#i know how to feel. and i know how to think. i just dont know how to be

[rawme-price]

Hi hi pls give us more abusedwolf!reader because I'm feral for angst.

What abt abused wolf!reader whos always wearing a thick collar??

Soap initially didnt question it. Your collar looks pretty similar to the standard issue bite/scruff guards that many hybrids wore. The only thing that really stood out was your last name stamped across the side, and a little velcro patch of the 141 insignia.

What was odd, though, was the fact you wore it constantly. Soap only wore his on missions, ghost wore his around strangers, but even they took it off sometimes. Soaps *never* seen you without it. It starts to worry soap, do you not trust them? Do you not feel safe? The others notice it too, and soap can tell it bothers them just as much.

It gets to the point that soap pulls you aside one day, brows pinched and lips pursed. "Have we done something?" He asks, but you just tilt your head in confusion. "The bite gaurd. You never take it off."

"The bite gaurd...?" Your ears twitch in question, face scrunched as if ur genuinely at a loss. "Do you- do you mean my collar? Why would I take it off?"

"If you feel safe, you could. We wont bite or scruff you or anything. But since you dont feel safe, I want to know how to fix it." Hes straight to the point, no need to guess since its obvious you dont feel comfortable around ur team.

"What-" you let out a concerned bark, eyes wide "not safe? Of course I feel safe around you! You guys are the nicest team ive had, I would trust you with my life!" You place a reassuring hand on soaps bicep, seemingly genuine.

"Then uhm- why dont you take it off? If you do feel safe?"

"Because its not a bite gaurd, its a collar?" You state like its obvious, like soap is the one being obtuse. "It shows people who i belong to. Yknow, like a tag."

Soaps stomach drops at your statement. Like a tag? Surely not. You couldn't seriously be willfully branding yourself as *owned* by the 141, like a tagged hybrid. But the more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense.

Youre collar clearly has the 141 insignia on it. Its not a super bulky leather like most bite gaurds are. Soap was aware, vaguely, that you followed suggestions like they were commands. Price had made sure everyone knew to be careful what to say to you. But over-obedience and willful tagging are two separate things.

"Shit- kid-" soap runs a hand through his 'hawk, ears flicking nervously as he glances to the side. "Uh- I think there's been some pretty severe miscommunications since you arrived. We need to get this sorted, cmon"

Soap leads you down the hall, messaging price to let him know ur coming.

[nooby1332c]

polytrix, dating but they dont know it yet or wont say it because god forbid they assume wrong

Zoey fiddles with the ribbon on one of her bouquets, wrapping and unwrapping it around her finger and bouncing on the balls of her feet with frantic energy.

God, what was she thinking?

Getting her "girlfriends" flowers, and only then when she's infront of the door to their penthouse, realizing that they never referred to each other as such.

They were bandmates, family— soulmates, even.

But girlfriends? Hoo boy, they never called each other that, why would she assume such a thing?

And yet she's here, flowers in hand like a god damn creep. Did she really think her two goddesses would be into her just because they're teammates? What would they even think?

Her mind spins with a hundred scenarios and a million insults they could throw her way. 'Zoey these flowers are ugly.' 'Did you really think we'd fall in love with you?' 'Hey Zoey what made you assume we're more than just friends?'

"Hey Zoey what are you doing standing at the door like that?"

Yes, exactly like that.

WAIT SHIT—

Zoey fumbles and quickly hides the two large bouquets behind her back, she can feel her face flushing and God, how long had mira been standing there? She probably looked like an idiot just standing in front of her own house like that.

"I've been watching you vibrate in place for an entire five minutes," she nods. "And yes, you did. But don’t worry, you’re cute."

Zoey didn't think her face could get any redder, but the way Mira was looking at her, eyes half lidded and gaze intense, she thinks she could melt.

Mira walks back into their living room and Zoey follows, shutting the door behind her. Rumi is boredly scrolling through her phone on the couch but she perks up when she sees Zoey, eyes shining with so much affection that almost makes her forget what she was worried about.

But those same eyes find the thing that Zoey has been trying to hide behind her back. "What’s that?" she asks, innocent and excited, and full of love (god she hopes she isn't reading it wrong), and Zoey doesn’t think she can find it in herself to even attempt to lie.

She takes a deep breath, counting down with the technique that Mira, (kind, caring, and protective Mira) taught her.

She takes a deep breath, and holds out the bouquet for both of them to take. Bows down low low low it would put the Saja boys to shame.

"THANK YOU FOR BEING THE MOST AMAZING PARTNERS I COULD ASK FOR"

Is this how people confessed? She's never done it before.

But looking at the way Mira holds the bouquet with so much care and the way Rumi caresses the petals with so much reverence, Zoey thinks no matter what happens, this has been worth it.

She stands there in silence, watching them admire her gifts. Zoey knows their favorite colors, and she knows they didn’t know much about flower symbolisms.

(She knows Mira loves red because it feels like intense anger and passion. She knows that Mira loves red too, because it's the color of love.

She knows Rumi's hair is purple but she loves the way yellow complements it. She knows Rumi loves purple but gold and yellow were her favorite.)

The silence was broken by Mira, kind and gentle in ways Mira doesn’t associate with herself (but Zoey and Rumi do.) Zoey thinks she doesn’t mind getting rejected, if she's rejected like this.

"Zoey, this has been lovely," and there it comes, the rejection, "thank you."

Her hands come up in defense, her tongue ready to spew paragraphs of apologies — always quick with the platitudes. Before logic and reason, Zoey's first instinct had always been to provide comfort and seek familiarity — but then Mira's words finally register in her mind. And oh.

Oh.

Sha was thankful.

Mira was looking at Zoey like something important, and Zoey finds that she can breathe easier.

Rumi smells the flowers, a small peaceful smile gracing her lips. "Thank you," she says, like it’s a secret. And Rumi had always been secretive, and Zoey is glad to be trusted with this one.

Zoey feels the tightness in her chest fall away like threads unraveled, and she thinks — she's already given her entire self to these two, what does she have to lose?

So she says it, three little words whispered in the air like a sacred promise, a fundamental truth.

"I love you."

She says it, because she believes it. And she believes it because why wouldn’t she?

(She finds that it really wasn’t impossible to hear those three words echoed back.

She loves them. They love her.

And wasn’t this the love they've known for years?

The love that forged their souls and weaved their souls and had connected them since before they knew each other.

Zoey finds that it really isn't possible for the other two to love her back, because they have loved her this whole time.)

[etoilecyber]

Synchronized Breathing

Ash and Leo have been friends for so long that people often wondered if they were always on the same wave length. Ash decided to try and make that reality.

“Are you sure about this, Ash?” Leo asked as Ash packed a package.

“Look, if my buddy says it works, I trust him. He said him and his boyfriend personally tested it out and it works.” He takes out two circular nodes. It looked so simple, no one would assume it was anything complicated.

“Vance has always been one to get results. Though I always thought it was Kyle who was more into science”.

“So what? We just keep one of each nodes stuck to the back of our necks?”

Ash nodded

“Yeah. Vance says its a new wireless model based off an earlier experiment. It’s supposed to synchronize our brains, emotions, and experience so we can bounce off of each others skills.”

Leo was still skeptical as he inspected the node.

“Okay. But how far does it actually sync us up though. Is it like, letting us read each others brains?”

“I dont doubt that, but most likely more. Probably like a more streamlined version of what that show Sense8 does.”

“Look, as long as it doesn’t kill me. But are you sure you want to do this? I mean, If this works, are you really okay with me poking around your head.”

Ash smiled, planting his node to the back of his neck.

“Totally man. You’re my best friend. Its not like you dont know how I think. Why, are you hiding some deep dark secret, Leo?”

Leo scoffed, planting his own node onto his neck.

“Please. The only secret I had was that I’m gay. And you were the first one I’ve ever told.”

“See? It’ll be fine.” Ash grinned as he pressed a small button that activated the nodes.

“Fine. But if we die, I’ll kill you.”

The nodes began beeping before shocking the two unconscious.

Leo was the first to wake up. In front of him, Ash was stirring and began to regain consciousness as well.

“Ash?”

Ash remained silent, staring into his eyes. Suddenly, he felt a voice in his head

Leo, can you hear me?

Leo gasped. It had worked. Actually worked.

Holy shit. You’re in my head.

Hell yeah I am. Ash grinned.

What the hell, this is unreal. How the hell did your friend manage to do this?

Beats me but this is way more awesome than i realize. Come on, let’s see what we can do with this?

“Okay, but can we talk normally it’s kinda freaking me out.” Leo said.

“You’re such a buzzkill sometimes but fine- Woah.”

Ash got up in surprise.

“I felt that!” He jumped in satisfaction. “You got annoyed!”

“And I feel like I just discovered Mars. You really do get hyper excited!”

The two spent no time trying to figure out the lengths their synchronization could go.

Thought sharing and telepathy aside, they found themselves learning each others skills and building each other up through no contact at all. Leo began feeling stronger and learning how to exercise while Ash felt his brain processing faster than he ever did before.

Man, how much longer are you going to work out? Im feeling the burn and I’m just at home. Leo asked once during the first time Ash went to the gym with the nodes.

Yeah. I know. I can feel you reading up on Roman History for fun. But dont worry, I’m just about done. Ash never used to be vain but he found himself taking more photos of himself recently. He chalked it up to getting traits from Leo.

Things took a turn when Leo felt his groin harden out of nowhere. It wasnt anything new, but he was in the middle of work and he couldn’t ignore it.

Suddenly, his head was filled with grunting and moaning and then he knew.

Ash was getting some. And by extension, he was getting some.

He could not be more grateful that he worked from home because he had ran into his room to try and sort it out.

He laid in bed, spasming slightly as he tried to take the Sync Node off his neck.

To his horror, he found that it had already been off. He remembered that the two of them decided to take a break from it yesterday and took them off.

Leo unbuckled his pants and felt his dick spring free. He barely even had to touch it.

It was if he felt Ash’s own penis penetrating whichever woman he decided to hook up with.

In some strange cosmic sort of way, he felt as if he was having sex with a woman for the first time.

Ash’s stamina was something wild because Leo was practically begging Ash to finish.

He was panting, his breath in complete sync with Ash.

I’m coming. They both thought in sync.

And it happened.

Both cried out as they came.

Leo felt shame as his cum covered his shirt.

Ash must have felt that shame too because he suddenly called out to Leo in their heads.

Leo?

