#and then choosing to name himself after him...

[hopesangelsprite]

The Perfect Gentleman

Pairing: Yandere!Upperclassman x Reader

Synopsis: He's intelligent, kind, responsible, trustworthy, and respectful; the epitome of the perfect gentlemen. But behind closed doors...

Warnings: Dub-con/Non-con, Stalking, Manipulation, Manhandling, Fake Sympathy, Restraints/Gagging, Eating Through Panties, Premature Ejaculation, Female Ejaculation, Creampie, Breathplay/Choking, Dacryphilia, Language, Pure Filth, etc.

MINORS/AGELESS ACC DNI

Viewer discretion is advised.

Thinking about perfect Upperclassmen!Yandere who's obsessed with you from the moment he lays eyes on you. He's immediately enraptured with your beauty and innocence; how bright and radiant you are apart from everyone else on campus. His heart skips a few beats whenever you're in the same room and he nearly fumbles over his words the first time you speak to him. You're magnificent in his eyes, like the sun in human form.

At first, he tries to ignore the obsession that slowly builds, pushing away the allure of your existence. He chooses to speak to you less and less when you're around him, purposefully making himself busier than usual so as not to come off as avoidant. He'd hate himself if you found out, if his weakness pushed you away.

It doesn't take long before he's exhausted all efforts and resources meant to distance himself from you. It's almost inevitable, the entanglement he finds himself trapped in. So, he completely stops avoiding you, going as far as to call out your name whenever you're in the same space. Soon, the two of you have built this odd, quirky relationship full of lighthearted humor and concealed interests that drives him deeper and deeper into madness. You're magnetic, an enigma he desperately needs to figure out... but so is he.

Gradually, he finds himself drawn more to you, using his charm to capture your attention while remaining mysterious himself. He gives you just enough attention to leave you wondering but never sure of his intentions, leave you wanting more. On the outside, he's calm and collected, his image clean cut and pristine. But on the inside... he's losing his mind.

Every thought of his is occupied solely by you. From the pretty pink of your lips to the cadence of your speech; everything about you makes his cock swell and his balls fatten up. Night after night he finds himself gasping for air, hand working up and down his stiff length at the thought of you writhing underneath him, crying his name. He cums buckets when imagines you begging for mercy as he pins you, as he forces you to take every single inch he gives you. He knows it's wrong, that if anyone knew about his filthy fantasies he'd be ruined. But he just can't shake the dark desire that consumes him day by day.

It becomes evident in the way your interactions change. His language gets progressively more flirtatious, and his eyes lingering longer than usual. He becomes more aggressive playful when you two meet, his need to subjugate you pushing him to tease you more violently than he typically would. The tension builds and wells within him until it snaps one evening after he sees you giggling with another upperclassman.

The rage that fills him makes him physically ill, it burns in the pit of his stomach. Disgust gnaws at his insides as he watches the guy draw closer, eyes bright and smile brighter. He hates the way his fingertips linger when the both of you shake hands, the way you look so comfortable around him. It doesn't make it any better that he knows what kind of guy he is, and that he knows he'd gladly take advantage of you if he could. The only man who will ever be allowed to take advantage of you is him.

So, once your conversation's ended, he puts on a kind eyed smile and sidles up to you bashfully. It doesn't take long for you to let your guard down, to get you to agree to a study date with him. As the two of you part ways, you don't notice the way his lips lift into a smirk before settling into a soft smile. You don't feel the darkness in his eyes as he watches your figure retreat, knowing all too well what he has in store for you.

When you do finally meet for his proposed study session, it's much later than the time you'd agreed upon. You would have canceled altogether had he not sent you an apologetic text explaining how his roommate had desperately needed his assistance just as he was preparing to leave his dorm. He finally shows up as the clock strikes 11:30 p.m., hair disheveled and backpack hanging off his shoulders haphazardly as if he's jogged across campus to get to you. He offers you a gentle grin and another apology before the two of you enter the library while chitchatting about its convenient 24-hour policy and the work you plan on getting done.

The night winds on, the two of you conversing in a tucked away study room between periods of silence as you finish assignments, and soon its nearing 3:00 a.m. You thank him for the invitation, preparing to head out as the night draws on. But when you stand and pull the study room door open his hand shoots out above your head and shuts it before it can fully open. Dozens of questions and scenarios begin clouding your mind as you stand stock still in confusion. Why had he closed the door? When had he gotten so close behind you? Why was everything suddenly so quiet? What was this intense sense of dread growing within you?

Your train of thought is broken by him slowly lowering his hand to turn the lock on the doors handle, essentially trapping the both of you inside the space that suddenly seems much too small now. Every hair on the back of your neck is standing to attention now, your brain screaming at you to get away as fast as you can. But you ignore that feeling, turning to face him with a nervous smile and giggle. "What's that about, huh? Wanted me to hang around a little longer?", you tease though you are most definitely not in a witty mood.

A small smile etches its way onto his handsome features, almost sad in a way, before he finally speaks. " 'M sorry, princess.", he breathes out and just as you're about to ask him what for he flicks the light switch behind you and the room goes dark.

You inhale to scream for help only for it to be cut short by his hand wrapping around your throat and squeezing hard. Tears gather in your eyes as you fight for a single breath of air, desperately trying to push and pull away from him. "I suggest you keep quiet and play nice.". he whispers in the darkness, "You wouldn't want me to do something we'd both regret, would you?". A strangled whimper escapes your chest, and you stop fighting him. He lets up upon your compliance and you inhale raggedly with a fit of coughs. Before you can fully regain the oxygen you'd been deprived of and adjust your eyes to the dark, your lifted and practically thrown on table behind the two of you.

Your landing isn't a hard one but it startles you all the same. When you try to sit up a large hand comes down on your front to pin you in place. In the black of the room, you can just barely make out his silhouette shifting above you and your ears register the sounds of rustling fabric. The tears that had welled in your eyes start to fall as the weight of the situation finally sinks into you. You've been tricked, set up, and now you're about to be taken advantage of by someone you look up to.

"Y-you don't have to do t-this...", you weakly plead with him between sobs as he binds your hands together with what you assume to be his necktie, "I won't tell anyone, I pr-promise.". He groans at your words, cursing under his breath as he forces your legs apart wide enough for him to fit in between them. "Don't be like that, baby. I don't even want to do this but-", his breath hitches as he pushes your dress up to bunch underneath your chest, "I can't help it. You've made me into this. . . this monster, and I need to handle this before I do something far worse.".

You sobs grow more sorrowful as his body arches over your own, his mouth now placing gentle kisses down the expanse of your belly. Though you're frightened out of your mind and shaking like a leaf, you can't ignore the shiver that creeps down your spine when you finally feel a puff of warm air against your clothed mound. You just barely make out the quiet sigh of 'forgive me' before his mouth is on you, lavishing you with long opened mouthed kisses. Though you fight it it's not long before your cries become pitiful moans.

Soon, your panties are soaked from both his saliva and your steadily flowing slick. Everything about this situation is wrong. The context, the place, the time. You were just helping each other write papers on the same table you were being violated on, but you don't scream for help or beg to be released. You writhe in pleasure as every drag of his tongue against your slit leaves you breathless and pulls the tightening knot in your stomach closer to snapping. A deep, muffled groan reverberates through your assailant's chest, the vibrations causing your mind to fog and your little bud to pulse against his tongue. He's quick to lock onto the sensation, suckling harder at you while holding you in place. Your moans grow in volume as your high creeps nearer, peaking when come undone after a particularly lewd slurp. You tremble violently as he feasts on you well past your orgasm, only letting up when you tug at his hair.

You make out his figure rising in the darkness and the hand on your front lifts to wipe at his mouth. "You're just as sweet as I thought you'd be, but I'm far from satisfied.", he hums breathlessly and you feel him raise your hips before pulling your underwear down your legs, "Gonna need you extra quiet for what comes next.". He leaves you no room to appeal to him or ask questions as he stuffs your panties into your own mouth, effectively gagging you. While you attempt to spit them out, the taste of you unfamiliar on your tongue, he spreads your legs further. The sound of a zipper and what you're absolutely sure is his pants falling to the ground causes you to freeze in anticipation. "Just breath through your nose and relax, princess, I've got you.", he comforts you as if he's not assaulting you in a library.

Still, you obey.

As you inhale, something hot and hard finds your entrance and begins to slip inside of you. The tears from earlier return at the big stretch that seems as if it'll tear you in two even though it's just begun. Judging by the sound of the ragged and shallow breathing above you, he's not doing all too well either. "Fuck!", he hisses as his hips roll forward to fill you more, "You're so w-warm and wet and perfect.". You sniffle and whimper at his words, your walls contracting suddenly at his compliments, and you hear him moan a soft 'no' before a new kind of warmth fills you. It's hot and thick, his cum painting your walls and overflowing as his hips buck to bottom out completely. Your attacker buries his head in the crook of your neck in shame, body still trembling from his sudden release.

This gives you time to adjust to his intrusion, and soon what was painful becomes unbearably sweet to your senses. He's big, big enough to nestle against your cervix and your g-spot simultaneously and he only gets bigger the more you flutter around his length. Slowly, his pelvis retreats from yours and reconnects as he begins to set a pace far too intimate for the current situation. You make no arguments, though, the ability to make coherent and rational thoughts becoming more and more difficult with each thrust.

Your moans mix as he fucks both of you into oblivion, your broken minds set on cumming again, and he uses his grip on the backs of your knees to fold you into a mean mating press. "I'm- ah- so sorry, please don't be- oh fuck- mad at me.", he whimpers and whines into your neck and you feel yourself grow impossibly wetter, "Please, please, please.". As he begs, his pace increases drastically. The sound of wet squelching and flesh slapping against flesh fills the room along with the heady scent of sex and you wonder if the buildings few patrons can hear you for all of two seconds before a hand stealthily placed between you begins to toy with your abused, pulsating clit.

"No, no more, too much!", you try to sob out around your gag as your orgasm builds at an unprecedented speed, but you quickly find out he's too far gone to care. A sudden pressure in your lower belly blooms followed by tickling sensation in your bud and you come hard. Your arousal pours from you in short streams, soaking the table and your bare lower halves before dripping onto the floor. Another long whine escapes the man above you as he rises partially to lightly squeeze the column of your neck with his free hand. "Yeah, that's right.", he moans whorishly, "That's my good girl. Keep coming for me, princess.".

