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asparagus-antics · 2 months ago

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There is like NOTHING for conquest 😭 nsfw alphabet for my favorite old man? Or just any crumbs in general I'll take it

NSFW Alphabet - Conquest

Here are the headcannons for my old man! I love him so much. Sorry if these are choppy or seem rushed, I really need to get back into my groove, man😭 I had a hard time writing these. I tried to keep this as gender neutral as possible, since I wasn't sure if you wanted a specific gender! Also, to give myself a little more of a direction to go in, this is Conquest x human reader. Enjoy!

Not proofread, sorry for any grammatical errors and or spelling mistakes!

18+, minors do not interact, please! - you are responsible for your own content consumption, the media below the cut will contain nsfw themes and explicit description of sex.

Aftercare - what they're like after

Conquest might not be too adapted to how soft humans are in comparison to viltrumites, so he might need some time adjusting—a gentle nudge in the right direction from time to time. Overall, he's generally like a huge cat. If this man could purr, he would; in fact, he can manage a hum so low it actually does really sound like one! He's a cuddler. Big, rough hands grab you as soon as he's down on the bed next to you, pulling you close and inhaling your scent like like the faint smell of your sweat is the most heavenly thing to him. He's scared he might hurt your body, so little compared to him even if you are tall for the average human, but the urge to pull you close and smother you in his big arms is something akin to cuteness agression. If you ask, he'll fetch you water or a snack, maybe a heating pad or an exrta blanket. Over time, though, he'll get used to what you usually desire after a few rounds, and after cleaning you up, he'll get them without a specific request needed.

Body part - whats their favourite body part? Theirs and yours

It might sound cliche, but if you were to ask him what his favourite part of you was, he would jump at the opportunity to say everything. The soft skin he can nuzzle his face into, the limbs that try to tangle themselves around him in a hug or the hands that scratch at his skin when he's so focused on your pleasure that he gets lost in it all. Your favourite part of him would probably be your hands, though. How gently they can handle him even when there really is no need. How soft they feel all over him and how you love to hold his big, calloused palm in yours. It grounds him, calms him down when needed, and he'd die a happy man if your hands were on him while he went. His favourite part of his body? His arms. How such muscular, big sources of power that have blown through civilisations could now cradle you so gently. How easily he could pick you up and carry you where you needed to go or throwing you up into the air like a little child to hear you laugh.

Cum - anything to so with cum, really

His loads? Huge. Downright terrifying because where has this poor man been storing all of this? He prefers to come inside, liking the sense of intimacy it brings him, the idea that some piece of him will be with you at all times for a few days at least. He definitely had a breeding kink that just goes wild at the sight of you on his dick. If it's not inside you, he'll cum all over your stomach, your face if you let him. He loves seeing you streaked in something so innately his, marked by the evidence of what you do to him. If it comes time to clean up the mess, he'll lick it all up himself without a single complaint to be heard. You don't prompt him to, you're just laying there, still coming down and catching your breath when you feel that hot tongue strace over the lines painted on your stomach, up to your chest and neck.

Dirty secret - whats a dirty secret of theirs?

Secrets? Not this mans thing. He'll blurt out anything that comes to mind no matter how vulgar it is. Honestly, it gets you blushing and embarrassed most of the time because it just comes out of nowhere! He doesn't even try to make it sensual. It's just him still getting used to the fact that humans aren't as direct. It's just a remark here and there, in the middle of you and him minding your own business, cuddling, or anything that might be happening.

Experience - how experienced are they? Do they know what their doing?

Conquest has gathered lots of experience over his.. what? Five thousand years of life? He's not ever really had a partner, or maybe has, but had never really been in love—hence his lonliness. Despite that, his experiences are plenty. Tons of hookups over the years from planets he's conquered (I mean, who could resist him? Even if he's murdering their people with a smile on his face? I couldn't.). Maybe one or two other viltrumites in his earlier years, but none in the later ones, since not many are even willing or daring to get close. He knows exactly what you need, even if he unintentionally handles you a bit rougher sometimes. He's attentive and more than eager to please you. There's never a one to one ratio on orgasms, which 100% of the time works out in your favour, even if unintentional. He just loves to have his hands on you, and he gets plenty carried away sometimes.

Favourite position - self explanitory

It depends on the sex. In his desperate, rough days, he enjoys doggy a lot. It gives him plenty of curves to grab, limbs to restrain and skin to lick and bite. It allows him to reach deep, to be able to push and pull you away, and to him, it lets him move your body to a way that feels good for the both of you. On his gentle days, when he really wants to savour the moment, he prefers missionary, maybe something with you on top. In these positions, he can really admire you, watch you move and react to all the sensations he's making you feel, and be able to press his skin to yours. He enjoys the contact and intimacy of it, revels in the way you cling to him, and move against him. Your pleasure is his, and it only heightens his excitement to know and feel that you're having a great time. He lives for it. If he could see it all day every day for the rest of his life, he would.

Goofy - are they more goofy or serious in the moment? Do they make jokes?

Jokes, maybe, but he's mostly more serious during. He wants to be focused on you and your pleasure, as well as his. His intensity usually doesn't leave a lot of room for cracking jokes. On the other hand, he is a huge tease. Some days (the rougher ones), he's relentless, taunting and teasing non-stop, driving you mad with touches without getting you anywhere. He'll sneer when you whine and beg, making remarks about the fact that you have to be patient for him, taunting you for being so desperate, all the while not letting up on any of the shit he's pulling.

Hair - how are they groomed? Do the carpets match the drapes?

It's all grey. Everywhere. Obviously. He's got a nice amount of chest hair that matches the remaining ones on his head and his moustache. His forearms have a nice coating, too, that looks absolutely amazing when he rolls his sleeves up. The muscles with a dusting of grey body hair absolutely gives him some sort of greek god look that he really pulls off. The hair on his chest conects a trail down his softer stomach to his pubes, which are very much there, but he keeps them trimmed nicely. He's definitely not shaven, but he's neat and tidy. It honestly looks nice, framing him just right.

Intimacy - how intimate are they in the moment?

There's always a sense of intimacy with him, rough or gentle. Either in way he looks at you, caressing over the planes of your skin softly or the ragged breaths in your ear as he lays himself over your back, his face over your shoulder as he grunts out praises to your fucked out body, his firm hands keeping you in place and his pace showing absolutely zero signs of faltering or stopping any time soon, no matter the rounds you've already gone. His hands are so big, either very capable of grabbing at each and every part of your flesh, groaning about how good you're doing and how nice you feel around him, or how they cradle your body as he moves so slowly, cherishing you like his most prised posession, looking you deep in the eye as he commits the sight of you right to his memories, to keep this piece of you with him always.

Jack off - anything to do with masturbation

That piece of you leads him right to here, preserved for when needed, for the occasions where one of you is away. He doesn't really enjoy masturbation as much, since he rarely sees need to if he can't spill anything into you or feel your warm, soft touch or the scratches along his arms, sides and back whike he's so engrossed in the pleasure of it all. It just doesn't feel as good; his hands could never recreate the feeling of yiu around him or your hands caressing him, your mouth moving over and around him till he's all happy and sated. If he really is that messed up over the fact he can't have you, and he really can't stop thinking about it, he'll frustratedly take himself in hand and just force everything out of him over the span of fifteen minutes to an hour, depending on how desprate he is.

Kink - a kink of theirs. What are they into?

He has a huge breeding kink. Huge. Most viltrumites don't need or desire sex outside of breeding urges. They don't see the need to look for a partner who will only slow them down or make them soft outside of missions. If they do have one, though, it's on. Conwuest would do anything to keep you stuffed full of him all the time. Whether it is indeed for breeding perpouses or judt the thought of you being so full of him, he wants you to drip it when he's done with you, so to speak. Because he will indeed not let you drip it. If it's not quicky, he loves to stay buried inside you even after he's softened, letting you rest in a position that will allow it, keeping everything he's poured into you firmly there with no escape. It fills him with a sense of pride and duty, even if it is just for himself.

Location - what's their favourite place to get into it?

He mostly just prefers a bed, where he can take his sweet, sweet time with you and enjoy you thoroughly. Though, if we're being real, he would take you anywhere. In the kitchen, outside, on the floor, in the air.. the list goes way on. If it is indeed in a bed, he loves it because he can pound you silly into the soft surface, watching you bounce with the movements his heavy build is forcing on the mattress.

