#its been some time since i wanted to do this

[cheftsunoda]

no im not in love — ln4

smau

lando norris x !best friend singer reader

yn and lando have been best friends for years— they have also spent those years doing things that ‘best friends’ don’t. morning cuddles, stealing kisses, sleeping together, getting jealous when the other is spotted with someone else. yn releases a song and fans pick it apart…noting it to be about lando. will this cause the two to finally admit that they love each other?

obviously based of the tate songgg

fc : madison beer and various pinterest girlies

⚠️not proofread! slight angst, gets a tiny bit steamy, blah blah⚠️

draft for yall while I proofread and fix part 4 of heal your heart

—

“swear im only sleeping at your house— six times in one week— cause its convenient.”

f1gossipgirls

248,275 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Singer YN LN leaving Lando Norris’ place six days in a row this week — coincidence or something more? The longtime best friends, who’ve known each other since their early teens, have fueled romance rumors for years. With this kind of consistency, fans are wondering if the ‘just friends’ label still applies…

—

username00 : lando! blink if your in love

username10 : she is always there…I don’t think this is out of the ordinary for them. she always pops up in his streams so we kind of know she is there

username5 : he was seen at a restaurant with magui last week too so idk

username7 : 6 days…in a row…this is more consistency than I have with my own employer

username17 : me pretending to be shocked while I’ve had a wedding pinterest board for them since 2019

username20 : the greatest situationship of our generation

username22 : that man is in love I will not elaborate

—

“are you coming over later?” lando asked over the phone and i chuckled to myself.

“i might as well move in at this point,” i said, and felt a smile creep onto my face.

“already made that offer and you said no,” he said, a teasing edge in his voice.

i rolled onto my back, staring up at the ceiling, my heart doing that annoying flutter thing it always did when he got like this — casual, but with just enough meaning to keep me spiraling.

“well…”i trailed off, biting my lip. “that was before you started bribing me with morning coffee and back rubs.”

“you forgot the part where i let you pick the movies and stick your cold feet on me,” he added, smug.

i laughed. “okay, true. honestly, i am starting to think you want me to move in.”

there was a pause — not awkward, just weighted — like he was thinking about how honest he wanted to be.

“i do,” he said simply. “i like having you here.”

that shut me up real quick. for a second, all I could hear was the sound of my own pulse in my ears.

“well,” I said, voice slightly higher than I intended, “guess I’ll start bringing more than just an overnight bag.”

he laughed, soft and warm. “good. ive already got a spot cleared out in the closet.”

—

“Only kinda dressing like you now— ‘cause your clothes they fit me — and that’s good reason.”

yn_ln added a post to her story!

seen by alexandrasaintmleux, lando, maxfewtrell & 2,376,299 others.

lando : looks so much better on you anyways

liked by yn_ln

alexandrasaintmleux : hmm…still at his place…in his hoodie?

liked by yn_ln

yn_ln : yes mum 🙄

liked by alexandrasaintmleux

alexandrasaintmleux: that’s funny…same thing I do with Charles WHO IS MY BOYFRIEND

liked by yn_ln

yn_ln : speaking of charles- tell him to stop being nosey

liked by alexandrasaintmleux

alexandrasaintmleux: WHAT HE SAY FUCK ME FOR - charles

—

i wasn’t planning to steal it.

but there it was, draped over the back of his couch — navy blue, soft-looking, and very obviously worn in. his favorite one. definitely the one I always “borrowed” and conveniently forgot to give back.

i glanced over my shoulder. lando was still in the kitchen, humming to himself and completely unaware of my criminal intentions.

i grabbed the hoodie and pulled it over my head. it smelled like him — some combination of expensive cologne, laundry detergent, and whatever shampoo he used that I secretly liked more than mine.

just as i was admiring myself in the mirror by the door, arms swallowed whole and sleeves dragging over my hands, i heard him behind me.

“oh, really?” he said, amused. “that’s your hoodie now?”

i turned slowly. “possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

he narrowed his eyes. “you are unbelievable.”

“and yet,” i said, tugging the sleeves over my fingers with a grin, “you still like me.”

he rolled his eyes but crossed the room and stood in front of me, eyes flicking down to the hoodie.

“i liked that one.”

i stood on my toes and kissed his cheek. “you still do. you are just sharing it now.”

he gave me the look — the one that meant he was annoyed, but also very clearly melting.

“you know you’re not getting away with this, right?”

i shrugged. “too late. ive already imprinted on it.”

—

“every friend of mine—I told them the same— no im not in love”

“so,” alexandra said, sipping her mimosa with an innocent smile, “how’s your new apartment been?”

I blinked. “My new what?”

Kika leaned forward, chin in hand. “lando’s. six nights this week, babe. we have a group chat. we have been counting.”

i nearly choked on my drink. “okay, first of all, you have way too much time on your hands. second, we are best friends.”

lily raised an eyebrow. “friends who do what, exactly? morning cuddles? sleep together? kiss each other? share clothes? share socks?”

i gaped at her. “that was one time—he had cold feet!”

kika smirked. “he has cold feet, and you’re in love.”

“i am not in love,” i said, louder than necessary, which of course made all three of them lean in.

alexandra tilted her head. “sure. you just smile at your phone every single time he texts you and you wear his clothes like you don’t have a whole closet of your own.”

i opened my mouth. closed it. opened it again. “its a nice hoodie!”

lily grinned. “and he’s a nice man. who makes you pancakes and lets you sleep in his bed.”

kika raised her glass. “to yn and lando— her completely platonic live in boyfriend.”

alexandra clinked hers with a laugh. “who she’s not in love with, of course.”

i groaned and dropped my face into my hands. “i hate all of you.”

“lies,” lily sang. “you love us. just like you love—”

“don’t say it.”

“—landoooo,” all three of them said in unison, full chaos energy.

i sighed. “you are impossible.”

kika winked. “so is pretending you’re not head over heels. just admit it, and we’ll buy you matching mugs.”

—

“And I don’t hate every girl your eyes go to.”

f1gossipgirls

284,265 likes.

f1gossipgirls : After weeks of swirling rumors, YN LN and Lando Norris have finally stepped out… just not with each other. Lando was spotted getting cozy with model Magui Corceiro, while YN was seen out with none other than Magui’s ex, footballer João Félix. Coincidence? Petty? The plot thickens.

username00 : be so for real right now. there is no way this isn’t intentional. YN OUR PETTY QUEEN.

username5 : yn really said fine you want her?? ill get with her ex

username7 : I need to achieve this level of petty bitch some day

username14 : i know alex and kika are somewhere screaming rn

liked by alexandrasaintmleux and kikagomes

username00: OH they r CREEPING

username22 : call me delulu but this could just be for pr

username15 : this is so iconic im screaming

—

yn_ln

liked by kikagomes, charles_leclerc, joaofelix79 & 4,285,257 others.

yn_ln : life lately

—

kikagomes : you are so hot come kiss me

liked by yn_ln

yn_ln : on my way!

charles_leclerc : Floki and Leo play date sometime soon? 😌

liked by yn_ln & joaofelix79

yn_ln : absolutely!

joaofelix79 : a mais linda😻

liked by yn_ln

username00 : damn she really said lando won’t commit?? hard launch

username7 : her and joao lowkey look so good together

username14 : no lando like…that is how you know he is pissed

username15: I went through 5 years of her posts and this is the only one with no Lando like

pierregasly : who is that beautiful woman you are playing chess with??

liked by yn_ln and kikagomes

yn_ln : my girlfriend :)

liked by kikagomes

pierregasly: should’ve known I’d get that response

—

“you didn’t have to post that photo,” lando said, not even looking up from his phone.

i glanced at him from across the room. “what photo?”

“the one with João. the one where he’s practically breathing on your neck.”

i rolled my eyes. “it is called posing, lando.”

“oh, so now it’s posing?” he scoffed. “looked cozy to me.”

i crossed my arms. “right…because you’d know all about looking cozy. how is magui, by the way?”

his head snapped up. “don’t bring her into this.”

i laughed, bitter. “oh, I’m sorry. was that hitting a little too close to home?”

“you are being ridiculous.”

“and you’re being possessive for someone who swears we’re just friends.”

that shut him up for a second. Then he said, quieter, “m’not possessive.”

“really?” i said, stepping toward him. “because you’re acting like I cheated on a boyfriend I don’t have.”

he stood up too, jaw tight. “maybe i wouldn’t care if you weren’t acting like you’re suddenly in love with João fucking Félix.”

i stared at him. “and maybe i wouldn’t care if you didn’t light up every time she laughs at your jokes.”

“you know what?” i muttered, grabbing my jacket. “this is dumb. you do whatever you want. do whoever you want.”

“already have been,” he snapped. “and so have you.”

i was halfway out the door when he called after me, voice softer but stubborn. “you’re the one who said we were just friends.”

i paused, turned slightly. “yeah. well. maybe that was a mistake.”

neither of us said what we really meant. the tension in the air said enough. touching.

—

“I’m not bothered looking up your exes — Matter fact we could probably be friendses.”

twitter!

f1gossipgirls : Oh? YN LN hanging out with Luisa Oliveira — Lando’s ex — in Monaco today? Did not have that on my bingo card.

username2 : guys calm down— her and luisa have stayed in touch since her and lando split. they are always interacting online

username5 : no bc if my ex and best friend were having a meeting about me id cry and never been seen again.

username7 : giving “we both survived the same man”

username10 : forget the drivers. the wags have taken over the season.

username8: yn pls drop a selfie with luisa with the caption “his taste is consistent” PLEASE

—

—

“we got the same taste that ain’t my fault”

it supposed to be a solo coffee run. no drama. no tension.

i pushed open the door to the little corner café, the bell chiming like it always did, and stepped inside—only to immediately bump into someone coming from the opposite direction.

“oh—sorry, I—” my voice caught.

lando.

he froze too, holding two takeaway cups, one already half-spilled from the impact.

“hi,” he said, blinking like he wasn’t sure i was real. “i—wow. hi.”

i swallowed hard. “hey.”

we both stood there, awkwardly, in the narrow doorway, neither moving. my heart thudded. this place — this stupid café — had been ours for so long that it felt wrong seeing him here and not being with him.

“i didn’t think you still came here,” he said, voice low. “not without me.”

“yeah,” I said quickly. “i didn’t. not really. just—craved it today.”

“guess we still have the same taste?” he said and looked down.

“and I just spilled one of yours. cool.”

i couldn’t help the small laugh that slipped out. “you always did have terrible coordination off-track.”

he gave me that sideways smirk i hated how much i missed. “says the girl who once tripped literally just over air…many times.”

“that was one time.”

“it was three.”

the silence after that wasn’t heavy like before. it felt like it always has.

“i miss this,” he said suddenly, glancing around the café, then at me. “i miss you.”

i looked at him then — really looked. the tired eyes. the nervous thumb tapping the side of the cup. the way he kept stealing glances like he was afraid i might disappear if he blinked.

“i miss you too,” i admitted.

he exhaled. like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

“i was stupid,” he said. “about the fight. about João. about everything.”

i bit my lip. “i was too. i didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“i know,” he said. “i didn’t mean to lose you.”

A pause.

“so don’t,” i whispered.

he looked at me like the world tilted back into place. then held out one of the remaining coffees — the unspilled one. my usual.

“still how you like it?”

i nodded, smiling. “perfect.”

and for the first time in weeks, things felt right again — no explanations, no drama. just us. at our table. in our café. where it all began.

—

“if i slip and i somehow say it — you should know in advance, im wasted.”

the bass was shaking the floor. lights pulsed, the air smelled like overpriced tequila and victory, and someone — probably charles — had just climbed onto the DJ booth screaming “he finally won one!”

lando was glowing. sweaty, flushed, champagne-soaked, still in his tee with a medal crooked around his neck. everyone was celebrating like it was the first time F1 had ever seen a podium. maybe it felt like the first time. especially to me. he found me through the crowd, grinning, eyes already glassy with drunk adrenaline.

“there you are,” he said, stumbling slightly as he pulled me in with one arm. “did you see me? like actually see me?”

“hard to miss when you were standing on top of the world,” i yelled over the music.

he laughed, messy and wild, like it was pouring straight out of his chest. “could not have done it without you.”

“lando, i didn’t even—”

“you were there,” he said, serious now, crowd and noise fading behind us. “you are always there. i look for you first.”

i froze, heart stuttering. “you are drunk.”

“yup,” he said. “but not wrong.”

and before i could say anything, before i could stop him or stop myself, he leaned in and kissed me — champagne-flavored, heat-drunk and reckless.

it was a little too fast. a little too desperate. but, it felt right. like something we’d been circling for too long.

he pulled back first, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe it either. “was that—?”

“stupid,” i said quickly.

he nodded. “yeah. super stupid.”

then kissed him again.

—

lando and i barely made it into his hotel room before his hands were back on me, clinging to the zipper on the back of my dress. his lips sucking on my neck and i let out a light moan. he gently pushes me back onto the bed and crawls on top of me.

“ive wanted this for so long.” he admits before his lips brushed against mine.

“me too.” i stuttered as i felt his hands explore me.

before i knew it — we were both undressed and pressed against each other.

“you sure you’re okay with this?” he asked.

“please- lando. i want you.” i said and a smirk appeared on his face. i feel him inside of me and his lips are attached to mine again.

“i-i love you.” i muttered through my moans—not fully realizing what i said.

“i love you more. always have.” he whispered in my ear, driving me crazy.

—

my head was pounding and i could barely open my eyes but as i did i noticed lando beside me. this obviously was not rare but he was…naked. i gasped to myself and looked around the hotel room. our clothes mixed on the floor. i stared at myself in the mirror and noticed hickeys from my neck down to my mid chest. i sighed— trying to recall the events of last night.

last night.

the win. the club. the kiss. the aftermath.

his hands. my shirt on the floor. my heart in his hands.

the words — god, the words.

“i love you.”

i said it first. then he said it back. too fast, too real, too drunk.

but also… not drunk enough to lie.

i carefully untangled myself, trying not to wake him, and grabbed the nearest hoodie i could find — his, obviously — before tiptoeing into the bathroom. i was halfway through drinking water straight from the tap like a gremlin when i heard his voice, raspy and half-asleep behind me.

“you left the bed.”

i turned. “you were starfishing.”

he gave a lazy smile. “you didn’t run.”

“nope, still here. still processing.”

he nodded, rubbing his hands over his face. “same.”

“we said somethings.”

“yeah,” he said blinking at me. “we did.”

“im sorry- i don’t- know. i was drunk.”

“don’t apologize. i meant it, yn.” he said.

“so did i.” i said with a sigh of relief.

“i love you, yn.” he said and pulls me into the bed holding me.

“good because if you said you didn’t i was just gonna throw myself off the balcony from embarrassment.”

“so dramatic, even hungover.” he chuckled, kissing my head.

“consistent…and in love with my best friend apparently.”

“good to hear…I’ve been in love with you for ages.”

—

f1gossipgirls

523,377 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Lando Norris and YN LN caught getting rather steamy in the club after his most recent win.

—

username00 : the audacity to make no im not in love about him and then DO THIS

username2 : well this is one way to make up with your friend after a fight

username5 : me pretending I’m happy for them when really I’m pacing my room like a victorian widow

username7 : You KNOW Lily and Kika are already planning the wedding. Alexandra’s making the guest list. Soft launch era is over.

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, kikagomes, lilymhe

username8 : CAUGHT CREEPING AGAIN

username14 : I don’t care about the driving anymore— need a whole season of this

—

yn_ln

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, lando, carlossainz55 & 7,205,210 others.

yn_ln : okay I lied im in love with my best friend but stream no im not in love about your situationships!!!

