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[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."

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✧ 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

[pairingbrainrot]

!!!!!

(Clip starts at 3:10)

[soldierandawar]

my favorite thing is explaining love island lore. i could talk about that shit for literal hours.

[rrainydaydreams]

I tried to save as much of Jay's commentary from the livestream as I could (the chat was moving pretty fast) so here you go!

Edit: I hadn't mentioned this earlier but I did have more commentary (with additional notes) here if you wanted to check it out! Someone else also found even more, which you might want to check out here!

The Underworld

No Longer You

Monster

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

So being a "live" author rather than "write it all up, publish, and come what may" type author, do you ever take reader commentary into consideration? Like I imagine for sure nothing that'd change the story per se, but if people expressed that they liked the exposition for example, do you feel driven to maybe put a little more whenever it fits?

No. The story gets what the story needs; if the readers like a lot of something then I make notes for the next story so that I can (if I choose to do so) design a story with more of that from the start. Being a 'live' author gives very little room for direction, theme or basic structure and tone changes because you can't go back and rewrite published chapters. Spent too much time taking the audience into account will turn you into one of those tv writers who spend too much time reading about their own show on twitter and end up writing a mess as a result.

I keep an eye on the reactions as an educational tool; did this elicit the kind of reactions that I wanted? Is the audience exhibiting the sort of discussions that I expected? If not, why not? That data is used to improve my craft. For the story in progress, the main thing I'm checking for is comprehension. Does the audience sufficiently understand the plot and setting? Is there something they're wildly misunderstanding? That's the one thing that does change how I write the story in progress; some misunderstanding is normal (the audience will usually have some people who understand something explain it to the people who don't), but if everybody's misunderstanding or forgetting something basic, it means I've communicated it incorrectly and need to communicate it again before it becomes plot critical. Checking the live reactions is also a good way to skim for minor plot holes and ensure that your twists are at the level of predictability you want. You want a small number of people to guess each twist in advance; this shows that you have correctly seeded the pieces and it's not coming out of absolutely nowhere. If a very large proportion of the audience is guessing a twist, then it's not a twist, it's a revelation for the character, which is perfectly fine and YOU SHOULD NOT ALTER IT, THEN IT'S A MESS COMING OUT OF NOWHERE, YOU'RE NOT IN COMPETITION WITH YOUR AUDIENCE OH MY GOD TV WRITERS GET OFF TWITTER, but it's handy to know which one you're writing in advance.

[joaeriz]

8 LETTERS (Paige Bueckers x Fem!Reader)

📎 inspired by “8 Letters” by Why Don’t We 📖 fluff | slow burn | soft romance | college AU 💌 word count: ~2.8k

summary: When Y/N is assigned to write a feature on UConn’s star player Paige Bueckers, the last thing she expects is late-night FaceTimes, secret hangouts, and catching real feelings. As the line between friendship and something more starts to blur, both girls are left wondering if they’re brave enough to say the eight letters that could change everything.

authors note: (Okay, so before you jump in—I just wanna say I had so much fun writing this. It’s honestly a mix of two of my favorite things ever: Paige Bueckers (who I adore) and “8 Letters” by Why Don’t We (which lives rent-free in my head, always). The idea hit me out of nowhere—like, what if that kind of soft, slow, “I love you but I’m scared to say it” kind of story played out between Y/N and Paige? And it just spiraled from there in the best way. I got way too emotionally invested in these two (not sorry), and writing all the cute moments, the late-night FaceTimes, and the feelings they’re both too scared to admit? Ugh. I loved every second.So if you’re into a little angst, a lot of softness, and some seriously sweet vibes, I hope this gives you butterflies the way it gave me butterflies writing it. Thanks for reading—it means so much. — Jo)

P.s: this is my first fic i have posted on here!! Im not new at writing, but let me know if you guys want more :)

You weren’t supposed to fall in love with your story subject.

That was rule number one of journalism school. No dating your interviewees, no crushes on profile pieces, no getting involved. But rules felt irrelevant the first time Paige Bueckers smiled at you like you were more than another face with a notepad.

Your assignment was simple—write a semester-long feature on the UConn women’s basketball team for the student paper. Paige, naturally, was the center of the piece. A star on and off the court. Already a national name. Every sports journalist dreamed of covering her.

You were supposed to remain objective.

Instead, you were falling for her.

Hard.

—

It started with a dead recorder.

Your first real conversation wasn’t planned—unless you count fate as a planner. You’d been huddled near the sideline at practice, trying to record a quote from one of the assistant coaches when your recorder sputtered out and died mid-sentence. You swore under your breath and slapped it, like that ever helped.

Paige had been walking by, sipping on a water bottle, and stopped. “Need backup?”

You looked up, startled. “Only if you’ve got a time machine.”

She smiled. “Nope. But I’ve got the Voice Memos app.”

She handed over her phone like it was no big deal—like she hadn’t just offered you her lifeline. You blinked. “You trust a random reporter with your phone?”

“You don’t seem like the type to scroll through texts.” She leaned in with a smirk. “Besides, you’ve got an honest face. And a tragic relationship with electronics.”

You laughed, cheeks heating. She stayed next to you for a few minutes, watching as you wrapped up your interview with her phone in hand. When it was over, she texted you the audio file with the message:

“Try not to let your technology trauma ruin your career.”

You responded with a lame thank-you and a joke about threatening your recorder with a hammer. You didn’t expect her to reply.

But she did.

“Violence is rarely the answer, but I’ll allow it.”

From there, it snowballed. Texts turned into full-blown threads. Threads into daily check-ins. She started sending random memes between practices—some sports-related, some completely unhinged—and you’d match her energy with cursed TikToks and sarcastic commentary.

Then came the first FaceTime.

You were editing audio at 11:47 p.m. when her name lit up your screen. Paige Bueckers is FaceTiming you.

You stared at it for a second. Then answered.

She was wrapped in a hoodie with damp hair and tired eyes, lying in bed. “Hey,” she said softly. “Didn’t wanna be alone tonight.”

That first call lasted three hours.

You talked about everything: your major, her injuries, your complicated relationship with your hometown, her fear of letting people down. She confessed that sometimes, the pressure made her want to run away to a place where no one knew her name.

You said you understood.

After that, it became routine. Late-night FaceTimes. Morning Snapchats. Study breaks where she'd call and say, “Tell me something random,” and you’d ramble about your day while she half-listened, half-dozed.

—

The first time you hung out outside of school was under the guise of an interview follow-up.

She invited you to a local coffee shop—some cozy little place with plants in every window and tables just slightly too small. You showed up with your laptop and pages of notes. Paige showed up in a hoodie and beanie, no makeup, looking infuriatingly good.

You talked for two hours.

Only twenty minutes was about basketball.

She paid for your drink when you weren’t looking.

“I’ll Venmo you,” you said, pretending to dig for your phone.

She just shrugged. “Nah. Call it a reporter’s hazard fee.”

After that came more not-quite-dates. Study sessions in the campus library where she never actually studied. Walks through the trail behind the dorms where she'd kick pebbles and talk about life like it was something she hadn’t quite figured out yet.

One night, she invited you to “movie night” with the team.

You showed up with snacks and nerves, expecting a whole crowd.

But it was just her.

Two mugs of hot chocolate already on the table. A blanket tossed casually over the couch. She tried to play it off. “The others bailed,” she claimed with a sheepish shrug.

She was a terrible liar.

You stayed anyway.

She fell asleep halfway through the second movie with her head on your shoulder, and you didn’t dare move.

After that night, everything shifted.

—

There were moments. God, there were moments.

The way her hand would brush yours when she passed you something and linger—just a second too long. The way she’d light up when you walked into a room, like you were the only one she’d been waiting for. How she’d say things like:

“Sometimes I forget how to breathe around you.”

And then immediately pretend it was a joke.

You wanted to say it.

You almost did—on Valentine’s Day, when she left a note in your dorm mailbox with a chocolate bar and the words “you’re my favorite notification.”

But you chickened out.

Because if she didn’t feel the same way, you’d lose her. And that possibility was more terrifying than staying quiet.

But then came the silence.

She started pulling away. Fewer texts. Missed calls. Short replies like:

“Practice ran late.” “Sorry, just tired.” “Talk soon?”

And soon became never.

Until the day it broke.

—

It was cold. Rainy. The kind of day that made everything feel heavier. You were walking past the practice facility, hood up, heart aching, when you saw her.

Paige. Alone. Leaning against the wall like she was waiting for something—or someone.

You slowed. She looked up.

“I think we should stop,” she said.

Your stomach dropped. “Stop…?”

“This. Us. I don’t know what this is to you, and I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with not knowing.”

You blinked, throat closing.

“I’m not asking you to guess,” you managed to say.

“Well, then tell me,” she whispered. “Because I think about you all the time, and I don’t know how to make it stop. And it hurts, Y/N. It hurts not knowing if I’m just another story to you.”

And finally—finally—you said the words.

“You asked what love looks like to me.”

She held her breath.

“It looks like you. Like FaceTime calls at midnight and cold coffee on a Sunday morning. It’s how you fight through everything and still smile like you’re not carrying the weight of the world. I didn’t say it before because I was scared, but I’m more scared of losing you.”

Her eyes glossed. She stepped closer.

“You love me?” she asked, barely a whisper.

“I do.”

And when she kissed you, it was soft and shaky and real. Like exhaling after holding your breath for too long.

—

That night, your article sat unfinished.

She lay beside you on your tiny dorm bed, her hand brushing yours under the covers, the silence between you humming with peace.

“Say it again,” she murmured.

You smiled.

“I love you.”

Eight letters.

—

It had been twenty-six days since you told Paige you loved her.

Twenty-six days since she kissed you in the rain like her world had just started spinning again.

Twenty-six days since things finally became real.

And every single one of those days had felt like waking up in the softest dream.

Being with Paige wasn’t loud or flashy—not most of the time. It was slow mornings in bed, tangled limbs and quiet whispers. It was FaceTiming just to sit in silence while you both worked. It was warm hoodies borrowed without asking, and her stealing your socks because “they’re the soft ones.”

It was peace.

One Sunday morning, you found her asleep on your couch, wearing your crewneck and hugging your stuffed animal. She’d crashed the night before after watching movies in your room, the two of you curled together on your tiny dorm bed until she got too warm and rolled onto the floor, dramatically sighing, “This is why we need a queen-sized mattress and a lease.”

You’d laughed, thinking she was joking.

Then she blinked up at you and said, totally serious, “Like… a place. You and me. Off campus. Someday.”

Your heart soared, and you tucked the idea away like a wish on a star.

Later, she sleepily mumbled, “I want you in my mornings and my nights.”

And you knew she meant it.

—

Dating Paige came with little adventures.

Like the time she surprised you with a picnic—on a Tuesday.

You’d been having the worst week: deadlines, papers, zero sleep. Paige texted you in the middle of class: “Be ready at 6. Trust me.”

You met her behind the student union, expecting takeout and a movie.

Instead, she’d laid out a blanket under a canopy of fairy lights she somehow got from the volleyball team’s gear closet. There was music playing from a Bluetooth speaker, a thermos of your favorite hot cocoa, and a little box of cupcakes from the bakery you once mentioned you liked.

“I know you’re overwhelmed,” she said, pulling you into a hug. “So I’m forcing you to pause. Just for tonight.”

You nearly cried.

“I don’t deserve you,” you whispered.

She kissed your forehead and grinned. “Nah. We deserve each other.”

—

Her love came in a thousand small ways.

When your period hit hard, she showed up with snacks, heating pads, and the world’s ugliest cartoon pajamas she said were “scientifically proven to improve moods.” (They did.)

When she won a game, she didn’t go out with the team—she came to your place and danced with you barefoot in the kitchen to 2000s R&B.

When you got a bad grade on a paper and spiraled about being “not good enough,” she held your face in her hands and said, “You’re brilliant. One grade doesn’t get to rewrite the story.”

She never let you forget your worth—even when you did.

—

Your favorite tradition was Sunday mornings.

You’d wake up slow—her arm slung lazily around your waist, her cheek against your shoulder. She always looked soft in the mornings, voice scratchy, hair messy, face unfiltered.

“Don’t look at me,” she’d mumble, burying her face in the pillow.

You always did anyway.

You’d take turns making breakfast—read: burning toast and debating whether Pop-Tarts counted as a real meal. You’d play records on your vintage player, dance around the room in socks, kiss in the doorway like it was a scene from a movie.

She called you “home” once.

You didn’t say anything in return.

You just pulled her into your chest and held her tighter than words could manage.

—

There were no more secrets now.

People knew. Slowly, sure. But Paige had started holding your hand in public. At first on quieter streets, where no one looked. Then at campus parties. Then at a game.

After a home win, she ran over to the bleachers—where you were waiting—and kissed you in front of a thousand fans and a dozen cameras.

“I love you,” she said breathlessly. “Needed you to know before anything else.”

The video went viral. The team teased her endlessly.

She didn’t care.

Neither did you.

—

One night, lying in bed with your laptop open on your stomach and Paige half-asleep beside you, you said, “This is the happiest I’ve ever been.”

She looked up. “Because of me?”

You smiled. “Because of us.”

She kissed your shoulder and whispered, “Let’s stay like this forever.”

And maybe the future held more challenges—graduation, jobs, long-distance talks if things got complicated.

But for now, you had everything you needed.

Her heartbeat beside yours. Her laughter echoing in your chest. And the words you once feared to say now lived freely between you.

“I love you.” Eight letters. Forever on repeat.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The true, tactical significance of Project 2025

TODAY (July 14), I'm giving the closing keynote for the fifteenth HACKERS ON PLANET EARTH, in QUEENS, NY. Happy Bastille Day! NEXT SATURDAY (July 20), I'm appearing in CHICAGO at Exile in Bookville.

