#he literally just looked at me and pointed and went

[jungkoode]

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.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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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'���� 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."

⋆｡°✩ TAGLIST ✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[zephyrchama]

You are a sheep.

You have been in the form of a sheep ever since you came to the Devildom. It can be quite inconvenient at times, but life finds a way.

This particular morning, you were awoken in the early hours of the morning by an odd murmur. It was impossible to gauge the time, given the Devildom's eternal night, but something instinctual told you it was too early for whatever nonsense was about to happen.

Fighting your heavy eyelids, you turned your head. Seven demons were sitting on the floor beside your bed, staring at you.

"You're awake!" Leviathan proclaimed.

"I told you the noise would wake them," Lucifer sighed.

"We were being quiet, though," Belphegor remarked.

"Good morning, sunshine!" Asmodeus greeted you.

"Shut it! It's happenin'!" Mammon caused the room to go silent again.

If you've learned anything in the Devildom, it's that even sheep deserve privacy. You dragged yourself into a sitting position and bleated, "what's happening?"

"We're checking the weather," Satan informed you.

"It's a tradition of sorts," Beelzebub explained.

"Can't you do that... literally anywhere else?" The second half of your question got obscured by a yawn, but you were sure you made your point. "What time even is it?"

"It's 6:03," Leviathan said.

"In the morning? Are you guys kidding me?"

As you sighed a grumpy sigh and rubbed the sleep from your eyes, Satan called your name.

"What?"

"Have you checked your shadow?" he asked.

"Huh? What do you mean, checked it?"

"Did you see it?" Belphegor asked.

"My shadow?" There was hardly any light, let alone light strong enough to cast a shadow on your bed. You twisted your neck to look around. "I have no idea what you're talking about..."

"No shadow!" Mammon exclaimed, so loud you almost fell over again.

Lucifer nodded his head, hand placed thoughtfully on chin. "Spring will likely come early this year. I'll inform Diavolo."

Asmodeus launched himself at your spot on the bed. Before you could stop him, he had you lifted in the air. "You're the best!"

Everybody clapped. Leviathan was going on about "the springtime of youth" finally arriving, while Beelzebub said they'd all have to get hot pot one last time before it went out of season. Important context about what just happened was clearly missing, but you've learned that sometimes you need to just go with the flow.

You dangled ragdoll-style from Asmodeus' hands while he did a little dance and wondered if they'd all let you go back to sleep.

You know they won't. Happy Groundhog Day! Looks like irl we've got 6 more weeks of winter.

[rebelliousstories]

Same Face

Relationship: Logan Howlett/ Wolverine x Reader

Fandom: X-Men

Request: No

Warnings: Fluff, Angst, Mentions of Death, Drinking and Alcohol, Brief Strong Language

Word Count: 1,072

Main Masterlist: Here

X-Men Masterlist: Here

Summary: Taken from your timeline with your adopted daughter was bad enough. Now you have to deal with a man that looks exactly like the one you lost. Complete with the trauma.

Consider Donating: Here

The void was a rough terrain for anyone. A desolate wasteland where everything came to die, and no one lived for too long. This was where she had found herself and her adoptive daughter. When Laura had brought new survivors to the hideout, she almost could not believe it. He was here; Logan had returned.

But as she hid in the shadows while that man in the red suit continued to yap, she quickly realized that this was not her Logan. Not only was he younger, without the advanced adimantium poisoning that her’s did, but everything about him was off. Sure, her lover drank like a fish, but not like this. He never did it to forget entirely. And he would also not be caught dead in yellow spandex.

Laura made herself known to the group, but her adoptive mother did not. She just continued to stay in the dark, where she was most comfortable. Whoever this red suited merc with an endless supply of witty comments was, she did not care for him. Her eyes just stayed on the man that looked so eerily like her lost love.

“That’s- that’s her, Logan. That’s X-23. Wait, if you’re here, then…” Wade gasped dramatically, “is NightMaere here?”

The way he said it, it almost sounded like excitement. But the woman refused to reveal herself just yet. Logan grumbled behind a gulp of whiskey, “who the hell is that?”

“You didn’t have one of her in your world?” Deadpool was now utterly confused. But the Wolverine just shook his head, and took another swig.

Upon hearing this, she just slinked further back into the shadows, and went into a dark corner. She was not sure which would have been worse; for him to have one of her and possibly have lost her, or for her to have never existed in the first place.

Either way, she did not care to stick around.

It was not until nightfall that she was seen again. And that was only because Laura had come to seek her out. The younger girl crouched down to where the older woman was sitting. Following her eyes, Laura could not help but smile as she saw that she was looking at the new Logan.

“You should go talk to him.” She suggested, knocking her shoulder into her’s.

“Yeah, cause that worked out so well for you.” Her mom chuckled.

“Seriously,” Laura smirked, “it would do you both some good.”

Looking at the young girl that she had to raise, the woman smiled. Everyday, no matter how long it had been, she saw more and more of Logan in her. A brief kiss was pressed to Laura’s head, before she walked out into the open night, and towards the bonfire.

“Kid, will you just let me be?” Logan grumbled, behind the lip of his bottle.

“I’m not Laura.” She clarified, taking a seat on the same log. There was a long period of silence shared between the two of them. Neither one knew quite what to say, or who should talk first.

“Did you… um, did I really not exist in your universe?” The question on her mind was tentatively asked.

Logan took in a deep breath, that he released in a long sigh. “It’s more complicated. You were around but we were never a thing.”

“Ah, so we were just friends?”

“Yeah. Not that we didn’t try to be more.” Now, she was confused.

“What happened?” Another deep sigh.

“You got corrupted by your power. Literally, all the nightmares that you could make starting haunting you, even though you tried not to. It got to the point where you would have these fits and would send visions into peoples minds. You never meant to. It was just the side effect of your condition. Eventually, you had to be confined to- well, it was basically a cell. One crafted by Magneto, and reinforced by Chuck. You died in there.”

The pain in his voice, the tears brimming his lashes, the anguish he lived with. “You had to kill me, didn’t you?”

Not trusting his voice, Logan nodded. His throat tightened as he let out a shaky exhale. “We got one dinner before you died. One small date when you were lucid,” he spoke before clearing his throat.

“Wasn’t too long after that everything went to shit.” They both stared ahead at the crackling fire.

“We were married, ya know. Not legally, but Texas has common law marriages. You were my lifeline throughout the end of mutants. Until Laura came along, you were the single most important person in my world. Then she did, a little Logan, and we promised each other that no matter what, no matter which of us died, we would do whatever was best for her. I got to show her your Canadian roots, but we moved around a lot. Trust me, teaching her to hid her mutant ability was not easy. That child was feral for a time.” She joked, thinking back on the mutant’s childhood.

“Yeah? She seems like a spitfire. Not afraid to speak her mind.” Logan commented.

“She got that from you. Or rather, our Logan. There were definitely times that I asked if I could do this. Then I remembered how I made a vow to myself that she wouldn’t become an orphan again.” Finally breaking her eyes away from the fire, she looked at Logan’s face that was also turned towards her.

That face that was so familiar, but so different. This Logan had wrinkles in places that her’s did not. But he also had smooth skin in places her’s did not wither. But those eyes. Those were the same. She hoped, just in her mind, that she would be able to find those eyes no matter where in the multiverse she was.

“You did a good job raising her. You should be proud.” He muttered, a soberness taking over that was not there before.