—

username7 : girlie we been knew

alexandrasaintmleux: never tell me im wrong ever again— but im so happy for you bb!

liked by author

lilymhe : good thing I started planning the wedding like 3 years ago

liked by author

kikagomes : lost my wife 😭😭

liked by author

yn_ln : you still have me mamas

lando : ive loved you since i first laid eyes on you

liked by author

charles_leclerc : I catch a stray for being nosey when you literally LIED

liked by author

yn_ln : haha sorry charlie…😀

—

lando

liked by yn_ln, maxfewtrell, oscarpiastri & 2,373,289 others.

lando : she loves me so much she made a song to convince the world she didn’t 😎

—

oscarpiastri : good im tired of seeing you mope around the paddock

liked by yn_ln

lando : now you get to watch me smooch yn all the time

oscarpiastri : goodie

maxfewtrell : took you both long enough

liked by yn_ln and lando

carlossainz55 : im glad you both remembered the next morning bc I couldn’t break it to you if you didn’t

liked by yn_ln and lando

—

🐞💐🌺🦋☀️🌷🌞🌟💫🌻⚡️

[ssahotchnerr]

so i just had a tiktok on my fyp of a couple where the guy always instinctively holds out his and behind him whenever he walks/has to walk in front of his fiancée and my mind went instantly to aaron bc let’s be honest he’s a lover boy and he’d 10000% do that 🤭🤭 oh to be loved by him😔😪

intertwined

lover boy aaron loml 🥰 cw; bau fem!reader, established relationship, some protective aaron <333, your usual cm case content, fluff

An annoyed huff left Aaron as he pulled up to the front of the precinct. "You're kidding."

News stations, reporters, and interested civilians flocked the entrance, cameras rolling and snapping pictures the second the SUVs came into view.

You frowned, your eyes quickly scanning for an alternate route. "There isn't a back way?"

"Unfortunately not." Cutting the engine, he moved fast, swiftly unbuckling his seatbelt. You instantly followed suit, zipping up your FBI windbreaker. "Let's go."

Reporters were shouting a flurry of questions before you had properly exited the vehicle. Your unsub had been high profile; a local, popular philanthropist. A fraud nonetheless, using his 'compelling' platform to take advantage of those vulnerable. Convincing them he could help, and then using their weaknesses to a deathly advantage. Evidently, word of his arrest spread like wildfire.

Aaron waited for you at the front of the car, lingering until you were promptly at his side before catching up to the others. He quickly oversaw Dave and JJ pry the guy out, acting as a protective barrier from the crowd - before following.

That meant you were on the back end; Dave and JJ leading the way, then Aaron, and then yourself.

Your strategic, collective job was easy; get through the crowd and use the simple words no comment. It was no problem avoiding their questions, a press conference to be done at a later time to compensate. As for right now, the only concern was getting the guy inside.

After a moment, amidst the frenzy, Aaron's hand gingerly moved behind him, his fingers stretching blindly for yours.

Your heart warmed at the gesture, especially since you were feeling the crowd closing in, but hesitated. Aaron's aversion to public displays in the field rarely faltered, set on the intention of keeping it behind closed doors. You knew that, and you respected that, and you didn’t want him to compromise on it unthinkingly.

Your eyes lifted in the interest of meeting his, to confirm the exposed contact, in front of cameras, but he didn't turn his head. His hand hung waiting as he continuously moved forward, unwavering and unyielding until your fingers brushed against his.

You firmly grasped onto his hand, the warmth of his skin grounding you in the surrounding chaos. Aaron's hand squeezed yours once, twice. A silent: Stay close. Don’t let go. He even pulled you toward him, right to his back, ensuring you were securely within his proximity.

It was disorientating. The flashing of lights, strongly illuminated due to the dark of night. Intertwining, hurried voices - you could barely hear Aaron or the others state no comment. Some knew to keep a favorable distance, but one anchor did manage to bump right into you, his microphone hitting your arm. Not too harshly, but enough to be noticeable.

Aaron felt it, the abrupt jolt of your arm. His head snapped back, and the anchor earned himself a hardened glare in return, receiving a sharp, "careful."

He cowered, shrinking back and blending into his fellow over enthusiastic colleagues.

Aaron's gaze met yours, concern hidden behind his unit chief demeanor. Only you could interpret their soft, discrete meaning. You alright, sweetheart?

You offered a small nod, softening your eyes in response. Further proof that you were in fact: Fine.

His hand tightened its hold, only letting up when the team reached the front doors. He stepped aside, using his backside to hold it open. He ushered you in, his hand shifting to the small of your back momentarily and letting the doors close behind him.

As you followed JJ and Dave into holding, Aaron caught up to you rather quickly - close enough that his shoulder was bumping into yours. Hidden between your sides, his gentle fingers intertwined with yours once more.

[sqgeism]

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 kiss me beneath the milky twilight ! | amphoreus men x gender neutral reader

💌 — ; your first kiss with amphoreus men :)

love mail — short ? ish ? i'm rly like 5050 on it idk whats short anymkre ( ﾟ□ﾟ) hiiii guys ! :D im rly curious which hsr character reminds u of me (totally stolen from airi) LOL this was kind of fun i love intimacy its cute (；^ω^)

anaxa is a bit of a romantic at heart, even if the cold glares and scary aura act as if otherwise. he doesn't know why people want to explain it, he loves you. why would he be cruel if his heart only beats for you? common sense, he thinks.

and you can feel just how fast his heart is beating as you lay on top of him, under the stars and anaxa's back on the grass, stargazing in the silence of the night. words aren't exchanged because you two have come to realize that not every silence needs to be filled, just appreciated. it isn't every day that the world is quiet enough to hear anaxa's soft breaths, some sort of proof he's real. that he's still alive to enjoy this moment. and he can't be more thankful to the gods he doesn't believe in for the kindness he's always cursed them for never having.

"dove?" he calls to you, bringing his hand to your cheek and bringing you up closer to his face. "yes, anaxagoras?" cursed heart, fluttering at the little giggle that comes with you saying his name. you say it so.. fondly, no one could ever compare.

the night has been perfect, your existence has consumed his every thought, and it's made him think about only one thing; "i need to kiss them."

enough time has passed, right? it's been a couple of months, he feels confident, but also hoping that the ground under him would swallow him whole.

all he needs is an indication you also want this, that you've been yearning for his lips the way he's dreamed about yours every night. (pleasedon'tthinkhe'sweird)

while stuck in his train of thought, he's realizing now that he's just been staring at you. smiling all sweetly— which makes this worst—cause you look so pure while his thoughts are far from innocent.

"would.. it be too crude to.. tell you that i want you? that.." you need to stop looking at him like that, with those eyes that capture his attention every time. "that i want you.. to kiss me. kiss me till i grow sick from the taste of you."

and you do, pressing your lips against his as he can only smirk. his request was a trick hypothetical, he'll never want to stop. he's obsessed, you have to deal with him now.

mydei was celebrating your fourth month together, yes he's the type of guy to celebrate monthly anniversaries... sue him for being in love... but yes. four months isn't a lot of time but phainon's been asking about first kisses, which has YET to happen but there's really no rush. he doesn't wanna force anything you're not yet ready for, putting into consideration it's something so big. the first kiss has to be special, which is why he's in the process of making you an entire full course meal of your favorite dishes. all while you sit and look gorgeous by the counter, watching him like he's doing the most attractive thing a man can do. all while in a soft pink apron and his hair tied up since he thinks it gets into the food sometimes which is his worst fear.

what was he thinking again? right... right! not burning his hand. completely lost his train of thought after you complimented how nice he looked at this very moment. he could swear you had a certain look in your eyes, hungry for something entirely unrelated to food. may the aeon's forsake his heart for having it stutter like this. but also don't make it stop, he loves it, a bit too much.

when dinner is served, mydei is sure to tend to your every need. want more salt? he's up to get the shaker. water? refilled the pitcher to the very top as well as your glass. "mydei, i'll just get some tissue from the kitche—" he's already up, and you wanna beat him to it, but he's already stopping your path with the biggest smile. "sweetheart, why are you standing?" he chuckles, and you fake a little pout. "i wanna get it on my own. don't wanna have you do everything."

"if i'm not doing everything for you, i'm not doing things right." he counters while his hands travel to your waist, humming a little murmur of your name. "so perfect. just sit, i'll get them for you."

matching his advances, your arms quietly move to his shoulders, leaning into him as you usually do. "come on, let me do at least one thing for you."

this is starting to sound like it's not just about tissues. "please, just.. one thing."

are you supposed to be leaning into each others lips when you're asking for tissues? probably not. but mydei doesn't want to let this moment slip, he sees your slight hesitation, which if it was up to him he would've totally just kissed that doubt out of you. but he needs to hear the verbal confirmation. a reassurance that he's doing this right. "there are possibilities wherein this moment passes me without ever knowing what your lips feel against mine. please, please indulge in me for just a moment."

it lasted far longer than a moment. <3

phainon is a bit too much for a flirt to not get to the closest thing to a first kiss. cheek kisses is his favorite form of affection at the moment.. gets him all weak in the knees. he loves seeing you lean in for one and he just asks for another one till he's satisfied. greedy, yes. does he care? not really.

in a flowerfield of just the two of you and the prettiest floral scenery, it's a shot straight out of a movie. you're sat next to phainon, putting little flowers in his hair as he gets to admire you, a perfectly fair trade. you get to love the flowers, he gets to love you. all he ever needs to be honest.

"how did i ever get so lucky?" he sighs dramatically, pulling you closer by the waist as you snicker at his theatrics. "your soul is as beautiful as this field. i'm telling you, angel. if you stay any longer then the aeon's might try to take you away from me." his words have never failed to make you feel valued, and it's but a fraction of how he truly feels about you. he knows he will never be able to put everything into mere words, you deserve so much more than just that.

"phai, please. any sweeter and bees will start to use you for honey." and there it is, one of the many things phainon adores about you. just.. effortlessly matching him. his humor, aesthetics, lifestyle, passion.. all those things, you've perfectly matched his own. "i can take a few stings."

because it felt right, he kisses your cheek a couple of times, making you giggle and jokingly try to push him away, even if your strength is basically at zero and almost pulling him closer.

when he's finished, the blue haired hero points at his lips and smirks. "wanna return the favor, baby? right here is perfect."

it isn't the first time he's made this joke, and it probably won't be the last, but for once you feel.. ready. like it's right.

so when you close the gap between your lips and his, phainon absolutely malfunctions for a second. before locking in and kissing you with gentle fervor, one hand barely on your cheek because he wants to reassure you that you're free to pull away.

and when you don't, he's on cloud 9 the whole time. takes you into his arms and you both fall into the flowers, not breaking the kiss for a moment as laughter and lips crashing against one another fill the air.

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

[writeriguess]

Could you please make a fanfic about the reader and katsuki having a baby, like they visit Masaru and mitsuki when the reader was pregnant and that was the last time they saw her and some weeks later katsuki and reader visits them with their baby.

A Welcome Home Like No Other

The first time they visited, the air smelled of home-cooked food and fresh laundry, the warmth of the Bakugo household wrapping around them like a familiar embrace. Masaru had been the first to greet them, his gentle smile making up for the lack of one on Mitsuki’s face—though her sharp eyes softened when they landed on the growing bump beneath your shirt.

"You sure you're eating enough?" Mitsuki’s voice cut through the air as soon as she stepped into the doorway, arms crossed over her chest.

You barely had time to say hello before she grabbed your wrist and pulled you inside. Katsuki let out an irritated grunt but followed without protest, rolling his eyes.

"She eats just fine," he grumbled, slipping his hand into yours as if to reassure you that his mother’s scrutiny was just her way of showing she cared.

Masaru chuckled as he shut the door behind you. "It's good to see you both." He turned to you specifically, his expression warm. "How are you feeling? Katsuki told us you're about seven months along now, right?"

You nodded, resting a hand on your belly. "Yeah, almost eight. It’s been… exhausting, but we’re excited."

"Excited?" Mitsuki scoffed, gesturing for everyone to sit in the living room. "You look like you're ready to pop! You better not be letting this idiot stress you out, or I’ll beat him myself."

Katsuki groaned and flopped down onto the couch beside you. "Yeah, yeah, I get it, old hag. I’m takin’ care of her."

Masaru sighed. "Katsuki, language."

You just laughed, squeezing his knee. "He’s been really good, actually. I know he doesn’t look it, but he’s been patient. Even when I wake him up five times a night just to help me roll over."

Katsuki huffed, arms crossed, but you caught the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. "Not my fault you keep gettin’ stuck like a damn turtle on its back."

Mitsuki barked out a laugh. "Hah! That’s what happens when you knock someone up, dumbass. Your problem now!"

You shook your head with a smile, enjoying the familiar, chaotic energy of their home. It had been a while since you both visited, but despite the teasing, you could see it in their faces—Mitsuki and Masaru were thrilled. This was the first grandchild in the family, and even if Mitsuki would never admit it outright, she was eager to meet them.

"You picked out a name yet?" Masaru asked, leaning forward slightly.

You exchanged a glance with Katsuki before shaking your head. "We have a few ideas, but we want to wait until we see them."

"Good," Mitsuki said firmly. "Don't let this idiot name them something dumb like 'Explosion' or some shit."

Katsuki immediately shot upright. "Oi! I wasn’t gonna do that!"

Masaru smiled knowingly. "You were definitely considering it."

Katsuki muttered under his breath but didn’t argue. You leaned into him with a giggle, resting your head on his shoulder. The conversation carried on, Mitsuki giving unsolicited parenting advice while Masaru made sure you had everything you needed. It was the last time they saw you before the birth.

And then, weeks later, you returned—with your baby in your arms.

The door swung open before Katsuki could even knock properly, Mitsuki standing there with narrowed eyes.

"Took you damn long enough," she muttered, but the moment her gaze fell on the small bundle in your arms, something in her face softened.

Masaru appeared behind her, his usual calm expression lighting up with quiet joy. "Oh," he breathed, stepping forward. "So this is…"

"Our brat, yeah," Katsuki said gruffly, but the way he glanced down at the baby—his baby—betrayed just how smitten he was.

You smiled, shifting the tiny, blanket-wrapped form so they could see better. "Come on, don’t just stand there. Meet your grandchild."

Mitsuki clicked her tongue but held out her arms. "Give ‘em here, then. Before this idiot drops ‘em."

"I ain’t droppin’ my damn kid!"

"You dropped your phone in the sink this morning."

Katsuki scowled, but before he could retort, you gently handed the baby to Mitsuki, who took them with surprising tenderness. She stared down at the tiny face peeking out from the blanket, her thumb brushing over their soft cheek.

"...Well," she muttered, voice suspiciously quiet. "Guess you did something right for once, huh?"

Masaru chuckled, peering over her shoulder. "They’re beautiful."

Katsuki scoffed but had the faintest dusting of pink on his ears. "Course they are. Got the best genes."

Mitsuki rolled her eyes but didn’t let go of the baby. Instead, she rocked them slightly, her movements practiced despite how long it had been since she’d last held a newborn. You swore you saw her eyes glisten for a moment before she cleared her throat.

"So, you pick a name yet?"

You and Katsuki exchanged a glance before you nodded. "Yeah. We named them—"

Katsuki cut in, voice quieter than usual. "—Eiji."

Mitsuki’s lips parted slightly. "Eiji, huh?"

Masaru smiled. "That's a strong name."

Katsuki smirked, pride in his eyes. "Damn right."

The baby stirred slightly, letting out a soft whimper, and before anyone could blink, Katsuki was reaching over, his large, calloused hand cradling their tiny head. The way his fingers trembled just slightly didn’t go unnoticed.

"...Oi, don’t cry now, brat," he murmured, voice softer than you’d ever heard it. "You’re already the strongest in the damn room."

Mitsuki clicked her tongue, but there was no bite to it. "They get that from their mother."

Katsuki scowled, but you just laughed, leaning into him. He grumbled under his breath, but his arm instinctively came around your waist, pulling you close.

Masaru, watching all of this, sighed contentedly. "You know, when you two first started dating, I wasn’t sure what to expect."

Mitsuki snorted. "Yeah, I thought you'd break up in a week."

Katsuki bristled. "Oi—"

"But," Masaru continued, smiling at you both, "watching you two now… I think you're going to be just fine."

Katsuki huffed but didn’t pull away from you. Instead, his gaze lingered on the baby in Mitsuki’s arms—his baby, his whole world.

"Tch," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "...Yeah. We will."

And in that moment, with laughter in the air, love in their eyes, and Eiji safe in their arms, the Bakugo family had never felt more complete.

