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hard-core-super-star · 3 days ago

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i love you, it’s ruining my life [W.Maximoff]

pairing: sugarmommy!wanda x reader

summary: you share a passionate moment with wanda in her office but it only leaves you more scattered and confused about her feelings.

warnings: SMUT, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT -> legal age gap; power dynamics; fingering [R receiving]; praise; making out; petnames; teasing; light dom/sub dynamic; slightly public sex [aka office sex]; allusions to subdrop; mentions of insecurity; porn with SO many feelings, it's crazy

wordcount: 2.3k

a/n: hihi! believe it or not, i did NOT forget about this mini-series. i, once again, got carried away and i'm not super in love with the smut but i felt like adding it just for fun. expect some hurt and then some comfort in the next part. hope you enjoy <3

part one | part two |

* * * * * * *

Things between you and Wanda had shifted in the past few weeks.

You weren't sure what had caused the sudden shift in the energy between you. Maybe it had been the night you'd spent in her penthouse, on that expensive couch, with your face buried between her legs. It wasn't like there was anything different about what you'd done together that night and yet, something was different now.

Something neither of you wanted to put into words.

It didn't change how your days went, though. She still went to work every morning and you stayed at home, waiting for her, ready to ease the stress of the day and bring her back to herself. That was what you were used to. The routine you almost craved.

But like everything else, it had started shifting.

It was small at first. Requests for you to bring her lunch even though you knew she took the bag you'd packed the night before, constant texts when she was supposed to be in meetings. And now, the newest addition, asking you to come with her into the office.

A part of you told you it was a bad idea. Hell, she'd said it herself every time you'd asked.

And now you're here.

You're curled up on the leather couch in the corner of her office, your eyes drawn to Wanda and the way she flips through stacks and stacks of boring, legal papers. It's hard to tell why you're here, especially since she never lets you stay.

Not like this.

Not like you belong here with her.

She must sense your unease, you're sure she does, because she looks up, her eyebrow raised elegantly. "You okay over there, baby?"

You nod despite the far-away look in your eyes. "Just bored."

A beat passes before she scoots her chair back, her fingers beckoning you forward. "Well, we can't have that, can we? Come here, sweet girl."

Despite the lingering confusion, you make your way over to her without waiting another second. Her hands grip your waist once you're close enough and gently pull you in until you're settling onto her lap.

You wrap your arms around her shoulders as you get comfortable, straddling her legs and feeling her against you. "And I thought I was the clingy one."

She snorts at that. "You are. I'm just doing you a favor."

Even though you know it's a bad idea, you roll your eyes and earn yourself a quick swat to the ass. No words are exchanged, not because you don't have something to say, but because you're not too eager to earn a punishment. At least not yet.

"How long until lunch?" You ask as you busy yourself with placing kisses on her jaw, both to distract her and keep yourself occupied.

"A few hours," she replies, humming as she tilts her head back for you. "I still have a pile of paperwork, though. If you're hungry, you can go on your own."

While the idea sounds nice, you're not too eager to be on your own. Especially when you could be cozy on her lap.

"It's okay," you reply, devoting your attention to the warm skin of her jaw. "I'll wait for you."

The weight of your words must go past her head because she simply pulls her chair closer to her desk and goes back to her paperwork. It's not like you can hold it against her but you thought you'd made your feelings for her obvious after that night she came home from getting drinks. Maybe you hadn't said it outloud, and maybe that was your fault, but you thought your actions had made things more than clear.

You weren't interested in temporary. Not anymore.

You wanted Wanda. All of her. All the strings that came with her affection.

And yet, you still had to play it cool. Act like you didn't mind the lack of explanations.

Maybe you truly didn't mind. If you did, you wouldn't be here, right? There was a reason you were sticking around, despite what everyone said. The judgmental looks and snide comments. As hard as it was to admit it, it was worth it.

"You're doing it again," she says, her words more of a murmur than anything else. "I can feel your brain overheating."

"Sorry," you mumble in response. "I didn't mean to distract you."

"Oh, honey, you're always a distraction. But my favorite one."

The words help ease your worries a little, at least she doesn't see you as an annoyance. So then, what does she see you as? Because she told you she was yours that night but nothing has changed. At least not in a noticeable way.

One of her hand tangles in your hair and pulls you away from her skin so your eyes can meet. She opens her mouth to say something but you lean in and crash your lips against her before she can get a word out.

It's not the best way to deal with your spiraling emotions but it's the only thing you can think to do. Kiss her until you're breathless or winded or incapable of forming another thought. Or maybe all at once.

If Wanda can taste the insecurity in your kiss, she doesn't say anything. Instead, she allows herself to get carried away as if nothing's wrong. And maybe she's right, maybe you're simply thinking too much and demanding things she'll never be able to give.

Or maybe you're wrong. Maybe what you thought were real feelings, was simply desire under wraps. Maybe all you'll ever be is her pretty pet.

The problem is, when you're like this, wrapped up in her arms, drowning in her kisses, you can't see the issue with that. All you can feel is how much you want her, how much you need her, and how fucking good she is with her hands.

When you finally part for air, lungs burning, her hands grip your hips and she lifts you up. The show of strength turns you on far more than it should and you're desperately spreading your legs for her by the time she sets you down on top of her desk.

"Thought you had work to do," you say.

"You distracted me," she replies as if that explains everything.

It doesn't but you're distracted too and feeling her stand up to press up against you takes your remaining breath away. Deep down, you know you shouldn't get carried away. That it'll only create more problems and it's not worth it.

But how can you say touching her isn't worth it?

You wrap your arms around her neck and pull her in down toward you, your lips crashing together once again. It's like if you move fast enough, you won't have to think.

Wanda seems to be on the same wavelength as you, her hands gripping your hips and dragging you forward. It suddenly dawns on you why she was so adamant this morning that you should wear a skirt.

"You're so needy, princess," she mumbles when she pulls you away. "Can't go more than five minutes without me touching you."

"You're the one who told me to sit on your lap," you point out, tilting your head back as her mouth moves to your neck. "This was your plan all along, wasn't it?"

She chuckles against your skin. "Smart girl. You caught me red-handed."

"I usually do, you're predictable."

Her response comes in the form of her sucking on your neck, no doubt leaving behind marks you won't be able to hide. Then again, it's not like anyone will ask. Mainly because Kate doesn't have to ask, she already knows who has you wrapped around their finger.

One of her hands grips you close while the other one slips between your legs, soft fingers trailing up your sensitive inner thigh. You buck into the touch involuntarily and the movement makes the redhead chuckle again.

It has no damn right being as hot as it is.

"Is this what you meant when you said you were bored?" She asks as she presses her fingers against the wet spot on your panties. "You just wanted Mommy to touch you?"

It's impossible to stop yourself from moaning despite the slightly public setting. "I always want Mommy to touch me."

"Mmm, good girl."

Your words earn you the reward of her fingers slipping under your panties. "Fuck, please."

"Begging already? You're more predictable than I am, baby."

Even though her words cause your face to heat up, it doesn't stop you from moving against her, wordlessly asking for more. It's not her touch that you're asking for, you know that, but for now, it's good enough. You hope it'll be enough to replace the thoughts swirling in your head even though you know better.

She keeps her teasing to a minimum, her eyes sweeping back and forth between you and the door to her office. "Come on, sweet girl, let me hear you. Show me how much you need me."

Her thumb grazes your clit a few times and she revels in the way you shake against her. It's fast and sloppy but when two of her fingers slide in, your head falls back in pleasure. The stretch burns in that familiar way that has your legs clenching so hard she's practically stuck against you.

The pace she sets is far faster than what you truly need, your hands gripping onto her shoulders just to keep yourself steady. Only Wanda can turn your whole world upside down from a few thrusts.

You wish you could hate her but you can't.

Not when she's muttering praises into your ear and coaxing you closer and closer to that blissful edge you know so well. The one that makes you tune everything out except her. No stupid secretaries, or long nights at the office. Just you and the woman you've fallen in love with.

Nothing else matters.

"Mommy," you whisper, tears painting you vision as all you emotions morph and bleed into each other. "Please, can't-"

"Shh, don't worry about it, sweetheart. Just come for me, just let go."

And you do.

Hard and fast and messy.

Like falling in love with her.

You're still buzzing from your orgasm when Wanda pulls you off her desk. The movement winds you but not as much as the painful contact of your knees against the floor. You barely have time to process what's going on when the door swings open and the sound of heels fills your ears.

"Afternoon, Wanda."

Agnes.

It's a struggle but you stop yourself from making any noise or revealing yourself. Thankfully, the older woman manages to fully hide you by scooting her chair in and acting like nothing's going on. Not like she just gave you a mind-blowing orgasm or anything.

"How have you still not learned how to knock?" Wanda asks, masking her annoyance with a chuckle.

"Because you don't need me to, you always know when I'm about to come in."

This time, you roll your eyes, hearing all the hidden meanings that seem to go over the green-eyed woman's head. The problem itself isn't technically Agnes but she's the best representation of all of them. Of your insecurity, Wanda's never-ending charm, her lack of awareness because she's too focused on something else.

Her work. Her lifestyle. Her money. Everything's always about her.

You ignore their conversation and simply lay your head on the older woman's lap, your lips pressing into her leg. The fabric of her stupid trousers doesn't let you touch her the way you want to, so you're forced to simply sit there, listening to their unbearable conversation.

One of Wanda's hands drifts down, her fingers tangling in your hair once more. She's doing what she can to keep you grounded, to stop the thoughts that will no doubt come rushing in due to the lack of full aftercare. It's not her fault, but the more time that passes, the more resentful you feel yourself become.

It doesn't help that you tune back into the conversation right when Agnes talks about you. Or well, she mentions who you assume to be you.

"No drinks tonight, then?" The brunette asks. "You need to get home early to babysit?"

To make the storm of insecurities in your mind worse, Wanda laughs. She doesn't wave her off, doesn't tell her to get lost. She laughs.

Deep down, you know it's nothing but a reaction. A rehearsed dance she does every time to avoid questions. To avoid the reality of her attachment to you.

It shouldn't hurt as much as it does but you're vulnerable and in need of reassurance and the last thing you need is hear her act like you can't hear her. Like there's no weight to what she's doing. How she's acting.

"What I do at home isn't your business, Agnes," Wanda replies, voice steady and borderline uninterested.

The other woman apologizes but you can hear the smirk in her voice. "Oh, I know, you're far too secretive about what you do with your little plaything. Let me know if you ever need someone who can actually keep up with you."

If their conversation continues, you don't hear it. You don't hear anything besides the pounding in your ears and the shallowness of your breaths.

When the coast is clear and Wanda is able to scoot back again, you almost fall over before her hands cup your face, tilting your head back so she can look at you. What she finds must worry her before her eyebrows furrow instantly. "Are you okay?"

You nod even though you know better. "Yeah, just…scattered."

"What do you need?"

Even though you know the answer, you push yourself off your knees. The last thing you need is to be by yourself and yet…it's the only thing you're thinking about.

"I'm gonna go get lunch," you mutter, nervously shifting away from the older woman.

You except her to stop you. To tell you to sit down and let her help you feel better.

And when she doesn't, and she lets you walk to the door of her office…you realize you're better off leaving. Not realizing how much it hurts her too.

* * * * * * *

taglist: @boredandneedfanfics @rosekjsses @milflovers4 @sevikasoneandonlywife @dextur @tobeawriter98

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x female reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff #mommy wanda #wanda maximoff fanfiction #sugarmommy!wanda #elizabeth olsen #avengers fanfiction #marvel fic #mcu imagine #wlw fic #writing

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dammit-tazmuir · 2 days ago

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C— kept saying, Pick one. Are we more invested in proving this new plan is bullshit, or in saving you? I was like, It’s both, how can it not be both. C— was like, It can’t be both. Pick one and stick to it. Decide what you give a fuck about.

Spoiler alert, it wasn't both.

But ya know. I'm sure it'll be both this time. The faceless oppression of global capitalism and collective exploitation of billions over the course of centuries was bad and all, I guess, but like, John also hurt people who didn't deserve it, and more importantly, people we the audience personally like, which is way worse than people we don't know.

Obviously we won't hurt anyone who doesn't deserve it and are objectively qualified to decide that. Quests for vengeance never have collateral damage if you're morally pure, and John's problem is just that he always sucked. He probably lied about his whole backstory and wasted a quarter of a book, I'm sure Tamsyn would do that to us. Alecto probably, uh, played eeny meeny miney moe or something, she definitely never had a real reason to choose him.

Also sure there's very little misogyny in the empire but sometimes he's dismissive toward Mercy (far more condescending and meaner to everyone including other women, but when she does it she's a girlboss) and he patronizes the babies (definitely because they're women, not because they're babies) so obviously he's just super sexist. Ignore his relationship with his own masculinity, his childhood love for dolls and hatred for older men, his aversion to casting himself as "Father" despite all the Catholicism. Ignore that his original inner circle minus puppets consisted of his childhood bestie, his boyfriend, his boyfriend's inseparable baby brother, his girlfriend, and four other women and no other men. Also being polyamorous definitely means he's running a gross sex cult, that claim isn't anyone's biases showing at all, it's not like it took his partners 500 years to seduce him. Also ignore any and all historical allegations against any of the schools he's attended, I'm sure those details were arbitrary and being in the first paragraph of a book isn't important. It's not like he vents often but avoids directly saying anything that makes him sound weak or vulnerable. And we all know that the world consists only of blameless victims and malicious abusers. So I'm sure he's just power-hungry and manipulative for funsies and we totally just need to murder him already.

Hi can you tell I'm tired.

Anyway yeah it wasn't "both" for him and it would really suck and undermine the entire point if it was magically both now for us.

Obviously he did a lot of shit wrong, and I'm not even saying there's no satisfying way he could be punished or even die, but our girlies just storming the palace and assassinating him ain't it.

Tamsyn Muir: “Here's a series about how a man's vindictiveness dooms the universe, all because his trauma left him incapable of believing in forgiveness over vengeance. As contrast, the protag in the first book reflects something closer to divinity by extending her abuser grace so that she can repent and change, and the protag of the third book begs her brother to not flatten a planet in revenge after having experienced forgiveness.”

too many TLT fans: “yass can't wait for my girlies to kill God!!!”

#I gotta add the disclaimer for the Mercy shade there even though anyone who's seen me talk about her before at all knows #But she's one of my favorites and I love her so so so SO much. She is my queen and my wife do NOT get me wrong #I just see people cite Specifically Her as evidence of John being A Raging Misogynist and I'm like. Have you met Mercymorn #Somehow I don't think she's a perfect representation of his relationship with all women ever actually #He doesn't listen to Augustine any more than he does Cassy or Pyrrha. He might have listened to Pyrrha a little more than most #maybe just bc she's challenged him the hardest without deferring or backing down but even so #I've seen people say he treats Mercy like she's just 'female hysteria' but the only one he ever says is getting hysterical is Augustine #He's a stubborn ass and definitely has some internalized hangups about the idea of men being allowed to be feminine #but so fucking much of the misogynist accusations are people projecting while simultaneously ignoring how badly the women treat each other #I'm sorry & I GET the vindictive urge but just flipping the double standards is in fact counterproductive and antithetical to real change #:') Like how prioritizing punitive justice over healing is counterproductive and antithetical to real change! But you know #sorry for the extra essay in the tags here. obvsly this is all @ large swaths of this fandom and not @ OP. ilu OP

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daenysx · 2 days ago

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this is not the fic idea i mentioned in the poll, just a small something i wanted to post to slowly go back to writing <33

"Oh, no, wait," James stops you. You'd like to know why. "I'll definitely have a heart attack if you wear that."

That being his jersey, with his last name on the back, you are throughly amused by this new attitude. His pretty eyes are wide open, naked chest on display and he looks messed up in the best way possible. You just want to see how the jersey looks on you.

"You're being dramatic, Jamie." you say. James scoffs and oh- he has the audacity to fake pout.

"You don't know what that means, angel," he points a finger to the jersey. "If you ever put that on, I'm gonna be yours forever."

"Oh, really?" you put on your nicest smile. "I'm definitely wearing it now."

"If something happens to my heart, you're gonna be the one explaining this to my coach. You should take the responsibility of your reckless actions."

Reckless actions, he says, as if he's not the one talking without his shirt on. You curve your lips into a snarky smile, taking off your tank top quicker than ever with playful fingers, and it feels so funny. He watches the entire scene without a word, and you can almost hear his heartbeat. Maybe he was being serious.

"It feels so nice," you comment. "I like the fabric."

"Will you marry me?"

"I'm sure you can do better than this," you laugh. "But for future reference, yes. Just close your mouth now, please."

He kisses your cheek before pulling you closer to his chest. It's a perfect hug, he traces the letters on your back with shaky fingers. You kiss his collarbone, he can smell your perfume. The scent will have to stay on this jersey forever.

"I love you," you whisper. "Even though you're being too dramatic over this."

He presses you harder to his chest like it's possible.

#james potter #james potter x reader #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x you #james potter fluff #marauders #marauders fic #james x you #james x fem!reader #james x reader #the marauders #james potter fic #james potter fanfic #james potter imagine #marauders imagine

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asiatic-apple · 1 day ago

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Phew, I'm not getting booed on my ghostface!caleb idea 😅 but y'know, I admit it would be ooc for him... so here's a happy medium:

Your sweet boyfriend, Caleb, dresses as Ghostface for a Halloween party you two are attending in Skyhaven. And he figures out pretty quickly that you like seeing him in the costume.

He plays along, tilting his head in amusement and lowering his voice to say a few iconic lines from the movies. And although he ditched the voice changer for the night, he still manages to capture that slightly deranged yet playful tone of voice. It makes your knees wobble.

