#that is for someone else to do unfortunately | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

flowersforbucky · 1 day ago

Text

fooled around and fell in love

bob reynolds x reader

word count: 5.7k

summary: you've never been one for commitment, and your teammates know it. when you and bob start seeing each other, it takes them by surprise and makes them worry about how he'll react to the heartbreak that they expect to follow. what they don't understand - you've never felt like this about anyone.

warnings/tags: smut, 18+ only mdni, minor angst, fingering, fluff, secret relationship trope, platonic bucky x reader, platonic yelena x reader, mentions of bob's sobriety and mental health, reader is afab, no use of y/n

author's note: thank you so much @voidsxntry for this request ♡ i'm sorry if it's not exactly what you were hoping for, it kind of got away from me and this is what my brain ended up creating 😅

“Is it bad that I don't want you to go?”

The tip of your index finger traces the defined planes of his chest. Your head rests just over his heart, and you'd love nothing more than to drift to sleep to the steady rise and fall of his breathing. His arms are wrapped around your frame, keeping your body glued to his.

You don't know how you got lucky enough to end up here. But you do know there's no where else you'd rather be right now.

Unfortunately, duty calls.

“No,” you sigh, pressing your lips to his sternum. “Is it bad that I don't want to go?”

He hums in contentment, ghosting his fingers down the skin of your ribcage. “No. Sounds like maybe you should stay.”

As soon as the word stay leaves his lips, your alarm begins to blare from your phone on his nightstand. Reluctantly, you pull away from him with a noise somewhere between a groan and a whine to silence the incessant ringing.

“As tempting as that sounds…” You trail off, throwing a leg across his body to straddle him once you’ve tossed the phone onto his bed. “Val would have my head if I sat this mission out.”

He sits up, his bare chest pressing against yours. His hands rest on either side of your hips, keeping you in place. He looks up at you with a smirk.

“I'm confident that you could handle Valentina. You’re stronger, and faster, and a more skilled fighter…” He trails off, planting kisses along your jawline.

You laugh. You adore this side of him – goofy, carefree, clingy, touchy. It’s a side of him that you couldn’t have imagined just a month ago. You knew that you liked him – a lot. Knew that he was caring, and sweet, and considerate. But this side of him – the side that only you get to see – surpasses your wildest dreams.

“I don’t disagree,” you chuckle. “But now isn’t the time to put that theory to the test.” You force yourself to crawl off of him, standing up to put your clothes back on. As much as you hate to leave him here, you and your other teammates have to catch a flight to Nevada.

Your other teammates who just so happen to be oblivious to all of the intimate time that you and Bob have been spending together the last few weeks.

It’s not that you don’t want anyone to know. There’s a huge part of you that wants to kiss him in front of everyone and scream it from the rooftop of the Watchtower that he’s yours. It’s a feeling that you can honestly say that you’ve never experienced before – the desire to show someone off, yes, but also the desire to simply call someone yours.

But right now, you and him exist in your own perfect little bubble. And as soon as everyone knows, you’re subject to their opinions.

You can hear Alexei’s raunchy teasing and Walker’s snide comments about your public displays of affection.

You can hear Valentina lecturing you about the potential turmoil that would inevitably ensue if you two were to have a messy breakup.

But mostly, you can clearly picture the look of doubt and confusion on Bucky’s face. You’ve known him longer than you've known any of the others, and he knows you well enough to know that, historically speaking, you don’t really do relationships.

At all. Ever. Until now.

You lean down to give him one last kiss before you have to leave. Cupping his face in your hands, you bring his lips to yours. He kisses you as desperately as he had when you'd joined him in his bed an hour ago, and you instantly feel warmth pool in your lower belly. As if the thought of being away from him for three days wasn’t awful enough, now all you want is to rip your clothes back off and crawl into this bed with him again.

“I’ll text you as soon as we land in Nevada,” you promise as you begin to pull away from him.

“Wait,” he stops you, pulling you back to him. “When you get back home, I want to take you out. Like uh – like a real date. If you'd like, that is.”

“Of course,” you answer automatically, your cheeks warning and a giant grin growing on your face. He instantly looks relieved, as if there was even a chance that you'd say no to him. “I thought you’d never ask.”

After a dozen or so more kisses, you say goodbye and reluctantly leave his room. When you close his door behind you, you're still smiling from ear to ear.

You walk directly across the hallway to grab your duffel bag from your bedroom, but when you start to turn your doorknob, you freeze. You could have sworn that you heard some sort of movement down the hallway. You look around, not seeing or hearing anything else.

You shrug, relieved that no one saw you coming out of Bob’s room with a huge smile on your face. Explaining that isn't something you really want to do right before a three day mission.

It also isn't something that you want to continue being secretive about either, though.

When you get home, you decide. After your date. That's when you'll tell everyone that you're together.

••••••

A few hours into the six hour flight to Reno, Nevada, everyone has settled into their respective places on the New Avenger’s jet.

Yelena decided to take the pilot’s seat this time, Walker and Ava are cleaning their guns, Alexei is snoring from his cot, and Bucky is… being especially moody and brooding today.

You’re attempting to keep your thoughts from continuously veering back to a certain someone in New York by shoving your nose into a book, when the aforementioned super soldier takes a seat beside you in your quiet corner of the jet.

Noting his rigid posture and clenched jaw from the corner of your eye, you close your book and turn your attention to him. “Christ, Buck. It’s just a simple re-con mission. What’s got you so tense?”

“Oh, nothing, really,” he whispers, avoiding your eye. “Just trying to mentally prepare for all of New York to be swallowed into a giant black cloud of interconnected shame rooms for the second time this year when you decide you’re bored with Bob.”

You freeze in place, eyes darting around the room to see if anyone had heard him. Only after accepting that no one is paying any attention to the two of you do you risk responding to him.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Barnes?”

“Don’t Barnes me,” he snips in a hushed tone. “I saw you leaving his bedroom with that giddy look on your face this morning. What the hell are you thinking?”

Realization dawns on you. You hadn’t just been imagining what you heard in the hallway after leaving Bob’s room. Of course it had been one of the ridiculously stealthy former assassins that you live with. It's honestly a miracle that no one else had caught on before now.

“Okay, and? I was in his room. What about it?”

Bucky rakes his flesh hand down his face in exasperation. “He likes you. Really likes you. Everyone can see that. And his mental state is still fragile. How do you think he's going to react when things fizzle out on your end?”

You scoff, starting to see red. It takes a lot of effort to keep your voice level enough to not draw any attention to yourself. “I’m fully aware of his mental state, Bucky. I’m the one who has been spending a lot of very intimate time with him the last few weeks. And who are you to say that anything is going to fizzle? You don’t know our relationship.”

He shakes his head, pursing his lips. “No, but I know you. And things always fizzle for you. The difference is that this time, it could effect a lot of people.”

You bite your tongue. You had anticipated some level of apprehension from Bucky about the revelation of you and Bob being a couple, but you didn’t expect him to be so vocal and harsh right before a fucking mission.

So much for telling everyone once you’re all back at the Watchtower.

“You’re thinking of the worst case scenario when you don’t need to. I get it, Bucky. He’s fragile. But I’m not going to break him. I’m going to take care of him. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. It’s not something that could fizzle even if I wanted it to.”

You don’t give him a chance to say anything else before you storm off to the bathroom towards the back of the jet. You hear Ava mumble “what’s her deal?” but you close the bathroom door behind you before you hear any kind response.

Even if it is just re-con, this is the last thing you need right before any kind of assignment. You pull your phone from your back pocket. Without thinking, you open your camera roll and scroll to the pictures that you and Bob had taken a few days ago – your first pictures together.

They’re just selfies – taken in your bed, with sleepy smiles on your faces. In one, he spoons you from behind and peeks over your shoulder at the camera. In other, you’re holding the camera above your faces and kissing him on the cheek. You’re both undressed, but your comforter is pulled over your chest enough for it to be deemed appropriate. Now that Bucky knows, and soon everyone else will, too, you select the image of you kissing him to be your lockscreen, no longer caring if someone sees it.

You smile down at the picture on the screen, reminding yourself that this is what really matters. No matter what Bucky thinks, or what the others will say when they find out.. you’re happy. And Bob is happy. At the end of the day, that’s what is most important to you.

••••••

“I’m sorry that you're missing the party because of me.”

There’s no one else around. Everyone is downstairs – mingling, dancing, and taking advantage of the full bar at the gala’s after party.

You'd seen him from across the dance floor. He was sitting at a table by himself, nervously looking around the room and sipping on some kind of fruity “mocktail” that Yelena had given him.

So clearly out of his element. You were, too.

“Wanna get out of here?” You’d asked, standing in front of him. He looked up at you like he could kiss you right then and there.

“Come with me.” You gesture towards the closest exit. “Let’s go somewhere a little less… obnoxious.”

So the two of you snuck up to the roof – but not before you grabbed an entire tray of various hors d’oeuvres for the two of you to share. You halfway expect someone to come barging through the stairwell door at any point, demanding for you both to return to the event.

You’re willing to risk it, though. For some fresh air and a break from socializing with people you’d likely never see again after tonight. For a few minutes alone with him – to have him so close that you could count his individual eyelashes and smell hints of bergamot from his aftershave.

Maybe it’s the martini that you’d downed half an hour prior, but something gives you the courage to reach out and grab his tie. You massage the silky material with your thumb for a second before gently pulling him closer to you.

“Don’t be sorry,” you murmur. “I don’t think I’m missing anything.”

The pounding of a fist against the door jerks you out of your REM cycle and back to the outdated motel room with no functioning AC.

“Time to wake up!” Alexei’s voice booms from the other side of the door. “Do not make me come pour cold water on you.”

“That would feel fucking great, actually,” you call back, noting the way that your tank top sticks to your chest like a second skin due to how much you had sweat in your sleep.

Part of you wishes you could close your eyes and slip back into the memory that ended up being your and Bob's first kiss, but you also desperately want to get out of this roach infested motel and finish the last full day of this assignment so that you can get back home to him.

You grab your phone off of the nightstand, smiling at the picture of you and Bob. You have the fleeting thought to call him, just so you can hear his voice for a few minutes. It would give you the motivation that you need to get through this final day in Nevada.

But with the three hour time difference between Nevada and New York, you know that he’s most likely still fast asleep, so you settle for sending him a text message.

Between waking up to your face, or to Alexei banging on my motel door, I greatly prefer your face. I can’t wait to see you asap. I miss you a lot.

As soon as you set your phone down, it starts vibrating, displaying Bob’s face across the screen. You answer before the second ring.

“It’s five in the morning in New York. Why are you awake before the sun?”

His laughter pours through your phone’s speaker, and you feel your heart swell. It has quickly become your favorite sound.

“Couldn’t sleep. Been awake thinking about you.”

You picture him in his bed. He always sleeps without a shirt, in either loose sweatpants or only his boxers. You bite your lip at the mental image.

“What about me?” You ask softly. You’re not sure why you whisper – you have a room to yourself for once. But you never know when super soldiers with heightened senses are listening through paper thin motel walls.

“How much I wish you were here with me right now,” he hums. His voice is raspy with sleep, and you feel goosebumps appear on your skin despite the balmy air of the motel room. “How warm you are, how good you smell, how soft you are…”

A dozen particularly graphic images pop into your head, and a familiar ache pulses between your thighs.

“That's not fair,” you whine.

“What's not fair, baby?” The name makes your heart skip a beat – you immediately want to hear it fall from his lips again.

“That,” you groan. “You being so sweet when you’re over two thousand miles away from me.”

There’s another knock on your door. Right away, you know it isn’t Alexei this time, since it doesn’t sound like an attempted break in. Ava’s voice calls from the other side, asking if you're ready.

“One minute!” You call back. “I’ve gotta go,” you say in a quieter voice to Bob. “You get some sleep, okay? I'll be home as soon as I can.”

“Promise me you’ll be safe. I have a date planned for when you get back.”

That thought gives you all the motivation you need to get through the next twenty-four hours.

••••••

Since your arrival in Reno, Bucky has yet to speak to you unless it pertains directly to the mission at hand.

You had decided that it’s best to wait until you’re back at the Watchtower to talk to Bob about the conversation that transpired on the flight to Nevada – he already worries so much when you’re all away on missions, and you don’t want to add to his anxiety.

Everyone else is acting like their normal selves, so you assume it’s safe to say that Bucky has told them nothing of your and his conversation, either. It isn’t until you’re paired up with Yelena to be lookouts on the last day of the assignment, that you notice a shift in her energy once the two of you are alone.

She’s quiet. Distant. Awkward, almost.

You consider the two of you to be quite close. You haven’t known each other for a super long time, but conversation has always flowed effortlessly between you.

So this prolonged silence is… telling, to say the least.

“Spill it, Yelena. I know Bucky has said something to you by now.” You finally break the silence, putting your binoculars back up to your eyes and focusing on the entrance to the warehouse you're staking out.

“Fine,” she sighs. “Let me start by saying that I love you both, and want happiness for you both.”

“But?” You ask, knowing there’s more to come. And something in your gut tells you that it isn’t all going to be quite as positive as her opening remark. You’re suddenly thankful for the task of keeping watch on the warehouse, so you’re not obligated to look her in the eyes.

“But,” she continues, “I would be lying if I said that I do not share some of Bucky's concerns.”

“Jesus Christ,” you curse under your breath. Though you’re not surprised, you don’t exactly want a reenactment of Bucky’s reaction.

“Let me explain,” she implores in an even tone. You go silent, waiting for her to continue.

“You and I are… alike, in many ways. We didn’t have the most traditional upbringings, and therefore didn’t have opportunities to form a healthy view of love or relationships. I would never judge you for having a history of commitment issues, because so do I.”

You’re taken by surprise at her response. You lower the binoculars from your face to look at her. She's still looking through her own pair, eyes on the warehouse and oblivious to your stare.