[dalishious]

This is an excerpt from my work-in-progress large meta examination on thet qunari from DAO through to DATV. But since that is taking a long time, I thought it might be worth it to post this piece alone now, since it works on its own as well.

-----

The Qunari Design

In Dragon Age: Origins (DAO) the qunari all had the same brown metallic skin. This is because the developers only bothered to make one skin tint for the use of Sten, the qunari companion. They gave this skin tint to every other qunari NPC as well. This is also why there is only the one hairstyle that Sten uses for qunari, with the few NPCs either being bald or using his same hair. Essentially, Sten was the blueprint for all qunari, originally.

No qunari have horns in DAO like they do in the rest of the franchise. According to developer David Gaider, the qunari were always meant to have horns, but did not in DAO because it would have meant Sten couldn’t wear a helmet. This led to the lore decision that some qunari are born hornless as a rare genetic quirk, to account for the later change in design.

Dragon Age II (DA2) saw a drastic change in how the qunari look. Unlike the elves, humans, and dwarves in DA2, the qunari do not use head morphs allowing for individual designs; they have standardized creature models. (The only exception in the base game is the Arishok, who has his own special model.) The qunari moved from having Sten’s brown skin to grey metallic skin, their eye sclera was changed to black, and they were given the horns the developers originally wanted.

It is a well-known fact that DA2 was under immense development restrictions that led to all kinds of cut corners. However, it is worth pointing out the negative impact of choosing an entire race’s design functionality as one of those cut corners. The qunari in DA2 are, for the most part, treated like nothing but unthinking monsters for Hawke to squish, no different than giant spiders or darkspawn. Making them all look the same adds to this effect; they are stripped of any sense of personable traits.

A medium between DAO and DA2 was reached in Dragon Age: Inquisition (DAI), through introducing the player’s ability to make a qunari protagonist. DAI allows the player to choose between few brownish and a few greyish skin colours for their qunari character. The black sclera was changed to white again, as the qunari use the same eye texture and colouring functionality as all the other races. The character creation works just the same for qunari as it does for any other race, allowing for individual appearances left to the player’s imagination. However, as far as NPCs go, there are no qunari in the base game of DAI, making Iron Bull as a companion the only qunari presence until the Trespasser DLC. This does not leave much room to judge the appearance of other qunari characters.

DATV is just like DAI in its character creation capabilities, with the one expansion being the player can make their character have black sclera like in DA2 if they so choose. For all DATV’s faults with the qunari, at least we can say that the character creation is great. Taash and their mother Shathann also have lovely, unique designs. Where things become uncomfortable with the qunari designs… is in the Reavers.

It is established lore from the previous franchise installments that Reavers gain their special powers through drinking draconic blood, though these Antaam Reavers have been altered by Ghilan’nain. My personal assumption is that blighted dragon blood was used. Regardless of how these Reavers came to be, they are unprecedented, horrific monsters, and it is only ever qunari that we see subjected to this kind of disfigurement. This really doubles down on turning them into standardised monsters like in DA2.

Going through all these qunari design changes can make a player’s head spin. But I believe it is an important, visual example of an overarching theme with the qunari: the developers have never really cemented what they want them to be. The writing throughout the years suggests the same.

-----

Stay tuned for the full piece sometime in the future, where I will get into the writing!

[lilyinmysoul]

Crybaby

Joel Miller x FReader

WC: 2.6K

Summary: You get hurt after working on the farm all day. Joel fixes your injury and your mood.

Tags: Fingering (F receiving), kisses over underwear, blood in many capacities; ingestion of blood from wounds, ingestion of menstrual blood (brief), description of dead animal, reader is moody, implied large age gap—I imagine reader to be early twenties or something, unsanitary wound cleaning practices, Joel calls reader ‘Kiddo’ once—I am who I am.

Note: It’s been a while since I’ve written anything, and I suddenly remembered how much I love it after putting it off. With this one, I was thinking of sweet and fluffy—which it is—but I had to go and add blood as a major element, it’s not that bad. Pretty tame. I imagine this takes place on a little farm not unlike Ellie and Dina’s. Post outbreak.

“Ace! Come back, boy!”

You’d never loved an animal more, but the dog was a menace. A disobedient menace, and the horse could have been fed and brushed already in the time you’d spent trying to lure Ace back to the house.

The fence around the house was short and minimal, but the dog knew never to cross it unless accompanied by either you or Joel for hunting. So as it came closer in your view, you figure that you might get a break from the chasing.

“Ace, slow… slow down, boy,” you call breathlessly, pace quickening and boots trampling over the tall grass. Your walk turns to a jog, which turns to a run. “Do you want some food, Ace? Just come… back. Come back.”

A bark sounds from the Canine’s mouth, and you wonder if he’s punishing you. Joel had asked you to get Ace inside fifteen minutes ago, and it looked like it’d take fifteen more. Maybe you just needed to tire him out.

The dog is still running, but you’re gaining on him. You must look silly running in circles around the backyard, but you figure that once he stops, you’ll convince Ace to follow you back in.

“Ace… baby, come… shit!” When your ankle twists, it only causes a few throbs that jolt up your leg. However, when you hit the ground, it’s your knee that erupts with pain. “Damn you, dog!” Your yell is lost on him, and you watch his tail as he dashes through the grass.

Joel had always told you to wear pants while working outside, but you always much preferred your dresses in the sun. You pull back the hemline, now dusted lightly with dirt, revealing a knee skinned and cut, trickling with little drips of blood. It doesn’t look nice, and you look down at the ground around the wound for a moment, your eyes spacing out on the red rock perpetrator that did this to you as your knee aches like it’d been shot.

You can’t get up yet, so you stare out onto the field, a hot tear of both frustration and pain threatening and conquering your eye, dripping down your face—to your dismay. In your head, you curse that hell raising dog and wish it was dinner time. You are hungry and angry and hurting. The free hand that doesn’t hug your leg to your chest comes down in an aggravated slap against the dry earth underneath you, as if to make it suffer as much as you are, right now. You wipe away the frustrated tear with your wrist, careful not to touch your eyes with your dirty fingers.

Slowly, you lift yourself from the grass, your white dress now tainted by the earth. You set your eyes on the house and begin the walk back to it, your steps a little shaky and slow as your knee slowly drips. The house comes closer and you think that maybe your slight limp is making the trek even more painful. You hope that Joel won’t call you dramatic, and despite the only mild pain, you want to cry.

You swat a fly from your eyes, continuing your walk as you near the old wooden steps to the porch. The house was quaint, and its old, peeling paint felt like home in a way nothing else had. You could cry here if you wanted to, and you make a face at Ace, who sits comfortably by the decrepit mailbox as your boots step up onto the planks. The dog lounges comfortably and it pisses you off further, another wave of hot tears threatening your eyes as you slump down onto the bench on the deck.

Immediately, your elbows find your knees and your chin finds your hands, and you bury your face in them as you let out a frustrated sob. It’s a rather trivial thing, and you don’t think you ought to be crying, which upsets you further.

Through the gaps in your fingers, you see Ace stand up with a lighthearted growl, trotting up the wooden steps and over to the screen door, which is now opening on its rusty hinges.

You see Joel’s shadow on the deck through the mesh as the metal frame is pushed open, and he clicks his tongue at the eager dog.

“There y’are,” he mutters. Looking up you see that his gaze is focused on Ace, a dish of food in his hands. There’s a smell of meat and blood wafting from it—certainly not appetizing, but it reminds you of your hunger.

The dog gives a quiet bark, moving jumpily as Joel sets the bowl down on the bottom steps. He hadn’t seen you yet, you don’t think, so you wipe your face as you watch him.

Joel Looks out for a moment on the grass field outside, his eyes scanning the yard for your figure. You hadn’t brought the dog in, and you hadn’t been back when he asked you to be. He surveys the field for a moment before turning back toward the door, now finally laying eyes on your sitting and slouched figure.

When he sees the tear streaks on your face, he says your name softly, yet exasperatedly. You meet his eyes, a little embarrassed, feeling petulant yet dignified.

His eyes wander down to your knee, red and cut, stinging and exposed, and then to your dress, a little dirty and stained with a bit of dirt and grass. He inhales and rubs his forehead. “Angel, what happened?”

You look over at Ace, your anger having subsided into a moody melancholy. The dog is happily lapping up rabbit guts as you rest your chin in your hands, annoyed. “I fell.”

“Okay…” Joel coaxes. He’s unsure whether the source of your sadness is the pain of your injury, or if you’re just feeling gloomy. He tries to be patient with you; he really does, but it’s hard. You don’t answer for a moment.

“You said I could make Ace’s food,” you state, your voice almost whiny. You didn’t even want to make it—it grossed you out—but still, you complained. You brush a few strands from your face, looking back down at the cracking and dull wood beneath your feet.

Joel exhales again, running a weathered hand through his graying hair. He still had to feed the horse, water the plants. He should probably cut the grass, too… “Baby, you didn’t finish gettin’ Ace. He needs t’a eat.” You don’t answer, so he adds, “And I know you don’t like dealin’ with the meat. Don’t play like you do.”

His voice was getting more stern, impatience creeping into it.

“Well… I fell,” you repeat. You want his help. You want some kind of attention, some affirmation of your feelings. You don’t know why you’re being so pettish, but right now, you’re hurt and you want your way—without being made to feel bad. Joel tried to keep you comfortable, but he couldn’t always feed into your moods. It was difficult, but he would do his best.

Joel takes another glance at your knee, now more bloodied than before. He exhales again. “I’ll patch you up, angel. Just… hang tight.” He turns back toward the screen, and you watch it open, then shut with a clank behind him.

You watch Ace lap up the rest of the food and run off. You stick your tongue out at him as he goes.

It takes a few minutes for Joel to get back, and you listen to the rustling of the wind in the trees, the blue sky momentarily lightening your mood. You watch the barn, still and quiet, and gaze out on the yard as the dog runs in broad circles. Your anger has lifted, but your leg still hurts.

When Joel comes back out, he has a little box of first aid, a small collection that remains hidden under the bathroom sink. “Alright…” he stands in front of you for a moment before kneeling down, slowly, the quiet air disturbed with the pop of a hip and the scuffling of his boots on the deck.

Your hard gaze softens at Joel’s large body kneeled in front of you. It felt nice, now, having him there. You could see, on the treeline, the sun beginning to slink away and out of view, to soon be replaced by the moon, but not before the sky would turn a vibrant yellow that you felt in your soul like honey.

“Alright,” Joel tugs one of your legs lightly, urging you to uncross them as he takes the strings of your left muddy boot. The thing was heavy, a bit loose, and perhaps contributed to your fall. “What happened, baby?”

“I was trying to get Ace, and he wouldn’t come, and I tripped. And there was a rock that I… I kinda hit, and so, now it hurts…” you rattle. The memory causes another hot wall of tears to threaten your eyes, even though the moment is long gone. Joel’s fingers move nimbly at your laces, and when he hears the shake of your voice, he glances up and his gaze softens. There was something about your teary eyes that never let him rest until they were dry again.

“You’re okay. M’sorry.” Joel kisses lightly on your knee, a bit of blood tainting his dry lip and he licks it away, pulling off your boot and moving to the next. When he removes the other shoe, he sets them both aside, and his fingers are light as they rub the area around the cut on your knee. “M’sure he didn’t mean it.”

Your response is almost snappy. “Yeah, of course he didn’t mean it. He’s a dog.”

Joel gives you a warning look. “Watch it.” He grabs an alcohol wipe from the box, tearing open the paper packet. “Don’t give me that, kiddo.”

He sometimes wonders if your petulance is a punishment from God for choosing someone so much younger. He loves you to death, but god, he’s getting too old to run around after you. It’s gotten better, lately, as you’ve settled in on the farm, but… you are so much.

“Gonna sting,” Joel warns, placing his free hand, big and warm on your unharmed knee. You brace yourself, readying yourself for the burn in your open wound. He dabs the gash lightly with the wipe, the material turning a light pink with blood, and a little more leaks from the cut. You hiss, drawing in a breath through your teeth.

“Ow…” you murmur as he draws away the wipe, dropping the sheet into the first aid box, discarding it and focusing his gaze back on you.

Joel’s thumb rubs over the untouched skin once again. “There y’go, baby. All clean…” he presses a slightly sluggish kiss to the wound and you tense, before relaxing into the feeling. It stings slightly every time his lips touch your knee, but it feels nice to have him here. Joel’s eyes watch as another dribble of bright red blood emerges, and his head dips as he licks it away. Soon enough, the drop has disappeared, replaced by the glassy shine of his saliva.

“Thanks,” you whisper, the sound almost lost to the wind. You were no longer teary-eyed.

He nods almost imperceptibly, a soft smile showing on his face as he rubs your thigh through your smudged dress. “We’re gonna clean this one. We’ll get it out,” he lightly pushes up the dress, your thighs becoming visible and his hand continues to rub.

“I like this dress,” you say almost mindlessly, looking out on the grass. The sky is darkening into a deep orange, and you feel both a contented warmth and a hungry growl in your stomach. Joel’s hand consolingly rubs your upper thigh as he gently raises your dress a little more, making your white panties visible.

You look down at Joel, eyes meeting his as his fingers move on to caress your hips under your dress. Your legs spread a little bit as he gets closer, leaning his head on your thigh, warm breath hitting your skin. “You wanna go back out and help me with the work?”

After a few moments of thought, you shake your head. “No,” you tuck some wandering hair behind your ear. “But I’m a little hungry.”

“M’kay, baby…” he tiredly grumbles, kissing up your thigh again. He reaches the lacy trim of your underwear, nuzzling gently into it. “‘M hungry, too.” A kiss to the fabric.

That elicits a laugh from you—the first one of the evening. Joel smiles into your panties, a huff of a laugh leaving his mouth. He breathes in, pressing a kiss to the cotton.

A thick thumb comes between your legs, pressing that sensitive spot through the fabric, and you both hum. The air is a perfect kind of warm, and you hear the first crickets begin to chirp.

“I’ll make you sumthin’…” Joel’s tone is noncommittal as he continues rubbing you. The sensation overpowers the still present, light throbbing of your knee, the pain slowly easing away.

You mumble an ‘okay’ when you feel his fingers slip under the fabric, sliding gently through your folds and eventually sinking into you once he finds the spot. Another raspy exhale leaves you, and you look down at Joel’s face, half hidden in the shadows of your lap as his fingers gently move in and out, curling softly.

“Mm, yeah…” Joel always seems to enjoy this just as much as you do—if not more, and you can tell by the way he murmurs under his breath; he must be hard, but he pays it no mind. None at all. “You still hurtin’?”

“Not very much,” you reply, your words low, now, matching the sun as it makes way for moonlight, darkness creeping into the sky. In response, Joel kisses your upper thigh, inner thigh, hip, as his fingers continue to move. They go a little deeper now, curve a little harder, plunge a little quicker.

Joel’s fingers quicken with a newfound slickness, his digits feeling wetter yet. He wonders if you’d missed him extra while working outside today—he wouldn’t blame you.

Your little grunts are the only sounds overlapping with the chirping of bugs and the buzz of the porch light, and Joel picks back up on the rubbing of your thigh with his free hand, his other dedicating itself to your pussy. One shoeless foot taps on the deck, harder each time Joel touches that spot, and more frequently with the closer you become.

Joel repeats your name a few times, breathily, as he feel your muscles tighten.

You tap your feet quicker, just barely able to make out the wet sound of his ministrations. He kisses your thigh once more, and when you cum, he kisses again, open mouthed and sucking.

He lets out a light chuckle, taking in your pacified expression as opposed to your previous state. “Needed that, huh…?” If you do answer, he doesn’t catch it as he withdraws his sloppy fingers from inside of you.

At first, in the dimness of evening, he doesn’t notice anything amiss, but it soon aware of the red liquid blending with and bleeding into the wetness on his fingertips. Blood mixes with spit as he examines it, and you look down, too.

“Oh, angel,” Joel mutters, looking down at his fingers once more before pressing them to his tongue, running them down its length and removing the excess liquid on your dress. “We’ll get this off… shit.”

You grumble when you see the pop of color, and again when Joel notices the steady trickle of blood into your underwear. The red is rich and overbearing, creating a deep patch of the color in your panties.