Like you, I have heard a lot about Project 2025, the Heritage Foundation's roadmap for the actions that Trump should take if he wins the presidency. Given the Heritage Foundation's centrality to the American authoritarian project, it's about as awful and frightening as you might expect:

https://www.project2025.org/

But (nearly) all the reporting and commentary on Project 2025 badly misses the point. I've only read a single writer who immediately grasped the true significance of Project 2025: The American Prospect's Rick Perlstein, which is unsurprising, given Perlstein's stature as one of the left's most important historians of right wing movements:

https://prospect.org/politics/2024-07-10-project-2025-republican-presidencies-tradition/

As Perlstein points out, Project 2025 isn't new. The Heritage Foundation and its allies have prepared documents like this, with many identical policy prescriptions, in the run-up to many presidential elections. Perlstein argues that Warren G Harding's 1921 inaugural address captures much of its spirit, as did the Nixon campaign's 1973 vow to "move the country so far to the right 'you won’t even recognize it.'"

The threats to democracy and its institutions aren't new. The right has been bent on their destruction for more than a century. As Perlstein says, the point of taking note of this isn't to minimize the danger, rather, it's to contextualize it. The American right has, since the founding of the Republic, been bent on creating a system of hereditary aristocrats, who govern without "interference" from democratic institutions, so that their power to extract wealth from First Nations, working people, and the land itself is checked only by rivalries with other aristocrats. The project of the right is grounded in a belief in Providence: that God's favor shines on His best creations and elevates them to wealth and power. Elite status is proof of merit, and merit is "that which leads to elite status."

When a wealthy person founds an intergenerational dynasty of wealth and power, this is merely a hereditary meritocracy: a bloodline infused with God's favor. Sometimes, this belief is dressed up in caliper-wielding pseudoscience, with the "good bloodline" reflecting superior genetics and not the favor of the Almighty. Of course, a true American aristocrat gussies up his "race realism" with mystical nonsense: "God favored me with superior genes." The corollary, of course, is that you are poor because God doesn't favor you, or because your genes are bad, or because God punished you with bad genes.

So we should be alarmed by the right's agenda. We should be alarmed at how much ground it has gained, and how the right has stolen elections and Supreme Court seats to enshrine antimajoritarianism as a seemingly permanent fact of life, giving extremist minorities the power to impose their will on the rest of us, dooming us to a roasting planet, forced births, racist immiseration, and most expensive, worst-performing health industry in the world.

But for all that the right has bombed so many of the roads to a prosperous, humane future, it's a huge mistake to think of the right as a stable, unified force, marching to victory after inevitable victory. The American right is a brittle coalition led by a handful of plutocrats who have convinced a large number of turkeys to vote for Christmas.

The right wing coalition needs to pander to forced-birth extremists, racist extremist, Christian Dominionist extremists (of several types), frothing anti-Communist cranks, vicious homophobes and transphobes, etc, etc. Pandering to all these groups isn't easy: for one thing, they often want opposite things – the post-Roe forced birth policies that followed the Dobbs decision are wildly unpopular among conservatives, with the exception of a clutch of totally unhinged maniacs that the party relies on as part of a much larger coalition. Even more unpopular are policies banning birth control, like the ones laid out in Project 2025. Less popular still: the proposed ban on no-fault divorce. Each of these policies have different constituencies to whom they are very popular, but when you put them together, you get Dan Savage's "Husbands you can't leave, pregnancies you can't prevent or terminate, politicians you can't vote out of office":

https://twitter.com/fakedansavage/status/1805680183065854083

The constituency for "husbands you can't leave, pregnancies you can't prevent or terminate, politicians you can't vote out of office" is very small. Almost no one in the GOP coalition is voting for all of this, they're voting for one or two of these things and holding their noses when it comes to the rest.

Take the "libertarian" wing of the GOP: its members do favor personal liberty…it's just that they favor low taxes for them more than personal liberty for you. The kind of lunatic who'd vote for a dead gopher if it would knock a quarter off his tax bill will happily allow his coalition partners to rape pregnant women with unnecessary transvaginal ultrasounds and force them to carry unwanted fetuses to term if that's the price he has to pay to save a nickel in taxes:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/09/29/jubilance/#tolerable-racism

And, of course, the religious maniacs who profess a total commitment to Biblical virtue but worship Trump, Gaetz, Limbaugh, Gingrich, Reagan, and the whole panoply of cheating, lying, kid-fiddling, dope-addled refugees from a Jack Chick tract know that these men never gave a shit about Jesus, the Apostles or the Ten Commandments – but they'll vote for 'em because it will get them school prayer, total abortion bans, and unregulated "home schooling" so they can brainwash a generation of Biblical literalists who think the Earth is 5,000 years old and that Jesus was white and super into rich people.

Time and again, the leaders of the conservative movement prove themselves capable of acts of breathtaking cruelty, and undoubtedly many of them are depraved sadists who genuinely enjoy the suffering of their enemies (think of Trump lickspittle Steven Miller's undisguised glee at the thought of parents who would never be reunited with children after being separated at the border). But it's a mistake to think that "the cruelty is the point." The point of the cruelty is to assemble and maintain the coalition. Cruelty is the tactic. Power is the point:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/03/09/turkeys-voting-for-christmas/#culture-wars

The right has assembled a lot of power. They did so by maintaining unity among people who have irreconcilable ethics and goals. Think of the pro-genocide coalition that includes far-right Jewish ethno-nationalists, antisemitic apocalyptic Christians who believe they are hastening the end-times, and Islamophobes of every description, from War On Terror relics to Hindu nationalists.

This is quite an improbable coalition, and while I deplore its goals, I can't help but be impressed by its cohesion. Can you imagine the kind of behind-the-scenes work it takes to get antisemites who think Jews secretly control the world to lobby with Zionists? Or to get Zionists to work alongside of Holocaust-denying pencilneck Hitler wannabes whose biggest regret is not bringing their armbands to Charlottesville?

Which brings me back to Project 2025 and its true significance. As Perlstein writes, Project 2025 is a mess. Clocking in an 900 pages, large sections of Project 2025 flatly contradict each other, while other sections contain subtle contradictions that you wouldn't notice unless you were schooled in the specialized argot of the far right's jargon and history.

For example, Project 2025 calls for defunding government agencies and repurposing the same agencies to carry out various spectacular atrocities. Both actions are deplorable, but they're also mutually exclusive. Project 2025 demands four different, completely irreconcilable versions of US trade policy. But at least that's better than Project 2025's chapter on monetary policy, which simply lays out every right wing theory of money and then throws up its hands and recommends none of them.

Perlstein says that these conflicts, blank spots and contradictions are the most important parts of Project 2025. They are the fracture lines in the coalition: the conflicting ideas that have enough support that neither side can triumph over the other. These are the conflicts that are so central to the priorities of blocs that are so important to the coalition that they must be included, even though that inclusion constitutes a blinking "LOOK AT ME" sign telling us where the right is ready to split apart.

The right is really good at this. Perlstein points to Nixon's expansion of affirmative action, undertaken to sow division between Black and white workers. We need to get better at it.

So far, we've lavished attention on the clearest and most emphatic proposals in Project 2025 – for understandable reasons. These are the things they say they want to do. It would be reckless to ignore them. But they've been saying things like this for a century. These demands constitute a compelling argument for fighting them as a matter of urgency, with the intention of winning. And to win, we need to split apart their coalition.

Perlstein calls on us to dissect Project 2025, to cleave it at its joints. To do so, he says we need to understand its antecedents, like Nixon's "Malek Manual," a roadmap for destroying the lives of civil servants who failed to show sufficient loyalty to Nixon. For example, the Malek Manual lays out a "Traveling Salesman Technique" whereby a government employee would be given duties "criss-crossing him across the country to towns (hopefully with the worst accommodations possible) of a population of 20,000 or under. Until his wife threatens him with divorce unless he quits, you have him out of town and out of the way":

https://www.google.com/books/edition/Final_Report_on_Violations_and_Abuses_of/0dRLO9vzQF0C?hl=en&gbpv=1&dq=%22organization+of+a+political+personnel+office+and+program%22&pg=PA161&printsec=frontcover

It's no coincidence that leftist historians of the right are getting a lot of attention. Trumpism didn't come out of nowhere – Trump is way too stupid and undisciplined to be a cause – he's an effect. In his excellent, bestselling new history of the right in the early 1990s, When the Clock Broke, Josh Ganz shows us the swamp that bred Trump, with such main characters as the fascist eugenicist Sam Francis:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9780374605445/whentheclockbroke

Ganz joins the likes of the Know Your Enemy podcast, an indispensable history of reactionary movements that does excellent work in tracing the fracture lines in the right coalition:

https://www.patreon.com/posts/when-clock-broke-106803105

Progressives are also an uneasy coalition that is easily splintered. As Naomi Klein argues in her essential Doppelganger, the liberal-left coalition is inherently unstable and contains the seeds of its own destruction:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/05/not-that-naomi/#if-the-naomi-be-klein-youre-doing-just-fine

Liberals have been the senior partner in that coalition, and their commitment to preserving institutions for their own sake (rather than because of what they can do to advance human thriving) has produced generations of weak and ineffectual responses to the crises of terminal-stage capitalism, like the idea that student-debt cancellation should be means-tested:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/03/utopia-of-rules/#in-triplicate

The last bid for an American aristocracy was repelled by rejecting institutions, not preserving them. When the Supreme Court thwarted the New Deal, FDR announced his intention to pack the court, and then began the process of doing so (which included no-holds-barred attacks on foot-draggers in his own party). Not for nothing, this is more-or-less what Lincoln did when SCOTUS blocked Reconstruction:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/20/judicial-equilibria/#pack-the-court

But the liberals who lead the progressive movement dismiss packing the court as unserious and impractical – notwithstanding the fact that they have no plan for rescuing America from the bribe-taking extremists, the credibly accused rapist, and the three who stole their robes. Ultimately, liberals defend SCOTUS because it is the Supreme Court. I defended SCOTUS, too – while it was still a vestigial organ of the rights revolution, which improved the lives of millions of Americans. Human rights are worth defending, SCOTUS isn't. If SCOTUS gets in the way of human rights, then screw SCOTUS. Sideline it. Pack it. Make it a joke.

Fuck it.

This isn't to argue for left seccession from the progressive coalition. As we just saw in France, splitting at this moment is an invitation to literal fascist takeover:

https://jacobin.com/2024/07/melenchon-macron-france-left-winner

But if there's one thing that the rise of Trumpism has proven, it's that parties are not immune to being wrestled away from their establishment leaderships by radical groups:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/16/that-boy-aint-right/#dinos-rinos-and-dunnos

What's more, there's a much stronger natural coalition that the left can mobilize: workers. Being a worker – that is, paying your bills from wages, instead of profits – isn't an ideology you can change, it's a fact. A Christian nationalist can change their beliefs and then they will no longer be a Christian nationalist. But no matter what a worker believes, they are still a worker – they still have a irreconcilable conflict with people whose money comes from profits, speculation, or rents. There is no objectively fair way to divide the profits a worker's labor generates – your boss will always pay you as little of that surplus as he can. The more wages you take home, the less profit there is for your boss, the fewer dividends there are for his shareholders, and the less there is to pay to rentiers:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/19/make-them-afraid/#fear-is-their-mind-killer

Reviving the role of workers in their unions, and of unions in the Democratic party, is the key to building the in-party power we need to drag the party to real solutions – strong antimonopoly action, urgent climate action, protections for gender, racial and sexual minorities, and decent housing, education and health care.

The alternative to a worker-led Democratic Party is a Democratic Party run by its elites, whose dictates and policies are inescapably illegitimate. As Hamilton Nolan writes, the completely reasonable (and extremely urgent) discussion about Biden's capacity to defeat Trump has been derailed by the Democrats' undemocratic structure. Ultimately, the decision to have an open convention or to double down on a candidate whose campaign has been marred by significant deficits is down to a clutch of party officials who operate without any formal limits or authority:

https://www.hamiltonnolan.com/p/the-hole-at-the-heart-of-the-democratic

Jettisoning Biden because George Clooney (or Nancy Pelosi) told us to is never going to feel legitimate to his supporters in the party. But if the movement for an open convention came from grassroots-dominated unions who themselves dominated the party – as was the case, until the Reagan revolution – then there'd be a sense that the party had constituents, and it was acting on its behalf.

Reviving the labor movement after 40 years of Reaganomic war on workers may sound like a tall order, but we are living through a labor renaissance, and the long-banked embers of labor radicalism are reigniting. What's more, repelling fascism is what workers' movements do. The business community will always sell you out to the Nazis in exchange for low taxes, cheap labor and loose regulation.

But workers, organized around their class interests, stand strong. Last week, we lost one of labor's brightest flames. Jane McAlevey, a virtuoso labor organizer and trainer of labor organizers, died of cancer at 57:

https://jacobin.com/2024/07/jane-mcalevey-strategy-organizing-obituary

McAlevey fought to win. She was skeptical of platitudes like "speaking truth to power," always demanding an explanation for how the speech would become action. In her classic book A Collective Bargain, she describes how she built worker power:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/23/a-collective-bargain/

McAlevey helped organize a string of successful strikes, including the 2019 LA teachers' strike. Her method was straightforward: all you have to do to win a strike or a union drive is figure out how to convince every single worker in the shop to back the union. That's all.

Of course, it's harder than it sounds. All the problems that plague every coalition – especially the progressive liberal/left coalition – are present on the shop floor. Some workers don't like each other. Some don't see their interests aligned with others. Some are ornery. Some are convinced that victory is impossible.

McAlevey laid out a program for organizing that involved figuring out how to reach every single worker, to converse with them, listen to them, understand them, and win them over. I've never read or heard anyone speak more clearly, practically and inspirationally about coalition building.

Biden was never my candidate. I supported three other candidates ahead of him in 2020. When he got into office and started doing a small number of things I really liked, it didn't make me like him. I knew who he was: the Senator from MBNA, whose long political career was full of bills, votes and speeches that proved that while we might have some common goals, we didn't want the same America or the same world.

