#this is just how i write him. i think it's pretty good

[st4rofeden]

Phainon flirts like he's been hired by the stars to make you swoon before dinner. he'll stop mid battle just to say something like, “If I die today, let it be known it was after seeing the angle of your smile. Tragic, but worth it.” He says things like “My heart trembles like a violin every time you breathe,” and he's not kidding. every sentence is dripping in sugar and sin, but beneath the playful glimmer in his eyes is a heat that makes your throat catch. he'll twirl a flower into your hair without warning, then press his forehead to yours and whisper, “I’d let kingdoms fall if you told me it made you smile.”  half the time you're laughing, half the time you're too stunned to reply, complimenting him with a smile— he'd gasp when you flash a subtle smile to him, like he had been shot and approved by Mnestia, now he's the one swooning over you. and if he ever thinks he's losing your attention? he'll kneel infront of you while holding your hand like its a sacred duty and say, “If I must compete with the world for you... then let the world prepare for war.”

So yes. Phainon flirts like he’s writing poetry during an eclipse.

And somehow—it works.

Anaxagoras flirts like a man who read six romance novels and decided to try a thesis on them. he hands you a graph titled “Increase in Heart Rate When You’re Nearby” and genuinely believes this is romantic (…it kind of is). you'll be sitting together quietly, and he'll murmur:

“There is a gravity to you. Like celestial orbit. I find myself returning, again and again, no matter how far I calculate escape vectors.” you laugh. he looks mildly concerned. "That was a metaphor. Did it… fail to translate?" he'd be memorizing the exact angle you tilt your head when curious , bringing you three types of tea just to test which one best stabilizes your mood patterns, staring at you like you're a philosophical riddle he never wants to solve. and sometimes… just sometimes… he stammers. when you look too pretty. when you call his name. when you kiss the corner of his mouth.

“I—ah. Yes. That… was also... emotionally significant.”

you're pretty sure the next paper he submits to the Grove will be titled about “Love As Quantum Entanglement.”

Mydeimos doesn’t mean to flirt half the time— but he's stupidly good at it. he'll hand you a drink and say, “Eat something. You skipped lunch. Again.” like it’s a threat and a love confession. is there the word 'flirting' in the kremnoan language? soon. for now he just… protects. offers you the bigger portion of food. ghosting his hand on your lower back in crowds, giving death stares for as long as possible to anyone who dares interrupt you looking at the cafe menu, even when you've been staring for almost 10 minutes, the waiting line is already long yet he stares sharp, but when you turn your attention to him, he's already looking at you like a lion cub. he ruffles your hair when you take the petal off his face. but every action towards you is deliberate, lowkey, intimate.

like he's memorized your habits in no time. his voice is always low, steady. It's not about what he says— it's how his smile curls sideways, his hand faint but lightly lingering on yours. if you tease him, he'll raise an eyebrow, while muttering something like “don’t start,” but the tips of his ears go pink. it’s devastating. soft and low, one sentence while you're half-asleep against him, “I’d tear the world apart if it meant you’d sleep safe.” that's Mydeimos flirting. by being your shield—and daring you to fall for him without ever asking.

[hellinistical]

6:53

a/n: thank you vm for your art, @box-artist. farmer phainon made me all giddy and eased my woes for him. now it's stuck in my head and i need to write it. i'll probably do more too. check out their art here!

Your grandmother left you a lil old house in her will. It’s overgrown. The porch leans. You’re convinced something lives in the shed. You move anyway—burnt out from city noise, breakup drama, or just ready to disappear for a while.

You meet Farmer Phainon on your first day. You’re holding a crooked box of god knows what, and he’s standing at the fence line with a jug of water and a fluffy white dog at his heels.

"You're not her." He says, plainly. "She had stronger arms."

You squint. Blue eyes- pretty blues and snowy hair with a smile like the sun was saying hi. "Who the hell are you?" "Phainon. Neighbor."

He hops the fence, takes your box like it weighs nothing, and carries it to the porch without being asked. Immediatley suspicious of how attractive he is with his sun tanned skin, freckled shoulders, and a white tank that sticks to him like its got nothing better to do, he smells like cedar, soil, and something sweet you can't quite place.

He catches you staring, cracking a laugh. "Somethin' the matter?" "No- no, sorry." "'s all good. No worries honey."

When you can't keep a plant alive to save you (and you tried. you really did), you get frustrated. Your grandmother had whole gardens. Yours shrivel in protest.

He notices. Quietly.

One morning you find a small potted rosemary on your porch. A note tucked underneath: “Try again. This one forgives mistakes.”

One time, you argue over a fence line. He’s building a new one. You think it’s too close to the garden path. You march over with a print-out of a property line, hair a mess, coffee in hand.

He listens, then hands you a ruler. "Then measure it." You do. You were wrong. He doesn't say told you so. Just adjusts it anyways.

The first winter that comes in, you get snowed in.

The power flickers out. Pipes groan. You’re wrapped in blankets on the couch, cursing yourself for moving to the country just cause it was cheaper.

There’s a knock.

Phainon.

He's got a thermos of soup, extra fire wood, and a flashlight. His cheeks are rosy from the wind. "Told ya this place ran cold."

You let him in. He warms your hands by the stove. He doesn’t leave until the lights hum back on.

He teaches you things slowly. How to split kindling. How to listen for rain in the wind. How to tell when the chickens are lying about laying eggs.

Sometimes he stands behind you, guiding your hands. Sometimes he just watches, arms folded, smirking when you mutter under your breath.

He never teases meanly. Always just enough to make your stomach flip.

Your porch becomes shared.

You drink tea there at sunset. He brings over honey from his hives. Leaves jars without a word.

You leave books on the steps. He brings them back with dog-eared pages.

Sometimes neither of you says a word. You just sit there. In the quiet. Together.

And it feels… safe.

He fixes your leaky roof. You try to help. He won’t let you. You bring him lemonade instead. He drinks half of it. "You put too much sugar in there, sweet girl."

You roll your eyes.

The first kiss is unexpected honestly. You’re barefoot, holding tomatoes from your garden (finally thriving thanks to him). He says something low and nice and full of weight like: "You messed up my routines and cycles."

And you laugh too softly. And your eyes meet. And he steps close. And the kiss is slow, and quiet, and says everything you’ve both been avoiding.

You hold the tomatoes between your bodies. He smells like sun.

Eventually, you stop calling it your grandma's house. And when people ask about the man always fixing your fence, feeding your dog, or sneaking into your kitchen to make coffee just the way you like it—you just say, "Oh, that's just Phainon."

[emisluvr]

Omgomgomg, emiiii how are youuuu!?! 🫶 I luv your writing you literally write masterpieces everytime 😓 maybe you can write something with subby Jake where reader is overstimulating him while riding him and he ends up crying because it's too much but he doesn't want her to stop bc it's feels too good at the same time? Maybe reader can also be a switch sub leaning? No pressure baby lots of love! 😼🫶

thankk you bb !! i hope you're doing well <3 i don't think i got the switch sub-leaning!reader part but i wrote this at 2am so i apologize 😣

✧ tw. smut (18+ mdni!), riding, overstim, praise, crying, unprotected sex

"too much," jake whined, tears pricking at his eyes as you bounced on his cock, hands planted on his chest. "fuck, baby, it’s too much—feels s'good.."

his fingers dug into your thighs, hips twitching beneath you every time you sank back down. his cock was so sensitive, already leaking inside from how much he'd cum earlier.

"aw, poor baby," you cooed, kissing the corner of his mouth. "did i fuck you dumb already?"

he nodded frantically, eyes glossy and mouth hanging open, every breath a whimper. you clenched around him tighter, your movements slow just to watch his jaw go slack.

"such a pretty boy, aren't you?" you muttered, barely holding in a moan yourself as his tip drags along your sweet spot so perfectly.

"g-onna cum again.. pleaseplease let me—" he begged, voice cracking.

"cum, baby," you breathed. "show me how much you love being used."

he came with a sob, cock twitching as he filled you up with his milky spurts, gasping through it while you kept grinding down on him

"such a perfect boy," you breathed, brushing a tear from his cheek. "did so good for me."

© emisluvr 2025. all rights reserved.

[prettydaisygirl]

lovely amber would you be interested in writing something about gym bro!james potter? i fear i can’t stop thinking about his muscles 🥵🫦… and i think you’d work magic w this sort of au! maybe things are getting flirty between james and the girl who works at the check in counter at his gym, but would love n appreciate anything! feel free to ignore if inspiration doesn’t strike x 🫶

jolie!!! Thank you so much for this request, I am absolutely obsessed with gymbro!James, I want to bite his biceps plz and thank youuuuu. Hope you enjoy this one <3

gymbro!James Potter x frontdesk!reader who needs to eat breakfast ✿ 950 words

cw: fem!reader, James' biceps are all I can think about, reader is sleepy

james potter masterlist

°˖✧✿✧˖°

You don’t bother looking up at the light ‘ding’ that sounds as the front doors slide open. You yawn, sitting back in your chair, having just sat back down from unlocking them. The sound of footsteps head in the direction of your desk, right on time.

“Good morning, James.” You greet, peeking one eye open. You’re exhausted and want to rest your eyes for a little longer but you’d be doing yourself a disservice if you didn’t catch at least a glimpse of him as he walks by.

“Good morning!” A human embodiment of a ray of sunshine even this early in the morning, James Potter beams brightly at you. The fabric of his tank-top is loose, the sleeveless nature of it giving you an unblocked view of his biceps, and even a little bit of the side of his chest. You soak in the view as much as you can regardless of if he notices or not. He steps up to the counter, but doesn’t swipe his card right away. Instead, he says, “I brought you something.”

This catches your attention, making you sit up, rubbing at your eyes a bit. “Oh yeah?” 

He swings his bag around in front of him and opens it, pulling out a brown bag and handing it to you over the counter. It’s warm when you take it, and when you open it, you see it’s a breakfast sandwich.

“James, you didn’t-”

“You mentioned how you don’t usually eat breakfast. You should, though. Remus tells me it’s the most important meal of the day!” He flashes you a wink, and somehow you feel incredibly awake despite the early morning hours. 

“Well… thank you?” You smile back at him, trying to ignore the way your heart seems to be doing jumping jacks in your chest. It almost takes your breath away, how pretty he is. 

“You’re welcome! I’ll see you later!” James waves again as he finally swipes his card, followed by a small beeping sound, and he’s off, ducking away into the locker room. 

You eat your sandwich in silence, eyes focused on James through the glass windows of the gym walls as he lifts. You barely glance up at the rest of the patrons that enter, waving them on once their card beeps. 

James is the perfect entertainment, given that everything he does is hot. Your stomach flutters when he curls his biceps, when he drinks water, when he wipes sweat off, all of it. 

This is a routine for you. James is always the first one in the gym, in the doors right as you unlock them. When you’re stumbling over your feet, trying to get a few more minutes of sleep before your boss shows up, James has already had a protein shake with preworkout and a warm up. You don’t know how he does it but you’re so incredibly grateful he does it in front of you. The breakfast, though, that’s new. He’s said good morning before, the two of you exchanging casual pleasantries, but never more than that. You had mentioned last week that you usually don’t eat breakfast, a combination of the early morning shift and not feeling hungry when you're still waking up. You didn’t think anything of it at the time, but…

He brings you a sandwich the next morning, too.

“Oh, thank you!” You say, more awake this morning when he walks in. You take the bag from his hands, setting it aside and smiling at him. “You really don’t have to.”

“Did you already eat breakfast?” He asks, his hands absent-mindedly playing with one of his sweatbands. 

“Well… no.”

“Then, I did have to.” James smiles again, and he is so bright and beautiful you think he might blind you. “Can’t have you wasting away. Then who would let me in?”

“You know they would replace me the moment I keel over.” You argue, opening the bag to pull out the sandwich, setting it on a napkin next to you. “I don’t even think it would take a day.”

“It wouldn’t be the same without you.” James argues with a shake of his head, his curls bouncing just slightly, mostly held in place by his headband. “I’d have to find a different gym.”

Well, that certainly had your heart racing. 

The third time he brings you breakfast, you give him a look.

“You have to stop doing this.” You say, leaning forward on your elbows to smile up at him, lips glossier than usual. If you actually woke up early to doll up a little bit before you saw him this morning, then who can blame you? “Don’t get me wrong, the sandwich is great, but isn’t this expensive?”

He shrugs with one shoulder, his dark eyes sparkling, and a smile on his lips. “Guess you’ll have to repay me.”

“Oh?” 

“You’ll have to take me out to breakfast sometime.” His words reach you, that twinkle in his eye brighter than before. You find your breath catching. Is he asking you out, by telling you to take him out?

“Okay.” You say with a nod, a little breathless but the both of you brighten further at your agreement. “We can- um- after your workout sometime?”

James sends you a wink and a nod, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. “Sounds great, love. See you later!” 

You watch as he walks past you into the locker room, feeling a bit light headed. You’re pretty sure James just asked you to ask him on a date. And you did. 

You’re going to go on a date with James Potter.

You can’t help but blush when he catches you watching him through the windows this time.