“Thanks,” came her soft reply. “Listen, I need to get some sleep and check up on her. I hope you do what’s right tomorrow. I’d hate for Laura to be proven wrong.”

A gentle hand tapped his suit covered knee a couple times before heading back to the building that their ragtag group had claimed as their own. One final look was thrown over her shoulder, where she caught Logan watching her leave. She smiled, and continued on anyways.

[vssail]

floury kisses | jason todd x reader

sumary: stressed from work, you try baking therapy. jason comes home to the mess (and the chaos) and is both amused and concerned.

a/n: english is not my first language! // 797 words

yes, the whole hand thing is (an attempt of) a ratatouille reference

It was late—too late for anyone but him to be awake. The apartment was dark except for the soft glow spilling from the living room, shadows flickering against the walls. He rolled his shoulders, wincing at the stiffness from the night’s patrol, and kicked the door shut behind him. He was tired. He just wanted to go to bed, pull you close and fall into the dreams realm.

The moment he got into the apartment through your shared bedroom window, he noticed the sweet smell of vanilla filling the air. The smell guided him to the kitchen, where he found you, battling to mix some ingredients in a heart-shaped bowl.

The sight was a mix between charming and worrying. You looked absolutely adorable trying to bake just wearing one of his old hoodies and with your hair in a messy bun. There was flour everywhere - literally - and the state of the table would cause Alfred a heart attack, but it just made the scene more delightful.

But then he glanced at the kitchen door and it read 03:42 AM. And he remembered how much you hated baking. And he took notice of the frown on your eyebrows.

"Hi babe" he started. He decided to stay in the door's frame, give you some space.

You didn't take your eyes off the bowl you were fighting with. "Hi Jace"

Your cold tone only increased his worries.

"Didn't know you were training for Bake Off"

A little joke, an attempt to take that frown off your face. He smiled when your expression softed.

"Bad day at work. Someone told me that baking is relaxing"

"And is it working?"

"Definetely not"

Both of you laugh at your answer.

He could ask what went wrong today. He should ask what went wrong today. But that would only cause you more stress. That topic could be touched later.

"I'm not sure if I should ask you what are you making or the whisk if it's being held hostage" he (half) jokes again (the way you were holding that whisk was concerning).

You giggle, way more relaxed. Jason's smile widens. God did he love to see you smile, laugh - happy.

"I wanted to make doughnuts, but something is not working here and is driving me mad" you explained with a sight. "The ingredients are too stiff, but in the video they mix so easily"

He finally approaches you, his body's warm embracing you. You lay your back against his chest on pure instinct while still trying to mix the ingredients in the bowl. Big hands are placed over your smaller ones, guiding you to leave the bowl on the table.

"The butter is too cold, you won't get it mixed unless you wait for it to get warm" he mumbled while hands took yours and guided you to take other ingredients. "We can make the glaze meanwhile"

You turned to look at him, who still was guiding your hands. Sometimes you doubted about how could he be so amazing and not realize it. Like, he reads, cooks, bakes and makes you feel safe in the city of crime. It was in this little dazing moment when you took notice of his face - of his tired expression.

"You should go to bed, Jace" you murmured, your eyes practically pleading him. He probably was exhausted from patrol, he needed to rest.

He met your gaze, his eyes turning amused. One of his hands left yours, only to rest it on your face and caress it. His soft smile turned into a smirk, which made you frown in doubt.

"What? Why are you smiling like that?" you asked.

He simply pointed to the window, and you turned to see your reflection. Your eyes widened when you noticed a big flour handprint on your cheek. .

"You son of- I'm here all worried for you and you come up with this?" you scolded. It only made him chuckle.

He guided the hand he didn't let go and guided it to his lips, placing a kiss on your palm. You could't stop your own lips from turning upwards. He was so sweet and smooth you couldn't resist him.

"It's Saturday- well, technically Sunday. We can sleep all we want after we finish these precious doughnuts, sweetheart"

His free hand took yours again like they just were ment to be together (they did, from his point of view). After another kiss on your palm, you returned to your work.

The night/morning passed with you two cooking while being in love - stealing kisses, giving little love bites and stain the other with flour.

(Maybe you could make these early morning baking sessions a rutine.)

[carlarosenakilah]

I'm taking a break from The Osix Family and Wilted Ivory

Hi, you've read that right. I'll proceed to go into detail undercut

Warning that the following will be containing very sensitive topics such as su***idal thoughts, mental health issues, and whatever the fuck I went through to get me here and I don't know how to describe nor name them but overall its not pretty.

Getting straight to the point- im drained. I'm in a horrible place right now and I need to take a step back before it might escalate into something worse.

The Osix Family is always something that I will forever dedicate to. It has comforted me, carried me, and saved me from killing myself three years ago.

I asked myself, "If I'm not here, who will tell the story of The Osix Family?"

That made me stay alive, and im greatful for that because if not, I wouldn't have been where I am today standing with the coolest people I have ever met and my amazing partner in crime @alexusespido-dod.

I love Wilted Ivory too, and that's where it gets tricky.

My only plan for Wilted Ivory is to simply tell a story about growth expressed as a musical au. Hence why the art is so simple– not just to match the original Casino Cups style, but just to tell a story that I hope would inspire and comfort others. Of course, I'm happy it gained lota of love.

The Osix Family though is a different story.

Like I said, it means a lot to me, so I put so much time and energy into this series. I sacrifice time that could've been used to study for the next exam, but instead im working on the next few panels or planning the music and etc. Blood sweat and tears (literally) into making sure the art looks good, story is properly conveyed, scenes carefully picked. Even if it gained me bad scores in my exams that made me stress over about, in the end it was worth it to me. I didn't care if I'd be sick an unable to move, as long as I could at least think about it, then I would be happy.

Episode 3 was my worst.

I overworked myself for that episode. I was always in front of my tablet, I never moved out of my seat, I was just there, working on it even if it was 1 in the morning and that I should be sleeping. I told myself: "Everything will pay off! Sure you're in so much pain right now, but eventually it will all pay off! Episode 3 is looking good and interesting! This will FINALLY gain the audience and love the story deserves!"

I was proud.

Until I wasn't.

Reality hit me like a saw. The moment the episode was released I was hopeful. But nothing happened. It was all the same.

And it just hurt how something as simple as Wilted Ivory can easily gain attention and love because it was Cuphead related something well known. Meanwhile, The Osix Family–despite everything–is just barely seen.

I started to doubt myself. To question myself. Was I not doing enough. What more can I do. What should I do. Am I not good enough?

Is the story just not good enough?

That broke me. I began to have thoughts I shouldn't have. I wanted to end it all. I wanted to quit and disappear from the world. Because what was the point in pouring so much love into something only for it to dismissed.

Its not like I simply began having these thoughts.

I've had them over and over again.

As much as I hated involving him, my partner, Alex, had to deal with the many times I nearly ended it. To the point where even if he was in school, he'd go out of his way to stop me, I still feel guilty, even if he said it was fine.

I don't understand myself anymore.

Why do I even have such an attachment to this series? Its just a stupid silly series for funsies isn't it? Why does my life to depend on it?

Unfortunately, it just does.

It sucks. Pushing away my needs for the sake of this passion, only for it to just not go as I hoped it would go. Did I mention I'm also losing followers on the osix family blog? Thats so silly and coquette.

