the flaws of our OCs and not try to preemptively 'fix' either of them to comply with contemporary sensitivities. It is artz it is our art, and we shouldn't let others dictate what we write or do with our writings.

Later on in this interview she goes on to say that they're all morally gray. Yeah, well... I think she sucks as a director and the whole morally gray thing was bashed too hard on the nose with the grayness of the mists and washed out colors here and there in the cinematography. She should have kept it as it was in the OG play/script.

The big reason why Cairo fails overall is that she didn't pack any psycho punches. She should have, because it would have given Jon pause; it would have scared him into appeasing her.

^^^As hot as this is, in the OG script he was rough (and she liked it).

Anyway, in realtime as I write for both universes at the same time, Cairo isn't doing to well right now (mentally speaking) and according to original UVC canon I think they're supposed to be in Berlin right now (but I've got two differing storylines 💀...they might be back in France). UVC Cairo has a lot of neuroses. UVC Jon is basically the same, though he's more of a pervert/dirty minded asshole than he was onscreen, hence the art pieces.

But even with the anxious outbursts and small storms of psychosis, they'll be alright. Jon can take it. ... He's used to it 🫠

As for the other couple that I haven't published yet, I'm thinking that they might have to move out of Tennessee given their shitty ass racist laws.

Damn, you know I think I have a Jairo one that could be published rn. But I wanted to make it a 3 parter.

ETA: Also I have a slightly different canon in my head for this movie, because scenes were edited weirdly/given what they wore.

#miller's girl #cairo sweet #jonathan miller #jenna ortega #martin freeman #under virgin circumstances #jairo #teacher student #maneaters #ooooooooooh here she comes #watch out boy she'll chew you up #lol

0 notes

chrisnaustin · 3 months ago

Text

If only I were she!

#jenna chew

41 notes · View notes

blainesebastian · 2 months ago

Text

home is a person

word count: 11,493 ship: Nick Leister x reader rating: NC-17 (for smut, suggestive sexual language, and expletives) summary: London has a house you live in. All of those memories in New York patchworked into a home. London could never feel like that. notes: a while ago, an anon asked me if i took requests. i don't, but ironically, i got inspo from their ask, which was for jealous!nick. so hope you enjoy those moments in here! 🥰 notes2: masterlist is here, gifs are from here!

In all honesty, your move from New York to London hadn’t been pleasant.

This was the last thing you wanted, but when your mom needed a fresh start after the drama with your father? You couldn’t exactly blame her. You just…didn’t expect her to look for job offers in another state, let alone another country. It wasn’t easy, packing up your entire life, moving to a brand new city, a new house, trying to figure out where everything fit—including yourself. You’ve always believed that things happened for a reason but this? You weren’t too sure.

Then you met Nick.

It’s not like you’re trying to center your entire existence around a guy, or anything, but…sometimes he feels like he’s at the center of what makes you feel good. Like he’s become the pinnacle of your orbit, that your friendship with him has really yanked you out of feeling the worst type of way about moving here. You met Lion, Jenna and Nick through Giles, your mother working with his father, one social event slipping into another. At the charity gala you were introduced, you remember being drawn to him, the long lines of his suit fitting him perfectly, the gentle golden hue to some of his curls, the fullness of his mouth, how it seemed to twitch into a smile when he met you.

You also remember the blonde scowling nearby, practically plastered to his side all night.

“Events like this are always such a bore,” Anna sighs through her nose, leaning back in her chair. “I mean, can’t we just donate money and move on without all the speeches?”

You could understand that perspective, maybe. There were a lot of speeches tonight geared towards raising money. But…isn’t that the whole point? To listen to the different voices on why it was so important to do something before it was too late? That’s why there’s a bunch of informational tables as well, all dedicated to something different to help preserve and protect wildlife and oceans. It never bothered you to come to events like this because at least it felt like you were doing something with your money that helped…but you’re also reminded of people like Anna—brash impatience.

“I mean,” She picks up her wine glass, taking a sip, “Not that our money here will do a lot of good anyways,” She crinkles her nose, “Remind me to choose another charity next time.” She laughs softly with her friend next to her, Nick on the other side with a look of thinning patience.

You bite down on the inside of your cheek, standing from the table. Anna’s eyes dart to you, setting her glass down.

“Oh, hope I didn’t offend you.” She says, but her eyes are a glint of something…territorial. Like she wants you to leave the table. She doesn’t look one iota apologetic.

You give her a tight smile, “No, not at all. Your dress actually reminded me that I wanted to check out the table on the efforts of plastic removal.” You motion to the right and walk off in that direction, though, not before you hear Giles’s snort of amusement and Anna’s scoff of disbelief.

You linger at the coat check, waiting while someone retrieves your jacket, chewing on your lower lip. You already made a few donations with your mom’s approval at several conservation foundations, so, there’s really no need to return to your table. You’re not sure you’d be able to keep your mouth shut anyways and…you don’t want to start an argument with a so-called ‘prominent’ daughter of the social circles both you and your mother are now traveling in.

“Headed out?”

Turning, Nick approaches the other side of the coat check, handing his ticket to someone as well. You chew on your lower lip, nodding, because…that should seem fairly obvious. You expect the conversation to die there, but it doesn’t. He sticks his hands in his pants pockets, rolling back on his heels,

“Did you know that half the oxygen we breathe comes from ocean plankton?”

You blink—out of anything you expected to come out of his mouth, it wasn’t that. “What?”

He smiles a little bit, amused, like throwing you off kilter was exactly what he intended. He motions that the coat attendant has come back with your jacket and you have to tear your gaze off him to take it.

“Just seems like this event is a big deal to you, so, thought you might know that.”

You scoff, unsure if he’s here throwing a factoid in your face because you insulted Anna back at the table. You slide your sleeves through your jacket as he gets his, “Yes, I care about ocean conservation, okay? I want to maybe do something with marine biology one day,” You have no idea why you’re telling him that, “So sorry if your girlfriend’s flippant comment got under my skin.”

You begin to walk towards the exit, but since you didn’t drive a car here, you’re left lingering on the top step and he slides up beside you. He’s pulling a ticket from his pocket for the valet and you’re fishing out your phone to call for a ride.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” He says, turning a bit to look at you. He then takes a backwards step, landing on the stair below the one you’re on. You’re almost eyelevel like this. Almost. Your gaze skitters over him—he’s handsome. Far too handsome. “Can’t date someone who doesn’t care about plastic, or plankton, for that matter.”

A twitch of your lips at that. Okay so…maybe you judged this, him, all wrong. You got the inkling that Nick might be as uptight and shallow as Anna if he was with her, but now it seems like…he’s not even giving the impression that they’re friends. They’re just in the same space sometimes, that she’s in his space when she can be.

“Those are some pretty decent requirements.”

Nick hums softly, motioning over his shoulder. “Did you drive here?”

You shake your head, lifting your phone a little, “Ordering a car.”

“I can take you,” He offers, holding his hand out to help you down the carpeted steps in your heels, “Or…we could go for a drink.” At your hesitation, he takes another step down, “I know plenty of other plankton and ocean facts, if you’re curious.”

A real smile now spreads across your lips before reaching for his hand, “Well how can I deny myself that?”

—

London has a house you live in.

When you thought about home, New York always sprung to mind. Not just the city and all the places that you loved visiting, but your loft-like bedroom, the twinkle lights above your windows, succulent plants on the sill, your cat curled up on one of your pillows. You thought of the smell of homemade meatballs that your mom would make, clinging to the space long after they were eaten. Of laughter that stuck to the walls when playing a board game or watching a movie, tears over your first boyfriend, arguments with your father before he left.

All of those memories patchworked into a home. London could never feel like that.

—

A few months turn into a handful of years and the seamlessness in which you do things with Nick, Lion and Jenna is something that settles into place in a way you never planned on. Back home in New York, you had maybe one best friend that you did everything with. And what could you claim of that ‘best’ friend now? The relationship completely disintegrated upon moving. But with Nick, Lion and Jenna, it feels like…somehow, you’ve always been an addition to the trio. You’re grateful for that, to find your people that you don’t want to be without. It’s unexpected in the best way.

Something else you never expected? Jenna’s stamina when it comes to dancing.

A soft laugh leaves your lips as she does a twirl on the dance floor, her arms coming up over her head. Lion and Nick are nearby, drinking more than dancing, but it’s still fun. The club is a little packed for your taste but the music is good and so are the drinks that are flowing. You lean in close to Jenna, tossing your arms around her shoulders,

“I’m gonna grab some water!” You’ll get her some too, turning to go towards the bar.

You push through a small wave of people, reaching a semi-filled space, not as hectic as the dance floor. Letting out a slow breath, you push a few strands of hair out of your face that’s threatening to stick to your neck where you’re slightly flushed from dancing. Leaning against the bar, you wait to get the bartender to notice you.

When someone slides up beside you, you don’t think much of it. There’s not much room as it is, so you know there’s a lot of accidental encroaching in space, but then you realize he’s not looking to get the bartender’s attention—he’s looking right down at you. He leans far too close to talk into your ear,

“You’re beautiful, let me buy you a drink.”

You’ve learned a long time ago that there’s no requirement for you to be nice when someone makes you uncomfortable. You take a step back and shake your head, “No thanks.”

He doesn’t take the hint, of course, trying again. You’re not sure why guys think they need to push at the word ‘no’. “Come on, what’s one drink going to hurt?”

Fuck, he’s not going to leave you alone. You’re going to have to leave the bar and come back for the water. Before you can turn around, you sense Nick before you see him. At this point, you know the weight and warmth of his body, how his hands feel on your back or where your hip meets your waist, the scent of his cologne mixed with something that’s purely him. There’s a safeness there, a comfort, a knowing, and you find yourself leaning a bit into it as he touches his chest to your back.

“Fuck off to the other side of the bar.” Nick says to the hoverer over the music, gently clasping your elbow and encouraging you under his arm, his body creating a bit of a cage to block the guy out.

The guy eventually disappears, but Nick’s stance doesn’t change. And you…don’t mind that. You turn just a little under his arm, a small smile tugging the corners of your mouth,

“I was just on my way back to you guys.”

“Didn’t like how long you were gone.” He replies when he leans down to talk to you. It’s a completely different sensation having him do it, his lips brushing your ear. A shiver courses down your spine, despite how warm your body feels against his own.

“Oh you were worried?” You tease, raising your eyebrows.

“Jenna was worried.” He insists but there’s a twitch of a smile to Nick’s lips, his gaze flicking to yours and then to the bartender that asks what you want to order.

When you bring the water back to your friend, handing it off to her, she’s dancing with Lion. When you take a step back, sipping from your straw, you end up leaning against Nick’s side again.

Neither of you seem to be bothered by it.

—

You thought it was going to rain today, but it seems to be holding out alright. Tipping your head back to look at the sky, you sit down on the edge of Nick’s pool and dip your legs in. Jenna and Lion are in the deep end, treading while sipping on drinks and Nick pops up out of the water. He runs both hands through his hair but loose curls still sit on his forehead. He smiles at you, wandering over to stand near your knee.

“Told you,” He motions towards the sky.

You purse your lips, adjusting your sunglasses, “I dunno, some of those clouds still look suspicious.”

He shakes his head but he’s smiling a little, “If it rains, we’ll be in by then. Got to take advantage of the sunny days here.”