°˖✧✿✧˖°

© prettydaisygirl

[lovemepartly]

bigbang and head ✩

featuring: choi seung-hyun, kwon jiyong, and kang daesung

synopsis: it’s in the title! bigbang and head… their preference in receiving / giving + some other related hcs

warnings: 18+, smut. oral (m & f!receiving).

a/n: the way i literally need them all so bad based on this request! honestly i loved writing this😭 lmk if you guys have any more ideas for smutty hcs for bigbang... bc i personally have some that imma try to get to soon

choi seung-hyun ⋆⭒˚.⋆

• preference: receiving. i don’t imagine seung-hyun as someone who’s very vocal during sex, but when you give him head it takes everything in him not to let out low, loud moans. he’ll tighten his grip on your hair to ground yourself.  

• absolutely loves when you get messy with it— he finds it so hot. drool running down your chin, mascara smudged as you look up at him, and he just thinks you look so beautiful. also definitely loves it when you gag. 

• he’s so so good at giving too. seung-hyun notices every small hitch of your breath, arch of your back, and soft whimper. that’s how he finds out what you like. also the type to finger you while he sucks on your clit. 

kwon jiyong ⋆⭒˚.⋆

• preference: both, but i would say he probably likes receiving a little bit more (i know people are going to disagree with me on this but hear me out!!) he’s so subby (thank you ubermensch for this knowledge) so when you’re in control he loves it. push him on the bed, slowly undoing his pant buttons. your tongue teases one long strip over his length and his resolve literally crumbles. 

• jiyong usually always lets you do your own thing, head leaned against the headboard and eyes fluttering shut because you’re so good at what you do. the type to hold your hair back for you (😛)

• so so good at giving though. jiyong could literally spend hours between your legs if you let him… and sometimes you do. he could’ve already made you orgasm twice, and he’ll still he begging for more. 

“please, baby, just wanna taste you one more time…”  

kang daesung ⋆⭒˚.⋆

• preference: giving. he loves it when you sit on him— not only does it make him feel so strong but he also likes when you just use his mouth how you want to. 

• eats you out because he wants to make you feel good. that means he loves it when you’re vocal because it shows him exactly what you like. also loves loves loves it when you pull on his hair a little bit. 

• when you give him head, he’s also definitely very vocal. he loves eye contact, so he’ll gently tilt your chin up so that he can look at how pretty you look, and he’ll brush any pieces of hair out of your face that stick to your forehead. overall, just very sweet and gentle. 

[corpseontheloose]

A whisker away II ── .✦

Pairing: Nam-gyu x f!reader

Summary: you and Nam-gyu are basically the parents of the stray cats <\3

A/N: I love soft Nam-gyu :'((( this is part two of this!!! Also Y/N and Nam-gyu aren't dating, they're just going out and taking things slow, but they do like each other and they know both know that. Like I said, they just want to take things slow :3

Warnings: mentions of drugs, cigarettes

At this point Nam-gyu knew how much the music from the club was distracting half of your class during lessons

You told him, obviously. It was kind of funny to explain how your classmates groan almost all the time because of that

He found it funny, too, of course. But he also wanted to make sure you're able to concentrate during your studies

You assured him that you're doing just fine with your headphones and the notes from the board, so he didn't have to worry too much

Although you were pretty moody whenever you didn't have your headphones on and had to listen to, not only the teacher, but also whatever singer the club brought this time

Whenever the club was increasing the volume of the speakers, Nam-gyu couldn't help but think about you

He made sure the cats were okay during those times when you were still in class, knowing you were almost done with the lessons and coming straight to them. And him.

As soon as you finished, you packed your stuff and made your way out of the building, not before grabbing leftover granola bars from the cafeteria.

He liked those. You knew that; you took notes on that.

And you liked him. So naturally, you always made sure to bring him some. You'd even save yours throughout the evening in case the cafeteria didn't have any left, so you could give him that instead. If they did have leftovers, you'd grab one more just to munch along with Nam-gyu

Most of the time he'd wait outside for you, already on the ground, playing with the cats. Other times he'd kick open the door and close it in a rush before apologizing for being late (he was late for just 2 min max 💔💔)

You'd chuckle and brush the hair away from his face, assuring him that it was okay and that you just got there anyways

Today he was there, though. He sat with the kittens and scolded some of them for playfully fighting against each other until you popped right from the corner

"Heyy! Sorry for running a bit late; traffic was crazy. I almost got run over by a car," you giggled, letting the bag slip from your shoulder.

You picked up the kibble sack from inside it, earning desperate meows from the familiar rustling sound the sack made.

"That's all good; I actually got out of there earlier just to breathe for a bit. Anything to escape from the boss for a little while," he joked, picking up one of the bowls and holding it up so you could pour the kibbles

Nam-gyu helped you out with the other few bowls before you let the furry friends eat in peace

You sat down on the concrete next to him, searching in your bag loudly for the granola bars. The pens would crash against each other, making soft sounds until you pulled out the two snacks, handing one to him

"How was class today?" he asks, tearing the packaging and taking a bite of his bar

"I don't even know what word I'm looking for. It was... apathetic."

He listened to your complaints and frustrations attentively, scoffing at some of the things that didn't sound right to him either

"You can't just announce a project last minute, especially for the final semester. It takes at least three days to write a decent document. Maybe I had plans for the weekend; who knows? Either way, I think that's just stupid."

Nam-gyu nods, agreeing with you. Although he never went to college, the situation seemed frustrating, and he could tell how much it affected you based on how aggressively you munched on the granola bar.

"I don't even—I don't even know what to do. It's extremely frustrating, and I'm already in a time crunch. And I do have plans tomorrow; I can't miss that."

"What plans do you have tomorrow?" he asked curiously, snapping his head at you. You simply sighed, moving your head to the side for a moment.

"I... signed up for volunteering. They already reviewed my form; they want to meet me tomorrow."

Nam-gyu's eyes grew big at the news, his lips curling into a genuine smile.

"That's cool! And also, very... you," he added, nodding while chuckling slightly. "What are you volunteering for exactly?"

You simply nodded towards the cats in front of you before returning your gaze back to him

"feeding the animals around the city. Not just cats, dogs too."

Nam-gyu's heart was basically doing flips in his chest. Why were you so sweet godSHHHHH it was TOO TOOTH-ROTTING FOR HIM

"Figured. I wouldn't imagine you pick anything else," he smiles, shoving the granola bar's packaging in his pocket

Ever since you two started going out, Nam-gyu has restrained himself from smoking weed next to you. Or do drugs, for that matter.

You'd still see him high; he just wouldn't do the whole process with you anywhere near him.

So he only limited himself to cigarettes, knowing you'd also take a drag or two.

It's the least he could do for putting you in such tight spots whenever he came to your apartment after work, high as hell, in the middle of an extra study session. He'd usually fall asleep on the couch, standing on his butt with an arm around your waist as you held your head on his chest and your eyes on your notebooks.

He promised he'd try to get better, but he couldn't do it. Not yet. And you accepted that, somehow

Everyone had their vices.

"If I start volunteering on the weekends, I'm going to need a favor, though," you say, slowly turning your head to him and smirking widely

He looked at you with a grin and a raised eyebrow before rolling his eyes.

"Would you spare two minutes of your life to feed the buddies in here if I'm not able to make it?"

Nam-gyu scoffed in amusement, avoiding your eyes and looking everywhere else but your face

"What am I? Is the cat security not enough? Now I have to become a personal chef for them, too?"

"Oh, come on, Nam-gyu. You can have the kibble sack wherever your bags go during your shift, and if you run out, you can just give me a text, and I'll go buy some more and bring them to you."

You pleaded, fake-pouting while placing your head on his arm, which was hooked around his knees

He didn't answer the first time, making you take his attention with something else

You bit him. Softly. But you still bit him.

"Ouch, you crazy lady!" You chuckled, placing your chin back on his arm, looking up at him

He looked at you so lovingly before rolling his eyes, "Fine! Fine. I'll feed your damn cats. But this doesn't come on my paycheck!"

"No, you're right. It doesn't," you started, looking at the ground. "It comes on every time you disturb my studying hours, though."

"At least now I know how to pay for that instead of just apologizing like a maniac," he mumbled as you kicked him in the arm

It went well for a few days. You started haunting the streets, feeding every creature you found until you needed to head to class and right back home, sleeping your ass off

Whenever you had time, you'd actually text Nam-gyu to come to the front doors of the club just to see him shortly before you go home and sink yourself in your bed

Most of the time he'd be right outside after you texted him; sometimes he'd reply with 'Can't right now. Go rest. The cats are fed ❤️'

It was truly heartwarming, and it made you happy knowing he was putting in the effort to help you.

It also made you happy knowing you were helping hundreds of other hungry bellies and that you were provided with (almost) unlimited kibble from the volunteering program. They even let you get some to supply Nam-gyu whenever he ran out for his cats.

Did I say 'his' cats? Nah, it wasn't a misspelling.

They became clingier over him now that you weren't around as often as before.

At first it was a bit weird for him, but with time, he just softened around them.

He'd proudly call himself 'cat dad' whenever he crashed onto your couch like he always did, telling you about his night at work and how the cats are doing.

You'd laugh at his words, teasing him about his new role. He just looked offended. "I'll have you know cats ADORE me. You're just jealous."

You were making plans together on how to change up their place for a bit, since winter was right around the corner and you didn't want them to get cold.

He'd give you silly ideas most of the time, since the only time you got to be together was when he came to your place, high, and held you against his chest on your couch.

Some of them were useful, though. You made a list and decided on a day to not attend class just to be able to put together a safer space for your and his cats.

He'd also call the same day off just to help you.

AWWWWWWW

[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.

goal: 900 notes

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© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[rafeslvbug]

Hi love!!! If you want to, how abt singer x rafe in the beginning of their relationship after she rejects him again and then collabs with another artist that makes rafe jealous but he says he won't give up on her??? Thanks!!!

(note: i changed it? i think, so it’s after they’ve broken up)

LOVE ME HARDER

the stage lights were dimmed, electric humming as you sang alongside the weeknd, performing in front of an audience with famous faces across the globe. you focused on the sound of your voice, your notes, the lyrics. not the man sitting on the table to the left. number 18. watching you with a fierce intensity.

not rafe.

“so what would i do if i can’t figure it out?”

“you gotta try, try, try again,” you sing afterwards, eyes darting anywhere but him. trying not to give him a reason to believe in the two of you again. but the camera kept panning to him, you saw his face on the screen on behind you, as if you didn’t already see it when you blinked.

“so what would i do if i can’t figure it out?”

“i’m gonna leave, leave, leave again.” this time you can’t help it. the way your eyes find his through the chorus, and he visibly flinches. it’s not a song about him, but in this moment it seems like it might be.

…

you shake hands absentmindedly, thank people as you pass them by for their kind words.

“we loved your performance!”

“you were amazing.”

“some performance out there, huh?” you freeze. adjust the strap of your dress. ten minutes since the end of your performance, since you’d changed and he’d tracked you down this fast. already waiting. “that doesn’t sound so nice..” you muse, turning around to face rafe. he’s leaning against the wall, fitted suit ironed perfectly, champagne glass in his hand. “no?” he pushes off. “it was good..felt a little targeted though.”

“well it wasn’t. it was just a song rafe,” you reply curtly. but it was. you know it was. unintentionally, but you still looked at him through it. “pretty accurate song.”

“i didn’t write it.”

“no but you sang it, you chose it.”

“so?”

rafe sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “what are we doing? me an’ you?”

“nothing. we’re broken up.” your eyes cstch glimpses of those around you, celebrities too engaged in conversation to notice you. thank god.

“but why?”

“you know why!” you snap, voice still hushed. “you accused me of cheating– more than once, and we never see eye to eye–“

“we could have fixed that,” he grits out.

“right well it’s not going to be done here,” you scoff. “so maybe just go, rafe, find someone else to talk to.”

“no. you said it yourself, i’ve gotta try harder? love you harder? fine.” he spits your words back out at you, the ones you sang while unable to look away from him. how you wished you had looked away.

“i said the song wasn’t for you,” you argue, though it’s a lie. it’s all a lie when it comes to him.

“bullshit. it was. but i’ll leave you to it anyways, just know that we’re not done.” and he’s gone. and you’re stuck standing there. accepting a glass of champagne, acting like he hasn’t just shaken you.