I'm so sorry if im coming off as guilt-trippy, please I don't want it to sound that way, I just want to express how deeply troubled I am because to me it actually DOES HURT.

I envy people who couldn't give a flying fuck about whether or not their stuff goes famous or gets love, I don't even understand why I am so dependent or hungry on whatever attention it gets. I hate that im like this. I want to be free from it but I just crave it.

So, for the sake of my mental health and whatever is left of my sanity, im taking a break, for good.

I will not be updating The Osix Family or Wilted Ivory at this very moment. For how long? It depends on how fucked up I have actually turned out to be today.

I might still post, keyword: MIGHT, its not any update but to just simply draw for myself, but the chances of me posting anything is horribly low.

I'm going to focus on myself, my needs, and whatever makes me happy or have fun with.

To those who supported The Osix Family or even bothered to check it out: Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

It means a lot to me, you have NO idea. Every single like, reblog, comment, hype or even the silliest amounts of theories or thoughts, they make me so happy, it actually heals me.

I can't remember names im sorry, but there was a time someone expressed how they were invested in the lore and loved the world building, it really made my day. Or when someone pointed out some small details on my waiting in a miracle animatic, it warmed my heart.

I have troubles expressing it, but im so, SO greatful.

Especially when some of my mutuals started making OCS FOR THE SERIES?? Like– it felt like a HUGE compliment.

I cant believe im tearing up as im typing this haha im so stupid lmao, but

Thank you. A lot.

And to those who weren't really into The Osix Family, its okay, don't feel bad, sometimes things are just not our cup of tea, I just needed to express my grief, cause honestly bottling it up isn't going to end well for me (and it really didn't multiple times).

I apologize for any false hope or let down your hype as Wilted Ivory was just starting and The Osix Family was finally coming back– but this treatment is overwhelming me that I need to take a step back.

That's all for now.

Thank you for... actually reading, you listening means a lot to me too.

Goodbye.

[writefullyrobin]

No spoilers past the current ep if possible folks! I’m going in blind!

3x01 – Kids Today thoughts

WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT ENDING?!

Guys you could’ve warned me I needed to give myself time to watch the next couple of eps at the same time! Note to self, just assume all openings are now multiple ep arcs. 

OK, skipping back to the rest of the ep.

I celebrated Buck’s full recovery too soon. Seeing him cough up blood like that was alarming. Although if you’re gonna do that, do it in a room full of trained medics.

Buck quitting when they were concerned about him returning to active duty felt drastic but I understand. He’s not really got a whole lot else going for outside the 118. He doesn’t have a significant other or kids like everyone else. He just wants to get back to what he does best. Could he slow down? Maybe but I’m just surprised he has his leg at all so what do I know?

I’m not at all surprised Buck’s recovery’s going to be a focal point for the first part of the season considering how big a deal it was for the entire team.

Side thought – does Eddie have a key to Buck’s apartment because Buck certainly didn’t let him in. He was wallowing in bed. I like how Eddie just sort of left Chris with Buck and ran. I get what he’s going for though, who could be sad around the literal ray of sunshine that is Christopher Diaz? He’s just too precious!

The opening emergencies in this ep were fun! The kid with his dad’s out of control car and using the fire engine to stop it was clever.

The retirement home call was just bonkers and a perfect example of why I love this show. I was not expecting this type of call at this location! Old folks are clearly made different in LA. My friend works in a care home and the old folks she works with are more likely to have a heart attack if they even so much as get the pulse rates up even a little bit!

Lesson for all ages though, you’re never too old to practice safe sex!

Chris is a special kid, isn’t he? Eddie is raising a very compassionate young man. I loved his conversation with Buck at the pier. Other kids would be off wanting to play and not really listening, but Chris is aware Buck’s struggling even if he doesn’t understand exactly why. The you’re gonna be okay kid just about killed me. 

Now again, I ask, WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT ENDING?! This has to be a tsunami right?! I know this is a legitimate real-life concern for Santa Monica but I’m still kinda stunned they went with this.

A few of you have said I’ll enjoy this season so not gonna lie, both super excited and super nervous for what the hell is gonna go down this season! From this ep alone, it looks like its gonna be a helter skelter!

[mydearestbeloved]

Lol the discussion on that scenario post was wild bc lmao wdym tp!reader got pregnant again a few weeks later after giving birth to her first kid??? 💀💀💀Now i know jinwoo can’t keep it in his pants based on a few risky chapters we’ve had so far and I doubt tp!reader deny him sex during her pregnancy (those two are built different too so…) and our man is an considerate husband and may be aware that she just gave birth not long ago but imagine when she had to breastfeed a hungry tpau!suho right next jinwoo and like a horndog he was, got aroused at the sight and “accidentally” brushed at her breast in an attempt to “help”. Tp!reader was appalled bc no baby is right here mister😠put that hand way or so help me 👊👊👊💥💥💥. I know this guy got mad baby fever for a long while.

?System¿:

[ ⚠️ WARNING ⚠️

Mature content below!

Implied sexual themes; Reader discretion advised.

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System will now connect you to 《AUTHOR》 ]

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.

At that point, it’s not just a fever—it’s just one symptom to a full-blown personal pandemic. Down bad? Considering who he’s married to? Yeah, no way he’s ever getting over it.

The man is literally the concept of death itself (dear novel readers, correct me if I'm wrong), but the second he sees TP!Reader nursing their newborn child, in a nutshell explanation: his brain does a factory reset straight to must bring another life with wife.

My good Sir, can you let her be the mother of your child for five minutes before remembering she’s also your wife???

But hey, TP!Reader is his partner. It might seem to be such a simple world, but it is everything considering what they went through before and after together. What she have done for him and what he have done for her, in the past, present, and future, all will be revealed in the mainstory.

When the time came that they’re actually married? Yeah, no, that leash of restraint snapped ages ago. Is Jinwoo going to be the type to wake up every day in awe like, “She’s real. She’s mine. And she’s right there.”? Finding excuses to touch? 🤔

And look, TP!Reader knows what she married into at that point. She knew exactly what this man was like. If there’s anyone who understands just how deep his obsession runs, it’s her. She’s read the original version of him, and she knows that the Jinwoo she ended up with is one who fell so completely that there’s no pulling him back. She chose this life this time, and she’s the only one who can handle him in the end.

But even she wasn’t prepared for the actual statistical impossibility. Miracles aren’t supposed to happen twice, but apparently, being crazy about your wife does increase the odds. Like, against all odds, the universe was just like, “Y’know what? Let’s throw in another one.” (I'm saying this knowing I'm guilty as charged 😌)

Did TP!Reader expected this to happen at some point, even just a little? Maybe. But the absurdness of it all will never cease to exist.

[howlionj]

kinda want to imagine alternative reality where rorke and elias start dating. just a little treat for myself i guess.

their first break together at walker's home at summer with both david and logan. rorke stays at guest room on a first floor of the house – far from master's bedroom and boys' rooms on the second. quite an uncomfortable change considering they mostly stayed together in one room, but it's not like he has any saying in this decision.

he is introduced as a 'good friend' by elias, but gabriel can sense that at least david not buying it. nevertheless, he introduces himself and logan, heavily implying that they both goes only by their full names. rorke nods at him, silently promising to remember that. elias is visibly unanxious during whole introduction and carefully studies all three of them.

'it went better than i expected,' walker says after the brothers went wandering in nearby woods.

'what you'd expect?'