Joel stands reluctantly, kicking your boots off to the edge of the porch, forgetting them. “Get up, baby. I’ll get ‘ya somethin’ to eat… clean ‘ya up.”

Thanks for reading, I encourage comments and asks, all that

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - off the record (part three)

part three ; iced oat milk latte, no sweetener

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

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

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

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

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

playlist here

series masterlist here

Mondays in Washington D.C are a bloodsport.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Flattery gets you everywhere, Jenna.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s…” you nod slowly. “Cool.”

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

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

Would you—

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

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

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

“Does… anyone else know?”

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

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

The ‘except for you’ is silent.

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

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

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

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

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

And that, makes the bloodsport kind of worth it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You slump completely into your chair.

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

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

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

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

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

God is testing you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your soul briefly detaches from your body.

“How—”

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

What the actual fuck is going on?

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

You’re still staring at the cup.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shouldn’t remember.

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

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

He smirks. “Is it working?”

Absolutely.

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

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

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

Damn it.

It’s perfect.

It’s exactly what Jenna brings you each morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clearly, it won’t be you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Depends on who you ask” she responds drily.

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

Jungkook: 2. You: 1

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

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

She doesn’t answer that, just hums thoughtfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Worse: he’s enjoying this. Visibly.

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

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

She seems quite amused by the two of you.

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

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

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

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

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

Still, he doesn’t get to win.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You—what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somehow, your friendship works.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I literally am.”

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

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

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

Perk #2000 of having a rich best friend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The moose head is definitely judging you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry—what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So… you’re basically unemployed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ha ha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Paul.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You absolutely do not glance at the moose for help.

“Yeah,” you say. “I do.”

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

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

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

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

Nope. Not going down that road.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

“I—what? Wait. Hold on. No.”

She pouts dramatically. “Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

“Wait, what?”

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

The words feel like wet socks in your mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Take it all. Godspeed, Rosalie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unfortunately, Jungkook sneaks his way in there too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emma snorts at that. “Rough night?”

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

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

“Yup,” you sigh. “Still rich.”

“Goals.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jungkook Jeon, Contributor.

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

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

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

Wait.

What did that line just say?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three things immediately occur to you:

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

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

WHAT THE FUCK.

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

Emma glances over. “You okay over there?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The very one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Both are plausible.

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

Emma winces, “That’s deep.”

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

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

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

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

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

But Kara Devlin was yours. She was earned.

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

And then time slows.

It’s 10:02 AM.

Ten. Zero. Two.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today is going great. Perfect. Fantastic.

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

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

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

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

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

Weird. Not totally impossible, but unsettling.

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

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

It really does sound exactly like you.

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

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

But then… you see it.

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

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

The inconspicuous man chuckles to himself.

Who the hell is that?

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

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

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

Oh. Oh.

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

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

They look a lot like Jungkook—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wasn’t theft, just initiative.”

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

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

He looks mildly offended. “Was that necessary?”

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

“It’s a free country.”

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

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

You deadpan. “You… think here.”

“Yes.”

“In public.”

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

“Oh good lord.”

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

You scoff. “Which was..?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

masterlist + ask

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[siraquila]

You certainly may, and I do want to note I quite like Vimes as a character, because he tries to be better, and fails in very realistic ways. He gives us a glimpse inside of the thin blue line, on how someone can do a lot of good, and still hurt people through unreflected behaviour, and unquestioned assumptions. Hell, Vimes is a better policeman then most IRL officers(unlike some other cops who are definitly part of ACAB despite some fans insistance otherwhise, looking at you Disco Elysium)).

Regarding Troll Culture, how many human cultures have... frankly questionable cultural religious practices, especially since Disc World troll, even at their... most overheated have been repeatetly shown to be able to learn and communicate without violence.

Yes, and that shows unreflectedness on his part, because a servant taking from their employee is VERY different to a copper taking from the community they are supposed to protect. Just like Vimes wouldn't approve of an employer taking leftovers from their employees he should not approve of coppers taking from the community.

You mean like the days before, where Vimes was purposfully avoiding A.E Pessimal so he wouldn't have to answer questions like "Why are you employing a known, notorious and unrepentent petty thief as a watchman? The afformentioned troll violence? A frankly stupid question attempting to grade police officers by number of arrests(which I fully admit does not reflect well on AE Pessimal, but does not invalidate the rest of his complaints(which include proof of someone(look we all know its Nobby, Vimes knows its Nobby) stealing money from the watch. And Vimes reaction to that isn't that he does not have the time, but that he does not want to bother explaining it to AE Pessimal, while also wondering if he has a functioning brain(in the german translation at least). And then, when AE Pessimal insists on answers(admittetly at a bad time), Vimes reaction is to throw him into the deep end without training, while making sure everyone gets the message that they should try to intimidate him as much as possible. I like Vimes, and he is a bastard, and we are doing noone any favors by smoothing over or ignoring his bastardy traits, even the ones that aren't bastardy in a cool way.

[mahmahmahmysharona]

When you and Bob have your first time…twice (pt. 2)

Bob Reynolds x Avenger Reader (Part 6/6)

*smut warning*

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5

You and Bob managed to get past your seemingly failed attempt at sleeping together pretty quickly.

If anything, it calmed you. You knew now that it couldn't be rushed, especially for the both of you. Too much pressure and one of you might implode — and considering one of you is arguably the most powerful person in the universe, it wasn't really a risk worth taking.

So, you let it be. For exactly a week, until you were sent out on a last minute mission.

It went terribly.

The fact that they saw you coming wasn't your fault — but Ava's near-miss and subsequent injuries were.

You were supposed to be covering her. But then you got distracted trying to reload a gun, and before you knew it she was on the floor, a blade sticking out of her side because she wasn't able to ghost-out in time and you weren't paying attention to warn her.

She stayed conscious, which was a good sign, but the return back to the tower was horrific, watching Yelena switch out bloody bandages and trying to keep her awake.

You, meanwhile, were a mess. You cried when you thought nobody was looking. How could you be so stupid? You had only one purpose in life — only one thing you were really good for — and you failed at that, too. If you couldn't help protect your team, then what was the point?

Ava could read your mind, telling you, "It's okay. It's not your fault." She was even cracking jokes by the time you arrived back. You smiled and nodded, but the smile faded as soon as you helped get her down to rest and you returned to your room. When you caught yourself in the mirror, you were taken aback. You hadn't even realized the extend of your own hits. You looked like shit, which only added to your dismay.

Then, right on cue, the door creaked open. Bob. He stepped inside, just as he always did after you got back.

You were certain you'd never seen anyone else in your life make the expression he made in that moment: like their heart is climbing up through their throat.

"I heard things went bad," he said. He moved towards you, but you stepped back. You didn't want to be held right then. You didn't deserve it.

"I'm just...gonna take a shower," you told him. You didn't even wait for a response. You went into the bathroom, stripped your clothes, and stood under the water, trying to scald yourself of your misery and guilt.

What good are you?

By the time you got out and wrapped a towel around yourself, you expected Bob to have given up and returned to his own room. But when you stepped out, he was still there, sitting on a chair and playing with his fingers. Of course he wouldn't give up on you. And then you feel even worse for thinking he might have done.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, standing up.

God, you thought. You don't deserve any of this. Him. Them. This job. Your eyes welled up with threatening tears, and you wiped them away before they even had a chance to fall.

"I failed to do my job, it's as simple as that," you said. "Now Ava's in for a difficult recovery, and the team won't trust me."

"Of course they will."

You shook your head. "I'm only valuable because of what I can do, not because of who I am. And now I've just proved I can't even do that. Maybe they don't even need me."

You laughed, because it was all you could bear to do. You didn't even know what you needed, what would lessen some of the burden that had been nipping at you since you stepped foot back in the tower.

But Bob did. He saw you standing there, all your well-concealed self-hatred finally coming to the surface, and there was only one way he could think to stop it in its tracks.

He reached forward and took your arm in his hand, pulling you towards him. When you reached him, he wrapped his other arm around your waist and kissed you deeply.

You stumbled a little, not expecting this, and from Bob of all people. But he had you. He always had you, and as he kissed you, you found yourself melting under his grip.

It took a lot of strength to reach up and wrap your arms around his neck, but you managed. Then you were on each other, pressed against one another as close as you could without wondering when the universe might collapse in on itself between you, right there.

He was pulling you out of your own mind, like you had done for him so many times before. It was intoxicating for you both. You wouldn't have been surprised if things had stopped there — if you had both pulled away from the edge before you'd toppled over it — but you were surprised when you suddenly felt his hand drop down to the back of your thigh, dripping the skin there through your towel.

"I need you," he said into your ear. You could feel the words slipping into you and making your spine tingle. "Can I have you now?"

"Yes." You think you said it. Maybe you didn't say anything at all. But suddenly, you felt his hand gripping the towel at your back and tearing at it, pulling it free and dropping it to the ground beside you. Jesus, was this real? You only needed to look at his eyes, which looked you up and down with almost painful reverence, to confirm that it was.

Then he was on you again, his palms dragging against your bare skin and leaving trails of goosebumps all over as he kissed you harder, faster. He moved you around to position himself on the side of the bed, using his hands to bring you to him until you stood between his knees.

He pressed his kisses against your stomach, your ribs, the mounds of your breasts, leaving you breathless and gripping onto his hair just to keep yourself upright. But that was nothing compared to what he did next, dragging his lips down to where your thighs met, where you were already wet and waiting for him.

When his tongue found you, you gasped. Despite all the things you'd done, all the chaos you'd seen, nothing had thrown you as much as the feeling of his tongue lapping at you, grabbing handfuls of your thighs and pressing you onto his mouth even more.

"Holy shit," you breathed, pulling at his shirt. You wanted it gone. You wanted him to be as exposed as you, ready for you to climb on top of him and take him in. But he wasn't letting you, instead grabbing your hands and pulling them down by your sides, holding you there.

You wondered briefly if this was still Bob. But then he loosened his grip and ran his thumb across your wrist, and you knew it was. This was just a new side of him you never even knew he had.

Honestly, Bob didn't know he had this in him either. It astounded him that at times he wasn't able to put one foot in front of the other without messing up, but now, he had you wrapped around his little finger. He hated having such little control over his own life, always at the mercy of the darkness that hid inside him. But now, he was taking control, and there wasn't anything dark or regretful about it. In fact, he thought he could have burst into a ball of light right then and there, listening to the sound of your whimpers.

"Please," you said. "I want— I want you."

When his mouth left you, you were finally able to wrestle his shirt off of him. And as he leaned back, you took the chance to press him down onto the bed and mount him, taking his face in your hands and pressing your mouth against his like it was the only oxygen in the room.

Underneath, he shifted to remove his pants, and you finally felt his hard length pressing against you. You ground down onto him, earning a moan from him into your neck. There was no rush, but you felt as though you might pass out if you didn't have him soon. You reached down and freed him from his underwear, your breath hitching in your throat as you felt him bound against your core.

He was already reaching down, positioning himself at your entrance. "Jesus," he breathed. "You're perfect."

"You couldn't bring yourself to say anything to that. What was there to say? Instead, you gently perched at the tip of him, then lowered yourself onto him, slowly.

Someone whimpered. Someone gasped. It was hard to tell anything anymore, since the only thing you could focus on was how perfectly he fit into you. How good it was to feel him in the pit of you. As you rocked yourself on top of him, rising and falling with the lift of his hips, his hands found your face and used it to lower you down to meet him.

He kissed you, your bodies grinding together in a quickening pace, desperate to get closer, deeper. But there was nowhere else to go. Nobody had ever got this close to you before, and you hoped he could tell that just by the pounding of your heart. (He had to feel that too, right?)

When you felt one of his hands slip between you both, his thumb finding your core and caressing it, you could barely stop yourself from letting out a yelp. Instead, you settled for moaning his name, and he suddenly reacted with a new urgency.

You were growing close and wanted to tell him as much, but there was no way in the world you could form any sort of words right now. Instead, you grabbed his free hand, locking your fingers together and squeezing it tight. You found the wave, finally letting out a small cry as you finished. When you came to, his hand had found the base of your throat, and he was whispering in your ear feverishly, "I'm gonna— Can I—"

"Yes, yes, please."

That was all he needed. He buried himself in you, shuddering with his final thrusts and pressing his face into your shoulder. You waited until you were fully certain he was through — and then a few moments longer to catch your breath — before lifting yourself off and settling on the bed next to him. Between you both, your hands found each other.

"You didn't break anything," you told him after a while. "What does that mean?"

You didn't look at him, but you could hear him smiling. "It means it was perfect," he said, exhausted. "Was it— good for you?"

"Of course."

Everything else — the mission, the dread, the future — that would come back to you. It would never go away. But now it was different, because you had each other. Two fucked-up peas in a pod, trying to find some grasp on reality. He was your reality now, and he was rolling over to press his lips against your cheek.

You regretted nothing.

(That's the last of this miniseries, but open to requests if anyone has ideas for Bob one-shots they want to see!)

Tag list: @purplefluffycows @i-shall-abide @avengersinitiative2012 @tatsunesworld @lovelyypythoness @yujyujj @tortilla-chips-and-allioli @thek8archive @k1ttyjuice

[postredevainilla]

YOU'RE SO PRETTY :3 p1 of the ":3 with benefits" series

pairing: college aged loser yuuta x college aged lesser loser freader

summary: yuuta :3s his way into some pussy

cw: unprotected sex, objectification, mild degradation, dubious enthusiasm, hentai references, loss of virginity, the tags make it sound a lot worse than it rlly is

you’re one more “mommy pls sit on my face” away from setting your phone on fire.

every time you open hinge, it’s the same photo getting all the attention: the cosplay pic. it was meant to be pg-13, sure—but between the school uniform blazer fighting for its life and your very intentional push-up bra, you’re not exactly shocked by the thirst. just exhausted.

“let me see em 😍”

“damn ur tits could cure my depression fr”

“mommy?”

“pls ruin me 🧎🧎🧎”

you sigh, aggressively pressing the little “x” next to every like. the app is one second away from being deleted, until a single comment stops you:

“you’re so pretty :3”

…what the fuck?

you blink. then blink again. is this bait?

you click his profile, expecting the worst, and are met with a guy who looks like he just rolled out of bed after crying over a studio ghibli film. his hair’s messy in a kind of hot way, dark bangs falling over his eyes. his profile pic is just him awkwardly holding up a peace sign, next to a cropped-out friend with green hair. you clock the dark circles under his eyes immediately. he looks like he hasn't slept in 36 hours. he’s kind of cute.

prompt: "two truths and a lie?"

“i’ve been to africa. i have a cat back home named rika. i’ve never cried during an anime.”

you match and reply.

“thank you :)”

you shift in bed, suddenly very aware of how dry your texting game is. you’ve never dated, never been in a relationship. technically, you’ve never even had sex. unless fingering yourself to doujinshi counts. probably not.

still, you send:

“you’re pretty too :)”

instant reply.

“oh my gosh thank you :3”

“i would be so honored if i got to kiss you :3”

oh god.

somewhere, your best friend is cursing herself for not warning you about men who use emoticons like “:3”. because three days later, you’re in his twin xl dorm bed, and everything is spiraling.

...

yuuta's panting like he just ran a marathon, eyes wide and locked on your tits as he jackhammers into you like he’s trying to win a prize.

“fuck, your pussy’s so warm—so pretty—oh my god—feels so good—”

the bed is creaking. you’re folded like laundry. there’s an unopened cup ramen on his desk vibrating with each thrust. he’s got your legs hooked over his shoulders and your brain is doing olympic-level gymnastics trying to process how this soft-spoken guy who said “:3” just days ago is currently rearranging your guts like it’s his life's mission.

and yet—he looks so tired. his bangs are stuck to his forehead with sweat, and those dark circles? even darker now. like he hasn’t slept since you two matched. and despite looking like he could collapse at any moment, he's somehow still going. and talking.

