#and admits to knowing his affection for her

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Pairing: Mafia Ateez OT8x Reader

Warnings: smut, fluff, angst, poly ateez, violence and weapons, mafia ateez, organized crime, parental death and grieving process, bullying, possessive and controlling behavior,

Summary: When Y/n Ricci is forced to marry Kim Hongjoong—leader of the notorious ATEEZ organization and one of eight men who cruelly abandoned her seven years ago—she finds herself trapped in their heavily guarded compound with the ghosts of her past. As she navigates the dangerous world of mafia politics and her own wounded heart, Y/n discovers that all eight powerful, irresistible men still harbor deep feelings for her, suggesting an unconventional solution to their shared dilemma. But before she can consider forgiving them, let alone loving them again, she must uncover the dark secret that tore them apart—a truth that could either heal their fractured bonds or destroy them all completely.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

18+ only- No Minors

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Chapter 4: Memory and Unexpected Comfort

You sit curled on the window seat of your temporary prison, knees drawn to your chest as you stare out at the garden below. The evening light casts long shadows across the perfectly manicured grounds, but your attention is fixed on a particular tree—a massive oak with sprawling branches that looks achingly familiar.

Too familiar.

The memory hits you like a physical blow, transporting you back fifteen years to another garden, another oak tree, and the moment everything began.

Fifteen years ago...

"Yes, Mama," you had called back, though your attention was already wandering to a butterfly fluttering near the roses.

Your mother and Mrs. Kim were good friends—weekly lunch companions who shared gossip and genuine affection in equal measure. After months of begging, she had finally brought you along to one of their gatherings.

The Kim estate garden had been your wonderland that day, sprawling and mysterious with its winding paths and hidden alcoves. You had been content to explore alone, admiring the flowers and chasing butterflies, when a shadow fell across the bench where you'd settled.

Looking up, you found a boy standing before you—slightly taller than your eight-year-old frame, with serious dark eyes and hair that fell across his forehead. He regarded you with a mixture of curiosity and wariness, as if you were some exotic creature he wasn't quite sure how to approach.

"You're Y/n Ricci," he said, not a question but a statement delivered with the confidence of someone accustomed to being right.

You nodded, sitting up straighter under his scrutiny. "And you're Hongjoong Kim."

He seemed pleased that you knew his name, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "My mother says we're supposed to be friends."

The bluntness of his statement made you consider the proposition seriously. "Do you want to be friends?"

Your directness seemed to catch him off guard. He tilted his head, studying you with those intense eyes. "I don't know. I don't have many friends who are girls."

"I don't have many friends at all," you admitted with the brutal honesty only children possessed. Your half-brother Marco, fifteen and perpetually busy with teenage concerns, was your only consistent companion, and even he often had better things to do than entertain his little sister.

Something in your admission softened Hongjoong's expression, melting the careful reserve he wore like armor. "Do you want to see something cool?" he asked, extending his hand toward you with newfound determination.

You glanced back at your mother, who was deep in animated conversation with Mrs. Kim, before slipping your small hand into Hongjoong's. His fingers closed around yours with gentle possession. "Okay."

He led you away from the main garden, following stone paths that wound deeper into the estate grounds. "We have to be quiet," he whispered conspiratorially, his voice thrilling with shared secrecy. "It's a secret place."

The path curved around a tall hedge, revealing a hidden alcove dominated by the same massive oak tree you now stared at through your bedroom window. Beneath its sprawling canopy sat a wooden platform—not quite a treehouse, but a deliberate structure built for childhood adventures.

"My father had it built for me," Hongjoong had explained, helping you up onto the platform with careful hands. "I come here when I want to be alone."

You had looked around with wide, wonder-filled eyes, taking in the cushions scattered across the wooden surface, the small trunk tucked in one corner, the string of lights wound through the branches above like captured stars.

"It's like a castle," you breathed, genuine awe coloring your voice.

Hongjoong's answering smile transformed his serious face into something bright and open, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. "It can be whatever we want it to be," he said, settling cross-legged on a cushion. "Today it's a pirate ship."

"A pirate ship?" you repeated, delighted by the possibility.

He nodded with solemn authority. "I'm the captain, of course."

"What am I?" you asked, dropping onto a cushion across from him, already caught up in the magic of pretend.

Hongjoong considered this with the gravity of someone making a crucial decision. "You can be... first mate."

You frowned slightly, your eight-year-old sense of equality bristling. "Why can't I be captain too?"

"A ship can't have two captains," he explained patiently, as if this were an immutable law of nature. "But the first mate is important. They're the captain's most trusted person."

The prospect of being Hongjoong Kim's "most trusted person" had filled you with warmth, a glow that started in your chest and spread outward like ripples in a pond. You nodded, accepting your role with newfound pride. "Okay. What are we doing, Captain?"

His grin was pure boyish delight as he reached for the trunk. "We're hunting for treasure, of course."

That afternoon had stretched like golden honey, filled with elaborate games of pretend that transformed the platform from pirate ship to desert island to underwater kingdom at Hongjoong's creative direction. You discovered that the serious boy you'd first met possessed a vivid imagination and an infectious enthusiasm for make-believe, delighting in your willingness to follow his lead into whatever adventure he devised.

By the third Wednesday, you and Hongjoong had settled into a comfortable routine. Your mothers would lunch on the veranda while you disappeared into the garden with him, only returning when called for dessert or farewells. Those moments became the highlight of your week, a pocket of pure joy in a life often overshadowed by the weight of your family name.

It was on one such Wednesday that Hongjoong seemed distracted, glancing repeatedly toward the front of the house as you played.

"What's wrong?" you finally asked, setting down the toy boat he'd brought for your latest ocean exploration.

"Nothing," he said quickly. Too quickly.

You crossed your arms, giving him your best stern look—a miniature version of the expression you'd seen your father use when he suspected deception.

Hongjoong sighed, defeated by your persistence. "Fine. Some of my friends are coming over. My mother invited them."

"Oh," you said, disappointment pricking at your chest. You'd grown accustomed to having Hongjoong all to yourself during these precious Wednesday visits. "Should I go back to my mother?"

"No!" The vehemence of his response surprised you both. He looked embarrassed by his own intensity. "I mean, you don't have to. They're just coming to play too."

"Are they nice?" you asked, sudden nervousness fluttering in your stomach. Group dynamics were foreign territory for a sheltered eight-year-old.

Hongjoong considered this with his characteristic seriousness. "Mostly. Wooyoung talks a lot, and Jongho can be grumpy because he's the youngest. But they're my friends."

Before you could voice more questions, the sound of approaching voices reached you—several boys by the sound of it, their chatter growing louder as they navigated the garden paths.

"They're here," Hongjoong announced, a mixture of excitement and something like reluctance coloring his tone. He stood, motioning for you to follow. "Come on, I'll introduce you."

Your first glimpse of the group that would reshape your entire life came as you rounded the hedge—six boys of varying heights and expressions, all regarding you with undisguised curiosity. They stood in a loose semicircle, a collection of young faces that would become as familiar to you as your own reflection.

"Guys, this is Y/n Ricci," Hongjoong said, unmistakable pride threading through his voice as he made the introduction. "Y/n, these are my friends."

The memories flood back in vivid detail—Seonghwa's elegant bow, Yunho's bright declaration that you were prettier than Hongjoong had let on, Yeosang's quiet nod, San's mischievous smile, Mingi's gentle wave, Jongho's serious questions about your family, and finally Wooyoung's dramatic entrance that left you dizzy and giggling despite yourself.

Seven boys who had accepted you into their circle with the easy generosity of childhood. Seven boys who had become your entire world.

Seven boys who had ripped that world apart without explanation.

* * *

A sharp knock at your door jolts you from the painful reverie, anger flaring immediately at the interruption.

"Hongjoong, I swear to God, if this is you I'll stab—" You jerk the door open, words dying in your throat as you find Yeosang standing in the hallway instead of your so-called fiancé.