“But sometimes people, especially people like us… we hurt people even without meaning to. As for Bob, I would worry about him falling for anyone at this point in his recovery. He has not been sober for all that long, and he still cannot control his powers. If he were to get his heart broken, it could be... catastrophic.”

You contemplate her words before responding. Logically, you see where she’s coming from. Bucky, too. You don’t disagree that something such as heartbreak could significantly reset Bob’s progress, potentially risking a relapse or even a second incident with The Void. You're rational enough to know that their concerns aren’t completely unjustified.

But you also know how you feel about him.

You know the butterflies that erupt in your belly every time he walks in a room, you know that you could spend hours just staring at him, you know that you feel more protective of him than you ever have another human being.

“I understand your concerns, Yelena. I do. But if you’re worried about me breaking his heart, don’t be. Bucky isn’t wrong – I do have a history of commitment issues. But I’ve never found someone that I’ve wanted to commit to until I met Bob.”

She lowers her binoculars, looking at you curiously. “That serious, huh?”

You snort. “I mean, we’re going on our first official date after this mission, but…” you shake your head, still unable to fully grasp the words you’re about to say. For the longest time, you thought you might never say them about anyone.

“But I’m kind of in love with him.”

There’s a brief flicker of shock on her face, but she quickly composes herself. After a second, her lips slowly upturn into a grin and you can’t help but feel a sense of relief.

“Then let’s finish up here so we can get you home for a date.”

••••••

You didn’t think it was possible to be so happy to be back in Manhattan.

Though it isn’t the busy city that you’d longed for the entirety of the three days you were gone. It was the soft-spoken, kind of awkward but really sweet, blue-eyed guy with secret washboard abs who is waiting to greet you in your room the second that you walk through the door.

You throw your duffel bag on the floor, practically slamming your door shut behind you. He’s sitting on your bed with open arms that you happily fall into. Neither of you say anything right away. You sit in his lap, nuzzling your face into his neck as he wraps his arms around you and holds you to him.

Every bit of stress from the last few days completely melts away, even for just a few moments.

“Is everything okay?” He asks you tentatively, rubbing your back with one hand.

You pull back enough to look him in the eyes. You cradle his jaw in your hand before pressing your lips to his. “It is now,” you murmur. “I missed you bunches.”

He captures your lips in his again; this kiss less gentle than the first. His hands roam up your sides, and yours find their way to the soft brown locks of his hair. Your lips move in synchronicity with his as you maneuver yourself to straddle his lap. He’s in only a pair of sweatpants and a Henley, but you’re still covered in tactical gear.

The same tactical gear you’d been wearing beneath the blazing Nevada sun.

“I – uh,” you stutter when you break the kiss. “I really need to shower. Would you like to join me?”

A vibrant shade of pink colors his cheeks as he nods rather enthusiastically.

So fucking adorable.

You’ve never been more grateful to have a private bathroom. You turn the water on, letting steam fill the room as Bob unzips the back of your tactical suit for you. He gently pushes it pushes the restrictive fabric down your shoulders, letting you take over once it’s around your hips. He continues to stand behind you, peppering kisses along your shoulder blades while you undress. Once you’re completely bare, you turn to face him.

He's still in his lounge wear, so you take it upon yourself to help him out. You tug the hem of his Henley upwards, urging it over his head. He quickly drops his sweatpants and boxers, stepping out of them before opening the shower door for you.

Your first time showering together. Like all of your firsts together, there’s something special about it. It’s not your first time ever showering with a man – but it’s the first time that you’ve wanted to slow down and take the time to truly savor it.

This is the first time it’s ever felt so intimate. It isn’t solely driven on the desire to see each other naked (maybe there is a little bit of that, too) but more so the desire to care for each other.

Standing beneath the stream of warm water, you reach around him to grab a bottle of shampoo. You squeeze some onto your palm and then emulsify it with your hands.

“Turn around for me?” You ask, and he eagerly obliges.

Your eyes trail over the defined muscles of his back before you begin working the lather into his hair. You take your time, massaging his scalp with your fingertips until his hair is covered in suds. He melts beneath your touch, propping his forearms against the shower wall for support. You’re all too aware of the little moans that slip from his throat every so often – pretty noises that you’re honored to bring out of him.

When you’re finished, you plant a series of kisses on his shoulder. He turns around wearing a smirk that matches your own.

“Now it's your turn to turn around for me,” he says, his low voice sending a shiver down your spine. You turn around, letting the stream of water hit your chest. When he takes a small step forward to grab your body wash, you feel the head of his erection graze your lower back. You instinctively arch your back, earning a throaty groan from him.

As soon as he squirts a decent amount of the body wash into one of his hands, he places his empty hand against your belly and nudges you backwards, flush against his him. You tilt your head back enough to look up at him, lightly nipping at his jawline. With one hand, he begins massaging the sweet smelling cream across your abdomen. With the other, he palms at your breast, rolling a pebbled nipple between his fingers.

He takes his time rubbing the soap across your skin. First your stomach, then chest, and arms and back. He rinses the remaining lather off of his hands before parting your thighs ever so slightly; just enough so that his fingers can find the pearl at the apex of your folds. As his fingers rub languid circles over your clit, you rut back against him. He curses under his breath with an involuntarily jerk of his hips.

“Missed you so much,” he murmurs against the skin of your throat. Your only response is a pathetic whimper as he eases his middle finger inside of you. “Every second that you were gone.”

Your walls pulse around the slender digit at his words. You've never been so weak for a man – so completely gone that he can make you damn near come apart with just his words.

He eases the finger in and back out at a torturous pace before adding a second. His hand cups your sex; his palm applying perfect pressure to your clit.

“Fuck,” you breathe, light-headed from both the pleasure and heat from the shower. “I'm close—”

“I’ve got you,” he coos as he supports you from behind. “Got you, baby.”

You nearly go slack against him as his fingers work you through your orgasm. Your mind goes entirely blank except for the feeling of him, both in you and pressed against you.

When you come down, you're afraid to move because your legs feel like they've been turned to jelly.

“As much as I hate to stop here,” he sighs with a laugh, “We need to finish up and get dressed or we are going to be late for our date.”

How could you forget? You'd been so excited just to see him, and hug him, and kiss him that your first real, official date had somehow slipped your mind.

It also hits you that you still have no idea what said date is. When you talked to him on the phone in Reno, he said he had something planned, but didn't elaborate.

“Where are we going?”

••••••

Bob wouldn’t give you so much as a hint as to where he’s taking you.

When you'd insisted that you need some kind of vague idea so that you’d know how to dress, he had replied with something along the lines of uh – um – something comfortable? Everything you wear is cute. Wear whatever you want to. It’s a little windy out, maybe a sweater?

So, that really narrows things down.

After throwing his sweatpants and Henley back on after getting out of the shower, he went back to his own bedroom to change clothes and give you time to get ready.

You don’t recall the last time you felt so giddy about a first date. Normally, you approached them with caution and the knowledge that there likely wouldn’t be a second. They’d always felt like a waste of time, more than anything else.

But this feels completely different. A first date when you’ve already fallen head over heels for the person? Completely new to you.

You decide on a pair of black leggings, boots, and a sweater – an outfit suitable for an indoor or outdoor date. Cute enough, and comfortable.

Once Bob comes back to your room a few minutes later wearing a casual pair of jeans, Vans, and a pullover sweater of his own, you feel more confident in your choice.

“You’re so pretty,” he hums as he closes your bedroom door behind him. He rests his hands on your hips, pressing his lips to your forehead. You can’t help but inhale the scent of his freshly spritzed cologne. “Still – still can’t believe you’re mine.”

“Better start believing it,” you giggle. “Because it’s true.”

“So – um,” he hesitates. You look up at him, noticing his slightly furrowed brows and pursed lips. “I think everyone’s in the common area right now… Do you want to go down to the lobby first, or...?”

You’d been delaying this conversation since you’d stepped foot in the Watchtower. You were so happy to see him, and he was so happy to see you, that you couldn’t yet bring yourself to burst that blissful bubble.

But you don’t want to try to keep this low-key anymore, because your feelings aren’t low-key. So, regardless of anyone’s opinion on it, you want to walk out of this room with his hand in yours.

“About that…” you start with an awkward laugh. “They know. Well, Yelena and Bucky do, anyway. I’m assuming the others do too by now.”

“They know?” He repeats, confusion visible on his face. “Since when?”

“Since Bucky saw me leaving your bedroom the morning we left for Reno.” You say with nonchalant shrug. “He confronted me about it on the flight there, and eventually told Yelena…”

“Confronted you?” Bob echoes, his voice rising an octave. “Wha – what did he say? What did Yelena say?”

Now it’s you with pursed lips. You jerk your head towards your bed behind you. “Let’s sit down for a minute.” Then, noticing the panicked look on his face, you stroke his cheek with your thumb. “Just a minute, I promise. I won’t let us be late for this mystery date you have planned.”

He nods, apprehensive, but follows you to sit by you on the edge of your bed.

As concisely and delicately as you can, you recount your conversations with both Bucky and Yelena. In your own words, you explain both of their concerns. You make sure to not invalidate their worries, while also making sure Bob knows that you don’t share those some worries. He listens with a neutral expression, waiting until you come to a pause to say anything.

“So,” he starts, fiddling with his hands – a tell-tale sign that he’s nervous. “Yelena is okay with it – with us. And Bucky…?”

You grab one of his hands in yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter what anyone thinks but us. But Bucky will come around. I promise. He'll quickly see that he has nothing to worry about. Okay?”

He nods, bringing your hand to his lips and pressing them to your skin. “Okay,” he agrees with a hesitant smile.

“Now let’s get out of here and go to… where are you taking me again?” you quip.

“Nice try,” he tuts with a more genuine smile. “You’ll see when we get there.”

With intertwined fingers, the two of you make your way down the corridor, to the elevator. You pause when you reach the entrance of the common area. Everyone stops what they’re doing, looking towards you and Bob in the doorway. Bucky stands in the kitchen, while everyone else is scattered about the living room.

Your eyes dart around the room. Yelena, Ava and Alexei all possess knowing smirks. Walker’s face is pure confusion – apparently he’s the only one who hadn’t been filled in – and Bucky's face remains emotionless.

You give Bob’s hand another squeeze. “We’re going out,” you announce casually. “We’ll be back in a few hours.” Just as you start to turn around, Bucky’s voice calls your name. You stop, looking at him with raised brows.

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

You hesitate, until you see Yelena give you a small, reassuring nod.

“I’ll be just a moment. Okay?” You murmur to Bob. He suddenly looks queasy, so you encourage him to go sit with Yelena for the time being.

“I guess I am the last one to find out about this, then?” You hear Walker grumble as you walk over to where Bucky is chopping some vegetables at the kitchen counter.

“Yes?” you ask lowly, just wanting to get this over with.

“Look,” he starts, putting his knife down and looking you in the eye. “I know I overreacted. I shouldn’t have approached that conversation the way that I did. I’m sorry.”

You nod, maintaining a stoic expression. “Thanks for the apology, Bucky. I know you were only worried because you care.”

“I shouldn’t have been so harsh, though. You were right – I was assuming the worst,” he shakes his head, trailing off like there’s more he wants to say. “Look… Yelena’s coms were on while you and her were on lookout yesterday. I heard you say that you’re in lo—”

“Shhh,” you swat at him, your cheeks heating up when you realize he had overheard that little confession. “Jesus,” you groan, rolling your eyes. “Can you keep it down? We haven’t exactly told each other we love each other yet.”

You follow Bucky’s gaze to where the others are sitting in the living room. Bob sits beside Yelena, directly across from Walker and Alexei, who appear to be giving him the third degree.

At least he’s oblivious to your and Bucky’s conversation.

“My point is,” he continues, “I had no idea you felt so strongly for him. And while you don't need my approval, I just wanted to tell you that I am happy you’ve found someone that you can experience those feelings with. You deserve it. You both do.”

You relax at his words, exhaling in relief. He's right – you don’t need his approval, but it’s still nice to hear that one of your closest friends is happy for you.

“Now go save your boyfriend,” he nods toward the group of people on the other side of the room. “Alexei is trying to give him pointers for the bedroom.”

“Damn it,” you huff under your breath. You look back at your friend once more. “Thanks, Buck.”

Once you and Bob are in the privacy of the elevator, you feel a gigantic weight off of your shoulders at knowing all of that is behind you. It’s only up from here.

“Everything okay?” Bob asks, pulling you into his embrace.

You look up at him, pressing a tender kiss to his lips.

“Everything is perfect.”

••••••

..... and as for their date... should i do a part two? or just leave it up to your imagination? 🫢

either way, thanks for reading! comments and reblogs are always appreciated 💖

here's another recent bob one-shot by me: delicate

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mssnoozable · 2 days ago

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I can't tell if this person is saying that hw has been proven to be ineffective or that hw has not been researched to be effective. I'm not conceptually in favor of busy work. The best example of how hw can be done dynamically is khan academy. If you already know the subject it can take about 5 minutes to finish, if you don't, you could take up to an hour... of course, the biggest problem is for the "soft" subjects where we don't have an easy way to score it through a computer...

Ultimately, I think of hw as structured studying. There's very little pressure in elementary (at least in the US) to learn study tactics bc tests are crazy easy. I didn't feel challenged at anything until middle school. idk if hw really taught me to study, but it did kinda force me to study. I would arrogantly say I don't need to do hw in elementary and passed all the tests, I said the same thing in middle but didn't pass the tests. It was a tiny metric that could show progression.

Unfortunately, a lot of education is pomp and circumstance. I proposed once at our coding after school program that maybe it'd be more efficient to not make accounts for every kid when we do group stuff. The problem with that is that the parents might want to see their kid's progress, and if you don't have it saved then there is nothing to measure.