“your tits are unreal i’m gonna die—fuck—can you feel how good this is for me?”

you groan. not from pleasure, but because your eye just caught the anime poster on the ceiling. a busty anime girl in a microscopic bikini is bending over, ass out, cheeks flushed, pussy print visible. you don’t know if you want to laugh or cry.

he moans. you flinch. he misreads the whole situation and starts palming your boobs like they’re stress balls, pinching a nipple with such confidence you wonder if he’s actually done this before or if he just watched a lot of hentai and decided that was enough.

your phone buzzes from his desk. it’s your best friend.

how’s your hinge date?

you close your eyes.

you really should’ve deleted that stupid app.

taglist: @isagistar sttaejoon-blog

a/n i absolutely did not write this from personal experience.

[peonpeonpeonpeonpeon]

So Very

ׂ╰┈➤ summary: during the visits of NBC, you and malleus found yourselves bumped into an empty hall in NBC..

—. A/N: malleus xreader, reader is yuu, you guys kept staring at eachother so…. (TW: suggestive, this scenario came to mind from an art made by @/kansetsu001 on twt so credits to them pls!!)

word count: 1.2k

You had sneaked away from tonight’s ball, well, after Malleus’ and the other’s performance. It was fulfilling your boredom yes but you needed some fresh air and quietness within the halls of the school, and with the moon shooting its light through the colored stained glass, it made the atmosphere more peaceful than anything. Initially, you sneaked out the ball with Deuce, Epel and Grim, yet they weren’t with you right now because Deuce were caught with Riddle and who knows where Epel and Grim now. But still, being alone isn’t so bad.

As you enjoy your time on your own, you hear rings of bells, it wasn’t from the Bell of Salvation. Who could it be? You turned your head around and see Rollo Flamme, the antagonist of the previous night. Whom planted a dangerous plant all over Fleur City, especially in the Noble Bell college, and whom trapped you and your friends in that old sewerage. You scrunch up your nose, still conscious of his action hours earlier.

“No fret, Yuu. I guarantee you, I am not here to harm you.” Your brow lifts, saying that, after he had been a menace to his own school and city? “Not so similar hours earlier,”

“Why are you here, Flamme?” Rollo squints his eyelids. He is aware you are still on guard against him. He smirks, “Why? Am I scaring you? I am only here to check on the conditions of our late ball’s consumption. But, it seems like someone has left the party quite early.”

“Well, I needed to take a breather. Dancing is tiring, Flamme. Especially after your dramatic chaos.” You relax your face. Now acting normal but still aware of him. “You may see me as a foe, but I only wanted to say this, why do you have so very much faith in your, horned friend, Malleus Draconia?” Rollo inquired.

You bite the inside of your cheeks.

Malleus Draconia. Hearing that name will give everyone a chill down their spine, yet you always greet him as a friend. To must be a friend is to treat them as one, Professor Trein quoted, and you couldn’t agree more. You knew him since the early months of staying in Ramshackle. He never gave you his name at first but during the aftermath of Vil’s overblot, you discovered his name even has centuries of meaning.

The Crowned Fae Prince, The Housewarden of Diasomnia, every human being fears him, yet you dare to call him Hornton. Malleus also went along with the student exchange to Noble Bell College, a student of a prestigious school within a prestigious school, you remember his outstanding, traditional clothing of Fleur City matching his aura well. For Malleus, the clothes he wears never wore him, but he rather wears them. Your eyes fell to the floor, you will never admit it, but you have always been trying to steal glances at his outfit, the black feathers, unique embroidery on his gloves, and the hat he wears sitting perfectly with his horns, your cheeks warming up than it should’ve been. ‘Did everyone took notice of that?’ You thought and sighed. Finally replying Rollo’s question.

“Does it matter? I thought he is your opponent.” Rollo scoffed. But relaxes his mind.

“Very well, if you excuse me, I must be on the condition checking already.” He bowed his hair and you return the bow. You sigh again. Your fingers fidgeting with your drop earrings. You see your mask dangling down your hips, you had tied it there to never lose it in any circumstances. You untied the knot of the mask as you put them on again. The gold compliments the rest of your outfit’s color scheme; purple and black. As you begin to walk back to the ballroom, you accidentally bumped into someone from the corner of the hall.

“Ah, Child of Man, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” That voice. You recognize that voice, rich and deep, definitely Hornton. Why is he here and, why is he looking for you? “Hornton! Scared me there, sorry, but why are you looking for me?” You asked and tilted your head up. Dark purple dewy lips, a face masked in black, pale skin and two bright green eyes, you could never take your gaze off of him.

“I apologize for my sudden appearance. Well, you see, I wanted to talk to you for a moment.” Your eyes widen, talk? Did you do something?!

“Don’t be afraid. I am only trying to understand you better. I wanted to ask you this,”

Something tells you it’s either gonna end up badly or more than something you needed..

“I have realized during our school’s activities at the Fleur City district, that you’ve come to notice my gaze upon you, and I am not a true prince if I do not ask this, but have you become uncomfortable with me?”

Your lips parted, the level of expressions heightened. ‘What do you mean I noticed?! I thought I was the only one staring at how gorgeous you are?!’ You thought. Malleus reads your expressions but still didn’t realize what you’re trying to deliver. He closes his eyes and frowned. “I have done it again, haven’t I.. I always took up on Lilia’s advice..” He mumbled.

‘LILIA’S ADVICE?! To keep staring at the person—wait, does this means—‘ Your thoughts was interrupted when your heart takes the lead, you grip his wrists and stared at his green eyes. Malleus’ whole body language was surprised, but finally taking your code well and sneaks up his gloved hand to the back of your head, and kissed you. Both of you close your eyes at the softness of each other’s lips. You’re glad he managed to read your mind, in desperation, you try to slip your tongue first in his mouth, but he fought back and entered yours first.

His slit tongue dominating. His eyes open, his slit pupils dilated at the warmth of your mouth. The kiss that was from a soft innocent kiss turned into a tongue fighting make out within seconds. Whenever you wanted to pull away for a breath, he always pulls you back in. Making you breathless but still melting you and weakening your legs. He pulls away, your lips and his painted with kiss marks of one another’s lip tint, he looks breathless for a fae dragon.

“In our both desires, do you wish to be taken tonight in my share of bed, dear Child of Man?” He bowed, his hand on his back and the other on his chest.

“I do, Hornton.” You smiled and link arm to arm with him.

Behind all of that scene, they were not alone that night in the hall. At the corner of the other side of the hall, Rollo Flamme, stands idly with a shocked face and his handkerchief to his mouth.

—.★

A/N: ty

[sinning-23]

In The Dead Of Night (Remmick x Modern!Black!Reader)

Ps. Guys I watched Sinners and I want that ENTIRE CAST- the bisexual panic inside my chest was WICKED. So uhhhh expect a lot more works for that lol might even make a master list shi-

Anyway enjoy!

No actual smut til part2 lol

Warnings: fear, tension , Remmick is nasty(canonically so), mentions of religion in, reader isn’t really religious but desperate and will try anything, lil smut with a plot (yall know writting prn is my specialty cmon now), movie spoilers?

P.P.S: will probable be a two parter, I can’t help myself!

Word count: idk man a lot?

Irritation.

That’s what fills the fibre of your being at 3:06am. Unfortunately for you, seasonal allergies were kicking your ssd and right now, you simply couldn’t breath. The constant sniffling and fighting to get comfortable was doing more harm than good.

With a heavy sigh, you toss the covers off your tired frame, using the light from your home screen to guide you to the bathroom for some tissue.

Now, living in this fuckass apartment had been a dream come true for you. The cramped space of your childhood home was begging to drive you crazy and…the tapping at the window every night had gotten worse. You’d tried to explain it to your family, caution soon coursing through the household.

It wasn’t like you wanted to leave, but there was o lot so much fear and paranoia you could bear. Since then, you’d been free from any midnight window visits…

With a light blow, your nose is somewhat taken care of, and the cool water from washing your hands only wakes you further, making your brows furrow. Great, not it would take forever to fall back asleep-

*Tap tap tap*

Clear as day, the pattern rings in your ear and your breath catches. There was no way….

Your had hovers over the bathroom handle, fear striking your chest hard and fast, a dry swallow pushing down your throat as you grip the handle, your phone clad hand raised in a fist to attack.

*Tap…tap…….tap*

It’s closer now, right outside the door in fact, and you can feel your stomach churn. You want to peak out, hoping your mind was simply playing tricks on you, and that you were jsur sleepy?

Yeah, just dreaming a little still?

Hesitation works its way into your fingertips as your peel the door open, shining your phone light down the hall to find-

Nothing.

A breath you hadn’t known you were holding leaves your lips shakily as you take a step past the threshold of the bathroom. About 7 more steps, if you took them wide enough, and you’d be back in the safety of your room.

You could lock the door for good measure, duck under your covers like you’d used to as a little girl and pray for the sun to rise faster. Even if every time you did, it never would.

Hyper aware the perfect word do describe how you’d felt, each creak sounding too close for comfort, and the pad of your bare feet on the carpet felt astronomically louder than before.

You pause, just for a millisecond and as quickly as you had, you’d wished you didn’t….

Because the sound of clothes shuffling, didn’t belonged to you this time. And on instinct those 7 steps turned to 3 as you sprint to your room, praying whatever wished to claim you was just out of reach.

You had turned to look behind you, mind racing and hoping that no one would be there….

Instead in place of the darkened hallway, lightly illuminated by your homescreen, was a silhouette, and two, gleaming crimson dots, reaching for you.

A silent scream tears its way out your throat, like how it would in a sleep paralysis spell.

Unable to move, at the mercy of whatever evil gazing upon your frozen from.

It steps foreward but before it can get to you, you’re already slamming your door and locking it, heart racing as your hands shake.

And so you do the only thing you can, crawling deep under the covers, debating whether or not to call the police. Yeah right…as if they could help right now.

Hell they’d probably see you as the threat and your be shit outta luck either way.

Your heart pounds in your ears, that same tapping against your door now, the creak of the floor just beyond the door stilling you as tears well in your eyes.

“Peach, cmon whatcha hidin’ in there for?”

Clear as fuckin’ day.

You curl into yourself, covering yourself as fearful hiccups and sobs wrack your body. With blurry vision your try to contact anyone that would listen, help you, or at least serve as proof that your weren’t crazy…and that if you died tonight or were possessed, there was solid proof.

“Awe now don’t be like that, wasn’t meant to scare ya.”

The southern drawl only makes your shudder, the false comfort and sympathy in the words lulling you into security as you try to ground yourself, eyes squeezed shut.

“Been knocking real polite for a while now.”

You shake your head, the voice feeling closer than it really was, the rasp in it vibrating in every fibre of your being.

“I rebuke you in the name of Jesus, I rebuke you in the n-name of Jesus, I-I re-rebuke you in…in the name of Jesus.” You echo, turning to pray in in hopes it would deter whatever, no…

Whoever was at your door.

“C’mon now, peach. You know that don’t work.” It chuckled darkly, as if you even attempting to seek God now was entertaining and practically pointless.

“I’d hate to have to pry this door open, I been plenty patient and kind.” It speaks, the sound of your doorknob jiggling leaving as quickly as it came when he hissed.

He chuckles darkly, drumming his knuckles against the door.

*tap…tap..tap.*

“Won’t you let me in, honey?”

——————————————

You refused to let your eyes shut, clinging to yourself as you sweat beneath the covers, practically suffocating in fear and heat. His pleas repeated like the broken record your nana used to play.

The sun has just barely risen, the light slipping in from under your window, illuminating your room in its heavenly light. You breath, having not heard him outside the door.

You move, slow and calculated as you peel off the covers and inch to the door. You press your ear to it, nothing. Hesitantly, you turn the nob, cracking it open to reveal….nothing.

A relieved breath fills your lungs, and you hold it there, observing your doorknob. Had he wanted to come in he could have…but something about your door has stopped him. You glance at the metallic shine, heart sinking.

It’s silver…

With newfound courage your check ever doorknob in the apartment. Each one made of silver, different patterns etched onto them. All accept the front. And just beyond the door lay a tiny matt with lettering printed pretty on the front.

‘Welcome’

You scoop it up, shoving it into the trash and lock the dooor back up. That same chill from the night prior shoots up your spine. The same fear and caution sweep your stomach into ruin.

He didn’t need your spoken permission…it was already written at the very threshold of your home.

It was time to give nana a visit…this was bigger than you.

You scoop up your belongings, glancing at the very hallway he stood in. Along the edge lay streaked fingerprints now in a coppery brown….blood.

“Won’t you let me in, honey?”

You swallow hard, slamming your door and leaving as soon as possible. The day only lasted so long and the last thing you wanted was to be left in the dark.

———————————

Nana had a very…special way about her. Her dark brown hands were wrinkled, age crawling up her forearms as her wrist became smaller, the veins running up the sides a reminder of the life that still coursed within her.

It smelled of old newspaper and inscents she burned nonstop. The walls aged and yellowed along with the plastic on the floral sofa that had been there since you were small.

Her ancient phonograph, somehow still in decent condition plays what sounds like an aged and soulful rendition of ‘Father I Stretch My Hands.’

The sounds sinks your heart into your stomach, nostalgic.

Statues of faceless black figures in patterned skirts and head wraps adorned her shelves like the walls covered in what felt like historical family photos.

Some of your cousins, some of family long since passed. Your favourite was the one of her and her sister Annie in their youth.

Nanna said that one day…Annie didn’t come home. She never spoke more on it, always telling you,

‘You’ll know when the time is right.’

All this you can see from the black metal gate that covered her front door.

With a deep breath, your knuckles rap against the gate, clanging the frame. It’s not long before she’s shuffling to the door, delicate and small, her figure much smaller than the years prior.

“Is that my great grandbaby?” Her voice is of a thousand melted chocolates, rich and dripping with history.

“Yes nana, hi.” You hum, a soft smile reaching your lips as you enter.

Holding her close, the scent of her dusting powder and hot comb fills your senses. She always did keep her hair pressed , even pushing 90.

“Have a seat baby,” She offers, shuffling beside you to the plastic sofa, her small hands coming to hold yours.

“I had a dream about you,” she begins, rubbing the top of your hand and shaking her head.

“And I knew, you would be here soon, looking for help.”

Your heart beats fast, the song in the background making your eyes burn.

“Nana is praying for you. But, sometimes we can’t rely just on that. It takes some work on your part.”

You can’t speak, lips closed and head heavy. Her hand squeezes yours tighter. She takes a moment, shaking her head heavily, reminiscing before she speaks.

“And I think it’s time I tell you about your great aunt Annie.”

————————————

It was 1932, and word of a set of twins returning to the Mississippi Delta has spread like wildfire. 7 long years had came and went and the two had something real special planned. A juke joint of their own, something like a fresh start.

Annie, was involved with one of the twins and had been asked for her services with the food, knowing she could cook delicious meals. Now, Annie was a medicine woman, a healer, wise and well versed in her craft.

That night, your nana, young and curious as she was, followed Annie, wishing to listen to music and sing and dance like everyone else. And so, she snuck inside, just ‘round the back of ‘Club Juke’. Hiding behind crates and barrels of lord knows what.

It has stared off fine, as most things do. Family and friends filling the place, a safe haven, something meant for them. Until three strangers…white strangers, waltzed up, seeking to spend money and join the festivities.

The twins however, and your great aunt Annie felt uneasy, watching them as they turned away slow and awaiting invitation.

Nana watched and listened and danced sneaking fish and ‘Irish beer’ all until gunshots rang out and the festivities came to an abrupt close. Oh she’d be in trouble now. Once Annie found out she was there she’d be in a heap of it. But the trouble…never came.

Mary, the found family member had sprinted away, dress drenched in blood and the scent of death thick.

‘Vampires’ your Nana whispered to herself, looking around her confined space for something, anything to keep her from being harmed.

Lucky enough, within one of the crates were jars of pickled garlic which she was quick to rub against her skin and soak into the pretty little silk dress she wore special for the occasion.

Annie died later that night, sobs wracking your Nana’s body as a bloody battle destroyed Club Juke. Her lover forced to keep a promise to her as he plunged the steak into her slow beating heart.

In an attempt to escape, your Nanna carried as many jars of garlic as she could and exited the way she came, her legs carrying her.

Wasn’t long before the sun rose, the adrenaline too much for her seeing as she collapsed, fainted almost against the plush dirt of the plantation.