Of all of them, he's the last one you expected. Yeosang, the quiet observer, the one who spoke least but somehow always saw the most. He stands in your doorway with that same thoughtful expression you remember from childhood, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.

"May I come in?" he asks quietly, his voice carrying none of the desperate energy that had characterized Wooyoung's earlier attempt at connection, none of the possessive intensity that radiated from Hongjoong.

You step aside wordlessly, too surprised to maintain your defensive stance. He enters your room with careful steps, taking in the space without judgment—the hastily unpacked suitcase, the formal clothing draped over chairs, the way you've deliberately left everything looking temporary and unwelcoming.

His gaze settles on the window seat where you'd been sitting, noting the indentation in the cushions, the way the curtains are pulled back to frame the view of the garden.

"You were looking at the oak tree," he observes, not a question but a gentle statement.

Your throat constricts unexpectedly. Of course Yeosang would notice. Of course he would understand the significance without needing explanation.

"It looks the same," you say finally, your voice rougher than intended. "Exactly the same."

"Some things don't change," he agrees, moving to stand beside the window but not intruding on your obvious sanctuary. "Even when everything else does."

The comment hangs between you, weighted with meaning. You wait for him to elaborate, to launch into explanations or justifications like you expect the others might. Instead, he simply stands there, a quiet presence that somehow doesn't feel threatening.

Minutes pass in silence. Yeosang has always been comfortable with quiet spaces, never feeling the need to fill them with unnecessary words. It's one of the things you'd loved about him as a child—the way he could sit beside you in companionable silence while you read or drew, offering his presence without demanding anything in return.

"I'm not going to tell you why," he says eventually, his voice barely above a whisper. "You wouldn't believe me if I did. And honestly, our reasons don't matter anymore. What matters is that we hurt you. Deeply. And we knew we were doing it."

The admission hits you like a physical blow. No justifications, no excuses—just acknowledgment of the pain they'd deliberately inflicted. It's both what you've needed to hear and the last thing you expected from any of them.

"You all made your choice," you say flatly, though your voice wavers slightly. "Whatever your reasons were, you chose to make me believe I meant nothing to you."

"Yes," he agrees simply. "We did."

The honest acceptance of culpability is so unexpected that you find yourself sinking onto the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted by your own anger. You'd been prepared for denials, for attempts to minimize what they'd done, for the kind of gaslighting that would let them feel better about their actions.

You hadn't been prepared for acknowledgment.

"I used to wonder," you whisper, the words torn from somewhere deep inside, "what I'd done wrong. I replayed every conversation, every moment, trying to figure out where I'd failed you all."

Yeosang's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "You did nothing wrong."

"Then why—"

"Because we were cowards," he interrupts, the harsh assessment delivered in his characteristically matter-of-fact tone. "Because we made a choice that we thought was right, and we were too proud and too scared to find another way."

You look up at him, searching his face for signs of deception, for the careful manipulation you've learned to expect from men in your world. Instead, you find only quiet regret and a weariness that seems to age him beyond his years.

"Seven years," you say, the number falling between you like a stone into still water. "Seven years of silence."

"Seven years of regret," he counters. "Seven years of knowing we'd broken something precious and being too afraid to try to fix it."

"And now you think you can?" The question comes out sharper than intended, edged with the bitter laughter that's become your default defense. "You think marriage will magically erase what you did?"

"No," Yeosang says with devastating honesty. "I think we're all going to live with the consequences of our choices for the rest of our lives. You, us, our families—everyone."

The brutal assessment should hurt, but instead it's almost a relief. No false promises, no romantic declarations about second chances. Just the harsh reality that some damage can't be undone.

"Then why are you here?" you ask, genuine curiosity coloring your tone. "What's the point of this conversation if nothing can be fixed?"

Yeosang is quiet for a long moment, his gaze returning to the window and the oak tree beyond. "Because you're in pain," he says finally. "And pretending you're not won't help any of us survive the next three months."

Something cracks in your chest at the simple acknowledgment. When was the last time someone had seen your pain without trying to minimize it, excuse it, or make it about themselves?

"I don't know how to forgive you," you admit, the words pulled from the deepest part of your heart. "Any of you. I don't even know if I want to."

"You don't have to," Yeosang replies. "Forgiveness isn't something you owe us. It's something you do for yourself, if and when you're ready."

He moves toward the door, his visit apparently concluded, but pauses with his hand on the handle.

"There's something else you should know," he says without turning around. "Mingi and Wooyoung—they don't show it the way the others do, but they were affected the worst by leaving you."

You frown, confusion replacing the fragile peace his presence had created. "What do you mean?"

"Mingi barely spoke for months afterward. He used to sit in that oak tree for hours, just staring at nothing. And Wooyoung..." Yeosang's voice softens with something that might be pain. "Wooyoung stopped laughing. He just... stopped being himself for a long time."

The information sits heavily in your chest, creating an unwelcome ache. You don't want to care about their pain—don't want to feel anything but anger toward all of them.

"Why are you telling me this?" you ask.

Yeosang finally turns to face you, his expression holding a gravity that reminds you of the serious boy he'd been. "Because I know you want vengeance. I can see it in your eyes, the way you're planning to make us all pay for what we did." His gaze meets yours directly. "Take it out on the rest of us if you need to. Just... not those two. They've suffered enough."

Before you can respond, he's gone, leaving you alone with the weight of his words and the uncomfortable realization that your carefully constructed hatred might be more complicated than you'd allowed yourself to believe.

You return to the window seat, but the view of the oak tree no longer brings only painful memories. Now it carries the image of a heartbroken Mingi sitting among its branches, and the knowledge that Wooyoung's infectious laughter had died the same day your friendship did.

For the first time since arriving at the compound, you feel something other than anger.

You feel the dangerous, unwelcome stirring of empathy.

And that, perhaps, is the most frightening thing of all.

* * *

You dress with meticulous care the next morning, selecting a crisp white blouse and tailored black slacks that speak of wealth and breeding. Every hair is in place, your makeup flawless, your jewelry understated but expensive. If they want to play games, you'll show them exactly what kind of opponent they're dealing with.

The kitchen is bathed in morning sunlight when you enter, and you're surprised to find only Yeosang sitting at the marble island, fully dressed despite the early hour. He looks up as you approach, and without a word, slides a steaming mug across the counter toward you.

You freeze, staring at the offering. The aroma that rises from the cup is unmistakably your preferred blend—dark roast with a hint of vanilla, two sugars, a splash of cream. Exactly how you take your coffee.

But that's impossible.

"I didn't start drinking coffee until..." you begin, then trail off, the implication hitting you like a physical blow.

"I missed your voice," Yeosang says quietly, his eyes never leaving your face.

The simple statement carries the weight of seven years of silence, of carefully gathered intelligence, of someone who cared enough to learn your habits from a distance. Your hand trembles slightly as you reach for the mug, the warmth seeping through the ceramic a stark contrast to the chill running down your spine.

Before you can process the full implications of his knowledge, the kitchen door swings open and Wooyoung stumbles in, his usually immaculate appearance disheveled and wrong. His hair sticks up at odd angles, his shirt is wrinkled, and there are dark circles under his eyes that speak of a sleepless night.

"Morning, sunshine!" he tries for his usual bright tone, but it falls flat, hollow. His smile is too wide, too forced, and doesn't reach his eyes. "Beautiful day, isn't it? I was thinking maybe we could—"

"Wooyoung," you interrupt softly.

He stops mid-ramble, blinking at you with something like surprise. You've never been able to stand watching him lie, especially when he's so obviously terrible at it. Even as children, his face was an open book, every emotion written clearly across his features.

"You look like hell," you say bluntly.

His forced smile crumbles. For a moment, he looks so young, so lost, that your chest tightens with unwelcome sympathy. But then he's rebuilding his facade, piece by careful piece.

"I'm fine," he insists, moving to the coffee machine with jerky, too-bright movements. "Just stayed up late working on some... organizational stuff. You know how it is."

You don't respond, but you don't look away either. The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken truths.