And you do.

The overstimulation washes over you like a wave, every nerve in your body wrecked and tingling as if you were being electrocuted. You continue to squirt with each well angled thrust and tears fall from your eyes like a flood. "Shh, shh, shh. It's okay baby, I'm so close.", he soothes you as his thrust grow sloppier, "I'm s-so close.". As another orgasm rattles your core, you reach up with your clasped hands to pull his forehead onto yours, managing to choke out a semi-coherent 'cum for me' as they touch. Your cunt is dealt a few more quick thrusts before your insides are once again flooded with him.

Several minutes pass before either of you even begin coming down and when he finally does it'd before you do. You stop yourself from chasing his warmth when he pulls out. He gingerly begins to clean you up with the complimentary tissues that'd been jostled from the table when he'd pinned you, apologizing profusely all the while. After the stars disappear from your vision and you catch your breath enough to spit out your panties, you sit up and pull him with you by his hair. He lets out a sharp gasp before you snatch him into a deep kiss, bound hands now draping softly across his shoulders. You pull away after a moment with a shallow sigh and your lips graze his when you speak. "Don't be sorry.", you purr as he nips at your lower lip and drags you closer instinctively.

"Be ready to do it all again tomorrow.".

◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆

HxH: CHROLLO, ILLUMI, Pariston, Leorio, Kurapika

JJK: GETO, GOJO, YUUTA, Naoya, Noritoshi, Nanami, Choso

Solo Leveling: JINWOO, JONG-IN, TAESHIK

Demon Slayer: Obanai, Rengoku, Tengen, GIYUU

LADS: CALEB, Rafayel, Sylus

Apothecary Diaries: Basen, Young Former Emperor, Lihaku, Lahan

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[eeriesilkworm]

Why I think the flashback scene in ST5 is about Lonnie (and Mike and Jonathan's complicated relationship...)

CW: This post discusses potential spoilers and mentions implied abuse (It's about Lonnie, after all...) proceed with caution!

So, we already know about the casting call for a scene featuring 8-year-old Mike and Will, and 13-year-old Jonathan.

I've had multiple thoughts about what this scene could be (so many possibilities!) but after reading a leak regarding this scene, I've finally settled on (an admittedly speculative) theory.

(Of course, not all leaks are accurate, so take this with a grain of salt. And if you’re avoiding spoilers, consider this your cue to stop reading!)

Based on the leak, here’s what we know about the scene so far:

It is not a supernatural or horror-based memory (unlike Will’s 1983 flashbacks of the Upside Down).

It takes place on a school set (likely Hawkins Elementary, which makes sense if they’re reusing sets e.g. Holly Wheeler’s school).

The scene includes multiple parallels to Season 2.

This made me wonder: what Season 2 themes involving Mike, Will, and Jonathan could be echoed here—without needing the supernatural?

It’s difficult to answer because Will’s entire plot in Season 2 revolves around the supernatural. Namely, his possession by the Mind Flayer. But if this flashback isn’t supernatural, maybe the show is drawing on what the Mind Flayer represents: trauma, fear, and abuse.

The Mind Flayer as an allegory for trauma and PTSD

I don’t need to make this section long—most fans are acutely aware that the Mind Flayer is associated with trauma and PTSD. This is supported by the fact that these hauntings begin when the anniversary of Will’s abduction approaches, and that Will is diagnosed with PTSD by Dr Owens. The only thing that people may need convincing of, is that the Mind Flayer (and Upside Down) serve as allegory not just for trauma, but for Will’s specific trauma concerning his father. @greenfiend has an excellent series which delves into this theory.

Will is good at hiding

Season 2 also clearly shows us what Will's primary trauma response is: He initially freezes, be he also runs and hides. The way Will ran and hid behind the stairs on Halloween seemed practiced to me. Like he had done this before. He doesn't panic, and he doesn't keep running. He chooses to close his eyes and hide in a self-soothing position.

In fact, Jonathan himself has said that Will is good at hiding:

He wouldn't know this if he hadn't witnessed Will hiding before. In fact, Will being good at hiding implies he is also difficult to find.

It would make sense for us to see this play out: Will hiding, and Jonathan attempting to find him. And if Mike is also there, and we're paralleling Season 2, then that means...

Mike is good at finding

Despite Will being good at hiding, Season 2 also showed us that Mike is good at finding him. There are three Mind Flayer associated scenes in which Mike is the one to find Will, and in two of them, he's also the one who breaks him out of the visions.

He spots him outside the arcade:

He's the first to find him at Halloween: "I couldn't find you!"

And he's the first to find Will outside Hawkins Middle on the field: "I just found him like this!"

The 1979 Theory

If we're able to acknowledge that the Mind Flayer serves as an allegory for trauma and PTSD, then the gates which allowed the Mind Flayer to penetrate Hawkins (and Will by extension) are also relevent.

Interestingly, the first gate was opened by El in 1979. In this flashback—if Mike and Will are aged 8 years old—that means it also takes place in 1979.

I've made a fairly visual (rather than analytical) post about what I think may have happened to Will in 1979 and how it parallels the Hawkins Lab Massacre.

(Content warning: while nothing is explicit, the subject matter involves implied child abuse).

TL;DR: I believe Lonnie’s abuse escalated in 1979, and it marked a significant trauma for Will—one that he likely repressed or fragmented, much like El did with her memories of the massacre. That would make 1979 a foundational year for both of them: the year their “gates” were opened.

Jonathan’s guilt (the Mike vs Jonathan argument leak)

Additonally, there is a leak which claims Mike and Jonathan will get into an argument about Will's safety this season.

If this ends up being true, I think it will feed into this flashback scene as well. Specifically, Jonathan's guilt and possible quiet resentment of Mike.

I say resentment because Jonathan has made it clear that he views Will as his best friend. He also took on a somewhat parental role helping to raise Will, despite only being 4 years older. He likely feels that Will’s safety and wellbeing is his responsibility.

However, the show has also told us that children aren’t always honest with their parents/ family, but they usually tell their friends everything:

Once again, I’ll point to my previous post about 1979, and the fact that I believe there is something concerning Lonnie’s abuse that Mike is somewhat privy to, that Joyce and Jonathan are not. Because Will told Mike things he didn't tell anyone else.

Jonathan on the other hand, is concerned and insecure that Will no longer comes to him when he needs help or advice.

He said so himself in Season 4:

Jonathan also has a track record of not being around when bad things happen to Will—or not being the one to "rescue" him—but Mike usually is:

Will was at Mike's house before he went missing, and Jonathan was supposed to be waiting at home for him. While Jonathan was focused on capturing the Demogorgon, Mike was focused on finding Will.

Will was trick-or-treating with Mike when he was chased by the Mind Flayer, and Jonathan was at a party when he was supposed to be supervising Will. While Jonathan was partying, Mike brought Will home to his place.

When Will was possessed by the Mind Flayer, Mike stayed by his side the entire time, while Jonathan met with Murray to expose the Hawkins Lab scandal.

It was Mike's memory of meeting Will for the first time that allowed Will to (partially) break out of his possession and use morse code.

None of these are Jonathan's fault, but he has clearly expressed guilt:

If an argument does break out between Mike and Jonathan this season, I think it will be fuelled by exactly that: Jonathan’s quiet resentment and frustration that Mike keeps “butting in,” keeps (trying) to protect Will in ways that Jonathan believes should be his responsibility.

And if emotions run high, I wouldn’t be surprised if Mike snaps back with something like, “Well, I’ve actually been there when Will needed someone. Can you say the same?”

Likewise—Jonathan, who is aware of Will's romantic feelings for Mike—would find that quite rich coming from him, as he's witnessed his brother's heart break.

So for Mike to throw Will’s emotional well-being back in Jonathan’s face? That would cut deep. It would feel hypocritical. And that’s what would make the fight so compelling—two people who love Will deeply, clashing over how to protect him, while unknowingly tearing open wounds they both helped shape.

In this post I point out that Mike and Jonathan's "heart-to-heart" conversations with Will in ST4 were very similar: they were both seeking reconnection with him and expressing concern that they have become distant.

This tension will culminate in Season 5.

How it culminates (my actual theory regarding the flashback)

I speculate that the flashback will show Jonathan arriving at Hawkins Elementary to pick Will up from school, only to find out that Will isn’t where he’s supposed to be. But not because he got lost—because he’s hiding.

The reason why Will is hiding may not be explicitly stated, but it's because he's scared to go home—scared to see Lonnie.

Jonathan will search for Will, but it will likely be Mike who finds him first, or Mike who is already with him (and alerts Jonathan).

Mike also might already have an inkling as to why Will doesn’t want to go home. Because friends don’t lie. Because friends tell each other things they don’t tell parents.

He might even offer to let Will come stay at his place—a callback to what he does years later in Season 2, when he says he’ll "take him home" and brings him to the Wheeler house instead.

This flashback will be seen from either Mike or Jonathan's perspective, as Will's memories of 1979 are likely spotty. It will also highlight the dynamic between the three: Jonathan and Mike are both similarly protective of Will due to their affection for him. But this also creates wounds:

Because Mike feels helpless to protect Will from harm, even if he is always there for him, and Jonathan is frustrated by Will's habit of repressing and hiding his pain.

Well, that's my theory. What do you guys think the flashback scene will be about?

[hoperese]

Maybe This Time LN4

After a year apart, she runs into Lando at a party, where old feelings and regrets resurface. In the quiet moments outside, truths are confessed, and the weight of what was left unsaid finally comes between them.

word count: 743 pairing: lando norris x reader content: second chance trope warning: Angst, Exes meeting again, Emotional tension, Regret, Mild language, Alcohol use

rese notes: sorry for not updating... will soon upload the part 2 of this fic and multo!

It was awkward to see him again after a year had passed. Even she couldn’t wrap her head around how fast time had flown—as if it were just last night when they both decided to end the relationship. Maybe it was her struggle with the distance, or maybe it was the lack of reassurance Lando gave her. To her, it was a fifty-fifty situation. Part of her had grown tired of what Lando offered in return. She never wanted the expensive gifts he brought her; all she ever wanted was him—Lando Norris.

She found him at a party, surrounded by mutual friends. As she sipped her drink, her eyes wandered to the corner of the room where she spotted him, laughing and chatting with another guy. She cursed silently in her mind—he still looked the same. Those same eyes she fell in love with a little more each day. That same smile she used to wake up to, the one that would tell her he’d choose her every time—even if she turned into a potato. A silly, sweet memory from one of their nights together.