During the party, he gives you the semblance of freedom, letting you run around and mingle without him by your side. But every time you glance to the corner or look behind you, you swear you see the flash of a white mask looking your way.

He's following you, always a few steps behind you throughout the entire party. And he somehow masters the art of disappearing from sight when you try to search the crowd for him.

You feel on edge the whole night, but it's exactly the kind of feeling you love to have during spooky season. That little tremor of fear makes you horny—you can't help it. And Caleb notices. He can see you getting all flustered every time you think you catch a glimpse of him.

After a few hours, he decides he's done playing this game of cat and mouse with you. This time, he follows you with the intent to catch you and keep you.

And when you're finally cornered between his strong body and the wall behind you, you're both panting softly with adrenaline and arousal. No one else can hear it over the pounding of the party's loud music. But you see Caleb's chest rise and fall rapidly beneath the sparkly black robe of the costume. His hands grip your hips so tightly, as if he's stopping himself from taking you right there in front of everyone.

Silently, tauntingly, he tilts his masked head at you as if he's debating what to do with his trapped little prey. And you cave instantly.

You paw at the robe along his chest, quietly pleading, "Caleb, take me home..."

Needless to say, you spend the rest of the night getting dicked down by your masked boyfriend (insert "scream" pun here). And Caleb is far too eager to tease you for how riled up you get by a simple costume.

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chamisulgrape · 1 day ago

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after the concept photos came out omg we need kinky free use submissive reader x dom member (or reverse? u choose???)!! i am very intrigued by your office idea so maybe you can incorportte that??? love u

YESS i hope u like this one op hopefully i did ur idea justice D:

boss!sunghoon x afab secretary!reader | 2.1k

☆ cw → office au , pwp , mild dubcon , degradation , blowjobs , mention of free use relationship with boss!hyungline , recording without consent , sunghoon is obsessed with cats & calls reader a kitten once , reader is a whore for hyungline & she's playing the long game

“Sunghoon, I’m not going to—” You blink up at Sunghoon in disbelief.

Sunghoon’s fingers are digging into the skin of your jaw with a grip that’s so gentle, yet tight. You’ve been on your knees on the bathroom floor for what feels like hours, and at this point you’re starting to feel a dull ache settling throughout your legs. Sunghoon smiles at you, lips curled into something sickeningly fond and sweet.

It makes your stomach churn.

“To what, hm?”

“To meow for your dick.” You mumble, cheeks aflame with embarrassment.

“Why? You do it all the time as a joke already.” Sunghoon says, running his thumb along your bottom lip.

“That’s—that’s different.” You breathe out.

Sunghoon tilts his head, pressing down on your lip and humming at you in a way that makes your brain go fuzzy. “How? Think of it as another task. Simple and easy,” Sunghoon glances at the door behind you. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

The weight of the situation hits you then; what Sunghoon’s asking of you. Sunghoon wants you to meow for his cock. You swallow, looking up at him helplessly. As if Sunghoon can sense your hesitation, he shifts, removing his hand from your chin to tug his slacks and boxers down to his knees in one swift motion. You hate how your mouth betrays you and waters at the sight of Sunghoon’s cock.

“What’s it going to be, hm? Are you going to meow for it?” Sunghoon’s voice is soft, gentle like he isn’t asking you for—whatever this is. You gulp, throat bobbing and face hot, your focus on Sunghoon’s cock. “Words, baby. I know you want it.”

To be fair, you should’ve seen it coming. Sunghoon’s always asking you to do things, whether it be doing some cringe aegyo for his cock or wearing the cat ears you wore during the company’s Halloween party last year while he fucks you. But, despite it all, no matter how embarrassing it feels, you always comply; the feeling of shame and embarrassment and attention only pushes you further, you hate how you thrive under it.

“Sunghoon,” you try, helplessly. “Just let me suck you off before we have to go back. Our—our lunch is almost over.”

Sunghoon clicks his tongue, tutting at you as he wraps a hand around himself, stroking slowly. You make a sound, needy and high. “Sunghoon, please.”

“C’mon, do what you do best. You know what to do, baby.” Sunghoon looks down at you with hooded lids as he strokes himself, and you flush further. He just wants you to listen. Sunghoon could do this all day, you realize.

You squirm, wincing as you realize that your legs have fallen asleep. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Is it? Are you embarrassed?”

“Sunghoon.” You let out a whine.

Sunghoon indulges you, letting the hand he has around his cock guide himself forward, forward until the head is tracing along your bottom lip, wetting it with precome. Sunghoon smiles at you, and you press your thighs together in an attempt to ground yourself.

“Come on,” Sunghoon says, lowly. “You know you want to. Why are you playing hard to get?”

You blink up at him, at a loss for words. The worst thing about it is that you want to. Sunghoon knows you want to, he knows that you would do anything if it meant you’d be able to please him, to get to have your mouth full. You open your mouth to protest, only for a weak whine to come out when your lips brush against the head of Sunghoon’s cock.

“Sunghoon,” you murmur, brain already starting to go mush and obedient, just how Sunghoon likes you.

You trail off, closing your eyes and breathing deeply through your nose. When you open them, Sunghoon is still looking down at you, a smug, sardonic grin on his face that makes your embarrassment grow further. “Please.”

“Hm?” Sunghoon tilts his head, smiling so wide that his canines glint under the lighting of the bathroom.

You huff again, all the fight leaving your system. You open your mouth, but fall short of words. You purse your lips before making—or, trying to make a noise akin to a… meow.

Sunghoon snorts, and you bite down on your bottom lip to hold the humiliation back, the sob that threatens its way out of your mouth. God, Sunghoon is the one with the oral fixation, yet he always has you like this, making you beg just to have his cock in your mouth.

“You know you can do better than that.” Sunghoon says it so sweetly, yet it’s so humiliating that you want to cry.

“Please,” you plead, before realizing that Sunghoon isn’t going to give it up. You do it again, louder this time. Sunghoon raises a brow, unimpressed.

“Do it like you mean it.” Sunghoon’s eyes haven’t left you the whole time, and he has that look in his eyes: the same look Heeseung gives you when you slack off even the tiniest bit, the same look Heeseung gives you when you mess up during a meeting.

You swallow down the humiliation and sniffle, holding back the tears and the burning in your nose, and do it again. You barely have time to take a breath before you’re choking, Sunghoon’s cock forcing its way into your mouth.

Sunghoon holds your head in place, and you faintly feel disgusted once you realize the position the two of you are in. You; with your knees on the dirty floor of the bathroom, and Sunghoon; seated on the seat of the toilet. The thought makes you gag, and you sputter around Sunghoon’s cock.

“You’re so ungrateful. I ask you to do one thing, and you can’t even do it,” Sunghoon lets out a laugh before furrowing his brows. “You’re always so good for me, yet you can’t even do this when I ask you to?”

You whine around Sunghoon’s cock, breathing in harshly through your nose when tears well up in your eyes. Sunghoon presses in further, hand pushing your head down until your nose is buried in his finely trimmed pubic hair. Sunghoon holds you still, and you know better than to move.

You swallow helplessly around Sunghoon’s cock, throat constricting as you try to take in nosefulls of air. Sunghoon only hums, hand still fisted in your hair. “Maybe I should get Heeseung? He’d be able to teach you, wouldn’t he? You’d be good for him, wouldn’t you?”

You close your eyes, squeezing them shut. A few tears run down your cheeks, dripping onto Sunghoon’s thighs. Sunghoon continues, “I know you would, you always listen to him so well,” Sunghoon lifts you up until you release his cock completely, letting you breathe for a few seconds before pushing your head down again, all the way to the hilt. More tears spring from your eyes at the feeling of Sunghoon’s cock hitting the back of your throat. “Yet you never wanna listen to me.”

“Is that what you want? You want Heeseung to be here instead?” Sunghoon asks. You shake your head as much as you can around a mouthful of Sunghoon’s cock. Your eyes widen when you see Sunghoon reach down to fish out his phone from his pockets. “Look pretty. I’ll give you what you want.”

You squint your eyes once you feel the flash on you, and in horror, you realize that Sunghoon is recording you. You don't fear the fact that you’re being recorded, rather, you fear for who Sunghoon is recording you for.

“You’re so pretty like this, baby. You really do look like a cat, hm?” Sunghoon smiles at you, phone a few inches from your face. “Pretty baby, pretty kitten.”

You hate the way you preen inwardly at the compliment. Hates the way you feel yourself clenching around nothing. Sunghoon coos at you, and the humiliation from earlier returns.

“Yeah? You like that? Always knew you did. That’s why you’re always letting me fuck you in the ears, huh? You like it just as much as I do, don’t you?”

You let out a pained moan, but it only comes off as a garbled sound around Sunghoon’s cock. Sunghoon hisses at the feeling, fingers gripping your hair tighter. Sunghoon still has the phone in front of your face, and you startle when you hear a few clicks.

“Maybe I’ll send these to your bosses, hm? Let them all know how much you like this. Maybe I’ll let them take turns with you too,” Sunghoon releases the grip he has on your hair to reach lower, sticking two of his fingers into your mouth alongside his cock. “Maybe even Jongseong. I see the way you look at him. You look at him the same way you look at Heeseung—the same way you look at me, like if he asked you to, you’d let him fuck you right then and there.”

You whine, feeling yourself drip as you clench helplessly. Sunghoon isn’t wrong, you know that if Sunghoon hadn’t been the one to fuck you first, you’d have gladly went to Jongseong or Jake instead—even Heeseung, if he’d let you. The thought makes your mouth pool with saliva, spit making its way out from around Sunghoon’s cock and fingers to dribble pathetically down your chin, wetting Sunghoon’s wrist.

Sunghoon makes a face, curling his lip. “You’re always so messy. Heeseung won’t fuck you if you can’t keep your spit in your fucking mouth, he doesn’t like it messy.” Sunghoon says, and you sniffle, holding back another sob. “You’re always drooling all over my fucking pillows, but Heeseung won’t like that. You know how clean he is, don’t you?”

You nod, inhaling through your nose. Sunghoon pulls the phone away to peer down at you, examining you with disinterest. Sunghoon clicks his tongue, “You’re so greedy. You always want more, you can’t ever be happy with what you have, can you?”

You want to retort. You want to tell Sunghoon that he’s wrong and that you’re not greedy—but it’s true, you’ve always bitten off more than you can chew. You can’t help but always want more than you deserve.

Sunghoon taps away at his phone, and you squirm at the sound of the keyboard. Sunghoon doesn’t break a sweat, there’s no crack through his facade that can show you that he’s even the least bit affected by this. Your throat is starting to ache, but you love it; you relish in the feeling of Sunghoon deep in your throat, the familiar, comfortable weight of Sunghoon’s cock resting on your tongue.

A moment passes, and Sunghoon finally sets his phone on the counter. Your shoulders slump in relief.

“Bosses are texting, baby. Time’s up.” And then Sunghoon’s pulling you off of his cock by the hair. You inhale deeply, taking a few shaky breaths to ground yourself. Sunghoon holds you like that; hand fisted in your hair, tilting you side to side like he’s assessing you. Sunghoon clicks his tongue, other hand coming up to wipe your chin with the back of his fingers.

“You’re so messy,” Sunghoon murmurs. “I don’t have to do much and you already look like you got fucked. Run through.”

You pout and Sunghoon coos at you. “Nothing to be embarrassed about, baby. It’s cute. Just—Heeseung isn’t gonna like it.”

You don't get a chance to reply, because within the next second Sunghoon’s lifting you, up until you’re back on your own two feet. You wince when your joints crack, the numbness of your legs has you falling forward into Sunghoon with a yelp. Sunghoon catches you easily, hands reaching out to wrap around your waist to stabilize you.

“Zip me up.” Sunghoon demands softly, and you listen. With shaky hands, you help Sunghoon back into his pants. When Sunghoon’s pants are zipped and his phone is slipped back into his pocket, Sunghoon stands. You look up at him, helpless, as Sunghoon towers over you.

Sunghoon laughs, breathlessly. “You’re so cute.”

You open your mouth to retort, but any comeback is swallowed down by Sunghoon’s mouth on yours. Sunghoon kisses you softly, sucking your bottom lip tenderly, the action making your heart swell. Sunghoon pulls back abruptly, and you chase after his lips.

“You want another one?” Sunghoon asks, and you nod, eagerly seeking Sunghoon’s lips out. “Meow for it.”

You scoff, glaring up at Sunghoon. “Fuck you. You’re fucking weird.”

Sunghoon grins at you, and your glare falters. He’s pretty. Sunghoon is so pretty that it’s unfair. “You like it.”

“No. I don’t.” You reply, and Sunghoon just shakes his head, a small smile on his lips. He ducks down to kiss you again, once, twice before pulling back.

“You love me.” Sunghoon sounds smug, like he already knows the answer. Like he knows that you do love him.

You bite your inner cheek, tugging on one of Sunghoon’s belt loops to pull him closer, hips flush against your own. “I don’t.”

Sunghoon lips curl into a smirk. “I know you do.”

Sunghoon always has the upper hand, but that’s because you let him. The one thing that you really hold above him, is that you don’t love him, you just love to fuck with him. You meant it when you said that if Sunghoon hadn’t gotten to you first, you would’ve gone to Jongseong instead.

That's the thing about being a good secretary: you have to know how to play the game.

But, still, Sunghoon doesn’t know that, and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

a/n: eeek lowkey want to make another part for the rest of hyungline?? kinda obsessed with them... hehe i hope u liked this op, also the concept photos r fucking me up soo bad rn. mind is reeling i have so many more ideas i want to write now! also side note as always: some of this is reworked from an old wip/au i had written! i thought the prompt matched PERFECTLYY hehe

#chamisulgrape #enhypen smut #sunghoon smut #enhypen hard thoughts #enhypen hard hours #park sunghoon smut #enhypen x reader #sunghoon imagines #enhypen scenarios

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itsclydebitches · 8 hours ago

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I made a personal promise not to respond to individual comments on this post because I value my time and my sanity. However, I was not expecting it to blow up like this. If I had I would have clarified some things.

So here are some answers to the most asked questions I've seen lately, if anyone would like them.

Peace ✌️

Did the kids even want to write a chant?

Yes and no. The instructor came up with the idea for it and asked the kids if they were interested. They said yes.

That assignment is still awful.

That’s a subjective viewpoint. Even if we all agree that attempting a creative assignment in school is not a “fun” activity… persevering through not-fun things is also an important skill. I’m sorry, but not every assignment can be a super engaging, passion-forward endeavor, both because YOUR passions are not universal (the assignment one kid loves another will hate) and because life doesn’t work that way. Kids need to learn how to do things they're not super excited about without shutting down or becoming too dysregulated, simply because life is filled with not-fun stuff that has to get done. You think I enjoy doing my taxes and buying groceries and working with certain colleagues who drive me up the wall? No, but I learned at a young age how to manage my emotions in those situations and persevere through the task. Regardless, as members of various sports teams and as generally creative people, they were interested in this task… up until it came time to persevere through it. Their options were to do the chant if they wanted, or not do it. They chose the third option of, “Let ChatGPT do it for us.” Personally, I'm even more concerned to see people choosing to outsource tasks they like, but that's a whole other conversation.

But of course they turned to ChatGPT even if they liked the assignment. Kids are under a crazy ton of pressure to do well/achieve good grades.

Yes they are, but this wasn’t graded. As said, they did not have to do this. There was no downside/consequence to not producing a chant, or producing a “bad” one.

Except the societal pressure to always do things perfectly.

Yup, which is partly why teachers design low-stakes assignments like this: so students can try out new skills in a safe environment; so they can "fail" without losing anything important in the process. We can't change our grade-focused culture in one fell swoop, but we can try to minimize the damage that focus causes.

If AI is so bad though, why didn’t admin discipline them?

Because it wasn’t an actual assignment + there’s very little agreement regarding AI in schools atm. I—as a fellow educator—am personally very worried about its prevalence and that dwindling perseverance among younger students (hence the original post). Some of my colleagues though? ChatGPT is their best friend. So it’s really hard to educate students on this topic when we haven't yet decided what the lesson should be.

What if they were forced to work with people they didn’t like?

The kids have worked in this group for the whole year and know each other well enough. More importantly, you will have to work with people you’re not BFFs with throughout your life. That’s another important skill you learn through “useless” assignments in school.

Some of them have disabilities though. Is the teacher accommodating that?

Very much so. Everything is scaffolded, differentiated, and accommodations are fully in place—even for non-assignments like this.

Oh yeah, the real issue nowadays is that kids don’t struggle enough 🙄

There’s a BIG difference between demoralizing, unhealthy struggling and the productive struggle that facilitates learning. Most people outside of education don't know the difference between the two.

Why are you acting like kids have never cheated before though? Nothing has changed.

Of course kids have always cheated, but they’ve never had an instant cheat button built into their phones before. AI is different both because of its accessibility and because it's outsourcing the critical thinking aspects of a task, rather than the drudgery (like doing the simple math with a calculator so you can work on the larger, more challenging calculation -- and crucially, in this comparison you can already do that math without the calculator. Many kids using AI are severely lacking in their reading and writing skills). AI is not the equivalent of a program checking your spelling and grammar, it's a society-approved "Click To Get a Free Gatsby Paper Here" website.

But this isn’t AI’s fault. The problem is our education system prioritizing results over effort and genuine learning.

I agree wholeheartedly, however, it’s rather difficult to restructure an entire country’s approach to education. So for now, teachers have to do what they can on a smaller scale. Saying, “They’re too scared to fail” is an explanation, not an excuse. We can’t afford to turn a blind eye to students who aren’t engaging in meaningful learning because there are cultural explanations for why they’ve developed that resistance. Teaching perseverance is one way of combating that fear and will, hopefully, serve students well while we engage in those larger reforms.

