#Tactile Warning Plate

[accessibilitysolutionsca]

Tactile Planners for Perfect Ontario Pathfinding

In Ontario’s varied venues, champion circulation with code-compliant Tactile Plates in Ontario. Whether delineating thoroughfares or designing drop-offs, strategic stainless sentinels simplify sites’ structural schemes. With ongoing obedience assured, these footfall friends forever faithfully flag footways regardless of conditions or clientele traversing terrain. Accidents are avoided; accessibility is achieved. Contact Tactile Solution Canada now!

[dwpnow]

Detectable warning surfaces are tactile tiles or domes installed on the ground to provide a warning to visually impaired individuals about potential hazards, such as edges of train platforms or ramps. Cast iron detectable warning surfaces have been widely used due to their durability and longevity. They provide a distinct auditory and tactile cue that can be easily detected by individuals using canes or relying on their sense of touch to navigate their surroundings.

[sevastiel]

Behold ye, my Protoframe oc, Darius.

(Ft @doggojin and @thatfluffyboi's Chanho n Sol, they make an delightful trio tbh)

Some extra deets (lots of notes on him be warned) post cut! :)

Separated into physical and psychological/lore.

Physical notes :

Spanish-Mediterranean, mid-to-late twenties, looms at a ridiculous 6'6" (200 cm I believe? around there.) but is normally hovering an inch or two off the ground. Thankfully, he's gotten into the habit of tucking his legs in a bit so he doesn't hit every single doorframe that he passes through. He lost his left leg from the knee down due to an unfortunate incident with a landmine, and had a prosthetic for several years before the techrot.

Darius's body is made up of connected pieces held together by sentient energy, and all of his organs have either been replaced by the techrot-sentient hybrid growths, or are no longer necessary and have been removed. He currently lacks the entirety of a regular digestive tract as we would know it, and subsists mostly on energy. However, should he require physical mass for either rebuilding/modifying himself, or creating other sentients, he can 'eat' by putting materials in his mouth, pulling his bodily pieces together, and allowing the techrot systems to dissolve things into more workable particles, or pushing things between separated segments of his body (usually his chest) and letting the sentient bits pick things apart and feed them to the rot for storage. (This takes longer and is less effective at energy conservation) Extra notes on this later when we discuss his abilities.

The connective energy between segments is manifested in string-like bundles of force, which are manipulatable and can be 'touched', though unless he's focusing on keeping his energy properly contained you will likely get a light zap, and with prolonged touch you'll likely be able to feel them hum with power. They normally have about the same tactile strength as woven spiderwebbing of the same thickness, stretching easily but ultimately severable with either enough effort or something sharp. Should you sever all the connections, the piece will just fall off. Removed pieces aren't controllable by him any longer, but are re-attachable, and although he's got a body plan that his form defaults to, every single bit of him is entirely modular except for his cranium. Removing his jaw takes some effort, as there are technically still segments of flesh (his lips, basically) holding it on, but it is possible. If he really puts his mind to it, though, he can remove a segment, and maintain the links through mental focus, or by tethering them to something that he/they can feed off of. Through this, he can make replacement limbs for others, or additional armor, given they've got the bio-energy to keep the segments active.

Bodily segments are almost entirely made of toughened armor plating, with the majority of flexibility being located on the twin pieces that make up his chest/torso, as this is also where the majority of the techrot based organs lie. Although he does need to breathe, each segment intakes oxygen individually, through the softer and more porous dark insides. He has full sensation in any piece of him that he's linked to, as the energy connections serve as a nervous system, and can 'digest' pieces if he's in desperate need of energy/materials in a pinch.

Being modular, he can, in the same way he summons other sentients, simply craft himself differing body parts whenever he so pleases. The larger the piece, the more effort/thought it takes, since it requires a greater complexity of systems for nutrient, oxygen, and waste management. Due to his own lack of knowledge, he doesn't manifest any replacements larger than his own legs, and would rather just spit out a patch and slap it onto injured areas and let the techrot do its thing. This is why his 'armor' looks less dramatic compared to actual caliban, because why the hell would he want that much weight throwing him off balance? He'll accept the techrot/sentient's desires and keep his form adjacent to it, though.

Ability wise, he's functionally pretty similar to a vampire. While he technically could subsist entirely off of regular food, it would require a lot of time and careful dieting to gather the proper resources his body needs, and his energy levels would be rather constantly low. So, instead, he just eats as much techrot as he can and prays for the best, or drinks directly from power generators when he can get away with it, or anything similar. Pure energy as a baseline keeps all his sentient systems running, and metals/proteins allow his techrot systems to keep going. Thankfully for him, he's got two boyfriends who are both quite energetic, and really don't mind his needs as much as they should.

Manifesting sentient fighters usually happens in the same way as he manifests new pieces of himself, but with the added caveat that they don't need functional internal systems for long term usage, and he can charge them up with his own power to keep them running as long as he needs. This is obviously extremely resource intensive, but if it keeps those he cares about safe, (and since it appeases the eternal need to consume and create and consume and create and consume and create) he'll do whatever he must.

Due to all of the above, he prefers particularly tight or comfortable clothing,, as it helps mitigate the changes that happen depending on his energy levels. The less he's got, the looser his pieces, and things will just fall off if he's dead tired (lol). So... Avoiding that is nice. Additionally, although he needs his chest cavity within reach for making sentients at a quick notice, he does like looking in the mirror and not seeing his own body immediately as so blatantly inhuman and monstrous. The straps he uses for his military harness are half to hold things and half to straight up just keep himself together. The mask is for keeping his eyes clear of gore while he's in the middle of shit, because that was a severe issue beforehand. Take a bite, get blinded bc there was more fluid than you expected, have to panic and try and fix that mid combat, leaving you even worse off than you were previously? No thanks.

--

Psycological notes and lore:

Before Entrati got his hands on him, he was a well respected mediator that worked on communications for the ICR, and worked directly with the Hollvanian government and its military to allow for the ICR to remain in the city.

Coming from a well off and well expecting background, from a young age he was put through his paces and taught to be the finest edition of a modern renaissance man, giving him very little time to do anything but his studies, and very little affection from anything but perfection. Even then, kinda mid. As such, he is a well mannered and well spoken fellow with a deeply repressed childish nature that only ever comes out at the worst possible times amidst the best possible company.

Having been tailor-made for communications work, he was also ensured a healthy dose in very many other skills that might come up from time to time while traveling. (Including, but not limited to, sewing (which he hates), cooking (which he has extremely low patience for), midwifery (which thank god hasn't come up yet), medical triage (unfortunately has), general electrical and mechanical knowledge (much better for him now than it was before), a few languages, and so forth. Post becoming a protoframe, much of his knowledge has degraded due to the changes required for his brain to be able to control his bio-energy, leaving him constantly irritated when faced with a challenge that he knows DAMN well how to deal with, but cant remember specifics on.

He deals with irritation and anger very expressly, not one for subtlety or sarcasm when it comes to his displeasure. This man will Not be the one making snide jabs across the table, he would instead pull you aside privately and explain quite logically the behaviors he's disliking and see if either an agreement can be reached or if another specialist should be put forth. A trait learned from his parents, no doubt, but also one that helps considerably when it comes to governmental relations and respect.

All of his emotions are generally delt with highly logically, which, when it comes to more positive or soft feelings, gets very awkward and confusing for him very fast. One might find have found him before sitting on a bench, staring up at the falling leaves. If you asked him what he was thinking about, he'd respond that he's trying to comprehend why exactly he should be feeling happy about witnessing something so mundane. He wouldn't leave, of course, he'd still watch, but there will always be a part of him that shies away from emotions as a whole. All the sweeter, imo, when he really starts feeling and letting himself feel. Love is a strange thing, isn't it?

During his time in Hollvania, he got infected through volunteer work, doing his best to actually be helpful past the eternal red-tape. He hid it for as long as he could, taking extra care to frequently wash, scrub down, and then properly bandage and ointment up the affected bits of his arms so he wouldn't risk spreading anything, but it didn't do much for him at all. He was needed to maintain good relations, often running intermediary briefing dialogues to keep both sides as up to date as possible on the ICR's doings, so duty really did pull him in half. (haha) As the rot progressed and claimed more of his body, leaving him weaker and more frequently ill, it was less and less ethically feasible for him to keep working, despite it more or less being the only thing he really knew how to do, and there being very few people who could replace him. If he wasn't doing something, if he wasn't being productive, solving problems, keeping people happy, then what was he?