But now... seeing him like this—it felt different.

She stepped outside for some air, sipping her drink as she leaned against the wall and looked up at the sky. Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice him quietly entering the same space—until she felt a light poke on her shoulder. Startled, she flinched and snapped, “Fucking—” as she turned around.

There he was.

“Why are you here?” she asked sharply, her voice colder than she intended. She hadn’t expected to see him out there.

“You were missing,” he replied simply.

The truth was, he’d been keeping an eye on her the entire night. He noticed when she slipped out, already knowing she would. She always did. Parties overwhelmed her.

She blinked at him, expression unreadable. “And?”

She took another sip of her drink as Lando leaned against the wall beside her.

“I’m just looking out for you,” he said softly. “You always get overwhelmed at parties like these.”

And she hated that he still knew that about her—so specifically, so intimately.

There was an awkward silence between them, heavy and filled with unspoken things. She finally broke it, her voice soft but steady. “How’s life?” It sounded simple, casual—but she meant more than that. She wasn’t asking in a polite, passing way. She wanted something real, something personal. She wanted to know how he truly was.

Lando hesitated, glancing at her as if searching for the right words. “Fine… just the usual,” he said, though he could even hear how empty it sounded. The awkwardness lingered between them.

Then her next words hit him differently.

“I missed you… you know,” she said quietly, looking away, unable to meet his eyes. After a moment, she added, almost as if confessing, “I didn’t mean to hurt you like that, Lan. I really didn’t.” The guilt she’d carried since that night—the night they ended it—weighed on every word. “I just thought… it would be for the better, you know?”

Lando looked at her as if she’d just said something absurd. His heart ached. “You—you think it was better? Better for us to break up?” His voice cracked slightly, emotion slipping through. “Baby—” He stopped himself, realizing the pet name had fallen from his lips without thinking. He sighed, correcting himself, “Y/n… why would you think that was better?”

The hurt was clear in his eyes. Clear in his voice. The kind of hurt that comes from believing in something, only to have it taken away.

She lowered her gaze, her voice barely above a whisper. “I thought… I thought I was distracting you. Or—I don’t know—maybe the love wasn’t there anymore. And I didn’t want that, Lan.” The guilt tightened in her chest as she added softly, “Sorry…”

Lando’s expression softened, but there was pain behind his eyes. “We… we could’ve talked about it,” he said, his voice thick with the weight of what could’ve been. “I told you—sometimes things feel heavy even when they’re not.”

Slowly, he closed the space between them, close enough for her to feel the warmth of him again. His voice turned gentle, too gentle—the kind of softness that made her heart ache. “You should’ve been honest with me, love.”

And she hated that. Hated how kind he was. Hated how he could still be so tender when all she’d done was push him away.

[suzukiblu]

istg youve awakened something in me w your jaykon agenda and im so here for it

Jaykon is an interesting pairing to me because if Jason had lived, he absolutely WOULD have been Kon's Robin, which, you know, could've gone either real bad or real WELL or real "oh god I regret ever even BREATHING near Metropolis" for Brucie Wayne, lbr. For one thing, Jason would've been . . . what, seventeen-ish when Kon dropped? Give or take. Which means he would likely NOT have been as "obedient" to his DAD as Tim was to his BOSS at FIFteen-ish, because from Jason's point of view that's his fucking DAD and his dad is just being goddamn paranoid and controlling and a total antisocial ASSHOLE again and ANYWAY he's like six months max from going to college and getting himself his own hero identity a la Dick getting Nightwing so fuck it, what's he care!!

( "I NEVER EVEN GOT TO BE A TITAN, B, YOU DON'T GET TO FUCK UP THIS YOUNG JUSTICE THING FOR ME, FUCK OFF. THEY'RE MINE NOW." )

And also, like, that's a very different Bruce, is the Bruce who didn't ever LOSE Jason. So hell, that version of Bruce literally might not've even TRIED to make Jason keep his name to himself in the same exclusively-just-on-HIS-terms "literally I will fucking NEVER let you tell them your name no matter WHAT" way he was acting with Tim, who he also would not let tell his LITERAL FUCKING GIRLFRIEND his name, but HE was totally fine telling her HIMSELF once it was convenient for him. Not even giving Tim PERMISSION to, just doing it HIMSELF without even telling Tim he was GOING to, Bruce Wayne you are the literal worrrrrst jfc--

ANYWAY OFF-TOPIC. Whatever that Bruce's opinion was, I can't help feeling that if JASON-Robin wasn't telling YJ his name or showing them his face at least after the first suicide pact or two, it'd be because HE didn't want to, and that is what he'd SAY to them. And I kinda think Kon would've taken that better than being told "we've been through all this shit together now and Batman is STILL more important than you" over and over and OVER every single time Tim found another excuse to hide his face or showed up in a new mask/disguise/set of glasses/goggles/whatever. Because like, that would be Jason choosing what he wants for himself, not Tim choosing Batman over literally every single member of Young Justice time and again and AGAIN and actually NEVER willingly telling them, they only found out in the end because of some dumb reality-getting-fucked shit selling his ID out accidentally.

I actually think Jason and Kon would have gotten along STUPID-well if they had met under those circumstances and it is SO rich an AU concept that I have literally never seen a single person even touch before. Though also in more canon-accurate land frankly the only understandable reason that I think Jason has Bizarro for his Super-buddy system is because Young Justice is just too insane about each other for Kon to have ever gotten put on a book like Outlaws, hah. Also, like, Kon is obviously not very murder-happy and Superboy has very different moral standards than Red Hood does, also that. But you absolutely COULD do some real interesting shit with Kon's character on a team like that, that's all imma say.

Like Kon is a dude who HAS and KNOWS that he has been convinced to be murder-happy a couple times/timelines before, is all--knows he's psychologically SUSPECTIBLE to being convinced of that--and THAT I think would be a much more interesting moral/ethical dilemma for his character development than "oh god I have Westfield/Luthor DNA so am I genetically DOOMED to be a bad guy??" No, you're not, and you are a grown-ass clone who KNOWS that!! But you are also a grown-ass clone who knows you have the CAPACITY to be a bad guy, and to actively CHOOSE to be a bad guy, to actively JUSTIFY being a bad guy to yourself, and who does NOT necessarily think Jason is wrong about dudes like the Joker never changing and the balance of that and the concept of fucking HARM reduction, if it comes down to it! Black Zero and future!Superman BOTH started out as good guys; that Superman in fact started out as HIS VERSION OF HIM EXACTLY, even! And then the two of them saw enough shit out in the world doing their superhero thing that they changed their minds ABOUT what being "good" even meant or entailed or if it was even possible at all, so if he's here and doing this, and doing this with someone like JASON who keeps KILLING people every time he takes his eyes off him, whether those people are unforgiveable bastards or not, is he gonna change his mind too? Is he gonna start thinking he's figured out what they "figured out"? Is this how "figuring out" that STARTS??

And Knockout saw SOMETHING in him, he knows, and he knows she wasn't wrong because he almost killed her. Because he WOULD'VE killed her, if she'd kept fighting when he'd held her under.

God I could do so, so much with Kon on the Outlaws and with JAYKON on the Outlaws. So, SO much.

But like, Tim Drake exists and I just cannot divorce Kon from his ride-or-die loyalty for his ride-or-die bestie so basically any time I wanna JayKon it up I gotta somehow make it Weird, hahaha.

. . . anyway, someone had something awakened in them or something??

[milkywayes]

what's your preferred choice for garrus' loyalty mission? i love that mission a lot...on one hand i want shepard to trust garrus' judgement the way he trusts hers, and when you push him about killing sidonis he points out the people sidonis got killed, and the unfairness of him getting to walk away. on the other hand he is so upset and acts so aggressively during the mission. even tho i do watch him beat up harkin everytime without interfering LOL. harkin had it coming (and it's hot shhh) it's more that garrus is obviously devastated and probably not thinking straight. i do love how shepard and he can argue it out and how much pain he's in for his percieved failure on omega, and his need to find justice. and how much it pains him that there may be a grey area where justice is not clear

My Shepard doesn’t go into the mission expecting to interfere. 

She has her concerns, but ultimately if Garrus asks for her help, her number one goal is to give it. On this suicide mission, he is more than her lieutenant. They both experienced recent, traumatic upheaval, and he is the only thing left that she can derive comfort from, even when he’s not quite the man that she knew. He’s volunteered for her mission, her suicide run, and the least she can do is return the favor and help tie up his one loose end. There might even be a little voice in her head that says, this is the source of his pain and everything about him that’s off and unfamiliar to her, and once it’s excised, she’ll have her crew-mate back how he was.

But then they’re on the mission, and he is less himself than she’s ever seen him. They’re on the mission and he is breaking apart. And she learns exactly how much his team meant to him, and there is no way to forget for even a moment that Sidonis was one of them too.

If he had kept his cool throughout, not let anyone see the emotional state he was in, she would have let him put a bullet in that turian’s head. 

She’s a commander; she understands the position he was in and what he owes his team. She doesn’t give a shit about Sidonis. They’ve all killed people for less. But when Garrus asks her, what would you do if someone betrayed you? Sold out her squad; her friends, for personal gain—betrayed their common goal—left them there to die—

She’d want that vengeance too. But she is far enough removed from that scenario to know that she’d wish someone would take that responsibility from her hands. That dealing with that particular loose end is not something that should be her task. That vigilante justice is well and good until it gets personal, and that as commander, the traitor would have been her subordinate too.

Killing a subordinate and worse, a friend, in cold blood is not something that you can come back from. It’ll stay with you for the rest of your days. Justice served—and you’re the one who pays for it to happen. Every time you close your damn eyes. The exploding head of a person you once swore to look out for.

The price is steep. She doesn’t want to see Garrus pay it. That death, and the deaths of his squad—of his idealism, his dreams—that trail behind it like offal would be an open wound forever. If she interferes, he can be angry at her for breaching his trust and crossing that boundary, but at least he would be hating someone other than himself. 

It’s not really her place. There are turian social mores and particularities at play here that she can’t even pretend to understand beyond simple keywords like loyalty and accountability. It might destroy their relationship and leave her all alone on that facsimile of a ship again. But on this suicide mission, Garrus is more than her lieutenant, and he’s more than just a comforting presence too. 