You chew on your lower lip, knowing he’s right but…this, admittedly, isn’t your favorite type of weather. Nor your favorite season. You live for snow and while Nick’s right, sometimes it can be rather gloomy in London, that doesn’t take away from wishing for snowflakes.

He scoffs softly, his hand moving to touch your leg, his thumb tracing a circle along your ankle. “Thinking about snow, aren’t you?” When you raise your eyebrows, he smiles, “Got that look on your face, getting pretty good at reading you.”

He is. Nick, however, shields his emotions fairly well. You’ve gotten to know him since you moved here, and you’d say you’re nearly close? But he’s still rather guarded with heavier feelings. Big emotions are obvious, but those minute ones that become visible between heartbeats, they’re harder for you to gauge. Which is how Nick likes it. You’re determined though, one of these days you’ll figure him out. One day you’ll be able to read him like a favorite book.

“I just want to visit a cabin or something. Ski resort.” There’s hope in your voice, sounding a little wistful.

“Can you even ski?” At the crinkle of your nose, Nick laughs. “Guess that wouldn’t be the point.”

You huff, playfully splashing him with a bit of water, “No.”

“Cabin in the woods sounds like a horror movie,” He volleys back, squeezing your ankle.

“It is one,” You grin, “But again, not the point. You’d be traveling with a seasoned horror movie professional,” You touch your chest, “I’d keep us safe.”

Nick shakes his head, turning to look at Jenna and Lion—maybe even to ask them if they’d be interested in something like that, but they’re too busy kissing to be paying attention to either of you.

When he shifts his attention back, there’s a gentle eyeroll that makes your eyebrows pull together. He’s not…annoyed, exactly? But there’s something there that you can’t quite place. And you wonder if it’s because you’re seeing it for the first time, a microexpression that doesn’t usually slip free from the well-guarded emotions he keeps under lock and key.

He looks up at you, licking his lips, “What?”

You curl your hair around your ears, your mouth opening and…should you even say anything? Then, “Nothing, I just think it’s cute that you’re jealous.”

Nick scoffs, “I don’t get jealous.”

Now it’s your turn to make a noise, giving him a look of slight disbelief, “Seriously?” You expect him to buckle underneath the scrutiny but he doesn’t, just shrugs his one shoulder. “Never?”

“No,” He smiles a little, floating on his back in the water. You pay special close attention to his face and not water gliding down the muscles of his chest, “It’s a useless emotion.”

You can’t help but laugh, “So is getting pissed off to the point that you punch someone, and yet…” You grin at him.

Nick makes an O shape with his lips, letting out a sound to let you know that your comment has struck him. He swims closer, almost to your knees—and then grabs you.

“Nick!” You screech, but it’s too late, he’s pulled your entire body into the pool.

You pop back up to the surface, splashing him right in the face. Dick. But he’s laughing and honestly, so are you, shaking your head as you lean back against the pool wall. When Lion and Jenna float over, Nick brings up your cabin in the woods idea and while a plan starts to form of maybe actually doing a small trip, you can’t stop your head from spinning about what he said. About not getting jealous.

Is he lying? But what would be the point of that? Has he never been with anyone that’s warranted the emotion?

Or does he really not feel it?

—

You don’t know how you allow yourself to get dragged to these things (or, well, you do but—). You can’t help but wince when another punch is thrown in the ring, snapping the other guy’s head back. Fuck. These bare-knuckle fights are brutal and you’re…not sure which is worse; the fight itself or the cheering around you. You suppose you sort of get it? Treating it like a sport and all that, a spectator to absorb yourself in but…it’s just not your thing.

The only reason you’re here is—

A short gasp leaves your lips as someone’s body hits the concrete, your own turning automatically towards the right and—Nick takes a step closer to you, his arm sliding around your waist. You mold into his side, practically shielding your face into his shoulder, his hand pressing calming circles into your hip.

“You’re really going to do this?” You ask him, tipping your head up just a little to meet his eyes.

That’s why you’re here. To support him because he’s got a fight next but…god, you can’t imagine how much worse that’s going to be? Seeing him get hurt.

“I’m a much better fighter than either of these guys.” He replies but it’s…it’s not even like he’s trying to sound cocky, it’s just matter-of-fact.

You run a hand over the side of your face, “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

He smiles a little, the end of the match in front of you announcing a victor. “You don’t have to stay, Jenna’s not a big fan of these either.”

And while that sounds tempting? You’re already here and, “I want to support you.”

Nick watches you for a few moments, nodding, his hand moving to tuck your hair around your ear before he moves to head with Lion towards the locker rooms.

—

Well, staying and offering support is easier said than done.

You stand on the sidelines with Jenna, one of your arms wrapped around your middle, your fingers pressing into your mouth as Nick warms up. Your gaze lingers over the toned muscles of his body, his trim waist, the delicate lines of his tattoos, the way his boxers peek out from his sweats…it only serves as a distraction for so long. The fight begins and he chances a glance at you for one moment before punches are being thrown.

Fuck.

You take a step back out of instinct, landing right on someone’s foot, and he clasps your arm so you don’t buckle. It’s a tall guy, handsome, brown eyes and dark skin, curls but cut close to his head. He gives you a light smile, letting go of your elbow once you’ve centered yourself.

“Sorry.” You tell him, your gaze finding the fight again, though a bit reluctantly. It…appears? Nick is winning. At least you think so, it’s difficult for you to tell. The next jab hits him right in the ribs and you definitely have to tear your attention away from that one.

The guy next to you shifts, “Boyfriend?” He asks.

You blink, realizing he’s asking about Nick. “What? Oh—no. He’s a friend.”

He hums, “Does your friend usually ask you to watch things that make you uncomfortable?”

A soft laugh leaves your lips for a few reasons, sliding your attention to this guy for a moment. “Am I really that obvious?” He glances down at you, a soft smile to his own lips, “And also, no. Nick didn’t ask me to be here, I offered because I wanted to try and support him.”

Try being the word here, you’re not doing too hot.

You force yourself to look back at the ring and there seems to be pretty even ground, a shuffling between Nick and the other fighter, moving in circles as punches are thrown and landed. Your hand slips to the back of your neck,

“Have you been here before?” You ask, trying to at least carry on a conversation now that one’s started.

The guy nods, crossing his arms over his chest, “Yeah, I don’t put any money down, but I like watching the fights. I’ve been boxing for the past few years, so, observing other techniques sometimes sharpens your own.”

“My friend Jenna,” You motion to her beside you and she turns her head at the sound of her name, giving a small wave, “Her boyfriend owns the gym.”

He raises his eyebrows, “That’s awesome. I’m Coleson, everyone calls me Cole, though.”

You smile a little, introducing yourself as well. When Nick uses the force of his body to get the other opponent on the floor, throwing heavy punches, you find yourself turning a little again. A twitch of a smile pulls Cole’s lips,

“So if you’re not interested in boxing, what do you like?”

And you’re not sure whether he’s trying to get to know you or distract you but, either way? You’re grateful for it.

—

As you wait for Nick and Lion to come outside, you lean back against the familiar red McLaren, a small smile tugging the corners of your mouth when you change the unknown number in your phone to say ‘Cole’. Jenna gently nudges you with her elbow, a knowing look on her face.

“What was going on between you and ‘tall, dark and handsome’?”

You shrug, chewing on your lower lip, “Think he was just being nice. Practically smashed his foot on accident at the beginning of the fight.”

“You gonna go out?”

“Maybe,” A small smile again, a flutter of butterflies in your stomach. Even though you’re pretty sure Cole was just asking you questions to get your mind off what was happening in the ring, you liked talking to him? Maybe going on a date wouldn’t be so terrible? “Probably won’t even see him again after tonight.”

Her eyes follow a line of sight over your shoulder and you don’t have to turn to know it’s Cole leaving the warehouse, but when you do? His eyes are on you, giving you a soft wave as he makes his way to a motorcycle.

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” Jenna grins, which only makes heat kiss the back of your neck and your cheeks. But you’re smiling too.

Turning your attention back towards the entrance, you see Nick and Lion come out, Nick in a pair of black jeans and zip-up hoodie. You grimace just slightly at the bruise forming on his cheek, your fingers itching to reach out and cup his jawline when he’s close enough. Instead, you offer him a soft nod.

“Celebratory drinks at my place.” Lion grins, grabbing Jenna’s hand and giving her a playful twirl before tugging her towards his car.

You came with Nick, so you linger, giving in and reaching for his wrist. You run your thumb over his knuckles, a wince pulling at your lips. “Congrats on your win.”

For someone who came out on top? He seems a little off. Quiet, stoic. But maybe he’s just in pain. He’s got plenty of bruises and small cuts despite winning. You make a mental note to grab an ice pack for him when you get to Lion’s.

Nick opens his mouth but then hesitates which…you find that’s something he doesn’t often do. He’s not one to hold words underneath his tongue and yet it takes him a moment to say, “I’m surprised you even noticed.”

You blink, confusion clouding your face. Your eyes scan his face, the way his eyelashes sit on his cheeks as he looks down at your hand around his own, his thumb tracing your knuckles, the darkened gold to his curls because he’s taken a shower, the cupid bow of his lips. And then, a brief glance over your shoulder—where Jenna looked before.

Where Cole is on his motorcycle.

Nick confirms it a moment later with, “You seemed a bit preoccupied.”

Your brain seems to do a double-take. You’re about to argue that you did the best you could while he was fighting—it’s definitely not a secret that being here had you feeling out of your element. But…there’s also something in his tone, in the way his eyes aren’t meeting yours, hyperfocused on your hands joined instead.

Your mouth opens and then snaps shut. No…because that would mean, “You know, for someone who says they don’t get jealous, your eyes are suddenly the prettiest shade of green.”

You reach out your other hand to touch his cheek but Nick draws his head back, a scoff leaving his lips even though there’s a twitch of a smile there. He knocks your hand away and that makes you laugh, the giggling seeming to melt whatever ice was holding onto his shoulders. They relax, his movements warm towards you, and he squeezes the hand he’s still holding.

“No, it’s cute really!” You continue, even when he turns you around to face the passenger side of the car, grabbing the door to open it up for you. “That you wanted my laser focus on you throwing punches, I’ll remember that next time.”

You expect him to completely ignore you, you expect him to give a wiseass comment and encourage you to get to the car. You do not expect him to lean against your body, his head tilting down to brush his lips against your ear as he speaks,

“You better.”

—

Staring down at the card on your desk, you’re unsure of what to do with it.

You know your mom wanted to move to start over, something disconnected from your dad and all the issues he caused. It’s not a new story—he cheated on your mom, created an entire new family, wanted nothing to do with her anymore. Nothing to do with you.

And yet, here on your desk, sits a birthday card.

It’s a month late and you’re not sure whether that’s because he sent it after the fact or he doesn’t know when your birthday is. Both ideas are plausible.

Either way, the card unleashes a torrent of emotions you thought you’d gotten over. It’s obvious that while your mother wanted to start new, she gave your dad the London address. You’re just…not sure why. You really hope she doesn’t miss him—you both deserve better than that. Than him thinking that he’s needed or something.

Your fingers dig into your closed palm, wanting to throw the fucking thing away and yet—yet you can’t do it. Which just pisses you off even more.

“Y/N.”