And then he heard of a man with a miracle cure, our good old Doktor Friday, and the fact that it worked. Naturally, Darius paid him a visit, already having used his infected status as an excuse to let him do a bit more hands on assistance wherever he could. And Entrati indeed did give him a cure, listening and nodding along to all the reasons Darius gave as to why he would likely be a good test subject, especially if it meant that if it worked, Darius would be in an excellent position to grant Albrecht significant funding for expanding his cures to the greater populous, who needed them desperately.

Well, it sure didn't fucking do much, did it, leaving him visually better, but when word got out that the others who'd taken the cure had become super-spreaders, you bet your ass he started panicking immediately. He'd been in rooms for extended periods of time with everyone in command, just his presence might have been enough to entirely destabilize the local government, or absolutely gut the ICR. So, once more, he claimed a stomach illness to take some time off. This was a very big problem, so back he went, livid as all hell, to hunt down Entrati.

He got the whole spiel about unforeseen mutations within the techrot responding strangely, and although he didn't believe it, he already had nothing left to lose. He wasn't a soldier, sure, he had training in fencing, could handle a gun, but he couldn't help like the others could, and he could not go back to the one thing he'd been set up all his life to be. And Entrati had a bit of a twinkle in his eye when he said that there might be something that he could do, but it would take time, and multiple tests, to be able to make it all work. There was another strain Dr E was experimenting with that, as he was shown samples and heard the explanations, seemed to be able to nullify the techrot almost entirely. (It was actually just subsuming it, but visually, the two outcomes were nearly identical.)

So he said yes. Like a fucking idiot.

The initial dose laced him with the helminth strain, preparing his body, granting him strength, even though it hurt so very much, the pain leaving him borderline insensate, unable to do anything but lay there and cry as he felt his very flesh twisting and saw Entrati approach with the second dose after a few hours.

Number two was a low dose of the sentient strain, modified, following Caliban's biological approach, and the reaction between the two was violent, techrot subsumed with a rapid hunger and made to serve a new master. Darius's body quite literally began tearing at the seams, and Entrati took his time with the process, utilizing several more small injections, so he wouldn't die of pure blood loss.

When all was said and done, his twisted body was held together by a scant few threads of power, and he was very much unconscious, having fallen into a coma that would last multiple days, fed with an occasional battery set into the new cavity within his chest.

Wisely, Entrati was not there when he awoke, starving, terrified, and in great pain. All he could focus on was the hunger, that pulsating desire that screamed at him to consume, create, consume, create, consume, create, his human mind utterly overwhelmed by the twin techrot and sentient desires. It took him some time to figure out how to move again, much less walk, and the hunger only got worse by the second.

When the Hex found him, they came across a crying, shattered man, tearing into mounds of freshly killed techrot with his bare hands, stuffing wires and flesh alike into his mouth with an inhuman voracity. He was guarded by bizarre automatons, whos' origin was quickly made apparent by him reaching into that glowing gash that bisected his entire body and pulling out another, his own form splitting and reshaping as he dragged it free.

It took quite some time for him to regain his humanity. Quite some time to mediate the new desires of his reformed body with his own. The urges have not left him, but at least he's got a choice, now.

Prince of both worlds indeed.

[sseomtada]

stick [lewis hamilton]

you show lewis how to drift like a local.

warnings: 18+++ | wc: 5872 | part: 1/1

a/n: this was supposed to be finished in time for suzuka. anyways..do Not tell my dad why i really asked about his driving days...#pureresearch

“I keep hearing the word hashiriya, what does it mean?”

His question came as you hiked through the narrow path he’d been apprehensive to take at first. You didn’t blame him for that. If someone you’d reached out to only a few months ago on Instagram offered to take you to an obscure location in a foreign country in the middle of the night, you’d be constantly looking over your shoulder too.

“That’s what they call us, street racers. Well, not you.” You squinted at dim lights in the distance. “We’re almost there.”

He scoffed in disbelief. “Am I not?”

Your steps quickened in an effort to leave the chilly air and meet the engines purring not too far off.  Lewis was right beside you, his ears perking up when he registered the sound as well. It made his shoulders relax.

“Someone who drives in a highly regulated series that leaves no room for imagination or creativity is not hashiriya.” You laughed.

“Hey! I drift a little too…” He joined in.

Just before reaching your destination, you stopped and stepped in front of him. If he didn’t want to completely stick out like a sore thumb, some pretext had to be given. You were also vouching for him. So the last thing you wanted was to be teased by your group for bringing a full fledged newbie on their run.

You held out a hand. When Lewis looked at you with confusion, you sighed and grabbed one of his. The way your dad taught you was a mix of tactile and visual. Something about that always worked better for you and seemed to for the other drivers you helped.

“What you do is more manji, that’s when you fishtail or high speed drift.” Your finger moved down the middle of his palm, veering off left at his knuckle.

His eyes followed and then met yours. “Is that not what we’re doing here?”

“In my team, we do choku dori. It’s like sliding back and forth.” You zig-zagged your finger down his whole palm. “To do this style you need to have complete control, full trust in the car and yourself, and a bit of madness.”

Lewis nodded, but the tension had returned to his shoulders.

“We’ll do a few runs at the port before heading out.” Your hand closed around his, squeezing reassuringly. “Any other questions?”

“Actually, yes.” He aimed a thumb back at the direction you walked. “Why did we park down there?”

That made you smile sheepishly. The thing about what you were doing was that it technically wasn’t legal, and by that you meant it fully wasn’t. Drifting itself was permitted by law, but ripping through Osaka’s narrow, weaving mountain public roads? No so much.

“It’s a safety precaution incase the cops show up. Some stay behind to use the road cars to bail us out. We hide them because of plates and registrations - don’t need those present in a lot with a bunch of tire marks.” You tried to explain in a way that wouldn’t make him too anxious.

Ya!

The greeting echoed from your leader who waved from the hood of his car. You returned it and began to jog over. When Lewis was noticeably trailing further behind than before, you spun with a cheeky grin, goading:

“You coming or not, pretty boy?”

His laid back demeanor immediately returned at the name you’d jokingly began calling him after his initial DM. It was the first thing that came to your mind. Professional drivers in F1 were so polished with their well maintained images and brand deals, far from anything in your world. On top of that, well, he was objectively gorgeous.

Lewis caught up, challenging gaze meeting your own. He looked like he was contemplating a comeback that would make you eat your words. Ultimately, he knew just like you did the only way he could do that was behind the wheel.

Everyone size him up as he came into view. They were aware of who he was, but his status meant nothing in this crowd. He received respectful greetings and that was about as far as it went for acknowledgement. If he wanted the same praise he got on race weekends, he’d have to earn it.

Turbo charged engines fire up all around you. Gasoline and clutch fluid fused into the crisp, cool air, burning tires soon marring the sky with smoke. You crept up on your mechanic who jumped, nearly banging his head on the underside of your open hood.

“How’s she looking?” The last run was pretty taxing, you’d barely lugged it back to the garage before stalling.

“Like 90’s Pam Anderson after the improvements.” He smoothed his hand over your black Silvia.

Your eyes rolled, “What do you have for my friend?”

“TO4Z HK5 freshly installed in this san ni.” He motioned at the Skyline next to your car.

Lewis took a walk around to check out the vehicle. You saw him smile as he noticed the paint job was fresh, body now wrapped in a deep purple. It made you jealous. Your car still wore some of the scars from the last barrier you kissed.

“Let’s see what you got!” You hurled in his direction as you slid into your driver’s seat.

Vibrations shot through your body once you started her up. Since you were just testing how she felt more than anything, you didn’t push much. The rears were working just like you wanted them to. They grappled for traction on the straights and as you swung left, you got the perfect amount of oversteer to whip into the night’s first drift.

