#and this is still only scratching the surface

[lassiie]

Power Play.

sub!boss Jake x Co-worker!dom reader

CONTENT ↠ nsfw! smut, sub Jake, dom/sub dynamics, dominant reader, needy sub Jake, strong depiction of fantasies, power play, sexual tension, worship kink, consensual power exchange, denial, servitude kink, head recieving, overstimulation, degradation play, slight violence, fluff (what should i say i'm still hella romantic in a way...)

WORDCOUNT ↠ 8k~ (didn't proof read the way i wanted...)

MDNI / Before you dive, read the warnings. don’t like it, don’t read.

Yours dearly, Lassie

Jake Sim is the human equivalent of a TED Talk on professionalism — all pressed suits, smiles, and PowerPoints that make managers almost tear up. Three months since his transfer from the overseas branch and the office still hasn’t recovered. They call him golden boy in the group chat — half-joke, half-worshiping honestly. Because, fuck, he’s too perfect. Too polite. The kind of guy who probably apologizes to doors after walking into them, and makes you forget he’s your boss.

And you? Poor you…You’ve been paired with him as his second in executive, which should've felt like a promotion. But didn’t even scratch the surface of your indifference. You didn’t need to sparkle like him to command attention. You’ve earned every inch of your place with blood, sleep deprivation, and the kind of ruthless efficiency that doesn’t beg for recognition. The office knew how you were : nice but ice-edged. They knew not to interrupt when you’re typing, not to hover near your desk unless summoned, and not to try you with weak jokes or wandering hands unless they’re craved the kind of career-ending evisceration you delivered to the last manager, as you buried him six feet under and salted the earth.

But still, interns loved you. You took good care of your team, made sure everyone was at ease, comfortable and heard in any situations. which bringed respect.

And Jake? Jake saw you long before you saw him.

First time was one of those insufferable corporate mixers, drowning in stale champagne and fake smiles, where you emerged across the room, wrapped in silk, fine jewelry and sharp liner. You were flawless that first time, you were impossible to ignore. And all the others too, actually.

You didn’t glance his way more than two to three times, and that cold distance only made you more magnetic, to Jake—the kind of woman who moves through rooms like no one deserves to know her but somewhat not mean. And Jake ended up eyes on you every other gathering, everytime a step further, a bit more small talk, a glass of champagne offered, his eyes fixed on your silhouette like it was a masterpiece he’d never be worthy enough to touch, let alone own.

Then that promotion opportunity came. So he transferred because he worshiped you, because you were the kind of woman who made him want to kneel, to be the loser he always wanted to be for his woman. For the impossible humiliating chance to breathe in your orbit every day, to stand beside you in meeting rooms pretending he’s your equal. But in his mind, you're not just his colleague. And he’s not even your superior. Oh babe, you're his goddamn sovereign. And he’s never felt more alive than when, in his thoughts, he’s kneeling, mouth open, waiting for commands you’ll never actually give.

He tried to act normal, pro, detached. But every clipped instruction from your lips feels like a test of endurance, every click of your heels across the floor a reminder. He watched : How you open his water bottle at meetings without sparing him a second glance, like he was a child. How you hand him reminders post-it like you’re feeding a dog out of habit, never cruelty—but never kindness either. It devastates him. Your effortless dominance. Your divine neglect. How you were a natural.

And it only got worse.

He started to make mistakes in your presence—every misplaced file, every stammered report, every too-long pause before answering your questions or request—was laced with intent. Because he wants you to be disappointed in him. He needs you to sigh, to call him out, to scold him with that glint in your eye that says you could gut him with a sentence if you wanted to. 

In his dreams, you’re pulling him into his office by the tie, shoving him to his knees, using him like something cheap and temporary—like a thing. He imagines you telling him he’s beneath you, that he’s useful for nothing but kneeling. Most of the time, like three hours ago, he ended up beating his meat in a bathroom stall, panting and low moaning those fantasies, agreeing, sobbing, begging you to ruin him in front of the team, to make an example of him. He imagines you laughing as he licks you beneath your desk, sobbing because it’s not enough.

But none of that ever happens.

Because in reality, Jake is a coward. A gorgeous, trembling, painfully nice coward who sits quietly, worshiping you with slight glances, calling it professionalism. Hoping—foolishly—that one day, you’ll notice him not as a coworker, not as a man, but as the thing he wants to be: your property. Your toy.

So Jake found himself lucky to get to travel with you in the name of the company, even if it’s more like you got to travel with him.

You’ve always had a thing for rooftop dinners. Velvet skies, free-flowing wine, fairy lights strung above your head like some Pinterest board fever dream. You’re halfway through a glass of red you can’t pronounce, listening to a group of executives over-intellectualize Shark Tank, when you realize Jake’s gone.

Not that you noticed right away. You were too busy being charmed by some VP with a Rolex and too much cologne. But on the way to the restroom, your steps slow.

There—by the bar your ex-manager stands. The one who should’ve been fired, but instead got quietly "transferred"l. He’s hunched over a whiskey glass, already too loud for the setting, and—of course—he’s found Jake. And Jake’s just… sitting there. Letting it happen. You don’t catch the whole thing, but what you do hear lands like a slap.

“She’s cold, huh? Don’t take it personal, new guy. That bitch just needs a firm hand. Or maybe some good dick to set her straight.”

Classy.

You’re not fragile. You’ve sat through worse. But the worst part isn’t him. It’s Jake. Jake—who’s supposed to be different. Jake, who’s tilting his head like he’s actually considering it. Your heart doesn’t break. It just… 

Lowers its expectations. Because of course. Of course the one man you thought might actually get it—the one who made fumbling attempts to earn your respect instead of demanding it, and the one who seemed like he worked as hard as you did to get where he was—turns out to be made of the same recycled garbage as the rest.

You almost walk away. Almost. When Jake moves. Your ex-manager lifts his glass for a toast to misogyny, and Jake spills it all over him. Deliberately. 

No apology. No more honorifics. He just, like that, made the golden boy vanish.

“Let me tell you something, you piece of shit,” he says, voice flat.

“She’s one of the most capable, intelligent, and dedicated professionals I’ve ever met. If you think she owes you warmth just for existing in her line of sight, maybe that’s why you’re no longer her superior. Or anyone’s, really.”

And suddenly, the bar quiets a bit.

“God forbid a woman doesn't tolerate bullshit. She’s earned more than the team’s respect. She’s earned admiration. Mine. And the higher-ups’, too. So here’s some advice: next time you think about speaking her name, do us all a favor and don’t.”

Your ex-manager, predictably puffs up like a drunk peacock about to throw a punch.

That’s your cue. You stride over, grab Jake by the wrist, and step between them. Not for Jake. Not even for the ex. But for you. Because you’re done letting men discuss your worth like it’s a goddamn cocktail special.

“You’re going to shut your fucking mouth.”

It leaves your lips like a knife thrown with perfect aim—smooth, deadly, no hesitation.

“No one here wants to hear the rot that curdles in whatever’s left of your brain.”

He blinks. “You—” Stunned. Good. Let him choke on it. He always feared you a little, but now? Now that he’s been stripped of rank, status, relevance? Now that he’s nothing but a cautionary tale with a half-empty drink? He’s pathetic. And god, it suits him.

So you smile, slow and cruel, like you’re savoring it. 

Because you are.

“Your career didn’t end because women stopped smiling. It ended because you couldn’t keep your dick zipped and your mouth shut. And now look at you—bitter, balding, washed-up in a suit that screams clearance rack. Shit, I’d feel bad for your wife if I didn’t know she was already contemplating divorce papers.”

You step closer, watching his throat bob like he’s trying to swallow the truth—but it sticks.

“How about I send her your HR file?” you murmur, voice dropping low and poisonous. “Maybe she’d enjoy seeing the long list of every intern you've “mentored”. Wouldn’t your kids just love knowing daddy’s a predator with a pattern?”

He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. His face curdles, and that’s enough for you.

You turn, already done with him, gripping Jake’s wrist like an afterthought—like he’s yours to take with you. And he lets you. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t question. He just follows, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, dragged up to your rooms’ floor like a kid being led to bed.

Once the elevator dings and you’re back on solid carpet, you realize: you’re still holding onto him. Tightly. Nails half-embedded into his skin.

You drop his hand like it burned you. “Shit—I didn’t mean to grip that hard. Sorry—”

And then he whimpers.

A real, breathy, aching sound that does not belong to a man sober in thought. His hand is trembling, but it’s not from the pain. No. You think that’s Jake’s flushed. His eyes are glassy; his lips parted like he’s seconds from begging; and he’s not hearing a word you’re saying.

Actually, he’s still stuck in the bar, at that moment. Still reeling from the version of you that stepped in, grabbed him strongly. The version that protected him while threatening to ruin someone else.

And fuck, he liked it.

He could fall to his knees right here, in the hallway, under the hum of those fancy hotel lights, in front of the security cameras, the staff or any stranger possibly walking by from their own room—and he wouldn’t care. He’s hard. Pulsing through his slacks. You can see it. Can you ? Fuck he hopes you can’t.

He’s too drunk… Past his limit for sure, since he never really drinks. But this isn't just alcohol.

This is you.

“Mr. Sim?” You call for him again, in his daze.

Why the hell are you so pretty tonight ? And why’re your nails so clean? Why do they gleam under the light like they were made for him to fidget with ? To leave marks on his back? On his throat?

He's a man standing on the edge of fantasy, and you—well, you’re just standing there, breathing, and it’s too much.

“Mr… Jake?”

His eyes dart.

“S-sorry, have a good night, m-miss.” He stammers it out, then bolts like he’s escaping a fire. Or running from a wet dream that got too real.

And you just stand there. Stunned. What the hell was that?

🕗

You’d showered. Paced. Changed into something softer—something that didn’t scream professional, but still whispered respectable enough to knock on your boss’s door past midnight.

And now, here you stood in front of Room 707 with a travel-sized first aid kit and a mind spiraling in loops.

You told yourself this was about the wrist. About decency. About clearing the weird air that was left behind. Not about the way Jake’s eyes had clung to you like you were divine retribution in heels. Not about the ache under your ribs every time you replayed the way he stood up for you like it meant something.

Nope. Definitely about the wrist.

You knocked—firmly, like you weren’t praying he didn’t answer. But of course, he did. 

And god help you.

Jake’s shirt : rumpled, sleeves : shoved to his elbows, no tie, no belt, just that top button undone like a tease. He looked half-finished or  half-undressed. Either way, your brain short-circuited for a half-second too long.

“Hey,” you said, lifting the kit like a peace offering. “Thought I’d fix your wrist. Since I mauled you earlier.”

He didn’t say anything, just smiled softly and nodded before stepping aside to invite you.

Inside, it felt strange—quiet, warm, domestic in a way that shouldn’t have felt intimate but absolutely did. Jake moved around like he was trying to impress you in silence: fluffing the cushions, adjusting the lights, even pouring you water like it mattered, with that cute stressed expression.

You sat. He sat closer. And you started dabbing the ointment gently on the red welts your nails left behind.

“Sorry again,” you murmured. “Didn’t mean to dig in that hard.”

Jake just hummed, with the softest voice, almost a moan. Like the pain was holy now.

Then he asked, barely louder than a breath:

“You okay?”

And somehow, that cracked it all open.

You didn’t mean to spill. But it poured out anyway. Every time your ex-manager had belittled you, laughed too loud at meetings, but still stolen your credit. Every time his eyes lingered too long. Every time you’d swallowed the rage, because you couldn’t afford to be seen as “too emotional” in a room full of mediocre men who failed upward.

Jake listened. Like, really listened. He’d heard some of it. But your version made him exhale like he couldn’t take it.

“I should’ve broken that asshole’s nose,” he muttered, low and taut.

You stilled. The words hit deeper than they should have. Not because of the violence, but because of the intent. Jake wasn’t trying to play savior. He was just... angry for you.

Your hand lingered on his wrist softer now. “Thank you. For earlier. For saying all that. I know I act like it’s whatever, but it... wasn’t.”

Jake’s eyes stayed on you like you were speaking scripture.

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” he said. “I saw the kind of woman you are from day one. You’re smart. You don’t kiss ass. Guys like him can’t handle that. Because they don’t have the vocabulary for powerful.”

Something tugged tight in your chest. And lower. Warmer.

“I really should’ve punched him,” Jake said again, more to himself now. “No man like that deserves to say your name.”

You let out a laugh—one that tasted like relief.

“Honestly? I should’ve done it. Slapped him. Right in the face. Just once. Not even for like, feminism or justice or anything—just for me, for the satisfaction.”

You were smirking before you even realized it. Jake was grinning too, loose and genuine, like this moment was undoing all the knots inside him and you. Then something flickered behind his eyes. A wild idea taking root.

“How… How about you try it.” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“Slap me,” he said, voice light but firm. “Come on. Let it out.” He smacked his own cheek lightly, then grinned at you like a lunatic.

Your jaw dropped. “Mr. Sim—”

“You’ll feel better.”

His cheek was pink now. His eyes dared you.

And your hand... your hand actually rose, by instinct. You stopped halfway. Fist clenched, nails digging into your palm. What the fuck were the two of you doing? Was it the adrenaline? The leftover fury? The wine? The way Jake looked at you like you were both priest and punishment? Either way, your heart pounded. Your hand hovered. Very much tempted, but terrified. And Jake just sat there, unblinking. Waiting for you. No, begging for it.

Jake’s hand wraps around yours like it’s his first taste of something forbidden—gently, reverently, like he’s convinced himself your fingers are a gift he doesn’t deserve but still needs to worship. He doesn’t just hold your hand. No—he kisses it softly, unfolds it, spreads your palm. His voice, when it comes, is low, breathless, and so fucking sincere it borders on stupid.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, pressing your open hand to his cheek like some sacrificial lamb ready to be offered up. “I don’t mind. Say what you want. Slap me how you want. Curse me. Pretend I’m him—I’ll take it. I’ll be him, just this once. For you.”

And god help you—something about the way he says it, all shaky and soft-spoken, makes your jaw tighten and your thighs twitch. Because of course he’d say that. Of course Jake fucking Sim would offer himself up like a stand-in for your trauma with bedroom eyes.

You hesitate for a second, because sanity demands you to—but then your palm lifts and falls.

The first slap is light, really. Nothing to write home about. But the way Jake shivers under it? The way his breath stutters and his eyes flutter half-lidded like you just whispered something obscene directly into his bloodstream? That reaction alone makes something dangerous spark inside you.