Motivation - what turns them on? Gets them going?

Everything. The way you walk? His dick is hard. Give him one wrong look? He'll absolutely pound the thoughts out of you. Caress his face just right? He wants to take care of you and make you cum till you go deaf and blind. He's just an absolute sucker for you, as serious about you as he ever has been and ever will be about another being. He wants you always, all the time, everywhere at once. He knows how to reign himself in of course, but when it comes time for that sweet release, he will ravenge you for just about anything that you do.

No - something they won't do / turn off.

Outside of the morally messed up shit, even if his morals are kind of messed up, absolutely nothing. Your wish is his command; this man is a freak and is proud to let you know it. You want to try something new? On it, boss. He's ready. From vanilla things to stuff that would make the devil break out a sweat, perhaps a little blush. He's all yours, opwn to experimenting snd switching things up. Positions? This man can bend you into whatever shape you want. You taking charge? Go right ahead. Even if proportions are off or you are nervous about things, he'll do his absolute best and try his hardest to make everything judt as enjoyable for you as he can. I mean, he'll enjoy it regardless.

Oral - preference in giving / receiving, skill, etc.

He doesn't mind receiving head, though with his size, it's hard for anyone to fully take him. Even half would be more than enough for the average person, so he doesn't really expect it or request it a lot. Giving, on the other hand? This man will slobber over you aaaalll day. Sucking, licking. Just nuzzling into you and nudging with his nose, he's got it. He's messy with it, but it's intense and pleasureful. He'll have you coming with his mouth plenty of times before you even get to the big event if you let him. He'll keep going till you try to tug him up or whine for him that it's too much. He loves overstimulating all your nerves till you beg him to go easier, to at least let you catch your breath. Sometimes, though, as much as he loves hearing you beg, it falls on deaf ears anyway. He blames it on his age. Yeah, right.

Pace - are they fast, slow, stamina, etc.

He varies, but boy when he switches it up from one to the other? Slow, deep, more grinding than anything turns to your hips being lifted off of whatever surface you were on an held up by him as he plummets your depths like a man on a mission. He can be relentless, so quick and hard you'll definitely not be walking straight if at all tomorrow, but at the same time, he can be so slow, sometimes barely moving yet still so intense it gets you where you want to go, less intense than usual, it's a slow and rolling sensation that lasts a while, something that you feel you'll never come down from, so opposite from the harsh, quick snap and bursts that usually take place, though even that varied in it's levels of intensity.

Quickie - their opinion on them, how often, etc

He definitely prefers to be able to take his time over anything else, so quickies aren't really his deal. When you do have them, though, they're usually in a fit of desperation. Maybe squeeze one in one last time before saying goodbye for something like a mission or trip that the other can't join on, maybe after an argument of any kind.

Risk - are they game to experiment? Do they take risks?

Conquest gives absolutely no fucks when it comes to risking a lot of things, even his life, as we've seen. It exitedls him, gives him a rush. Getting beat up with thr risk of very bad bodily injury? Bring it on. Toying with people to bring out the absolute worst in them and taunt them till they snap? Definitely his dead. Something he doesn't like to risk, though? Is you. Seeing you in any type of trouble or danger would send him mad, so he doesn't like to risk anything dangerous, even if you are the type of person who gets a thrill from it just like him. A place where you risk being seen is okay with him, of course, since there is something so exiting about that, but anything that crosses his line of danger is off limits. Somewhere public, like a bathroom stall of storage closet? Have at it! He's more than happy to oblige you if that is something you're into or would be willing to try. Despite that, he couldn't bare seeing anything bad happen to you, especially if it could be partially caused by him. So, he'll play it safe with you, make sure everything you do together is something that could easily be fixed by him if something were to happen.

Stamina - how many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?

All viltrumites have great stamina, since that was insured when only the most virile of the species were allowed to reproduce. Conquests stamina is something that never seems to run out, bred and trained for long and hard battle, sex is at the least of his worries when it comes to a workout. He can take you round after round after round until you're so spent you're barely awake, and he'll barely have broken a sweat, if at all. He'll let you rest when you're clearly too tired or you ask, of course, but trust me when I say that when you wake up, he's ready to go right back at it again.

Toys - Do they own toys? Do they use them?

I don't think he'd really have any at home, but if you suggest it, maybe give him some, he's eager to try it out. On you, on himself, whatevers possible. He wants to appreciate your gift to the fullest and is more than happy to do so. Things like vibes, he'll tease you for hours on end and try and figure out every single way to make you come using them. He enjoys seeing them used on you more, but if you want to he'll let you try whatever you want on him, just content to have you paying him such close attention, to have your hands on him making him feel so good in that way just you do.

Unfair - how much do they like to tease?

As mentioned before, Conquest will tease and edge you till you're begging and in tears if you let him. He loves seeing you desperate, hearing all the noises you make for him. The way you squirm and whine for him to just let you come already is just music to his ears and plenty of strokes to his ego. Knowing that this is the way he can make you feel, no one else, just exites him more than anything. He's infuriating. The endless taunting is so frustrating, yet somehow it still manages to brighten that fire inside of you. You desire it, his hands endlessly roaming with no intention of taking you any further for a good while.

Volume - how loud are they? What sounds do they make?

He's fairly quiet in terms of noise, but he loves to talk. Taunting, teasing, praising, remarking about how good you feel, hell, he'll tell a story or to to your absolutely fucked out body after multiple rounds, all while he's still moving into you relentlessly. He does make the occasional noises, rough and fairly hushed; hell groan out his words or give a grunt here and there. He just can't possibly keep completely muted with the way you feel around him, like he's wrapped up in heaven itself. Sometimes, he muffles the noise by shoving his face to whatever skin he can reach from that angle or kissing you till you're even more out of breath, if that was possible.

Wild card - a random headcannon

He has a thing for his size. Naturally, most(all) of his partners are smaller than him, even if they're tall for whatever species they are from. If he's relieving oral from you, he likes to just see the size of him against your face. The difference gets him going, how easily he can manhandle you even if you're strong. It makes him feel strong, powerful—which he loves. It's never at the expense of you feeling useless, but the way you're so small next to him is just a huge turn-on.

X-ray - whats going on underneath them clothes?

He's big for his size, and as a man of around 7 feet or taller, that's absolutely huge. He's around the girth of an average human fist, just a bit skinnier when flacid. The length of it is definitely enough to struggle with, but you make it work together. It's got a couple of veins along the side and underside, a colour just a bit darker than his usual skintone, and it turns a more reddish colour when hard, the more desprate, the more colour. It's pretty, which is weird to say of an old, weathered conqourers uncut dick, but it's true. The dusting of nest grey hair compliments him well—he's definitely an eyeful, and his naked body in all its glory is something to blink at. The source of attraction, though? It's definitely the junk he's packing. You just physically cannot stop yourself from sneaking a peek whenever you can.

Yearning - how high is their sex drive?

All day, every day. If he has the chance, he'll keep you to himself multiple hours a day, if not the whole day. For him, of course, it's the blink of an eye. In his 5000 years, you are the brightest thing that's happened, and he just wants to keep quaking those memories and moments with you like there's no tomorrow—including plenty of orgasms and then some.

Zzz - how quickly do they fall asleep afterwards?

He doesn't sleep that quickly afterwards. Sex just seems to wake him up more. Eventually, when you're asleep, he'll likely end up just watching you, so peaceful in his bed after the romp you've had. He's smitten, and he'll just sit or lay there for hours, watching. He'll never get tired of it, but it does help him calm back down, have him settle in with you, and scoot your body to his so he can tangle you up in his strong arms. He listens to the sound of your breathing until, inevitably, he too falls asleep.

Thank you for the request, anon!! It took me a while to get to it, sorry for that. I'm still getting back into writing but if anyone has more requests, please let me know! See my pinned post for the guidelines to my writing.

Please support your writers! Reblogs and comments are much appreciated.

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tk5reader · 2 days ago

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Council member: you know you’re only supposed to have 1 padawan maybe 2 not 15?

Luke: well until people stop leaving surprisingly powerful orphans at my doorstep I’ll be taking care of my 17 padawans.