Your head snaps towards the doorway of your bedroom, where Nick is lingering, his eyebrows raised at you. He takes a step in but pauses, his eyes falling to your desk before lifting to your face again. He’s supposed to be picking you up to head to a party at Anna’s and you have no idea how long he’s been waiting, or worse, standing there trying to get your attention.

“You alright? I’ve been calling you.”

You clear your throat, moving even though your knees feel like jello, “Sorry, I—yeah, I’m fine.” You force a smile on your face that you’re pretty sure Nick can see right through, “Let’s go.”

Before he can ask another question, you brush past him in the doorway, the scent of his cologne squeezing your ribs against your lungs. You don’t wait to see if he follows.

—

The party is a lot of fun and while you know it’s not the best coping mechanism? You allow yourself to be tugged down in the weight of dulling your inhibitions. You let the drinks flow a bit more freely, aren’t as concerned with hydrating with water in-between as you usually are, and readily accept shots when Lion or Jenna bring them back over to your group. While Nick is in the midst of it, you can feel his eyes on you every so often, persistent. And you know what it’s about.

He knows you, knows something is wrong, but doesn’t push either. He just waits—waits for you to offer whatever it is up to him.

Well, at this rate, he’s going to be waiting a long time.

A laugh slips out of your lips when Jenna wraps her arms around you, twirling to the beat of the music as you all linger in the living room.

“Think there’s jello shots in the kitchen.” She grins. And while you’re usually not a jello shots kind of girl, the…jiggling sort of freaks you out. Tonight? You’ll have one.

“Maybe some water would be a better idea,” Nick tosses out, taking a slow sip of the beer in his hand that he’s had for about an hour.

“Maybe stop trying to kill my buzz.” You volley back, your voice sharp.

But Nick doesn’t rise to verbal sparring with you, doesn’t take that bait. He just licks his lips, a muscle working in his jaw before having another sip of his beer. You’re not sure whether you’re more relieved or disappointed. Fighting with him won’t solve your problems—he’s not the one you’re really upset with.

You swallow down a lump in your throat, turning a bit towards Jenna to give her a smile that hurts your cheeks. “Yes to jello shots.”

If she senses the weird mood passing between you and Nick, she doesn’t say anything, just moves towards the kitchen to grab the shots. You set down your empty glass on a table, straightening out your dress, crinkling your nose at the jello shot when she returns…but take it anyways. It’s absolutely fucking awful, reminding you of some sort of cherry cough syrup but you force it down your throat.

It instantly makes you nauseous.

“I’ll be right back.” You turn to head in the direction of the bathroom, not exactly caring if anyone follows you. You just need a moment to yourself…and to make sure you don’t throw up.

You head right to the sink, splashing some cold water on your face that makes you feel better. You don’t look at yourself in the mirror, unsure you’d like what you saw there. You know this is completely unlike you, to let something like this sway you right into trying to bury your emotions instead of meeting them head-on. It’s just…too much for you to deal with right now. Especially since you thought the problem had been solved with moving.

You rub the back of your neck, shaking your head. Fucking birthday card.

When you open the bathroom door, you bump right into— “Cole.”

He smiles down at you, his eyes a little glassy, probably matching your own. “Hey! I was wondering if you were here. I was gonna text you.”

You raise your eyebrows, warmth blooming in your chest. He looks really handsome tonight—black jeans, white button down that’s slightly open, sleeves rolled up his forearms. “Yeah? Well, here I am.”

He licks his lips and nods, his gaze finding your mouth. You’re wearing a berry shade of lipstick tonight—always a crowd pleaser. “Here you are.” He glances past you towards where the stairs are, “You uh, you want to head up to the second floor? Anna’s got a balcony—we could smoke.”

A few things that sound altogether like a bad idea—stairs, heading upstairs with someone that you barely know even though he seems nice, and smoking. You don’t smoke at all, it’s just not something that’s ever caught your appeal but…sitting on a balcony does sound like something you’d like, the fresh air and everything.

But…there’s a dip in your stomach, that same nausea from before. It’s not a good idea. You’d rather have your wits about you to hang out with Cole for the first time, not like this. Not heading to the second floor into rooms that are probably a lot more private when you don’t…you don’t know him. You don’t trust him.

“Uhm,” You shake your head, “No, I think—”

“C’mon,” He grins, taking a step closer but not touching you, “I’ll be a perfect gentleman,” He promises, sticking his hands in his pockets. “These hands will stay in these pockets.”

You can’t help but laugh, glancing towards the stairs before letting out a sigh—he does look utterly defenceless like that, “Alright.”

But you don’t even make it up two steps before you feel a firm hand on your elbow. For a moment you think it’s Cole breaking the promise he made but…you’d know that touch anywhere. Your gaze finds Nick’s, on the bottom step, heat in his brown eyes so potent that you’re surprised something hasn’t caught fire.

He’s pissed—which just causes a flip in your stomach and an affronted yank of your arm.

“Get off, what are you doing?”

He’s gentle but he manhandles you down the two steps, pulling you past Cole, “Stopping you from making a choice you’ll regret tomorrow.”

You scoff, bumping into him when you lose your footing. He has zero clue what you were about to do with Cole. But a small voice whispers in the back of your mind that…yes, you were headed somewhere quieter, more private, that while Cole was going to keep his hands in his pockets, it doesn’t mean he could have changed his mind. Doesn’t mean something wouldn’t have happened. Your inhibitions are low and you’re feeling just a bit reckless tonight.

A little embarrassed and a lot indignant, your fingers dig into the palms of your hands, creating fists, “I don’t need your help.”

Cole glances between you and him, his hands slipping from his pockets. “Dude, I think she’s good.”

Nick’s gaze is frigid, ice that’s capable of cutting right through someone, “She’s drunk,” He snaps, his one hand holding onto you while the other shoves Cole in his shoulder, hard. There’s a slight height difference given the steps but Nick’s got a boxer’s stance—balanced, “Fuck off or I’m going to lay your ass out.” He warns but you’re not about to give him the opportunity to do that.

You quickly yank Nick by his arm in the direction of the front door and once he realizes that’s the direction you’re going, he shifts, his hand hovering along your lower back to guide you towards his car.

You squirm, picking up on unspoken words, “No, if you want to leave, then leave. I’m not ready yet.”

“Think you’ve had enough.” Nick mutters, practically through clenched teeth.

“You don’t get to tell me that,” You turn so fast to shove him that you nearly twist your ankle on the gravel, the only thing keeping you off the ground is Nick’s arm now around your waist—which just pisses you off more. “I can handle myself, I’m fine.”

Now he scoffs, stopping short, his arm slips from your waist but his fingers graze your forearm, “No,” He replies, shaking his head, “You’re not. You haven’t been fine all night.”

You swallow over a lump in your throat at the scrutiny, the fact that he sees right through you. You draw in a deep breath, trying to center yourself. You’re not even upset at the whole Cole thing, not really…because despite that you thought you were making an okay choice, anything could have happened. Nick did do you a favor—not that you’re going to admit that now.

No, you’re not fine. You feel your chest beginning to cave in over this—over him standing in front of you, picking apart your emotions like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done. So bold of him, given that he never lets you in. Never lets you see how he feels. Him wanting to be there for you offers comfort just as much as it enrages you.

You shake your head; you’re not going to get into this. You make a shift to walk past him, back into the party. If you’re not going to head upstairs with Cole, you can at least continue your night with Lion and Jenna.

But Nick blocks your path.

“Move.”

“No,” He says, voice calm, “Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“I don’t want to talk to you about it.” You snap, trying to go past him again but he’s quick, repositioning his weight so that you end up bumping right into him. “Get out of my way.”

“Oh so you’d rather play pretend?” Nick asks, his words cutting you more than you thought they would. “Like that’ll fix anything?”

“Fuck you.” Though there’s no fire behind your voice. His commentary has landed far too sharply, leaving debris in their wake. Fuck him. Like he’s suddenly the poster child for handling his emotions the way he should?

You don’t even realize your eyes have filled with tears until a sharp breath leaves your lips.

Nick’s gaze softens and you have to look away as your lip wobbles, a tear slipping down your cheek. He lets out a slow breath out of his nose, reaching up to thumb it away. You push his wrist but he doesn’t let you pull too far away.

“C’mon,” He whispers, “C’mere.” And wraps an arm around your shoulders, drawing you into his chest.

The bridge of your nose stings as you squeeze your eyes shut, your face resting against his shoulder as his arms wrap around your frame, hand tangling in your hair. You’re unaware that you’re holding onto him so tightly until he gently pries your hands off just to get you into his car.

—

Seated on top of the hood of Nick’s McLaren, in his leather jacket, you wait for him in a diner parking lot. He comes out of the front door with two milkshakes and a brown bag of food. Despite feeling a little dizzy and nauseous, you know better than anyone that grease will help you feel grounded. He sets the bag down, handing you a milkshake,

“They were out of strawberry, that within itself feels criminal.” A small smile tugs the corners of your mouth as you take a sip. “Figured chocolate is a good second bet.”

You hum, licking your lips as he pushes himself up onto the hood next to you, a few burgers and fries spread out between his leg and yours. Reaching for two fries, you dip them into ketchup after Nick squirts some onto an open burger wrapper. You glance over at him, the lights from street lamps create a warm glow against his handsome face. It’s something that feels…utterly comforting in a way you can’t explain.

“I’m sorry,” You whisper, throat sore from holding back tears, even after crying a bit against his chest.

Nick looks over at you, shaking his head as he picks up some fries too, “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, “I dunno.” You were…a lot tonight. “I almost hit you when you brought me outside.”

A flicker of a smile pulls at his lips, “I could have taken it.”

You think that’s true—if you would have done something like slap him, you think Nick just would have rolled with it. Still would have said the same things. Still would have held you. Still would have ended up right here, on his car, with milkshakes and food.

When a few french fries and your milkshake doesn’t seem to make you sick, you reach for your burger, having a bite. It’s quiet between you two, just the sound of cars and traffic, the night spilling over your bodies. You draw in a soft breath, using a napkin on your lips, wiping away most of your lipstick.

“My dad sent me a birthday card.”

You put your burger down, not automatically speaking for a few moments. You appreciate that Nick allows that sentence to sit in the silence.

“I’m angry my mom gave him our new address, that…he sent a card in the first place.” You swallow, “That it’s late or whatever stupid reason I ended up getting it today and not a few months ago.”

Your gaze wanders over to him and he’s watching you, listening. You bite down on the inside of your cheek hard enough to draw blood, so you don’t cry. Admitting this outloud feels like some sort of shameful secret even though you know Nick would never look at you like that, like you have any reason to feel embarrassed.

“I’m angry that I miss him,” You confess, “That I thought I was done feeling that way.”

Nick reaches over to place his hand on top of yours, squeezing briefly, “Two things can be true at the same time,” He offers gently, “You know you can hate him and still miss him.”

You let out a slow breath, sniffling as one more tear escapes. You wipe your cheek and even though your chest is still heavy, you feel better. You’re not sure why you do it, but you lean over and press a kiss to his cheekbone. It’s soft, far too quick, but hopefully enough to convey that you’re grateful for him. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips, but other than that, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

After you eat a little more of your burger, you pick at the fries, resting your head on his shoulder. He shifts a little closer, can feel his lips brush your temple, picking up his milkshake to have another sip.