He’d have to be a hell of a lot more for her to willingly place her skull between the muzzle of his prized sniper rifle and the target that gives him tunnel vision and a twitchy trigger finger.

And he must be, because that’s exactly what she does.

[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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© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[thatnightlamp]

KONRAD CURZE NSFW ALPHABET

Tags : @incrediblethirst, @iluminatka16, @myns-world, @dyonys, @absynthe-mind

A = Aftercare

Silent and shaking. He doesn’t know what to do after, it overwhelms him. Sometimes he curls around you and sobs against your chest, muttering half-formed apologies. Other times he vanishes into the dark and watches you sleep from the ceiling.

B = Body Part

Your eyes. He stares into them while he fucks you, searching for fear, love, worship, anything to tether himself.

C = Cum

Hot, fast, and a little frantic. Konrad finishes like it’s being ripped out of him, shaking, growling, his body tensing as if the pleasure hurts. If he cums on you, he’ll stare at the mess with a mix of guilt and reverence, whispering apologies or licking it away like penance.

D = Dirty Secret

He’s carved your name into his skin. Over his heart. With his claws. You’ll never see it, he won’t let you, but when he touches you, his fingers tremble over that spot. Like your name is the only thing keeping his ribs from cracking open.

E = Experience

A nightmare made flesh, but a careful one. He studied what brings people pleasure the same way he studied how to break them. At first, he was cold and confused, but once he learned how to make you moan? He became addicted.

F = Favorite Position

He likes to see your face. Him between your legs, one hand pressing your wrists above your head, the other stroking your cheek. The contradiction of violence and worship. “Look at me,” he begs, voice cracking.

G = Goofy

Never. There is no laughter, no lightness. Sex with Konrad is a ritual. A collapse. A grave you fall into together. If you do laugh, he’ll freeze and stare, stunned and unsure how to process it.

H = Hair

Slick black, always damp at the roots. On his body, it’s fine and barely visible, his flesh is almost corpse-pale, like moonlight. Below the belt, it’s sparse, black, and neat. He shaves it sometimes, not for vanity, but to feel cleaner.

I = Intimacy

Terrifyingly intense. He cups your face with clawed hands like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. He’ll whisper, “Why are you still here?” and then fuck you like he’s trying to brand the memory into your soul. When he’s gentle, it’s trembling, hesitant, like he thinks he doesn’t deserve you.

J = Jack Off

Only when he’s desperate. Usually after a nightmare. He hates how much he needs you, so he punishes himself, harsh, painful strokes in the dark, muttering your name like it’s an accusation. He always ends up collapsing, shaking, whispering “forgive me.”

K = Kink

Somnophilia. He watches you sleep, hard and aching, and sometimes… he touches. He fucks you slow and careful, whispering apologies into your neck.

Fear kink: He thrives on your trembling, your gasps, your heartbeat racing. He never wants to hurt you, but your fear feeds his desire.

Mommy kink. If you let him call you that: instant emotional collapse.

L = Location

Dark rooms, your bed, his coffin. Places he feels safe. Or not safe, he likes fucking where he shouldn’t. One time, he took you in front of his brothers' armor displays. They all watched through dead glass.

M = Motivation

The fear he sees flicker in your eyes before it turns to trust. The way you reach for him. The way your heartbeat speeds up when he growls your name. He’s a predator who lives for the moment his prey chooses to stay.

N = No

He won’t share. Ever. Even the thought sends him spiraling into a jealous, self-loathing pit. And he won’t degrade you, not truly. He might growl like you’re prey, but he worships you, body and soul.

O = Oral

Giving. Wild. He eats you out like he’s starving, moaning into your flesh, his claws digging into your thighs to hold you down.

P = Pace

Frantic. Unrelenting. Every thrust like he’s trying to bury himself in you and never come back out. If you ask for gentle? He tries. It just breaks down when he hears you gasp.

Q = Quickie

Yes, but not casually. If he takes you against a wall, it’s because something broke, panic, arousal, anger. He’ll slam into you hard, panting against your neck, like it’s the only thing grounding him.

R = Risk

Unhinged. He’ll try anything that feels like sin. Bloodletting. Binding. Psychic connection during orgasm. He wants to feel your soul against his. He wants to haunt you forever.

S = Stamina

High, but fragile. He can go multiple rounds, but emotionally? He’s wrecked after the first. If you coax him gently, he’ll keep going until you can’t breathe.

T = Toys

His claws. His tongue. His voice. He doesn’t trust devices, he thinks they’re impure. But sometimes he’ll carve your name into a candle and fuck you beside it while it burns.

U = Unfair

Oh, he can tease, but not in a smug way. In a desperate way. He’ll hold you still, his breath shaky, whispering “I shouldn’t…” while grinding his cock against your thigh, trembling with need. He gets off on denial, yours or his.

V = Volume

Mostly quiet. Whimpers. Ragged breathing. Sometimes, when he’s close, a deep broken moan like something being torn open. He’ll bury his face in your neck to muffle it. When he cries out, it’s because he’s lost in you.

W = Wild Card

He carves your name into his armor. Not on the outside, inside, on the chestplate where it touches his heart. So when he fights, it’s with you against his skin. Always.

X = X-Ray

Lean but deceptively thick. Long enough to reach deep and brush that spot that makes your legs shake. Veins dark and raised. Tip flushed purple when he’s fully hard. He loves pushing it in slowly, watching you stretch around it.

Y = Yearning

High. Too high. He craves you like a drug, fights against it, then gives in and devours you. If you’re gone too long, he withdraws into himself, and when you return, he doesn’t even speak. He just kneels, clutches your hips, and breathes you in.

Z = Zzz

Sleeps very little. He lies beside you, staring. Memorizing. Sometimes, he rests his head on your stomach and listens to your breathing until it calms him enough to doze off.

[mischievousmoony]

hello, i’ve been loving your summer kickoff event! may i please request a burger with regulus and the prompt: “of course i remembered, it’s your favourite!” thank you so much!

𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚢

⟢ pairing: regulus black x reader ⟢ summary: it's a completely ordinary day, except for the part where regulus realizes he's in love with you ⊹ 1.2k ⟢ contains: brief/vague mention of walburga/family troubles

note: hi anon! so this is still part of my event, but i accidentally ended up doubling the word count i was aiming for and really loving what i wrote, so i’m posting it as a oneshot! im quite proud of this and i hope u like it too! <3

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“What’s this?” Regulus asks, his voice soft in the way it only ever is with you.

He’s in your kitchen doorway, eyes on the porcelain cup you pressed into his hands, the warmth still lingering where your fingers briefly stilled over his before withdrawing.

“Tea,” you answer, like it’s nothing, turning back into the kitchen to tuck everything away.

But it’s not nothing. Because the second the warm tea hits his tongue, Regulus’ eyebrows twitch up in surprise.

“This is…” he starts, but the rest falters in his throat.

“Earl gray, loose leaf,” you say without looking up, your focus on wiping down the counter with a gingham dish rag. “From the tea shop on the corner of Birch and Cross. Steeped for four minutes. Splash of milk. No sugar.”

“How did you-?”

“I’ve watched you make it more times than I can count,” you say, a fondness in your tone as if recalling a cherished memory.

His eyes follow you as you bustle about the kitchen, placing dishes in the sink, putting the milk back in the refrigerator. There’s a slight tilt to his head, like he’s trying to figure out just how much attention you’d have to pay him to notice he steeps his tea for exactly four minutes—no more, no less. To have caught the name of the tea shop on the bag during the few seconds it sits on his counter while he moves the leaves to the unmarked tin in his cabinet.

To be able to read his mind when you’re not even looking at him.

“Of course I remembered. It’s your favorite.” You glance at him briefly, a knowing smile playing at your lips. “You always drink it when you’re having a rough day, at least. And I know today’s been a long one.”

He hadn’t told you that, but it’s true. He can feel it in the way his body holds itself—shoulders tight, spine rigid, jaw clenched—his stress intertwined in every muscle. And beneath it all, a bone-deep exhaustion. If he were to look in the mirror, he could expect to find sunken eyes and his face drawn.

Spending the morning with his mother tends to have that effect.

Normally, he would escape to the quiet of his flat after a day like today. Spend the rest of his evening in solitude, and—you’re right—pacify his emotions with a cup of his favorite tea.

He doesn’t quite remember when he started coming to yours instead. Choosing your company over quiet isolation. Where he can swallow his frustrations. Tough out his turmoil. That’s what he was used to, before you. Before you were there, gently encouraging him to do the last thing he thought he wanted: talk about it. And yet, he knows he’s better for it.

Regulus realizes he’s never had a friend like you before. Or, maybe, something more than a friend. Maybe the quiet ways you take care of him and the way your gentle touch always seems to linger have been indications of your true feelings. Maybe the way a smile comes more easily to him and the warmth that swells in his chest when you’re near are indications of his.

The realization catches in his throat. What this is, what you are to him. Over a blood cup of tea… he feels ridiculous.

But isn’t it better to be ridiculous than afraid? He never liked to think about it before—you, this. Putting himself in the vulnerable position of placing his heart in your hands, where you could so easily break it. Abandon it.

His heart still races as he thinks about it now, but for a different reason entirely.

Perhaps it’s your patience that changed him, never asking to put a label on what this is. Your constant presence, showing up even when it would’ve been easier not to. You let him learn, in his own time, how to lean on someone else. And he finally realizes it’s okay to lean on you.

Maybe it’s partly that, and partly because he knows you’re worth the risk.

“Is it alright?” you ask, a hint of worry sneaking into your tone, because he’s just been standing there. Tea resting idly in his hands, cooled down to the point where steam no longer wafts from the pale surface. You could have put too much milk. Or not enough. Or you needed to let it steep for longer.

“Of course,” he quickly reassures you. Reading the insecurity on your face, he’s desperate to squash it. “It’s lovely.”

He takes a long drink of the tea. “It’s perfect,” he adds, between sips, savoring every drop. The fact that it was made by your loving hands make it taste better than any cup of tea he’s ever made himself.

The tension leaves your shoulders as you watch him, mirroring the way his had eased several minutes ago. He hadn’t even noticed it, the weight lifting. But he knows it’s your presence that did it.

He slowly places the cup on the counter, staring at it for a moment. Hesitating, before his eyes flash to you, and determination sets in his gaze.