'hostility, i think'

well, gabriel expected it too. him being literally no one to david and logan and suddenly appearing right at the start of their summer break? tragedy for any teenager. also, elias mentioned before that after tragic death of his wife there haven't been a lot of guests in walker's house for a while, so current situation might be stressful for the boys. he must be cautious and careful with them.

well, it goes that boys are more capable to handle rorke than he thought.

david is only fifteen, but he catches on things pretty easily and fast. gabriel to his dissatisfaction find out it late and not at fluttering time. he was smoking outside in the woods – elias told him that it's okay for his partner to smell like a tobacco company, but not for his furniture. so to the woods he went.

david approached him right after he put his cigar out on the sole of his boot with a determined expression on his face.

'i know you're dad's boyfriend,' he said loudly to assert himself.

'well, i'm quite old for that term, but you're right. what gave us away?'

'dad looks at you all mushy and soft, it was simple'

'yeah, sounds like elias'

'we are not against it. me and logan'

gabriel chuckled as david explained how progressive they both are.

'good to know'

'and we don't think you're replacement for mom'

it was a delicate moment for david, rorke knew it by the way boy went silent for a second.

'i hope you don't. it is not my intention to be one'

'good to know'

he when leaved back to the house, not saying anything.

and logan is two years younger, but as observant as his brother. not if more. gabriel was mowing grass in the backyard when youngest walker went straight to him with a notepad and sharpie. on the paper there were simple question, written messily:

"why do you wear bandana?"

rorke barked loudly surprised by a sudden question.

'i'm old, bald and ugly, that's why'

logan noded and wrote another sentence.

"you're all this thing with bandana on too"

he laughed at the comment - it seems that elias' witty mind popped up in logan.

'fair point, logan. actually, i wear it to hide a scar'

boy noded and fastly wrote another words:

"a battle scar? like ones dad has?"

'yeah, something like this'

"can i see?"

'well, i used to scare a lot of greens with it, your dad too. are you sure?'

logan noded intensely, signing something with his hands. elias mentioned before that logan after his mother death lost his voice and heavily relies on asl. improvidently for gabriel to not learn basics.

'sorry, kid, i don't speak asl'

logan simply pointed at his head.

'okay, i get. but be ready - it is a really nasty scar'

he untied the bandana and went on his knees to better display of his head. youngest walker stood on his toes and then excitedly sighed.

and like his brother he just left away, saying or writing nothing.

maybe, it was not a bad idea to visit elias family.

[bloogers-boogers]

Abel: stop it! stop it! STOP IT!

*everyone goes silent*

Abel: I'm not Lucifer's son! Can you all already shut the fuck up about it! Can't you guys just accept I'm biologically Adam and Eve’s child?! There's nothing wrong with that! Move on.

Charlie: I'm so sorry Abel..

Angel Dust: I'm not. There's no way you're their kid, you look nothin' like ya pah.

Cain: he has the shape of him.

Abel: HEY!

Cain: but maybe that's because he's fat.

Abel: you're just jealous of the possibility I'm right. Which I am. Cause no matter how many times I tell you I'm our parents kid, you don't believe it!

Cain: cause you're not. I saw it with my own two eyes. Dad got fucked by Lucifer and then suddenly you poofed into existence. So you're not mom's. So no, you're not Adam and Eve’s brat. I am.

Abel: here again with the same bullshit theory that dad birth me and that 'somehow' it was him who had an affair with the devil!

Lucifer: *cough cough* yeah.. theory *cough*..

Cherry bomb: everyone hear me out. It was Eve who fucked Lucifer and Adam birth Abel who was conceive from the affair.

Everyone: ....

Everyone: *starts arguing again*

Adam: *entering the room and heard Abel screaming again that he was son of Adam and Eve*

Adam: you're wrong.

Cain: aHA!!! wait. What? So i was fucking right?! I fucking knew it!! I wasn't having a bad nightmare as a kid! It was a nightmare! A real one. Where you and the devil fucked behind some bushes.

Adam: what? *cough* What're you talking about. No. He's not Eve’s or Lucifer’s. He's Lilith.

Everyone: WHAT?!!

Adam: I thought everyone already knew that? *side eyes Lucifer* what? Why are you acting all surprised? Didn't she tell you?

Lucifer: *still in shock*

Adam: there's literally a whole myth about it. Lilith got envious of Eve being set as her replacement and forced sex with me. Though, they kinda went far off with that one. It was mostly Lilith seducing me with fruits and a nice song and I admit, I was dumb to let that cunt seduce me, but, she was hot. And that song was a banger so we fucked and it was awesome.

Vaggie: but those were all myths! How did you think we'd know, they're millions of stories about you guys!

Abel: ... so.. all this time it was you who cheated on mom?

Adam: oh fuck no! That cheating bitch cheated on me first! I just went ahead and cheated with my original wife. It wasn't even cheating, we were separated at the time. Even if divorced wasn't a thing back then, me and your mom split up after the whole apple thing before we reconcile and banged again.

Cain: *having a really bad headache now* so you're telling me you fell in love with Lilith again at some point in that story??

Adam: *sigh* I didn't fall in love with Lilith. I was confused. So was she. We were never in love. It was more of a sense purpose kinda thing? Lilith’s purpose was being challenged after being told Eve took it away. So she figured if she took me away, fuck, have a kid with me, which was basically what we were originally meant to do. It would finally sastified her. Which it did cause we immediately separated after banging and she got pregnant. She "seduced me" by wooing me, stroking my ego and with promises like I would no longer have the need to want to find a sense of purpose, like her. But unlike her, my purpose was never fulfilled because I was meant to have children with my wife and build humanity. It was never stated for me to do it specifically with Lilith. It was "you, Adam, are meant to name all the animals of this planet, build humanity alongside your wife, who would partner and care for you and your children into death due apart" or some shit like that. While Lilith unintentionally found a loophole with hers, she, was meant to birth a child from Adam. Specifically. She did and moved on. Well, kinda? Cause she still has that itch to check on me sometimes, bitch about my shit and then turn it around to asking how's Abel.

In short. Lucifer stole Lilith from me. They ran off, she came back years after, took me while I was currently separated from your mother, we fucked, she left after birthing Abel, I assume back to Lucifer? And I went back with Eve. I discovered she had birth Cain and Azura while I was away. Eve and I raised Abel.

Cain: I need a drink..

Lucifer: so that's were Lilith went off after we had that argument...

Abel: someone kill me... again.

Cherry bomb: this is one fucked up family

[luckystar2025]

Kagami: (scoffing) “Man, this chess app is full of tryhards. Some guy just checkmated me in seven moves.”

Konata: (grinning) “Ah, yes. The dark souls of board games.”

Tsukasa: “Chess has lore?”

Miyuki: “Well, it does have a long and storied history, dating back to—”

Konata: (interrupting) “No, no, no. You don’t get it. Chess was originally an RPG, but the developers abandoned it.”

Kagami: (sighs, rubbing her temples) “Oh no. Here we go.”

Tsukasa: (blinking) “Wait, what? But... it’s a board game?”

Konata: (leaning forward dramatically) “Now it’s a board game. But think about it—why are there ‘kings’ and ‘queens’? Why do pawns ‘level up’ when they reach the other side? Why does a knight move in an L-shape, like it has a special movement skill?”

Miyuki: “That’s actually called an ‘equestrian move,’ reflecting cavalry tactics in medieval warfare.”

