#but he's absolutely fascinating as a character
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Ok I need to get this out with the news about devs being fired dropping.
There will be spoilers for Veilguard here so proceed with caution.
EA fucked the game, and the more I think about it, the more angry I am with them.
It all starts with one choice- the devs wanted the veil to come down in that opening, and EA told them no. Told them they couldn’t bring the veil down at all.
It was never going to be a player choice- it couldn’t, it would create two entirely different worlds leading forward, so it would have to be something outside player control, and they were told no.
The veil coming down was outside forces and the veil staying up was Rook’s choice. And had to be Rook’s choice.
Because of that, our Rook could never see the veil coming down as a worthwhile option. Which means we could never engage with it as a reality. We could never ask what that would look like, or question the morality of the veil, either practically, or as a thought experiment. No companions will bring up what it might be like in any positive way or even just as an “I wonder.”
We only get to see veil =bad so Rook must be right.
They cut Solas’ elven followers because having even *one* npc on his side for noble reasons would make us question too much, and we were not allowed to have an opinion other than veil =good, because the devs were hamstringed by it.
No companions ever discuss what it could be like without the veil, and they *should*. Can you imagine Emmrich and Bellara debating it? Emmrich absolutely fascinated by how it would impact spirits and they wouldn’t need to possess anyone or anything, Bellara leery after seeing so much wild magic in Arlathan but wondering if uninterrupted etheric flows would create more stable magic over time. Taash surprising the party by being way more cool with it than expected due to their Rivaini upbringing, and more open to that than necromancy.
Lucanis and Harding being firmly against it to the point it causes some friction in the team, Davrin just staying out of it because he doesn’t get it and doesn’t want to. Harding has a moment of questioning at a weak point after reminiscing about Cole, and wonders how many like him there could be if the veil did come down.
Neve feeling extremely mixed about it, between it possibly allowing a reshuffle of power in Tevinter, removing the ability for mages to make deals with demons, but also upset at the potential raw chaos.
But we never even get to look at that. Because there was no option there. Even if each character landed on veil=good, we never even got to have the discussion, because we couldn’t do anything with it.
And we can see how that spirals out and created a much less morally complex game than we’ve previously gotten. Rook is the good guy because they said so, Solas is the bad guy who, despite being beyond willing to talk to anyone who will listen to him, refuses to expand on what the veil coming down looks like. Because he can’t. Because then we might agree with him.
We’re only allowed Varric’s point of view, which makes sense for the beginning, but there was never an option to expand it. There is one single dialogue option where we can tell Solas “whoops didn’t know that.” But that’s the beginning and end of that train of thought.
They even set us up as this FANTASTIC foil to Solas, having meddled in a ritual we didn’t understand and unleashing multiple blights and elven gods, essentially destroying the south, blighting most of the north, partially destroying a city, and a countless death toll. But taking actual responsibility with that isn’t allowed- because we may sympathize too much with Solas. Because we clearly did the right thing because the veil is still up. It’s not even addressed in the regret prison! Solas tells you thousands would still have died if he took down the veil, but thousands did die as a direct result of Rook meddling. And nowhere can you acknowledge that.
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𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬
˗ˏˋ that first night (her POV) ˎˊ˗
"There's a theory that says you meet everyone in your life twice—once as strangers, and once when it matters. That first night at 'Pulse', with vodka cranberry on your tongue and his eyes burning into yours, was supposed to be the stranger part. No one warns you that six months later, he'll be standing in your new apartment's doorway, looking at you like he's seen a ghost. But that’s a problem for Future you."
⋆。°✩ story details ✩°。⋆
collection: Before It All (FMU)
wordcount: 15k
pairing: fmu!jungkook x fmu!yn (cocky!jkxbratty!reader)
rating: explicit, 18+
playlist: spotify
content: new york city setting, university setting, strangers to roommates (eventually), nightclub setting, hookup, one night stand, drunk hookup (buzzed/tipsy but consensual), explicit sexual content, oral sex (cunnilingus), protected penetrative sex, multiple orgasms, wall sex, rough sex, choking/breath play (light), hair pulling, marking/hickeys, size kink, manhandling, dirty talk, praise kink, bickering during sex, snarky banter, grinding, multiple positions, slight pain kink, slight degradation kink, praise kink if you squint, sexual tension, sexual chemistry, mild exhibitionism (making out in uber/club), slight voyeurism (being watched in club), mild dubious condom practices (that one scene), alcohol consumption, bite kink, aftercare (mild), spooning, scent kink, vanilla scented products, enemies to lovers (eventual), size difference (height), strength kink.
✧ author's note ✧
Hi my little demons! (`∀´)Ψ Welcome to the prequel that started this absolute dumpster fire - AKA the night our emotionally constipated idiots first met.
Let's talk about how THIS happened, because honestly? I've rewritten this scene approximately 47 times (not exaggerating, my Google docs are a MESS). I initially wasn't even going to write it, but then my 3AM brain, fueled by what was probably my 8th espresso, decided we NEEDED to see these two disasters collide for the first time. And boy, did they collide. ( ̄ω ̄;)
First things first: This is pure, unadulterated filth. I literally had to take several walks around my apartment complex while writing this because these two WOULD NOT BEHAVE. Like, I was trying to be somewhat respectable here, but they said "No♥️" and chose violence. So you know what? I just let them do their thing and documented it like the professional disaster that I am.
Now, let's talk about our girl for a second. Writing her at this specific point in her life was FASCINATING because you can really see all the pieces that made her who she is—the family pressure, the small-town suffocation, the desperate need for control while simultaneously wanting to lose it completely... She's such a beautifully complex mess and I love her for it. (Don't worry, she'll grow. Eventually. Maybe. We'll see.)
And Jungkook... Oh boy. There's SO MUCH about him that I've deliberately sprinkled throughout this chapter. Little details, subtle hints, tiny breadcrumbs that'll make sense later. I'm actually really proud of how many easter eggs I managed to hide in here - come back after future chapters and tell me if you caught them! (Though let's be real, you're probably not here for the literary analysis, you thirsty gremlins.)
The biggest challenge was honestly Emma. Like, how do you get the world's most protective best friend to leave her bestie alone in a club? I spent WEEKS trying to make this work in a way that felt authentic to her character. The sister crisis was my 3AM solution and I'm actually pretty proud of how it turned out. Realistic character motivation is my kink, okay? (^▽^)
Speaking of realism—that's literally why this fic exists. I got so frustrated with how many unrealistic elements I kept seeing in stories that I went "Fine, I'll do it myself" and here we are, 35 pages of smut later???? Huh. You're welcome????
Side note: I have this whole thing narrated in audio (female voice only, because no male voice matches Jungkook’s, my beloved ¯\_(ツ)_/¯) but Tumblr said "file too big bestie" so... might drop it on ko-fi if enough people are interested. Let me know in the comments! Speaking of comments—PLEASE tell me your theories about all the little hints I've dropped about Jungkook's past. I'm dying to see what you guys pick up on! (⌒ω⌒)ノ
Until next time, you disaster pandas! (ノ◕ヮ◕)ノ*:・゚✧
Kiki. 🍓
P.S. Any typos are between you and god because I've stared at this document for so long the words have lost all meaning.
⋆。°✩ read more ✩°。⋆
main story: fuck me up
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So here's the thing about nightclubs: you either love them or you hate them.
You? You're more of a 'hate them' kinda girl. The sweat, the noise, the people... not your scene. Not usually, anyway.
But usual went out the window the second Emma suggested this little adventure. Sweet, reliable Emma who you lost touch with after high school but who immediately became your secret accomplice when you reached out about transferring to NYU. Who's been your underground informant for months now—sneaking you tips about the English department, virtually walking you through the campus layout via late-night FaceTime sessions, and helping you plot out the perfect transfer application your parents know nothing about.
Emma, who didn't even blink when you showed up at her door with a weekend bag and a story for your parents about "visiting your responsible friend in the city." (They bought it immediately because, well, it's Emma. Their golden standard of What A Good Influence Should Be.) You'd spent the whole day doing exactly what you came for—touring NYU's campus, sitting in on a couple of English classes Emma snuck you into, and gathering all the transfer information you could get your hands on.
"You can't just transfer here and not know what the nightlife is like," she'd insisted, already rummaging through her closet for something that wasn't your campus tour outfit. "That's like... buying a car without test driving it."
Which, okay, terrible analogy, but you get her point. You've spent months planning this transfer—going over NYU's transfer requirements, crafting the perfect escape from your suffocating small-town university, calculating exactly how to tell your parents once it's too late for them to stop you. The campus visit was supposed to be just that—visiting your responsible friend Emma for a weekend while secretly checking out NYU.
Emma, bless her overprotective heart, had taken one look at your face after that final tour—that specific blend of desperate hope and terrified excitement—and decided you needed to see the whole picture. "The real college experience," as she put it, already pulling out her phone to text her club promoter friend.
"Location sharing on?" she'd asked for the fifth time before you left her apartment, double-checking your phone settings like some kind of Gen-Z mother hen. As if you hadn’t spent the last three months planning this transfer with military-grade precision.
"Yes, mom," you'd rolled your eyes, but something warm had settled in your chest at her fussing. It's... nice, having someone in on the secret. Someone who gets it.
"Emergency contact updated to my number?"
"Check."
"Spare key to my apartment?"
"Emma, I swear to god—"
"Just checking!" She'd grinned, already knowing she was being ridiculous but doing it anyway. "One more thing..."
And that's how you ended up with a literal tracking app on your phone, an emergency SOS button setup, and Emma's solemn promise to "never leave your side, scout's honor." (She was never actually a scout, but whatever.)
Parents really think you're just visiting your studious, sensible friend Emma for a nice, quiet weekend in the city. Having some wholesome catching-up time. Maybe seeing some museums.
Ha. If only they knew you're actually scouting out your future escape route.
If only you knew.
Because let's be real, this isn't exactly in your wheelhouse. But Emma's right there, keeping her scout's honor promise, bouncing between the bar and dance floor like some kind of safety-conscious terror. And maybe it's the way she keeps checking in with subtle thumbs-up signals, or maybe it's just knowing someone's actually got your back in this whole secret college plan thing, but you're... kind of having fun?
Which is how you find yourself here, in this pulsing, thrumming mass of bodies and sound. 'Pulse', the club's called. Fitting, considering how you can feel the bass thumping in your veins, the strobe flashing like lightning in your skull. It's... a lot. But not in a bad way?
Yeah, definitely not bad, you decide as you scan the room. Leather booths, gleaming bar top, and a dance floor packed with the kind of gorgeous twenty-somethings that make you feel simultaneously inadequate and oddly triumphant. Like 'yeah, I might not be that, but at least I'm here.'
And honestly, it's pretty nice here. Clean, classy even. Good lighting over the bar, vigilant security, and Emma vouches for the place. She's your safety net tonight, because God knows you'd never try this solo. But Emma... Emma knows everyone. Gets you both in with a wink and a wave, like some kind of VIP.
The girl's got pull and she's not afraid to use it. You envy that a bit, that confidence. Wish you could borrow just a dash of it, to fortify your nerves as you perch on this barstool, spine too straight and fingers too tight around your glass. But it's fine, it's good, you're good. That’s what you tell yourself, anyways—even if it’s not entirely the truth.
It's just one night. One chance. One small rebellion before you go back home and drown yourself in expectations and demands. Hardly even counts as rebellion, really, in the grand scheme. Not like you're planning on getting blackout drunk and ending up in jail or anything. Just… dipping your toe. Sampling the other side. Just for a night.
What's the worst that could happen?
Famous last words. Or in this case, famous last thought, as you take a too-big sip of your drink and nearly choke on watery vodka cranberry. Good thing no one's paying attention.
Well, except for one guy, apparently. And he's...
Oh. Oh damn.
He's the kind of gorgeous that makes you almost forget how to swallow, even as you scoff internally. Guys who look like that? They're usually bad news. Cringe edgy boys. Like the ones you see on TikTok. The jaw, the eyes, the whole brooding bad-boy package. Not your type. Not even a little.
But he’s hot. Truth be told.
And he's watching you. Not in a creepy way, but… intense. Interested. And wow, okay, maybe there's something to be said for the whole 'still waters' vibe he's giving off, because that gaze is doing things to you. Things you're not entirely sure you're ready for.