And when you laugh—half from nerves, half from the ridiculousness of the whole thing—he laughs too, like he’s high off the sound. Like you just gave him a hit of something addictive.

“You’re a pathetic coward,” you whisper, almost shy to curse him but the words feel good leaving your mouth, like steam venting from a pressure cooker.

SLAP. 

“You ever do your own work? Or just ride other people’s backs while jerking off to the sound of your own voice?” 

SLAP. 

“Useless piece of shit—god, you couldn’t lead a fucking team of toddlers without crying.”

SLAP.

Jake’s mouth parts like he’s drowning and your voice is air. His hips twitch beneath you, subtle but undeniable, a reflex he can’t hide anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, like a prayer with cracked knees. “I’m… I’m sorry.” The way he says it—shaky, shame-drenched, utterly sincere—does something awful to your insides. Your cunt clenches around nothing

“Sorry?” you echo, voice rising just enough to cut the air like silk pulled taut. “You think that’s gonna cut it, you filthy little fuck?”

SLAP.

“Yes!” Jake gasps, and his voice is so wrecked, so gone, it nearly makes you moan. “Yes—I’m sorry!”

And then suddenly—without any warning—he pulls you on top of him, like his body just knows where you belong. You straddle him instinctively, the move so fluid it feels choreographed, and now you’re above him, your dress riding up your thighs, your weight grounding him to reality like some punishing fever dream.

The couch creaks a bit under you, but neither of you care. Jake lies back like an offering, eyes half-lidded and lip trembling, hips pressing up in slow, helpless thrusts like he’s trying to fuck through his slacks and into your core without permission.

Every slap now lands with purpose, with rhythm, your palm stinging and his face pinked with marks that scream I want this. And he’s moaning for each one—hands clutching your thighs like he’s scared you’ll vanish, like he’s trying to burn your shape into his memory.

“P-please,” he whines, eyes rolling back just a little, “please, don’t stop, keep going—fuck—”

You realize then you’re grinding into him rhythmically, like your body figured out what it needed long before your brain caught up. Your panties are soaked, dress bunched above your hips, and his cock—hard, thick, fucking twitching—presses up against you in the most delicious way.

And god, the sight of him?

He’s ruined.

His hair’s a mess, his shirt wrinkled like it’s been gripped and yanked—by you—his face flushed, eyes glazed over, lips parted like he’s seconds from begging with tears in his lashes. He looks like a man hanging on by a thread, and you’re the one holding the scissors.

Your hand finds his throat. Not to squeeze—just to touch, trying to own. Your fingers brush that frantic little pulse at the base of his neck, and Jake gasps—one of those sharp, gut-punched sounds—and tilts his head back without hesitation, baring himself like he’s got no shame left. And maybe he doesn’t.

Your thighs clench around him, hips still grinding slow and firm, your smile turning downright predatory now, because fuck, this man is beautiful like this. Ruined, desperate, and utterly yours.

And the sickest part? The part that makes heat pool in your stomach and twist behind your ribs like fire licking up your spine?

He’s smiling too. Like he’s finally found where he belongs.

You're straddling the line of a terrible mistake, and you know it. Jake Sim—your boss—is now lifting you as your legs close around him, carrying you through his room, to his bed, just to kneel between your thighs like a worshipper at the altar, and somehow, you’re the one in control. Not because you should be. Because he needs you, he wants you to be.

His lips brush your ankle, soft and trembling like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. His kiss isn't a declaration—it’s a plea. And you let him. You let him, because deep down, you've always known Jake didn’t want a woman who waited for his command—he wanted one who would ruin him.

You cock your head, letting the silence stretch. “So that’s what you like, Mr. Sim?” The mockery in your tone is gentle, like silk hiding a knife. “You want to be punished? Humiliated?”

His body jerks. Visibly. Shamefully. He nods, almost moaning from the idea of it. The sound is broken, needy, and completely unfiltered. He nods—frantic. Eyes wide, pupils blown, gorgeous lips parted like he’s about to confess something filthy and forbidden.

“Undress.” you order, and the sight of this grown man stumbling on unbuttoning and getting out of his pants is the cutest shit you ever saw suddenly.

You lift your heel to his cheek when he knelt back—still tender, pink from earlier—and drag the sharp arch of it down his throat, tracing the vein pulsing beneath skin. He doesn’t recoil. He leans into it, breathless. Then, with a shift of your leg, you press the sole of your shoe directly against his chest and push. Hard.

He gasps, then groans—like he wants to beg but can’t choose between pain and praise.

“You like that?” you murmur, increasing the pressure.

“Yes—fuck, yes,” he pants, squirming under your foot. “Don’t stop. Please…”

Your gaze drops to the dark patch blooming at the front of his boxers. Pre-cum stains the cotton, making it cling to every thick vein and curve of his cock. He’s twitching—throbbing—with desperation. It’s obscene, really. You haven’t even touched him, not really, and he’s already soaked like a teenager with a forbidden crush.

"God," you exhale, voice thick with amusement. "You’re soaking through for me, aren’t you, Jake?"

He chokes on a moan. The sound is pitiful. His hips jerk against the heel of your foot like he’s hoping for just enough friction to make him cum like a dog. And when he starts to kiss your leg—soft, reverent kisses that trail from your ankle to your thigh—you freeze him with a single word.

“Stop.”

He stiffens instantly. His face—red—jerks up, guilt shining in his eyes. You don’t say anything at first. Just stare at him. Let him writhe in the silence.

“Take my shoes off. Now.”

He obeys immediately—scrambling like a man whose life depends on it. Kissing the strap, whispering apologies as he unbuckles each heel. His fingers shake the whole time. You can practically feel how hard he is without looking.

Once bare, you remove your panty, spreading those legs, letting him see exactly what he’s begging for. His eyes darken instantly. Mouth falls open. He looks ruined already—and you haven’t even let him taste.

“Eyes on me, Jake.”

Fuck keep using his name. He loves it.

He nods slowly, almost reverent, eying you and your cunt like he couldn’t choose who gave the orders. His hands ghost up your thighs—asking silently, needing permission like his life depends on your mercy. You don’t grant it, but don’t stop him either. You just watch as his fingers reach closer and closer producing that electric feeling, till he reaches your folds, his breath catches audibly. 

Fuck, You’re soaked. His eyes flutter shut, like the sight alone sends him reeling. But the second his fingertips twitch forward—

“No fingers,” you say.

He freezes. His voice is nearly a whimper. “C-can I use my mouth?”

You pause, mischievous. Tilt your head like you’re thinking about it. Like the wet heat of your pussy throbbing for him isn’t already an answer enough.

“You can try. But you stop when I say. Understood?”

“Yes. Anything.”

And then he dives in. There’s no finesse. No gentle buildup. Just hunger. Jake eats you like a man starved, no like a freaking golden retriever—face buried between your legs, licking and sucking like every inch of your pussy is holy and he’s dying for it. His moans vibrate against your clit, tongue sliding in messy, frantic circles, sloppy and chaotic like he can’t think straight.

He’s a total mess, with like, no experience. And it’s perfect.

“You’re terrible at this,” you mutter, thighs trembling and back arching despite the insult. “Is this how you always eat pussy, Jake? Like some starved dog?”

The moan he lets out is devastating. Deep, guttural. He shoves his tongue into you like he’s trying to answer with action, not words. You curse, “fuck, FUCK !” His big nose grinds against your clit with every thrust, and the heat building inside you is blistering.

Then he breaks the rhythm—again. Too desperate. Too frantic, trying to breathe a bit. And you almost came by being denied. You want him in you. Now. 

“Jake—stop.”

But he doesn’t.

He wraps his arms around your thighs, locks you in place, and devours you some more. His hips are literally fucking helplessly into nothing but thick air. His mouth chants his devotion, tongue trembling from the effort as he fucks you with it, drowning in your slick.

And your orgasm hits you like a thunderclap—sudden, violent, raw. You cry out, thighs squeezing around his head suffocating him, voice cracking on his name like a command and a curse all at once.

"Stop! Jake! Fuck!"

He doesn’t. He moans against your cunt like he’s proud of breaking you, lips and chin soaked, tongue still lapping at the mess you made for him.

You shove him back with a kick—heart still thundering. He looks up at you, dazed and smiling like a boy who just won the lottery. His face is wrecked. Hair a mess. Cock visibly leaking like he might’ve come just a little from tasting you.

You grab him by the back of his hair, yanking his head up, your lips cruel inches from his.

“You didn’t listen, Jake.”

He winces. Nods. But his cock twitches. He freaking loves this.

“I told you to stop,” you say, voice hot, “You didn’t, so…” You smile slowly and mercilessly. “You don’t get to come.”

His face crumples. “What? Please—please, I just wanted to make you feel good—”

You lean in, let your lips brush his.

“No. Good night Jake.”

Jake looks pathetic. Absolutely wrecked, lips swollen, cheeks flushed like he’s run a marathon instead of just begging to come. His hand darts out, trembling like he’s on the verge of cardiac arrest, and he wraps his finger around your wrist.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, voice shredded. “You don’t have to touch me. Just… stay. Please. I won’t ask for anything.”

Right. Because that’s worked so well for him so far.

You glance down. He’s sprawled out like a cautionary tale—cock twitching uselessly, leaking against the waistband of his briefs. His hair is damp and curling at the edges, eyes wide and wet. And, God, the way it turns you on should be illegal in at least five states.

You sigh. It’s performative, but you let it be. “Fine,” you mutter. “But I’m showering first.”

“I’ll do it,” he blurts. Too fast and desperate. “I-I’ll wash you. Please.”

You should say no. You should. But instead, you tilt your head, curious. Maybe it’s the power trip still humming in your bloodstream. Maybe you just want to see how far he’ll go. So you let him follow.

You undress—slow, deliberate, aware of every inch of skin as it’s revealed. You’re not shy, not really, but there’s something oddly fragile about it. Like this version of you—this one he sees—is a new animal altogether. Jake touches you with his desperate eyes. He watches, jaw slack, eyes like you’re the first woman he ever saw.

In the water, he’s reverent and very careful. Lathers your shoulders, your back, your gorgeous breast. His hands shake when they reach your thighs. But he never slips. Never tries. Not where you ache. Not where he’s dying to be.

It's sick, how good that makes you feel. And it pleases him like nothing else to see you like that, breathing heavily at every touch. Holding onto the bathtub when his hand slides down your thigh.

When it’s over, sadly, he helps you into a robe. Like some kind of tragic gentleman. But his cock—still hard, still untouched—presses against your ass as he wraps the fabric around you. Just for a second. Just enough.

You don’t flinch,don’t comment, cause of course you’re dying to have it in you right now. But of course, he panics.

“Fuck, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“Does it hurt?” you ask, voice flat, pretending you don’t really care. Jake nods into your shoulder like a punished schoolboy. “It’ll die anyway,” he mutters.

Spoiler alert : it did not. After shower, in his new briefs, he’s doing a poor job hiding just how painfully alive he still is. He crawls into bed next to you, still like this. He doesn’t try anything, doesn’t speak. Just folds himself against your side, forehead to your belly, arms wrapped around you like you’re some human security blanket. You card your fingers through his hair, lazy, soothing. Like he’s a dog you’re rewarding for good behavior.

“I love this,” he whispers, voice raw, earnest. “I love being under you…”

You don’t respond right away, you just keep stroking. Letting the silence stretch. Then, finally you speak : “I guess this makes us dom and sub now, huh?”

His head snaps up. Eyes huge. Like you’ve just freaking proposed to him. “Y-yes! I mean—only if you allow it. If that’s what you want.”

You look at him. Really look. This man—flushed, panting, cock caged and aching—would probably crawl across glass if you asked right now. And he always felt… Different. So…

“Yeah…” you say slowly. “But I’m not… Like… very… experienced, you know ?”

He lights up like a fucking Christmas tree. “Believe me,” he says, “you really, really are a natural.”

And that's how it started. The very next day you woke up like being a dom was a task on your to-do list. You made sure to tell Jake that nothing would happen until you were prepared. And “prepared” had its own definition for you. You documented, watched a lot of porn and blogs about it, visited shops after specialised shops to buy some accessories. For you it was serious, or at least you wanted it to prove to him you where. But three days became a week. And a week two, clueless of how pant up Jake was, waiting, observing you from so close but not even sparing him a glance. Until he booked a meeting with you. a five minute before hour. It almost made me laugh. How many grammar faults he made and how the hour was strangely badly chosen. still you clicked on “accept”, and added a comment :

Be prepared. It’s gonna be the real thing. 🕗

And that night when you enter his office, Jake is on his knees.

Literally. Hands clutching his thighs like his own body might betray him at any second, head bowed low. You pause at the door, heels clicking against polished tile, and glance behind you—because what if it wasn’t you standing there? What if some clueless intern wandered into this fever dream instead?

It’s almost tragic how far gone he is. Almost...

He hasn't even looked up. Poor baby’s probably been like this for twenty minutes, edging himself in anticipation alone. All because you told him this meeting would be the real deal. That today would be official. He must’ve short-circuited from the promise alone.

Well, time to step into your role.

You close the door gently behind you. The satisfying click echoes like a gunshot in the quiet office. Your black dress is obscene — tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination, short enough to start a scandal, and paired with the same high heels he once moaned into as he kissed each pointed toe like a prayer.

and Jake? He’s visibly hard from the sound of your footsteps alone.

You walk toward him, and his thighs tense at the sight. He doesn't dare look up. Doesn’t need to. He knows who it is. You crouch down beside him, slow, calculated, a predator humoring her prey. Your fingers thread through his hair and gently pat.

“Good boy.”

He whimpers. Actually whimpers. You smirk when you feel the full hardness beneath his slacks with your hand..

“Pathetic,” you murmur, clicking your tongue in his ear. “Getting hard just from the sound of my heels?”

“I’m sorry…”

Your voice drops. “Are you in your right mind, Mister Sim? Should we reschedule this meeting for a time when you’ve got some self-control?”

“No, no, no—I-I’ll behave, I promise,” he rushes out.

You laugh, soft and dangerous. “Come here.”

You stride to his desk—his desk—and make yourself at home in the chair he usually owns like a throne. Now, It’s yours. He stands, hesitant, and when he sees you sitting there, legs crossed, perfectly composed—his expression crumples with want. Fuck he wants to crawl to you directly under the desk to serve you, but he walks and sit in front of you.

You reach into your branded bag and produce a thin stack of papers and two small boxes.

Back to business.