In a few long strides, he rounds the counter. You drop what you’re doing as his hand comes up to the side of your face, his fingertips lightly brushing across your cheek until he gains enough confidence to firmly cup your jaw.

Your breath hitches as his eyes flicker to your lips. He waits a moment, giving you the space to back away if this isn’t what you want. When you lean into it, he brings his free hand to cup the other side of your face, too. Any lingering hesitation promptly vanishes when his lips finally meet yours.

There are no fireworks, like the romantics said there would be. Time doesn’t stop, the stars don’t collide.

The one thing they did get right? The way the world fades away, insignificant in the face of you. He soaks up the warmth of your presence as your hands find his chest, sliding across the cool, crisp fabric of his black button-up, the press of your palms a gentle comfort.

Regulus feels like he belongs in this moment. In this kiss that he didn’t know he was longing for, as your soft lips move against his. He’d stay here forever if he could, but he has to come up for air eventually.

For a moment, you just stay there. Still, foreheads pressed against each other, sharing heavy breaths as you both come back to reality.

First to break the silence, a shaky murmur shaped like a joke slips past your lips, “Must’ve been some cup of tea.”

Regulus laughs, a happy sound from deep in his belly that stirs up a warm swirl of affection in your chest, and he kisses you again.

He doesn’t imagine that he’ll ever really stop.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

[tamoscringecorner]

SPAMTON X TENNA HEADCANONS!! (Old man toxic Yaoi final boss?!?!) Also, they are officially called 'TVBuisness' 📺💲

-Sometimes when they try to kiss, due to their noses they can't so they just boop each other's noses with theirs -Whenever Spamton makes Tena flustered steam comes out of him and his CPU overheats -Spamton as a silly pet name calls Tenna "Mr. Big Shot" and in return, Tenna calls him "Mr. Small Shot" -Often times Spamton is the one to work on Tenna's repairs and upgrades because he is light and can put his hands in his chest cavity with ease due to how small he is -As a guilty pleasure in secret Tenna watches sappy old rom-coms and always wanted to do that by sharing a scarf cue but due to their height difference he can't, so to make up for it he just puts Tenna on his shoulder and wraps them up with the scarf -Spamton can't reach Tenna's hand so instead of holding his hand he just clings onto his pants leg -For April Fool's or Halloween they dress up as each other mainly because it's both a cute couple costume and their height differences make them look ridiculous -Spamton always helps plan and choose Tenna's outfits and Tenna always takes care of Spamton's hygiene -Tenna threatens to fire anyone who is even SLIGHTLY mean to Spamton or dares to tell him he did something wrong (GASP?!) even if they don't work for him -One-time Spamton causally mentions how he 'found it kinda annoying how there is so much merch of him but not himself' to Tenna and right after Tenna called 50 manufacturers and created Spamton his own line of merch and forced his employees to buy it or they'd 'BE FIRED WITH NO PAY!!' on the plus side Spatmon was now turned into a fan favorite aside from Tenna -Sometimes Tenna introduces Spatmon to his show as a 'charming, amazing, kinda, and PERFECT guest star!', at this rate he's done it so often it's no longer a mystery it's him -On April 1st as a prank, the stage crew put a kiss cam on him and Spamton in the middle of the show and pressured the crowd to cheer for them to kiss, it seemed sweet but the moment turned kinda silly since Tenna nearly passed out from his system overheating and them taking 5 minutes trying to kiss but unable to due to their noses constantly getting in the way -Spamton and Tenna have matching rainbow ties with each other's initials on them and they are SO annoying about it. -When it's pride month and Tenna makes ALL and I mean ALL the merch rainbowified, he even forces the employees to wear a rainbow shirt or tie. -Tenna's marketing team thought they needed something to prove that Tenna was 'woke' and supported the LGBT community truly so for the whole month there were millions of pins and shirts with fanart of Tenna and Spamton. It was EVERYWHERE, pins, shirts, hats, mugs, and the worst part was everyone loved it. When Tenna and Spamton found out about this 'marketing genius idea' Tenna almost passed out and Spamton just repeated '[HOLY CONGERO HOCHI MAMA]'

They are so stupid I hope they get bombed.

[aziraphales-library]

Hi! Is there any longfics that have lots of plot but also a Crowley/ Aziraphale happy ending? I’m kind of looking for a substitute for Season 3 right now to be honest🙃

Hey! We have #good omens s3 speculation and #long fic tags, so jump in for loads of fics! Here are more to add to both tags...

Good Outcomes by Thimster (T)

Unsurprisingly, Aziraphale runs into problems in his new job: the Second Coming will be a massacre, and only Crowley can help him prevent it. But Crowley has his own reasons, and his own issues: Hell gives him an ultimatum, and he must choose. But it seems neither angels nor demons can make choices very well. And stopping the Second Coming will have major consequences for everyone.

What If I'm Happier Now by guessimdemoms (G)

After Aziraphale stepped on that elevator and chose Heaven, Crowley wallowed in a haze of alcohol and sleep and somehow found his way to America where he got a teaching job. Turns out he's good at it, and the kids adore him, so he decides to see it out until the end figuring he never has to return to London. But then his after school club has a chance to compete in a contest in London, and soon he finds himself heading back to the place that brought him so much pain. He figures he'll be safe since Aziraphale is still in Heaven, but there are surprises in store as soon as he steps foot back on English soil.

i will make it better, if only for us by davethefish (T)

With Aziraphale in Heaven, everything that Crowley loved has left the earth. He doesn't know what to do, so he starts small. Maybe someday he'll love the earth as much as he loved Aziraphale. It's time for him to remember why he chose to stay in the first place.

Among the Stacks by MeinirRhos (NR)

Nearly a year after Aziraphale returns to Heaven, he vanishes from existence, leaving Crowley bereft on Earth. Just when the demon has finally started to heal and move on with his life, he finds his angel by chance in a library. But Aziraphale has no memory of his life as an angel, or of Crowley. How will our hero cope?

And I Did by Di_42 (E)

This is a story about faith. This is a story about love. This is a story about loss. This is a story about being apart and about being reunited. This is a story about fighting. This is a story about choices. Where do we choose to place our faith? Will a god we have faith in come and save us? Will a friend? A loved one? When do we start doubting our faith? How long before we snap, before we raise our head? How far can we go before we crumble under the weight of our own misplaced faith? Under the weight of our choices? What does it take to make us feel betrayed, abandoned, left behind? What does it take for us to turn our back on what in which we had faith? Who are we loyal to, and who is loyal to us? Who do we trust, and who trusts us? What are we ready to risk in the name of faith? What are we ready to lose in the name of loyalty? When are we going to take our lives into our own hands? What are we going to fight for? This is a story about unbreakable faith. This is, after all, a work of fiction. OR: Yet another Good Omens post season 2 fiction, featuring Supreme Archangel Aziraphale and Grand Duke Of Hell Crowley.

Epistolary by imposterssyndrome (E)

“Dear Diary, Today I encountered that most interesting phenomenon that is pornographic cinematography." Or Crowley discovers Aziraphale's personal diaries. What starts as a curious investigation about the angel's 'pornographic cinematography' experiences leads to Crowley wanting to find out about what he missed during his 14th century nap...and lots more. He discovers just how much miscommunication they had between them and how it led to so many misunderstandings. He finds out about how Aziraphale felt about him over the centuries and tries to reconcile that with his own feelings, especially now that Aziraphale is up in Heaven and not allowed to return to Earth...

- Mod D

[boy-eclipse]

sebaciel lovechild hcs:

it’s a girl. idgaf they are girl dads in my heart.

ciel is “father”, though he spends many years battling her to call him that. as a baby, its understandable that she prefers names like “dada”/“daddy” but once she’s a young child, she’s already taken on seb’s love of teasing and refuses to call ciel what he wants. she does age out of it, thankfully, and regards ciel as is appropriate as a teen and adult.

seb lets his girl choose his name to her. from the outset he’s “papa”, which is one of her first words. he lets himself be moulded by the ones he loves so is comfortable allowing his child(ren) to pick out his title, so when she switches later to regard sebastian as her “father” to others or “dad” to his face, he doesn’t mind too much. but he does long for his baby when she was little calling him her “papa”.

she’s definitely seb’s spitting image. inky black hair and her smirk is his, but she follows after ciel from the moment she can walk. it seems she inherited seb’s fascination with him too. in public, she tries to hold on to ciel’s cane to get his attention and is only satisfied once ciel carries her or holds her hand.

i do think they’d have a few if they had any at all, but their first girl is quite a bit older than her younger siblings. i imagine ciel & seb were cautious about having biological children given seb’s demonic nature, so wanted plenty of time to assess if and to what extent their kids would be affected. their first child made it seven years without showing any inhuman traits, and so sebaciel decide its safe to have another.

they’re rather unlucky in that their next baby, a boy, is born with big, blue eyes, that have long, slit-like pupils. when night comes, seb discovers that they glow in the dark. it seems its down to chance how human their children would be, and seb is slightly concerned how their biologies will mix.

seb bonds better with their second child, who’s seemingly more demon than human. he teaches the boy all about shapeshifting and the human-demon divide; together they shape his son’s human form and discover he can mix features from seb and ciel for various effects. the boy decides to keep his slit pupils and blue eyes but at least turns down their fluorescence. he takes on a similar hairstyle to ciel, but his hair is almost navy blue. luckily, when it comes to food, it seems the boy is a carnivore but eats like a human. he needs very little sleep and insists he sleep in one of his fathers’ arms, but since its about half an hour to forty minutes he needs, neither ciel nor sebastian particularly mind. this boy got concerned when ciel fell asleep for several hours, and cried, worried his father was dead. ciel woke up and reassured him, and from then their son was fascinated watching him sleep, as if wondering if ciel were playing a trick on him, or waiting patiently for ciel to wake up to make sure he was okay.

i do think they have more but i wont go into any more detail. some ideas i have for more kids are: child that’s ciel’s spitting image, and gives him complex feelings and maybe some flashbacks; kid that turns out blond somehow because of rachel; kid that’s almost entirely demonic and when their born they don’t appear human at all (it’s lucky seb & ciel are fine to do home births), so ciel can’t bare to look at his own child for several months, but the demon kid seems to imprint on him and uses shadowy tendrils to cling to him at all hours of the day.

misc:

ciel definitely designs several toys after his children. small bitter rabbits after them of course, and after the public realise they definitely make remarks that ciel and his significant other (bc ciel won’t reveal it’s sebastian) are going at it like rabbits. but ciel also perfects his children’s favourite toys and makes a note on the product that it is for them.

ciel’s young children of course perform ‘market research’ with him, and while it is a joke when he asks for their feedback, if they have a valid idea he will be keeping it in mind and implementing it if he thinks its viable.

seb can lift all of his kids and ciel at the same time. he happily picks all of them up no matter how old they get.

i honestly assume seb would give birth in some weird demony way, like he does get split open but in a more grotesque sense that looks like one his organs is crawling out of him. ciel gets used to it but it was disturbing to see at first. luckily seb’s body isn’t too strained, but ciel insists he rest after a birth for at least a few days. seb unfortunately almost never takes his full allotted time to rest, something in his brain is desperate to see and hold and kiss his babies, even though he knows and trusts ciel to take care of them.

seb who’s normally the one up at night with his kids since ciel needs to sleep and he doesn’t. however he’s dragged into the little beds of one or two of their children that need comfort as they fall asleep, and seb is happy to cuddle them until they have.

