#Burner for Lazy Man

[grillpartshub-blog]

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[ramshacklerumble]

OH-EIO!!! OH-EIYAY!!!! this guy has been in the back burner for ages and finally started to shape up as an actual character and i’ve been thinking about him for days now. jax, my man!!! he just wants to have an easy life taking after his family’s cargo plane business, unfortunately he’s got a knack for getting into trouble.

befriends my boy bobbi in their freshman year and is kinda the only reason why bobbi hasn’t blown his cover as beau yet in rsa. when sophomore year comes around and they’re each other’s only roommates, jax thinks he can finally breath easy. that is until bobbi waltzes in with the exchange forms.

jax ends up in savanaclaw during the exchange and honestly, i’ve been having a fun time thinking about his interactions with jack the most. their names are so similar that jax decides to call jack ‘little j’. which jack hates.

leona largely doesn’t care about jax and leaves him be. jax is a big, lazy oaf, but that is still a whole bear.

ruggie…has been lurking in the corner of my mind heavy side-eyeing and pretending not to care and totally not be salty about this apparently being bobbi’s new best bud. jax pretends not to notice…for the most part. it’s been interesting.

also cusi watched him boogie for a few moments before deciding that she digs his vibe. she looked at him and went, he knows what i’m about.

and people are legitimately shocked.

taglist:

@cyanide-latte @inmateofthemind @tixdixl @winterweary @thehollowwriter @harryinramshackle

@theleechyskrunkly @skriblee-ksk @boopshoops @the-trinket-witch @twistedwonderlandshenanigans @kimikitti

@s-t-y-x @nightwingshero @water-writings @beneathsakurashade @oya-oya-okay @scint1llat3 (dm to be added)

[tojipie]

prison bf series linked here !

content: lots of angst, ptsd, hurt + comfort

────────────────────────

thinking about how much prison changes toji and how different he is the day he gets out. how 7 years of repenting for his crimes completely warps his brain and leaves him with lasting habits he will probably never get rid of.

you don’t quite realize how almost a decade of seclusion from the world’s developing tech affects him. it’s silly, how he doesn’t quite get what an air fryer is or how it works, lashing out and trashing the poor machine after hours of trying to heat popcorn in it.

how he sits cross legged on the floor in front of the couch messing around with the voice-to-text feature on the TV remote, giggling to himself when the text comes up wrong.

how he doesn’t seem to care for his old phone anymore, discarding the dated piece of technology in favor of a burner with a little keypad so he can text you. how he still finds himself whispering on phone calls with you in public, the residual fear of getting caught is something he still wont shake.

you’ve slowly come to realize just how much he hid from you while behind bars. the things he didn’t want you to see, the toll it took on both his mind and body. you trace the new scars on his abdomen one lazy afternoon, feeling him go completely rigid once he realizes he can’t hide them from you anymore.

they’re deep. fleshy pink slashes with raised edges mirroring the scar that runs through his lip. “you should’ve seen those other guys.” he tells you with a hesitant chuckle, trying to ease your mind. you believe him when he says it, recalling countless testimonies from terrified jail guards who’d witnessed his wrath firsthand.

he thinks he might get them covered up, adding to the endless expanse of ink that litters his body. his latest pieces have all been dedicated to you, and lord knows he wants every reminder of you etched into his skin.

toji hides his grief from you. hides how his heart goes into overdrive in large crowds, head constantly whipping back because his mind still believes the men around him want to drive a shank through his neck.

you still notice though. you notice how he sleeps in the fetal position now, knees drawn up as far as they can to protect as much surface area as possible. he holds you when he can, usually when it’s still light out. pressing soft kisses to your hairline and humming a song you cant quite decipher.

he yelped the first time you bear hugged him from behind, whipped around and held you down by your neck until he eventually came to his senses and broke down with a whimpering apology. you’d forgotten about it since, though you notice how hesitant he is to sleep with his back to you now.

you want to tell him that it’s ok. that it’s normal to see aspects of his former life in his new one. especially after spending so much time in it. that it’s normal to be scared when things take him by surprise and suddenly he’s been transported back behind the walls of a dingy 4-person cell.

he’s still able to provide the same luxuries he was able to gift you when his sole form of income came by means that were more than immoral. old connections come to the two of you, offering positions at their respective companies to help the older man get back on his feet.

what toji can’t do is stay sane working a normal job.

don’t get him wrong, the money is good, maybe even better than what he was making before. he just wishes being a CFO wasn’t such a fucking bore. he used to wear suits to feel good about himself, mindlessly indulging in the luxuries he took for granted.

now it’s just his uniform, what he’s expected to wear as he crunches numbers in a penthouse office. he can’t even light up as he does it, his probation officer would probably smell it on him and make him piss in a damn cup.

he misses being stuck in a locked room 22 hours a day. at least there he knew he’d never be able to get his hands on any bud. the drugs in prison aren’t the kind that you want to mess with, toji knew that even before he had an inkling that he’d be spending nearly a tenth of his life in there.

he asks himself if he even deserves a job like this, a job where he has so many assistants that he practically does jackshit all day, twiddling his thumbs on a 10 thousand dollar couch while he contemplates if he should just say fuck it and roll a joint.

he wouldn’t do that though, not after how proud you were to see that he’d turned his life around as soon as he got out. maybe he’ll start using nicotine patches instead.

toji loves you. that much is obvious. you see it in the way his body shows its vulnerability around you. the way his muscles soften when you lay on top of him while the two of you binge films on the couch. the way he’s still too shy to ask you to lace your fingers with his in public, scared you’ll somehow be corrupted by hands that have dealt out an immeasurable amount of harm.

you tell him to just take it one day at a time on the mornings where you send him off to work, tightening his tie and smoothing down his collar to show off the ink he has there. and toji thinks he’s never loved anyone else quite like how he loves you.

────────────────────────

taglist ! <3 🏷️

@honeybee54321 @m150-50up @kuryoomi @t4naiis @serendippindots @sillyalo @levixbby @powerrwa @tojishugetiddies @wheredidmycrowngo @unknownspecies @ushygushybaby @ebiharachan @hoshigray @crazychaoticizzy @denypipa @watyousayin

[lleeanarr]

pt 2.

summary: The relationship was unexpected not only from the fans, but it was unexpected to the both of them as well.

genre: fluff, smau

paring: Lando Norris x Influencer!reader

warnings! : swearing, attempted humour

fc: Lani Pliopa

a/n: part two! sorry for the long wait😞😞

prev | next

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

landonorris : hello??

-

landonorris : …

landonorris : its been a day🙃

-

landonorris : answer me?

landonorris : pls?😔

-

landonorris : day 65 of asking you to answer me🫠

landonorris : ANSWERRRRRR‼️‼️

catsuperior111 : what in the desperate male😨😨

landonorris : im not desperate.

catsuperior111 : u sure????

catsuperior111 : looks and sound very desperate to me🤷‍♀️

landonorris : 🙂

catsuperior111 : its okk everyone just wants to slide into my dms😌✨

landonorris : weren’t you the one sliding into mine🤨

catsuperior111 : I-

catsuperior111 : me is 🤏 close to blocking tu😃😃

landonorris : NO

landonorris : and why the fuck did it take you a whole week to answer me🤨🤨

catsuperior111 : uhhh

catsuperior111 : my phone was dead..??

landonorris : bullshit who can survive a week without a phone

landonorris : and you suck at lying.

catsuperior111 : BOO TOMATO TOMATO📣📢‼️

catsuperior111 : THIS IS SLANDER😠😠

landonorris : no slander

landonorris : just the truth����

landonorris : now answer my question why did it take you so long?

catsuperior111 : i was too lazy😔✊

landonorris : THAT WAS THE REASON?!!!

catsuperior111 : yes.

catsuperior111 : you were too boring for me to reply to🤷‍♀️

landonorris : bullshit

landonorris : i know deep inside you enjoy my attention😍✨

catsuperior111 : WHO in their RIGHT mind would ever enjoy your attention😨😨😨

landonorris : rude.

landonorris : and fyi MANY would😒

catsuperior111 : mhmm sure keep lying to yourself

catsuperior111 : sometimes being delulu is the solution😍🙏🙏

landonorris : man fuck you.

landonorris : did you even check who you messaged😭😭

catsuperior111 : in all honesty no☺️

landonorris : SO YOU JUST HAPPENED TO DM ME FROM CURIOSITY?!

catsuperior111 : OMG I DIDNT KNOW YOU HAD THAT IN YOU TO FIGURE IT OUT😨😨‼️‼️

landonorris : WOMAN YOU ARE SOMETHING😭😭

reacted with : 😮‍💨

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

yourusername

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, bsfuser and 23,689 others

yourusername small dump📷🍪

view all comments

bsfuser THE CATSSSS😍😍😍

yourusername I KNOW RIGHT?!!!!

yourusername I WAS LITERALLY SHRIEKING WHEN I WALKED DOWN THE STREETS AND SAW THEM🥹🥹🥹

bsfuser LITERALLY THE CUTEST🥹🤏

alexandrasaintmleux 😍😍

liked by author

user17 y/n and her constant post on her lego builds

user35 l literally love her aesthetic😩🤌🤌

user31 she’s literally GLOWING📢📣📣‼️‼️

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

catsuperior111 : do you seriously not post anything??

landonorris : why do you care if i post something or not🤨🤨

landonorris : and who are you to question i post something or not when you have ZERO POST

catsuperior111 : WDYM😠😠

catsuperior111 : i post stuff on my main😒

landonorris : THIS WAS A BURNER ACCOUNT!!

catsuperior111 : yes?

catsuperior111 : did you really think i was going to talk to you using my main🤨

landonorris : most people do

landonorris : yes

catsuperior111 : well i have a burner account for research purposes😍😍🤌🤌

landonorris : WOW

landonorris : no wonder you asked a weird ass question😭😭

catsuperior111 : BINGO✨

catsuperior111 : my main is @yourusername

catsuperior111 : im tired of switching accounts back and forth😪✋

landonorris : lazy ass

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

yourusername posted a story!

caption: me and my gang😍🤌🤌✨

view replies!

landonorris why did it take me a while to spot you💀

landonorris you blend in

yourusername YOU THINK I LOOK LIKE A CAT🥹

yourusername Im honoured🫶🥹

yoursister How did you manage to take that with my cats😨😨

yourusername they just love me😩😩✨

bsfuser the cat obsession is getting crazier...

yourusername 🤫

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

yourusername : oi

yourusername : i accidently bought two tickets to the eras tour😞😞

yourusername : no wonder they were so expensive!

yourusername : can you come with?

landonorris : do younot have any friends?

yourusername : i do...

yourusername : they ditch moi for they're boyfriends

yourusername : def didn't stand up to bros before hos😕🙄

landonorris : when?

yourusername : OMG UR ACTUALLY WILLING TO GO????!!!

landonorris : its charity work😥

yourusername : ....

yourusername : fuck you

landonorris : also who is stupid enough to decline an eras tour concert ticket WHICH WAS PAID FOR☺️☺️

yourusername : having you as company better be fucking worth it

landonorris : dw it will😗

landonorris : if ur being serious about me going when?

yourusername: 18th of october

landonorris : where?

yourusername : miamiiiii

landonorris : wtf you expect me to fly to miami for you???

yourusername : yes

landonorris : ur paying for my flight ticket

yourusername : WHATTTTT????

yourusername : i am too BROKE for that😔

yourusername : i paid for ur concert ticket...

yourusername : at least pay for the flight

yourusername : give some justice to my bank account☹️🤚

landonorris : fine

landonorris : the things i do to see taylor swift😞😞

yourusername : wow what about meeeee

landonorris : thanks for the ticket🙂

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

a/n: i'm literally so sorry for taking so long to release the second part i will be posting more frequent hopefully...😓

taglist: @iamahallucinationnn , @hurtblossom , @papaya-twinks , @kami10471633 , @ahnneyong

[lale-txt]

˚₊·͟͟͞͞➳❥ +18 ; dilf!bokuto ; f!reader

retired pro-athlete bokuto kōtarō felt never more at ease in his life than he does now. he still gets up early for his morning run (much to your chagrin) but always returns with a sweet treat from the bakery down the road (much to your delight) and comes crawling back to bed with you after his shower, hair still damp and stubble scratching against your skin when he trails kisses from your jaw down to your neck. in all these years he hasn't lost an ounce of his energy and stamina, and while his body changed–a softer tum, grew a beard, less bruised hands–his adoration for you stayed the same, unwavering and steady.

bokuto doesn't ask for much in life. he's content with holding you, your back nestled against his front, big arms enveloping you from behind, the rhythmic pulsing of your cunt around his softening cock, the sheets a damn mess. you're so warm, dripping for me, baby. so perfect for me. the calloused pads of his fingers drawing lazy circles around your clit, making you squirm and whine so sweetly first thing in the morning. you are his favorite morning workout and he’s more than happy to oblige when you haven’t quite gotten your fill yet, flipping you over so you’re straddling his thick thighs, a low ‘ride me’ murmured against the shell of your ear. 

to think that you were akaashi’s editor once; your first big girl job, so eager and full of life, always on his heel about meeting deadlines–only to call bokuto sobbing when akaashi locked you out or decided to delete half of the manuscript of his book without consulting you first. bokuto handled it. bokuto took care of everything. bokuto was there, he showed up when you needed a shoulder to cry on (and later a tongue to cum on) and always found the right words to put the sun back on your horizon. 

at first you only had bokuto on speed dial for when you needed a pep talk to pick up your confidence again; he was good at that–reminding you of what you’re capable of, having trust in you when you forgot how to, being the reassuring big hand between your shoulder blades. then, some time later, he talked you through your messy pillow humping sessions at the other end of the line, patiently waiting till your mewls and heavy breaths faded into soft snores and then staying up some more while you were sound asleep. eventually he got you a burner phone, one where he’d text you the address of whatever hotel he was staying at while on the road with his team, always a hot bath and room service ready for you when you arrived. it was a miracle when your feet even touched the ground really, from the way he picked you up at the threshold and carried you from one flat surface to another, preferably with your legs around his waist and his cock throbbing inside of you.

it was impossible not to fall for bokuto; not when he kisses you with his hands cupping your face as if he’s holding his entire world, or when the constellation of stars in his eyes carries your name, or when he murmurs your name like it’s a spell he’s under. whether your thighs are suffocating him while he eats you out like a man starved or fucks you against the hotel room window at the top floor–there’s no doubt his love runs deep, deep, deeper than his cock hitting the back of your throat, molding you like molasses. 

you are his to protect, his to keep, his to adore. his.