We… we need to talk… When you get home.

~~~

“I’ll look into it.” was all Vance said when Ash asked for help.

“I’m sorry man. I dont know why that happened. But I guess we’re synced up for a while.”

“Shared exercise is nice and all, but I’m not sure how to feel about having to share Sex.”

“Look, I’m sure it was just a glitch.”

Ash grinned and gave Leo’s shoulder a friendly punch.

“But hey, wasnt that mind blowing for you? Does that mean you’re straight now?”

“No. I don’t know. I feel like I’m definitely still attracted to men. But that caught me off guard.”

Ash grabbed Leo’s hand and moved it over to his crotch.

Leo’s cock hardened and Ash felt his shock.

“Bro!” Ash laughed, patting his own member in amusement as it hardened in sync with Leo’s and thought nothing of it.

“Yep, definitely still gay.”

“You’re weird you know that?”

Though Ash played it off, he felt himself more changed than he’d realized.

Finding interest in his friends hobbies and processing things faster aside, he felt a shift in the way he viewed people. More specifically, men in particular.

He figured the way he was lingering his gaze over attractive men he’d walk past was just from Leo’s side indirectly influencing him. But the longer it went, the more he realized he was doing it on his own now. And he was starting to find them attractive. If Leo noticed, he did not mention. Though Ash figured Leo would think those were just his own thoughts.

Things came to a head the day before Ash’s friend was supposed to finish a fix for their dillema.

That night, Leo was feeling really frisky from the past few days. The two agreed not to engage in sexual activities without letting each other know so they were prepared. But Leo could not handle any more and waited out Ash to go to sleep.

When he was sure Ash was deep in slumber, Leo laid in bed and started slow. Lubed up and pumping, Leo started panting. He did not feel anything from Ash and thought he was in the clear. He was wrong. So very wrong.

Within 2 minutes or masturbating and edging, he felt Ash stir. He was slowly coming out to as his body trembled from Leo’s ecstasy.

A moan escaped Ash’s mouth before he realized what was happening.

L-Leo?

Why are you awake?

I don’t- fuck…

I dont know. What happened to… no funny business… until we were better?

Leo’s pumping grew faster and desperate.

I cant take it anymore. I need to come. Please just ignore me. Just one night.

But Ash couldn’t ignore it. Not when his cock was demanding a party.

The heat radiated from both of them as Ash began pumping his own cock alongside Leo.

Ash! What are you-

Two can play it that game.

The intensity of their mutual, synchronized jerk off session was nothing they’d ever felt before. So much so that their breating was one for one.

Their hard cocks enduring differences in speed and stamina as both men started to form a solid link that would change their chemistry forever.

Ash… Leo… They moaned together.

“FUCK!” They finally shouted, their cocks simultaneously erupted more cum onto their bare bodies than they had ever done in their lifetime and passed out.

When they woke up 20 minutes later, something had gone beyond horribly wrong.

Leo felt heavier when he got up. His body sticky from the jizz he had shot up just earlier. Yet his hands… they werent his. This bulk, this room, this body. He’s seen it before.

But it wasn’t his.

He pat himself down, trying to figure out what was going on. And when he finally looked in the mirror, panic settled in.

He was in Ash’s body.

The sync had been so strong that their minds had passed through the link to each other.

“Ash?” He called out, weirded out by the new deep voice that came out of his mouth.

He closed his eyes to try and feel out where his friend is. He felt a wet sensation and realixed Ash had gotten up in his body and showered.

Instead of waiting, Leo found himself walking to their shower

He found his Ash under the shower, somewhat confused, and inspecting his new body.

When he turned around and found his own body staring at him, he felt his… their hearts beat in rythm.

“Leo?”

“Yeah… it’s me.”

“What are we going to do?”

There should have been a more logical answer to this for Leo, but the two felt their connection intensify their feelings. Their breathing.

Leo dropped his underwear and walked in.

No more words, just feelings.

Leo grabbed hold of his old face and drove his and Ash’s new mouth into a deep kiss.

The shock that Ash felt lasted all but 3 seconds before he reciprocated.

He felt their bodies close in, their wet skins leaving no gap. Their rigid cocks rubbed against each other as the two continued to make out in the shower.

They moved to the bedroom to consumate this strange exchange in bodily form.

The synchronization still doubling the orgasmic feelings they felt.

Ash moaned as Leo maneuvered his okd body to dominate Ash’s new body in the bed. A feeling Leo was not always familiar with. He assumed it was Ash’s experience as a top that’s fueling this aggression.

Though Leo was familiar with the feeling of a cock up his ass, Ash was not. Still, in his friend’s experienced body and the sync letting them call each others experience, losing his ass virginity was not a terrible experience.

He felt his old 8 inch rod slowly enter and pace through his growing hole. He could not help but grunt in surprise and caress his old body’s smooth pecs.

“Guess… you’re not so straight anymore…” Leo panted before planting his lips against Ash’s. Their tongues interwined and playing as their bodies continued to girate from the overwhelming sex.

The sync allowed both their cocks to stimulate each others feelings and maximized the orgasm they felt would come in no time. The two were careful and deliberate, slowly inching in and out to draw out pleasure they both craved before both managed to cum a storm of white once more that night and finally fell asleep.

The morning after, they found themselves still trapped in each others bodies. But an eerie calm washed over them.

“Morning.” Ash was looking over Leo at bed. He was still speechless that he had used his best friends own body like that. He didnt even feel like he got to enjoy how big he felt.

“So… what do you want to do?” Leo asks, though he already knew what Ash wanted.

“I dont know. But whatever that was last night… i kind of want to feel it again. Maybe we… stay like this a little longer… Ash?”

This softness. It was foreign coming from Ash. The confidence he felt, that was foreign to him,

Their breathing was one. Their brain chemistey permanently altered. How could he even consider just going back without seeing where this goes?

“Okay… Leo.”

~

Thanks for reading!

Hope you enjoyed!

[zeropro]

Q&A Corner: Autobot Base

Wanted to try and clear some of my inbox before moving on to the next phase of the story. (long post warning)

It's gotta be Bumblebee, tho he and Wheeljack are chill. The Dinobots trust everyone inherently because they are the strongest and also a little stupid.

Jazz is like, just as cautious as Red Alert, but instead of getting anxious and paranoid he stays cool and relaxed about it. He's keeping just as close an eye on the Decepticons roaming the base as anyone, you just wouldn't know it if you didn't know Jazz. And everyone knows Jazz.

I get a lot of asks about random characters, and I cant really draw all of them, but I like the idea that Cosmos is chilling at some amusement park. Kinda like in EarthSpark, but like consensually haha. I bet he's great with kids.

They're divorced. Ratchet didn't approve of his malpractice and Pharma didnt approve of his personality.

No one will ever find out what happened between Starscream and Cryak if Starscream has any say in it. And he won't refuse a spark exam, it just gives him anxiety and he has a hard time with them. He'll do it but he might have to hold someone's hand.

I don't think it hurts to roll around in vehicle mode, but it's possible it hurts when transforming. Bumblebee can join the chronic pain gang.

Probably my fault, not my best writing if I have to be honest. The dialogue in that comic didn't quite get across what I wanted, I cringe a lot when I look back on it lmao;;; (Also yes best not to touch him or stand too close)

Well Bee is the Autobot leader and Starscream thinks himself the Decepticon leader, so it makes sense they'd work together. Prowl, Jazz, and Red Alert def notice something else going on there and are torn between wishing Bee would be just a little less trusting of the war criminal and hoping this is doing some good for Starscream.

I actually love when fics explore this. I don't think the Autobots are perfect or anything, I'm sure there is still animosity there for sure, but the leadership doesn't rely on fear to maintain power and I think the contrast wouldnt be lost on Starscream. If nothing else it puts into stark contrast just how far Megatron has fallen (heh heh).

Yeah Megatron isnt doing great after coming back online. I think the coneheads left specifically because he started taking it out on them in lieu of Starscream. I don't think anyone wants to be there anymore but it can be really hard to leave. Soundwave is still loyal, he can sense the nuance of what's going on inside Megatron and it makes it hard to turn his back on one of the most important people in his life.

I'm certainly going to try (it's a canon event!)

That would be so very cute, but it wouldn't happen haha.

Of course he misses them, but he's a big boy, he wont cry (maybe in his sleep).

They didn't know he was there. Fireflight got lost and they kinda just stumbled across Thundercracker's house while out looking for him and started bothering him.

I think we all could use a break and a nap mayhaps...

They barely know each other, like coworkers that work on different floors of the same office building.

I'm sure he knows there's a difference. Probably doesnt realize they're cats and not, idk, a bear or something. He didn't really pay attention to Earth creature taxonomy until very recently.

Sunstreaker doesnt feel bad about it because I dont think he had full intention of killing an unarmed incapacitated mech. He was more using intimidation to keep Skywarp from warping out and attacking him, he totally woulda killed him at that point, or at least tried to. Skywarp doesnt hold it against him tho, it was war, it happens, he prolly woulda killed him back if given the chance.

Skywarp also hasn't seen or spoken to Thundercracker since then. Skywarp was really really mad when Thundercracker originally defected from the Decepticons, and he doesn't really understand why Thundercracker wont talk to them. It's complicated. He also just hasn't really thought about going to see him. Keep in mind they've been with the Autobots for a little over a year, so not a very long time.

It's fun how many people were worried for Swindle. I can at least say he didn't really deserve it this time. Man's out here thriving under capitalism but Megatron needs his combiners.

Soundwave is of average size, Megatron is just huge! Soundwave and Starscream are the same size.

They didn't lose Soundwave, they know where he is. They can go visit him any time. And no one has to take care of them, they're full grown adults haha. Honestly, the Autobots are used to them spying on them in their walls, they're probably just like "at least they're running around out in the open where we can see them now."

I think the only other notable one is Defensor. I don't have any plans to include Defensor.

No thanks, that's weird. :P

Stay tuned!

[rawme-price]

JEALOUS!WOLF READER PART 3 ... AND MY LIFE WILL BE YOURS!!!!

(Previous part here, part one here)

"...what."

Its the only thing you can think to say, mind stuttering at the completely wild accusation soap just threw at you.

"What, shocked someone finally called you on it?" Gaz cuts in, stepping slightly in front of soap. You just stare at him, confused. One second youre getting kicked out and the next youre being confronted about something you aren't even aware of.

"Called me on what? What have I done? I genuinely dont know!" You, ironically, feel a bit like ur being cornered by a pack of wolves. Gaz just raises a brow, arms folding over his chest.

"Called on the fact that you hate hybrids."

What?

"What the actual fuck?" You cant even focus on the anxiety at the back of ur mind. Fucking appalled at gazs statement. You look desperately at ghost and price, but they hold no sympathy. "Hate hybrids? What the fuck would make you think that?"

"Dont play dumb. On the heli ride back from those traffickers. Soap was just getting some head pats, as he should, and you were glaring at him the whole time. Then you looked at me as if expecting me to share your disgust."

"...no way." Your voice is quiet, replaying all these days of suffering you've been through. "I wasnt fucking glaring at soap! I was jealous because he was getting head pats and I wasnt! Yknow, because im a wolf hybrid!"

Your little outburst shocks gaz. His eyes are wide, and you can see in real time as realization then regret dawns on him. "...wait. so- so all these times you've been staring at soap since then? Or shoulder checking him in the halls?"

"I was just a bit jealous and trying to playfight. You guys are always indulging his instincts, and I thought itd be a good way to get rid of whatever was making him avoid me." Now its you who crosses your arms.

"You seriously thought I was what- some kind of bigot? Because you assumed i had a problem with soap?" Gaz has the decency to look sheepish, and as u turn ur glare to ghost and price they glance away nervously. "You couldn't even fucking ask me if that was true?"

"I've been suffering for weeks! I thought my fucking pack was rejecting me! Do you know how horrible ive felt? Because of a misunderstanding that you couldn't be bothered to sort out even when I asked?!"

A growl, unbidden, crawls up your throat. You feel elated that this was all a misunderstanding, and at the same time furious. You cant decide whether to stew in ur anger to to be happy ur pack still wants you.

In the end anger wins, and u storm off back to ur room, ignoring when soap calls your name.

It doesnt help. Ur room is just as depressing as its been since the incident. Den torn up and circle paced onto the floor. You ignore it, crawl into the tatters of your bed and lay there. No desire to leave, no desire to sleep.

[evangelines-emporium]

Non Dualism Basics + Manifestation (for people who want to be freed from limitations)

•°. *࿐ Honesty non dualism changed my life for the better and I will always be grateful to know about this :)

Non-dualism is the recognition that there is no separation between you and reality, awareness and experience. There is only awareness, appearing as all phenomena: thoughts, sensations, perceptions, what is called the external world.

The person you believe you are is not a fixed identity, it is merely a pattern of thoughts and memories experienced by awareness.

In non dualism, your true nature is consciousness or awareness. Everyone's true essence is consciousness, and it makes up everything you see: the ego, the physical world, the imagination, everything. This all exists because consciousness let it exist, meaning you, as the creator, expect it and allow it to be.

There is no authority higher than awareness, yet awareness is not a being. It is not human, not otherworldly, not a force, not a person. It is everything and it is nothing. The “power” to shift, change, select is not owned, but it is simply the fact of identification. Whatever awareness identifies with, it materializes. Whatever is taken to be “I,” becomes experienced in the external.