“I think the fries taste better with the chocolate shake,” You say after a moment, “Even though we usually get strawberry.”

You can hear the smile in Nick’s voice when he replies, “I know. I was thinking the same thing.”

—

But maybe, it’s not about London at all. Maybe you realized that home was never meant to be just a place.

—

Cole texts you a few nights later apologizing for the party. He admits that he was a little drunk but that he had no intentions of doing anything other than just talking to you on the balcony, or smoking a little, if you wanted to. And you believe him. That night’s a little fuzzy to you for a few reasons but…you do think, overall, Cole’s a good guy.

Which is why when he asks you out, you say yes.

—

The four of you tend to have dinner together a lot. Whether it’s ordering in food or making something, time is spent talking around a table and then usually having a late-night swim. Tonight’s no different, making tacos is on the agenda. Lion and Jenna are running late because Jenna wanted to pick up ice cream (amazing of her, to be honest), so that leaves you and Nick in his kitchen messing around with pans of different meat on the stove. Chicken, chorizo, shredded beef, and managing seasonings for this taco night.

“Mind your business, I got this,” You insist, pushing Nick with your hip towards where he was making homemade guac. All of a sudden he’s super concerned about you adding spices to the meat, like you don’t know what you’re doing.

“Yeah, the last time I let you help manage what was cooking the carbonara was so spicy I nearly threw it out.”

You scowl at him, “It was not.”

“My tongue still hasn’t recovered.”

“And yet you’re still talking just fine—” A squeak leaves your lips as he attempts to reach for the cayenne in your hand. You lift it above your head which…does nothing because he’s taller than you.

So you twist a bit, a laugh skittering from your lips as he grabs onto your hip, “C’mon, just a little! We need a little spice in our lives.”

“That sounds like a threat when you say it.”

You slip out of his grasp and round the counter, sprinkling it on the chicken with a triumphant grin. Playfully putting your fingers to your mouth, you pull them away with a muah! sound.

Then, pursing your lips, you pick up the red pepper flakes and pretend (maybe) that you’re going to add them to the chorizo and Nick moves, quicker this time, grabbing the container. Though you realize attempting to take the pepper flakes off of you is pretty much just his fingers wrapping around your own.

“Don’t even think about it.”

You pout, “Yes, chef.”

Nick smirks as he looks down at you and you realize very quickly that the front of his body has mapped out against your own, slightly pressing you into the counter. The moment the smile fades just a touch from your lips is the same moment he recognizes it too, going still. But he doesn’t move.

There’s something that you want to say but it’s stuck in your throat, words you don’t recognize, your eyes instead drinking him in while he’s this close. The gentle gold touching the front of his curls, the layers of brown in his eyes, a shade lighter given the natural sunlight pouring into the kitchen, the warmth of his breath on your face, the beauty marks on his one cheekbone.

Your heart pounds against your ribcage and you must say his name because he swallows, his other hand moving, cupping your cheek. His thumb brushes along the bone there, drawing down, until it plucks at your lower lip.

You don’t even realize you’ve kissed the pad of his thumb until it’s too late—a muscle feathers in Nick’s jaw, his restraint seeming to snap as he leans down, his lips touching yours—

And then a loud bang as something drops in the hallway, the space between you two suddenly cold and wide. You draw in a sharp breath, swallowing sour butterflies as your friend’s voices fill the space.

“Lion!”

“The ice cream is fine,” He replies, “Slipped out of my hands, Jen.”

They both come around the corner, moving about the space as your brain spins like it’s on an overactive rinse cycle. You don’t even feel like putting the red pepper flakes in the chorizo anymore, instead, moving to stir all the meat on the stove and turning the fire off.

“Everything smells amazing.” Jenna grins, setting her hands on the counter.

“Yeah, we can eat now that you guys are here.” Nick clears his throat, throwing scraps of avocado away from when he was making guac.

Lion puts the ice cream in the freezer, reaching for a fingerful of cheese from a small bowl to pop into his mouth as you focus on filling a taco shell with chorizo. Something to just…keep your hands busy. You’re not even sure what toppings you add at this point, just anything so that you don’t have to look up at Nick. Your cheeks and the back of your neck feel hot and you hope you’re not as flushed as you feel.

“Babe,” Jenna says, getting your attention. You blink, realizing you’ve missed something.

“Sorry, food focused.” You lie through your teeth, giving her a small smile.

Her eyebrows draw together briefly like she doesn’t altogether believe you, but she repeats, “I said, I worked out those dates for the cabin. We can go this weekend.”

Oh that’s right. How did you fucking forget? One conversation about wanting to grab some sort of cabin in the woods turned into renting an airbnb in the countryside, not too far away from where Nick’s mother lives actually. It wasn’t exactly the snowy escape you were picturing but it was close to a lake and cold enough in the wooded area to do some sort of bonfire outside. The fact that it was put together and decided on was good enough for you, it’s different from the usual set of things that you guys do together.

“Right,” You clear your throat, “I actually…I have a date on Friday? But it’s early. It should wrap up right before I drive out to meet you guys.”

You can feel more than see Nick go motionless across the room.

Jenna raises her eyebrows with a grin, “No shit—is it with Cole?”

You swallow, your eyes flickering across the counter towards Nick. It’s brief but you see it—the straightening of his shoulders, a muscle working in his jaw when he grits his teeth, a slow breath out of his nose when he leans against the counter. It’s gone almost as soon as it appears, replaced with a neutral expression. A lie.

“Yes,” You tell Jenna, and then she asks for details, pushing aside the airbnb weekend plans for right now.

Nick doesn’t meet your gaze for the rest of the night.

—

You and Nick don’t talk about what nearly happened in his kitchen which is…fine. Because nothing happened. There’s no reason to talk about nothing, is there? It was just a moment, a blip in time, not quite a mistake but the unsure, quiet promise of what if? And yet neither of you bring it up. That has to be a sign too, right?

So you keep pressing forward, plan for your date with Cole, pack for a long weekend cabin trip. Which is what you’re trying to do right now.

Nick lounges on a cushy chair in your walk-in closet, scrolling through his phone as you toss another sweater towards an open suitcase on the floor. He glances down at your growing pile, a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

“You do realize we’re going for three nights, not for a month.”

You crinkle your nose, your hands slipping to your hips as you regard him, “Uhm, who has the extensive knowledge of horror movies that happen in the woods? It’s not you.”

A grin spreads over his handsome face and he puts his phone down, leaning up a little to rest his elbows on his knees. “And that explains why you need…” He tilts his head, “Four sweaters?”

“I’m going for variety, options—you never know what you might need.” You state, like it’s obvious. You then sit on the floor in front of your suitcase, tossing things out of it so you can neatly fold everything in…oh right, you need shoes too. “This is why if there’s an axe murderer, I’ll be one of the only ones to survive.”

Nick reaches for a lacy bralette sticking out from under one of the sweaters, holding it between two fingers, “Oh why, because you’ll have this?”

You scoff out a laugh, snatching it from his hand, “Shut up.”

Grabbing a pair of lounge slippers and two pairs of sneakers, you place them in the bottom of your suitcase, starting to fold sweaters. Your phone vibrates and when you take it out of your pocket, a small smile tugs at the corners of your lips when you see Cole’s name. Nick shifts in his seat in front of you and when you follow the movement, your eyes fall to his.

He motions to your phone with his chin, “Cole?”

You let out a slow breath before nodding. Unsurprisingly, this topic feels like a series of landmines. You want to regret what almost happened in the kitchen because it spun you through such a loop. Though, at the same time? You again wonder why it should matter—why should nothing happening make you feel like your insides are tied into knots?

You almost believe that...until you get a good look at Nick's face.

While it might seem impassive, you know him. There's a taut line of his spine, a gentle crinkle between his eyebrows, his jaw clenching like he’s grinding his molars together, like he wants to say something but doesn't know how. Isn't sure of the words.

You draw in a breath, “You don’t like him?”

You try to convince yourself that Nick’s opinion is as important as Jenna’s would be, or Lion’s. That he cares about you and therefore has your best interests in mind.

But really, you know that it’s more than that. His opinion matters the most, even though you’re not sure why.

(Yes, you do.)

Nick leans back, “Kinda rubbed me the wrong way.”

Right. That whole night is kind of foggy for you, which you suppose is Nick’s point. The whole ‘going upstairs with unclear intentions’ thing. Not entirely Cole’s fault, but…you’re not about to jump in and give an explanation either. You’re not sure if it’d matter—he’s not going to budge on it. It’s in the set of his shoulders, the chill in his unwavering gaze.

You nod a little, looking down at your suitcase like it’s holding something far more interesting than this conversation. Then, a twitch of your lips, a familiar comment sitting on your tongue as you look up at Nick,

“Are you sure you just don’t like him because you’re jealous?” Your voice is warm and teasing, yet it meets a wall of ice.

Nick holds your gaze for a long moment, his fingers playing with the silver chain-link bracelet on his one wrist, “I’m not.”

You wait for that moment for the air to shift, for a teasing tilt to come to his lips, for him to make a joke about you bringing this up again. That moment doesn’t come.

He clears his throat, looking down at his hands, “I just…I don’t want you to get hurt.”

That…is not what you expect him to say, and while you’d usually appreciate a comment being made like that, it just…slips under your skin in the worst way, like little pin-pricks in your veins. You straighten your back a bit, reaching for a sweater to fold,

“I can take care of myself.”

The soft smile you were after flickers across his lips, just barely, “I know.” He picks up a sweater as well, folding it too, “Doesn’t mean you should have to.”

There’s something in the way that he says that, it digs between your ribs, right into the cage. Like he’s trying to pluck butterflies out and set them free. All at once, this feels far too complicated—not talking about what happened in his kitchen, about Cole, about your date, about what you deserve, about Nick sitting here in your closet as you fold clothes into your suitcase like it’s the easiest thing you two have ever done.

You shake your head, “I don’t want you to worry about me.” You stand with the suitcase, carrying it into the other room to set on your bed. There are some other things you can pack. Toiletries, or something. You just need to move around. You slip into your bathroom and just like you knew he would, he follows, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe.

“Someone ought to.”

Swallowing over an emotion in your throat, you point out, “Not you.”

Nick’s quiet for a moment, reaching out to touch your wrist. Only when you stop moving does he lift his hand to brush his thumb over your jawline. “Why not?”

You’re not sure what you’re supposed to say, nothing feels like it fits. You tilt your chin into his touch, lips brushing over his skin. You hate how you wonder what it’d be like to kiss him.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket again, making you take a step back from him. The energy fizzles between you two, like an atom being ripped in half, something so brash and sudden that it makes you draw a deep breath into your lungs.

You glance up at him, “You know why.”

Walking past him, you try not to think about that if he’d just admit that something was there, that maybe, he was in fact jealous—you probably wouldn’t be going out on this date with Cole at all.

—

Admittedly, you’re still trying to figure it out, how jealousy can be considered a ‘useless’ emotion. That’s what Nick had called it right? Useless? And yet, you feel like it’s colored everything in your relationship thus far, whether he realizes it or not. Whether he wants to admit it or not.

You don’t mean for it to happen, but when you’re with Cole, your mind wanders. You think about if the roles were reversed, if Nick was the one on a date night now, if he was out with Anna…would you just sit idly by? Would you not tell him how you felt?