[captainjamster]

you're a rabbit. why? you choose!!

do not feed rabbits oats, they are a treat meant to be given very infrequently, if at all 🐇

Something has been unsettling Ghost since they started walking. A presence crawling amongst the undergrowth they push through and over, gentle footsteps vibrating the dirt underneath them.

He can feel its nearness now; warm, beating, lurking somewhere close. It sets him on edge more than a person, eyeing the shrubbery for the flick of a tail or the point of an ear - god knows what kind of animals they've got for tracking now.

You're finally caught when the chill sets in, shivering underneath bracken as you observe them cook over the gas burner. The smell of oats is enough to have your teeth grinding, involuntarily stretching out your nose to chase the scent, and your dewlap brushes against the brittle leaf litter.

Four heads snap towards you, your limbs tensing into a perfect paralysis - but the colour of your coat is a spotlight of its own, a sore eye amongst the dark greens and browns.

"Poor thing," Gaz coos towards the bushes, where your tufts of fur peaks out amongst the speckled leaves. "Lost in the chaos, lookin' for an owner, I bet."

It's something he gets caught up on often, Kyle thinks, looking at the slim, wide-eyed mammal - stray animals, the tatters of domestication trailing with them, nosing through the rubble and destruction. Wishes he could take them all far away.

It takes a few minutes but their gazes become less intense, though their conversation still loops around you between crude jokes and banter, as the younger men debate which food rabbits really live off - you want to tell them they're both wrong, but you'd eat anything at the moment to lessen the gurgling of your stomach that's becoming harder to ignore. The sensation has you pressed against the dirt, stomach catching on twigs and weeds as you inch closer and closer to the smell of sustenance.

Ghost is amused by the statue-like approach you take to creeping towards the fire. A rustle crackles throughout the quiet camp, and when he turns his head, there's a small rabbit perched perfectly still, nose twitching furiously. When he looks back at the fire, the sound of leaves crunching under tiny paws continues. It takes a few minutes until you're beside to him, low to the ground.

Another few minutes, and you're next to the fire, low and flat as you creep. When Price shuffles, you skitter towards the closest shelter - Soap's stretched out legs, shoving yourself underneath them. He freezes, looking around unsuredly, until you poke your head out again to inspect them with those wide, brown eyes.

Finally, it's Price that caves and reaches into his bag. He pulls out a package, tearing it open and watching your tiny head bob into the air as soon as the scent hits. You crawl over to the oats as they spill on the ground, snuffling through the dirt to lap them up, grinding them between your sharp incisors.

Really, you should've seen it coming; the stillness of the man above you as you ate, ears relaxed and mouth full as you savoured the sweet grain until you were nosing amongst the ground for crumbs left behind. He snatches you up, and you immediately start wriggling wildly, flailing in every direction in hopes of landing a kick to spring away from him. But Price holds you close, taking each lash of your powerful back legs with the grit of his teeth, until you calm down and still against his chest.

He rewards you with a big, rough hand against your back, scratching at your spine in a way that has you reluctantly pushing into his fingers, teeth grinding into a purr as he rubs apart the dirt matted to your soft coat. The sensation continues as the boys sit in silence, eating their own food and watching the sight of their captain, and the atmosphere almost lulls you into a lazy moment of respite until the body underneath you rumbles a laugh.

"Always wanted a mascot, yeah?"

[hailthegodsong]

SERVITUDE

One-shot ~ Sam Kiszka x reader

Summary: Driven by the values of misguided past relationships, Sam realises he needs to teach you that when you say no, it means no.

Word Count: 3.2k +

Content Warnings: Past trauma/ implied manipulation, feelings of owing someone sexually, guilt, flirting, kissing, talks of blow jobs and sex, lots of talks of consent. This one was hard to describe, so if I missed any please lmk!

♡

The kitchen smelled like butter and garlic, warm and rich, clinging to the air. Sam stood at the stove, stirring something in a pan with one hand and nursing a glass of red wine with the other. The low hum of a record player filled the space— Fleetwood Mac, some deep cut he swore was better than their hits. You leaned against the counter, wine in hand, watching him with an easy smile.

“Y’know,” he mused, glancing at you through the strands of dark hair that had fallen into his face, “I think I’d make a damn good house husband.”

You snorted. “Oh yeah?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he said, turning off the burner and setting the pan aside before sauntering over to you. “I’d cook you dinner every night, rub your feet after a long day…” He rested a hand on the counter beside you, caging you in just slightly. “Tuck you into bed nice and tight.” His voice dropped, something low and honeyed curling in the space between you.

You laughed, tipping your head back just slightly. “Tuck me into bed? Sounds very wholesome.”

“Oh, I can be wholesome,” he said, his other hand finding your waist, warm through the fabric of your sweater. “I can also be…” His fingers flexed, pressing a little firmer against your side. “Not wholesome.”

“You’re so stupid,” you giggled, playfully pushing him off you. Your stomach fluttered at the playful suggestiveness in his tone. Sam was like this sometimes— charming, affectionate, full of easy, physical warmth. It was part of why you liked being around him. He was a person who touched without hesitation, a hand at the small of your back, a squeeze to your knee, a nudge of his shoulder against yours. Tonight, though, like many others, there was something extra in the way he looked at you, in the way he was touching you.

“Are you gonna help me set the table, or are you too busy being a menace?” you teased.

He grinned, all dimples and mischief. “Fine, fine. But only because I want to feed you before I—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” you warned, and he only laughed, stepping away but dragging his fingers down your side as he went.

After he practically melted into you in the kitchen, he followed you everywhere—brushing up against you while you did the dishes, slipping his arms around your waist when you were at the sink, pressing slow, lazy kisses to your neck every chance he got. He was touchy, needy, but not in a demanding way—just in that warm, familiar way that made it hard to say no to him.

Dinner was amazing. Sam kept the wine coming, kept the conversation light, but his hands never strayed far. A palm to your knee, his fingers tracing slow circles on your bare skin. A touch at your wrist when he refilled your glass. His foot nudging yours under the table. You laughed when he twirled his fork dramatically before taking a bite, and he grinned when you licked sauce from your thumb. It was nice, this kind of attention— being wanted, being adored.

And yet, the warmth of it never quite settled deep in your stomach the way it should. His touches were good, wanted, but they didn’t light anything up anything other than love in you. Not in the way they should have. Not lust. 

By the time you were curled up on the couch, he was all over you again, draped across your lap with his fingers idly tracing your skin. He tilted his head back to look at you, grinning like a man with a plan.

“You are so, so beautiful,” he murmured, voice thick with affection, fingers trailing along the hem of your shirt.

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re laying it on really thick tonight.”

He smirked, his hand slipping under your shirt to rest warm against your waist. “Can’t help it.” He leaned up, pressing a slow kiss to your lips, his other hand coming up to cradle your face. It was soft at first, then deeper, more insistent, his thumb brushing along your jaw as he kissed you again and again, like he couldn’t get enough.

You kissed him back, letting yourself sink into it, because denying Sam when he was like this felt impossible.

So when he leaned in, you let him kiss you.

It started sweet, playful, just like everything else with him. His lips moved against yours with an unhurried confidence, the kind that made you smile against his mouth. He took that as encouragement, hands finding your waist, drawing you in closer. You let yourself melt into it, let yourself enjoy the way he felt against you, the way he sighed into your mouth like he was savoring the taste of you.

And you did want this. You wanted him. You wanted to be close, wanted the heat of his hands, wanted the affectionate press of his lips against your skin.

But there was no pull. No low ache, no heat curling in your stomach, no real desire beyond the sweetness of the moment. The kisses felt good, the way he touched you felt good, but that was all it was— just good.

He didn’t seem to notice, too caught up in you, in the way you let him kiss you back. His hands wandered, slow and deliberate, over your back, your sides, tracing the curve of your hip. He murmured something against your mouth— your name, maybe, or something soft and needy— and you felt the shift in him. The way he was pressing closer now, the way his fingers gripped you with something more than just affection.

His lips left yours, trailing down your jaw, your neck, open-mouthed and wanting. You let out a breathy laugh, threading your fingers through his hair, enjoying the moment for what it was. You weren’t in the mood, but it didn’t mean you didn’t love the way he loved on you– and it especially didn't mean that Sam wasn't too. 

But then his fingers brushed the hem of your shirt, his hands starting to wander lower, and you knew exactly where this was heading.

Gently, you caught his wrists, pulling back just slightly. “Sam.”

He stilled immediately, lifting his head to look at you. His lips were kiss-swollen, eyes dark, but the moment he saw your face, some of the heat flickered away.

“I’m… sorry, I don’t really feel like that tonight. I’m not really in the mood,” you said softly.

Sam didn’t speak right away, just blinked, like he needed a second to process your words. The moment stretched, just long enough for doubt to creep in.

“Oh, I’m sorry baby, I didn’t realise. Got a little carried away,” he smiled, kissing your cheek tenderly as he pulled back just slightly– enough to show that there was no expectation, but still close enough to show you he was there. 

A little pang of guilt, curled low in your stomach.  You weren’t uncomfortable, you weren’t scared, you just… weren’t feeling it. Did it really matter?

It wasn’t like it would hurt you to just go with it. Sam was turned on, and you had been the one kissing him, inviting this, letting him touch you like this. You’d let things get to this point. And wasn’t that kind of unfair? To start something and then pull away?

That’s just how relationships worked. You took care of each other.

You’d learned that early on—how to be good for someone, how to make sure they never had a reason to be disappointed in you. It wasn’t always about wanting to. Sometimes, it was just about showing up, about proving that you cared, about making sure they never had to go without. Because when you love someone, their pleasure should be enough.

And Sam wasn’t asking you to do anything. He never would. But he didn’t have to. You knew what he wanted, and you could give it to him– despite whether you wanted it too or not. That was what you were supposed to do.

So before he could say anything, before he could even fully register your words, you shook your head a little, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “It’s okay,” you said, voice softer now, like you were soothing over something.

And then, before you could think better of it, you reached up, pulling the hair tie from your wrist, gathering your hair into a loose ponytail. 

Sam pulled back slightly, brow furrowing. “What are you—”

You shifted, sliding your hands down his chest, over his stomach. When your fingers brushed the waistband of his jeans, he tensed.

“Wait, hold on.” His hands wrapped around your wrists before you could go any further. “What are you doing?”

You blinked up at him. “I mean… you’re still turned on.”

“So?”

“So, I can give you—”

“No, no, no.” He let out a breath, shaking his head. “Babe, what?”

You stared at him, a little confused by his reaction. “I just figured—”

“That if you’re not into it, you should just do it anyway?” His voice was still soft, but there was an edge of disbelief to it now.

You hesitated. “I thought— it’s just… what you do.”

His brows furrowed deeper. “No, it’s not.”

You opened your mouth, then shut it again, not really sure what to say to that. Because it was. It always had been.

Sam sighed, squeezing your wrists gently before lowering your hands away from his jeans. But instead of letting you go, he just held them, rubbing slow circles into your skin with his thumbs.

“I want you,” he said simply. “Not just… something from you.”

Your chest went tight at that, something akin to understanding clawing its way to the surface. I want you. The words settled heavily in your mind, twisting into something you weren’t sure you understood.

Not just something from you.

You swallowed. So he doesn’t want a blowjob. He wants sex.

Heat prickled at your skin, a mix of confusion and embarrassment rising in your chest. You felt stupid for misreading it, for assuming he’d be fine with just that. Maybe he was fine with it, but he wanted more, and now you’d put this weird pause in the middle of everything. You hadn’t meant to kill the mood.

And if that’s what he needed— if he was really that worked up, if he needed more from you— then you could do it. It wasn’t like you didn’t love him. And wasn’t that what you were supposed to do? Relationships were about giving. About showing up for your partner. About making sure they felt wanted, even when you weren’t really feeling it yourself.

So you swallowed down the lump in your throat, shifted slightly, and forced a small, reassuring smile.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, voice softer now, smoothing over the moment like you were the one comforting him. “I can do that too.”

Sam’s frown deepened. “Do what?”

You hesitated. “Have sex.”

“What?” His voice was quieter now, still surprised but gentler, like he was afraid of breaking something fragile.

Your stomach dropped, again. You hadn’t meant to say the wrong thing. You hadn’t meant to get it wrong. But from the look on his face, you had.

“I mean, if that’s what you want—”

“Hold on, hold on.” He dropped your wrists like they burned him, running a hand through his hair and pulled away as much as he could on the small couch, looking at you like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You think I meant—? No baby, what the fuck?”

Your stomach tightened. “I just meant—”

“No,” he cut you off, shaking his head. “What do you mean, ‘it’s okay, I can do that too’? What��� like you’d just let me fuck you even though you don’t want to?” His voice wasn’t angry, exactly, but there was something sharp in it, something full of disbelief.

You shifted uncomfortably. “I… I don't know”

His face twisted again, and he let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Jesus Christ.”

You frowned. You didn’t get it. Embarrassment clawed at your chest and you looked at your lap. 

“You just told me you’re not in the mood, and now you’re saying you’ll just push through for my sake?” He gestured vaguely between you. “You think I only care about getting off?”

You didn’t know how to answer that. Because you didn’t think that, not really. Not about Sam. But it was what you were used to, what you’d learned from past relationships. If your partner wanted something and you didn’t, you did it anyway. Because that’s what you were supposed to do. Right?

Sam seemed to see the hesitance in your face, because something in his expression softened, just slightly. But it didn’t stop the frustration in his voice when he said, “Baby, no. That’s not how this works. That’s not how we work.”

You sighed, suddenly feeling exhausted. “I just don’t want to let you down.”

That stopped him cold. His brows pulled together, something almost pained flashing in his eyes. “Let me down?”

You looked away, shrugging. “I dunno. It’s just… I don’t know.”