Even stuff like grades have some evidence of being bad for students... which I can kinda agree with when I heard the argument. Doing that would be an extreme upheaval of schools. But then we have to ask what school even is for. If you can't measure someone's ability, how do you know that they are qualified for a job? How do you know if the teachers are properly teaching? Grades aren't for students, they are for everyone else.

I agree that there had been too much at one point. There was a lot of discourse when I was in high school abot kids just can't even get proper sleep. I think I even did a presentation on it at some point and advocated that school should start later. I think some schools did shift, but only by half an hour. There was a lot of consensus on the data but it's hard to make every parent drop their kid off at 9 when their job starts at 9. Kids are primarily dropped off here and can't just use public transport. School Buses are also available here, but you have to get up earlier than the average student bc the bus is way slower.

I also don't know why this person's post says at the end like teachers think "it's the children who are wrong". Maybe sometimes, the rhetoric isn't properly placed and accidentally gets directed at the kids. It's more like I get mad at kids when I tell them "don't use AI" and they just go "fuck you you can't tell me what to do" I don't blame kids for using the "tool" that many adults are using around them, I blame AI companies, school districts, and parents. Almost every teacher I talked to has the same sentiment. I haven't worked super long, but most of th.

I think ultimately a majority of teachers nowadays have their heart in the right place. I remember a few really grumpy jaded teachers (maybe I'm that to some of these troublesome kids). It 's just so many systemic things. Like I said, data showed school should start around 9:30-10. Teachers agreed. The district couldn't possibly follow through on that. I can confiscate phones, but the more times parents sue the district, the more times those parents win lawsuits, the more the district has a chilling effect on confiscation. There are so so many problems just like with any industry. I get that from the outside you can say all you want that hw is bad, but it doesn't help. If I grade kids who use AI they will all pretty much have the same scores. Maybe not 100% but close to the same. If they put in college applications that A doesn't mean anything anymore your GPA can't be a metric for college or anything else. Maybe the students don't care about this or the parents, but society at large still does.

Ultimately, I'd be fine with getting rid of hw or substantially slimming it down. The problem is kids use AI IN the classroom. Then when does the learning happen?! Teaching can't operate if you never force them to think. They don't read the question they might as well not even know what class it is. Literally even typing out the question is gone bc ai bots can parse images now so they just take a picture and then handwrite the answer in front of me. I could give 0 hw or the most hw and all the kids would still get the same grades.... Idk .... again if I was a proper teacher (I'm only a sub rn) and I could just ignore all this other stuff, I might consider no HW. I'd maybe try it for a semester and see how they do. I've shifted a bit on that from talking to @greenflamethegf. But I probably need to fight tooth and nail for something that might just give me more of a headache. You'd be fighting the principal, every parent whose kids have good grades in other classes, every parent whose kids have bad grades in other classes, the district policy on curriculum standards (might need to check that one), and other teachers (the kids will complain to their other teachers that they shouldn't get hw bc I don't give it).

I know this is rambly. My apologies, I don't tumblr. Hope you enjoy the text wall I guess.

A couple of years ago we were all terribly concerned about the fact that a lot of American high schools are assigning such crushing homework loads that some kids literally don't have enough time to eat or sleep (and all this in spite of the fact that there's no good evidence that assigning homework actually improves academic outcomes at the pre-university level), but now we're hearing stories about those same schools struggling to stop kids from using ChatGPT to write their essays and suddenly It's The Children Who Are Wrong. Like, do you think maybe there's a certain level of cause and effect in play here?

#education #ai in education #homework

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ri1ri · 2 days ago

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My Brother Would Kill You!

Mdni.

Chapter One: You’ve known Ryomen Sukuna since you were in elementary school — back when he was just Toji’s loud, cocky best friend who ate all your snacks and made fun of your braces. He practically lived at your place, sleeping over after parties, bickering with Toji, ruffling your hair like some annoying older brother figure. Now you’re seventeen — not a kid anymore. You’ve grown up, and unfortunately for everyone involved… Sukuna noticed. He’s in university with Toji now. Tattoos inked across his arms, jaw a little sharper, smirk a little slower. The worst part? He still teases you like nothing’s changed. Still calls you “brat" just to get under your skin, even though his eyes say something else entirely. Something dangerous. Like he knows he shouldn’t look at you like that — but he does anyway. And Toji? He’s made it very clear. You're off-limits. Not just to anyone — especially to Sukuna. “If you so much as look at her sideways, I’ll break your jaw.” Sukuna just laughed. But he hasn’t looked at you the same since. Now he's back at your house for a long weekend. You're under the same roof again. Close quarters. Long nights. Tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. The way Sukuna leans too close in the kitchen when no one’s watching. The subtle glances, the smirks he hides behind his drink. The heated banter that walks the razor’s edge between playful and something else. The dare in his voice when he says, “You’re really not the same brat anymore, huh?” You’re forbidden. He’s tempted. And Toji is one wrong move away from murder. How long before someone crosses the line? Chapter Two: The scent of smoke hits you first — sharp, heavy, masculine. You follow the low hum of conversation into the living room and pause at the doorway.

Toji and Sukuna are sprawled across the couch, drinks in hand, ashtray on the coffee table. A half-finished bottle of whiskey glints in the dim light. Toji’s legs are spread wide, the picture of comfort and control. Sukuna’s lounging beside him, one arm draped over the back of the couch, tattoos peeking from under the sleeves of his black tee, rings glinting as he swirls his glass.

And then they both look up.

Toji sees red.

“The hell are you wearing?” he barks, sitting up straighter.

You blink innocently, smoothing your hands down your dress — or what barely passes as one. The black fabric clings to your every curve, hem scandalously short, neckline deep enough to cause a riot. You look dangerous. Deliberate.

“I’m going to a party,” you say sweetly.

“No, you’re not,” Toji snaps, already shrugging off his jacket. “Not dressed like that.”

He throws it at you. It hits your chest and falls to the floor.

You don’t pick it up.

“I’m not a kid, Toji.”

“You’re still my little sister,” he grits out. “And you’re not walking out of this house like a damn walking invitation.”

Meanwhile, Sukuna hasn’t said a word. But you feel his eyes like heat across your skin — tracking every inch of you. His jaw is tight, thumb tapping against the rim of his glass. He’s not even trying to hide it.

You dare a glance at him.

He’s already looking. And oh, the look in his eyes—slow, burning, like he’s imagining exactly how that dress would look peeled off of you instead.

Your stomach flips.

Toji’s still fuming, still yelling about decency and how your generation has no shame. But you’re not listening anymore. Not when Sukuna’s gaze dips lower. Not when his tongue brushes against his bottom lip like he’s savoring something forbidden.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, play it cool.

“Well,” you say lightly, “I should get going. Don’t wait up.”

Toji is about to argue again, but Sukuna cuts in — voice smooth, low, dangerous.

“Let her go, man. She’s eighteen now.”

Toji turns on him. “Freshly eighteen,” he snaps.

Sukuna doesn’t flinch. “Still legal. Still knows what she’s doing.”

And that — that earns him a death glare from your brother. But he just smirks, sips his drink, and doesn’t look away from you.

You don’t look away either.

You walk out the door in silence, heart pounding, heels clicking on the floor.

And as it closes behind you, you swear you hear Toji muttering something about breaking Sukuna’s jaw again.

But Sukuna?

He’s still watching the door, eyes darker than they should be, smile slow and wicked.

Like he already knows — The night’s only just begun.

Chapter Three: The party is chaos the second you walk in — a blur of strobe lights, pulsing bass, and bodies pressed too close together. The air is thick with sweat, perfume, and the sickly-sweet burn of alcohol. Someone hands you a drink, and before you can think twice, it’s already sliding down your throat. Then another. The cup changes hands, flavors blur. It’s your first time drinking, and it’s stronger than you expected — sweet on your tongue, sharp in your chest, warm as it spreads through your limbs. Your friends laugh and spin and shout over the music, throwing back shots like it’s a game. You try to keep up. It’s easier than thinking. Easier than remembering the way Toji yelled before you left. Easier than the way Sukuna looked at you from the couch — like he saw straight through you. Like he knew exactly what you were doing.

You’re buzzing within minutes, the edges of the room softening. Everything feels just a little too bright, too loud, too fast. Boys start circling like vultures, all swagger and smoke and slurred compliments. You shove off the first one who grabs your waist. The second you barely even speak to. But the third? He’s slick, smooth-talking, and you’re too far gone to stop him when he leans in without warning and crashes his mouth into yours. It’s sloppy. Unwanted. His hands are already roaming, greedy and careless, his lips dragging down to your neck like he owns you. You finally manage to pull back, heart pounding, breath short, stomach churning — and before things can spiral any further, one of your friends grabs your hand and shouts something about heading home.

You don’t remember much after that.

It’s nearly 3AM when you stumble through the front door, heels dangling from one hand, makeup smudged around your eyes, head still swimming with cheap alcohol and blurred memory. You wince against the hallway light and squint toward the living room.

The lamp is still on.

Toji is on the couch, rigid and waiting, arms folded across his chest like he’s been sitting there for hours. His expression is thunderous. Sukuna sits beside him — the exact opposite — slouched back, drink in hand, one brow raised the moment his eyes land on you. There’s no teasing in his stare tonight. Just calculation. Tension. Something unreadable simmering beneath the surface.

Toji’s already on his feet.

“Where the hell have you been?” he snaps, voice sharp enough to cut through the haze in your head.

You straighten, or try to. “Out.”

“You’re drunk,” he growls, stepping toward you. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

You flinch at the volume, blinking fast. “It was just a couple drinks.”

“You’ve never drunk before,” he bites out, eyes narrowing. “And you decide your first time should be at some packed party with God knows who around?”

You open your mouth to argue, but his gaze suddenly zeroes in on your neck. He freezes mid-step, and for a second, everything goes still.

“Is that a hickey?”

You glance down, cheeks burning. “It’s… it’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” His voice cracks like a whip. “You let some asshole put his hands on you? When you’re drunk and barely conscious and—are you out of your damn mind?”

You step back, but his hand shoots out, gripping your arm — not harsh, but firm. Controlling. Protective. Furious.

“Who was it?” he demands. “What’s his name?”

You pull harder. “I said it’s nothing, Toji.”

“That’s enough.”

Sukuna’s voice cuts in, low and sharp like a blade sliding out of its sheath. It’s calm, but it hums with something underneath — something cold. Dangerous. Final. Toji’s head snaps toward him, eyes wild.

“You think this is funny?” he barks.

Sukuna leans forward slightly, not smiling now. His drink is forgotten. His eyes stay fixed on your neck, the bruise there, stark against your skin. His voice is lower when he speaks again, almost flat.

“Nah. Nothing about this is funny.”

Toji scoffs. “Then say something, if you give a damn.”

“I do,” Sukuna says, slow and deliberate. His tone doesn’t rise, but it tightens. “I give a damn that she was out of her head for the first time ever. I give a damn that some prick touched her without her saying yes — and I give a damn that you’re yelling at her instead of asking if she’s okay.”

Toji’s expression twists. “She’s not okay. Look at her.”

“I am looking,” Sukuna replies, eyes still on you. “And I don’t like what I see.”

He doesn’t clarify if he means the hickey. Or the drinking. Or the fact that someone else touched you. But from the way his jaw clenches and his knuckles go pale around the rim of his glass, it’s all of it.

The room holds its breath.

He hasn’t looked away from you once.

And in that silence — in the weight of his gaze — you feel it press into your chest:

This isn’t over. Not for him. Not for you. Not even close.

@ri1ri no copying, translation or plagiarism authorised A/N: Soo, first fic, still tryina work my way round this :(. More chapters coming out soon. Consecutive criticism is appreciated. Thank you! Taglist: @charlotterosea13 @readingkitty22

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pinkyshy10 · 1 day ago

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I saw someone else say this and unfortunately I do not remember who it was and I cannot find the post now but this has nothing to do with the works of Harry Potter itself jk Rowling is a danger to trans people and especially trans women and she's using the fact that Harry Potter is relevant and popular and people are talking about it support the dangerous shit that she is doing, supporting Harry Potter is directly supporting jk Rowling being harmful to trans women even if you're not giving her any fucking money

Let me make this clear. If I see you reblogging Harry Potter, if I see you doing that "Hogwarts house" in bio bullshit, if I see you writing hp fanfic or whatever I assume you are a transphobe. "But it's my special interest!" Don't care. "But it's just fanfic!" Didn't ask. "But I'm trans!" You should know better.

Don't like it? Stop putting the works of the world's worst terf on your blog. I don't care if you pirate it, you're still giving the series continued relevance and you're publicly making yourself look unsafe for trans women to be around.

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moonstruckme · 2 days ago

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hello, sweetie!! i've been reading your doctor!remus content for a while now, and i literally can't get enough of it. you write him so well, and i just can't help it when i binge through every fic you have of him. <33

is it okay if i send in a request? please ignore this if you're not taking any right now or if you don't want to write it. totally fair!!

could you do one where reader (female or gender neutral is fine with me) sort of breaks an ankle or an arm, and it hurts like hell? aside from pain meds, reader craves a hug or two from remus, but he's very busy and he almost doesn't have the time to visit reader?

again, don't feel like you have to write my request. i completely understand.

have a nice day or night. and remember to stay hydrated and take care of yourself. :) <3

Thank you angel, hope you're taking care of yourself too <3

cw: hospital setting, Remus is slightly negligent of his patients but don't worry they're all fine because I make the rules

doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 759 words

Remus thinks that he handles stress well. He’s good at prioritizing, and he can juggle more patients than most when the hospital is at its busiest. Remus is often the one his colleagues call for when there’s a child in need of calming, frantic families who won’t let them work, or when they can’t think straight because they’re so overwhelmed. He prides himself on having his shit decently together at least while he’s at work.