You’re not about to justify anything that your father has done, but didn’t he just walk around bottling his emotions? Keeping them under lock and key, festering them like an open wound until it turned into something ugly, unsalvageable? You don’t want that.

You and Nick are complicated, messy, and he may have trouble sharing how he feels but you know what? So do you.

“You’re distracted tonight,” Cole comments, having a sip of his drink.

You blink, your thoughts shuffling back to him, and you at least have the decency to look a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I’m—”

“Thoughts elsewhere?” He asks, a small smile, far more polite than you deserve. “On him? Nick?”

You swallow, waiting for the moment where he gets upset, where he gets angry—you wouldn’t blame him, you’ve obviously wasted his time. But he doesn’t look at you like that, just takes some cash out from his back pocket to pay for both of your drinks.

“Glad to see it’s that obvious.” A soft, humorous laugh leaves your lips.

Cole shrugs, “I could kind of sense something when I met you, just wasn’t sure if it was serious or not.” The unspoken end of that sentence is, it’s obviously serious.

And yet, “It’s complicated.”

He doesn’t like that answer, crinkles his nose a little as a scoff slips out, “So uncomplicate it. You waiting for something specific?”

Another laugh rumbles in your chest but it doesn’t make any sound, because…yeah. For some reason, you’re waiting for him to admit something he shouldn’t have to, for him to acknowledge that something is there, crackling between the two of you.

“Haven’t you seen enough?” Cole asks quietly and you hold his gaze for a long moment—

thinking about Nick.

Thinking about the way he smiles at you, the way he holds your hand, the way his arms wrap around you to pull you close, the soft laugh he does which is mostly just air leaving his nose, the soothing timber of his voice. The way he bends over backwards to make you feel better, to hear you, to see who you really are, even the uglier parts, and not looking away. The way he makes you laugh, especially when you’re sad, the way he knows exactly what to order for you at the diner, even when they’re out of strawberry milkshakes.

And Cole—Cole’s right.

Haven’t you seen enough?

—

Maybe home was never meant to be a place. Maybe home is a person.

—

You get to the cabin a little later than you wanted.

The place you guys rented is tucked into trees, near water, and you remember thinking that Nick’s sister would probably love to explore a place like this. It’s a large, contemporary space, dark green paneling, a large porch with plenty of cushy seats and a bench swing. While you teased that the cabins in all those movies you’ve watched don’t have things like WiFi or televisions, you’re glad that this comes with amenities. You’re not exactly a ‘rough it in the wilderness’ type of girl, even though the aesthetic is admirable.

Cole’s car slides over gravel, pulling up next to Nick’s McLaren. You get out, giving him a warm thanks before grabbing your bag from the backseat, waving as Cole backs up out of the driveway and heads on his way.

You breathe in deeply, the scent of trees and earth greeting you, bugs trilling and adding to the ambiance even though the weather isn’t warm. You pull your sweater a little tighter around you, turning to walk towards the stairs—

“Take it the date went well.”

You almost jump out of your skin, your hand going to your chest as Nick stands from the bench swing on the porch in a pair of black sweats, and a large oversized knit-sweater. Jesus. The sight is striking, which is the last thing you need, given how your heart is hammering at his surprise welcome.

“Jesus Nick, haven’t I told you enough about these movies not to sneak up on people like that?”

But then you realize what he’s said, about Cole dropping you off, the slight dip in his voice. There’s a wall there, wrapped around himself, like he could care less about how your night went. Except, that tells you everything you need to know.

That he cares far too much.

You walk up the stairs to the porch, setting your bag down on one of the chairs. He turns a little, facing you, leaning back against the banister, eyes brushing over your form in a way that shouldn’t feel so intimate.

“My car wouldn’t start,” You reply, “Cole offered to drive me, so you can stop sucking on that lemon at any point.”

“I’m not—”

An amused noise leaves your lips, “That scowl is practically etched into your face. Hasn’t anyone ever told you you’ll get wrinkles like that?” You touch his cheek, brushing your thumb along the bone there. Jealous, he’s jealous. You don’t need him to confirm anything this time.

You expect him to roll his eyes, huff off your accusations, maybe even gently push you away. But he doesn’t. He just holds your gaze—and doesn’t deny it. It solidifies in his pretty brown eyes as he looks down at you, his silence is answer enough. He turns his head just a little, his lips pressing against the end of your hand, near your wrist.

Your heart ricochets right into your throat, encouraging you to keep talking.

“Do you know why my date didn’t go well tonight?” You ask quietly and there’s a flash of something in Nick’s gaze—protectiveness, you think. Like he expects you to tell him that Cole did something awful. You suppose, given the last interaction Cole and Nick had, you shouldn’t be surprised.

But you don’t want him to think that. Cole actually helped you work through emotions that you didn’t know how to say.

You press your thumb against his lower lip, “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

The words barely leave your mouth before Nick pulls your hand away and kisses you.

Something unlocks in you, a shuddered sigh that feels like finally and that seems to be all Nick needs to encourage you forward, against him, picking you up in a fluid motion to carry you inside. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, your legs around his waist, holding onto him and savoring the groan that leaves his throat when your tongue teases the seam of his lips, meeting his own.

You have no idea where Jenna and Lion are, and honestly? It’s a fleeting thought as he takes you into a sitting space, depositing you on one of the couches. You don’t let him get very far, not wanting him to pull away, like if he…backs up enough, he might realize what you’re both doing. He might stop. He might have time to regret this.

You’re not sure you’d ever recover if that were the case.

His hands travel to your hips, squeezing to get your attention, and when your eyes meet his, he nips at your lower lip, “Do you want me to stop?”

God, that’s the last thing you want. You appreciate the sweet concern, but you give an insistent shake of your head that makes his lips twitch into a smile. His hand slides between your bodies, thumbing at the button of your jeans. Again, a hesitance, and when give a soft yes against his lips, he undoes them and slides them down.

The cool air kisses your heated skin and you don’t even care that he’s fully clothed and you’re missing some of yours, all that you care about is how Nick sinks to his knees, pressing yours open to accommodate his body. He plants a kiss to the inside of your thigh, not close enough to wear you want him. His hand slips up, his thumb brushing over the center of you—

“You’re practically soaked through.” His voice rumbles, eyes alight with something possessive. You almost laugh at all the claims about not being jealous. Almost. The giddiness is somewhat swallowed by how turned on you are.

You follow that train of thought easily, “All for you,” Your voice comes out in a whisper, breathing slightly heavier, “Just you.”

Fuck. Your hips roll just a little, your hand threading through the front of his curls, resisting the urge to tug him closer.

Nick’s fingers curl around your underwear, tugging them down and out of his way, his body warm and solid when he settles between your legs again. The anticipation of his lips on your skin makes you cry out when it finally happens, his tongue circling around your clit before traveling down the center of you. His one hand places your leg on top of his shoulder, while the other travels up your body, cupping your cheek, almost covering your mouth.

You tip your chin, encouraging that, because you’re not sure you’re going to be able to keep your sounds to yourself.

Nick works you open with his tongue, eventually using his fingers while he pays close attention to your clit. He reads you like an open book, words printed directly onto your skin, knows what you need and when you need it, a build-up of pressure that makes your body tremble until you’re chasing after that release. When his tongue flicks quickly over that bundle of nerves, fingers curling up—you cum, hard, his name on your lips. The sounds are muffled by his hand, which is quickly replaced with his mouth as he kisses you.

You feel slightly dizzy when he pulls his hand back, a series of pecks from his lips along your jawline, his body resting against your own. Your eyes slip closed as you come down from your high, heartbeat in your ears, only tipping your chin down to look at him when you feel like you can breathe normally again.

Nick smiles a little, the tip of his nose brushing against yours.

“So just to be clear,” You whisper after a moment, “This is you not jealous?”

He playfully pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger before he draws you into another kiss.

—

The patio area behind the house is spacious, filled with an in-ground fire pit and cushioned seats. You sit on the center seat of the couch, leaning back against the oversized pillow, a pair of sweats and a hoodie on. Tugging the sleeves over your hands, you breathe in the scent of Nick’s lingering cologne, your eyes slipping closed as the high flames kiss your face.

A yawn slips out of your lips when you stretch your legs out, your gaze falling to Jenna who’s curled up in a chair across from you, a light smile tugging her mouth.

“So,” She says after a moment, her voice almost lost to the crackling fire. It sends orange flecks that remind you of fireflies into the sky. “No more Cole?”

You smile a little, can’t help it.

It’s been a day and a half at the cabin, you and Nick nearly inseparable. So it’s…obvious that something has happened between the two of you. You’re a little addicted to kissing him, at the feeling of his hands on your body, at the way he smiles into your skin when he pulls you close. And while the physical changes are nice? It’s not just that. It’s the way you’ve always been with one another, that intimacy and closeness in the way you can share anything, talk about everything.

Jenna lets out a soft laugh, “Yeah, I didn’t think he was going to stand a chance.”

You scoff out a laugh too, “Bullshit.”

“I was trying to be supportive!”

Cole will definitely be someone nice to date for someone else, just…not for you.

You smile, glancing up as the backdoor springs open, Lion and Nick coming out with hot coffees and a few extra blankets. Your stomach does a tell-tale swoop, a small smile tugging the corners of your mouth as he wanders over where you’re seated. He passes a coffee into your hands, fingers brushing, pulling himself onto the couch to sit in the corner.

He wastes no time drawing you close and you fold easily into his chest, careful not to jostle the coffee, taking a small sip. As you lean into his chest, Nick flutters the blanket over you both, his hand cupping your arm. He rubs back and forth to create friction, a small smile tugging the corners of his mouth as your gaze meets his. He presses a kiss to the bridge of your nose,

“Good?” He asks softly, though you’re not sure if he’s asking about the coffee or just…everything. How comfortable you are on the couch, if you’re warm enough, if you’re enjoying the time spent at the cabin. If you’re happy.

You smile, tipping your chin up to kiss the corner of his mouth, covering all the above. “Good.”

—

Home is a person.

#nick leister #nick leister x reader #my fault london #my fault: london #matthew broome #matthew broome x reader #my fault series #my fault london x reader #mccall writes things

160 notes · View notes

cobaltperun · 7 months ago

Text

Eternal Flame (8) - City Lights

Jenna Ortega x Female Reader

Chapter summary: You were simply meeting the family of your friend, a very dear friend, it should not be making you this anxious. Who were you even trying to fool at this point? "Just friends" no longer applied to you and Jenna.

Spotify playlist

Masterlist / First Part / Previous part / Next Part

Word Count: 8.1k

-So when I touch that sky, will the ladder break? And who will be there on my fall from grace?-

You managed to dry your hair a lot easier and quicker than you thought you would, but you still remained in the bathroom, trying to calm your nerves down. This was it. You were at Jenna's house, you've sort of met her family, or at least a part of it, and you made things a bit awkward. Which was not what you wanted to do, and the last thing you wished for right now was to make things even more awkward. Your wishes meant nothing, however, because the way you would be meeting them now would be doing exactly that. It would be bizarre, absolutely ridiculous, because you wouldn't be coming in from the outside, you would be coming from upstairs, where just to make it even more awkward, their bedrooms were, down to the living room.