Konata: “Uh-huh. Or—and hear me out—it was a class-based strategy RPG, but the devs never finished balancing it. Look at how broken queens are. No way they playtested that.”

Kagami: (crossing arms) “That’s because it represents medieval power structures, not because it’s ‘broken.’”

Konata: “Oh yeah? Then why can’t kings do anything? He’s the ‘main character,’ right? Shouldn’t he at least have one special ability? No mobility, no attacks, literally just vibes.”

Tsukasa: (soft gasp) “He’s like a quest NPC...”

Konata: (nodding) “Exactly! Meanwhile, pawns are literally just cannon fodder. And they have permadeath, too. What kind of RPG doesn’t let you revive your party members?”

Miyuki: (adjusting glasses) “Some historical interpretations suggest—”

Konata: (ignoring her) “And let’s not forget the final boss. You’re not even supposed to kill the king, you just put him in ‘checkmate,’ which is basically the game’s version of a cutscene trigger. Like, ‘Congratulations! You trapped the king in an unskippable defeat animation!’”

Kagami: (annoyed) “That’s just how chess works! It’s a strategy game, not a stupid gacha RPG.”

Konata: (grinning) “Oh, but if it was a gacha game, you’d have to pay to unlock a second queen.”

Tsukasa: (shocked) “Oh no…!”

Miyuki: “If I may, there are variations of chess that—”

Konata: (cutting her off) “Nope! The devs just abandoned it. No DLC, no updates, just community patches for centuries. That’s why we have things like ‘Blitz Chess’ and ‘960 Chess.’ Those are just modded servers because the devs went radio silent after launch.”

Kagami: (pinching the bridge of her nose) “I hate that this actually makes some sense.”

Konata: (smug) “And that is why I refuse to play chess. I don’t support dead games.”

Kagami: “You played Tibia for, like, three years.”

Konata: (pointing) “That game still gets updates.”

Tsukasa: “So… if chess got an expansion, would you play it?”

Konata: “Maybe. But only if they nerf queens and buff kings.”

Miyuki: (thinking) “Perhaps we should consider Shogi instead?”

Kagami: “Not another one...”

[writing-zelda-brainrots]

Can you, maybe possibly do more winx club/fairy! Reader with the chain drabs- 📍(idk if any anon has this emoji but I want it.. whatever they mean)

Yeah, you can have that emoji. Of the people who have asked to be certain anons, none of them have used that emoji. I haven't come in contact with these emoji anons that much, but from what I can gather, they're used to mark a recurring fan who prefers staying anonymous.

--

“I think I see your problem here.”

Now you were by no means an expert on teaching magic, but when Hyrule came to you asking for advice, how could you possibly say ‘no?’ In a way, you were the best person for him to ask. While all members of the Chain have come into contact with magic - and even used it themselves - it was through magic items or fairies (which you were a little horrified to learn they often caught in bottles). Hyrule was the only one to actually harness magic and cast spells.

The two of you were similar in many ways: both of you learned about your magical heritage much later in life than others like you, there was the fact that both of you could transform (even if, like all other fairies of his world, he was much smaller than you), and the fact that you both felt different from the people you grew up around due to your magic.

“You’re trying to force the magic out, but at the same time you’re stifling it.” You spoke as you came closer, letting Hyrule relax his hand. “That kind of polarising pressure doesn’t allow the magic to flow correctly, which could lead to your spell backfiring on you. Believe me, it’s not good for your ego.”

You laughed a little at a memory of some of your first spells going wrong. You have no idea how, but you somehow messed up a spell that would change the colour of your hair. It was literally the first - and easiest - spell they taught you at Alfea and you managed to turn your hair into a technicolour nightmare.

But it seemed like your impromptu magic lesson had to be put on hold.

"[Name], my grappling hook got stuck in a tree and I can't pull it loose." A whiny voice caught your attention. "Can you fly up and get it?"

You know, sometimes you wondered if it wasn't such a good idea to tell these boys about your powers.

"Can't Wild climb up there and get it for you?" You ask a little annoyed. "I'm a little busy right now."

"But I wanted to show Wild a cool trick with it. If I go asking for his help, it'll be embarrassing."

You couldn’t say ‘no’ to that pleading look. Wind’s expressive face had its funny moments, but his puppy dog eyes were like weaponized guilt. Shooting Hyrule a look that said “sorry,” you received a small “it’s fine” in return. You’ll continue your training later.

You let out a sigh, looking up at the tall tree Wind was pointing at, “alright. But if this happens again, you’re on your own.”

“Deal!”

In just a flash of light you had transformed into your fairy form, wings out and fluttering to lift you off the ground. Following the rope, you found the hook stuck high in the branches, not only caught by the tree, but also by the rope itself. The whole thing was a giant knot looping around itself, one that you found hard to see where it began and ended. “Geez, Wind, how did you even manage this?” You groaned as you began pulling the problem apart.

“I was practicing a trick, but it went south.” The boy shouted from below as both he and Hyrule watched you work.

“Yeah, I can tell.”

After what felt like half an hour, you finally managed to untie the thing. Letting out a sigh of relief, you grabbed the metal hook, looped the long rope over and around your shoulder and flew down onto the ground. “Here.” You handed the grappling hook over to a very enthusiastic looking Wind.

“Thanks!” Wind then immediately turned his head away, rushing off somewhere else. “Hey, Wild! I can show it to you now!”

“Kids, am I right?” You laughed to yourself.

“Yeah.” Hyrule chuckled. “I don’t know where he gets all that energy from.”

“Now, where was I-”

You hadn’t even had the chance to detransform before someone shouted your name again. This time it came from Four’s corner of camp, where he, Wars and Legend were busy at a makeshift forging station. “We need a stronger, more stable fire over here.”

“I was doing just fine.” Wars shot back at the small smith. “You asked for a stronger flame and I gave you one.”

“I said a “fire,” not a “blaze!” You nearly singed my eyebrows off!”

Guess Wars really wasn’t quite as good with his control with the Fire Rod as he thought. Whose brilliant idea was it to use a weapon meant for combat for forging, instead? But then again, who asks an Enchantix fairy, a fully fledged Guardian Fairy, to be a living furnace, as if that’s somehow better? Probably the same kind of person who asks that same fairy to get a rope unstuck from a tree.

And the smithing group had devolved into a petty argument while you weren’t paying attention. Maybe this could be your out, let you finally get back to Hyrule. But if you were a betting girl…

You turned your eyes to Time, Sky and Twilight who were sitting around a small fire, watching a kettle of water start to whistle. “Let me guess, you’ve got a request for me, too?”

The oldest thought for a moment before giving you a cheeky smile. “No, but I’m sure Wolfie would appreciate an eye-in-the-sky helping him during his patrol.”

Yeah, it was definitely a mistake to tell them about your powers.

--

[luckymousey]

Thought about Ace's dream (parts 245-248) (mostly things I liked)

THEY FINALLY UPLOADED ACE’S DREAM BABYYYYYYYYYY

First of all, to be honest, when I first saw the snap in Tumblr I thought: wait, didn’t the Stitch event end already?🤨 and then I realized it was his dream.

Let’s start!