But, unfortunately, knowing you’re in one of the curtained rooms lined up in front of him and not being able to spend his shift sitting with you has Remus’ carefully wound concentration coming apart at the seams.

He finds himself cocking his ear for your voice when he knows he’s only two rooms over from yours. The patient he’s meant to be paying attention to has to repeat the name of the medicine she takes twice before he gets it. One room over, and hearing your gasp makes him stop mid-sentence, standing up straighter. His patient asks if he’s okay.

Remus does feel close to the appropriate amount of guilt when he rushes that last patient’s final checks before discharge. He resolves to steep in penitence later.

You’re chewing your lip when he pushes your curtain open, your eyes flitting up to his with something like relief.

“I only have a minute,” he breathes, pulling the curtain closed behind him before kissing you. “Hi, lovely. How is it?” He looks down at where you’re still holding your fractured wrist in your lap. “Have you not been seen to yet?”

“They said a doctor would come soon.” You lean forward to kiss him again, hitting the corner of his lips. “And look, here you are.”

Remus frowns. “Bailey should have been in here by now.”

“I don’t mind waiting.”

“You’ve been here over half an hour. Your arm should at least be stabilized while you wait.” He glances out the crack in between your curtains, trying to catch a glimpse of his negligent colleague. “How’s your pain?”

“Rem, I’m fine,” you say. “Can we just—”

“I’m going to go get him in here.” He touches your unhurt shoulder, giving it a brief, reassuring squeeze before he turns to go. More focussed than he has been since you arrived. “Just sit tight, it won’t be much longer.”

“Remus.” The splinter in your voice halts him as his hand closes over the curtain. Remus turns back around.

Your eyes are glossy. It shakes him in a way nothing else can, like none of the horrors of his work ever do. It’s not pain, he doesn’t think. There’s a raw quality to your expression.

“I don’t want him to come in here yet,” you whisper.

Remus finds his voice dropping to match your quiet. “Why?”

“I just want you.”

His heart shudders. “Sweetheart,” he says, compassion heaving his tone, “I want to stay here with you, too, but you know why I can’t be the one to treat you. It’s against the rules.”

“I know, but I just—can we—” You blink harshly, trying not to cry. Remus feels sick. For someone who deals with other people’s pain all day long, it’s sort of pathetic what the sight of yours does to him. “Can I just have a hug before you go?”

“Oh,” he murmurs. An ache in the back of his throat. “Yeah, of course.”

Remus has moved closer to you without realizing, drawn by the need to fix your upset, so it only takes a half step to be able to get his arms around you. You put your head on his shoulder like you’ve been wishing for it for hours.

“Is this alright?” he asks, careful not to press anywhere near your injured arm. “Don’t let me hurt you.”

“This is good.” Your voice is a watery consistency. Relief seeps from your every pore.

Remus feels it seep into him, too. He rubs between your shoulders. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to brush you off.”

Your sniffle breaks his heart. “You didn’t brush me off. I know you’re busy.”

“I always have time for a hug.” He presses a kiss into your hair. “It’s, like, half my job, you know.”

“Are you hugging other girls?”

“Only the very, very sad ones.”

You make a sound he suspects might be a muffled laugh. “Guess I should count myself lucky I got some of your time, then. In between all these sad girls.”

Remus hums. “I may have a bit of a soft spot for one in particular.”

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jikookncity · 2 days ago

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Haechan x Reader (Academic Rivals/smut))

WC: 3k, lollipop sharing, reader slaps hc and he loves it, unprotected sex, oral sex, dirty talk, etc.

Haechan and Y/n are academic rivals but is the tension something more?

Y/N always arrived five minutes early to class, color-coded notes neatly stacked, highlighters arranged by shade. She paid attention. She cared.

Haechan? Haechan strolled in fifteen minutes late, sipping iced coffee with extra vanilla and no apology, sunglasses still on, hair a mess like he rolled out of someone’s bed. He wore smugness like cologne.

What made it worse?

He was smarter than her.

No matter how hard she studied, no matter how deep she annotated every lecture, he still walked out with the highest grade in the class. Barely tried, barely blinked, and it drove her insane.

“You know,” she said one afternoon, slamming her textbook shut as he leaned against her table in the library, “you could actually study once in a while. Maybe put that brain of yours to use.”

He grinned lazily. “I do. Just not in ways you approve of, Princess.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? You act like one.”

She stood, chest to chest with him, eyes blazing. “You’re a cocky, lazy, entitled—”

“Hot,” he supplied.

She bristled. “—bastard.”

He leaned in, lips inches from hers. “You forgot irresistible.”

She shoved past him with a huff, missing the way his eyes dropped to her hips as she stormed off.

Unfortunately being the two brightest in the class meant spending lots of time together, as the professors often thought they'd get along great on their projects.

“I’m sorry, was that your answer?” Haechan said with mock surprise, spinning in his chair to face Y/N in their shared study group. “I just assumed no one else would get that wrong.”

Y/N didn’t even flinch. She calmly lifted her highlighter, capped it, and set it down with exaggerated care before looking up at him.

“I’d rather get it wrong than cruise through life on raw talent and unchecked narcissism.”

“Ouch,” he grinned, shameless and lazy. “Tell me how you really feel, princess.”

��I hate you,” she snapped, voice tight with annoyance — and something else. Something electric.

“You sure?” he murmured, tilting his head, eyes flicking down to her lips. “Because you look at me like you want to ride me until I shut up.”

Her highlighter slipped out of her hand.

The rest of the group barely noticed, too busy whispering about the next quiz. Y/N glared daggers at him, cheeks warming. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re obsessed with me,” he replied smoothly, leaning his elbow on the table and resting his chin on his hand, like she was his personal entertainment. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you always trying to outscore me. It’s cute.”

She turned away, jaw tight. “It’s called ambition. Not everything’s about you.”

Haechan gave her a dazzling grin. "Sure it is princess. Sure it is."

A few days later, it happened again — she beat everyone in the econ quiz. Everyone except Haechan, who sauntered into class fifteen minutes late with a hickey on his neck.

Still got a perfect score.

She wanted to scream.

“I swear, one day your dick is gonna fall off from overuse,” she muttered as he slid into the seat next to her.

“And yet, here you are,” he murmured back, voice low. “Still talking about it.”

Y/N’s jaw clenched. “You’re a goddamn menace.”

“Correction: I’m your competition. And your type.”

“Get over yourself.”

“Never,” he said with a wink. “Not until you’re underneath me begging me to do exactly what you pretend you don’t want.”

She kicked his shin under the desk.

He only smiled wider.

"Careful princess. Might need to bring you down from your high horse."

And now — it was all catching up with her.

Every smirk, every whispered insult, every filthy threat Haechan had ever purred in her ear was clanging in her head like a warning bell.

Y/n was at one of the frats college party's to unwind a bit after her countless hours of studying.

She was leaning against the counter in the kitchen, sucking on a red lollipop and pretending not to care. But her skin was hot. Her thighs were tense. Her nerves were a live wire.

And she felt him before she saw him — that heat, that presence.

“You love sucking on things, don’t you?” he said from behind her, voice like silk, amusement dripping from every syllable.

She didn’t flinch this time. “It keeps my mouth busy so I don’t scream at you.”

His breath ghosted against her neck as he stepped closer. “Baby, if you’re gonna scream, I’d prefer it be because I’m buried in you.”

She turned slowly, the lollipop still in her mouth, meeting his eyes.

And he grinned — cocky, confident, dangerous.

“You came all dressed up just for me, didn’t you?” he said, eyeing her legs. “Tight skirt, little heels, sucking on candy like you’re begging for my attention.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I don’t have to,” he said. “You’ve been doing it for me. Every fight, every glare, every time you bite your lip after calling me a dick — you’re desperate for me to ruin you.”

She froze. Her mouth opened — but he was already reaching for the lollipop, fingers brushing her lips.

“Let me,” he whispered, and pulled it from her mouth.

Then he popped it into his own, his lips closing around it with a sinful hum, never breaking eye contact.

“You wanna know what I think about every time we argue?” he said, voice dark and soft, body now inches from hers. “You. On your knees. My belt around your wrists. My cock in your mouth while you glare up at me like you still have some kind of power.”

She was shaking now — with rage, with arousal, with want.

And he leaned in, nose brushing hers.

“Go ahead, Y/N. Fight me. I dare you.”

Her hand moved before she even thought.

CRACK.

The slap echoed through the kitchen, silencing everything for one impossible second.

Haechan’s head snapped to the side. His cheek turned red. Y/N stood there, chest heaving, hand still raised, heart thundering like she’d just jumped off a cliff.

She expected him to yell. Laugh. Walk away.

But he did none of that.

Instead, Haechan turned back to her with a slow, stunned smile — his bottom lip split just a little from the force of her palm. His eyes glinted, half-wild with something unhinged and hungry.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice a little breathless. “You really are the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

And then he lunged.

His mouth crashed into hers, tongue shoving past her lips, filthy and unrelenting. He kissed like he fought — with heat and fury and zero restraint. Y/N barely had time to breathe, let alone think, before his hands were yanking her skirt up, pushing her back against the counter, spreading her thighs just enough to grind the heel of his palm against the soaked fabric of her panties.

“You feel that?” he growled into her mouth, teeth grazing her lip. “All this fighting — you’re dripping for me, sweetheart.”

She gasped, hips jerking as he pressed harder, rubbing tight, teasing circles over her clothed clit. The friction was maddening — just enough to make her whimper, not enough to push her over the edge.

He reached for the lollipop — his lollipop now — and shoved it between her lips, holding her jaw tight.

“Open up. Be a good girl.”

And when she did — whether from shock, want, or pure defiance — he shoved it deeper, making her gag around it. She choked, spit pooling at the corner of her mouth.

“Yeah,” he grunted, eyes dark with lust, “that’s how I wanna see you. Mouth stuffed, eyes wide, all that attitude shut the fuck down.”

Then he pulled it out, tossed it across the room, and grabbed her face in both hands to kiss her again — rough, messy, teeth and tongue and filth. His fingers never stopped moving under her skirt, pressing, stroking, dragging her higher and higher until her knees nearly buckled.

She clawed at his shirt, dragging him closer, pulling his curls, cursing into his mouth. It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t sweet.

It was war.

And when she finally came — hot and sudden, her thighs trembling around his hand — he swallowed her moan like he’d been starving for it.

They stood there after, both panting, lips bruised, her skirt still hiked up and his hand slick between her legs. His fingers moved to his mouth — one by one — sucking her release from his skin like he couldn’t bear to waste a drop.

Y/N dragged in a breath. Her voice shook as she said, “This… this doesn’t mean anything.”

Haechan just gave her that same lazy, infuriating smirk, licking the last drop from his thumb.

“Sure, sweetheart,” he said. “Whatever helps you sleep tonight.”

And then he turned and walked out, leaving her flushed, ruined, and absolutely furious.

Because she knew he was right.

A few days later — on campus

It was supposed to be a chill afternoon. The sun was out, students were sprawled across the quad, midterm results had just been posted. But of course, Y/N’s peace didn’t last more than five minutes before he showed up.

“Top of the class again,” Haechan said behind her, holding an iced coffee like he hadn’t just steamrolled her GPA again. “I’m starting to feel bad for you, babe. You’re trying so hard.”

She turned slowly, eyes narrow, temper already bubbling. “Maybe if you spent less time sleeping around and more time studying, I wouldn’t have to try so hard.”

He sipped his drink. “Sweetheart, I finished the exam thirty minutes early and still scored higher than you. I think your anger’s misdirected. Maybe what you really need is—”

“Your dick isn’t even big enough to be this cocky.”

Silence.

Haechan blinked once, the smirk slipping off his face for the first time in weeks.

Then something dangerous flickered in his eyes.

“Oh,” he said, stepping in close, voice low. “You sure you wanna find out?”

She didn’t back down. “I’ve seen your type. All mouth, no—”

Before she could finish, his hand wrapped around her wrist and yanked. Not hard, not painful — but firm, and fast. No one saw. Everyone else was distracted.

He dragged her behind the sports field, down the concrete path, and shoved her under the bleachers. The metal creaked overhead, voices echoing faintly in the distance. It was semi-secluded, enough to hide. Enough to sin.

“What the hell—”

“You wanna talk shit?” Haechan hissed, his voice hot against her ear. “Let’s test your theory, princess.”

Before she could respond, he’d already unzipped his jeans.

She froze.

Because holy shit, he wasn’t bluffing. He was big. Thick, veiny, heavy in his hand, already hard and flushed at the tip.

Her throat went dry.

“What?” he said, grinning like the devil. “Cat got your tongue? Or are you finally realizing how wrong you were?”

She hated herself for how fast she dropped to her knees.

The moment her lips brushed his tip, Haechan let out a groan — deep and filthy. She wrapped her mouth around him, sinking down until the weight of him pressed at the back of her throat, gagging almost instantly.

“Fuck,” he gasped, one hand gripping the back of her head, the other holding his shirt up as he watched with hazy eyes. “That’s it. Look at you. So cocky until you’ve got a real one down your throat.”

She pulled back, spit and drool already dripping down her chin, catching her breath before taking him deeper. Sloppier. Hungrier. Her hands clutched his thighs for balance, eyes watering as she gagged around him again.

“Messy little mouth,” he hissed, hips rocking slowly. “Drool everywhere. Just like I imagined. You like this, huh? Getting used like a toy.”

She whimpered around him, the vibration making him curse. Her spit slicked everything — chin, lips, fingers — and every time he hit the back of her throat, she choked, spit bubbling up and dripping onto her shirt.

He looked down at her like he was worshipping her — or maybe breaking her.

“Say it,” he groaned, guiding her rhythm. “Say I’ve got the biggest cock you’ve ever choked on.”

She pulled back with a wet gasp, strings of spit connecting her lips to him.

“You talk too much,” she panted. “Let me work.”