The kitchen door opens again, admitting Yunho and Mingi. The contrast between them is stark—Yunho's eyes hold a desperate hope that makes your stomach clench, while Mingi looks like a man walking to his execution, resignation written in every line of his body.

"Good morning," Yunho says carefully, his voice carrying none of its usual easy warmth. He's watching you like you might bolt at any moment, or perhaps like he's afraid you might disappear if he blinks.

Mingi says nothing, but his gaze is so intense it feels like a physical touch. He looks at you the way a starving man might look at a feast—with longing so profound it's almost painful to witness.

The dynamic in the room shifts, tension ratcheting higher with each passing second. You sip your coffee, tasting the perfection of it, and try not to think about what it means that Yeosang knows exactly how you take it.

Then Hongjoong walks in.

If the others carry their emotions like open wounds, Hongjoong has locked his away behind a wall of icy composure. He's immaculately dressed in a charcoal suit, his hair perfectly styled, his expression giving away nothing. He moves through the kitchen like he owns it—which, you suppose, he does—completely ignoring the charged atmosphere.

It's as if last night never happened. As if you hadn't shattered his carefully constructed dinner party with your fury. As if he hadn't agreed to marry a woman who clearly despises him.

The casual dismissal of your pain, the arrogant assumption that he can simply pretend away your confrontation, sends fire racing through your veins.

Without so much as glancing in your direction, he pours himself a cup of coffee, his movements deliberate and controlled. "Are you done with your temper tantrum, little one?" he asks conversationally, stirring cream into his mug. "Or will we continue this childish behavior until the wedding?"

The words hit like a slap. Temper tantrum. Childish behavior. Little one. As if your seven years of pain, your justified anger, your very reasonable objection to being treated like property is nothing more than a petulant outburst.

Your anger flared white hot, vision narrowing until all you could see was his smug face. Without conscious thought, your hand found the knife lying on the cutting board beside you. In one fluid motion honed from years of your brother’s insistence that a Ricci should always know how to defend themselves—you sent it flying across the kitchen.

The blade embedded itself in the cabinet beside Hongjoong’s head with a solid *thunk*, quivering from the impact.

Hongjoong didn’t even flinch. Doesn't even blink. He simply turns his head to look at the knife, then back at you, his expression shifting into something that might almost be... pride?

He glanced at the knife, then back at you, one eyebrow raised in what appeared to be mild interest. “I suppose that’s a no,” he said dryly, the corner of his mouth lifting in that half-smile that had once made your heart race and now made you want to throw something else at him.

A slow smirk spreads across his face, transforming his cold features into something dangerously attractive. "Better," he says approvingly, as if you've finally done something worthy of his attention. "But your aim needs work."

The casual dismissal of what should have been a terrifying moment, the way he's almost pleased that you tried to kill him, pushes you beyond rage into something colder and more dangerous.

"Y/n—" Yunho starts, his voice tight with alarm.

Wooyoung let out a nervous laugh. Yeosang sighed deeply, turning a page in his book with deliberate care. Mingi just looked pained, his eyes darting between you and Hongjoong as if watching a car crash in slow motion.

"It's not even eight AM," comes Seonghwa's weary voice from the doorway. He takes in the scene—the knife in the cabinet, your white-knuckled grip on the coffee mug, Hongjoong's satisfied smirk—and sighs like a man carrying the weight of the world. "Could we perhaps save the attempted murder for after breakfast?"

“They’ve been like this since we were twelve,” Yunho pointed out. “Remember when she put hair dye in his shampoo because he said her dress made her look like a cupcake?”

“Or when he hid all her shoes because she called his music taste ‘aggressively mediocre’?” Jongho added, the youngest being the last to join the gathering.

“Or the time they didn’t speak for three weeks because—” Wooyoung began, enthusiasm returning to his voice.

“Enough,” you snapped, slamming your mug down hard enough to slosh coffee onto the counter. “We are not taking a nostalgic stroll down memory lane. We are not friends reminiscing about good times. We are strangers who happen to be trapped in the same house due to circumstances beyond my control.”

The room fell silent, the brief moment of normalcy shattered by your words. You could see them all exchanging glances, some sort of silent communication passing between them that excluded you, another reminder that you’re an outsider now.

Every eye in the room is on you as you straighten, smoothing down your blouse with deliberate calm.

"Enjoy your coffee, gentlemen," you say with poisonous sweetness. "I seem to have lost my appetite."

You walk out with your head high, your steps measured and controlled. But inside, you're screaming.

* * *

You barely leave your room for the next four days.

The isolation isn't complete—you emerge for meals when you're certain the main areas are empty, moving through the house like a ghost. You raid the library for books, creating a small fortress of literature around your bed. Classic novels, poetry, even some of the more academic texts on political theory that line the shelves.

Anything to keep your mind occupied.

Your phone becomes your lifeline to the outside world. Marco calls twice daily, his voice a steady anchor in the chaos of your emotions. You don't tell him about the knife incident, but somehow he seems to sense your escalating desperation.

"How are you holding up, sorellina?" he asks during your afternoon call on day three.

"I threw a knife at Hongjoong's head," you admit, staring at the ceiling from your bed.

A pause. Then: "Did you hit him?"

"Unfortunately, no."

Marco's laughter is warm and understanding. "Next time, aim lower. Harder to duck."

"Noted," you say dryly.

"But seriously, Y/n. Don't let them drive you to actual violence. Prison orange is not your color."

Your other constant contact is Chris—Christopher Bang, heir to another allied family and one of the few people in your world who understands the particular hell of family obligations. His messages are a mixture of sympathy and dark humor that keeps you grounded.

Chris: Heard you moved into the ATEEZ fortress. How’s life treating you?

You: Could be better. Tried to impale hongjoong with a kitchen knife this morning

Chris: Success rate?

You: Disappointingly zero. 

Chris: practice makes perfect. It’s gonna be weird not seeing you around after the wedding. those monthly dinners at Santeros wont be the same

You: What do you mean? We’re not moving to Siberia. It’s just a business arrangement, we can still meet up

The response takes longer than usual to come through.

Chris: Y/n… word came down from the Kim family yesterday. You're officially off limits to all unmarried men in the alliance. No contact, no meetings, nothing.

Your phone slips from your suddenly numb fingers, clattering to the floor as rage unlike anything you’ve ever felt crashes over you in waves. The book falls forgotten as you surge to your feet, your vision going red around the edges.

“KIM HONGJOONG!”

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[ruruumin]

true rivals

₊˚ ☘︎ huntr/x! mira x fem! reader.

⤷ inspired by extraL by jennie

as the saja boys made themselves comfortable in their shared table with huntrix, mira’s glare was unwavering. resisting the urge to pull herself from this misery, she sucks up her frustrations and smiles wide for the audience. while the two men beside her chatter with superficial comments about her hair and face, a third voice breaks through the noise.

“didn’t know you were something to be shared, mira.” you say, tilting your cap upwards to expose part of your face. mira’s expression changes from annoyance to shock when she recognizes your smirk beneath the black mask. “i thought we had something special.” 

standing in front of her was a very, very special guest. mira’s lips press tightly against each other, gaze hardening on your figure. had you debuted with huntrix, the world would have united in glorified cheers. instead, you parted from them during your trainee days, choosing to go solo with your agent. 

mira didn’t believe it at first until she saw you walk out of the conference room. the expression on your face was dark and your agent trailed behind you like a puppy. the ceo was hot on your feet, begging for you to reconsider your choice and join the rest of the girls. you had a lot of potential, he kept saying. losing you would mean the entire program might sink under. regardless of his words, you left to create your own small company, one where you could have absolute reign over your debut.

the pink-haired idol thought that when you left, you took her heart with her. all those gentle gestures of affection, sharing water bottles and practicing difficult choreography late at night— she spent years shaking them off. when she closes her eyes, she still imagines your hot breath brushing up against the nape of her neck. she can feel the seething heat from beneath your finger tips as you guide her hips to the beat of the song. 

back in the present, mira closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. to some extent, she hoped you could have joined her in this new group. you would have been good friends with both zoey and rumi. and maybe there could have been more between the two of you. the spark she saw in you was still there. but she has to admit, you looked better alone. at the very top of the music scene, you shined brighter when you were by yourself. being held down by other people wasn’t your cup of tea. 

you wanted all the lines, the hardest dance moves, full control over the field. mira admired that most in you. this feeling of perfect authority that you wield. as long as you put your mind to it, you could do absolutely anything. you’ve done numerous collaborations that garnered both western and eastern attention. your stage presence was absolutely breathtaking when she got the chance to see you.

yet despite being at the height of your career, you’ve never once stopped teasing her. even now, you snuck through heaps of people to be in front of her. acting like one of her other fans, you gesture back to the poster.

her fingers are nervous and the palms of her hand was starting to grow clammy. a bead of sweat threatened to break through her foundation. underneath the gaze of the saja boys was tense, however, it was nothing compared to your sharp, almost calculating stare. 