Look, you can’t say all the kids are doomed just because they didn’t want to write a stupid chant.

I’m not. This post was never meant to be a manifesto on the use of AI in education; it’s one, anecdotal example that I thought highlighted a problem a lot of teachers are seeing, myself included. Not every teacher is seeing it, but there's enough of us that it's worrisome. And worrisome doesn’t mean “doomed,” it means we should continue paying attention and respond to the situation to the best of our ability. Burying our heads in the sand with, "Well, the assignment just sucked" and "School is useless anyway. I would have cheated" isn't going to help anyone, certainly not the generations growing up in this new, AI-focused world.

Something I don't think we talk enough about in discussions surrounding AI is the loss of perseverance.

I have a friend who works in education and he told me about how he was working with a small group of HS students to develop a new school sports chant. This was a very daunting task for the group, in large part because many had learning disabilities related to reading and writing, so coming up with a catchy, hard-hitting, probably rhyming, poetry-esque piece of collaborative writing felt like something outside of their skill range. But it wasn't! I knew that, he knew that, and he worked damn hard to convince the kids of that too. Even if the end result was terrible (by someone else's standards), we knew they had it in them to complete the piece and feel super proud of their creation.

Fast-forward a few days and he reports back that yes they have a chant now... but it's 99% AI. It was made by Chat-GPT. Once the kids realized they could just ask the bot to do the hard thing for them - and do it "better" than they (supposedly) ever could - that's the only route they were willing to take. It was either use Chat-GPT or don't do it at all. And I was just so devastated to hear this because Jesus Christ, struggling is important. Of course most 14-18 year olds aren't going to see the merit of that, let alone understand why that process (attempting something new and challenging) is more valuable than the end result (a "good" chant), but as adults we all have a responsibility to coach them through that messy process. Except that's become damn near impossible with an Instantly Do The Thing app in everyone's pocket. Yes, AI is fucking awful because of plagiarism and misinformation and the environmental impact, but it's also keeping people - particularly young people - from developing perseverance. It's not just important that you learn to write your own stuff because of intellectual agency, but because writing is hard and it's crucial that you learn how to persevere through doing hard things.

Write a shitty poem. Write an essay where half the textual 'evidence' doesn't track. Write an awkward as fuck email with an equally embarrassing typo. Every time you do you're not just developing that particular skill, you're also learning that you did something badly and the world didn't end. You can get through things! You can get through challenging things! Not everything in life has to be perfect but you know what? You'll only improve at the challenging stuff if you do a whole lot of it badly first. The ability to say, "I didn't think I could do that but I did it anyway. It's not great, but I did it," is SO IMPORTANT for developing confidence across the board, not just in these specific tasks.

Idk I'm just really worried about kids having to grow up in a world where (for a variety of reasons beyond just AI) they're not given the chance to struggle through new and challenging things like we used to.

#anti ai #teaching #education

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pascalissmoked · 11 hours ago

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hi! i just found your account and i’m obsessed with your writing

can you do a fic or one shot of joel being obsessed w eating you out?😩

Omg thank you, anon! I absolutely loved this idea and decided to write something filthy for you, enjoy xx

Where His Mouth Belongs

dbf!joel x fem!reader

Summary: Joel loves to eat you out. That's it. Word Count: 1.2K Warnings: obsession, oral fixation, age gap (reader is early 20s / Joel is late 40s to 50s), morally gray!joel, ellie’s friend!reader, secret relationship, dubcon-adjacent (reader consents but situation is messy), power imbalance, dirty talk, Joel treating pussy like a lifeline, unprotected oral (obviously), unhealthy emotional dynamics,, dark smut with emotional tension.

You were just crashing for the night.

Ellie said it was fine. She offered you the couch after patrol ran late, and Joel didn’t argue. Just gave you one of those gruff, unreadable nods and handed you a blanket.

You’d known Joel for a while now. Through Ellie. Through shared dinners and the occasional awkward conversation. He was always polite, if distant. Watched you more than he spoke to you. But nothing weird. Nothing wrong.

Until that one night.

You woke up in the dark, heart kicking for a second, unsure what had stirred you. The house was quiet. The only sound was the soft creak of floorboards. Then weight at the edge of the couch. Heavy. Solid.

And hands.

Your eyes blinked open, confused, groggy—until you felt it: warm breath ghosting over your thighs. The blanket had been pulled up. Your sleep shorts tugged down.

You gasped, tried to sit up—but his hand was already on your stomach, firm, grounding you.

“Shhh. Don’t,” Joel whispered. Low. Raspy. “Just—lemme have this. Been good too long.”

His mouth was on you before you could form a protest. One long, slow drag of his tongue that made your hips buck and your thoughts shatter. You should’ve stopped him. Said something. Pushed him off.

But you didn’t.

Because your body betrayed you.

Because his tongue moved like he knew you. Like he’d imagined this a thousand times, memorized how you’d taste, sound, twitch. And fuck—he had.

He’d thought about it for months.

Every time you laughed at Ellie’s jokes. Every time you bent over to tie your boots. Every time he caught the scent of your shampoo on a borrowed hoodie. Joel knew he was too old, too broken, too everything—but none of it mattered when he closed his eyes and pictured himself between your legs.

The first taste unhinged him. You were soft and soaked and perfect. He growled into you, a low, guttural sound like he was finally getting what he was owed. It wasn’t just eating you out—it was claiming you. His mouth worked in slow circles, tongue slipping deep, lips wrapped around your clit like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

And you came for him. Loud. Shaking. Your hand in his hair before you even knew what you were doing.

And when you finally whispered, “Joel—what the fuck—” he didn’t apologize.

Didn’t speak.

Just looked up at you, lips shiny, eyes blown black with obsession, and said:

“Don’t pretend you didn’t want it.”

That was weeks ago.

You never told Ellie. Never confronted Joel. But you came back.

One excuse, then another. More sleepovers. More moments alone. And now, he’s unhinged.

Joel doesn’t care where you are—bed, couch, kitchen counter—he finds you. Kneels for you like it’s worship. Some days he barely lets you speak. Just shoves his face between your thighs and moans like he’s starved.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he pants into you, beard slick, voice wrecked. “Can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how you taste, how you shake on my tongue. You were made for this. For me.”

He doesn’t even fuck you most nights.

Just mouths at you until you’re crying. Until your legs won’t stop shaking and you beg him to stop—and he doesn’t. Says he needs it. That he’d die without it.

And maybe you believe him.

Because somewhere along the line, you stopped knowing where the limits were. When it turned from a one-time mistake into something more. Something twisted. Something daily.

You're not sure when the line stopped existing.

Maybe it was never there in the first place.

At first, it was just those nights—quiet, secret, drenched in sweat and guilt. Joel on his knees, tongue desperate, greedy—like your cunt was the only thing tethering him to the earth. He didn’t touch you anywhere else. Didn’t kiss you. Didn’t hold you after.

Just left you ruined, wet, shaking.

And always, always came back for more.

He got used to getting what he wanted and leaving you ruined and aching.

But now it’s bleeding into everything.

He starts watching you in front of Ellie.

When you laugh too hard at one of her jokes, Joel’s jaw twitches. When you wear shorts to dinner, his eyes linger too long. He starts asking you weird questions—who you’re seeing, what you wear to bed, whether you’ve ever thought about moving in somewhere closer.

And then it happens.

You go on patrol with Ellie. A dumb run. Nothing dangerous. You’re riding back in the dark, joking, when Ellie smirks and says:

“Dude, Joel is obsessed with you.”

You freeze.

She doesn’t notice.

“He always asks when you’re coming over. Offered to fix your watch for free. I caught him staring at your ass once, swear to God.”

You laugh it off—awkward, cold—but your stomach is ice. Because you know. He’s not even hiding it anymore.

And the thought of your best friend knowing what you're up to with him turns your gut sour.

Yet, that night, you show up at his door.

He doesn’t say a word. Just yanks you inside, locks it behind you, and backs you against the wall.

“You tell her?” he growls.

“No.” Ellie must've teased him too if he was already this pent up.

“You gonna?”

You stare up at him. His chest is heaving. Eyes wild. And he’s hard—already—just from the thought of you being close.

“I should,” you whisper. “This is fucked.”

Joel’s hand grabs your jaw, not rough but not gentle either. He leans down, breath hot against your mouth, and says:

“You think I give a single fuck?”

His mouth crashes into yours.

It’s the first time he’s ever kissed you.

It’s not sweet.

It’s ownership.

And you let him.

Ten minutes later, you’re on the floor. Shirt bunched under your back, legs hanging over his shoulder. Joel’s got your thighs pushed open like he’s dissecting you—like he’s studying the way you fall apart under his tongue.

He eats like a starving man. Big, messy licks. Grunting against your cunt while he jerks himself with his free hand. He’s obsessed. Animal. Moaning like he’s getting off just from how wet you are.

“You don’t get it,” he pants between sucks. “Nothin’ ever felt this good. Not once in my goddamn life.”

You cum once. Then again.

Then he pins your thighs to the floor and keeps going.

You’re sobbing. Begging. Twisting your fingers in his hair to pull him off—but he won’t budge.

“You’re mine,” he says into you, almost slurring it. “Mine now. Don’t care what she thinks. Don’t care if you say stop—I know what you fuckin’ need.”

Your body’s a wreck. Dripping. Oversensitive. You cum a third time, legs locking around his head, crying out something that’s not even words.

And Joel smiles.

Because that’s all he’s ever wanted.

To make you break.

To taste it.

To know that you’ll always come back to him.

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sixeyesonathiel · 1 day ago

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what happens when your childhood best friend, satoru gojo carries you through the rain so your socks don’t get wet?

a/n: i missed the chance adding a scene like this on love thy neighbor 👹

"ugh, no. nope. i’m not walking through that."

you halt on the sidewalk like a pampered cat avoiding a puddle, your polished mary janes hovering dramatically over a wide sheet of grimy rainwater. your nose scrunches with disdain as you frown at the murky mess rippling over the uneven concrete. your arms are crossed high over your chest, blazer sleeves wrinkled and damp from gripping your umbrella like it personally offended you. the storm murmurs softly in the background—low thunder rumbling like a sleepy yawn, cars hissing by with sloshes of tire spray, the whisper of tree branches dripping above you.

behind you, satoru lets out a theatrical groan—deep, dramatic, and just exaggerated enough to be obnoxious. like he’s auditioning for a soap opera.

"it’s water, not lava," he drawls, standing just a few paces behind you, half-soaked and absolutely unbothered. his white button-up clings to his torso like a second skin, translucent where it’s stuck to his skin. the rain has darkened it enough to reveal the faint lines of his undershirt beneath, and the tips of his silver-white bangs are plastered to his forehead in chaotic strands. he shakes his head slightly, droplets flinging in every direction, as if he’s some golden retriever in human form.

"my socks," you state flatly, tone clipped and decisive, as if that alone should shut down the discussion. you angle your leg forward just enough to showcase the offending problem—white frilly ankle socks with delicate faux pearls stitched along the cuff. you tilt your chin, posture confident despite the drizzle misting your skin. "they’re new. and expensive. and limited edition."

satoru shifts his weight with a scoff, running a hand through his soaked hair. it flops back into place anyway. his tie hangs crooked and loose around his neck like he forgot it existed. his glasses are foggy, making his pout look vaguely scholarly. "god forbid your royal toes get damp. whatever shall we do?"

you shoot him a glare over your shoulder, one brow arched like you’re ready to launch a lawsuit. "i will push you into that gutter and make it look like an accident."

his grin breaks across his face instantly—wide, lazy, and all mischief. his blue eyes glint behind the foggy lenses. rain drips down the bridge of his nose and off the tip like punctuation. "please. you couldn’t even tip me over if you used both hands and a running start."

he’s always been like this—unshakably smug, insufferably tall, the kind of boy who got too handsome too young and decided to weaponize it. but he’s yours. the annoying, overgrown boy who used to share bento lunches with you and still calls your mom ‘auntie’ like you’re twelve again.

suddenly, without a word, he crouches. his school bag lands with a soft thunk on the nearest dry stoop, and he tilts his chin back to look at you.

"get on," he says.

you blink. once. twice. the rain drips rhythmically off your umbrella, trailing rivulets down the curve.

"...excuse me?"

"you’re not walking through that, right? so get on. before your overpriced socks file a class action."

he pats the backs of his thighs with both hands like this is a perfectly reasonable idea. he doesn’t even look back at you.

"you are not carrying me," you.ConcurrentModificationException say, scandalized. your voice pitches higher, more out of pride than disbelief. you narrow your eyes and toss your wet bangs from your forehead. "this isn’t a k-drama."

"don’t flatter yourself, diva. you’re tiny. i’ll survive."

"i swear to god, satoru—"

"think of the socks. their sacrifice would be in vain."

you groan, dragging a hand down your face. you look up at the stormy sky as if asking some divine entity for strength, before stepping forward with all the dramatics of a tragic heroine. your shoes click exaggeratedly against the pavement as you adjust your skirt, clutch your umbrella in one hand, and prepare for the social suicide of being princess-carried down a public street.

"this is humiliating," you mutter, wrapping your arms around his neck half-heartedly. your cheek grazes his as you shift your weight against his back. he’s warm despite the rain. sturdy.

"you love it," he says smoothly, rising like you weigh nothing. he adjusts his grip around your thighs and angles the umbrella so it shields you both better, though the side of his face still gets peppered by stray drops. "you’ll tell this story at our wedding, won’t you?"

you splutter. "delusional."

he hums, unconcerned. his steps are slow and exaggerated, carefully avoiding puddles with exaggerated grace, like he’s performing for an invisible audience.

rain beads on his lashes. he doesn’t blink them away, just keeps humming under his breath—some tune from that magical girl anime you watched with him last weekend out of boredom. or maybe affection. not that you’d admit it.

"if you drop me, i’m telling your mom," you warn, voice muffled slightly against the slope of his neck.

"if i drop you, it’s because your couture socks distracted me with their hideous sparkle."

you gasp so loudly a couple walking past under a shared umbrella actually turns to look.

"they’re elegant, you fashion criminal."

"they look like something you hot-glued onto your doll’s clothes in third grade."

"they’re vintage inspired!"

he grins again, quieter this time. it reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners.

"nah, they’re cute. you’re cute."

a pause.

the air stills just enough to notice the sound of a single raindrop hitting metal, distant thunder mumbling behind the clouds.

your fingers, damp and chilly, twitch just slightly against the curve of his collarbone. the fabric of his shirt clings between you, and your breath feels embarrassingly warm against his skin.

he doesn’t say anything else.

and you don’t let go.

not even when the rain begins to ease, not even when the sidewalk turns dry, and definitely not when your socks stay perfectly, gloriously dry.

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vanserras4u · 2 days ago

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Hello!🥰 We (me,eluciensversion,_lady_autumn__) are happy to show you our commission with the most amazing and heartbreaking family! Firstly, we want to thank @lucychanart for creating this amazing piece with Helion,Lucien,and Eris as a fun family portrait, I couldn't have imagined it any better, like I said . There are very few fanarts with Eris and Lucien,and none with Helion and them together, so we had this idea where all them 3 are together 🙏🏻🤎🤎 And of course I want to thank my girls Madeline and Bria for the cooperation ,I can't express how happy I am working with you two 🥹🥹!! HAPPIEST BIRTHDAY to you,Madeline. I wish you the best!!! 🥰✨️

Bria: Happy Birthday to one of my favorite people. @eluciensversion!!!!

We love you!!!

If Helion, Eris, and Lucien had a fourth in their circle, it’d be you Madeline you are charming, fiery, and loyal in all the best ways. Hope your day is as magical as this art @cupofkaveh drew for us 😌

Thank you again, @lucychanart, for making this gorgeous piece for us 💛 always so talented!!!

DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION ⚠️

Artist: @lucychanart

COMMISIONERS: @vanserras4u @eluciensversion @_lady__autumn_

Characters belong to Sarah J Maas and Bloomsburypublishing

#acotar #eris vanserra #eris and lucien #eris vanserra and lucien #lucien and eris #eris acotar #lucien vanserra #lucien and helion #anti elriel #anti inner circle #elain and lucien #elucien #fypシ #fanart #helion #fyp #anti e/riel #anti azriel #lucien and elain

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moonstruckme · 3 days ago

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Heyy this is my first time I'm requesting from you so I hope I'm doing this properly. I love your fics so much I literally always go to your profile since it's a comfort space for me. I had a flight today that I had to reschedule because I forgot to make an important document. Thankfully it only came to me having to reschedule the flight but I feel so bad cause I feel like I'm constantly forgetting important stuff and making mistakes and have people scramble around me to help fix it even if they tell me it's ok i feel so so bad. Can you write me a comfort fic around smthn like that? Marauders, anyone of them is fine or poly. Sorry if my request is too specific and thx!! 💜

Thanks for requesting angel <3

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

“Walk faster,” you call over your shoulder, laughing.

“Relax.” Sirius’ tone is scoffing. He refuses to quicken his pace down the sidewalk. “They’re not going to kick us out for being ten minutes late, you pest.”

“They might! It’ll be fifteen by the time we get there at this rate.”

“And if they do,” James says, catching up to you and throwing an arm around your shoulders, “you can tell them it was all Sirius’ fault.”

Sirius scoffs again, but it’s an amused sound. James can practically feel Remus’ fond look directed at your slow-moving boyfriend. You’re all in a good, sunshiney mood after spending a long afternoon at the park, teasing without bite and taking pauses for kisses in between quips. Your idea to make reservations at everyone’s favorite dinner spot, always too busy to walk into on a weekend night, was inspired; James’ heart feels as full as his stomach does empty. Nothing sounds better than tucking into a good meal and then spending the rest of the evening near comatose with all of you on the couch.