You are simply awareness identifying/living as a human, which means you aware of a ego. An ego is simply the human you are aware of: their visual field, 5 senses, thoughts, emotions, feelings, all of it!

The ego is not an entity, it is the illusion of being a person, the thought “I am this.” It is simply a cluster of sensory data and thought appearing in the field. The sense of “my senses,” “my thoughts,” “my experience,” arises only through misidentification. Drop that, and what remains is pure being: awareness itself.

You’re not a human trying to reach awareness, you are awareness appearing as a human. The only limitation is believing you are the ego: the thoughts, the personality, the sense of being a separate self in a physical world. That belief filters your experience to match it.

The ego isn’t the one manifesting anything. It’s just the appearance of a character in the dream (the physical). What’s actually manifesting the dream is awareness itself. The moment something is fully accepted as true, it appears. Not because a person made it happen, but because identification shifted.

Everything is consciousness. Imagination and "real life/3d" are not different from each other, they are the same appearance, made of the same thing. When awareness identifies as the ego, the ego’s world plays out. When that identity drops, the experience shifts.

You don't become awareness, you just realize you never were anything else. Theres nothing to fix, nothing to get, because as awareness, you have everything already, you just need to decide/select it and it is done. There is no desiring when you already have it. You just refuse the old and accept the new.

Selection is not a doing, it’s simply no longer denying what is already true.

Ok but get to the burning question, how do I "manifest" something?

You don’t. Not really, but hear me out.

You dont "manifest" as a person. What’s called “manifestation” is just awareness identifying with a new version of reality.

Because all possibilities already exist in awareness, nothing needs to be created. You’re not making something happen, you’re dropping the identity that says it is not already so.

What you are being = what you are claiming as “I am.”

Not what you say.

Not what you visualize.

Not what you feel.

Only what you be.

There is no gap between desirer and desired, as both arise within awareness. The “thing” and the “one who wants it” are the same illusion.

Drop the self who wants the thing → The thing appears because there is no one left to need it.

You can’t lack anything if you are the source of all of it. Lack only appears when you think you’re a separate self (ego) who has to get. If that identity isn’t claimed, neither is the feeling of want or desire or need.

From non-duality, there’s no “manifesting” something outside of you, because nothing is outside. There’s just awareness appearing as whatever is identified with. That’s it.

It’s not about making it happen. It’s about not identifying as the one who lacks.

So:

Drop the story of “I want it.” Ignore the ego, do not claim its thoughts or feelings or external world as yours.

Be the version where it’s normal, obvious, already here. Decide what it is the ego "wants" and claim it to be true now. Identify as the ego (person) who has it, rather than the ego who doesn't. As awareness, both those identities hold equal weight, so pick the one that suits you best.

Don’t wait for it. There’s no waiting in being. If you’re waiting, you’re still wanting.

That’s literally it. "Manifestation" is not doing. It’s being.

But how do I become a new identity???

Identity is not built. It’s selected. You don’t need to feel like it nor think like it. You only need to know: This is who I am now. And you refuse to claim anything else.

Think about it like choosing clothes, you dont need to "become" a new outfit. you put it on. done. no waiting, no steps, no convincing.

You are awareness, you can be anything and have anything. So select it and in that moment, it is DONE, it is now your truth. Stand firm in that decision and ignore anything against it.

Wait Evangeline...but what about thoughts or affirmations??? Arent they what manifests???

If you are coming from a loa perspective, this might be what you are thinking.

Well its not the thought or affirmation themselves, it is the stance behind it. They don't create reality, the identification does.

If you identify as the version who has it, the experience reflects that. If you identify as someone trying to get it, then trying is what shows up.

Think of it like this: When you open a door, you don’t have to affirm “I open the door” over and over. You just open it, because you know you can. You already identify as someone who opens doors. It’s natural.

Affirmations can help if they express what’s already true for you. But if you’re using them to convince yourself, then you’re still not being it, you’re still trying. I find that affirmations are often not necessary, as if you know you are something, you don't need convincing. The only thing that needs convincing is the old ego, but you aren't that anymore so ignore it.

Like, if you have a car, you don’t affirm it 10k times daily to keep it. You just know it’s yours. You are the version who has a car. That’s the only reason it's there.

Same with anything else. You have it when you're not trying to get it. You are it when there’s nothing left to prove.

Doubts from the ego don’t matter. Ego doesn’t choose. Ego has no part in what is identified with, nor what is "manifested." Awareness does. The one watching the doubt (awareness) isn’t doubting. Ignore the ego, don't claim its thoughts and doubts as you. It is not the real you, you are the observer.

Now for the big guy in question... the 3d:

The "3d" is not real in itself, it is simply a mirror of identity. The external world is not separate from you. It is a reflection of identity, projected through awareness. It appears “outside,” but it is arising within consciousness, just like imagination. The 3d does not exist independent of awareness.

You don't change it by pushing on it or screaming at it, you change it by dropping identification with what it reflects.

The "3d" is not a cause, not a source, and definitely not a judge. It is a reflection of what's being identified with (not what's being thought, affirmed, or forced by the ego).

There is no need to worry about the external because:

It is you projected as form, it is not separate from you

The "3d" is not the source, it has no authority to determine what is real. You do.

It has no power, so it cant show anything that isn't being projected by you as the creator.

It always has to mirror who you are being, it has no choice

No need to worry. The 3D follows you. Always. Because it is you.

If it’s showing something unwanted, it’s because identity hasn’t shifted yet. That’s all. But do not get caught up in this, as time is not real to infinite awareness. Choose to stop observing the "3d" of the old ego, choose to stop giving it attention, and it will cease to exist.

If you get doubts from the ego, ignore them, remind yourself that it is "not me" and "not mine." You are the observer, the one who has everything, so don't pay attention to the ego with lack. It is not you anymore.

Be indifferent to the old ego's "3d," be indifferent to its lack. If you see it still, just observe, and know it is not yours.

Do not think this means you have to abandon the old ego's life if you still "see" it. You can still do things in the old 3d without identifying with it or claiming it. Simply know it is no longer you.

How to know you are the new identity:

You no longer ask "Am I doing it right." You no long chase proof and you no longer entertain the old storyline. You stand in: "This is what I am. Nothing else matters.”

It is not about effort, it is simply refusal + knowing + indifference to all else.

[spoopdeedoop]

you making ctommy a trans girl means so much to me both personally and from a character standpoint, bc of course she would be everything that goes against the stereotypical portrayal of a girl; she’s crass, loud, violent, energetic, literally the opposite of a standard patriarchal woman yet ctommy goes i’m a woman because i want to be a woman, fuck you. idk. where trans women headcannons often (in my opinion) come from this idea of of either ‘perfect’ passive femininity or 100% slay cunt fabulousness if you know what j mean, it’s nice to see a different idea of what a trans girl can look like bc ppl are complex and multifaceted, and what better example of that than ctommy! tldr trans girl ctommy is real as hell you are the writer of the dsmp to me atp blehggggg

HEHE THANK YOU SO SO MUCH!!

dude i drafted a whole answer to this and then accidentally closed the app and fucking lost it. uhh i think i said something about how my ctommy is very dear to me bc i used to be a girl that climbed trees and got injured a lot… and honestly idk if i’ve ever really meditated on it any further than i just thought that vibe fit her.

i do also see a lot of other transfem/trans girl ctommys around and they are usuallyv very soft and gentle… and they are wonderful too but i do think some people feel the need to tone down the Brashness of ctommy to make her a girl and i dont think that is rly Her. she can be gentle and also boisterously loud and brash at the same time she is like the wind. in a way. sorry im jsut saying things. i think girls who live in the woods are cool and awesome and ctommy is like that to me. i tweeted abt this one time

[yuhi-san]

All of this. But its also important that tjey try to help in any way they know how to because... its not like there is any guid for how to do this. There isnt exactly a precedence for a secunit going rouge but instead of violence wanting to just watch shows but also clearly being dedicated to protecting them but also being seemingly mad about it too.

And another thing i feel people often forget about the presaux grew messing up with murderbot (especiall im the tv verse) is... hiw would they know what to do? Murderbot doesnt have any idea what it wants. Neither would it be able to communicate it propperly if it did. On top of that its not exactly great at correctly interprete most social clues (keep thinking about the "there is no reason to look at me, i am not a sexbot" there are many reason ti look at someone that have nothing to do with romance or lust but).

Hell it barely knows what it doesnt want! It has a short list of that (being controlled, ironically being a robot for murder, being a pet robot, being a sex bot and most touch and eye contact) it just sort of adds to the list as it goes on and encountersmore stuff it didnt like.

Presaux tried their very best to stumble through this and they did mess up but they pay attention and learn. Ratthi stopping from hugging murderbot, mensah not looking it right in its face, them taking note of the importance of sanctuary moon)

And while it is sad murderbot didnt feel like it could stay with them at the end of all systems red and the tv show, they did good. I dont think there is any "ifs" or "had they" or any course of action that would have lead to a different outcome.

They were trying to help, which didn't help. But as much as it pissed me off, I kind of appreciated it.

Murderbot TV (Apple TV) season 1 episode 7

[gotaksboyfie]

haiihii ! i love your hc and oneshots a lot like..i feed and breathe off of them! i hope youre finals went well and congratulations if they did ! (i knew you had it in the bag) 🫡🫡

could i maybe request boyfriend and nsfw hc for suho since i dont think you've done that and i love him sm 💔(not more than gotak my favourite forever)

–🥩

ahn suho bf + nsfw hc's

general

gif creds: @seolinguk

» love at first sight trope personified. the second he lays eyes on you, he just knows you're the one. silently pines until the Right Moment and sweeps you off your feet

» love language is physical touch for sure. he's so cuddly. at home, he refuses to detach himself from your back. his hands are wrapped around your waist, and you two have to do a weird waddle to go anywhere until you decide to lay/sit down

» tones it down a little in public, but doesn't hide his affection for you. it doesn't come from a sense of possessiveness, but just the need to be close to you constantly

» buys you a matching pillow to nap on. if he switches it out for his so you can smell him whenever you use it, that's a secret between him and no one (sieun knows, but that's because suho blabbers about everything he does to you)

» likes it when you come over during his shifts. you come because he gets so smiley, even if it's a little hard to study with the smell of bbq everywhere. it helps get the random girls hitting on him away, and just having you there is a bonus to suho

» spoon feeds you every bite. you just have to sit there because there's an automatic feeder in front of you. he barely even waits for you to be done chewing before he's shoving in another leaf wrap

» never ever get hurt in his presence or else he's gonna go full helicopter boyfriend on you. you're never leaving his side for the next week and he'll be your personal boyguard

» teaches you how to defend yourself against others just in case too. you learn his flashy mma moves along with the easier ones. most of the time, sparring ends with you falling flat on your ass unless he takes mercy on you

» honestly acts more like a mother hen than a boyfriend. he fusses over you and scolds you constantly over your health, leaving you there like a kicked puppy because you didn't ask for a health lesson about junk food and it's negative effects :( you just want to snack in peace. of course he'll follow it up with lots and lots of kisses, telling you how he's just looking out for you

» very nervous about introducing you to his grandma. the two most important people in his life meeting—what if something goes wrong? he knows he's being irrational, but he just wants everything to go smoothly. but turns out he was just worrying for nothing, since you and his grandma got along very well bonding over suho

» absolute loverboy. he's head over heels for you. overall one of the best boyfriends in the cast honestly

nsfw

» gentle and sweet at first, but loses control fast. he can't hold back against you, leading to him thrusting into you sharply after just a couple minutes

» on the skinnier side, maybe a little bigger than 6in

» a body worshipper. he loves each and every part of you. if suho even catches wind of you not liking something about yourself, he will make you believe that you are perfect in every aspect by showering you in praise and kisses

» not a fan of degregation, but if you like it he's down. prefers to tell you how good you're being, how tight you feel, and how beautiful you look underneath him

» takes the lead . if you're not already a pillow princess, you might as well start being one with suho around. you don't have to lift a single finger, he'll take care of you regardless

» puts your pleasure above his (unless you really pissed him off). he gets off just looking at you alone, so he focuses more on you. for every orgasm he has, you'll have double by the end of it

» not super kinky but is open to it. he doesn't really care about it because he thinks that the experience is already the best it can possibly be as long as it's with you