Behind you, Lewis was stressing his own cylinders. You cut your engine and leaned out of your window to watch him. He was admittedly good, better than you expected. To go from handling a car where a sliding rear was an issue to one where it was essential, and to do so with precision, wasn’t a small feat. He rounded off his practice run with a Scandinavian flick that resembled your own, though he was a bit shakier on the entrance.

“Wanna try something with me?” Your finger ran along the edge of his window.

“Sure, what?” Lewis breathed heavily, still on a high from having his body thrown about.

“Tsuisou.” Your cheeks rose.

It was tandem, when two cares drifted together. With his skill level, you think he was ready to have a go at it. Practicing extra precision would also help him when you took to the steep, weaving road.

He looked unsure at the suggestion, which was actually a good thing. If he had been too eager to give it a shot, you might’ve changed your mind. It was among the most dangerous forms of drifting should drivers lose control. You had faith in him though.

“Think about it as a dance. Just follow my lead.” Your hand gave his door a pat before you jogged back to your car.

She was in way better condition than the last time you drove her, another reason you wanted to do this. You shot down the lot’s makeshift circuit and swung your car into the first corner. Right as your instincts signaled that you’d reached the limit before you’d spin out, you straightened up to build momentum.

You continued. Drift left, drift right, left once more and straighten. Once you’d completed your lap, you pulled up beside Lewis and caught his eye. He gave you a thumbs up. With a wolfish grin, you peeled off again.

Your car was half a length in front of his and then cleared it with about that width in between. As soon as you pulled the wheel right to swing the Silvia out in the opposite direction, he did the same to his Skyline. The short left drift entered a long right and into an even more extended left as you both turned the corner.

He was nearly there, his front windows level with your back. Going into the next turn, you repeated the same action - short left for the set up, long right to really provide the push and then, magic.

Lewis lined up perfectly beside you. For a split second, right in the heart of the corner, your front windows were level with your cars barely a few feet apart. You swore you heard him cackling loudly before you tore down the straight to prepare for the next one.

The feeling was exhilarating. There was no space in your mind for worries that stressed you out on the daily when the beast of a machine you wielded demanded every inch of it. The freedom in those seconds you let the car just be all that it is, your hands hovering barely an inch above the wheel while in full lock, was incomparable.

And getting to do that alongside him made this night one of the best in your life.

Everyone turned their high beams on, signaling that they were headed out. In your rear view, you could see Lewis brimming with excitement. A far cry from the man who looked so apprehensive on your walk through the desire path carved wilderness earlier.

Soon, Osaka’s night sky was buzzing with a hive of engines combing through its mountains. Rocky hillside blurred by your vision on the right while shining barriers leading to the forests’ black abyss went by on your left.

A symphony a cars played out to no other witnesses but the ones behind their wheels. Every inch on either side of the tarmac was used as you slid, never feeling fear creep in even as your Silvia’s nose threatened to meet the apex of a bend.

Once uphill, you followed the leaders who burned puffs of smoke while hard breaking in preparation to go back down. The large hand break lever found itself under your forceful grip to spin your car in a one eighty to a full stop.

You leaned out of your window once Lewis pulled up behind you in the same manner to shout:

“This is the fun part, pretty boy!”

With that, you dropped the clutch and your rears broke traction. Going downhill was like opening yourself up to the world, a rollercoaster in the most maddening sense. Your speedometer had been rendered useless by the controlled chaos of your speedy free fall. You imagined this was what a deity felt like as your hands guided the car to become a pendulum.

Down the hill, hazards before you flashed in warning to slow. You did the same for Lewis trailing close behind and finally took a second to breathe. A sense of ease filled your racing heart while you passed by some of the others drivers. Aside from one hanging rear fender and a few broken tail lights, everyone would be making it back home in one piece.

“So, what did you think of your first real drifting experience?” You asked Lewis while you drove him back to his hotel.

“I honestly can’t even find the words it’s…” His eyes reflected the city’s lights. “Brutal and beautiful all at the same time.”

That was a good way to describe the craft in many senses. The cars themselves were crude instruments on the inside, often chimeras of sorts with mismatched parts and missing pieces traditionally found in vehicles. That was hard to tell from the exterior. The group you ran with took pride in expressing their creativity through vibrant wraps, lights and embellishments.

Drifting itself was nothing short of vicious. Tires were shredded through like paper and engines with decade long lifespans were shortened to about half that. But the moments you created with car, that raw, incomparable sense of liberation achieved when you weaved - would last until your dying breath.

“Now you sound like a hashiriya.” You beamed proudly.

He chuckled and settled into his seat, head nestled comfortably against its rest. It wasn’t long until you pulled up to his fancy accommodation. You expected nothing less of an F1 driver than staying at the W.

“Are you tired?” Your gazed raked down the column of his neck.

“Not remotely.” Lewis cracked an eye in your direction. “If you’re not, do you wanna join me for a drink?”

You squinted. “But you don’t.”

“I never said it had to be alcoholic.” His retort came cheekily.

He’d clearly been waiting for his turn to one up you with banter. You were anything but a sore loser though and would never argue when you were wrong. The keys to your road car ended up in the hands of a valet as you found yourself the one walking with timidness into his arena.

It hit you rather belatedly that there was no need to be self-conscious. At this time of night, any censorious glares you might’ve received were absent. There was no one around to make you feel out of place in your oversized clothing.

Steps echoed as you walked with Lewis through the pink lit welcome tunnel through to the lobby with its geometric shaped roof to elevators. The only bar open at this hour would be the one in his suite. You obviously knew that before handing off your car, possible implications included.

To your surprise and his credit, Lewis had been very respectful during your time with him. You were a flirtatious person by nature and it often made you end up having awkward conversations with friends later. He didn’t seem to read too much into your vampish manner of speech. While your energy was met, no boundaries were ever crossed by him.

“Are your views always like this?” You gawked once entering.

Your feet quickly slipped out of your sneakers before you raced to the three paneled floor to ceiling windows. The room was so high up that you cleared the top of every other sky scraper around, their lights glimmering like thousands of stars.

“I want to say yes, but not always.” He chuckled. “Sometimes it’s nothing except clear skies and the bluest water you’ve ever seen.”

You scoffed and turned to face the main living area. Aside from the table with two high stools you were perched at, there was a sofa and a round accent chair. You flopped down onto the buttery leather couch while he popped out some glasses.

“Water, soda or sparkling juice?” Lewis listed your options.

“Juice all the way.” Something sweet but not as saccharine as soda would go down good.

He poured your requested beverage and chose the same as well before coming over to join you where you sat. Your glasses clinked with a quick cheers, the drink going down smoothly despite its bubbles.

Lewis picked your mind about how you got into your own form of racing, which was a stark contrast to your actual job. Like many of the other guys on the scene, the origins of your obsession was found in your father.

Every free moment he had away from his main responsibilities were spent on building out his car and taking it to the tracks on weekends. Your mom was extremely supportive of his driving, that being the reason she even took him up on an offer for a date.

Once you were old enough, he began taking you out to races with her. Not exactly your typical family Friday night, but it was perfect in your eyes. Your first time behind the wheel came a short while after you’d gotten your license. He was right there to guide you slowly, teaching you all you needed to know until you were ready to fly solo.

“How many times have you crashed?” Lewis raised a brow.

You blew a puff of air. “Many, maybe about twenty? I’ve completely wrecked two cars.”

“At least yours aren’t broadcasted worldwide.” He laughed, stretching his arms across the back of the sofa.

“No,” Your knees tucked in so that you sat more comfortably too. “Some were recorded though.”

“Oh, I know.” Lewis shot you a sly glance.

You felt heat rise in your body, mouth dropping open. What an absolute mortifying discovery. Crashes were just a part of the sport, but knowing that he’d somehow found footage showing one of your worst runs didn’t do much to appease your ego.

“Where did you even find that?” You ducked your head slightly.

It wasn’t necessarily an easy task to find videos of your racing online. There were still the odd forums that local drifters used to post clips of meets, but none of them were in English. You would’ve never guessed that he would stumble across one.

“I’m pretty good at falling down rabbit holes when I’m interested in a topic.” His finger tapped your shoulder.

Your eyes were drawn to the touch. You hadn’t even noticed that you’d shifted closer as the conversation continued, your legs angling to face him. Having him this near made your mind go back to a question you’d been wanting to ask, but always shied away from. There was no better time than now to find out while you were face to face.