Sam let out a breath, running a hand over his face before leaning closer again, lowering his voice like he was trying to get you to really hear him. “Listen to me. I don’t ever want you to do something just because you think you have to. Especially not with me.”

You didn’t say anything, chewing your lip.

He sighed again, reaching out to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. “When I said I wanted you, I meant you. Not just your body. Not sex, not a blow job— you.” He shook his head. “And if you don’t want it, then I really don’t want it.”

Something cracked in your chest at that, raw and unfamiliar.

Sam studied your face for a long moment, then exhaled, like he was finally letting go of whatever frustration had built up. His hand slipped down from your jaw, tracing lightly over your arm before he laced his fingers through yours. He gave your hand a squeeze, grounding, reassuring.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said, softer now. “Okay?”

You swallowed hard, nodding.

“Say it,” he pressed gently. “I need to hear you say it.”

You hesitated, cheeks flushing, then, quieter, “I don’t owe you anything.”

A slow, lopsided smile pulled at his lips. “That’s my girl.” He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before tugging you toward the couch. “Now, c’mon. You’re curling up with me, and we’re watching a stupid movie.”

You let out a small laugh, the knot in your chest loosening just a little. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” He grinned, flopping onto the couch and opening his arms to you. “Now get over here.”

You smiled bashfully before you settled into his arms, your head against his chest, but your mind still whirred, turning over the past few minutes like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit. You felt… off. Not bad, not ashamed, but something else— something like confusion, like uncertainty, like you were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Your fingers curled slightly in the fabric of his shirt. “I’m sorry,” you murmured.

Sam sighed, shifting so he could look down at you. “What are you sorry for?”

You shrugged against him. “I don’t know. I still just… feel like I did something wrong.”

His brows pulled together, and his grip on you tightened— gentle, not suffocating, like he was holding you steady. 

You let out a breath, still unsure. “I feel like I messed something up.”

He exhaled slowly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before trailing his fingers down your arm, touch light and soothing. “Babe, listen. The only thing that wasn’t okay was you thinking you had to push through something you didn’t want.” His voice was soft but firm. “That’s what’s not okay. Not saying no.”

You sighed against his chest. 

“But you don't need to be sorry. You were confused. We just need to make sure nothing like that happens again. Be straight with me,” he explained, lips brushing the top of your head, and flat palm stroking over your back comfortingly. 

You chewed your lip, staring at where your hands rested against his chest. “…It just felt like I was supposed to.”

His grip on you tightened just slightly. “You weren’t.”

You nodded, but you weren’t sure it had fully sunk in yet.

Sam seemed to sense that because he took a breath, tilting your chin up so you had to meet his gaze. His eyes were warm, steady, filled with something so patient it made your throat tight.

“I need you to tell me when you don’t want something,” he said, each word deliberate. “Even if you think it’s dumb, even if you think it doesn’t matter. It matters to me. A lot.”

You swallowed, trying to process the sincerity in his voice.

His thumb brushed over your cheek, his touch almost reverent. “I want to make love with you,” he murmured. “Not at you.”

Something in your chest ached in a slow, gentle unraveling.

“I don’t just want you to be there,” he continued. “I want you here, with me. That’s the whole point.” He shook his head slightly. “And if you’re not, if you don’t want it, then neither do I. Because it’s not just about getting off. It’s us. And if we're not both having a good time, then what’s the point?”

Your fingers tightened in his shirt. It made sense. Too much sense. 

Sam sighed, pressing a kiss to your temple, lingering there for a long moment. Then, in a softer voice, “I just want you. Even if it’s just like this. Actually, especially if it's just like this.”

You let out a shaky breath, the weight in your chest easing just slightly. “Okay.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you again, eyes searching. “You get it now, beautiful?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he pulled you closer, tucking you against his chest like he was trying to shield you from whatever old ghosts had wormed their way into your head.

For a long while, neither of you said anything.

Then, quietly, you murmured, “Thanks for being nice to me.”

Sam huffed out a small, disbelieving laugh. “Bare minimum, sweetheart.”

You smiled a little against his chest, your body finally starting to relax, your brain rewiring itself one gentle touch at a time.

“I just want you with me,” Sam murmured, his lips brushing the top of your head. “No pretending. Just you. Always.”

Something deep inside you softened, like an old bruise finally healing. And though you didn't know how to say it out loud, you felt the weight of his words settle around you. They didn’t need to be said again.

You squeezed him a little tighter, your body fitting perfectly against his. "I'm lucky to have you," you whispered, the words slipping out before you could even stop them.

Sam didn’t respond right away, but when he did, he squeezed you back, nuzzling his face into your hair. “I’m the lucky one, baby. I’m the lucky one.”

♡

Tag List: @frogkiszka @hailtheaeon @allof--mylove @scarabsinthestardust @musicislove3389

[honeyedmiller]

Joel Miller Masterlist

* indicates smut. 18+, minors do not interact.

one shots:

Tailgate*

-> your best friend drags you to a tailgate party, and you end up being introduced to one very attractive miller brother.

A Forever Thing

-> you and joel have been trying for a baby since the night you two married, but haven’t had any luck—until you do.

Help Me Forget*

-> joel and tommy stumble upon an unexpected body in the snow on their patrol, and they bring the person back to jackson with them.

Pout*

-> joel’s noticed you’ve been working a little too hard, and he misses you. he decides to use his all-consuming charm to coax you to relax… in more ways than one.

Forbidden Fruit*

-> you return back home from college after graduating with your master’s degree, and joel miller is surprised to see how much you’ve really grown up.

Shotgun*

-> you and joel smoke together for the first time.

Ride, Cowgirl*

-> you tell joel one of your fantasies that’d been on the back burner, but he encourages you to bring it to life.

Love Me Tender

-> after a terrible mental week, joel checks in on you and makes sure you’re taken care of.

Something in the Orange

-> you and joel enjoy a peaceful autumn morning together.

Ring*

-> tommy teases joel about you and him having marriage problems when he notices you aren’t wearing your wedding ring.

Mask*

-> joel throws his annual halloween party, and you’re both determined to settle your aching need for each other.

Mystery

-> tommy drags joel to a club which he detests to, until he sets his sights on you.

Checkmate – blurb*

-> screwing your dad’s best friend shouldn’t feel this good.

Checkmate – one shot*

-> you and your dad’s best friend play a dangerous game, and one of you ends up losing faster than you both anticipated.

Nobody Does It Like You Do*

-> good girls always get rewarded.

Birthday Girl*

-> joel gives you a sweet surprise on your birthday.

Traditions*

-> you and joel make holiday traditions in your new home.

Sweet Thing*

-> the most unlikely pair in jackson just can’t get enough of each other.

A Merry Little Christmas

-> christmas morning at the miller household is always chaotic in the sweetest way possible.

Dawn’s First Light*

-> joel tells you he loves you for the first time.

Hiraeth*

-> the most invigorating and intoxicating drug you’ve had in your life is completely forbidden—and then there’s weed.

Real Love, Baby

-> joel has a bad day at work, but seeing you dancing in the kitchen makes it all better.

An Ode to Forever*

-> after an arduous day, joel draws a bath to help you both relax.

or

an ode to how much you love joel miller, and he, you.

The Hills*

-> drugs. sex. fame. joel miller. something about hollywood or other. it all seems to become a blurred line when you get invited to an oscars after party at a house in the hills.

Sweet*

-> it’s a lazy sunday, and joel prefers to have his coffee in bed with a side of you.

Clouded*

-> saturdays are meant for errands and chores. joel convinces you otherwise just for once.

Pretty Little Thing*

-> it’s summertime and you’re working at a retro diner on the outskirts of austin. you’ve seen many faces and heard many voices all in a passing blur; ones you’ve never really payed any mind to—until one handsome southern gentleman in particular catches your special attention, and he’s got a voice you’d recognize anywhere—one that’s gotten you off more times than you’d like to admit.

Mr. Bakery Man

-> it’s not every day you get to move from nyc to austin for your job and relish in a pleasant change of pace. it’s also not every day that you discover a cute family owned bakery in the heart of austin—and it’s definitely not every day that you meet the owner and fall head over heels for him.

Guns and Roses*

-> fantasizing about joel miller gets you a lot more than you bargain for.

Midnight Showing

-> you take joel to his first ever midnight movie premiere.

Long Overdue*

-> joel takes you out on a long overdue date.

drabbles:

Angel*

Sir*

[untitled]*

The Day She Wore Color

headcanons:

New Dad!Joel

series:

Fate, After All*

-> your mom thinks it’s a bright idea to keep setting you up on blind date after blind date. none of them work in your favor—until one unintentionally does.

Law of Attraction*

-> you and your criminal law professor have an undeniable attraction toward each other. it’s only natural that you both explore that attraction—but navigating a dynamic like that is never as simple as it seems.

A Burning Desire (ongoing)*

-> you were fine with being single, basking in the freedom and independence of it all—until a handsome firefighter walks into your life and completely flips your world around.

[thepinkpanther83]

And They Were Roommates (Pt.4)

Chapter Four: “Band Practice”

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

Chapter Three: “Awful Documentaries” Chapter Five: “Blindsided”

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

Chapter Four: “Band Practice”

Many Weeks Later…

The smell hit you first- something vaguely sweet, slightly burnt, and not entirely unappealing. You padded out of your room, barely awake and not quite presentable, tugging your thin robe tighter around your waist. Not that you noticed it had fallen a little off your shoulder… or that the hem was doing a piss-poor job of hiding your thighs. It was morning. Who was there to impress?

The answer, apparently, was shirtless and currently swearing at a spatula.

Eddie stood at the stove, hair a chaotic halo of slept-on curls, grey sweatpants riding low on his hips, and nothing else to his name but a streak of flour on his bicep and a grim determination to conquer breakfast. The griddle before him was a battlefield… One ruined pancake curled in on itself like a dried leaf, another halfway decent attempt being coaxed to life under his intense, brow-furrowed scrutiny.

You leaned on the doorway, blinking slowly. “Is that smoke?”

He jumped slightly, then tossed you a sheepish glance over his shoulder. “Define ‘smoke.’”

You grinned, stepping further into the kitchen. “Gray. Wispy. Usually a sign of culinary doom.”

“Then no,” he said confidently, flipping the pancake with too much flourish. It somersaulted, flopped back down half on the pan and half off. He frowned. “Definitely not smoke. This is breakfast theater.”

You watched him fumble with the spatula again, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He was a mess- bare tattooed chest and arms, sleep-tousled, and still somehow managing to look like something out of a wet dream.

He looked back again, gaze flicking- briefly, definitely- down your bare legs before jerking back up. “You uh… You sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” you murmured, opening the fridge mostly to give yourself something to do that wasn’t openly ogling the half-naked man in your kitchen. “You?”

His grin was lazy, almost smug. “Slept like a baby. Dreamed I was a five-star chef. Woke up, tried to make pancakes to make my dreams come true. Life’s funny like that.”

You laughed, pulling out the orange juice. “Well, Chef Munson, your kitchen smells like ambition and mild failure.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, faux-offended. “Next time, I’ll just let you handle all the fire hazards.”

You poured yourself a glass and leaned against the counter, robe slipping just a touch more without you realizing. Eddie’s eyes flicked to it again- fast. Almost imperceptible. But it was there. And then his pancake flopped completely off the pan and onto the burner.

“Shit!” He grabbed for the spatula, and in the scramble, knocked over the mixing bowl. A cloud of flour erupted across the stove, dusting everything, including him.

You took a sip, deadpan. “Ten out of ten. Very graceful, Chef Munson.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, coughing, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “This is just my warm-up round. My actual breakfast masterpiece is still pending.”

“You know,” you said thoughtfully, “we do still have leftover fried rice.”

“Blasphemy,” he spat. “This is a pancakes for breakfast household now.”

He finally turned to face you fully, arms folded, chest dusted in flour like it was intentional. Your eyes locked. Held.

Something shifted. Just for a second.

His eyes softened, smile quirking up at the corner in that slow, knowing way he got when he was trying not to make something a thing. “You look…” he trailed off, eyes flicking downward before he caught himself. Cleared his throat. “Comfy.”

“Thanks,” you said, heart skipping once… just once. “You look like a flour bomb exploded in your general vicinity.”

“I’m establishing dominance,” he said proudly. “Through chaos.”

You laughed, but it stuck somewhere in your throat. Because it was morning, and you were tired, and he was warm and unguarded and right there. Because there was something about the two of you that kept brushing up against the edge of more before retreating again, like it was a mistake.

And because he looked at you then… really looked, and didn’t look away.

Your smile faltered just a bit. You turned back to the fridge. “Well, as long as you don’t burn the house down, I’ll consider it a win.”

Behind you, you heard him mutter, soft and amused, “No promises, sweetheart.”

The moment hung between you… charged, unspoken, thick with something neither of you dared name. Then, just as quickly, the spell broke. Eddie turned back to the stove with a dramatic sigh, waving the spatula like a conductor’s baton.

"Alright, pancake redemption round," he declared, tossing you a grin over his shoulder. "But I’m gonna need a sous-chef. You in?"

You arched a brow. "Depends. Am I just here to save your breakfast, or am I getting creative control?"

Eddie pressed a flour-dusted hand to his bare chest. "Are you questioning my artistic vision?"

"Artistic?" You snorted, stepping closer to peer at the disaster zone of batter splatters and half-crisped edges. "Eddie, this looks like a crime scene."

He bumped his hip against yours, sending a jolt of warmth straight up your spine. "Exactly. Edgy crime scene pancakes. Revolutionary."

You rolled your eyes but grabbed an apron from the hook anyway, looping it over your head before turning your back to him. "Tie me up, chef."

The second the words left your mouth, you froze.

So did Eddie.

His fingers stilled just above the strings of the apron, hovering like he’d been electrocuted. You could feel the heat of him behind you, the way his breath hitched… just slightly, before he cleared his throat and tugged the ties into a loose knot.

"There," he murmured, voice lower than before. "Now you’re officially part of the chaos."

You turned slowly, acutely aware of how little space was left between you. His tattooed chest was still dusted in flour, his hair a wild tangle from sleep, and his lips…

Stop.

You grabbed the whisk off the counter and thrust it at him. "You’re on batter duty. I’ll handle the heat."