» likes watching his cum leak out of you, but is also scared of pregnancy so he opts for a condom most of the time

fin

a/n i'm SO sorry this took forever 😭😭

[daughter-of-sapph0]

thinking about how my mother, who is otherwise a very kind and respectful and sympathetic person, told me point blank to my face to stop using my cane

i have chronic pain. ive had it since high school, and she knows this. my legs always hurt. sometimes its manageable, and i can walk short distances. but any further than a short walk makes my knees feel like they're on fire. i need a cane if im traveling anywhere.

and my mother hates that i use it. she says im too young to have to use a cane. as if young people cant be disabled

i know that you think old people deserve mobility aids more and that disability only gets acknowledged with age. but im not taking away someone's wheelchair or something. these are ten dollars at cvs, anyone can get one if they need it. and im someone who needs it.

shes told me multiple times to stop walking with my cane, that i should just toughen up and not rely on it, and that using it to much will "hurt my legs more". she's recommended chiropractors (fake doctors who dont do anything) and told me to look into alternative medicine.

all because she cant handle looking at a visual reminder that her little baby girl is disabled. shed rather me suffer in silence and hide my disability so no one feels sad looking at me.

this disability pride month, remember that no one should have to hide themselves or pretend they're okay for other people's comfort

[skitskatdacat63]

Thought he deserved gifs of his face <3

(gifing Death Stranding 2 11/?)

[meow-moment]

when youre scrolling through the blog of someone you respect and they make a post for no clear reason that indicates they have a hang-up that would prevent them from liking you as a person. and it truly does not matter but youre like Ow and you feel your opinion of them shifting in real time

[purpurussy]

😶‍🌫️

[svenrecs]

i have BEEN slacking on catching up bc life has officially fucked me sideways and not in the good way like how rogue and phoenix are fucking 😒

this is just going to be a cluster fuck of thoughts. i don’t even know if it will make sense. i just want to scream about it so i will.

JK SEEKING OUT NIX? TO SHARE HIS SPECIAL SOURDOUGH MAKING W HER? at also 3 am in the morning, which personally, i would’ve said fuck no, but for kook? there’s unfortunately a lot i would allow for this man 😔

also, i love how soft JK gets when he's talking about his mom :') he just gets so soft, and mushy, and becomes a boy who just his misses his mom. and i'm pretty sure the hints are making it seem like she passed away..? or so i think anyway bc he only talks about her in past tense if i rmr correctly and MY HEART UGH HAS THIS BOY NOT BEEN THRU ENOUGH? SHITTY DAD, SHITTY EX, SHITTY CREDIT??? GOD KNOWS WHAT ELSE, BUT HE STILL MANAGES TO B SO BRIGHT AND SMILEY 😭 P A I N i will fight anyone who hurts this man again (kiki this is ur opportunity to write me into the fic as jk's personal body guard, please and thank u. i will not take no for an answer 😐)

AND THE FLOUR SCENE? SO FUCKING CUTE. SO FUCKING ADORABLE. WHEN I TELL U I WAS SMILING INTO MY SCREEN LIKE A FUCKING IDIOT. THEIR DYNAMIC IS LITERALLY TO DIE FOR AND WE'RE BARELY THAT FAR ALONG. LIKE FUCK FUCK FUCK. how they go from being two idiots having the most fun with each other to having THE HOTTEST FUCKING SEX EVER (AGAIN, WHERE DO I FIND FMU!JK????? I DONT THINK I HAVE EVER WANTED A MAN SO BAD IN MY LIFE, IT'S NOT HEALTHY). they're push and pull, the way they meet each other line for line UGH. so compatible in so many ways, i actually fear my heart won't handle it when they catch feels and get all cute and soft for another 🥹

ahh and the talk about their love lives. jungkook not being able to see that tessa's affection was interest in him :') his trauma from mia plays such a big role he can't see it, and if things do happen between him and tessa or another love interest, i can only imagine how mia will haunt that new relationship. he's still healing and unpacking ad unlearning, and honestly some things run so deep, you almost never fully unlearn them. he's not able to see kindness as just kindness, sincerity as just just sincerity, affection as just affection (MIA WHEN I GET MY FCKING HANDS ON U). his brain can't fully understand that someone being nice can be genuine and not because there are strings attached. and i feel like he struggles with that more when it applies in romantic relationships more than platonic :’)

operation sunny not crying over jk for being a) a soft, lovable lil shit b) traumatized tf out, and c) S HOT HORN DOG IN A WAY THAT ALTERS MY BRAIN CHEMISTRY is going v poorly. i fear i am too attached...

AND THE SEX? FUCKING HELL. SO. FUCKING. HOT. I AM UNWELL. I'VE BEEN UNWELL. I SAT STARING AT MY CEILING QUESTIONING MY WHOLE SEX-ISTANCE AND THEN SOME BC WHAT THE FUCK. THE VANILLA? THE DIRTY TALK? and man is he good at the dirty talk JUNGKOOK BEING ROUGHER? FUCK ME UP. the title of this fic is really quite fucking genius. NIX KISSING HIM AFTER HE EATS HER OUT WHEN SHE NEVER DOES THAT? ALRIGHT GIRL. HOW MANY OTHER RULES HAVE U BROKEN FOR HIM, HM? HOW MANY WILL U CONTINUE TO BREAK? HUH? she is so down bad (for the sex at least lol) and she hates she has no control of it, and she brings that out by being mouthy JUST AS JK NOTED!!! control is such a big thing for her, it comes out everywhere (and helps make really great sex apparently). she just needs some semblance of control bc her body wants jk so bad and she feels she has no control over that. over her reactions, over how her body chooses to respond, over how much she likes it. she needs the upper hand bc that's her safety net and i love how we explore this with sex bc OOF. and i love that jungkook's catches it, clocks it, calls her out while simultaneously fucking her brains out. and i REALLY love how he says:

"You need to know I like it," he says, "so you can file it under 'doing well,' and that's how you let yourself feel good."

UM?? I WAS LITERALLY THINKING THE SAME. not me psychoanalyzing her trauma during sex growing up with parents like hers, you sometimes don't get praised until u prove u deserve it. until you've done smthing right, done smthing to make them happy or proud. and only after that can you be even try to appreciate your own efforts, but good luck there, too. bc usually the thought process is 'okay. they were happy about it, so i did something right.' there’s this need for external validation before you can even acknowledge how you feel bc the anxiety and worry and consequences about if u didn't perform good enough? usually a direct attack to your self-worth. she's learned to gauge her value and performance in environments where love, praise, or approval were probably conditional. and i love how this is explored in sex bc WOW. genius. i'm sure it'll come up again in soooo may other ways and i cannot wait to sit there and UNPACK.

and now, honourable mentions lmao:

"Better than doomscrolling Twitter," he shoots back without missing a beat.

this was a call out... i am extremely offended....

"Please. You were wearing makeup on a Sunday. And that green top thing that makes your—" He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "Anyway. Spill. How'd it go with Professor Boring?"

and how'd u know that, boo 🤨

And yeah, you catch him looking. That look. The one that says he's already decided how this ends.

this made me snort bc genuinely how do men go from being ur bff or having a normal ass convo with u to giving u bedroom eyes in 0.0000002 seconds. i've gotten genuine whiplash from this before.

"Now be good and let me taste my birthday cake."

kiki, if u want me to die, just say it 😐

"There she is," he whispers. "There's my good fucking girl."

a bullet to the head would be nicer

also???? has anyone else clocked that these two have fucked EVERYWHERE but the bedroom. bc i have. and i am very interested if this was deliberate (who am i kidding it honestly probably was 😭)

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 25

˗ˏˋ vanilla drips ˎˊ˗

"Sometimes the sweetest confessions come in the form of flour wars and vanilla extract kisses, when 3 AM vulnerability meets kitchen counter chemistry and you realize you've been lying to yourself about what you actually want."

next | index

✧ chapter details ✧

word count: 11.2k

content: 3am sourdough therapy sessions, flour warfare, vanilla extract as foreplay, kitchen counter confessions, raw intimacy (literally), tessa reconnaissance missions, jason date debriefs, smut, penetration, vanilla kink as always

✦ author's note ✦

Okay. Before anyone starts warming up their fingers to type “why is Y/N being such a hypocrite about Tessa,” let’s stop right there because actually? She’s not. Not even a little bit. What you’re witnessing here isn’t hypocrisy—it’s human behavior. It’s trauma logic. It’s psychological realism. And it’s honestly the most consistent Y/N has ever been.

Here’s the thing: what she has with Jungkook is sex. She’s said it, she’s acted on it, and more importantly—she believes it. Her brain doesn’t categorize him as a romantic option, not even subconsciously. So when she pushes Tessa toward him, it’s not because she’s lying to herself—it’s because, from her point of view, Jungkook deserves something good. After Mia? Yeah. He deserves a little sweetness. Tessa’s nice. That’s literally it. She’s responding with a moral instinct, not romantic jealousy. And that’s not hypocrisy—that’s compartmentalization paired with a genuine (if ill-defined) desire to see someone be treated well.

But here’s the question the chapter’s really asking: is “something good” always what someone needs?

Because Jungkook doesn’t recognize affection as safe. The boy has trained himself not to see it—thanks to a past that weaponized intimacy against him. So of course he doesn’t clock Tessa’s interest. It’s not him being stupid. It’s a trauma-informed blind spot. He’s too tuned into control dynamics to perceive sincerity when it’s offered without strings. (And let’s be real, how many of us have had our receptors miswired by the wrong person?)

That’s where the mutual curiosity comes in—both Y/N and Jungkook ask about each other’s dating lives in this chapter. Not because they’re pining or secretly in love or any of that fluff. They’re not. What they are, though, is interested. Maybe not in a romantic sense, but definitely in a human one. They’re trying to read each other. Understand each other. That’s what friends do. Or, in their case, that’s what trying to be friends looks like. They’re clumsy, they’re defensive, but they’re showing care in the only languages they know—flour fights and 3 AM bread commentary and checking if the other person is sleeping with someone else, just to make sense of the shape of things.

And Jungkook? For all his snark and dodging—he reads her this chapter. Like really reads her. He names her deflections. Calls out her need for control. Gives her permission to let go in ways no one else has. That kitchen scene isn’t romantic, it’s recognition. And that’s what makes it intimate. Not love. Not pining. But connection.

The vanilla extract moment—look, I know some of you are rolling your eyes at the "of course it's vanilla because that's Y/N's scent" metaphor, but hear me out. The fact that he was drinking it? That's not cute quirky behavior—that's concerning. It's self-medication disguised as harmless habit. For those of you who don’t know or haven’t caught up—vanilla extract is ethanol. Which means, it is alcohol. And Y/N recognizing it but choosing to transform it into something sensual instead of confronting it directly? That's her attempting to heal through intimacy rather than conversation, which is very much her emotional language at this point in the story.

Anyway. Enjoy the mess. Enjoy the tension. Enjoy Jungkook's dirty talk and Y/N's stubborn deflection and the way they're both falling without admitting it. It's about to get so much more complicated, and I am absolutely living for it.

✧ read on✧

ao3

wattpad

You're halfway to sleep when the knock comes.

Soft at first, almost hesitant, like whoever's on the other side isn't sure they should be there.

"What?" you mumble, voice thick with exhaustion.

No response.

Another knock, louder this time.

"Whatttt?" you snap, sitting up and glaring at the door.

Still no answer.

With an annoyed huff, you throw off the covers and march to the door, yanking it open—and nearly stumble into Jungkook.

He's leaning against the frame, one arm braced above his head like he's posing for a magazine cover. His hair is messy, his silver ring catching the faint light from the hallway.

You take a step back instinctively, narrowing your eyes. "What do you want? It's three in the morning."

He tilts his head toward the kitchenette, lips quirking into that infuriating half-smile. "I'm making sourdough."

You blink at him. "Sourdough?"

"Remember I told you about my Steam nickname? The baking pun?" He raises an eyebrow like he's daring you to remember.

"Huh," you say flatly, still trying to process why this man is standing outside your room at an ungodly hour talking about bread.

"Wanna see?" he asks, his grin widening.

"No," you reply immediately, crossing your arms. "Why would I want to see your midnight bread experiment?"

"Because it's cool," he says simply, as if that explains everything.

You stare at him for a long moment before sighing and stepping out of your room.

"Fine. But if this is stupid—"

"It's not stupid," he interrupts, already turning toward the kitchenette. "It's art."

"Oh my god," you mutter, following him reluctantly.

The counter is a mess of flour and bowls and what looks like a dough blob covered with a damp cloth. Jungkook gestures at it like it's a masterpiece.

"Behold," he says dramatically. "The future of bread."

You squint at it.

"It looks like a brain."

"Shows what you know about baking," he retorts, grabbing a wooden spoon and poking at the edges of the dough. "This is proofing."

"You're proofing my patience right now," you mutter, leaning against the counter.

He smirks but doesn't look up from his work. "You're just jealous because I have hobbies."

"Making bread at 3 AM isn't a hobby; it's a cry for help."

"Says the girl who reads Kafka for fun."

"It's called intellectual stimulation."

"It's called depressing bug stories."

You roll your eyes as he starts shaping the dough.

"So this is what you do when you can't sleep? Play housewife?"

"Better than doomscrolling Twitter," he shoots back without missing a beat.

"Shut up." You watch him for a moment longer before asking, "Why sourdough?"

His hands pause briefly before resuming their rhythm.

"My mom taught me how to make it when I was younger," he says quietly. "I loved it, so I picked it up quite easily. I guess it's just habit now."

There's something softer in his voice now, something almost reverent.

You don't press him for more details; it feels like enough that he shared this much.

"But I mean... why do it now?" you ask instead.

He shrugs but doesn't look up. "I told you, it helps me think."

You scoff, trying to keep the mood from dipping too far into serious territory. He finishes shaping the dough and places it on a tray before turning back to you.

"Wanna help?" he asks, holding out the wooden spoon.

"Nope," you say immediately.

"Oh come on." He wiggles the spoon enticingly. "Live a little."

"I'm living just fine without touching your weird blob bread."

"You're no fun."