But then again... isn't that the whole point? To try something new? To be someone new, just for a night? The girl who holds the stare of a beautiful stranger. The girl who lets the charge build, heart kicking up and skin tingling. The girl who—
"Shit, shit, shit." Emma's suddenly at your elbow, phone clutched to her chest, face twisted with genuine distress. "My sister just called. She's having some kind of breakdown about—god, I don't even know, her boyfriend? Something about him showing up at her dorm? She's hysterical, I can barely understand her—"
You watch Emma's face cycle through about twelve different emotions in three seconds. She keeps glancing between you and her phone, clearly torn. "I should go check on her. But I can't just leave you here alone. Fuck. Maybe we should both—"
"Em, I'm fine," you try to reassure her, even as your stomach sinks a little. Great. Just when things were getting interesting with dark eyes over there. "I can just get an Uber—"
"No, no, wait." Emma's scanning the club like she's looking for something specific. Her face lights up suddenly as she spots someone by the weights machine in the club's weird gym corner. Because apparently some clubs have those now. "Oh thank god—hey!!"
She waves frantically at some guy who's been doing bicep curls between taking selfies for his Instagram story. You vaguely recognize him from Emma's study group—one of those guys who probably knows the protein content of everything in his lunch and considers gym updates a legitimate form of social interaction.
"Perfect timing," Emma says as he approaches, already dabbing his face with a workout towel. She's rapid-fire texting, probably her sister. "You're still doing that safe walk program thing for the student union, right? The volunteer thing they made you do after that frat party incident?"
"Yeah bro, community service hours almost done," he confirms, then looks confused as Emma practically shoves her phone in his face, showing him what you assume is your location-sharing setup.
"Great. This is my best friend from high school. She's got location sharing on with me, SOS button setup, fully charged phone." Emma's talking so fast she's almost tripping over her words. "I have to go deal with my sister but I'll be back in an hour tops. Could you just... keep an eye out? Make sure no creeps bother her?"
Your face heats. "Emma, seriously—"
"I know, I know, you can handle yourself," Emma cuts you off, already shouldering her bag. "But humor me? He’s actually great at this. Always walks girls home after study group. Total golden retriever energy."
You catch the way her eyes flick meaningfully toward where dark eyes is still watching from across the room. Like she's trying to say 'here's your safe but slightly dim option if you want it, but...'
Your phone buzzes with an incoming wall of texts:
Emma: 𝚒'𝚖 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢!!! 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 Emma: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚒'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚜 Emma: 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚢𝚖 𝚋𝚛𝚘 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚢 Emma: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜... 👀 Emma: (𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 & 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎!!!)
"Hey there. Emma had to run, but she didn't want to leave you alone. Asked me to keep you company. That okay?"
The voice cuts through your spiral, and you blink up at the interloper. Brent? Brad? Some monosyllabic gym bro who's friends with Emma and apparently your new babysitter.
Great.
You paste on a smile, even as your attention flickers back to him. Dark eyes, dark hair, and a mouth that could probably do very interesting things, you bet your money on it. But no. Don’t get distracted. Eyes on Brett. He's safe, he's known. Boring as a beige wall, but that's better. Smarter.
"Yeah, of course," you say brightly. Too brightly. Even you can hear the false note, and you cringe. "Thanks for keeping me company."
Because that's why you're here. For safety, for company, for sampling the world, but through a protective barrier. Not for tall, dark, and dangerously appealing over there. Definitely not for him.
Even if you kinda wish it was.
"You're pretty."
And like... okay? Thanks? But also, ugh. It's not that you're not flattered—you are, in that vaguely uncomfortable way that makes you want to simultaneously preen and roll your eyes into next week. Because yeah, duh, you know. You own mirrors. You're aware of your assets, thank you very much. But there's something so wonderfully, terribly basic about guys who lead with that.
Still. You give him another once-over, because fair's fair and also because like... why not? He's not bad. Actually pretty decent, if you're being honest (and you are, because what's the point of lying to yourself?). Broad shoulders, nice arms, that whole gym rat aesthetic that apparently some girls go crazy for.
Not that you're necessarily one of those girls. You've always preferred a more... balanced build. Something between "I can bench press you" and "I've never seen the inside of a gym." Like, yeah, muscles are nice and all, but you want to be able to actually cuddle without feeling like you're laying on a marble statue. Give you some softer edges any day. Something to sink into, you know?
But beggars can't be choosers and honestly? You're kind of tired of being a beggar. Or, well, not a beggar exactly, but definitely... selective. Too selective, maybe. Conservative. Careful. All those words that really mean "scared to actually live a little."
Not tonight though. Tonight you're in New York fucking City, three hundred miles from your parents' suffocating expectations and that small-town mindset that makes you want to scream into your pillow sometimes. Tonight you could be anyone.
So when you say, "Thank you, you're not bad yourself," it comes out smoother than expected. Almost flirty. And his laugh? Not terrible. Kind of nice actually, even if it doesn't quite reach his eyes. They're nice eyes too—warm brown, honest. Safe.
"Would you like to dance?"
The question hangs there, and you consider it. Really consider it. Because this—this whole thing—it's what you came for, isn't it? To try something new. To be someone new. Someone who says yes to dancing with attractive strangers in clubs that pulse with bass-heavy Usher remixes.
"You feeling confident?" you throw back, and okay, maybe that was a little sharp, a little too much of your usual self bleeding through. But he just smiles (no dimples, and why does that matter? Since when do you care about dimples?), and holds out his hand.
His fingers are cold when they wrap around yours. It's... not great. You've always hated cold hands, which is ironic considering yours are perpetually freezing. But you let him lead you onto the dance floor anyway, because what the hell. What the actual hell. You're here, you're young, you're... actually kind of buzzed now that you think about it. That vodka cran hitting different after all.
His hands hover at your hips, eyes asking permission, and you give him a look that you hope translates to "yes, but don't get crazy about it." Must work, because his palms settle, grip light but present. You rest your hands on his shoulders (nice shoulders, you'll give him that), and try to find the rhythm.
It's not terrible. Not amazing either, but definitely not terrible. He can move, keeps a decent beat, doesn't try to grind up on you like some horny teenager. His hands stay respectfully placed, thumbs making small circles that should probably feel more exciting than they do.
Everything about this should feel more exciting than it does.
Maybe you need another drink. Maybe you need to stop overthinking every little thing and just... be. Maybe...
Maybe that's when it happens. Your eyes drift up, over his shoulder, like they're being pulled by some invisible thread. Like something in you just knows where to look. And there he is.
Dark eyes locked on yours, expression unreadable in the strobing lights.
One second. Two. Three.
An eternity compressed into the space between heartbeats. Your skin prickles, heat crawling up your spine that has nothing to do with the crowded dance floor or the alcohol in your system. The weight of his stare is palpable, laden with something unnamed but acutely felt. Something that turns your mouth to the Sahara and your pulse into a kickdrum.
Usher croons about falling in love while Pitbull drops his signature "dale" in the background, and isn't that just fucking hilarious? Because this—this moment, this look, this stranger—this isn't about love. This is about want. Raw and simple and completely uncomplicated by things like names or histories or futures.
This is about the way his jaw clenches slightly as he watches you dance with someone else. About how his fingers drum against his glass in perfect time with the beat. About the little scar on his cheek that catches the light when he tilts his head, studying you like you're a puzzle he wants to take apart piece by piece.
Your dance partner's hands feel colder by the second.
It's not that his hands are bad, exactly. They're... nice hands. Big hands. The kind that wrap around your hips like they were made to be there, fingers long enough to span the distance between hipbone and hipbone. And yeah, okay, you have a thing for hands. Who doesn't? It's practically universal at this point—like liking bread or hating people who talk during movies. Just basic human nature.
But something's... off.
Your brain is doing that thing. That stupid, annoying, overthinking thing where it won't shut up long enough to let you enjoy anything. And god, you hate this. Hate how your mind rebels against perfectly good situations, like it's allergic to straightforward pleasure or something. Because objectively? This should be working. Hot guy, good music, decent amount of alcohol in your system. Your body's definitely on board—you can feel the low simmer of attraction, the way your skin warms under his touch. The basic chemistry is there.
But your mind? Your mind's like that one friend who shows up to parties just to list off everything that could possibly go wrong. His hands are cold. His laugh doesn't reach his eyes. No dimples. The way he said "pretty" like he was checking off a box on some "How to Pick Up Girls" checklist.
You sigh, already stepping back. Watch the confusion flicker across his face, quickly masked by what you're sure he thinks is an understanding smile.
"Everything alright?"
And like... no? Yes? Maybe? How do you even answer that when you're not sure what's wrong in the first place? When you're standing here on a dance floor that's vibrating with Usher's voice while your brain short-circuits over the temperature of some guy's hands?
"Yeah, I'm just..." You pause, teeth catching your bottom lip as you reconsider. Fuck it. Might as well go with the classics. "The vodka. Has me feeling buzzy, I think I'm not feeling too good."
It's a cop-out and you know it. But it's also an easy out, the kind that doesn't hurt anyone's feelings or make things weird. Because that's what you do, isn't it? Keep things smooth. Keep things nice. Even when you're lying through your teeth to some guy whose name you can't quite remember.
"Hey, that's okay." His smile stays steady, concerned even. "No hard feelings. You need a ride home?"
And that—that right there—that's actually kind of sweet. In another universe, maybe that offer would seal the deal. Nice guy, worried about your safety, probably has a stable job and calls his mother on Sundays. But in this universe? In this universe, your eyes are already drifting over his shoulder, drawn like a compass needle to true north.
You press your lips together, scanning the crowd like you're actually looking for someone. Like you haven’t known exactly where he is this whole time, haven’t felt his eyes raking you up and down non-stop.
"Actually I know someone just across the way, so honestly, zero worries."
The shock on his face would be comical if it weren’t so irksome. "You positive? Weren’t you visiting from out of town? Emma mentioned you were just in for the weekend."
And okay, what the actual fuck? Why does he need your whole life story? Yeah, sure, he's probably just being nice. Probably just wants to make sure you're not about to wander off and get murdered or something. But still. The irritation rises in your throat like bile, sharp and inexplicable.
"Doesn't mean I don't know anybody in New York," you say, and wow, okay, that came out with more edge than intended. Quick, fix it, smooth it over. You paste on a tight smile, the kind that probably looks more like a grimace but hey, at least you're trying. "See you around, Brent."
You're already moving as you say it, heels clicking against the floor with purpose. You think you hear him call after you—something about his name being Peter?—but you're beyond caring. Beyond thinking about cold hands and careful smiles and all the safe choices you should be making.
Because your feet know where they're going, even if your brain is screaming about bad decisions. Even if every rational part of you is throwing up warning signs and red flags. Even if—or maybe because—you can feel his eyes following your every move, heat spiraling up your spine with each step closer.
The bass drops, and your heart kicks up to match it.
Dale, indeed.
You don't need to look at him to know he's watching. You can tell. Can perceive it. It’s like standing too close to a bonfire. The kind of heat that makes you want to step closer even as your survival instincts scream danger, danger, danger.
And this? This is definitely dangerous.
You don't do this. Like, ever. There's a whole routine to these things, right? Guy sees girl, guy approaches girl, girl decides if she wants to deal with whatever fumbling attempt at flirtation follows. That's just... how it works. How it's always worked. Because guys? They're usually terrible at being approached. Their fragile little egos can't handle a girl making the first move. Plus, most of them aren't worth the effort anyway.
But.
But your feet are already moving. But your heart is already racing. But something about the way he's been watching you, like he could devour you whole and still be hungry—it makes you reckless. Makes you stupid. Makes you brave.
"Dance with me."
It comes out more command than question, your voice steadier than it has any right to be. He looks up at you from his seat, and fuck. Just... fuck. Because the way he tilts his head? The slow, deliberate motion of it? That should not be as hot as it is. That should be illegal in at least three states.
Then he smiles. Just one side of his mouth lifting, lazy and confident and—oh god. A dimple. One perfect little dimple that makes something in your chest squeeze tight.
"That's bold."
His voice is lower than you expected. Rougher. Like whiskey over gravel, and you want to drink it down until you're drunk on it. Want to find out what other sounds you can pull from that throat.
"You've been looking at me for 10 minutes." The words fall from your lips before you can stop them, sharp and challenging. "You gonna come dance or not?"
He chuckles—actually chuckles, who even does that?—and holy shit, there's another one. Two dimples. Two perfect little dents in his cheeks that make heat pool low in your belly, thick and sweet like honey. Your fingers twitch, aching to touch them, to press thumbs to those tiny curves and feel him beam against your flesh.
When he stands, it's one fluid motion that makes it feel like someone replaced your esophagus with a cracked porcelain vase. Because he's tall. Not incredibly, super tall. But yes the kind of tall that means you'd have to stretch up on your toes to reach his mouth, that means his hands could probably span your whole waist, that means—
No. Nope. Not going there. Not yet anyway.
He follows you onto the dance floor, and you can feel the energy shift. Like the air itself is charging up, preparing itself for both of you. His friend—some guy with killer dance moves who's been holding down a corner of the floor all night—catches his eye and shoots him a look. Something passes between them, quick and meaningful, before Mystery Man's attention is back on you. All on you.
And yeah.
Yeah, this is happening.
This is definitely happening.