You’re twelve minutes late by the time you make it into the restaurant. (James wouldn’t have guessed, but you make a point to let Sirius know.) You give the hostess your name, and she begins searching for your reservation on her list.

“I apologize, it doesn’t seem we have you down here,” she says after a few moments.

You smile, sheepish (and adorable). “Yeah, we’re a bit late, sorry. The reservation was actually for seven.”

“Right.” The hostess glances over the list again, hesitating. “I don’t see your name here at all, I’m afraid.”

“Oh. Um.” You begin chewing your lip. James exchanges a look with Remus. “I’m sorry, can you check one more time? Just to be sure.”

The hostess is accommodating. She has you spell out your name, running through the list again before telling you again, remorsefully, that it’s not there.

“Is it possible you booked with our other location?” she asks you.

Any remnants of a smile drain from your face. Your eyes round out. “There’s another location?”

“Yes.” She gives you a thin smile. “We have one south of the river as well.”

“I had no idea,” you say, voice quieter than it had been.

“Me neither,” James chimes in in solidarity. You’re getting this look like you think you’re an island. Waiting to be attacked from all sides.

“Alright, that’s okay.” Sirius reaches over to squeeze your shoulder, sensing with the rest of them your rising embarrassment. “We’ll just go there, then. Thank you.” He shoots the hostess a winning smile and leads you back towards the door.

“I’m sorry,” you say as you go outside. “I had no—I didn’t think to check if there was more than one.”

“It’s fine.” James shoots you a smile. Remus is already on his phone finding the other location. “I wouldn’t have guessed there was another one either, lovely. But maybe it’ll be even better, yeah? We might end up crossing the river every time if we really love it.”

You look slightly comforted, but then Remus says, almost under his breath, “Oh.”

You slow your pace warily. “What?”

“Um.” He looks up from his phone, wincing like he doesn’t want to say. “It looks like the other location closes a bit earlier than this one. Even if they let us keep our reservation, I’m not very sure we’d make it, and with traffic…”

“Oh my god.” You bring a hand to your face, rubbing harshly above your brow. “I’m so sorry.”

“We can find somewhere else to eat around here,” Remus tries to placate you. “It’s not a problem. I think we’re all hungry enough that any food would be good, yeah?”

“Yes,” James agrees heartily.

You, however, remain put out. Your walk back to the car becomes a trudge, guilt thickening the air around you.

“Hey.” Sirius bumps your hip with his. “It’s fine, baby. Everything’s fine. We aren’t going to go hungry.”

“I know, I just…” You shake your head, gnawing cruelly on your lower lip. “I’m always messing this stuff up. I’m really sorry.”

James watches as Sirius’ brow creases defensively. Remus ducks to try and catch your eye. “What makes you say that, lovely? This could have happened to anyone.”

“It always happens to me, though,” you confess lowly. A moment later, you seem to change your mind, waving it away with forced lightness. “It’s fine. I’m just sorry.”

“It only happened to you because you were the one with the idea to make a reservation,” James points out. “We still wouldn’t have ended up with a table if you hadn’t done anything. It was just a little mistake.”

“Okay,” you say, but your voice is quiet. Your smile wan. “Where should we go?”

“Hey.” Sirius grabs your hand before you can get into the car. He pulls you into a hug. “Get over yourself, yeah?” he says, squeezing your middle. “Nobody’s upset with you. The same thing could have happened with literally any one of us. If you’d asked me to make the reservation, I would’ve known fuck all about there being more than one and done the exact same. So you’re off the hook, okay?”

“Okay,” you murmur again.

“That’s right,” says James, taking the opportunity of Sirius’ distraction to position himself closest to the passenger door. Remus sends him a knowing look from across the car. “If Sirius could have done it, it can’t be anything bad.”

“Precisely.” Sirius grins. He lets go of you but keeps you trapped with his hands on your shoulders, his eyes narrowing playfully. “Stop punishing yourself. No one is asking you to.”

You shrink a bit, shying in a way that’s difficult to avoid when Sirius makes his gaze all intense like that. Remus looks to be hiding a smile. “Okay,” you say for a third time, sounding like you mean it. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Sirius lets you go, signaling for you to get in the car with a pat to your bum. “James, don’t think I don’t see you edging in on my seat there. Turn it around.”

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acrux-rising · 3 days ago

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sick and tired (but never of you)

ʚ♡ɞ synopsis how the aot men take care of you when you're sick ʚ♡ɞ wc 663 ʚ♡ɞ feat. e. jaeger, l. ackerman a. arlert, j. kirstein, r. braun, p. galliard

ʚ♡ɞ eren jaeger エレン・イェーガー

tries so hard to take care of you, he really does. but one thing’s for sure - he can’t cook for shit and has absolutely no idea how to take care of another human being (since he rarely gets sick himself)

googles your symptoms, inadvertently stressing you out

“you coughed, like, three times in a row… i think you might have pneumonia”

makes sure you hydrate well, and is literally at your beck and call the whole time, tending to your every need to make sure you get well as soon as possible

he hates seeing you in pain, after all

ʚ♡ɞ levi ackerman リヴァイ・アッカーマン

honestly? the best possible caretaker you could ask for

first thing he does is put on a mask and disinfect every surface you might have come into contact with. (if he owned a hazmat suit, he would wear it.)

makes you herbal teas or warm broth and gives you your meds regularly on the dot like a strict nurse

he’s not one to express his love for you verbally, but you’ll wake up to your favourite book on the nightstand, or your favourite meal on the dining table as you stumble out of your bedroom in a daze, still wrapped in your warm blanket

"better not complain about how you can't taste anything. would you rather have hypertension?"

ʚ♡ɞ jean kirstein ジャン・キルシュタイン

complains a lot in the beginning (“i told you it was going to be cold out, and you still insisted you didn’t need a jacket! when are you going to learn?”) of course he says this while tucking you in and tenderly brushing your hair out of your face

actually enjoys taking care of you and spoils you rotten - hot, comforting meals, massages, and your favourite movies that he normally refuses to watch, but he’ll make an exception this time

tries to be cool about it but his heart melts when you smile up at him and say thank you in that hoarse but still sweet voice of yours (what a big softie…)

"it's insane how pretty you look even when you're sick"

ʚ♡ɞ armin arlert アルミン・アルレルト

is an absolute administrative machine. he wakes up at the crack of dawn to switch off all your morning alarms, and calls in sick on your behalf.

when you wake up (around noon), he’s sitting by your bedside reading a book, whispering a gentle “good morning” to you

not the best at cooking, but he makes you soup and frankly, the love he put into it is more than enough to make you feel better instantly

takes your temperature when you’re asleep, making sure not to wake you

“right now, you need rest. don’t worry, love, i’ve got everything covered.”

ʚ♡ɞ reiner braun ライナー・ブラウン

this man runs hot all the time, so you know his cuddles are the absolute best. you wake up to a pair of strong arms around you, enveloping you in a comforting warmth

carries you everywhere without question (putting his muscles to good use)

moves all his work to your room, not letting you out of his sight for even a second - that’s how precious you are to him

gives death stares to the neighbours’ kids when they make too much noise playing in the yard

“you’ll get sick too if you stay here like this!” “don’ care… jus’ wanna be here with you”

ʚ♡ɞ porco galliard ポルコ・ガリアード

panics when you cough too hard, though he tries to hide it. he sits at the foot of your bed scrolling on his phone while glancing at you every 30 seconds

grumbles about you getting germs on him but dutifully stays by your side the whole time anyway

calls pieck for some much-needed advice (like eren, he does not know how to take care of a whole other person)

if you say thank you or show appreciation in any way or form, he gets all flustered immediately

“yeah, yeah, just don’t die or whatever.”

-> to aot masterlist -> to main masterlist

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fidenciocryptidcreechur · 17 hours ago

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Low-key canon to me honestly, considering recent updates. Silver wore some heels and immediately commented on their ability to be used as a weapon. Silver being handed high heels and being like " i could use these as weapons in battle :)". Meanwhile Sebek will act as a wingman for two strangers in a new world and quote wonderland Romeo and Juliet to help them (he reads romance novels). His go to plan to woo someone is handwritten letters and park dates (flowers as well if i recall).

Both are very sweet but one of these guys might play nunchucks with your stuff (he must always be prepared to defend you and his loved ones) and the other is writing hand written letters with carefully selected pressed flowers (he got a new book on flower meanings and got ideas) half joking for silver, he's not messing with stuff without permission but he will contemplate the lethality of your decor

Oh the duality of these two…( or more like my headcanons)

#realness->#also he was raised by Lilia what did you expect :)#twisted wonderland #sebek zigvolt #twst silver #silver vanrouge

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jungkoode · 3 days ago

Text

死 KKANGPAE | #17 死

† bedroom confessions †

“His real name is the most dangerous thing he’s ever given you.”

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 7.5k

rating: explicit (18+)

content: first time in jeon’s bedroom, real name revelation, sexual tension finally exploding, dirty talk that’ll make you blush, spanking kink discovery, emotional walls starting to crack, post-sex vulnerability, and lines being crossed that can never be uncrossed.

Kiki Nation’s discussion thread for this chapter.

☠ author's note ☠

Y’ALL I’M DECEASED. Just casually writing 7.5k of filth like it’s nothing. Who even am I at this point? My laptop is judging me, my FBI agent is traumatized, and I haven’t made eye contact with my roommate in three days.

So… that happened. Jungkook finally shared his real name AND his bed, and honestly? The power that man holds when he’s being all dominant and teasing is absolutely CRIMINAL. I had to take several water breaks while writing this chapter because WHEW. Is it hot in here or is it just me? (¬‿¬)

The fact that Jungkook’s idea of aftercare is literally “wanna stay connected all night?” has me HOLLERING. Sir, that is NOT how this works—but also it’s so perfectly HIM. Our emotionally stunted sniper boy doesn’t know how to process feelings unless they’re shooting through a rifle scope.

And Y/N with the attitude even DURING sex? A queen behavior. Standing ovation for not becoming a complete puddle the second he touched her (though let’s be real, it was close).

Let’s also talk about how they can’t stop BANTERING even post-orgasm. These two idiots calling it “charity work” when they’re both equally obsessed with each other? THE DELUSION. I love them so much it physically hurts my face.

I know I promised slow burn but uh… Listen. LISTEN. It’s an EMOTIONALLLL slow burn. The fuck buddies tag is there for a reason. Sometimes characters just take over and you have to let them bang it out, you know? It’s for their mental health or whatever.

Don’t get too comfortable though! We all know what happens in this universe when people get too happy… the universe (aka me, their cruel god) decides to throw a wrench in everything. ⌒(o＾▽＾o)ノ

Next chapter will give us a little morning-after situation and maybe even some actual plot development if I can stop writing smut for five seconds!

Love ya, trauma vultures! Keep those comments coming, they fuel my sleep-deprived writing sessions!

xoxo 💋

P.S. Also, for the hate comment I deleted 5 seconds after it was posted (you tried though)… here's an even longer author's note, since yk, like you said, nobody reads them… More for me to yap without consequences, I guess.

⚔ socials ⚔

read on ao3

read on wattpad

tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

You're in Jeon's room.

Jeon's fucking room.

When he'd texted you to come to the shooting range earlier, you'd figured it was just another one of his typical late-night training sessions.

But now? Now you're here, on his bed , with him standing over you like he’s already decided you’re his next target.

Like you’re already dead and just haven’t figured it out yet.

Okay, maybe a tiny part of you had hoped for this. (Shut up , horny brain.)

But you'd only agreed to be fuck buddies like, what, some hours ago?

And here you are already, sprawled across his sheets, heart hammering against your ribs like it's trying to escape.

Talk about moving fast.

Except it isn't simple. Not when you're already spread out across his bed like you fucking live here. Not when your heart's kicking like a scared rabbit in your chest.

Your fingers curl into his sheets on reflex. Satin. Dark. Smells like pine and something sharper—pine. Him. God, that should not do things to you but it does.

You fight the dumb grin twitching at the corner of your mouth.

Because here's the thing.

He's just as gone for it.

Jeon's staring down at you like he hasn't eaten in days. Dark eyes locked on you like you're dinner and dessert and every guilty pleasure combined. There's no hesitation. No second-guessing. No going slow. Just that razor-focused, dangerous glint he always gets before pulling the trigger on a mark.

And Jesus Christ, you're the mark.

Your breath catches.

That stormy energy of his? It's fucking alive. Wrapping around you. Crawling over your skin. You feel it. You taste it. Static in the air—sharp, biting, almost buzzing in your goddamn teeth.

His fingers graze your thigh and oh.

That's nice. Really nice.

But before you can really enjoy it, he pulls his hand away. Plants it on the mattress by your head, making the bed creak under his weight.

You snap your head up in disbelief. "Seriously?"

Your voice cracks. Great. Love that for you.

But then his other hand comes up—slides along your jaw like he owns you. Fingers rough. Callused. Deadly. And all you can do is stare like a fucking idiot as his thumb presses against your bottom lip. Tugging. Testing.

You go pliant before you even process it. Lips parting on instinct.

His mouth opens just a little—like he's picturing it. Like he wants to taste you. Swallow you whole.

And goddamn it, you want that too.

So bad it hurts.

Is he imagining what it'd be like to kiss you? 'Cause you sure as hell are.

"You sure you can handle the kind of tension relief I'm talking about?" he asks, voice low and gravelly.

You almost laugh. As if you haven't been thinking about this exact scenario for weeks.

"Guess you'll have to show me so I can decide, huh?"

That does it.

He moves. Fast.

You barely register it before he's already there—mouth crashing into yours like he's starving. Teeth. Tongue. Fucking warzone.

There's no slow build-up. No teasing. Just pure, raw take.

Your breath punches out of you as you grab for him. Instinct. Desperation. Your fingers slip into his hair—damp, messy, soft as hell. You tug. Hard.

He groans into your mouth. Loud. Deep. Way too fucking hot. It rips down your spine like lightning.

You bite his lip just to feel him suck in air through his teeth. God, that sound—that sound—shoots straight to your core. Your legs twitch under him, thighs pressing together, trying to ease the ache.

It doesn't work. Makes it worse.

Jeon doesn't let you off easy either. He dives back in. Deeper this time. Tongue claiming, swallowing every shaky breath you give him like he owns them now.

His body shifts—presses down harder—pinning you to the mattress without saying a single word. Your back arches up like a fucking reflex. Can't help it.

And then, just as fast, he pulls back.

Forehead against yours. Breath ragged. Lips slick and swollen.

His chest rises and falls like he just ran a mile.

You're no better. Gasping. Throat dry. Pulse wrecked.

"We doing this?" he asks.

Not really a question. He knows. You both know. Still—he waits.

And maybe it's stupid how much that makes your throat go tight.

You nod, still trying to catch your breath. "Yes."

One word. That's all it takes for Jeon's eyes to darken further.

His mouth finds yours again, but only for a moment. Then he's moving—trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down to your neck. When his teeth graze below your ear, a small gasp leaves your throat.

Fuck.

The sound does something to him. You can tell by the way his fingers dig into your hip, how his breath comes out just a bit harsher against your skin.

His other hand slides down your stomach, fingers spread wide like he's trying to touch as much of you as possible. The shirt bunches up with the movement.

More skin exposed to the cool air of his room. More of you for him to explore.

You can barely breathe right. Every inhale is shallow, desperate. A whine builds in your throat, needy and embarrassing, but you're too far gone to care. You want more. More of his hands on you, more of his mouth, more of the way he's practically caging you in with his body.

He makes this sound—low and satisfied, almost like a growl—that has heat pooling between your legs.

"Jeon," you breathe out.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.

"Jungkook," he corrects, voice rough with want. "My real name is Jungkook. Say it like that again."

Your breath catches. Using real names in Kkangpae isn't something you take lightly. It's intimate. Personal. A sign of trust that goes beyond the physical.

"Jungkook," you say again, louder this time. Testing how it feels on your tongue.

The way his eyes darken tells you everything you need to know about how it sounds to him.

He growls—actually growls, okay paw patrol?—at that, like your voice saying his name is doing things to him. Like he can't get enough of it.

God. The way he's looking at you right now.

"Turn over for me," he murmurs like a command, but there's something patient in his voice. "I need to see that ass."

Your whole body feels like jelly as you move. The mattress dips beneath you, and fuck—you realize how exposed you are right now, laid out for him like this. How vulnerable.

How wanted.

"Ass up, sunshine," he says, voice raspy.

You push yourself up on your elbows, lifting your hips. The position makes you feel s̶l̶u̶t̶t̶y̶ bold, but it also feels slightly intoxicating, being on display like this, knowing exactly what it's doing to him.

The sharp intake of his breath is worth it.

His hands hover over you for a moment—those same hands that can take a life from a mile away with a sniper rifle now ghosting across your skin. The anticipation has your stomach in knots, has you fighting the urge to push back against him.

When he finally touches you, it's almost reverent. Like he's mapping out territory he plans to claim.

"Fuck," he breathes out; and the way he says it—like a prayer, like worship—makes your face burn. "You have no idea what your ass does to me."

His fingers dig into the flesh of your ass, kneading with the kind of expertise that makes you wonder h̶o̶w̶ ̶m̶a̶n̶y̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶e̶s̶ if he's thought about this before.

You have to press your face into the pillow to muffle the sounds trying to escape your throat.

Because if you start, you're not sure you'll be able to stop.