[omniphilic]

hiya soileil!!!! i wanted to ask if you have personal hcs (headcanons) for mark and how you generally like to imagine him when you write him!

thanks for the ask! 🙏🏾 next time if you're not sure how to spell my name, copy and paste it from my intro post or let autocorrect do its thang (fun fact: my name is sun in french :3), but to answer your question because i think about this A LOT.

I like to combine Comic Mark and Show Mark personality wise. Not to say the show version of him is the greatest person alive, but I choose to keep of his poorer traits or qualities from the comics rendition of him to give him more dimension. Overall, I follow the order of events as they occur in the show.

In my opinion, Mark is extremely Golden Retriever. I think he’s very personable, gentle and affectionate with those he loves, but I also see him as someone who can be stubborn, reluctant to change, impulsive, and self-centered. He isn't met with a lot pushback ever. In the comics this is more prevalent, as the only characters to openly disagree with Mark are portrayed as villains or become evil (Cecil, Robot) over the course of the run.

In the show, Debbie has the balls or the sense to actually nip Mark's nonsense in the bud. When Mark tells her to "Make me" after she tells him to come inside and stop flying. When she says "Is this what you need?" she's forcing him to confront that sense of self-righteousness. Amber is another character that does this, when she gets mad at him for 'ditching them' and leaving them to fight the Re-Animen.

I think Amber was justified in her irritation because he is essentially playing in her face, choosing to maintain the lie of him just disappearing instead of coming clean then and there or at any other point before. He lies to her throughout the majority of the relationship when the rest of his close companions already (William and Eve), choosing to leave Amber in the dark. As she goes on to reveal she knew his secret, I can understand her frustration. How are they supposed to be going steady when he's withholding a quite vital part of himself for.... literally no reason. She would've been safer had she have known, she would have never been mad at him if she had known. There were more benefits to telling her than not telling her.

Eve pushes back the hardest before they get together, like right before Omni-man fucks Mark's shit up and she tells him to stop moping about quitting hero work. He's presumptuous about her life, assuming he knows why she quit as opposed to asking directly, looking to follow in her footsteps because he's overwhelmed by a situation he himself created.

Overall, I don't think Mark is a very nice person. Going back to his conversation with Debbie on the back porch, I find it utterly insane he doesn't apologize to Debbie for essentially threatening her, and there are other instances of him not having others best interests at heart so he can maintain a sense of security—a big one being when he ditches Earth to go coddle her over a broken leg while the whole Invincible War is going on the background.

I think his self-centeredness doesn't allow him to deeply engage with the feelings of others, but his persistent, almost pervasive sense of conscientiousness is what keeps him on the straight and narrow for a large part of his time as Invincible. I feel like his sense of obligation is derived from guilt as opposed to love for humanity.

When Mark is around people he loves, or connects with emotionally, he is more comfortable divulging his true feelings. I find him to be both self-deterministic and rejection sensitive, averse to truly absorbing the opinions of others unless he feels that way himself, as well as being afraid of being told he's doing something wrong.

All of that to say... I don't think he's consciously being a bad person, he's just limited by those he's surrounded by, they don't tell him about himself regularly enough to get him used to that kind of push back.

For the most part I think he's on the level, tries his best to be a good person where he can. He has some capacity for pettiness, but it isn't often his first resort. Some of his biggest moments of growth occur when he's learning of the realities of the world, like during the first Flaxan invasion, where he realizes how brutal the life of a superhero can be, but he rarely ever has moments of self-discovery, understanding and reconciliation. TLDR; this boy needs a therapist.

He has nobody to relate to because nobody is exactly on his level, and the people who should be concerned with his emotional wellbeing (Eve or Debbie) and they don't encourage him to open up.

Often what happens to him in sensitive moments, when he does genuinely try to open up (to Eve, when he is trying to communicate what happened with future Eve) he is very strongly shut down, which would further reinforce his insistence on not communicating his true feelings.

This happens a lot. I think the reason is because of bad writing, honestly— Some people (primarily female characters, like Eve and Amber) act as is needed to move along the plot, I believe, but despite this shortcoming in the narrative I chose to just... bake it into his character.

Mark's upbringing (as a white dude who is written by a white dude) means he not only navigates the world differently but is socialized differently than most likely me or you, so he has a different sense of entitlement, a different understanding of right and wrong, and a lack of curiosity.

i think he would be more knowledgeable in his like. mid-later twenties (wait until I make that Dilf! piece with @wingfleur) but he's bumbling for a fair bit of his late teens early twenties.

He's just a loser trying his best!!! anyway this turned into a ramble imma dip out—

[spookytragedyshark]

Part two of this one of my Ghoap x f!reader idea. Writers can take it and run; just remember to tell me where to find your work.

MDNI 18+ ONLY.

Also debating on a name so feel free to share some ideas

So, after the spectacular incident that had ghost drooling on himself, Soap is included in most everything you guys do. Problem Y/N is not as good at communicating as Ghost gives her credit for.

Soap firmly believes that he is around for fun. After all, he still sleeps in the guest bedroom some nights. You were just giving him space in case you and Ghost became too much at once. Sure his stuff is all over the apartment, mixing in just as well as Ghosts. Yes, he has been with you two every break except… he hasn't been asked for the holidays. You two spend holidays with your (family/friends). You never asked because you do not want to make him choose between his family and your relationship, and are not sure how his family would take a polycule.

So the boys go back to base. Soap fools himself into believing that was that, and he should be grateful for the few weeks he had in your home. Still, he can't help sleeping with the collar on every night, or that it brings him comfort. He only begins to question this when you text him two weeks in. It is a simple text, asking his preference on some random recipe you want to cook for him, but Soap honestly starts crying. After that, he gets texts from you every few days.

At the first news of a break, Ghost once again appears in his room, packing Soap a bag, "birdie said home." Within hours, Soap is sandwiched between you watching a movie in onesies. Soap is just eating up the attention. All too soon, they have to return.

Soap feels like he has no right to be upset that he and Ghost do not have moments on base. Ghost is just unsure how to approach the subject without his bird. But you are both so good to him on leave.

Then he gets injured, it's minor, but it could have been so much worse. Ghost drags him to his room. Soap is expecting a lecture instead he is thrown on the bed. The bounce of the mattress reboots his brain. Next thing he knows, he is blissed out, sweaty, collared, and covered in love bites with Ghost asleep on his chest. Ghost thought Soap was going to die and freaked out, needing to feel and hear Soap. Following that, after particularly rough missions, Ghosts visits him at night.

One break, you get some temporary tattoo pins and go nuts doodling on them. They are covered in colorful designs when they return to base. While they are home, you take an imprint of their mouths. Soap doesn't think anything of it, given that he once saw you wearing tooth earrings and knows you get creative.

At least he doesn't till the moment he realizes he might actually be married to you two in every way but on paper. He and Simon come home exhausted to find you in the kitchen with the counters covered in different desserts. Stress baking... the two of them are by your side, checking on you. "What has Birdie worked up?" You are evasive at first. Only Soap notices you flinch when he touches your back. The shirt is off in seconds, them checking for injury, only to find a fresh tattoo. Suddenly, you are a blushing mess. "Do you like it? It took some effort to design it right." It takes the boys a minute to catch on, to process what they are seeing. Spanning across your shoulder blade are their bite imprints simplified and shrunk down to create a wave pattern with little penguins in it.

This is the moment Soap decides to buy Y/N, and Simon rings because you two clearly are incapable of just saying what you want. You are also in for a wild night.

[fishyaudio]

Raz, who's been your favourite design you've made for your anthro au? I have a feeling it's Saint lol

Your feeling is not wrong, she's a favourite to draw!

But if I had to choose one, favourite design ever out of the ten, it would be the one for Shine (aka Monk, I really need to start using the names I gave them all for the AU here as well, gahh)

It's a surprising choice for me, because when it came to in-game depiction + popular fandom interpretations of Monk, I never really liked the guy (not disliked, just didn't think about the character a lot and found others more interesting). I don't usually dig the "peaceful, kind, happy" archetype characters in media in general, it's just not my thing, and most "fanmade character extensions" of Monk I've seen just expanded on that alone. It's not that they're anyhow wrong! They're just really not my thing and it always itches me to introduce more contrast or flavor in personalities of that sort. It's suprisingly hard to write a character who is mainly just really pure and avoids conflict, at least for me. Unhinged beasts with weird morals are sometimes just easier to grasp bwahaha

And with that, since it's "character design" and not just "design" - that initially made me feel like designing and creating the anthro AU equivalent for Monk would be a neccessary struggle and when I'm done, I won't ever pay much attention to a character I'd consider a bit more flat in comparison to what I had planned for others. But the longer I sketched, more "what ifs" came to mind and I ended up with Shine - still the younger sibling, just taller and bigger than the scrawny, troublemaking, older one. Took advantage of Share (Gourmand) being his parent, so he takes after him in size and personality a bit more. That opened a really fun path to explore with him.