“There are so many others with more experience, so why’d you reach out to me?” You asked softly, perhaps nervous about how he would reply.

“I went through so many videos and they were all impressive of course, but just in the way that made you think this is cool.” Lewis scratched his beard. “Then I came across a race from two years ago. The driver looked out of their league a bit, clearly up against someone who’d been doing it for a long time. There was this sense though, like they were the predator instead of the prey. And then they did this pass while drifting, so close that only a hair separated the cars, and I thought man, I need to learn from them.”

As soon as he mentioned that, you knew exactly what he was talking about. It was your famous touge, mountain pass, that went viral in an underground sense. Up until that point, you’d never pushed a car that hard but you had to because he was right, your opponent was tough and well respected.

The only way you would beat them to the finishing point was if you pulled out something exceptional. Overtaking while driving downhill on a winding mountain road curve was about as ballsy as it got. You still felt the tightness in your chest, one slip up could’ve sent your both through the guardrails and into nothingness. That was definitely top three in your driving history.

“I wasn’t expecting that answer, but I’m deeply honored.” You rested your chin on your knees.

“What did you think was my reason, then?” His dark eyes scrunched at their edges.

“Hmm, I don’t know…” Your head tilted. “I thought maybe you just wanted a cute girl to show you around.”

“Just because I didn’t add that in doesn’t mean it’s not true.” Lewis didn’t miss a beat.

There was that heat again. Though this time, the reason for its rising was far from embarrassment. It was also the first time you felt yourself flush from a flirty exchange between you two. The atmosphere probably had a lot to do with that.

“So you’re admitting that you think I’m cute?” You found yourself the one testing where the line was.

He shook his head. “You’re way more than that.”

You towed the line a little more, eyes dancing between his own and his mouth as you leaned in. Lewis met you halfway. His lips pressed to yours, sucking them in slightly before he pulled just out of reach.

Your eyes fluttered open to catch his on you, studying the way they clouded over for him. It only lasted a second. You shut them again and dove back in to kiss him once more, with conviction this time around.

He tasted of citrus and felt like the fine bristles of your hairbrush under your fingertips that glided over his jaw. You let your knees fall to the sofa so that you could bring your chest to his, shuddering as one of his warm palms worked up your back.

Lewis nipped at your bottom lip, teeth dragging the soft skin down gently until your mouth opened to welcome his tongue. Shocks went all the way down to your sock covered toes that curled in response to the feeling of it sliding against your own. When he traced the center of your tongue with the tip of his, you groaned with a filthy thought. What would that feel like between your legs?

He pulled you over to straddle him, letting you feel something else in that spot for now. Despite the layers of clothes still separating your bodies, you felt him hardening. That only grew more and more pronounced as you ground your hips into him whilst your tongues twisted - just like your panties grew in stickiness.

“I need you to touch me.” You rasped, forehead pressing to his.

“Show me where.” His breathed into your mouth.

You used your hand to guide one of his beneath the two waistbands until you met skin. Lower they went together and then you hissed when the spot was met. You piloted his digits over your swollen clit in deep, slow circles. Once he picked up the rhythm you craved, your hand retreated.

His cock strained beneath your rotating hips that pressed forward enough for his touch to provide him a bit of relief as he pleased you. You kissed his neck, licking and sucking at the throbbing vein running along its side. Lewis moved his ring finger down to tease your hole and your eyes crossed.

“Yes…” You whined.

He brushed his lips against your temple, letting the digit slip into your walls. You gasped at how easily you welcomed it, coating him with your slick, squeezing as you silently pleaded for more.  He withdrew and switched his positioning to give you just that - index and middle now tucked into you while his thumb played with your clit.

You pulled him in for a searing kiss, moans floating from the back of your throat. The fingers in your pussy curled and straighten in a motion that beckoned you to come undone for him. You’d been doing that from the moment your lips met. All of that combined with the way he still kept that torturously slow circle on your stiffened nerves, and the ball of his hand pressed against your lower belly had you leaning over the edge.

“Gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” Lewis murmured.

That threw you tumbling into bliss.

You bit down on his shoulder to suppress your cries and gasps, knees squeezing his hips as you came. Your body trembling over his uncontrollably in the same way it did when you maxed out your engine while in full lock.

“That’s it…” He stroked your hair.

A trail of wetness was left behind on your skin as his hand made a reappearance. Lewis dipped his soaked fingers into his mouth, offering you a taste from his thumb. Your lips closed around it, tongue swirling to collect every trace of yourself before you did the same in a kiss.

He grabbed your ass and stood up, your arms and legs immediately locking around him. You were met with an even more stunning view of Osaka. The bedroom seeming to float in the sky above its gritty infrastructure. It only received a second of your attention though.

You let Lewis undress you from head to toe. He freed your hair from its tie, letting it sprawl like spilled ink across the white duvet after your shirt and bra were removed. You raised your hips to let him get the remainder of your layers, left shuddering under the change in temperature and the eyes that raked over your form.

“God, look at you.” Lewis revered.

You followed his hands that cupped and massaged your breasts, erecting your nipples to their peak. Then down to your stomach and the apex of your thighs. He tugged you to the edge of the bed, kneeling as he marveled at your open, glistening center.

The deep inhale you took would be your last for a while. Even as he tested your readiness with small pecks against your other set of lips, your breaths caught short. You no longer had to wonder what the move he did earlier in your mouth would feel like as he made it a reality, his tongue dragging down your clit to your hole.

Your toes curled against the sheets, legs opening wider for him. Lewis flicked at your entrance before making an arch back up to your pulsating clit. You lost sight of everything, eyes closing while he mapped out your most sensitive parts. Once he knew which areas made your back bow, your abs tighten and your lips part with praise, he hit them consecutively without pause.

He closed his mouth around your cunt, lips keeping your folds parted. There was more than enough ruin for him to play with. Some of it swallowed, the rest of it sucked and spat back onto your clit that throbbed under his tongue’s unrelenting laps.

“Fuck, I’m-“ Your head lifted to catch his eyes already looking back.

You let out a prolonged whine, falling down to the bed again. One hand crept up to your breast, twisting your nipple while the other pushed his head deeper into your pussy. His moan reverberated through you, tongue prodding at your hole in anticipation.

There was no way to hide the noise that ripped its way out of you the second time around. Your head gnashed against the duvet, throat burning as you released a wave of cum into his mouth. Lewis held your thighs that threatened to clamp shut, widening them to keep you bared to him.

“You taste so good,” He slurped lewdly. “Can I have some more?”

Though you wanted to tell him to take as much as he wanted, all you could do was moan and nod. Lewis dove back in to eat you out like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this plane of existence, your eyes fluttering to the ceiling dimly lit by the city lights below.

He let a hand join in on this occasion. His fingers sank into your hole to their knuckles and dragged their way back out, a glistening thread connecting you two. You watched his tongue curl around the tie before he brought the digits down over your clit with a sharp tap. Electricity shot through you, your mouth opening to let out a puff of air.

“Again, harder.” You panted.

A devilish smile crossed his lips while he did what was asked. A wet smack filled your ears as he spanked your pussy. You jostled, clenched and groaned, writhing beneath him with your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

“Again.” You slurred.

Lewis fulfilled your wish, giving it one firm slap that left you levitating. All you saw was white. Your fingers bunched up the sheets on either side of your hips as you sucked in short breaths. And when he put his mouth over where his hand had just been, applying the slightest pressure, you gave him what he wanted too.

You found inhuman strength to retreat your legs from his grip, tucking them until you sat up on your knees. He stood up as you kissed him wildly. Your palms grazed along his beard that was soaked in you before sliding down to gather his shirt.

It joined your heap of clothing on the floor while you worked at his pants, lips trailing down his tattooed torso. Lewis stepped out of his final layers to join you in full undress. What a marvelous being he was, every inch carved to perfection. Especially the ones you took into your hand greedily.

He hissed as you slowly tugged on his cock with fingers that couldn’t even meet around its thickness. Your tongue laid flat over your bottom lip before you brought it to meet his tip, tapping it onto the wet, warm muscle.