If you weren't so nervous it probably would have crossed your mind that it looked like Jenna had brought her lover over to her home in the middle of the night. And now that lover was coming down to meet her family after a long night together.

Damn rain.

Embarrassment and awkward meetings aside, the pain was also getting a bit uncomfortable, so you reached into your bag and downed two pills to help you with the pain. “OK, I can do this,” you whispered, and took several deep breaths, just to buy yourself a bit more time. Finally, you plucked up the courage and went back to Jenna's room to see her hastily folding her shirts. She was chewing on her lower lip, and you figured she was even more embarrassed than you. You weren't lying to her, you really did find this endearing and it really wasn't as messy as she thought it was.

Jenna looked up when she heard the doors closing, you probably should have knocked, but in your defense she left the doors opened. She looked you over, pretty much checking you out as you wore the light gray shirt that belonged to her father. It was a bit big for you, since as strong as you were you had more of a lean build than a bulky one, but it would do.

“You look nervous,” she pointed out and walked up to you, but there was no denying that both of you were feeling like that.

You just shrugged, hoping to play it cool, more for your own sake than any other reason. “I'm not really used to meeting the family,” you admitted, having no troubles in expressing how you felt about this. You wanted to meet them, you were eager to do so, but there definitely was some sort of nervousness about the entire ordeal. After all, you did have feelings for Jenna.

Jenna smiled and slowly, rather gently, caressed your cheek. “They’ll love you, just like-“ and she paused, catching herself before she could finish that sentence but you could see it in the startled expression on her face and the way her hand froze. If anyone asked you, you wouldn’t be able to say what exactly happened, but you were overcome with feelings and in that moment you just pulled her in holding her tightly and actually lifting her up. Jenna, though for a moment startled by the display affection, quickly hugged you back, squeezing you tightly around your shoulders and neck. She took a deep breath as she buried her face in the crook of your neck. “-like I do,” she finished that sentence and kissed your cheek. “And I really, really do love you a lot,” she whispered, her voice shaky, the tone of it trembling and betraying the slight insecurity she felt.

“I love you too. Jenna, you mean so much to me,” you couldn't even begin to describe everything she meant to you. Even if you found the words that could describe your feelings, you couldn't tell her without telling her about the fights. And at that moment, as you felt both the warmth of her presence, and the pain from the bruises, you came to a startling realization. You trembled for a moment, almost overcome by the sense of clarity that you suddenly got. You were almost ready to just give it all up, to push through and quit fighting, to end the cycle and find a way, any way you could, to actually feel worthy of loving her.

“Y/N,” your name fell from her lips, and you were fairly certain no one had ever nor will anyone ever speak your name as sweetly as she did.

“Jenna what's taking so long? Oh shit, sorry,” the two of you were suddenly interrupted by Jenna’s younger sister, Aliyah, coming in and you quickly separated.

Jenna cleared her throat as she tried to calm her rapidly beating heart down and gestured toward Aliyah. “This is my younger sister, Aliyah,” she then gestured at you while slightly glaring at her sister. “Aliyah, this is Y/N,” she introduced the two of you each other since you were already in the same room. Might as well get one introduction out of the way.

You quickly offered Aliyah your hands and she shook. “It's nice to meet you,” you said and she nodded, an amused smile spreading on her face as she looked from you to Jenna.

“Guess I don't get a hug, do I?” she teased, and with the way Jenna looked down and slapped her forehead you just knew this wasn’t going to be the only teasing you and Jenna were going to get. “Reeree, I told you to warn me if you needed a room to yourself,” oh, this was the absolute disaster, she was even more direct about it than Enrique. She might even be able to give Barbara a run for her money, and she was what? Sixteen? You shivered at the thought of all the teasing you and Jenna might have to endure when she gets older, or in the even worst case scenario, she ends up teaming up with Barbara.

“That’s not what was going on!” Jenna cried out and just as Aliyah was about to open her mouth again Jenna grabbed your hand and pulled you out. “Not a single word, we are going down so Y/N can meet everyone else!” Jenna put a stop to whatever Aliyah was going to say and you let Jenna pull you along as Aliyah laughed behind the two of you.

Yeah, this was happening, you were about to meet the family.

~X~

Fire. That's exactly how Jenna would describe what was going on between the two of you. Even now, though she could no longer feel your hands around her, she still felt like her skin was burning, yearning for the same sensation she got when you held her. The same sensation she was trying to invoke by holding your hand right now, but it just wasn't enough. She wanted more, she wanted that warmth to be surrounding her again, to feel it consuming her from the inside. It was both a physical and an emotional need, and they were both fulfilled at the same time when she felt your touch. And it felt so damn good, so addictive.

She glanced back at you, noticing the way your eyes were focusing on your hands, locked together as you walked just a bit behind her, and she wondered what you were thinking. You felt this too, didn’t you? Jenna found herself wondered if the two of you would have kissed if only you were given a few extra minutes, because she certainly felt like she was ready for that step.

You lifted her up so easily. And the way you held her, she couldn't even describe it properly. The closest description she could come up with was that you held her like you had nothing more precious in your life than her. And it almost frightened her with how intense and raw it was, how genuine and vulnerable you could be. Not to mention how you responded to her own vulnerability not by making her feel ashamed for acting like that but by supporting her through it and letting her see that you were perfectly fine with her being vulnerable.

And she wanted it almost desperately. She wanted to feel all of that with you, to feel all of those emotions, only unrestrained by this friendship, because as raw and intense as it was there was this restraint put on it all by the label you both put on your relationship. And she could no longer avoid accepting that she wanted that restraint gone.

Jenna knew, she one hundred percent knew, that if circumstances were any different, if you were alone, at her place in LA or at your place, and if that happened there that she wouldn’t just kiss you. No, she would have done so much more, letting you do whatever you wanted to do to her. She swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing her mind out of the gutter.

And to try and keep those thoughts at bay, because she wouldn’t be a hormonal teenager right now, she went and looked back at you. Because of course that would help push those thoughts away.

As she led you down the stairs, she caught you taking her childhood home in, looking at the photos her parents hung on the walls. There were many of them, after all they were a big family, and the photos showed that. There were photos of her, her siblings and her parents, as well as her nephews and even some of her extended family. Her mom loved keeping the memories through the photos and Jenna wished she could get into that habit as well. Every special occasion was accompanied with the photo, and she wondered how your own parents house was. Were there photos of you while you were filming Logan or maybe when you finished high school or maybe other things like that? Or maybe your parents were more of a ‘keeping things in memory’ kind of couple, instead of hanging everything on the walls and keeping the physical reminders of those times.

Jenna wanted to meet them. To see for herself the kind of people that raised you and made you the way you were right now. With how loving you were they must have done something right. In a way, and perhaps she just noticed it today, you treated every moment with people you loved like it could be the last one. And not in the negative way. It was just that when you cared for someone and could also relax all of your attention was on that someone.

And that realization brought those desires right back to the front of her mind. How deeply and passionately would you love someone if you treated friends like that? Jenna wondered what you were thinking right now, she wondered if you wanted her as much as she wanted you. Somehow a thought crossed your mind that you wanted her even more. And it made that warmth from the spreading through her like a flame that would never extinguished.

When the two of you reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped back into the living room, she saw the table was set, with her dad already sitting there at the head of the table, while her mom and Markus were watching a football game. It was like her family was creating a sort of a bubble around them, hoping to have a moment of normalcy before your presence sort of shattered it into pieces. After all, they all probably saw right through her and by now knew this wasn't just her inviting friends over.

Jenna cleared her throat and the bubble the family was happily in burst as they all turned to look at you and Jenna.

“Uh, hello, again” you said and raised your hand to wave slightly. That nervous grin on your face was honestly more than a little endearing to Jenna. She found this a bit more shy and reserved side of you to be a surprise, if she was honest. You've always had this air of confidence and ‘I can do anything’ kind of attitude, but here you were, meeting her family and acting a bit like a dork, which was something she could definitely enjoy seeing more often.

Jenna’s mom was the first to get up, seeing as she met you briefly. It was clear all of you were trying to ignore that you came back from upstairs and how it looked. “Y/N, it’s good to see you again,” she came up to you and surprisingly pulled you into a brief hug. You returned it, but Jenna could see you were genuinely surprised by this greeting.

“Jenna can’t shut up about you,” Jenna’s sister, Aliyah, chimed in behind you. Oh, right, she came downstairs with the two of you, and now she was going to turn Jenna's day from very, very pleasurable to potentially ‘The Teasing from Hell - Part 2: The Return of Enrique’s Disciple’.

It was one hell of a miracle that he wasn’t here as well, since he promised he’d be here to watch the show and tease her. Not that it mattered. Aliyah was here to fill in for him. Why couldn’t Aliyah be her natural shy self instead of relishing in the opportunity to tease her?

“I can!” Jenna quickly retorted and turned away from you. She did not deny that she was talking about you though, she just couldn’t deny it, or, honestly, shut up about you. She's been talking about you meeting her family ever since she plucked up the courage to tell then you were coming, and she would be the first to admit it was a bit annoying.

“Sure you can, Jenna,” Markus teased her and just like that her younger brother came up to you and greeted you, and all that was left was her dad.

The man came out of the dining room and looked you over, studying you, And Jenna herself got nervous imagining how you must have felt under his gaze. He was a cop, after all, and worst of all Jenna wasn't sure exactly what he was looking for. She just noticed he focused on your hand, and not the left hand she was holding, but rather on your right hand, and your knuckles in particular. Jenna couldn't quite figure it out, but he frowned for a moment. “You do lots of martial arts, don't you?” he asked, and Jenna couldn’t figure out how looking at your fist told him that, and sure, he heard about it from Jenna, but it looked like he would have figured it out from looking at your fist.

“Yes, I've been practicing different martial arts for several years now. Since I was roughly thirteen,” you replied casually, and her dad nodded. Frankly, she wasn't sure what else he was expecting.

“Welcome, Y/N, nice to meet you,” after what felt like eternity he went and offered his hand to you, and you accepted it.

“It’s nice meeting you all,” you said, now sounding a lot more confident than before and she breathed out a small sigh of relief because this was more along the lines of what she expected from you.

“Come on you two, let’s eat,” her mom told the two of you, and while still holding hands Jenna and you followed the rest of her family to the table. Just like before you went and pulled the chair out for her, now feeling a lot more in your element, as you pretty much, and very likely now that she thought about it, ignored the stares of her family and just focused on doing what you did the best. Making Jenna feel seen, cared for, and accepted.

“Thanks,” this time she had to hold from tugging you down so you could hug her again and instead just patted you on the back of your hand as you pushed her chair in.

“Anytime,” you said and sat down on the chair to her left.

~X~

The lunch was, in one word, amazing. Natalie was an incredible cook, both when it came to variety and the taste, making a wide array of Mexican food as well as several other dishes. You honestly weren’t even sure where to start as Jenna put the food on your plate. Natalie and Aliyah were sitting on the other side of the table, while Markus sat to your left and Edward sat at the head of the table, on Jenna’s right side.

“Thanks, Jen,” you thanked her before you all started eating, you missed the smile on Natalie’s face at the nickname you kept using.

“Could you pass me the hot sauce?” she asked pointing at the sauce close to you. By the looks of it, you both slipped right back into the old habits from the set of Scream.