The bass pounds through your marrow as Usher's voice continues suffusing the air, talking about DJs and falling in love, and honestly. At this point you’re barely listening to the music itself, too focused on finding a more secluded spot.
Your pulse picks up speed. Can’t help it, really. Because this? This is definitely going to be worth breaking all your rules for.
You lead him to some darker corner of the club—might be by a column, might be an alcove, who fucking knows because your brain's too busy short-circuiting to care about architectural details right now. All you know is it's slightly away from the main crush of bodies, slightly more private, slightly more...
Oh.
His hands find your hips the second you turn to face him. No hesitation. No silent question. No careful hovering or polite uncertainty like what's-his-name earlier. Just warm, sure palms sliding over the curve of your hips like they belong there, like he's claiming territory, and—
And you should be annoyed. You should be fucking livid. Because excuse you? The audacity of this man to just assume he can touch you without so much as a "may I?" Some feminist you are, getting weak in the knees over this caveman behavior while poor Brett (Blake? Whatever) at least had the decency to ask permission with those puppy dog eyes of his.
But your brain? Your traitorous, horny, absolutely useless brain? It's sending signals straight between your legs because apparently that's what does it for you now. The confidence. The heat of his hands—and god, they're so warm, burning through the thin fabric of your dress like brands. They're not as broad as the other guy's, but his fingers are longer, elegant almost. Artist's hands, scattered with tiny tattoos that disappear under his sleeve, and that silver ring on his middle finger catching the light as his grip tightens just slightly...
(Middle finger. Not left-hand fourth. So not married then. Good. Last thing you need tonight is adding "homewrecker" to your expanding list of dubious habits.)
Your arms loop around his neck almost on autopilot, and then you're moving. With him. Against him. The bass is a living thing between you, and he matches your rhythm instantly, like your bodies already know the steps to this dance. Like you've done this a hundred times before, in a hundred different lives.
His eyes lock onto yours, heavy-lidded and dark as sin, and every hair on your neck stands at attention. Electricity crackles down your spine, sharp and sweet, as his thumbs press into your hipbones. Just enough pressure to guide you closer, until there's barely room for breath between you.
"Didn't catch your name earlier," he says, voice pitched low enough that you have to lean in to hear him over the music. His breath fans hot against your ear, and you suppress a shiver.
"Didn't throw it," you shoot back, because apparently your mouth is running on autopilot now too. Great. Just great.
But he laughs—a quick, rough sound that you feel more than hear—and his hands flex against your hips. "Feisty. I like that."
"Bet you say that to all the girls who proposition you at clubs."
"Nah." His head dips closer, nose brushing your temple. "Just the ones who stare at me for ten minutes first."
"Excuse you, you were staring at me."
"Maybe we were staring at each other."
And okay, that's... fair actually. But you're not about to admit it. Instead, you roll your eyes, even as your fingers find the soft hair at his nape. "Does this usually work for you? This whole... whatever this is?"
"You tell me." His smile is audible in his voice, and you just know those dimples are making an appearance again. "You're the one who told me to dance."
"Maybe I just felt sorry for you, sitting there all alone."
"Wasn't alone. Had my friend."
"The dancer? Please, he was too busy killing it on the floor to keep you company."
His laugh vibrates through his chest into yours, and when did you get this close? When did your bodies start pressing together with every sway of the music? When did his thigh slip between yours, creating a friction that makes your breath catch?
"You been watching my friend too? Should I be jealous?"
The word sends an unexpected thrill through you, even though his tone is clearly teasing. "Wouldn't you like to know."
"Yeah," he says, and suddenly his voice isn't teasing at all. His grip tightens fractionally, pulling your hips more firmly against his. "Yeah, I would."
Goosebumps ripple across your arms, slow and inevitable, like lava carving its path through stone. His eyes burn into yours again, scorching hot, wild, and consuming—a downpour drowning a raging fire, leaving nothing but aftermath. What’s left in their wake is the kind of black that clings. Opaque. Dense. Like ash, settling over a forest stripped to its bare bones.
The sensible part of your brain—the part that usually keeps you from doing stupid, reckless things with beautiful strangers—is suspiciously quiet. Probably because all your blood is currently occupied elsewhere, namely with the way his hands are starting to trace slow patterns on your hips, the way his breath keeps ghosting over your neck, the way his body moves against yours like he's writing sin in cursive.
And maybe it's the vodka, or maybe it's how he's gazing at you like you're tranquility amidst his chaos, but you hear yourself say, "Buy me a drink first."
His smile is slow, dangerous. "That an order too?"
"Consider it a... suggestion."
"Mm." One hand slides to your lower back, pressing you impossibly closer for just a moment. "I'm starting to like your suggestions."
Your skin feels too tight, too hot, too everything. "Starting to?"
"Give me time." His lips brush your ear as he speaks, and this time you can't suppress the shiver. "Night's still young."
He actually does buy you that drink, which is... something. You're not sure what exactly, but definitely something. The way he guides you to the bar with his hand still on your lower back, fingers splayed wide enough to make you notice the imprint of his warmth? Also something.
"Another vodka cran," you tell the bartender, because hey, if it ain't broke. Then you catch his raised eyebrow and can't help adding, "What? Were you expecting something more sophisticated?"
"Nah." That damn dimple makes another appearance. "Just trying to figure you out."
"Good luck with that."
When he pulls out his wallet to pay, you catch a glimpse of multiple cards fanned out in the leather fold. Credit cards, maybe? Must have money then—or at least good credit. Not that it matters, because this is a one-time thing. A never-gonna-see-you-again thing. A what-happens-in-New-York stays-in-New-York thing.
Your fingers find the cocktail napkin beneath your glass, absently creating sharp creases with your thumbnail. It's one of those fancy ones with the bar's logo embossed in gold—pretentious, like everything else about this place.
Still. You notice how he pauses, studying one card for a beat too long before selecting it. Like he's making sure of something. Weird, but whatever.
The napkin disappears into your clutch without conscious thought. A habit you'll question later but can't explain now. You're too buzzed to care about his personal finances or your own questionable souvenir-keeping tendencies.
"Whiskey neat," he orders, and you barely contain your snort. Of fucking course he drinks whiskey. Probably thinks he's Don Draper or something.
"Pretentious much?"
"Says the girl drinking what's basically juice with a splash of alcohol."
"At least I'm not trying to prove anything."
His laugh is rough, genuine. "Who says I'm trying to prove anything?"
"Please. Whiskey at a club? That's like wearing a suit to McDonald's."
"Maybe I just like whiskey." He takes a deliberate sip, throat working in a way that absolutely doesn't make your mouth water. "Maybe I like the burn."
There's something in his voice when he says that, something that feeds the banked flame in your belly. His eyes are on you again, alternating between your eyes and your mouth like he can't quite decide where to focus.
"That line score you points often?" you manage to ask, even as your voice betrays you, emerging breathier than intended.
"I wouldn't know." He's definitely closer now. When did that happen? Did he move, or did you? "Is it scoring points now?"
And god help you, but it is. It really fucking is. Maybe it's the alcohol finally hitting your system properly, or maybe it's the way he's looking at you, but you find yourself swaying toward him. Drawn in like a moth to flame, even though you know you're probably going to get burned.
"You're kind of an asshole," you inform him, even as your free hand finds its way to his chest. His very firm chest, holy shit.
"Yeah?" His fingers trace up your spine, feather-light but deliberate. "Seem to like it though."
"Cocky too."
"Haven't heard any complaints."
He's so near now you can smell him—something clean and vicious, like a tempest raging on the coast. His breath fans across your lips, whiskey-warm and promising. One of his hands cups the back of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw in a way that makes your skin buzz.
"Anyone ever tell you you talk too much?" you murmur, and that's it—that's all it takes.
His mouth crashes into yours like a wave breaking against rocks, hot and insistent and absolutely fucking flawless. His lips are softer than you expected but he kisses hard, like he's trying to devour you whole. Like he's been thinking about this as much as you have. The hand on your neck tightens, tilting your head to deepen the angle, and holy fuck.
You've been kissed before. You've been kissed a lot, actually. But this? This is something else entirely. This is lightning in a bottle, this is matches in gasoline, this is every hackneyed poetry metaphor about fire and flame and immolation except it actually makes sense now because your entire body is electric with it.
His tongue swipes across your bottom lip and you open for him without hesitation, vodka cranberry forgotten in your hand. He tastes like alcohol and dewdrops and something else you can't name but instantly crave more of. The noise he makes when you tug his hair—low and ravenous and almost startled—shoots straight between your legs.
Someone whistles nearby—probably his dancer friend—but you couldn't care less. Not when his other hand is sliding down to your hip, pulling you closer. Not when he's kissing you like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth with his tongue. Not when everything in you is screaming more, closer, now.
You're definitely going to hell for this. But with the way he's kissing you?
Might be worth it.
His forehead rests against yours, and you're both breathing like you've run a marathon. Which is... embarrassing, actually. When was the last time a kiss left you this affected? What are you, some freshman at their first house party? Because this is ridiculous. You're ridiculous. Your heart is hammering against your ribs like it's trying to escape, and your lips are tingling, and—
And fuck it. Fuck everything. You want more.
"Let's take this outside," you say, surprising yourself with how steady your voice sounds considering your internal chaos. Because yes. Outside. Away from the crowd and the music and all these people who aren't him.
"Your house?" The words are barely out of his mouth before you can finish your suggestion, and okay, that's kind of hot. The eagerness. The way his fingers flex against your hip like he's already imagining it.
You can't help the smile that tugs at your lips. At least you're not alone in this desperate teenage hormone bullshit. At least he's just as affected as you are.
But then reality crashes in like a bucket of ice water. Your house? What house? You're crashing at Emma's place and—oh god, Emma would actually murder you. Like, literal homicide. She's already doing you a solid by covering for you with your parents, and bringing back some random (incredibly hot) guy from a club? Yeah, that would definitely void the best-friend contract.
"Yours?" you counter, trying not to sound too hopeful.
He makes this sound—half hiss, half groan—that shouldn't be as sexy as it is. "Can't."
"What, mommy and daddy don't let you?" The snark is automatic, defense mechanism kicking in to mask your disappointment.
"Nah, but my friend might not like it."
"Mine either."
You stare at each other for a moment, eyes darting back and forth like you're both trying to solve the same puzzle. The absurdity of the situation hits you at the same time—two grown adults, hot and bothered in a club, cockblocked by their respective roommate situations—and suddenly you're both laughing.
His chuckle is deep, rumbling through his chest where you're still pressed against him, and it's... nice. Really nice. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his dimples flash (and seriously, those things should come with a warning label), the way his thumb absently strokes your hip like he's forgotten he's doing it.
"Well, this is..."
"Stupid?" you offer.
"I was gonna say unfortunate, but yeah. Stupid works too."
You're still close enough to feel his breath on your lips, still wound tight with want, still buzzing from that kiss. And now you're both laughing about it, which should probably kill the mood but somehow doesn't. Somehow makes it better, actually. More real. Less like some fantasy hookup and more like...
Nope. Not going there. This is still just a one-night thing. A one-night thing that's currently being cockblocked by your respective living situations, but still. Just one night.
"So what now?" he asks, and his voice has dropped back into that lower register that you really want to hate. "Because I really want to kiss you again."
"Just kiss?" The words slip out before you can stop them, teasing and suggestive and probably way too candid.
His grip tightens, just marginally. Just enough to make your breath catch. "Definitely not just kiss."
"Fuck," you breathe, because eloquence has left the building. Possibly the state.
"That's the idea, yeah." And how he says it—all gruff edges and sinful vow—makes embers spark low in your abdomen. "Just need to sort out the logistics."
Which brings you right back to your current predicament. No Emma's place, no his place, and you're pretty sure having sex in the club bathroom is both tacky and probably illegal. But the way he's looking at you, like he really, really wants to wreck you…
"We could..." you start, then pause. Because what? What brilliant solution are you about to offer here? Your practical brain is absolutely useless right now, short-circuited by the lingering taste of whiskey on your tongue and the steady pressure of his hands on your body.
"Could what?" His thumb traces your bottom lip, and your train of thought derails completely.
"I have no idea," you admit, and his laugh is somehow both frustrated and fond.
"This is definitely stupid," he says, but he's still holding you close, still looking at your mouth like he's considering kissing you again anyway, roommate situations be damned.
"So stupid," you agree, already tilting your face up to meet him halfway.
You lick your lips, tasting geosmin and want and really awful decision-making skills.
Fuck it. Fuck everything. Emma can kill you tomorrow.
Your fingers wrap around his wrist—god, his hands are so warm—and you're already moving, already pulling up the Uber app with your free hand. Thank fuck for muscle memory because your brain is absolutely useless right now, too busy cataloging the way his pulse jumps under your fingers, the way he follows without hesitation.