[faestunna]

what are your headcanons for Jack? domestic fluff and/or smut if you're comfy with that :)

boyfriend!jack o’connell

WARNINGS: some silly domestic fluff, smut (18+) under the cut

A/N: you know, i initially was against writing for jack but…thinking of boyfriend! jack has me tweaking. as always, this was written with fem!reader in mind! i made the layout a little different since its my first jack x reader piece. i hope you enjoy!

masterlist

likes, reblogs, and comments are always and greatly appreciated!

boyfriend!jack is home from filming, but he’s jet lagged and exhausted, so he’s got more than four alarms set in the morning—none of which wake him up. “jack!” you whisper hoarsely at six am. he grumbles awake and turns them off with his eyes closed before putting an arm around you, “sorry, love.”

boyfriend!jack understands that sometimes women take a little longer to get ready. he’s not the one to complain or bug you about time because he know that doesn’t change anything—he literally learns how to do your hair while you finish your makeup. learns tips and tricks from stylists and MUA’s on his sets too. he’ll learn to braid, too, and show you: “look at the one, eh? i think i’m gettin’ better.” he is slowly but surely

boyfriend!jack picks up your prescriptions from the pharmacy for you. gives your name and birthdate, and eventually, the pharmacologist knows to recognize him now. he’ll come back home and joke they’re on a first name basis.

boyfriend!jack who does the laundry as long as you do the dishes. he cannot stand the thought of putting his hand into various pots and bowls of mysterious water. sometimes you splash him with it because the shrieks he makes are hilarious. “i swear to god, babe,” he says every time now. “you better not!”

boyfriend!jack agrees to make a private, secret insta account just for you. “no point, love, you know i try to stay off that stuff,” is how he’ll make it seem at first. give or take a few weeks, he’s sending you reel and after reel while he’s literally a room away. and about ten seconds after, he asks, “oi, babe, did you see the one i just sent you?”

boyfriend!jack likes to hit it from the back. he doesn’t call himself a tits or arse man, he loves every part of you…but no, jack just likes having you bent over with your face pressed into the bed while he pounds into you. “christ, i can feel that pretty cunt grippin’ me.” one hand settled on your lower back to bring you to him with every thrust.

boyfriend!jack goes deeper than any other man has before. it’s especially in doggy, but, really, go in any position and the tip of his cock will be leaving little kisses at your cervix. in missionary, he especially love to put his hand just above your mound and press, so he can feel himself rutting into you. “that’s it. look how deep i am, baby, i can almost see it.”

boyfriend!jack asks to give you head. “you don’t have to do anything, love” he says as he spreads your legs and licks one bold stripe through your folds. when he hasn’t shaved, the scruff on his jaw and chin adds a perfect sensation. “so good, sweetheart. tastes so good.” and he gets dirty with it. uses his entire face—yes, his nose too—to push you over the edge.

boyfriend!jack actually just likes admiring you. every part of you, but he loves to just have your legs spread apart, pussy gleaming with slick and heat. “she’s so pretty” he says lowly, lips hovering over you so you can feel his breath hit your folds. “all pink and swollen and waiting for me.”

boyfriend!jack isn’t afraid to use toys. there i said it. and he won’t have anything crazy mainly because he doesn’t understand it but, at the very least, there’s a bullet vibe or a wand or a rose toy because he likes making you feel good. he’ll have you completely wrapped in his arms, holding you down while you writhe and squirm as he pulls a fifth orgasm from you. “that’s it, now, love,” he covers your mouth with one hand and pins the toy to your clit with the other. “all over my hand, there you go. that’s my girl.”

© faestunna 2025.

[heart-shaped-pebble]

soft praise smut with Bob would hit so hard he needs love

notes: I always get a little awkward when it comes to smut but I tried my best !! thank you for the request <3 Also I started writing this after meeting the Pope and that sums up who I am as a person

tags: sex *gif of elmo on fire* - established relationship - [kinda]dom!reader

It slipped out.

Not that you hadn't used pet names with Bob before, but you'd never called him a good boy. You didn't think much of it: uttered in between moans as he was eating you out, you barely took any notice of what you were saying. But Bob did. Oh, if he did.

"Right there, oh, yes, right there." You were mumbling, as he enthusiastically nodded between your legs. You pulled on his hair lightly as he accomplished your request, swiftly moving his tongue with such skill it felt like he was born to do it.

"Hmm, good boy." You had praised him, and that's when you heard it. Or rather, felt it. A low groan, straight to your core. You also noticed how his movements seemed to be more eager now, his hands squeezing your thighs harder as if he was holding onto them for life.

"You like that? Being called good boy?" You asked, breathless, lifting your head from the pillow to watch Bob's reaction. He suddenly interrupted his actions, much to your dismay, to look at you. He was blushing, his lips almost glistening with your wetness.

"K-kinda. Probably. Yes." He admitted looking down, as if the confession brought shame on him.

You moved your hand to caress his cheek. He leaned in the touch, looking up at you with wide eyes. "Nothing to be embarassed about. I called you that because you were being very good to me Bob, it's only nice to know it makes you more eager to please me." You reassured him, winking at him.

Bob licked his lips and looked down, softly caressing your upper thigh and sending shivers all along your back. "I should probably keep going then..." He said it with innocence in his voice, but you didn't miss his grin as he positioned himself between your legs once more, crossing your thighs around his neck as if locking himself down there.

"You taste so good..." He mumbled, vigorously reprising his actions as you gripped on the bed sheets, soft moans leaving your throat as he squeezed your thighs.

"Doing so well for me Bob, God, don't stop-" An empty request, begging for something you knew he was going to accomplish either way. Your words were interrupted by a whine coming from Bob, his hips not so subtly rutting against the bed probably to try and get some friction himself.

You smirked at his reaction, throwing your head back on the pillow as you pulled on his hair. You let out a loud groan when his tongue finally found your clit, "that spot right there," you murmured, barely able to speak up, "keep doing that, just like that, so fucking good." You were pretty sure you were mumbling nonsense by then, but Bob still seemed to enjoy your praises nonetheless.

His left hand left your thigh to give attention to his still clothed cock, palming himself through his pants. The lack of touch on your leg made you quietly whimper in disappointment, even with his tongue still between your folds. Raising your head you saw the mark he had accidentally left on your thigh, the shape of his hand currently looking like a piece of art in your eyes.

Before you could say anything he hit your clit again, making you moan and roll your eyes back. "H-hand." You muttered. Bob once again abruptly interrupted his movements to look at you.

"Uh?"

"Y-your hand. Back on my leg. Please."

Bob frowned for a second and then immediately started blushing, his eyes widening as he realized what you were talking about. He nodded quickly and immediately moved his hand back on you, squeezing your leg. "Sorry."

You couldn't help but smile at him, shaking your head. "You did nothing wrong baby. But can you keep going now please?" You asked him, unable to hide with your tone the desperation you were feeling from your neglected core.

Bob only blushed more, "Yes, yes. Sorry." And then he disappeared between your legs again, immediately going for your clit and making sure to grip tight on your thighs.

"Good boy, doing everything I ask you for." You praised him, biting down your lip. "No one ever touched me like this, I swear." You parted your lips and arched your back as your words only stimulated him to speed up his actions. His hips' quick movements against the bed seemed to go along with his tongue, as if eating you out was bringing him more pleasure than it was to you.

"Bob, I'm close," you warned him, "you too, baby?" You asked, noticing how his thrust against the bed had started to become more frantic. Bob nodded, his fingers tightening around your legs.

It didn't take much for Bob to cum after that, his moans hitting straight at your core as it sent you over the edge, finally reaching your orgasm as well.

Before lifting his head Bob made sure he had licked you clean of all of your juices - something which he always did, and never failed to bring a smile on your face - and only when you hummed in satisfaction and lightly tugged on his hair to get his attention did he finally stood up to move and lay down next to you.

"My good boy." You teased him, earning an embarrassed laugh out of him. He kissed your shoulder and hid his face in the crook of your neck.

"You're never going to stop teasing me about that, are you?"

You chuckled. "Why? It was sweet!" Bob hummed and kissed your neck, moving up to your cheek and finally your lips.

"You're always so good to me. I love you." You mumbled as he kissed you. Bob sighed and leaned his forehead against yours.

"Keep going like this and we might go for round two." He muttered low. You tutted, giving him a peck.

"Hm, I love it when you threaten me with a good time, Reynolds."

[livvymd]

HATE YOU.

request: hola diva (ur gals in portugal) would love a george enemies to lovers type smut or something of the sort xxx need ur SPECTACULAR writing to keep me entertained, you don’t understand how much i need it (i left my rose toy at home)

oh suddenly im vibrating (sorry. LMFAO)

tw smut - intense sexual content(sexual frustration), physical roughness (includes hair pulling and biting), strong language/swearing, power dynamics and domination themes

You’ve hated him since the first group shoot you did together. George Clarke, with that smug, lopsided grin that always tugs at the corner of his mouth when you talk, eyes flicking to the ceiling in exaggerated eye-rolls, muttering under his breath just loud enough for you to hear but too quiet for the others to catch. He’s taller than he needs to be, always standing close enough to make you tilt your chin up to glare at him properly, laughs too loud at his own jokes, shoulders shaking as if he’s the funniest person in the room, every room, and you can’t stand it.

So naturally, the universe decides to punish you by putting you in the same Airbnb for a weekend trip with the rest of the boys. One room left, one bed, and of course, both of you refuse to leave, your stubbornness matching the sharp glint in his annoyingly pretty eyes.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” you hiss, shouldering past him with a harsh brush that sends a shock of heat through your arm, ignoring the way his body heat lingers too long as you bend to dig for your skincare bag in your duffel. Your fingers fumble with the zipper, the sound of the metal teeth loud in the small room, your pulse ticking in your throat with frustration.

Yuo can feel his gaze before you see it, heavy and slow, dragging down your body in that way he does when he thinks you won’t notice, the weight of it making your skin prickle under your shirt. You straighten sharply, whipping around to glare at him, only to find him leaning back against the dresser, ankles crossed, arms folded across his chest, biceps straining against the black fabric of his t-shirt as it pulls tight across his shoulders.

“Yeah? You’re the one who’s been stomping around like a toddler since we got here,” he bites back, his voice low and sharp, but there’s a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s holding back a smirk, like this is all some game to him.

His eyes flick down to the bag in your hands, then back up to your face, lingering for a split second too long on your lips before meeting your glare, something dark and amused glinting in his gaze, the air between you charged and heavy.

The room feels smaller with him standing there, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the clean, dusty air of the Airbnb, the soft hum of the hallway outside the only sound as the two of you stare each other down, your breaths coming quick, matching the irritated flush creeping up your neck as you clutch your bag tighter, refusing to look away first.

You hate how good he looks in it. That stupid black t-shirt clinging to his broad shoulders, the fabric stretched just enough across his chest to show the shape of him beneath, sleeves rolled carelessly to reveal the flex of his forearms as he runs a hand through his hair. Hate how your stomach flips when you catch a whiff of his cologne, clean, sharp, with something warm beneath it; lingering heavy in the small, stuffy bathroom as you argue over who’s taking the first shower.

The mirror fogs from your combined breathing, a thin sheen of condensation blurring your reflections as you stand too close, voices overlapping, heat rising from the freshly run water and the tension between your bodies.

“It’s literally my turn, George, you’ve been in here for-”

“Yeah, and you’ve been moaning about it since we got here, maybe if you stopped talking for two seconds-”

“Oh, fuck off, you-”

You both talk over each other, words blurring, tripping, until you don’t even know what you’re arguing about anymore, your voice rising with the flush creeping up your neck, his jaw tightening as his eyes darken, a spark of something dangerous flickering there.

He steps closer, that infuriating half-smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, eyes flicking down to your lips for half a second before meeting your glare again, the air between you hot, charged, the fog on the mirror thickening with your ragged breaths.

“Georg-”

“Fuck it,” he mutters, low, like he’s saying it to himself, and then he kisses you.

It’s rough, messy, your teeth knocking against his, a soft, shocked gasp caught between your lips as his mouth claims yours, the taste of mint and something sweet on his tongue as it slides against yours, hungry, impatient. His hands are on you before you can push him away, or pull him closer, gripping your waist with strong, warm palms, fingers digging into the soft flesh just above your hips like he’s been waiting for this, like he can’t stop himself.

He pushes you back against the dresser, the edge digging into your lower back, grounding you as your hands scramble for something to hold onto, clutching at the front of his t-shirt, bunching the fabric in your fists. The mirror rattles slightly with the movement, the sound sharp in the steam-heavy air.

His thumbs press into your hips, dragging you flush against him, your bodies aligning in a heat that makes your head spin, and you feel it, the hard, unmistakable press of him through his jeans, thick and insistent against your lower stomach, proof of how badly he wants this, how badly he wants you, despite everything.

Your gasp breaks the kiss, your lips slick, swollen, brushing against his as your breaths mingle, sharp and uneven, the air tasting of him, of the electric, dizzying heat sparking under your skin.

You shouldn’t want this. Every part of you knows it. You hate him. Hate the way he smirks when you talk, hate the way he always has to get the last word, hate how he looks at you like he can see right through you.

You should push him away.

Instead, your hands fist in his hair, the strands soft and thick between your fingers as you tug hard, forcing his head back just enough to pull a groan from deep in his chest, the sound rough, raw, vibrating against your lips as you swallow it down, kissing him deeper, harder.

His mouth is hot, relentless, teeth catching on your lower lip before his tongue sweeps in again, tasting you, claiming you, breathing you in like he’s starving for it.

“You think you’re so-, fucking- funny,” you gasp between kisses, your words breaking as your back arches off the dresser, pressing your chest into his as he drags his mouth down, lips brushing the corner of your jaw, the edge of your chin, before finding that sensitive spot just below your ear.

“I am,” he murmurs, voice low, smug, but laced with a rasp that betrays how badly he wants this too. His teeth scrape lightly against your skin before he bites down, just hard enough to make your breath catch, a sharp gasp breaking from your lips as your head tilts back to give him more.

His hands slide up under your top, rough palms warm against your skin, thumbs brushing along the soft curve of your waist, dipping into the indent where your ribs meet, holding you steady as he kisses down the line of your neck, each press of his lips leaving a hot, tingling trail that makes your stomach tighten.

“Fuck you,” you breathe, the words shaky, a whisper against the damp air, but your hands betray you, already tugging at the hem of his shirt, fingers dragging over the hard planes of his stomach as you pull the fabric up and over his head, tossing it aside without looking, your eyes locked on the newly exposed skin.