Council member, exasperated: WHERE DID YOU GET 3 MORE!?

Luke: My husband

*Din waving in the background *

Council member: YOU’RE MARRIED!??

#incorrect quotes #source: writing-prompt-s #writing-prompt-s #dinluke #skydalorian #the mandalorian #star wars #no order 66 #Luke ‘yes these are my 22 children’ Skywalker #he adopts all his padawans #and we all know Din adopts all the kids he rescues #I imagine Luke causes the jedi council many a headache with his decisions #and total lack of adherence to the no attachment rule #Anakin cheering him on in the background

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dxrlingluv · 1 month ago

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idk i just imagine funny scenario w antinous

okay imagine him w fem s/o who's like so oblivious and doesn't get when ppl trying to hit on her

antinous getting jealous after seeing her talking with someone or one of the suitors and gets moody all day and she's not understanding why he's mad but she's trying to make him feel better and asking him like

"are you mad at me?" "i am not mad at you.." "but you look and sound mad-" "I've said I'm not mad at you." "but-" "I SWEAR TO HADES IF YOU ASK ONE MORE TIME!" "..." "so you are mad at me ;("

Are you mad at me?

A/N : Nothing much to say but I had fun writing him! Antinous art is from duvetbox.

WARNING : Antinous, Female requested reader, Antinous x Reader.

Word Count : 612

Antinous was having a week. Being one of Penelope's many suitors was a special kind of torture. Especially when you, the object of his affections, seemed utterly oblivious to the subtle power plays and peacocking that filled the palace halls.

Today's source of Antinous' inner turmoil? You were showing off your juggling skills with apples pilfered from the royal kitchens. And your audience? Eurymachus, the buffoon of the suitor crowd, who was laughing so hard he nearly choked on a stray apple core.

Antinous scowled from his corner, meticulously polishing his sword. He'd tried the broodingly handsome stare. He'd attempted the casually impressive flexing of his biceps while "stretching." He'd even offered you the choicest cut of roasted boar at dinner last night, only for you to thank him sweetly and then share it with Telemachus' dog.

Now, juggling apples with Eurymachus. It was almost a personal affront.

Finally, an apple bounced off Eurymachus' head, and your juggling act dissolved into giggles. You turned, your eyes landing on Antinous.

"Oh, hey Antinous!" you called out cheerfully. "Did you see that one? I almost had five!"

Antinous grunted, trying to maintain his air of aloof disinterest. "Indeed."

You bounded over to him, missing the way Eurymachus' gaze followed you. "You're awfully quiet today. Usually, you're... well, you're usually very opinionated about the quality of the wine or the way Melantho braids her hair."

"Perhaps I am simply lost in profound thought," Antinous said stiffly.

You peered at him, your brow furrowed. "About what? The best way to win Penelope's hand?"

He nearly choked on his own spit. "What? No! Absolutely not!"

"Oh," you said, then brightened. "Are you thinking about the new fishing nets? Philoetius was saying they're a revolutionary design!"

Antinous stared at you. Fishing nets? Was this woman for real?

"Are you... mad at me?" you asked, reaching out to touch his forehead.

He flinched slightly at the contact. "No."

"You sound mad at me," you observed, your hand now resting on his arm.

"I don't," Antinous replied, his voice a low growl.

"You're mad at me, aren't you?" you pressed, your eyes searching his.

"Not." He ground out.

"Yes, you are," you insisted, a small smile playing on your lips.

"FOR THE LOVE OF THE GODS IF YOU REPEAT THAT AGAIN I WILL-" Antinous bellowed, causing several nearby suitors to jump.

You blinked, your smile widening. "So you ARE mad at me!"

Antinous stared, speechless. He took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. "..."

"...Are you?" you prompted, your expression a picture of innocent curiosity.

Antinous' shoulders slumped in defeat. He massaged his temples. This was going nowhere. He was surrounded by scheming, self-serving men, engaged in a constant battle of one-upmanship for a queen's hand, and the one person who truly captured his attention was blissfully unaware of the green-eyed monster currently residing in his chest.

You patted his arm reassuringly. "Don't worry, Antinous. Whatever it is, I'm sure it'll be alright. Maybe you just need a nap? You get awfully grumpy when you don't get enough sleep."

He just groaned and buried his face in his hands. Being a suitor was bad enough. Being a jealous suitor whose affections were met with such charming obliviousness was a special kind of hell. And yet... the way your smile crinkled the corners of your eyes... the way you genuinely seemed concerned...

He peeked through his fingers as you skipped off to find more apples, leaving a bewildered Eurymachus in your wake. Maybe, just maybe, this oblivious charm of yours was more potent than any calculated flirtation. He just had to figure out how to navigate it without losing his mind (or his very limited patience lol).

#epic the musical #epic x reader #epic fanfic #fluff #dxrlingluv #antinous x reader #antinous #antinous epic the musical #epic antinous #epic the musical x reader #epic telemachus #epic eurymachus

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imababblekat · 1 year ago

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Accidental Eavesdropping?

Anon request, "Hey!!! Love your blog and your writing style, it’s amazing and so detailed!!! Can I request Bayverse TMNT Spider-man Au, where the turtles and spider-y/n are in a battle with Bepop and rocksteady. And in the last moments of the battle, spider -y/n saves the turtles but gets unmasked in the process. (They live) If you don’t want to do that idea! You can either delete this OR A moment where the turtles start talking about y/n and they don’t even realize that they’re talking TO THEM!!! This was funny to me for some reason lol 😂"

A/N: Aw thank you, anon! ;v; I went with the second prompt, btw. Leans towards Raphael x reader, but it's mentioned/hinted that the other turts also got the feels for reader. Any who's, I hope you enjoy! <3

◌(s,p) = spider persona◌

~xXx~

You're swinging over traffic, indulging in a rather quiet night despite the sounds of honking vehicles and other night life, when a sudden warm fuzzy feeling beams from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. It's not your spidey sense per say, but something akin to it, all you know is that it's a good sense and you follow it with glee. It doesn't take long before the feeling is buzzing and you see the source of the feeling chilling atop a pizza parlor. Well, more like sources. You let out a small giggle, noticing that the four ninja turtle brothers seem to be in some sort of deep conversation or debate.

"Hey guy's, what's going on?!", you greeted, swinging in next to a steaming Raphael.

"Oh you know, just the daily sibling teasing while we wait for our pizza to be made.", Donnie shrugged, watching as you and Mikey did your secret handshake.

"Yeah? Let me guess. . ."

The eyes of your mask squinted as you pretended to skeptically look at all brothers before looking at the glaring gaze of Raphael next to you.

"Is Raphie suppressing his emotions again?", you chaffed.

Said turtle rolled his eyes, shifting his weight to one side as he growled.

"Great, just what I need. And don't call me that."

"Come on, I'm sure I can help! What's up this time big guy?"

Leo chuckled, gaining your attention while Raphael sent him a warning glare from behind you.

"Raph's got a crush on our friend."

At this your eyes widened, a small gasp escaping you as you looked between the two eldest brothers in excitement.

"No way! Who?!"

You're question went ignored as Raph threw his arms up, cheeks flushing a light hue of embarrassment.

"All I said was they smelled nice, and y'all chuckle heads suddenly think I've been struck by cupid or some mushy crap!"

"You complimented them, Raph.", came Leo's retort.

"I compliment people all the time!"

Everyone remained silent, giving the hot headed turtle deadpanned expressions.

"What? I do. Right (s,p)?", he asked turning to look down at you.

You merely shrugged.

"Sarcastically maybe."

Raph huffed, leaning back against the buildings ledge, you hoping up to sit next to him.

"So is anyone gonna tell me who this mysterious person is or nah? Come on people, I want the tea."

Mikey, idly spinning his nun-chucks, grinned widely.

"It's our friend, (y,n)!"

You sat rigid, mask eyes wide once more.

". . .Who now?"

"Oh you haven't met them.", Donnie waved off, checking his turtle made watch to see the remaining wait time on their order.

Raphael clicked his tongue, still slightly aggravated about his brothers earlier teasing. Meanwhile, you still sat frozen beside him, staring into the abyss with a racing heart.

"I still don't have a crush on them.", he muttered.