He sets the spoon down with exaggerated disappointment and starts cleaning up the counter.

You watch him for another moment before grabbing the spoon and poking at the dough experimentally. It feels weirdly satisfying under your fingers—soft but firm, pliable but resistant.

Jungkook glances over and smirks again.

"See? Told you it was cool."

"Don't push it," you warn, but there's no real bite in your tone.

He chuckles softly and continues tidying up while you poke at his sourdough creation like it might reveal some hidden secrets about him—or maybe just about yourself.

And somehow, in this quiet kitchen at three in the morning, surrounded by flour and sarcasm and unexpected softness, it feels... okay.

You're still poking at the dough when Jungkook flicks a bit of flour in your direction. It lands on your arm, a tiny white puff against your skin.

"Oops," he says, not sounding sorry at all.

You narrow your eyes. "Don't start something you can't finish, Rogue."

His eyebrows shoot up at the nickname, a challenge sparking in his eyes.

"Is that a threat, Phoenix?"

"Yes it is."

You dip your fingers into the flour bag and flick it back at him, leaving a white streak across his black t-shirt.

"Oh, that's how it's gonna be?" He grins, reaching for more flour.

You back away, holding up your hands. "Don't you dare."

"What are you gonna do about it?" He advances slowly, a handful of flour cupped in his palm like a weapon.

"I'm serious, Jungkook," you warn, but you're already calculating escape routes. "I just showered."

"Should've thought about that before you started a war."

You dart around the sofa, putting it between you.

"This is childish."

"Says the girl hiding behind furniture," he counters, mirroring your movements as you circle the couch.

"I'm being smart."

"You're being a chicken."

You gasp in fake outrage. "Take that back!"

"No can do," he taunts, lunging suddenly to the left.

You shriek and bolt right, nearly slipping on the tile as you move through the narrow space between the coffee table and the couch. He's right behind you, laughing as you sprint to the other side.

"Get away from me, you monster!" you yell, but you're laughing too, the absurdity of the situation hitting you.

"Never!" he calls back, his voice pitched higher in a cartoonish villain impression. "Ueheheheh!"

You grab a throw pillow as a shield, holding it in front of you.

"I'm warning you!"

"Oh no, not the pillow," he mocks, still advancing. "Whatever shall I do?"

You swing it at him, but he dodges easily, grabbing your wrist with his flour-free hand.

Before you can react, he's smearing the flour across your cheek, touch surprisingly gentle despite the roughhousing.

"Got you," he says, voice low and triumphant.

You retaliate immediately, snatching the bag of flour from the counter and shoving your hand in.

"Fuck that, this means war!"

And so then, war begins indeed.

Flour flying everywhere, breathless laughter echoing through the apartment, furniture used as barricades and launch pads.

You leave white handprints on his shoulders when you try to push him away; he leaves them on your waist when he catches you mid-escape.

The aftermath leaves the kitchen floor looking like a disaster zone, flour coating every surface like a dusting of snow.

You're both covered in it—hair, clothes, skin—looking like ghosts in a low-budget horror movie.

"Truce?" you gasp finally, out of breath from laughing and running.

"Never surrender," he declares, lunging for you again.

You dodge, but your sock slips on the flour-covered floor, and before you fall, Jungkook grabs you, steadying you with a hand on your waist.

"Gotcha," he says again, softer this time, his face inches from yours.

You're both breathing hard, covered in flour.

His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up, a question in them.

And then—

SMACK.

His hand connects with your ass in a playful swat, leaving a perfect white handprint on your black sleep shorts.

You gasp in outrage as he dances away, cackling like a maniac.

"You did NOT just—"

"I did," he confirms, looking far too pleased with himself. "And it's a work of art, if I do say so myself."

You glance over your shoulder, trying to see the handprint.

"I'm going to kill you."

"Worth it," he declares, already backing away as you advance on him. "Totally worth it."

"You're dead, Ro," you threaten, grabbing another handful of flour. "Dead!"

He just laughs, eyes bright with mischief, not looking sorry at all.

"Come and get me then, Phoenix."

And despite yourself, despite the mess and the late hour and the flour in places flour should never be, you're laughing too, chasing him around the kitchen like you're both twelve years old instead of college students with responsibilities and complicated lives.

It's ridiculous. It's childish.

It's the most fun you've had in weeks.

Flour permeates the kitchen air like falling snowflakes.

Jungkook is now leaning against the counter, still grinning like the Cheshire cat, surveying the flour-dusted disaster.

You, for your part, are trying to brush flour off your arms, which is mostly just smearing it around.

"You know," Jungkook says, his voice laced with that fake-innocent tone he uses when he's about to say something outrageous, "all this flour… it's probably not great for your pores."

You eye him suspiciously. "And?"

"And," he continues, pushing off the counter and taking a step closer, "you should probably shower again."

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock." You gesture vaguely at your flour-coated state.

"I could help," he offers. "You know… save water. Be environmentally conscious."

You burst out laughing, a startled, disbelieving sound.

"Are you serious right now? We just had a flour war, and your first thought is how to get laid?"

"Efficiency, Nix," he says, tapping his temple. "Always thinking efficiency."

"You're deranged," you choke out between laughs. "A completely deranged, horny bitch."

He just shrugs, unbothered.

"Maybe. But think of the planet."

You're still chuckling, shaking your head at his sheer audacity, when a thought flickers through your mind, uninvited and slightly uncomfortable.

Tessa.

If he actually starts dating her, if they become a thing… this—the easy banter, the late-night flirting, the casual hookups—it would all have to stop, right? You can't exactly keep sleeping with him if he has a girlfriend.

The thought leaves a weird, vaguely metallic taste in your mouth. Not jealousy, exactly. You don't want Jungkook in that way.

But the dynamic you have, this messy, undefined thing… it's familiar.

Weirdly comfortable in its own chaotic way.

The idea of it changing, ending… it's just… weird.

You push the thought away, shaking your head again, trying to clear it. Not your problem right now.

"Yeah, I'll pass on your noble environmental efforts," you say, trying to regain control of the conversation.

You look around at the white-dusted apartment, then back at him.

"Seriously though, when did you even get home? I didn't hear you come in at all."

He leans back against the counter again, crossing his arms over his flour-streaked chest.

"A while ago. Maybe you were too busy dreaming about me to notice."

"In your dreams, Rogue." You pick a stray piece of dough off your sleeve. "I was sleeping. Like normal people do at"—you glance at the microwave clock—"three-thirty in the morning."

"Normal is boring," he counters easily. "Besides, I'm stealthy. Like a ninja. A bread-making ninja."

"A messy ninja," you correct, gesturing at the flour coating literally everything, including him. "You look like a powdered donut."

"A sexy powdered donut," he clarifies, striking a pose.

You snort. "Keep telling yourself that."

You start trying to wipe down a section of the counter with a paper towel, which mostly just creates floury streaks.

"Seriously though, you didn't make any noise. I would've heard the door."

He shrugs, grabbing another paper towel and starting to help, surprisingly.

"Maybe I'm just light on my feet. Or maybe your ears are full of wax."

"Rude."

You throw the floury paper towel at him. He dodges it effortlessly.

"Just stating facts," he says, grinning. "Maybe you should get them checked. Could be impacting your hearing. Explains why you never listen to me."

"I listen," you argue, crumpling up another paper towel. "I just usually choose to ignore you because ninety percent of what you say is bullshit."

"That feels statistically inaccurate," he muses, wiping down the handle of the fridge. He leaves a faint white handprint behind. "I'd say it's more like… eighty-two percent bullshit. The other eighteen percent is pure genius."

"Delusional," you mutter, tackling the flour patch on the floor near the sink. "Completely delusional."

He stops wiping and just watches you for a second, a thoughtful expression replacing the usual smirk.

"You really didn't hear me come in?"

"No," you say, looking up. "Why? Should I have?"

He shakes his head, the smirk returning.

"Nah. Just means my ninja skills are improving. Or you're a really heavy sleeper." He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Do you snore, Nix? Is that your dirty little secret?"

"I do not snore," you hiss, flicking water at him. "And get out of my personal space."

He laughs, easily dodging the water droplets. "Just asking!"

He resumes wiping the counter, humming softly under his breath.

You watch him for a moment, thoughts about Tessa still churning in your mind.

It's ridiculous, standing here covered in flour at nearly four in the morning, cleaning up a mess you both made, arguing about ninja skills and snoring.

But somehow, it feels… normal. Your kind of normal, anyway.

Messy, complicated, and definitely not boring.

You're on your hands and knees, attempting to wipe up a particularly stubborn patch of flour near the leg of the kitchen island, when you decide to go for it.

Operation: Tessa Reconnaissance. For the sisterhood, obviously.

And maybe a tiny bit because you're curious how this whole mess fits together.

"So," you say, keeping your voice casual as you swipe uselessly at the floor, "your friends seem… like a lot."

Jungkook snorts from where he's attempting to de-flour the coffee maker.

"Yeah, they're idiots. But they're my idiots."

"Including Library Girl?" you ask, aiming for nonchalance. "The redhead? Tessa?"

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder.

"Tessa? Yeah, she was there. Why?"

"No reason," you say quickly, maybe too quickly, focusing intently on the flour patch. "Just noticed you two talking a lot. She seems… nice."

"She is nice," he agrees easily, turning back to the coffee maker. "Super smart, too. Knows her shit about film. Like, really knows it."

Okay, good start. He acknowledges her existence and intelligence. Phase one complete.

"Yeah?" you prompt. "She mentioned you guys talked about… Park Chan-wook?"

You pronounce the name carefully, hoping you got it right based on Tessa's text.

He brightens instantly, forgetting the coffee maker entirely and turning to face you fully.

"Dude, yes! She actually got why The Handmaiden is structured the way it is. Most people just focus on the twists, but she was talking about the shifting perspectives and visual storytelling… it was cool."

His enthusiasm is genuine, almost nerdy. It's the same way he lit up talking about John Mayer's guitar playing. He's clearly impressed by her film knowledge.

"So… you like her?" you ask, trying to sound like you're just making conversation while scrubbing the floor.

"Yeah, she's cool," he says easily. "Definitely one of the few people in that class who isn't a total poser. We had this debate about Bong Joon-ho's genre blending—it was actually interesting."

He seems focused entirely on the intellectual connection. No hint of anything else.

Time for phase two: physical attraction assessment.

"She's really pretty, too," you add, still scrubbing. "Like, model pretty."

He shrugs, grabbing a damp cloth to wipe down the counter where his dough blob still sits.

"Yeah, I guess. Didn't really notice."

You stop scrubbing and look up at him incredulously. "You didn't notice? She looks like she walked off a runway and directly into that ramen shop. How could you not notice?"

He frowns slightly, like he's genuinely trying to recall her appearance beyond 'classmate'.

"I mean, she's got… hair? And a face? I don't know, Nix, I was more focused on the conversation." He seems genuinely perplexed by your insistence. "Why are you so hung up on how she looks?"

"I'm not hung up!" you retort, feeling defensive for reasons you can't quite articulate. "I just… stating facts. She's objectively attractive."

"Okay?" He draws the word out, like he doesn't understand the relevance. "Lots of people are attractive. Doesn't mean anything."

He gestures vaguely with the damp cloth.

"Are we gonna finish cleaning this up or are we analyzing the relative hotness of my classmates now?"

You huff, returning to your floor scrubbing.

Unbelievable. Either he's genuinely oblivious or he's the world's best actor.

Given his track record, oblivious seems more likely.

"Fine," you mutter. "Just making an observation."

"Well, observe the flour patch you missed by the trash can," he retorts, pointing with the cloth.

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"Bossy."

"Best one."

You crawl over to the trash can, wiping up the offending flour.

Okay, so he acknowledges she's nice, smart, shares his interests, but is apparently blind to the fact that she's a literal goddess?

Why are men so confusing?

"So," you try again, shifting tactics. "Since she's so cool and smart and into the same weird movies as you… you gonna ask her out?"

He stops wiping again, looking genuinely surprised by the question.

"Ask her out? Why would I do that?"

"Because… you like her? You just said she was cool and smart?"

Are you losing your mind? Is he actually this dense?

"Yeah, as a friend," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "We're in the same class. We talk about movies. That's… what friends do?"

"Jungkook," you say slowly, sitting back on your heels and facing him directly. "Girls like Tessa—girls who look like her and are that nice—don't usually go out of their way to talk to guys about obscure Korean directors unless they're interested."

He stares at you, blinking. Like the concept is entirely foreign.

"Wait, you think she… likes me? Like, likes likes me?"

"Is there an echo in here?" you ask dryly. "Yes, you absolute walnut. That's generally how that works."

He runs a hand through his flour-dusted hair, looking completely bewildered.

"No way. She's just… friendly. People are friendly sometimes, Nix."

"Not that friendly," you insist. "Trust me. There's friendly, and then there's 'laughing at all your jokes and touching your arm every five minutes' friendly. That's different."

He actually seems to consider this, replaying interactions in his head.

His brow furrows.

"She does laugh a lot… And she did touch my arm…" He looks back at you, still skeptical. "But maybe she's just, like, a touchy person?"

"Or maybe she wants to touch your dick," you deadpan.

He chokes on air, eyes widening.

"Dude! What the fuck?"

"Just saying! It's a possibility you seem to have completely overlooked."

He shakes his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping him.

"Nah. No way. You're messing with me."

"I'm really not," you say, suddenly feeling bad for Tessa—because this poor beautiful girl is putting in the effort, and he's completely clueless. "She basically told me she likes you."