He laughed. Dark and wrecked.

“Fuck, I knew you’d be like this. All bark in public, all mouth in private.”

She took him again, deeper than before, until he twitched and gasped and grabbed her tighter, bucking slightly into her mouth.

When he came, it was with a shudder and a hiss of her name, and she swallowed it all — messy and unashamed, licking her lips as she sat back on her heels, panting.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, adjusted her skirt, and gave him a look like she hadn't just gagged on his cock under the bleachers like her life depended on it.

Totally unfazed. Maddeningly nonchalant.

“Well,” Y/N said, rolling her shoulders back with a little smirk. “I’ve had worse.”

Haechan froze mid-zip.

His jaw ticked. His fingers twitched.

And then, as she turned and walked off like she hadn’t just wrecked him in every possible way, he let out a low, stunned breath. His head thunked back against the metal beam behind him, a grin slowly spreading across his face.

“…I’m gonna marry that woman,” he muttered to himself, still a little dazed, still trying to catch his breath.

Not that he’d tell her that.

Yet.

Ever since she said it — that one devastating line — “I’ve had worse” — Haechan hadn’t been the same.

It haunted him. Mocked him. Played on a loop in his brain every time he closed his eyes. She said it like she wasn’t impressed, like she hadn’t just drooled all over herself for him under the bleachers.

Like she could take it or leave it.

And now? She was walking around campus with that casual little sway in her hips, all skirts and smug glances, like she owned him.

Because maybe, just maybe… she did.

“Still staring, Donghyuck?” she said one day, catching him mid-glare across the student café. “You know it’s creepy if you don’t blink.”

He gritted his teeth. “You’ve got a lot of mouth for someone who choked so pretty for me.”

She just smiled sweetly and sipped her iced coffee. “It’s not that hard to fake it.”

Boom.

He nearly short-circuited.

From that moment on, Haechan was obsessed. He flirted harder, leaned in closer, let his hands linger too long on her waist when they passed each other in the hallway. He sat next to her in every class, sent texts at 2 a.m., tried every trick in the book.

Nothing worked.

Every time he tried to fluster her, she just raised an eyebrow and dismissed him like he was some eager freshman who didn’t know how to kiss.

He was spiraling. Down. Bad.

And then came today.

They were in the music department hallway, empty between classes, the late afternoon sun slanting through the windows in sharp golden beams. She made some snide comment about how he only got good grades because professors liked his “face and flexible morals.”

That was the last straw.

Haechan’s laugh came out sharp, unhinged. He grinned like he’d finally snapped.

“You think you’re cute, huh?” he said, stalking toward her slowly, eyes blazing.

Y/N leaned against the wall, utterly unfazed. “No. I know I am.”

And that’s when he grabbed her — not roughly, but urgently — dragging her down the corridor into an empty hallway tucked between practice rooms. Before she could say another word, he was on her.

His tongue shoved into her mouth in a kiss so dirty, so possessive, it made her knees buckle. He kissed like he was trying to stake a claim, like he could tongue that smugness out of her. She kissed him back with the same fire — biting, teasing, smug as hell.

“I hate you,” she whispered against his lips.

“Yeah?” he panted. “You’re about to hate me harder.”

And then he dropped to his knees.

Right there, in the middle of the hallway, without warning.

He shoved her skirt up around her hips, yanked her panties down just enough, and buried his face between her thighs like a man starved. No hesitation. No teasing. Just messy, determined, tongue-deep devotion.

She gasped, one hand flying to grip the windowsill behind her for balance.

He groaned against her, lapping and sucking like she held the answer to all his problems between her legs.

“Still think I’m forgettable?” he muttered between licks, dragging his tongue up her slit, lips wrapping around her clit with a filthy pop. “Still think you’ve had better?”

Y/N was panting now, hips grinding against his mouth as his tongue fucked into her. Her legs trembled, her hand found his hair, yanking just enough to make him groan — the vibrations shooting straight through her.

“Say it again,” he growled, voice wrecked. “Say I’m not the best you’ve ever had. Say it with my tongue inside you.”

She didn’t.

Couldn’t.

She was already falling apart.

And when she came, shuddering against his mouth, he moaned like it was him getting off — like he needed to taste every second of it.

When he finally stood, lips shiny, hair wild, he leaned in close, mouth brushing her ear.

“Next time you say some shit like that,” he whispered, “I’ll have you bent over the piano bench.”

Y/N caught her breath, fixed her skirt, and met his wild eyes with a wicked little smile.

“Better be tuned, then.”

Wanna read the rest? More smut, fluff and drama? Subscribe to my patreon or read the rest here.

If you enjoyed reading pls leave a comment <3

#nct imagines #nct x reader #nct 127 #nct dream #haechan x y/n #haechan x you #haechan x reader #haechan smut #lee donghyuck #donghyuck x you #donghyuck x reader

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dreamersparacosm · 14 hours ago

Text

jeon jungkook - off the record (part four)

part four ; prom: white house edition

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

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

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

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

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

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

playlist here

series masterlist here

The red dress was a mistake of catastrophic proportions.

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

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

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

Jenna wouldn’t budge.

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

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

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

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

Avoid the dessert table at all costs. Got it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jungkook.

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

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

Which is not to say you’re looking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, hear me out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could probably eat him for dinner.

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

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

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

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

“I don’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, sergeant Emma.

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

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

Obviously.

That would be ridiculous.

Except… your gaze does go rogue again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You think he might cream his pants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s helpless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why the fuck did you wear this red dress again?

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

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

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

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

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

“So what do you do for work?”

Oh sweet, sweet Steve.

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

“Correspondent.”

That’ll be all for tonight, folks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s… all on YouTube.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not a raffle.”

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

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

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

“Yeah, definitely that.”

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

Is he really flirting via patronization?

You flash a tight smile. “Not really.”

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

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

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

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

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

Of course you will Steve.

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

This night is absolutely fucking bonkers.

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

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

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

You’re feeling dangerously open to possibilities.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You briefly wonder where he got it from.

“You’re staring.”

You blink. He is insane. You are not.

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

“Assessing what, exactly?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Got my own intel.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do what, exactly?”

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

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

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

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

“You’re a fucking freak, Jungkook.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can we get two vodka sodas please?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he’s not looking at her.

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

“Whatever.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Treason of the highest fucking order.

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

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

Four. That’s how many it’s been.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He said it meant to throw??”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We all owe you a medal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s why you’re my favorite.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fair.”

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

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

“Deal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh. Cool.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yup. Tragic that we never spoke.”

Playing dumb it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s so goddamn insufferable.

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

“Yeah, like… not about work?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, below that, a message from Rosalie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re fucking gross.”

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

“Did not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mike?”

You give him a look. “Yes, Mike.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, what did he say?”

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

Jungkook chokes on his spit. “No.”

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

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

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

“When am I ever off-duty?”

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

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

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

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

“Is it wrong?”

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

“Exactly.” And there’s that smug tone you know so well. “Maybe I’m growing on you.”

You let something between a snort and laugh fall from your mouth. “Like a tumor.”

But the smile you’re biting back makes it a little harder to sell the insult.

You clear your throat and straighten up slightly, ignoring how the vodka seems to have settled in your bloodstream like a warm compress.

“Anyway,” you say, “How’s your coverage going for Monroe?”

He raises an eyebrow haughtily. “Pivoting? And to Monroe?”

“I just don’t think I’m in the mood to talk about how you think I’m growing on you.”

Jungkook’s smile could light up half of DC. “You started it.”

“Ending it right now.”

“You always think you’re the one ending things,” he counters.

You shoot him a look, then echo louder this time “How’s your coverage going?”

He leans an elbow onto the bar, glass resting loosely between his fingers. “Good. Bet you’re dying to talk to her again, though.”

You shrug nonchalantly, pretending to scan the room like you’re searching for someone — Emma, Jenna, literally even Blue Tie Guy at this point — but all you really find are name tags you don’t care about and plates of passed shrimp.

“Not my fault she came down with that rare plague. But it is weird she came down with it just after we had our first session with her,” you mutter.

“You sound disappointed,” he points out. To be honest, you are. She has a hell of a story to tell and you want to write it.

You glance at him again. “What?”

“You miss her,” he coos at you playfully, “Now admit you miss me too. It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone.”

You roll your eyes, using the motion to buy yourself a few seconds of mental reorganization. “I miss being able to ask real questions.”

He nods, fingers drumming thoughtfully against the glass. “Yeah. You're good at those.”

You gape at him through your lashes. They’re just words that are perfectly arranged in an ordinary sequence that just so happens to reference your competence. But now it’s one time too many that he’s praised you for something, and you're running out of fingers and toes to count on.

It lands in your chest with a quiet thud, like he tossed a coin into a wishing well you didn't realize was inside you.

You shift your weight and conduct another sweep of the ballroom. Still no Emma, no Jenna.

“I really should find Emma..” you trail off, eyes darting across the room like a prisoner looking for a fire escape. “Before I start enjoying this conversation and lose all sense of who I am.”

Jungkook leans into your body. His cologne hits you again square in the face. “That would be tragic… if you forgot you hated me.”

You clench your jaw. “Please. I don’t hate you, that’s too much energy. I just think you’re—”

“Objectively infuriating?” he offers.

“Exhausting.”

“Better than forgettable,” he smirks.

You grip your near empty cup and wish you had something better to throw at him. Or honestly, something else to look at — something that doesn’t talk like him, look like him, smell like him.

And as you’re searching in your repertoire for that something, your brain decides to shove Rosalie into frame.

Her text. That stupid little ‘lol.’ The digital ghost of her face.

The alcohol in your body is doing that unfortunate thing where your filter stops working but your nerve hasn’t quite kicked in yet. And his cologne — Jesus, it’s warping your actual brain chemistry,

Before you can stop yourself, you blurt the words out. “Have you.. heard from Rosalie?”

“Rosalie?” He cocks his head, scratches his jaw.

You shake your head up and down, suddenly extremely interested in the ice melting in your cup. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Slow furrow of his brows. “Rosalie from college?”

You aim to keep your expression cool but your stomach does something distinctly uncool. Like a fish flopping on the deck. “The one and only.”

Jungkook blinks at you. His body is still, but his face guards itself. He’s squinting as if he’s scanning you for the motive behind your question.

You hate how well he reads people. You hate that he’s doing it to you right now.

“Why?” he treads lightly.

You shake your head quickly, “Just tell me.”

He hesitates. It’s pretty obvious to you both this isn’t a nothing question.

“Yeah,” he says finally, “She reached out to me.”

Your throat goes uncharacteristically dry.

The lightness from before — his little jabs, the crooked smile — it’s all taut now. Like he’s waiting to see what this really is. You also would like to know what this is.

You scramble for a reason, anything to make this make sense outloud.

Feeling caught, you busy yourself with one of the bracelets on your wrist. “She’s my best friend,” you shrug like it’s no big deal. “She tells me everything.”

He flinches subtly, a brief twitch in his jaw. “Well,” he utters finally. “I didn’t answer her. If that’s what you want to know.”

And that is when your chest does the thing again.

It’s an awful, disloyal twist. It heard the words and immediately reached for them, clutching at some fragile thread of relief you didn’t place there.

You inhale, trying to drown it back down. The thump thump of your heart, the tiny voice in your conscious going, good.

The wasps are back too. Buzzing and furious and unavoidable, even as you swipe at them with your mental fly swatter, one by one.

You feel regrettably stupid. Now you’re standing there, tipsy and humiliated and flinching at your own internal reaction like a girl in some cheap romance novel where the brooding rival turns out to be a chill dude and your panties fall off in chapter eight.

No thank you. Not today. You are a professional, a fully grown woman with access to two-factor authentication and press credentials.

You do not feel things when Jungkook says things like “I didn’t answer her.”

Though, clearly you’re having trouble leaving it alone. Clearly, that little skill of yours of asking the right questions — the one people applaud, the one Jungkook complimented an hour or two ago — has decided to clock in right now, under a chandelier and several ounces of vodka.

You meet his eyes even though your gut is screaming don’t, and say, “Why didn't you respond?”

Air leaves his lungs, barely. His jaw tenses for a fraction of a second. One flicker of thought behind his eyes before he smoothes it all back out.

The silence looms over you two like an unsuspecting fog. Your stomach starts writing its own obituary.

You’re about to take it back, about to say never mind ha ha silly me asking about your DMs, when he finally responds with, “She’s not who I’m interested in.”

There’s a hiccup in your brain. Like someone pulled the emergency brake on the subway and your neurons are just stuck, powering down and firing blanks.

She’s not who I’m interested in.

You don’t dare blink, breathe, or even think, which is crazy because thinking is your whole personality. His pupils practically eat up his entire eye as he peers down at you,

A whole rolodex of faces spins through your head. Maybe someone new started at Fox? There was that blonde you passed in the cafeteria, maybe that’s his type. Or maybe… maybe he made a move on Sana tonight. He and her always had that weird click, right? They have matching resumes, wouldn’t that just be poetic? Full circle and all that.

Your voice is crawling up your throat again, forming something stupid like oh yeah? Who’s someone you’re interested in? Because apparently vodka and lemon drop shots have taken control of your frontal lobe and are now driving the bus.

But before the words can land, there’s a blur of movement from your left.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Emma materializes beside you in a cloud of perfume, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

Your neck whips to her. “Jesus.”

She latches onto your arm immediately. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she’s breathless. “Did you die? Be honest.”

“I was just —” You flick a glance at Jungkook and regret it upon impact.

Emma doesn’t notice or care, undoubtedly in a bubble of her own. “Ugh, I have so much to tell you, I feel like I’ve been living a double life tonight.”

Right, and that’s cool and all. But your body is still humming, tingling under your skin as if someone left a speaker buzzing in your chest. She’s not who I’m interested in.

Your brain is dying to ask then who the fuck is?