"Where we goin'?" His voice is low and hoarse as he trails behind you, wrist a hostage to your grip.
"To my friend's place," you mutter, trying to type Emma's address without typos.
You: 𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊, 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠
You don’t mention you’re not heading home alone. She’ll find out herself.
The dude, for his part, just hums in response, like he's fine with whatever as long as it means getting somewhere private. Which, fair. You're kind of operating on the same wavelength here.
You make it to the coat check line first, because priorities. You’re not leaving your jacket behind. And it is moving at a glacial pace, because of course it is. The universe clearly wants to test your self-control by forcing you to stand here, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot on your neck.
The way his fingers keep "accidentally" brushing your thigh has you seriously considering saying fuck it and just leaving your jacket behind.
"Could just come back for it tomorrow," he murmurs, like he's reading your mind. His lips brush your ear as he speaks, and you barely sigh in response. Bastard knows exactly what he's doing.
"It's January in New York. I'm not getting hypothermia just because you can't keep it in your pants for five minutes."
"Could keep you warm."
And okay, that line should be cringeworthy. That's the kind of shit that would usually make you roll your eyes so hard they'd get stuck. But he has a way with words—or maybe it’s just his fucking voice—and somehow you like it.
"Next," the coat check girl calls, mercifully saving you from having to respond. You practically lunge forward, fumbling with your ticket. Better than letting him feel how that stupid line affected you.
He reaches past you to hand over his own ticket, arm bracketing you against the counter. And really? Really? This is some romance novel bullshit right here. Who does he think he is, Christian Grey? You should be annoyed. You should definitely not be noticing how good he smells, or how the position highlights just how much bigger he is than you, or—
"Here you go!" The coat check girl's voice is way too cheerful for—you check your phone—3:46 AM. She hands over your coats with a knowing smile that makes your face heat. Great. Just great. Even the coat check girl can tell you're about to make terrible life choices.
He helps you into your jacket because apparently he's decided to be a gentleman now, after spending the last hour making you question your life choices with his mouth. His hands linger on your shoulders just a fraction too long, and you have to bite your lip to keep from making an embarrassing sound.
"Ready?" he asks, voice still pitched low enough to make your skin tingle. You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, and let him guide you toward the exit with his hand on your lower back.
The coat check girl calls out "Have fun!" as you leave, and you seriously consider moving to a different city. Maybe a different country. Somewhere people don't immediately clock your questionable decision-making skills.
The Uber arrives embarrassingly fast—some higher power must be looking out for horny idiots tonight—and you both slide into the backseat. You start on opposite sides because you're trying to be decent human beings, trying to remember that your poor driver doesn't deserve a free show.
But then he's moving closer.
And closer.
And suddenly his mouth is on yours again, hot and demanding, and okay, yeah, sorry Mr. Uber driver but this is happening. His hand cups your jaw, tilting your head just so, and you're definitely making some kind of noise in the back of your throat but you're beyond caring. Beyond thinking about anything except the way his tongue slides against yours, the way his other hand grips your thigh.
Fifteen minutes. That's all it is from the club to Emma's place. Fifteen minutes that somehow feel like both seconds and eternity, lost in a haze of wandering hands and stolen kisses and trying (failing) to keep things PG-13. You're vaguely aware of streets passing, of turns and stops, of the driver pointedly turning up the radio.
And then your attention shifts. His teeth graze your bottom lip, fingers slowly sliding on your inner thigh. Hisses when your nails find his scalp. Heat. Want. Need. Building higher with each passing minute until you're practically vibrating out of your skin.
By some miracle (or possibly divine intervention), you make it to Emma’s building. You stumble out of the Uber, giving the driver your most apologetic smile-grimace combo. He just shakes his head, probably adding you to his mental list of "drunk hookups I never want to see again."
But then he's pressing you against the building's front door, mouth hot on your neck, and you really can't bring yourself to care about your Uber rating right now. Not when his hands are everywhere, not when he's making these little sounds against your skin that go straight between your legs.
It takes three tries to get the key in the lock—partly because it's 4 AM and you're tipsy, mostly because he won't stop kissing you long enough to focus. When you finally get the door open, you nearly fall through it, saved only by his arm around your waist.
"Smooth," he murmurs against your lips, laughing softly.
"Shut up," you breathe back, already pulling him in for another kiss. His back hits the closing door with a thud that's definitely too loud for 4 AM, but you're past caring. Past thinking about anything except the way his hands feel sliding up your sides, the way he tastes, the way he's eating you up with his eyes.
Emma's definitely going to murder you tomorrow. But with the way his fingers are digging into your hips, the way he's kissing you like he's trying to crawl inside your skin?
What-fucking-ever.
He pushes off the door like a man on a mission, and suddenly you're airborne—your legs wrapping around his waist on pure instinct. And okay, that's hot. The way he lifts you like you weigh nothing, the solid press of his body against yours, the little growl he makes when your hips roll against his.
"Room?" His voice is wrecked already, breath hot against your mouth between kisses that make your head spin.
You gesture vaguely toward Emma's guest room, too busy mapping the muscles of his shoulders to form actual words. He exhales sharply against your lips, already moving. Your jackets become casualties somewhere in the hallway, dropped with fumbling hands and zero grace because yeah, the vodka's definitely hitting now. Everything's warm and hazy and electric, your skin buzzing everywhere he touches.
Then you're falling backward onto the bed, and holy fuck. The way he's looking down at you—like he's been lost in the desert and you're a fucking oasis—it makes your breath catch in your throat. Makes heat pool low in your belly, makes your thighs press together in anticipation.
His shirt comes off in one fluid motion and—
Jesus fucking Christ.
You've seen attractive guys before. You've seen gym bros and athletes and the whole spectrum of male bodies. But this? This is like someone took Michelangelo's David and decided to make him real but better. He's all lean muscle and smooth skin, but with just enough softness to make him touchable. Human. Perfect.
And his chest—god, his chest. It's not the rock-hard wall of muscle you'd expect from someone who looks like that. Instead, there's this ideal balance of firm and soft, creating the most magnificent set of man tiddies you've ever laid eyes on. The kind you could actually cuddle up to without feeling like you're resting on concrete. The kind that would make a flawless pillow after—
Your lusty brain stops working as he leans down, pressing his hips deliberately against yours as his mouth finds your neck. His tongue traces patterns on your skin that make you arch up against him, desperate for more contact.
"Fuck," he breathes against your throat, nosing along your pulse point. "You smell so good. Like vanilla and..." He inhales deeply, making your skin erupt in goosebumps. "Like something sweet I wanna taste."
Your hands slide up his back, feeling the play of muscles under warm skin. He's perfectly balanced above you, using just enough of his weight to make you feel deliciously pinned without crushing you. You fucking love it. Don’t know why, don’t know how. Maybe it's just how attractive he is, or the heat of his mouth on your neck, or the press of his body against yours or the way he keeps making these little sounds like he can't help himself.
He's kissing you again before your vodka-soaked brain can process anything beyond rudimentary want, primal need. It's all heat and tongue and teeth, messy and perfect in the way only drunken hookups can be. One of his hands slides up your neck, fingers spreading across your throat. Not squeezing, just...resting.
It's fucking electric.
Your hands map the expanse of his back, nails dragging lightly in a way that makes him groan into your mouth. He's all smooth skin and sinewy muscle, hot to the touch and absolutely unfair. No one should be allowed to feel this good. To make you feel this good, just by existing.
He drags his mouth down your neck, teeth grazing your artery. Your fingers tangle in his hair, gripping tight enough to make him hiss. Which is hot. Way too hot, because that noise? It immediately spirals straight between your thighs.
And fuck, how he grinds down against you in response. It's obscenely filthy, the perfect pressure in just the right spot to make you want to moan aloud. To be shameless.
"Fuck," he breathes against your skin, and you feel it more than hear it. Feel the heat of his breath, the barely restrained want in the way he's touching you. "You feel so fucking good."
Your hips roll up to meet his in a way that's purely instinctual. Because yeah, he feels good too. Better than good. You feel the maddening length of him grinding against you through his jeans; his hand around your neck and—god, you want to claw his back, to wrap your legs around his waist and just take.
The hand on your neck flexes just slightly, thumb brushing your jawline and you think you die just a little because hello? You like that. You really, really fucking like that. New kink unlocked, it seems.
"Want you," he murmurs, voice low and rough with arousal. "Want you so fucking bad, you have no idea."
And oh, you do. You really, really do. Because wanting him is all you can think about right now. All you can focus on beyond the thrumming of your heart, the aching throb between your thighs. You want his hands, his mouth, his—
"Off," you manage, tugging at his jeans with clumsy fingers. "These need to come off like, yesterday."
His chuckle vibrates through his chest into yours. "So fucking bossy."
But he's already leaning back, already working on his fly as you prop yourself up on your elbows to watch. And Jesus Christ, the way he looks right now—shirtless and disheveled, dark hair falling into darker eyes, lips red from your kisses—it's unfair. Unreal.
So fucking hot you think you might actually die if he doesn't touch you again in the next ten seconds.
His jeans hit the floor with a soft thud and holy fuck—the sight of him in just black boxer briefs should be illegal in at least forty-eight states. Like, someone call the police because this? This is absolutely criminal. The way the fabric clings to his thighs, the obvious bulge that makes your mouth water—
But then he's on you again, and thinking becomes a foreign concept.
His hands find the hem of your dress, bunching the fabric up with an urgency that makes heat pool between your legs. You arch up to help him, already anticipating the slide of fabric over skin, but—
Oh.
The second the dress clears your elbows, he presses down. Uses the fabric to pin your arms above your head, effectively trapping you against the mattress. And that's... that's...
Fuck.
His mouth is suddenly on your breast, hot and wet and absolutely perfect. No hesitation, no teasing—just the wet slide of his tongue over your nipple before he sucks it into his mouth, and holy shit.
Thank god you wore this dress. Thank every fucking deity that you chose the tight red one that doesn’t need a bra, because the feeling of his mouth directly on your skin is absolutely devastating.
A moan tears from your throat—embarrassingly loud in the quiet room—as his teeth graze sensitive flesh. His responding groan vibrates through your chest, sending shivers down your spine. Your back arches instinctively, pressing more firmly into his mouth as his tongue swirls around your peaked nipple.
His free hand finds your throat again, and—
Oh god.
His fingers spread wide, applying the slightest pressure. Testing. Exploring. Like he's curious about your reaction, about the way he feels your heartbeat flutter faster in response.
You can't help the soft sound that escapes you—somewhere between a whimper and a moan. His grip tightens fractionally in response, and your cunt clenches around nothing. Because fuck, that shouldn't be as hot as it is. The way he's controlling your breath, the way he's holding you down, the way his mouth is absolutely ruining you one suck at a time...
"Sensitive," he murmurs against your skin, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. Bastard. His thumb strokes along your jugular, feeling the way your breath hitches. "Wonder what other sounds I can get that pretty throat to make."
You'd have a snappy comeback for that. You know you would. But then he's switching to your other breast, teeth scraping just right, and coherent thought becomes a distant memory. All you can focus on is the wet heat of his mouth, the steady pressure of his hand on your throat, the way he's using his other hand to keep you pinned against the bed.
And maybe it's the situation, or maybe it's just him, but you've never been this turned on in your life. Never been this wet, this desperate, this needy. It should be embarrassing really—the way you're practically writhing beneath him, the way every little touch sends electricity sparking through your veins.
But with the way he's groaning against your skin, the way his hips keep grinding against yours like he needs it? Maybe you're not the only one that’s losing sanity here.
His teeth catch your nipple just as his fingers flex against your throat, and the combination pulls a sound from you that you didn’t even know you could make. High and breathy and absolutely wrecked.
"Fuck," he breathes, hot against your wet skin. "The sounds you make..."
His thumb brushes over your throat again, slower this time, before gliding up. Along the underside of your jaw. Pausing at your bottom lip. He applies the slightest pressure, watching as your mouth falls open on instinct. You're not sure whether you breathe or whimper, but it makes his gaze go impossibly darker, makes his hips roll against yours in response.
And then his thumb is there, pressing against your tongue, and—goddamn him—you're sucking without a second thought. The groan he lets out is a shattered thing, low and guttural, as though he's just as wrecked as you.
For three glorious seconds, he just... freezes. Like his brain's temporarily offline, like you've actually managed to short-circuit whatever smooth operator routine he had going.
And okay, maybe that gives you enough time to yank the dress out the rest of the way, tossing it off your bent elbows in a way that you hope was sexier than it felt. He doesn’t seem to notice—too busy looking at you like he's forgotten how he got here. Or how to breathe.
Either way, it's a little distracting.
But then he's moving, yanking his hand back like you've scorched him. And before you can even process the loss, he's sliding down your body, trailing open-mouthed kisses that make your skin come alive.