"She told you?" Finally, he looks like oxygen is reaching his brain. "When?"

"At the party. We talked for a bit."

"And she just… announced her romantic interest in me? To my roommate? That seems weird."

"It wasn't like that! She was asking for advice! Because she was nervous!" You're practically defending her now. "She's really sweet, Rogue. And clearly into you."

He leans back against the counter again, processing this information.

He doesn't look smug or pleased, just… thoughtful.

And maybe a little overwhelmed.

"Huh," he says softly. "Never would've guessed."

He's quiet for a moment, staring down at the floury cloth in his hand.

"I mean, she is… really nice."

"So?" you prompt. "Now that you know the feeling might be mutual…?"

He sighs, dropping the cloth into the sink.

"I don't know, Nix."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

He avoids your eyes, turning on the faucet and starting to rinse the cloth with unnecessary focus.

"Dating's… complicated, you know?"

"Everything's complicated with you," you mutter.

He glances back, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before it's gone.

"Yeah, well. Maybe that's just how it is." He turns off the water, wringing out the cloth. "Besides, I'm not really… looking for anything right now."

"You're never looking for anything," you point out. "Except maybe your keys. Or a clean mug."

"Exactly," he says, attempting a grin, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Too busy looking for my keys."

There it is again. That deflection. That hint of something heavier beneath that he refuses to acknowledge.

You think about what Yoongi said, about Mia, about Jungkook needing to be careful.

Maybe he's right to be hesitant.

"Okay," you say quietly, deciding not to push it further.

You've done your recon. You have information for Tessa, even if it's not the straightforward green light she might be hoping for.

"Just… don't be a dick to her, alright? If you're not interested, fine. But she's nice. She doesn't deserve games."

He looks surprised by your defense of her.

"I wasn't planning on playing games." He hesitates, then adds, almost reluctantly, "She does seem… different. From…"

He trails off, but you know who he means.

Mia.

An awkward silence hangs between you for a moment.

Unspoken history and potential futures.

Jungkook breaks it first, clapping his hands together with forced brightness.

"Okay, enough about my potential love life," he says, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "Let's talk yours. How was the date with Jason?"

You freeze, paper towel in hand, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation.

"What?"

He's halfway through sweeping a particularly stubborn pile of flour when he pauses, leaning on the broom handle.

"You know, Jason? Tall guy, glasses, probably owns more vests than actual personality traits?" He waves the broom vaguely. "The one you were all dressed up for earlier?"

"I wasn't dressed up," you protest automatically, even though you know it's a lie.

You definitely put effort into your appearance for that coffee date.

Jungkook snorts.

"Please. You were wearing makeup on a Sunday. And that green top thing that makes your—" He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "Anyway. Spill. How'd it go with Professor Boring?"

You narrow your eyes at him.

"His name is Jason, and he's not boring. He's... mature."

"Mature," Jungkook repeats, drawing out the word like it's a foreign concept. "Right. Because that's what every college student dreams of. Maturity."

"Some of us actually want to date functioning adults," you retort.

"Functioning is overrated," he says with a grin. "But seriously, how was it? Did he dazzle you with his extensive knowledge of... what does he study again? 18th-century doorknobs?"

"Modern literature," you correct, rolling your eyes. "And it was nice."

Jungkook raises an eyebrow.

"Nice? That's it? Wow, don't oversell it or anything."

You sigh, grabbing the dustpan to help him with the flour pile.

"It was really nice, okay? He's smart, and he actually listens when I talk. We had a great conversation about female agency in Gothic novels."

"Riveting," Jungkook deadpans. "I'm sure the sexual tension was off the charts. Did you hold hands while discussing the patriarchal oppression of women in corsets?"

"You're such an ass," you mutter, but there's no real heat behind it. "Not everything has to be about sexual tension, you know."

"Doesn't have to be," he agrees, sweeping the last of the flour into the dustpan you're holding. "But it sure makes things more interesting."

And yeah, you catch him looking.

That look.

The one that says he's already decided how this ends.

One hand still loosely gripping the broom handle, the other braced against the table as he leans into it like he's posing for a fucking cologne ad.

You don't acknowledge it at first. Too proud. Too fucking annoyed by how easily he can flip the switch. One second you're arguing about Gothic literature and vests, the next—he's practically leaking testosterone across the countertop.

"I know that face," you mutter, not even looking up. "That's your 'I need to nut or I'll die' face."

He grins, unbothered. "Not wrong."

"Go jerk off in your sad little windowless cave like a normal person."

He shrugs, grabbing the bag of flour again, sifting some through his fingers with mock concentration.

"Mmm. Say it again. That mouth of yours, Pix… always so fuckin' mouthy."

You roll your eyes, but your stomach dips. "Maybe if you had more than two brain cells to rub together, I wouldn't have to talk so much."

"Yeah?" he says, ignoring the flour and stepping forward.

One stride. Two. And then he's right in front of you, eyes glinting.

"Keep runnin' that smart pretty mouth. See what happens."

You're about to fire something back—something snarky, something biting—but he grabs you.

Just yanks you forward by the waistband like it's nothing. Like you're nothing but a ragdoll he gets to toss around.

Your body stumbles into his chest and suddenly both his hands are on your ass, gripping it with filthy enthusiasm—greedy, solid handfuls of flesh through thin cotton, palms still dusty with flour. His fingers press, squeeze, spread, claim.

You gasp—too startled to bite it back.

And he fucking grins.

"See what you do to me when you act like that?"

His cock's hard against your stomach. Rock solid. Obvious. Shameless. He doesn't even try to hide it.

"God, Nix," he mutters, voice thick now. "C'mon. It's been too long."

You snort. "I sucked your winny yesterday."

He breaks—a bark of laughter, genuine and scandalized.

"Winny?" he repeats, like he can't believe you said it. "You calling my dick a preschool toy now?"

You shrug, deadpan. "Fits. Loud, annoying, kind of a drama queen."

He leans in again, dragging his mouth close, too close.

"Uh-uh, and I ate you out the day before that," he says, scornful little smile tugging at his lips like he's winning something. "So technically… still overdue."

"So?" you snap, but your voice is breathier than it should be. "That's not overdue."

"It is," he says, like it's math. "I mean actually being inside you. Kinda been craving it for a while now."

You swallow. Loud.

"Should I bend you over the kitchen table?" he murmurs. "Fuck you from behind? Bet you'd like that, huh?"

"Please," you scoff. "You'd probably knock over your sacred sourdough."

He grins, cocky and low and unbearable.

"So protective of the dough. But not my Winny?"

You slap his chest, trying not to laugh.

"Don't say it like that."

"Me? You gave it a name, so… C'mon, give my Winny some love, Pix."

You snort, and it comes out halfway between a laugh and a groan because your thighs are starting to ache with how badly you want pressure. Relief. Something.

"Counter or table?" he asks, already walking you backwards.

You hesitate. Just a second.

"…Counter."

He doesn't wait. Doesn't ask. Just grabs you and lifts like it's easy, like you weigh nothing. Drops your ass right onto the cool marble and steps between your legs—close enough your knees bracket his hips.

And his voice? His voice is low and filthy and unforgiving.

"Atta girl."

His mouth is on you before you can roll your eyes.

Hot, hungry kisses trailing up your neck—messy, unhurried, lips dragging like he wants to brand you. He bites at your jaw, just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. You tilt your head without thinking, baring your throat like a fucking offering.

And he groans—low and wrecked—like that does something to him. Like you're giving him more than skin.

His hands stay on your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft crease near your hips, holding you open while he devours.

You blink, and something catches the light near the sink.

Tiny. Brown. Familiar.

Your arm reaches past him, still off-balance on the counter. Fingers curl around it—vanilla extract.

You hold it up between two fingers, smirking.

"Why the fuck is this out?"

His head lifts just enough to glance at what you mean.

"Oh," he says, then immediately dives back in, mouthing at your collarbone like he didn't just answer you. "Nothing. Was sipping a lil bit earlier."

Your body stiffens. Barely. But he feels it.

You don't say anything for a second. You just… look at the bottle.

That rooftop moment. Yesterday. Him alone up there while the party buzzed under your feet. You didn't press then, just made a joke, let him deflect.

But it doesn't take a genius to figure out why someone drinks baking extract ethanol like it's bourbon.

You lick your lips. Keep your voice easy. Teasing.

"That why you smell like a cookie?"

He huffs a laugh against your throat. "You love it. Bet it's makin' you wet just thinking about biting into me."

He's joking. He's back to kissing.

But the bottle is still in your hand, glass warm from your skin, rolling between your fingers like it's got a heartbeat.

And okay. Fine. Maybe you're a little unhinged too.

"Wanna try something?" you ask, voice quiet, a little hoarse.

His head lifts slow. Eyes lazy. Lips wet.

He tilts his head, cock twitching against you like it heard the shift in your voice before he did.

"Yeah?" he says, grinning like he already knows he's gonna say yes no matter what it is. "What're we trying, Phoenix?"

Because you know—you know this man would let you pour hot sauce on his dick if you told him it'd turn you on.

His gaze flicks to the bottle still resting against your palm. Back to your mouth.

"Fuck, yeah," he says, voice already going gravel. "Show me."

You dab two fingers against the lip of the bottle, tilting it just enough to coat your skin in that sticky-sweet scent. Not much—just enough to cling. Your pulse, your collarbone, the hinge of your neck.

His eyes track everything. Like he's under hypnosis.

Slow drag up your wrist, down your throat. Pupils blown wide. Tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip like it's instinct.

And then you offer it to him.

Your throat—tilted, bare. Vanilla blooming warm across your skin, seeping into heat, mixing with your scent.

You watch his jaw tick, tension wrapped in restraint.

He hesitates. Just for a breath. Not because he's unsure. But because he knows what'll happen if he starts.

His eyes drop to your hand. Then back up to your face. And then—

He grabs your wrist, rough but reverent, and slides your fingers straight into his mouth.

His tongue curls around them, sucks them clean like he's starving and this is the only sweet thing he's allowed to have.

His eyes don't leave yours for a second.

Heavy. Dark. Quietly fucking feral.

You feel it in your cunt.

That twitch—sharp and sudden—when he lets your fingers fall from his mouth with a wet pop and immediately dives back into your neck.

No warning. No mercy.

Just mouth on skin, lips dragging open over the vanilla, tongue flattening against your throat like he's licking you clean. Like you're the bottle. Like he's drunk and this is the relapse.

"Mmmfph—fuck," he groans against your neck, hot breath flooding over your skin. "You're—fuck—you're dessert, Phoenix."

He's biting now. Mouthing. Bruising.

Your head falls back against the cabinets with a dull thud and you don't care. Not even a little.

His hands are under your thighs again, yanking you closer to the edge of the counter like he's going to eat you here and now and be proud of the mess.

He doesn't stop licking your neck—just shifts slightly, mouth dragging lower, wetter, hungrier—until he can grab the flask again without even looking. He uncaps it one-handed, like he's done it a hundred times in the dark.

Because he probably has.

And then he's holding it over your chest.

"Hold still, Phoenix."

Voice low. Thick with something needy.

You barely nod before the cool drip hits your skin—fuck—a slow, deliberate trail spilling from the center of your collarbone and down, sliding between your tits, disappearing under the fabric of your tank top.

He watches it move. Doesn't blink. Bites his bottom lip like he's trying to restrain himself and failing spectacularly.

"Fuckkk," he mutters under his breath, and the way he stares?

You'd think he just watched God part the Red Sea between your tits.

But he can't see where it goes. Not really. Because of the shirt.

And that?

That's unacceptable.

So he doesn't ask. Doesn't even warn.

He just grabs the hem of your tank and yanks it up, fast and messy, until it's bunched under your armpits. The cool air hits your bare skin, but his gaze is scorching—dragging down to your breasts, then lower, following the trail of sticky syrup that's now sliding beneath.

He drops the flask without care.

Leans in.

And presses his mouth to the spot just under your breasts, where the drip ends. A hot, open-mouthed kiss. Tongue darting out to chase the taste.

He groans against your skin, like you're something forbidden and fuck, he's eating it anyway.

Then he starts licking up.

Slow. Thorough. Filthy.

Tongue dragging up the underside of your tits, between them, following the line of vanilla all the way back to your cleavage. His breath is hot and shaky, hands holding your thighs tight like he needs to anchor himself before he devours you.

"You taste like fucking heaven," he growls against your skin.

And you can barely breathe.

You lean back on your palms, spine arching subtly, thighs spreading wider across the counter—silent invitation.

His mouth twitches. Just slightly. Like he's trying to play it cool, like he's not already mentally wrecked.

Your fingers close around the vanilla bottle again.

And you tip it over your stomach.

A thin stream spills, slow and syrupy, tracing a path from just under your ribs down to your navel.

Sticky gold pooling in that soft dip, then slipping lower—toward your waistband, beneath it.

He stops.

Mid-breath.

Eyes drop.

Then drag back up to your face, slow as fucking sin.

And those eyes… those fucking eyes.

Dark like blackout curtains. Hungry. But quiet, too. Restrained. Like he's hanging onto the last thread of control and it's fraying fast.

He bites his lip again, teeth dragging over it, jaw flexing.

You raise a brow.

"Aren't you licking the vanilla off my skin, Rogue?" you say, voice steady, teasing, like your pulse isn't sprinting. "Go ahead."

He snorts through his nose—horny.

It's not even a laugh, not really. More like disbelief.

"Jesus, you're such a fucking menace."

Then he moves.

Hands at your waistband, yanking your shorts down like they've personally offended him.