The lines of his torso are sharp under the soft light, muscles shifting as he breathes, the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans drawing your eyes down for half a second before snapping back up to his face.

“Yeah?” he breathes, his voice lower now, dark, pupils blown wide, swallowing the color of his eyes as he watches you with something wild, desperate, consuming. His chest rises and falls heavily, the muscles flexing under his skin with each sharp inhale. “Thought you hated me.”

“Shut up,” you snap, your voice rough, breathless, as you grab him by the back of the neck, pulling him back in, your mouths crashing together with a heat that steals the air from your lungs.

Your teeth knock, lips parting around a shared gasp as his hands grip your hips tighter, pulling you forward against him, the hard line of him pressing between your thighs, the friction sending a shock of heat through your core as you cling to him, kissing him like you’re trying to burn the hate out of both of you.

You end up on the bed, sheets rumpled beneath you, your shirt halfway off, bunched around your elbows, your chest heaving as George’s mouth drags hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. His teeth graze your skin, just enough to leave a sting, his breath warm, uneven, a low sound catching in the back of his throat each time you arch up against him.

His hand slides down, rough palms skimming the soft skin of your stomach before slipping into your shorts, the waistband snapping lightly against your hips as he pushes past it, fingers dipping lower, teasing over the damp fabric of your panties. You suck in a sharp breath, hips twitching as his fingers brush over the soaked spot, pressing lightly, testing, the heat of him burning through the thin cotton.

He freezes for half a second, just enough for his shoulders to shake with a breathless, disbelieving laugh against your skin, his lips brushing the hollow of your throat as he lifts his head to look at you.

“Fuck, you really do hate me,” he mutters, the smirk tugging at his lips, but his eyes are dark, hungry, pupils blown as they track the way your mouth falls open, a shaky breath leaving you as your hips cant up, chasing his touch.

“George- fuck- I swear to god- ”

“You swear to god what, huh?” His voice is low, teasing, but there’s a ragged edge to it, like he’s barely holding himself back, like this is affecting him just as much. His fingers hook under the waistband of your panties, dragging them to the side, the cool air hitting your soaked skin as he drags a single finger through your slick, slow and deliberate, the touch sending a shiver up your spine.

“Gonna tell me to stop?” he murmurs, leaning down, his nose brushing yours as his eyes stay locked on yours, reading every twitch, every gasp. “Or are you gonna cum for me, hm?”

His thumb presses against your clit, rubbing slow, firm circles that make your legs tremble, the pleasure building too fast, too sharp, as his fingers dip lower, circling your entrance, teasing but not pushing in, the pressure making your hips roll, desperate for more friction.

You hate him. You hate the way he’s looking at you, smirking like he’s won, like he knows exactly what he’s doing, like he can feel how close you are already. You hate how good he is with his hands, how easily he finds that perfect rhythm, just the right amount of pressure that has your thighs shaking around his hips, the muscles in your stomach tightening with each slow drag of his thumb.

You hate how his mouth doesn’t stop moving, trailing down your body, kissing every inch of skin he exposes as he pushes your shorts down your hips, pulling your panties with them, leaving you bare and trembling under his gaze.

The air feels cold on your wet skin, goosebumps rising along your thighs as he tosses the fabric aside, his hands sliding up the inside of your legs, spreading them wider, his mouth following, leaving warm, wet kisses on your inner thighs, his breath hot against the slick mess between your legs as he looks up at you, eyes dark and feral.

You hate him.

And you can’t look away.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he mutters, almost to himself, the words barely audible over the rush of your breathing, his voice rough, reverent, as his eyes drag slowly over you, taking in the way your chest rises and falls, the way your thighs are spread for him, glistening in the soft light.

And then he lowers his mouth to you.

It’s filthy, really. The way he groans the second his tongue meets your pussy, the vibration rumbling against your skin, sending a shock of pleasure up your spine that makes your back arch off the bed. His tongue presses flat against your clit, the heat of it searing as he drags it up, slow, deliberate, savoring every taste, every twitch of your hips as you gasp, your fingers fisting in the sheets before finding his hair, gripping it tight.

His stubble scratches against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, adding a rough edge to the overwhelming heat of his mouth as he pushes his tongue against you again, firmer this time, before flicking it lightly, teasing, tasting, letting out another low, guttural moan that you feel all the way through your core.

“George- fuck- ” Your voice breaks, high, breathless, as your hips grind down against his face, chasing the friction, the slick, obscene sounds filling the room as he drags his tongue through your wetness, lapping it up like he can’t get enough.

His hand slides up your thigh, firm and grounding, before his fingers slip between your folds, sliding through the slick mess he’s made, gathering it before he pushes two fingers inside you, the stretch making your eyes flutter shut as a choked moan escapes your lips.

He curls them just right, finding that spot that makes your vision spark, your thighs tightening around his head as he presses his tongue flat against your clit again, sucking lightly before pulling back to flick it with the tip of his tongue, each movement precise, controlled, devastating.

“Fuck, George- don’t stop, don’t you fucking dare-

He doesn’t.

If anything, he groans again, deeper, the sound muffled against you, the vibration making your toes curl as his fingers thrust in and out, curling with every drag, hitting that spot that makes your stomach tighten, heat coiling low and fast.

His eyes flick up to you, dark, pupils blown, watching your face as he sucks your clit into his mouth, his tongue circling it as his fingers fuck into you, steady, relentless, pushing you closer, closer, until you break.

Your release crashes over you like a wave, your body tensing, shaking, your thighs trembling around his head as your hips stutter against his mouth, your hand pulling at his hair as you cry out, gasping his name, the pleasure so sharp it’s almost too much.

He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering, twitching, pushing at his head with a shaking hand, your body collapsing back against the sheets as you try to catch your breath, your pulse thundering in your ears.

When you finally open your eyes, he’s looking at you with that smug grin again, mouth glistening with you, his tongue darting out to lick the corner before he wipes his chin with the back of his hand, eyes still dark, heavy with hunger.

“Still hate me?” he asks, voice rough, low, the corner of his mouth tugging up as he watches you try to catch your breath.

You don’t answer.

You just grab him by the front of his stupid, perfect face, pulling him down as you kiss him hard, teeth clashing, lips sliding, tongues tangling as you taste yourself on his mouth, the slick sweetness mixing with the rough heat of him as he groans into the kiss.

Your hands move quickly, almost clumsy, dragging at the waistband of his jeans, yanking the denim down over his hips, the fabric catching on the curve of his ass before you shove it down far enough for him to kick them off, leaving him in nothing but the condom wrapper crumpled in his fist.

His cock springs free, heavy, flushed dark, the tip already leaking, glistening as it rests against your thigh, leaving a smear of warmth against your skin that makes your breath catch, your thighs clenching around his hips as your hand slides down to wrap around him.

The sound he makes, deep, guttural, desperate; vibrates against your lips as you stroke him slowly, your thumb brushing over the sensitive head, gathering the slick there as his hips jerk forward into your fist, chasing the friction.

“Fuck, condom,” you manage to gasp out between kisses, your voice ragged, barely holding together as your chest heaves, your pulse pounding so hard you feel it in your fingertips.

“Yeah- fuck, yeah-” he breathes, tearing open the wrapper with shaking hands, the foil crinkling loud in the thick, heavy air between you as you watch, your mouth falling open slightly as you see him roll it on, his jaw clenched, veins standing out on his forearms with the tension thrumming through him.

“Fuck, you’re so-” he mutters, his voice breaking, rough with need, “-so pretty, fuck.”

You pull him down, your legs wrapping around his waist, ankles crossing at the small of his back as you drag him closer, closer, until the blunt, hot head of him is pressing right against your entrance, slick and heavy, the pressure making your breath catch as your nails dig into the hard muscle of his shoulders.

“George-” you gasp, the sound barely a whisper, your hips tilting up, needy, desperate, lining yourself up as he grips your waist, steadying you, his eyes locked on yours, dark and wild, pupils blown so wide they swallow the blue around them.

“Look at me,” he rasps, voice shaking, and you do, your eyes locked on his as he starts to push in, slow, deliberate, the thick stretch of him burning in the best way as he sinks in inch by inch, splitting you open, filling you until you can’t think, can’t breathe, the only thing you can do is feel.

“Fuck- fuck, George-” you choke out, your head falling back against the pillows, your nails leaving crescents in his skin as your thighs tighten around his hips, pulling him deeper, needing him deeper.

“God, you’re so- fuck, you feel-” he groans, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath hot, ragged, mixing with yours as he bottoms out, hips flush against yours, staying there for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him pulsing inside you.

You gasp, legs trembling around him, your hands sliding up to cup his jaw, forcing him to look at you as your lips brush against his, your breath mingling, your bodies locked together in the thick, heavy heat of the room.

He stills, buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and uneven as it fans across your lips, mixing with yours. For a moment, it’s quiet. Sso quiet you can hear the slick, obscene pulse of your heartbeat in your ears, the creak of the mattress beneath you as your thighs twitch around his hips.

His eyes are closed, lashes fluttering, jaw tight, the muscles in his shoulders trembling under your hands as he holds himself there, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him, the stretch and fullness making your breath catch, your fingers digging into the taut skin of his back.

“Move,” you whisper, the word breaking on a gasp, need threading through your voice, and you feel the way his body shudders above you before he pulls back, slow, the drag of him inside you making your toes curl, your hips lifting instinctively to follow him as he thrusts back in.

He fucks you slow, deep, every roll of his hips deliberate, grinding into you so you feel the thick weight of him pressing against every sensitive spot inside you, the friction sending sparks of heat down your spine, pooling low in your belly.

Your hand searches for something to hold onto, but he catches it, his fingers lacing with yours above your head, pinning it to the pillow as he leans down, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, the soft brush of his lips a sharp contrast to the steady, heavy thrust of his hips.

It’s too intimate, too much.

The way he holds your hand, the way his nose nudges against yours between kisses, the way his hips stutter when you clench around him, pulling a low, broken groan from his lips that you swallow with a kiss, your mouth opening for him, your tongues sliding together as your chest arches into his.

Your body feels too hot, your skin prickling where his chest brushes yours, where his fingers tighten around yours, grounding you, tethering you to him as the coil inside you tightens, your thighs trembling as you chase your second release, your hips lifting to meet every thrust, desperate for more, for everything.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, his voice rough, tender, demanding, and you force your eyes open, blinking up at him, meeting the dark, blown-out blue of his gaze, the way it softens as he looks down at you, his lips parted, breath ragged as he fucks you, slow and deep, grinding into you so you can feel every pulse, every twitch of him inside you.

“I hate you,” you whisper, the words thin, breathless, trembling as they fall from your lips, your nails digging crescents into the back of his hand where your fingers are still laced together.

He smiles, soft this time, the kind of smile that makes your chest ache, makes your stomach flip in a way you can’t control, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, your noses brushing, your breaths mixing as he stills for a heartbeat, looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“No,” he breathes, so quiet, so sure, his eyes locked on yours as his hips start to move again, slow, deep, hitting that spot that makes you gasp, makes your eyes flutter shut before you force them open again to see the way he’s looking at you, the way his lips part around a soft groan when you tighten around him.

“No, you don’t.”

And for the first time ever, you think hes right.

[organic-bloodbath]

could you make a part two of “Carry her” where Jun-ho finally makes it to the games while Gi-hun, Player 100, Minsu, Myung-gi, Y/n, Jun-hee, the baby player 336, player 353, player 203 and player 039 are at the final game? And No-Eul comes to help save Jun-hee from sacrificing herself and shooting myung-gi in the leg to stop him from trying to push Y/n? (and ofc this is where Gi-hun is holding the baby while trying think of a way to save Y/n and Jun-hee)

SORRY THIS IS SUCH A LONG REQUEST😭

Carry her – Part 2

Jun-hee x Reader

Summary: As above (almost).

Part 1

A/N: Probably not as good as the first one but oh well it's something :') Deadass writing several different versions of the last game with different outcomes lmao.

♡♡♡

"So, who do you think will be the one to drop dead next?" the long haired VIP asked the others, letting out a laugh before taking a sip from his drink.

"I think it'll be you," a female voice answered behind them. The VIPs turned around, confused why there was a pink guard aiming a gun towards the long haired VIP. The confusion quickly turned into panic.

"Woah! Put that thing down," the man gasped, voice trembling. "I –"

Then, he indeed was the one to drop dead next, falling back on the couch but now with a hole in his head.

The woman got up, ready to flee and save herself, but the guard was faster, shooting a bullet through her brain as well.

When all the VIPs were dead, blood splattered on the couches and the floor, No-eul took the mask off her head and threw it on the floor.

"Got the full experience now," No-eul mumbled and stepped over the woman's corpse.

No-eul looked at the final game play behind the glass, the players currently standing on the second pillar – six of them remaining. The first round had eliminated four players instead of the required one.

No-eul looked at especially the young girl, player 222, who had been pregnant and given birth during one of the games. An older man, player 456, was holding her baby, protecting her, since the girl could barely walk.

Player 222 was one of the few people who No-eul cared about among the players, even though she didn't personally know her and most likely would never either.

☆☆☆

Myung-gi had a tight grip on your neck, squeezing it hard but not enough to choke you – yet, at least. He held you in his arm's length, close to the edge of the pillar. Just two or three steps behind and your foot would face only air.

"Myung-gi, please," Jun-hee begged, trying to stay calm but afraid he'd let go of you and make you drop. She felt her voice trembling as she spoke the words to him. "Please let go of her."