"You complimented them on their perfume!", Leo loudly pointed out once more.

"Why is that so weird?!"

The two started to banter once more, Mikey enjoying the show while Donnie threw in a few matter of facts to weigh in on Leo's side. You, however, felt never more thankful than in that moment that you wore a full face mask. If it wasn't for the coverage, surely the ninja brothers would see just how closely the color of your face matched Raphaels mask right now.

Raphael growled, fed up with his brothers ganging up on him and his definitely non-existent crush on you. If they were going to call him out, then he would do the same to them.

"Maybe you guys should get off my shell and jump on yours first! I ain't the only one whose been makin' googly eyes at (y,n)."

You just about fell off the side of the building, hands gripping the edge of where you sat, knuckles definitely white beneath your suit. What is happening right now, is all you could terrifyingly but blushingly think.

Leonardo and Donatello were quick to look anywhere but at Raph, trying their hardest to not blush themselves at their brother's call out.

"I seen the way you put on the macho charm, Leo, bowing extra deep and all your swooning romance book crap when they come over. And you, Donnie, sputtering and dropping shit when they try to help you with projects and their hand accidentally brushes against yours. And Mikey. . ."

All eyes focused in on the youngest of the bunch who sat ready and waiting to hear Raph's jest.

"Actually, Mikey you're not that surprising. You think anyone who gives you food is a gift from heaven."

"Hey, it's not my fault their cinnamon rolls are so good!.", Mikey pouted, bottom lip jutting out adorably.

Leonardo shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose before turning towards you.

"What do you think, (s,p)? Are we over analyzing or are we right?"

The boys eagerly waited for your answer, for your input. Surely someone from the outside would be able to better determine the situation the brothers found themselves in. Well. . .should have been able to more like, as the response you gave was not what they were expecting.

A rushed, "Igotgo!!!", was all they got before watching you thwip away at the speed of light, leaving the turtles to look at each other confused and quizzically.

". . .Wait, so you guys don't have a crush on (y,n) too??", Mikey questioned with furrowed brows, innocently confused by how they could not.

Raphael groaned loudly as he and his brothers devilled into another childish debate on why they totally didn't have feelings for you, a familiar smell that had sparked the argument coincidentally wafting lightly into their senses upon the wind in the direction of which you swung off.

~xXx~

#bayverse tmnt x reader #bayverse tmnt #bayverse raphael x reader #bayverse raph x reader #bayverse leonardo x reader #bayverse leo x reader #bayverse donatello x reader #bayverse donnie x reader #bayverse michelangelo x reader #bayverse mikey x reader #tmnt x reader #aged up tmnt #tmnt spiderman au #spiderman reader #anon request #imababblekat's writing

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starseungs · 9 months ago

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to love you like the snow melts. ksm.

kim seungmin x gn!reader — if seungmin wanted to be loved like a planet being discovered, he wanted to love you like the snow melted during the cusp of spring.

GENRE/S — fluff, maybe kinda emotional (or is that just me), slight college au mentioned in passing, he fell first trope • 1.1k words

WARNING/S — nothing really unless you're not into lovesick pining, story told in seungmin's pov, slightly unedited cz idk

( ✒️ ) happy seungmin day !! i think i dissociated while writing this fic cause man... i barely remember shit 😭 i originally had a plan going into writing this but it just got thrown out the window by my brain apparently (also this fic is inspired by one of the results in this quiz cause i loved the prompt i got so much) this fic is a bit short but i hope yall like it <3

2024 ⓒ starseungs on tumblr. do not steal, repost, or edit.

Seungmin’s eyes love to rest on you.

That was an undoubtable fact in his life—one that he, himself, doesn’t even know how it started. Yet, the acknowledgement of this unknown didn’t bother him at all. If anything, it was a source of comfort for him; a way of reminding himself of the joy in living. To Seungmin, one thing was for certain: He was given the gift of sight to experience you in your entire beauty.

He first met you in a university lecture, where you simply happened to frequent the seat just a row behind and two chairs away from where he usually sat. Perhaps he was enamored from the very beginning. It was like his gaze would always find a way back to you whenever you were in his immediate vicinity, reminiscent of a magnet longing to cling to metal.

That was also the way he took in your presence as a whole. Seungmin was a man starved for knowledge, desperately clawing for anything he could get to broaden his desired expertise that was you. He particularly loved the way your eyes drooped whenever the lecture of the day bore you, as well as your tendency to make origami on available paper during the times you could care less to listen. The latter always ended up with you blinking endearingly after a successful craft, glancing around the people near you to figure out who to present it to.

Oh, how he wished he had been over there instead, happily receiving a paper star to keep. However, it was your friends that surrounded you on a daily, barely giving you time to be alone. And maybe you didn’t want to be alone—another thing about you that he’d like to discover the truth to. But he thought that until the day he somehow found himself stumbling into your life, he’d have to be grateful to your friends for making you shine the way you deserved every step of the way.

So, imagine his surprise when he finally got the chance to make a mark in the vast expanse of your world.

The opportunity came in the form of a group project with you; the catalyst in which his whole life began to change. Friendly introductions of obligation quickly turned into incessant strings of conversation, bringing the two of you closer. The sheer pace of the development was overwhelming. Seungmin never thought his presence bore enough weight for gravity to grab him by the neck and lock him in the system of the star that was you.

It was a trip and a half, consisting of countless miles to lap around with seemingly no end. So much, that he feared falling out of your grace—to be like a passing asteroid who foolishly dreamt of becoming a planet. Seungmin was endlessly yearning to solidify his place in your world, just like he always wanted. And still, despite that all, he didn’t show it. He merely laughed when you laughed, stayed silent when you needed silence, and experienced anger on your behalf when you couldn’t show it for yourself.

Because Kim Seungmin knew that you needed to be loved patiently.

Even throughout the tightrope of uncertainty he walked months on like his life depended on it, he never once made it seem like he was waiting on a move from you. If Seungmin wanted to be loved like a planet being discovered, he wanted to love you like the snow melted during the cusp of spring.

Seungmin knew that even with the shows of your cheery demeanor, your heart still remained frosted over from your previous winters. That even when your fingers danced their way to intertwine with his, there was still that moment of hesitation. He was forever thankful that you caught him from falling when he did, refusing to let him disappear into the abyss. Yet, who was lighting up the skies of which you lay under to stare at each day?

He longed to give you a love that was true. One where he showed you how warmth creeped in with small trickles of heat, giving you enough time to decide whether you truly wanted it or not. Love that was considerate in the way that it willingly warned you of its presence, but in a way that cupped your cheeks and sang you lullabies. To love you gently as to not sully your shoes with messy, muddy soil of the ground peeking out from beneath the snow.

To Seungmin, there was no greater gift than being able to be the sign of your spring.

“Baby?” You called out to him softly, a flash of concern twinkling behind your gaze. “Is anything wrong?”

Seungmin feels like he was just coaxed out of a trance, previously being too occupied studying the details of you at the moment, as if he hadn’t already spent the past hour doing just that. A string of golden celebration banners made its presence known in the corner of his eye, briefly acknowledging the once-a-year greeting printed on them. The slight smell of smoke fully brought him back to his senses, finally glancing down towards the cake with a small lit-up candle you were presenting him.

Right. It was his birthday today.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “No,” he replies truthfully. “Everything is perfect.” Your eyebrows scrunched in confusion, having trouble making sense of the situation. Seungmin has half a mind to think if you would forgive him if he tried to straighten it out with his thumbs as a tease.

“But, you’re not blowing out your candles,” you purse your lips in contemplation. He feels an unstoppable force creeping up to turn the corners of his mouth upwards. Did you even know just how much he loves you?

“I was just enjoying the view, that’s all.”

Your demeanor visibly brightens up. “Is the cake that pretty?” Was your smug question, clearly feeling proud of yourself. “I worked hard on that, you know?”

Seungmin only smiles. Like he always does whenever it concerns you. That warm boyish grin he had paired with a certain fond look in his eyes that his friends never failed to point out just to fluster him into oblivion. But he lets them anyway. There was no way he could ever deny the truth of how strongly he felt for you.

“I know.”

Because he always does.