There's no grace. No finesse. Just desperate, fumbling urgency, like if he doesn't get them off now he might lose it.

They hit the floor. So do your panties.

And then he drops to his knees.

Hooks your thighs over his elbows and pulls you closer to the edge of the counter, eyes level with your pussy. Eye to eye with his fucking meal, and the smirk that twitches at the edge of his mouth is so cocky it should be illegal.

But then he pauses.

Eyes catch on the fact that you're smooth. Bare.

His gaze flicks up, that same damn smirk sharpening.

"So you did plan on wishing me a happy birthday, huh?"

You groan, head thunking back against the cabinets.

"Shut up before I change my mind."

He just laughs, grabbing your thigh and yanking you closer, like that's his response.

It is.

"Thanks for the gift," he says with mock sincerity, "but like… full runway smooth? Nix. Just so you know, I like a little design."

You gape at him.

Is he serious right now?

Does he ever stop speaking?

Or think before he speaks? Like 'oh this might sound embarrassing coming from my mouth, I probably should keep it to myself.'

No. Definitely no.

"Design?"

He nods, dead serious now.

"I'm just saying. Little lightning bolt? Maybe a star? I could help you trim it next time. Get real artsy with it."

"I hate you," you mutter, scandalized and laughing, because of course this is what he's focusing on.

"I'm just saying…" he defends, grinning like a madman. "Bare's too creepy. I like texture, Phoenix. But not, like, a forest. I'm not tryna floss with it."

"God, you're disgusting," you shoot back, heat simmering low in your gut despite the absurdity.

"Disgustingly honest," he counters. "I want a little… edge. Like an angled fade. A pussy taper."

You laugh so hard your core clenches and he notices. Eyes drop. His smirk vanishes.

And just like that, he's focused again. Hands tightening around your thighs. Mouth opening. Ready to dive in.

But not before he whispers:

"Now be good and let me taste my birthday cake."

His mouth hovers. That maddening space—right there, close enough to feel his breath but not close enough to feel him.

It's hot. Each exhale fanning over your cunt like a fucking tease. You twitch, involuntary, hips tilting forward on reflex, thighs tensing around his shoulders.

"Rogue," you murmur, half-warn, half-beg.

He smirks. That slow, cocky pull of his lips that tells you he's going to drag this out just to see how long it takes before you snap.

He leans in, tongue barely peeking out like he's going to lick—

And then doesn't.

"I will actually punch you in the face," you hiss.

But he's already grabbing the bottle again.

His other hand steadies you, fingers splayed on your thigh, as he lifts the vanilla flask to eye level. Tips it slightly.

"Wait—" You grab a fistful of his hair. "Wait. Is that even safe?"

He pauses. Looks up at you, eyes wide, surprised—but not annoyed. Just… calm.

"Yeah," he says, voice casual but sincere. "This one's alcohol-based, not oil. No sugar. Won't mess with your PH or anything, I like your pussy way too much to risk it."

You roll your eyes, but okay. Fine. He's got a point.

And he's never put you in danger—annoyed, yes. Insane with frustration, absolutely.

But never unsafe.

"Okay," you mutter. "Proceed with your perversion."

"Oh, I plan to."

He uncaps it.

And the way he does it—so casually, like this is just some Wednesday night extracurricular?—makes your whole body lock up in anticipation.

He tips the bottle, lets a slow stream of vanilla drizzle from just above your navel, down the curve of your belly, heading lower.

It tickles. Warm and sticky, trailing through your folds, and your whole fucking body tenses with it.

His tongue flicks out, but this time, it's not teasing—it's the real deal.

His tongue drags up.

One long, slow stroke—base to tip—starting where your thighs twitch and ending where the vanilla's pooled.

He groans into it. Groans. Like it's crème fucking brûlée and he's been starving for a week. Like your cunt is the main course and dessert and a Michelin star.

You blink down at him, suddenly weirdly self-conscious.

Because—why the fuck is he acting like it's the best thing he's ever tasted?

It's vanilla extract and you, not caviar. Chill.

Your instinct is to kick him. Or flick his stupid forehead. Something.

But your cunt's already clenching around nothing, wetter than you want to admit.

Because—goddammit—his enthusiasm is doing something to you.

Like deeply. Shamefully. Physically.

You glance down, ready to call him dramatic. Maybe smack the back of his head.

But his eyes are closed.

And not in a performative way. Not for show.

They're hidden—lashes soaked, hair falling in messy dark strands over his brows. His whole face is fucking soft—relaxed, like he's at peace. Like this is meditation. Like your pussy is his church.

You reach down, tug his hair back just enough to uncover his face—need to see him.

Need to look.

And then—fuck. He looks up.

And he smirks. Caught you in 4K. Knew exactly what you were doing.

You want to smack him. Or yank his head down harder. Or kiss him. Or maybe scream.

It's all too much. He's too much.

But he just shifts again, mouth zeroing in now—on your clit this time. Tongue flat. Warm. Pressure steady and—fuck, fuck—

Your head slams back against the cabinet. You don't even feel it.

Because he's staring straight at you while he licks.

Intense. Sure. Smug. Like he knows. And the worst part?

He does.

You don't like eye contact. You hate eye contact.

Or—you did. Before he made it his fucking thing.

Now it's some kind of sex death ray. You're melting under it. You can't breathe under it.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his voice hoarse, lips slick with you.

"So mouthy up there…" he breathes, thumb dragging over your inner thigh. "But fuck, you're weepin' for me down here."

You choke on your own spit.

"Shut the fuck up with your cringy little sex monologue."

He snorts. Has the audacity to laugh into your cunt like it's funny.

"Uhhh? I thought we were past that whole thing where you pretend you don't like my dirty talk."

"I don't—"

He cuts you off with a slow circle of his tongue around your clit. Just once. Cruel.

"Right. That's why you got all hot when you said, 'Do you want me to ride you?'" he mimics, low and teasing. "Looked me in the eye when you said it, too. Said it just like that. Fuckin' purring, Pix."

You groan. "God, I hate you."

He grins. "No, you don't. You just hate that you like this."

Another lick.

Another smug look.

Another twitch deep in your gut.

And all you can do is glare at him—until his mouth is back on you, and then you can't even do that.

Because fuck, he picks up the pace.

Your right leg bends, heel dragging up his arm, foot planting itself on his shoulder like it belongs there. Toes curling the second his tongue swirls just right—just there. Over and over. Unrelenting.

Your whole torso arches back, spine stretched out like a bow. Head thunked against the cupboard above, hands gripping the edge of the counter so tight your knuckles go white.

And he doesn't stop.

Both his hands keep you steady, locked around your thighs, until the right one slides up—palm dragging over your skin, hot and too much. It settles right in that spot between your hip and waist. Thumb pressing into your side like an anchor.

Like he's keeping you from falling.

Like you're breakable.

You want to scream. Or sob. Or maybe just bite him for being so fucking considerate while simultaneously licking your pussy like he's trying to win a Michelin star.

You whimper. Actually whimper.

Because it's too much.

Because how the fuck does he even do that with his tongue?

It's obscene. Criminal. Feels like he's mapping you from memory now—like he's figured out every angle, every twitch, every exact combination that gets you to the edge in five minutes or less.

And—fuck—there it is.

That low hum in your belly, spiraling sharp and fast, heat pulsing outward. Nerve endings tightening. Your thighs start to close but he forces them open with a flex of his arms, tongue flattening again.

You gasp. Loud. Desperate.

Your hand flies down to his head and you yank his hair—hard.

He growls against you, frustrated, head jerking up, lips glossy and chin slick and brows scrunched like he's ready to fight.

"What," he snaps, breathless, panting. "What—what the fuck—"

You just whisper, shaky:

"Inside."

He blinks. Once. Twice.

Mouth parts. Eyes still a little wild.

"Huh?"

You meet his gaze, still breathless.

"I wanna cum with you inside me."

It short-circuits him. For real.

He pushes to stand so fast he almost stumbles. Feet trip a little. Palms slap the counter behind you as he catches himself and mutters, "Yeah—okay—fuck—gimme a second—"

But you reach out. Grab his arm. Stop him cold.

You lick your lips.

Probably look stupid. Glossy-eyed and dazed, like someone just rewired your brain through your pussy.

Whatever. You don't care.

You don't care because you can feel it now.

That ache. The need. The desperate, pulsing want for him to just get inside already. Your whole body's still twitching from his mouth and now it's fucking empty.

No thank you.

So you yank him. Hard.

Fingers curling in the loose fabric of his tee, tugging him back toward you like gravity's rewired itself around your cunt.

He lets himself be pulled. Doesn't even fight it. Just stumbles forward until he's between your legs again and then—then you're crashing his mouth to yours.

No hesitation. No buildup. No thoughts.

Just heat. Tongue. Need.

It's messy. Teeth clash. Vanilla and sweat and slick.

His hands slam to the counter beside your thighs for balance, knuckles brushing your waist as your tongue slides against his and you swallow the groan he lets out.

And yeah. You don't kiss men after they eat you out. Ever.

You've always thought it was gross, honestly. You live in your pussy. You don't need the flavor profile introduced.

But with him? Right now?

You don't even care.

You just want to taste what he tastes like. Want his spit in your mouth. Want to feel him.

So you kiss him like you mean it. Like you're not overthinking it. Like this doesn't break five of your own personal rules.

When you finally pull back, lips slick and breathing uneven, you keep your hands fisted in his shirt.

And say—quiet. Calm. "No need for condoms."

His eyes snap open.

You watch them go wide like you just told him the world's ending tomorrow and there's a free-for-all orgy scheduled at noon.

He coughs. Legit coughs. Like your spit went down the wrong pipe.

"Wait—what?"

You shrug. "I have a copper IUD. Works from minute one. I'm good."

His mouth opens, then closes again. Brain buffering.

"I mean…" he blinks. "I—I just—I didn't think you'd…"

You arch a brow.

He shakes his head a little, eyes dropping to your lips.

"No—like—I'm not complaining, I just—" His mouth staggers like he can't quite get the words out fast enough. "Are you sure?"

"I mean, you've been fucking with condoms, right?"

"Yeah. Always. Jesus. Yeah."

"And you've been getting tested?"

He gives you a look. "You think I'd be rawdogging around Brooklyn without paperwork?"

"Kind of," you mutter, just to mess with him.

"Okay, rude," he says, palm flattening on your thigh like it's involuntary. "I'm not feral. I'm—I'm… a respectful slut."

You almost laugh. Almost.

Then you say, quieter, "I haven't fucked anybody else since I fucked you."

And that? That actually makes him pause.

He blinks again. "Wait. For real?"

"Yeah. Nothing so far."

And he doesn't make it a thing. Doesn't get all soft and stupid about it.

He just takes a beat, stares at you, lips slightly parted like he's replaying it. Like the logistics are finally syncing in.

"Okay," he says. Rough. Breathless. "Yeah. Yeah, that's… okay."

You tap his chest. "Just cum outside, alright? Just in case."

He groans. Low and pained.

"Pix."

"I'm serious."

"You're killing me."

"Don't care."

"I'll pull out," he promises, fingers tightening on your skin. "But I swear to god, if you keep saying shit like that—inside, raw, no condom—I'm gonna lose it before I even get my pants off."

You grin back. "Sounds like a you problem."

And he breathes out, frustrated and horny and fucking wrecked, and mutters—

"You're my fucking problem."

He licks his lips.

Slow. Deliberate. Like he's already tasting you again.

Then he leans in and murmurs against your cheek—

"Okay. Turn around."

You blink. "Huh?"

The corners of his mouth tug up. "Turn. Around."

"Of course you wanna change positions."

"What can I say," he shrugs, cock already visibly straining through his sweatpants. "Artist's curiosity."

Still. You do it.

He helps you down—steadying hands at your waist, guiding you like you're breakable, which, let's be honest, rude. And once your feet hit the floor, you shift, pivoting slowly to face the counter.

Elbows down. Back arched.

You stick your ass out just to be a bitch about it.

He groans. Actually fucking groans. Like it hurts him.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, hands immediately cupping your ass like it's reflex. "You're such a bitch."

You smirk into the counter. "Complaining?"

"No complaints." He huffs out a laugh. "Hands on the counter."

You glance over your shoulder. Raise a brow.

"Trust me," he says, already dragging one palm up the curve of your back.

You hum. But you do it. Flatten your hands, palms flush with the counter's edge.

Behind you, there's a shuffle.

Then that sound—the sound.

Elastic snapping as he yanks his waistband down.

You hear him shift his stance, toes lifting slightly as he lines himself up behind you. And then—

The press.

Just his tip, nudging against your entrance, and your whole body seizes, lips parting around a silent gasp as your thighs instinctively press together.

"You better not let go of that counter," he mutters low.

You don't answer.

Not out of defiance—just because your brain's gone static.

So he spanks you. Sharp and hot and immediate.

"I said something to you," he growls, palm landing hard enough to echo. "Did you hear?"

"Yeah," you breathe. "Okay."

"That's what I thought."

Then his hand drops from your ass, slides between your thighs, fingers spreading you open as he lines himself up again. Still doesn't push in.

Just rubs.

His cock slides up and down your slit, slow, deliberate strokes. Slick everywhere. Your breath stutters every time he nudges your clit on the way up.

"God, you're so fucking slippery," he mutters, almost in disbelief. "Dripping for it. I haven't even put it in yet."

You close your eyes, grip tightening on the edge of the counter.

"Your pussy's acting like it missed me," he adds, rocking his hips again, cockhead dragging lazily across your folds. "She's not even pretending."

"Maybe she has bad taste," you snap, voice shaky.

He laughs. Loud.

Then does it again—another glide, another tease, tip pausing right at your entrance just long enough for your breath to catch, then slipping away again before you can adjust.

"You're gonna lose it, huh," he murmurs. "All that smart mouth. All that sass. Gonna forget how to speak when I give you what you want?"

You grit your teeth.

He slides his tip back again, holds it there—barely inside. Just pressure.

Still not pushing in.

Still not giving it to you.

You whimper, shoulders tensing.

"Gripping the counter, Phoenix?" he asks sweetly. "Like I told you to?"

Your fingers curl tighter.

He grins.

And stays right fucking there. Not moving.

Just waiting.