“Here’s the contract,” you say, voice clipped and professional, like this is just another quarterly strategy meeting. “I marked everything I’m willing to do or try in blue. You’ll go through it, mark your interests in green, and we’ll see where we align. I’ve included safeword options, conditionals, limits... all the usual.”

He blinks at the paper like it’s his acceptance letter into heaven. He takes it, reverent, then actually starts reading — not just flipping through, but really absorbing it. You watch his mouth part slightly at the sight of all your “X”s. Fuck keep it together, you need to look cool.

Bondage:Leash and collar – X. Gag – X. Cuffs – X. Genital cage and toys– X.

Impact and Sensation Play:Biting. Hair pulling. Slapping. Sensory deprivation. Asphyxiation. All X. All yes.

And when he skims to the intimacy section, his whole posture shifts — hips twitch, breath hitches. Unprotected sex. Orgasm. Kissing. Fluids. All marked. You didn’t even flinch.

But the part that breaks him? The "I want to feel like..." and "I don’t want..." pages. You were for real. Letting him feel vulnerable out in clear, responsible terms. The aftercare checklist is long, thoughtful, even tender.

It’s the final confirmation: you didn’t do this on a whim. You mean it. You want him. Like this. His eyes shimmer slightly. Your boss. On the edge of crying from a form. Then he hesitates shyly. Circles two spots you left uncrossed.

You lift a brow as he gives back the form for you to consider.

“Golden shower and Exhibition “ you sight “I’m… not sure… But we can discuss it later.” you admit.

“That’s okay,” he replies too fast, nodding like a bobblehead on a bumpy ride. “That’s—totally fine.”

You hand him the smaller of the two boxes.

He opens it. A sleek, delicate pair of glasses. Not prescription. Just a look — something dignified, calm, an elegant reminder of his submission. “You wear those when you’re mine,” you say. opening the second box, “The collar’s only for play. But the glasses? That’s the symbol for our daily life.”

He slides the glasses on immediately — no hesitation, no second thoughts. They sit perfectly on his face, softening the sharpness in his jaw, giving him the exact look you imagined: cute, obedient, and just a little wrecked.

“So… that means I’m yours now?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, trembling with hope. It’s the kind of question you’ve already answered a thousand times without words by now, but you nod anyway — slow, steady, deliberate.

Pride blooms in your chest when his whole body slumps in relief.

He rises to his feet with shaky hands and then—without warning—sinks again. This time not to kneel, but to wrap both arms around your leg, hugging it with childlike desperation. And maybe it's the shortness of your dress. Maybe it’s just the way he clings, forehead resting against your thigh like it’s his new religion.

But when he shifts slightly… his face buries right against your heat. And you forgot one crucial detail.

No underwear.

You hear the shaky gasp he lets out when his lips brush against bare skin. Like the air’s been knocked out of him.

Then he’s groaning. Mouthing at you through the fabric, or lack thereof, completely unhinged, trying to kiss your cunt like a happy dog. His hands tighten on your hips. One thumb hooks the edge of your dress and tries to push it up like he has to see it—like looking might kill him but not looking is worse.

He moves back a little and what he does almost kills you from chock. He literally starts to act like a dog, tongue out, heavy breath. heavy leed begging eyes. his tongue licks your thighs, giving eyes to your cunt, sending the message.

“Let me give you pleasure mistress—” he pants like a dog, “I’ll be good.”

God, you want to. Your legs twitch with the effort to stay composed. But instead, your hand fists in his hair and tugs him back—not roughly, just enough.

“Drive me home. Now.”

The tension follows you too in the elevator. He takes your hand— this time with fingers laced with yours. As if the act alone might earn him another kind word. Halfway down, his head dips into the crook of your neck and stays there. You hear the shaky breath he takes, then another.

“You smell like... so good,” he mutters.

You scoff. “And you smell like desperation.”

He chuckles, but the sound dies in his throat when his arms wrap around you from behind— tight, possessive —and his hips press into you instinctively. Grinding a bit, even. Like he can’t help himself anymore, he wants you so bad.

“Jake,” you warn, as he jerks back. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I... Didn’t mean— I just—”

You don’t look at him, but your smirk is visible in the elevator’s reflection. He wants it so bad.

In his car, he speeds.Of course he does. Your legs are crossed in his passenger seat, the scent of you still thick in the air, and his hands tap on the wheel like he’s one red light away from losing his mind entirely.

“I'll gag you if you keep speeding.” The words drop just to tease him for your fun. And you don’t need to look to know his cock twitches.

“You’re still speeding, Jake.”

“I—”

“Keep going and you’re going to be punished for real, just telling...”

🕗

Jake's practically vibrating out of his skin the second you walk through the door.

Eyes locked on you like a dog waiting for the bell to ring, panting through his nose, fists clenched at his sides like if he doesn’t get your hands on him in the next thirty seconds, he might combust right there in your hallway.

And maybe he would. Maybe you should let him. Instead, you toss your bag to the side and kick your heels off without ceremony, not sparing him a glance. His cock’s already hard. You can see it straining under his slacks like it's got a heartbeat of its own.

Pathetic.

“Bedroom,” you say without looking. “Now.”

He scrambles. Actually stumbles. Nearly trips over the threshold like his legs aren’t working right — and you, patient thing that you are, grab him by the tie and spin him around so hard his back ends up smacking open the door of your room.

He gasps.

You don’t give him time to recover. One hand in his hair, the other squeezing his jaw until his mouth opens like instinct, and then you're kissing him like punishment — bite, tongue, zero softness. You bite his bottom lip until he whines, and it’s only then you really look at him.

Glasses crooked. Tie wrinkled. Pupils blown out like he’s five seconds away from begging.

You smile. Good.

“You said you’d behave,” you say, dragging the tie like a leash, walking him toward the bed like you’re guiding a fucking lamb to slaughter.

“I tried,” he pants, already flushed. “I—I swear, I tried. I Didn’t touch myself once. Not since last time. Not since” you grab his hard on, “—fuck—please—”

He’s babbling.

You shove him flat on the mattress and climb on top of him in one smooth motion, thighs framing his hips, your weight pressing down on his cock. He bucks up like a reflex. Dumb move. You slap his cheek — not hard, but enough.

He gasps. Blinks. Nods.

“Good boy,” you murmur, tone razor sharp. “Keep your hands to yourself or I’ll break them.”

He doesn’t even argue. Just melts. Spreads his arms out above his head like he wants to be tied down. So you do —his belt. You grab, and tie him up. His breathing’s already shaky, cock twitching where it presses against you. You lean down, letting your tits graze his face. His tongue sticks out like instinct, trying to lick, suck, anything— but you yank back. Now he can’t move.

“No.”

He whines. Actually whines. It’s disgusting.

“You wanna touch?” you ask, voice sweet and awful. “Want it?”

“Please,” he chokes. “Please, I’ll be good. Let me—fuck—let me leave marks, I want you bruised, I want to fucking bite you—”

You laugh, throwing your head back. “You?” you mock, grinding down against his cock. “You can barely speak without begging. You think you’re gonna do anything without my permission?”

He moans. Loud. His cock twitches violently under you, and you can see the panic settle in his eyes. He’s close. Way too fucking close.

“Haven’t even fucked you yet,” you whisper, dragging your nails down his chest. “And you’re already about to cum like a virgin on prom night.”

“I—fuck, I can’t help it—please, if you slow down—just a second—”

You plant your knees on either side of his head and sit on his face. He cries out with a smile on his face— muffled, frantic — and latches on like he’s starving. His tongue is wild, sloppy, more desperation than technique, and you grind against his mouth like it’s yours — because it is.

“This is where you belong,” you groan, hips rolling. “Under me. Crying. Leaking. Useless unless I’m using you.”

He moans, so loud it vibrates through your whole body. His cock? Red and angry and twitching untouched. He thrusts into the air, desperate for friction, and you just press down harder on his face. He chokes. It’s beautiful.

You ride his tongue until he’s crying and slows down.

Then you finally slide off, and he gasps like he’s coming up for air after drowning—because he was. His face is wrecked. His glasses are somewhere on top of his head. His mouth’s slick with spit and slick and somehow pride. His chest heaves.

You grab his face with your hand, waking him from his daze.

“Focus.”

He moans like you kissed him and you untie him.

“Collar,” you demand.

He fumbles for it with shaking hands, holding it out like a fucking offering, like you’re a god he’s trying to appease. “C-can you put it on me ?”

You snap it around his throat without ceremony. He shivers.

“Good. Now lie back and don’t move.”

You climb up, pull your dress over your head, bare and wet and glowing, and he’s practically crying just from looking.

His cock leaks like it’s apologizing. You press your foot down — slow, cruel — on his cock and balls, and he howls.

“W-wait—please—don’t—if you—if you keep doing that, I’ll—I’ll cum—!”

You press harder.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t you fucking dare. Not until I tell you.”

“I’m trying—fuck—I’m trying—”

You lean in — breath warm against his ear, one hand wrapped around his throat, firm but teasing, just enough to make him shiver.

“You’re lucky I don’t blindfold you, tie you up, and edge you for a fucking week,” you whisper, slow and mean. “No cumming. No touching. Just my voice in your ear while I whip you until you cry for it.”

He whimpers. It’s not even a sound anymore — just breath and broken vowels. His eyes roll back, his cock leaking like it’s begging to be used, untouched and pulsing like it could burst if you so much as looked at it too long.

You spit in your palm, rub yourself raw until you’re soaking, then sink down in one brutal drop.

He screams.

Not a moan. A scream. The sound punches out of him like you knocked the wind from his lungs.

And then you ride.

Hard. Fast. Messy. Punishing. Like you’re trying to fuck him into the mattress. Like your orgasm is more important than his survival. His hands are useless — clawing at the sheets, at the air, at nothing — because you haven’t let him touch you, and he knows better than to break that rule now.

He’s moaning too loud. Too desperate. You slap a hand over his mouth just to muffle the chaos spilling from him. Your hips don’t stop — bouncing, rolling, dragging him to the edge with every ruthless grind. His cock’s buried so deep you can feel it in your gut, and the way he looks up at you — glassy-eyed, mouth stuffed full of your palm, pure reverence — it’s enough to send your stomach twisting.

And then it shifts. Something flips in the air. You catch yourself leaning in, just a little too close. You’re still in control — you always are — but something about the way he’s watching you now, fucked-out and worshipping, makes your rhythm falter. Just once.

Jake sees it. Of course he does.

You see the exact second he realizes: you’re falling, too.

And he fucking loves it.

He’s chasing your orgasm now like it’s the only thing that matters. Like if he gives it to you, maybe — just maybe — you’ll kiss him.

You don’t say it. Don’t ask for it. But he knows.

He flips you with shaky hands, your legs locked tight around his waist before you even land. He fucks into you like he’s losing his mind — sloppy, desperate thrusts, slamming into you like he needs you to feel it.

“I’m close— fuck— I want you to cum too—”

“Me too,” you gasp, wrecked and ragged. One hand slams against the headboard as the other claws at his back. “Harder— Jake, please—”

And he delivers.

His rhythm turns frantic, almost cruel. You’re a mess beneath him, crying out, moaning his name in broken syllables.

“C-can I stay inside?” he begs, barely able to speak. “Please— I— fuck—”

You nod, frantic. “Kiss me.”

And he does.

He dives in like he’s starving for it, lips crashing into yours, moaning into your mouth as he cums — thick, hot spurts, wave after wave, his hips stuttering through it, unable to stop. The kiss is wet, messy, all teeth and breath and desperation. His cock twitches inside you, still buried to the hilt, still pushing in shallow little thrusts that make you shake.

It’s too much. Too wet. Too hot. Too full.

And it tips you.

You cum on his cock with a strangled cry, nails digging into his arms, your mouth still on his, tasting him, gasping into him as your whole body tightens and then breaks.

But you don’t stop kissing. Not even then.

His lips stay on yours through the aftershocks. Sloppy, slow, still trembling. His head dips to your neck, mouthing at the skin, soft kisses, little groans as he licks at your pulse.

You twitch under him every time his mouth moves, still too sensitive. He hisses at the way your walls pulse around him even now.

“Was I good?” you ask, breathless.

He nods into your neck like a kid, voice hoarse, cracked. “Yes. You— You’re perfect. So fucking perfect for me.”

You grin. Can’t help it. Can’t hide it.

“So fucking perfect, huh?” you echo, teasing. And he kisses you again. And again. And again. Little kiss bombs, dotting your cheeks, your lips, your jaw — and you finally grab his face and still him.

Your smile twists into something darker.

“This is only the start,” you purr, your voice all breath and promise, panting into his mouth. “I have so many things I want to try.”

He nods — fast, frantic — like he needs it.

Like he wants to be wrecked. Used. Owned. And maybe, if he’s lucky — loved.

You’re going to give it to him. Every filthy, fucked-up fantasy.

Again. And again. And again.

Author’s Note: Finally here for the comeback, lol!! It took me so long to post this because I kept second-guessing if I really loved every part of it... But then I thought: just do it, fighting girl! 💪💗

@veilstqr — knowing you were waiting for it seriously helped me push through and finish it~ Hope I didn’t disappoint! Reblogs and thirsty little thoughts are always appreciated don’t be shy, I see everything~XOXO

© Lassiie

[seokwrts]

I LIKE ME BETTER | jjk

PART THREE

summary : After walking in on her boyfriend Sanho cheating, Y/N moves out and ends up living with Jungkook, a cocky yet caring acquaintance she once couldn’t stand. What begins as a tense, passive-aggressive roommates situation slowly transforms into something deeper, as both navigate heartbreak, vulnerability, and emotional healing. Through stormy nights, late-night confessions, domestic routines, and quiet tension, Y/N and Jungkook gradually uncover the warmth and safety they’ve both been missing—especially in each other.

“After all, what’s the worst that could happen just living under the same roof?”

pairing : jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre : roommates , fluff , smut

word count : 5.4k

warnings : Explicit. This story contains sexual content, explicit language, and themes of emotional trauma. Expect a roommates-to-lovers slow burn with intense enemies-to-lovers tension, mutual pining, and eventual smut. Features include domestic intimacy, past cheating, emotional hurt/comfort, and lots of kitchen tension. There’s jealousy, unresolved sexual tension, first times, comfort sex, and characters who are both emotionally guarded and touch-starved.

The kitchen felt too quiet after Jungkook left.

Y/N remained standing at the counter, one hand still curled around the green bottle, her other pressed flat to the cold marble. The echo of his footsteps faded into silence, but her body didn’t relax. She was frozen.

Her lips still tingled.