My interest in Biden over the past four years has had two areas of focus: how can I get him to do more of the things that will make us all better off, and do less of the things that make the world worse. When I think about the next four years, I'm thinking about the same things. A Trump presidency will contain far more bad things and far fewer good ones.

Many people I like and trust have pointed out that they don't like Biden and think he will be a bad president, but they think Trump will be much worse. To limit Biden's harms, leftists have to take over the Democratic Party and the progressive movement, so that he's hemmed in by his power base. To limit Trump's harms, leftists have to identify the fracture lines in the right coalition and drive deep wedges into them, shattering his power base.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/14/fracture-lines/#disassembly-manual

[robinbuckleyluvr]

⊹˚˖⁺ check you out - robin buckley

masterlist | requests

Summary: goodness! imagine robin buckley accidentally says she was checking you out...

Warnings: she/her pronouns used on reader

Notes: this was lowkey hilarious to write

Word count: 698

⸻⊱༺ 

The door opened, the familiar bell signaling the entrance of yet another customer. Robin barely had a second to look up and catch herself from dropping the VHS tapes she carried as she watched a girl come in. Steve was just as dazzled as Robin, he stumbled out his usual “Welcome to Family Video!” line, and Robin just… stared.

Robin and Steve made eye contact, both exclaiming “Dibs!” at the exact same time. 

“She looks like she would be into more intelligent conversation anyway,” Robin raised her eyebrows.

“Uh, rude?” Steve joked, making his way over to the girl before Robin could even respond, “Guess we’ll just have to find out.”

Robin sighed and crossed her arms, scouring her mind to think of an excuse to hush Steve away from the girl.

“Hey, uh, need any help around here? What are we browsing for today?” Steve flirted as he approached her.

“Just looking, I don’t have anything in mind,” she responded, a lack of interest filled her words, but it was a hint a guy such as Steve wouldn’t really get.

Robin, clearly amused, watched Steve’s desperate commentary, her mind running faster than ever. Okay, Robin, think! He is totally dumb and will fall for anything. You just have to come up with something that he will actually believe.

“Steve!” Robin exclaimed, “Can you please come help me? The computer is totally jammed again!” 

Steve sighed at Robin’s words as he muttered an apology to the girl, who didn’t really seem to mind as she kept on looking around. 

Robin stepped back as Steve approached the computer, and before he knew it, Robin had approached the girl already. Steve sighed and rolled his eyes as he realized the computer was working perfectly, watching Robin hurry away to speak to the girl instead.

“Hey! Hi, do you need any help?” Robin smiled nervously.

The girl offered a kind smile, “Thanks! I’m just unsure of what to get. Just looking for something to watch over the weekend I suppose.”

“Cool cool cool,” Robin breathed out, “Well, are you a rom-com kind of girl? Or do you like sci-fi movies and stuff?”

“Oh gosh…” She laughed, “Not a rom-com girl I don’t think… I avoid watching them alone. It's saddening, I prefer sci-fi for sure. I love horror, does that help?”

“Understandable! I’m the same,” Robin smiled, “But uh… sci-fi and horror! I can work with that.” She spoke shyly as she scanned the ‘horror’ shelf that stood behind the girl. 

The girl stood there quietly next to Robin as she looked around, Steve stood watching them from afar, having his eyes nearly popping out of his skull as he noticed the girl checked Robin out — something Robin, of course, had completely missed. 

“How about…” Robin spoke as she reached over to grab one of the VHS tapes, “‘The Shining’! A total classic. It’s one of my all-time favorite movies. Have you seen it before?”

“Are you joking? I love that movie. Wouldn’t mind re-watching it, I think.”

Robin’s face lit up as the girl accepted her request. “Alright! You’re all set then! I’ll just get you checked out.” Robin paused, flustered, “I mean, I’ll check you out—Not check you out like that, uh, check out your movie! Not that I wouldn’t, you know, check you out. I mean, wait, that’s not, I mean, get your movie checked. You checked. For the movie that you’re renting! Which… yeah — pay there?” She motioned to the counter and walked off, her voice increasingly getting higher with each word.

As she followed Robin to the counter, the girl shook her head slightly, a shy smile forming as she did so. 

[bonus-links]

Director’s commentary please? Also Wake and Tetra holding hands and Slate finding the castle familiar ghfggf…

HELLO sorry I'm late! update here

I think in hindsight I needed to fix the levels on this update bc it's a little dark lol. I always try to check on multiple screens and multiple different lighting conditions before I post, but sometimes my eyes get too adjusted lol. anyway if it's hard to see details this update my apologies

holding hands for moral support <3 i imagine it's not easy for either of them to be back here

Linebeck staying on the ship lol. I'm going to be so real, he was supposed to go into the castle with them, but he didn't have much dialogue and I just really didn't want to draw a 6th person 😭 There was also a scene that was meant to go before this where Wake and Linebeck have a conversation, which was literally the whole reason he was in this chapter and greatly pained me to cut. I think I might still make it a bonus comic if I have time for it. anyway I rlly planned for Linebeck to actually have a point in this chapter and it ended up just not materializing HAHA rip linebeck im sorry

Slate can't help but remember that the last time he stepped up to decrepit haunted castle he rlly thought he was gonna die. This is a shot of Slate hesitating in front of Hyrule Castle just before the final confrontation with Ganon. it's one of the only times he wears the champion's tunic, as a specific tribute to The Other Guy. Anyway Slate has to laugh be what are the odds of being in this situation twice across millenia. he has 2 nickels

also the repeated Big Scary Dark Doorway.

On that note, this is the same BG as the conversation with Ganondorf, just scaled back and recolored.

my biggest goal with this update in was to emphasize the Wrongness of the castle being on the surface. It's also kind of, like, anticlimactic. What would usually be a puzzle dungeon or a big action set piece is just kind of. hollow and empty and damaged.

a lot of people have pointed out this panel break as clever, but it's actually not the first time I've pulled this trick lol! I didn't add the little strings this time tho bc well. mostly be the portal technically was not supposed go through the floor, so I felt it'd look weird if I added them. the example from the prologue has the advantage of being a midshot lol so the effect works slightly better imo

what's with me and statues huh

speaking of which i have a confession. recently I was replaying WW with my baby cousins and I got to the part in Hyrule Castle at the very very end and realized. the the hero of time statue is like completely knocked down and broken on the ground. which uh. is clearly not the case here. and has been one of the biggest visual motifs of this entire chapter. whoops lol

and finally, some close-ups of all the little guys

that's all I got for now! There's one more double update left and ch2 is done!!

[the-oblivious-writer]

Let the Light In |10|

Tara Carpenter x Female Reader

Chapter Ten: Static Frequencies

summary: three weeks of radio silence have passed since valentine's day. tara's been making herself scarce through a rotation of hookups and parties, while you've been doing what you do best—avoiding everything that reminds you of her. when Anika finally drags you to a party, you meet someone new, but some frequencies are harder to tune out than others.

warning(s): swearing, underage drinking, party atmosphere/socializing, pining, and two stubborn idiots.

notes: prraaaying that this summer'll let me post more consistently, i'm officially off after the 26th.

taglist: @t-wylia @lesbianpepsi @jennasfav @alyciaddict @justafoolinlove @steffido1993 @niqmandu @severelyuniquereview @darklron @ravenousinferno @smut-religiously777 @beautifulmongerbanditsalad @vanatalye

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

The bass from whatever generic EDM track was playing downstairs vibrated through the floorboards of your apartment, courtesy of the neighbors who apparently thought Thursday night was the perfect time for a rager. You'd been staring at the same page of your chemistry textbook for the past twenty minutes, the molecular structures blurring together like some kind of scientific abstract art.

Your phone buzzed against the desk surface.

Nika: party at jake's tonight. you're coming.

You: Hard pass

Nika: wasn't a question. be ready in an hour

You: I have studying to do

Nik: you've been "studying" for three weeks straight. even hermit crabs leave their shells sometimes

You groaned, letting your head fall forward onto the open textbook. The thing about Anika was that she had this annoying habit of being right about everything, especially when it came to your self-imposed isolation. Ever since Valentine's Day—or more specifically, ever since that moment on Tara's couch when everything shifted and then promptly crashed back to earth—you'd been keeping your head down and your schedule packed.

It wasn't avoidance. It was strategic distance.

Your phone buzzed again.

Anika: also tara won't be there. she's at some other thing across town

The fact that Anika felt the need to mention Tara's whereabouts told you everything you needed to know about how transparent your "strategic distance" actually was. You'd been doing a stellar job of pretending the past three weeks of radio silence didn't bother you, but apparently your poker face needed work.

You: How do you even know where she is?

Nik: instagram stories. girl's been documenting her party tour like she's a social media influencer

You definitely hadn't been checking Tara's Instagram. And you definitely hadn't noticed the steady stream of party photos featuring different faces, different locations, different people pressed close to her in dimly lit rooms. The fact that she looked happy in every single one was just an observation, not something that kept you up at night.

You: fine. one hour. but i'm not dressing up

Nik: wouldn't expect anything less from you

An hour later, you were pulling on the same blue jeans and flannel combo you'd been rotating through for the better part of the semester. Anika had texted that she was on her way up, which meant you had about thirty seconds before she started her usual commentary about your "commitment to consistent mediocrity" in the fashion department.

She didn't disappoint.

"You know they make other colors of flannel, right?" she said, not even bothering with a hello as she pushed past you into the apartment.

"This one's clean," you replied, grabbing your keys and wallet. "That's all that matters."

"God, you're like a cartoon character. Same outfit, same energy, same emotional availability of a brick wall." She was scrolling through her phone as she talked, probably checking to make sure her party intel was still accurate. "Jake's place is like a fifteen-minute walk. You ready?"

The walk to Jake's gave you time to mentally prepare for the social interaction you'd been avoiding. Anika filled the silence with updates about her latest dating app adventures, which was both entertaining and a welcome distraction from the knot of anxiety forming in your stomach.

"I'm just saying, if someone's idea of a perfect date is 'Netflix and chill' spelled out in actual words, they're probably not bringing much creativity to other areas of life," she was saying as you approached a house with music spilling out onto the street.

"Revolutionary insight," you replied, but you were smiling despite yourself.

Jake's place was packed in that specific way college parties always were—too many people in too small a space, everyone talking slightly too loud to compensate for music that was slightly too loud to begin with. You followed Anika through the crowd, dodging couples who were definitely violating several public decency laws and groups of people who were definitely violating several fire codes.

"Drinks first," Anika announced, steering you toward the kitchen. "You need to relax."

The kitchen was marginally less chaotic, though someone had apparently thought it was a good idea to turn the island into a makeshift beer pong table. You grabbed a beer from the cooler, mostly for something to do with your hands, and leaned against the counter while Anika worked her social butterfly magic with a group of people you recognized from various classes.

"You look like you're at a funeral," a voice said from beside you.

You turned to find a girl with shoulder-length auburn hair and an amused expression. She was holding a red solo cup and wearing the kind of effortless smile that suggested she was actually enjoying herself.

"Just thinking," you replied.

"Dangerous habit at parties like this," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Maya."

"Y/N."

"So, Y/N, what's got you looking so existentially conflicted at what is objectively a very mediocre college party?"

There was something disarming about her directness, the way she'd managed to read your mood without the usual small talk preamble. It reminded you of someone else, which was both comforting and problematic.

"Just not really a party person," you said.

"And yet here you are."

"Roommate intervention," you admitted, nodding toward Anika, who was now engaged in what appeared to be a very animated conversation about something involving a lot of hand gestures.

Maya laughed, and the sound was warm and genuine. "Ah, the old 'you need to get out more' approach. Been there."

"Let me guess—worked on you too?"

"Hook, line, and sinker. Though I have to say, meeting someone who looks as thrilled to be here as I feel is kind of refreshing."

You found yourself relaxing slightly. Maya had this way of making conversation feel natural, like you'd been friends for years instead of strangers who'd met five minutes ago. She was funny without trying too hard, and when she laughed at your sarcastic observations about the party dynamics around you, it didn't feel forced.

"So what's your major?" she asked as you both watched someone attempt to do a keg stand with questionable success.

"History," you replied. "You?"

"Psychology. Which means I'm professionally obligated to ask what's really bothering you."

You nearly choked on your beer. "Excuse me?"

"Kidding," she said quickly, though her eyes were still studying your face. "Mostly. But you do have this look like you're trying very hard not to think about something."

The accuracy of her observation was unsettling. You'd spent three weeks perfecting the art of not thinking about Tara—not thinking about the way she'd looked at you on Valentine's Day, not thinking about the comfortable silence while you watched movies, not thinking about how she'd somehow become the person you most wanted to talk to and the person you most wanted to avoid.

"It's complicated," you said finally.

"The best things usually are."

There was something about the way she said it that made you look at her more carefully. She had these light brown eyes that seemed to catch everything, and when she smiled, it was like she was letting you in on some private joke.

"Want to get some air?" she asked. "It's getting pretty stuffy in here."

You followed her out to the backyard, where the music was muffled enough to allow for actual conversation. The night air was cool against your skin, and you realized you'd been holding tension in your shoulders that you hadn't even noticed.

"Better?" Maya asked, settling onto a bench near the back fence.

"Much." You sat down beside her, leaving a respectable amount of space between you. "Thanks."

"So," she said, turning to face you. "Complicated situation. Want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Want to talk about something else?"

"That would be great."

Maya launched into a story about her psychology professor who apparently had strong opinions about the correlation between coffee consumption and academic performance, and you found yourself genuinely engaged for the first time in weeks. She was smart and funny, and she had this way of making even mundane observations sound interesting.

"I'm convinced he's conducting some kind of long-term study on us," she was saying. "Like, tracking our caffeine intake versus our participation in class discussions."

"That's either really dedicated or really creepy."

"Why not both?"

You were laughing when your phone buzzed. Without thinking, you glanced at the screen.

Nika: how's it going with mystery girl?

You looked up to find Anika watching you from the kitchen window, giving you an exaggerated thumbs up. Maya followed your gaze and waved at her.

"Your roommate's got good timing," Maya said.

"She's got strong opinions about my social life."