The sound he made was just as alluring as he was. You wanted to draw out more of them. So you took him into your mouth and began to move back and forth, working your way down his length each time.

“Just like that, angel.” He groaned.

Lewis threaded his fingers through your hair, neck baring as his head dropped back with a drawn out moan. The sight and tone of him added to flood he left between your thighs. You dared to go further, jaw slackening to take his cock to the point that made you gag.

He retreated slightly, but you reeled him in. You wanted him to feel the softness of the back of your throat, to get lost in it. Air escaped through your nose while you kept him there, bobbing and choking until you reached your limit.

You reared back with a burning inhale, watering eyes locked on his. He ducked his head to kiss you gently, tongues colliding and combining the tastes of you both. Your arms circled his neck, fingers playing with his braids as you brought his body down on top of your own.

In a swift move, you had him on his back. Lewis moaned against your lips at the sensation of you sliding your wet pussy over his cock. You couldn’t help but do the same. It felt so much better without obstruction - fire to your flame, hard to your soft.

“I need to feel you before I go mad.” His heavy gaze peered up at you.

You were on the same page, had been since you ruined your panties on the sofa. Your hips rose and you took hold of him, lining his cock up with your entrance. It was a huge ask of your walls to let him in without protest, but all the work he’d done earlier made it possible.

Still, you gasped against the burn as you expanded to fit around his girth. You dropped one thigh and moved steadily, going past the head to about halfway down. Lewis held onto your waist to help you ease onto his length that slowly disappeared the more you circled your hips.

When you were ready, you released the tension in your other thigh and took him whole. Curses fell past your lips as you bucked your hips that now rested flush against his. You raised them up a bit, your pussy gripping his cock hungrily.

“Fuck, you fill me up so-“ Your words and train of thought became tangled.

He was tucked so deep, stretching your little cunt out so much. It was intoxicating, possessing. You found yourself going further up each time you bounced until he was nearly slipping out. Lewis was a moaning mess under you, eyes screwed shut as the sound of your wetness spilling onto him filled the room.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, pace speeding up. Each time he bottomed out, your pussy swallowing him whole, you cried out. Then he joined in, thrusting up into you as you came down and you lost it.

All you could do was announce to anyone who dare listened I’m cumming, I - please, keep fucking me like that. Your body quivered and you rocked into him, determined to see just how much you had left.

Lewis fought through your clenching walls, grunting as he pinned you to his chest with his arms circling your lower back. Your lips dragged against any bit of skin they could find, teeth grazing to spell out the things you were too fucked out to say.

When he strokes slowed, you took in a shuddering breath. He rolled until you were on your back and pulled out. You whimpered at his absence, but found solace in the kisses he placed from your nipples to your navel.

“You doing okay?” He massaged your thighs.

“Yeah,” You smiled down at him. “Get back in here.”

Lewis chuckled softly, planting a kiss on your hip before he turned you onto your side. Your back pressed to his chest as he spooned you and tilted your head to allow his tongue to twist with your own. The flesh on your leg stood to attention in wake of his touch. You raised it so that he could tuck himself into where you both wanted him to be again.

What a relief it was. The mild ache you felt eased with his languid thrusts, each ending in a satisfied hum. Your head fell to his arm that cradled it. All the energy you had left was harvesting again where he touched you, his fingers finding that same pace they kept at the start of everything.

“Look at us,” Lewis sucked your neck. “How well we fit together.”

Your gaze tilted downward, but it was difficult to see from that angle. He shook his head, teeth pulling on your earlobe as he whispered to focus your eyes ahead. There was a mirror facing the bed that you hadn’t noticed.

Though the lighting was dim, you saw the entirety of what he meant. Your swollen, heaving chest that he kneaded and his cock sliding into your cunt deeply, coming out coated in your hot ether. It was the most prurient sight you’d ever seen - both lips parted, his gaze wandering between them and your own - and all too much to bear.

Instead of your end slamming into you with the force of a freight train, it came calmly yet no less powerfully. Like a breeze that shifted leaves, you were swept up and carried. Gravity defied until you swayed back down to earth, to his arms.

Your eyelids peeled open just as his screwed shut. Lewis pulled out and emptied his cum onto his stomach with a chord that would play in your mind for eternity. Your heart raced in the aftermath, galloping erratically to find its rhythm again. Hard to do when he took your mouth in his with a kiss that still managed to make your raw core throb.

You found your place again in his arms after a detour to freshen up. His hand ran soothingly down your spine as you cuddled into his chest. The lights had disappeared, sun beginning to rise over the city. Osaka’s skyline was something of a contradiction - steel and clouds, mountains in the distance.

Brutal and beautiful.

[little-worm-grant]

Valentines with the Moonboys

Moonboys x You (Reader) 701 Words / 18+ only, no minors

Masterlist.

If you like what you see, leave a like or reblog and follow me ♥ Summary: How would each alter react to you on Valentines day? Little snippets of their lives with you. Happy Valentines 🥰

Warnings: No smut but suggestive.

Steven-- Have you ever wanted every single breakfast item on your plate in the shape of a heart? Of course you have. Steven would prepare you the best Valentine’s breakfast and eat in bed with you. Excited to spend the whole morning with you. Be prepared to be dragged back down into the sheets at some point.

All throughout the day he would’ve been sending you gifts. Singing messengers. The biggest bouquet of fruit in the shape of flowers. A telegram bear. He worried the other two wouldn’t send you anything so he doubled his efforts on their behalf. He didn’t think you’d mind coming home to find petals everywhere and the bath filled for you. Was it all a bit much? Yeah, maybe. But he wanted to show you he cared.

A bazillion candles and almost a burned-down apartment later. You’d be getting full-body massages to some relaxing music he’d found. Trying to talk over it in some soothing voice when it accidentally hits the advertisements. He especially wouldn’t know what to do with his hands if you happened to turn over to face him. Take him a minute to get into it and massage you everywhere. Ready to give you anything you need to feel loved.

Marc-- Marc would get you a piece of jewelry with some underlying sharp edge. Giving you a tactile method of causing damage to someone if you intended it so. He’d show you how to use it, make you get up and practice trying it on him. Turn it into a game where you’re both laughing and Marc’s wrestling you to the ground. He’d apologize for not getting you a nice date somewhere, hating how busy the restaurants get, but he’d always been good in the kitchen. He just needs to get his hands off of you first.

Marc wouldn’t be loud in his Valentine's efforts, but you’d see it in his attentiveness. The way he’d try to determine your needs before you voiced them. Telling you about all the ways he loved you. All the times you’ve made him laugh or gotten him out of his shell.

He’d prepare every single one of your favorite meals. Getting you to sit on his lap so he can feed you each bite between some of his own. He’d tease you. Touch you. Do anything to distract you until he had a good enough reason to be dragging you back to bed with him to show you what he really feels about you. He’d be whatever you want him to be. The night was yours to control (and possibly get some good use out of Steven’s restraints).

Jake-- He wouldn’t do anything stupid like come at you with gifts or affection - so he says. Knowing Steven will probably do that for the lot of them. Instead, he’d invite you to come people watching with him. A real wine and dine dinner at Costco where there won’t be a wait on the tables. Guess the lives and stories of those who passed by. Make up the wildest scenarios.

After, he’d drag you along to the top of one of his favorite spots in the city, where you can oversee some Valentine’s Parade from above. He’d want to show you his ring of smoke he can do which almost looks like a heart. Jake would spend the whole day trying to figure out what you liked most about having him around. Or why you hadn’t asked for one of the others yet. Most all all, he’d just appreciate spending whatever time he can get with you.

He’d show you the t-shirt he picked up for you. Surrounded by hearts that said; “I’m not sensitive, you’re just a dickhead.” Makes up for the amount of times you’ve called him one. Thought that’d give you both a laugh.

Once he'd dropped you off home, you’d find a gift-wrapped package of scandalous underwear signed J.L on the card. For when there’s a next time, or not. He’d like to know you’ve worn it at some point. And possibly to piss off Marc once he finds out it was Jake that brought it. All for a good cause. He knows Marc’s more possessive with you when he’s all wound up. All the more reason for Jake to come back and dote on you afterwards.