⚠️ English is not my first language, and there are spoilers⚠️

There might be some spelling mistakes

Cater filming everything with his phone through the whole ride, I just love how he’s still himself (Honestly, I feel that not a single student of Heartslabyul would feel dizzy because of the traveling, yk, they’re based off Alice in Wonderland, and Alice fell through a hole, I’m sure they would feel dizzy by others things, not something that’s similar to a roller coaster ride) and then he says: ah, but Grimmy was shouting too loudly and the wind is annoying, I need to put music to hide it 😔

I also love the fact that he takes photos of everyhting even knowing that the photos aren’t in his real phone (I hope they find a way to recover the photos for Cater)

When Sebek asked if Ace is from Sunset Savanna I was like: wait, weren’t they friends? How could he not know? And then I realized i had been looking at too many fanarts of the first year gang *slaps forehead*

Honestly, I’m impressed by how much knowledge this guys have, when Deuce said that Ace lived near the capital of the Kingdom of Roses, Leona started talking about how it was not possible for them to have an ocean near (maybe I’m too dumb to know things like these, maybe not)

Grim getting disappointed that it was a dream, he really wanted to have holidays the 365 days of the year 😂 (my baby son is so cute)

Cater saying that he knew skateboarding and surfing, I don’t know, I just LOVED that fact, even more, I’ve a headcanon of the TWST actor AU I wrote some time ago that says that both Leona and Cater use their brooms like surfboards while filming because they go surfing together during summer.

I love that we got to know more about Cater

Idia’s comment right after Cater explained why he liked those hobbies, he’s like a narrator inside the book, but instead of talking to the public, he talks to himself

AND RIGHT AFTER THAT HIS OWN BROTHER SNITCHES ON HIM, HAHAHA, I just couldn’t stop myself from laughing when he said Idia also made himself a small boat (the video I saw was in Spanish and it said “barca”, which means boat in English, I’m not sure if the game referred it as a literal boat tho)

And Idia’s wish? Riding a shopping cart through a home goods store? I also wish for that, Idia, a lot of people wish doing that, you’re not alone, my man.

When Idia got scared because Cater reminded him of the time when he kidnapped Riddle and others with a smile, he just started stuttering, so cute (his actions weren’t cute tho)

ACE MAKES HIS APPEARANCE, YES BABYYYYYYYY (I love him so much 😭)

Idk why, but I just love when the characters shout at people, like calling them from afar, and Ace nailed it

It seems like the Lilo and Stitch event doesn’t happen in the original timeline, because everyone was so surprised (even Yuu has the option to make a comment about his shirt or his sunglasses)

Honestly, I never, EVER, thought about the fruit that was on Ace’s shoulder until Grim pointed it out, I swear to you all that I started laughing once I imagined someone having to walk with those and couldn’t stop until I remembered I still had to watch the episode (and now I got another headcanon for the actor AU 😈)

AND NOW RIDDLE APPEARSSSSSS

I loved when he went like: “don’t overdo it, got it, Ace?” And then everyone was like: “YOU ARE ALREADY OVERDOING IT!” I think they thought Ace’s imagination was too powerful

When Cater pointed out that Riddle was showing his bellybutton, it reminded me of that meme of: SHOW US YOUR ANKLE, SHOW US YOUR ANKLE (we’re talking about Riddle here, I wouldn’t be surprised if he got flustered about naked skin)

I realized that Riddle is kind of naive, because he says: “Ace told me this was a formal attire for an island” and he just did as he was told, my poor boy, one day, you’re getting pranked

And then he slowly approaches Cater and whispers (which made him look sooooo cute) him if he looks weird (NO MY BABY, YOU DON’T, 10 OUT OF 10, YOU’RE SLAYING MY QUEEN), HE LOOKED LIKE A BABY ASKING HIS OLDER BROTHER FOR ADVICES

Considering both Silver and Sebek are in the same club as Riddle (in one of Ruggie’s cards, Sebek even got punished by him while doing club activities) their surprise is understandable

One thing I didn’t really like is that we didn’t get to see fake!Trey or fake!Cater wearing new outfits 🥹

I know they all wear makeup, but for someone reason my eyes couldn’t stop looking at their eyes, they are all so fucking gorgeous, ugh

Honestly, does someone here knows if Cater is rich or not? Because they also mention that Cater was the one who rented the private island (I know it’s a dream, but who knows) maybe it’s because of his father’s job?

And Cater immediately getting into his role, he knows what he’s doing, he’s so smart, I love him.

When Ace suggests getting changed because he doesn’t like seeing the school uniform Leona said (I’m not quoting from the game): “we’re BUSY” I felt it was more like: “I want to get over this bullshit and take a nap”

THE WAY ACE WAS SMILING WHEN HE ANNOUNCED THE REASON OF THE CELEBRATION, that is the same smile he has when something good happens to him, but knowing what’s going to happen next, I just couldn’t help it🥲

I also realized how much I like when a lot of characters shout at the same time, it’s nice to hear

The part where Ace denied when Trey said how they would get sad talking about Yuu leaving, I know you’re just a tsundere, accept it, Trappola I’m still not prepared for that part

In the video Idia says: “I could be hit by a extroverted lighting” I’m just loving everyhting Idia says

I got sad when Ortho said there was no point in attacking him, I wanted to see Ace getting bullied (don’t hate on me, it’s just karma doing its job)

I would’ve loved if Jack and Epel were there too

Ace was talking like a salesman: “we got pink shirt here, and then a yellow one, and then a blue one” I just can’t with him 😂

We can’t see what is really happening between the characters (like, two characters could be hugging but we aren’t able to see it because this is not an anime, yet) but I believe Grim took Ace by his hair, pulled it and shouted in his ear to make him clear they were in a dream, YOU’RE DOING GREAT BABY, SHOW HIM WHO THE REAL BOSS IS

Aaaaand, we made it until here, no matter how many times I say it, I’m not prepared to reach that part

[ikalyyy]

♡︎ㅤㅤ! 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָstray bunny pt. 02⋆⭒˚.⋆

Where Kang Saebyeok is chased by another girl after they were fired from the games.

𖹭.ᐟ Warnings: angst ; fluff ; no callback to the games ; fem! reader

Part two

Arriving at Saebyeok's small home was a small respite, you entered before Saebyeok even told you, you smiled happy to at least have a roof over your head.

"Woah, your home is beautiful, Byeokkie" you murmured happily, letting out a high pitched squeal that made her want to put earplugs in, but what really threw her off was the nickname.

"Don't ever call me that again in your miserable life" she growled in annoyance.You pouted, ever since she told you her name just a few minutes ago, you had been racking your brains thinking of a good nickname for the cold girl.

"Okay, Byeokkie!" you jumped into the small kitchen, looking around.

"Now that I think about it, I have absolutely nothing to eat" she said but before she could say anything else, you came out -literally- from one of the low drawers in the kitchen, with a package of ramen in your hand.

"Tada~" you smiled happily and ran up to her, showing off your little accomplishment, but she seemed more confused by the fact that you had gotten into that small space to look for food.

"I guess we'll have to share" she sighed, she hated sharing her food, her space, absolutely everything, she was only shared with her little brother.

You both sat on the floor, opening the package and starting to eat it like that, as if they were cookies, because there was definitely no water and much less gas.

"It doesn't taste that bad if you imagine you're eating pizza" you murmured smiling, Saebyeok was starting to get uncomfortable seeing you smile 90% of the time.

"Byeokkie, where am I going to sleep?"Before she could scold you again for calling her that, she remembered that she only had a small mattress, some blankets, a pillow and that's it, she didn't even have a couch.