———————————————

“Y/n, you keep your head up and your eyes sharp.” She warns, a deep sadness in her own with her warning.

“The devil still lurks for souls…he even looked for mine.” Your nana sighs. Not fearful, but tired and worried for your sake.

“And in that search he’s come lookin for you. Anything to claim that power he lost and anyone tied to the root of that.”

The record stops, an eerie air falling over the aged home. The walls creaked and groaned.

“I…I’m scared.” You admit, only for her to shake her head.

“He knows that.”

There’s a beat of silence and she releases your hands, standing to retrieve something from her antique dresser. A little black bag around a cord was placed into your palms as she closes your fingers around it.

“Nana won’t be mad if you can’t fight no more baby. But this might help.” She hums, almost accepting your fate for you.

“The devil ain’t always scary when you see him, sometimes he can be beautiful.”

———————————

The car ride home was silent. The sun painted the sky in hues of orange yellow and purple as it sets. Night was coming quick, and you had 10 minutes to make it before dark.

The necklace hangs around your neck, something Nana says Annie taught her before leaving this world.

You cling to it, parking outside the complex and quickening your pace the faster the sun dipped past the horizon.

The pale moon greets you, your heart beating faster now as you struggle to open your front door. And just as you close it, you hear it again.

*Tap, tap, tap*

Your heart stalls in your chest. How long has it waited in the dark? What would’ve become of you had you waited a second longer outside of that door? And then, it speaks.

“Why’d you go an take that pretty lil doormat away, honey? Now I’ve gotta be impolite.”

[charmac]

Prevv tags, @sunnykeysmash

#this isn't an inherently wrong post but i really feel like one simply Cannot discuss or dissect anything from FvR -#unless they keep in mind the continuous push on dennis having a 'double life' and how he wants to move on from that and is trying to#but mac is completely and utterly deaf to it. very much shown in inflates#in fact i dont think dennis is keeping mac at arms length at all. they literally slept on the same couch. i think dennis#was trying to reach mac the entire season#and it's mac who can't exactly cope with this sudden... shift and doesn't really get it. like willfully in denial

#we also have to remember sunny is a show about people letting each other down and macdennis doesn't do that onesidedly#dennis is very much pissed that mac Won't Hear that he is johnny no matter how obvious he makes it#in fact i believe dennis has been ''sending signals and implications'' to mac the entire time. but they communicate and operate differently#on a purely PURELY meta sense dennis speaks in subtext while mac operates on the surface. to me. they're not resonating in FvR#not in the way they were in s15 ep1 when theyre playing music together. and i could get into an entire thing there bc the meta is massive#i actually already wrote about this i think. i dont remember all my points. they're out there on my blog somewhere#god in heaven i really dont think macdennis is interpretable without acknowledging the entire meta layer of their narrative#even and especially when discussing an episode like gets romantic. which is so immersed in its own metatext it forgets itself

#actually mac prefers a distant detached love so much that dennis could only reach him by pretending to be johnny. it's also all a dance for#control in a sense.in a different sense. in a Chokes sense. like dennis pretending he calls the shots but mac has the wheel (den wants)#dennis wants mac to take control and woo him and he has Desperately been trying to hint at it since s14. IMO#and mac is wonderfully oblivious to it because he's still stuck on the TEXT that Dennis rejected him (times up etc)#AND THERES EVEN MORE I COULD SAY BUT IVE ALREADY TALKED ABOUT ALL THIS AT GREAT LENGTH 😭😭😭 but yea idk#anyway mac has a lot more control on dennis than some think. please reflect on this#meta#analysis#Jumper was a crazy episode in dennis trying to send hints tbh#i fucking love sunny meta i dont even care ... real ones oomfs know#wait i actually do have more to say. because there is a constant implication that mac doesn't actually really get dennis.. AND he Does too#at the same time. it's shown kinda well in tends bar i think. he misunderstands dennis the entire episode but in the end he Gets it right#thats kinda what they have going on. dennis is always waiting for the moment mac Gets it but. well it almost never comes#they both know parts of the other but not the full picture. never that. and i think it's also because of the mask#neither of them particularly likes themselves. they are content playing a part of someone else... sort of.#theyre also opposites in that. mac wants to 'define his true self' at all costs. Dennis runs from it. but uh... uhm.

I don't think we talk enough about what Mac falling for Johnny means in terms of his perception of love and his relationship to Dennis. I mean, we talk a lot about Dennis catfishing and e-dating him and the sexual component of it —which gives us plenty to unpack about Dennis' psyche, so it's understandable— but my favorite aspect to dissect is Mac's willingness to "fall in love" with a ghost.

In the episode, Dennis mentions there being texts between them so we know Mac wasn't just talking to a wall the whole time, but he's been stood up by Johnny so many times.. yet he keeps at it, keeps going on errands and to motels just in case Johnny decides to actually meet him this time. He's constantly waiting for someone who never shows up for him, and that's reflective of Mac's entire character. He keeps searching for love and validation from his mom, his dad, Dennis.. and when he doesn't get it, he just keeps on pushing, putting in more effort because maybe this time it will be enough. He holds so tightly onto his faith in god, a being he can't even see or hear, but that represents a hope for eternal love if you do everything right and conform nicely to its supposed expectations.

Mac isn't a stranger to loving distant beings, so of course he fell in love with Johnny. He's so desperate for someone to love him back but the only form of "love" he recognizes is a distant kind. That's why he can't give his date from the episode a chance, and why he doesn't want anything to do with uncle Donald. Easy and earnest love isn't something Mac knows. Hell, it isn't even worth it. Love, in his experience, requires work and sacrifice, otherwise what's the point?

This also plays a lot into his dynamic with Dennis, and why Mac will never let go of it. Sure, we saw him kind of trying to move on in 'The Gang Gets Romantic' by fabricating a love story for himself with Greg, and a more genuine attempt in 'Frank vs. Russia' by dating Johnny, but all roads eventually lead back to Dennis. A part of it can be attributed to Dennis not letting him move on —keeping Mac at arm's length while giving him just enough to keep him hooked— but that's not all. At this point I don't think there's anything Dennis could do or not do to put a definitive end to Mac's obsession with him, because he's exactly the type of person Mac craves in his life. As mentioned before, Dennis is someone that makes him earn his love and respect, and Mac can't find that in other potential romantic partners. He already tried looking for it online, where you can meet all kinds of people from all kinds of places, and who did he find? Dennis.

Obviously, the Johnny thing being orchestrated by Dennis means that Mac "found him" on purpose, but the point here is that Mac didn't know that. From his perspective, it was a fresh start with someone completely new, a guy that met his subconscious requirements. It just so happens that his requirements are Dennis. Because as mushy and gooey as it sounds, at the end of the day Mac is irreversably in love with him. He loves Dennis so intrinsically that he falls for him a second time, without even being aware of it. And I suspect he always will, no matter how many times he tries to move on.

[angel-writes-skz-here]

Sugar

Bang Chan x AFAB! Reader Synopsis: Chan takes care of his baby girl. Warnings: SMUT, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it! Be safe!) Oral (both receiving), fingering, mutual masturbating, teasing, car sex, use of pet name (kitten, baby girl, daddy), sex outside, aftercare. A/N: I hope you enjoy. Y/D/C = Your dream car. Requests are OPEN just slow due to life. 🎬Please do silence your phones, grab some popcorn🍿 and a fluffy blanket and enjoy the chapter📖

You wake up, the feeling of soft Egyptian cotton wrapping around your body along with the warmth of the sun shining in through the window. The clock reads eight a.m. and the soft snoring of the man next to you is indicator that Chan wasn’t going into the studio today and that meant one thing.

It’s pickup day!

You roll to your side, weaving your freshly light pink manicured nails through his dark hair; watching him sleep was one of your favorite things. The way his mouth would lay slightly open, a little bit of drool dripping hanging down from his soft plump lips, the way his eyes flutter when he dreams, the way he just looked like an angel when he was finally sound asleep.

He stirred slightly under your touch, your hand stopping its movement briefly until he was still again. You may have been Chan’s baby, but he was yours right back, even if you did call him Daddy. Most days he took care of you, per your agreement and something he expressed he wanted to do. But there were moments you took care of him. Running him baths, rubbing his aching back after a particularly grueling show or video shoot, sucking him off after a hard day and hearing him purr your name; those nights were your favorite.

His eyes flutter open, as he hums at the way your nails slightly massage his scalp. You smile at him, a look of devotion and bliss evident in your gaze.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he says leaning over to capture your sweet lips in a kiss.

“Morning, Channie,” you kiss his lips affectionately. The morning is still, calm, and the two of you feel as though you have nothing but time. Chan rolls you onto your back, lips still connected and you can feel him pressing into your thigh. You giggle against him as his hands find your hips and his tongue swipes your bottom lip. You moan against him as he smirks against your lips.

Your nails lightly scratch down the front of his bare toned chest.

“We need to get to the dealership by 10,” you mumble against his lips. Chan pulls away reluctantly.

“We got over an hour,” he smirks before attacking your neck. You let out a full-blown laugh as his lips tickle your neck.

“I need to shower, Daddy,” you mumble as his lips hit the top of your cleavage with your hands weaving through his hair. Chan bites the inside of his cheek at the name. Calling him daddy was never about being a child; it’s because of how he takes care of you and cherishes you. He makes sure you have the finest things in life. Makes sure you’re taken care of above all else, even himself.

You want new clothes, say the word. A new makeup product, just tell him how much it is and you’ll have it as soon as he can get it to you, or a new car? Just mention the make and model and he’ll be on his phone within the hour looking them up.

His only rule? That he gets to see you wear it or in it while he fucks you dumb.

That’s what you’re doing today. You had mentioned a couple months ago how you wanted a y/d/c since you were a teenager. And like the good daddy Chan is, he made it happen; even had it customized to everything you wanted.

You hop in the shower, Chan not far behind you. Thankfully, the shower is big enough for two shower heads so no one freezes.

“Are you excited?” Chan asks as he peppers kisses down your neck onto your shoulder as the water hits your naked bodies.

“Very, I can’t wait to see the lights and the interior.” He hums against your skin. The man can’t help it; he’s obsessed with you.

Your skin tingles in his wake, your turn around in his embrace, kissing his lips again, as your arms go around his neck, his arms around your waist.

“Quickie before we go?” He asks.

“Ah, ah, ah, you’ll get all the time you want with me in the new car.” You tease. Chan knows the money isn’t the only thing keeping you around, however when the two of you first entered the arrangement, that was a big part of it. Chan was always a gentlemen, paying for your meals or things you mentioned you wanted, but when one drunken kiss turned into a night of mind-blowing sex, he propositioned you for the role of being his baby, his sugar baby.

While you didn’t technically live with Chan in name, you basically did. He had more of your things in his mansion than what you downtown apartment did. Clothes, make up, appliances, etc. were all neatly stored around the house. Chan made the comment it would be easier since you were there constantly anyway.

Chan lathers the soap onto the cloth, washing over you back and the backs of your arms, the soap gliding onto your skin and staining it with the fragrant smell.

“Turn,” he instructs and you do so, closing your eyes at the way it feels to have the soap lathered onto your body, the steam from the shower rising up and the feel of Chan’s hands being on your body, taking care of you. He drags the rag down your torso, carefully scrubbing at your legs and feet to wash them thoroughly.

Once he’s finished, you grab his rag and repeat the actions, washing him clean, his neck, down to his broad shoulders, over his chest and abs, feeling him up a little as you do so, his muscles tensing under your touch. Bending down to his somewhat hard member you carefully place a chase kiss to it, just to tease him, before running the cloth of over it, then continuing down his body.

“Turn,” you instruct as you’re crouched, his ass coming into full view. You smirk before you get a bright idea.

You sink your teeth into the flesh before placing a kiss over the mark and wipping the cloth over the swell of his ass.

He jumps, sucking in a harsh breath as he feels a slight sting from the mark. You chuckle to yourself.

“You’ll think it’s funny when it’s my turn,” he smirks cockily. You gulp, a small rush of heat flooding to your core.

You stand up, both of you rinsing the soap off your bodies and washing your hair.

You get yourselves dressed, Chan growling lowly in approval over your outfit of choice. He insists you wear skirts, something you don’t mind doing one bit, especially when you know it’s because he wants access to the lovely garden between your legs.

 You get into the uber Chan set up for you and your legs shakes with excitement. Chan’s hand places itself over your thigh, not to stop you, but just to touch you. To be near you. You smile at him, butterflies in your stomach as the anticipation builds.

-

At the dealership the salesman takes you to the back, you squeal as soon as you see it.

The light pink car of your dreams before you.

“Oh, Daddy it’s perfect!” You fling yourself onto him, arms wrapping around his neck. He stumbles just a tad from how hard you hug him.

“I’m glad you love it baby. Check out the inside,” he smiles as you detach   yourself, watching as your heels carry you to the car, the sway of your ass causing him to bite his lip.

You open the door, the full pink interior causing you to gasp.

“Come here!” You call him over in child like excitement. He smiles shaking his head at how adorable you are right now. He goes to the opposite side of the car, opening the door. You grin at him from ear to ear from the driver’s side. He looks around, taking in the vivacious interior.

“It’s beautiful baby. Is it what you wanted?”

“Everything and more,” your eyes are big and wanderlust.

“The lights!” you gasp as you notice the little twinkly lights installed in the roof.

“Channie, they’re beautiful!” you say as you inspect them.

“Let’s get in, see how it feels.” He smiles. You hop into the driver’s seat, pressing the button to start the car. The windows are tinted so no one can see in, making the lights on the roof shine just a little brighter.

You both buckle up, and you put your foot on the gas, pulling out of the dealer ship. What you don’t see is the look of pride on Chris’s face as he watches you drive the very thing he could buy to make you happy. He’s not proud of himself, no, he’s proud of you. His baby, his precious girl who has worked so hard to take care of him and love him even when it’s not been easy. Even when he’s away for months at a time for concerts. You didn’t complain, while you did pout that you missed him, it wasn’t to make him feel bad. It was just you expressing yourself and how much you missed him and desired him, and not just for the sexual aspect. You genuinely enjoy spending time with Chan, with the close age range you share a lot in common and share many similar interests. He hooks up his phone to Bluetooth, playing soft music for the background noise before he takes a couple pictures of you driving the car. You giggle as you hear the camera noise on his phone. He makes the picture the wallpaper on his home screen, proudly.

You get to a red light and Chan’s hand sneaks it’s way to your thigh. You feel heat flood straight to your stomach as you glance down. It’s idle, sweet, comforting even, but you know him. He’s not always a patient man and he loves to tease. The light turns green and you’re pressing the gas pedal, feeling Chan’s hand move up your thigh until it’s at the top of it.

You bite your lip as his fingers ghost over your clothed core.

“Daddy,” you mumble out.

“Just keep driving baby.” He chuckles. His fingers gently rub you over your underwear, little shock waves of pleasure already being felt.

“Daddy, I can’t focus,” you whine as your hips shift.

“Yes, you can,” he says seductively. His fingers press harder, a moan slipping from you lips in reaction as your body slumps forward a bit. He chuckles as his fingers move your underwear aside. He spreads your folds open, collecting a little bit of your slick from your entrance.

“Been thinking about fucking you in this car since I woke up,” he says. You bite down on your lip harder. He slides his fingers back up, lubing the area of your clit to rub tight circles.

“Oh fuck,” you gasp as his hand moves.

“Feel good, baby?” Chan asks cockily; he already knows the answer.

 You whimper in response as your hands white knuckle the wheel.

“So good,” you breathe out.

“You wanna cum while you drive?” Chan’s leaning over the console, whispering your ear, kissing on your neck.

“I’ll crash,” you whimper out as he sucks and licks over the spot below your ear.

“Put it in self-driving mode,” he whispers darkly.

“H- fuck, how?” your hips grind against his hand.

“It’s a button on the wheel.” You glance down as you come to a red light. You press the button, hands still on the wheel for safety.

“Fuck I can’t wait to bury myself deep inside your pretty, tight, pussy. Feel you squeeze me, hear you moan my name like it’s the only thing you know.” He groans as he feels his erection grow, reaching his other hand down to palm himself. You watch as the car drives itself, pleasure firing off at every spot of your body.