"Can't imagine why," Maya replied, but she was smiling. "You seem like the life of the party."

"I have hidden depths."

"I'm sure you do."

There was something in her tone that made you look at her again. She was still smiling, but there was a different quality to it now, something that made your pulse quicken in a way that was both familiar and entirely new.

"Hey, uh," you started, not sure what you were going to say.

"Yeah?"

Your phone buzzed again, and this time you ignored it. But Maya had noticed the notification, and something in her expression shifted.

"Someone important?" she asked.

"No," you said quickly. "Just my roommate."

But even as you said it, you knew it wasn't entirely true. The buzzing phone was a reminder of the world beyond this backyard, the world where Tara existed and where you'd spent the last three weeks pretending she didn't matter.

Maya seemed to sense your internal conflict. "You know, for someone who says it's not important, you look pretty conflicted."

"It's not—" You stopped, frustrated with yourself. "It's complicated."

"You said that already."

"Because it is."

She was quiet for a moment, studying your face in the dim light from the house. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"The person you're not thinking about—are you in love with them?"

The question hit you like a physical blow. You'd been so careful not to examine your feelings too closely, to keep everything filed under "complicated" and "better left alone." But hearing it said out loud, so matter-of-factly, stripped away all your careful defenses.

"I—" You stopped, realizing you'd never actually said it out loud. Not to anyone, not even to yourself. "Yeah. I think I am."

"Think?"

"Know," you corrected quietly. "I know I am."

Maya nodded slowly. "How long?"

"Since high school." The admission felt like a confession, like something you should have kept locked away. "Feels like longer."

"And they don't know?"

You let out a bitter laugh. "They hate me. Or they did. I don't know what we are now."

"What happened in high school?"

This was the part you'd never told anyone, the part that made you look like either a complete idiot or a hopeless romantic, depending on who was doing the judging.

"I was an ass," you said finally. "I pulled pranks, got into arguments, did basically everything I could to get their attention. But not good attention. I was like a kid pulling pigtails on the playground."

"Because you didn't know how to ask for the attention you actually wanted."

"Because I was fifteen and stupid and didn't know how to handle having feelings for someone who was completely out of my league."

Maya was quiet for so long that you started to worry you'd said too much. When you finally looked at her, she was smiling, but it was different now—softer, more understanding.

"You know what's funny?" she said.

"What?"

"I came over here because I thought you were cute and brooding and might be up for some harmless flirting. But now I'm sitting here giving relationship advice, and I kind of like it better."

You felt heat rise in your cheeks. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Don't apologize," she said quickly. "I'm not complaining. But can I suggest something?"

"Shoot."

"If you've been in love with someone since high school, and you're still thinking about them at a party where you're talking to someone new, maybe it's time to do something about it."

"It's not that simple."

"It never is. But sometimes the complicated things are worth fighting for."

Your phone buzzed again, and this time Maya gestured for you to check it.

Nika: tara's here

Your blood ran cold. You looked up toward the house, scanning the crowd visible through the windows, but you couldn't see her from where you were sitting.

"The complicated person?" Maya asked, reading your expression.

"Yeah."

"You want to go find them?"

"I want to go home."

Maya laughed, but not unkindly. "You know that's not going to solve anything, right?"

"It'll solve the immediate problem of me potentially making a fool of myself."

"Or you could stay and see what happens. Take a chance."

"I don't take chances."

"Maybe that's the problem."

Before you could respond, the back door opened and Anika stepped out, looking around until she spotted you.

"There you are," she said, walking over. "We might have a situation."

"What kind of situation?" you asked, though you had a feeling you already knew.

"The kind where Tara just walked in looking like she's ready to set something on fire, and when she saw me, she asked where you were."

Maya looked between you and Anika with growing understanding. "Tara," she said. "That's the complicated person."

"That's the complicated person," you confirmed.

"And she's looking for you."

"Apparently."

Maya stood up, brushing off her jeans. "Well, this has been fun, but I think I'm going to go find another drink and let you two handle whatever's about to happen."

"You don't have to leave," you said quickly.

"Yeah, I do." She smiled, and there was no hurt in it, just understanding. "But hey, Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"Good luck. And if it doesn't work out, I'll be by the kitchen wondering what could have been."

She squeezed your shoulder as she passed, and you watched her disappear back into the house.

"I like her," Anika said.

"Yeah, me too."

"But?"

"But nothing. Let's just go home."

"Absolutely not." Anika grabbed your arm as you started to stand. "You've been moping around for three weeks. Whatever happened on Valentine's Day, you need to deal with it."

"I don't need to deal with anything."

"You're in love with her."

It was the second time in ten minutes someone had said it out loud, and it didn't get easier to hear.

"It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters. It's the only thing that matters."

"Anika—"

"No, listen to me. I've been watching you two dance around each other for months. The arguing, the glancing, the way you both go out of your way to avoid each other while somehow always ending up in the same place. It's exhausting."

"We're not dancing around anything. We can barely stand each other."

"Right. That's why you spent Valentine's Day with her watching movies and looking at her like she hung the moon."

"What—"

"She told me. Well, she told me some of it. The rest I figured out from the way she's been acting like a feral cat ever since."

Your heart was doing something complicated in your chest. "What do you mean, acting like a feral cat?"

"I mean she's been going out every night, bringing home different people, and generally acting like someone who's trying very hard to prove something to herself. Sound familiar?"

It did sound familiar, because it was exactly what you'd been doing in your own way—burying yourself in schoolwork and isolation instead of dealing with whatever was happening between you and Tara.

"It doesn't matter," you said again, but it sounded weak even to you.

"It's the only thing that matters," Anika repeated. "And right now, she's inside looking for you, which means maybe she's finally ready to stop running."

"What if I'm not?"

"Then you're an idiot."

"Thanks for the pep talk."

"I'm serious, Y/N. You've been in love with her since high school. She's been in love with you since at least the beginning of this semester. You're both miserable without each other. What exactly are you waiting for?"

"She's not in love with me."

"Oh my God, you're both so stupid it's painful."

Before you could argue, the back door opened again, and this time it wasn't Anika who emerged.

Tara stepped into the backyard, and even in the dim light, you could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she was holding herself like she was ready for a fight. She looked around until her eyes found yours, and the impact of that gaze was like a physical blow.

"Anika said you were out here," she said, her voice carefully neutral.

"I was just leaving," Anika announced, backing toward the house.

And then she was gone, leaving you and Tara alone in the backyard with three weeks of silence hanging between you like a wall.

"Hi," you said finally, because someone had to say something.

"Hi."

Tara was still standing by the door, like she was ready to bolt at any moment. She was wearing a black dress that you tried not to notice, and her hair was down in loose waves that caught the light from the house.

"Anika said you were looking for me."

"I was." She took a step closer, then stopped. "We need to talk."

"About?"

"About Valentine's Day. About the last three weeks. About whatever the hell is happening between us."

Your pulse quickened. "I thought we were back to pretending we couldn't stand each other."

"Yeah, well, that's not working out so well for me."

"Join the club."

She took another step closer, and you could see the conflict in her expression, the way she was fighting with herself about whatever she'd come here to say.

"I've been thinking," she said.

"Dangerous habit."

"Don't." The sharpness in her voice surprised you both. "Don't do that. Don't deflect with jokes. Not right now."

You nodded, chastened. "Sorry. What have you been thinking about?"

"About why I've been avoiding you. About why I've been going out every night and bringing home people whose names I don't remember. About why I can't stop thinking about you even when I'm with someone else."

The honesty in her voice made your chest tight. "Tara—"

"I'm not done." She was closer now, close enough that you could see the way her hands were trembling slightly. "I've been thinking about high school, about all those stupid pranks you used to pull, all those arguments we had that never seemed to be about anything important."

"Those were—"

"Let me finish." She took a deep breath. "I've been thinking about how I used to look forward to those arguments. How I used to get disappointed on days when you didn't try to annoy me. How I used to wonder what it would be like if you put all that energy into something else."

Your heart was beating so hard you were sure she could hear it.

"And I've been thinking about Valentine's Day," she continued. "About how easy it was, sitting there with you, watching movies and talking about nothing. About how it felt like we were finally being honest with each other."

"We were."

"No, we weren't. Because I didn't tell you the most important thing."

"Which was?"

She looked at you for a long moment, and you could see her gathering courage.

"That I've been in love with you since sophomore year of high school. That every time you pulled one of those pranks, I thought maybe it meant you saw me as more than just another person to annoy. That when you stopped doing it, I thought maybe I'd been wrong about everything."

The world tilted on its axis. Everything you thought you knew about high school, about the way she'd reacted to your attempts to get her attention, about the way she'd looked at you sometimes when she thought you weren't watching—all of it shifted into focus like a camera lens finally finding the right setting.

"You what?"

"I'm in love with you," she said again, like she needed to practice saying it. "I have been for years. And I know you probably don't—"

"I do."

She stopped mid-sentence. "What?"

"I do. Feel the same way. Have felt the same way. Since I first laid eyes on you."

"You—what?"

"All those pranks, all those stupid arguments—I was fifteen and didn't know how to tell you I thought you were the most incredible person I'd ever met. So I settled for any attention I could get, even if it was you being annoyed with me."

Tara stared at you like you'd just spoken in a foreign language. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious."

"But you—we've been—"

"Idiots," you supplied. "We've been idiots."

"For years."

"Epic levels of idiocy."

She started laughing, and the sound was bright and disbelieving and so purely Tara that it made your chest ache with how much you'd missed it.

"Oh my God," she said, pressing her hands to her face. "We're absolute morons."

"One-hundred percent."

"I can't believe—" She stopped, looking at you with sudden seriousness. "Wait. If you've felt this way for years, why didn't you ever say anything?"

"Because you hated me."

"I never hated you."

"You had a funny way of showing it."

"I was trying to protect myself," she said quietly. "I thought if I let myself like you, really like you, you'd just use it against me somehow."

"I would never—"

"I know that now. But then? I was just a kid who didn't know how to handle having feelings for someone who seemed to enjoy making my life difficult."

"I never wanted to make your life difficult. I just wanted you to notice me."

"I always noticed you," she said. "I noticed everything."

The space between you felt charged, like the air before a thunderstorm. You could feel the weight of all the years of miscommunication, all the missed opportunities, all the times you'd both been too scared or too proud to say what you really meant.

"So what now?" you asked.

"I don't know," she admitted. "This is kind of uncharted territory for me."

"The being honest thing?"

"The being honest with you thing."

You took a step closer, and she didn't back away. "We could try it. See how it goes."

"It might be weird at first."

"Probably. But weird might be good for us."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We've been doing the same dance for years. Maybe it's time to try a different song."

She smiled, and it was soft and real and directed at you in a way that made your heart do complicated things in your chest.

"I'd like that," she said.

"Good. Because I've been wanting to ask you something for about years now."

"What?"

"Would you like to go out with me? Like, on an actual date. Where we both know it's a date and we're not pretending it's something else."

Her smile widened. "I thought you'd never ask."

"Is that a yes?"

"That's a yes."

You felt like you could float away, like the ground beneath your feet had become optional. Years of wondering, of wanting, of thinking it was impossible—and it turned out to be as simple as finally being honest.

"Can I ask you something now?" Tara said.

"Anything."

"On Valentine's Day, when we were watching the movie—were you going to kiss me?"

Heat flooded your cheeks. "Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Okay, definitely. But then you got that look like you were about to bolt, and I didn't want to push."

"I got that look because I was thinking about kissing you and it scared me."

"It scared you?"

"Terrified me. Because I wanted it so badly, and I thought if I let myself have it, I'd have to admit how I felt. And I wasn't ready for that yet."

"And now?"

She took another step closer, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes.

"Now I'm tired of being scared."

"Good," you said. "Because I'm tired of pretending I don't want to kiss you."

"So why aren't you?"

"Because we're at a party in someone's backyard, and when I finally get to kiss you, I want it to be somewhere that means something."

"Somewhere that means something?"

"Somewhere that's ours. Not borrowed, not temporary. Ours."

She looked at you for a long moment, and you could see something shift in her expression, something that looked like understanding.

"My apartment," she said. "Tomorrow night. I'll make dinner."

"You cook?"

"I order takeout very efficiently."

"Even better."

She laughed, and the sound was warm and familiar and full of promise.

"It's a date," she said.

"It's a date."

From inside the house, you could hear the music getting louder, voices getting more animated as the party hit its stride. But out here in the backyard, it felt like you and Tara existed in your own bubble, separate from everything else.

"I should probably go," she said eventually, though she didn't move.

"Probably."

"I came with friends, and they're going to wonder where I disappeared to."

"Right."

"And you should probably go back to that girl you were talking to. She seemed nice."

"Maya's great," you said. "But she's not you."

"No," Tara said, and there was something satisfied in her voice. "She's not."

"Are you jealous, Carpenter?"

"Maybe a little," she admitted. "Is that weird?"

"No weirder than me spending three weeks stalking your Instagram stories to see who you were with."

"You were stalking my Instagram?"

"Observing. Casually."

"Uh-huh."

"Okay, fine. Stalking. But in my defense, you were posting a lot."

"I was trying to make you jealous."

"Mission accomplished."

She smiled, looking pleased with herself. "Good to know."

"So tomorrow night," you said.

"Tomorrow night."

"What time?"

"Seven?"

"I'll be there."

"Good." She started to turn toward the house, then stopped. "Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For being honest."

"Thank you for not running away when I did."

"I almost did. I've been sitting in my car for twenty minutes trying to work up the courage to come in here."

"I'm glad you did."

"Me too."

She headed for the door, and you watched her go, still not quite believing that the conversation had actually happened. Just before she reached the house, she turned back.

"Hey, Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"Wear something nice tomorrow. I want our first real date to be special."

"Define nice."

"Something that's not flannel."

"You're really going to limit my options like that?"

"I'm sure you'll figure it out."

And then she was gone, disappearing into the house and leaving you alone in the backyard with the biggest smile you'd had in weeks.