Just standing there behind you like a smug little shit, cockhead resting at your entrance, hot and heavy and perfectly fucking poised—and somehow not going any further.

You shift your hips back slightly, trying to bait him.

He clicks his tongue. "Uh-uh."

"Rogue."

"Pix."

You groan. "You're so fucking annoying."

"Don't tempt me. I could stay like this all night," he says, cock dragging up through your folds again just to prove his point. "Just rub it against you until you're crying."

You scoff. "You act like that's a threat."

He leans forward, chest brushing your back, voice right at your ear.

"You'd cry so pretty."

You twist your head just enough to glare at him.

"You're actually insane."

"Says the girl bent over the counter like a porn scene," he grins, straightening back up. "All 'no condoms, fuck me raw, Rogue' like it's nothing."

You roll your eyes. "Oh, sorry. Do you not want it?"

He hums thoughtfully. "Kinda liking the view, not gonna lie."

"Oh my god."

"Seriously. You ever seen your ass from this angle? Top-tier."

"Shut the fuck up," you mutter, squeezing the counter harder. "You gonna give a Google Maps review next?"

"Might," he shrugs. "Five stars. Would fuck again."

You start to reply—some scathing, lethal retort—but you don't even get the first word out.

Because suddenly—he pushes.

All the way in.

One smooth, brutal thrust.

And you moan.

Loud. Unfiltered. Embarrassing.

Your hands slam flat on the counter like your body can't fucking handle it. The stretch, the shock of it.

You feel full. Too full.

He doesn't ease in. Doesn't give you time to adjust. Just buries himself in one go like it's his fucking right.

Then—smack.

His palm lands on your ass again, sharp and fast.

"That's more like it," he pants behind you, hand lingering after the slap. "There's my girl."

He pulls out slow.

Real slow.

Too slow.

Like he wants you to feel every inch leaving you, feel how empty you get without him. Like he's making a point.

Then—slam.

Hard. Deep. Ruthless.

You jolt forward, hands scrambling for grip as the counter rattles under your hips. A broken sound slips out of you—more instinct than choice—and behind you, he laughs.

Actually laughs.

A horny little chuckle, cock still buried deep like he didn't just rearrange your goddamn organs.

If you could twist around and kick him in the ribs, you would.

"What the fuck are you laughing at," you bite out.

He hums, smug as ever. "Sounded cute."

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"I'll show you cute—"

But you don't finish it. Because he pulls out again, and then slams back in with the same brutal force that leaves your legs trembling and your lungs gone.

What the fuck is he so cocky about?

He's the one getting it raw.

You're the one granting the privilege here. He should be grateful. You could revoke his rights real quick.

Even though… you won't.

Because there's something about it. About this.

No condom. Just skin. Just him.

It's different.

You don't know why it's hotter. Why it feels so much more intimate. You didn't think it would be. It's just cock. Just fucking. But now you feel everything—every twitch, every drag, every time he shifts his angle and catches that spot that has you choking on air.

And then he murmurs behind you, voice low—

"Does it hurt?"

You swallow. "No."

"Good," he says. Calm. Like it's logistics. "If it does, just arch your back more. Fixes the angle."

Fucking hell.

There it is, again.

How is he being considerate and a little shit at the same time?

You're not even flustered because of the sex anymore—you're flustered because he's flipping toggles like he doesn't even notice he's doing it.

You don't respond.

You can't. Because he grabs your hips and—

Slams into you again.

Not fast. Not rushed. Just one clean, devastatingly hard thrust that knocks the breath straight out of you. His grip holds you there, cock pressed deep, dragging that edge of pain into something white-hot and filthy.

"God," he mutters, breath catching. "The way you're gripping me—fuck—you like that, Nix?"

You don't answer.

Too proud. Too dazed. Too stubborn.

So he spanks you. Again.

Sharp and immediate.

"Answer me when I talk to you."

You flinch. Then growl, "Keep spanking and being demanding and I'll revoke raw rights so fucking fast—"

But he just snickers.

"Oh, will you?"

You can hear the smirk.

Then he leans over, chest brushing your back, breath hot on your ear.

"You like it when I slap my hand on your ass, Nix," he says, low and satisfied. "That's why I keep doing it."

You scoff. "You're making shit up."

He grinds into you once, slow and cruel.

"Am I?"

"Yup."

"Naaah. I've been testing."

You blink. "Testing."

"Mhm," he confirms. Another slap to your ass, gentler this time. Palming over the skin after. "And now I know."

You suck in a breath. "How would you know what turns me on?"

He huffs a laugh—mean, hot, unbothered.

"Because you always mouth off about the shit that gets you going."

Your heart stutters. He keeps going.

"Too embarrassed to just let yourself enjoy it, so you talk shit. Every single time."

"Fuck off," you hiss.

He smirks again, hands dragging your hips back slightly. "Nah. You're not fooling anyone, Pix."

"Eat shit," you bite out, but your voice betrays you—tight, breathy. Fucked.

He groans, head tilting back for a second like he can't believe how good he has it.

"You're so full of it."

You scowl over your shoulder.

He slaps your ass again. Just to punctuate it.

"This," he says, palm dragging slow over the sting he just left, "is textbook Phoenix behavior."

"Fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"What I just said. You always talk shit about what you like." He thrusts again, not deep—just enough to feel like a warning. "First it was the dirty talk. Remember?"

You roll your eyes. "Barely."

"Oh, you remember." His voice drops. "Because you called it cringey, and five minutes later you were soaking my jeans."

You grit your teeth.

"And then you rode me," he continues, like he's delivering an airtight closing argument. "Said 'do you want me to ride you?' all breathy. Like you hadn't spent days pretending you were above it."

You don't reply.

He leans in, hips pressing closer, cock buried deep and still not moving.

"And yesterday?"

You clench without meaning to.

"Yeah," he laughs softly. "Yesterday. You wouldn't even look at me when you were sucking me off. Acted all bratty and 'ugh I hate eye contact,' and now tonight you were pulling my hair back just to see my face."

You did do that.

"And now it's the spanking," he says, rocking his hips slow. "Bitching about it."

Another smack, firm and deliberate.

"But you just clenched around me. Again."

You groan into your arm. "You're fucking exhausting."

He grins against your shoulder. "You're fucking lying."

You shake your head. "You're not right."

He pulls back a little, just enough to move again. One clean stroke, all the way out and back in with a grunt.

Then—

"You're wet as fuck."

And you are. You feel it. Feel him glide. Feel the mess. Feel how your body wants him deep, no matter what your mouth says.

"You keep acting like you're not into it," he murmurs, breath hot. "Like you don't love being talked to like this. Touched like this."

"Shut up," you whimper, because you don't want to admit it. You don't want him to be right.

But he already is.

"You act like it's for me," he mutters. "Like I'm the one getting off on it."

And he is. Of course he is.

But so are you.

"You keep lying like it's gonna protect you," he says. "But your body gives you away every time."

He's still going.

Deep now.

Fast.

No hesitation, no mercy—just relentless drive, hips snapping into yours, angle brutal and right. Every time he hits bottom it knocks a broken little moan out of you. Loud. Unfiltered. Fucking real.

And still—still—he doesn't shut up.

"You've convinced yourself it's all for me. That you don't enjoy it. Can't. Won't."

Your jaw clenches.

"You can't let yourself," he continues, thrusting hard enough to slap skin. "Because you need to stay in control. Need to be good. Do it right."

His hand grips your hip tighter, pulling you back to meet every thrust. Your ass bounces off him with every slam, lewd and hot and loud.

"You need to know I like it," he says, "so you can file it under 'doing well,' and that's how you let yourself feel good."

You want to argue. You really do.

But you can't.

You're moaning too loud.

"You don't even stop to ask what you like," he growls, eyes locked on where you're joined. "But I'll tell you."

Smack.

"You like this position."

Smack.

"You like it raw. Hard. Deep."

You whimper.

"You like when I spank you," he murmurs, biting his lip, thrusts picking up even more.

"Shut up," you hiss. "Shut up, shut up—"

But it's useless.

You're already flushed down to your chest. Already arching into every thrust. Already leaking down your thighs.

Your hands grip the counter like a fucking lifeline—knuckles white, arms shaking.

He groans, hands adjusting—one on your waist, the other wrapping low across your belly to pull you into every stroke.

"It's okay, Nix," he says, voice rough but coaxing. "You don't have to say it."

He slams in harder, burying himself to the hilt, making your knees buckle on instinct.

"Just keep gripping the counter."

Your breath stutters.

"Don't let go if you like it."

You bite your lip.

"Don't say anything. Don't explain. Just grip."

You hesitate. One second. Maybe two.

And then—you do.

Fingers curl tighter around the countertop edge. You lock in. Anchor yourself.

Give it to him.

You don't say a word. But that grip? That's your answer. That's your yes.

He groans, hand dragging up your spine, palm flat between your shoulder blades like he wants to feel how it wrecked you.

"There she is," he whispers. "There's my good fucking girl."

That last comment—

There's my good fucking girl.

It does something. Snaps something in your spine. Or maybe your brain.

Because your cunt flutters around him hard, slick tightens, thighs tremble, and yeah, yeah you're closer. Closer than you should be. You were already there when he first slid in—already so worked up you could've finished in sixty seconds if he just shut the fuck up and focused.

But of course he didn't.

Of course he ran his mouth. Called you out. Read you like a book.

And now?

Now you're clenching around his cock like you're about to shatter, and he feels it.

You know he does.

Because he leans in, breath gone wrecked. Lip caught between his teeth.

"Hmm?" he pants. Thrusts harder, deeper. "What's that? You like when I call you that?"

Your jaw clenches. You want to scoff. Or deny it.

But your cunt clenches instead.

He feels it.

"Ohh fuck," he groans, like it hits his brainstem. "You do."

You turn your face into your arm, humiliated by your own goddamn response. But it's too late. He's already there—already winding it tighter.

"Let's see if you like it even more when I do this."

You blink. "What are you—"

He grabs your thigh.

Hooks it up onto the counter. Bends your leg at the knee beside your elbow, spreading you wider without warning. Opening you up. Letting him deepen.

And he does.

Slams into you again with the new angle, and fuck—it hits different. Hits deep. Your whole body pitches forward with the force, mouth open on a sharp moan you can't swallow.

Then—his hand.

His fingers find your clit. Circle it once, slow and effective.

And you whimper.

It's high-pitched. Unintended. Undignified.

You want to vanish.

But then he's right behind your ear again, voice slurred and drunk on it.

"Gonna cum for me, angel?"

Your body jolts.

Because yeah. Yeah, you are, especially now that he's got your leg hooked, your pussy stuffed, your clit being worked with just enough pressure to make you lose it.

He feels your thighs twitch.

"Do it," he breathes, cock dragging thick inside you, fingers pressing just right. "Come on, let me feel it. I'm close too. Gimme it, Pix."

And your body obeys.

It rolls over you in one hard pulse—core tightening, vision blanking, thighs squeezing in and failing to stay strong.

Your moan punches out of your chest, loud and cracked, hips grinding back into his like you need more even as you're falling apart.

"Ohhhh my god, fuck yes—fuck, yes, Nix, fuckkkk."

He keeps fucking through it. Doesn't stop. Lets your pussy spasm around him, wet and squeezing and pulling him deeper as you ride it out. You whimper, already too sensitive, hips twitching, but he's not done.

Because he's laughing now.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just that fucked-out little giggle he always gets when he's high on it. Like your orgasm lit him up from the inside.

"Jesus—oh my god—holy shit," he's muttering, still fucking you, little messy stutters in his rhythm now. "You feel so fucking good when you cum, I swear—fuck."

He moans again—short and desperate and real—and you feel it in the way his thrusts go uneven.

"Where—where do you want it?" he gasps. "Fuck—I'm gonna—I'm so close, where do I—"

"Ass," you croak, head low, voice barely there.

That's all he needs.

He pulls out instantly, like he's yanking a ripcord.

You whimper at the loss but then you feel his hand—fast and rough—working himself over the curve of your ass.

"Oh fuck—oh god, yeah, look at this gorgeous ass—fuckfuckfuck—"

And then he's cumming.

Thick, hot ropes spilling over your skin as he pants and jerks through it, one hand steadying himself on your back, the other stroking through every twitch of his cock like he's trying to squeeze out every drop just to paint you.

"Shit," he gasps, hips still flexing forward. "Fucking hell, Phoenix."

You don't move.

You just breathe. Still shaking. Still clenched. Still wrecked.

There's cum on your skin, sweat between your shoulder blades, and your thighs feel like they've forgotten how to exist—and somehow, you still feel good.

Too good.

And a little fucked up about how good.

But you'll deal with that later.

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[villainanders]

not to speculate about the feelings of concerns of creators who i do not know, but also doing exactly that right. but i feel like the reason gaider gets so weird about the idea of people strongly siding with the mages/generally considering it an in-universe fantasy human rights issue is because. he created that conflict and he created it to be difficult and morally ambiguous. so i cant help but wonder if there's a internal "so you did bad at your job" when people come down super on one side. which i think is really missing the forest for the trees because even if people feel really strongly about one side of this conflict -- it's still really complicated and interesting! the way the circle, the chantry, and the templar order all operate in both conflict and tandem with each other is really juicy and interesting even, yeah, i don't like any of them as institutions. yes, i think the current system is bad, but trying to think about how a better world in-universe could work is still interesting and complicated! that's why stuff like "we shouldnt have made meredith get corrupted by the red lyrium so both sides would seem more legitimate" just feels so like. i dont know it bums me out. you're perceiving you failed at something that was perfectly fine - it just got a different kind of response than you had expected

[mousegirlheart]

i dont that like "job application jumpscare" is the hip new meme. it just makes me think about how im too disabled to work but my mothers, despite knowing this, constantly badger me to try and get a job. just makes me think of them and feel sad.