"I don't know, kid, eat" she said, she would fix that later.

"Okay, Byeokkie!" You smiled and obediently went back to eating. “By the way, don’t call me ‘little girl’ I already told you my name” you mumbled, pursing your lips.

“Will you stop calling me ‘Byeokkie’?” he asked, looking at you, you shook your head in denial with a mischievous smile “Then I’ll keep calling you ‘little girl’, now shut up before I throw you out the window.”

You gulped, before quickly nodding.

After their grand feast, the two of you fell silent, Saebyeok walked over to a small corner cabinet, pulled out a short sleeved shirt and a pair of baggy pants, without saying anything he dropped them on your head.

“What?” you looked at the old clothes and then looked at Saebyeok “Do you want me to go throw them away?” you asked innocently, making Saebyeok glare at you.

“No, you idiot. It's for you to take off that stupid skirt and put on something comfortable to sleep in" he said before walking a few steps, he dropped onto the mattress under your gaze.You quickly changed, your hands holding your pants so they wouldn't fall down.

Saebyeok took one of his blankets and dropped it in one of the corners of the room, pointing with his finger.

"Wait... I'm going to sleep there? You're treating me like a dog!" you whine, but walk over to where he dropped the blanket. "You suck at treating your guests."

"I never really invited you, I felt sorry for you. And no, I'm not treating you like a dog, you're more like a... a bunny" she said, there was something in her tone that was different, maybe less serious and more mocking.

"Ugh!" without being able to protest anymore, you settle down in the small corner, doing your best to get into the blanket and not touch the floor, but at the same time, covering yourself a little.

A few minutes passed, Saebyeok already had her pajamas on, she was lying on her back, her arms above her head, she was starting to fall asleep, but the little ball shaking in that corner, made her wake up.

"Idiot..." she muttered before standing up, she walked over to you and gave you a little kick "go to the mattress, I'll sleep here" she said reluctantly, you looked at her for a few seconds before running to the mattress and letting yourself fall.

Saebyeok took your place, the blanket barely covered his feet, he took a deep breath and turned around, looking at the wall, he was starting to close his eyes when he felt a warm presence behind her, she turned around just to see you, curled up and covered with a blanket, you were still shaking a little.

"Little girl, if you don't stop right now, I'm going to take the mattress and leave you here" she said, trying to sound threatening, but she couldn't help but think about how adorable you looked there next to her.

"Byeokkie..." again that stupid nickname that Saebyeok hated came out of your lips.

"Silly girl" she said before standing up, you thought she would keep her word and leave, but she took your arm and pulled you "if you kick me at night, you won't wake up" she said, both of you fell on the small mattress, covered themselves with the blankets and were so close that it was useless to turn your backs.

The night passed normally, until suddenly, Saebyeok felt something bury itself in her chest, she opened her eyes scared only to find a mat of soft hair.

"Damn girl" he muttered before resting his chin on your head and falling back to sleep.

I'm looking forward to seeing Saebyeok's development!!

Thanks for reading, and if you want mentions, I'll gladly add them!

ᥫ᭡ with lots of love and sugar, ika (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

[imagionationstation]

Whats your opinion of the Rise community’s impression of 2012 splinter? For me I think he’s a very nice guy just unprepared like bro just got shoved four children

Uh this was random

I just want to make a note of something:

I’ve spent so long trying to come up with a response to this because I can think of some people who are pretty deep in the RISE fandom who are like “2012Splints ain’t that bad tho”. So addressing the entire fandom is actually more difficult than it sounds concerning Splinter.

So instead of addressing the entire community, which would put many people in boxes that they don’t fit in, I’m going to use this Ask to make a statement about the whole Rise VS 2012 debate.

So my firm opinion that I will give is this:

You cannot forgive Rise Splinter without forgiving 2012 Splinter.

And for the 2012 Fandom:

You cannot understand 2012 Splinter without understanding Rise.

You cannot say that you honestly grasp the extent of one trauma/depression without acknowledging the existence of the other. Both Splinters have similar building blocks of trauma (forcefully separated from someone who they love dearly, forced to fight for their lives for who knows how many weeks/months, forced to live/adapt to a body that’s not their own, and forced care for helpless mutant children on top of it all) but their ways of dealing with it are different ONLY because of their different upbringings.

Their traumas are the same but their history is different. (No, you can’t use the ‘well one is a struggling immigrant and the other isn’t’, because Yoshi literally grew up in Japan. He only moved to New York because that’s what Shen wanted. So he has more connection to his origins than Lou has. But that really is beside the point.)

Anyone can have the argument that they feel that one Splinter is the ‘lesser evil’ in this scenario. There are some pretty good debates for both sides, but you cannot claim to have any sort of proof that one Splinter loves his sons more than the other.

You can’t. It’s ignorant and untrue. And I stand by that.

After all, they both kept and raised four mutant children.

And I know that’s a pretty obvious piece of lore, but I don’t think most people truly realize just how monumental that is.

It’s hard enough to raise one child, and harder still two, but four mutant infants? All on your own while trying to manage a new body with no outside help of any kind- and dealing with the fact that their entire infant hood would be a guessing game of do I have any idea if this would hurt/kill the turtle side of them? Not to mention the patience it would take raising children with super strength and amazing abilities that most parents don’t have to deal with?

Four children- all with different mental capacities, all with the different dreams and desires, all the different wants and hates, all the different fears and struggles and tantrums, and you have to learn how to understand and raise all of those personalities (because toddlers absolutely have MASSIVE personalities) all at once.

All of the variables that came into raising them, all those reasons that would make life beyond difficult, all the temptation not to, and these men pilled with trauma and grief still looked at the tiny freaks of nature and went: Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be their dad.

Just like there are many different love languages, there are also many different ways of showing your love. RISE Splinter did it in the big ways while often neglecting the small, and 2012 Splinter did it in the small ways well often neglecting the big.

One man does not have worse trauma than the other.

One man does not have more love for his children.

You will never be able to convince me that you truly understand what 2012 has gone through but still hate him, if you cannot acknowledge that there might be a reason for you to hate Rise too.

If you cannot comprehend understanding/forgiving 2012 then I really don’t think you truly understand/forgive Rise either.

So, yeah. That’s my hot take, ig.

[ebonysplendor]

Fallen Devotion (DEMO) Review 🔔🏍️

TL;DR: "We're gonna be best friends forever, right?" "Mmm, I dunno. You get kind've annoying sometimes." "That was a trick question. You will literally never be rid of me. Even if I die, I'll haunt you." "All right, all right; yes, we'll be best friends forever. I was just joking lol." "Lol yeah...but I wasn't." "What? o_o" "What? :)"

Game Link: https://billetdoux.itch.io/fallen-devotion

Notable Features: Self-Insert, Yandere LI, Supernatural LI, Selectable skin tone, Selectable Pronouns, Multiple Endings Spiciness: 0/5 -- No spiciness here! unfortunately But! He does give us a little hug, which was really nice :) LI Red Flags: 1.75 / 5 -- History of stalking and kidnapping. He's not much of a threat, right now...at least towards us.

Wanna know more? Nah. Not if you aren't at least 18, you don't. Frankly, you shouldn't even be on my page, because I am no where near child friendly. Oh, you're over 18? Well shit! Let's get into it!

I was so excited about this game demo dropping. I was so excited about this game demo dropping. I was so excited about this game demo dropping. I was so excited about this game. demo. dropping. You hear me?