You pulled out your phone to text Anika, but she'd already beaten you to it.

Nika: saw tara leave. she looked happy. please tell me you two finally got your shit together

You: We have a date tomorrow

Nika: FINALLY. i was starting to think i was going to have to lock you in a room together

You: don't get any ideas

Nik: too late. already planning the wedding

You were still smiling when Maya appeared beside you.

"So," she said, settling back onto the bench. "How'd it go?"

"Really well, actually."

"I can tell. You look like someone just told you you won the lottery."

"I did."

"I'm happy for you," she said, and she sounded like she meant it. "Even though it means I'm going back to the drawing board for my evening plans."

"Sorry about that."

"Don't be. Like I said, the complicated things are usually worth fighting for."

"Yeah," you said, thinking about Tara's smile, about the way she'd looked at you when she finally said the words you'd been waiting years to hear. "They really are."

The rest of the party passed in a blur. You found Anika and told her you were ready to go home, and she was so pleased with herself for orchestrating the evening that she didn't even give you grief about leaving early.

As you walked back to your apartment, you couldn't stop thinking about tomorrow night. After years of wondering, of wanting, of thinking it was impossible—you finally had a real chance with Tara. And this time, you weren't going to let fear or pride or miscommunication get in the way.

This time, you were going to get it right.

[viesin]

𝘙𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘛𝘟𝘛'𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧***𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘨𝘶𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘢𝘱𝘵

𓆈 genre: headcanon, nsfw, crack, fluff

𓆈 scene: you are getting pounded on the dining room couch in the shared apt and your roommate walks in

𓆈 wc: 1.2k

𓆈 tw: pet names - bunny, profanities, dirty jokes, my commentary - third person omniscient, cheating? ntr, they all wanna fuck reader except tyun, blackmail, soobin is sneaky, mention of double penetration and sexual innuendos but not explicit smut, not rlly a trigger but intentional misspellings

𓆈 note: didn't knaurr i had it in me but here we fkinh gaurr

ʏᴇᴏɴᴊᴜɴ

Yeonjun had a habit of surprising his roommate with small joys that breathed life into you such as this ice cream, he bought all so in a hurry and when he was about to tiptoe discreetly to not threaten you with his presence, he was met with a shadowy figure instead pumping His cream into you.

First came a bolt of shock, preferrably 200 bolts, then a glimpse, a sigh, a stare and all so mouth gagging excitement bubbled in his chest as he watched more and more. He made out the figure's fine abs in the dimly lit room and for a moment he wasn't sure whether to be jealous of you or him savouring every inch of you, one he was dying to do for let's say a solid 2 month pipeline. He would be torn between the thrill of a possible ntr (one he never realized he had it in him) and the sheer disappointment of his loneliness and jealousy like damn! A whole damn year and he couldn't get laid with you but a white guy did it in one week. It wasn't until 5 minutes into his presence had you realized someone was watching you.

So you did what any sane woman would do, and that is "the show must go on". The guy kept going at it, immersed in the sweet of your cookie, pulling onto your breast. It was sweaty, steamy and very convenient of a sight from the crook of the corner from the main door had his ice cream not melted at the heat of Yeonjun's palm. But he was well adjusted to it by now, hence the pretty scenery could go on about 20 minutes then you appeared half shock, ignored his determination to stand in silence and wore your outfit back. Yeonjun eased himself in the acting too, mumbled a breathy sorry for disturbing and highfive'd the guy as he went out of the picture.

You will think this was the end of a great night, to which now your surprise, Yeonjun shamelessly blurted "Do you think I can do better than him?" with his hands on his neck, mouth laced with a sly grin.

sᴏᴏʙɪɴ

Now you'd think he'd be the type to let out a monstrous scream at the nudity, a man much known to be disgusted by PDA. No, he found himself meditating before calmly closing the distance and checking out the position of you two.

He clicks his tongue a tch tch "This is not how it should be done" and begins watching with a side eye like the victorian noble lady he is, with imaginary handcrafted lacy fan coating upto his bangs. What's worse than some scolding is his bitter judgement and a full length lecture of how the man should eat you out. To this, yes the man abides. Who can turn down revelations from a tall wise man who seems way too serious and way too into this. "No no.. look, from this side" "Slowly, you're not a goblin" "Sigh lemme show you how it's done" were the sentences he said with a relaxed expression as if he were genuinely trying to help you out.

He did make it out to be a practical life lesson with Soobin sesh till the point of a double penetration where he lets loose, wild, hoarse voiced "fuck yes, slut" "tell me how you want it", you realized yeah this went down horribly wrong.

ʙᴇᴏᴍɢʏᴜ

Oppurtunist, in one word. He just has to make everything a way to get under your nerves or on your clit, you decide. Will say he didn't mind at all, he doesn't even care but the moment he goes to his room, prawnhub intro will leak through the thin door. Say he doesn't mind at all but bring that up as an inside joke every single time. You're eating? He's giving dirty eyes. "Yeah eat well, bunny. You need energy after a good fuck" You're doing laundry? He's smirking. You're feeding your cat? Absolutely nothing sexual but he's eyefucking you. You want him to forget allat and strike a deal then he's the epitome to blatanly ask for it. "Yeah sure, if you sit on my lap. Maybe I won't bother you anymore" says in a half-joking manner, leaning on the doorframe. Few minutes later he's serious about it. Sitting on the couch, same place where you were fucking another guy, legs all spread and tapping on his thighs, eyeing you up. Honestly it's not such a losing deal so you would, sit on him. Both hands roaming all over your body and his pendrive poking your back, he'd have a cocky grin like he fucking earned it.

ᴛᴀᴇʜʏᴜɴ

Burnt out, limp and exhausted Taehyun comes home, waiting for that sweet moment his aching back will finally touch the feathery bed. The first scene he sees is this, this fuckery.

A frech kiss session on his freshly cleaned couch, the one, only he is in the charge of cleaning, actually like most things since he thinks you are a bum, he's too impatient and he definitely does it way better than you. His washed couch cover, steam vaccumed crooks and cranies and 3 puffs of antiseptic were being destroyed by two sweaty animals in heat. The sight! Oh the sight devastated Taehyun like a grocery bill at the very last few days of the month before getting his salary. He doesn't care what you do in your room, bathroom whatever but really a shared space? This is where he watches his low cardio, strengthening muscle build workout routine perfect for pros while eating 5 eggs 2 strips of bacon high protein breakfast.

"Filthy fuckers" will be the last scream you'll hear from him before he beats you both with a nearby dumbbell, hides your body and burns the couch on fire to germinate. That is unless you apologise 127 times and mortgage your kidneys till you buy him a new one.

ʜᴜᴇɴɪɴɢᴋᴀɪ

Supportive but cunt of a man Hueningkai is ready to leave the moment he sees you two. "Oops, sorry sorry. Enjoy" then he comes back to get his supposed charger. 2 minutes later he's cooking ramen in the kitchen telling you he's just hungry and not to mind him. Half an hour later he's watching you like a netflix series chowing down the ramen. He'll assure you it's okay, ignore his presence, think of him like a cockroach till he gets rock hard and you don't know when exactly he started stroking it. You don't argue the sight is simply impeccable, as for someone who likes pathetic men. The way he is trying hold his stifles and whimpers, raised intensity of his movement and the arousing sight of your innocent happy little roommate getting off to you stirs something so raw inside you that you'd let go of the man fucking you balls deep to run ride kai. Kai begged and asked for it as you give the man sorry eyes and ride that precum covered tip, one you were trying to fuck for decades but was too shy to. The lonely man would either have a breakdown or join from the back or you three have to evacuate the whole building, all depends on state of the gas stove kai forgot to turn off after making his late night snack.

[thekinslayed]

Atone

summary | Rhaenyra seeks to mend the rift between her and Aemond. (based on this request.)

pairing | aemond targaryen x rhaenyra targaryen

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! incest, the handjob that stopped a war, a light sprinkle of mommy kink, post ep. 8 dinner scene, not a daemon-friendly fic

wordcount | 2.2k

note | i felt utterly insane writing this, but this pairing is EVERYTHING! def wanna explore this more in future fics!

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

Rhaenyra felt overwrought. This whole ordeal left her weary, both in body and in her spirit, simmering into an agitation that left the babe in her belly restless. Her childhood chambers have never felt so foreign, rid of any warmth they once held in her girlhood. Daemon’s smug commentary recounting the day’s events wasn’t helping her skittishness, and she was starting to feel more suffocated the longer his mouth rambled. She mindlessly mumbled something about checking on the boys, slipping out of her apartments before her uncle-husband could utter another word. 

When she left for Dragonstone nearly a decade past, she imagined the moment she would return was when she was to be crowned Queen. Instead, the king’s heir was greeted by the desolate state of the castle she once called home, stared at with judging eyes on nameless faces, and treated like a stranger. The dinner that came afterward was simply worse, a futile attempt on her father’s end to stay in the blissful ignorance of the bloodied strife that has become only more strained. They all tried to indulge him, or she and Alicent did at least, but the children were a different story. She should feel angrier about the insult her name has suffered, as well as the withstanding ridicule following her sons’ heritage. But after today, she was simply tired. However, Rhaenyra knew sleep would not come so easily after a night like this.

There was one place she would escape to as a girl when her rooms felt stuffy. A terrace facing the Bay, cooled by the breeze from the waves and hidden from any other curious eyes. A spot just of her own, or at least it was. In the course of her absence, it seemed that someone else had found her little hideaway, standing tall in black leather, and silver-gold hair dazzling under the pale moonlight.

Her half-brother stared at her in surprise, clearly not anticipating to face her alone. His lone eye widened, void of the menacing sharpness it held at the dinner table. Rhaenyra was caught equally in shock and could only stare back. She could see the inner turmoil in his lone eye. He could kill her right here and then, and she would go without so much of a struggle against his physical prowess if what Lucerys told her was anything to go by.

Once knocked out of his stupor, Aemond straightened his back, and his scowl returned. He turned to leave with a grunt, but Rhaenyra began to speak before he could take a second step.

“Were you satisfied by your performance at supper today?” she asked. Her hand caressed her bump protectively, betraying the mask of indifference she held by keeping her voice stern. Alicent’s son scoffed, turning back to face her. 

“Were you satisfied with yours? Forcing your rotting father out of his deathbed because no actual truths would suffice in defending your name?” he retorted, raising a single brow in mocking. “Have you come to face the facts, sister?”

Rhaenyra started to regret opening her mouth to speak with him. She should’ve just let him pass and continued to let the rot fester if it meant facing more taunting than she could handle in one day. Yet, she willed herself to keep her composure. She wouldn’t stoop to their level. She was the elder, the heir; she held authority over him, and would not allow brazen insolence in her face. 

“Pray tell, what facts would that be? Since you act like you know them so well.” Aemond’s lips only widened to a wicked smirk, irking an annoyed twinge in Rhaenyra’s chest and a clenching of her jaw. Her hand itches to strike him—a maternal yearning to chastise the boy before her. It reminded her of that know-it-all look on Daemon’s face he permanently had, one that irked her at times, and made her feel like a clueless girl deep down. Seeing them face each other tonight made her briefly wonder how two people who had never met could be so similar, but then again, they were dragons. They all had the same fiery hot, blazing scarlet stream coursing through their veins. Rhaenyra could only sigh in annoyance, blood starting to run hot in Aemond’s presence. She could see the parts of him that were all Alicent, despite the stark features that made him utterly Valyrian, and she could hear her in his taunts. The elder wished to push back, to fight fire with fire, but she was starting to realize she was no warrior, and any battles meant for her to be fought would be better off squandered before they got out of hand. Perhaps she could start with Aemond. “I have always wondered why you hate me the way you do, and my boys,” she said, turning away to look over the crashing waves.

“You have to ask yourself? Your insolent pup has taken my eye and suffered no consequence,” Aemond spat out, venom dripping from his tongue. The princess’ fists clenched in rage, swiftly snapping her head to look at him.

“My son only acted in defense when you tried to injure them, after the years of your restless ridicule because of their parentage!” Rhaenyra defended, veins in her neck straining from anger.

Her half-brother began to take small steps toward where she stood, hands still wound behind his back. She eyed the sword sheathed on his belt, crossing her arm over her belly defensively. 

“You would have let me be persecuted for speaking of the sins you committed. Don’t you remember what you said? That I must be sharply questioned. I was only a boy. And I am your blood,” Aemond fumed. His hands unfolded, making Rhaenyra flinch in fear, though they only lifted to remove the patch of leather around his head, revealing a glinting sapphire nestled in his left socket. The scar running across was a darkened line, the skin slightly lifted from when it was stitched. “You wish to know the root of my disdain for you and your brood? Here, this is why.”

The sight took Rhaenyra by surprise, and all the words she wished to spit out in his face were lost into the night. Her mouth fell slightly open in a small gape, a faint gasp leaving her lips. Aemond’s chest was heaving, and the elder took careful steps to approach him. This seemed to take him aback, good eye carefully watching while he stood on guard. Rhaenyra studied the gem. Under the faint glow of the night, she could see herself staring back, surrounded by scarred flesh. The cut-out eyelid twitched frantically as Aemond blinked, the slight movement being the only memory of the life it once held. 

To have his eye taken was one thing, but to lose everything else that came with being whole made Rhaenyra’s throat seize at the thought. She imagined the moons— or perhaps years it took for his recovery, and it made her want to quiver in shame. If this happened to her boys….

She couldn’t even begin to think it, let alone live it. “You have been subject to so much pain, I see that now, and it has made you angry,” she uttered, voice dropping to a whisper at their breached proximity. He was but a hair’s breadth away from her protruding belly; the closest she had gotten to any of her half-siblings, yet another growing regret. Rhaenyra lifted her hand to cup Aemond’s face. Her half-brother almost jerked back, presumably thinking she was about to strike him, though his shoulders immediately softened at the warmth of her hand on his flesh. Rhaenyra watched his brow furrowed in apparent confusion, his demeanor betraying how foreign a touch like this felt to him. “I have wronged you, Aemond,” she said.