Your tipsy brain tries to catch up with what's unfolding—manages to register the flex of his shoulders, the heat of his mouth marking a path down your stomach, the way his hands are suddenly gripping your thighs and—
Oh.
Oh fuck.
He pulls you to the edge of the bed like you weigh nothing, kneeling between your spread legs like he belongs there. And how he looks up at you through his lashes, mouth hovering just inches from where you're absolutely drenched through your panties...
You prop yourself up on your elbows because fuck if you're missing this show. The movement makes your head spin slightly—reminder that you are definitely not sober—but the sight of him between your thighs is worth any potential vertigo.
His breath fans hot against your core, and your hips twitch involuntarily. A smirk plays at the corners of his mouth, but before you can call him out on it, he's leaning in. Pressing his open mouth against you through the thin fabric of your underwear, and—
"Fuck."
The word tears from your throat unbidden because holy shit, this shouldn't feel this good already. It's barely anything—just the heat of his mouth, the slight pressure of his tongue through fabric—but your body's lighting up like a fucking supernova. Like every nerve ending is suddenly dialed to a hundred.
Your fingers find his hair without conscious thought, tangling in the dark strands as he works you through your panties. The grip of his hands on your thighs tightens in response, and fuck—that's definitely going to leave marks.
And okay, yeah. Maybe you're embarrassingly wet. Maybe you can feel it soaking through the fabric, making everything slick and messy. Maybe you should care about that, about being this affected this quickly.
But you don’t. Not really, with the way he's groaning against you like he's dying for it. Like he can't get enough. Yeah, dignity can take a backseat.
Besides, all thoughts of pride or shame fly right out the window when he finally, finally hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties. Your hips lift automatically, helping him slide them down your legs. They catch on your heels because of course you're still wearing your fuck-me pumps, but he doesn't seem to mind. Just lets the fabric dangle from one ankle as he dives back in, and—
"Holy shit."
His tongue drags up your slit in one long, deliberate stroke, and your brain temporarily stops working. Like, full system shutdown. Windows XP error sound and everything. Because fuck—that shouldn't feel as mindbogglingly good as it does.
Then he flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue and you make this absolutely mortifying noise—some choked little "guh" that would humiliate you if you were sober enough to care. His lip ring adds this extra edge of sensation that makes your thighs quake, cool metal a sharp contrast to the heat of his mouth.
He makes this sound against you—something between a hum and a growl (and okay, yeah, maybe 'growl' isn't the right word because what are you, fucking animals? But you're drunk and getting your pussy eaten properly for the first time in forever, so vocabulary can fuck right off). Whatever it is, it vibrates through you in a way that has your hips jerking up, seeking more.
Then he's doing these small, slow circles around your clit. So. Fucking. Slow. Like he wants to drive you crazy, wants you to fucking writhe against him. You try not to just grind up against his face. Because that would be desperate, right? That would be—
Damn.
The circles suddenly get faster, tighter, more intense. His tongue flicking over your clit with the kind of speed and precision that would put Fast & Furious to shame. And the sounds coming out of your mouth? Yeah, those aren't even words anymore. Just a stream of "oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck."
If Emma’s home—because it’s probably been an hour already—she’s probably getting one hell of a show through these paper-thin walls. But you know what? She fucking owes you. All those times you covered for her sneaking out to Bobby Martinez's house in high school? Yeah, consider this payback with interest.
He drags his tongue back down, gathering your wetness (and okay, yeah, you're basically flooding at this point but whatever), then slides back up. Adding texture to his movements like some kind of oral sex virtuoso. Because apparently this stranger knows exactly what he's doing with that mouth, and honestly? Good for you. You deserve this. You deserve to have your pussy eaten by someone who treats it like a goddamn art form.
So you lean back, let yourself enjoy it. Let him explore and taste and fuck—the way he's absolutely feasting on you like you're his last meal. His tongue finds your clit again, and this time he sucks it into his mouth, and the sound that rips from your throat probably violates noise ordinances in several states.
The wet sounds of his mouth on you are absolutely obscene. Like, pornographic-level obscene. All sucking and slurping and Jesus fucking Christ, you should not find that as hot as you do. But with your stiletto digging into his back (when did that happen?) and his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave fingerprints...
Yeah. Yeah, definitely hot.
Then his tongue drags down, down, down—and fuck, you can feel every ridge, every texture against your sensitive flesh. He reaches your entrance and just... circles it. Like he's mapping you out. Like he’s thinking about his next move.
Five blessed seconds where you can actually catch your breath. Where your brain starts to come back online and—
Fuck.
His tongue plunges into you without warning and your hand definitely just yanks out some of his hair but who fucking cares because his nose is nudging your clit while he tongue-fucks you and—and—
And your brain's offline again. Good talk.
He adjusts his arms, somehow pulling you even closer to his face. As if you weren't already basically smothering him. As if he literally wants to drown in your cunt. And that thought shouldn't be as scorching hot as it is but holy shit.
A moan tears from your throat—loud enough that Emma's probably googling noise complaint laws right now. But you can feel it building, that telltale tightening, that electric tension spreading through your core. Your clit's throbbing in time with your racing pulse and—
And he doesn't change a thing.
Because this guy? This absolute genius between your legs? He knows better than to pull that amateur hour bullshit where they speed up right when you're close. No, he maintains the exact same rhythm, the exact same pressure that got you here. Like he's done this before. Like he actually pays attention to what works.
(And okay, maybe you shouldn't be thinking about his past experience right now but your brain's kind of shorting out so whatever.)
Your stiletto digs deeper into his shoulder—might actually be drawing blood at this point but he doesn't seem to care one iota. If anything, he groans against you like he's getting off on it. Like pain turns him on. And that's...that's definitely something to stash away for later.
Or never. Because this is a one-time thing. Right. Focus.
Except focusing is basically impossible when he's eating you out like it's his actual job. When the pressure's building and building and—
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Your back arches off the bed like you're auditioning for America's Next Top Model: After Dark Edition. The orgasm hits you like a riptide, waves of pleasure so intense your vision actually whites out for a second. Your thighs clamp around his head, heel probably leaving permanent marks on his back, and you're definitely making sounds that would make a porn star blush but—
But holy shit.
His tongue flicks over your oversensitive clit one last time—the absolute bastard—and your whole body jerks as you whimper. Which, okay, definitely earned that one. Because holy fuck.
You slump back against the bed, bones liquified, as he prowls up your body. His hands plant on either side of your face and—wow, okay, up close he's even more unfairly beautiful. All sharp jawline and scorching eyes and lips that are literally glistening with...yeah.
"You taste exactly like you smell," he murmurs, and what kind of weird-ass compliment is that? Like, thanks? Good to know your pussy matches your perfume brand?
Except...it kind of works? Something tingles in your face and no. Absolutely not. You are not getting all swoony just because Hot Stranger is saying vaguely poetic shit during sex. This is just your horny lizard brain going 'hot man say words, neurons go brr.' That's all.
Then his mouth is on your neck and—yeah, okay, thinking is canceled anyway. His hands trace maddening patterns down your stomach, feather-light touches that make your muscles jump. And when he tugs his briefs down, his cock springs free and—
Oh.
Well then.
Your body apparently didn’t get the memo about the standard refractory period because hello, Round Two suddenly seems very appealing. It hasn’t even been five minutes since you came but here you are, already clenching around nothing like some kind of sex-starved teenager.
He leans back slightly, reaching for something and—ah. His jeans. More specifically, his wallet. From which he produces not one but multiple condoms, and honestly? We love a prepared king. Nothing hotter than a guy who practices safe sex without having to be asked.
(And yes, you're literally evaluating his sexual responsibility while naked and still tingling from one of the best orgasms of your life. Sue you.)
He grabs one condom and tosses the others somewhere on the bed. Then—because apparently he's auditioning for some porno-meets-action-movie hybrid—he puts the wrapper between his teeth. Locks eyes with you. Rips it open.
And okay, PSA time: Kids (not that any kids should be reading this, what the fuck brain?)—this is not how you open condoms. Use your fingers like a normal person, not your teeth like some kind of sexual menace. That's literally Condom Safety 101.
But then again, when a guy this stupid hot does literally anything, your brain just kind of... accepts it. Like yeah, sure, demolish that condom wrapper with your teeth while maintaining smoldering eye contact. That's normal. That's fine. You're fine.
He gives the condom a cursory check (okay, at least he's being thorough), pinches the tip between his fingers and you just... watch. Wait.
"You gonna fuck me tomorrow or...?" The words slip out before your self-censor can nab them, biting and teasing.
Bad choice.
His hand—his stupidly large, stupidly warm hand—wraps around your thigh and yanks you down the bed in one fluid motion. And why the fuck is that so hot? Why are you noticing how his fingers practically span your whole thigh? Why is the heat of his palm against your skin making your breath catch?
Your eyes flicker back to his cock and—oh. When did he even get the condom on? You must have missed that while you were having your crisis about his hands. But he's ready now, thick and hard and—
Fuck.
He pushes in with one swift motion and your body just... takes him. Like you're literally eager for it, still slick and open from his mouth. He makes this soft gasping sound like he's actually dying, like your cunt is some kind of religious experience.
"Fuck, you're so wet," he groans, hips flush against yours. "So fucking slippery and warm, feels like silk—"
"That's—ah—what happens when you eat someone out properly," you manage, even as your walls flutter around him. Because apparently your mouth doesn’t know when to quit, even with a dick inside you.
His laugh is rough, breathless.
"I’ll keep that in mind."
And fuck—the way he says it, like a promise, like a threat. Your cunt clenches at the thought and he actually growls.
He pushes your thighs down against the mattress and—ow. Okay, that's definitely going to hurt tomorrow. Future You is probably already plotting Present You's murder, adding your name to some karmic hit list right next to Emma’s (who, let’s be real, is definitely contemplating homicide through these paper-thin walls right now).
But then he starts moving and—oh.
Oh fuck.
Every coherent thought evaporates because he's burying himself so deep you swear he's trying to carve out a permanent place inside you. Like he wants your body to remember exactly how he feels, wants to leave an impression that'll last long after tonight.
You didn’t even get a proper look at his size earlier (too busy fizzing over his hands, his mouth, literally everything else), but holy shit. What you do know is he's thick—like, properly thick. Every inch of him pressed against your walls like he's trying to eliminate any space between you, like he's mapping out your insides for future reference.
"Fuck, you're tight," he groans, and you actually feel him twitch inside you. "So fucking—"
"Less talking," you manage to gasp out, "more moving."
His laugh is rough, breathless. "As you wish."
He snaps his hips once—testing, exploring—and your breath hitches in your throat. Then again. And again. Quick thrust in, torturously slow pull out, and every single time has you gasping like some Victorian maiden with a too-tight corset.
"Like that?" He sounds way too smug for someone balls-deep in a stranger. "The way you squeeze me every time I—"
"You always this chatty during sex?" Your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy, but whatever. "Or am I just special?"
Another snap of his hips that makes your eyes roll back. "Maybe I just like the sounds you make when I'm inside you."
And fuck—why is that hot? That shouldn’t be hot. You're still so wet from earlier that you can hear it, can feel how smoothly he glides in and out, nice and easy.
"You're certainly—ah—confident," you manage between thrusts, because apparently your mouth doesn’t know when to quit. "Compensating for something?"
His grip on your thighs tightens. "Want me to stop and let you check?"
"Don’t you fucking dare."
His pace quickens and—oh hello, is that a smirk he's biting back? It is. It absolutely fucking is. And your brain, your stupid, traitorous brain, finds that scorching. Because of course it does. You squint your eyes shut because you can’t deal with how cocky he looks right now, can’t process how that cockiness is actually doing it for you.
Congratulations, you've officially lost it. This is your villain origin story. Death by dick-induced insanity. They'll write case studies about you in Psychology Today: "Local Woman's Brain Melts Because Hot Stranger Has Good Dick Game." Your mother would be so proud.
But also? Also shut the fuck up, brain, because you're literally getting the best dick of your life right now so maybe save the self-reproach for later? Like, there's a time and place for your characteristic overthinking and this ain’t it.
He leans forward then, changing the angle as he chases your mouth, and holy fuck. Each thrust goes deeper, harder, faster—like he's trying to reach parts of you no one else has touched. His kiss is messy, all tongue and teeth and desperation, and you're actually whimpering into his mouth like some kind of—
Wait.
Hold the fucking phone.
Since when do you whimper? What is this, some kind of Harlequin romance novel? Are you secretly the protagonist of a Fabio-covered paperback? Because you don’t whimper. You don’t make these soft, needy little sounds into strange men’s mouths. That’s not your brand. That’s not—
But then he rolls his hips in this way that makes you see actual fucking stars, and okay, you know what? Fuck your brand. Fuck everything. Because the way he's moving? The way he's filling you up like you're some kind of horny piñata? Yeah, that takes precedence over your identity crisis.