He takes his time, methodical in a way that's driving you insane. His thumbs spread you open, then let you fall back together. His hands work their way, massaging and squeezing. The heat under your skin builds until you feel like you might combust. Like you might actually catch fire right here in his bed.

"Such a perfect ass," he groans, and then—oh—his lips are pressing against one cheek, then the other. Soft kisses that feel somehow filthier than anything else he's done. "Fucking beautiful."

The praise hits different when it's coming from him. When it's Jungkook—cold, distant, perfectionist Jungkook—telling you how perfect you are.

When he pulls back, the loss of contact hits different. Like someone just yanked a warm blanket off you.

"I want to try something," he says, and okay, when his voice sounds like that you'd say yes to almost anything he'd say.

"Yeah?" Your voice is breathy, but at this point you're too curious (too turned on) to give a single fuck.

His hand traces up your spine, gentle in a way that doesn't match how intensely he's staring at you. The contrast makes your skin prickle with goosebumps.

"I want to spank that gorgeous ass of yours."

It comes out like a confession, like he's been thinking about this for a while. There's a question mark hanging at the end of it though, waiting for your permission.

Oh.

Something hot and electric zips through you at the suggestion. Your brain staggers for a second, but your body's already made up its mind. You're nodding before you can even process what this means.

"Let's do it," you say, maybe too eagerly, but the thought of his hand coming down on your ass has lit something up inside you that you didn't even know was there.

"Remember our safe word?"

Even in the middle of this is, he's making sure you're both on the same page.

"Black tape," you confirm immediately.

Having that word there, knowing you can use it anytime—it's like a safety net. Makes everything else feel okay.

"Good."

He positions himself behind you again, and the anticipation is k̶i̶l̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ driving you crazy. His hand hovers over your skin, making you feel every inch of exposed flesh.

Then, the first spank lands.

It's almost gentle—like he's testing the waters, seeing how you'll react.

The sound it makes in the quiet room has your face burning.

Sharp. Clean. Loud.

Your skin blooms with heat where his palm connected, and fuck—it's not exactly painful, but it sends this electric feeling through your whole body that has you gasping. The sting melts into something warmer, spreading under your skin until you feel like you're floating.

Your face burns.

And... It's not from pain.

Obviously, he's watching you like a hawk, trying to read your reaction. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy and intense.

"How was that?" His voice comes out rough, like he's the one who just got spanked.

You have to take a second to remember how words work.

"Good," you manage to get out, barely above a whisper. "Really good."

He gives you time to process, to just feel it. Then his palm is back on your ass, but this time he's not spanking. He's just... touching. Soothing the heated skin with gentle strokes that somehow feel more intimate than the spank itself.

It's messing with your head—how he can switch from rough to gentle so fast. One second he's spanking you, the next he's treating you like you're made of glass.

The air feels exactly like right before a storm hits.

Jungkook's presence behind you is overwhelming in the best way, and when his hand moves away, you actually have to bite back a whine.

Every second he makes you wait feels like torture. You arch your back a little, trying to be s̶l̶u̶t̶t̶y̶ subtle about asking for more. You can't see his face, but you know he's smirking.

You've seen that look enough times to picture it perfectly—that cocky little quirk of his lips, the way his eyes get all dark and intense.

"Ready for another?" he asks, voice gone all gravelly; and it shouldn't be hot, but it is.

Your heart's going crazy in your chest when you nod. "Yes."

Waiting has has your skin tingling, has you holding your breath without even meaning to.

You can feel him shifting behind you, the mattress dipping as he draws his arm back.

When his palm connects this time, it's not a question—it's a statement.

The smack echoes off the walls, louder than before, and holy shit.

"Fuck," you gasp out.

It stings more this time, sharp and intense, but in a way that makes everything feel unfairly good.

"How does that feel?" His words drip with arousal, but there's still that undercurrent of concern.

Always checking, always making sure.

"Nice," you hear yourself say, and you're surprised by how eager you sound. Like you can't get enough. "Keep going."

There's a pause, and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head.

"As you wish," he finally says, and you don't need to see his face to know he's smirking.

He pulls back again, and like the asshole he is, he makes you wait a little bit.

Not for long though, because clearly, the fucker is enjoying this too.

When the third spank lands, it's like a lightning bolt straight to your core. It's stronger, more controlled, and the pleasure that rips through you is so intense it steals your breath.

You cry out—not from pain, but from how good it feels.

How it makes your whole body sing.

This time, his hand stays put. You can feel the heat of his palm against your stinging skin, and it's grounding in a way you didn't know you needed.

"Beautiful," he breathes out, like you're some kind of work of art.

You hadn't pegged Jungkook as the type to be into this kind of thing. But the way his breath catches, the slight tremor in his hand as it rests on your ass—it's like he's discovering something about himself right along with you.

Maybe it's a spanking thing. Or maybe it's just a you thing.

Or your ass thing.

Either way, the realization that you're affecting him this much?

Heady. Bargaining material.

His fingers start tracing patterns on your heated skin, soothing the sting. Again with the contrast, from the spanking to this. Like he's not quite sure himself where he stands.

"You okay?"

You nod into the pillow, not trusting your voice right now.

Because how do you tell someone that you're more than okay? That you're floating on some kind of pleasure high you didn't even know existed?

And honestly, this whole situation is simply making it hard to think straight.

But then, Jungkook moves, slowly, creates some distance and—oh?

A soft thud. His towel hitting the floor.

He steps closer once more, bare skin against yours, and it's hot. He's hot. His skin is hot.

His body is all hard lines pressed up against your softer curves, and when his cock presses against your panties, you actually have to bite your lip to keep quiet.

You push back against him without thinking.

S̶l̶u̶t̶t̶y̶ Needy.

"You're driving me fucking crazy," he makes this sound you can't quite classify.

The raw want in his voice does things to you. But before you can even think of responding, his hand comes down on your ass again.

Hard.

The sound echoes through his room, and you can't help the moan that slips out.

(Anyone walking past his door would definitely hear that one.)

"Tell me you felt that," he demands.

"I felt it," you manage to get out between breaths. "I felt all of it."

Then his free hand wraps around your waist, fingers spreading wide like he's trying to conquer as much of your body as possible. He pulls you closer, and god—you can feel every inch of his cock pressed against you through the thin fabric of your panties.

The contrast between his rough skin and the smooth material is driving you insane.

"You want more?"

He's trying to sound teasing, but you can hear how affected he is. His voice is multiple octaves deeper than his usual 'whatever' tone.

"Yeah." Your voice comes out wrecked. "Don't stop."

He laughs—this low, dangerous sound that makes your toes curl. "God, I love how eager you are."

His hand comes down hard—harder than before—and the sound echoes through his room like a gunshot. You can't help the groan that rips from your throat. It's embarrassingly loud, but who cares at this point?

The sting burns hot across your skin, sharp and biting, sinking deeper until it melts into that aching pulse you can’t get enough of. You can feel exactly where his palm landed, the heat of it sinking deep into your flesh.

"Christ, you take it so well," he says, and his fingers dig into the spot he just spanked, pressure making you bite your lip. "I can see the shape of my hand on your ass, turning red. It's fucking sexy."

You're breathing like you just ran a marathon, each exhale coming out kind of whiny and desperate. Your brain’s mush. All you can register is his hands and the heat of him grinding against you.

"Jungkook, please." The way you say his name is straight-up pathetic, way too needy.

You push back against him, wanting to feel him without these stupid panties in the way.

His fingers trail down your spine, so slow it’s infuriating. They dance over the curve of your ass before playing with the edge of your underwear. When his fingers finally hook into the fabric, you freeze, chest tightening as he pulls the fabric aside.

Your face is pressed into his mattress, ass up in the air like some kind of offering. You should feel exposed, but something about it just feels right.

"You're already so wet for me..." You can hear the smirk in his voice. What an asshole. "How can I resist?"

But he does resist, the bastard.

His touch goes all gentle, fingers just barely exploring your folds like he's got all the time in the world. Like he's trying to memorize every little detail—how wet you are, how warm, the way you can't help but tremble.

He then makes this approving sound deep in his throat and you've had enough.

"Jungkook," you whine, dragging out his name like some kind of desperate prayer. "Stop teasing."

"But I want to watch you squirm," he says, and fuck—you can tell he means it.

He wants to see you fall apart, wants to watch you beg.

What a bitch.

His sadistic little game only gets worse when you complain. You can feel his finger right there, barely touching where you need him most, just collecting evidence of how embarrassingly wet you are. The anticipation is k̶i̶l̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ driving you insane as he slides that finger up and down, parting you without actually giving you what you want. Using your own arousal to make the glide easier.

You try to push back against him, to get his finger inside you—anything. But his other hand is pressed firm against your lower back, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

"Jesus Christ, just fuck me already," you can't help but groan, frustrated.

But Jungkook—because he's a bastard—just keeps playing his little game.

"I'll fuck you when you're ready to break from wanting it so bad," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

He loves it.

His finger circles your entrance, the touch so light it's actually torture. Every time he passes over that spot, you clench around nothing, desperate to feel him inside you.

When he finally pushes just the tip of his finger in, you actually sigh out loud—half relief, half frustration. Your whole body's shaking with how bad you need more, but he keeps holding back. Adding pressure so slowly it should be illegal, pushing in just to pull back out again.

He's drawing this out just because he can, the power-tripping dickhead.

The pressure builds just a tiny bit as he shows you the smallest amount of mercy, sliding that one finger in entirely so slow you think you might actually lose your mind.

It's not enough—nowhere near enough—and he knows it.

You want him to stop being so careful, to just take what you're offering.

Despite how frustrated you are (or maybe because of it), you can't help but smirk.

"What, you got no condoms this time either?"

The words come out all breathy between your gritted teeth—and honestly? Not your brightest idea, bringing up that particular memory from the tent.

The response is immediate—his hand comes down hard on your ass, sting spreading across your skin like wildfire.

"Aw, what the fuck—?"

You yelp, caught between the sharp pain and how embarrassingly turned on it makes you feel—like your body can't decide if it wants to flinch away or push back for more.

"You should know better than to sass me right now."

Then his hand is smoothing over the spot he just spanked, gentle in a way that feels almost worse than the hit itself.

"You're such an asshole," you tell him, but there's no real bite to it.

You both know you don't mean it, not when you're bent over his bed with his finger inside you.

"Mhm, but you fucking love it, don't you?"

He says it like it's just a fact. Like the sky is blue, water is wet, and you get off on him being a dick.

(The worst part is he's not wrong.)

You can't help but grown more impatient when you feel his ring finger press up against your entrance, right next to where his middle finger is already buried inside you. He pauses there, just letting you feel the pressure.

"For fuck's sake, just do it." Your voice cracks embarrassingly, giving away just how bad you want it.

He laughs, low and rough. "Patience, I want you to feel every single inch."

Can he die? Genuinely.

Then the pressure builds as he starts working his ring finger in alongside the other one. He's being so fucking methodical about it, pushing deeper into you at a pace that's making you lose your mind.

Every inch feels like it takes forever.

"You feel so fucking tight, you sure you can handle both?"

The teasing note in his voice makes you want to bite him. He already knows the answer, the smug bastard.

"I can take more than you can give," you get out between breaths, because fuck him.

And it's meant to be cocky, but it comes out sounding more desperate than anything.

"We'll see about that."

His fingers stop moving for a second—just long enough to make you whine—before he starts pushing in even slower. Like he's trying to make you feel every single movement, every stretch, every slide.

And at this point your body's on fucking fire. But can you be to blame, when he's been nothing but an infuriating tease?

Little pleading sounds keep escaping your throat without permission. You're practically chanting 'please's as you try to push back against his hand. But he's got you pinned, keeping that torturously slow pace.

"Fucking... jerk," you mutter—because he absolutely is.

"Yeah," he agrees. "I am."

When both his fingers finally—finally—bottom out inside you, you actually gasp. Your body clenches around them greedily, trying to get any kind of movement, and the grunt he lets out sounds s̶e̶x̶y̶ pleased.

"Tell me how much you want it."

It's not a request. His voice has that edge to it that makes it very clear.

"I want it more than my next breath." The words tumble out raw and honest.

"Good girl," he says, and even though it's rough around the edges, the praise makes you stutter.

His fingers curl inside you, making you moan embarrassingly loud. Then the bastard just... stops. Stays completely still, letting you feel exactly how deep his fingers are, how they're stretching you open.

You're actually going to lose your mind if he doesn't start moving soon. But you refuse to beg—you won't give him the satisfaction.

"I think listening to you beg is my new favorite sound," he says, like he can read your thoughts.

"Fuck off—" The words die in your throat when his fingers pull back just a tiny bit before pushing deep again, and yup, the sound that comes out of your mouth is straight-up pathetic.

"You're driving me insane," you tell him, trying to sound angry.

"That's the idea." He says, but it's all dark and pleased. "I want you out of your mind with need, so when I finally give you what you're begging for, you'll remember who put you there."

Fuck.

His fingers are still buried deep inside you, not moving, and you can feel every single knuckle. It's like a preview of what's coming later—a promise that this is just the start, and he's planning to take his sweet time getting there.

The seconds drag by like hours. You're stuck in this weird space between pleasure and frustration, where his fingers feel so good but it's n̶o̶w̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ not nearly enough. The heat of his body against yours isn't helping either. Having him this close but not getting what you want is actually torture.

"Are you planning on moving anytime this century?"

And yeah. It sounds bitchy.

Exactly how you want it.

"In due time."

You can barely breathe right, desperation clawing at your throat. Then—oh—his finger brushes against your clit, so light you almost think you imagined it. Your hips jerk without permission, chasing that barely-there touch.

"Jungkook," you warn, half-growl, half-whine.

He chuckles. "No patience at all, huh?"

"Just fucking touch me already." The snark in your voice is falling apart, giving way to pure need.

"Ahh, I love it when you get all feisty."

You open your mouth to tell him exactly where he can shove that smugness, but then his finger is back on your clit.

Just ghosting over it, barely any pressure at all.

But your whole body lights up anyway, every nerve ending suddenly wide awake.

"This is torture," you accuse, though the breathiness in your voice kind of ruins the effect.

"Not torture. Appreciation." He hums. "I'm just enjoying all those pretty sounds you make. The way you shake. How desperate you get."

Bastard.

His finger starts moving in slow circles around your clit, adding just a tiny bit more pressure. It's enough to make your back arch, trying to get more friction, but it's n̶o̶w̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ not nearly enough.

"Please," you whine, past caring how needy you sound. "Just—a little harder, please, Jungkook."

He gives you what you asked for—barely.

Just a fraction more pressure, but combined with his fingers still buried inside you, it's enough to make your body clench around him.

He's got you trapped between pleasure and frustration, keeping you right on that edge.

"This what you want?" he asks, mocking. "This pace good for you, hmm?"

You know exactly what he's doing—getting off on your impatience, on how desperate he can make you with just his fingers and that stubborn w̶i̶l̶l̶p̶o̶w̶e̶r̶ control of his.

The pressure on your clit keeps changing, going from barely-there touches that make you want to scream to just enough to have you chasing more.

"Jungkook, I fucking swear—"

The words die in your throat when his finger suddenly presses harder.

"What?" His voice drops even lower, hitting that dangerous note that usually means he's about to stop playing nice. "What exactly are you swearing?"

"That I'll rip your fucking hair out if you don't stop messing around." You have to grit your teeth to get the words out, trying to sound threatening even though you're literally shaking with need.

He laughs—this deep, dark sound that vibrates through you—and rewards your threat with a firm stroke that has heat coiling in your stomach.

"That's not very nice," he says, but he sounds more amused than anything. Like your empty threats are entertaining him.

His finger goes back to those slow, torturous circles around your clit. Each pass builds the pressure a little more, but it's never quite enough to get you there.

The most f̶u̶c̶k̶e̶d̶ messed up part? You're kind of into it.

This whole power play thing you've got going—how you push and he pulls, how you threaten and he teases.

It's addictive.

Because in truth, there is something powerful about knowing you can make Jeon Jungkook, Kkangpae's perfect soldier, want to hear you say his name.

Suddenly his whole rhythm changes.

No more of that torturously slow pace—his fingers start moving with actual purpose, curling inside you in a way that has your toes curling. Like he's finally done playing around and just wants to make you genuinely cum.

Hallelujah.

The sound that comes out of your mouth is straight-up filthy. You have to press your face into the mattress to muffle it, which only makes you more aware of how heavily you're breathing, each gasp basically fucking advertising how good his fingers feel.

"Come on, sunshine," he teases. "You don't have to be quiet. These walls are soundproof."

But you just press your face harder into the mattress.

It's become a matter of pride now—you refuse to give him the satisfaction of hearing exactly what he's doing to you.

You're right there, so close you can taste it—

And then the fucker stops.

A pathetic whimper leaves your throat as you squirm beneath him, feeling weirdly empty. The loss of sensation has you actually wanting to cry.

When you turn your head to glare at him, he's got this insufferably satisfied look on his face.

He reaches over to the nightstand, pulling open the drawer like he's got all the time in the world. The foil packet he holds up catches the light, and the victorious look he gives you makes you want to bite him.

"See, I do have condoms this time, you smart mouth." The smirk on his face should be illegal.

"Oh wow, look who's being a semi-functional adult for once." You narrow your eyes at him."Want a fucking gold star or something?"

He laughs whilst tearing the foil packet and for some reason, it is weirdly hot—how focused he looks while rolling the condom on.

"Maybe after this you'll want to give me one," he says, still sounding way too amused.

He settles back on his knees, raising an eyebrow at you like he's waiting for something. You huff, pretending to be all put out even though you're literally dying from how bad you want him. When you press your cheek against his cool sheets again, you make sure to arch your back just right.