Eddie’s smirk was slow, knowing. "Oh, I bet you will."

You flipped the burner back on with more force than necessary.

Somehow, between Eddie’s ‘experimental flipping techniques,’ better known as ‘reckless pancake acrobatics’, and your attempts to salvage what was left of the batter, you managed to produce a stack of vaguely edible breakfast food. They were lopsided, slightly charred at the edges, and somehow still the best pancakes you’d ever had.

You sat across from each other at the tiny kitchen table, knees brushing under the surface every time one of you shifted. Eddie drowned his in syrup, took a bite, and immediately groaned.

"Okay, fuck," he said around a mouthful. "We’re geniuses."

You laughed, swiping a bite off his plate with your fork. "We’re lucky."

Eddie watched you steal his food, eyes dark with amusement. "You know, most people ask before they take a man’s pancakes."

You shrugged, popping the bite into your mouth. "Consider it payment for saving your breakfast, let’s call it ‘The Roommate Tax’."

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, syrup glistening on his bottom lip. "What else do I owe you, then?"

The question hung there, loaded.

You swallowed.

Eddie’s gaze dropped to your lips… just for a second, before he leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head like he hadn’t just set your pulse racing. "So," he said, too casually. "What’s the plan today, roomie?"

You took a slow sip of orange juice, buying time. "I was thinking... we could finally tackle some yard work."

He groaned, slumping in his chair. "Cruel."

"Or," you added, grinning, "we could not do that."

Eddie perked up immediately. "I like where this is going."

You nudged his foot under the table. "You got any better ideas?"

He held your gaze, smirk tilting higher. "Oh, sweetheart. Always."

The syrup on his lip was still there.

You didn’t tell him.

You kinda liked it.

Later That Morning…

The sun had finally managed to claw its way through the clouds, casting a lazy golden wash across Eddie’s van as he backed it down the gravel drive. The van- a green and white '77 GMC Gaucho that had seen better days… and smelled suspiciously like band sweat and Taco Bell- rumbled beneath you like it was powered by caffeine and spite.

Eddie tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, rings clinking, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. He threw you a sidelong glance, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You sure you’re ready for this, sweetheart?” he asked, voice playful but edged with something just a touch nervous. “These guys are like... my wolves. Territorial. Loud. Deeply uncool.”

You arched a brow, watching him shift gears like he was born doing it. “You mean more uncool than the guy who just committed pancake arson in my kitchen?”

“Hey,” he said, feigning offense. “Those pancakes died bravely.”

You grinned, but your heart skipped. Not because of their banter, but because of what was underneath it. He was fidgeting. A bit too much. Like he wanted you to like this part of his world. Like it mattered.

“So,” you said, “is this band practice or an audition for my approval?”

Eddie choked on a laugh. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, recovering with dramatic flair. “This? This is band practice with undertones.”

You laughed, and he relaxed. Just a little. He tapped the stereo, and an old Metallica cassette kicked in, filling the van with the raw, familiar thrum of guitars. You let it ride, the music, the hum of the road beneath you, and the occasional sharp turn that made your thigh brush his. Neither of you said much after that. You didn’t need to.

By the time you pulled up in front of Gareth’s house- a squat two-story with a battered garage door decorated in flaking band stickers and rust, you could hear the faint thump of drums already in motion.

Eddie threw the van into park and turned to you, biting his lip. “Okay, look… just- don’t be alarmed if Grant tries to flex his knowledge of obscure death metal subgenres. Or if Gareth insists on a drum solo introduction. Or if Jeff asks if you play ‘Freedom in the Galaxy: The Star Rebellions’ within five minutes of meeting you.”

“Is that… a prerequisite?”

“No, but it helps,” he said. “Also, if they get weird and territorial, just remember… I brought you, and I outrank them.”

You snorted. “You’re their alpha?”

“I’m the frontman,” he said proudly. “Basically the same thing.”

You slid out of the van, door creaking behind you as you shut it, and followed him up the gravel path. Eddie looked stupidly good in the daylight. Sun catching the tips of his wild curls, his Hellfire Club tee he’d changed into cut off at the sleeves, guitar case slung across his back like it weighed nothing.

The garage door groaned as he lifted it, and the boys all looked up.

Gareth was behind the kit, twirling a drumstick like a baton, brown hair pulled back in a short sloppy ponytail. Jeff was tuning his guitar, wearing a faded Dio shirt and the world’s most intense expression. And Grant- chomping on a large bag of beef jerky, somehow both sweaty and motionless at the same time, was camped out by the amp like a bouncer for a band that hadn’t made it yet.

“Holy shit,” Gareth said, eyes wide. “You brought her?”

“She exists!” Jeff added with mock awe.

“I thought she was fake,” Grant mumbled, mouth full.

Eddie shot you a look like, ‘See what I deal with?,’ then set down his guitar case. “Guys, this is my roommate I’ve told you about. Don’t scare her off.”

“No promises,” Gareth said, grinning. “We’ve been cooped up all summer. We’ve gone full gremlin.”

You gave them a little wave, amused. “I’ve worked with middle schoolers. You’ll have to try harder.”

“Ohhh,” Jeff said, nodding in approval. “She’s spicy.”

Eddie dragged his amp over with a loud clunk. “Alright, that’s enough testosterone for now. Let’s get warmed up before someone starts quoting Tolkien.”

As the boys fell into position, Eddie opened his guitar case, pulled out his well-loved Warlock, and started tuning. The transformation was subtle, but immediate.

Gone was the goofball pancake-wrecker.

Here was Eddie Munson… frontman. Fingers steady. Shoulders squared. Focused.

He caught your eye just before strumming the first chord and gave you a wink. “Hope you’re ready to have your mind blown.”

You sat on the edge of a stack of overturned milk crates, legs crossed, trying not to look too impressed. But when Eddie hit that first riff… rich, fast, filthy… something clenched low in your gut, and you squeezed your thighs together involuntarily.

Yeah.

You were in trouble.

The garage erupted into sound. Drums pounding like a heartbeat, bass rattling your ribs, and Eddie’s guitar slicing through it all with razor-sharp precision. His fingers moved effortlessly over the frets, calloused and sure, every note dripping with raw energy. He wasn’t just playing; he was commanding the room, his body swaying with the rhythm like the music was a living thing inside him.

You couldn’t look away.

Gareth’s drumsticks blurred, Jeff’s bass thundered, and Grant- somehow still chewing, nodded along like a metronome. But Eddie… Eddie was alive. His eyes slid shut as he leaned into a particularly filthy riff, his bottom lip caught between his teeth in concentration. A lock of hair fell across his face, sticking slightly to his temple where sweat had started to bead.

Then, without warning, his eyes snapped open… locked onto yours, and he smirked.

The bastard knew exactly what he was doing to you.

The song built, faster and louder, until Eddie stepped up to the mic stand- a repurposed broom handle duct-taped to a cinder block, and sang. His voice wasn’t polished, it was rough, a little raspy, and so fucking hot it made your skin prickle.

Where was all the shitty warbling he did around the apartment?!

"You say you want it, but you don’t mean it-

You say you need it, but you can’t take it-

So tell me, baby, what’s it gonna be?”

His gaze never left yours as he delivered the last line, voice dropping to a growl.

You swallowed hard, your gaze transfixed.

The song ended in a cacophony of feedback and cymbal crashes, the boys panting and grinning like idiots. Eddie swiped his forearm across his forehead, hair sticking up in every direction, and shot you a look that said, ‘Well? Impressed yet?’

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks were warm. "Not bad, Munson."

"Not bad?" He clutched his chest like you’d wounded him. "Sweetheart, that was art."

Gareth tossed a drumstick at his head. "Art my ass. You fucked up the bridge again."

Eddie caught the stick midair and pointed it at him. “I added flavor to the bridge. You’re just mad you can’t keep up."

Jeff snorted. "Dude, you literally skipped four bars."

Eddie flipped him off, but he was grinning. He turned back to you, tossing the drumstick in the air and catching it effortlessly. "So? Thoughts? Be honest. I can take it."

You tilted your head, pretending to consider. "Hmm. Needs more... pizzazz."

Eddie gasped. "Pizzazz? What the fuck does that even mean?"

You shrugged, fighting a smile. "I dunno. Maybe if you played topless, it’d help."

The garage went dead silent.

Gareth choked on his own spit. Jeff’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. Grant finally stopped snacking.

Eddie, for once in his life, looked speechless.

Then, slowly, a wicked grin spread across his face. "Oh, really?" He set his guitar down carefully and grabbed the hem of his Hellfire Club tee. "You wanna see pizzazz, sweetheart?"

You realized your mistake immediately.

"Wait- no Eddie, I was joking-"

Too late.

He yanked the shirt off in one smooth motion, tossing it aside like it had personally offended him. His chest was lean but defined, tattoos on full display- the bats on his forearm, the spider crawling on his chest, the demonic skull just beneath it. You’d seen it all before, but not in this context, not with him in his rock god element.

And fuck, he was smirking at you.

"Better?" he purred, running a hand through his sweat-damp curls.

You were so screwed.

Gareth wolf-whistled. Jeff fake-gagged. Grant just nodded approvingly and went back to his jerky.

You crossed your arms, trying- and failing, to keep your cool. "You’re insufferable."

Eddie winked. "But you like it."

The worst part?

You really, really did.

Grant slouched against the amp, jerky in hand like a critic holding a cigar. “So, uh…” he started, glancing between the two of you. “We all gonna pretend he wasn’t eye-fucking her mid-riff?”

You choked on your spit, your cheeks reddening.

Eddie groaned. “Jesus Christ, Grant-”

Jeff jumped in, strumming a random chord. “Dude, you looked like you were about to propose mid-solo. I thought we were gonna have to change the setlist to include a wedding march.”

Gareth leaned on his sticks, chin in hand, wearing a shit-eating grin. “I give it three rehearsals before one of them snaps and we walk in on something scarring.”

You raised a brow. “You planning to walk in?”

Gareth pointed a stick at you. “She’s quick. I like her.”

Eddie ran a hand through his hair, trying and failing to look unaffected. “Alright, alright, cool it, you hormonal gremlins. You scare her off, I’m making you do load-in solo for the next show.”

Grant looked unbothered. “Still worth it.”

As the boys broke into a fresh argument over the setlist- and whether the jerky was, in fact, vegan, you felt Eddie’s gaze flick back to you. Less cocky now. A little softer.

Like maybe… he was starting to realize this wasn’t just harmless flirting anymore.

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be tagged! And to which fandom. (Bayverse TMNT, Vegeta, Eddie Munson).

@justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne

Masterlist

[butterflys-corner]

Շђє รเгєภ & Շђє รคเɭ๏г.

"𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓶𝓮 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓪 𝓼𝓪𝓲𝓵𝓸𝓻"

Siren!Reader x Usopp. (Also black reader!) [Warnings/Tags: Friends-to-Lovers, keeping secrets, fatal attraction, "The rescue" trope, lovers in denial, you have long hair] [Playlist: Sailor Song - Gigi Perez, (more to be added later!)]

- 1.6 k words

No one knew of the painful secret you kept.

You were a siren. The ugly cousin of the well known and well received mermaids and fishmen of the vast oceans. You could change forms at will, sing in such beautiful keys that any man brave enough to listen became entranced in it, and bore the unfair mistakes of one siren in long days past.

Every man, be it pirate or islander, feared your very existence. They steer clear at any cost, even if they didn't know what they adjusted their course for.

So what a surprise it had been when you and Usopp- the sniper of the Straw Hat pirates- were the best of friends. After the goofy captain of your crew recruited you on the simple I like you! Join my crew! it was a wrap.

You would frequent his workshop almost daily, sit beside him during meals, do each other's hair, and even spend shifts together in the crows nest.

Today was one of those days, the two of you cuddled up in his hammock. It was a lazy day for the crew, everyone off doing their own things along the ship.

"Want to hear another story?" Dark fingers played in your equally dark curls, your eyes softly glued to the rings on your fingers.

"Sure. Have any about mermaids?" You twist one of the dainty rings around your index, the long-nose pirate grinning behind you.

"Let's see..." Usopp trails off, pulling together different ideas until settling on one. "I have a pretty interesting one."

"Hit me," you smile against the words, always enjoying his far fetched tales.

"Alright," he sat up, bending a knee beside your chest to give a more comfortable resting place. You take it, head laid flat against his stomach as you look up to listen more intently to the story.

"This is the story of a beautiful mermaid-" A flutter rose in your chest, a soft smile etching its way onto your lips. He didn't know that you were one (technically), but it still warmed your heart all the same. "and her handsome pirate."

As he spun the story, you gave the utmost attention to it. You couldn't help but feel like the story was about the two of you despite how you both swore up and down you were friends.

But, friends didn't cuddle as much as you did. Nor did they bump foreheads or even kiss the other's cheek as often as you did.

Your eyes flutter closed as he continues the story, dark lashes shining against the lamp in his cabin. He found you the most pretty then, the softness of your features against the warm light sending butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

"The mermaid was very lonely in the sea. All she wanted was a companion that would understand her." He spoke like the skilled narrator he was, saving his grand gestures for another time.

He toyed with the soft tresses of your curls instead, his soft gaze on your fingers against your stomach. The way you drew shapes along the fabric of your shirt sent light chuckles up his throat.

"She had fallen in love with a human before, but her people didn't like humans. She had to break it off with him. The human was very sad over the breakup, seeking out the ocean. He fell in love with the mermaid there."

"What happened next?"

"..they spent a few hours just holding each other before the man spoke up and asked the mermaid something." You hung onto every word he spoke thus far, his hand gradually moving from your hair to gently holding your cheek in his palm.

You lip was tucked between your teeth, eyes on his as you waited for the next part in anticipation. The small distance between you was ignored, the focus on the story being greater.

"The man looked into her eyes and asked, 'Will you stay with me?"

Your intense investment in the story put the feeling of his rough hand in yours on the back burner.

"And what did the mermaid say?" The words send a smug grin onto Usopp's lips, the usual occurrence when he knew someone was that invested in his stories.

"She looked at him, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight.." His voice dripped with warmth and gave the story more depth. He had to fight another chuckle as he leaned in closer to you, almost like a moth to the flame in your eyes. "She smiled and softly said.."