The aftertaste of soju—and him—clung to her mouth. Her heart pounded, not with excitement anymore, but with something sharp and hollow blooming in her chest. A burn that started low and kept spreading, like the silence had teeth and was gnawing straight through her ribs.

He walked away.

He kissed her like he meant it. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like every second between them, all the fights and the too-long glances and the drunken almosts, had led to that moment. And then he walked away.

No warning. No words.

What does that mean now?

She stood there, blinking at the space he’d left behind, like she could rewind time just by staring hard enough. Like maybe if she closed her eyes, she’d feel his hand still at her jaw, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, his breath warm and desperate against her skin.

But there was nothing.

Only silence. Only cold tile and flickering fluorescent light and the faint hum of the fridge.

They were roommates. That was already complicated.

Now it was… worse.

Now there was something new in the air. Something heavy. A tension that crackled beneath the surface, like the moment before a storm breaks. Like the electricity that had sizzled between them wasn’t finished yet, even though he’d left her here, spinning.

She took a slow breath—then another, shallower this time—and sank down to the floor, bottle still in hand. Her legs folded beneath her, arms wrapped around her knees like she could hold herself together if she tried hard enough.

What was she supposed to do with this?

How the hell were they supposed to live together after that?

How do you go back to arguing about laundry after someone kisses you like they’re trying to undo every broken piece inside?

She let her head drop against her knees, eyes squeezed shut. Her thoughts raced, looping the scene over and over like a scratched record.

The way his voice cracked when he told her she didn’t want him.

The hurt in his eyes when he said he wasn’t safe.

The way he pulled her close anyway.

Like none of it mattered in that moment. Like needing her outweighed all the reasons he shouldn’t.

And then—he left. No explanation. No reassurance. Just vanished down the hall like it hadn’t happened.

Or like it had, and that was the problem.

Y/N let out a shaky breath, biting the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. She hated how easily he got under her skin. How quickly he’d become more than just the guy who never replaced the toilet paper or left dishes in the sink too long.

Somewhere between the bickering and the late-night takeout runs, between the shared playlists and the shared silence, he’d become something else.

Someone else.

And now she didn’t know what to do with that.

She stared at the bottle beside her. Still nearly full, sweating with condensation. They’d been laughing ten minutes ago—drunk on soju and bad memories, play-fighting over who got the last dumpling. He’d called her annoying, like he always did, and she’d thrown a napkin at his face.

And then something shifted.

He’d looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time. Or maybe like he’d been trying not to for too long.

And he kissed her.

God, he kissed her.

Not like it was a mistake. Not like it was just the alcohol talking. He kissed her like he’d been drowning and she was the air.

And now he was gone.

She rubbed her fingers over her lips again, as if that would erase the feeling. Or maybe help her remember it more clearly—she didn’t know. Her heart felt like it had been yanked in two different directions and left somewhere in between.

Did he regret it?

Did he walk away because he knew they’d crossed a line?

Or because he wanted her to stop him?

The questions spiraled in her head, loud and relentless. She hated this—this limbo. The not knowing. The way it all hung in the air, waiting for her to make sense of it.

She pressed her palms flat against the cold tile floor, grounding herself in something real. Something solid.

Okay.

Okay, maybe this didn’t mean everything had to fall apart.

Maybe they could talk. Maybe he just needed space. Maybe—

She glanced toward the hallway again. Empty. Still. Her phone sat untouched on the counter. No texts. No calls. Just her, in a room that still smelled faintly of takeout and unresolved tension.

She leaned back against the cabinet, closing her eyes.

Tomorrow, they’d wake up and pretend to be normal. Pretend they hadn’t changed something fundamental in the space of one breathless moment. They’d dance around it, avoid it, maybe even bury it under sarcasm and shared chores and passive-aggressive notes on the fridge.

But she’d still remember this.

The way it felt when his lips met hers.

And the ache that followed when he let go.

When Y/N woke up the next morning, her head throbbed like someone had slammed it between two speakers. A slow, pulsing ache radiated from behind her eyes, growing sharper with every shift of movement. Her limbs were heavy, tangled in the sheets like they were made of concrete. Her mouth was dry. Her stomach churned with a familiar nausea—half hangover, half something she couldn’t quite name. Regret, maybe. Or sadness.

Or both.

She stayed in bed a minute longer than usual, willing herself to stay still, to not think, to not feel. But the memories came anyway.

His mouth on hers.

The way his breath caught.

The way he didn’t look back.

She rolled onto her side with a groan and reached for her phone on the nightstand.

No messages.

No missed calls.

Nothing from Jungkook.

The apartment was already quiet. Too quiet. That particular kind of quiet that told her she was alone. No soft footfalls from his room, no clink of dishes, no sound of music bleeding through the bathroom wall like he sometimes did in the mornings. Just silence. And a faint draft, like someone had left in a hurry and didn’t bother to close the window all the way.

Dragging herself up, she shuffled into the kitchen, the ache in her body worse with every step. Her feet were cold against the tile, and she didn’t bother turning on the light. The fridge was humming lowly, the same way it always did, and something about its normalcy felt mocking.

And then she saw it.

A yellow Post-it note stuck to the fridge door.

“Went out early, my friends are dropping by later — don’t freak — JK”

She stared at it. For a second, her blurry vision didn’t even register what she was reading.

And then it sank in.

No mention of last night. Not a single word. Not even a joke about the hangover. Not even a casual, “Feeling okay?” Nothing.

Just that. A scribbled note in that familiar, messy handwriting that somehow made it feel worse. Like it meant to be casual. Like it was supposed to be meaningless.

So that’s it, huh?

Just pretend it never happened.

Like he hadn’t kissed her. Like he hadn’t touched her like he’d been holding it back for months. Like he hadn’t told her—drunk or not—that she didn’t want him, like he wasn’t safe, and then done it anyway.

Y/N let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding and crumpled the note in her fist.

She dropped it onto the counter and stood there, blankly staring at the fridge for a moment too long. Her chest ached—not sharp, not devastating, just heavy. Like something had settled there during the night and refused to leave.

Dragging her feet, she made her way to the bathroom. Her reflection in the mirror looked about as bad as she felt. Pale. Tired. The corners of her lips were slightly chapped, but her eyes were worse—red-rimmed, dull.

She brushed her teeth, tied her hair up, splashed water on her face, but nothing helped. The ache lingered. The weight sat stubbornly behind her ribs. Her lips still ached, too—and she hated that she noticed.

When she stepped back into her room to get dressed, her eyes drifted to the clock on her nightstand. And something clicked.

Wait.

Her shift.

She stared at the numbers, blinking them into focus.

Right. Her part-time job.

Her first day.

The café.

Panic struck her chest like a slap. She had applied for the position on a whim a few weeks ago, not even sure if she had the energy to juggle classes, assignments, and this. But she needed the money—desperately. Tuition, rent, food, the occasional overpriced coffee she justified as “mental health therapy”—it all added up. Her bank balance had been crying for weeks. This café gig wasn’t a fix, but it was something. A start. A safety net, thin as it was.

Y/N yanked on a clean black T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Functional. Neutral. Just enough to look alive. She tugged her hoodie over her head, fingers moving faster than her brain, and stuffed her wallet, keys, and phone into her bag.

On her way out, she paused at the kitchen counter, grabbed a blue Post-it, and scribbled quickly:

“I’ll be home late. Around 7–8.

• Y/N”

She didn’t explain.

He didn’t either.

She smoothed the Post-it flat on the counter beside the crumpled yellow one and stared at them both for a beat too long—his neat, clipped tone versus her tight, closed-off scrawl. Side by side, they looked like the beginning of a conversation neither of them wanted to start.

With a sharp breath, she turned and left, locking the door behind her.

The air outside was too bright, too loud. Her eyes winced against the sun as she stepped onto the sidewalk, the city already pulsing with its usual morning chaos—cars honking, bikes weaving through traffic, people on their phones, coffee in hand, already halfway through their day.

Y/N wasn’t ready for any of it.

But she walked.

Each step helped her breathe a little easier. Not much—but enough.

Her head still pounded, her heart still bruised, but this? This she could control. Showing up. Doing her job. Tying her hair back and smiling at customers even when it hurt. That was something she could do.

She didn’t know what would happen when she came home.

She didn’t know what Jungkook would say—or if he’d say anything at all.

Maybe this was the start of something broken.

Or maybe it had already broken, and they were just pretending the pieces didn’t cut.

But for now, she had somewhere to be. Something to hold onto.

And maybe that was enough.

For now.

The night before, Jungkook hadn’t slept.

His bed was too soft, the sheets too warm, but his body refused to rest. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, tracing invisible cracks and stains that seemed to shift and writhe in the darkness. The plaster was blank and unmoving, yet in that stillness, it seemed to hold all the answers he wished he could find.

He wanted it to tell him what to do.

How to fix the mess he’d made. How to undo what he’d done. How to navigate the impossible tangle of everything that had happened between them.

But the ceiling didn’t say anything.

So he turned his head, biting his lip until it bled a little, and closed his eyes.

And then he opened them again.

Because he couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss.

Fuck.

That kiss.

The way she’d clung to him, like he was the only solid thing left in the world. The way her breath hitched when his hand slid up her neck, trembling beneath his fingertips. The way she whispered his name like it was a prayer, like it was the only language she could speak in that moment.

“Fuck, Jungkook.”

That sound was still buzzing in his ears.

Her lips were soft and warm, a little sweet from the soju, a little desperate with everything they both wanted to say but didn’t know how. Hot and messy and real—the kind of kiss that makes your whole body remember what it’s been missing, even if you didn’t know it was missing it.

His mind replayed it in endless loops, the taste of her, the feel of her, the way the world had slipped away until there was only her and him and the beating of their hearts.

He could still feel the vibration of her voice in his chest, the way her fingers clenched into his shirt like she was trying to hold onto something solid in the chaos. He could still feel the shape of her body pressed against his, trembling, uncertain, aching.

And God, he’d been hard for hours after that kiss. Shamefully, painfully hard, even though she wasn’t there anymore. More haunted by the memory of her touch than the physical feeling itself.

It scared the shit out of him.

Because Y/N wasn’t a girl you casually kissed in the kitchen.

Not like this.

She was complicated. Beautiful in a way that wasn’t obvious at first—like a wildflower growing through cracked concrete. Gentle but fierce, full of bite and heart and scars he could only guess at. She was juggling a thousand battles no one saw. Fighting her own hell while still showing up to her classes, carrying groceries up the stairs, and laughing when he teased her about her painfully indie playlists.

Somewhere in the messy dance of bickering and quiet glances, shared meals and late-night silences, he’d fallen for her.

Not just a little. Not a crush. Not a joke.

Completely.

He’d fallen in a way that scared him—deep in his chest, the kind of falling that could break you if you hit the ground too hard.

But the truth was, she didn’t need someone like him.

She didn’t need a guy who scraped by on scattered gigs and disappointments. Someone who lived in half-remembered dreams and constant self-doubt. Someone who believed he was inherently unsafe. Ungrounded. Temporary.

He was an earthquake.

A storm.

A wildfire that burned everything in its path.

She needed solid ground.

Someone who could be steady when the world shook. Someone who could hold her up, not pull her down. Someone who could promise safety, not chaos.

And he wasn’t that person.

He wasn’t even close.

He’d tried to tell her that. Told her he wasn’t safe, that she didn’t want him, that getting close to him would only break her in the end.

And then he kissed her anyway.

Like an idiot.

Like a fool.

Like someone who couldn’t stop himself.

He closed his eyes again, trying to will the image away.

But it lingered.

The way she looked at him—vulnerable and fierce all at once.

The way her body trembled in his arms.

The way he felt something shift inside himself, like the ground beneath him cracked open and swallowed everything he thought he knew.

He hated himself for it.

Hated the way he’d let his guard down.

Hated the way he’d made himself vulnerable to someone who deserved better.

The guilt was thick, suffocating.

If he stayed, if he looked at her again, if he let himself believe for a second that maybe this could be more than a mistake, he’d lose control.

He’d lose himself.

So he didn’t sleep.

Because sleep meant dreams, and dreams meant hope, and hope was dangerous.

He laid still in the dark, staring at the ceiling until the first hints of dawn blurred the edges of the cracks.

By then, his mind was a mess of what-ifs and maybes and could-have-beens.

He thought about getting up, but the weight in his chest was heavy. Like a stone dragging him down.

In the end, he did what he always did when things got too messy:

He left.

Quietly, without a word.

He slipped out before she woke, before the sun was fully up, before there was a chance to say something he’d regret.

Cowardice, maybe.

Mercy, maybe.

He couldn’t tell anymore.

He closed the door softly behind him and walked down the stairs, the empty apartment already echoing with the absence of her.

He didn’t look back.

Because if he did, he might change his mind.

And he knew he couldn’t afford that.

Outside, the city was waking up.

Jungkook let the morning air wash over him as he leaned against the cold brick wall of a nearby building. His fingers twitched, still trembling from the tension he couldn’t shake.

He wanted to call her.

Text her.

Tell her everything.

But the words caught in his throat.

How do you explain that you’re scared?

That you’re broken?

That the person who means everything to you is the person you’re afraid will get hurt the most?

He swallowed hard, eyes scanning the street.

He wanted to believe she could forgive him. That maybe this kiss wasn’t the end of something, but the beginning of everything.

But then the fear came back.

That he’d ruin it.

That he’d be the cause of more pain.

That he’d lose her.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Maybe one day he’d find the courage to be the person she needed.

But not today.

Today, all he could do was keep running.

Later that morning, Jungkook dragged himself into the studio, dressed in a hoodie and sunglasses like he was shielding himself from the entire world. He didn’t need a mirror to know how bad he looked—he felt it. Like exhaustion had taken a crowbar to his ribs and cracked something open.

The studio lights were too bright. The air too quiet. His head still echoed with her voice. Her breath. Her kiss.

He should’ve taken the day off.

But if he stayed home, he’d think about it. About her. And if he thought about it, he’d break something.

“Nice disguise,” Eunji said as he walked in, her tone dry and amused. She was lounging in her usual seat by the mixing desk, legs propped up on the armrest, hair swept up in a loose clip. “What’s the occasion? Did you rob a convenience store?”

“Didn’t sleep,” he muttered, tossing his bag down and pulling out his laptop.

“You don’t say.” She tipped her chin toward him, eyes raking down his frame without shame. “Though I gotta admit, the broody look? Kinda works for you.”

He gave her a flat look, but she only smiled wider.

“I mean, if this is your new thing—emotional damage chic—I support it. Fully. Creatively. Sexually, even.”

He rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Eunji.”

“What? I’m appreciating the art,” she said, unbothered. “You walk in here all mysterious and messed-up, looking like you’ve been through hell. Do you know how hot that is?”

“I’m not a fantasy, I’m a functioning disaster.”

“Same difference,” she said with a wink.

Jungkook didn’t have the bandwidth to deal with her today, but that had never stopped Eunji before. She was all sharp lines and slick confidence, effortlessly cool in a way he sometimes envied. The kind of girl who flirted like it was breathing and didn’t flinch when people flinched back.

“I fixed the harmony,” she said casually, like they hadn’t just been toeing the line between friendly and something else. “Also added distortion to the vocal drop—layered it with a pitched octave. It slaps now. You’re welcome.”

He nodded, eyes on the monitor. “Let’s hear it.”

He queued the track, and the room filled with sound—thick synth, layered vocals, just the right amount of edge. Her voice slipped through the speakers like smoke. It really did slap.

But he wasn’t here for goosebumps today.

“Nice,” he muttered. “The new layer’s cleaner. Adds weight.”

“I know,” she said, smug. “I’m a genius.”

“You’re tolerable.”

She stretched, her shirt riding up slightly to reveal a flash of skin above her waistband. “You really should’ve let me stay over last night. We could’ve written a heartbreak anthem in real time.”

He gave her a side-eye. “That’s your idea of comforting someone?”

“I never said I was comforting you,” she said, tilting her head. “I said I was available. Big difference.”

He didn’t respond. Not because he didn’t hear the implication, but because the last thing he wanted was to think about anyone’s mouth except Y/N’s. And yet, Eunji was still watching him like a cat waiting for a reaction.

“You’re no fun when you’re haunted,” she added, softer this time. “Unless the moodiness is a long-term thing. In which case… it’s growing on me.”

Jungkook snorted under his breath and leaned back. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Flirting just to see what happens.”

She shrugged. “No. Sometimes I flirt because I want something.”

“And what do you want?”

Eunji met his gaze, her smile easy, almost challenging. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

He blinked once, then turned back to his screen, trying not to bite down on the flicker of tension that suddenly threaded between them. She was always like this—blunt, playful, suggestive—but today it felt closer. More deliberate.

Still, he didn’t rise to it.

He couldn’t.

His chest was too full of someone else.

Instead, after a long beat, he said, “You doing anything Saturday?”

She raised a brow. “Are you asking me out, Jeon?”

He exhaled sharply. “Jimin’s throwing a party. Figured I’d go.”

“Ah. The infamous Jimin. Prince of Seoul nightlife.” She grinned. “You inviting me as your date?”

He shrugged. “I’m inviting you because I thought you might like to come.”

“That’s boring,” she said. “Try again. Add some romance.”

“Eunji—”

“You’re killing the vibe,” she cut in with mock despair. “Here I was, imagining us showing up together, stealing attention, letting the mystery spiral…”

He gave her a tired look. “You want to start rumors that bad?”

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, eyes glittering with mischief. “Babe, I live for it. Picture it: you and me, walking in like we’re a couple out of an indie film. You brooding in black. Me in something dramatic. Everyone wondering, Are they or aren’t they?”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re a walking poem today. It’s a perfect match.”

Jungkook shook his head but didn’t say no.

Eunji smirked, sensing her win. “So, pick me up around eight?”

“I didn’t say I’d—”

“You definitely did,” she said, standing up and stretching. “And if you show up looking like you did this morning, I might just fall in love.”

He laughed, dry and low. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“Too late.”

Eunji wandered to the mini-fridge and pulled out a can of cold brew. Her tone softened slightly as she added, “You could use a night out, though. Even if you just stand in the corner and glower at everyone.”

“I don’t glower.”

“Oh, baby. You glower.”

He didn’t argue.

Because maybe she was right.

Maybe he did need a distraction—something loud, something crowded, something that didn’t involve kitchens or kisses or the sound of his name slipping out of Y/N’s mouth like it meant something.

Even if Eunji was a hurricane of confidence and chaos, at least she didn’t come with memories attached.

At least with her, he didn’t feel like he was standing at the edge of something that could ruin him.

And that was safer.

Safer than her.

So he nodded once, quietly.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll pick you up.”

Eunji smiled like she’d just won a bet with herself.

“Good boy.”

When Jungkook got home, the apartment was quiet again.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that didn’t just fill the space—it pressed against his ribs.

He shut the door behind him, toeing off his shoes, and dropped his keys on the entryway table with a soft clink. The low hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the place. No music from Y/N’s room. No kettle boiling. No footsteps. Just stillness.

And then he saw it.

A single blue Post-it stuck to the kitchen counter. Her handwriting—neat, always a little tilted left.

“I’ll be home late. Around 7-8 — Y/N”

No reason. No explanation. No smiley face.

Just words.

He stared at it for longer than necessary, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

“She didn’t even tell me why,” he muttered under his breath.

He peeled the note off the counter, rubbing it between his fingers like it might offer more if he just held it long enough.

It didn’t.

It was just paper.

Just her telling him… nothing.

His chest felt tight again, that same twist that had settled in his gut since the night before. It had been stupid to think he’d come home and find some kind of clue—something in her eyes, or in the air, that would let him know where they stood.

But instead, she’d been gone. And in her place was this.

A sentence.

A timestamp.

Distance wrapped in politeness.

Still, his body moved on autopilot.

He tossed the note in the trash, then headed toward the kitchen. The living room looked like someone had lost a fight with gravity. A pillow on the floor. A hoodie draped over the back of the couch. An empty glass on the coffee table.

He hadn’t even realized how much of a mess they’d left behind.

He grabbed a rag from under the sink and started wiping the counters. Not because it needed to be done—but because he needed it. Something about the rhythm of it helped. Swipe, rinse, repeat. Clean one thing, then the next. Maybe if he could fix the space, he could quiet the noise in his head.

Jimin and Taehyung would be dropping by soon anyway. The apartment needed to look presentable. At least that was a task with a clear end. Something he could control.

He moved through the motions like a machine—picking up the hoodie, folding the blanket on the couch, fluffing the cushions. He took the glass from the table and set it in the sink, rinsed it twice before setting it on the drying rack.

Everything had its place.

Everything, except him.

Jungkook leaned on the counter and let out a long, slow breath, staring at the digital clock on the stove.

4:27 PM.

Still hours until she came home.

If she came home on time.

If she didn’t decide to stay out longer. To avoid him.

His fingers curled into fists on the cool granite.

The kiss had meant something. To him, at least. It wasn’t a drunken mistake, not some throwaway moment. It had cracked something open. The way she’d touched him. The way she’d whispered his name. That wasn’t nothing.

So why the silence?

Why hadn’t she said anything?

He tried to shake the thoughts loose, pushing himself off the counter and heading to the hallway to straighten up the rest of the space. He rearranged the shoes by the door. Took the trash out. Vacuumed the rug like it offended him.

The harder he moved, the less he had to feel.

Until he ended up back in the kitchen again, standing in the same spot where it happened.

Where they happened.

His gaze dropped to the floor. He remembered the feel of her fingers clutching his hoodie, her breath hot against his skin. The way she’d looked at him, like she didn’t want to stop.

Like she couldn’t.

But she had.

Or maybe he had.

Jungkook scrubbed a hand through his hair and dropped into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. His elbows hit the wood, hard, and he let his head hang.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do.

They were roommates. Not lovers. Not even friends, really—at least, not in the normal sense. Their connection had always been a little jagged, always filled with tension and heat and something unspoken.

Until now.

Now it wasn’t unspoken.

Now it was just avoided.

The doorbell rang.

Jungkook blinked, lifting his head slowly.

Right.

Jimin and Taehyung.

He stood up, brushed his hands on his jeans, and walked to the door.

He plastered on something like a smile and pulled it open.

Time to play it normal.

Even if everything inside him still felt wrecked.

The knock at the door was light and familiar.

Jungkook opened it to find Jimin standing there, a six-pack in one hand and a cocky grin already on his face.

“Finally,” Jungkook muttered, stepping aside to let him in. “Where’s Taehyung?”

Jimin kicked off his shoes and headed straight for the couch. “Still at the café. They’ve got a new part-timer who apparently can’t tell a milk frother from a fire extinguisher. He got stuck training her.”

Jungkook raised a brow. “Seriously?”

“Oh yeah.” Jimin dropped the beer onto the coffee table with a dramatic sigh. “He texted me like fifteen minutes ago. Said he’d be late, but, and I quote—‘she’s really pretty so maybe this is finally my chance to have a girlfriend.’”

Jungkook snorted. “That sounds exactly like him.”

“I told him to chill and maybe not flirt with someone who just burned their hand on a steam wand,” Jimin added, flopping down onto the couch. “But you know Tae. Optimism in human form.”

Jungkook sat beside him, cracking open one of the beers. “Watch him actually pull it off.”

Jimin grinned. “Hey, if she’s into chaos and philosophy rants, it might work.”

“Poor girl has no idea what’s coming.”

They both laughed, the easy rhythm of their banter cutting through the weird heaviness that had been hanging over Jungkook since this morning.

For a few minutes, it felt normal.

Comfortable.

They sipped their drinks, traded jabs about Taehyung’s love life, and debated the worst coffee shop customers they’d ever seen.

Then Jimin glanced sideways with that signature sly smile—the one that always meant he was about to stir the pot.

“So.”

Jungkook didn’t even need to look at him to know what was coming.

“Y/N?” Jimin said, dragging her name out like a tease.

Jungkook took another sip of beer and set the bottle down slowly.

“We… made out.”

Jimin blinked. “What?”

“Last night.”

“You kissed her?!”

“She kissed me too,” Jungkook muttered, rubbing a hand down his face.

Jimin sat back, stunned. “Holy shit. You’re serious?”

Jungkook nodded.

“When? Where?”

“Kitchen. After the soju.”

Jimin’s eyes were wide. “That’s not just a kiss, that’s a moment.”

“Yeah,” Jungkook said quietly.

A beat passed.

Then Jimin leaned forward. “Okay, so… what now?”

“Nothing,” Jungkook said flatly. “It’s not happening again.”

“What?” Jimin blinked. “Why the hell not?”

“Because,” Jungkook began, voice harder than before, “this isn’t some slow-burn romance. I’m not the guy she ends up with. I’m just—”

“Don’t say ‘the guy in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ You’re not in a Nicholas Sparks adaptation.”

“I’m serious,” Jungkook snapped.

Jimin didn’t back down. “So am I.”

“She doesn’t need me complicating her life. She needs solid ground, and I’m—” He cut himself off, jaw tight. “I’m not that.”

Jimin studied him for a long second. “You think you’re not good enough for her.”

Jungkook didn’t answer.

“That’s bullshit,” Jimin said. “And you know it.”

“I don’t want to hurt her.”

“Then don’t. It’s not that deep, dude. If you care about her, just be honest. That’s literally it.”

Jungkook opened his mouth to argue again, but—

The sound of the door unlocking cut through the tension.

They both turned.

Y/N stepped inside, laughing softly as she pulled her keys out of the lock. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, her hair a little windswept.

Right behind her was Taehyung, carrying her bag like it was second nature.

She was wearing his jacket—oversized, navy blue, the sleeves swallowing her hands.

Jungkook stood up without realizing it.

Taehyung grinned. “Hope we’re not too late.”

“We grabbed coffee,” Y/N said, brushing snow from her shoulders. “I didn’t realize how cold it got.”

Her eyes flicked to Jungkook—but he wasn’t looking at her.

He was looking at Taehyung’s hand on her back.

Just a casual gesture. Innocent.

But something in his chest twisted, sharp and hot.

He told himself it didn’t matter. That last night was a mistake. A slip.

But watching her now—in someone else’s jacket, smiling at someone else—he couldn’t lie.

It mattered.

More than he wanted it to.

hey tumblr angels 🌸

I’m back with part three of “i like me better” and guess what? Things are finally starting to heat up 🔥

I’ve introduced three new characters in this part (yes, chaos is coming 😋), and I need to know—

What do we think about Taehyung and Y/N?And more importantly… will Jungkook be able to handle it? 👀

Also! I’m putting together a taglist for updates—drop a comment if you’d like to be added 🫶

As always, reblogs, comments, and kisses keep me going 💋thank you for reading 🥰❤️

with love,

xo ario 💌

[vinnyvamppp]

we need more mark grayson co-parenting please PLEASE IM GOING TK CRY PLEAAAE

Our Son, Apparently

Note: DON'T CRY, LMFAO. I've made this installment longer, why? Because it hopefully wont bring the request of a third part, but honestly so much could be done with this, I wouldn't be surprised if someone did. This only scratches the surface.

Synopsis: Mark Grayson never meant to be a single dad. You never meant to become a co-parent by proximity. But when Oliver enters your life, everything changes. From grocery store breakdowns to baby-proofing the world from Viltrumite tantrums, you and Mark find yourselves building a family you didn’t plan for… and falling in love right in the middle of the mess.

Warnings: Mild Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Flirting, Canon-Level Superhero Violence, Themes of Single Parenthood, Accidental Family, Identity Pressure, Interrupted Intimancy, Baby... Fluids? EXHAUSTION, etc. (Two and a Half Graysons PART 2: Previous Part: Here.)

Mark Grayson x GN!Reader

WC: 1.9k

It starts with a crack. Not just a crack, an explosion of glass, a shriek of wind, and the sharp twang of something small and plastic ricocheting off the opposite wall. You freeze in the kitchen, work uniform half-smeared with banana mush, its watered down taste and betrayal.

Across the room, the window is obliterated. Shattered glass glitters on the floor like a warning. And at the epicenter—with his fists balled and cheeks flushed purple—is Oliver, practically vibrating with frustration. The pacifier lies in the corner like the murder weapon it is. A stubby, rubber-tipped missile of infant rage.

“Okay,” you say slowly, voice high-pitched and tight. “So we’re entering our supervillain phase early. That’s cool.” Before you can even take a step, there’s a sonic thud and Mark crashes through the hallway barefoot, hoodie half-zipped and clinging to one arm, hair soaking wet and sticking up in every direction like he lost a fight with a showerhead and a towel.

He’s holding one of Oliver’s tiny socks in one hand and nothing in the other. No shirt, no shoes, just sweatpants and alarm. “What happened? Are you okay? Did someone break in—?” He pauses and sees the window, then Oliver. Then you, standing frozen with a spoonful of rejected mashed banana still in your hand.