And as he leaned forward to feel the last heat of the flickering candle before it went out, he couldn’t help but think that the snow had finally melted. His wish had already come true.

“Happy birthday, Seungmin!”

Spring has come.

MASTERTAG ━ STATUS: OPEN — ASK OR COMMENT 🫶

@fairyki @hysgf @euncsace @comet-falls @starlostseungmin @ameliesaysshoo @hyunverse @wnbnny @xocandyy @minluvly @moon0fthenight @estellaluna @hanjsquokka @starlostastronaut @minsueng @l3visbby @myjisung @thecutiepieme @yaniiiiism

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m00nchildwrites · 9 months ago

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Forever, You and Me: Rafayel x MC/Reader Smut

This is a one shot, smut drabble inspired by @jinwoosbabyboo 's answer post describing how the LADS men would react to you storming of and not responding to theirs calls and texts after a bad fight. Her writing is flipping amazing. ISTF I devour everything she writes.

I was intending to just repost her post with a little response of how I think Rafayel would cope with such an event, and it just... took off and swept me anyway, and well... apparently it's angsty feels and thirsty hours and I blame @jinwoosbabyboo completely for this because her writing always getting my imagination going! So responding to her with my extra thoughts about Rafayel became a one shot, smutty drabble spilled out.

So here is her post that inspired the one-shot below, so you can read the Rafayel part that got this whole thing going and also, please go read her sections about Xavier, Zayne, and Sylus because you will be missing out if you don't. Seriously, go now.: https://www.tumblr.com/jinwoosbabyboo/763177878569549824/dont-run-off-like-that?source=share

18+. MDNI!

TW: angst, cursing, self-depreciation, depression, mention of death or wanting to die, ya boy gets dark and big big sad, hurt/comfort, they def kiss and make up, SMUT, what is foreplay? They just want to bone, couple's first time together, detailed sex depicted, fucking, use of the word fuck a lot, dirty talk, usage of "babygirl", possessive Rafayel (in bed), unprotected sex, mating press, squirting, overstimulation, cum, my own Lemurian bond headcanon, Rafayel has a filthy mouth and MC loves it, cum/breeding kink if you squint.

*clears throat*

Enjoy.

~~~~~~

Forever, You and Me

[ @jinwoosbabyboo prompt:

You told the LADS Men to not piss you off and what did they do? Pissed you off. How I imagine they would react to you storming off in tears and you're not answering their calls or texts.]

The moment you spun on your heel and fled his home Rafayel was after you. The angry and uncharacteristic yell of frustration you had given out before doing so, after he failed to back off during your disagreement, turned argument, turned first real fight made his stomach drop and curl in the worst way. Your voice played in his head as he ran out his door and down to the street in front of his house after you.

Stop! Just... please stop a moment. I hate that we are yelling. This isn't us. This isn't you. This isn't me. Just- Give me a second to breathe for fuck's sake, Rafayel, please!

His words rang in his head too.

If you don't want to hear the sound of my voice anymore, if you don't want to be with me anymore, then why don't you just leave. You always end up leaving anyway.

He never expected you to actually do it. But he had watched as your eyes widened in shock and hurt, and then narrowed. Then you were gone.

He ran, flinging open the metal gate and stepping onto the sidewalk, eyes desperate, searching for your retreating figure. He had to find you. Apologize. He knew he could be intense sometimes, dramatic occasionally, and that he could push your buttons just to see if you'd leave him. Leave him like the you of your past life had done. Like you had always done.

But he was a fool.

That you wasn't this you. That you was dead and gone. And you, you were the same but so different. You were everything and he had gone and fucked it up. Again.

His head whipped around frantic. Spirits of his ancestors, did you sprint!?! The pit in his gut swelled and grew. He couldn't see you anywhere. He yanked out his phone dialing your number as he started jogging off down the sidewalk. You couldn't have gotten far. Right?

The call went to voicemail. He stopped staring blankly at it. You didn't answer. Maybe... Maybe you couldn't get it in time, yeah. That was it. He breaks out into a jog again, and again rings your number. He would find you. Maybe you were at the bus stop? He pushed his legs faster as the voicemail picked up again.

You weren't at the bus stop. It had just left. Spitting out a stream of curses that made a little old lady whack him with her bag, Rafayel dialed a different number. He pressed the phone to his ear, "Thomas, I need a car.... no, I'm not at home. I am headed to Linkon City. On foot. Thomas, please no more questions, just have the car find me! This is urgent!"

When the car-Thomas- found him, he was halfway to Linkon, sweating, sticky, gross, and stressed. He sent out a stream of texts asking you where you had gone, why you weren't answering, that he was sorry, begging you to come back, to answer, to curse him, anything. But they all went unanswered.

As he went to all your known haunts and favorite places, from your work to the grocery store near your place to your apartment where he ran into an unimpressed blonde Hunter partner of yours that looked perpetually in need of a nap and who refused to buzz him into the building, Rafayel's mental and emotional state continued to spiral. His emotions went from apologetic to concern to flat out fear for your safety. Which he had made clear to that blonde partner of yours... he very nearly throttled the ass. Why did he not see how urgent this was? His words had struck Rafayel and made his stomach turn sour.

"If MC was in danger, I'd be the first to know, after all, I'm her partner."

His world felt off kilter. Would the blonde be the first to know? Surely not. Surely, it would be him, Rafayel. Your boyfriend of the past few months. You were soulmates. You came together lifetime after lifetime. He always found you. Always could hunt you down. Always.

Except now. Except this time. Where had you gone?

If you don't want to hear the sound of my voice anymore, if you don't want to be with me anymore, then why don't you just leave. You always end up leaving anyway.

You always end up leaving anyway.

He visibly flinched. He was a fucking idiot. He turned his head to stare blindly out the window, avoiding Thomas' gaze in the rear view mirror. His assistant had given up trying to get answers from him. Instead, he watched in with worry all over his face.

Rafayel was soaked. It had begun to rain. It was quicky becoming night. He had been calling, texting, and searching for you for hours. He had ran himself to the point of near exhaustion, and nearly gotten the cops called on him at her work when he kept asking Hunter's outside if they had seen you. How embarrassing. For you, not him. He couldn't give a damn as long as he found you, but you... you clearly didn’t want him to find you.

You were gone. He had told you to leave if you didn't want him and you had gone.

He felt numb as the car stopped at last in front of his gate. The car hesitated, Thomas no doubt watching him in concern as he drug his feet passed his gate. Rafayel didn't care. He had pushed you away. Lost you. And it was all his fault. And for what?

The argument had been so stupid. He walked in, not bothering to shut the door. Clothes dripping, leaving pools on the floor as he walked through his home. He passed the dining room that still had your wine glasses and the open bottle and desserts out. He grabbed the open bottle as he moved deeper into the house.

He kicked off his shoes, leaving a trail headed to his living room. The flowers he had bought you sat on a vase on the coffee table. He stared it down as he plopped, wet, onto his couch. How had such a good night turned so sour? Why did he have to push at your buttons sometimes? Was it just to see? Just to see if you'd leave him?

You always end up leaving anyway.

His stomach felt sick. He chugged from the open bottle. Why would he do that? You didn't deserve it. Was he that fucked up from his past that he had to take it out on you? Why couldn't he let go of what had happened in your lives before this one? You were not like him. You didn't remember everything. No wonder you left.

He tsked, and not for the first time, wondered if your "curse" to not remember your past lives was really a curse at all. After all, if he couldn't remember, then he wouldn't treat you as though you were going to leave at any moment. Because you had never given him any indication that you planned to.

The past few months of your relationship, that you two were "official", had been perfection. Sure, you had little spat and sometimes would snap at each other, but there had been so much love. He swallowed a lump in his throat. Love.

He had not even gotten the chance to tell you.

He had been waiting- waiting for the perfect moment. He was going to tell you tonight. It was why he had gone the extra step to make lunch that much more romantic. It was why a meat and cheese board and fresh fruit were waiting in his fridge for later that night. He hadn't planned on either of you leaving until morning, if then. It was the reason for the flowers before him, the flower petals in the no doubt cold tub upstairs, the petals spread across his bed. Tonight was going to be the night. The one where he told you that you were the love of his life, of all of his lives. He was going to explain what that meant to a Lemurian- how binding and forever that was. And should you accept, he had planned to ask you to-

He winced, eyes squeezing shut as his chest flared in pain. In protest. His hand not holding the bottle, now empty, clutched at his chest. A hiss of pain. The pain passed. Rafeyel dropped the bottle onto the coffee table before his eyes landed on the vase. He knocked the flowers over, sending the vase off the other side of the coffee table, glass shattering and water spilling with flowers and petals across the floor.

It didn't matter what he was going to ask you. You were gone. His eyes blurred, hot, as tears formed on his lashes. He pulled his knees up to his chest. His shoulders shook.

You were gone.