Like, the moment I saw the LI I was just-- those of you who have been rocking with me for a while know that I have a massive thing for alt style men, and baby, when I saw him, it was wraps. I had been crushin' on that man since I saw the initial screenshot on Tumblr.

Anyways, thirstin' aside, I'm super excited to tell you about this one, because so much went down in the demo. Now, am I gonna tell everything that went down? No. But, what I am gonna do is tell you as much as possible without ruining the game itself. Trust me; you're gonna wanna give this a try for yourself after I give you a snippet of what's going down, and bro, shit is going down.

So boom.

Our bestie -- well, ex-bestie -- is dead.

That's already a lot going on in that one sentence, right? Nah, it goes farther than this.

Basically, it started -- at least today -- from us waking up from having a dream. Actually, scratch that, because it more like a nightmare at this point, and it's happened multiple times this week alone. What makes it a nightmare, though, is that it's always about our best friend, but no longer best friend, but not because he's dead, ex-best friend.

Like always, we try to brush it off as best as we can and head into work for some much needed sense of normalcy and, frankly, some grounding. It should really be noted that these frequent nightmares are really starting to wear down on us, though. Now, why is that?

Because, now, we're starting to hallucinate -- ...lmao -- random text messages and attributing random scribbled notes to his hand writing and ish because of it. Like, we seriously thought we saw the man's bike outside of our workplace. The sleep deprivation is real, ya feel me?

"Lol, nah, that's not why. It's because you're trying to act as if the guy never even existed. Did you ever think that maybe the universe or whatever is tryna tell you something? Because, if I was him, I'd be haunting your ass. ...You look a mess by the way lmao. You own a mirror or nah?"

ಠ_ಠ

Leave it to our co-worker to be brutally honest with us. It's almost as if the comment about us clearly trying to forget our best friend, but no longer best friend, let alone non-living ex-best friend wasn't enough. Despite that though, we know that the comment is from a place of care, because we really have been trying our absolute damnedest to drown out all memories and feelings associated with our ex-bestie. It was so bad to the point where we hadn't even gone to the guy's funeral. You noticed how I haven't even told you his name? Yeah, it's that real of an issue.

Now, this whole thing escalates when these first-year college kids come in talking about something called "soul ties". We don't have anything better to do so we unintentionally but intentionally eavesdrop for plot purposes. So, uh, that whole "soul tie" thing that they were talking about? It's basically how, if someone dies and they still have some unresolved stuff from their living days, they can just kinda bunk with someone who they were close to, because, apparently, it's way easy to communicate through their dreams.

(⊙_⊙;)

Well...talk about awkward, because if that's not exactly related to what we're going through right now. Did we hallucinate that ish, too?

Just on the off chance that it wasn't a hallucination this time -- "this time" lmao -- and is one of those signs from the universe that our coworker was going on about, guess what we did when we got home? Hit up the Goo-gley. Nah, I'm kidding...well, only slightly. We actually did search it up on Google, but our laptop kind've crapped out on us, so we didn't get super far.

Actually, I lowkey lied again. See, our laptop crapping out wasn't a coincidence. As soon as our laptop went "😵", a message came up like "Always looking for answers, but never asking the source. That's crazy...". So, now, we're lowkey gaslighting ourselves because ain't no way that's real, right? But it's like...that's clearly 1000% real.

"Will you let me in...?"

(⊙⁄ ⁄ ⁄﹏ ⁄ ⁄ ⁄⊙)

...I mean, shiiiiiiit, when you look like that, I just might, ya feel me?

But should we is the question.

Friends...Squad...the demo came out so good, y'all.

Holy hell, this demo came out so. friggin'. good. I felt things. I felt emotion. I felt anticipation. I felt delulu. Like, damn, why'd our (ex) best friend have to die?! But it's like, the how? Like, ah, the drama!

But no, this really was damn good. Those of you that have been rocking with me know that I get slutty for art style and CGs -- I frickin' loved the art style. Like, it was just so visually pleasing to look at. Shit, Clive -- that was his name by the way lmao -- was visually pleasing to look at, you know what I'm saying? Like, y'all see this?

Like, disrespectfully, speak for yourself MC, because he sure as hell is my type 𖹭 ...visuals wise, at least.

Speaking of things being visually pleasing to look at, can we please talk about our coworker Dariel? Look at him!

The way that the dev drew this healthy (I think) Black man! Actual tears. I love when people draw Black people with Black hair styles. Like, that man's hair is thiquxe. That man has a dedicated wash day. That man uses gyah damn shea butter and coconut oil daily. Like, dude, fucking pop off. I always appreciate diversity in a game, especially when it's done so right.

But anyways, the pacing was phenomenal. Like, the way that it gives you just enough information and just enough "Oh, he ain't wrapped too tight" and just enough trauma and just enough drama and just enough backstory--!! The way that the dev put all of that together was so--!! Bro, I'm in love. Like, I am so excited for the rest of this game to drop. Like, yo, how far is he about to go? Because y'all don't know yet, because I didn't tell you, but like...bro, anybody would be pissed in that scenario, but it's like...Clive is a yandere LI, so that's a different type of pissed for him. What I'm basically getting at is: What is Clive Donovan -- fun fact that's his last name. I didn't know until I was tagging it lol -- capable of?

This is honestly another Perfect Love -- y'all remember that review? --scenario. I could honestly drone on and on and do an unplanned 60+ minute powerpoint presentation on this game and how much I love it, but I will spare you that. What I won't spare you is the pressure I'm applying for you to play this game for yourself. I really hope I'm not overhyping it, but I thought it was really, really, really good, and I am excited for you to experience that for yourself; I need you to experience that for yourself. I mean, the link is right here. Just give it a little clicky click. Hell, while you're there, tell the dev "Hey. There was some chick on the internet foaming at the mouth over this game. I now understand. You're really good at doing the thing, so...keep doing the thing!". Monetary support is always appreciated as well, so if you're in the place to do so, give them that extra "Thank you".

That's not really all from me, because, like I said, I could keep going, but I'm going to stop it there. Highly suggested to give this game a try, but remember, it's just a demo. Don't get invested to the point where you wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night and start obsessively checking the dev page every 2 hours for an update...I'm totally not speaking from experience, by the way. That'd be...silly. ...ANYWAYS!

Here's the link to the game once again, here's a link to the dev's tumblr page, and, dude, biggest preesh for getting this far, because I do tend to yap a lot. I'm glad you stuck it out with me, and we could hang out for a bit.

Please, remember to drink water, don't be dumb, and hope to see you around~!

Bro, Clive really does look good, like I want him to wife me up so bad...

Fallen Devotion (Demo)

Dev's Tumblr

[bedforddanes75]

list of things pretty boy has said (some to me) that are just a little bit odd (dreamy)

. i have a theory about you. you like...GIRLS

. did your hair change "yes" it looks weird (he clarified he meant Different not Weird but. autism)

. you are so autistic

. your hair looks like...something out of the 80s... (said this while sounding like. actually high)

. so are you bi then. since youre obsessed with... *JUDGILY gestures to computer screen showing george daniel* ...all these...

. youre like a teacher but if like they were a model but like couldnt (WHAT)

. yeah. you look like youd use tumblr (stop)

. wilbur soot

. EUREKA! THATS IT! (like horrid henry)

. men are nice. but theyre just like...knobs (he knows whats up hes like george daniel)