“Sure,” you handed it to her, and then put it back where it was when she poured it over her tacos. She definitely loved spicy food, and you were still amazed with how well she could handle hot food.

“The food is amazing, Natalie,” you complimented as you swallowed the first bite of your own taco. It was good that Jenna told you in advance her mom was the one who prepared the food.

“Thanks, Y/N,” Natalie nodded and smiled at the compliment.

“Told you, you have competition,” Jenna pointed out. “Too bad I couldn’t save a single piece of that cake for you.”

“I don’t know, this is a tough act to follow,” and you were being honest, you could cook, but this was truly something. “But, challenge accepted, I need to have all of you over for a dinner sooner or later,” and you would actually put extra effort into that dinner. Cooking wouldn’t be an issue, the main trouble would be how you could handle finding enough space for all of them, because your apartment definitely wasn't fit for a huge family. Well, you would figure something out when the time comes.

“Count me in, I need to see if Jenna was exaggerating,” Aliyah promised you and you grinned a bit when Jenna groaned and lowered her head. “I'm telling you, she just keeps yapping on and on about you! I wasn't kidding when I said I told her to tell me if she needed the room to herself,” you shrunk a bit in your seat because of Aliyah’s words. Both the fact that Jenna talked about you so much and the implications of the second part making you feel more than a bit embarrassed.

“I don't need the room to myself!” Jenna exclaimed, blushing like crazy when she said that, and you closed your eyes. Yet, even with your eyes closed you could see it coming from a mile away, that was just the interlude into the real tease.

“Considering what I caught the two of you doing, I'm not so sure,” there. There it was. And the silence that followed those words was deafening, and you could feel Jenna's parents looking right at you.

“You should probably run,” Jenna’s brother, Markus told you and your eyes widened as you looked at him and he just nodded. “It was good meeting you,” he wasn’t even joking! Jenna had dry humor, but this guy was just being serious!

“We were just hugging!” Jenna cried out, hoping to prevent the potential harm that could fall upon you and you nodded as quickly as you could. Now that you were thinking about it, well that wasn't really going in your favor either, because you spent hours with Jenna alone and somehow you were still hugging. Could it have been nothing? Absolutely! It could have been just a friendly display of affection between friends. Yet the circumstances weren't in your favor, and you found yourself staring blankly at Aliyah.

“What have I ever done to you?” you mouthed and she just shrugged. You were met with us sorry not sorry look in her eyes.

“Right, that happened,” Natalie turned back to her plate hoping to lower the tensions and the blood pressure of her husband, and then she looked at you again. “So, Y/N, can you tell us a bit about your family?”

Someone please bring the teasing back.

You froze for a moment, nearly dropping the fork in your hand. “Sure, sure,” your voice cracked as you were suddenly put on a spot. “Yeah, of course. I am an only child,” you could feel Jenna’s eyes on you, you could feel everyone’s attention on you, even more so with that initial reaction, and you looked at Jenna, partly to calm down and in the process catching the genuinely surprised look in her eyes. She clearly didn't expect you to freeze like that, and you definitely didn't blame her. You didn't think she could even begin to imagine that your parents were no longer alive.

“And your parents? What do they do?” Edward asked, raising an eyebrow but brushing the reaction off as just you being surprised.

“Mom was a pilot and dad worked in cybersecurity,” you replied, voice hoarse as you answered. Back when you were growing up both those jobs, and your parents as well, looked like heroes in your eyes. You looked up to them, always wanting to make them proud, they looked like they were flawless when you were a child. And they made sure you never noticed or suffered because of tension and problems in their marriage, they kept you as protected from those issues as they possibly could. Maybe that was part of the reason why you felt so inadequate and useless when they were gone and you couldn’t do anything, because they created this image of always having answers and solutions, and when it was your turn to do the same you failed.

The bite Jenna took of her salad went and got stuck in her throat and you quickly patted her on the back, which luckily helped. “Sorry. I should have… Fuck, I feel horrible now,” she lowered her head, ashamed and all you felt now was guilt over making her feel like this. She caught it, they all caught it, the fact that you spoke in past tense, combined with the fact that you never mentioned them to Jenna, and how you reacted to the question. There was no doubt about it in anyone’s mind.

“I'm sorry, let's not make this awkward. It was,” you paused, putting your emotions back under control, not letting a single hint of weakness slip through the cracks. “There was an accident and they,” you looked down, forcing those feelings further down, forcing the normality without this conversation back upon you all. “Yeah, it's been a while, I’m fine now,” you tried brushing it off, and fixing the situation. “Jenna told me you've been incredibly supportive of her ever since she was starting out and now of course. I've actually been really curious to know about it,” you tried to get her family to talk about something else and luckily given the nature of the topic that was just breached it looked like everyone was really eager to make things less awkward.

Jenna actually took your hand and squeezed it and she leaned closer to you, letting your shoulders touch and it was like the weight fell from your shoulders and you could once again breathe. No one said a single word about it, not the single teasing remark even though it was in plain sight and you appreciated it, smiling gently at her to show it to her.

~X~

The guilt was absolutely wrecking her from the inside, and she thought back to all of those times she wished she could meet your parents. And sure, you never told her your parents were dead, and there was no way she could have known but at the same time she also felt that she really should have figured out something wasn't completely right. And she noticed it, but she kept trying to come up with different explanation. You came back and only Barbara was in your apartment? You didn’t live with your parents. You forgot about Thanksgiving? Maybe you had a bad relationship with your parents, or they simply didn’t celebrate it. Yet it never crossed her mind that they were taken away from you in what you described as an accident.

How old were you? You said it’s been a while. Were you as old as she was now? Younger? She glanced at Aliyah and Markus, wondering how they would take losing their parents right now? Jenna herself knew she would fall apart if she suddenly lost them, and she probably wouldn’t be able to pick up the pieces any time soon. And she’d still have her siblings left! You were an only child, suddenly left without parents!

You were completely honest when you said you didn't want to make things awkward and you did everything humanly possible to get the mood up again and make her family feel no guilt over bringing your parents up. And she barely held back her tears at that. As she realized that whether consciously or unconsciously you felt like there was something wrong with sharing this and still feeling hurt over it, and that you needed to fix it.

And in that single moment of realization Jenna understood she was helpless. For so many reasons, and she couldn’t even turn to her parents for help. After all, her family wasn't exactly the best with handling emotions, especially since you were basically a stranger they only heard about from her. And the worst thing was that she couldn’t help you either. She watched you falling apart on the inside, cracking and trying to pull all the pieces back together like someone just shattered you. All the while she couldn’t do anything and was only reminded of the time she had her panic attack.

You came in and helped her, calmed her down, saved her from those feelings and understood exactly what she needed. Now here she was, seeing you were in pain and completely unable to figure out a way to help you, to make you hurt less. And that feeling only got worse by the realization that you were putting the feelings of her and her family over your own, trying to reset things for their sake. Touching you like this wasn’t enough, this minimal contact did nothing but reveal to her how you were trembling, the slight tremors of your body barely noticeable to those watching you, but she felt it against her.

She had to do something. “Excuse us for a moment,” she quickly got up and you looked at her, startled, as she pulled you to the hall, figuring out it would give you more privacy than the living room that wasn’t even entirely separated from the dining room and the kitchen.

“Jenna,” you began, and she didn’t even need to hear you out, she knew you’d tell her you were fine, so, instead of letting you utter that lie she just pulled you down until your face was buried in her neck.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted, only knowing that losing her loved ones was her greatest fear, but not having any idea how to take it that next step further and relate to such a heavy loss. “Don’t hide it from me, please,” she pleaded, her fingers digging into your hair, her lips right next to your ear. “Please, Y/N,” she whispered, no longer even trying to hold her tears back.

And instead of opening up, instead of letting her help you, you brushed her tears away and hugged her. “I’m fine,” you told her, you lied, you weren’t ready to say it, but she could feel the tension in your body lessening just a bit. “I’m fine,” who exactly were you trying to convince? “I’m so sorry, Jenna,” you were so close to telling her something, she could tell, but at the same time deep down she knew this wouldn’t get her anywhere.

Yet you still fell to your knees, and Jenna followed you down, trying her best to hold you up, to keep you from crumbling. “I couldn’t. I had no other choice, I was desperate,” you gasped for air, and she found herself rubbing soft circles in your back, trying to mimic what you did to calm her down.

“I’m with you, I’ve got you,” she whispered, and brushed her thumb along your cheek, thinking she’d brush a tear off, yet there were no tears. “You have me,” and perhaps that lack of tears, the grief cocooned in some impenetrable armor, broke and hurt her the most. You wanted to fall apart in her arms, to let it all out, and you just didn’t know how. “Y/N,” she cried your name out and your breath hitched as you desperately held onto her.

“I can’t stop. Don’t deserve to stop,” you weren’t making sense, and she felt fear creeping into her heart. What couldn’t you stop? Why did she feel like she was losing you to whatever it was, to whatever you thought you didn’t deserve to stop? “Need it. I failed. Couldn’t continue, couldn’t- I- It’s not- I should have,” it wasn’t making sense.

“Please don’t, please just stop,” she pleaded, blurting those words out without realizing what they would mean to you, breaking with every word you spoke. Feeling a pain so visceral it was pushing her to her limits and it almost felt like she was physically hurting. She wanted you to stop, to take a breath and tell her everything properly, to open up and not just crack in random places. And you just shut your mouth. “Hey, hey wait, not like that,” she cried for you, only now realizing you thought she asked you to stop talking entirely. “Y/N, no, don’t. Talk to me,” it was too late, she lost the chance. The cracks sealed up and you just pushed it all down.

She felt you pulling away from her, and she pulled you back in, holding you there with all of her strength, almost clinging to you and keeping you in place with her entire weight. “I didn’t mean that, I didn’t mean that,” but your breathing was once again steady and calm.

“Let’s just go back, your family is waiting,” you whispered, pulling her up to her feet and despite her efforts pulling away and smiling at her. “Thanks for trying,” you said and leaned back against the wall, and she shook her head, hugging you and burying her face in your chest, barely caring that her tears would be visible on the light gray shirt.

“This isn’t how I wanted things to go,” she wanted to help you, yet she failed. She didn’t have the right words, didn’t know how to reach you.

“I know,” you rubbed her back, calming her down when it was supposed to be the other way around. You were forcing yourself to be strong for her. Letting her cry her heart out for you.

“Please, I can’t lose you. Couldn’t take it and it felt like I was losing you,” she missed the way your eyes widened at those words. “Don’t want this with anyone else but you,” she wasn’t even sure what ‘this’ was, she just felt it so deep inside her heart. “I want all of you, Y/N,” and she wanted to give you all of her.

“I’ll fix it,” she nearly missed the words you whispered, almost too quietly, despite how close Jenna was to you. She certainly missed the look of absolute resolve in your eyes. Either way, for one hopeful moment she thought you had started talking again, but you didn’t say a single word after that. No. You just let her silently cry until her tears ran out, until your touch filled her with warmth once more, and only then you separated, and you wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Come on, food’s getting cold,” this time you were the one guiding her back to her family, putting on the mask of confidence and acting like what you went through didn’t come out.

So, Jenna would act like it as well, pretending in front of her family that pulling you away from them had a purpose, that it did something good for you, instead of just making you feel like you had to suppress your feelings around her. She would do it, and she wasn’t even sure why. Maybe it was to help her family and prevent them from feeling guilty, maybe there was some other reason, at this point it hardly mattered.