“Hands off, sweet girl,” he instructs before licking the shell of your ear. You gently let go, riding along smoothly as the car takes over.

Chan moves your chair back, allowing him just enough room to slip down between you and the wheel.

He places kisses to the inside of your thigh.

“Eyes on the road, baby.” He playfully scolds with a light smack to your hips. The slight sting catching your attention.

“The driver must remain alert.” He instructs before flipping your skirt up, and tapping your hips for you to raise them. He slides your panties off, throwing them in the seat beside you.

He moans at the sight of you, the faux leather seat beneath you a cold contrast to your warm skin. Chan takes his time, kissing and teasing around your wet cunt, feeling you push your hips to him ever so slightly. He flattens his tongue, spreads your folds and licks a wet stripe up your pussy, using the tip of his tongue to flick your little bundle of nerves.

“Oh, fuck,” your eyes flutter shut. Chan smacks your hip.

“Eyes open, or you have to drive,” he commands.

He knows you too well.

You force your eyes open as he sucks your bud into his mouth, sucking harshly as you choke out another gasp mingled moan, hands flying to his shoulders as you arch forward.

“Fuck, daddy,” you breathe out. You undo the seat belt allowing our pelvis to move a little more freely.

You stop at a red light, cars on either side of you, you get a little embarrassed.

“They can’t see you, kitten,” he says sensing the emotion in your body with how stiff it becomes. How does he read you like a book? He laps at your clit, inserting a finger. Your back arches off the seat as your head falls back, feeling him hit that spongey little spot in side your entrance that causes nothing but pure bliss to explode within you.

“Oh fuck, faster, harder,” you say as your hips shift to meet his thrusts.

“Aww, baby, we’re just getting started. You think you’re gonna cum all ready?” He coo’s mockingly.

“Daddy please, I’ve been good.” You whimper as you can feel him slow his thrusts.

“Oh, have you?”

He pulls his face from you, causing you to whine as he flips your skirt back down.

“I think you deserve a little bit of a punishment, after all, you’ve left a little mark on me.” He smirks and you pout.

“But Daddy,” you whine as he slips into the passenger side seat. He pulls your panties to his nose, inhaling your scent before a growl erupts from his throat.

“Fuck you make punishing you so hard.”

Your thighs squeeze together.

“Ah,” he tuts, “Don’t even try it, if you earn it, I’ll make sure you cum.” He promises.

You sit in the seat, aching between your thighs, eyes glancing over to his crotch, the outline of his cock noticeable. Chan smirks as he see’s your eyes looking at him, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. Chris decides to tease you a little more.

You watch as his hand moves to unbutton the button on his vest, exposing his abs. Your mouth parts slightly as he reclines the seat just enough to show you his abs, his hand palming his cock through his pants. His eyes shut as he moans and your thighs squeeze together, unfortunately not offering any relief. Your hands twitch at your sides, desperate as you continue to ache and the sounds of your boyfriend only make your core tingle and drench more.

Chan’s mouth parts his head digging into the headrest some as he continues his assault. He can feel your eyes on him. He sticks his hand down his pants, teasing himself. You whimper in response, his head angles towards you as he unbuttons his pants.

“Aww, does my baby want my hard cock?” he mocks. You nod sheepishly, thighs once again rubbing together.

“Touch yourself for me then.” He instructs and your brows shoot up. Usually, Chris is the one who gets you off, he rarely lets you do the honors, half the time you’re punished if he finds out you touched yourself. Your hand snakes down and flips up your skirt, slowly rubbing quick little circles on your bud.

“Ah, slowly,” he says as he pulls his cock out. You do as he says, moving your fingers torturously slow.

“I want more,” you groan.

“Be patient,” he tuts as his finger teases his slit and he growls.

“Fuck,” he shouts, hand going to the head rest gripping it with white knuckles.

You whimper, your hips rocking at the movement from your finger. Chan’s hand speeds up, and you feel your core pulsing as your heart beats in your chest, breathing shallow. He whimpers, body twitching in pleasure. His breathing becomes shallow, pants as he chokes out moans before his stomach is painted white. He groans as he comes up down from the high.

“Stop,” he commands letting himself go as the car turns into the driveway of the large home.

“Finally,” you sigh. You get the car door opened, only to have Chan reach across you to shut it.

“Back seat. Now.” He commands and his eyes are dark. His voice dripping with need, causing your sweet garden down below to become drenched. You climb back first, his hand slapping your ass causing a slight sting. You yelp as your sit in the spacious back seat of the car. You watch as Chan climbs in behind you, caging your body in.

Your hands automatically reach for his cock; you lick your lips as it’s practically dripping with arousal.

He slaps your hand away and you pout.

“Ask nicely,” he smirks.

“Daddy, please, I wanna taste.” He pretends to think about it for a minute.

“Do you deserve my cock?”

“Yes,” you nod enthusiastically  

“Yes, what?”

“Yes sir,” you whimper out, hips grinding down against the seat.

“Aww, my poor baby,” he mocks, “So desperate. To think I bought you a car and it’s still not enough,” you close your eyes embarrassment evident on your face.

“Being greedy isn’t healthy,” he teases but he see’s as your hips keep digging down into the seat, aching for relief.

“Ok, come here,” he says as he positions himself against the light pink leather and the back door. You lick your lips in anticipation. Your heart is already beating out of your chest as you sink down.

“Spit,” he commands. You gather it up in your mouth, spitting on the tip before licking a stripe up his shaft.

“Oh fuck,” he groans. You whimper as your thighs clench so hard they hurt. You wrap your pretty glossed lips around his head, swirling your tongue over it, teasingly.

“Fuck you look so pretty like that,” he breathes out as he looks down at you. You look up at him through your lashes just before sinking down slowly. Chan lets out a guttural moan, his cock already twitching. You begin to bob your head slowly using the one hand that isn’t used for bracing to massage his balls.

“Oh fuck, baby, yeah just like that, don’t stop. Hollow out your cheeks for me,” he breathes, a hand finding the back of your head as a guide.

You do as he says, hollowing out your cheeks, picking up the pace as you taste more and more of the saltiness on your tongue.

“Fuck I’m gonna cum,” he whimpers out eyes screwed tight. You breathe through your nose as you sink down completely taking him in. His hips shift upwards to meet you, a slight gagging being heard.

“Fuck baby, ‘m sorry.” He apologizes but the pleasure is too good, he’s too far gone.

“Fuck, keep going, I’m so close. Fuck you’re doing so good. Be my good girl and make me cum, fuck make me cum,” he instructs as his head hits against the window. The windows of the car are beginning to fog; Chan’s breathing coming out in harsh pants. You go as fast as you can, trying to push him over the edge.

His body tenses with one last swirl of your tongue over his slit, the salty taste of his cum shooting coating your throat, you continue to pump slowly, helping him ride the wave of aftershock, his legs slightly trembling. You swallow every bit that he gives you, and you let go of him with a little ‘pop’. You wipe your lip with the back of your hand and after a swift moment of catching his breath, Chan’s pulling you up to him, kissing your lips fervently.

“Fuck you’re such a good girl, did so good for me,” he says against your lips and you blush against him. You whimper in response, a whimper falling from your lips as your body feels like it’s on fire.

“Lay back,” he says and helps you adjust, so your head is on the seat. Chan moves his body to the floor once he scoots the seat up giving him extra room down on his knees.

“Smell so good,” he mumbles as he nears your dripping cunt.

“Aww, my baby needs me, doesn’t she?” You nod as you watch him.

“Take off the top.” He points to it and you do so, slipping it over your head. He helps you take off the bra that matches your discarded panties.

“Fuck you’re so pretty,” he breathes. You slip the skirt off, fully bare before him. He kisses your lips once more before immediately trailing hickies down your neck and collar bone, teeth sinking into the flesh, tongue lapping at the newly forming bruises.

“So pretty when I mark you,” he moans.

“So pretty,” he murmurs again before forming his lips wrap around one of your pebbled buds, flicking his tongue over it, the pleasure shooting straight to your core. You wine as your fingers travel to his hair.

“Fuck,” your hips attempt to grind against him, but he holds them down.

“I’m gonna make you feel good, I promise. Just let me take my time.” He smiles before attaching to the other one, giving it the same treatment. Your body arches into him as you tug on the ends of his hair.

He captures the bud between his teeth, applying just the slightest amount of pressure and you gasp as your eyes roll back in your head. Chan smiles to himself as he lets his hand run down your side.

“You want my mouth, pretty girl?” He asks; as if it’s a real question.

“Yes, please, daddy. Want you to make me feel so good,” your voice is weak, almost wrecked already and he chuckles before kissing your sweet lips.

“Already babbling and I haven’t even made you cum once.” He teases before getting on his knees. He licks a stripe up your leaking hole collecting your arousal on his tongue before mercilessly lapping at your button.

“Oh fuck, not so fast!” you gasp as you hold onto his hair like an anchor.

Chan slows his movements a little, not wanting to hurt you, but continues with fairly brisk movements.

“Oh fuuuhuck,” you moan out as you’re your knees bend up slightly. Your thighs squeeze his head, he takes it an encouragement to continue.

“I’m gonna cum,” you whimper as you feel the coil tightening.

“Fuck, please don’t stop,” you pant out. Chan adds two fingers, curling them and making the ‘come hither’ motion hitting your g spot.

“Ah, shit, baby. Fuck, Daddy please, harder,” you gasp between words as your back arches off the seat as your hips desperately try to chase the high Chan wants to provide.

You pant harder as it approaches.

“Fuck, ah,” you gasp as your walls clamp down around his fingers.

“Cum for me, princess. Let me taste it.” He coos. That’s all it takes, your body reacts, euphoria bursting through you as your muscles go stiff body shaking from the velocity of the explosion. Your toes curl in your heels as your body arches off the seat once again, thighs trembling as they become earmuffs for Chan’s head. Your thighs release his head, as he continues his assault with his tongue, the over stimulation causing your hips to jerk in response and whines to fall from your lips.

“Ah, fuck, too much, Daddy,” you whimper, tears in your eyes from the pleasure.

“Fuck, please,” you try to push his head away.

“One more for me princess, one more, you can do it. Be my good girl and give me one more.”

Your chest heaves.

“yes sirrr- fuck!” you shriek as his tongue moves lightening quick, your thighs shaking as your orgasm builds quickly. Your gasping deep and hard, your breath escaping your lungs as your body begins to feel light and reality becomes a little blurry.

“Ah, ah, fuck, I’m cumming,” you whimper as your body locks up and shakes underneath his tongue. Your face is scrunched, mouth agape, a sight Chan wishes he could photograph and keep in his wallet.

Finally, after a moment, your body releases you, your thighs release Chan’s head once again and you heave as you try to catch your breath.

“So good for me,” he coos as he kisses your torso; feeling it grow as you take deep breathes.

“Felt so good, so so good, Daddy, want more, want more of you, wanna be your good girl,” you mumble, slightly gone and he shushes you.

“Shh, baby. I’m here,” he smiles as he holds you close for a minute.

“You want my cock? Hmm?” he mumbles in your ear. Too overstimulated for words, you nod, your body becoming tired.

“Come on,”

He helps you out of the car, this is a moment where you’re grateful for the small forest in front of his house; no one can see you. Chan sets you up on the hood of the car, the metal warm from the sun.

“Not too hot is it?” He asks, ready to pick you up at a moment’s notice.

You shake your head no, still exhausted. He kisses your lips, tongue massaging yours as your chests are pressed flush against one another.

“One more? If you want it,” you nod as he lays you back on the hood of the car, pumping himself a few times to get ready. He lines himself up, your mouth parting as he slides in.

“Oh, God yes,” you moan, Chan echoing your sounds as he feels your walls slick and tight around him.

“Fuck you’re so tight.” He groans. He stills for a moment, making sure you’re ok before slamming his hips into yours, your body bouncing up against the paint from his thrusts.

“Fuck, you feel so good, gonna fill me up,” you moan out, delirious from pleasure. Chan grunts, a sense of pride being found within him at the way he’s got you melting beneath him. He slams his hips into you harder, hitting your sweet spot with each thrust, his own orgasm coiling quickly.

“Shit, shit, shit, Daddy,” you whimper, “harder, faster,” you beg, tears in your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure coursing through you. Chan speeds up, his body begging to give out, but he won’t stop until his baby is satisfied. He lifts your legs, wrapping them around his waist, your baby pink heels slightly digging into his back.

You choke out another moan, your eyes screwing shut so tight they hurt.

“Fuck,” you scream so loud you would swear you scared the birds in the trees. Your last orgasm rips through you hard and fast.

Your nails are grasping at the paint on the car, and at the moment, neither of you care if you scratch it. Afterall, Chan would just pay to have it fixed anyway.

The pleasure is mind numbing, body shaking, and life changing. You finish together, hot loads of Chan spilling out into you. You two of you are panting, covered in sweat as you try to catch your breath. You look up at Chan, dazed and satisfied with a lazy smirk. He sits pulls out, fastening his pants around his waist, before he pulls you up, your breast once against flush with his chest.

He smirks back at you before helping you down off the car; your legs buckle beneath you and you almost go down. He picks you up carrying you inside bridal style. He takes you to your shared bedroom where he lays you on the bed.

“I’m going to run us a bath, ok? Stay here,” he says before kissing your forehead. You smile at him letting your hands meet before he pulls away letting it fall. You hear the sound of the water rushing into the tub.

Chan grabs some candles and he leaves the room to grab some rose petals, a bottle of champagne with two flutes, and a box of chocolate covered strawberries. You quirk a brow noticing the contents but your mind is just too tired to ask questions.

You hear your boyfriend walk back into the room, he helps you sit up, tying your hair up into a messy bun for you, and he picks you up once again to carry you to the bathroom, the candles lighting the room in a warm glow with the lights out. He cracks the bathroom door behind you before he sets you down into the water, the warmth enveloping you. You move your arms a little, smiling at the flowery petals and noticing the delicious treat.

You sigh before humming content. He slips in behind you wrapping his arms around you, holding you against him.

“So you like the car?” He asks against your ear.

“It’s perfect.”

“You’re perfect, baby.” He smiles and kisses the back of your head. He pours the two of you a drink before grabbing each of you a strawberry.

“To us,” he cheers and you clink your glasses. Each of you take a bite of your strawberry, you giggle a little at each other as you do. You sit in the water, the warmth comforting, both from Chan and the bath. He always knew exactly how to take care of you.

“You ok? You need anything?”

“Just for you to hold me,” you smile at him as you relax against him, “And maybe another strawberry,” you smirk as he feeds it to you. He smiles as he’s more than happy to be of service. You sigh content, before another idea pops into your head.

“And maybe a nice dinner to replenish my energy,” you hint. He chuckles.

“We’ll take your car, how’s that sound?”

“Oh yay! I can show it off.” You quietly squeal as the water laps at your bodies.

“You’re not sore, are you?” His voices laces with worry, noticing how little you’re moving against him.

“I’m fine baby, really. Just a little tired.” You yawn as your head falls back against his chest into the crook of neck. You close your eyes for a moment, knowing you’re completely safe.

“I love you baby.” He says quietly, cheek resting against the top of your head. Your stomach knots but your grin is present nonetheless. He’s never said those words before.

“I love you, too.” You say before placing a sweet kiss to the bottom of his neck.

Tags: @breakmeoff @thelovelybireader

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[medievalharlot]

An Eventful Evening 彡 Geta x f!reader x Caracalla

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Pairing: Geta x f!reader x Caracalla

Synopsis: You finally give into them, so they reward you by teaching you how to please an emperor

Wordcount: 2,7k

Tags: Smut 18+ minors DNI, threesome, oral (both m and f receiving), implied breeding kink, degrading kink, praise kink, fingering, male masturbation, hint of deepthroathing, cuckolding (?), dirty talk, nipple play, Caracalla has mommy issues its canon

A/N: The long awaited smut! I have decided to make it a little serie since y’all love it so much. Decided to make Geta and Calla a bit of polar opposites. I love pathetic mommy’s boy Calla and dom teasing Geta sm. If you wished to get tagged in the next part please join the taglist here!