Mark’s chest rises and falls with the kind of slow, controlled inhale you recognize immediately: do not freak out in front of the baby, do not freak out in front of the baby, do not—

He exhales and rubs his face. “What did I miss?” You gesture broadly at the destruction. “He didn’t like the unmashed banana.” Mark squints. “So he shattered the window?” You hold up the spoon. “I didn’t chew it first. Apparently that’s a crime now.”

There’s a long pause as Oliver lets out a little grunt, his chubby fingers clawing at the legs of your trousers, his face formed into the most pitiful pout. Mark presses his knuckles to his temple. “Cecil’s going to want to classify him as a WMD.” You snort. “I mean. Technically… he already is.”

Mark walks over, still barefoot, and carefully lowers Oliver back into the bouncer with gentle, practiced hands. Oliver lets out one last indignant coo before settling, hands clasping around his finger. Mark looks back at you. “I’ll fix the glass,” you murmur. “You just… survive until nap time.” You glance at him—hoodie half-hanging off one shoulder, sleep lines on his face, eyes soft and tired and still glowing faintly from adrenaline. And yeah, you think, maybe this is a disaster. It’s almost midnight when it’s finally quiet again.

The pacifier incident has been cleaned. The window is now repaired thanks to Cecil’s intervention (and Mark, who partially caved and followed a tutorial and swore under his breath the entire time). Oliver is tucked in, finally knocked out cold after Mark flew circles around the home until the kid passed out mid-air.

You’re standing in the kitchen, stirring a lukewarm cup of tea and staring into the nothingness that lives inside every sleep-deprived parent’s soul.

Behind you, a familiar heat. That slight change in air pressure when Mark enters the room. When he leans against the fridge with that look that always gets you into trouble. A lopsided grin, a raised brow, and a T-shirt long abandoned in the laundry apocalypse. Gray sweatpants slung low, one hand casually holding a bowl of food he’s absolutely not eating. 

"You good?" he asks, voice low. "You look like you're about to throw the tea at the wall."

You glance over your shoulder. “If I don’t have a breakdown soon, it’s gonna get stuck in my chest. Gotta let the crazy out somehow.” You pause, finally catching his innuendo. “Are you trying to seduce me with that logic or your cereal breath?”

Mark steps behind you, hands finding your hips. His warmth sinks into your back, and you lean into him instinctively. His nose brushes your neck. “Both. Let it out later. We’ve got ten whole minutes of peace. Maybe twenty.”

You feel his hand drift, slide under the hem of your hoodie, fingers skimming over the expanse of flesh. Your breath catches in your throat. Your whole body hums and you can feel the tension shift—sharp, sweet, starved. His lips graze just behind your ear. “You smell like puff dust,” he murmurs. “It’s weirdly hot.”

You laugh, breathless, turning to face him. He lifts you onto the counter without hesitation, standing between your knees. He’s kissing you—slow, deep, one hand curling around your waist like he’s remembering your shape. Your fingers tangle within his curls, his fingers traveling lower unsure of their destination. You let him press you back against the fridge, and god, it’s been weeks. You can feel the tension unraveling between you both, fingertips digging, breathing uneven—

WAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH. You both freeze, eyes wide.

Mark groans, head dropping to your shoulder. “I jinxed it.”

“I knew he was waiting to ruin this. He has a sixth sense for foreplay.” It was the next morning, and you both were awoken by the print of small feet against your lower back and the soft padded knocks at the front door. Cecil had sent a nanny. You weren't consulted, nor was Mark.

She arrives at 7 a.m. sharp in a shimmering suit, floating half an inch off the floor. Thressa, from the Glorvax system. Glowing skin, elegant limbs, eyes like a lava lamp. She walks into the home like she's visited a dozen times in past lives and scoops Oliver up like she’s been waiting years.

He giggles and reaches for her face before nuzzling her like a puppy.

You and Mark stare in utter, sleep-deprived bewilderment. Both looking like abandoned houseplants as she explains his development and gently feeds Oliver a new formula. Mark leans in, whispering, “Do you think she’s actually a nanny or just here to steal him from us?” You narrow your eyes. “She called him ‘my sweet hatchling.’ That’s not childcare. That’s a claim.”

Thressa turns and smiles warmly. “You two look stressed. Would you like time to yourselves? Perhaps a long shower together?”

You silently stare at her. Mark begins coughing violently, clearly flustered. And Oliver’s gleeful giggles ring out. “She knows Viltrumite development inside and out,” Cecil says, appearing via teleportation, money soon to be wasted as you hastily usher him away. “We need to start assessments. He’s already got strength enhancements and advanced development. She’ll help you prepare.”

“Did you hire her?” you ask flatly.

“No,” Cecil says. “I deployed her.”

And that’s when you snap.

You’re pacing Mark’s bedroom, hair mussed and voice sharp. “She shows up, picks up our kid, and suddenly he’s just—hers? She calls him her hatchling, Mark. Who says that? Who just decides they’re a better parent without even talking to us?”

Mark sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, watching you. Quiet. “I’m trying,” you say, and your voice breaks just a little. “I’m not his real parent. I know that. I’m not even—whatever we are, I just—but I love him. I choose him every single day. And I—”

You cut yourself off, chest heaving. Mark’s looking at you like you’ve just lit up the whole room.

“What?” you ask, flustered beyond comparison. “You said ‘our kid,’” he says quietly. “Like it’s just true. No hesitation.” You blink. “I—yeah. Because it is.” There was no in your words hesitation this time. He crosses the room in three steps and pulls you into a hug that feels like a home. "You're walking this with me. Every step. You didn't have to. But you are." And for a moment, you just breathe together, hearts dancing amongst one another as the night crickets sing.

Later that night, you’re curled up on the couch. Oliver’s asleep on your chest, tiny fingers fisted in your shirt. Mark’s beside you, legs tangled with yours, quiet. Soft. “I’ve been thinking,” he says, voice rough with something raw. “About all of this. You. Him. Us.” You glance over. His hand is fidgeting in his hoodie pocket. You feel your heart catch.

Mark doesn’t look at you. “It’s not the life I pictured. But it’s the only one I want. I don’t need perfect. I just need you.” You lean in and start placing soft kisses—one to his forehead. One to his closed eyelid. One to his cheek. Your lips brush his jaw last, and you whisper, “I already said yes.”

He looks at you, blinking, smile blooming like sunlight. He starts to move—to speak, maybe reach for something—and then— BLLAAAHHRGGHHH. A full-force stream of baby puke explodes all over your chest.

Oliver sits up mid-sleep and lets out a happy screech. Mark stares, frozen and yu stare down at your shirt. Silence…

You sigh. “So. Romantic.” Mark laughs, helpless, but relieved. “I was so close.” You press your forehead to his. “You still are. Just—Just give me a moment.” The apartment is quiet for once—no screeching, no flying objects, no sudden diaper blowouts or random alien agency visits. The air hums with that tired kind of stillness you only get after surviving a war made entirely of juice spills and broken windows.

You’re both on the couch, half-curled into each other like always—your legs over his lap, his hand absently stroking up and down your shin. There’s a half-empty bottle of formula abandoned on the coffee table, and Mark’s hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows as he stares at your joined limbs like he’s seeing something new.

He’s not shirtless, shockingly, but the gray tee he is wearing is soft and thin and rides up when he shifts. You’re trying not to think about that. Or about how stupid in love you feel. And then he does it—says the thing that makes everything tilt slightly sideways.

“I really wanted to do this earlier.”

You glance over at him, brow raised. “Do what?” You knew, but you always loved watching him stammer. Mark’s eyes flick toward the hallway—where the baby’s sleeping like a tiny purple demon—and then back to you. “The real version. Not the puke-soaked one.”

Your chest tightens. That thing in your stomach flips over once. He shifts under your legs, suddenly looking very much like the guy who once flew through asteroids but is now panicking because emotions are harder than world threatening catastrophes.

“I didn’t get to say it the way I wanted to,” he says. “Didn’t even get the sentence out. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot. About you. About Oliver. About how you’ve been in it with me. Even when it’s been hell. And I just—” He stops and scratches the back of his neck, blotches of blush creeping up his skin.

“I’m not great at this,” he mutters. “The talking thing. Or the… ring thing.” Your breath catches as he pulls something out of his pocket. It’s small. Simple. A silver band. No grand box, no sparkle, but honest. The kind of ring someone keeps in their hoodie for weeks because they never know when life will let them have five minutes to use it.

He looks up at you. His eyes are soft and unsteady, but open. “I don’t need a ceremony or a perfect moment. I just want to make this official. Me and you. And him. Because you’re already it for me. You’ve been it since you didn’t flinch when I showed up with a purple alien baby and said, ‘Hey, I kind of need you.’”

You stare at him for a second, heart full to the point of bursting, brain trying to keep up with the wave of affection suddenly choking you. You lean in slowly. Your lips brush along his jaw as you whisper, “You never had to ask.” He exhales like you just took all the weight out of his chest.

You take the ring from his fingers and slide it onto your own without ceremony, just solid, quiet finality. He laughs—small and a little dazed—and pulls you into his lap, burying his face in your neck. “God, you’re stuck with me now.”

“Mark,” you murmur, smiling. “I’ve been stuck since the first time you showed up at my job holding a diaper bag and looking like a confused golden retriever.” He snorts. “Sexy golden retriever,” he corrects, smitten against your collarbone. “Yeah. Covered in formula and baby wipes. Total heartthrob.”

He pulls back to look at you, the grin soft but teasing. “I love you.” The words are quiet. Uncomplicated and true.

The only sound left in the room is your breathing—and his. Your fingers brush his jaw, just enough to tilt his face toward yours. His eyes are tired but warm—lit from within by something more than adrenaline or duty or even affection. It’s love, and it’s undeniable.

His hands curl around your waist, pulling you closer like he’s making sure this is real. Your thighs bracket his, your knees brushing, and your fingers slide into his hair with a practiced ease that makes him shudder. “We could…” he whispers, his breath catching as your lips brush the curve of his neck. “Maybe… actually finish something tonight?”

You grin against his skin. “Finish or start something. We don’t have to be ambitious.” He laughs, low and warm, and leans into the kiss again, deeper this time. It builds—slow but certain. A quiet dam that’s been waiting to break.

Your hips shift against his. His hand trails beneath the hem of your shirt, and you feel it in your stomach first—the pull of wanting, of comfort, of home. But you pause. Just long enough to breathe together, forehead pressed to his.

Mark’s ring glinting softly on his finger where it presses against your clothed skin. The family photo Eve took on your fridge: slightly blurry, your hair a mess, Mark looking exhausted, Oliver mid-sneeze—and all of you smiling like you didn’t know the moment was going to matter.

Because it does.

Mark didn’t plan for any of this. Not fatherhood. Not an engagement. Not this future. But right now, watching you lean into him like you were always meant to be there, he wouldn’t trade a second of it. Because this is his family. And you?

You’ve been his world since the day he showed up in your doorway with panic in his eyes and a baby in his arms.

You kiss him again, slow this time—no interruptions, no crying, no urgency. Just warmth. His hands around your waist. Your fingers gliding across his scalp. Mouths meeting gently, like you’ve got all the time in the world.

And for once… you do. A/N: I'm contractually obligated to end every fic with a sappy one liner. CONGRATS READER, YOU'RE OFFICIALLY A GRAYSON. (If anyone requests a part three, I promise you I will go full chaos with the nest one, had to keep this one adjacent to comic timing, though.)

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[lucillebelle]

Their reaction when you're sick

Summary: When you’re feeling vulnerable and under the weather, see how Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, and Caleb show their love in their own unique ways. From quiet protection to intense devotion, these moments reveal the softer side of the men who care for you most.

Xavier

The fever hit harder than you expected.

It had started with a scratch in your throat, then a headache, but you didn’t say anything. Xavier had been busy, as always, with meetings, fieldwork, and endless responsibilities. You didn’t want to distract him. So you waved it off, told him you were just tired.

But now, curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket you barely remembered dragging over yourself, you were shivering, your head swimming. The world tilted slightly every time you blinked.

You didn’t hear him enter. But you felt him.

“...You're sick.”

His voice was low. Concern hid beneath its calm surface like a current beneath still water.

You forced your eyes open. He stood by the door, arms crossed, gaze locked on you with quiet intensity. No panic. No raised voice. But you could see it—the shift. That barely perceptible crease between his brows. The stillness in him, like a soldier deciding whether to run into gunfire.

“I’m fine,” you croaked, your voice barely audible.

He was already moving.

He returned minutes later with a glass of water, a small first-aid kit, and something that smelled like ginger tea. You blinked as he knelt by the couch, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead.

“You’re burning up.”

“I didn’t want to worry you…”

His eyes flicked to yours, sharp but not unkind. “You didn’t.”

“Liar.”

That pulled a small exhale from him. Almost a laugh. Almost.

He didn’t argue further. Just set down the tea and pull the blanket tighter around you, careful with every motion, like you might break.

Then he sat. Not too close, not touching. But near enough that the silence between you felt warm, not empty.

“Why are you always like this?” he said softly, watching the steam rise from the mug. “You take care of everyone but let yourself fall apart.”

You closed your eyes. “Habit.”

He was quiet for a long time. Long enough that you thought maybe he’d gone. But then you felt it: the weight of his hand gently resting on yours.

“I can’t protect you from everything,” he murmured. “But let me protect you from something. Even this.”

Your chest tightened, not from illness, but from the rare, aching tenderness in his voice. Xavier wasn’t a man of grand declarations. He didn’t say “I love you” easily. But it was in his every action. The way he brewed the tea was just right. In his hand, he placed it gently on your back when he thought you were asleep. In the way he stayed.

When your head began to nod, sleep tugging at you, his voice reached through the haze one more time.

“I canceled my mission briefing,” he said quietly. “They’ll survive without me. You’re the only mission that matters right now.”

You didn’t have the strength to reply. But you didn’t need to.

He held your hand until you fell asleep. And long after.

Zayne

The cough had started yesterday. You brushed it off, told Zayne it was nothing, just the recycled air messing with your throat. You didn’t want him to worry. Not when he already carried so much.

But by nightfall, the shivering had started.

Now, curled up on the narrow cot in his private lab, you could barely keep your eyes open. Your head pounded, and every movement felt like swimming through tar. Still, you tried to hide it.

You didn’t want him to see you like this, weak and needy.

But he noticed.

Zayne stood at the threshold, arms crossed, his jaw tight. “You’re worse.”