You know exactly what that view does to him.

Feeling extra b̶r̶a̶t̶t̶y̶ bold, you wiggle your hips a little. Just a tiny movement, but it's basically saying 'come and get it' without words.

And bingo.

His hand comes down on your ass hard—but despite that, you feel weirdly victorious.

Then he's right there, lining himself up.

His tip brushes against your entrance, teasing to the point of madness, because at this point you just want him inside already.

You bite down on the sheets, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg again. But your body's giving you away anyway—the way you're trembling, how desperately you're trying to push back against him.

He takes his sweet time, just watching you. His eyes trail down your spine to where his handprints are probably turning your ass red.

After what feels like forever, he finally pushes in, one smooth stroke that rips the air from your lungs.

And it's impossible to muffle yourself; even with your face squashed against the mattress, when he bottoms out completely.

You feel every single inch of him, filling you up so completely it's genuinely insane. And he just stays there, buried deep inside you.

"So fucking tight," he growls, sound vibrating through you, making your toes curl.

Your body moves on its own, pushing back against him, desperate for more. You need him to move, need that relentless pace you know he can give you. But the bastard just holds you there, completely still, making you feel every single detail of how he's splitting you open.

His fingers dig into your hips—not hard enough to leave marks (yet), but firm enough to keep you exactly where he wants you. And the slight bite of pain just adds to the pleasure, kind of welcome honestly.

When he finally pulls back, you almost whine at the loss—but then he slams back in, hard and deep, and your brain melts. Everything gets kind of blurry after that.

Your skin feels like it's on fire everywhere he touches. The sound of skin hitting skin echoes through his room (thank god these walls are actually soundproof), getting louder with each thrust. His pace is brutal, punishing, but it's exactly what you've been dying for.

"That's it, take all of it."

And there's just this thing in how he says it—that has you pushing back against him like you're desperate for it.

(Maybe you are.)

Every thrust feels like getting hit by a natural disaster; like a fucking hurricane. It's hard to breathe, hard to think about anything except how he's driving you into the mattress.

He's fucking you like he's got something to prove, hips snapping forward so hard it's just obscene, has you clutching at his sheets like they're the only thing keeping you grounded.

Then his hand slides underneath you, looking for your clit. Like he knows exactly what you need without you voicing it out.

The second he finds it and starts rubbing circles against it, electricity zips through your whole body. It's almost too much, the dual sensation of his cock stretching you open and his fingers working your clit.

"Fuck, Jungkook," you moan, and you barely recognize your own voice. "Don't stop."

He lets out this grunt that gets lost in the sound of him pounding into you.

But he listens, thank god, keeping up that relentless pace with both his cock and his fingers.

It's not gentle. He's fucking you like he wants to break you, like he wants to hear every embarrassing sound he can wring out of your throat.

"Just like that, sunshine," he pants. "Fucking take it."

Each thrust builds something wild inside you, like being caught in the eye of a hurricane. The pressure coils tighter and tighter until you think you might actually lose your mind. Everything feels too much and not enough all at once.

Your senses go into overdrive—the obscene sound of skin hitting skin, the heavy scent of sex filling his room, the salt of sweat on your tongue. You're drowning in pleasure, and Jungkook's the one holding you under with his relentless pace.

Then it hits.

The orgasm crashes through you in waves, drawing these embarrassingly loud sounds from your throat—whimpers, growls, straight-up begging. Your body clamps down around his cock like it's trying to keep him there forever, fingers still working your clit through it all. Pleasure zips through every nerve ending until you can barely breathe.

"Jungkook—" His name rips from your throat when you come, sounding absolutely wrecked.

The pleasure is so intense it almost hurts.

He falters for just a second before picking the pace back up, fucking you through your orgasm until you're seeing stars. Each stroke sets off these little aftershocks that have you questioning your sanity. His groans get louder, deeper, mixing with the sounds you can't help but make.

Every thrust hits exactly where you need it, precise and commanding in that way only he can manage.

You can feel how tense he is, how close he is to losing it.

His breathing comes out all rough and uneven, matching the brutal pace of his thrusts. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave marks, using the grip to pull you back onto his cock like he can't get deep enough.

It's feral, is what it is— how he's moving now—like he's completely lost in it, chasing his own pleasure.

"Shit, I'm close," he groans against your neck, chest pressed tight against your back, skin burning everywhere you touch.

Then he goes rigid as it hits him.

You can feel every twitch of his cock, every pulse as he fills the condom.

He makes this plethora of sounds—deep, rough groans combined with some high pitched ones; all stripped away until he's just raw need and pleasure.

"Ah— fuck—"

Every curse that falls from his lips sounds snatched from him, desperate.

His hips stutter against yours, losing his rhythm as he rides it all out. His grip on your hips is tight enough to bruise, holding you still while he falls apart. Each thrust gets slower, like he's trying to make it last.

When he starts coming down from it, his hands go gentle where they were rough before.

He's still panting hard against your neck, little aftershocks making his cock twitch inside you. His heart's hammering so hard you can feel it against your back.

Jungkook collapses against your back, his legs apparently giving out after how hard he just came. His chest is slick with sweat where it presses against you, and his breath fans hot across your neck. He's still buried inside you, cock softening but still making you feel so full.

The sound he makes—this low, satisfied groan—is almost cute. Like a big cat after a good meal.

The afterglow starts to settle, leaving this heavy kind of quiet between you. Your breathing starts evening out, going from desperate gasping to something more normal.

You both just... stay there for a minute, too worn out to move.

Then he just... drops his full weight on you. Like his arms finally give out or something.

The heat of his body wraps around you completely, and maybe it'd be nice if he wasn't crushing your lungs.

His whole body is radiating exhaustion, and yeah—you get it. That was intense.

"Jeon, move... you're heavy," you grunt into his pillow.

Your voice comes out all rough from how loud you were being earlier.

"Give me a second," he mumbles against your skin, sounding just as wrecked as you feel. "You can't expect me to move after fucking you like that."

He sounds half-joking, half-serious, nuzzling into your neck like he's planning to just stay there forever.

You can't help but laugh at that. Something about seeing Kkangpae's perfect soldier brought down by an orgasm is kind of hilarious.

You shove at his side, trying to get him to budge.

He doesn't move an inch, the bastard.

Instead, he has the audacity to suggest something so wild it's weirdly very him.

"How 'bout we fall asleep just like this, me still inside you?" His voice comes out all lazy and satisfied.

You can tell he's half-joking, but there's this note in his voice that says he's actually considering it.

You reach back to smack him, caught between being annoyed and kind of endeared by how shameless he is.

"Fat chance, thundercloud," you tell him, but there's no real bite to it.

He laughs—this deep, warm sound that tells you he's smiling even though you can't see his face.

But you really can't breathe with him crushing you, so you push at him again, harder this time. "Seriously, off. You're heavy as fuck."

He makes this exaggerated groan like you're asking him to run a marathon or something, but finally rolls off you and onto his side.

His cock slips out (and fuck, that's a weird feeling), and then he sprawls out next to you, throwing one arm over his face as he catches his breath.

The sight of him like this—all tatted up and muscled, skin still kind of shiny with sweat—is doing things to your brain that you really don't want to examine too closely.

After a few more deep breaths, he sits up with this little sigh like moving is the worst thing ever. You watch him from the corner of your eye as he deals with the condom.

There's something almost gentle about how he handles it, which is kind of funny considering how rough he w being just a minute ago. He ties it off and tosses it in the trash with this practiced little flick that says he's definitely done this before.

"So, you wanna cuddle?" The teasing in his voice is obvious.

It's a callback to your conversation earlier, when you were both pretending this was just going to be sleeping.

"Seems like I'm not the one wanting to cuddle after all," you shoot back, matching his tone.

Jungkook gives you that smug little grin.

"Just doing some charity work," he says, voice all teasing and challenging, daring you to argue.

You can't help but scoff. The audacity of this man.

"Charity work? Please. If anyone's being charitable here, it's me."

He laughs—this deep, satisfied sound that fills his room. "Ha. Don't act like you didn't enjoy that just as much as I did."

Well. He's got you there, but you're not about to admit it out loud. Not when he's being this smug about it.

You tilt your head, feeling a crooked smile tug at your lips. "Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. Guess we'll never know."

He shifts closer to you, and fuck—even after everything you just did, your body still reacts to his proximity.

"Maybe I need to fuck you again to find out," he says, voice dropping low enough to make heat pool in your stomach.

"Oh? You sure you can handle another round, tough guy?"

The smirk he gives you is absolutely criminal.

"Sunshine, I've got stamina for days." He says it like he's joking, but something tells you he's not exaggerating.

"For days, huh?" You raise an eyebrow. "Someone's confident."

"Because I know you," he says softly, words ghosting across your skin.

That makes you pause.

Know you?

He doesn't know you any more than you know him.

Sure, your bodies seem to speak the same language—the way you fit together, how you respond to each other's touch.

But that's all this is.

All it can be.

Nothing more complicated than pure physical attraction.

But you don't feel like getting into that right now. Not when you're both still riding the high of what just happened.

"Tempting," you say instead, drawing the word out. "But we've got a long night ahead, and I'd rather spend it actually sleeping."

He narrows his eyes at you, looking way too pleased with himself.

"My bed seems to be the only place you're actually honest," he says, and how does he always have a comeback ready?

You raise an eyebrow at him. "Was that supposed to be a compliment, Jeon? Getting soft on me already?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, putting on this fake serious face. "Can't have you thinking I actually enjoy your company or something."

"Oh, please. Soft is literally the last word I'd use to describe you." You can't help but smirk at the double meaning.

A yawn catches you off guard—not because you're tired (okay, maybe a little), but because you're actually kind of... comfortable?

Weird.

"Anyway, time for sleep. That's what we said we'd do, remember?

He literally snorts. "Sleep? After what we just did? You're fucking with me."

"Not anymore, I'm not," you shoot back, and the look on his face is actually priceless.

"Come on," he tries again. "Round two? I promise it'll be worth staying up for."

But you're already settling into his stupidly comfortable bed. "Nope. Some of us need actual sleep, thundercloud."

"Fine," he sighs, all dramatic about it. "But just so we're clear—this isn't me giving up. It's a tactical retreat."

You actually snort at that. "A tactical retreat? Is that what we're calling it?"

"Yeah, well." He pulls the covers up, finally accepting defeat. "Pushy ain't sexy."

You both settle comfortably in the quietness of his room.

And you can't help but ponder.

It's weird how easy this feels—being here with him, joking around after what you just did.

Like you're not just teammates or gang members or even fuck buddies.

That thought's definitely more scary than it should be.

goal: 480 notes (also lil reminder to go vote fmu 21 and 22 on wattpad after the mass unvoting to restore them, if you enjoy that story as well! (●’◡’●)ﾉ)

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cryoculus · 1 day ago

Text

— cleanup on aisle three ⟢

phainon’s late-night grocery runs are a masterclass in chaos: strange ingredients, fish-shaped lighters, and recipes that could either save the world or end it. and you, a cynical store clerk who just wants to end your shifts quietly, find yourself caught in the storm of his culinary madness.

★ featuring; phainon x gender-neutral!reader

★ word count; 8.3k words

★ tags; friends to lovers, the grand chrysos au (from the april fool's chef pv lol), fluff, idiots in love, several food mentions

★ notes; kaientai tumblr reinstation starts NYEOW! if you follow me on ao3, you've probably already seen this, but i thought it would be a nice idea to crosspost on tumblr since i have a fairly decent following here as well :")

It’s 12:17 a.m., and the store feels like it’s running on fumes.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like they're trying to quit. The floor's been mopped twice already, but there’s still a suspicious sticky spot near the freezer aisle. You’ve stopped caring. An hour left on your shift, and you’ve taken refuge behind the express lane counter with a pen and a long receipt roll.

You're halfway through sketching a moth in combat boots when the automatic doors sigh open.

You don’t look up. Probably just another grad student scraping together a meal from energy drinks and despair.

You finish the boots. Add spurs, just for fun.

Minutes pass. A distant freezer door thunks shut. Then: the squeak of a wobbly cart wheel approaches, slow and uneven.

You glance up as a guy pulls into your lane—not with a full cart, but a modest one that looks like it’s been curated by someone either very sleep-deprived or very emotionally unstable.

He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a chef’s coat that’s half-unbuttoned and clinging on for dear life. There’s flour on one sleeve, something like tomato sauce on the other. A burn mark peeks out just above his wrist like a badge of honor. He looks like he’s been personally insulted by dinner service.

You scan his face—sharp, tired features and eyes that look like they haven't closed in 36 hours. And still, for some reason, he’s kind of hot in the way that makes you instantly distrust him.

He starts unloading his haul without a word.

A 2 liter bottle of cola.

Repackaged chicken feet.

A pint of heavy cream.

A family-size bag of marshmallows.

Three lemons.

Two ramen seasoning packets (no noodles, just the seasoning, and you don't even ask).

A tray of century eggs.

A novelty fish-shaped lighter.

You look at the items. Then up at him. Then back at the items.

“Either this is the world’s saddest dinner or an extremely niche food challenge.”

He exhales—half laugh, half resignation.

“I had to abandon my souffle. My caramel turned into lava. And my artichoke casserole exploded.”

“And this is... what? Your consolation prize?”

“This is survival.” He nods solemnly at the marshmallows. “These might be dinner. Or something to keep me from spiraling into insanity.”

You arch a brow as you scan the fish lighter. “Planning to set the marshmallows on fire in the parking lot?”

“I like to leave my options open.”

He rests his elbows on the counter like the weight of the grocery cart has followed him here. The store lights catch on the flour streaking his cheekbone. You're not sure if it's endearing or if you should offer him a wet wipe.

“You know we sell lemon wedges, right?” you add, bagging his chaos with minimal judgment.

“I needed to suffer through slicing them myself. Builds character.”

You tap the touchscreen, and the receipt prints in no time. As it rolls out, you add the final detail to your sketch—the moth, now holding a sword and standing triumphantly on top of a lemon. You doodle on a fish lighter beside it like a familiar before handing it over wordlessly.

The guy takes one look and laughs.

“Do you charge extra for emotionally resonant moths?”

“Only for customers with weird grocery lists.”

He smiles—slow, amused, like he’s filing that away.

“Then I guess I’ll be seeing you a lot.”

You don’t respond. You just slide his bag across the counter.

He picks it up, nods once, and turns toward the doors. Stops halfway. Glances back over his shoulder like he might say something else, then changes his mind.

“Thanks for not asking about the seasoning packets. Or the chicken feet.”

You manage a lopsided smile. “Was gonna assume childhood trauma.”

He grins. “Close. Culinary school.”

And with that, he’s gone—out into the night, carrying his bag of questionable dinner plans and a receipt covered in doodles.

You didn’t really expect to see him again.

Weird chef guy with the marshmallows and the seasoning packets. The one who looked like he’d been personally wronged by a stand mixer. He’d left with a fish lighter and chicken feet, and you’d filed him away in your brain under “Midnight Oddities.”

But then, a few nights later, he’s back.

Same graveyard shift. Same busted cart wheel. This time, he’s traded the tomato-stained coat for a plain sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. His hair’s still a mess of white—like someone threw powdered sugar into a fan—and there’s a fresh bandaid across one knuckle.

He looks just as tired as before. Maybe more.

The poor guy drops a basket on your express lane counter with a quiet thunk. Inside: two onions, a bottle of balsamic vinegar, two cylinders of butane gas, and an aggressively large chocolate bar.

“Long night?” you ask without looking up from your pen.

“The lamb reduction caught fire,” he says, with the grave seriousness of someone reporting a tragic death.

You raise a brow. “You mean, like, metaphorically?”

“I mean the fire alarm went off. Twice. It’s fine. The sauce died doing what it loved.”

You nod solemnly. “We should all be so lucky.”

He half-grins, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I considered setting the rest of the kitchen on fire just for closure.”

“You’ll need more butane for that.”

You ring up the items, fingers on autopilot. He leans on the counter, watching you, like he’s got nowhere better to be.

You don’t know why it slips out. Maybe it’s the late hour. Maybe it’s the way your feet ache in that particular flavor of minimum wage exhaustion.

“...Thinking of picking up a second job,” you mutter.

He blinks. “Because this one’s not enough of a spiritual journey?”

You snort. “Because rent exists. And degrees don’t pay for themselves.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding, like that makes perfect sense. “You could always be my emotional support line cook.”

“Tempting,” you say flatly. “Do I get benefits?”

“Free pastries and occasional exposure to open flames.”

“You really know how to sweeten a deal.”

As the receipt prints, you flip it over and start sketching without thinking—muscle memory. A tiny version of yourself appears on the paper, slumped inside a soup pot labeled “Capitalism,” one hand holding a spatula like a white flag. Little cartoon flames lick the edges.

You push it across the counter with his bag.

Mister Chef picks it up. Stares. And for a moment, the usual dead-eyed kitchen glaze in his expression breaks.

“You know, these are actually... really good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I mean it. You’re talented.”

You shrug, already pretending to clean the scanner. “Talent doesn’t cover health insurance.”

He’s quiet for a second. You feel him looking again, too long.

“Why don’t you do something with it?” he says softly. “Take commissions maybe? Or start some freelance work?”

You pause, then smile like it’s a joke.

“Not everyone gets to follow their dream on a full stomach.”

He doesn’t have a comeback for that.

You hand over his change, and he takes the bag, still holding the receipt in his other hand like it might burn him if he grips it too hard.

On his way out, he glances back once.

“The soup pot’s got good linework.”

You don’t answer. Just wait for the doors to sigh shut behind him, and a few beats later, you realize that you don't even know that guy's name. But then again, it's not like it matters. You probably won't see him again anyway.