His lone eye immediately watered at her words, and she realized how important this was for them both. Perhaps this was all it took. Perhaps all he ever needed was for these words to be uttered. Her brother remained unspeaking, letting her pull him into her bosom in an embrace. Strong hands held onto Rhaenyra’s arms, a shudder racking his wide shoulders in a silent sob. She soothed him with soft shushes, running her fingers through his silver tresses. They were much like hers, proving they were one and the same despite their denial to see it. 

Both dragons stayed there, basking in the newfound comfort of remission. Rhaenyra nestled her nose into the crook of Aemond’s neck, breathing in the smell of him. He smelled of smoke, leather, and ash, like the true dragon that he was. Her ringed hands caressed the span of his back up and down, the motherly urge to comfort naturally making itself known. Perhaps she was too caught up in his scent, failing to notice something poking into her stomach. Her eyes widened, pulling away in haste in fear that he had pulled out a dagger to plunge into her pregnant belly when she least expected it, but the confusion in Aemond’s eye that immediately shifted into embarrassment made known he had no intent for violence. 

“Seven fucking Hells,” he said under his breath. The younger dragon tried to move out of his sister’s grasp, but the firm grip on his arm prevented him from doing so. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s alright,” Rhaenyra said, free hand taking his jaw to urge him to look at her. Her throat bobbed as she visibly gulped, before nodding at him in understanding. “It’s alright.” The hand on the crook of his elbow descended south, treading to the growing need in between his thighs.

“S-sister,” the younger pleaded, grasping her wrist to stop her.

“It’s alright, Aemond,” she repeated, looking up at him with an urging glint in her eyes. It urged him to let her do this for him, to let this be the start of her atonement. With a shaky breath, the one-eyed prince released Rhaenyra’s wrist, directing her hand to cup him instead. Uncertainty still lingered in the crease between his brows, the corners of his lips quivering. It dissipated once she started to fondle him, shifting to reveal the desire that he had kept hidden. 

Aemond dipped his head closer to hers, breaths mingling yet their equally porcelain flesh untouching. Keeping her sights on his face, Rhaenyra untied his breeches, slipping past the dark fabric to stroke his bare cock. The warmth of his stiffness in her hold spurred a tingling deep within her, urging the hairs on the back of her neck to rise in attention. His cockhead was starting to grow slick, reddened into a painful flush. With a swipe across its slit, Rhaenyra used his arousal to lubricate the rest of his length, stroking him with soft and steady strokes. Soft grunts fell from Aemond’s lips, his forehead resting against her temple as he panted in her ear. 

“Mmh… N-Nyra,” he moaned, hips subtly thrusting into her hand. The sounds of his bliss left her bothered, a wetness steadily growing in her smallclothes. She urged herself to pay it no mind, keeping his pleasure first. 

“Does it feel good?” she whispered, earning an eager nod against her skin from her younger brother. His hand soon began to wander, moving from her arm to brush against her chest. This made the princess gasp, the subtle caress hardening her nipples under the fabric of her dress. Rhaenyra took Aemond’s hand and placed it over her breast, urging him to squeeze. The sensitivity brought by her pregnancy only served to amplify the pleasure brought about by his touch, amethyst eyes rolling back into her head as she sighed in delight. The hand stroking him picked up in pace, spurring him closer to the end. Aemond continued to softly moan and whimper in her ear, the sounds searing into her memory. She knew she would think back on this tryst in the future, in the silent nights when Daemon would leave her be for the night and stumble into some brothel in the town. Those would become her favorite nights— when her hands would wander south, and she would hear nothing but the sweet melody of Aemond’s pleasure. 

He came with a broken moan, spilling all over her hand and some on his trousers. His seed was warm on her flesh, a dazzling pearl held under the shimmering twilight. Rhaenyra wiped her hand clean on her skirts as Aemond turned to lace his breeches back up, a charged silence encompassing the air between them.

With the neckline of her dress righted and his eyepatch placed back over his sapphire, the two dragons could only stare at each other, burdened with unspoken words over what had transpired. Aemond looked at Rhaenyra with a softness that previously wasn’t there, and her gaze held a gentle familiarity. She leaned to press a kiss onto his cheek, her thumb soothingly caressing his jaw. “I will see you when I return, brother,” she whispered, pulling away to return to her chambers.

“I shall be waiting for you, sister. Most eagerly,” Aemond called out, earning a small smile from the heir. Upon her return, Rhaenyra’s chest felt lighter than it did when she had taken the same path leading to her chambers. A budding hope sparked in her heart of hearts, making her believe that reconciliation may not be so lost yet. Though achieved in rather curious ways, but an effective method all the same.

[merakiui]

Helloooo! I’d like to order a flower bouquet + strawberry ice cream from the misc. menu as well as some lemon squares + custard donuts from the midnight menu for Scaramouche <3

yandere!scaramouche x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, dub-con, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, friends with benefits, forced pregnancy/baby-trapping (no pronouns; reader has a pussy), modern college au note - thank you for checking in, dearest guest! enjoy your order! [lunar love hotel]

You’re writing a paper.

Sitting at your desk, scrolling through clothes online, you wonder if your meager paycheck will cover the shipping costs. This is all research. Research that is very necessary in the paper-drafting process, of course! You click on an outfit just as Scaramouche looks up from his phone.

Correction. You’re trying to write a paper.

“Great progress. I can really see the thought you put into this.”

“I’m envisioning it as we speak.”

“Yeah? Doesn’t seem to be getting you anywhere.” He sets his phone down and leans closer. “Last I checked you’re not writing about clothes.”

“Last I checked,” you say, mocking him, “I didn’t ask for commentary. Don’t you have anything better to do?” 

A smug smile sharpens on his face. “I can think of a few things.”

Groaning, you shove him away. “No way. Not today.”

“Why not? It didn’t seem to bother you that last time when we did it before your lecture. You were so out of it you didn’t want me to leave you alone. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

“Not my fault I was tired! Don’t tell me you’ve never said and done stupid things when you’re running on three hours of sleep.”

“Not once,” he declares, looking quite proud. As if it’s some grand achievement. Does he want an award? “And even if I was, I wouldn’t be reduced to sugary, sappy putty.”

“I called you ‘sweetheart’ once by mistake. Get over it.”

Scaramouche rests his elbow on the desk, his cheek in his hand. “I don’t think I want to.”

Shutting your laptop, you turn in your chair to face him. “And I don’t think I want to fuck you today.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Oh, you’re gonna do all the work?”

“That’s the plan. Be grateful I’m so good to you,” he teases, leaning closer and closer until—

You block your lips before he can capture them. “I really can’t today. Paper aside, I don’t have any protection and I’m not on birth control right now.”

“It doesn’t have to be inside.” He sits back in his chair, exuding casual confidence. “Unless you want to risk it.”

You try to put enough ice in your glare, but it melts quickly. You really shouldn’t. It’s not a safe day. You really, really shouldn’t…

Scaramouche raises a brow, waiting for your reply.

Despite everything, you’re wheedled into it anyway. You’re not even sure what you want. Is it yes or no? It’s been months since you fell into this arrangement with him—the campus’s infamous lone wolf who goes out of his way to make himself unapproachable. Or, according to your friends, he’s more of a lonely stray cat in need of a friend. Scaramouche had scoffed when you told him that.

Your friends are idiots, he said with a scowl. It only made him look even more like a grumpy cat in need of companionship. Not that you’d ever tell him that. It would only serve to stoke the flames of his ire.

But right now, looking up at him while he ruts into you, sweat sticking in all the right places, his hair falling over his eyes, you’re inclined to agree with that observation. There’s a depth to his gaze that draws you in, a sad glimmer hiding behind the ardor. There’s never been any attachment outside of the bedroom. You’re not even sure if he considers you a friend.

Still, you wonder…

“Scara, do you—” You cut yourself off with a startled gasp, your nails curling into his shoulders. He’s holding you down by your hips, fucking into you like the world’s about to end. “S-Slow down. Wait, I—aah—oh!”

He sucks in a staggered breath through grit teeth, his jaw set firmly. “You’re never going to leave me.”

Your brain stalls out, and suddenly you’re not sure how to respond. He doesn’t lessen the brutal pace at which he thrusts, so you’re forced to piece together a half-coherent answer amidst your groans.

“N-Not anytime soon—mmh… Why? What’s up?”

Scaramouche lifts his head from your neck. A strange smile turns the corners of his lips up. “It’s not a question. I wasn’t giving you a choice.”

You blink back at him, lust-drunk and dazed. The horror edges in, slow and steady like invasive rot. It isn’t until he’s pinning your legs up by your ears to force you into another position that the implication finally catches up to you. You claw at his back with weak strokes, babbling futile protests against his mouth. In response, his cock throbs inside of you, pressed so deep in this position you fear the repercussions. He kisses you with much the same force, insistent on driving you into the mattress—on pinning you here until you finally submit. Until the last of your resolve withers away, stamped out and replaced with something agreeable.

“Even if you wanted to,” he says around a shaky laugh, seeming positively deranged, “you couldn’t.”

You think you should be worried, but you’re so stunned with this development that your brain can’t keep up. Embarrassingly, you cum with a strangled sort of cry, your pussy clenching tight. He hisses through his teeth, fucks you through the high of your orgasm, and then falls with you, his own climax fast like a flash.

You’re panting in the aftermath. What just happened?

Scaramouche keeps you plugged with his cock for as long as he possibly can before he’s sliding out, flaccid and spent. For now, you suspect, for there will certainly be more later if your wits aren’t about you by then.

“Pill,” you mumble, voice hoarse from crying. You shake him, hoping he’ll climb off of you and get to it. “Scaraaa…”

Oddly, for someone who never shows any vulnerability, he clings. “We’ve got time. I’ll get it. Don’t worry.”

You don’t believe him. Not when his hand strays to your stomach. His palm brushes over the area once. He sighs, wholly satisfied.

“We’ve got time…”

Nine months of it, in fact. But that goes unspoken. If not today, there’s always tomorrow. You know he won’t rest until then. Neither will you. Your heart is too big, too soft, for that lonely stray cat, and part of you wonders if he knows that.

[redicillin]

Hello!! If you’re taking requests on this account, could I ask for- chase who’s been anxious all day, distracted etc, and it’s been pretty obvious to the rest of the team. Then chase turns to foreman when they’re alone and asks for advice on how to propose to reader. Like this poor man is so nervous and just wants to make it perfect for reader? Tysm ❤️

𝐩𝐨𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 (𝐫.𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞)

chase’ll settle for nothing less than perfection when it comes to popping the all important question.

fem!reader ☆ 1.6k ☆ masterlist.

The team is gathered around the diagnostics table, papers and charts strewn across its surface. You stand near House, half-listening to his sarcastic commentary as the others throw out potential diagnoses. It's the kind of spirited back-and-forth you've grown used to in this office—except for one glaring exception.

Chase isn’t himself.

You’ve noticed it since the moment you woke up. He’s unusually quiet, his bright blue eyes fixed on the table, his fingers twisting the cap of a dry-erase marker until it clicks repeatedly. Normally, Chase is quick to weigh in during these meetings, offering his thoughts with a mix of confidence and calm that suits him. Today, though, he barely seems present.

“Am I talking to myself here?” House barks, glaring around the room. His cane taps the ground impatiently as his gaze lands on Chase. “Paging Dr. Kangaroo. You awake over there?”

Chase’s head snaps up. “What? Oh, sorry. Uh, no, I don’t think it’s lupus,”

House narrows his eyes. “Riveting contribution. Anything else you want to share, or should we let your mind wander back to wherever it’s been for the past hour?”

“Leave him alone, House,” you interject, giving Chase a brief, worried glance. His lips twitch upward in what might be an attempt at a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Something is definitely off.

“Fine,” House drawls, rolling his eyes. “Guess I’ll pick up the slack while Dr. Distracted works through whatever existential crisis is happening over there. Foreman, Cameron—go start the tests. Chase, try to remember that thinking is part of your job.”

The meeting dissolves, and you find yourself walking alongside Chase as the team disperses. The hallways of Princeton-Plainsboro are as busy as ever, but all you can focus on is the man beside you. His silence feels heavy, and you can’t help but press.

“You okay?” you ask softly, glancing up at him. “You’ve been… somewhere else all day,”

Chase hesitates, the corner of his mouth quirking like he’s debating how to answer. Finally, he shakes his head and offers a rueful chuckle. “I’m fine. Just a lot on my mind,”

“Clearly,” You nudge him gently with your shoulder. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

His expression softens at that, and for a moment, you think he might actually open up. But instead, he leans down to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “I know. Thanks. But I’m good, I promise,”

You’re not convinced, but you let it slide for now. Chase has always had a tendency to internalise things, preferring to work through his emotions privately. Still, you make a mental note to check in with him later.

—

The hum of the MRI machine fills the small room, a low, steady noise that makes conversation feel oddly intimate. Foreman is adjusting settings on the console while Chase stands by the monitor, staring at the patient’s scan with a blank expression.

Foreman notices. “Okay, what’s going on with you?” he asks, leaning back against the counter.

“What do you mean?” Chase replies, though his voice lacks conviction.

“You’ve been distracted all day,” Foreman says. “More than usual. It’s not like you to zone out during a differential. And don’t try to tell me it’s the case, because I’m not buying it,”

Chase hesitates, glancing over at the patient through the observation window. Once he’s sure she can’t hear, he exhales sharply and runs a hand through his hair.

“Okay, fine,” he says. “There’s...something on my mind.”

Foreman waits, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Chase shifts awkwardly, clearly debating whether to say more. Finally, he blurts out, “I want to propose.”

Foreman blinks. “Propose? As in marriage?”

“Yes, marriage,” Chase says, his tone somewhere between exasperation and nervous laughter. “What else would I be proposing?”

Foreman grins. “Okay, calm down. You’re just...really worked up about this, huh?”