“haha. very funny,” mira replies, picking up one of her posters, “who am i making this out to then?”

you slowly tilt your head to the side. humming a familiar tune she recognizes as your latest release, mira’s body starts to shiver. “how about… your number one rival?” 

she chuckles, signing the poster. subtly drawing a heart beside your name, she playfully rolls her eyes, “you got some real nerve showing up around here.” 

mira doesn’t waste a second giving you the poster, the excitement in her veins being almost as palpable as her many fans here. the two saja boys sitting beside her don’t bother signing the poster. instead, they sit back in their seats, exchanging looks to each other. the tension as so thick, you couldn’t cut it even with the sharpest of knives.

“i couldn’t help it. i wanted to see my favorite girl.” 

this mouthy response has mira at the edge of her seat, ears burning a brighter shade of pink than her hair.

“h-huh? what are you—?”

at this moment, the rest of the table is staring at her interaction with you. bobby is inching over with curious eyes. this level of attention has mira gripping onto the pen with a force strong enough to break the heavens. instead of entertaining the others at the table, both saja and huntrix, you think its a good time to leave.

“i better get going then. it was nice seeing you again, mira.” without wasting a breath, you straighten your back and start your departure. pulling your cap down to conceal your face, you weave through the crowd without looking back. 

she doesn’t need to hear it from you. she’s sure that when you left, you promised to see her next show.

[jungkoode]

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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[emeraldserenade]

thunderbolts reaction to reader getting a cat?

Getting a Cat ~ Thunderbolts* plus Joaquín Torres

synopsis: How they react to you getting a cat

tw: fem!reader, established relationship for everyone, cat's name is Elsie, it gets suggestive with Joaquín (breeding kink goes crazy with him), barely edited.

I've never done something like this but I have it separated by character. I know I said I wasn't writing for John Walker yet, so I guess take this as me trying my hand before I dive head first into him. I also added Joaquín as a bonus because I love him!!

➽──────────────❥

Bucky Barnes:

Bucky had Alpine so his first thought was to make sure the two got along. As soon as he realized they did, your little baby was just as spoiled as Alpine. You laughed constantly as Bucky got baited into giving both the cats more treats, even if they were just fed.

"I swear, they don't care about us," Bucky grumbled one night when he saw he was being blocked from cuddling into you by both cats, again.

"Awe, you poor baby," you joked, reaching out to stroke his cheek. The actions stirred the cats before both jumped down to curl up by the window. "See now you can come cuddle," you opened your arms and Bucky made himself at home. His head falling on your chest as he wrapped his arms around your middle, you were his grounding presence. The only one he never felt he had to be completely strong around, he could be just him.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Yelena Belova:

Yelena would be so excited and automatically try and make Elsie and Fanny friends. You watched as she tried her hardest only for Elsie to run every time Fanny got too close.

"Just give it time, love," you cooed at Yelena's crestfallen face. "The shelter said Elsie's skittish," you reminded her and she nodded.

"I just want them to love each other," she told you and you smiled at her.

"And they will, just not yet," you said as went back to reading your book.

The second you saw Elsie and Fanny were curled up and napping together, you took a picture and sent it to Yelena with the caption "See, I told you."

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Bob Reynolds:

Bob would be terrified at hurting your cat, he would be scared that he would forget his strength and accidentally pet her too hard.

"Here, give me your hand," you told him, holding your dominate one out. Bob placed his hand in yours gently and you moved it over to your cat curled up next to you. With gentle movements, you guided Bob's hand over the cat a few times before letting go.

You watched with a small smile as Bob kept petting her, occasionally scratching her head. "She's soft," Bob mumbled and you hummed.

"Yeah, she is. And see, you aren't hurting her. Trust me, cats will make it known if they dislike something," you told him, relaxing back against the bed as your attention turned back to the TV.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Ava Starr:

Ava would act all uninterested in Elsie but you caught her holding Elsie tenderly one time after a harder mission. You said nothing but you did sit next to her and pet Elsie. Offering silent comfort and to let Ava know you were ready to talk when she was.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Alexi Shostakov:

He would be all loud and happy about you bringing in a cat. Constantly taking any affection that Elsie gave him as a sign that he was her favorite. You would roll your eyes and let him have it, after all, there was no way you would argue about it. Elsie did seem to like Alexi the most.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

John Walker:

John is a dog person and is completely uninterested in Elsie. But then he turns into one of those 'dads with the pet they didn't want' and Elsie is spoiled. Any joke you made about it was met with a huff but it only made you laugh harder.

"You love her, admit it!" You called from your spot on the couch.

"I do not, I just tolerate her more than normal cats," John huffed.

"You're literally cutting up a salmon filet for her!"

"She needs the fatty acids and proteins."

"Yeah, ok, you health freak," you pretend to not notice his offended look.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Joaquín Torres:

Joaquín is a dog person but loves you more, so the second you get excited over bringing Elsie home, he's already changing his pet preference. Your shared house is full of top tier cat toys, perches, and beds. Only for Elsie to like sleeping on either of you and messes with your hair ties.

"This is why I like dogs, at least they play with the things you buy them," Joaquín grumbled but planted a small kiss to Elsie's head anyway.

"She just loves us more than what we give her, the perfect kid," you joked without looking up from your book.

"Perfect kid, huh?" You missed the insinuation in his tone so you hummed. "Let's go make one," Joaquín said, pulling your book out of your hands before marking the page and pulling you into his chest.

"Joaquín Torres!" You laughed but let him pull you into the bedroom anyway.

➽──────────────❥

Masterlist | Requests If you want to be added to the tag list, follow the directions on my masterlist

[girllblogging777]

IN WHICH spencer realises how much you crave physical affection, and is glad to offer it to you

the plot of the movie unravelling on the television screen seemed to be pretty interesting. after all, romcoms were your thing, and you were the one who’d recommended it - no, insisted on watching it tonight.

however, there seemed to be something much more interesting going on right next to you on the couch. and that striking sight happened to have a name. a very pretty one, even.

spencer reid.

oh, and he happened to be your boyfriend, too.

so obviously, as great as the cinematography of that silly romance might’ve been, you couldn’t help but study his profile instead. leaning back against the cushions, spencer’s brows were furrowed in a micro expression that you knew too well. the one he had when he was working a case, or trying to plan his chess moves in advance.

because his eyes were glued to the screen, you took your sweet time to absorb every detail. after all, this was only the beginning of your relationship. that thought alone warmed up your heart, and made you want to catch up on all the moments where you’d wished you could look at him like that.

like you had the right to observe him.

like he was your own piece of art.

like he was yours.

“you’re staring,” he stated, more amused than anything and still not looking away from the movie.

you just huffed, and shrugged “so ? you’re the one who’s staring at the tv like you’re in a relationship with it”

“i thought you wanted me to watch the movie ! didn’t you say it was your favourite ?” oh, he was sweet. the sweetest. so sweet that he was actually willing to watch your favorite romcom, after listening to you rant about it for hours on your first date even though he despised that genre.