Except you do.

It happens a week after, when you’re not supposed to be on break.

Technically, you're just passing through the cereal aisle on your way to the walk-in, but somehow your legs stop moving somewhere between the frosted flakes and the granola that costs more than your hourly wage.

You sink down to the linoleum, back to the shelves, legs folded, a rejection email glowing on the screen of your phone in one hand.

Your art didn’t make the cut. Again.

Apparently, “strong technique but lacks conceptual cohesion” is the new “we regret to inform you.”

You don’t cry. You just kind of... sit. Long enough for your name badge to start digging into your shoulder.

You hear footsteps approaching. Heavy ones. Paired with the soft clink of glass jars in a basket.

You don’t even look up until the familiar blur of white hair comes into view.

“Oh,” Weird Chef Guy says, blinking. “Did the Lucky Charms defeat you, or are we both having a bad night?”

You don’t answer.

He sets the basket down. Squats in front of you, arms resting on his knees. “You okay?”

You gesture vaguely at your phone. “Just failed at being talented. Again.”

He frowns, tilts his head like he’s trying to squint meaning out of your soul.

“Gallery submission,” you explain. “Rejected. They said my work didn’t have enough... something. Whatever.”

You expect a platitude. Maybe a bad joke. Instead, you get:

“That sucks.”

It’s simple. But it lands harder than it should.

You glance up—he’s in a dark denim overalls this time, smudged with olive tapenade or maybe despair. He smells like rosemary and late-night stress. Still weirdly hot. Still looks like he hasn’t slept since the lunar calendar was invented.

“I applied last minute. Used some older pieces I did before I dropped out of Okhema U.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Art school?”

You nod. “College of Arts. Illustration track. I had to take a leave when tuition got ridiculous, and I thought, you know, maybe if I made some money and kept making stuff, I’d figure it out.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Turns out, sketching on receipt paper in a fluorescent-lit retail hellscape isn’t exactly inspiring.”

Weird Chef Guy sits down beside you now, shoulder just barely grazing yours. His basket sits abandoned next to his knee—a couple of mason jars, chili oil, toothpaste.

“Lack of cohesion, huh?” he says, voice softer now. “They ever tried making risotto?”

You blink. “What?”

“Risotto,” he repeats. “It’s fussy. Needs constant stirring. Tastes like glue if you screw it up even a little. It's a total diva of a dish. You can do everything right and it’ll still come out wrong. But then one day—bam—it hits perfect. Creamy, savory, actual magic. Like it forgave you for your sins.”

You stare. “Are you seriously comparing my failed gallery submission to rice?”

He shrugs. “All I’m saying is, maybe your art’s just... in risotto mode. Not a failure. Just a work in progress with attitude.”

It’s stupid.

It’s really stupid.

But for some reason, your chest eases just enough to breathe again.

You would laugh, genuinely laugh at this stranger's attempt to cheer you up but then you hear the unmistakable crinkle of a snack bag somewhere down the aisle.

“Damionis?” you call, not even turning your head.

A very casual voice responds from behind the cereal shelf: “I’m on break. This aisle just happens to have the best acoustics.”

You groan. “Go bother someone in frozen foods.”

Damionis pops his head around the corner, grinning like the absolute gremlin he is. “Nah, I like this sitcom. You want me to bring popcorn next time?”

“Only if it’s expired.”

He throws you a mock salute and retreats. Probably. You don’t check.

When your nosy co-worker is out of earshot, you glance at your present company. Weird Chef Guy—because you still don’t know his real name despite this being your third meeting in total—leans his head back against the shelf and exhales.

“I’m Phainon, by the way.”

You blink. “What?”

“My name,” he says, glancing sideways, and you look at him like he might just be a mindreader. “Figured it was time you knew it, since I’ve been reading yours off your nametag like a creep.”

You glance down instinctively at the little badge on your apron. Right.

You snort. “And here I thought you were just stalking me.”

“Only in grocery stores. And only after midnight.”

“Points for subtlety.”

“Points for not crying in the middle of Aisle Five,” he counters.

You bump his shoulder with yours. Not hard. Just enough.

He bumps back.

And in the cereal aisle, between a shelf of off-brand granola and a man with fireproof hands, something very small and very soft unspools in your chest.

You're not sure if you want to give it a name just yet.

You’re halfway through a bag of chips and a sip of flat soda when you see Phainon walking into the break room like he’s just stormed out of an interdimensional kitchen hell.

His chef’s coat’s still half-buttoned, a tiny smear of what could be mustard or burnt caramel streaking down his arm, and he’s holding a tupperware container like it contains either the cure for all your problems—or the worst food poisoning of your life.

He spots you, and the chaos continues in his wake, like some sort of culinary tornado.

“Hey,” he greets you, looking way too pleased with himself. “You free to eat something…experimental?”

You raise an eyebrow, slowly lowering the chips. “I don’t know, chef. Last time I checked, I wasn’t signing up for a cooking class. And who the hell let you in here?”

“You’re not signing up for anything,” he says, ignoring your inquiry as he drops the container on the table with a grin. “I’m just trying something out. The ‘No Food Left Behind’ policy. You’re gonna be a test subject.”

You stare at the tupperware, unsure if you should be excited or worried. The lid pops off, and you brace yourself for the smell of burnt desperation and raw ambition.

But instead, it’s surprisingly…pleasant?

“What is that?” you ask, leaning forward.

“Whatever it is,” Phainon shrugs, “it’s better than the version I made for myself this morning. I was going for ‘vibrant acidity,’ ended up with ‘distilled regret.’” He gestures to the container like it's a grand masterpiece. “So, eat up.”

You give him a skeptical look, but you’ve seen enough of his food disasters by now to know that he probably isn’t trying to kill you with poorly executed gastronomy. At least, based on what he checks out in his carts and baskets after his midnight grocery runs. Slowly, you take a forkful. And damn.

It’s good. Really good. The kind of good that leaves you almost suspicious.

The flavors somehow work together in this mess of ingredients—something salty, something tangy, something rich and comforting. It’s like he didn’t just throw things together, but created something from a place of necessity.

You blink, lowering your fork. “Wait. This...actually isn’t bad.”

He grins. “You sure you’re not just hungry?”

“I’m always hungry,” you mutter, finishing the bite. “But no, this is weirdly healing.”

Phainon sits across from you, watching you with an almost unreadable expression. For a second, you almost think he’s serious. “Not what I was going for, but glad to know it worked. Should’ve added more cheese, though.”

“More cheese?”

“Yeah. You’d be amazed at how much cheese fixes everything.” He bobs his head with a self-satisfied smile. “Next time.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s something else there—a tiny spark of warmth you weren’t expecting. The food wasn’t just filling a void; it felt like it was filling something deeper. Like you hadn’t realized how badly you needed it.

You set the tupperware down and glance up at him, suddenly feeling the weight of the last few days. “Thanks,” you murmur, voice a little quieter than you intended. “I haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

His smile softens, but only a little. “Then I guess this was the right kitchen experiment.”

You really should have known better than to run your mouth around someone like Phainon.

The first time it happens, it’s on Monday night. You’ve just clocked in, half-dazed from an over-caffeinated day, and the last thing you expect is a neatly wrapped bundle sitting in the break room fridge with your name on it.

You raise an eyebrow, curious. You slide it out of the fridge, already bracing yourself for some bizarre culinary experiment. The tupperware looks oddly familiar—like the same one Phainon showed up with last time, only this time there’s a little post-it note slapped on top.

Eat me.

You sigh, but you’re also starving, so you open it.

Inside is some kind of…stew? It’s thick and bubbling in the tupperware, with chunks of something that almost look like meat but might actually be vegetables, and a drizzle of something that looks suspiciously like a spicy aioli.

You’re not sure whether it’s the blend of spices or the odd richness, but it smells warm and inviting. He even prepared a small serving of rice to pair it with.

You sit at the table, spoon poised, and take a tentative bite. Holy hell, it’s delicious.

You should be angry that he’s invading your break with weirdly good food, but instead, you’re just grateful you don’t have to rely on stale sandwiches anymore.

The next day, it happens again.

And the next.

It’s like a strange, unspoken agreement now. You never see him drop off the food, but there’s always something waiting in the fridge when you clock in.

By the third day, you’ve gotten used to it—the warm, spicy-sweet curry with just the right level of heat, the unexpectedly perfect homemade bao buns, and today, what looks like a bizarrely decadent bowl of ramen with ingredients that should never go together, but somehow do.

You’re standing in the break room, staring at the latest offering like it’s a strange gift you didn’t ask for, when your coworker, Damionis, leans in from behind you, peering into the fridge.

“What is this, another one of Weird Chef Guy’s meals?”

“His name’s Phainon,” you mutter, but even as you say it, you realize you haven’t actually mentioned that part to anyone.

“Right. Phainon,” Damionis mocks, grinning. “Well, whatever his name is, I don’t know whether to be jealous or concerned. You’ve been eating like royalty all week.”

You just shrug, not sure what to say. It’s not like you asked for this. It’s just happening.

Then the weirdest part comes. The food is so consistently good that you can’t even be mad about it anymore. You don’t even ask questions. You just eat.

But then it lasts for over two weeks.

Two whole weeks of unexpected, ridiculously good meals waiting for you in the break room fridge every single shift. You didn’t even need to check the fridge anymore—you just knew there’d be something there. And as much as you’d like to complain about it, the truth is… you couldn’t.

It was all too good. He knew how to cook. Too well.

But this? This had to stop. It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate the meals. It’s just that you couldn’t shake the nagging guilt that you were being spoiled by someone who barely even knew you.

And the more you thought about it, the more you felt like you were becoming a passive recipient of his kindness. You weren’t some charity case, and you didn’t want to feel like one.

So, you decide to do something about it.

You arrive at the grocery store at 10 in the morning. The day shift clerk, Arielle, told you this is the time when Phainon usually dropped off his gifts. To your relief, she was more than willing to help you catch the guy red-handed while you lied in wait in the break room.

And you did. For about twenty minutes.

Then, almost on cue, you hear a knock on the break room door, and when you open it, there he is. Phainon. Standing in the there with his usual “I’m exhausted, but I’m fine” face.

“You—” You cut yourself off, arms crossed. “You’ve got to stop doing this.”

“Stop what?” He stares at you, genuinely confused. “The food? Is it bad? Because I can totally—”

“No!” You immediately interject, feeling the pressure of not wanting to sound ungrateful. “No, the food’s amazing. It’s just—” You run a hand through your hair, trying to figure out how to phrase this without sounding dramatic.

“I don’t want to be a burden. You keep leaving these meals for me, and I feel like I’m just taking and taking and not… giving anything in return. I can’t keep just accepting these like it’s nothing.”

Phainon blinks at you, a slow realization creeping across his face. Then he shrugs. “You’re not a burden. I’ve been doing this because I want to. You’ve been working your ass off, so you deserve to eat something decent. Besides, I like knowing that I’ve made something you’ll actually enjoy.”

You stare at him, feeling the weight of his words pressing down on you. He sounds so genuine, so nonchalant about it all. But still…

“I feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” you admit, suddenly embarrassed. “You don’t owe me anything. We don’t even—”

“—know each other, I know.” Phainon cuts you off with a soft smile, not an ounce of irritation in his voice. “But that’s the thing. We don’t have to know each other for me to want to do this. I’ve been training at a restaurant for the past few weeks, and it’s been crazy. Honestly, I barely have time to sleep, much less cook for myself. So, I just... grab what I can, throw it together, and leave it for you.”

You stare at him, processing his words. “Wait. You’ve been doing this after working at the restaurant?”

“Yeah. I’ve been coming home late, still on my feet, barely able to keep my eyes open, and I thought: ‘Hey, might as well bring something for them. They're working hard too.’” He gives a small, sheepish shrug. “I mean, it’s the least I can do.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, your mind a little overwhelmed by the layers of his thoughtfulness and how much more he’s been giving than you realized. It’s one thing to show up with a random meal once. It’s another thing entirely to be doing it on the regular, after pulling long shifts himself.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you repeat, quieter this time.

“Then don’t,” he says with a chuckle. “Don’t make me stop. You’re eating something decent for once in your life. What’s wrong with that?”

You open your mouth to protest again, but something in the way he looks at you—like he actually believes you deserve the meals, and not just because he’s some guy who’s trying to be nice—makes you pause.

“I’m just looking out for you,” he adds. “And I’m not asking for anything in return. Just… don’t overthink it. It’s food. It’s my way of saying, ‘Hey, you’ve got a weird job, but you’re doing alright.’”

And, damn it, that hits a little harder than you were ready for. The simple sincerity of it. You want to argue, but the honesty in his eyes stops you.

“You’re impossible,” you say finally, shaking your head, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Fine. But only because I’m pretty sure I’ll starve without it.”

Phainon grins, clearly relieved. “Exactly. Now, I’ve got a soup in there that I think might be your new favorite.”

You can’t help but laugh at how easy he makes this all seem. You know this won’t be the last time he’ll show up unannounced, but this time, somehow, it feels a little less like a gift and a little more like the beginning of something worthwhile.

The commission work has been steady. That’s the word you keep using—steady—even though what you really mean is exhausting.

Since you started accepting paid requests, your days have been a blur of grocery store shifts and digital sketchpads. Pet portraits, custom nameplates, grocery signage with smiling cartoon vegetables—nothing too big, nothing too personal. You keep telling yourself it’s fine. It’s money. It’s more than you had before.

But it’s also not what you love. Not really. It feels like turning your art into product. Into labor. Into something with a price tag instead of purpose.

Still, beggars can’t be choosers.

You think about telling Phainon. You’ve wanted to. After all, this whole thing started because he encouraged you to “do something” with your art. But he doesn’t come around anymore—not during your shifts, anyway. He still leaves meals in the break room fridge, but it's been a while since his last grocery run. You figure he’s probably drowning in work at a restaurant he never told you the name of.

You don’t even have his number. Isn’t that ridiculous?

So you keep your head down. Draw. Clock in. Clock out. Repeat.

And then—

One Thursday night, you’re sweeping up near the produce section, trying to shake off a migraine and mentally calculating how many commissions you’ll need to finish by the weekend, when the automatic doors chime.

You don’t look up right away. It’s late, and most customers at this hour want to be left alone.

But something—some presence—makes you glance up.

And there he is.

Still in his usual chef coat, unbuttoned and a little askew, the sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows like always. He looks as if he came straight from the kitchen. But that’s not what catches your attention.

It’s the bruise.

Dark and ugly, blooming along his cheekbone like ink under thin paper.

“Phainon?” you blurt before you can stop yourself.

He gives a small, crooked smile. “Hey. Long time.”

You’re already striding toward him. “What the hell happened to your face?”

“Occupational hazard,” he says, waving a hand like it’s nothing. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I got in the way of a flying sheet pan.”

“Bullshit.”

His smile wobbles a little, but he doesn’t argue.

You grab his wrist—not roughly, but firmly—and drag him toward the back. He doesn’t resist.

“You’re coming with me,” you mutter.

He raises an eyebrow. “Scandalous.”

“Shut up.”

You haul him into the break room, ignoring the lingering gazes from co-workers, and make a beeline for the first-aid kit above the microwave.

He watches you in silence as you wet a paper towel with cool water and start dabbing gently at the edge of the bruise. He winces but stays still.

“You’re really bad at taking care of yourself,” you mutter.

“I could say the same about you,” he says, almost reflexively.

You glance at him, and he tilts his head. “I heard from Damionis. You’ve been doing commissions.”

Your hand stills. “...Yeah.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You haven’t exactly been around.”

“Touché.”

You look away, focusing on cleaning the worst of the bruising. “It’s fine. It pays. I don’t love it, but it’s something.”

There’s a beat of silence before he says quietly, “I know that feeling.”

You meet his gaze again, and he looks... tired. Really tired. Not just physically, but somewhere deeper. Like the chaos is starting to catch up to him, too.

You’re not sure who leans in first. Maybe neither of you do. But the distance feels smaller now. Quieter.

Then Phainon says, “Next time you want to vent about it, just... wait for me. I might not always show up on time, but I will. Eventually.”

You smirk, just a little. “Big words for someone with a black eye.”

“Battle scars,” he says solemnly. “The kitchen is a warzone.”

You laugh despite yourself, and the tension lifts, just a bit.

There’s still curry powder under his nails and ink smudged on your wrists. Neither of you are sleeping enough or eating right unless the other intervenes.

But in this tiny, overly lit break room, with a half-empty vending machine humming behind you and a pack of frozen peas pressed to his face, it almost feels like something is working.

Almost.

The next weird thing he does for you starts with a folded envelope tucked beneath your lunch in the break room fridge.

This time, there’s no doodle, no cheeky post-it. Just your name, written in slanted pen across thick cardstock. You open it between bites of lukewarm stir-fry, expecting another pun or maybe a strange coupon Phainon made up himself—One Free Existential Breakdown Redeemed at Aisle Four.

But it’s not that.

It’s an invitation.

A literal, printed, serif-fonted invitation on heavy cream paper that reads:

You’re cordially invited to a private tasting at The Grand Chrysos. Come hungry. Come after your shift. P.S. Don’t argue. It’s on the house. —P.

Your first reaction is laughter. Then confusion. Then panic.

The Grand Chrysos is fancy. It’s the kind of place you pass on your way to the train station and try not to breathe near, in case you accidentally lower its property value. One with five-course menus and wine pairings and waiters in black gloves. You thought Phainon was training at some well-off restaurant, but not in a place like that.

You stare at the invitation like it’s going to burst into flames.