Emma’s too busy blabbering away to care about any of it; your facial expression, Jungkook’s eyes that haven’t moved from you, the way your hands are slightly trembling as they hang loosely down at your side. “Okay, I know I’ve ignored him for the past few years but Paul is actually so funny. He told me this story earlier about his dog and I was crying. Literally crying. I’m just like, why have I never given this man the time of day—”

She pauses suddenly, looks over at Jungkook. Freezes mid-sentence like she just saw a coworker she drunkenly sexted.

“...Well.” Her voice drops multiple octaves. “Whatever.”

Words aren’t coming to you as easily as you’d like.

Emnma clears her throat, forcing her gaze back to you. “Anyway. You’ve been summoned.”

“For what?” you question, but your voice comes out thinner than when you practiced it in your head.

“Afterparty,” a sinister smile makes its way onto her lips. “Duh. Do you not realize what time it is?”

“No, Emma,” you bite back. “You don’t realize what time it is because you’ve spent the past few hours eye-fucking Paul.”

Emma shrugs. “Okay and? I told you, he’s kinda funny.”

You sink your teeth into your lower lip.

“And he also knows about the current crisis in Venezuela,” she adds proudly, like that qualifies him for marriage. “Which is honestly more than I can say for half the men I’ve dated.”

You sigh. “I’m not going to an afterparty.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes.”

“Emma—”

“You owe me. For that night.”

You do actually owe her. That night a few months ago, where you went home with that random guy, she went home alone and buried her face in a Dominos pizza while you had mediocre sex.

Your body is already 40% vodka and 60% bad decisions, and you’re hovering alarmingly close to making another one—

She turns to Jungkook. “You’re coming too, right?”

You whip your head toward her. You absolute fucking traitor, Emma.

Jungkook’s grin is so infuriatingly cheerful that you’re torn between wanting to punch him in the teeth or seeking refuge behind the bar, anything to avoid that smile.

“I mean…” he replies. “If she’s going..”

Why are you the deciding factor in all of this?

Emma snorts. “Oh, she’s going.”

“I really wasn’t—” you start, but then realize they’re making eye contact over your shoulder like they’ve coordinated to ruin your night.

“I’ll… see you there?” Jungkook asks, shooting Emma a look you don’t miss.

You can't help but daydream about what it’d be like to toss all your worries out the window, party like there’s no tomorrow, drown yourself in whatever booze is lying around the afterparty, and wake up to the faint memory of a random hookup who’s definitely ghosting you before you even finish your breakfast.

You, a tipsy bundle of bad decisions, look at Jungkook — his hair a windswept disaster, eyes twinkling like he's just heard the world's worst joke, and those tattoos dancing on his golden skin — and as tempting as it is, you remind yourself you really should just say no and sprint away from this mess, while dreaming of a life where the world isn’t dragging you down like an anchor in a swimming pool.

But… you have always been dangerously open to possibilities after a few shots.

You drain the rest of your drink and go, “I’ll see you there.”

masterlist + ask

taglist ; @somehowukook @lovingkoalaface @moroe-blog2 @almatiarau @hanamgi @yooniepot @strawberryberrygirl @rossy1080 @libra04 @kenzierj11 @senaqsstuff @dtownbae @xumyboo @bellefaerie @chimchoom @satisfied18 @arcanekookz @vintagemoonsstuff @brokebitch-101 @taolucha @songbyeonkim @oopscoop @mochibites00 @whatevevrerr @lessthantmr @nesha227 @mar-lo-pap @jazzyb22 @lachesismoonmist @indyuhhhhh @sky-23s-world @swimmingweaselzineegs @jiminshi20 @khadeeeeej @withluvjm @anishasingh1233 @jksusawife @btstrology @youphoriajk @jadestonedaeho7 @diamondjeon @sharplycoldpaladin @annafarrr @tteokbokibyjk @prxdajeon @tatzzz-25 @magicalnachocreator @younhakim29 @purplelanterns @134340-kr @amarawayne

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

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socially-awkward-chocobo · 1 day ago

Text

The “disparaging someone else’s work” part is an unfortunate requirement to doing this for fun, but I bet confidently saying “I bet I could make something like that!” in a not disparaging way would make it obvious that’s not your intent, or something

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ovadzs · 2 days ago

Text

“sportscar”-

summary: you are an endlessly talented artist/model/influencer and adored by millions of fans, but remain stubbornly single. this doesn’t stop your fans from shipping you with Lando Norris, though. So your best friend (and agent) Clara decides to set some things in motion behind your back. unfortunately, what she didn’t expect was the fact that you fucking despise that man. but it’s only a week of shooting together, for his brand and for your new song: sportscar. so, how bad can it be?

word count: 7.6k

fic content/warnings: female reader, use of you/she, enemies to lovers (one sided), hate/anger, lando is kinda ooc, kinda angsty, not properly proof read!!

author notes: hi gang!! this was SO entertaining to write but longgg and exam season is KICKING MY ASS so once i’m done i have an oscar fic waiting to write 😙 (childhood friends/lovers, fluffy and with posts etc can’t wait!!) this fic is obviously based on tate posting that INSANE video in the lando jersey omg ??? also, pink haired diva Clara might be my new reoccurring character cause i LOVE herrr !! anyway enjoy

Sometimes you forget how truly famous you are. How expansive your fanbase is. An established model, with a mass following. And now you’ve just sold out your first stadium show. You never believed in those ‘I've made it’ moments, but you were sort of feeling that way.

And you managed to do all it, somewhat on your own. Sure, you had a bit of help. People you depended on. Unwavering support from your parents, and your best friend Carla-your agent. Soulmates existed, you were sure of it. She was a great example of that, and you loved her more deeply than you thought possible. She was truly your greatest friend. You meant more like, without a partner. You were too career focused, too determined, to let a man get in your way. A liability, not worth taking. You had a cat, and a fucking massive apartment, and Carla, and a family you adored. What else did you need?

Well, the fans sure didn't feel the same. They clung onto every arm in photos, every appearance. They were desperate to see you with someone, regardless of what you wanted. They really annoyed you sometimes, but you were eternally grateful. Their choice of eligible bachelor at the moment was Lando Norris, the F1 Driver. It was no secret that you enjoyed F1, because you regularly went to watch the Miami Grand Prix, occasionally making appearances at others. And you were often sporting some orange clothes, or sometimes even Lando’s iconic neon merch. So naturally, they wanted to see you together. A definite ‘power couple.’ But funnily enough, you’d never actually met him. Your social circles seemed to refuse to overlap. Sure, he commented on some posts, and vice versa. Consistent story likes and good luck messages. You’re pretty sure he attended one of your shows last year, but you don't know for certain.

However, what you did know is that you LOVED messing with your followers. So you fished through your drafts, and found a video of you in your LN4 jersey, lip-syncing to a snippet of your upcoming song, ‘Sportscar.’ Without thinking, you hit post, grinning to yourself.

And not even a minute later, it's blown up, likes and comments flooding in. And one catches your eye, from the man himself.

‘good taste.’

You smirk slightly but don’t bother to like it, you just wait for the inevitable phone call from Carla instead.

“Okay, as your unspoken social media manager, please please PLEASE!!! warn me before you start posting crazy shit.” comes her flustered voice, her surprise etched clearly on her face through the screen.

“Sorry, I had to. The comments are just SO funny.” you admit, laughing at your fan accounts literally losing their minds. Carla’s hands are stained pink from the damp hair dye in her hair, and you cackle at how overwhelmed she looks. “I promise I'll give you at least 30 seconds of warning, next time, okay?”

She huffs. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I was going to ask this yesterday and forgot, so this is perfect. I’ve been talking to Lando’s equivalent of me, I think. I don’t really know what he does. And he was hinting how brilliant a collab would be. I didn't agree to anything,” she says hurriedly, “but it would be brilliant. For us, and for them. Just think of the publicity!” she clamours, and you hear a chaotic crash behind her.

You’ve covered this before, so that's why she asks so quickly, because she knows what's coming.

“Clara, come on. You know I don’t want to do any collabs, or anything.” you say truthfully, but she just sighs as you, exasperated.

“Look, you’re like- shockingly famous and successful. You’ve made a name for yourself, and this isn’t going to change that.” she replies, and you know she's probably right, but you just can't do it.

You crave that independence, that knowledge that you’ve never thrown names around or cozied up to anyone to chase money and fame. You worked yourself to death, sleepless nights humming to yourself, sewing outfits. So you didn’t want anyone, even Norris, putting his name near yours. You could deal with the speculation, but you weren’t about to get outshone. Watch as with each photo that dropped, you slowly becoming an extension of him. Sure, you both owned your corners of the world, neither one of you more famous than the other. If anything, you were possibly more known than him. But there was something so horrifying, about your brand slowly becoming infused with foreign faces and strangers that you don't care for. You wouldn't mind having your family or Clara or your close friends dancing with you in a music video, or posing behind you in shoots. But a cash grab, a weak attempt to rise up the charts, you refused. Maybe it was petty. Maybe you were being stupid, but you didn’t care.

“Clara, it just doesn't feel right. Sure, it fits with Sportscar, and yeah maybe the fans would love it. And I'm happy to drop the occasional video or whatever, and I wouldn't even mind meeting him, but I don't want him anywhere near my name or my brand. I don't want anyone to clarify. I’m sure he’s great, it's not personal. You can tell that to HIS Clara, yeah?” you say clearly, and you see her nod, distracted.

And even though you trust her with your life, that faraway look in her eye stresses you out. There are very few things you disagree on, and this is one of them. You both know it. And you know how easily she could make a contract, and that's it. You and Lando, official partners. Of business, obviously. But she wouldn't do that, would she?

***

Funny, how varied your evenings were. Last night, typing away on your laptop, cosied up in bed, facetime Clara. Now, dressed in a tiny outfit and possibly too much makeup for such a dark space, catching the club lights on your belt buckle. You were in the poshest, most expensive club you could find, but the people inside didn't seem to reflect that. Rich, but dickheads. You wondered what you were doing there.

Clara was long gone, dancing under the lights nearby, twirling aimlessly with a group of people as wasted as her. You were often envious of how magnetic she was, easily drawing in people. You questioned how she was in the one in the shadows, and you were the famous one, prancing around on stage.

“HEY! Look who it is. Glad to finally meet you!” came a shockingly loud shout, right into your poor, unsuspecting ear.

“Fucking hell,” you mutter, batting away your assailant. You turn, expecting a crazed fan, but you’re surprised to see an offended Formula One driver instead.

“Oh. Oh! Lando, hey. Sorry about that.” you reply, dropping your raised arm. He comes too close to you again, shouting back into your ear.

“It’s okay!!!!!!” he bellows, and you have to resist the urge to hit him again. He’s slurring his words slightly, and you’re almost surprised he's still standing.

“Can you maybe, not? Shout in my ear, I mean. I can hear you.” you say matter of factly, suddenly feeling much more sober. You always got more irritable when you had something to drink, and right now Lando was getting on your last nerve, even if you’d literally just met.

“Oh yeah, sorry mate. I like your outfit, shame you’re not wearing my top though.” he says simply, swaying embarrassingly to the music. You smile at him gently, trying to stop your skin from crawling. It wasn't his fault, but you seriously didn't want to be there anymore. Maybe it was something about him being such a mystery, or some wild speculation. Him, being right there, barely thinking straight, was not what you wanted to see. You didn't even know why you'd come. You always hated clubs, the music was always too loud and you preferred dancing when you knew the choreography.

“Well, thanks. Didn’t feel like being a highlighter tonight though,” you joke, but it doesn't land. Probably because your arms are folded and your voice is deadly serious.

“Huh.” he says, clearly put off. “Thought you were a fan.” he mutters, rolling his eyes at you. And maybe he's joking too, but the tension isn't right, so you just roll your eyes back at him, and he stiffens.

This was not how you imagined meeting him for the first time. It was almost weird, how dry the air was between you. You just, didnt mind him? He’d annoyed you a bit, sure, but that was forgivable. But there was no excitement, no tension, nothing.

“Do you want to dance, or something?” he asks suddenly, watching you eye up the door.

You pause, trying to be polite. “Sorry, I’m actually exhausted. I promise I'm not usually this tense, really. I’m just going to go home, but I need to let my friend know. The pink haired one, there. You see her?” you point, grinning at her as she points back between you and Lando, but you subtly shake your head at her. You hope he doesn't notice, but unfortunately for you, he does.

He straightens up by you, scowling a bit. “Yeah, whatever. I’ll see you around then, maybe.” he says firmly, and you just nod reassuringly. You let Clara know you’re leaving and she quickly hugs you goodbye as you make your way to the door.

As soon as you step out, and the cool night breeze hits your face, you immediately feel so much better. You almost want to apologise to Lando,since he was clearly just loud and irritatingly happy, but it's too late.

“Hey, wait up!!”

Maybe it isn't too late.

“Huh, Lando? What are you doing out here?” you ask, and he pauses for breath.

“I felt like maybe it was awkward back there? Like I was annoying you or something, and I wanted to apologise, in case I did something.” he says, still hiccuping slightly.

You laugh, it coming out colder than you intended. Like you were laughing at his average apology.

“No, it’s fine.” you say firmly, smiling gently now.

He nods, unconvinced. “So, why’d you shake your head, when fucking Pinkie-Pie in there asked about me?” he replies, sounding sort of angry. You can tell he didn't mean to offend you, but your jaw slackens.

“She prefers other animated characters. Starfire, at least. Although her personal favourite is being compared to Granmamare from Ponyo. However, her name works just fine. Clara.” you say decidedly, giving him one last chance, before you actually do get annoyed.

“Don’t know it, sorry. But hey, that's Clara, huh? She’s been in contact with my agent a lot recently, right?” he replies.

Thankful he dropped the head shake, you nod. “Yeah, but I don’t do collabs.” you murmur, still not warming up to him.