~~~~~

Your feet tripped as you hurried down the sidewalk, dodging puddles as you went. You did not mean for time to get away from you. When you ran out of Rafayel's earlier, you had only meant to get some fresh air for a short while as you calmed down. You both had ended up yelling earlier and it had felt so wrong. Wrong because it wasn't like either of you.

Yes, you had had disagreements. Rafayel hated when you put yourself in unnecessary danger, though he respected you and your skills at work, even you had to admit that he wasn't wrong when he said you took risks. You didn't mean to. It never was your plan, but something went down and you just sprang into action. He had been right, you had partner's in the association for a reason. But it was the way he had said it today, like you were doing it on purpose just to spite him. As though you enjoyed stressing him and making him worry, it had just set you off. You had told him off, and things had spiraled.

And for what? He wasn't even wrong. It just rankled your feathers today because of something some dumb Jock head at work had said about women Hunter's needing to be paired with a male Hunter since they were the weaker sex. The dude was written up on the spot; the idiot had said it in front of everyone including your very female boss- moron. But still, you hated being looked down on.

And so, you had taken out that frustration on Rafayel. On your sweet, silly, bratty, but absolutely adoring Rafayel. You had seen how your words had hurt him. When you had said that you didn't need him or any man worrying or looking after you. You had seen the flinch as though you had slapped him as you flung his worry and concern back into his face as though it revolted you.

You had hurt him. And then realized that you both were yelling, and it was all just too much. You felt like you couldn't breathe. It hadn't felt like you. Like him. So, when you asked for a moment to allow your mind to settle and clear so you could think rationally and he just kept on, you snapped. He offered you an out, and you took it the offer and walked out.

You walked out knowing his fear of abandonment. You knew and still walked out without looking back. You walked and walked along the shore. Then it started to rain, and you had to find shelter. And to top it off, you hadn't realized your phone was dead until you were stuck miles down the beach, in the rain, hiding out under a pier, and realized you had to now walk all the way back. Why had you gone to the beach instead of your home?

You sighed, spotting Rafayel's house in the distance at last. Of course. Of course, you knew why. Because the beach reminded you of your Lemurian, your Rafayel. Even when you were mad at him, you longed for him. Sought out his essence for comfort. Gods, you loved him so much. So much and you never said it out loud yet. You had to tell him.

You picked up the pace and jogging up to his gate. Nearing his door, you saw it open, but thought nothing of it. Rafayel often left it open for you or from distraction as a bolt of inspiration hit him. The house looked dark from the entryway. You called out his name as you toed off your sandy shoes and socks.

You gasped as you stepped and nearly slipped in a large, cold puddle. A trail of puddles large and smaller led inside. You tucked a damp strand of hair behind your ear, and cautiously made your way inside.

"Rafayel? Are you home?" "Rafayel?" "Ugh, why is it so dark in here? Stupid dead phone. I need a light."

You stumbled into the dining room and followed the wall to the kitchen. You flicked a switch and squinted at the sudden change in brightness. His whole studio was empty and dark. The light from the kitchen spilling out into his painting area across the large room and into the living room area.

Your eyes squinted, focusing. There was a lump on the couch. "Rafayel?" You near him and see the wine bottle on the coffee table nearby and broken glass and flowers scattered around. You step carefully to not get a shard of glass in your foot as you move around the room to him.

"Rafayel? I'm sorry it's late. I didn't mean to be gone for so long, but I went further than I meant to and then my phone died..." You trailed off as he came fully into view. He sat on his couch, cheeks wet with tears, clutching his chest.

You understood all at once why he grabbed that spot, and your heart lurches and drops. You kneeled next to him carefully, "Rafayel?"

When you call out to him, he let out a choked sob of a tortured laugh.

You lean, moving to place your face into his line of sight. He sits frozen, staring daze out of open windows. "Rafe?"

His voice sounded hollow, "Go away." You heart dropped until his voice continues, "You are a specter. MC is gone. She left. Left me." His voice cracked, more tears spill over his lash line to trail down porcelain cheeks. His voice a near whisper, "I've lost you. I love you. I love you more than my homeland, my people. More than my very life. I have loved you through countless lifetimes and will through countless more." He clenched his eyes as he clenched his chest, "I love you enough to let you go if that's what you wish. I'd give it all for you. My last breath. So, please, leave. Don't haunt my mind like you've haunted my heart these last 800 years. You're gone. At last, you've chosen and it isn't me. Leave me to my heartbreak in peace. Leave me to fade into seafoam at last."

A sob hiccupped past your lips. How could you have hurt him so? This beautiful man with such a beautiful heart and soul. You reached out to brush your fingers across his cheeks, fingers combing into lavender curls as you cup his cheeks, begging, imploring him to see you.

His eyes shut, agony on his face.

"I am here, Rafayel. I'm real."

A choked sob fell from his lips.

"Look at me."

A shake of his head. If he does, you'll disappear. Slip through his fingers like mist. He wants to stay in his illusion just a while longer. Hear your voice just a while longer before he has to spend eternity without you, or at least, eternity until he fades away back into sea foam like so many of his people before.

"Rafayel, my love, please look at me."

Violet eyes opened, hesitant and sorrowful.

You smiled, soft, full of love, thumbs wiping stray tears. "I am here. I'm sorry I got so mad earlier. It wasn't even about you; It was a long shitty day, and that's no excuse. You didn't deserve for me to react like that to what you were saying. And I'm sorry I ran. I hated that I was so upset and I couldn’t calm down, so I just need to step away, but- I hurt you. I hurt you so badly, and I never ever meant to. That's the last thing I want because I-" Your voice cracked, a lump of emotion in your throat. Your eyes fell, ashamed. "I just- gods, Rafayel, I love you so much it makes me feel crazy sometimes. I- I'm sorry this is not how I imagined telling you this." You started to pull away.

Large, long fingered hands gripped your shoulders. "Say it again."

You blinked, confused by the urgency in his voice as he searched your face.

"Please. Please say it again or I will be convinced I imagined it."

You studied his eyes. Firmly in his grip, your brows furrowed until it clicked. Your tension left you. Your hands rose once more to cup his face. A soft smile spread across yours as his cheeks pinken under your touch. "I love you, Rafayel. With all my hea-"

You were jerked forward into his chest. His lips crashed onto yours. His hands were desperate as they clung to your back, crushing you closer, impossibly closer, as though he needed your very beings to blur into one. His tongue swiped at your lips, hot and wet, begging entry. Demanding it.

You gasped from the intensity of his kiss. His passion poured forth like an unending wall of water bursting from a dam. His tongue danced along yours, caressing, tasting. Hungry and needy. Warm velvet and tasting of the wine you both had been drinking before your argument hours before.

Your hands found his shoulders, trying to ground yourself or be swept away. You accidentally slipped out a sound. A needy sound of passion. His answering moan as he angled his head to kiss you deeper made a pleasant shiver run down your spine to pool between your legs.

In a flash, his hands gripped your thighs, tugging you into his lap as he stood.

You broke the kiss with a gasp, hands scrambling to hold on. Arms wrapping around his neck as his head ducked, his lips covering your neck in messy, hot, open mouthed kisses.

"Wh-what? Where are you taking me?"

His voice was a husky grumble from somewhere deep in his chest, as he licked and nipped at your throat. "I'm taking you to bed, my Heart."

Next thing you knew, your back was falling onto cream silken sheets.

He stood between your parted knees hanging over the edge of the bed. His violet eyes raked over your face hungrily. His lips were parted, chest rising and falling as he panted for breath. He didn't move, tongue peaking out to wet his lips. He was breathtaking. He was passion personified, hair mussed from your fingers, lips damp and red swollen from your kisses.