You nod, eager to hear what she said to the sailor.

"Yes." He chuckles lowly, pulling away from the tension he created for the story. A soft gasp left your lips, the heavy weight of the anticipation being lifted from your shoulders.

"Then what happened..?" You all but whisper, another soft rumble coming from his chest.

"The man was ecstatic when she agreed to stay with him. They were together for the rest of their lives. Happy and in love." He finished the story with a smirk, his hands gently holding onto your cheeks to pull you closer. He spoke against your ear, pulling away once the last word left his lips.

"That was a good story." You smile, happy with probably your favorite story of the day. The copper skinned man grins back, your joy always infectious.

"I knew you'd like it." He was brimming with pride. He ruffled your hair, the urge to be truthful to him rising up in your chest.

After a moment of thinking, you let a soft sigh out, still smiling.

"I am one, after all."

"You are so full of yourself sometimes," he laughs out, shaking his head.

Of course he wouldn't believe you. Who would?

"No. Really." You clarify, sitting up and moving his lanky arms away from your body. You didn't miss the slight pout on his face from the lack of closeness.

Not that it mattered. You were just friends, right?

"Oh-" the sniper grows a bit serious, the pout gone. "You're serious?"

You nod, raising a hand to show him.

The illusion of your curse fades away, pearlescent scales shining against your dark skin. As he stared wide eyed, you suddenly.. regretted telling him.

Would he see you differently?

More than just physically?

A thick lump forms in your throat, the gills against your neck slightly fluttering in anxiousness.

His silence didn't help.

You almost got up from the hammock fully had he not gently reached for your hand.

"You... really are a mermaid?" His voice was quiet, as if it was the biggest secret he had ever known- which it truly had been. Another nod, and you gently direct his attention to your eyes. More specifically, the metallic green of your irises in the light.

"I wouldn't say mermaid.. More of a siren. But only half." You clarify just as quiet, guilt filling your chest. What if he thought this entire friendship was based on the curse over you?

"I don't know what to say." His dark eyes inspect the metallic color of yours, more anxiety filling your head with unnecessary worry.

"I can back off if you need. I don't.." You take a small breath, collecting your thoughts. It seemed you weren't the only one.

"I don't want you to think any different of me. There's that whole wives tale of sirens leading pirates to their deaths and.. everything.."

"No. No, I don't think different of you." Usopp shakes his head quickly, holding your arm gentle but firm to keep you from slinking away. You met his eyes, a little reassured by his sincerity.

"You.. haven't heard me singing by chance, have you?"

"No. I haven't. But, I'm sure it's beautiful." Now that he thought about it, he was pretty curious about how your voice sounded. Maybe he would-

"Good. I don't want to trick you with songs." Your gaze falls to the floor, a hand rubbing the back of your neck slightly. With your downcast eyes you missed how.. enamored he was with you. More than before.

"Trick me? What do you mean by that?" His head tilts, dark coils shifting just slightly against his shoulders. He reaches a long arm to your chin, tilting your head back up to meet his eye.

"Oh... like... bewitch you?" You lightly joke, the heavy weight in your chest lightening just a bit.

"Drag you into the ocean. Eat you." You raise your hands, fingers wiggling to impersonate a ghost. The tension melted away at his infectious laughter, soft giggles leaving your chest.

"You wouldn't eat me. I'm sure of it." He took the chance to fully admire you, more than the looks he'd sneak around the others or in the midst of naps together. The scales along your skin were mesmerizing, your beauty- in his opinion- doubled compared to before.

"I bet you couldn't even scare me if you tried," he boasted, trying to keep himself distracted from poking your scales. You raise an eyebrow, surprised with his bold lie.

"Usopp? The king of scared pirates?"

"Hey, I'm not that scared of stuff. I just like to over exaggerate sometimes." He defends himself, arms crossing with a pout afterward. You shake your head and climb down from the hammock, aimlessly walking across the cabin.

"Either way. I won't be singing any time soon unless I don't notice I'm doing it." You make it clear, glancing over at him as he followed your figure.

"I won't force you to sing if you don't want to. I understand. I just hope I'll get to hear it one day." He stayed stuck on your scales, itching to feel them under his rough fingers. They looked so pretty and smooth.

Maybe you would sing for him. One day.

But not now.

Pic credits: @motherearthlovesus, @without-ado Divider credit: @kodaswrld

[drivinmeinsane]

The Way You Stare

※ Driver (Drive) x Ken (Barbie) ※

{ masterlist } ※ { ao3 }

※ Summary: Ken has never learned the importance of being patient. His efforts to be the sole recipient of Driver's steady focus earn him a hard and frustrating lesson from a man who is not very composed himself.

※ Rating: 18+ for explicit mature content.

※ Content/Tags: Edgeplay, Cum Eating, Light Bondage, Bondage and Discipline, Face-Fucking, Ken has glittery cum (glizz), Glove Kink, Blow Jobs

※ Word count: 4,817

※ Status: Oneshot/Complete

※ Author's Notes: Back again on my bullshit. I can't seem to stop thinking about Ken and Driver.

The television casts a flickering glow over the intimately small room. Dazzling shades of colors from the screen paint every reachable surface with watercolor hues. A lighthouse beacon in all the muted chaos is Driver. The man sits at the folding table in the apartment’s single chair. The small table is crowded with his current project. He is curled thoughtfully over the carburetor he’s working on, peering through the magnifier of his lamp. While he thinks, he flips his socket tool between his fingers. The rhythmic motion is soothing to watch. It makes Ken think of something else that the other man’s hand could be doing instead.

Ken really is not sure what the other man is doing exactly despite it being explained to him earlier in the evening, but regardless, he can’t tear his eyes away from him. He scrutinizes every detail, every movement of his hands, every shift of the muscles under his blue shirt. The harsh, white gleam of the LED light illuminates the mechanic’s face in a way that has Ken shifting uncomfortably in his seat on the worn couch. The television has become a secondary thought, something that was supposed to keep him distracted. Driver had gestured to the couch some hours ago, while the sun was still setting, and Ken is finally tired of entertaining himself. He knows the quietly working man doesn’t have a job tonight. There have been no phone calls to be answered on a burner phone, no monologues given in that deceptively lazy voice. He’s wholly unoccupied by anything more important than a hobby that he has already spent ages on. Ken personally thinks that Driver is past due to divert his attention to something more… pressing. 

He lets himself sigh loudly over the low murmur of the television, hoping to garner attention. Driver doesn’t so much as twitch at the intrusive sound. Ken seals and tosses the bag of pecans that he’s been steadily working through onto the couch cushion beside him. The nuts rattle aggressively in their pouch. He’s not hungry anymore, not when he’s been driven to distraction. He lets his head lull against the leather couch. His hands find their way to the front of his pants. His fingers deftly pop the button and unzip the fly. He drags them off his legs with little huffs and moans, fabric rustling noisily. He’s stripped down to his thong and his unbuttoned, collared shirt. The apartment’s air is cool on his newly bare legs and he shivers. 

Driver’s jacket is folded haphazardly over the arm of the couch. The fabric shines like a star in the night sky, twinkling with the parade of lights from the television across the way. He brushes curious fingers over the scorpion embroidered on the back. It’s bumpy under his exploratory touch. He has half a mind to press his face into the silky material and find his release with his own hand. It would only be a pale substitute for the real thing, for the man seated mere feet away. The weight of the other man’s body, the calloused hands, the perpetual smell of oil and cheap soap clinging to his flesh; Ken wants it all. He probably wants too much. He always has. It’s his fatal flaw, the one that made him unsuited to Barbieland. 

He must make a noise that cuts through the stunt driver’s focus because he shifts to look over his shoulder at him. Driver squints into the relative darkness outside the influence of his table light. He takes in the way that Ken’s hand is lingering on the golden arachnid, and he traces the lines of his exposed legs before pulling away to meet Ken’s pleading stare. There’s a questioning flicker in those blue depths before he turns back to fine-tuning the air and fuel ratio. Ken feels a twist in his stomach. He’s trying to be patient, he really is. Driver’s unwavering dedication is something that he both loves and hates. Loves it when he’s the object of all that attentiveness, hates it when he’s not. 

The television drones on by the bed, Ken weakly tries making commentary about it. The other man doesn't so much as look at him again. There’s no hum of acknowledgement either. Ken decides that maybe he can start to entertain himself with the hopes that Driver will take over. He gropes at himself with an inexperienced hand. His touch doesn’t feel nearly as good as the other man’s would. Rocking up against his flattened palm does little but frustrate him enough to let out a whine that also gets no response. He’s utterly and thoroughly blocked out. The feeling it gives him is enough to finally urge him off the couch. He approaches the mechanic, hovers a hand over his shoulder. He wants to touch him, but this way won’t be enough. His tongue passes over his lips, tasting the fruity flavor of the product he’d glossed them with hours ago in the hopes that Driver would notice and be driven to distraction. It hadn’t worked, but he had an inkling of what might. 

With a confidence he doesn’t feel, he gets to his knees on the carpet. He fits himself under the folding table, careful to not hit his head on the underside of it. The last thing he wants to do is make a mess and destroy the other man’s concentration with a clumsy mistake. No, he wants to break that concentration in a way that results in him getting those meticulously steady hands on his body. He puts his hands on Driver’s thighs, right above the hinge of his knees. A little applied pressure gets those long legs to spread wider, enough to make room for Ken to shuffle forward between them. There’s no resistance. Either Driver is too wrapped up in his work to notice, or he’s willing to accommodate Ken’s desires. He hopes it’s the latter. It makes him feel special. His heart is hammering in his ears as he leans in to start mouthing at the seam of Driver’s jeans, right over the zipper. The lipgloss he’s wearing leaves tacky, shimmery impressions of his wandering lips, smearing it right into the coarse fabric. Everything that the other man owns has slowly been marked and tainted by errant flecks of shine. The possessive streak in Ken always preens at the sight of his iridescent glitter adorning Driver’s clothing, his hair, his skin . Ken has staked his claim over and over in a way that’s not able to be easily erased. It’s a neon sign blinking “ownership” in garish letters like the ones on Hollywood Boulevard where Driver had taken him one night when he didn't have a job. It feels good . 

Teasing the mechanic through the fabric of his pants is not enough. The faint twitches of the wheelman’s cock responding to his careful attention is too muted, too impersonal. Ken needs more. It’s an easy thing to undo the man’s belt, leaving it hanging from its loops, to slip the button free of the hole, to tug at the zipper until it glides down, to be granted with the sight of Driver’s sensitive skin. He appreciates that he doesn’t wear anything underneath his jeans, it makes these moments so much more satisfying. He slips his mouth over Driver’s cock, running his tongue along the soft flesh, savoring the moment. Driver jerks, hits his knee on the underside of the table with a clatter when he’s suddenly enveloped in the wet heat of Ken’s mouth. He doesn’t stop him, merely sinks lower in his seat to provide better access, and Ken grunts, pleased, around the gradually hardening dick he’s tending to. He hears a ragged breath, but also the noises of Driver resuming his work. Stung, he doubles his efforts; swirls his tongue over the slit, hollows his cheeks, and sucks like his life depends on it. In a way, it does. Who is he if he’s not wanted?

He’s midway through taking the now hard length down his throat, swallowing around the shaft when Driver weaves a hand into the blond strands of his hair and pulls him off. Strings of saliva and precome connect Ken’s puffy, pink lips to the flushed tip of Driver’s leaking cock before tension snaps the delicate threads. He sits back on his heels, panting. The grip the other man has on him is bordering on painful but it causes Ken to press his own hand against his crotch needily. The thong he’s wearing is doing little in the way of modesty. He’s already soaked through it. Arousal over this situation shoots through him like a succession of lightning strikes. 

“You gotta learn to be patient.” Driver’s voice is low, predatory. There’s a hungry edge to it that serves to remind Ken that the man holding onto his hair isn't nearly as mild as he seems.

His pulse kicks up a notch and he feels a boldness that is unlike him. Tonight has been about experimental bravado and the desperation to be desired. "Teach me then."

Driver stands up and kicks the chair he was just sitting on out of the way. It collides with the storage tub against the wall in a manner that is sure to get a complaint relayed to them by the building’s superintendent. His cock is jutting obscenely from his body, framed by his open jeans. Ken is not sure where to look. Any option is too overwhelming. He's not given any time to agonize over it because Driver hauls him out from under the table by his hair, forceful enough to nearly send him face first against the standing man's hip. The fingers knotted against his scalp coax his head back, bearing his throat in a submissive arc. His lips are parted, wet and inviting. He can't quite catch his breath. His knees feel raw from the friction against the carpet. He shudders at the sparks of pain. They're igniting something new in him. Something dark and unexplored.

He gets to his feet, prompted by a sharp tug upwards. The attempt to steady himself by placing stabilizing hands on the man holding him is thwarted when the man he’s trying to brace himself against takes a step back. The message is clear. No touching. 

The grip Driver has on him leaves him with no other desirable choice than to allow himself to be steered the few, meager feet to the apartment’s only bed. The air is knocked out of him when he gets unceremoniously bent over it, face to the burgundy bedspread, arms awkwardly out to catch himself. Driver lets go of his hair and Ken thinks the rough handling is over, but a thrill races through him when he realizes that it’s not. There’s the warning sound of the other man’s belt sliding through his belt loops before Ken’s arms are grabbed one after the other and firmly manipulated to be crossed over the small of his back. The leather that pins them into place and bites into the skin of his forearms is warm, heated from being nestled against Driver’s body all day, where Ken should have been if he’d had his way hours ago.

“Wait.” Driver says it as though Ken is a spoiled pet.

Ken sneaks a glance at him. He’s tucked himself back in his jeans, erection be damned, and is moving away from him to draw the cast aside chair back to the table and take a seat. Ken is stunned. A petulant whine builds in his throat until he’s nearly wailing. Driver gives him a flat look that promptly cuts it off. He’s left draped over the broken down, old bed that came with the place. It doesn’t help matters that the blanket and sheets were some untasteful castoffs that Driver had brought back from the thrift store. They were something that Ken would have never chosen because he likes to surround himself with pretty things, but Driver? Driver doesn’t care about the bedding. As he’d told him weeks prior, he wasn’t going to be seeing it or sleeping on it that much anyway; not when there was work and Ken himself to attend to. 