“You have no idea,” Chase mutters, leaning on the counter. “I’ve been thinking about it for weeks, trying to figure out the right way to do it. It has to be perfect,”

Foreman gives him a skeptical look. “Does it? She loves you, man. She’s not going to care if it’s perfect,”

Chase shakes his head. “I care. I want it to be special. Something she’ll remember forever,”

Foreman shrugs. “Look, I’m not exactly the romantic type, but here’s what I think: you’re overthinking it. You’ve been with her long enough to know she’ll say yes. Just do it,”

Chase frowns. “That’s it? Just do it? That’s your advice?”

“Yeah,” Foreman says with a shrug. “Why make it more complicated than it needs to be?”

Chase doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he nods. “I’ll think about it.”

—

The case wraps up late in the evening, the patient stabilised and diagnosed after a long day of tests and deliberation. The team gathers in the conference room for a quick debrief, but everyone is clearly exhausted.

House dismisses you all with a wave of his cane, muttering something about needing to bother Wilson. One by one, the others file out, leaving you and Chase alone.

You glance at him, noting the tension in his posture. He’s been like this all day—nervous, restless. You’re about to ask him about it again when he suddenly turns to you, his expression oddly intense.

“Can I ask you something?” he says, his voice low.

“Of course,” you reply, a little startled by his tone.

He takes a deep breath, his hands curling into fists at his sides. For a moment, he seems to hesitate, as if he’s trying to find the right words. Then, in one quick, almost panicked burst, he blurts out:

“Will you marry me?”

You blink, caught completely off guard. “What?”

“Will you marry me?” he repeats, his voice softer this time. There’s a vulnerability in his eyes that you’ve never seen before, a mixture of hope and fear that makes your heart ache.

For a moment, you just stare at him, too stunned to speak. He fidgets under your gaze, his hands moving as if he doesn’t know what to do with them.

“I—I know this isn’t the most romantic way to ask,” he stammers. “I had this whole plan, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and I just… I couldn’t wait anymore,”

Your lips twitch, and before you know it, you’re laughing. Not because you think it’s funny, but because the whole situation is so completely Chase—overthinking everything until he just dives in headfirst.

“Are you serious?” you ask, though the answer is obvious.

“Yes,” he says firmly. “Completely.”

You laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief. “Chase, you’re unbelievable,”

He winces. “Is that a no?”

“No!” you say quickly, stepping closer to him. “It’s not a no. I’m just… surprised, that’s all,”

“So— it’s a yes, then?” he asks, his voice hesitant.

You smile, your chest swelling with warmth. “Yes. Of course it’s a yes,”

The relief on his face is almost comical. He lets out a breath he must have been holding for hours and pulls you into a tight embrace.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs against your hair. “I wanted to make it perfect,”

“It was perfect,” you assure him, your voice muffled against his chest. “Because it was you, but blurting it out in the middle of the conference room?” You chuckle.

Chase groans, burying his face further into your hair. “I panicked, okay? Foreman told me to go with my gut,”

“And your gut told you to propose at work?”

“Yes,” he says, his voice muffled. Then he peeks at your face, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “I guess it wasn’t so bad, though,”

You laugh, leaning into him. “No, it wasn’t. It was… very you,”

He wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. “I’ll make it up to you,” he promises. “I’ll plan something better. A nice dinner, or a trip, or—”

“Chase,” you interrupt, placing a hand on his chest. “You don’t have to make it up to me. This is exactly how it was supposed to happen,”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, smiling up at him. “Now stop overthinking it and just enjoy the moment,”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll try,”

And as the two of you walk out, the weight of the day finally lifting, you can’t help but think that this—messy, imperfect, and completely unplanned—is exactly what love should be.

[thatdammchickennugget]

You Kiss Like You Drive

pairing - sirius black x fem!reader

request - "hiiii! i love your writing so much. Could you do a Sirius Black x reader Formula 1 AU enemies to lovers, like where they're rivals and then idk something happens and it's kinda spicy??? it's okay if that's too complicated lol"

warnings - formula 1 au, rivalry, teasing, some sexism, slightly suggestive at the end I guess, probably super unrealistic and lots of terminology used wrong because I don't know a lot about f1 (my dad came in clutch answering all my questions tho)

a/n - sooooo, look who finally managed to finish something and not completely hate it into deleting it. a little surprising that this request from—hold on, let me check my notes—april 2024 was the one getting me out of my writing slump, but I'm not complaining. to the person who requested this, I'm so sorry it took me this long. hopefully you'll still see this.

wordcount - 3.7k

You’re halfway into your suit when Sirius leans on the front wing of the car like it belongs to him. Arms folded. Knees hitched a little. Sunglasses on, even though you’re inside and the lights in the garage are a bit too yellow to justify them.

“You gonna stand there all day or are you waiting for applause?” you ask, tugging at the zip.

He glances up lazily. “Just wanted to offer the pleasure of my company, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

He pushes off the wing with a little theatrical stretch. “Sure thing, darling.”

You don’t dignify that with a response, just pull your sleeves up and fasten the Velcro at your collar. The fabric’s a bit scratchy from too many washes. Or maybe that’s just your nerves. Practice doesn’t usually rattle you—but he does, Sirius Black, Grimstar GP’s golden boy, always half-smiling like he knows something you don’t, always one foot over the line, and not just on the track.

“How’s the balance?” you ask flatly, brushing past him toward the gloves on the table.

He follows, too close. “Twitchy in the rear. Bit like you.”

“You’re obsessed with my rear.”

“That’s not a denial.”

You throw him a glare over your shoulder. “Tires?”

“Softs. Didn’t last long, but then—” he flashes her a grin, all charm and sharp teeth— “neither do you.”

You smile. Dangerous, all teeth. “You talk a lot for someone I out-qualified two races in a row.”

“And yet I’ve got the better lap record on this circuit. You remember Silverstone, don’t you?”

“Of course. I was watching from the pit wall when you binned it into the barriers at Copse.”

He hums, unbothered. “Showmanship.”

“Lack of grip.”

Sirius tilts his head toward you, voice dropping just slightly. “Lack of fear.”

You hate that he says things like that, low and quiet, like you’re having a real conversation. Like there’s something genuine hiding under the bravado. You hate even more that he gets this close and you don’t step away.

You pull on one glove, slow and precise. “Your telemetry says otherwise. You lift in Maggots like a coward.”

His eyebrows go up. “Reading my telemetry now? That’s cute.”

You pull the other glove on with a sharp tug. “Someone has to make sense of the mess you leave behind.”

“I thought you liked my mess.”

“I like beating it.”

Sirius chuckles, brushing past you again, close enough that his elbow grazes the material of the suit covering your ribs. He smells like expensive cologne and heat, like engine oil and cockiness. You hate that too.

He stops by the nose of the car, crouching just slightly to inspect something. You watch him from the side, his long fingers brushing the carbon fibre of the front wing, featherlight.

“You know,” he says, not looking up, “I think you’ve got a little crush on me.”

You blink, once. “Excuse me?”

“Just saying. All that attention. All that sharp little commentary.” He stands again, slow. “You’re obsessed.”

A laugh breaks from your lips, disbelieving. “You’re deranged.”

“You’re pink in the face.”

“I’m boiling alive in Nomex.”

Sirius tilts his head. His smile softens—not smug, not teasing, just something else. Amused. Knowing. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, new girl.”

It makes you stiffen. There it is. New girl.

“You keep calling me that,” you say, voice tight, “like it bothers me.”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t have to bother you. Just has to remind you.”

“Remind me of what?”

He leans in slightly, speaking over the sound of engines starting up down the row. “That you’re still catching up.”

You open your mouth, breath caught sharp in your chest, but before you can answer, someone waves you toward the car—crew ready, engine primed. Sirius steps back just enough to let you through, but not without one last comment, delivered like a whisper against the roar of tires and machines:

“Try not to chase me too hard. Wouldn’t want you overheating again.”

You slide into the cockpit with your jaw tight and a fast pulse in your throat. As the wheel clicks into place and the halo closes over you, you can still hear him laughing on the other side of the garage.

You’re going to ruin him on track.

You hope. God, you hope.

.・。.・゜✭・.

The engine’s roar fills the cockpit as you accelerate down the pit straight, the Grimstar GP logo shimmering on the side of your car. You hit the throttle hard, feeling the familiar rush of power as the asphalt blurs beneath you. Just behind you, Sirius Black’s car—sleek, confident—cuts the air with a taunting ease.

“Sector one’s clean,” James’ voice crackles through your earpiece. “Keep that pace through the Esses.”

You push the wheel to the right, the car sliding just slightly as you take the first corner, teeth gritted against the twitch beneath your hands. Then the sharp ping of Sirius’ voice breaks in.

“Careful, rookie. Wouldn’t want to lose it before we’ve really started.” His tone is light but sharp, just enough to get under your skin.

You smirk despite yourself. “You talking to me, Black? Or the ghost in your mirrors?”

There’s a pause, the sound of tires brushing against tarmac, before he fires back. “Both. But mostly you. You’re slower than you think.”

“Funny,” you say, biting back, “I was just about to say the same. I’m just warming up.”

Remus sighs, the sound low but amused on the comms. “Focus, both of you.”

A chuckle from Mary cuts through. “Got a live stream going, and honestly, this rivalry? Pure gold for Grimstar’s PR.”

Lily’s voice follows, mildly exasperated. “Don’t encourage them, Mary.”

You take the next corner with surgical precision, feeling the car settle as you race against the clock and Sirius’ mocking words. The radio crackles again.

“You’re pushing too hard into Stowe. Tire wear’s going to bite you if you don’t back off.”

“Thanks for the advice, Black,” you snap. “Says the guy who ran wide last lap.”

“Touché,” Sirius admits with a laugh you can almost hear.

You press on, weaving through the track’s unforgiving curves. Sirius is right there, pushing you, but never quite close enough to overtake.

“Your brake balance’s off,” Remus says quickly. “Adjust it two clicks rearward.”

You twist the knob mid-corner, feeling the car respond instantly. Sirius’ voice cuts in again, playful but challenging.

“Nice fix. Almost had me worried for a second.”

You bite back a grin. “Keep talking, maybe you’ll spook yourself into a spin.”

“Not before I see you eat my dust.”

The radio goes silent except for the steady rhythm of your engines. You catch a glimpse of Sirius behind you again, then the gap closes, then widens.

Peter’s voice breaks the tension. “Okay, no crashes yet. Let’s keep it that way, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sirius says. “I’m playing nice—for now.”

.・。.・゜✭・.

Back in the garage, the roar of engines fades behind the hiss of cooling systems and chatter of mechanics packing away tools. You pull off your helmet, hair damp and sticking to your forehead, and lean against the pit wall, letting out a long breath.

Remus appears beside you, clipboard in hand, eyes still sharp despite the long day. Marlene’s already wiping down Sirius’ car, shooting you a sideways grin as she passes.

You scowl. “Black’s insufferable out there. Like he’s got some personal vendetta against me or something.”

Remus raises an eyebrow, watching you with that calm, steady look of his. “You sound like you gave him exactly what he wanted.”

“I did not.” You cross your arms. “I kept my cool.”

Marlene snorts, coming to lean next to you. “Yeah, sure you did. Heard you snapping back at him on the radio plenty of times.”

“I was handling it,” you insist, but there’s a twitch of a smile at the corner of your mouth.

Remus smirks. “Handling it or enjoying the fight?”

You shift on your feet, not quite meeting their eyes. “I hate that he gets under my skin.”

Marlene chuckles, nudging you lightly. “I fear you secretly like it.”

“Please,” you say, trying to sound indignant but failing.

Remus chuckles softly. “We all know you don’t hate it, not really. Otherwise, you wouldn’t keep letting him get to you.”

You glare, but the warmth in their smiles makes you relax just a little. Marlene ruffles your hair. “Admit it. You’re hooked.”

You shove her hand away, laughing. “Not hooked. Just… competitive.”

.・。.・゜✭・.

Lap 36. You’re running first. Sirius in second, chasing hard.

“Gap to P1 is 1.4 seconds,” Remus says over the comms, calm and steady. “You’re faster in sector two, keep it clean.”

You press harder, chasing the apex. The world narrows to tyres, tarmac, and static crackle in your ears.

Then: click.

“Move it, sweetheart.”

Black.

You scowl, biting your tongue as you flick through your gears.

“I’m not in your way.”

“You’re always in my way.”

“Then you’d think you’d be better at getting past me by now.”

He laughs, crackling in your ear. “Don’t flatter yourself. You brake like you’re afraid of the car.”

You take the next corner hard, kissing the kerb. “I brake like someone who finishes races.”

“Ouch,” James cuts in, low and amused from the pit wall. “We keeping this professional, kids, or should we dim the lights?”

“Tell your golden boy to focus,” you snap.

“I am focused,” Sirius says. “I’m focused on how good your rear wing looks from back here.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, adjusting your line to take the hairpin wider, defensive. You can feel him closing. You can feel it — heat in your mirrors, like his smirk is actually materialising behind you.

“You get this feisty with everyone you can’t shake off, or just me?” he asks, a little lower now, smoother.

“Don’t make me slow down just to ruin your front wing,” you say, though your pulse is rabbit-quick and your grip on the wheel too tight.

Peter comes in over the radio, tone clipped. “Energy mode three, recharge after this straight. Sirius, stay in tow if you want DRS.”

“Copy,” Sirius says, but he’s back in your ear half a second later. “Not sure I want DRS. You swerving all over the place like that. What’s wrong — nervous I’m catching up?”

You slam through the chicane, aggressive. “I’m not swerving. I’m defending. There’s a difference.”

“You keep whispering like that and I’m gonna think you like me breathing down your neck.”

Your engine screams through the straight. Your tyres kiss the edge of the track and Remus’ voice is calm in your ear, “He’s going to look for the inside on the next corner. Don’t give it to him.”

“Oh, I won’t,” you mutter.

You brake late — too late, almost — diving into the corner and squeezing Sirius out wide, forcing him to lift or lose his wing.

Static. Then: “You little—”

“Say thank you, Black.”