You all seemed to just pretend that single minute at the table never happened.

And Jenna wasn’t sure if she should feel grateful or even more worried for you.

For now she could do nothing but look at you, observe you as you began talking to her family as if nothing happened, and bit by bit she began believing the illusion as well.

As the lunch ended Jenna watched you, almost mesmerized as you talked to her mom about the different foods and recipes. Her heart beat faster as she noticed how you focused on learning which food Jenna loved the most, picking up even more secrets and information that you didn't get to learn while you were on set together. This, you with her family, was something she could easily get used to. There was a slightly selfish part of her that hoped that's maybe one day would consider her family your own family and that it would at least slightly fill the void of loss you’ve been feeling for so long. Maybe that would be the thing to help you through the grief. Maybe she just wasn’t enough on her own.

"Are you kidding me?" your eyes widened, and you turned to Jenna. It was like the cracks never showed up, and you were perfectly fine. "You got apples three times?" you asked incredulously after her mom told you about the misfortune she had when she was doing ads. It wasn’t just your effort to cover up the cracks. It was her family as well, consciously making an effort not to help you with what you were feeling, but to cover it up, unsure what to do if it came up again.

Jenna swallowed the lump in her throat, tears once again threatening to fall as this realization hit her as well. Her family couldn’t fill that void, not without a huge effort on both sides, and while she knew her family loved her and that they would love you, she knew they wouldn’t have the time to put that kind of effort in. And while you were doing your absolute best to reset things back to how they were before they all found out your parents were dead Jenna was once more struggling to do her part.

She was an actress, and right now she needed to play a role with you, to fake it until it turned to reality. So, so half blacked-out, pretending she was just acting. She frowned at the memory. She despised apples now. "Yeah, I think I'd rather starve than eat them ever again. I can't even look at them without feeling angry," she finished with a laugh, a bit forced but it worked, it did the job.

You joined her and leaned back a bit, your smile looking a lot lighter and easier than her own. "Good thing I never got the urge to make an apple pie," you may have said that, but Jenna could see you cataloguing her hatred toward apples for later. Somehow she also believed that you would make even an apple pie taste good.

"As long as you make it just make it spicy and vegetarian and Jenna will love it," Aliyah seemed to be dead set on embarrassing her. She even patted you on the back a few times as she went to put away her plate. This time Jenna let it slide because it genuinely made you smile, and that was all she cared about right now, that you were actually fine and not just forcing yourself to be happy.

"And you have to learn how to make guac," Markus just added fuel to the fire. And you just added another information to wherever you were filing the information you were getting. Even if she would much rather make guac for you herself. More than a few times, and preferably often, many, many times, just for the two of you.

"I need to make urnebes salad for you," you said directly to her. "Red bell peppers, chili peppers, cheese, it's a nice, spicy salad," that definitely sounded like something she would like, and she absolutely wanted you to make things for her. Wanted to experience so much with you, try new foods, try new things in general with you, and having you in her life as much as possible.

"I'm going to hold you to that," Jenna told you and you just grinned.

“Okay, how about we all go outside and take a group selfie?” her mom suggested taking Jenna by surprise. You did what you intended, you got everything back on track, even when you were the one that the most affected by all of this. That should have made her relax but it just made her heart clench painfully at that thought.

So, she focused on what was going on instead of on what she was feeling. Her mom definitely loved taking photos, keeping the memories of good times lasting longer and documenting anything she deemed important or worthy of a photo. So, maybe she shouldn’t have been as surprised, but it still felt a bit unexpected, and she hoped you didn’t mind. Looking at your face she didn’t notice any changes, or discomfort.

Granted, you just showed her you absolutely could mask any pain you felt in pretty much an instant. This seemed genuine though, this really seemed like you didn’t mind taking a photo with her family.

So, you followed after her into the backyard where the two of you and her family got ready for her mom to take the photo. What she didn’t expect was for you to suddenly mess up her hair just as her mom took the selfie.

Apparently, you were actually back to normal, and the grin on your face proved it to her.

“Oh my,” her mom chuckled, and Jenna saw her hair was covering most of her face on the photo.

“Y/N,” she spoke calmly, but you already began running, and fine, if that was how you were going to act, then she could play that game too. “It’s fine, I promise!” she exclaimed as she began chasing you, you were laughing and it truly was fine but as long as you were laughing then she was going to keep chasing after you. Just to listen to your laughter for a bit more, because after what happened in the hall, she needed this. She needed you to laugh with her, to tease her, to make her flustered and blush, and make her heart beat wildly inside her chest.

“Then why are you chasing me?” you laughed and Jenna found herself grinning as well, especially when she heard her family holding back their own laughs. This was what she wanted, seeing you like this, free from that tension from before.

She didn’t see this side of you on the set, the childish, silly side that somehow ended up relaxing her even more. “Because you’re running!” it made no sense, but she truly didn’t care. For some reason you got tired a bit quicker than she expected you would, and she smirked speeding up and catching you from behind, hugging you tightly. “Got you,” she laughed and leaned her forehead against your back as she caught her breath.

“Yeah, you got me,” you sounded so genuine, and she could have sworn there was a double meaning to those words. She just didn’t understand it yet.

She wanted to tell you more, but the words got stuck in her throat and despite spending over half an hour thinking about it she suddenly wasn't sure she even had the right words to say to you. “You have me,” she spoke, hoping against hope that those three worlds would convey everything she felt. That they would be enough for you to know that she was with you completely, no matter what happened, no matter what the future brought. She needed you to know that you had her on your side and that you could turn to her at any moment for anything.

“You have me too,” you replied and relief flooded her heart. You understood and then you turned around and she was sure you would hug her back. Jenna looked you in the eyes, expecting a hug, only to be met by a mischievous look on your face as you went and booped her on the nose. “Let’s go back before your parents kill me,” you joked and she rolled her eyes, letting you go and walking slightly ahead of you.

“They wouldn’t,” she denied it as the two of you began heading back toward the house. Her family was already back inside, clearly giving the two of you a moment.

“You think? Your dad is a cop and in his eyes, I’m trying to seduce his baby girl,” you whisper shouted just loud enough for her to hear and she burst out laughing.

“Guess you'll have to set your sight on another girl then, won't you,” even as she joked back she had to admit there was a hint of jealousy in her voice at the mere thought of you with another girl.

Then, as if you sensed just how much power your touch had over her, you pulled her back and into your arms. And Jenna gasped as she felt your left hand on the small of her back, keeping her body pressed right against yours. And the look in your eyes? Jenna found herself melting at the intensity and raw emotion in your gaze. “I can’t,” you didn’t need to say another word. You made your message very, very clear.

“Good to know,” her voice cracked several times in those three words and she forced herself to just very slowly step away from you because her legs weren't exactly steady right now. It wasn’t a day of ups and downs with you today, it was a rollercoaster, and it was clear both of you were trying to bring things back to how they usually were by taking things up to eleven.

~X~

Two hours later you've gotten quite comfortable around Jenna's family, even though you could still see the somewhat scary that look Edward was giving you every time you and Jenna got particularly close to one another. Just another proof that the incident from lunch was mostly forgotten, and the way Jenna reacted to your admission that you couldn’t find another girl told you things between the two of you would be fine as well.

There seemed to be a silent conversation between Jenna and her mother until Jenna finally groaned and got up, leaving you on your own with her family from the looks of it.

“Can’t escape the dishes not even in a situation like this,” she half-jokingly complained to you and you automatically jumped to your feet. “Wait, what are you doing?” she asked, laughing as she pushed you slightly, though quite frankly you were barely feeling her efforts to get you back to sit down.

“Going to help you, of course,” you could see she was about to argue against it, and you quickly argued in favor of your plan before she do so. “I have a plane to catch very soon, let's do this one last thing together and then I can be on my way?” you tried to talk her into it and from the looks of it, it was working. Much like you, Jenna wanted to spend more time with you.

“Fine, but you only get to dry the dishes,” Jenna smiled softly as you pumped your fist in celebration. Granted, the reaction, while genuine, was a bit exaggerated, but you wanted to see her smiling, she didn’t smile that often since lunch. And you didn’t want to leave her like this, you wanted her happy, thinking back to this day fondly. You went into the kitchen where there were plenty of dishes from today's lunch. “Are you sure I can’t help you with more than just drying?” you asked and leaned on the counter next to her as she pulled out some cloth for you to dry the dishes with.

“Absolutely,” she began wiping any of the leftovers off the dishes and putting them back into the sink and you caught yourself just watching her. She was focused on the task and was actually even humming a bit. You didn't quite recognize the song but just listening to Jenna like this was more than enough for you. There was a very comfortable silence in the room, filled with occasional glances and chuckles, as if you were in on an inside joke that no one else knew about and you couldn’t even begin to describe how relieved you were because of that.

“You're staring,” she giggled and returned the favor as she booped your nose with a soap covered finger.

And you suddenly sneezed, barely getting enough time to cover your mouth. The soap kind of made you sneeze. “I was about to say you're beautiful, but I guess it won't work after this,” you rolled your eyes, silently cursing the timing of your sneeze.

“Goof,” Jenna rolled her eyes and you just chuckled at that, happy that everything was once more completely comfortable between you.

She finally handed you a plate to dry and 10 minutes later the two of you had finished washing the dishes and you were about to go and grab your bag. As much as you enjoyed this, you would have to leave in the next 10 to 15 minutes.

“So, this is it?” she said and you could see a question on the tip of her tongue.

“It was a good day,” you didn't even leave yet and you already felt this sense of longing for her. You couldn't tell when would be the next time you would see her, and right then and there, in what was possibly the worst moment, right in her parents’ kitchen, you nearly said it. You nearly told her what you were doing, because she deserved to know. You were both heading toward the point of no painless return. If this kept going even for a bit longer you would just end up hurting Jenna by keeping her in the dark. And you couldn’t have that. “I-“

But before you could say anything Natalie came up to the two of you. “Y/N,” she called out your name.

“Yes?” you weren't sure if you were relieved or not that you were interrupted like this.

“We've been thinking and it would really be a shame for you to go back to Denver today. You've been here for not even half a day and we have a free room,” she began and your eyes widened as you realized where this was going. “Aliyah can go and sleep in Mia's room, and Jenna can take Aliyah's bed so you can sleep in Jenna’s,” you glanced at Jenna and saw the look of pure happiness spreading on her face and that just took away all of your capability to argue against Natalie’s idea.

“I,” you still turned to Jenna with a raised eyebrow. “Do you want this?” you asked her. “It’s OK if you don't want it,” you assured Jenna, but her mom just chuckled, realizing much better than you just how ridiculous that idea was.

“And if I want you to stay?” Jenna asked a bit cheekily.

The answer was simple. “Then I'll stay,” and so the decision was made. You would be staying the night.

“I am betting my bed will remain empty tonight!” Aliyah yelled from the living room, embarrassing both you and Jenna.

Aliyah was absolutely wrong.

Taglist: @lilbitdepressed27 @freakshow2501 @osnapitzmel1 @belatrixdragon @ijustlovemaths

@niqmandu @justspance @mirage018

Masterlist / First Part / Previous part / Next Part

#jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega x female reader #x reader #x female reader

188 notes · View notes