You blinked up at him, barely able to keep your vision steady. “M’fine…”

“Don’t lie.” He was already beside you, kneeling. His hand hovered near your forehead before finally resting there, cool and precise. You heard the quiet curse under his breath.

“You’re burning up. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to bother you.”

He scoffed, but his tone wasn’t angry, just frustrated, and laced with something soft. “You’re not a bother. You never are.”

You let your eyes close as he moved around the room. You heard the clink of bottles, the rustle of blankets. When you opened them again, he was pressing a cold pack to your neck and holding a glass of water to your lips.

“Drink.”

You obeyed without protest. The water soothed your throat, and his hand lingered just a little too long against your jaw as he set the glass down.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you murmured.

He didn’t meet your eyes. “Of course I did.”

“Zayne-”

He cut you off, voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t try to brush this off. You don’t know what it does to me… seeing you like this.”

That vulnerability, the one he so carefully kept under lock and key, slipped into his expression. The tension in his shoulders, the slight tremble in his fingers, the way his eyes kept flicking to you like he was afraid you'd vanish.

You reached out, touching his wrist. “I’m okay. I just need rest.”

He sank down beside the cot, close enough that your fingers stayed intertwined. “You scared me,” he said, the words brittle. “I hate that.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know. That’s the worst part.”

There was silence for a moment, and then his voice dropped, lower than you’d ever heard it. “I don’t let anyone get close. But you…”

Your fingers tightened around his.

“I need you to promise me something,” he said.

“What?”

“Next time, no pretending. No hiding. You tell me. No matter how small it seems.”

You nodded. “Okay. I promise.”

Only then did he breathe. And only then did he let his forehead rest gently against the back of your hand.

“I’ll stay,” he murmured. “You rest. I’ll be here.”

And with the steady sound of his breathing next to you, you finally felt safe enough to sleep.

Rafayel

You tried to hide it, you really did. But Rafayel noticed the moment you staggered into the room, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy.

“Cutie, what happened to you?” His voice was low, almost theatrical, but laced with deep concern.

You coughed, weak and wet, covering your mouth with a shaky hand. “Just a cold. I’m fine.”

He didn’t buy it. Not for a second.

He dropped everything, the paintbrush, the sketchpad, even the half-finished poem tucked inside his coat pocket. His eyes softened, losing their usual mischievous spark and settling into something more vulnerable.

“No, you’re not fine,” he said, kneeling beside you. “This is no muse’s glow. This is fire and ice battling in your veins.”

You gave a small, tired smile. “Poetic as always.”

He laughed softly, brushing his fingers along your hairline, careful not to disturb you too much.

“You are my inspiration, Cutie. When you falter, the world loses its color.”

You felt a warmth despite the chill coursing through your body. He pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you protectively.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

You wanted to protest but found the strength slipping away. Instead, you closed your eyes and let yourself be held.

He fetched a soft blanket and wrapped it around your shoulders, his hands lingering a moment longer as he traced comforting patterns along your skin.

Then, almost like magic, he produced a small, crumpled sketchpad from nearby and began to draw. His eyes never left you, even as his pencil danced across the paper.

“Every line,” he said softly, “is a promise. A vow that I’ll be here when you wake, when you’re better, and even when you’re not.”

You felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes, not from sadness but from the overwhelming affection pouring from him.

“Rafayel,” you breathed, “thank you.”

He kissed your forehead gently. “I love you, not just in grand moments, but in quiet ones like this. Even when you’re vulnerable.”

You nestled into his chest, heart pounding against the steady beat of his own.

“Rest now, Cutie,” he murmured. “I’ll keep the night for you. I’ll paint your dreams until you wake.”

In the silence that followed, your breathing slowed, and for the first time since you felt sick, you believed you’d be okay because Rafayel was with you.

Sylus

You hated being this vulnerable.

Your body ached, your head swam, and every breath felt like dragging through thick fog. But worse than that was the feeling of losing control, letting yourself be weak in front of Sylus.

He was in the room before you fully realized it, watching you with those sharp, red eyes that always seemed to see everything, even the parts you tried to hide.

“Kitten,” he said, his voice low and rough, the nickname a rare softness that twisted something deep inside you. “You look like hell.”

You tried to shrug it off, but your limbs trembled too much. You leaned back against the pillows, trying to keep some semblance of strength.

Sylus didn’t wait for permission. He moved closer, his hand firm on your hip, anchoring you to the present.

“Don’t hide from me,” he demanded, voice thick with a possessive edge. “I know when you’re hurting. And I won’t stand for you suffering alone.”

Your eyes flicked up to his dark, intense, but also… tender look; It was a side of him that few saw. A fierce protectiveness that bordered on obsession, but felt like safety wrapped in a dangerous package.

“I hate seeing you like this,” he admitted, his voice breaking slightly. “It’s… wrong. You should be untouched by pain.”

You wanted to say something, but your voice cracked, so you settled for leaning into his touch, letting the heat of his hand chase away the chill.

He sighed, rough and deep, then stood, pulling the blanket tighter around you with deliberate care. Every movement was controlled, deliberate, like he was making sure you wouldn’t slip through his fingers.

Sylus disappeared briefly and returned with a steaming cup of herbal tea. He set it carefully on the bedside table, then returned to your side.

“Drink,” he ordered softly, but with an edge you recognized—it was an order because he refused to watch you suffer.

Your fingers found his, and for once, his grip relaxed just enough to let you squeeze back.

“Sylus…” you whispered.

“No,” he said, his voice stronger now, “no more whispering. If you’re mine, then you’ll let me be your strength when you can’t stand.”

There was a long pause, and then he leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his white hair brushing your skin.

“Rest, kitten,” he murmured, the possessiveness giving way to something almost fragile. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here. Always.”

You closed your eyes, heart pounding, feeling the impossible weight of his promise.

And for the first time, being vulnerable didn’t feel like weakness; it felt like being fiercely loved.

Caleb

You hate feeling this small, tiny, and fragile under Caleb’s intense gaze.

He never misses a thing. The slight tremble in your hands, the faint flush creeping up your neck, the way your breathing quickens when you think no one’s watching.

Right now, wrapped in a blanket on the couch, you’re as vulnerable as you’ve ever been. Your body aches, your head pounds, and the dizziness threatens to pull you under. But all Caleb sees is the person he’s vowed to protect.

“Pipsqueak,” he says softly but with a sharp edge, sitting down beside you before you can protest. “You look awful.”

You manage a weak smile. “I’m okay, Caleb. Really.”

He doesn’t believe you. Never does.

“I’m not letting you off the hook that easily,” he insists, his hand covering yours with reassuring warmth. “You need rest, medicine, and… me.”

His voice breaks on the last word, raw and full of worry.

You want to tell him you can handle it, but your throat is dry and your voice barely more than a croak.

He’s already moving, wrapping the blanket tighter around your shoulders, fetching water, then medicine, carefully measuring every dose.

“Don’t try to be brave around me,” Caleb says, kneeling in front of you so his gaze can hold yours. “I’ve known you since you were a kid. You don’t have to hide from me. Not now.”

His usual confident, protective shell slips just enough for you to see the ache beneath—the fear of losing you.

“I just want you to be okay,” he murmurs, brushing a stray hair from your damp forehead.

You reach for his hand, gripping it tightly. “Thank you, Caleb.”

He smiles, tender, a little relieved, and pulls you closer until your head rests against his chest.

“You’re my pipsqueak,” he says softly, voice thick with emotion. “And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Even if it means hovering like a broken record.”

You laugh weakly, the sound breaking the tension.

“I need you, Caleb,” you whisper.

“And I need you too,” he replies without hesitation.

He stays by your side all night, holding you close, his steady presence a shield against the cold and fear.

[miss-cholo4]

Golden power is both destruction and creation. Not just creation.

The main example I have- Telekinesis, the mask of Deception and the moving of mountains:

Telekinesis is the ability to move objects or manipulate matter using mental power, without any physical contact. We see this power utilised by the Mask of Deception throughout the oni trilogy. We know it hails from the oni warlord of deception (orange mask). We see Garmadon teaching Lloyd how to harness the power to move mountains when on the run from the overlord in season 3. With this Lloyd moves rock formations with his mind presenting the power of telekinesis.

Also interesting to note that Garm says something along the lines of “you’ve only scratched the surface of your potential.” Perhaps being why we never see the four arms depicted with the mask of vengeance with Lloyd until crystallised. The mask of hatred with the power of indestructibility/invincibility is hard to ever recall seeing but perhaps it is depicted in different ways I can’t recall? The only time I can think of the mask of hatred’s power being present through Lloyd is when he fights Garmadon at the end of season 8. His power seems to protect his body from damage. However this is not when he has golden power.

We are yet to see any form of shape shifting from Lloyd at all. Which would be so sick, I hope DR looks into this more, as it seemed to be the only oni power Lloyd seemed interest in. (Might make another post about this). If you count automatic outfit changes/ summoning motorcycles out of thin air as shapeshifting then golden power does show it lmao but that is REACHINGG

-

As for creation- we know that golden power isn’t creation entirely. Given that it was the ‘balance’, it would have to be both creation and destruction.

I can see how golden power would be confused with creation, both are gold, with creation having a more white overall colour scheme. Similar to how destruction has hints of black but is overall purple.

We see Lloyd start off with the four main elements in his training before unlocking golden power. Demonstrating golden powers connection to creation as it was heavily present before Lloyd unlocked the power of the ultimate spinjitzu master.

Perhaps the fact that Lloyd was trained by Wu and the ninja at the start of the series is why he needed Garmadon to train him when being hunted by the overlord. He favoured one side of the golden power. He was unbalanced. And perhaps still is in DR despite not having golden power anymore.

[minaj-estyyy]

Bakugo or whatever

I posted this for a request and it didn’t match up at all so I deleted it, sorry if you already seen this💔

(And it’s not finished😭💔)

—

You’d push him around a bit, forcing him to his knees- looming over him. A great hight for a good throat fuck.

Without giving his knees time to adjust to the hard floor, you step forward so his teeth scrape at the base of your dick. He’d lurch forward a bit at the intrusion, gagging around your length.

“Gonna fuck you hard tonight, you gonna let me, yeah?” You whispered down at him, just loud enough so he could hear you over his own choking. He pushed against your thighs for air, glaring up at you as he recovers from his coughing fit. A low growl escapes his sore throat.

“Such a big ego for a slutty puppy, ya know..” you said, slipping two fingers into his mouth, playing with his tongue. You pull and prod at the long muscle before spreading your fingers to open his mouth real’ wide. With a slow drag of your hips-you began thrusting in and out of his muzzle once more.

“You’re lucky you got such a pretty mouth..”.

Each time his teeth would graze over your length your whole body shutters. He was damn good with his mouth and knew how you liked it best. Sharp k9s leave delightful indentations on your cock, marking you up in a place only his eyes could see.

“Ooh fuck, puppy…” you groaned, pulling his head closer to your pelvis. his eyebrows furrowed as he tastes you deep in his throat. “What were you thinking, Ngh.. coming out’ the kitchen like that..”.

Bakugo’s eyes blink rapidly as you force yourself impossibly further down his throat, eventually staying glued shut altogether- you swipe your thumb along his face to capture the tears that escape, flowing free.

You pull away with a gasp before you could finish down his throat. Your thighs marked up with little scratches from Katsuki’s nails, stinging slightly.

The long leather leash, clipped to a spiked collar hang’s low between Katsuki’s chest, dragging across the floor as you lead him to the bed.

Using your own pre-come as lube, you lather the hard dick in front of you, slowly guiding your hand up and down his cock, but going no lower than the tip- while you use your other hand to work him open, circling his rim with your thumb.

He whines.

The sheets scrunch beneath his hands as he tries to buck up into your’s, chasing the pleasure-his head full with desire.

You ‘tsk’ and flick the head of his cock, running your fingers across the textured veins of his dick that were covered in your own juices. Katsuki squirmed but eventually sat still.

“Don’t rush me baby..” you whispered to his dick, pressing it flat against his belly with your palm. The thumb prodding at his rim bends to invade the tight space. Katsuki’s mouth hung low in a silent gasp.

His legs spread, opening his body up completely for you to do as you please.

A simple “ok..” is the only thing he could get out before your index joins your thumb, stretching him wide but keeping him full.

You feel around a bit at the soft ridges until Katsuki’s whole body jolts,

“Mmmh!” he inhales sharply as your fingers poke at the sensitive surface, covering his mouth before any more noises could be heard.

“How pathetic, so close to coming by only two fingers?” You say, twisting your fingers and pinching at the inside of his hole. The beads of sweat rolling off his forehead, past his open mouth and down his marked up neck was the outcome of his pleasure. The pleasure you were causing, a feeling only you could provide.

You look past his legs and stare at the dazed look his face held. How beautiful he truly was. You make a low clicking noise to grab his attention. “Look at me baby..” you whisper, as your fingers begin to slow. His eyes open slowly, looking around before finally catching yours. “Right here baby,..Here, touch right here..” the hand that’s been palming his cock against his belly button slides off, offering it up for the other to touch.

Bakugo was quick to grab his aching member, setting his pace to nothing other than ‘quick’. While he’s distracted with that, you push his knees closer to his ears so you could fit your head between his thighs. Licking his balls all the way down his taint, and shoving your tongue past his rim.

His body shakes as he comes, legs closing around your head-pulling your face desperately closer. You continue to fuck into him with your tongue.

Once his breathing slows and the shaking calms, you pull your head away from the other. Replacing your tongue with your middle and index, which he pushes back against.

His hand falters, giving his spent cock a breather and his balls a chance to refill.

What a tease, wanting so much but not able to handle what you give. Without a second thought you reach your unoccupied hand up and wrap it around his aching member.

“Ngh!” He gasps and wraps one of his own hands around your wrist, trying to set the pace.

“Ah!” You say sternly, “move it.” The fingers occupying his hole leave the warm area quickly, as you pull your hands away from his steaming body, he whines at the loss of friction- leaving his hole twitching.

His eyebrows furrow but he complies, resting them to his sides where they can tear at the sheets once more. You run your hands up his thighs and bring yourself to rest your hips against his ass. Your dick rubs rough against his, watching as his face twists with all kinds of emotion.

Slowly, you trace the veins of his cock once more.

“Tryna tell me what to do..”

You drag your dick down his balls and slap it against his bright red hole a few times before pushing your cock head past his rim, and into his tight heat. Katsuki’s legs wrap around your waist swiftly.

“F-fuck..” he pants, “stupid dick so big..I can feel it in my throat.” He chokes on his words as his hands drag up to his neck, feeling for a bulge.