“For what?” he snaps.

“For the front row seat. Hope you enjoy the view.”

James barks a laugh over comms. “Alright, alright, both of you — bring it home in one piece, please.”

The laps fall away. He tries again. You block again. He’s better on the straights, you’re sharper in the corners, and every time he gets close enough to lunge, you meet him with teeth bared.

Last lap. You’re still ahead. And you’ve never wanted to win anything more.

“Still here?” he asks, breathless.

“Still behind,” you say.

He laughs, and it sounds real. Almost proud. “Yeah. You’re annoying when you’re fast.”

“You’re annoying when I’m anything.”

You cross the line half a second ahead of him. First place. The checkered flag waving like salvation.

Your hands shake around the wheel. Remus is in your ear, cool and composed. “P1. That’s a win. Breathe.”

Sirius crackles through, breathless and wry. “Nice race, darling.”

You grin despite yourself, heart pounding. “Thanks. I’ll make sure to wave next time I lap you.”

.・。.・゜✭・.

The media pen is loud — always loud. Mics in faces, cameras clicking like insects, the scent of sweat and champagne heavy in the air. You’ve barely stepped off the podium, still half-buzzing from the win and the adrenaline crash after.

Sirius stands beside you, visor up, hair wild, black race suit unzipped to his waist. Of course, he’s glowing. P2 and smug about it. Always smug.

A reporter from TrackLine TV flags you both down — tall, overdressed, and grinning like he’s walked into a dream. You recognize him. Everyone does. Harry Digby. Always a bit too smooth, always just on the wrong side of professional.

“Champ!” he says to Sirius, shoving the mic toward him. “Phenomenal drive out there. You nearly had it — just a hair away. Think you would’ve nailed it if you weren’t caught behind...?” He turns to you, smile razor-sharp. “Well, her?”

Sirius doesn’t bite. Just hums, tongue in cheek. “She drove a hell of a race. Deserved the win.”

You nod, cool. “Thanks.”

But Digby doesn’t look at you. Still angled toward Sirius. “Right, but let’s be honest — you’re the real draw, aren’t you? Fan favourite, fastest laps, charisma.” He laughs. “I mean, not to discredit the win, of course,” he adds, finally turning to you. “It’s just rare we see women holding off the charge like that. Must’ve been exhausting.”

You blink. “No more exhausting than holding off any other driver.”

“Oh, I’m sure, I’m sure,” he says, tone patronizing. “But it must be so emotional for you. Your first winning season? Tears under the helmet?”

You level him with a dry look. “If there were tears, they were probably from watching Black miss another overtake.”

That gets a laugh — even from Sirius. Digby chuckles, but it’s tight now. Forced.

“Right. Of course. But still,” he presses, “with your limited experience at this level, it’s got to be a lot to take in. Do you think you’re able to maintain this kind of pace? Or was today just... lightning in a bottle? It’s got to be difficult, with all those emotions stirring up, huh?”

You open your mouth, ready to snap back — but Sirius gets there first.

His voice is calm. Cold. Lethal.

“Do you ask the men that?”

Digby blinks. “Pardon?”

Sirius steps closer, eyes narrowed just slightly, half a smirk on his lips but nothing friendly in it. “You asked me about the car. About the strategy. About the race. You asked her if she cried and if she could ‘keep up.’ Sounds like you’re more interested in your assumptions than the driving.”

The air shifts. The other reporters pause — hungry for blood now, but silent.

“She won,” Sirius says, voice low and clear. “She outdrove the field. And me. So maybe start treating her like a racer instead of a novelty.”

Digby’s mouth flaps a bit. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Yeah,” Sirius says, voice dry. “You never do.”

He turns, hand grazing your back — brief, grounding — and walks off.

You stand there for a beat, stunned. Not because you needed saving. But because he didn’t treat it like that. He just... had your back.

You look after him, heart still pounding — for reasons that have nothing to do with the race now.

You turn back to the cameras, meeting Lily’s gaze off to the side, sending you an encouraging nod.

“Any real questions?” you ask.

And for once, they listen.

.・。.・゜✭・.

The corridors of Grimstar GP are quiet now. Most of the crew’s cleared out, and the echo of post-race chaos has finally faded into the soft hum of vending machines and the low buzz of overhead lights.

You’re fresh out of the shower, hair damp, hoodie slung over your shoulders, still replaying the race in your head. Not the win — no, that part’s imprinted already. It’s him you can’t get out of your skull.

Sirius Black.

Your feet slow as you round the corner near the paddock offices — and speak of the devil.

He’s leaning against the wall just outside the driver lounge, a bottle of water in hand, half-zipped hoodie hanging open over a black tank top, hair messily tied back, still somehow managing to look like a magazine cover. He straightens when he sees you. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just watches you approach with that unreadable look of his.

You stop a few feet away, arms crossed. “What the hell was that today?”

He blinks. “You’ll have to be more specific. I did a lot of things today. Lost a race. Nearly clipped your rear wing. Looked good on camera. The usual.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Ah,” he says, leaning back against the wall again. “The press conference.”

You nod, eyes narrowing. “That.”

He shrugs. “Figured someone needed to say something.”

“I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, Black.”

“I know.”

His voice is so calm it throws you off. He pushes off the wall, steps toward you — not close enough to crowd, but enough to make the air shift between you.

“I know you don’t need me,” he says again, softer now. “You’re better at handling yourself than half the grid. But they’re not battles you should have to fight in the first place.”

You stare at him, jaw tight. “So what — you suddenly decided to play knight in shining Nomex?”

He snorts. “Hardly. I was just sick of hearing the same bullshit day in, day out. You win and they act like you stumbled into it. I lose and they still line up to kiss my boots. It’s pathetic.”

You shake your head, scoffing. “You’re full of it.”

“Am I?”

You step closer, anger flaring now, fingers tightening in the sleeves of your hoodie.

“You’ve been riding my ass since I joined this team,” you snap. “Needling me in meetings, over the radio, on track. All those little digs, all that smug superiority. Don’t act like you’re some kind of ally now. You’ve been giving me shit because I’m a girl and you couldn’t handle it.”

Sirius just stares at you for a second. And then, he laughs — short, low, utterly without malice.

“Oh, please,” he says, shaking his head. “You think I’ve been annoying because you’re a girl?”

You cross your arms, stubborn.

He steps closer again, voice dropping low.

“No. I’ve been annoying because you’re you. Because you walk in, all sharp angles and quicker lines, beating me by milliseconds and mouthing off like you’ve been here for years.” He leans in, just enough that you can see the shift in his expression — from amused to something else. “Me getting on your nerves has nothing to do with the fact you’re a girl who can wipe the floor with me — and everything to do with how stunning you look with your face all red and scrunched up when you’re yelling at me.”

Your breath catches. Just a little.

He’s close now. You should step back. You don’t.

Instead, you glare. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he murmurs, “here you are.”

Silence stretches between you, charged and crackling. His eyes flick from yours to your mouth and back, and your pulse kicks up in response — not from nerves, but from recognition.

Because you’ve wanted this. Maybe not in words, but in every tense moment, every overtake, every stare across the garage. Every time he made you want to scream.

You grab the front of his hoodie and kiss him first.

It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s heat and teeth, the rush of engine noise echoing in memory. Sirius kisses like he races — fast, reckless, all-in. His hands find your hips, pull you closer, your back thudding against the wall. You taste adrenaline and frustration and everything you’ve refused to admit.

His hands are firm on your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your hoodie like he can’t stand the barrier between you. You don't exactly mind the wall at your back — it gives you something to brace against when his mouth moves from yours to your jaw, grazing it with a smirk you feel more than see.

“You kiss like you drive,” you mutter, breath hitching as he trails down the curve of your neck. “All ego and no caution.”

He laughs, low and rough against your throat. “You love it.”

You do. God help you, you do.

Your hands find their way under his shirt, palms skimming up his ribs, warm skin beneath soft cotton. He shivers at your touch — not dramatic, just a subtle tightening of his grip, the shift of his hips against yours. You tilt your head back, giving him room, and he doesn’t waste the invitation. His teeth graze your collarbone, and your breath stutters hard enough you swear he feels it.

“This why you’ve been such a pain in my ass?” you ask, voice thin and sharp like static. “Flirting like a damn schoolboy with a crush?”

“Wasn’t flirting,” he murmurs. “Was trying to survive.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. They’re darker now, blown wide and hungry, but there’s a flicker of something else under it — something quieter, more honest.

“You drive me insane,” he says, like it’s the first time he’s said anything real all night. “Every lap, every look, every time you pass me and laugh in the comms. I swear to God, you get in my head like nothing else.”

You blink. For once, your mouth has no comeback.

Then Sirius is kissing you again — deeper now, slower. His hands travel up your back, pressing you closer, like he’s trying to memorize every inch between the high of the race and whatever this is turning into. One of your hands fists in his hair, tugging gently, just to feel the sound he makes in your mouth.

The air’s thick around you, sweat and shampoo and the warmth of something that feels dangerously close to want. Real want. Not the push-pull of rivalry, but the kind that simmers low in your stomach and makes you forget the rest of the world exists.

You’re half-drunk on it when he finally pulls back, just enough to catch his breath. His lips are red. Kiss-bitten. His thumb drags along your jaw, reverent in a way that makes your pulse jump again.

“This is going to complicate things,” you murmur.

Sirius shrugs, smiling like a devil. “Good.”

You snort despite yourself, resting your forehead against his.

Masterlist

Requesting Guidelines

[itsgivingmami]

Heyy I was wondering if you could maybe write Rhea Ripley having a famous girlfriend?

Like they would talk about each other in interviews and such…

Love!! Hope you enjoy! Thanks for the request💛

The Public Eye- Rhea Ripley

Rheas leg bounces impatiently behind the conference table, the lights in the room feel altogether too bright and if she has to answer another dumb question from someone who doesn’t even watch the content they produce she might launch over the table at them.

“So Rhea,” she takes a deep breath and looks to where a man in a poorly fitted button down has a hand up, “how are you going to celebrate your win tonight?” She pretends to contemplate but she has a plan and is getting more and more antsy to get there.

“I have a date,” she boasts and the room erupts as people question her who it is and where shes going. She grins cheekily as she stands from the folding chair and makes her way behind the curtain. Her belt thrown over her shoulder she walks down the halls smugly, pausing for a moment as her phone buzzes in the waist band of her gear.

Babygirl: is it really a date if we’re just going to watch horror movies on the couch?

~

She racks her weights and turns back to her phone, hearts and text filling the screen as her fans watch her live workout. Compliments about her tattoos, questions about the dogs and plain old thirst commentary. She smiles at the depravity of her fans and answers a couple questions.

“What did I do this weekend?” She repeats and hums, “I took my girl to set Saturday morning, cleaned the house and then picked her up, we both had the day off Sunday,”

Her chat starts scrolling faster as her viewers start discussing you. Talking about your last movie or how cute the two of you are together.

“She’s your favourite actor?” Rhea chuckles and quickly double checks around her as if she weren’t home alone, she leans in close to the camera to whisper, “mine too,”

~

The flashes are blinding as you smile looking at them before turning to look at Rhea. Head to toe in a three piece black suit you regret picking out, she’s far too tempting in it. She’s got a firm arm around your waist but you suspect it’s more for her own comfort than yours. She had been on red carpets before but not nearly as many as you and being the lead in the film you were currently at the premiere for you hadn’t had half a second to breathe.

“You’re sure you want to come?” You ask her as you toss a couple dresses onto the bed next to her. It’s not that you don’t want her too, in-fact, you’d love nothing more than an opportunity to show her off but even you got overwhelmed by them sometimes. She reaches for your waist and pulls you between her legs as she stares up at you, your concerned expression makes her grin at you.

“Mhm,” she hums and you run a hand over her hair, “I wanna support my baby,” she tells you honestly and you lean down to kiss her. The emotion rushes over you in waves, feeling incredibly lucky to have the woman in front of you.

~

“Congratulations on the success of your new film,” the interviewer says to you and you smile at her. “It really is a beautiful piece of work,”

“Thank you that’s so kind,” you adjust in your chair, gently pulling your skirt down a little further.

“Of course,” she smiles again and looks down to her notes, “you can tell you put a lot of emotion and really felt your character that must’ve been difficult,”

“It can be,” you confess, some days it was harder to break character and return from that dark place, “but I have a really great support system,” you explain and the interviewer listens attentively, a nice reprieve from the shallow ones.

“You have a partner right?” She questions and you feel your heart flutter, a feeling that had never really stopped despite being together months now.

“Rhea,” you fill in for her, “she’s incredible and she understands the whole fame side of things, I’m so lucky to call her mine,”

~

“Got somewhere to be?” Damian’s question makes Rhea look away from the wall clock and he tries to stretch out his quads.

“No I just want to make sure I’m available, just in case,” she explains and Damian’s furrows his brows in confusion.

“Available for wh-“ the loud ringer of Rheas phone cuts him off and she sprints towards the corner of the practice ring. She accepts your FaceTime and she’s greeted by your teary eyes and your hand over your mouth.

“Hi love,” she greets, ready to tell Damian she needs to go until your hand falls and she sees the smile gracing your lips.

“Four nominations,” you mutter to her still in disbelief, you had hung up on your agent moments ago once she told you the news to call Rhea.

“Four,” Rhea repeats and you nod before she squats down and throws her hand over her mouth, you giggle realising she’s picking up on your habits. “FOUR OSCAR NOMINATIONS!”

You giggle at her and sigh happily, allowing some of the stress you’d been holding waiting for that call to leave you as you fall back on the couch. Rhea watches you in pure admiration, proud of you beyond explanation and relieved to see your skills be valued how they should. Some partners might see it as a threat, to date someone so famous but to her it only adds a layer of connection between you too.

Damian wanders away to chat with someone as he hears you and Rhea, the latter completely forgetting about his existence. He can’t complain, not when his best friend has clearly found the love of her life.

a/n: quick shout out to @possessedmagpie for the help brainstorming, go check out their book!