His voice and the look in his eyes made your insides clench as he reached out, hand on your knee, thumb brushing the inside just so, "If you want me to stop... if you dont want this or..." his thumb stopped, he face flinched, eye closing briefly as though from pain, before opening to peer into your eyes. "If you are unsure of this, of us, of me, tell me now, because once we do this, once we... you will be mine, and I will be yours. It can't be undone. For Lemurians, this is for life, for all time. A soul bond. It's more than any mortal human tradition. More than marriage. It's unbreakable, unending, forever you'd be mine and I'd be yours. If you are unsure-"

You sat up, going onto your knees atop the bed before him. Your palms rested on his shoulders, "Rafayel..." your hands slid down to his chest. "I- " Your hand stopped at the place on his chest were your mark laid, though the red fish wasn't visible now. Your eyes flicked to his, "I want this." Your hands were on the move again smoothing lower down his chest. "I want this bond. I-" Your hands found the bottom of his shirt, fingertips dancing along the hem before slipping under.

He gasped, stomach muscles clenching beneath your touch as your hands found his taunt skin beneath.

"I want forever. I want you." Your hands trailed up the plains of his chest, bringing his shirt with you. Until at last, you griped it in your hands, eyes meeting his in askance.

His lashes fluttered, eyes falling half-mast. He was breathtaking. His arms rose, allowing you to lift the shirt from his body before flinging the offending material away.

Your hands fell back to his shoulders, one sliding to cup his neck as you rose to meet him, chest pressing to his. His gaze turned molten, lust heavy and full of love as he looked over your face. His hands came to rest, just so at your waist, still hesitant but hopeful.

Resolved, you pushed away your nerves, pulling his head down. Breath mingling with his, you gave him what he wanted. What he needed, "I love you. I chose you, Rafayel. Forever and always. Forever, you and me."

His lips crashed into yours like waves upon a storm wall. He laid you down in a sea of silk and white rose petals.

You snatched one, lifting it between you with a raise eyebrow.

He flushed beautifully, "I had plans for us tonight."

You dropped the petal, fingers weaving through his silken waves. "Show me."

Clothes flew to land forgotten on the floor. Breaths panted; needy sounds filled the air, carried away through the open balcony windows and out to the sea. His hands and lips mapped you like you were a precious treasure. His lips and tongue worshipped you, swiping the salt from your skin. His breath was hot in your ear as he- at last- slotted his hips between your parted thighs.

"My Heart, my Queen, my love," fell from his lips like a mantra.

You felt him there, this mushroomed tip parting your lower lips, dragging the pooled wetness and spreading it. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.

He groaned, head falling to nuzzle your neck. Still, he froze, going no further. He panted, asking, "Are you sure?"

You cupped his face, dragging his eyes up to yours, "Rafayel, I have never been more sure of anything in my life. Take me. I am yours." You ran your fingers along his cheek, repeating his words from before, "A soul bond. unbreakable, unending, forever. This is what I chose. It's you, Rafayel. It's always been you." You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him closer, causing his hips to drop. You gasped. His tip slipped into your molten heat just so.

His head fell back, long pale neck exposed. He bit his lip. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. When his gaze fell back to you, his eyes were dark, like the ocean in a storm.

Your walls clenched.

His eyes squeezed shut, a moan falling from his lips, a curse followed. His gaze, heavy and passionate, were back on yours, his arms shaking, "So be it. My Heart, my Queen, my love," his mouth would curl slightly into a playful smirk, "my bride." His hips snapped forward, his full hard length pushing into your gummy walls to full hilt, his pelvis slapping hard into your fleshy cheeks. You could feel him, his tip kissing your cervix. A moan fell from your lips; a hiss of pleasure from his. He stilled buried fully inside you, muscles trembling with the strain. His jaw clenched as he fought for control, "Fuck, love, you feel so good."

Your hands scrambled for purchase on his shoulders, as he rocked his hips dragging almost all the way out only to snap his hips back, slamming back in. Your nail dug into his back. A babble of praise fell from your lips, "So good. So good, Rafayel. So full."

He groaned head dropping to your collarbone, "Fuck, love, I can feel you sucking me in." He hissed, "so tight. Like you were made just for me, yeah?" His hips pulled back, dragging his length along your walls until just the tip remained. He leaned up, brushing your hair from your face to cradle your head in one hand, the other braced him on the bed near your head. "Look at me. I want to watch you as I make you mine."

When your eyes fund his, his face softened a moment. His eyes sweeping over your face in awe before meeting and holding your gaze, he whispered a breathy, "I love you." His eyes darkened with heat again, and he snapped his hips to crash back into yours. He swallowed your answering moan with a bruising kiss, drinking you in, as his hip set a brutal rhythm.

You clung to him, hips eagerly tilting and undulating to meet his as he pounded you into the sheets. The headboard slammed repeatedly into the wall. You shifted up slightly each powerful thrust. His hands grabbed yours bringing them to wrap around his shoulders, "Brace yourself against me, my love. Fuck! I'm going to ruin you. Ruin you for all others! MC, you are perfect. And you are mine." He melded his lips to yours, tongue moving along yours gently and loving. A sharp contrast to how he was fucking you into his bed. His thrusts were hard and deep, rolling into you like waves. The sound of slapping skin filled the air.

You gasped, moaned, pleaded as he made your head spin with pleasure, "Yes! Yes, Rafayel! I am yours! Make me yours!"

The sound that rumbled from his chest was a near growl as he leaned up to grip the headboard with one hand for leverage, his hips doubled in speed. His abs rolled as he kept one hand braced above your shoulder, locking you in place as he repeatedly slammed his cock as deep into as he could get.

Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as you clung to his arms. Your legs went limp around his waist as pleasure boiled inside you, hot and heavy. Your head thrashed from side to side from the intensity of the waves of sharp pleasure swelling inside you. Your walls began fluttering, clenching, wrapping at his hard length as he pummeled your insides. His tip kissed your cervix with each thrust, giving a burst of the slightest pain-pleasure. You could feel the wetness of you gushing out passed his shaft as it pounded in and out of your tight channel, every ridge of him dragging along your walls in the best way. You were not going to last long. No one, not even yourself had ever gotten you this wet and close to orgasm as Rafayel was doing. It was as though he knew exactly how to make your body sing for him.

He shifted. The angle changed and you gasped, clinging, clawing, nails digging as his tip bullied into your g-spot with every snap of his hips.

"Fu-fuck baby!" You wailed, "God's, Rafayel, right there, baby. Please don't stop. Don't stop!"

His response was a snarl in your ear as his hips snapped into that spot in double time. "Never. I'll never stop. Never stop making love to you, my love. My bride." He kissed you deeply as your walls started spasming. Your climax was close. A hand of his dropped from your neck to slip between you to where you are joined. His fingertips finding the pearl above where he slides into you. The pad of his finger swirling, circling and pressing your clit just right.

You moaned, head thrown back, "Yess!"

He covered your neck in love marks, branding you as his. His lips moved to your ear, nipping at the skin right below it, "Are you gonna come for me, my love? Are you gonna come all over my cock like a good girl. Be good bride, hm, come for me," his voice was pure sin in your ear.

You could only whimper and cling to him, desperate.

"Answer me. Tell me who you belong to. Say it. I want the people down the beach to hear you scream it. To hear whose cock makes you feel this good. Say it. Say who you belong to."

You sputtered and gasped out sobs, in capable of words as you race towards your end.

He took your hips in his hands. He leaned back on his knees. He rose your hips off the bed. His hips slamming into you, hard and fast- almost inhumanly so. The plop, plop, plop of his sack as it slaps against the sticky mess of your cheeks filled the room. He groaned, "Fuck, baby. You feel so good for me. I fucking love you, MC. Fuck, I love you."

The coil within you snapped and pulses of white hot heat sent tremors, shockwave through your body as your core clamped down on his shaft. Your head fell back as you screamed out his name in the height of your passion, in reverence, "Rafayel!" You sobbed. Actual tears escaped as the white hot waves of orgasm mixed with love for him kept coming.