“okay, you have a point.” you admitted, nudging him. “but you’re much more interesting… or you would be if you cared, that is”

that caused him to turn around immediately, his beautiful lips frowning in a way that could make you melt within seconds. “hey, of course i care-“ he justified, his hand cupping your cheek, “i just thought… you’d want me to actually watch it and question me about it at the end or something”

that made you giggle, because where did he even get this idea ? “question you about the movie ? spence, just because it’s my favourite doesn’t mean you gotta force yourself to enjoy it.”

“oh, okay… cause i’d much rather stare at you too”

“ i was not staring !” you exclaimed, your hand finding your heart in a dramatic way that he loved so much about you.

spencer just smiled, his thumb now tracing your cheekbone. “liar…”

you weren’t sure what it was exactly. maybe the feel of his hand on you, the heat that emanated from his body, or his sweet puppy eyes boring into yours. either way, you felt like you were in heaven.

“you always do this, did you know that ?”

his voice made you look up. “huh ? do what ?”

“this,” spencer explained, pulling you closer with a hand on your smaller back. “when i touch you, you close your eyes and you kinda… lose all connection with earth or something”

he really did have an eye for noticing things about you.

“i just really like you touching me, i guess… not in a weird way-” you corrected, not wanting him to think that’s what it was about. but he nodded, encouraging you to keep going because he always understood.

“what i mean is, i never really liked being vulnerable like that. and i guess it’s kinda catching up now that i have you…”

you expected him to give you a weird look, or maybe joke about it, because that’s what everyone would’ve done in response to such a vulnerable declaration. instead, he leaned in to press the softest of kisses on your forehead.

“i’m not used to it either.” he said, pulling back and pausing for a moment. “my mom… she was the only one to ever hug me, but there were moments where i could barely approach her. because of her condition.”

you could tell this was complicated to admit, you saw how he bit his lips in between sentences. but he wanted you to know, he really did.

“so i guess that’s why i never really engage physical contact,” he explained. “you never know how the other person might react. and i don’t like unpredictability. it’s not my thing”

you chuckled, the sound vibrating against the palm of his hand and making him smile softly. “no shit, sherlock. i caught that.”

his eyes rolled at your remark, but he didn’t push you away. instead, he pulled you closer.

“you know, hugging releases oxytocin. it’s most commonly known as “the hormone of love” and has a lot of benefits.” he explained as you burrowed your face into his chest, his long arms wrapping around you and securing you into his embrace.

you could only hum in response and he took that as a sign to keep going, knowing you probably wouldn’t mind is usual rambles.

“basically, it has a lot of benefits. studies show that it’s important for couples to cuddle approximately ten minutes a day. but a hug is good too, and the average length would be about a dozen seconds.”

his words faltered when you wrapped your arms around his neck and shifted your entire weight against him. you were practically straddling him at this point, and he didn’t seem to mind at all.

“spence, what’s your point” you mumbled against his shirt, now definitely rumpled from the cuddling.

“my point-,” he replied, taking a deep breath and trying to suppress his urge to trap you against the couch and never let you go, “is that you and i are definitely behind, statistically wise. and i’d like for us both to catch up.”

“so, you’re just saying we have a lot of cuddling to do and you don’t mind me being clingy ?”

“…yes”

you smiled, although he couldn’t see it. “i’m so glad you don’t care about watching the damn movie anymore,”

spencer laughed, throwing his head back and trying to press you impossibly closer to him, as if you two weren’t already practically merging right now.

“darling, the movie was bad. i could pinpoint about twenty inconsistencies and plot errors within the first sequence” he told you as nicely as he could, but you shut him up by tilting your head and pulling him into a kiss.

“one more critic,” you warned against his mouth, lips grazing against his in a way that made him lose his mind, “and i’m never cuddling with you again.”

you bet he stopped talking.

[fungusrice]

You are a rare one because most Scream fans ship Billy and Stu together but I don't for many reasons. Most Stuilly stans refuse to acknowledge that Stu literally admitted to having a thing for Sidney at the end of the movie and he did it while Billy was unconscious laying on the ground....Stu betrayed Billy too by doing that.

Do you write fanfiction? If so can you write a Stu/Sidney story? Stu/Sidney have a lot of potential especially now that Matthew Lillard is coming back to Scream....

I'll eventually get attacks (and threatening phone calls) for yapping about these, but I couldn't care less. I always have a space in my fridge for more.🔪🫦💅

Hopeless shippers often refuse to recognise a shit load of facts that has been poking the eyes of the viewers, if it doesn't serve their headcanons. It is often them who know so little about the characters actual emotional and mental state, personality, background etc.

Some quick✨facts ✨about Stu:

Stu loved fucking girls

Stu obsessed over female bodies

Stu admired and looked up to Billy, because he was confident, determined, powerful, intelligent; something Stu admired and TRIED to be. He needed a "guiding" figure, that he didn't have in a form of parents nor as a possessed trait in himself

To add more to this "what he tried to become"; Stu tried to highlight his masculinity multiple times, not only when he was talking about how only a "man" could gut someone the way it happened (he tried to get some "compliments", "acknowledgement" from the friends, they wouldn't know he was the killer, but he would have taken it proudly behind closed doors), or when he lifted Tatum with ease, playing around with her weight as if it was nothing. You can also see how aggressive he turned verbally when Randy joked about how Stu couldn't be the killer, because it "takes a man to do something like that". He literally "lashed out", talking about how he'd gut him out in a second. Clearly took it personal, and he likely meant it.

Stu has been neglected by his parents, and it did influence him. Billy himself pointed at Stu, showing him up as an example of what parental neglegance does to people

It also means Billy observed Stu, analysed him with good accuracy and used this knowledge to manipulate him

Billy never shown affection towards Stu, never appeared to have anything reciprocal towards him especially after he revealed his real motive that he intentionally kept hidden from Stu, an another sign of lack of "emotions" from his end towards Stu or even trust

He continued stabbing Stu (who at that point didn't even want to give the blade back to him) until he ended up slowly bleeding out and even after that, he was violent, aggressive and threatening towards Stu

Stu admitted having a thing for Sidney, who is the fourth girl who he approached physically or hinted he would like to (if we ignore fanboying over tits)

Yes, Stu had an obsessive admiration towards Billy (though' he has been a very obsessive person in general), after all, he was a "figure" he craved to be, and who knew how fragile and broken he is. Billy knew Stu's insecurities, low self-esteem, concerns, loneliness, and craving for acceptance, validation, recognition (we know this from the movie and scripts). Billy served all of these, so Stu did everything to get more by obeyed him.

While there might be a chance he had "something" for Billy (if one could even call that scene a sign?), it was obvious that they had a very fragile "bond" which only lasted so long while Billy had a use of Stu, and when Stu realised how he was a mere pawn in the plan, someone who got played, manipulated as a disposable, things changed.

Roman himself taught Billy how he should have a second killer in his plans, who can be taken down instead of himself, when time comes. And just like that, Billy ended up continue stabbing Stu multiple times until Stu was begging him to stop. Billy wouldn't have cared less for Stu dying there. It literally was calculated. He did what Roman said; got a disposable pawn. Which was Stu.

Is this "love enough" for ya' all now? 🤷‍♀️

As for the "fanfiction" part of your question, @ladytiger, I mainly do longer "roleplays" over fanfiction writing, although I might get into it later on. I do find joy in writing fanfictions, but for me it is important to try and deliver characters as "relaistic", "canon-like" and down on earth as possible.

[friendlyneighborhoodcat]

Forsaken Yandere HC-3

Took a while for me to actually start on this because of homework, sorry for the delay:(

I still got 2 pounds of assignment I gotta finish but regardless, enjoy the food<3

This one is for the killers, Noob, and n7 btw. The other survivors are in my two other post

Coolkid will automatically be a platonic yandere, romantic Coolkid yandere writers DNI.

Jason will be the only non-yandere in all three parts. I HC him to be aroace and refuses to look past that.