And speaking of crises—why does this feel so fucking good? Like, mathematically speaking, dick is dick. It's basic anatomy. Tab A into Slot B. So why does every thrust feel like he's rewriting the laws of physics? Why does your body respond to him like he's got some kind of sexual Midas touch?
The worst part? The absolute worst part? You can feel another orgasm building already. Which is ridiculous. Impossible. You literally came like ten minutes ago. This man hasn’t even finished once and here you are, ready to go again like some kind of horny Energizer bunny.
You need to have a serious conversation with your pussy about standards and expectations. Like, what happened to the refractory period? What happened to playing hard to get? Because this? This instant response to everything he does? This eager little flutter every time he hits that spot just right?
This is just embarrassing.
But also really, really fucking good.
"You take my cock so fuckin' well," he groans against your neck, voice rough and slurred. "Like y'were made for it, so perfect—"
And okay, what kind of porn dialogue bullshit is that? Who actually says things like that during sex? More importantly, why is it working? Why does every filthy word from his mouth send electricity shooting straight to your cunt?
"Hnnngh—"
That's it. That's all you can manage because your brain-to-mouth filter is totally fried. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he hits that spot just right, and you're pretty sure you're leaving marks but whatever. Future Him problems.
"F-fuck, how you clench around me when I say shit like that," his words come out breathless, hitching. "Like hearing how good you feel? How tight and wet and fucking flawless—"
"Shut up." But it comes out more like a whine than a command, completely undermining any attempt at snark. Your walls flutter around him traitorously, and his responding groan vibrates through your whole body.
"Make me," he challenges, punctuating it with a particularly vicious thrust that has your eyes rolling back. "Or maybe you don't want me to? Maybe you secretly get off on—fuck—on hearing how amazing you are, how nobody's ever swallowed me this deep before—"
"Nghh—" Your brain's offline. Completely fucking offline. No thoughts, head empty, just the overwhelming sensation of him moving inside you, the heat of his breath against your neck, the absolute filth falling from his lips.
"S'true though," he pants, pace growing erratic. "Never felt anything like this, like your—oh fuck—"
A moan tears from your throat—loud and wanton and utterly mortifying. But you can't help it, not when he's fucking you like he's trying to ruin you for anyone else, not when he keeps saying these things that make your insides turn to molten lava.
"That's it, lemme hear you," he encourages, and you want to punch him for how smug he sounds but you also want him to never stop. "Love the sounds you make when I'm deep in this pussy, when I—shit—"
His voice catches as you deliberately tighten around him, a small victory that makes you smirk despite how your body's on fire.
"Fuck, you're evil."
"You talk too much," you manage to get out between gasps, even as your hips chase his rhythm desperately. You're close—so fucking close—but not quite there.
He laughs against your neck, the sound dark and promising.
“Touch yourself for me."
When you don't immediately comply—because for some reason you still want to challenge him—he pulls back just enough to look you in the eye.
"Rub that pretty clit, show me how you like it."
The command in his voice shouldn't turn you on this much. "Make me," you challenge, because apparently your mouth has a death wish.
"Oh?"
His rhythm slows to something torturous, each thrust deep and deliberate. "Do I need to show you where it is? Guide those lovely fingers myself?"
You're about to snark back when his hand slides between your bodies, and—oh. Oh.
"Found it," he says with infuriating smugness, circling your clit with practiced ease. Your whole body jerks at the contact, oversensitive and desperate. "Seems like I know exactly where it is. Don't I?"
"Fuck—" Your voice breaks as he applies just the right amount of pressure, the bastard. "You're so—nghh—"
"I'm so what?" He's grinning now, you can hear it in his voice even as you squeeze your eyes shut. "C'mon, tell me. Use your words."
"Insufferable," you grit out, but your body betrays you, arching into his touch. "Arrogant—ah—asshole—"
"Maybe." His fingers speed up, matching the pace of his thrusts, and holy shit you're going to die. "But I'm an arrogant asshole who's about to make you cum again, aren't I?"
He's right and you hate it. Hate how well he reads your body, hate how he found your clit without hesitation like he's got some kind of carnal GPS, hate how fucking good he is at this.
"That's it," he encourages as your breathing hitches, as your nails dig into his shoulders. "Let me feel you fall apart. Wanna feel this cunt clamp down on my cock when you—"
His hips stutter and you can feel him pulsing inside you, even through the condom. The way his whole body tenses, the broken sound he makes against your throat—it pushes you right over the edge. Yeah. Your second orgasm says hi; has you curling your toes against his back, tensing your thighs around him as if he would ever dream of leaving right now.
"Fuck fuck fuck—" You're not even sure which one of you is saying it anymore. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe you're having an out-of-body experience because Jesus Christ.
For a moment, there's just silence. Just breathing. Just the sound of your heart trying to recall its normal cadence. Then he chuckles against your cheek—a low, sated sound that you'll deny remembering tomorrow—and follows it with a quick nip that makes you jolt.
"Fuck, that was good," he breathes, still catching his breath.
"S'alright," you manage, even though your legs are literally jelly and your brain's still rebooting.
He pulls back just enough to quirk an eyebrow at you, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips. "Just alright?"
"Fishing for compliments?" You raise your own eyebrow, trying to ignore how his hand is still absently stroking your hip. "That's kind of desperate."
"Says the girl who came twice."
And—okay, rude. Accurate, but rude.
He shifts then, carefully pulling out (and at least he's considerate about it, making sure not to hurt you), and starts dealing with the condom. But then he just... stands there. Looking lost. Condom in hand and this adorably bemused expression that makes something in your chest do a weird little flip.
No. Not adorable. Nothing about this guy is adorable. Hot? Yes. Skilled with his tongue? Abso-fucking-lutely. But not adorable. You refuse to find anything about him cute, especially not the way he's glancing around the room like a lost puppy trying to figure out where to—
You can't stifle the snort that escapes you. "Trash can's over there, genius." You gesture with your head toward the small bin by the dresser. "Try not to get lost on the way."
He rolls his eyes but moves across the room, and you definitely don't watch the play of muscles in his back as he walks. Or the way his ass looks in the dim light. Or how his hand rakes through his tousled hair as he leans down to dispose of the condom and—
Fuck.
Fuck.
Because here's the thing: you've had one-night stands before. You know how this goes. Quick fuck, awkward goodbye, never see each other again. That's the routine. That's the protocol. That's what smart, sensible people do.
But.
But you're already thinking about how his mouth felt between your legs. About how he filled you up just right. About how he seemed to know exactly what to do with his hands, his hips, his—
And you know what? Fuck it. Fuck being sensible and sane. Fuck playing it cool. You've got a hot guy with stellar dick game right here, right now. Might as well take advantage while you can.
Before your brain can talk you out of it, you're launching yourself off the bed. Your legs are still a bit wobbly (thanks, Mr. Two Orgasms), but you manage to catch him just as he turns around. Your mouth crashes into his, messy and demanding, as you push him against the wall.
His surprised grunt turns into a pleased hum against your lips, and his hands immediately find your hips like they belong there. Like this is exactly what he was hoping would happen.
Cocky bastard.
He spins you around so fast your head spins—or maybe that's just the lingering vodka. Either way, suddenly your back's hitting the wall and—oh. Okay. This is happening. Again. Because apparently your body doesn't give two shits about being thoroughly fucked already.
His mouth crashes back into yours, hungry and insistent, and it should be gross really—you can taste yourself on his tongue, everything's messy and uncoordinated and frantic. But instead it's just...hot. So fucking hot you feel like you're melting from the inside out.
Then his hands slide down to your thighs and he's lifting you like you weigh zilch (and seriously, what is it with this guy and manhandling? More importantly, why do you like it?). Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, and how his cock twitches against your stomach—already getting hard again—should not make you feel this smug.
"Eager?" you manage to gasp between kisses, because apparently your mouth doesn't know when to quit.
He bites your bottom lip in response, just hard enough to make you whimper (and fuck, there's that sound again, what is wrong with you tonight?). "I’m sorry? Weren’t you the one jumping me?”
"Just felt sorry for you." The words come out breathier than intended as his mouth finds that spot behind your ear. "Standing there looking all lost with your used condom—"
His growl cuts you off, vibrating through his chest into yours. One of his hands tangles in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat, and—fuck. The way he attacks your neck like he's trying to mark you up, like he wants everyone to know exactly what you've been doing...
Then his mouth finds yours again, swallowing whatever protest you might have made. And it's different this time—sloppier, needier. All clashing teeth and warring tongues and his hands everywhere at once. You're pressed so tightly between him and the wall you can feel every twitch of his muscles, every stuttered breath.
One of his hands slides up your thigh, fingertips trailing fire in their wake, and you're already embarrassingly slick again. Already aching for him like you didn't just have him inside you minutes ago. Your hips roll against him craving friction, and the sound he makes—half groan, half snarl—shoots straight between your legs.
"Condom," you gasp against his mouth. "Need a—"
"Yeah," he breathes, but he doesn't move away. Just keeps kissing you like he's suffocating and you're oxygen, like he can't bear to stop even for a heartbeat. "Yeah, just—fuck, you feel so good—"
Your brain's rapidly disintegrating, especially with the way he keeps grinding against you, the way his mouth keeps doing that to your neck. But you manage to remember: "Bed. Other condoms. On the bed."
He makes this sound of acknowledgment but still doesn't budge, just shifts his hips in a way that has his cock sliding against your clit and—jesus fuck.
"If you don't get a condom right now," you warn, voice embarrassingly unsteady, "I'm going to kill you."
His laugh is rough, breathless. "Such violence."
He practically teleports to the bed—like, Olympic-level sprinting for that condom. It'd be comical, the way he fumbles with the wrapper (apparently Mr. Smooth isn't so smooth when he's desperate), except you're too busy being embarrassingly turned on by his urgency.
You're about to suggest moving to the bed—because your legs are already shaking and wall sex seems ambitious after two orgasms—but—
Holy fuck.
He's got you up against the wall again in one fluid motion, hands gripping your thighs as he lines himself up and—oh god. The sound that rips from your throat as he fills you in one swift thrust is utterly shameful. But the broken "fuck" that falls from his lips? How his whole body shudders as he bottoms out?
Yeah, okay. Maybe worth the mortification.
"Jesus fuck," he breathes against your neck, voice wrecked. "You feel—shit, how do you feel even better than before?"
"Hush it," you gasp, even as your walls flutter around him. "And move."
He laughs, breathless and gritty. "Demanding little thing." But he's already moving, setting a pace that has your head lolling back. "God, you’re even wetter than before, taking me so well—”
"That your professional opinion?" Your attempt at snark falls flat when it comes out as more of a moan. "Done extensive research, have you?"
His hips snap up particularly hard at that. "Never—fuck—never felt anything like this."
And that should be a line. That should be the kind of bullshit guys say during hookups to stroke their own egos. Except the way he says it—all breathless wonder and raw honesty—makes something hot unfurl in your chest.
"Yeah?" It comes out embarrassingly breathy, but whatever. Can’t really care when every thrust is melting honey down your spine. "Prove it."
He makes this sound—half growl, half moan—like he fucking loves your audacity. "Already made you come twice."
"Maybe I was faking."
"Sweetheart, nobody's that good an actress."
And honestly? Fair. But you're not about to admit that, not when he's already so smug about how well he plays your body. Instead, you drag him down for a kiss that's more teeth than finesse, swallowing his groans as his pace gets more erratic.
"F-fuck," he pants against your mouth. "Gonna make you come again. Wanna feel you—"
"Big talk for someone who—ah—hasn't delivered yet."
His responding thrust makes your back arch off the wall. "Jus’ wait."
His hips snap up harder at your challenge, making your head thump back against the wall. And fuck—the way he's moving now, all rough desperation and graceless rhythm. Everything's wet and messy and absolutely filthy, the sounds of skin on skin blending with your breathless moans.
"Still—ah—ah—waiting for that delivery," you manage, even as your nails dig into his shoulders.
"Fuckin’—" His breathless laugh is menacing. "Always—fuck—gotta have the last word, don’tcha?”
You'd have a comeback for that, you really would, except he chooses that moment to shift his angle and—holy shit. Because now? Now his pubic bone grinds against your clit every time he moves, every time he thrusts deep inside you. And honestly? Fucking unfair that even his bones know where your clit is.
You can feel him twitching inside you, can tell he's close by the way his breath comes in harsh pants against your neck. And you're almost there too, just need a little more—
But then he's groaning, hips stuttering as he cums. His whole body tenses, pressing you flatter against the wall as he empties into the condom.
And okay, great for him, congratulations, but you were so fucking close.
You tap his back urgently. "Keep goin’."
"What?" He's still catching his breath, forehead pressed against your shoulder. "Gimme a second, ah—I just—"
"I was—right there," you whine (and yes, you're actually whining now, this is what you've been reduced to). "Don't you dare stop."