He seems to feel the same. “What, not good enough for you?” he replies snarkily, sneering at you.

“What? Of course not.” you fire back, earnestly, but he’s clearly got that into his head.

“One look at me, and you tell Clara it's not happening. One shake of the head,yeah? Not worth the time, yeah?” he continues, and hitting him crosses your mind for a second time.

“Oh, get over it! It’s not about you. You’re too loud, and too drunk. I don’t even know you, what are you doing right now? Coming up with another bullshit apology? I told you I was tired, how egotistical can you be?” you shriek, and it all comes spilling out of you.

You rarely take your anger out on anyone, but here he is. A drunk, angry, confused, Lando, who keeps fucking looking at you like you’re some elitist snob, like he isn’t filthy rich too. An easy easy target.

“Fucking hell, I chased after you because I DID want to get to know you, and thought I’d blown it just cause you’re in a bad mood. But no, turns out you’re just, mean? I’m not egotistical, just aware. Don’t try and act like I’m wrong.” he calls back, matching your volume.

You scoff loudly, stomping towards him. The air isn't dry now, it's full of venom and anger. Also, you’re freezing, and he’s evidently warm from his flushed face and the way you can feel his hot breath and the heat radiating from his body.

“I’m not mean, dickhead. You called MY best friend Pinkie-pie!!” you protest, and as soon as the words leave your mouth, you realise you’re definitely drunker than you thought.

He laughs at you, and you lose it.

“You know what, you’re right. I don’t do collabs, like ever. But I was close to thinking about reaching out to you. I thought you’d be cool, or whatever. And instead you're just a little boy, who can’t handle alcohol and bellows in people’s ear. You’re obnoxious!!” you shout, your faces practically touching.

He opens his mouth to speak, but you shake your head.

“No, no I’m not done!!” you continue, spinning away from him, laughing. “Yeah, maybe it was bullshit. I’m not tired. You just made me irritated. Like, those two lines of talking with you dampened my fucking mood. But you know what? What if I was just tired? Tired, and drunk, and walking home. And you were going to come over and what? Hound me for answers about some weird gesture I did to my friend. Call me an angry, mean, antisocial bitch?” you ask, letting all your emotions fly out viciously from your hoarse throat.

He’s visibly hurt, but also visibly impressed. He just blinks, unsure of what to do next.

“Soooo, Mr Norris. No, I will not be seeing you around, maybe. Thank fuck we aren’t collaborating together, huh? It would've been a nightmare.”

“A trainwreck.” he agrees, clearly bemused.

“Wow, glad we finally agreed on something!” you say sarcastically, turning around to begin your walk home. But you pause, flipping him off first, and you stare at him long enough to see him return the favour. And the only thing you can think to do, to essentially get the last word, is to stick your tongue out at him.

And then he's blinking again, surprised, and you speed off before you see any other of his facial expressions.

“For the record, I didn't call you a bitch.” he calls out, but you keep your finger firmly extended in the air.

***

The next day flies by, but you spend almost all of it in bed, replaying the night before. His stupid, smug, face. You actually start to hate him more now. Who was he, to think he had some claim to getting to know you?

What a pathetic little man.

You were desperate to ramble about your interaction with Clara, but she was knocked out, you presumed. She hadn’t been online for almost 18 hours.

So when her little icon changes from an offputting grey to vivid green, you grin, eagerly calling her.

“Oh my GOD Clara. He was not what I was expecting at all! Insufferable, really. I’ve been thinking about how I dodged a bullet, and I’m so seriously grateful I can avoid him indefinitely now. Might have to burn my merch.” you joke loudly, properly waking her up.

She freezes, guilt clouding her whole face. And then she bursts into the loudest fit of giggles you’ve heard in a while.

“What if I told you you didn’t dodge that bullet, like, at all? And at 10am tomorrow you have a shoot with him? Wearing his brand?” she stammers, still giggling and you feel a laugh bubble in your throat.

But when she looks at you, suddenly deadly serious, that laugh sours and viciously burns you. And you've never wanted anything more than to strangle her. So you hang up instead.

CLARA:

im sorry

lol

not that sorry

no wait yes i am

i shouldnt of gone behind ur back like that, ofc

but im not sorry that lando is an asshole

can i come watch pls

YOU:

stfu

ur lucky i havent fired you

wait

why havent i fired u yet ??

consider this a formal warning

CLARA:

hes hot tho

YOU:

this is ur boss

what r u talking about

CLARA:

lando ?

liek sure maybe hes annoying asf but

like***

you’ll defo look good together

YOU:

idk what ur talking about

hes not even the best looking driver on the grid

also hes punching

CLARA:

its just a shoot babe ur not betrothed

btw the contract goes both ways

ur not just modelling for him

YOU:

whatthefuckdoumean

clara

what did u do

…

clara this is ur boss

reply immediately

CLARA:

“boy dont make me choose”

guess whos playing said ‘boy’ in the sportscar mv

thank me later???

YOU:

oh my

please be joking

have u READ??? those lyrics

ur taking the mick

im going to kill you

this actually cant be happening

has HE READ THOSE LYRICS?

oh my god

cnacnel

abort immediately

CLARA:

10am tomorrow

ill send u the address later

enjoy x

btw u legally have to go

like u might get sued if u dont

not might, will. please go!!

YOU:

i want u on the set for sportscar too

CLARA:

umm, why? as your intimacy co-ordinator

hah im SO funny

YOU:

so i can run u over

you can admire him up close as you both become speedbumps

that wasnt funny btw

***

You barely sleep, and when the sun rolls into your room, you sigh, waving it away. Doomsday is a mere few hours away, and you can’t get his stupid fucking face out of your head. You actually hate him. Truly, hate him. And you hate hating people, so this really isn’t ideal.

Also, ‘sportscar’ is kind of insane, by your standards. Unhinged, maybe. You didn't even WANT to make a music video for it, but they are sort of your thing. So you thought something cool, you driving around or something. A strategic orange car (again, you enjoyed messing with fans.) but you hadn't thought about having really anyone else but you. It was an awkward video to film with anyone, sure. And you weren’t exactly, not awkward?

You raise your head from your pillow, just to throw it straight back down, exasperated. A shoot, you could get through, just. But some of the lyrics, the general impression of the song? Even you wouldn't be able to pass that off as a little joke, that was actually crazy. What was Clara THINKING? You curse her again, for the millionth time that day, and you watch the clock tick. Until you seriously do have to get up.

She’d instructed you to come with no makeup, nothing. Just show up, and his stylists would take care of the rest. The silence, the lights, flashes would all be bearable. But posing with him, fake-smiling at him? Definitely a challenge. You actually felt the life being sucked out of you at the thought. So you breathe, cracking a grin, and you let your face get used to it. Since you’d be plastering that all day.

***

The studio is nice. Modern. Not too big, but not cramped either. Plenty of make-up artists, hair stylists, designers flit around, but you aren't claustrophobic. That is until he walks in, and then suddenly the walls collapse on you.

He grins straight at you, overly cheerily, and you instinctively scowl back. Oops. Good start. In response he mimes like he’s just been shot, deeply wounded, on the brink of death. You just shake your head, rolling your eyes at his immaturity. That practiced smile, immediately disappearing.

About half an hour later, you’re both dressed and ready. You sport a more subtle LN4 themed outfit, with small details sewn throughout your matching top and bottom half. He’s wearing a more masculine outfit, in a darker colour, but you both look incredibly harmonious. And surprisingly, you realise Clara is right. You actually do sort of look brilliant together. Shame he’s so fucking annoying.

The photographer seems blissfully unaware of how much you detest the man to your right. Either he’s an idiot, or you’re an incredible actor. You assume it’s a bit of both.

So when he asks you to sit on a block beside Lando, and rest your head carefully on his chest, you almost start a riot.

Lando winks at you, and you swear you might just kill him, right there on camera. But you just breathe, not looking at him any longer, and you smile gently for the flash in front of you.

“Are you uncomfortable?” he asks, murmuring into your ear. It's an improvement from when he deafened you, but you hate how close he is.

“Immensely so.” you hiss back, and he laughs at you bitterly.

So you decide to ram your pretty large heel straight into his foot, bitterly. And although he doesn't yelp, like you hoped, he grimaces and you feel him stiffen. Good enough.

“Sorry, are you uncomfortable? You sure look uncomfortable.” you whisper back, and you watch his bared teeth shift into a dazzling smile. ANd you realise Clara is right, yet again. A theme you were not liking. But admittedly, he was attractive. And that just made you even more annoyed.

The rest of the day went by about the same. You basically either looked like you wanted to die, or you wanted him to die, until you heard the click. Then you were smiling, like you actually didn’t mind staring at him warmly as the photographer walked around you.

Then came an unexpected brief- just talk naturally. Candids, they wanted. So they positioned you next to each other, spread out on the same sleek couch, your legs occupying the same small space, and told you to have a conversation.

You had nothing you wanted to say to him, so you waited for him to speak first. So he did.

“You truly are a professional, huh?” he comments, a permanent gleam in his eyes.

“Can’t say the same for you. I wouldn’t quit your day job.” you snap back, absent-mindedly.

“Wasn’t going to. I love racing.” he replies, shrugging, and you decide to give him a moment of respite from your disgusting looks and harsh words.

“Okay, that's common ground. Let's talk about it, alright? That way he’ll get his photos, and I can get out of here.” you say firmly, and he cocks his head to the side, staring at you inquisitively.

“Alright. Sure. So, what’s your favourite race you’ve been to?” he asks, and you pause.

“Miami, last year, was pretty good.” you admit, forgetting one crucial detail about that race.

He didn't, though. His eyebrows shoot up, hidden behind his curly hair.

“Are you kidding? My first race win, and that’s your favourite. And I thought you HATED me! Hah.” he laughs, triumphantly, and you groan.

“Shut up. And I didn’t hate you then. Cause I didn't know you then.” you say slowly, not realising how truly harsh your words are.

“You don’t even know me, now.” he replies, not missing a beat.

“I know enough.” you shoot back simply, but he just shakes his head at you, exasperated.

“You really don’t. Come on, you could give me another chance.” he mutters, and you hum back at him.

“Yeah, I could. But I pay a lot of attention to first impressions.” you fire back, and he smiles slightly.

“Pretty sure you flipped me off and then stuck your tongue out at me all in the space of two seconds, and I don’t hate you, so?” he sighs, and you just roll your eyes at him, suppressing your own smile.

‘I don't hate you, so.’

You think deeply, ignoring him getting up. Ignoring the photographer packing up. It isn’t until Lando sticks his calloused hand directly above you, helping you up, that you realise you’re finally done. How relieving.

And you take it gracefully, hoisting yourself up. But you just can’t help it. His smirking face. So you yank him backwards, throwing him back onto the couch, and you burst into laughter. The only genuine smile you’ve shown all day. And then you hear it, and you freeze. That stupid click.

And you see that idiot photographer, his face literally beaming. Like he’s just won the lottery. And as you admire the bewildered expression on Lando's face, you realise he has. It’s a great shot.

***

And two days later, your end of the bargain is over. You don’t give Clara any updates. You refuse. She doesn’t deserve the drama. All you tell her is that he’s as annoying as you expected, and you still truly loathe him, but you like his team. And it's funny, making fun of him. You tell her you preferred the Quadrant half of the deal, since you met the designer. How you thought she would love her. And how much you hate her for what’s happening at the weekend.

That’s when he messages you.

LANDO:

whats sportscar actually about?

me??

YOU:

ew no

i thought i blocked u??

get out my dms

LANDO:

harhar

seriously

drop those lyrics

YOU:

you don’t like surprises?

LANDO:

no,i do, but i see the way u look at me when i mention it

like u wanna scratch my eyes out

so go on

YOU:

u asked for it

*photo

LANDO:

i see

that will be fun

YOU:

careful

or i actually will block u

LANDO:

no u wont

your fans will notice

and then u cant randomly drop references of me anymore

which u clearly love to do

YOU:

“harhar”

goodbye lando

LANDO:

see u soon

YOU:

unfortunately

***

The weekend came too soon. No one knew just how much content you and Lando were about to drop. You’d agreed to drop the music video simultaneously with his new collection, so the explosion happened once, and you could face the aftermath together.

And this time, when you arrived at your own studio, your own set, you felt much more relaxed, even though the filming was much more daunting. This was your team. Photos of you and them scattered around. Your favourite director, waving at you. Costumes and lights and greenscreens. Your name, on a door. Clara’s, beside yours. So when he walks in, scouring the scene, your stomach sours. You’d almost forgotten he was coming, to disrupt the peace.

“So, your turf, huh?” he announces, reading your mind.

“Yup. You ever been in a music video before, Norris?” you ask, arms folded.

“Nope.” he replies honestly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. And for a moment, a tiny moment, you think he might just be a little bit nervous.

“Well, you’ll be fine, I'm sure. I said Clara could look after you. She’s more of a fan than I am.” you joke, signalling her over.

She practically skips over, grinning at you. “She’s lying. Not a clue who you are, really. She’ll never drag me to a stupid race. I just called you hot once. To annoy her, may I add. Alright ‘boy’, let's go.” she says rapidly, but choosing to drag the word ‘boy’ heavily, glaring at you.

“Hey, Pinkie-pie. I was looking forward to meeting you, truly. I would've introduced myself the other night, but we all know how that went.” he replies, mimicking her dramatic tone, and she laughs at him. And you hate that they immediately fit together, really well. There's no fire in his eyes when he looks at her, only light.

And she drags him away, so you sidle up to your director. Bardia smiles at you.

“I must admit, I was surprised that you brought Lando here. I didn’t realise you were actually together, I thought it was a big joke.” he huffs, and you stare at him, absolutely horrified.