Warning: Might be ooc

1x1x1x1: She's a narcissistic, sadistic, and pathetic wet cat. Will def target anyone BUT you. Always leave you for LMS (She still kills you, tho, she just likes the thrill of it). Would definitely be grumpy if u ended up winning the LMS and went back to the killer's cabin to stab the wall with her Daemonshank. She resents you, a lot, for being on her mind 24/7. She has long taught herself that affection is weakness(HC), so she doesn't know why it was much different when it comes to you. She's too prideful to admit shit, so if anything you'll just get absolutely mauled if you ever mentioned or teases her about it. It always feels wrong to kill you specifically, and she's fuming that it is.

John Doe: He's a gentleman when it comes to you, mainly because the feeling he has for you reminded him of the feelings he still has for ____. He'd give you small things like flowers he found in a round, or things he made by hand. He doesn't understand much of humans' emotions, but he still tries to for your sake. He always leaves you for LMS before coming up to you and trying to communicate. It always scares the living shit out of you, but you eventually let your guard down a little and share with him some things abt you. You're still wary of him, though, that's for sure. But he's always patient with you. He'll literally do whatever you tell him to, seriously. Tell him to go fight The Spectre, and he WILL actually try it. The Spectre ended up throwing him back to the Killers' cabin with a warning.

C00lkid: Strictly platonic yandere!! He loves you mainly because you're friendly and open around his dad. Would definitely target you first because you're 'his new fav tag buddy', it's only cuz n7's clone fools him every time and he got grumpy from that. You pity him, you really do, since he has to be forced to kill in order to survive as a child. So you're always forgiving and patient when it comes to something that he did. Even if it's server wiping and ripping you to pieces, you'd still forgive him. He thinks of you as a second parent because of that, so he'd always try to get you to 'marry' n7 so it can be official. He's not, in any way, possessive of you. He just gets upset when you show attention to anyone else who isn't his dad.

Jason: Yell at me all you want, but Jason is NOT a romantic yandere. Nor is he a platonic yandere. He's not the type to get jealous or protective over someone. He does think you're cool, tho. Doesn't stop him from hitting you with gashing wound. He only kinda likes you because his mother likes you, but even then, he still wouldn't hold back from server wiping. Overall, he doesn't give a fuck. Ki ki ma ma

Noob: He's tripping over his own feet running around trying to please you. Nervous as hell when it comes to interactions regarding you. You would have to be the one to start a convo with him, cuz he's too scared to even be in your vicinity. He does share his bloxy colas with you during rounds, only if you ask cuz he's fucking terrified of you. You find his nervousness endearing in a way, while he's just trembling when you're around. It's bc of him thinking that you're too cool and stuff to be hanging around him, and he thinks you're judging him for everything he does. He's pathetic, I know. Your patience does get him to warm up to you a little, but he's still somewhat closed off.

007n7: You're one of the few people who don't mind his past, hence why he likes you. He wouldn't show himself much during rounds, but he would leave bloxy colas and medkits near your area(referencing YFAT AU, peak AU btw yall should check it out). He'd apologize for Coolkid's behavior whenever his son tries to get you to 'marry' him. You both find it quite amusing, though. He loves it when you start convos with him regarding the CoolGUI, though he does get uncomfortable when he mentions his past. He'd sometimes get dirty looks from Elliot when he was around you, and he'd visibly flinch from that(Elliot heavily resents him for burning his workplace several times and fears something like that might happen to you).

-----

UEUEUUEUEUE

This is so painful to write, especially when I don't know most of their personalities *sobs*

I'd love to write additional characters like Noli, Azure, or Mafioso but this post would be too long and I'm too tired for that sighs.

I'm considering taking requests, but it's not decided yet since I have to see if I have the time

BYE SILLIES<3

[casscainmainly]

his hand on her head as they give her the routine treatment she lets out a “you remind me of him” she’s already passed out and he’s just silent

they’re so evil and disturbed and you’re right about how they are both a bit blind to how much cass actually “loves” cain

a bit blind is a stretch for bruce tbh he doesn’t even really have a clue while it’s something cass has struggled with at

MMHMMM YEAHHH the hand on her head thing is soooo wicked and evil because it's such a recurring thing (see THIS POST by @batboopp if you want to shred your heart to pieces). I do wonder how much Bruce knew about Cass' feelings? He was super in denial about her all the time, but the true tragedy of Bruce-Cass to me is that he did know how much she loves Cain.

Thinking about the myriad ways Bruce had of separating Cass from Cain, not for her sake entirely but also for his.

Batgirl (2000) #22 // #33

In both these issues, Bruce tries his hardest to keep Cass from her father, and I think part of that is because he knows that she does love him. "You feel responsible for him. Don't." <- Part of what makes this line so interesting is that Bruce is right, Cass shouldn't feel responsible for him, but he follows it up with "Do what I trained you to do." Bruce fears Cass' loyalty to David will interfere with her loyalty to him. And that loyalty has always been mixed up in their love for each other, so in a lot of ways Bruce is reacting against Cass' love for David, which he is aware of (even if he'll never admit it out loud).

In #33 too, the issue ends with Bruce proposing a new birthday for Cass (not the one David said) and giving her a gift and the title is revealed to be Father's Day. Like Bruce is clearly vying for Cass' affection, putting himself in opposition to David. He wouldn't do this unless he was afraid Cass loved David more than him.

And the thing he doesn't get is it's this possessive aspect that makes him like David. The more he tries to pit himself against David, the more his actions remind Cass of him. And this is so DELICIOUS ARIHEFUASH. It's why we have this astonishing moment from the end of #37, after Cass realises that David really was her bio dad:

C'MONNNN THIS MOMENT. This being like the second to last page Puckett wrote in BG 2000 drives me up the wall it's so good. The point of #37 is Cass realising that even though David was her dad, even though David did love her, it doesn't matter. He still hurt her. But we end with this Bruce-Cass moment, and Cass' angry expression and Bruce turning away in - sadness? Shame? Oh Damion Scott the artist you are. Inin the context of the issue it's basically saying that this lesson Cass learned with David is also one she learns with Bruce. It doesn't matter how much he loves her, he hurts her, too. And Bruce's expression is ripe for interpretation - does he also understand that? Is he sad about Cass' sadness, about David being her dad, or about what that means for the two of them?

Anyway YEAH I love your pitch so so so bad someone must write a fic about it. Bruce-David parallels foreverrr.

[sambargestuff]

In an interview with Star Wars.com, Diego talked about how Andor Cassian was a better character; different from Rogue One Cassian (I suppose it's nice that they're finally admitting that) because he falls in love with Bix and has a child (that he doesn't know about) so his sacrifice is greater. R1 Cassian was closed off, with only a snarky droid as his friend. Even though he earns Jyn's trust, he's just a one-off hero.

Sigh.

The tragedy of Rogue One is that Jyn (You remember her, right? The protagonist.) is alone in the universe. She's had everything taken away from her by the Empire AND the Rebellion. And yet she persists and does what's right for the good of all. She does what she has to do to give the Rebellion the chance it needs - the chance her father schemed to give them - so that there was A New Hope to defeat the Empire. It's not the chance the Rebellion deserves but she does it anyway.

And through that, she connects with another rebel who, like her, is alone. He's closed off and resigned to his loneliness with only a droid companion. Through their journey, there is trust and the potential of affection, partnership, and love for each other. But it's bittersweet though because the mission claims both their lives before that potential can be realized. All their potential is lost on that beach, as individuals and as a possible romantic couple. But they make that sacrifice with their eyes open, aware that they could have been more if they were given more time, because they know that the fight is bigger than their personal futures.

And that's a fuck ton more tragic than a toxic relationship based on history rather than on affection and compatibility and a secret HopeBabyTM in a wheat field.

Jyn should have died on the beach alone. Because, in essence, she did die alone. It would be more honest than what we have now.

[pikasigh]

hi! can you do a bakugou x reader where the reader’s in a toxic relationship but he likes her? thank you!