When your shift ends, it’s nearly 1:15 a.m., and you’ve changed into a slightly less wrinkled shirt in the back room just in case. You told yourself a hundred reasons not to go. You’re not dressed for it. You can’t afford to even look at the menu. You’ll stick out like a ketchup stain on linen.

But you go anyway.

You’re greeted at the door by someone who seems unfazed by the fact that you’re arriving well past closing. They just smile, gesture you in, and say, “Chef Phainon’s expecting you.”

The restaurant is quiet, emptied of patrons, lit only by a soft glow from the open kitchen.

Phainon lies in wait, blue eyes glittering with anticipation. Still in his chef’s coat, sleeves rolled, hair pulled back, looking exactly like the maniac who leaves elaborate noodle dishes in your fridge and somehow always knows when you’ve had a bad day. There’s a tiredness in his posture, sure—but also a kind of light. The kitchen is his domain. He belongs here.

“You’re still open at this hour?” you ask, hesitating at the edge of the dining space.

He glances up, offers that familiar half-smile. “Nope.”

You frown. “Then what—?”

“I just like to experiment until dawn,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “New menu trials. Flavor pairings. Wasting perfectly good sleep in the name of soup stock.”

You stare at him, suddenly seeing the dark circles under his eyes in a new light. “Is that why you always look like a dying student during finals week?”

He snorts. “Not inaccurate.”

He gestures toward a single candlelit table near the kitchen window, already set. You sit slowly, unsure of what to expect. But he’s already sliding the first course in front of you—delicate, strange, beautiful. Some kind of cold-brewed consommé with herbs you don’t recognize and edible flowers that look like they were plucked from a dream.

“This is real,” you murmur. “You’re—you’re the one making all this?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but you can see it—how much it matters to him. How proud he is, even if he’ll never say it outright.

Course after course follows. A risotto with saffron foam. A deconstructed katsu curry that tastes like every comfort food memory you’ve ever had. A dessert involving toasted meringue, freeze-dried berries, and some strange, tangy syrup he says he discovered by accident.

You’re halfway through the meal when you finally say it.

“I thought this was your job. But you don’t stop when your shift ends.”

He glances up, caught mid-plate wipe. “You don’t either.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he raises an eyebrow. “How many commissions did you say you had lined up last week?”

You go quiet.

“You’re always tired,” you murmur.

“So are you,” he says gently. “But we keep showing up anyway.”

It’s not romantic, exactly. But it is intimate. And in some ways, that’s worse. You’re sitting in a temple of haute cuisine, eating the best meal of your life, and the only thing you can think about is how tired you both are—and how neither of you will admit you want someone to say, It’s okay to stop.

But for tonight, neither of you do. For tonight, you eat.

And when dessert’s cleared away and he brings out a thermos of something he calls “chaos tea” (probably caffeinated), you smile.

Because tired as he looks, Phainon seems a little more alive with you sitting across from him.

You still glance at the break room fridge out of habit.

It’s been weeks since anything showed up with your name on it in crooked handwriting. No precariously packed curries or leftover fish terrines that somehow didn’t stink up the room. No chaotic bao buns, no weird jellied things in little jars, no “guess the ingredients” soups that left your tongue buzzing and your heart weirdly warm.

Just your stuff now. Yogurt. A banana you probably won’t eat. A sandwich that’s seen better days. Someone else's soda you’re pretty sure is off-limits.

It’s fine.

You’ve learned how to eat properly since then. You even meal-prep sometimes, if you’ve got enough brain cells left at the end of the night. Your commissions have picked up—just enough to get by, just enough to let you breathe without doing math at the register to figure out if you can afford a single bar of chocolate. And it’s not like you miss Phainon leaving food for you like some culinary cryptid Santa Claus.

But every now and then, you’ll crack open your tupperware and realize that you still wait for the scent of saffron, or the punch of vinegar, or whatever strange spice he was experimenting with that week.

You’ll look down at your rice and scrambled eggs and sigh, not because it’s bad, but because it’s yours—and maybe, for once, you liked when it wasn’t just on you.

The last time you saw him, he’d looked like death warmed over. Like someone had dug him out from under a pile of cookbooks and deadlines. There was flour in his hair and a pen behind one ear, a band-aid around his thumb and a blister forming on the side of his neck from god-knows-what. His phone had buzzed three times while you were trying to ask him about the new cold brew in stock.

“Dissertation life,” he’d said with a lopsided smile. “You wouldn’t understand. I’m elbows-deep in food chemistry and the historical evolution of fermentation methods. Pray for me.”

You’d rolled your eyes and told him to go touch grass. He’d promised to consider it… after graduation.

That was three weeks ago.

You don’t text him often. You think about it more than you act on it. The last thing you want to be is another notification in a sea of deadlines. But sometimes you’ll send a blurry photo of a weird carrot shaped like a foot, or a doodle on receipt paper of a garlic bulb with tiny arms. Sometimes it’s just a message: Still alive. Hope you’re eating.

He always replies. Short stuff. A thumbs-up. A picture of a burnt omelette with the caption "how the mighty fall." A single “LOL” that somehow makes your day.

You know better than to take it personally—he’s drowning in work. His internship at The Grand Chrysos ended with a bang (and at least one small kitchen fire, according to a very dramatic text), and now all that’s left is the thesis he won’t shut up about.

You sit at the break table with your sandwich, scrolling back through old messages. Your shift’s half over. You’re trying not to look like you’re waiting on a ghost.

The last text from him was three days ago:

Working on my related literature. Might collapse. If I don’t survive, tell the duck confit I loved her.

You smile, even though it catches in your throat a little.

You put your phone down and stare at your sandwich. Take a bite. Chew slowly.

It’s fine. It’s good, even.

But it’s not the same.

You’re almost done with your shift when Arielle insists—insists—that you go take your break.

“I already had mine,” you argue, arms crossed, the fluorescent lights humming far too loudly above you. You don’t even know why she’s here at this hour. She works the damn day shift.

“Take. Your. Break,” Arielle says, giving you a look that says don’t make me drag you.

You eye her suspiciously. Damionis is nearby, not even pretending to be subtle. He’s suddenly very invested in facing the peanut butter jars, whistling off-key. Something is up.

Still, you're tired, and your feet hurt, and your brain is half mush from answering customer questions like where’s the cheese that tastes like sadness but costs twelve dollars more?

So, fine. Whatever. You head toward the break room.

When you open the door, you're hit by the scent of vanilla and something warm, like toasted sugar and citrus zest. The lights are dimmed—when did they even install a dimmer switch?—and standing awkwardly by the fridge is Phainon.

He’s holding a cake.

Scratch that—he’s holding a gorgeous cake. It’s layered and glazed, decorated with candied slices of orange, flecks of gold leaf, and delicate piping that reads Happy Birthday! in slightly wobbly cursive.

And on top: several tiny candles. Lit. Flickering.

He’s using the stupid fish lighter you remember from his very first visit.

“Surprise,” he says, voice soft. “I mean… as much as this counts as a surprise. I had help.”

“He sure did,” Arielle pipes up from behind you, suddenly crowding the entrance with Damionis, both grinning like idiots.

“We coordinated,” Damionis says smugly. “Told him your schedule. Arielle did the decorations.”

You look up. There’s a single streamer hanging half-heartedly from the cabinet above the sink. One balloon taped to the fridge. It’s so dumb. So unbelievably sweet.

You stare at the cake again. At Phainon, who’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly unsure if he’s supposed to say more or not.

And then your vision blurs.

“Oh no,” you murmur, swiping at your face, furious with yourself. “Nope. We are not doing this. I am not crying over a cake.”

Phainon smiles, a little crooked, a little tired. The same smile from all those nights he showed up with tupperware and herbs you couldn’t pronounce.

“Well, it is a pretty great cake,” he says gently. “And you deserve nice things. Even if it's just once in a while.”

You sniff. Your voice comes out smaller than you’d like. “How did you even know? I don't remember telling you my birthday...”

“Mmm, Arielle might have let it slip a couple weeks ago when I bought some salami.” He points the fish lighter at the culprit herself.

Arielle just rolls her eyes and says, “Oh, please. You love it anyway, right?”

Yes.

It’s ridiculous. It’s heartfelt. It’s everything.

You blow out the candles, blinking rapidly, and someone claps—probably Damionis, who’s always a little too eager about celebrating. Phainon cuts the cake and hands you the first slice. It’s lemon poppyseed with honey cream filling. You don’t even like lemon poppyseed.

But still, it’s perfect.

You stand in the crowd, awkward in your semi-wrinkled button-down and scuffed sneakers, feeling a little out of place among the polished shoes and proud parents. You shift from foot to foot, scanning the rows of graduates seated in the middle of Okhema University’s sprawling courtyard.

And then you spot him.

Phainon’s cap is slightly crooked—of course it is—and he’s fidgeting with his gown like it’s some kind of prison uniform. But when his name is called, he straightens up. Walks like he belongs up there. And when he takes the diploma, there’s a flicker of pride that crosses his face before he spots you in the crowd and grins like he just won the lottery.

You wave, cheeks warm, and try not to look too proud yourself. He’s beaming, radiant with accomplishment and relief and maybe just a bit of exhaustion.

Afterward, in the soft afternoon light, he finds you on the steps outside the university.

“You made it,” he says, a little breathless.

“You invited me,” you remind him, but you’re smiling. “I thought those seats were reserved for, you know. Family.”

“They’re too far away to make the trip,” he says simply. “But you were here.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just nod, feeling something a little too big for your chest. Pride. Gratitude. Something else you don’t want to name yet.

Before you can figure it out, a shadow falls over you both.

A tall, broad-shouldered guy—blonde, scowling by default—clears his throat.

“Mydei,” Phainon says, surprised. “Hey.”

Mydei nods, stiff. “Just wanted to say… sorry. For, uh. Punching you in the face. You know, months ago.”

Your eyes flick between them. Oh.

The bruise. The one Phainon had that night he stumbled into the break room, looking like he’d lost a bar fight with a pan. You remember treating it with frozen peas and whispered concern.

“You really clocked me,” Phainon says, rubbing the side of his jaw with a wince that’s more nostalgic than bitter.

“Yeah,” Mydei says. “You were being annoying. Still. Sorry.”

They clasp hands, awkward but genuine. You don’t ask for details. You don’t need them. Phainon gives Mydei a nod as he walks off, and then it’s just the two of you again.

“So,” he says. “Big graduation moment. I’m finally free. No more dissertation deadlines. No more chefs breathing down my neck.”

“You gonna rest now?” you ask.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “I’m thinking dinner. Celebration. Something borderline dangerous with a blowtorch involved.”

You roll your eyes, falling into step beside him as you start walking toward the city. The sun’s starting to dip, casting Okhema University’s sandstone buildings in soft gold.

“Actually,” you say, heart thudding. “I have a confession.”

Phainon slows a step, giving you a look. “What, your undying love for me?”

You freeze. “Absolutely not!”

He laughs, smug and bright and utterly unrepentant.

You huff. “I meant—I’ve saved up enough. I’m going back. To school. Art school.”

He stops walking entirely.

“You’re serious?”

You nod. “I sent in my documents last week. Just waiting for confirmation. But yeah. I’m… I’m doing it.”

His whole face lights up like a streetlamp. He lets out a whoop so loud a couple of passing students stare. Even is he's the one who just graduated, Phainon is celebrating you so much louder.

“That’s—that’s incredible.”

You shrug, trying to seem cool, like you haven’t been carrying the weight of this decision in your chest for weeks. “Figured it’s now or never.”

“Come over,” Phainon says instantly.

You blink. “What?”

“To my place. Tonight. Let me cook. You’re not getting some lazy congratulations takeout, okay? We’re talking a full meal. Dinner for two. My kitchen, my rules.”

You smile, a little stunned, a little giddy. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. It’ll be awful if you say no. I’ll be dramatic about it. Maybe cry.”

“Fine,” you say, nudging him with your elbow. “But only if you make that weird stew with the spicy aioli again.”

His eyes twinkle. “Deal.”

You keep walking, and for once, the future doesn’t feel so scary. Not when there’s something like this—like him—waiting just ahead.

Phainon’s apartment used to look like nobody actually lived there.

The walls were bare—blank, indifferent, the kind of blankness that says I won’t be here long. His place was functional, stripped down to the basics. Bed, shower, fridge, stovetop. A stack of cookbooks in one corner, post-it notes stuck in like confetti. His kitchen, when he used it, smelled like burnt sugar and ambition. But most nights, he was too tired to even boil water. He came home to sleep, maybe shower, then passed out with his apron still slung over a chair.

That was before you started coming over.

At first, it was convenience. Your new university building was closer to his apartment than your own place, and it saved you forty-five minutes of commuting if you crashed on his couch. Then it became habit. Movie nights. Shared leftovers. Sleeping in until noon on your free days. You never really asked if you could keep staying over—but he never asked you to leave.

Somewhere in between all that, his walls started to change.

He framed one of your failed lino prints first. You didn’t even like it—too messy, too smudged. But he said it “had texture,” and before you could protest, it was up near his bookshelf, angled slightly crooked like he didn’t know how to use a level. Then came a half-finished charcoal sketch of a pigeon. A gouache color study. An ink portrait of a cat you never met. One by one, the misfits from your sketchbooks began populating his walls.

You grumbled. Called it embarrassing. He didn’t care. “You spend half your time here,” he said once, standing in front of the fridge with a container of soup in hand. “Might as well look like you live here.”

It annoyed you—until it didn’t.

Now his apartment feels like something alive. Something shared. His pans still clatter too loud, and his towels are always mismatched, but the walls look warmer. Lived in. Like a space with a history unfolding inside it.

And then, one quiet Tuesday night, he swings by the grocery store again.

It’s nearly midnight, the store is half-asleep, and you’re manning the register with the radio turned low. He buys something ridiculous—a single lemon, a tin of anchovies, and a bottle of hot sauce. You roll your eyes as you ring him up.

On the back of the receipt, you doodle a sleepy cartoon fish holding a sparkler. He grins when you hand it over, folds the paper neatly, and slides it into his wallet.

You catch a glimpse of what’s already tucked inside—half a dozen of your other doodles, dog-eared and soft at the corners. A rabbit with an apron. A stick figure with flaming oven mitts. Even that old moth wearing combat boots with the spurs. All preserved like little relics.

“You keep those?” you ask, surprised.

Phainon shrugs, casual, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “They make my wallet look cool.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s not in it. Your chest feels weirdly full.

Because it’s not just the wallet. It’s the walls of his apartment. It’s the fact that he keeps showing up. The way he lights up when you talk about your latest project, even when you’re rambling. The meals he made for you when he barely had time to sleep. How he’s been quietly holding onto all these tiny pieces of you—and never once made you feel silly for handing them over.

You’re not stupid. You know what this might mean.

And maybe—just maybe—you might just feel the same.

It’s barely past seven when you’re stuffing your sketchbook into your bag with one hand and trying to smooth your hair with the other. You’ve got fifteen minutes to make it to your first class of the day, and somehow, despite waking up with enough time, you’re still scrambling.

In the kitchen, Phainon is moving with that easy, practiced grace he only ever has when food’s involved. There’s toast browning, eggs cooling, something wrapped in foil that smells suspiciously amazing, and a thermos of warm broth in your favorite flavor. His hair’s still damp from the shower, and his chef’s coat is half-buttoned, but he’s focused, like preparing your lunch is his actual job.

“You don’t have to do that every morning,” you mumble as you slip your shoes on.

“I know,” he says, without looking up. “But I like to.”

And maybe it’s the way he says it, like it’s a given—like of course he’d want to take care of you—that makes your fingers itch. You pull out the little folded doodle you made the night before. It’s stupid. It’s cute. It’s terrifying. Just a rough sketch of the two of you holding hands, hearts doodled above your heads, and the words i like you, idiot scrawled at the bottom.

You wait until he turns around to rinse something at the sink before you slip it into the recipe journal he keeps open on the counter, tucked between a page of messy notes about pickled egg foam and a weird diagram involving chili oil.

Your heart hammers the entire time, but you say nothing. You just sling your bag over your shoulder and shout a “See you!” before you bolt out the door.

Class is a blur. You think your Realism professor says something profound about emotional verisimilitude but you’re too busy trying not to spiral.

It’s only during your break, when you finally unwrap your lunch on a bench just outside the art building, that you find the post-it.

It’s stuck to the inside of the foil, slightly greasy but still legible, written in Phainon’s usual hurried, slanted scrawl.

I’m terrible at feelings but I think I might be in love with you lol. If you’re not horrified, meet me after class?

Your mouth drops open. For a second, you just stare at it, hands frozen around your sandwich, your brain a whir of static.

And then you laugh.

Because of course he responded like this. Of course he had to one-up your confession in the dumbest, most Phainon way possible.

You tuck the note into your coat pocket and pull out your phone, fingers hovering over your messages.

See you at 3 :>

And when 3 o’clock rolls around, Phainon’s already waiting outside your building, hair windswept, journal tucked under one arm. He looks nervous until he sees you walking toward him, and then—then he smiles like the sun finally decided to rise for real.

You grab his hand without saying anything.

He holds on like he’s never letting go.

⟢ end notes: wahoo, you made it to the end! thank you so much for reading qwq it's been a hot minute since i posted on this acc and tumblr in general (i was mostly active on the kpop side of things in 2023), so i'm kinda just posting this to feel out the vibes. if i should crosspost my other stuff here etc etc. i also just started writing for hsr about,, a month ago?? so i've no idea how the fandom is on here JSDHFJSDGFH either way!! i'm just happy to share my stuff anywhere i can :^)

#honkai star rail #hsr #hsr x reader #phainon x reader #phainon #phainon hsr #full length fic #cryoculus

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