I've decided to link his pacifist mentality and kindness not to being childish and bit unwise, but to idealism, stronger sense of justice and an overall aspiration to be reliable and responsible. He's still young and naive, but it doesn't come from being childish and having a "kill them with kindness, no other options allowed" mentality, but rather from being an inexperienced, future leader with a lot of potential. One that's often being very harsh on himself when his mistakes or faulty judgement causes a slip-up or a situation escalated in a way he couldn't predict. Sometimes, things just happen and there was no way to foresee the consequences or avoid confrontation, despite how hard everyone tried, and that's also a part of life - that's something Shine would struggle to accept. He's naive, but not dumb. Even with that - it doesn't stop him from being a very trustworthy and quick-thinking individual. I like that about him!

And this is also what's reflected in the design - he's on the taller side, with a more blocky build. Flowy, loose clothes both make him look really comfortable and chill, visually suggesting that he's more laid-back, not active, not used to fights and messy situations, while also pushing the silhouette to be a one, sturdy shape even more. That just yells "you can approach and trust this guy easily" by looks alone. From smaller details - he has the monk symbol in a visible place on his belt -> wants to signal to others that he's not a threat and is always willing to talk things out or settle for a compromise. He doesn't have much more accessories -> doesn't like showing off and isn't desperate for attention. The only striking, busy pattern he has on him is the striped sleeve to match his sib - he values Ways (Survivor) a lot!

From other designs for the AU - March, Ways and Steps (Spearmaster, Survivor and Rivulet) are also my favourites for various reasons, but this post is already a yap session. Maybe next time, if anyone's curious.

Thanks for the ask! Gave me an excuse to draw them more!!

AU tag here!

[suliigwp]

✦ORACLE'S NOTES✦

THE RISE OF KING MAXIMILIAN

AND THE FALL OF SOLMARA

Max didn’t inherit a kingdom.

He conquered it.

He came into power through a brutal, merciless war — not to gain glory, but to create order in a realm that had fractured into chaos. He believed the land needed a single ruler, a single crown, to stop the cycle of betrayal and blood.

So he began what would later be known as The Crown War — and burned through five kingdoms to forge his own. One of those kingdoms was Solmara, a sunlit realm of art, wealth, and proud bloodlines... ruled by House Castelana.

Carlos’ family.

THE FALL OF SOLMARA

Solmara didn’t fall because it was weak.

It fell because it was too proud to kneel.

Carlos' father refused to submit. He believed Solmara’s light would outlast Valtarys’ storm. But Max, young and merciless, laid siege to the capital, not with arrogance, but with precision and quiet rage.

Solmara fell in seven days.

Carlos survived—barely.

He was dragged from the ashes, crown shattered, hands bloodied, carrying the weight of a kingdom that no longer existed.

Max never speaks of Solmara.

He won’t say if he regrets it.

But those closest to him say he hasn’t visited that part of the realm since.

Carlos wasn’t just exiled. He was orphaned by Max’s war. Everything he is now—the rebel leader, the symbol, the fire beneath the people’s fear—is built on that destruction.

Max doesn’t fear Carlos, but he remembers him. And in rare, private moments… perhaps he wonders if he was right.

Carlos wants more than a throne. He wants to undo what Max created—because to him, Valtarys isn’t peace. It’s ruin dressed in stone.

And now they are kings of two legacies:

Max: the King of One Crown, built from ash and silence.

Carlos: the Prince of a Dead Kingdom, sworn to break the empire that rose on his bones.

Duke Lewis of House Hamilton — The Neutral Power

He rules the Eastern Realm, untouched by Max’s war.

Too powerful to conquer. Too strategic to oppose.

Lewis chose neutrality during the Crown War—but he watched.

He watched Solmara fall. He watched Max crown himself.

Now, he plays host to secret meetings, wandering ambassadors, and exiled royals.

No one knows where his loyalty lies.

Which means it lies exactly where he wants it to.

And when the time comes—he will choose.

And the realm will tremble.

Prince Charles of House Leclerc — The Prince Who Knows Too Much

Liora bent the knee during the Crown War. Not out of fear, but to survive.

Charles grew up with the sound of distant war drums and the scent of burning kingdoms.

He was too young to stop it.

Now, he walks palace halls that whisper with regret.

He knows what Max did.

And he knows what Carlos lost.

But he also knows: if Valtarys falls, Liora burns with it.

So he smiles, he dances, he plays the part.

Until he no longer can.

Ser Lando of House Norris — The Loyal Knight Turned Wandering Sword

Lando fought for Valtarys during the Crown War. Young. Loud. Too bright to belong there.

He followed orders, swung his blade, earned a name.

But he saw things he shouldn’t have.

He left after the war ended. Max understood. They always understood each other.

Now, he roams between courts—guarding merchants, escorting envoys, laughing too much and watching everything.

He says he has no side.

But Carlos once saved his life.

And Max still calls him brother in passing.

He’s going to have to choose.

And it will break someone’s heart.

Oscar of House Piastri — The Shadow Bound to one

Max doesn’t trust many.

He trusts Oscar.

A silent blade raised within Valtarys’ inner court, Oscar has been loyal, precise, and invisible since the war began.

He never questions. He never fails.

And yet… he watches.

He watches what the war has made of his king.

He watches who is rising in the South.

And sometimes, in the quiet of night, he wonders what he would do

if Carlos stood before him—unarmed.

He doesn’t know the answer yet.

But one day, he’ll have to.

Alex of House Albon — The Wild Oracle

He was never part of a court.

Born in the northern wilds, Alex carries the blood of something older—something barely remembered.

He dreams of things before they happen.

He knows when people lie.

And he hears whispers the others ignore.

Now, both Carlos and Lewis seek his counsel.

Max doesn’t.

Max is afraid of what he might say.

Ser George of House Russell — The White Blade

He was Max’s sword during the Crown War. Sharp. Calculated.

He didn’t burn cities out of passion—he did it because someone had to.

They call him The White Blade, and behind palace doors, some say the crown would’ve slipped without him.

He still stands beside Max. Still wears the crest of Valtarys. Still bows lower than anyone else in court.

But loyalty is a dangerous word.

And George wears it like a mask.

He plays his role—perfectly.

But the longer the realm bends toward war, the more the question sharpens:

Is George here to defend Max’s throne— or to be close enough to take it?

Oliver of House Bearman — The Young Heir

Oliver’s family allied with Valtarys to survive.

He was just a child then—quiet, clever, and constantly overlooked.

Now he trains with Valtarys steel, but his eyes flicker elsewhere.

He has seen too much of Max’s coldness, and too little of justice.

He dreams of something different.

Something that sounds like Carlos’ rebellion.

But saying it aloud would be treason.

And he’s not ready to die.

Not yet.

Kimi of House Antonelli — The Prophecy’s Child

Born after the Crown War, raised on stories of what came before.

His name appears in too many old scrolls, tied to omens and fire.

Valtarys protects him. Carlos fears him.

Lewis studies him. Alex avoids him.

He does not know what he’s meant to be.

He only knows the realm is watching him—

and something is waking beneath the earth.

[takesyouranemo]

Wrong Time, Right Guy

cw: FemReader/body, Modern AU, smut, Unclear consent at first, oral (F-Receiving), Voyeurism, semi-public setting, overstimulation, degrading, Teeth play, and mast3rbation.

Word Count: 3,198 (3K+)

Summary: Wanderer walks in on you pleasuring yourself on the couch, when you thought he was gone. His reaction was not what you expected at all.

Notes: This is my 2nd fanfic, I hope im doing better. I did some more research, and im hoping to improve- starting with adding the Content warning. I didn’t add on the last one. So. Sorry for that ;-;. Anyway, I had fun writing this!

(My writing skills are not 100% yet, english is not my first language. So please let me know how I can improve on anything!)

—————————————————————————

(1st person)

- Spending time by myself has always been easier, peaceful, and relaxing. Unfortunately, I couldn’t afford living in a nice little apartment like this one by myself. Beautiful wooden dark oak floors, a kitchen house wives would kill for, and a handsome specimen to come home too. Wanderer is what his name is, everyone calls him by Hat Guy though at the college we go to.

We have been living together for a year now, and have been doing fine I guess.

Hmph. If only he was just as nice as he was to look at. His attitude was just as painfully hot as the tea he brews every morning. I swear he wakes up with a stick up his ass.

Luckily his pretty face makes up for it, if it weren’t for it, I would have just avoided him all completely. Instead of sitting with him, and eating breakfast.

“Take a picture. It would last longer.”

I keep staring at him, maybe a picture would suit him better. I take out my phone and snap a picture of him looking at me like he was going to kill me.

He scoffs. “You are such an idiot. Delete that.” He reaches over the table for my phone. I quickly pull back.

“No, you said I could. Your own fault for not choosing your words properly.”

I keep scrolling through my phone, ignoring the glares he was giving me before he pulls back against his own chair. Crossing his arms, as he looks away from me.

“Whatever.”

He scoffs again, something he really does too often. He finishes up his food, picking up his own plate and placing it inside the sink.

Watching him as he walks over to his room and locks himself inside it. The apartment was pretty big for just the two of us. The kitchen and living room being connected together, and the front door being a clear shot from the TV.

After a few minutes of scrolling through my phone. He walks out his room with his bag, a new outfit, and a new attitude. Closing his door and making his way to the other one.

“Where are you going?”

He doesn’t turn around. Instead he grabs his keys from the key hanger and opens the front door to leave.

“Im going out, a few people called for my attention. Wont be back till later, so don’t wait for me.”

He leaves, closing the door. Not even waiting for my reply.

“Hmph. Not like I would wait for you anyway.”

I keep scrolling through my phone, and unconsciously going back to the picture that I took of him. I lean onto the table, resting my head on the palm of my hand. Commending the picture I took of him. It wasn’t the best picture, and I didn’t have others to compare it to, so it’s fine.

He really does have such a pretty face.. why does a guy like him get blessed with good looks but a cold attitude?

My eyes sink into the photo a little more, his eyes were a pretty piercing violet. A strong body no doubt. Yet feminine facial features, like a doll.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he was blessed with other features too.. you know, his personality isn’t that bad, its almost a little sexy. If I were to ask him to do it with me, would he agree to it? I don’t think I would mind such a fate..

My eyes widen in realization, slapping my phone down onto the table. What am I thinking? And about him? You really are an idiot! My face heats up, both my elbows now on the table, covering my face.

“You’re ovulating or something.. oh my archons.”

I stand up from my seat, grabbing my own plate and walking around the table, and then placing it into the sink. My movements felt almost robotic, as I rush over to the couch, grabbing my phone on the way, sitting down with my leg’s propped up against me.