EEEKK! yes yes yes i love that im getting reqs now. absolutely! please let me know if you guys want a series! also PLEASE send me more reqs. i am totally a people pleaser and I love giving my audience what they want! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂)⸝♡

a/n : toxic partner remains unnamed. thinking of making them another canon character. any ideas on who??

if you let go first

⤷ a timeskip!katsuki bakugou x taken!reader

it kills him that you’re not his anymore.

there was a time where the two of you actually seemed to be getting close. he liked you, goddammit, and he hated admitting it. he hated the way you made his stomach flutter whenever you said something. anything. he hated how he always glanced your way during training to see if you were watching. god, he just hated how you made him feel.

he couldnt get any sleep. sleep was probably the only thing that kept him sane. he was losing it, so when you affected his sleep, he couldn’t handle it.

he did what any reasonable guy would do and completely ghosted you. everywhere. locked on social media, your number was blocked, he even stopped talking to you in the halls or in class.he hated his highschool career and it was all because of you.

he even hated the way you looked up at him when you asked what you had did wrong to deserve his silent treatment. well, he couldn’t just tell you he liked you, right? that’d be too easy. what if you laughed in his face, and that reputation he took forever to build was just…gone?

he hated you.

──── ୨୧ ────

he loved you! 

more than he would like to admit! after all these years, you were the one still on his mind. why? why couldn’t he shake you out of his thoughts? why were you stuck in his head. didn’t you have anyone else to bother?

he can’t even focus on his duties when you’re constantly at the back of his mind. the two of you haven’t had a real conversation in years. you two only ever talked about patrol arrangements or what shifts you’d be taking.

he needed you now. he needed to talk to you again, to be so sickeningly obsessed with you like he was back in highschool.

he was off duty, on his break. making his way to a little coffee shop in the corner of a few old brick buildings and an alleyway. he never really liked eating out in public. even if the fans knew not to swarm pros in uniform. that rule was bullshit, he thought. they’d do it anyways, right? it was no use implementing it. just because he was in uniform didn’t technically mean he was fighting villains. so why put that reputation out?

maybe he just liked the attention of being swarmed.

he grabbed his coffee and turned to walk out, sipping on the hot drink through the little pocket on the lid.

he was just about to go find you, until he stopped.

there you were, in the flesh. god, you still looked so pretty. he yearned for you and he absolutely hated it. he hated that you had to be the one. why you of all people? he saw you everywhere. you were imprinted in his mind. he couldn’t escape you.

he was almost too focused on how you looked to notice who was walking with you. who was that guy, anyways?

“move it, come on. don’t you want me to be able to sleep for work?��� the man behind you husked in your ear, leaving hot breath to linger in your eardrum.

you shiver. not wanting to display your discomfort.

you see, after katsuki had completely ghosted you, you sort of felt helpless. katsuki matched your energy more than anyone ever. so when he left, you tried to find someone that was the most possibly similar to him.

you just didnt know what to exactly look for.

because sure, katsuki was a gruff and rude guy. his voice spared no room for further argument and he demanded respect when he sauntered into a room. but that wasn’t the only thing. he also had an eye for talent. he knew who was good enough to be a challenge for him, and he didn’t risk that. he built respect with the people he knew were strong. 

but, in the midst of looking for a carbon copy of katsuki, you met him..

he was just as demanding and rude as katsuki. opinionated. loud. 

but he lacked that respect.

“i know, babe. ‘m sorry..” you murmur, sighing and rubbing your face as the two of you hurry down the sidewalk.

katsuki couldn’t hear, but he didn’t like the look of that guy. or the way he was breathing down your back like that. doesn’t the bastard know you like your space? doesn’t that guy know you’re stronger than arguably anybody in the world?

he didn’t like this. his heart ached.

[swiftmorgan13]

OVERPROTECTIVE BROTHER — mafia!billie eilish x fem!oc

SERIES MASTERLIST

⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟

December 1/9, 2029

The morning was gray, and the forest seemed quieter than usual. A low mist still hung between the trees. Inside the house, the only sound was the faint hum of the security systems running in the background.

Billie was sitting in one of the dining room chairs, a cup of cold coffee in her hands. Her eyes kept drifting toward the hallway where Morgan was sleeping. She was still wearing the same clothes from the night before, having allowed herself no rest.

Elijah appeared from the control room, adjusting his earpiece. He carried a tablet showing data and signals recorded during the night.

"The satellites didn't pick up any movement nearby. The thermal cameras are clear. No one followed us. For now."

Billie nodded silently.

Elijah set the tablet down on the table and crossed his arms, leaning in front of her. He studied her for a moment before speaking.

"This isn't the first time someone's tried to kill you. But it's the first time they used someone outside your world to get to you."

"Yeah," Billie replied, not looking at him. "And it's also the first time I care more about her than I do about my own revenge."

Elijah frowned, not in judgment, but with that old soldier's look that anticipates loss.

"So what's the plan? If you stay together, they'll take her down with you. If you split, they'll still come for her, thinking she's your weak spot."

"I'm not leaving her," Billie said firmly, locking eyes with him. "And I'm not hiding. I want to know who sent that man to her apartment. I want to know how they found her address. And when I find out…"

"…they'll wish they'd never been born," Elijah finished, a grim half-smile on his lips.

A silence settled between them.

"You're really falling for her, aren't you?" he asked, his tone gentler now.

Billie lowered her gaze. For a moment, her defenses slipped.

"I didn't plan this. Never let myself go there. But when I saw her on the ground, struggling to breathe, something broke. I've never been that scared."

Elijah took a deep breath.

"Then we'd better stop playing defense. If they want her as leverage, we'll have to turn her into a weapon."

Billie nodded slowly. She stood, leaving the cup on the table.

"Get everything ready. I want a full list of people who knew where Morgan was this past month. Doctors. Cops. Hospital staff. Informants. Bank trails. I want names, routines, families if necessary."

"And what are you going to do with that?"

"Whatever it takes," Billie whispered. "So they never touch her again."

From the hallway, Morgan had stopped silently. Barefoot, wearing an oversized hoodie that barely covered her thighs, she had heard the last part.

She leaned against the doorway for a few more seconds, one hand pressed to her chest. Her emotions were a storm: gratitude, fear, anger… and something deeper, harder to admit. Love, maybe. Or something just as dangerous.

She went back to the room without making a sound. Closed the door behind her. Sat on the edge of the bed. She knew that if she came out now and said what she'd heard, Billie would pull back, put up a wall, treat her like something fragile. And Morgan didn't want that.

She wanted to be part of it. Not a shadow to protect.

Minutes later, Morgan came out as if she had just woken up. Her hair was tied up. She walked into the kitchen pretending to know nothing.

"Is there any coffee left?" she asked, her voice rough, still affected by the injury to her throat.

Billie turned immediately, pausing her conversation with Elijah. Something in her face softened.

"Of course. It's still hot."

Billie poured her a cup as Morgan sat at the counter, reapplying the ice pack to her cheek.

"Did you sleep?" Billie asked, guilt and tenderness in her voice.

Morgan looked at her a second longer than usual.

"Enough. A strange dream woke me up… You were there, but it wasn't you."

"Not me?"

"You were different. Quiet. Distant. And there was blood. A lot of it."

Elijah looked away, uncomfortable.

Billie just swallowed and nodded.

"I'm sorry, Morgan. I brought you into this."

"No," Morgan replied, still holding her gaze. "I stayed."

The tension lingered in the air. Elijah stood from the chair, clearly sensing it was time to leave them alone.

"I'll check the perimeter fence," he muttered, and slipped out the back door.

Billie stood in front of Morgan. Her blue eyes held a new shine: a mix of guilt and restrained desire.

"You once told me I couldn't swear by what I loved," said Morgan. "And you, Billie? Which side are you on?"

Billie slowly walked up to her. She leaned on the counter, close enough that the distance between their faces vanished with a breath.