Your pace is swift, ramming into Katsuki easily. His hole, now bright red, flutters effortlessly around your cock.

—

I can’t 😭

[dawnsarchive]

The Smallest Drop - Chapter 1 (Reupload)

⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Pairing: Astarion/Tav (Reader)

Reader: Gender-Neutral

Style: One Shot

Rating: Mature

Content Warning: Suggestiveness,

Summary:

You were willing to give up everything to be with Astarion but you never thought he might decide the price and his guilt was too high.

⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆

The entire situation started when you overheard a passing comment grumbled behind you – muttered beneath the vampire’s breath and not spoken to anybody in particular – but one you couldn’t help but agree with.

You’d spent the entire day, from far before the sun even bothered to rouse from her slumber, traipsing over difficult terrain. A swamp, to be more specific. Deep mud up to your ankles and the buzzing of thousands of insects had been driving you to insanity. Filthy water splashed up your back as you walked; what little exposed skin you had got nipped at by every passing thornbush.

Quiet suffering had never been Astarion’s greatest talent either and his complaints only weighed down more on your already exhausted thoughts.

But finally, you’d managed to set up a proper camp in a fairly safe area and everybody had retreated to their own tents in an attempt to clean up.

The trees provided a welcome reprieve from the afternoon sun and as you stretched your legs out before you, still caked heavily in dried mud that flaked off when you scratched it, you got an idea. You hadn’t found an opportunity to properly bathe since your abduction and not too far back on your journey, you’d seen an abandoned house.

You slipped away from the camp with a strange excitement to your step.

The house had been burned down several years ago and long-since abandoned, if the ivy that crept over the walls was anything to go by. It had been picked clean by travellers but aside from some rotten tomatoes in the bottom of an old basket (the smell of which made you gag), you found nothing dangerous. And, perhaps most importantly of all, you found a large tub that hadn’t been taken by the elements yet.

You hadn’t thought one night together would have made you so attached to the elf – especially given how little commitment he had provided in return – but his sweetened words and falsities brought a smile to her face. You knew he didn’t mean a lot of what he said but you still cared for him.

And really, the poorly thought-out route had been your fault to begin with. It was the least you could do.

A nearby river ran with clean, cool water and with a few trips, you managed to fill the tub with enough of it. Once you’d ensured it didn’t leak, you dug out a few provisions you’d brought from your stop by the grove, and managed to squeeze out a little more of your already-exhausted magic so the water warming charms bubbled away beneath the surface.

It was a small surprise but you were proud of it.

Next, you had to face a much harder task in encouraging Astarion to actually leave the camp for the second time in one day.

“Absolutely not,” he said and with the casual wave of a hand, he attempted to dismiss you. “I’ve had quite enough traipsing through the forest for one day. If you would like to continue on your mission to be bitten by every foul creature in this swamp, you will be doing so alone.”

You rolled your eyes. “I have something to show you. It’s a surprise.”

His returning smile was strained. “My, you really are a desperate little thing. Maybe I’ll join you later in the night but for now, I’m afraid I simply don’t have the energy or the interest.”

“No, that’s not…” you groaned and rolled your eyes. “It’s just a bath, alright? I overheard you complaining about it earlier so I found one for you.”

“Oh, did you now?”

“Yes! Come now. Those runes aren’t going to last forever and I know you’re the type to fuss about water temperature.”

Astarion chuckled and shook his head. He didn’t believe you. “I appreciate the creativity, darling. Really, I do, but you’ll find direct offers are far more effective on me.” He leaned closer and you became very aware of how many eyes watched from around the camp. “If you’re really going to keep pushing though, I won’t be able to deny you forever.”

Your cheeks flushed at the implications. “Fine, I’ll just use it myself,” you hurried to say.

You ignored the concerned expressions around the camp and stormed back into the tree line by yourself. Why you even bothered… he was the most frustrating man you had ever interacted with. Everything you did or said to him turned into something sexual even when you didn’t mean it to.

The rejection still stung though.

You brushed your fingers over the surface of the still-warm water when you reached the collapsing house. Even if you could use it, it felt like a waste to have spent so much time trying to do something nice for him when he was just going to ignore it.

The house creaked around you and you sighed, looking up at the holes in the ceiling and feeling an awful homesickness. It made every breath feel heavy.

It had been so long since you were warm in your own bed. A bedroll stolen from a goblin den could never quite match the comfort of sheets that you knew and no matter how you tried to capture some of your home, it never quite worked.

Something cracked and your hand flew to the weapon on your back before you noticed a very smug elf; his snow-coloured hair falling annoyingly distractingly into his eyes.

“My, so you genuinely managed to find a bath,” he said with a drawling tone. “I admire your dedication if nothing else. There are certainly easier ways to see me undressed, you know?”

You rolled your eyes. “I was trying to do something nice for you but as you’re not interested, you can feel free to return to camp. I personally am not going to miss the chance to rid myself of this mud.”

It was caked onto your calves. You were beginning to get itchy beneath it and it wasn’t helping with your irritation toward Astarion and his assumptions.

He made it far worse when he stepped in close to you. His fingers brushed your jawline and he leaned in. “Whoever said I wasn’t interested?”

“You did. Very directly with no room for misunderstanding.”

He shrugged as though your irritated tone was irrelevant. “Well, things change, and I’ve decided you’re quite right. It’s been far too long since I washed in warm water and you’ve been so sweet to set this all up. It would be rather rude if I turned you down.”

You cursed him under your breath for his indecisiveness and stood up; walked past him without even meeting his gaze. “Enjoy.”

You reached the edge of the charred room, almost out the room entirely, when he called you.

“You’re not joining me?”

You met him with a blank expression. “Am I meant to be?”

It took him a second to respond, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Well, yes? Wasn’t that the point of your little adventure? I can hardly wash my hair by myself out here. What if I get attacked or become too lonely to bare it?”

You frowned at him but he maintained his insistent smile – the way he always did when he wanted something. The corner of his mouth was pulled up into a smirk as though he knew a joke he wouldn’t share. The annoyance made you rather inclined to leave him here in this relatively safe area but beneath his burning gaze, you couldn’t help but relent.

It was just like how it had been when you allowed him to drink from your throat. Perhaps you should start getting concerned by just how easily your willpower disappeared when he tilted his head to the side.

“Fine,” you said. “I’ll help you with your hair if you really want.”

“Fun,” he hummed, pleased like a cat who had swallowed a songbird.

He was trying his best to be a distraction while he got undressed but while his performance didn’t quell your annoyance, the scars on his back did. The angry red ridges tugged on the sympathetic parts of your heart. Nothing good came from runes like those – especially not when they were carved into flesh.

As much as he annoyed you, you still didn’t want anything happening to him if you could help it.

“There’s no need to be so shy darling, you’ve seen me in far more compromising positions than this.”

You wouldn’t call your night – impulsive and flirtatious – as compromising but you chose to ignore him. Instead, you just took his soft sigh of relaxation as your thanks for all the work you’d done; unsure he would give any gratitude himself.

He was far too magnetic. In both his personality and his appearance and it took far too much of your effort to not fall for it.

Instead, you sat behind him and slowly began to brush out his hair as he’d requested. It was devilishly soft despite your adventures through hell and a mind-flayer ship. If you hadn’t been uncomfortable about his excitement towards meeting Raphael, you would have assumed Astarion made a pact with a devil to have such an incredible appearance.

You took great care to remain gentle where tangles turned into knots and the hair wrapped around itself. Soft tugs of your fingers and careful detangling took far longer than simply brushing it but you had no desire to harm him.

“I don’t have many products to work with,” you said, apologetic. “I managed to find a few things but they’re not going to be the best for now. I’ll make it up to you when we reach Baldur’s Gate.”

She didn’t know much about what he liked surrounding his hair but he hadn’t had much time to fuss with it since their escape. He spent too much of his time looking over his shoulder for an unseen enemy; too scared of a threat he wouldn’t share with her. She’d asked and he’d told her it was nothing but she knew his meditation never held him as deeply as sleep took her.

“No matter, I’m not going to complain about your skills.”

“Skills at washing your hair?”

“At winning my favour,” he said and he tilted his head back to look at you, his eyes glinting in the light.

You focused on the white locks, running them between your fingers to make sure they were smooth. “I’m not doing this because I want to impress you,” you reminded him.

“Oh, I’m sure you have other motivations too. You are more than welcome to join when you’re ready – you chose a good-sized tub for both of us.” He swirled the water as he spoke, the tease dripping from his voice.

You ignored him again and focused on a particularly stubborn knot. Once it was out, you massaged the soap into his hair; rubbed soft circles against his scalp until his eyes fluttered closed and his expression began to relax. Good. He carried far too much tension and he deserved to just stop and breathe for a second.

You had to stop yourself from continuing the massage down his shoulders to rub tension from the muscles in his neck. You could almost see the knots but you didn’t want to encourage whatever ideas he had about the situation.

It wasn’t that you didn’t find him attractive. You’d have to be blind not to.

You wanted to press your lips to the pale skin of his neck and trace the path of the water droplets where they pooled over his collarbone. You wanted to run your hands over the sculpted form of his chest again and feel the way his body pressed against your own.

You coughed to stop your thoughts before they went too far because that wasn’t what you wanted from this.

If the parasite in your skull didn’t kill you soon, you may just die from how unnaturally fast this elf made your heart pound.

“Is everything alright?”

He sounded far too flirtatious but there was a hint of actual concern there too; something a bit more real than his previous ministrations. He turned around to properly face you and you almost melted in his gaze.

It would be far too easy to fall prey to his sweetened words. You were close enough that it wouldn’t take more than leaning forward to press your lips against his own and he made it more than obvious that he would encourage it.

It didn’t help how his hair, now wet, fell over his face cutely. The strands curled against his skin and gave him a sweet, innocent look. For a second, you could almost forget that he was a vampire at all.

You saw the invite on his lips as he swirled the water around.

“I’ll see you back in camp,” you said quickly before he could speak.

His confused expression followed you as you hurried your way from the building at a pace; almost fell through a hole in the floor of the house in your haste. You made your way back to the camp in desperate need of a distraction from your thoughts.

You didn’t really think asking Lae-zel to spar with you through. The bruises kept you up for the entire night; long enough to notice he didn’t stop by for a taste of blood that evening.

⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆

[jaarijani]

Happy April Fools' Day from your friends in the Käärtist discord!! It was a wild day and watching all of your reactions has been so much fun, so have a little peek behind the curtain on all the chaos surrounding this project!!

JereHilda Masterpost

[ratrabbbit]

I erm…. I have no excuse as to why I drew this. I just wanted to draw Malleus in his sleepwear and well- were here now lmao- I did this in like an hour last night so don’t ask about the wonkiness of the drawing lol. I didn’t originally plan to finish this, but whatever lol

[messiahzzz]

this informational piece is directed to the gale fandom specifically:

grooming is a tactic where someone methodically builds a trusting relationship with a child or young adult, their family, and community to manipulate, coerce, or force the child or young adult to engage in sexual activities.

1. Choosing a victim - The predator often chooses a child who is obviously vulnerable. Children who are withdrawn, low on confidence, emotionally deprived and with less parental supervision are particularly at risk.

2. Building access & trust - Sexual abuse often begins with friendship. The abuser can also take on other roles such as a romantic partner, a mentor, a caregiver or an authority figure. The abuser spends time in getting to know the victim's likes, dislikes and habits and pretending to share common interests. The perpetrator establishes trust with the child by making them feel special, sometimes through gifts or excessive compliments and attention. This is especially dangerous for vulnerable children who do not experience attention in their daily lives. In the trust development stage, offenders aim to develop a trusting friendship or relationship with their victim. This can involve several tactics, including:

a) praising the child for their maturity and intelligence;

b) encouraging the child to disclose personal information;

c) syncing their language with that of the child;

d) highlighting mutuality (i.e., similar interests, attitudes and behaviors between the offender and child); and finally,

e) portraying themselves as being trustworthy and nice.

3. Filling a need with gifts & favors - Giving the victim small gifts and favours is a strategy used by perpetrators to make the child feel indebted. Trust is further built by sharing intimate life details, going on special outings and giving the child access to things they normally wouldn’t get. Once the offender has identified a child’s needs, they will try to be the “hero” to the child who gives them what they desire. Examples include gifts, extra attention, or affection. This causes the child to see them as highly important and even idolized. They won’t want to upset them in risk of not getting the void in their life fulfilled.

4. Isolating - The groomer actively tries to isolate the child from people who may be watchful or helpful. This kind of isolation creates deeper connection & dependency. The offender also exhibits exemplary behaviour before parents of the victim & manipulates them into trusting the relationship. They will use this trust to create situations in which they are alone with the child. Time spent alone also reinforces the “special connection” the child feels they have with the offender. This “special connection” is further reinforced when the offender convinces the child that they love and appreciate them more than anyone else.

5. Initiating sexual contact - With the power over the child victim established through emotional connection coercion or one of the other tactics, the perpetrator may eventually initiate physical contact with the victim. It may begin with touching that is not overtly sexual (though a predator may find it sexually gratifying) and that may appear to be casual (arm around the shoulder, pat on the knee, etc.). Gradually, the perpetrator may introduce more sexualized touching. By breaking down inhibitions and desensitizing the child, the perpetrator can begin overtly touching the child. At this stage, the offender will exploit a child’s natural curiosity through physical touch and excitement. They will begin to teach the child sexual preferences and manipulate what the child responds to. The child begins to see themselves as a sexual being prematurely and the relationship with the offender now takes on a sexual term.

6. Post-abuse maintenance - The goal of the final stage is to ensure the child remains trapped in the cycle of abuse and loyal to the abuser, by either reinforcing and maintaining trust in order to prevent disclosure, or by explicitly threatening or blackmailing the child or their loved ones. This can also be reinforced and maintained by, for instance, giving the child affection, praise or encouragement for one’s actions.

[arthur-barma]

jack vessalius

[insomnova]

owlcat games glazer until i die bc why am i only a third of the way into act 2 of wotr already plotting out my next playthrough like bestie slow down we haven't even gotten to drezen yet 😭

[macchiatosdumptruck]

.

[hasarjunadoneanythingwrong]

I’m sorry but yeah Starscream kinda tracks

STOP I KNOW ALREADY

[shi0n]

i dont rly like kanzaki ioris recent songs.. they just dont inspire me im afraid. which is a shame bc i feel like his recent works are more like "himself".. but im just not a fan

[she-anemone]

crazy how they just made the best game ever.