All the same, Ken has an admiration for things that he believes are beautiful, and nothing has captivated him the way that Driver does. Even now, the other man is all that he can focus on. He’s lit by bright light that matches the intensity of the heat pooling inside of Ken. Unconsciously, he grinds his hips into the edge of the bed. He falls into a rhythm, seeking relief while he watches the minute shifts in Driver’s expression as he works, the flex of his muscles when he flips the part he’s working on over, the way his fingers delicately make adjustments or pick up a tool. It’s too much and Ken has to close his eyes against the vision imprinting itself into his memories. The bed is creaking a noisy protest against his snapping hips, his mouth is open and he’s pushing out heaving breaths like he’s running a marathon. He’s so close, so, so, so close. If only he wasn’t bound and had a free hand to slip down past his waistband. 

His impending orgasm is ruined. Calloused hands are on him in a vicious motion. One is on the back of his neck, the other digging into the meat of his bicep. He’s forced to the floor, too stunned to protest. His face is pushed against the carpet, rubbed in like a dog being unfairly punished for messing on the floor.

“Told you to wait.” 

“ I couldn’t. It was too much.” Ken’s breathless and petulant. He’s so hard that he thinks any motion will be enough to send him over the edge. 

He gets rolled over onto his back, removing the chance of grinding his pelvis against the floor. His shoulders scream in protest at the treatment. His head is by the foot of the bed. He’s got a good view of the underside of the box spring, the ceiling, the patterned wallpaper, and most importantly; Driver’s face. His eyes look nearly black in the lighting, stark against the planes of his face. He looks one thread away from snapping and devouring Ken whole. Good. He wants to be on the receiving end of that all-consuming desire. He wants to be treated like one of those women in the old black and white dramas that play on the television sometimes; a pretty little thing, teased and manhandled until there’s only smears of mascara and delicate, pleading sobs.

Driver lowers himself to the floor alongside Ken and straddles him, his knees digging into his hips. Ken watches with hooded eyes as he inadvertently shifts against his crotch while reaching behind himself to tug the gloves free from his back pocket. He observes while Driver works those broad hands into the tight confines of the leather. The gloves are such a snug fit that they’re practically a second skin. He must be anticipating needing to have a firm grip on him. He drops back into a fully seated position, heavy against his dick. Ken’s sure that he’s on the verge of soaking through the fabric of Driver’s jeans. The front row visual of seeing the other man’s cock straining hard against his pants zipper has Ken groaning. His fingers clench into fists behind his back. If only he was allowed to touch.

He’s pulled away by thoughts of touching the other man when smooth leather covers and boldly caresses his chest. He arches into the touch, chasing the warm pressure when Driver threatens to remove his hand. He whines brokenly when his nipple gets rolled between the mechanic’s glove-clad fingers. He works him over even after both nipples are swollen and painfully hard. It’s enough stimulation to get tears trickling from the corners of his eyes. Each brush against his sensitive skin sends a stabbing need to his groin.

Every time he attempts to relieve the pressure in the lower half of his body, to rut up against the man astride him, Driver rises onto his knees to take away the maddening contact of his body. He doesn’t even leave his hands on Ken’s chest. It’s exquisite torture and Ken can’t stop the flood of incoherent pleas falling from his mouth.

Finally, Driver has enough of his begging. He grabs Ken’s chin, clamping down hard enough that his jaw aches. It’s a suffocatingly tight grip, but Ken is so desperate for something that he sighs right into it. He nearly goes cross-eyed when Driver points at him warningly.

“You're gonna be quiet. Gonna wait until I say so.”

Ken pushes his luck by defiantly rolling his hips against Driver’s and to his utter shock, receives a stinging slap across the face. The skin over his cheekbone feels hot and tight, faintly throbbing from delayed pain. He can’t help himself and sobs against the ironclad hold still on his jaw. His dick twitches and spurts. He’s sure the man on top of him notices. 

“Understand now?” Driver looks vaguely flushed in the low light. He’s unable to sit still, shifting uncomfortably in Ken’s lap with short, jerky movements of his pelvis. Despite telling Ken that he needs to learn to be patient, the other man isn’t very composed himself. 

Despite the hold Driver has on him, Ken manages a sincere nod. He’s eager for an overdue reward and the other man doesn’t disappoint. He releases his jaw, pausing to rub his fingers over the bruising skin to ease the ache. Ken’s eyes flutter closed at the pleasant touch and he gives a contented whine when Driver’s hands meet around Ken’s neck. Gloved thumbs overlap in the hollow of his throat. His pulse hammers against those steady palms. He’s dizzyingly breathless despite not being choked when the mechanic leans down to press a kiss against his pliant mouth. The brush of his tongue against Ken’s bottom lip is electrifying and he opens his mouth in a soft gasp. Driver chases the opportunity and Ken gets lost in the sensation of a warm tongue against his, teeth hungrily nipping and worrying his lips into swollen, used things. He mourns the loss of the man’s mouth against his when Driver pulls away as though it’s him that needs to be reminded of his place, taught the lesson of punishment and reward. Ken instinctively leans up to chase after the contact, but the gloved hands around his neck hold him steadily in place. He’ll only receive what Driver gives him. 

While he and the other man catch their breath, locked in a holding pattern. Ken is reminded of a less pleasurable sensation plaguing his body. His arms are filled with static and flashes of discomfort. The carpet is failing to provide significant padding and with the additional weight of another body astride him; it hurts. He can’t help but roll his shoulders in the effort to seek relief. His movements do not escape Driver’s attention, and for the first time tonight, an uneasy expression paints his face. His jaw is tense and he looks on the cusp of calling this whole game of theirs off. This evening has been nothing but uncharted territory. Just as Ken has been learning, so has Driver. Despite the quiet confidence he exudes, Ken knows that the wheelman is inexperienced. He’d been wanted by other people in the past, but he’d been too distant to engage with anyone beyond observation and mild (but not insignificant) touches. 

“I’ll stop if you tell me to stop,” he says, concern lacing his words despite his clear arousal. The pressure on Ken’s throat is a whisper. 

Ken doesn’t want him to stop. He wants to push and push and push until the man snaps. He’s dripping glittery precum and soaking through his thong at the anticipation. It’s exhilarating in a brand new way. 

"I can't learn if you stop,” Ken tells him. 

Driver nods and takes a deep breath. He shifts slightly, getting comfortable and pulls his intent stare away from Ken. His blue eyes latch onto the television, feigning interest. Ken can’t see it from his position on the floor, but regardless of whatever might be on it, he burns with frustration that Driver is back to ignoring him. If he lays still and doesn’t get impatient, Driver grinds down against him in a way that is too intentional to be absent minded. If he doesn’t remain relaxed, Driver trails a hand, almost tantalizingly, down his neck, over his collarbone, and down to the yielding tissue of his pectoral. The first time it happens, Ken thinks he’s getting a reward but instead, Driver takes his already overstimulated nipple between his fingers and twists hard enough to make him yelp before letting go to roll his toothpick idly between his lips. 

Ken can only take so much of this before he whines. “I’ve been good.”

Much to his frustration. Driver doesn’t respond. He’s been edged for so long he’s almost sick with the need to find release. 

“Haven’t I been good?” He tries again, a little more desperate. He’s almost hysterical. This earns him a glance and a thoughtful pause before the man speaks. 

“Have you?”

Ken nods frantically, chin colliding with Driver’s right wrist where his hand still lays casually resting on his neck. Driver doesn’t respond. Ken’s mind is blown. He’s never been made to wait this long. Driver gives him what he needs when he wants it or shortly after when the moment is more opportune. The other man’s patience lasts for about five minutes before he’s spurred into action. It is how he operates both behind the wheel and in the other areas of his life. Ken can’t help but wonder if Driver feels as tortured as he does in this moment. 

“Wanna finish what you started?” The question comes out of nowhere, said casually like the answer is of no real importance. 

“Yes. Yes. ” Ken does. He really does. 

Driver pops the button of his jeans and lowers the zipper. Ken already feels his mouth watering. They’re right back where they started in what feels like a lifetime ago. Driver’s cock is engorged and ruddy even in the scant light. There’s a drop of precum beading on the tip, threatening to fall onto Ken’s bare abdomen. It trembles precariously as the other blond all but crawls his way up Ken’s body until his thighs are spread wide to bracket his shoulders. Ken swallows thickly. The hands Driver places on either side of his face are almost tender. He presses his thumbs against the corners of his mouth and slips them inside. Ken opens his mouth to welcome the intrusion. The rich, earthy flavor of tanned leather bursts across his tongue when the other man slides his digits in deeper, spreading his jaws wide. He swallows again, his throat clicking. 

Driver rocks up slightly. The space between his eyebrows is furrowed slightly in concentration as he aligns the tip of his leaking cock with Ken’s waiting mouth. They share a moment of eye contact. Driver silently checks to make sure he has consent before he presses steadily into the wet heat. The musky taste of the other man consumes all his senses to the point that he hardly notices when Driver removes his hands from his face and puts his forearms on the bed to steady himself and relieve some of the weight on Ken’s body. The bound man closes his eyes and hums encouragingly around the cock resting in his mouth. He relaxes his throat. He wants him to move, to use him. He did use to be a doll, he still wants to be played with. 

He gets his desire when Driver plunges deeper and begins fucking into his mouth with steady thrusts of his hips. The sounds they make together are wet and obscene. Driver is breathing hard, teeth gritted. Ken, for his part, is moaning as loudly as he can despite his throat being otherwise occupied. The length brushing over his tongue and diving into his throat makes him wish he could wrap a hand around his own pressing need. He feels pressure building in his gut that only needs a little more encouragement.

A pat against his cheek informs him that the man using him is close. Driver comes with a shudder of his body. He lets out a loud growl as he does. The force of his release nearly chokes Ken and he struggles to swallow. He manages to get the salty load down regardless, he doesn’t want to disappoint. He sucks the slowly softening cock in his mouth, making sure to wring out every last drop the man produces. Driver catches his jaw and eases himself out. Ken’s lungs burn as he greedily sucks in mouthfuls of air. 

Driver dismounts, swinging his leg up and over Ken’s body. He’s tucked himself back in his pants, a much easier process now that he’s spent. Ken watches him with hazy eyes when he grabs hold of his waistband and pulls his thong down and off. Relief floods Ken’s body as his straining erection is finally freed from its tight, soaked confines. He forces himself to sit up and to wiggle backwards until he’s propped up against the foot of the bed. He watches Driver pass his tongue over his lips in anticipation of his next few actions. The other man lowers himself to the floor, stomach pressed against the carpet. Ken can’t hold back his whine when he feels Driver’s hot breath on his leaking dick. He nearly thrashes when he feels that leather clad grip encircle the base of his hard cock. The material is immediately coated in traces of glittery liquid. 

He’s incapable of muffling the noise he lets out when Driver makes direct eye contact with him and licks his cockhead. He’s almost hyperventilating by the time the other man fully takes him into his mouth and starts working at him with easy flicks of his wrist. The leather catches on the dry swaths of his skin. It’s just on the edge of being painful. He finds that he doesn’t mind the sensation, not when it’s accompanied by Driver’s blue eyes looking up at him in a way that says he needs reassurance that he’s doing a good job. 

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you .” The praises fall from his lips with each breathless exhale. His thighs are trembling with the effort to not thrust up into the other man’s mouth. The forearm pressing into his hip is a reminder to stay still and let himself be taken care of. Ken doesn’t want to spoil the lesson now. He would probably die if Driver pulled away as a punishment for any perceived impatience.

He gives himself over to the rhythm of Driver’s actions. He gasps out a warning before he comes. The other man pulls away, locking eyes with him as he lets Ken cover his face with his cum. Thick, glittery ropes spray over him. It’s all over his cheekbones and his swollen lips. The fluid is like molten silver, picking up colors from the flickering light of the television. 

“Come here. Please, come here.”

Driver obliges him, not pausing to wipe the shining mess from his skin. He guides Ken’s legs further apart to accommodate his mass as he heaves himself off the floor in order to kneel between his spread legs. The restrained man whimpers at the brush of Driver’s shirt covered abdomen against his spent cock as the other man presses in close. They’re nearly nose to nose, Driver’s breath is hot against his lips. Ken bypasses kissing him and swipes his tongue over the other man’s cheek instead. The salty taste of himself mingling with Driver’s sweat sparks a desperation to taste more. He licks Driver’s face clean, laps away every trace of his release but a few stray specks of glitter that will stay with the mechanic for days to come. Driver is still, carefully still, like a surprised predator. There’s a wet, uncertain look in his eyes. He looks as overwhelmed as Ken feels.

He reaches around Ken and undoes the belt holding his arms locked together behind his back. The flood of blood rushing back into his asleep limbs is painful. Static rolls under his skin as his arms come back to life. As soon as the belt is off and tossed to the side, Driver kisses Ken. Hard. He puts his right hand on the side of his face while he devours him, smearing Ken’s own cum on his face from where it still slicks down his gloved hand. Ken is panting and shaking. It’s all he can do to put his hands on Driver’s waist and hold on.

[jigglypuff1994]

As her pot whistled, she heard light tapping on her balcony door. She sighed, moving the pot to her burner mat. 

Maybe Chloe wasn’t done lecturing me after all. 

She poured the hot water and tea leaves in her blush teapot, lazily sauntering over to the door. She was gearing up for a confrontation, rolling her eyes as she pushed back her curtains.

But it wasn’t Queen Bee on the balcony. 

A wide smile overcame her face as she opened the door. “Chat? What are you doing here?”

“Good evening, princess,” he crooned. He was perched on her balcony, his tail was slowly and loosely swaying. Head in his hand, wearing a lazy grin as he gazed at her. 

“I just happened to be in the neighborhood… Thought I’d stop by and congratulate a certain girl on her recent upgraded position.” He slipped off the balcony, sauntering over to her.

Her stomach sank. “Chat…”

“Now, I don’t envy you by any means. I mean, more one on one time with Gabriel Agreste? Yeesh. Talk about a cold-hearted man.”

“Chat.”