While sitting at your vanity desk, you let your maid brush your hair, in your hands you nervously play with the coral bracelet that Geta had gifted you a while back. The night air swept through the room, making the silk curtains dance ever so slightly. It was a calm night, the calmest night since you had gotten to Rome so far. Usually, you could hear a banquet from one of the senators, one of the emperors’ orgies or a mewling cat on the streets. But not tonight. It was eerily quiet on Palantine Hill. You had promised the twins you would join them for dinner and you knew where that was going to lead. You wanted to make sure you looked presentable and to their liking. Since noon you had been busy. Your maid, Alba, knew exactly what the two emperor’s would like. She had soaked you in donkey milk bath, scrubbing you squeaky clean. Then she insisted on rubbing beeswax with saffron on your skin. Alba knew exactly what she was doing. Deep down you had no idea what to expect. Of course, you knew how everything worked. You just had never done it.

“You will make a fine empress, my lady.” Alba spoke as she applied some rouge on your cheeks. You looked at yourself in the mirror. She had applied some paste to make your skin more even, erasing any blemish you might have. You didn’t look like yourself, but if this is what the twins would want you to look like you were going to have to get used to it.

“I am no empress yet, Alba.” You nervously roll the beads of red coral between your fingers. “What if I am not to their liking? They will throw me away like a used toy.” You couldn’t help but confess your worries to her.

“They would not have vouched for your attention this long if they do not want to keep you around.” Alba helps you into your gown. It was a sheer silken stola that had a slight purple tint to it and gold trimmings. Your nipples harden because of the cold air, perking through the sheer fabric. You had decided to keep your hair down, an intimate gesture. Despite the simple look, you thought you looked beautiful.

Alba smiles at you. “Trust me, my lady, they seem to be fond of you.” She continued to brush your hair, letting the shiny locks fall into her caring hands. “They have not been interested in a noble lady before, they must intend to marry you.”

The thought was exciting to you. To be the empress of the greatess nation on the planet. Not only that, you would have both the emperors’ attention and love. It also made you nervous, you grew up on the country side. How would you manage to actually survive in a city like Rome for the rest of your life. Surely, there were people here that would want you dead. It was a threat you rarely faced back home.

Home. You did miss home a lot. Your family, the animals and most definitely the peace and quiet. Almost every night in Syracuse was as quiet as this night in Rome. But Rome was your new home now, you knew the emperors would not let you leave after tonight. Not that you minded, you came to enjoy the idea of living with them over time. Besides, Clemens would come to the city soon. You would have your family close again.

A knock on the door made both of you turn your head. It was soldier. He had told you the twins were ready to receive you. You inhale and exhale deeply, pushing down your nerves. After bidding Alba farewell you followed the soldier. Alba had given you a sympethetic look as you left, She knew your faith, as did you.

The soldier announces your name and titles as you entered their chambers. You took a good look around. The room was twice as big as your own. The dining table was already filled with all sorts of food. You followed the marble pillars in the room to a bed. They were making you have dinner in one of their bedrooms.

“Please have a seat, my lady.” Geta’s voice made you flinch. Caracalla was already seated at the table, slouched in his seat. He did not say a word, biting the nail of his thumb as he watched you. Geta offers his hand for you to take, leading you to your seat. He was at the head of the table, Caracalla was across from you. “I hope the food is to your liking, it would be a waste to throw it all away because of your lack of appetite.” There was a certain threat in his voice. They did not want you to wither away as you have been these last few weeks.

“The food looks divine, Ceres has truly given us her blessing this year.” You smile politely while grabbing a fig. The juice was dripping down your chin after you bit into the ripe fruit.

Caracalla had been watching you the entire time. First just your face, then he noticed your gown. Without any shame he had been staring at your chest, then back at your face, and then your chest again. Still, not a word came out of his mouth.

“I assume your brother has received our invite?” Geta spoke again, his voice echoed through the room. “You see, our citizens get rewarded if they are compliant, my lady.” A grin spreads onto his features. Suddenly, Caracalla was watching his brother. Geta gets up to walk to the side of the bed, he never was a patient man. “Come.” He basically commands you.

“But your majesty, the food-”

“I said come.” His tone was harsher. There was no room for debate. You get up, your hands folded infront of you as you walk to Geta. Like a cat, Caracalla maneuvered around you as he followed you to the bed.

“That wasn’t that hard, now was it.” He reached out to touch your body, his hand landing on your hips. It trailed up to your breast, brushing softly over your nipple. Geta watches your reaction like a predator watching its prey. “You have been so good to me, to Caracalla. Haven’t you?” He whispers as his thumb circled over your hard nipple, he got a small moan in return. You could feel the heat rise between your legs.

You look around, trying to find Caracalla. He had managed to sit down on the bed without you noticing. There was a big smile on his face as he watches his brother take what he wanted to have for weeks now, the look on his face mirroring that of when he was watching the games in the Colosseum.

After brushing over your nipple one more time, Geta’s hand travelled up to wrap around your neck. He wasn’t squeezing your throat hard, it was probably to test your reaction. When he noticed you did not protest he moved to slip his fingers under the straps of your stola. Gently, he pushes them off your shoulders, making the gown pool around your ankles. The sight alone of you, bare, in front of him made his loins stir.

There you stood, naked. The cold night air hit your skin, making you shiver. Geta’s smile only grew when he finally got see what he had been dreaming about all this time. He places a finger under your chin, making you look up him. “You have been hiding this beauty under those clothes all this time.” Geta brushed his thumb over your bottom lip, moving his hand to cup your cheek. “You want this, don’t you?” He was coaxing the right answer out of you.

You couldn’t even speak, your desire clouding your moan. Not trusting your voice to do the talking, you just merely nodded. In return you got a hum of approval from Geta. “Let me show you how to please your emperor.” He turned to Caracalla, who was still sitting in silence on the bed.

Geta leads you to the bed and within the blink of an eye, Caracalla was all over you. His lips were attached to your breast, his hands softly kneeding the other. He sucked them like a man dying of thirst. ”You are so divine, my love. The Gods should hide in shame because of your beauty.” He muttered between his kisses.

You lean back against Geta’s firm chest, who was drinking up every sound you made. His large hands find your thighs, slowly spreading them for his brother. Caracalla latched off your breast and smiled at the sight of your wet cunt. He couldn’t help himself as he lowered himself between your thighs, leaving a trail of kisses on your stomach. “So beautiful.” He spoke before diving between your legs, lapping at your core.

You couldn’t control the moans that left your lips. With the way Caracalla was eating you out and the way he was looking up at you, you felt like you were up in the clouds with the Gods. “You like that don’t you? Not so innocent now hmm?” Geta started to whisper all sorts of filth in your ear. “Can’t wait to fuck you pregnant, would you like that my lady?” You could feel his hardness against your lower back, he was getting off on watching his brother eat you out.

“Yea — ah, Yes please.” You moan as Caracalla sticks two fingers into your sopping cunt, he was going to have to prepare your virgin hole to take either one of them. He slowly pumps them into you as you started whining. “You sound almost like a whore, my love. Are you sure that we are you are not a whore?” Geta bit your earlobe as he continued to speak depravities into your ear. “Well?”

“No! Y-You’re my first.” You couldn’t even think straight any more. This was unlike anything you had ever felt before. Of course you had tried pleasuring yourself, but in the fear of your father finding out you always stopped your attempts before you got anywhere. This was all extremely overwhelming.

Caracalla removes his mouth from your core. He sucks on your breast again, his fingers still pumping into you. It leaves you feeling needy so you turn to look at Geta. He smiled, kissing your cheek. “Is the lady needy?” He says as his hand travels to your clit, his finger softly rubbing the sensetive bud while his brother still had his fingers inside you.

It was all a bit too much. They’re hands were everywhere, turning you into a moaning mess. The combination of Caracalla moaning sweet nothingness’ and Geta whispering absolute filth into your ear made your head do summersaults.

With the way you were clenching around his fingers Caracalla knew you were going to orgasm soon. He dove between your legs again. “Wanna taste you cum.” He mumbles, pushing Geta’s hands away so he could suck on your clit again.

Geta was smirked, you could feel it against your ear. “You’re gonna cum already? Go on, cum on your emperor’s tongue.” His hands strays upwards to play with your tits. Just as you were about to cum, Geta kissed you, swallowing up all your soft moans. Your orgasm washed over you, painting Caracalla’s tongue with your juices.

You laid against Geta’s chest for a moment, catching your breath. Caracalla gave your pussy another kiss before sitting up straight and giggling at your blissful face. “We should have that painted, hang it up for the senate to see.” He grins as he sits on his knees, his cock painfully hard through his blue robes.

“Such a good girl.” Geta wiped his spit of your lips. “We have been awfully generous, how about you return the favor, hmm sweetheart?” He nodded toward Caracalla.

“I don’t— I’ve never done that before.” You stumble over your words after you understand what he was getting at.

“Don’t worry, I told you I would teach you wouldn’t I?” He said, gently placing a hand on the beak of your head and pushing it down. You followed his lead, hovering your face above Caracalla’s dick. It was larger than you expected, bright red and standing proud.

“Spit.” He told you. You opened your mouth and let the spit fall onto Caracalla’s cock. “Now give it a few pumps.” Like a dog you obeyed his command, wrapping your hand around his member. It felt heavy in your hands. “And now you suck it like the good little whore you are.” Geta pushed your head a little again.

You followed his lead once more, wrapping your lips around the tip. Caracalla threw his head slightly back at the feeling of your warm lips. He replaces Geta’s hands on your head, burrying his hands into your hair. “You gotta—” He helps you bop you head on a comfortable pace. “Just like that, so pretty. Taking me so well.”

You could feel Geta move around on the bed, you nearly choked on Caracalla’s dick when you felt Geta drag his tip along your wet slit. Instictively, you moved your hips back. Geta clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Tch, you would like that wouldn’t you? Want me to fuck you full of cum.” He collected your slick with his dick, giving himself a few strokes before he sat down next to his brother.

“Such a nasty girl. Not tonight tho. Wouldn’t want to upset Juno by giving you my child before we are wed.” Geta knew exactly what he was doing. He wanted you to crave this as much as he craved you. And as far as he could tell from the way your pussy was drooling for him, it was working.

“Can you stop it. She is supposed to be paying attention to me.” Caracalla sneered at his brother, giving your head a harder push. He tried his luck, pushing your head all the way down so your nose touched his red hair. When he noticed you struggling he quickly let you go.

“As long as you don’t break her, she isn’t one of your whores.” Geta retorted, jacking off to the sight of you sucking dick. The tears in your eyes only spurring him on more

Carcalla was a little gentler, but his grip on your hair was still rough. The sounds he made went from groans to desperate whines and moans. Once again, he melted under your touch. He was petting your head, mumbling incoherent sentences. His cock hit the back of your throat when he started bucking his hips.

“Can I cum in your mouth? Please?” Geta had never seen Caracalla ask, but something in you brought that side out of him. It was beautifull display, watching his future empress naked on all fours sucking cock. He didn’t care that it was his brothers’.

Before you could even try to reply, Caracalla pushed your head down again. With a breathy moan he came in your mouth, shooting rope after rope of hot seed into your throat. He let you stay there for a moment, before letting you go.

When your mouth popped off, Geta quickly moved his finger under your chin. “Not yet. Just hold it in there a little longer.” He kneels, furiously pumping his cock infront of your lips. “Open up sweetheart.” With his fingers he pried open your mouth, shooting his cum into your mouth aswell.

He sits down in front of you when he was done, both their seed mixed in your mouth. Geta placed a hand on your throat. “Now swallow.” He could feel both their loads get swallowed, a smirk on his face as he watched.

Gently, Caracalla crawls to kiss you everywhere. Your neck, your cheek, your lips. “You’re so good to me. So sweet.” He mumbles as his hands kneed at your flesh again. Like a needy child he pulls you close to lay with him in the bed, revelling in your warmth. He latched onto one of your nipples again, sucking it softly. Though this time it seemed he did it for comfort, not as a sexual act.

Geta sits next to you. He looks at you, a gentle look on his face. “Are you alright?” He asks, cupping your cheek.

“I am fine.” You smile, your voice was a bit hoarse. “That was fun.”

He kisses your forehead, also laying down besides you. He leans in close, his hands around your waist. “Can’t wait to pump you full of my children, my empress.”

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[dissociativewriter]

Heyyyy about the event (congratulations, you deserve it!!!).I would love one with Caleb and intro (end of the world) (extended) by ariana grande (i think it fits them very well), it being non mc reader (they have met since they are children) I would love if it was veryyyy angst, please and thanks:)

hiii anon! thank you <3 i hope you like how this turned out! not sure if its angsty enough but i tried :)

wc: 752

cw: angst, grief, regret, not a happy ending; not proofread

“Hey, pip-squeak!” Caleb’s voice rang through your shared apartment, loud and cheery. You glanced over, watching him closely. His smile was bright as his voice, the widest it’s been in weeks. The Farspace Fleet was hovering over him, you knew, so you were glad he was finally able to relax.

But why couldn’t it be with you?

He sat sprawled on the couch, cradling his phone like a high school girl with a crush.

Or at least, a boy with a crush on a girl since before high school.

You’d grown up together. You, her, Caleb, and Zayne. Sometimes it felt like each other was all you had.

You knew it then, you figured. The way Caleb looked at her. It would never be the way he looked at you.

So, why couldn’t you stop your own feelings?

You grieved when he died. Of course, she got more comfort than you did. They were practically attached at the hip, so she was the priority at his funeral.

So, you grieved in silence.

Then he was back.

Different, but back.

You heard from her how different he was, heard how they could never be the same.

When you finally saw him again, it was like those feelings had never left.

You accepted everything, took care of him, loved him.

And now he was your boyfriend.

Technically.

Though from an outsider’s perspective, you’d think it was she that was dating him.

But no, she had Zayne, so Caleb had to settle for the second best thing: Being her best friend.

And you, of course.

You wondered, if she and Zayne ever split up, ever went through some kind of separation, how fast would it take Caleb to discard you?

For him to stop pretending.

You watched his bright smile, something ugly pooling in your stomach.

What would it take for him to care about you that way?

“I don’t mean to interfere,” Zayne had told you once. “But it’s clear that he’s not treating you the way he should.” You hadn’t said anything then, only looked away from the doctor. He’d long since been able to read you, understanding that you knew what you couldn’t accept. He sighed. “I don’t want to tell you what to do, but you deserve better. Why waste your time with someone who doesn’t care for you above all else?”

You dropped your head into your hands. You knew what you had to do. It was due to happen for sometime.

You couldn’t grieve in silence forever.

You waited until he finished his phone call with her, grin still plastered on his face. It disappeared, though, when you moved to sit next to him.

Of course it did.

You felt your stomach sink. How had you lasted this long, living like this?

“Caleb, I think we should break up.”

Something passed through his eyes. You hoped it was regret, but the Colonel was getting even better at hiding his emotions.

He agreed. Maybe he thought this would be his chance. He could split her and Zayne up forcefully, now that you weren’t in the way.

You packed your things quickly, leaving to stay with a friend. You left that same week.

Caleb was left with a nearly empty apartment. How had he never realized how much of his life was yours? The things that made him know he was home, they were all yours.

The apartment was too quiet without you.

Caleb didn’t know what to do. The Farspace Fleet was constantly pressuring him, and now there was no one there to relieve it. His plan to finally win over her had failed.

Of course it did.

He knew he had faults, and it seemed the doctor had none. The picture of perfection, Caleb thought sourly. If he didn’t hate Zayne before, he certainly did now. He’d taken everything that was dear to Caleb.

Why hadn’t he done something when he first overheard that conversation between you and Zayne?

Why wasn’t that his wake-up call?

Why did he have to take you for granted?

He texted you, called you, bombarded you with desperate attempts. You ignored all of them, until one night you finally got fed up.

Why couldn’t he let you live and heal in peace? You texted him back a single message;

I’ve already grieved you, Caleb. Now, it’s your turn.

You should have realized you needed me sooner.

The words blurred through Caleb’s watery eyes.

Oh, he realized, this wasn’t Zayne’s fault.

It was his own.

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