—————————————————————————

I tried not thinking about him as I turned the TV on—especially not his cheeky remarks or the way he spoke like he knew everything. Knew me.

I curled tighter, resting my head on my knees. Pretending like Tropical wildlife was the most compelling thing i’ve ever seen.

The toucan screeched.

“Wow, I feel deeply Educated right now,” I muttered dryly, tightening my grip around my knees like that would stop the heat pooling between my legs.

My mind betraying me instantly, conjuring images of his hands exploring every inch on my body. He could call me anything, a mess a slut, his— and I wouldn’t care.

“What a slutty mind you have.. thinking about me like this?”

I imagined his hands gliding down my thighs, my own legs parting on instinct, slow and unsure, like they were waiting for him. Tugging my shorts down to my knees, my fingers slipping under the waistband of my underwear, brushing over my slick warmth, pretending they were his.

“What are you doing..” I whispered to myself, the TV was still running the documentary that I had no interest in anymore. My fingers rubbing gentle circles around my clit.

“Stupid fucking asshole..” I muttered again, my breath catching as my fingers working a deeper rhythm. My thoughts couldn’t help but visualize him watching me, kneeling down in front of me. I couldn’t stop.

——— 2nd

You didn’t hear the door open, too caught up in your own frustrations, the low hum of the TV, the pulsating feeling between your legs, and the images of him in your mind.

Wanderer coming in like normal, quiet, unbothered, if anything it was like a regular day.

He drops his bag on the floor with a soft thud, and hung up his keys like always. Brushing his hair from his face with his fingers as he walked over to his room without caring to look around, his hand already on the doorknob.

Then he froze.

His brows twitched the moment he heard it— soft, breathy muffled sounds, coming from the couch. Barely audible, but unmistakably you.

And then-“Wanderer…”

His own name being called out like a sin.

He couldn’t help but cover his mouth with his free hand, staring blankly down at the floor. His cheeks flushing pink.

His hand only gripped the doorknob tighter, his knuckles turning white, jaw clenching as he turns his gaze towards the source of the noise. He didn’t say anything.. he didn’t move. His hand dropping from his mouth.

Just stood there, his expression twitching between irritation and something more dangerous.

Deciding whether to turn around and pretend like nothing happened, or deal with the problem.

“Mmh.. Wanderer.. just like that..” Your moan was soft, enticing, and so casual it was infuriating. Like you didn’t care who could overhear you.

In the living room of all places.. you decided to please yourself in the living room, where he could walk in at any second?

Something inside him snapped.

His footsteps hit the floor hard, fast. Only noticing him when the sound cut through your your haze. By then it was roo late, he was already in front of you, looming over the couch.

He leans in close, boxing you in, one hand braced beside your head. The scent of cold air, and braised pork clinging onto his clothes from outside.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice was low yet stern. “You idiot what type of person does this type of thing in the living room?” His voice should have sounded angrier, but it didn’t, there was to much breath in it. Too much restraint..

His eyes were locked on your eyes, your lips, your flushed cheeks, and your thighs you tried to close.

Instantly you felt shame wash over you. Shrinking back his presence heavy. “W-Why are you back so early??”

“They canceled plans.”

His jaw was tense. His brows furrowed. Everything about him screamed frustration. You knew he had every right to be, every guilty bone in your body tensing up, ready to receive whatever form of scolding.

Instead of him pulling away to yell or say anything like you expected, he leaned in and kissed you.

Hard.

He pulled back slowly. “Didn’t expect to catch my roommate like this,” he muttered, his voice thick with something darker.

Your eyes flicked up to his, dazed. They drove him crazy, more than he would like to admit. “Or..” he leaned in again, his lips hovering over yours.

“is this what you so desperately wanted??” He leans in again, capturing your lips. Hungrier this time, more possessive, Swallowing the soft moans coming from your mouth.

He felt like he could go on forever if he wanted to, something about you really turned him on, he never wanted to stop.. Slowly parting to let you breathe.

You gasp as his lips detach from yours, your hands gripping the couch as your body tried to catch up.

“W-Wait.. wanderer..” your voice trembled in uncertainty, even if your lips already craved more.

Why wasn’t he creeped out? Disgusted or at-least saying something?

He understood what you were trying to get at. Though it doesn't interest him to answer it for her. There was something so delicious about how nervous she was, and he had every intention on savoring it.

He slowly spreads your legs again, taking your shorts off completely for better access, tossing them aside somewhere. His fingers exploring the spot you were pleasuring yourself from causing you to gasp again.

“Tell me.” He growled softly, “Tell me how you were imagining me touching you. You looked so fucking pathetic earlier.. pleasuring yourself so easily.”

You shivered, his words stung so good in a way that made your thighs tremble. Yet too shy to say anything now that he was right in front of you.

“I.. don’t..” you mumble, not being able to bring yourself to say anything.

Two fingers slipping into your wet cunt without warning. “Don’t get shy now Y/N. You were so easily fucking yourself on this couch earlier. I would expect you to have at least something to say to me~” a smirk growing on his lips.

“Shit—” you say breathily, the intrusion causing you to gasp. Your hips shifting forward, searching for more.

He chuckles, knowing what he was doing to you. Amused by your cute expressions. Your moan was so soft and feminine, he just wanted to know what other ways there were to bring out those noises out from you. "You liked that?" he whispers in your ears.

"Mmhm.." you nodded your head. You looked so desperate, your pussy already so wet from how much you must have been playing with yourself earlier.

He presses kisses into your neck, nipping at your sensitive skin, leaving dark marks behind. His fingers slipping from your desperate heat, fluttering, missing what was once occupying its space.

"Were going to try this again. And I won't repeat myself this time. So listen close." His voice was low and commanding. His hands sliding down the length of your outer thighs.

"Tell me. How you imagined. Me touching you." he wanted to see you flustered, and humiliated. He figured you owed him honestly-- after the way he found you. Sprawled out.. he couldn't get the image out of his head, and he didn't care to.

You gulped nervously, what he was telling you to do was so shameful, so embarrassing, yet.. so.. soo.. arousing.

"I.. Imagined your hands roaming my body.." your voice quivered, your eyes not letting you hold eye contact with him.

Check~ he smirks. His gaze following yours,-- to where his hands were already gliding down the curve of your thigh, stroking your skin like he owned it.

"and.. your fingers, inside me.." you glance up, trying to read him-- but his expression-- unreadable.

"Your lips-" He didn't let you finish your sentence before his lips came crashing into yours hungrily.

His hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you deeper into the kiss, tasing the sound of your need.

He had been wanting to do that for a while now..

His fingers tracing the inner part of your thigh, your skin trembling in anticipation, It all fed his ego even more. You couldn't understand why he was doing this to you, or why it came so easy to him, but at this point you didn't care.

All you were thinking about was how much better this was than just imagining him doing it..

"mmh." Your muffled noises was music to his ears, as your squirmed, your hips rocking practically begging for it to be touched.

He parts his lips slightly, just hovering over yours. His fingers making their way down to your aching cunt, slipping them back inside.

“Was it like this?” His fingers curve, looking for your sweet spot; neglecting your clit that you so desperately wanted touched.

Your moans were soft, moving your hips towards his fingers which made him chuckle. Glad he was making you feel good. His fingers still sliding in and out of you, taking his sweet time.

"Or.. like this?" His fingers curving and twisting slightly, finding it, that deep sensitive spot inside you. Causing you to jolt slightly upon feeling it.

"yes! just like that- mmh.." You pleaded, It felt good, but it wasn't enough and he knew it. He eyes linger on you for a moment, a small smile creeping to his lips.

"I know you want more.." He muttered, slowly moving down in between your legs, admiring how wet you were as he watches his fingers sink in and out your cunt.

"p-please, Wanderer.." your voice trembled.

His lips skim your inner thigh, deliberately avoiding where you were dripping for him. His teeth sinking in, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp, leaving behind a mark that blooms under his touch.

"Jeez, Your so needy." He hums lowly.

Archons, your reactions are so captivating. Gently pressing his cheek against your thigh, savoring you, as his fingers continued to work on you. How long have you been thinking of him like this? was it coincidentally in his favor catching you off guard?

If so.. how lucky of him..

His tongue tracing over the tender spot where he had just bitten you. Your reactions were so adorable, quivering desperately. He flicks your clit with his tongue, teasing you. Your legs quivering.

"W-wanderer, I need you.. please" you mewl. Were really begging? Never in your life did you think that Wanderer would be so up for this, it really made you question what your really even knew about him..

"Took you long enough, all you had to do was ask~" he murmured, before withdrawing his fingers, watching you clench around nothing. He then dipped his head lower, tongue gliding through your slick heat.

God, you tasted divine.. Nothing better then just watching someone crumble beneath you.

He propped your thighs apart, his braced beneath your knees, holding you exactly how he wanted you. His tongue tasting you.

Your bundle of nerves feeling every time he nipped your clit, making you jolt, then soothed the sting with his tongue- again and again..

It was getting so swollen and sensitive, your legs were trembling.

"Please! hah- Wanderer stop- Its too mu-much..!" You sobbed. Your cheeks a flushed red.

"Ive barely even started, Is this all it takes to ruin you? Pathetic." He grins.

"s-shut up!" Your hand fists his hair, "I cant! I-I cant!" you moan out louder. Trying so hard not to close your thighs on him.

He kept overstimulating your clit with the nipping, knowing you were close.

"Fuck! Wanderer!"" you cry out as you finally came undone, your legs trembling and your hand gripping his hair tighter. Sweat drips down your thighs as his tongue kept working you through it.

"mmh." He muttered, licking lazily at the mess he made, enjoying it like a prize before backing up. Watching you in awe, your breath heavy, and so destroyed.

"You really are cute like this Y/N."

"just.. shut up.." You mumble, still breathless. Your hand finally slowly letting go of his hair and down to your thigh.

He grins, "if this was just my tongue," he said his voice predatory. "imagine what I'll do when I actually fuck you." He slowly stand back up, leaning into you.

Your face heats up again, covering your own face in embarrassment. He scoffs, then leans into your ear.

"I hope that slutty pussy of yours can handle more, Y/N," he purrs, smirking darkly. His fingers grazing your thigh again, a teasing warning. A small gasp leaving your lips.

"Because I'm not done with you yet."