“But I can’t say that you haven’t earned it.” He smiled, flashing his pearly whites, grabbing her hand and pulling it toward his face. “Because you, my beautiful princess, have definitely earned it.” 

He pressed a kiss on her hand. She couldn’t help but smile thinly from his flirting – even if she felt a rock plummet through her body as she remembered Nathalie’s pale, angered face. 

She swallowed thickly and asked, “Would you like to come in for some tea?”

Chat nodded. “That sounds tea-lightful. Thank you, milady.”

---------------click on link below for more---------------

[mizho-babe]

Meet the Parents

Summary: Mizho’s parents want to meet Paresse. Mizho is mortified. Paresse has more fun than he thought he would.

Pairing: Mizho / Paresse

Word Count - 3,930

Notes: Takes place right before the evil doji meeting in volume 6.

A notification sound - a bubbly ringtone, obnoxiously set to the beat of some overly cheerful teen show – broke the blissful silence, waking Paresse up.

He had leaned his phone against a half-empty bottle of strawberry Calpis, screen positioned just so. His master had insisted that he use her burner phone so she had someone to play her silly phone games with from time to time. Usually it remained on 5% battery.

The cracked screen bathed his face in an unwanted artificial glow. He squinted, lazily cracking one eye open.

New Text Notification

M I Z H O: My parents want to meet you.

Paresse shifted his arm out from underneath his side. Slowly reached out to swipe the notification away. The screen obediently went dark again.

Perfect. Problem solved.

A second later, his phone vibrated again with two more pings.

New Text Notifications (2)

M I Z H O: Tonight. 

M I Z H O: 19:00

“......”  Paresse reached up again, this time swiping to unlock his phone, opening the chat he had with his master. He activated his shortcuts – keyboard presets he had laboriously programmed to save precious energy: essential phrases like "napping," "tired," "hungry," and "not now." It was a lot of work for the doji of Sloth to set these up. It took all of 5 minutes. A true gift to himself so that his nap times went as undisturbed as possible.

He swiped to the right before swiping down to lock his phone.

Paresse: sleeping

He closed his eyes. That should do it.

Ping - pong - ping

New Text Notification

M I Z H O: You are coming. 

He groaned now, too aware of the weight of her stare. With a reluctant glance upward, he caught sight of Mizho herself sprawled on her bed, not even five feet away, looking at him with raised eyebrows.

“Leave me alone.” Paresse mumbled, rolling onto his back and covering his eyes with his arm.

“Don’t think so.” Mizho said, her fingers flying over her phone’s keyboard with alarming vigor for someone as lazy as him.

New Text Notification

M I Z H O: Or we’re going to Vice and that man’s place early tonight.

Paresse’s face twitched, a sense of dread clawing through his usually relaxed exterior. Just earlier that afternoon, K—the wild-haired, overly enthusiastic master of Vice - had texted the Evil Doji Masters groupchat with an invitation for what he called a "super critical, ultra-hands-on, team-building powwow," scheduled for 22:00. 

Of the eight people in the chat, only one had responded: a singular thumbs-up emoji.

He tried to suppress a shiver. Sure, Mizho seemed to find K’s buck-toothed smile and spindly glasses gross, but Paresse felt a much deeper fear. Vice was the problem. The ultimate personification of evil glaring him down, calling him a lazy piece of shit, probably finding ways to tear him apart for fun. He already got enough of that from Mizho; two-on-one seemed excessive.

Summoning the last of his energy, Paresse turned his head to the side and reluctantly swiped up on his phone screen once more.

Paresse: You wouldn’t dare.

Paresse: You hate K.

A beat later, he heard Mizho mutter, “Ew, don’t say his name,” followed by the soft ding of a notification. She had deleted his last message from their chat.

M I Z H O: I would dare.

M I Z H O: Lazy

M I Z H O: USelsse doji

M I Z H O: Useless*

M I Z H O: I think Vice almost ate your arm last time.

Paresse sighed, his finger hovering over the keyboard shortcuts. Clearly, this was going to be one of those nights. He swiped to type his response, knowing exactly how to get under her skin.

Paresse: Remember when that man called you a cutie patootie?

A deadly silence filled the room, punctuated only by Mizho’s fingernails tapping at her phone screen in a fury.

M I Z H O: Stfu.

M I Z H O: disgusting

M I Z H O: anyways. It’s happening. 19:00. Get ready.

Paresse frowned, side-eyeing her from his place on the floor. “Do I…. have to get ready? Can’t I just…..come like this?”

Mizho didn’t look up from her phone. The phone screen’s glow illuminated her face, casting shadows from her long eyelashes on her cupid’s bow. “Nope. You’re not going to show up looking like you just crawled out of a coffin.”

“But you like that aesthetic,” Paresse mumbled, mostly to himself. He knew it was no good. He had to do as she wished.

He looked at his phone’s clock. It was 18:49. Sighing, he sat up, a zombie rising from his comfy coffin that was the plush carpet in Mizho’s room.

Before he could fully settle into the idea of being awake, his face was smacked by something. He looked down at what fell in his lap. A pink hair brush.

“Comb that mop into something presentable,” Mizho commanded, hopping off her bed and sliding on her boots, wrapping them swiftly with bandages to complete her look.

“….Any particular reason why your parents want to meet me?” he asked, reluctantly starting to brush his disheveled hair, before stuffing it under his school uniform hat.

“Nope.” Mizho replied in her usual deadpan, though he could sense something evasive in her tone. She crossed the room, pushing the window open with a practiced ease that hinted this wasn’t her first stealthy exit.

He glanced down at his phone one more time. 18:56. For someone who was supposed to be the embodiment of sloth and apathy, his master had an annoyingly strong sense of punctuality.

Without another word, Mizho gave him a nudge toward the window frame. He barely had time to brace himself before she unceremoniously shoved him out, sending him tumbling onto the side street behind her house. He landed with a rough thud, dusting himself off just as she swung a leg over the window sill.

“Help me down,” she whispered.

Paresse sighed, holding his hands out. She hopped down, landing in his arms with a graceful ease. It was a routine they’d perfected since they found each other in this century. 

Usually Mizho would stay in his arms & make him carry her to the park where they would practice her french martial arts. This time, she immediately jumped to the ground with an odd urgency.

“Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t respond with any snark. Don’t mention that we see each other anywhere but school.” Mizho barked directives in quick succession as they walked up the street and turned right, now facing the front of her house.

Paresse slouched along, two steps behind her. She seemed weirdly…. nervous. He found it hard to believe she thought he’d let slip the truth—that they were bound across timelines as master and dôji, tethered together for an ancient, larger-than-life battle of good versus evil.

“If this goes as planned, we’ll be out of here within five minutes.” Mizho said, moreso to herself than her doji.

They reached the front steps. It occurred to Paresse that maybe she was giving him warnings, preparing him for what was to come. After all, even before they met, Mizho was still a goth teen. What kind of parents let their daughter decorate her room in all black with skulls, candles, and chains all around? She was much sassier in this lifetime as well - no doubt nurtured by parents who were just as, if not more, aggressive and mean-spirited.

“....One more thing.” Mizho said. Paresse could hear slow footsteps nearing the front door.

“What?” Paresse said, half-distracted by a growing sense of impending doom.

“I told them you were my boyfriend.” Mizho blurted out, so quickly he almost missed it. “To explain why we hang out every day.”

It all snapped into place for Paresse - he whipped his gaze down at the girl, who was now stubbornly staring straight forward, a light pink tint coloring her cheeks.

Before he could say anything in response, the door opened.

“Mizho my darling!!” Her parents cooed in unison, practically lunging forward to envelop her in a hug. They embraced her as if it had been years instead of just a few hours since they’d last seen her. Mizho’s face, barely visible between her parents’ shoulders, had turned an even deeper shade of red. With a stiff arm, she managed to awkwardly pat each of their backs.

“Mother. Father.” Mizho said once they stepped back, in an uncharacteristically shaky & formal tone. “This is Paresse.”

“How do you do, young man!!” Her dad’s handshake was vigorous, his enthusiasm rocking Paresse’s entire lanky frame up and down. Out of the corner of his eye, Paresse saw Mizho’s mom nudge her daughter and whisper, “He’s cute,” a comment that made Mizho’s gaze sink even further.

“Well, come in, come in!” They let the two teenagers step inside. “Paresse, we have a pair of Mizho’s slippers that you can use.”

He looked down. Mizho had already slipped into her black fuzzy slippers adorned with hot pink skulls, leaving him the only option: a pair of pastel slippers with oversized bunny ears. With a silent sigh, he slid his feet into them, the floppy ears bouncing with every step.

He had never seen Mizho’s house, at least not in the light. He recognized a few surfaces where he’d napped - a couch here, a rug there -, but seeing everything brightly lit felt surreal. Mizho’s parents practically sparkled with pride as they led him on a cheerful house tour, pausing every few steps to point out details.

“Over here’s our family wall,” her mom said, gesturing at a collection of framed photos. One caught Paresse’s eye: a 5-year-old Mizho dressed as an angel for Halloween years ago, complete with feathered wings and a halo.

Mizho rolled her eye. “I preferred the reaper costume. Less... hope.” Her parents laugh. “Our little goth girl! Always such a character!”

“Wasn’t she just adorable?” her mom beamed. Paresse gazed at the photo. The girl looked like a cherub with her fluffy cheeks and long eyelashes.

“…Very.” Paresse answered honestly. He felt Mizho shooting daggers behind him. 

“And here’s her kindergarten graduation photo,” her mom continued, pointing to another picture of Mizho in a miniature cap and gown, frowning as if the whole ordeal had inconvenienced her.

“Aw, remember that day, Mizho? You refused to go on stage until we bribed you with an extra scoop of chocolate ice cream!” her dad laughed.

“Father, enough,” Mizho muttered, her voice barely audible.

Paresse couldn’t help himself. “She still needs chocolate to do anything.”

“Some things never change!” Both her parents laughed, charmed. At that moment, Paresse felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

New Text Notification

M I Z H O: I am going to chop your head off and feed it to that man’s birds, slice by slice

Paresse maintained his blank, unbothered expression as he looked back up and followed her parents down the hallway. 

“We’ve cooked a large dinner for you two!” her mom announced, pulling them toward the dining room. Paresse felt Mizho tense beside him, and he couldn’t help but stifle a yawn, feeling the sudden urge to sleep through whatever was coming next.

Her parents moved to the other side of the table to sit down. He turned to his left and saw that Mizho had pulled out a chair for him, her gaze still fixed firmly on the floor. The sight of his master actually being a courteous host for once was too much. Paresse remembered that he was an advanced robot with unmatched photographic memory capabilities, and immediately logged the scene for his later enjoyment. 

“Thanks, girlfriend,” he said nonchalantly, slipping into the chair. He was still a head taller than Mizho even while seated. Her nails dug into his shoulders as she pushed his chair in with a force that wasn’t entirely necessary.

“You’re. Welcome.” She hissed through gritted teeth. He knew he was pushing it, but he let a lopsided grin spread across his face.

“We’re so excited to finally meet you.” Mizho’s mom, not picking up on her daughter’s murderous aura, smiled at Paresse. Her mom’s smile reminded Paresse of the rare, genuine smiles Mizho sometimes flashed—those fleeting moments when her guard was down. If only he could see those without the usual glare & bloodlust that followed.

“After all these months of knowing Mizho had a boyfriend, we told her last week that we had to meet the lucky man tonight!”

Paresse suppressed a guffaw. Under the table, he felt a small foot connect with his shin in a brutal kick that would’ve snapped a normal person’s ankle.

“So!” Her dad said as they began to pass around appetizers. “How did you two meet?”

“Father,” Mizho responded with a half-strained plea. “I’ve already told you and Mother—”

“Mizho-bunny! So cute, being all mature and calling us ‘Mother’ and ‘Father,’” her mom interrupted with a doting smile, oblivious to Mizho’s discomfort.

Mizho’s cheeks flushed, and she looked like she was about to sink through the floor.

“Well?” her dad continued, now focusing his attention on Paresse.

Paresse glanced at Mizho, who shot him a look so sharp it could’ve cut steel, clearly communicating, Do not mess this up.

Got it. So leave out the part where they had met a century before when she was a he.

“…School,” Paresse replied, feigning thoughtfulness. In truth he was being careful to omit details about the accompanying bloodbath that had surrounded their first encounter in the 21st century. “She, uh… ‘noticed’ me in class. Said I was hard to miss.”

Before Mizho could kick him again, he pinned her foot under his with a firm pressure, using a strength he typically reserved for more intense activities—like beheading foes or lying across her to stop her from bonking him in her sleep during their shared naps.

Her dad chuckled, oblivious. “Sounds about right! Mizho always was observant.”

“Yes.” Paresse agreed, taking a sip of his water. 

“I love high school sweethearts.” Her mom said. “Tell me, who made the first move?”

Paresse saw Mizho about to interject, but he beat her to it. “Mizho, of course.” He responded. This was not as boring as he’d thought it would be. It was fun. “She was….direct. Hard to say no to.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mizho furiously typing on her phone under the table, fingertaps sounding like mini gunshots.

New Text Notification

M I Z H O: You have a death wish.

Paresse leaned back in his chair, feeling thoroughly pleased with himself.

Her mom turned to him, eyes wide with curiosity. “So, Paresse, what’s a typical day like for you two? Mizho said you participate in a lot of extracurricular activities together!”

Actually, most mornings they usually skipped school and hung out in Mizho’s dimly-lit room all day, napping together. Then came her brutal “training” sessions, where she used him as a life-sized punching bag to practice her Savate techniques, leaving him bruised and sore but too lazy to complain.

“Well, let’s see…” Paresse began slowly. “We usually meet after class and…..read together.” Reading in this case being Mizho showing Paresse an explicit video playlist of executions she had curated while he was sleeping. 

Her mom clasped her hands, clearly pleased. “Oh, that’s wonderful! I always knew Mizho was a reader.”

“Yes, and then we, uh……. go to…….. basketball practice,” Paresse added, thinking of the first sport that popped into his mind. Wasn’t that the sport Orgullo’s master was a champion in? Or maybe it was tennis? Something with a ball.

“Basketball! How nice!” her dad said. “It’s good to see Mizho getting out there and trying new things.”