He lifts his head, looking at you incredulously. "I literally just filled the condom—"
"I don't give a fuck, just move."
And okay, yeah, PSA time number two: This is definitely not safe sex practice. The second a condom's full, it needs to be changed. That's like, Sex Ed 101. But also? Also your clit is throbbing and you were this close to coming and your horny lizard brain has completely taken over.
"Jesus," he breathes, but he's already starting to move again, shallow little thrusts that make your eyes roll back. "You're fucking insatiable."
"Like earlier," you gasp, grinding down against him. "With the… with your hipbone."
He laughs against your neck—a rough, breathless sound that shouldn't be as arousing as it is. "Gotcha."
And he does. Repositions himself, makes sure he’s got exactly the same position he had earlier. His hipbone comes in contact with your clit as he begins thrusting faster again, and fucking yeah, that’s what you needed.
"Fuck, the way you feel," he groans. "So slick and snug and—shit—"
"Shut up shut up shut up—"
Because you can't handle his voice right now, can't deal with how his words make the drowning sensation grow more and more intense by the second. You're so close you can taste it, right on the precipice, just need a little more—
Then he nips at your neck, his tongue flattening against your pulse point. And that's it. You're a goner. Again. For the third time tonight.
Your entire body locks up as bliss courses through, lapping at your core like waves at a shore. Your eyes instinctively close as you relish it in all its intensity, and you're pretty sure you make some kind of mortifying noise but whatever. Three orgasms in, dignity is a distant memory.
He slows his movements gradually, letting you ride it out, and you can feel him softening inside you. Your head drops to his shoulder because keeping it upright seems like way too much effort right now. The residual booze is hitting different after getting thoroughly wrecked—everything soft and fuzzy around the edges.
You vaguely register him checking the condom with his free hand—the other one still supporting your ass because apparently you're not ready to unwrap your legs from his waist yet. Your brain's moving in slow motion, heavy with alcohol and mist and the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that only comes from really good sex.
"Hey." He taps your back lightly. "You falling asleep on me? Dick game that good?"
"Die," you mumble into his shoulder, not even bothering to lift your head. "Just... shut up and die."
You hear him chuckle, vaguely. It should be irritating. It isn't. You're too drained to care. Everything's warm and hazy and your limbs feel like they're crafted from lead.
You're only half-aware of him moving you to the bed, of sheets being pulled up, of a warm body pressing against your back. Your consciousness is already drifting, floating in that space between awake and asleep where nothing quite computes.
The last thing you register, right before slumber claims you completely, is his nose pressed against your neck and his drowsy murmur:
“Smell like vanilla now too."
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#jungkook smut#jungkook scenario#jungkook x reader#bts fanfic#bts smut#bts x reader#bts scenario#bts imagine#jungkook fanfic#jungkook imagine#bts jungkook#bts fanfiction#jungkook fanfiction#jk fic#bts au#jungkook oneshot#jungkook angst#jungkook college au#college jungkook#bts scenarios#jungkook scenarios#bts fic recs#jungkook x you#jeon jungkook x y/n#fmu#fuck me up
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admittedly at first i was like NO HONG LU CANNOT DO ANYTHING WRONG HES NICE ! but after reading all your analysis posts... no that's absolutely the thrill of his character lmao. it's so so interesting thinking about the circumstances someone gets put in that makes them act like this!! so thank you for posting about the details i did not see .. im like hong lu i love you please get better but until them i am watching what you're doing with a popcorn bucket
I'm glad my posts are helping others finally see the light that is Hong Lu being kind of a piece of shit that pretends to be nice ❤️ //silly
But yeah, you're right that the main draw of his character is the fact that he puts on that act, that he's not just some pure innocent maybe sad anime boy. He's a traumatized grown ass man whose defense mechanism is lying and extremely repressing his own emotions for the sake of avoiding consequences that could hurt him. He's also a bit of a piece of shit that is using those same skills to get away with being an asshole.
Hong Lu is such a fascinating and well-written character because he has so many layers to him. Layers that he actively makes sure not even the players can see. He's written to fool not just his fellow characters around him, but the reader themself as well. Genuinely the best written liar I've seen in a piece of fiction in a long fucking while.
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Juvia 🌧️🫧🌊
I absolutely love her design and hate the way her character journey was undermined by the author. She has one of the strongest magical abilities and yet her only role is to be a comic relief. What I’ve imagined for her is an interesting inner turmoil and the most fascinating fight scenes, rather than constantly humiliating herself in front of her love interest. Speaking of Gray, it’s easy to see the reason for his discomfort in this relationship, as he is a proud and independent person who can’t stand a lack of self-respect.
One more thing I missed in canon is the juxtaposition between Juvia and Natsu, since their powers are complete opposites of each other. Imagine the world where we got her in full force, being the major threat same as Erza and Mirajane?
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good morning y’all !! now that i’ve had time to sleep on the crossover… oh my god ?? and i mean that in the best way possible. this was everything to me omg
although there were some things i lowkey wish we could’ve seen (i.e., more kelly and voight tension, potential my miracle parallel with stellaride), not getting them honestly didn’t take away at all from how much i loved this? more thoughts below the cut bc i got very rambly (and spoilers i guess ??)
starting with stellaride bc they’re my lovelies, obsessed with literally all their scenes. the intro? perfection. stella telling kelly to be careful without knowing she would be the one in the most danger the whole time? o w. “stella kidd, report back right now”? O W. and the more i think about it, the more i’m almost kinda glad we didn’t get the my miracle parallel? i mean sure, the absolute emotional gut punch would’ve done wonders, but there’s something that feels so much more intrinsically them about refusing to say goodbye to each other (namely stella refusing) and instead maintaining that fierce hope that everything would sort itself out and they’d be back together. on top of that, their little reunion with kelly being like “let’s get out of here tonight” like YES please go on that goddamn vacation now you two deserve to go to cancún something awful. what we did get may not be as heavy of a punch, per se, but at least to me, it hit all the same, and my god was i a lowkey mess hearing kelly’s message to stella being what she told him that morning😭 “we gotta make the time” what if i collapse huh then what
i think this has the potential, judging by the promo as well as this article, to be such a good segue into them finally getting into the real deep conversations and i’m really curious to see how it plays out over the rest of the season. i know some people think there could be a “but…” to this, but even if there is, i don’t think it will be as major of one people might worry it could be. that said, will it be an easy path? definitely not. i know we’re about to get some semblance of drama before the end of the season (and i’m prepared)😭 but all things considered, we’re heading in the overall right direction !!
secondly, plouch. oh my god plouch. i haven’t gotten more emotional watching this show in so long than i did last night watching those two. mouch talking to trudy before she went under for surgery? nobody touch me i’m STILL recovering from that one😭 christian stolte the actor that you are WOW, he put 200% into that and it SHOWS
thank GOD tho she lived holy SHIT i was fucking petrified ripley and lenox were gonna come out and say she didn’t make it omg
just as i predicted too, burzek gave me emotional damage !! ruzek refusing to say goodbye and being insistent he would be home for dinner ?? letting mak pick it ?? the way kim literally BOOKED IT to him at the end and he picked her up ?? i can’t stop watching that it’s so so perfect😭
stella and ruzek was such an incredible duo too, i need more of them asap actually. the way they balanced each other out and relied on each other and just worked so seamlessly as a team by the end of it, despite not being super familiar with each other? SO GOOD
what stella did to duffy when he had her at gunpoint??? first off i’m stunned that happened i wasn’t expecting that shit literally at all and god was i living in fear for a few moments there. but secondly, i’m floored omg, STELLA KIDD THE WOMAN YOU ARE. we all knew how badass she was before this, but that was something else. i think i just fell in love with her all over again but i digress
also one last thing, pascal’s reaction to stella not answering ?? i could go on and on about kelly’s obviously but pascal’s honestly caught me by surprise considering how frequently they’ve butt heads this entire season. the genuine concern ?? OUCH. there’s hope for them yet !! seeing that side of him, even if brief, was a good emotional punch. that mf truly does fascinate me as a character. will be thinking about that entire sequence for a while
i won’t keep yapping; i think all of that about sums up what i can manage cohesively LMAO. was this crossover perfect? no, but you truly can see just how much love and care and effort went into this entire thing from everyone involved. and i think as much as i do love the infection crossover, i gotta say, i think this one takes it as number one for me. i will be watching all three episodes so many more times
one chicago my beloved <3
#not even gonna mention the ‘including my wife’ thing y’all already KNOW#also how absolutely snippy he was the literal entire time up until they were reunited holy shit#actually obsessed with that#those two mfs BETTER have gone straight on that vacation i can’t reiterate how much they deserve it#anyways if i think of more thoughts later i’ll share them but this is what i got for now <3#kelly severide#stella kidd#stellaride#adam ruzek#kim burgess#burzek#randall mcholland#trudy platt#plouch#chicago fire#chicago med#chicago pd#one chicago
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baddddddd. he's giving pomme first pick of their dungeon loot rn. he's so NICE. not just to the eggs but in general (i am always thinking of those elegant letters). but the eggs are the only ones who he will quickly and easily show vulnerability to. with everyone else it's like there's a layer there, a wall of silliness he keeps up on purpose, but it just. isn't there with the eggs.
there's something about the way that he cares that I can't put into words. like he cares so much. so fucking intensely. look at dapper. look how kitted out that egg is. look at how much time bbh has spent with the eggs, and look at how much time and effort he puts into figuring out how to keep them safe. he goes HAM when it comes to caring for the eggs, but it comes so naturally to him. it feels like caring for people with his whole entire soul is his default, but he doesn't want it to be. or, maybe want play a part in it- maybe it's too dangerous to care so much so quickly. maybe that puts other people he loves at risk. maybe it scares people. but that wall between him and other people is one that he built, and it's bbh, so he built it strong, so even when he's surrounded by people who have proven over and over that they care for him (that they care for the eggs, that they will not hurt them), he can't fully believe it.
im just. bad knows foolish so well. he knows that man wouldnt on purpose kill any eggs. but pomme killed foolish and bbh, dying of laughter, having the time of his life, told her to "put your armour on. just in case."
#i am putting him under a microscope and studying him carefully#i didn't used to be a big bbh watcher but now im obsessed with that little freak#qsmp#something about his relationship with foolish feels like a twisting of that care too tbh#like he would Not be fucking around with foolish so much if they didn't get along so well#but it has the same intensity#its like instead of a wall between him and foosh there's a cellophane tarp covered in silly colours that keeps getting twisted and rung out#and they use it like a string for those can phones#like with players that wall or layer can be warped into something extra silly but it's just Not There in the same way with the eggs#even with richas who torments him especially like foolish does#idk im also thinking about earlier today when bad was like 'yeah you can shoot me :D' to pomme#and the way his qsmp fighting style is eating totem after totem after totem to essentially sacrifice his own well-being for the people f#he loves#idk if im even making sense anymore and the pomme thing happened a while ago now lmao#but he's absolutely fascinating as a character#i need to figure out a fun fic concept to stick him to i need to put him in situations
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the revelation that claudia’s rebirth was such a twisted and horrible moment, with louis dragging her like she was a thing, a stranger who neither of them knew but he kept saying over and over “our daughter, our beautiful little daughter” to lestat, really solidified the way she was never the main character of her own story. she was always an accessory to some or the other of louis’ whims: his guilt, his loneliness, his conflict of being a killer, his rocky relationship with lestat. there was love there, love from both her fathers, but it was never enough. lestat saw her too much as a wretched mirror held up to his own self, and louis was always too steeped in his own feelings to care enough about hers. claudia’s story truly was the greatest tragedy in this tale, treated horribly by every man around her, even her fathers, relentlessly exploited and brutally ignored, always second and never first. the only one who loved her the way she deserved to be loved was madeleine, and the moment she truly had her, her happiness was torn from her. and just before she died, she got to see someone actually choose her in her entirety, not for what she can be but for who she is, and it still wasn’t enough. she still burned alive in the sunlight. the love was there, but it wasn’t enough to save her.
#i want to scream i am still mourning my girl claudia#SHE DIDN'T DESERVE THIS#and fuckass armand in his silly little playpen “unable” to prevent it like NO. YOU COULD HAVE. YOU JUST DIDN'T CARE.#absolutely stumped as to how on earth louis stayed with him after this#like yea the gaslighting and the lies but king... he froze the whole coven at dinner once and stopped time and shit. he can save claudia.#but he didn't and louis might have forgiven him for it but i never will !!!#that being said i still love armand 😋#this is what makes these characters so gothic and fascinating imo#these terrible things they do contrasted with the intense way they love each other#mmmmm scrumm dilly yum yum a purr purr !!!!#interview with the vampire#claudia#claudia iwtv#louis de pointe du lac#lestat de lioncourt#armand#armand iwtv#iwtv amc#iwtv spoilers
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Kiss Kiss Fallen Tree!