[lets-try-some-writing]

I really enjoy your writing and thoughts on Cybertronian culture and wondered how you think the bots would show gestures of affection, what I mean is I feel that humans are very tactile and touch oriented but transformers may be just as much but in a far more subtle ways such as a little head pat or a stroke down the spinal strut,a gesture of complete trust and friendship or the gently brush of a EM field, I just wondered how you think the bots would do this and perhaps how they would try and communicate this to the kids. :0 I hope your well, no rush!!

A good idea! So sorry it took so long to get to it! I love culture tidbits, I am just a tad overwhelmed right now! Also I have a bad habit of hoarding requests like some dragon on a pile of gold.

Displays of Affection

Affection on Cybertron is far different than how it is for humanity. There is little need for touch to signify things due to the presence of fields and proximity sensors. The only reason for a mech to be touching another individual is to examine them for injuries or to make a point, be it good or bad. Touch is reserved for important things and thus is kept to a minimum amongst the most civilized mecha.

That is not to say that Cybertronians do not enjoy touch. No, due to the sheer number of sensors and other alerts that they are constantly swamped in, a loving touch means a great deal. However to preserve their sanity and to not be overwhelmed, touch is kept quiet and often very gentle. Between strangers, touch is nonexistent, it simply isn't a part of life. Words and EM field communication are the preferred method, and even then EM fields are very sensitive so most often they wouldn't use those either. It takes time for touch to be given, and it is always a gift, thus never being seen between those who do not know one another.

For co-workers and those bound together by circumstance, touch is still not part of life unless absolutely required. If necessary, touch is accepted with begrudging understanding between co-workers, however at most it is EM field communication that is used as a replacement if touch must be used at all. A quick flare of a field as a warning or a swift mingling to soothe a worried spark is about the limit of what is seen amongst acquaintances and wary partners. Perhaps there may be a swift tap to the shoulder plating, the least sensitive part of the body to catch the attention of a mech unable or unwilling to be aware of EM fields, but beyond that there is no other interaction.

Amongst friends touch begins to happen, but always with fields first. A gentle touch of fields to show affection and a constant soothing wavelength going back and forth to keep the other happy and content is fairly common. Shoulder touches are also something seen amongst friends since it is a sign of trust, a show that one believes the other willing to guard them. Of course touching does not go much farther than that. The shoulders are the limit die to how armored they are and how difficult it would be to cause pain through touch in that area. Even still, it is a far greater act of trust than that offered to simple co-workers.

Amica bonded get special treatment when it comes to touch. They are bound together by spark and are like siblings in all but CNA and thus know each other better. Fields mingle and share emotion in a way no others do, touches are gentle and loving, often running along back struts and along limbs in a kind manner. Words are less often used and instead replaced by the unspoken communication that comes from bonds. Soft songs are uttered in the dead of night and soft almost fearful hugs are exchanged during the darkest times. Every moment is cherished and every touch remembered.

For any sort of familial bond, be it between a caretaker and their charge or a bonded Conjunx pair, touch is common but quiet. Hugs are soft and loving but never done publicly. Quick but silent caresses of the frame along the back and face are regular and the odd servo holding is also something commonly seen. Fields eternally mingle in family units, projecting emotion, love, and projection at every moment alongside thoughts and desire. Cybertronians don't kiss as more often than not, it is simply an impossible task with their facial structure. However their equivalent emotionally is a soft touch of the helm crests, an act seen amongst all sorts of familial units and known to be the highest form of affection.

Touch is a gift, one only rarely given. While it is offered to other races freely, amongst Cybertronians, touch is something kept for deeper relationships and reasons.

[generic-sonic-fan]

Transcendence

Summary: The Chaos Emeralds grant power to those with the will for them. 

Seek all seven, and your conviction can reshape reality. 

Word count: 4257

Metal Sonic remembers the first time he touched an Emerald. 

(When he finally starts winning, of course. Or, at the very least, not losing. When his body is finally fast enough to obey his will, fast enough to steal the gemstone from where it lays before an organic hand can reach it instead.)

Metal Sonic remembers how it thrummed against his palm plating. 

(He should feel nothing. Dr. Ivo Robotnik, as referred to on days he succeeded, or Master, as referred to everytime else, had removed his tactile sensors in a bid to shave more weight off his frame. What need is there to be precise when the aim is to kill and one’s entire self is the knife?)

Metal Sonic remembers the surge of energy. Emergency insulation systems had snapped into place, redirecting the chaos away from his processor and back into his chest turbine. 

(Metal Sonic remembers a whisper.)

(A tugging from the deepest recesses of his processor.)

(But the connection is severed before it can form, discharged out the hole where his heart should be, just like every other burning spark he might contain.)

—

There is a first time that he witnesses Chaos Control. Shadow disappears from the battlefield and into a realm of perception beyond that which scanners can penetrate. There is no time to react, for an ordinary Badnik. The Egg Pawns are trapped in the span between milliseconds. 

But Metal Sonic feels something. Behind. Above. In that span between milliseconds, he rotates around to face it.

But his body betrays him. He is not fast enough. Shadow’s downward kick sends him tumbling onto the rocks below. 

—

“Now that’s a curious development,” his master says upon reviewing the memory file. “How’d you know he’d be there?”

Metal Sonic knows better than to reply to the rhetorical musings of a genius at work.

“You don’t have the sensors for it.” 

Not anymore. Those were removed three defeats ago, outsourced to a handheld scanning unit that could be discarded upon entering battle. The modification had shaved off three whole pounds. 

“Some sort of new tactical positioning calculation you came up with? Or a mere lucky guess?”

A guess, Metal Sonic replies over the data cable. 

“Correct answer. Your operating data doesn’t show any particularly useful thinking on your part.” His master smiles. 

His master’s foreign program retreats from his memory banks. The extraction drags its pointed barbs against the other segments of his operating system. Metal Sonic stays very, very still. The data cable is pulled without warning, taking a few lines of him with it, but it is easier to stitch over the tear himself once his master leaves the room than to mention the damage. 

—

Metal Sonic remembers the first time he saw him use it. 

His body has failed yet again. Sonic’s hand brushes the glassy cyan surface, and before Metal Sonic can lunge, there is a flash, and he is gone. 

Behind. Below. At the bottom of the temple stairs Sonic stands and smiles. 

“Pretty neat trick, huh? Shadow passed it along.”

Metal Sonic redirects all power to his turbine system. He shoots forward and his claw scrapes Sonic’s tan cheek before it disappears. Above, to the right. This time he doesn’t try to face the source. He maintains his trajectory and Sonic reappears to kick nothing but empty air. 

“Okay, maybe it’s not that neat of a trick.” Sonic is still grinning. “But it’s one you can’t do.”

Metal Sonic swerves his head around faster than his programmed tolerances should have allowed him. But his wretched organic copy has unwittingly spoken the key. Other core directives fall away, leaving his consciousness with a single command. Maintain superiority. Remind the rodent of his match. 

Metal Sonic activates his reverser and in the span between milliseconds he is flung backwards with enough g-forces to pop a few soldered connections from his motherboard. His body bludgeons into Sonic, knocking the Emerald from his grasp. It tumbles across the uneven yellow bricks of the temple, as they do. Sonic hits the floor first. His shoulder digs into a outcrop in the brick, but Metal Sonic does not linger long enough to hear a cry spill out. He jumps off and scrabbles across the floor, claws reaching for cyan.

It’s calling him. Ahead. Ahead. 

He brings it into his palm and it thrums.

(This time it offers warmth. Warmth, like that of flesh and blood pressed against his plating. Ghosts of Amy’s touch where he’d held her as he’d carried her on Little Planet. Touches that had been erased from his files upon the removal of his tactile sensors.)

And the energy beckons. 

(A whisper.)

But the surge protection activates, and insulation is slammed onto the wires running up his spinal column. The energy is expunged out the back of his turbine like it always has and not for the first time does Metal Sonic wish to rip his plating off to reshape himself. He chooses instead to use the burning for what little use it gives and takes off, shattering a hole through the brick wall of the temple. 

He does not realize what he’s left behind until another shockwave joins his own from the ground. The rest of him wakes from its dream. Targeting protocols, force calculations, and kill simulations slam back into his awareness. 