“Yes, she’s… enthusiastic,” Paresse replied, recalling how she’d once kicked him squarely in the chest during “practice.”

As the conversation moved on, her mom’s eyes sparkled as she remembered something. “Oh! I have to show you the baby photos!”

She stood up and hurried to a nearby bookshelf, pulling down a thick album and placing it on the table in front of Paresse. She flipped through the pages, showcasing an array of photos of baby Mizho. She is not smiling in any of them, and even when she was below the age of 3 her arms were already crossed as though deeply unimpressed with the world.

“And here’s my little girl in her favorite outfit,” her mom cooed, pointing to a picture of Mizho dressed as a tiny plague doctor, complete with black cloak and a plastic scythe. “Even back then, she had such a unique personality!”

Mizho groaned softly, slumping in her chair as Paresse leaned forward, admiring the photos with a lazy grin. “These are… priceless,” he said, savoring every second of her discomfort.

“Isn’t she just precious?” her mom sighed, beaming at Mizho, who was now hiding her face in her hands.

“Yes,” Paresse replied, trying to keep his voice steady. “She’s… adorable.”

Mizho grumbled under her breath, but before she could protest, her dad turned to her with a warm smile. “Mizho,” her dad asked, directing the next question to her for the first time, “What do you like most about Paresse? What made you wanna make the first move?”

“He shares my worship of death.” Mizho deadpanned. “We enjoy watching our enemies fall and rot.”

Instead of being horrified, her parents chortled. Paresse decided that they were just as weird as their daughter.

“Oh honey,” her dad said, wiping a tear from his eye. “Now seriously, what brought this on? We know you’re usually such a shy girl. We definitely weren’t expecting you to have a boyfriend so soon! What made you reach out?”

Mizho’s hands stilled, and she visibly tensed, caught off guard. She shot a panicked look at Paresse, who raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying her discomfort. After a moment, she looked down, her fingers fiddling with her skeleton phone charms.

“Well…” she began, and for once, there was no sharpness in her voice. “I guess… he’s just always there. I mean, like… he puts up with me.” She said the last part in a mumble, her cheeks turning pinker. “And, um, I know I’m not exactly… easy. But he doesn’t care. He’s just… there.”

Paresse was silent. After a moment, he felt his phone vibrate again with new text messages, but this time he ignored them.

“So, Paresse, you’ll have to tell us more about yourself!” Mizho’s mom chimed in, refilling Mizho and Paresse’s glasses. Paresse realized that, unconsciously, they had each downed at least five glasses of water in the past ten minutes. “Mizho hasn’t told us much, but we know she wouldn’t date just anyone.”

Paresse paused, glancing at Mizho for guidance, but she was still looking away from him.

“....Not much to tell,” he replied. “I enjoy… quiet activities. Long naps, watching the world go by…” He trailed off, realizing he sounded exactly like the dôji of Sloth. “And I don’t like to rush things.”

“Oh, a slow and steady sort of person!” Mizho’s dad chuckled. "AllI gotta say buddy is that I hope you take things slow! Took us months to even meet ya!"

Paresse didn’t mention that he’d spent the majority of the last few months in Mizho’s bed. He guessed that wouldn’t fit her parents’ definition of “taking it slow.”

“That’s nice to hear. Mizho can be a bit intense sometimes. A good balance is important in any relationship, don’t you think?”

Mizho’s mom nodded. “And it sounds like you’re both comfortable being together even in silence. Not many young people can do that these days!”

“Yes,” Paresse replied. “I’d say silence is one of our strongest connections.”

Mizho shot him a withering look.

“So, Paresse, besides basketball, how athletic are you? Mizho is a sickly one, as you know,” for the first time they nodded towards the bandages that covered their daughter’s entire body, along with the heart-shaped eyepatch.

“Hm…. I’d say I get a fair amount of physical activity,” Paresse said carefully. Physical activity to him counted as rolling over in his sleep. “Mostly… resistance training.”

“Great, just great!” her dad said. “Y’know, I’m proud you two are participating in sports together. Mizho could use someone who can teach her how to be stronger despite her, let’s say, fragile disposition.”

“Funny you should say that....” Paresse murmured, glancing at Mizho with a smirk. “She’s been giving me a real run for my money lately.”

Mizho’s mom chuckled. “Oh, that’s our Mizho! Always so tough. But she’s got a soft side too, you know.”

Mizho groaned again, visibly mortified.

“Oh, yes,” her dad agreed, turning to Paresse. “I remember she had this little stuffed raven she used to carry around everywhere. She’d cry if it wasn’t nearby!”

“Father,” Mizho interrupted, her voice strained. “He doesn’t need to know that.”

“Why not? I’m sure he’d like to know that his ‘death-worshipping’ girlfriend has a sentimental side,” her mom teased, winking at Paresse.

Paresse gazed at Mizho, who had gone an even more impressive shade of pink. “I already suspected that,” he said, voice dripping with feigned innocence.

Her mom leaned forward, eyes shining. “And, Paresse, if I may ask… what do you like about Mizho?”

The question caught him off guard, and he paused, feeling a sudden shift in the air. He thought he heard his master stop breathing.

“Uh….Well… she’s fierce,” he said. “She….stands up for what she believes in, even if it’s… unpopular. She’ll do anything for the people she cares about, no matter how hard it gets. And… that’s rare. I’d be pretty lost without her.”

Her parents beamed, clearly touched by his response. Her mom reached across the table to pat Mizho’s hand, which laid on the table with dead weight. “That’s beautiful, Paresse. You two really do bring out the best in each other.”

The rest of the dinner passed with lighthearted conversation. Her parents told Paresse many stories of Mizho as a young girl. Mizho herself was silent for the rest of it, before half-mumbling that she and Paresse were going out that night to meet some friends. 

As they slipped out of the house slippers and into their actual shoes, Paresse finally remembered his phone and took a peek at it.

New Text Notifications (50+)

M I Z H O: i will staple your eyelids back. you will never sleep again.

M I Z H O: get your stinking foot off mine

M I Z H O: srsly P my foot is falling asleep

M I Z H O: ??????? basketball????

M I Z H O: stop SMIRKING.

M I Z H O: remember where you’ll be sleeping tonight.

M I Z H O: SHE’S GETTING THE BABY PICTURES HELP

M I Z H O: it’s not “adorable.” stop saying that word.

M I Z H O: ignore what i just said

M I Z H O: ignore

M I Z H O: ignore

They stepped out of the house into the cool night. The crisp air was a welcome relief after the close warmth of the dinner table.

They walked silently, side by side.

Paresse’s phone vibrated in his hand once more.

M I Z H O: Stop smiling.

Paresse let out a small chuckle before he tucked his phone into his pocket. Neither said anything as they continued walking in comfortable silence. He decided this was the perfect ASMR to fall asleep to later, and logged it. Glancing over at Mizho, he noticed her eye focused ahead, a soft expression on her face that he made a mental note to remember—another rare glimpse he decided was worth storing.

[kaybrony]

hey i’m really sorry because you were a really cool mutual but for the record i have to unfollow you because the purple creature in your profile picture (whatever she’s from) (or they sorry i don’t want to assume the beast’s pronouns) (i love all genders) looks almost exactly like my ex girlfriend’s fursona and i tried to ignore that for a while because i’m not the kind of pu$$y who would unfollow someone because their creature looks like my ex’s fursona but get this: she drew her fursona hitting me (human) (i’m not a furry) (nothing against them) (i love all genders) with a car (honda civic) and sent it to me from a burner account on toyhouse. so needless to say i can’t keep doing this. i’m gonna miss your posts though you were a real one i loved when you would say shit like “it’s (the f slur) wednesday post knuckles”

It's late for me so apologies if my spelling and wording is hot garbage but just wanted to get this out of my system a bit before I go to bed.

I'm a (22M, American) who lives with my spouse (22F, American) and we are happily Frenchfree. One issue I find as someone who is not to keen on french people is how often times I feel there is no escape from being around them. Went to my friends and his twins birthday recently (it was outside and we're all full vaccinated) we're a bunch of 20 somethings so it was of course drinking, smoking weed, music, the whole shebang until his twins friend brought in a French Friend... yes a Frenchie... had to turn the music into french, stop speaking english until it had to leave a couple hours later.

I wanted to start swimming as an exercise with my gf because she loves swimming and exercising with her helps motivate me because I'm lazy af when it comes to it. OOPS SORRY! Every single pool is brimming with french people :) guess you're just gonna have to come in at 6am or 9pm if you want some peace and quiet. Uhm, no thanks.

I wanted to try going to a nudist camp group thing with my gf because I thought it might be an interesting experience for us. OOPS SORRY! Their all french friendly! No thanks.

Wanna go to burning man? French. Wanna go shopping? Frenchies. Wanna go to the park? French people. Wanna go to a shooting range? People from france. Library? French person. Circus? frenchies. Gym? french humans. Waterpark? a person from the country known as "france".

DEAR GOD CAN I JUST PLEASE BE **ANYWHERE** WITH JUST FRANCOPHOBES PLEASE. PLEEEEAAASE. I want to be able to swear, talk about inappropriate shit with my friends, and do things in peace... The ONLY place you can be without frenchies is a bad restaurent ... that's mainly it...

I'm not saying I think French people should be banned from everywhere, but dear lord I wish there was more non french only places and activities. Even for francophiles to have a break and exist without French people around them for 5 minutes.

Anyway long rant, going to bed.

[saltoftheplanet]

Phew, alright, off of anon. I'm gonna say something really out there and crazy and I might shock everyone, and I might shout just a little.

Ever Crisis is not good. Sephiroth is one of the most beloved and feared game villains, and the tragedy of his story should have been handled with care. Instead he's locked in gacha hell, with the most bland and unlikeable protagonists (this is coming from someone who doesn't hate Genesis) and laziest writing imaginable.

Did they even TRY? What 13yo talks like that? Why would a child raised to be a Shinra SOLDIER behave anything like that!? I tried soooo hard to keep an open mind like with everything else and hope that maybe, just maybe, I'd get to feel the dichotomy of both pity and fear. That there'd be some sort of nuance regarding Sephiroth being just a kid who didn't stand a chance and deserved better, but is also a fledgeling god DROWNING in the Koolaid the megacorporation that designed him provided. But no. It's exactly as bad as I hoped it wouldn't be.

Even if it was just that they took it in a direction I didn't like, I wouldn't be upset if it wasn't so LAZY!

GOD the more I replay the OG and try to enjoy parts of the Compilation the more I notice the pattern of laziness! Not just big things, little things too! They all just add up and I want to rip my hair out, because it almost makes me doubt whether some of the brilliant moments in the OG were intentional!

"sEPhiRoTh's GEnEs aRe peRFecT sO tHeY cAn'T bE cOPiEd!" Shut up what does that even mean Square I'm not asking you to get a degree in biology but at least do SOME sort of research so the whole conflict driving your prequel doesn't fall apart under the tiniest scruteny!

"Achtually it was Hojo this whooooole time he uploaded his mind to a computer and was trying to end the world so—" STOP IT! *sprays Nomura with a water bottle* BAD!

"Achtually Cloud's hair so spiky because he uses hairgel." *sobbing* that's not how hairgel wooooorks.

I'm trying to keep an open mind I'm TRYING to continue liking the Compilation and the Remake but the more I think about them the stronger the impulse to write FOEfiction becomes. Do not let them cook get them out of the kitchen and scrape the burnt cheese off of the burner.

...that felt great. It ended up way more of a rant than I intended but MAN that felt good. Thank you for your patience

Let it out friend. Ever Crisis is gacha garbage and falling the writing into question should be uncontroversial

[1001albumsrated]

#32: Booker T. & the M.G.'s - Green Onions (1962)

Genre(s): RnB, Soul, Funk, Rock

This one's a pretty big deal. It's one of the rare non-jazz/non-classical instrumental albums to really do well and cause some impact. This group was the outlet for original material from members of Stax's house band, the Mar-Keys. As such, these guys have played on an impossible to quantify number of classic records (session musicians typically went uncredited in those days, despite often being a driving creative force behind the music). The title track was a big hit, which is a tough thing to achieve as an instrumental group in the pop sphere. And more importantly, it's a real fun listen.

One thing that sets Green Onions apart from a lot of instrumental music for me is the amount of structure and restraint shown across the album. For the most part the songs are songs first, rather than beds for jamming or improvisation. And while there are plenty of great solos to go around, the album spends a fair amount of time in verse/chorus mode, with the organ typically taking over "vocals". The solos always feel well-placed, intentional, and more than anything else lyrical. In fact, the fluidity of the playing on this album almost makes you forget that some of these tunes ever had vocals in the first place and weren't originally just written to be instrumentals. I Got a Woman is a highlight (and arguably the best track on the record), as is their version of Twist and Shout.

My only real complaint about this album (and get used to hearing this as we drift further into the 60s) is that most tracks end in fade-outs. While this can be a valid songwriting strategy in rare situations, 99% of the time it's just lazy songwriting. Choosing how to end a song is one of the hardest parts about writing one, and fade-outs are the ultimate cop out of the task. "Yeah man, let's just jam at the end and let the engineer figure out when to cut it off" or "Yeah let's just repeat the chorus some more, idk" are both lame non-choices. It feels more excusable on instrumental albums, but I'm going to hold them to task here anyways. Sometimes it's a situation where the band simply has more material than will fit on a single record and a few minutes need to be chopped, but again, a more adept songwriter will be aware of this limitation and know how to work around it.

Frankly it's a minor gripe in this case, but it's a personal pet peeve of mine so I had to at least soapbox a bit about it. Anyways, aside from that this album is excellent, and furthermore a very unique listen compared to most other albums of this era. This is an easy Yes for me on the MUST-o-meter.

I listened to this in hi-res on Qobuz, like most albums I don't own. I passed up a very nice audiophile pressing of this a while back, probably should have grabbed it, but oh well I suppose. Also, if you want to hear an excellent modern iteration on this sound, I highly recommend the album Baked, Broiled & Fried by Cookin' on 3 Burners (mostly instrumental aside from one or two guest vocalists, also features a killer version of Feel Good Inc).

Next time, we're dipping into the beginnings of bossa nova with Jazz Samba by Charlie Byrd and Stan Getz!