“Please, never say that again. Lando and I are NOT together- that would be- actually-” you begin, trying not to gag. You’re glad disgust is your main emotion, because for a brief moment you were worried there. That maybe you didn’t hate him anymore. But with what you feel at that suggestion, you’re reassured that you do still detest that man.

He looks at you, confused. “You know we’re filming for ‘sportscar,’ today. Yes? As in, this song.” he begins, playing it from the speakers. And when you watch Lando hear it for the first time and his breath hitches, you find yourself pausing too.

“Yes, I know. Don’t remind me. Clara was an idiot. But seriously, we’re just acquaintances.” you stress, trying not to listen to your own voice.

He scoffs. “Fine, I’ll cut out some of the ideas I had. They definitely won't work if you don't get along, but you’ll have to act like you’re together, alright?”

You blink and nod, trying not to think of what ideas he was thinking of.

***

You love Bardia’s vision, as usual, and paired with Brett’s styling, you both look admittedly phenomenal. And other than a brief moment, when you accidentally exploded at him for getting in your way (you said a lot of things that were unbelievably cruel), it goes quite well. Although, after your outburst, he seemed to shrink a bit. He didn’t argue back, just listened to instructions. Pulled faces when you needed him to. And honestly? You liked him more like that. You were just happy to be almost done with him.

A lot of it was solo work, or you and a few backup dancers. So you made an effort to not watch him and Clara joke off set, laughing to each other. You just focused on the carefully curated choreography, satisfied when you hit each beat. But because you weren't looking at him, you didn't see him looking at you. Staring. His laughs to Clara were absent-minded. He focused entirely on each move you made, admiring your determination. Your subtle skill.

Bardia always shot in chronological order, so you were fucking finally nearing the end of the song, and your torture could end. So when you catch Clara staring at you wide-eyed as he tells her his plans for the outro, you realise this was going to become an actual nightmare.

A train wreck, as someone you know would say.

She rushes over to you as you sip on some water, trying to avoid eye contact with Lando.

“You’re about to blow up again.” she announces, a disgusting smile stretching up her face.

“What.” you say sullenly.

“How comfortable are you sitting on Lando’s lap?” she asks wickedly, and your jaw drops.

“Um, that isn’t happening?” you reply quickly.

“Well, you wrote it in. ‘We can share one seat,’ and all that.” she sings, and you drop your head into your hands.

“No, I refuse to do that.” you respond, shrugging.

“Huh, Lando said you’d refuse. Funny, knows you better than you think.”

“No, he just knows I hate him.” you mutter, shaking your head profusely.

“I don’t think it's that. He thinks you’re scared of him. That you don’t want to be too close to him, but not because you hate him. He’s very cocky, I’ll admit that.” she says, shrugging back.

“You’re JOKING. He doesn’t think it's that, trust me.” you shriek back, and she nods sarcastically.

“I think I’ve spoken to him more in the last half an hour than you have, well, ever. He definitely thinks you’re into him.” she laughs, and you get very very angry again.

“Well, he can fuck off. Fucking idiot. Tell Bardia I want this done, so let's hurry up.” you mumble, and Clara runs off. And across the room, you meet his stare, and you shake your head incredulously at him. He just blinks back.

***

“How come you’re looking at me so funny?” he asks, sitting comfortably in the driver's seat of the car they’d rolled onto set.

While you were dancing, they’d done some outdoor scenes with him, and you’d heard him rambling about the drifting he’d done, grinning about the car. He did look like he belonged behind the wheel -in all fairness.

“Because Clara told me about your stupid ideas.” you mutter, ignoring the confusion on his face as you clamber over the gap between the passenger seat.

“Um, okay. This is new. What ideas?” he asks, shifting uncomfortably as you climb onto him, trying to hide your awkwardness.

“That I was into you.” you huff, resting your hands on his shoulders.

“I didn't say that, but you are literally all over me.” he responds, sitting up straighter. He gently lifts your legs, giving him space to move to get comfortable, and you pretend to ignore how his hands burn your bare skin.

“Oh, come on.” you say, turning to face him. But the genuine innocence on his face is so believable you actually realise what happened.

Clara was SO lucky they had started recording. You’d never hated her so much as you did right now.

His comment earlier about you being a professional was absolutely correct though, and you were proving it. You sang along quietly, so quietly that Lando was probably the only person who could hear you, but it kept you on beat.

And every word you moved, leaned, gestured. To anyone watching, it would seem like you belong there, your limbs intertwined with his. That he isn’t making you uncomfortable, no, merely the opposite. That you dont want anything more than to get away from him, the skin to skin contact actually driving you insane. And with each thought, with each shiver, you press further into him, feeling the music. It was your song, after all. Clara was right, you had written this in. And as much as you despise her, that snake, you are absolutely loving the bizarre look you are getting from Lando. He has a cap on, that matched your top, and that was very lucky for him. Because he was, like you’d said, NOT a professional. His obvious confusion, and the way he kept looking away from you, was hilarious. So you pull down his cap, so it almost completely covers his face, meaning his curls poke out the back.

“Stop blushing, Norris. And stop looking like you want to run away. I’m trying my very best to act like I don't want to throw up right now, please do the same.” you whisper, your lips grazing his ear.

He doesn’t respond, but he reacts instead. He throws the cap off his head, as if to prove to you he isn’t flushed, but you’re not very convinced.

“Brilliant. We got exactly what we needed. I can’t think of a better scene for the outro, really. You should pay Clara for her originality, alongside her services. IF I’m not careful, she’ll be taking my job soon.” jokes Bardia, and if looks could kill, the one you shoot Clara would’ve had her dead instantly.

You practically leap off Lando, like he was burning you, and you charge straight for her.

“You need to fuck off, Clara.” you say, seething.

You very very rarely argue, and you’ve never been so mad at her, so this was new. This hostility. Between her and Lando, you couldn’t tell who was worse.

She looks taken aback. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I was just, I thought it was funny. I was going to tell him to change his plan, but he had a vision by then, and you’d already got on set-” she starts, but you just shake your head at her.

“Cut the bullshit apology. You’ve been such a pain about this whole thing. I let it go, that you even did this, and I shouldn’t have. But I did, because I love you. And every fucking day that I spent angry, and irritable, and stressed, I tried to not blame you. I think that's why I hated him so much. Because I just didn't want to be mad at you, because I NEED YOU. You’ve always been there. One of the few people I trust with my life. And you stabbed me in the fucking back. And here I am, anxious and angry and way out of my depth, and then you pulled out the knife, just to stab me again. But yeah, hope that was real fucking funny.” you shout, ignoring her cringing eyes and the sudden silence of the room.

“Leave Pinkie-Pie alone, yeah? Come on, let's get some water or something.” comes a voice, and a hand on your shoulder. And why he thought you’d want to talk to him, of all fucking people, is absurd.

“Her name is Clara. You two aren’t friends, unless you’re part of some fucking club to piss me off, maybe? I do not need you wading in here, okay? Leave me the fuck alone. We’re done, contracts over. Video launches in a week, and that's it. Never have to speak to each other again, Norris. Let's start now. Get out of here, please.” you snarl, not looking him in the eyes.

You pause.

“Actually, no. I’ll leave. You two can have a chat or something, maybe about how else you can go behind my back, and how you can then make me want to shoot myself!” you shout, shrugging, looking from Clara to Lando. And you turn and storm out, practically running home.

***

Its ‘sportscar’ release day. You've seen the video. It was actually great. And setting the emotions aside, the ending made sense. But you can't really watch it, past the first minute, without wanting to scream. So you don’t.

The fans however? They go mental. Like, inconsolable. Losing their minds.

Comments flood in, endless. All the same, your name and Landos. A few, about the song being great. A few, crediting the designers of Lando’s new merch, but it's a few. And it's exactly what you knew was going to happen, that you were so upset by.

Everyone, violent and relentless.

‘‘The way they look at each other!”

“this is an insane hard launch omfgg??”

“wait , r they actually together?”

“I KNEW IT.”

“Lando, one chance please.”

“They look so good together”

“i just died omfg”

Millions. Literally millions of comments all like that. And you hate it, that you were so not in control of this. That now, everyone thought you were dating a man you didn't even like. Someone who had made last week one of the hardest of your life. Every comment, a reminder of Clara, laughing. But you didn’t want to let everyone view you like this. So you had to do something.

Photos, videos. Of you and Lando, at each other's throats. Your arguments. Someone had even managed to get a video of you from that night when you first met. So you made a somewhat innocent photo dump, throwing in the occasional fight. In a way that genuinely presented you both as insufferable.

Your caption was harsh, but honest. “Crazy couple of weeks. Nice to meet Norris finally, but didn’t expect him to be so annoying!!. Anyway, hope you all like ‘sportscar!’ thanks everyone xx” @landonorris

He commented almost immediately.

“yeh, crazy is a good word. thanks for the new experience. sorry for being such a pain in the ass.”

It was sad. Not even that flippant. And you almost, almost, felt bad. Your anger, maybe misplaced. But, he was still undeniably annoying. Regardless if he deserved your wrath or not, that was still true. It always was going to be.

But someone who definitely DID deserve your anger was Clara. You hadn’t spoken since, which was shockingly unusual for you two. But you were hurting, and she still hadn’t really apologised.

CLARA:

hi! i know you probably dont want to talk, but can u open the door? can we talk anyway?

You huff, and get up. Classic. She hated knocking, never did. She just came in. She literally had a key.

You open the door, to see her sad face. Red, probably from exhaustion. She didn't cry often.

“Come in.”

And she does, sitting on your sofa.

“Look, I’m so so sorry. Like really. I just, I didn’t think about how you were feeling. I just thought about the numbers. And, you know, you. I thought that maybe you only hated him so much because you liked him, and you were scared. It wouldn’t be the first time. And, look, I know this is awful of me, but you know I’ve always loved meddling. And I didn’t say it back, but I love you too. Always. You’re literally my sister, and I don't know what I’d do without you. I mean, this week nearly killed me. I know forgiving me won't be easy, but I didn't have malicious intentions. Yeah, maybe I thought it would be humorous. I didn't think you really hated him that much, that you'd say yes just to prove him wrong.That's unlike you, really. I was surprised.” she explains, her voice cracking.

“I just, the fans, you know. They wanted it so badly. It seemed almost unreal. I don’t know, I just thought you were making a big deal out of nothing. And although I could totally see how and why he pissed you off, he was more tolerable than I was expecting. “ she finishes shakily, and you really stare at her.

Her bloodshot eyes. Her messy pink hair, plaited lazily. Still dressed in her favourite pyjamas, like she came here in a frenzy. Like this was eating her up. And you just couldn’t. You just couldn’t let this ruin you.

So you hug her tightly, feeling her melt into your shoulder.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m okay. We’ll be okay.” you murmur reassuringly. And you realise that you will be, definitely.

“You didn't give me 30 seconds, by the way. Again. Before you posted that clear hatepost.” she mutters, her voice muffled.

You laugh. “Yep, sorry. The shipping was annoying. Thought that might make them back off.”

She sighs. “You don’t know your fans at all, do you? They think you rejected him, or something. Or you’re keeping it a secret. Or it was a joke, to cause drama. But most of them just think you’re madly in love, so. This isn’t going away. I’m sorry.”

***

Miami weekend. Upcoming anniversary of your favourite race, was how Lando was thinking of it. And you were coming. You’d been spotted around, a week early. Lando was also here early, because he loved Miami too.

You didn’t know that, though. So you weren’t expecting to bump into him in the city, surrounded by people in the busy street right by the track.

“Oh. Lando. Hi.” you say briskly, trying to walk on, but he stops you.

“Coming for the race? I’m going to win again, you know. Unless that would annoy you.” he replies, smiling weakly, but you know he doesn't mean it. That comment clearly hurt.

“Yeah, I am. Have your new hoodie in my bag, if you don’t mind me wearing it.”

He shrugs. “Of course not. Assuming Pinkie-Pie isn’t with you, I can get you into the garage, if you want.”

You pause. “No, don’t worry. And, you know I only posted that to try and shut up some of the fans. I didn't mean it.”

“Yeah, you did. It's okay. And I’m assuming you don't want to be seen with me then? All these fans, taking photos. Sorry. I’ll let you go now.” he nods, and he drops your hand. You hadn’t even realised he was holding it.

Shit, that wasn’t going to help, was it? Suddenly, you're hyperaware of everyone. Cameras, fans laughing and pointing, waiting for Lando to sign caps, or for a photo with you.

“You know, I’m sorry we can’t be friends. You know, maybe if we’d met differently. If we weren't stuck doing those stupid shoots. If we’d met, like here. Naturally. If the fans hadn’t built us into something. I don't know.” you mumble, thinking, and turning away.

“Well, I realised I didn’t want to be friends, like after we first met too.”

That takes you by surprise.

“Huh, was it the head shake? Or the middle finger? Or calling us an inevitable nightmare?” you ask, teasing. You walk back towards him, interested in what he was going to reply.

He shakes his head. “No, I meant I didn't want to be friends.” he responds, lowering his voice.

Oh.

And before you have time to figure out what to say back, or if you can run away, he looks directly at you.

“You know what? Fuck it.” he mutters, and then he’s right there. His face, right against yours. But he doesn’t move, just stares at you expectantly.

“Tell me not to. Push me away. Hiss in my face, tell me how fucking annoying I am. How much you hate me. Say it, right now, and I’ll fuck off. Genuinely, you’ll never see me again, like you wanted.” he whispers, daring you.

And you look at him, dead in the eyes. Admiring his curly hair, and the slight nervousness etched on his smile. And your heart is beating so loudly, it drowns out all the things you could say to him. So you say nothing.

And that's what he wanted. His lips crash onto yours, and your hands snake around his neck and into the bottom of his hair, while he wraps himself around you. You can feel him grinning against your mouth, and you pull away to laugh at him, and he laughs with you.

And he seems a lot less annoying when you go back to kiss him again.

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