[First] Prev <–-> Next
#poorly drawn mdzs#mdzs#wei wuxian#lan wangji#Sorry to everyone who was looking forwards to this comic only to find out I put WWX in the ugliest outfit.#Continuity came first. Plus let's be honest; he did *not* show up in anything fancy. Or in all black as seen in most fanart.#We are at the middle of WWX depression arc. His self-care was 100% because Jin Yanli would be sad if he didn't try to look nice.#Okay okay. Fine I've delayed talking about the kiss long enough.#It is absolutely a core LWJ scene over a WWX scene. Which is made even more fascinating because we don't get his POV.#But we get so many insights! His loss of control and his firmness all contrasted against how he trembles.#And all of that wrapped up in a wonderful self-loathing bow! You go Lan Zhan! You hated yourself so much for this!#WWX is a hilarious narrator for this because he is truly just...baffled by what's going on.#He would push the person away but he doesn't want to hurt their feelings or pride (putting other people first again are we?)#I do understand why this one is divisive for people though. I choose to look at it through a character/humourous lens.#I've seen people defend and admonish this scene as a particularly shitty thing LWJ did and let's be very clear here: It was.#That's why I like it. LWJ did a shitty thing and struggles with it. It's part of what makes him so robust as a character.#It's also fine if you enjoy this scene for it's eroticism. You're not a bad person for that. You are just A Person.#People will have their own experiences with this topic. Be kind to each other alright?
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You astonish me.
#goodomensedit#goodomensedits#goedit#Good Omens#Crowley x Aziraphale#tusermyra#userfra#crowleyanthonys#usereena#gaimanneil#userbecca#maria7potter#my gifs#good omens spoilers#go s2 spoilers#i love that Aziraphale is a fairly straight-forward creature of habit as a character 95% of the time#the remaining 5% he is an absolute wildcard and Crowley hasn't gotten the hang of those 5% in 6000 years#and it is something that fascinates him about Aziraphale
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Im so unwell about Anya's pregnancy not being mentioned EVEN ONCE during post crash segments where we play as Jimmy. He talks so much about taking responsibility by the end of the game and yet the only person he takes it for in his own twisted way is Curly. Anya's lifeless body doesn't get even a single comment from him
#mouthwashing#man Jimmy is such a fascinating character he is absolutely horrible and there are so many wrong things with him#and yet he is genuinely interesting to think about and unpack
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'helen is so underdevelopped as a character!' 'helen's boring!' stfu u just don't like her bc she's a woc and because she doesn't behave exactly like michael. yall put so much effort into developping michael's character inside your minds and completely look over her because she's 'poorly written.' stop.
#this is kinda a rant but like#it pisses me off when people call her poorly written#she has a more detailed backstory than michael??? what are you talking about#like all we really get from shelley (pre-distortion michael) is that one clip at the end of 99#but we get a WHOLE statement from richardson (pre-distortion helen) and yall CHOOSE to ignore it#like i get the appeal of a tragic backstory vs. being a real estate agent but still#like ur allowed to prefer michael over her#i don't dislike michael by any means#he's tied with helen in my mind in terms of tma characters#but why do people dismiss her so much????#she is NOT poorly written you are covering your eyes (ears?) to avoid admitting her importance to the overall plot#especially to jon's character arc in s5#like their whole dynamic is absolutely fascinating#with jon#anyway rant over.#helen enjoyers wya#helen distortion#helen richardson#helen the distortion#tma the distortion#tma helen#not saying michael is poorly written either btw#they're both well written#im just pissed off at a certain group of people who insist michael is better written when it's literally not
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Still very wild to me when people try to gotcha Jason with the whole "if you can kill other people for being evil why can't they kill you" when jason is like. One of the most passively suicidal characters I've ever seen. What if man
#augh i dont want to cw this because im just talking about The Character and i feel bad when i do it for characters but i probably should#suicide mention#ask to tag#while im here i do absolutely believe hes been suicidal since jaybin times. maybe even before just in different ways. but like#going into that building with shelia? yeah#now. i DONT think he was aware of it and if youd ask him hed say no fully believing thats the truth#but like if a ghost jaybin had some introspection time i think he'd maybe eventually be like yeah#his outcomes to him were have a loving parent or die and hes a very big fan of ultimatums like that.#but he doesn't fully see it like that as jaybin because oh hes a hero and saving others when no one else can is what heros do :)#ramble. ivee been feeling it lately yknow how it is#ive once saw a post saying jason was planning to die after the joker was dead in utrh and yeagh i can see that#he puts A BOMB in his HELMET#suicidal characters in the context of hero stories are so fascinating to me. the self sacrifice.#the not caring about your own safety as long as you save someone else. the pushing yourself#the way itd be so easy to make it look like they just fell in battle. to be considered a hero in the end#anyway ive been glancing at suicidal jason todd fics. how bad is it that im still getting mad about characterization#because theyre not killing him right#AND ANOTHER THING. since im here and i try to avoid making posts about The Character like this so might as welk get it all out#think about suicidal jaybin as well as the fact 80s bruce very much considered suicidal people/people attempting like#weak and lazy? yells at them? i think thats about it. Very Much. je seems to straight up just hate them#again very much feel free to ask me to tag this one ^-^'#and i hope no one thinks im being callous here im very worried about that. i just its a very important part of his character to think about#and its fun to explore as someone who is passively suicidal myself#jason todd analysis#anyway no one look at me i am in my corner just rotating him#WAIT to clarify i dont think jaybin fully realized Just becauceof the heros sacrifice thing. i made it sound like that i believe#anyway. if you read him as suicidal since jaybin times and go to ditf with that lens like i did. well. the post death victim blaming..
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Can I request you draw soushi- nah I’m kidding give us more keishin PLEASE
ok i’ll combine both your ideas into one horrible mess if thats ok
#Soushin… i do see them as more of a toxic friendship than a toxic romantic relationship ngl#i see soushin as queer platonic#but i find their dynamic absolutely FASCINATING!!!!#like midori is deceased and shin knows this. but sometimes his mannerisms are just a little too similar to what he’s familiar with#and sometimes for a second. he doesn’t see the ai of his dead friend but he sees midori right in front of him#how fun#(in case it wasn’t obvious- i ship soushin the same way i ship megumi and keiji)#(they’re horrible for eachother and they shouldn’t be together but it’s interesting for their characters)#ok thank you#yttd#your turn to die#kgs#kimi ga shine#keiji shinogi#midori yttd#sou hiyori#shin tsukimi#did not like the end result but it’s ok we have our flop eras 🔥🔥🔥#ALSO SORRY TO MY MUTUALS WHO ARE HERE FOR OC ART HHHH IM REWRITING LORE
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it is very telling that average genshin players cannot comprehend seeing an actual mature, qualified leader that is actually good at taking her job seriously after meeting archons who either is still childish, clowning whimsically, or straight up incompetent.
#it's kinda funny that the best God in terms of actually fulfilling their duties to the T is the mortal one#there's absolutely nothing wrong with the other archons their flaws make their characters extremely compelling#but it's kind of insane to call mavuika bland for being good at her job as if she's still not inherently flawed with the martyrdom complex#people keep pointing out to her: aren't you tired? don't you have dreams of your own? isn't your want important too?#she's such a fascinating character yknow#mavuika#that is#she cares so deeply about the humans in natlan and she has abundant love for them and actively doing things to give natlan a better future#and yet she could NOT remotely take her own advice and wisdom for herself#you kinda have to remember not all archons are here because they want to be archon#nahida did not ask to be an archon neither did ei#and don't even get me started on furina#zhongli and venti take archonhood like parenting as expected from them but they're so ancient that they're entering their silly granpa era#focalors is the first instance we see of 'new' god doing something... godly#she is forever the punkest archon for what she did but her plan still equired a great suffering nonetheless#after all when you want to save your nation by going AGAINST the system you cannot do it without sacrificing a soul or two#which leads me to why people think it's irrational to kill off capitano when what he's doing is also punk#focalors dared celestia by returning the hydro authority to the dragon they stole it from and destroyed hydro throne#forever changing the institution that is The Seven#capitano dared ronova by giving his immortality to lord of the night and by that rewriting ronova's curse on him#he changed the rules of the ley lines forever#anyway.#narratively speaking capitano is a great foil for mavuika and I'm just glad it's him we met in natlan#hyv didn't make the short animated for mavuika just for you to call her bland
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I mean, the problem is that Adar and his children don't just want to live and let live, do they? Or, at least, they're more than willing to hurt countless innocent people to obtain and hold land that categorically does not belong to them.
Adar and his children brutally genocide the people of the Southlands and steal their land, enslaving those who manage to survive and forcing them to eke out a living in truly grim conditions. It's an exceptionally bad introduction for them to the population of Middle-Earth as a whole in a post-Morgoth world.
Would the Elves have treated with them if they hadn't done that? I don't know - perhaps if Adar had approached Gil-Galad on less dire terms with a more reasonable compromise in mind, but we'll never know. The Uruk chose violence first. Oh one could certainly argue that the Elves always would have been prejudiced against them regardless and perhaps that is true, but consider:
Are they ever given a reason not to be? Uruk have never displayed anything other than ravening bloodthirst towards Elves and Men. It could be argued that this is a vicious cycle perpetuated by the creation of the Uruk by Morgoth and his use of them as war fodder and slaves thereafter, but if Adar truly wanted peaceful co-existence with the other races of Middle-Earth after the War of Wrath then I'm sorry but it was on him to reach out peacefully after the war ended.
He chose otherwise.
There is no reason that the Elves would or should ever trust Adar and his Uruk to live and let live in the Southlands, given what they did to the people who lived there, allowing an obvious threat to grow unmitigated. I mean, look at what they're already doing to Ost-in-Edhil in Eregion.
The continued perception of the Uruk as base and foul is as much Adar's fault as it is Morgoth's.
#this is not to say that I dislike adar#I love adar and he's one of my favorite characters#I think he's fascinating#but I do see a lot of fans lamenting about adar and the uruk like they're these poor innocent babs#and I'm sorry but they're not#the elves aren't being unreasonable in seeing them as a threat and dealing with them accordingly#because they absolutely are#rings of power#rop season 2#rop season 2 spoilers
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I feel like if Chujin was still alive during the events of Undertale Yellow, his and Clover's relationship would be incredibly rocky. Pacifist!Clover could bring him around to tolerating them (after all, they have that sort of effect on everyone), but it would be more in a "this human is the only 'good' human" manner than a "maybe I should reevaluate my opinions on humans overall because you can't judge an entire group based off (very biased) stories and one bad experience." Even then, that opinion would be subject to change should Clover ever get frustrated or behave "too aggressively" or act in any manner that isn't perfectly docile. If Clover ends up attacking a monster then it's "humans are just as horrible as they were in the war stories, I should've known better" regardless of the circumstances that could've pushed Clover to fight. Suffocating expectations and endless demands for patience when he wouldn't ask the same of a fellow monster.
And heaven forbid he ever meet Clover on a No Mercy Run...
#undertale yellow#i hc that his parents were involved in the war and he was born after monsters were sealed underground#so he's one degree removed from all that trauma which is understandable why he'd be so afraid#but at the same time Blackjack had similar circumstances and he came around to liking clover and judging based on character#instead of by who someone is.#sometimes you need to sit down and realize that the problem is you and your views instead of everyone else but he doesn't strike#me as the sort to do that type of self reflection.#Chujin is a character who is absolutely ruled by his fear. he leaves kanako and dalv alone after they were attacked by a human#to sicc axis on integrity. he hinged his whole career on building guard robots (and judging by some of the paperwork in the Steamworks#he was the only one who wanted to build guard robots).#he destroyed his health and left his wife a widow/his child fatherless to craft a serum to defeat humans.#he experimented on a human (child's!!!!) soul and ordered his wife to k.ill an INNOCENT human.#he literally says that humans are incapable of decency in any form!!!!! the writing is on the wall!!!!!#not to sound like I'm bashing on his character because he did do a lot of good for the underground. he made the honeydew resort heater#and Martlet's balcony. and it's implied he built the bridge between the wild east and Starlo's family's farm with the fox-bell#symbol on that bridge. he inspired martlet to take up woodwork which put her on the path to joining the Royal Guard and meeting clover#he likely did a bunch of other good things as well that never got brought up. he did do some good actions.#but he is not someone that i would call a good person.#(realized i ended up with a long string of tags down here. if someone wants to screenshot it and add it to the post go for it)#edit: i find it utterly fascinating that he calls humans incapable of decency yet acknowledges that there can be a pure human SOUL#what an utter hypocrite! i doubt the contradiction ever even occurred to him!#uty analysis#char: clover#char: chujin ketsukane
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