His hips never stopped slamming his hard cock into you, bruising your g-spot and cervix. It was heaven. It was bliss. It was so much. It was almost too much. You tensed nearly about to say stop when a sensation you had never felt before hit you like a brick. Your core tightened, abs clenching, your very womb felt like it clenched, your walls clamped tight down around him, almost stopping his movement completely. Then the spasms, ripples of pleasure pulsed from your womb down your walls, massaging, milking, clenching his shaft inside you. You vaguely hear him hiss and a debauched, "Fuck," escape his lips. And then you feel a gush of warm liquid splash out of you and all over his dick and pelvis.

Rafayel's violet gaze widened, his grip tightening almost painfully into the fleshy meat of your hips as he held you against him. His head fell back and he moaned, fully wrecked. "Fuck! Babygirl, you just squirted for me."

Your core clenched at his words even as high sensitivity began to creep in, but he felt so good. So good and hard inside you. You could tell he wasn't too far off. Just the thought of it turned you back on. You desperately wanted to see him lose himself to orgasm. And he was so fucking beautiful as he began rolling his hips into yours again.

You must've said that last part out loud, because he looked back down at you, lip caught between his teeth before he released it, plump and full. You wanted to bite it. A smirk was on his face, "Yeah? Is that so, babygirl?" His eyes darkened as his hips picked up speed, rolling more into you, faster as he spoke, "You know what's beautiful? You. You splayed out on my bed, looking fucked out, covered in your cum, face flushed as I. Fuck. You." He punctuated his words with a hard thrust, fingers digging into your hips deliciously.

You gasped, walls clenching again as he steadily fucked you into another crest. His face fell into a grimace, as your walls, overstimulated into another quickly growing orgasm, clenched and released and clenched his shaft as he began to thrust into you with wild abandon, "Fuck, babygirl, I can feel you clenching me, yeah? You love the feel of this dick pounding you, don't you? So. Fucking. Beautiful. And. All. Mine."

His mouth was filthy. Filthy and hot. You had never heard Rafayel speak in such a way. Rafayel who was often bashful and blushing when your flirting. Rafayel who tended to be a pouty needy boy that made your heart melt. This Rafayel was just as needy. But in a way you had never seen him before, as he panted your name from his lips like a mantra. His gorgeous head tossed back, neck exposed, abs clenching and rolling his hips as he slammed into you, face flushed and skin covered in a sheen of sweat. He was breathtaking. He was yours. You wanted him to come, and come for you now.

Your hands scrambled to the headboard above you, bracing against it in determination. You started to roll your hips into his, meeting each powerful thrust with as much force as he was giving you. You were gonna come again but this time, this time, you were taking him with you.

He gasped, fingers digging into your fleshy hips. His eyes snapped down to you, seeing the heat in your eyes as they raked over his body, your lip caught between your teeth. He groaned at the sight and at the feel of your hips moving in rhythm with his. "F-fuck, my love, I'm gonna come. Where do you- where should I-?" His voice is completely fucked out. Almost drunk.

You tugged his arm and he fell back over you, compliant to your every whim, your knees swept up to rest over his arms as he braced himself with them framing your waist. Your legs were trapped pressed up and apart, unable to move as freely, to roll as deeply with your knees hooked over his forearms like this. But oh. You saw stars and he moaned in your ear. At this angle, with you opened wide, it felt like he went deeper. You both gasped out moans. Your lips brushed his ear as you told him your deepest want right then, "Inside. I want you inside me. Please, Rafayel. I want to feel all of you. Fill me up."

He groaned, a pained sound before driving into you in earnest, "I am gonna come. I cant- I can't hold on much more."

Your walls fluttered at the needy sound of his voice. Your Rafayel. Your beautiful Rafayel. He was so like the ocean, so many faucets to his personality. He could be calm loving one moment then demanding and passionate and then needy the next. You loved him. You loved all of him and he was all yours.

"I'm coming too, baby. Let go" you implored him, "I want it. I am yours and you are mine. Forever. I want all of you. Give it to me."

With a few more slams of his cock into your depths, you felt the moment he lost control of it. His forehead pressed to yours, noses brushing, as he let out a long moan of pleasure mixed with your name. His shaft pulsed as rope after rope of hot cum filled your womb. His blissed out face, the grind of his pelvis into your clit, the twitching of his cock as he came inside, and the warmth that flooded your inner most parts triggered your orgasm.

"F-fuck!" He hissed out, blissfully as your walls milked him further. His thrust slowed until it was just a slow drag. His breath, panted by your ear. He peppered your neck and shoulder with kisses, before pulling back to press his lips lovingly against yours. When he pulled away, you noticed his eyes were nearly glowing blue as the Mediterranean sea, a spackling of blue iridescent scales freckled down his throat to his chest.

Your fingertips followed the trail as his hips finally rested, fully seat against yours, spent, but refusing to leave your warmth. You could feel the hot mix of both of your fluids spilling out around where his now soft member still rested within your walls. Your eyes flicked up to his, watching you full of love. Your gut twisted in guilt, remembering what got you here. "I am sorry I ran out. I was so angry. I so angry, and it hurt to be so angry at you. I felt overwhelmed. I just... I needed space. To breathe. To calm down so I could think."

He tutted, fingers combing some of your messy hair from your face. "Hush now, my bride. It is okay now. You came back to me. We are together. We are one now. That is all that matters." His eyes trailed your face before a sheepish look fell over his expression, "Besides, it was my fault you got overwhelmed. I kept pushing and pushing even when you said you needed to think. I was terrified that I was losing you so I couldn't bring myself to give you a moment." His eyes met yours, "I am sorry."

You hummed, "Still I shouldn't have ran from you. I know about our pasts and I know that me leaving is something you fear. It was cruel of me," your heart lunched at the flicker of pain in his gaze.

"Very well, though, I must admit I feel guilty for making you feel like what happened in those past lives is your responsibility. They both were and were not you. That's not your burden to carry."

It was your turn to tsk, "I love you. Your burdens are my burdens. It's you and me, forever, Rafayel. You don't have to carry everything alone. Not anymore. Never again."

His eyes went soft, as he dipped his head to press a kiss to your lips, "Whatever you say, my bride."

You nuzzled into his palm cupping your cheek, "I do say. How about we both agree we are both idiots in love and leave it at that?"

His chuckling at that shook you slightly. As your bodies were still pressed together, it shifted his shaft slightly inside of you. You realized that it was not all that soft anymore, and that he never left your heat. Your breath caught in your throat. Your walls fluttered around him.

He hissed, head snapping up to meet your gaze. His eyes mischievous, "You want more of your Fishy husband, hm?" His hips gently pulsed, in and out of your heat slowly, testing the waters, a smirk stretching his mouth as you gasped from pleasure.

Your eyes widen at his words. He had been calling you his bride. And now calling himself your husband.

Seeing your look, he stilled and became worried, brows furrowing slightly. A blush spread across his cheeks and down his chest as his face becomes more pouty than the heat it held before, "I did say that to Lemurians this was essentially more binding than any silly human marriage."

"You didn't say it quite like that!" You reeled dazed, your mind racing.

His face crumpled before he smoothed his expression to one of more indifference. He plucked a shoulder in a shrug and rolled off of you, making you hiss as he slid out of you for the first time since you joined.

He flopped onto his back a short distance away, "I apologize. I guess I should've been more clear. It's okay though. You won't feel the effects. We can pretend we didn't-" he gasped as you appeared over him and on him, having thrown your leg over his hip. You pressed him to the bed with a hand to his chest, your legs caging his hips between your thighs. "Nnngh," he groaned as you lowered your hips to sit over his pelvis, his once again harden length pressed between your nether lips, soaked in both of your juices from before. He had to fight not to roll his hips up into you, but settled for gripping your hips firmly.

You sighed, hands moving, fingers dancing across the pale skin of his chest, from freckle to scale. "I never said I didn't want it."

He stilled, eyes studying you intently. Holding his breath even.

"I do want it. Want you. I told you, Rafayel, it's you and me. Forever."

His grip lightened. His thumbs brushed tenderly across your skin.

Your eyes sought out his, warm and tender. "So, husband," you grinned as his breath caught in his throat. "How do Lemurians enjoy their honeymoon?" You swiveled your hips to drag your wet heat along his now very hard again shaft.

He gripped your hips, smirk nearly feral, "Let me show you, my Bride."

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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

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