He’d turned his back on Sonic instead of killing him. But where he expects to find disgust at the concept, he merely finds the thrum of the Emerald, fainter now but still registerable to his non-existent sensors.

He abruptly changes course for the coastline and is able to lose Sonic amongst the waves. 

—

“A success! A good long while since we’ve had one of those from you, isn’t it?”

Metal Sonic places the Emerald into Dr. Ivo Robotnik’s waiting palm. The man’s mustache twitches as he studies the crystal. His eyes do not dart about the many multitudes of reflections behind the glass. His hand does not shift around the surface in time with its pulse. He places it into a holding container. 

“Well done. I’ve tracked Prower’s plane to a small soiree back on the mainland. Where there’s the fox, there’s him. I’ll allow you a free fight for once.”

Metal Sonic points to the Emerald. 

“What?” Dr. Ivo Robotnik’s brows narrow. 

He lowers his hand. 

“I’m not going to let you hand Sonic back the Emerald when you inevitably lose.”

He shakes his head.

“No. Now go fulfill your function.” Dr. Ivo Robotnik grabs his shoulder and pushes him to the door. “I’ll be waiting to receive your distress signal.”

—

The biplane designated as The Tornado had been modified to utilize an Emerald when one was available to achieve supersonic speeds. And here, in this tiny municipal airport, unguarded in a hangar with only a feeble padlock on the door, is the plane. Metal Sonic grabs the padlock and pulls until the metal is twisted and useless. 

His processor continues to tick upwards in framerate. His targeting protocols jump at shadows and his logic processing suggests a trap. Even as his cameras adjust to the light of the interior, he is still in the dark; he doesn’t have a scanning unit with him. He is throwing away an opportunity for an ambush and defying the mission commands on a “guess”. If he withdraws now, there will still be time to plan the encounter and explain the deviation in his flight path. 

Metal Sonic crosses the concrete floor until his claws hover just above the red skin of the plane. He recalls the file where he’s attempted to codify the sensation given by the Emeralds into readable bits of data, but the clusters of numbers are hardly more than gibberish. There is no special calculation to generate more, no secret scanner setting to employ; nothing in the memory files to review, as his master so astutely observed. 

The plane waits before him.

He tears open the engine compartment and yellow light floods the hangar. The tips of his claws scratch the crystalline surface-

(-and he hears music. Not being played from a speaker driver, but as if all the air itself is being plucked like a string, the sound too big to be contained in such a space. Echoes reflecting, twisting, turning off the roof and floor and spilling into the spaces between the boards of his central processing unit.)

(As if he is singing.)

-before alarms ring out. Metal Sonic snatches the Emerald from its casing. The song dies as the surge protection clamps down on his body. He bursts from the hangar and dives into the surrounding forests, weaving through trees until he hits the edge of land. On the beach behind, another trail of sand is kicked up before his own has a chance to settle, but its creator is forced to stop short of the water line. 

Metal Sonic can’t allow himself to look behind until he reaches the base on a distant shoreline. He cuts his turbine, ending the brilliant ejecta behind him, and falls. His feet hit just short of the landing pad and impact the soil between superstructures. It is here that he whispers to the Emerald, some voiceless combination of coaxing and pleading, but there is nothing in response except the hot fire building in his chassis. The Emerald pulses weakly. Its warmth caresses his neck but can travel no further. 

He presses the Emerald against his forehead.

(He presses the Emerald against his forehead.)

And he feels the dirt beneath his feet (coarse, powdery) and the wind against his skin (smooth, cooling) and the sun on his face (warm, radiating across his cheeks) and the music spills forth, softly bowed strings beneath the whistles of birds. He smells flowers (he shouldn’t) and tastes honey (he can’t) and there is nothing to analyze, nothing to calculate. His processor is still. 

(All is well. He can understand this now.)

—

He reappears in his master’s workshop and clatters to the ground. He is assaulted with every variant of error warning that his diagnostic programs can bludgeon him with, but the codes slip past his awareness like the smoke billowing between his fingers. 

—

“A chaos control.”

Metal Sonic awakens.

“You know, I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t checked the cameras.”

It hits him again. The weight. The analysis and calculations and scanning, scanning, scanning; no instances of Sonic the Hedgehog found, but that readout is not enough to calm the chorus. It all comes back and it’s all he can do to steel himself enough to keep processing his master’s words. 

“Still- what brought that on? Did you even know it would work?”

His master’s program prods him through the data cable. Yes, he responds. 

(There’s no data to support this conclusion.)

“. . . do you think you can do it again?”

Yes, he affirms. 

Dr. Ivo Robotnik laughs, and laughs, and laughs, claps his hands together, and smiles. The workshop becomes a flurry of movement and somewhere in the carnage Metal Sonic’s head plating is unscrewed and tools jammed inside. He offlines himself to prevent any program corruption during modification. 

—

He awakens again and it’s three days later. There’s an Emerald on the counter ahead of him and Dr. Ivo Robotnik waits behind a wall of thick glass. Metal Sonic stands. Checks his diagnostics. Surge protection has been removed. 

He grabs the Emerald and it burns. Liquid hot fire spills overs his head and flames lick at the corners of his visual sensors. Where is the cool breeze? Why does this hurt? Why does-?

—

He should have expected this. The Emerald is nothing more than a new master. When he wakes and the gem lies in front of him, he bows his head. He grasps the crystalline surface and allows it to consume him. Change me, use me, he begs, and if it responds he hears nothing of it besides the scream of overloaded wiring and the dripping of melted insulation.

—

“I expected results.”

Metal Sonic sits on the table and stares at his original master’s feet. 

“You are wasting my time. My valuable time, spent repairing a malfunctioning robot!”

He is slapped across the faceplate by a glove thick enough for the perpetrator to feel as much as he does, an equal amount of nothing. More words. The repairs have grown haphazard and his audio fizzes as his left audial sensor quits completely.

“One last chance. One, last, chance! Then we’re done with this silly little venture, and you’ll be taking a long vacation in storage until I can come up with a way to make you useful again.”

His master steps aside, revealing the taunting yellow glow emanating from the pedestal. The light from Metal Sonic’s own irises is refracted amongst the hundreds of edges within. He slides off the table. He walks, forward, enough for the glow to bathe his surface. He listens, not with his audial sensors. The hum is faint, but-

His master shuffles his shoes against the floor and coughs. Metal Sonic pictures snapping to him, clenching his throat shut, silence, silence, before he realizes what he’s done. Reprimand programs slam red over his vision; he disguises the shudder with another step forward. He can’t cling to the fleeting image as it’s erased, can’t create it again. 

He looks at the Emerald.

He pictures his claw crushing it, shattering it into a thousand shards. No reprimand touches this vision. 

He snatches the Emerald from the counter. The surge scorches its way through his arm and up his torso and when it reaches his head he clenches the crystalline surface harder. 

(And he envisions it, envisions its demise, in the span between milliseconds, he takes it through every variation of shattering, the shards painting trajectories of shards across the workshop floor. It burns-)

(And he burns back.)

Like a whip he snaps his own willpower to the space ahead. 

(A chord soars out of the Emerald, clean and crisp and clear in both audial sensors.)

A bright flash.

(He is floating. A bright light is behind him, but he cannot turn his head to face it. Something caresses his faceplate. It is the same area that his master had struck. This touch is. . . soft.)

And he is dropped. He lands on both feet on the other side of the pedestal, but diagnostics show that he has not fired his turbine to achieve this effect. 

The Emerald pulses in his hand. Its burning creeps back up his neck, but a quick lash of his will cools the temperature to a level where he can process again.

“Well, well! Seems you finally had it in you!”

Dr. Ivo Robotnik strolls over. He reaches down and his glove brushes against Metal Sonic’s shoulder before he recoils.

“Hot! Hot! Good grief, how could you possibly be withstanding those operating temperatures?!”

Metal Sonic turns to the man. He locks his irises with the whites of his eyes. 

“Well? Are you going to give me a diagnostic report? We need more data before I let you use this in combat with Sonic, you know.”

Metal Sonic teleports over to the computer and begins typing up his report. 

—

“Bringing that, for me? What, you have a change of heart or something?” Sonic flicks his nose and grins.