"I'm on the side that dies if something happens to you."

Morgan didn't pull away. Not this time.

"Then don't hide me. Don't lock me away. Teach me. Stop protecting me like I’m a weakness. Because if you don't let me fight by your side, one day they'll break me from behind. And it won't be their fault. It'll be yours."

The silence was deep. Billie lowered her eyes. At last, she gave in.

"Alright," she whispered. "We start today."

Morgan smiled, just slightly. The ice slowly melted between her fingers.

And outside, in the forest, the echo of an encrypted signal passed through the air like a warning.

Someone already knew Billie wasn't alone.

And that made her even more dangerous.

The hallway was crowded with hushed voices and the constant flow of nurses and doctors. Derek walked with a furrowed brow, moving between rooms with a look of concern that contrasted with his usual calm demeanor.

He approached the nurses' station, where Meredith and Alex were speaking in low voices.

"Have you seen Morgan?" Derek asked bluntly.

Meredith looked up, surprised by the intensity in his voice.

"She took the day off. Said she had personal matters to take care of." Her gaze shifted to Alex. "Do you know anything?"

Alex shook his head, frowning.

"Nothing concrete. But Morgan's been off lately. Closed off, like she's carrying something heavy."

Derek sighed, rubbing his temples.

"I don't like her being left alone. Especially after what happened last week."

Meredith nodded grimly.

"I'm worried she's not telling us everything. Morgan's strong, but she's not invincible."

Derek nodded, staring into space.

"I'm going to talk to her. If anyone can protect Morgan, it's me."

As he walked away, a man in a black trench coat watched from a distance, eyes cold and calculating.

The chess piece had slid forward.

Derek stood in front of his sister's apartment door. He stared at the doorknob as if it might give him answers. He knocked twice. Waited. Nothing.

He already knew Morgan wasn't home, Meredith had confirmed that hours ago, but something didn't sit right. Too much silence. Too much order.

He used the emergency key he still had from the lease agreement, pushed the door open slowly, and stepped inside.

The first thing he noticed was the smell.

Not of mess, not of dirty laundry or stale food. No. The air smelled of… disinfectant. Of meticulous, impersonal order. Too clean.

Derek walked slowly through the living room. Everything was in its place. Too perfectly in place. The books at sharp angles, surfaces gleaming, not a single cushion out of line.

In the kitchen, he found the coffee maker empty and a freshly washed cup dripping in the rack. No dirty dishes. No food in sight.

He opened the fridge. Eggs. Water. A container labeled 'Fit Meals'. Nothing else.

"You don't eat like this," he muttered.

He entered the bedroom and found the bed made with almost surgical precision. On the nightstand, no phone, no charger. Just a small white lamp.

But the desk caught his attention. On it rested a photo frame, empty.

Derek approached and touched it. The glass was clean… except for a small fingerprint in the corner, barely visible under the light.

He retraced his steps to the living room and looked more closely.

The carpet showed perfect vacuum lines, like it had been cleaned just hours ago. But on the rug nearest the door… a faint brownish stain, almost imperceptible to an untrained eye. It wasn't mud. Derek knelt.

"Blood," he whispered.

His fingers clenched over the fabric. There had been no recent medical notifications, no ER reports. Nothing at the hospital. Morgan hadn't said a word. But the apartment was cleaner than an OR.

Derek stood up slowly.

"What the hell are you hiding, Morg?"

He didn't know it yet, but someone was listening at that very moment. Through a leftover bug hidden in the apartment's router, one Elijah hadn't detected yet.

Langston smiled as static crackled softly in his earpiece.

"Derek Shepherd. Doctor, brother, meddler… Make a note of him," he said to his operator.

A new piece had entered the game.

Derek walked through the automatic doors, his coat still damp and his expression tight. He headed straight for the residents' lounge, where Morgan had just dropped her backpack in a locker and was tying her hair up.

"I need to talk to you," he said, without greeting.

Morgan turned, slightly surprised by the tension in his tone.

"Well, good morning to you too," she replied dryly. Then she caught the look on his face, and her posture shifted. "What's going on?"

Derek closed the door behind him.

"I went to your apartment last night. I went in."

Morgan blinked slowly.

"Why?"

"Because something's wrong, Morgan. Because you're pulling away. Because I found your place cleaner than an operating room,.and still found blood on the rug."

Morgan said nothing.

"It was nothing. A cut. I tripped over the nightstand and..."

"Don't lie to me," Derek cut her off, stepping closer. "There's more to this. I can feel it. And the worst part is, it's not just about you."

The doctor looked at him, her eyes hardening.

"You have no idea what you're getting into."

"No? Then tell me, Morgan. What the hell is going on? Does this have anything to do with Billie Eilish?"

The name dropped like a stone in the room. Morgan clenched her jaw.

"Don't say her name here. You don't know who might be listening."

"Then explain the blood in your apartment, your sudden disappearance, why the FBI came asking questions and you refused to cooperate. I'm your brother!"

Morgan looked at him. For a moment, she seemed exhausted, like she'd been carrying a building on her back for weeks. But then she took a deep breath.

"Because if I tell you, Derek… I put you in danger. And I'm not dragging you down with me. Not this time."

Derek stayed silent. His expression shifted from anger to something more vulnerable. Hurt.

"Then tell me how I can help," he said at last. "But don't shut me out."

Morgan looked down. She hesitated. Then stepped closer and lowered her voice to a whisper.

"I'm not the one who needs help. She is. And if we don't act fast, there's going to be more blood. A lot more."

Before Derek could respond, the voice of a resident came from the half-open door:

"Dr. Shepherd, new trauma patient just came in. Male, 30s. Three gunshot wounds. Federal protection escort."

Morgan and Derek exchanged a look.

Another piece on the board.

And the clock kept ticking.

[wanderlustknightofmagic]

"In truth... I think Ray'je's way of caring is not something people like us are used to seeing. Where we are so... outward with affection, kindness, and such other things... I believe she shows her own version of such with acts that prove it quietly... or little gestures. The way she speaks too... I do not know, maybe I am reading deeper into this than normal, but... I truly feel like I have grown closer to her in my time there. I will certainly have to work very hard to win her over... but I am willing to try," He admits with a soft expression on his face.

As the fish man returned to them, he would look and pause for a moment. "I match her order, though, instead of a cocktail, just a nice sweet drink, maybe something fruity," He orders while returning his gaze to Noelle. "Still, we know how much of my time her domain went, how have things been with you? Everything going alright?"

Rain swallowed hard as he looked at the gate that lead out of Ray'je's domain. He felt stronger... he was stronger, it had been a while since he left and he had done tests... it... it was gone right? He had to find Noelle and apologize, he had to make it right after what he tried... Maybe that is what made him hesitate so... Still... he recalled the Oni's words and swallowed down hard. He left the gate while closing his eyes and inhaling deep.

When he was out, he would open his eyes and... nothing. No whispers, no violent thoughts, no dark urges, just... silence. He left like he could cry tears of joy as it finally seemed to be over. Calming himself, he opened a portal and went to go see Noelle.

Noelle was approaching the markets for groceries, when she noticed the portal open. Knowing it was Rain, her immediate thought was cheer at the thought of seeing her friend again.

But...her hand still went for her baton.

It was a strange mix of emotion.

[haveihitanerve]

“Periodically, I find myself back in my room, unsure whether I was driven by a need for morphling or if Haymitch ferreted me out”

-THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS. she gets flushed out of her hiding places by Haymitch. He knows where she hides. He finds her. Ahhhhhh. Always. 

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

M'lady, doth this harlot bother thee?

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[moeblob]

Shockingly I named some OCs recently and fleshed out the deity lore a bit for my "guess i'll marry the demon lord?" plot.

Solei has existed since near the start but Mehra and Valdas are new to the concept and all three? Petty. They're technically the Trio of Peace cause that's kinda their goal and duty to their world but really, Trio of Pettiness is suitable as well.

[musubiki]

i need to draw more......mochi pining for oblivious lime........