"Yeah? You want to save your little girlfriend here? Walk away and raise our kid together, huh?" Myung-gi rambled, keeping a tight hold on your throat but looking into Jun-hee's eyes. "Yeah, our kid, Jun-hee. That kid is mine. It's my kid too."

"Myung-gi –"

"I've seen how you look at each other," Myung-gi chuckled. "I get it, she's pretty and all. While I'm a piece of shit who's not capable of being a dad. That's what you wanted to hear, Jun-hee? That's what you think, right?"

"Myung-gi, that's not what i think. Can we talk later and figure things out, okay?" Jun-hee insisted, trying to keep him as calm as possible but he was just getting angrier as the seconds passed. He didn't even know why he was so furious. Was it just jealousy? Not wanting to see Jun-hee with someone else?

"We –" Myung-gi started but couldn't get past the first word because suddenly Myung-gi let go of you, a loud scream escaping his mouth. He fell on his knees, holding on his leg which started to bleed. Myung-gi pressed his hand on his leg, painting his palm red.

Everyone noticed the blood and how he had gotten injured, as baffled as others how it had happened out of nowhere. Was that a gunshot? Who the hell had shot him out of nowhere? There was still 4 minutes left of the second round.

But when Myung-gi had let go of you, he gave you a slight push, making you lose your balance and take couple of steps backwards. Your foot didn't meet the ground on the third step. However, you managed to hold your hands on the edge, the rest of your body hanging in the air. You wouldn't be able to stay there very long, there wasn't anything you could properly grab.

"Y/N!" Jun-hee shouted in panic and ran towards you. "Take my hand, i'll help you up."

"No, i'll just pull you down too," you refused and shook your head, tears rising into your eyes. You were going to die but you weren't going to take Jun-hee with you and make her child an orphan.

Oh my god you were really going to fall and fucking die. You had come this far, you could not die right in the end.

Then, your fingers slipped and you lost the hold on the pillar. Jun-hee had a tight grip on your arm but she wouldn't be able to pull you up on her own, she was too small and fragile for that.

"Someone help me!" Jun-hee shouted over her shoulder as she grabbed your arm, squeezing your flesh as hard as she could. She didn't care about whatever you said; she needed to save you. She needed you. She couldn't handle even the thought of losing you.

She had to save you, just like you had saved her.

"Please, please don't let go," Jun-hee pleaded, her body starting to slowly slide down further towards the edge, inch by inch, because of your weight. The rough surface was scratching her pants, but she tried to push herself back as hard as she could, using all the strength she had in her body.

Your hand was becoming sweaty, you couldn't hold on to Jun-hee much longer. You wanted to let go so you wouldn't take Jun-hee with you. She was crying – no, you were both crying.

The moment Myung-gi pushed you over the edge, Gi-hun knew he needed to help you, immediately. But he was holding the baby, trying to figure out what to do. Of course he needed to help you and Jun-hee, she couldn't get you up by herself, but what was he going to do with the baby? If he put her down and left her alone, one of the players could grab and kill her. But he needed to take that risk, otherwise you would be dead.

Gi-hun made it to you and Jun-hee just in time, grabbing your arm and pulling you up with Jun-hee. Just a few more seconds and you would have been dead, bones crushed all the way down there on the floor with the players 353, 203, 039 and, sadly, Min-su.

When you were up on your own two feet again, Jun-hee immediately crashed against you and wrapped her arms tightly around your waist, almost suffocating you. Her body was trembling, tears falling down her cheeks.

"Thank god you're safe," Jun-hee mumbled against your chest, closing her eyes and trying to calm herself down. Shake off the thought of you being dead.

"Are you alright?" Gi-hun asked, his hand on your shoulder and worry bright in his eyes. You managed to just nod, heart racing from that moment. That was the closest you had come to death during these games.

Another gunshot made all of you flinch, separating Jun-hee from you. Now the player 100 had collapsed on the ground, a bullet hole on the middle of his forehead.

Stage 2 – pass.

"Who the hell is firing the gun?" Myung-gi shouted, frantically looking all around the large room for a hidden sniper but wasn't able to spot one. "There wasn't supposed to be guns!"

It was for the players to decide who were to die and who to live, not the guards this time, unless the time would run out and there had still been plenty of time left.

There was no answer, only Myung-gi's loud words hanging in the air. The bridge started to slowly connect the second pillar to the third, letting you to move to the last stage.

Third pillar. You, Jun-hee, Gi-hun and Myung-gi facing each other – nobody else left anymore. Gi-hun was holding the baby, while Jun-hee had grabbed your hand, her fingers squeezing your hand hard; afraid you'd leave her side.

Right after you had pressed the button, turning it from red to green, Myung-gi grabbed the metal pipe to himself, about to push one of you over the edge. He was going to live, no matter what. Jun-hee stepped in front of you, trying to protect you from him – he wouldn't push Jun-hee off, right?

Although, Myung-gi had officially gone insane, so there was no knowing what he was about to do. However, due to the wound on his leg, leaving a blood trail on the ground, he wasn't able to move as quickly as in the beginning. He wasn't as big of a threat anymore to you.

Before the third round had lasted even a minute, another gunshot echoed in the room. This time, Myung-gi collapsed on the ground, another bullet shot into him – now to the head, the shot much more fatal.

Congratulations – you have now passed the game.

All of you just stood there in complete shock what had just happened. That wasn't in the rules. You were supposed to decide the victims when there was still time left. Kill each other.

Although, what mattered the most right now was that you, Jun-hee, the baby and Gi-hun would walk free and alive out of here.

"Is it really over?" Jun-hee asked quietly, feeling like it was all too good to be true.

"I guess so," you mumbled. That was it? There had to be another twist coming up. Where were you supposed to go now?

Jun-hee hesitated for a moment but then walked closer to Myung-gi, kneeling down next to him. She just looked at him, examining his face. Eyes open, staring into nothing. Lips slightly apart from each.

"Goodbye, asshole," Jun-hee whispered and cared enough just to close his eyes.

Then, she returned to you and felt a weight dropping from her shoulders now that Myung-gi was gone. That she'd never have to see him again.

☆☆☆

Jun-hee turned her back to her past, facing now her future – you.

"Jun-ho?" Gi-hun gasped as the four of you reached the boat by the beach. Not a moment too soon.

"Are you the only survivors?" he asked, looking at each of you one by one – his gaze especially glued at the baby Gi-hun was holding. Jun-ho had way too many questions but no time to go through them right now.

"Just us," Gi-hun confirmed.

Jun-ho helped all of you to get up into the boat, especially Jun-hee since she still had trouble with her leg.

"Alright, we should be –" Jun-ho stopped mid-sentence, glancing over Gi-hun's shoulder. His face fell, making everyone turn around to see what he had seen.

A woman dressed up in a pink suit, a rifle in her arms, was standing a few metres behind you. Everyone went into slight panic for a moment. She was clearly one of the guards, though not wearing a black mask anymore.

"Room for one more?" she asked.

It took a few seconds for Jun-ho to answer but he then nodded his head and motioned her to come to them. "Yeah, come on. We don't have much time left."

"What?" Gi-hun asked, needing a good explanation why the hell Jun-ho was willing to take a guard with them without another question. "Why are we taking her with us?"

"I'll explain everything to you later, but she's coming with us," Jun-ho ordered. She had helped Jun-ho earlier, proving that she was on their side, so it would be unfair of him to just leave her to die.

The boat took off, finally leaving the island behind you and heading further towards the sea. Just a few minutes later, you heard a loud explosion coming from the island – the entire place was now completely destroyed.

The place where you had been trapped and fighting for your life for a week, was now turning into ash. The place where you had been only a moment ago was now gone forever.

The idea and thought of it all felt so surreal.

While you sat in the boat, everyone stayed silent for a long time, trying to process everything what had happened alone.

You eyed the guard suspiciously and decided to speak up, to break the thick silence. "Why are you here?"

"I did you a favor, might as well give me a ride back home," she replied, daring to give you a smile.

"Wait, you shot all those other players?" Jun-hee asked, now straightening her back and joining the conversation. "Why?"

"Had to get the game over a little faster." She nodded towards the island which was now in flames.

"But why help us?" you asked, furrowing your eyebrows. "You could have just left us there and escape on your own."

She went silent for a moment, and you were dying to know what was going on in her head. This was the first moment when you could speak freely to one of the guards without a danger of getting shot in the head.

"Because i don't think the four of you deserve to die," she replied, and you could tell that it was the only answer you would get from her.

So, some of the guards still had a heart that cared about a human life. Or at least one of them.

"What's your name?" Jun-hee asked.

"No-eul," she replied, realizing how much time had passed since the last time she or someone else had said her name out loud. Here she had been known only as 011. She then glanced at the baby Jun-hee was holding, a warm smile spreading on her face. "She's beautiful. Does she have a name yet?"

"No, i haven't really had the time to think about it yet."

After that, all of you sat in silence for a moment, the games speedrunning inside your heads. How the past week had changed all of you. Not only financially but even more mentally. How many people you had watched die right in front of you – some of them strangers that had become your friends. You felt like you had gone through a long war but it was only one week.

"Y/N," Jun-hee whispered, her baby fully asleep in her arms. "What do you plan to do now?"

"Well, i don't know, really."

"I'd like to have you in my life, if that's okay with you," Jun-hee suggested, careful and nervous with her words how you would react. You had lived together in this small bubble, away from the life you knew. You and Jun-hee lived completely separate lives – would there be room for Jun-hee in the future? "I'm not asking you to become a stepmom for her but maybe, if you'd like, her godmother?"

"Really?" you gasped, excited of the thought. "You mean that?"

"Yeah, i'd like that very much," Jun-hee smiled.

"Well, i'd like that too. Very much," you agreed.

God, how much you wanted to kiss her right now. Was this the right moment? Would she even want to? You still remembered the kiss she had given you after the jump rope, the memory alone summoning butterflies into your stomach.

Jun-hee leaned against your shoulder as the waves moved the boat side to side, making you feel tired as well.

Gi-hun was chatting with Jun-ho about something, while No-eul was leaning her head against the wall, deep in her thoughts. Having looked at Jun-hee with her child, No-eul couldn't help but feel a sting in her heart, missing her own daughter as well. She'd find her some day – she'd have to.

"Y/N," Jun-hee mumbled quietly.

"Yeah?"

"I'm really glad i met you," Jun-hee admitted, now looking into your eyes.

"I'm glad i met you too," you replied and smiled.

"Can i kiss you?" she asked, making your heart skip a beat. You didn't even have to answer with words, she got the permission from the mere look on your face. Smile on both of your faces, Jun-hee softly pressed her lips on yours.

For the rest of the trip on the boat, Jun-hee rested her head on your shoulder and fell asleep. Having a dream about you which she hoped would come true some day.

☆☆☆

[blank-potato]

Hell On Earth

Pairing: Lex Luthor x Reader

Summary:

“But, Mr. Luthor, I have to—” “Maybe I should replace you with a paperweight,” he cuts in coldly. You sigh, eyes dropping to the floor, shoulders tight as he launches into the same exhausting rant. “...or even a toaster. Toasters have a function. They have a purpose. They serve it. But you? All you do is fail at every turn—pathetic.” You stand there, fists clenched at your sides, fighting the urge to bite your lip. Even now, your degeneracy knows no bounds. Maybe it’s some kind of psychological issue. Or Stockholm syndrome. Or just a complete collapse of self-worth. But the way he sneers at you, the venom in his voice, the sharp precision of his words… God help you, it does something to you. Or Lex is the worst boss, he's rude, demanding, and downright evil but... you think he's kinda hot.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, humping, degradation kink, masochist!reader, drunken confession, power dynamic

WC: 4.1k

A/N: Nicholas Hoult is just too fine as Lex, I had to click-clack on my keyboard and write this.

***

Your boss might just be the death of you.

Just hearing his name gave you a headache. You even think about him when you go to sleep. Nightmares of a skyscraper-sized Lex towering over you for all your nights and days, not to mention the freaky sex dreams, but those had to be locked away somewhere dark and never spoken of.

He doesn’t tolerate anything. Not mistakes, not excuses, and definitely not tardiness.

So you rock up to work 5 minutes late and hand him his coffee, knowing this might just be your last day on earth. 

“The coffee is cold.”

Fuck me sideways.

“I don’t want your excuses,” he snaps, before you can even open your mouth. “Do you think failure is something I reward here?”

You highly doubt it. Even so, it wasn’t your fault. The line at Jitters was impossibly long since the location nearest to LexCorp was destroyed by a giant lizard man of sorts. Plus, he never even really drinks the coffee; it’s “burnt swill” and far too cheap for his liking. He only tells you to get him one to make your life that little bit harder, like a complete dick.

“Mr. Luthor—”

“You can’t even bring me a hot coffee, and on top of that, you were late. Maybe I should just fire you and replace you with someone who knows how to use a clock.”

His words are like daggers to the chest, but you’ve built up a pretty good resistance. Better to grin and bear it. This job paid quite well, considering the soul erosion, and having to deal with his temper tantrums and occasional threats of defenestration (at least it wasn’t the pocket universe prison). But it had benefits, and a good dental plan.

“I should just build an assistant.”

You hold back a sigh, Lex has told you this a million times, the same rant just repackaged in a different way.

“...one that doesn’t whine and make excuses and disappoint me.”

He looks you up and down as if assessing you. Compared to other assistants, you had lasted longer and you hadn’t even run out of his office crying… you saved that for the drive home. 

You plaster on your best fake smile, the one that says I’m dead inside, but still very employable, and offer with practised calm, “Would you like me to get you another one, Mr. Luthor?”

He stares at you for a beat too long, like he’s deciding whether your continued existence is worth the effort.

“…Make it extra hot,” he finally mutters, turning away.

“Well? Don’t just stand there like a malfunctioning Roomba. I need a hot cup of coffee.”

“Yeah, I know…,” you reply, voice tight.

“If it isn’t to my liking, it goes in your face.”

***

It’s a Friday night, and you weren’t able to escape Lex’s office until well past 9, finding yourself late for hanging out with your friends, again.

Now you’re at the bar, drink in hand, trying to shake off the day. You’re probably drinking a little too much.

“Slow down, tiger,” one of your friends teases as you take another big sip.

“Trust me, I need it,” you mutter, barely hiding the exhaustion in your voice.

“Why do you even work there?” your friend asks, half-laughing, half-concerned. “He sounds like an actual villain.”

“You know why. It’s good pay, there’s a ridiculous benefits package, and lots of free swag… I got an iPad last month, plus…”

“Plus?”

You hesitate, taking a sip of your drink. If you weren’t so emotionally drained and buzzed, you might have lied.

“Plus, even though Lex Luthor is the worst human I’ve ever come into contact with… he’s kinda hot.”

Your friend chokes on their drink, nearly spitting it out. “Excuse me?”

You shrug, face half-buried in your glass. “He’s evil, yes. Morally bankrupt, obviously. But have you seen his jawline? And his eyes are like…,” you toy with the straw in your drink, coyly, “So blue.”

“Seek help,” they laugh.

After too much drinking, your friends stopped you from climbing on top of the bar and loudly declaring your love for mozzarella sticks; it was obvious. You’d definitely had way too much.

“I can go all night, guys, like don’t worry about me…,” you slur, wobbling slightly as you point at no one in particular. "I can party till the sun down."

“The sun is already down and you need to rest,” your roommate muttered, helping you into a cab like they’d done one too many times before.

“So stubborn….” you pouted, slumping against the seat.

The cab takes off toward your house, the city lights blurring outside the window. Everything seems hilarious for absolutely no reason, until your phone buzzes, and the name on the screen nearly sobers you up on sight.

Lex Luthor.

“Yello?” you answer, a little too brightly, still halfway laughing.

“I need you back at the office immediately,” he says, voice sharp and without patience.

You glance at the time. Midnight. You audibly groan for at least five long seconds. “You’re joking, right…”

Silence.

“M’not going anywhere near the office tonight…” you mumble, pressing your forehead to the cool glass of the cab window.

“If you want to keep your job—”

“Oh, shut up, Lex,” you snap, startling even yourself with the boldness. “It’s midnight. I’m like drunk. I just tried to dance on a bar. I can barely spell LexCorp right now, let alone walk in a straight line. So, unless the building’s on fire or Superman himself is currently punching your face through your desk," you pause to chuckle a little at the thought, "...this is gonna have to wait until I’m sober.”

A pause.

“...You’re lucky I’m in a forgiving mood.”

You let out a snort-laugh. "Kindly, fuck off."

You hang up.

The cabbie side-eyes you in the mirror. “That your boss?”

“Satan.”

You get another call, his name flashing on your screen like a curse.

“I’m giving you one more chance—” he begins, already seething in anger.

“Just because you’re all rich and like, hot and stuff, doesn’t mean you can call me at all hours…,” you slur, words tumbling out in chaos. “Do I want you to…I dunno, fuck me into next week? Perhaps. Do I think that I'd make a most wonderful cocksleeve for you, most definitely, but… You can’t call me in when I’ve already left for the day, you psycho!”

There’s a brief silence on the line. You can almost hear him recalibrating, trying to decide if you’ve finally lost your mind or just your job.

“Y’know what? Suck my dick, Lex.”

And you hang up again.

The cab is silent once more.

You lean your head back, eyes closed, a smug smile tugging at your lips. For the first time all week…you actually feel free.

***

Waking up the next day, you’re dying, head pounding like a jackhammer on concrete, mouth dry, and vision blurred. You can barely open your eyes.

You can barely remember the night before…it was a chaotic blur featuring shots, mozzarella sticks, and some questionable dancing.

Your doorbell rings. Once. Then again. Then again.

It’s way too early to be doing anything. It's one of your only days free from Lex, your sacred, holy, do-not-disturb-or-you-die day.

The bell keeps going off like someone's leaning on it.

You groan, dragging yourself out of bed, stumbling over a pile of laundry and empty takeout containers.

“Just a second, damn!” you shout, voice hoarse, tripping over a shoe and narrowly avoiding stubbing your toe on the doorframe.

The bell keeps ringing until you yank the door open.

“Satan!” you screech. 

Lex Luthor, in the flesh. Looking pristine. In a suit. On a Saturday.

Without hesitation, you slam the door in his face.

Nope. Absolutely not. This is one of your Lex nightmares or maybe a hangover hallucination.

The bell rings again, and your heart sinks like a stone.

You slowly open it. “M-Mr. Luthor…”

He pushes past you like he owns the place, surveying your apartment with a look of barely concealed disgust.

“How…quaint,” he mutters.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, still clutching the door like it might protect you.

“I told you I needed you back at the office. Since you decided to ignore my very generous warning, I’ve come to you,” he says, glancing at a stack of empty chip bags like they personally offended him.

You stare, still in pyjama pants and a shirt that may or may not have cheese stains on it.

“Warning?” you repeat, blinking in confusion, your brain still booting up through the hangover fog.

Lex’s face shifts into something worse than anger, an evil smirk, smug and dangerous. “You don’t remember what you said to me last night?”

“We… talked last night…?” you ask, already feeling your soul start to leave your body.

You’re screaming on the inside. No, no, no. You’re a loose cannon when drunk. Lex steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s savouring every syllable.

“Oh yes. You were quite… spirited.”

You clutch your forehead. “Don’t tell me I threatened you. Oh please, don’t fire me,” you whisper, feeling the weight of every reckless syllable from the night before crashing down like a building demolition.

You stand there, suddenly very aware of your penguin pyjama pants, dishevelled hair, and clothes from last night strewn on the floor. Why is he here? You wonder. To fire you in person? To humiliate you in your own home? To casually mention he bought your entire apartment complex and plans to bulldoze it into a LexMart?

“I’m not here to fire you,” Lex says flatly, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

You let out a huge sigh of relief and, without thinking, throw your arms around him in a big hug. 

“Really? Oh, Mr. Luthor, I swear I’ll never let you down again, I—”

“Unhand me.”

You freeze, then awkwardly peel yourself off him. 

“I’m here to ruin your weekend,” he says simply, adjusting the sleeve of his very expensive suit like nothing just happened. “There’s a crisis at the lab. A very expensive one. And my top assistant, unfortunately, is you.”

You blink. “So… this is punishment?”

“Correct,” he replies. “Put on something that doesn’t feature flightless birds and be downstairs in ten.”

He turns and starts walking toward the door.

You mumble under your breath, “I hugged Satan.”

“I heard that,” he says, without turning around.

***

He definitely didn’t need you to be there.

He was fully immersed in the crisis himself, typing, calculating, and talking to himself in that way that made you question whether he needed any staff at all. Meanwhile, you sat off to the side, bleary-eyed, hair still damp from the world’s fastest shower, trying to make legible notes while your vision pulsed with every heartbeat.

Your hangover was still very much present, despite the painkillers you'd downed on the way there. Every flicker of the lab lights felt like a personal attack. Lex’s voice was like nails on your skull, and he was hammering away, trying to break it. 

“Keep up,” he snapped without looking at you.

You jumped slightly, pen scratching a crooked line across the page. “I am,” you mumbled, even though you’d zoned out for the last five minutes thinking about the breakfast you didn’t get to have.

He gave you a side glance. “You look like a dying Victorian orphan.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples and trying to will your brain back online.

“So you think I’m hot,” he says casually, not even bothering to look at you, just staring at a holographic schematic like he hadn’t just dropped a verbal grenade.

“Huh? Oh—I, uh…,” you stutter, your voice cracking under the weight of your own embarrassment. “I wasn’t thinking last night.”

The memories of all the unhinged shit you said came back to like a brick being lobbed at your head. It was beyond painful, you’ll never say the word “cocksleeve” again. 

He hums, completely unfazed. “Clearly.”

You sink lower into your chair, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole.

“I mean… it was the tequila. Tequila makes me say things. It also makes me... emotional.”

That emotion was horniness, so it’s not a lie. Why couldn’t it be sadness? At least if you cried to him on the phone, you’d be able to see if he had a heart. 

“For future reference,” he says, still focused on his screen, “if you’re going to confess your attraction to your boss during a drunken meltdown, at least own it the next day.”

You blink at him… He wanted you to own it? You could do that.

“I mean… well, yeah, you’re hot, but you’re also my boss,” you admit, voice a little shaky.

“Confidence is rare these days,” he replies, not looking away from the screen.

You chew on your lip. “It’s hard to be confident around someone like you.”

He finally looks up, eyes sharp but amused. “Brilliant?”

“Crazy.”

You chuckle to yourself, shaking your head, thinking about his antics. “I mean, you threw a chair at a lead dev because they said they might not meet your impossible deadline. You also—uh—sent half of HR to Siberia for 6 months after they tried to intervene. And not to mention the obsession with Superman…”

You catch the flash of his jaw tightening. Okay, maybe that was a little too much honesty.

“I’ll shut up now,” you mutter quickly, eyes darting anywhere but his.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Go get me coffee. Obviously, that’s all you’re good for.”

The words sting, even though they shouldn't. You’ve heard worse.

***

After your drunken insults and confession, he’s been meaner, so much meaner. He went out of his way to assign you pointless tasks, fed you the wrong details for meetings just to watch you scramble and to give him an excuse to shout at you, and even had you write and make revisions to a speech he had to give, only to not use a single word of it. 

“But, Mr. Luthor, I have to—”

“Maybe I should replace you with a paperweight,” he cuts in coldly.

You sigh, eyes dropping to the floor, shoulders tight as he launches into the same exhausting rant. “...or even a toaster. Toasters have a function. They have a purpose. They serve it. But you? All you do is fail at every turn—pathetic.”

You stand there, fists clenched at your sides, fighting the urge to bite your lip. Even now, your degeneracy knows no bounds. Maybe it’s some kind of psychological issue. Or Stockholm syndrome. Or just a complete collapse of self-worth. But the way he sneers at you, the venom in his voice, the sharp precision of his words…

God help you, it does something to you.

You're so far gone, you don’t even know whether you want to slap him or crawl into his lap and beg for validation.

He steps closer, close enough that you feel the heat of his words. “And I wouldn’t have to listen to it talk back.”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor.”

Also, you swear he’s stalking you. He asked you to come in over the weekend again, and when you lied and said you were out of town visiting family, he texted back your exact location. With a text saying:

Lex Luthor, Devil Incarnate 😈: Here in 30 minutes or you're fired. 9:00AM

Or the time he remotely hacked your car, on your day off again, and had it drive itself to some barren stretch of highway, and called you just to “talk without distractions.” You sat there, white-knuckled and silent, while he calmly explained a new workflow system over the phone, blasting through your car speakers, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Or when he had your favourite sandwich from our favourite sandwich place (that’s an hour away) delivered to your desk before you even realised you’d forgotten your lunch at home. You didn’t eat it, though; there was no way to prove it wasn’t poisoned.

It was emotional torture, back and forth, whiplash from cold indifference to laser-focused obsession. You never knew what version of Lex “Satan” Luthor you were walking into: the calculating genius, the passive-aggressive tyrant, or the man who sent you coffee just to make you question if it was laced with something.

The week had been brutal, and today? He was being insane, which was saying something. You were running on no sleep, your nerves fried, and it all caught up to you. You fucked up. Big time.

Missed a meeting. Sent the wrong deck. Double-booked his 3 p.m. with a LexCorp Board call and a classified tech demonstration with a Department of Defence liaison. Total scheduling collapse.

To make matters worse, Superman had apparently just finished dragging half of Metropolis out of a crumbling building, again, so Lex was on edge, seething with resentment and ego bruised beyond repair.

He kept you late. Everyone else had gone home. The halls were silent, the office dim and sterile, and you could feel the tension like static in the air.

“You’re shallow and stupid,” he snaps, glaring at you like you just insulted his favourite suit.

“...not any less than your girlfriends,” you shoot back without missing a beat.

His eyes narrow. “What was that?”

“It’s not a lie,” you say, “But I don’t get it. I mean, why them? You don’t even seem to like anything about them…”

“Sex.”

You choke on the word, air catching in your throat.

“Sex,” he repeats slowly, eyes locked on yours, “and they look good on my arm, fun to toy with in my free time, disposable when the game gets boring.”

You look down, suddenly feeling the weight of his words.

“Oh.”

“Does that bother you?” he asks, voice low and probing.

You shake your head, suddenly very flustered, words caught somewhere between your lungs and your lips.

Before you can react, he’s closing the distance, walking you back until your back meets the cold edge of his desk. The chill seeps through your shirt, but it’s nothing compared to the heat from his intense gaze locked onto yours.

The room feels impossibly small, despite it being as big as Lex’s ego. 

“Say what’s on your mind.”

What are you supposed to say? But that little, stubborn part of you wishes it was you, that he’d hold you, tote you around, and fuck you all the while telling you just how useless he thinks you are. What’s wrong with you? Maybe you really did need to seek help.

“I…that’s good for you and them, I guess.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he takes in all of your expressions, reading your mind like an open book, seeing every messy thought clearly displayed on your face.

“Remember what I said. Own it.”

You swallow hard. “But what if you throw me in a pocket universe to rot…forever?”

He shrugs, lips curling into a lazy smirk. “I might, either way.”

You take a shaky breath. “Okay, fine. I… I would like… to perhaps engage in… activities.”

Tired of your endless stammering and beating around the bush, he grabs your wrist and tugs you toward him with no warning, then kisses you like he’s been holding back for far too long.

It’s sharp and commanding, no patience, like he’s proving a point. Like he’s tired of talking and you’re not getting out of this with clever quips or awkward half-confessions anymore.

Satan in a suit has it going on.

Your brain goes static. Your knees might’ve buckled if the desk behind you wasn’t there. He pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, “Is that clear enough for you?”

“Crystal.”

His fingers snake into your hair, yanking your head back, and a surprised yelp escapes your mouth.

“This is how you’ll pay me back for your terrible performance today.”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor.”

He tugs you back to him, your lips crashing together. Your breath catches, heart racing as the world narrows to just the two of you in the dimly lit office.

***

Since that day…well, you may or may not be having sex with him regularly.

Sex with your super evil boss isn’t exactly what you expected, but when it’s that good, it’s hard to stop.

And yes, may or may not be a masochist, because the way he’d pull you aside after a brutal meeting, his voice low and commanding, then take you somewhere private to fuck you senseless…it was addictive.

Sometimes, without warning, a sleek car would pull up to your place late at night, and a driver would escort you to his penthouse, where the city lights blurred into the background while he took you again, hard, fast and like he could take you apart whenever he wanted. 

Now you’re in the middle of getting railed against his desk, your body completely naked, while he still has the majority of his clothes on. This was a normal occurrence in your life now. 

Your breasts press against the cold, smooth surface as you arch back, moaning loudly. Thank goodness his office is soundproof; otherwise, the noises you’re making would surely echo down the empty halls.

Sloppy sounds of his movements fill the room, you’re so wet you’re practically melting against the desk.

“Please!” you beg. 

“I don’t care if you finish or not,” he leans in a little closer, his breath hot against your ear. “If you want to, you’ll do it when I say.”

Your arms are pinned firmly to the surface as he drives into you relentlessly. He likes seeing you so messy. It’s a raw, desperate reminder of what he’ll never be: a submissive, devoted mess that lives only to please someone else.

“I’m going to count you down, so you better not disappoint me.”

You shake your head profusely, you know if you don’t cum when he tells you, he might not let you cum at all. 

“No, no, Lex, I’m not ready…” 

“5.”

A five-count? He wanted you to fail.

Your pulse quickens, every nerve on fire as the countdown begins, each number a test of your limits.

“4…”

You bite your lip, trying to concentrate on getting there on time. 

“3…”

Your pussy flutters around him as you feel yourself starting to get close. 

“2…”

His grip tightens, and you feel his cock start to twitch inside of you. 

“1…”

He floods your needy cunt with his cum, a satisfied moan escaping his lips as you whimper and writhe, loving how completely he fills you.

There’s no tenderness or aftercare; he pulls out, letting his seed dribble out of you and onto the floor. That’s your problem now.

“Wait, but Lex, I didn’t—”

“I told you the rules. It’s not my fault you weren’t able to cum for me the way I wanted.”

“But I was… I was so close.”

The pitiful look on your face is exactly what he wants. In his mind, you only deserve to cum on his terms, not your own.

You’re wrecked beyond repair but still manage a desperate, “Please…”

He arches an eyebrow, that familiar evil smirk curling on his lips.

“If you want to cum, hump my shoe.”

You think: how much is your dignity worth? Is it worth an orgasm? He smirks again, clearly enjoying your hesitation.

Apparently, it’s not worth much, because the next thing you know, you’re on your knees, rubbing your dripping cunt against the tip of his expensive shoe, rocking your hips like a woman possessed, chasing the orgasm he refused to give you.

“Can I use my fingers?” you whine, desperate to feel something press against your G-spot again. All it would take is a few thrusts…

“No. You lost that privilege.”

You pout but keep moving and try to hold onto his leg for leverage, but he slaps them away. 

“Hands behind your back.”

Grinding your clit against his shoes as best as you can without holding on to him, you feel yourself getting closer. You’re losing your mind, and he’s... scrolling through his phone?

This arrogant little—

“Please, look at me, Lex,” you plead, voice trembling.

He keeps his eyes glued to his phone, completely ignoring you like an asshole. 

“Lex, I’m so close, look at me.”

He continues scrolling, absorbed in whatever could possibly be so interesting when you’re right here.

“I’m begging you to look at me.”

The second he finally looks down at you, your hips stutter uncontrollably, and you lose yourself in a shattering orgasm.

“Fuck—fuck, Lex…” you cry out before resting your head against his thigh. You don’t even get a moment to catch your breath before he’s ordering you around again.

“Clean up the mess on the floor, and yourself, you look…” he trails off, pulling away from you and pacing the room.

“Draft up a report. I want it done by the end of the day. And I want a coffee from Jitters. If it’s cold, I’ll throw you in a river.”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor.”

Main Masterlist

[k2ntoss]

SAGE !! JASON TODD

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤsad green eyes and a box of memories ⭒

in which jason is left with nothing but a box filled with all the things you returned to him ! fluff, angst and comfort

word count ⭒ dunno, guys, short and sad comeback bc i feel sad and lowkey think this sucks but i really wanna write again ):

tw ⭒ none, just don't hate me bc i really don't know where did this came out from (i know but shhh)

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𔓕 ۪  ۫ ୭

it's weird how this box feels so heavy but it's nothing compared to the big things jason always lifts when working out, maybe he's too tired from the multiple nights of patrolling until the sunrise, from the constant beatings and wounds he got at the end of his shift and the non-stop work he did at daylight when he had to investigate or do his reports from last night. yeah, it must be that and not the fact that he carries every little gift he's gotten you in three years of a nice relationship on a box.

books, sweaters, plushies, little jewerly boxes and even the stupid green lantern pajamas pants you loved, suddenly his hate towards green rises on him again and reminds him of the pit and of hell, he hates it but not because it's a bad color but instead because it was your favourite and every damn thing on that box was green.

he remembers it clearly, the day he met you back on a small and old book shop. he was reaching for a pretty big edition of "the perfume” as he had read it was a good book and he wanted a small change from the feelings his re-reads of a few jane austen books had left on him. his hand runs gently over the spine of a line of books until he's able to read the tittle he was looking for and just as he gripped his fingers on the book he heard a soft pant “please, tell me that’s not the only one.”

turning around, he’s met by a pair of pretty, wide and disappointed eyes, long eyelashes hidden behind golden framed glasses and it feels like the air is being kicked out of his lungs because is it really like those cliché tropes of books and novels? but fuck it if he isn’t a sucker for that idea. it’s not like he hadn’t liked someone before but jason had never been one to believe love at first sight was a thing.

“i’m sorry, i actually think it’s the only one…” he muses and seeing the sadness in your face makes his mind scream, damn he really wanted to read that book, “but… you can have it, it’s not the last copy of the book, isn’t it?” now he tries to break the ice, offering you a small smile as he picks the book, handing it to you.

it’s worth it, even if he has to walk to another book shop to see if there was another edition, that glint of your eyes melted his heart and his defenses like he was a little boy once again.

“have you read it before?” you ask and as soon as jason shakes his head you’re fumbling with your bag, hands roaming around until you grasp a worn out copy, soft back with yellowed-pages, clutching it to your chest before handing it to him, “this was my first copy, i’ve read it a million times but i think that’s obvious…” now you’re looking a little too self-aware of how worn out your book is and yeah, it makes jason melt further inside.

“i think it’s clear you’ve read it a lot…” he says with a soft chuckle but it lacks any malice, if anything, the tall and intimidating guy in front of you looks like he’s seeing a cute puppy in front of him “but that means it’s worth reading it, isn’t it?”

now you’re the one wondering if the strangers to lovers trope is real. a man who reads, as stunning as the one standing right in front of you and that seems to be just as excited as you about a damn book. “you can have mine, it’s a fair exchange…” you hear your voice and it’s a bit of a surprise because you would never gift a book you so adore to a stranger but he doesn’t feel like a random stranger all of the sudden, “i’ve made notes on it, pasted a ton of post-its, maybe it’s too worn out-”

“i think there would never be a better option to read it for the first time.” when he cuts you off you’re not even mad, jason looks at the book you hold so dearly into your arms, like it was your most special belonging.

he tilts his head ever so slightly when instead of offering him the book, you’re once again fumbling with your bag and he’s about to ask you what’s going on before you produce a pen, wide smile on your lips and turn to use one of the shelves as a support.

“what’s your name?” you ask, excited while flipping the book open, eyes fixed on his while he’s still holding the hard cover edition.

“jason,” he barely mumbles, taken aback when you start writing something down.

as soon as you’re done you finally hand him the book, closed. he has no idea what you’ve written down and his curiosity is getting the best of him “don’t read it yet, i’ll die of embarrassment if you did… just, wait until you’re home, please.” and the faint flush of your cheeks is so adorable jason accepts.

“fine, i’ll read it at home but, you gotta let me pay for this because it wouldn’t be fair if i got your book as a gift and you had to pay for the one i almost snatched from you,” he offers and he does notices the effort you make to say no and decline his offering but it’s late.

long and decided strides have jason in front of the cashier before you can tell him not to worry, he pays and moves a bit further in the counter, asking the guy behind it for a pen and turning then to look at you “can i know your name?”

and as soon as you speak he repeats it in his mind at least ten times as he writes down a note too, not wanting to forget your name or your face because it had to be destiny that brought you both together over a book about a murderer.

“there, all yours to read as well at home,” he points out, a small and gentle smile on his face as he hands you the bag with your now new book.

he remembers it so well, how you’d written on that first page “this is for the sweet guy at the bookshop, i hope i made your first read as special as mine was. i hope i get to see you again soon, jason.” and how roy had to deal with his teenage-crush-like moment because only he knows how annoying he was as soon as he found out you had also written your number at the very last page of the story.

back at his safe house, he leaves the box on the coffee table. open and still full. he sits on the living room in complete silence, his gaze lost in the book shelf where he proudly displayed the first book you gave him. the same you had used to call him “the sweet guy” and he doesn’t find his will to throw it away or at least hide it.

it’s almost automatical when he reaches for the box, fingers grasping your copy and he opens it, tears prickling at his eyes as he reads his own handwriting “people who gift books are somehow special, but i’ve never met someone quite as yourself. i’m wishing this book brings us to meet again once i’ve finished it, andrea.”

it’s hard to think because after the pit jason thought there was no way on god’s earth he would ever be looked at with anything other than fear or regret but that day you looked at him with those pretty eyes of yours and it was like he was finally living again, something different from the pain and grief his days were since he came back. he found some hope, peace and a home, because you were home for him.

the one person he needed to live, the one person that he could rely on when he was fine and when he was about to break down. he clutched that book to his chest as if that could bring you back, the quiet sobbing had his shoulders shaking because how was he supposed to go on without the only thing that brought a little light to his existence?

[peasack]

hi, i love your writing!!! can i be the owl anon? these anon things (idk how to explain this lol) are so cute! and also could i request reader being the host of a powerful entity? (like a god, an angel, a demon...) like bob with sentry/void but a little different

-🦉

Ooooooo I love this. Your bond with Bob would be so complicated yet so understanding.

AND YESYESYES YESY3S I ALSO LOVE THE ANON THINGY AAAA OFC YOU CAN BE OWL ANON LOVE THATTTTT

Thunderbolts x Gn!Teen!Reader

✦Thunderbolts With a Reader as The Host of an Angelic Entity Headcanons ✦

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

You’re the reluctant vessel for an ancient, banished celestial being, a seraph-like force known only as Vetrael. Not good. Not evil. Just power beyond comprehension and too big to fit inside a human body without consequences. Wings you don’t control. Voices that speak through you in sleep. Light bleeding from your skin when your emotions get too high. And sometimes... the feeling that you’re not alone in your own skull.

Valentina? She knows. That’s why she’s keeping you close.

The Thunderbolts? They don’t, not at first. But they find out. They have to.

✦ Bucky Barnes

Eyes go cold the moment he sees the entity take over for the first time.

Doesn’t flinch when you light up like a sunspot or float off the floor, he’s seen worse, but later? He quietly asks you how it feels. How much it hurts.

“I know what it’s like to be used by something bigger than you. To not know where you end and it begins.”

You don't talk much after that. But he starts standing closer to you in briefings. Like a shield.

✦ John Walker

At first? Suspicious as hell. The moment the angel takes over, he grabs for his weapon.

But when he sees you collapse afterward, gasping like your ribs are too small for your own breath, his jaw clenches.

He’s angry, but not at you. At the thing inside you.

“You're not it. Whatever that is, you’re still just a kid. And no kid should be carrying a god on their back.”

Offers to spar. Train. Help you contain it. Pretends it’s just tactical, but you can tell he cares.

✦ Yelena Belova

Stares at your wings when they first appear and mutters, “Cool. Creepy. You’d make a great Halloween costume.”

Doesn’t treat you any different. If anything, she starts trusting you more, “If you're carrying something that dangerous and still choose not to use it, you're stronger than most people I know.”

Teaches you breathing tricks to stop from burning things accidentally. Also makes fun of your glow like it’s a flashlight.

“You ever think about charging people to see the apocalypse? We could make some serious cash.”

✦ Alexei Shostakov

Is convinced you’re a chosen one. Loves it.

“You are like baby Jesus if baby Jesus could explode a building by blinking!”

You’re pretty sure he’s joking... mostly.

Brags to strangers like, “This one? This is our divine child. Don’t anger them unless you want to be smote.”

Doesn’t understand the fear under your skin until you break down one night. Then he holds you tight and says, “You are more than what lives inside you. You are not just a weapon.”

✦ Ava Starr

Cold, sharp, and practical. “What does it want? Can it take over? How do we kill it if we have to?”

It hurts to hear, but she doesn’t mean it cruelly. She needs to understand how to keep you safe.

You think she’s afraid of you, until you wake up one night mid-possession and find her sitting beside you, holding your hand through it.

She tells you later: “Power doesn’t scare me. Not knowing what it’s doing to you? That does.”

✦ Bob Reynolds

Stops breathing when he feels Vetrael stir inside you.

The Void screams at it. Vetrael hums back like an old song, it's like the entities know each other.

He avoids you for days afterward, scared of what it means, then one day, you find him sitting outside your room, head in his hands.

“You ever feel like you’re not real when they take over?”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

“Me too.”

The bond that forms between you after that is quiet, gentle, and unbreakable.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

KWKWJSNDNWJJANANA

Hope yall enjoyed!!!

[loganficsonly]

an independent woman ☘ 9 (end)

˚₊‧⁺˖✮ ch 9: epilogue ✮ ˖⁺‧₊˚

masterlist

worst!logan x fem!reader, 2.1k

SUMMARY: As Logan learns to live instead of survive, he finds himself in the extremely dangerous position of sharing an apartment with you—Wade's friend. Extremely dangerous because Lord knows he can't keep his feelings a secret forever... not when your room is five steps away from his.

SERIES WARNINGS/TAGS: english is not my native language, no use of y/n, reader is a working adult (mid-late 20s) with a slightly written out personality, friends to roommates to lovers, slow burn, secret crushes, mentions of alcoholism and AA

CHAPTER WARNINGS/TAGS: logan is a lover boy, nudity and implied sex

AUTHOR’S NOTE: i'm a sap so i've started reflecting on this series and the experience of writing it lol maybe i'll post that sometime. thank you SO MUCH to everyone that's supported this fic i love you <3

also i think it's freaky how my other fic the cure really fits into this series, i'm treating it as a side story lol

“Looks like things are going well,” Laura hums. 

Logan looks over at her as he sips on a canned cola.

The afternoon sun rays hit the bench they’re sitting on, a little bit too warm, almost blinding. Cicadas buzz in the background, and the faint smell of elm permeates in the air. They can hear a bunch of kids somewhere, their shrill laughter floating above a game of soccer. Regular consequences of hanging out at Tompkins Square Park in mid-July.

But neither father nor daughter move. Fugitives like them have kept to the edges of the world far too long to take moments like these for granted. Sunshine. Air. 

Peace.

“What do you mean?” 

The younger woman rolls her eyes at him. Universal code for ‘quit the bullshit’.

“Come on. You and her.” 

She tilts her chin over in your direction.

You and Wade are playing catch with Mary Puppins in a field of grass in the distance. From where Logan is, the dog looks like a matted hopping rain cloud. Vanessa hovers nearby, filming the moment on her phone.

It was Wade’s idea to come here. Something about wanting to heal his inner child by having a day out with his family. You quickly got excited at the plan, and Logan liked it when you smiled, so he didn’t say no. 

He finds the sight of you distracting. How you’re dressed casually in a top and a pair of shorts that look like they’re made of a material so soft and worn, cooing over Dogpool as she brings you back the battered tennis ball.

It’s the sun’s fault. The light outlines your skin like a halo. You look like you’re glowing.

“What about it?” he replies, peeling his eyes away from you and back to Laura. His tone isn’t avoidant. If anything, he almost sounds playful. Like a dare. 

Laura lets out a snort. 

“Please, it’s pretty damn obvious. You look a decade younger these days.”

Logan smirks. “Just one?” 

“Cracking jokes like that? Two.” 

She perches her elbows on top of her knees, leaning forward in her seat.

“She’s good for you.”

Logan doesn’t answer, but his mind responds almost instantaneously, projecting images of private moments of you and him in the apartment that is now his sanctuary. Slideshow after slideshow of collected memories.

That time you kiss the inside of his wrist after he fixes a loose valve under the kitchen sink, a soft and wordless ‘thank you’. Your legs draped across his lap, shifting a little as you laugh at something inane on TV. Whispers of his name beneath the covers, skin against skin, your fingers bringing him closer, always on him somewhere like you can’t stand being apart—his hair, his shoulders, his arms…

Like a wishing well in the woods, you gave him something deep and lasting and magical.

Drinking from it has made him even thirstier.   

Laura looks over at him, catching the way his gaze softens. There’s that faraway look, one that tells her he’s not quite sure how he got to be here. He thinks nobody notices.

You think you’re slick, too, but Laura sees how you no longer protest when Logan gets your bag or umbrella when you walk into a room. How you barely put up a fight when Wade banned you from washing dishes at his place. The change is subtle, gradual, but enough to pick up between gatherings.

Like you’re learning the language of being, without explaining why you have the right to. 

As someone who got banished to the Void, of course Laura sees it. 

The silence settles. Logan is the first to speak.

“Yeah. She is.”

Laura blinks, head turning to see him. He’s still looking at you.

“Don’t fuck it up,” she smiles goodnaturedly.

He huffs, hiding his face behind the rim of his drink.

“I won’t.”

You and Wade are fussing over Mary Puppins. He’s patting her butt while you scratch behind her ears, as if the dog ordered a full-service massage.

“Sooo, when were you gonna tell me?”

You resist the knee-jerk impulse to freeze. That sing-song voice means trouble.

“Tell you what?” you feign ignorance.

“That you and Logan are a thing. Even Al can see that—and I don’t need to remind you she’s blind.”

You think you’d be the worst person to ever be put in an interrogation room, because you sigh, not even putting up a fight. Any attempt at deflection would probably be pathetic.

It’s not as if you and Logan are deliberately keeping your relationship a vaulted secret. The two of you just happen to agree to be subtler in group situations to avoid unnecessary attention, and… well, the sort of chaos that Wade might bring when he stumbles upon this kind of knowledge.

But this is Wade you’re talking to. ‘Friend’ seems too small a word to summarize him. You gave him tips on how to get rid of blood from his clothes, sat with him on days that were too sad. He made you open up—one of the first people to do so since you moved to the city.

He also gave you Logan, in a way.

And it’s not like you can lie to him convincingly. Even if you could, you kind of don’t want to, either. 

You shoot Wade a look that gives him enough to latch on.    

“Oh my fucking god, you bitch!” he squeals. “I need you to spill all the tea!”

“What’s there to spill? You figured it out,” you say coolly. Maybe staring at Dogpool’s tongue will help quell the flutter in your stomach.

“You know, last month, he told me he was going to move out,” Wade replies.

Your eyes snap up to his. 

“It was during that mission with the TVA. Went to this different universe—which was fucking sick, by the way, everything was black-and-white—and you wouldn’t believe what we saw.”

“What?”

“You. With a really cute boyfriend that’s not Logie Bear. The way it rattled him, I figured he had feelings for you—I mean, I figured that out a long time ago, but his reaction really was the nail on the coffin.”

You blink. You did not know anything about this. Your hand stills, unconsciously pulling away from Mary Puppins. She immediately finds it a disservice and darts over to where Vanessa’s standing, leaving you and Wade sitting on the grass.

“And?”

“I teased him about it, of course. He insisted he didn’t have feelings for you and was going to move out anyways.”

Your heart jumps.

“Then I punched that lying slut in the face.”

“You what?”

“And now he’s your boyfriend! You’re welcome,” he bats his eyelashes, grinning with glee.

You choke out a laugh of disbelief. “I… did not know this.” 

“Which is why I’m telling you—I take full credit for getting you two dumbasses together.”

“Hey! Who’re you calling a dumbass?”

“‘Of course I like him, Wade, it’s just not like that, you know?’” Wade mocks, purposefully launching a poor imitation of your face. You feel your face burn, embarrassed enough to put a hand over your face when you recognize your own words once upon a lunch. 

“Please don’t.”

“Fine. At least tell me you’ve seen him shirtless.”

You swallow. Then tersely nod once. He lets out an overly dramatic sigh, flopping his arms like a deflating tube man.

“FINALLY. Did it change your life?”

“Yes.”

The two of you share a smile—yours shy, his a little scandalous. There’s silence. You catch his gaze soften.

“You’re good for each other, honeybee. You know that, right?”

Yes. Yes, you do. You feel it in your bones. That kind of certainty isn’t something you feel very often in life. But it’s there, every day you wake up next to him, every night you sleep next to him. How he lifts the constant weight of needing to justify your existence. How he reassures you that you’re free to be without needing to prove why you’re worth it.

He makes you believe in another kind of liberty. A new kind of independence. 

You look over to where he’s sitting with Laura and find that he’s already looking this way. 

“And you’re a great friend, Wade. You know that, right?”

“The best there is, boo.”

You left the park at sunset, parting ways with Laura first. Wade and Vanessa continue to walk with you—it’s a couple more blocks before they need to turn into a different street. 

Logan and Wade are several steps behind you and Vanessa, silently tuning in and out of a conversation about how middle management is just glorified babysitting. The pink sunset blanketing the city gives way to a wistfulness that’s hard to put a finger on, the kind that looks out the window and whispers ‘there goes another day’. 

“Oh.” 

Wade blinks, turning to Logan.

The older man digs his hand into his pocket before tossing something in the air. Wade catches it in both his palms.

“For you,” Logan murmurs.

Lightweight aluminum. Red.

Wade stops in his tracks, fingers tracing the embossed letters on the surface of the chip. The street lights help him read the words. 

To thine own self be true.

1 month.

Eyes meet—Logan’s already looking back at him. The message in that gaze is loud and clear.

Thank you.

“Wade told me something,” you say quietly.

Draped on Logan’s naked chest, you’re just as bare, thumb mindlessly caressing his midriff. He strokes your hair gently as if mirroring your gesture.

Something in your voice says your mutual friend already knows. Not a single adamantium bone in him finds that surprising. In fact, a part of him is glad—he no longer has to hold his hands back whenever they feel like touching your waist.

“Mm?”

“You saw me. In a different timeline.”

He blinks, then nods, surprised at how long ago that night feels. The memory is buried, but if it’s quiet enough, he can still recall everything: the look on your face, the twinkle in your voice as you laugh while walking down that brick pavement, your lover in hand. 

He watches as your eyes continue to stare into his, dreamlike. 

Are you thinking about it? The possibility of happiness with someone else, someone out there in the vast threads of alternate realities who’s more deserving of you?

He’s changed, he realizes, because the thoughts don’t bite him like they used to. Debilitating self-doubt diminished into mere curious musings, thanks to time and your constant streams of affection.   

Then you smile and—oh, that look on your face turns out to be for him. You don’t even ask about it: who you’re with, if you’re happy, questions that come with the multiverse.

You kiss the space right above his heart.

“I’m glad I’m here. With you,” you whisper, all soft and sweet, and his heart cracks all over again. 

You keep getting away with making him ache. He’s not complaining.  

He moves you closer to him before kissing you slow, nose brushing yours. Your hands find his shoulders.

That’s when he feels it. Hears a ghost of it, the three words, mouthed against his lips.

I love you.

Funny how things work. How one day a man in a red leather bodysuit dragged him out of a dive bar and into a chance at redemption within a world that’s not his. How he ended up with the most miraculous stroke of serendipity on his lap that led him to mixing his laundry with yours. To distracted movie nights and domestic dinners. To holding you in his arms like he finally gets to keep something he fought tooth and nail for. 

Funny how you thought he was sick of you, when he’d be happy to only think of you forever.

You part from the kiss first and he sees you look at him, expectant gaze wavering a little. He curls his lips into a smile—he made you wait. You’ve gotten better at making your wants clear, even if it’s left unsaid.

As if to reward you, he kisses your forehead, then leans down, nose brushing yours. He whispers against your skin.

“I love you too, sweetheart.” 

And then you exhale like your world is alright again.

Logan hears you first before he sees you enter the apartment. You’re sighing, looking a little haggard compared to when you left for work in the morning.

He makes his way to the door, but before he can help you with your bag, you’re already walking towards him, a smile on your face. Like you’re ready to breathe him in deep.

“I’m home,” you greet, voice light. He hooks your bag onto his elbow before holding your waist in both hands, pulling your body closer to his and slanting his face as he leans down. 

You melt into the kiss.

“Yes, you are,” he hums, a breath apart, before pressing his lips onto yours again.

His home, that is.

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