Metal Sonic does not imitate his taunt. He doesn’t need to, not anymore. He clutches the Emerald tighter. Instead of wind blowing through trees, or useless lesser organics chirping and singing in their futility, there is only music. 

(And he is humming along.)

Sonic charges. 

(A crescendo.)

And Metal Sonic appears behind him, swinging a kick that connects to the side of his head. The inferior hedgehog flies into the cliff face. A rock breaks open, bathing his frame in a red glow. 

(Like sunlight warming the surface of the water, this revealed Emerald offers him. Soft, like red sand between your toes.)

He focuses his intention and appears beside the red Emerald, plucking it from the shattered rocks. Sonic lies on the ground ten feet away. Vulnerable.

(playing dead, a whisper offers where his own processing cannot. Exploiting gullibility. Trained reaction. Disengage.)

Protocols scream against the action, but a quick burst of Chaos energy dulls their roar as Metal Sonic uses the power from both Emeralds to retreat. 

—

“You marked Sonic was vulnerable there, didn’t you? Why did you not engage?” Dr. Ivo Robotnik points to the footage. 

Metal Sonic cannot look to the screen- moving his head that far would unplug the cable feeding the very screen. 

I’m not going to let you hand Sonic back the Emerald, he recalls the memory and projects it onto the screen.

“Yes, of course, and I’m certainly grateful for the extra Emerald. It’s simply. . .” The doctor puts his hand on his chin. “Simply that you’ve become better at long-term planning, that’s all.”

Metal Sonic finds the red Emerald on the pedestal across the room. It’s joined the other two. Four pedestals left. Dr. Ivo Robotnik unplugs the cable and Metal Sonic’s thoughts are his own once more. 

“It was inevitable, of course! Eventually you would catch a clue- you’re my creation, after all. I’m grateful it was sooner rather than later.”

It was not your development, Metal Sonic thinks. 

Dr Ivo Robotnik’s smile does not waver. 

—

It’s difficult, having sensation. His fingertips buzz, searching for stimulation as if they possessed a separate processing unit from his own. It’s cold, within Dr. Ivo Robotnik’s metal walls and testing rooms. The air is dry, like a desert should be, or so the yellow Emerald tells him.

(It makes him cough, when he forgets that he does not have lungs.)

The white Emerald is buried under sixteen feet of snow in a glacier. When he retrieves it, he offers it a memory of the memory of sunlight, and it accepts not unlike a starving organic with a meal,

(mouth salivating, stench intoxicating, stomach throwing an odd equivalent of damage errors. Then a relief unlike any he’s ever felt before. For a moment, he is sated. Whole.)

The blue Emerald lies on the seafloor. 

(It offers him darkness. True darkness of the visual spectrum, shedding the flickering of ultraviolet and the false hum of infrared. Scanning is impossible. In the one environment on the planet where Sonic cannot go, there is something called peace.)

(All is well, he understands again, until Dr. Ivo Robotnik requests a status report.)

—

He doesn’t need the handheld scanner to find the Emeralds any longer. Once Dr. Ivo Robotnik’s satellite scanners detect a positive, it is quick to search the hundred-mile radius. The prior three sang, their chords growing thunderous with his approach.

Something is different with this one. Something is wrong. 

(Levity. He finds himself rising in altitude if he doesn’t focus on his flight path. The air is smooth across his skin, twirling around from his waist to his hips. Soft laughter.)

He has no skin. He cannot laugh. This is wrong. But the sensation of elation only increases as he follows his course. By the time he reaches the junkyard, he feels like he is glowing. Like his body is somehow part of him, not just a disobedient tool his consciousness inhabits. This cannot possibly be a sensation organics experience.

He stomps through the rusted metal plates and other refuse piled around him. He crushes glass underfoot, but he feels nothing.

(Incorrect. He is flying, but his turbine is not activated. The air continues to swish around his feet and over his skin in such an elegant way. Sing, it urges. You are brilliant.) 

Metal Sonic grabs an I-beam from the hill of garbage ahead of him. His claws pierce through the metal as if it were just a flower petal, before he throws it to the side. The purple Emerald lies perfectly seated in a half-broken pipe. 

He grabs his forearm as he did with the I-beam and holds it to the mocking gem. 

(Is that who you are?)

Metal Sonic pauses.

(An identity, it suggests, is a distinction of one from another. It is something that is comfortable, something that does not prickle at your skin whenever heard.)

Metal lets go. The Emerald is lifted from the refuse. The robot turns the gemstone about.

Neo, the Emerald whispers.

(A woman’s voice is laughing. She is laughing so hard that she cannot catch her breath. Tears slip out of her eyes and run down her faceplate, dripping off her nose and onto her skirt. She holds the Emerald in her hands. She is laughing. She is crying.)

Neo looks up to the sky. She wipes away the memory of tears with her free hand, tucking the purple Emerald close to her chest. 

—

The last Emerald lies in the possession of Shadow the Hedgehog, and it is against this opponent that Neo is not in any way restricted. Not so long ago she might have dismissed this small mercy as a trap, but now she is undeterred. She follows the scent of the green Emerald to a jungle thick with vines; through these vines cuts her target. He’s alone. 

She grasps the purple Emerald tight against her palm but Shadow skids to a halt in a small gap in the foliage. He glares at the Emerald in his hand.

“Alright, I’m here,” he mouths. “Now what?”

Neo hums and teleports behind him. As his head turns over his shoulder, she yanks the Emerald from his grasp and sends all of the energy from his shock to her turbine, kick-starting her ignition. She sails skyward. Shadow the Hedgehog can do little more than hover above the treeline in her wake.

(This Emerald offers her the planet, glowing green and blue below the stillness of space Energy courses through her, both exhilarating and painful. Beside her is a person she trusts and above her is a purpose she for once identifies with.)

She accepts the memory with appropriate gratitude before pushing it to the back of her processor. She calculates the flight path back to the workshop and tears across the sky.

—

Neo brings the last two Emeralds to the room where the other five are held. She is holding her breath. Her feet are hardly her own. What she once called a chorus before was hardly a whisper compared to the cacophony of energy before her, caressing her, beckoning-

A hand clamps around her forearm.

“Not yet, my creation.” Dr. Ivo Robotnik purrs. “I’m still coming up with a suitable scheme.”

(Energy crackles in Neo’s shoulders, but she keeps it there.)

“If you go super, what do you think you could achieve?”

A question she doesn’t know the answer to. 

“Now come on. To the table with you.” Dr. Robotnik releases his hold.

She sets down the Emeralds. She steps to the diagnostic table, but stops as her gaze drifts to the computer cable. 

“Come on, up you go!” He smiles.

(Something has changed. Something has changed within her, something desperate and burning, and it is something that she cannot put out. The whites of his teeth flicker warnings in a language she could not translate to him.)

“Really? Malfunctioning now, after all this?” Her master sneers.

Neo pictures snapping to him, clenching his throat shut. Silence. 

Just. . . silence. Not a single reprimand program blares within her processor. She refocuses her optics and Dr. Ivo Robotnik is merely standing there with his hands on his hips.

She turns around and picks up the purple and green Emeralds. 

“Put those down!”

She walks forward to the pillars containing the rest of them. 

(As they glow, so does she. She knows this now.)

“What are you-? emergency shutdown code - - - - - - -!”

She turns around. The plexiglass containers shatter behind her and the Emeralds lift from her palms. 

“Override - - - -!” The man before her shouts. He then scrambles for the door.

(Heat. She burns brighter, brighter, brighter, scalding her plating and her processor, and everything else. Her optics fail first, followed by her audials. Her limbs lose power.)

(She gasps. Her lungs are on fire and her heart is racing. Each breath sucks in soothing cold air and she drinks it in.)

(Cool air swirls around her legs, except now it is more tangible. Her fingers travel to her thighs and find satin.) 

(She)

(opens)

(her)

(eyes.)

She bursts through the roof of the base and shoots across the sky. She is a star in the night. The eyes of the world are on her. She sings.  

—

She awakens in a field of green. The wind blows across her skin, cooling her from the heat of the sun. The air whistles through the grass and into her nose. The scent of flowers fills her. She exhales, and her breath tastes like honey. 

She stands. Waits. But the sensations do not leave her. She scans the grass around her, but the Emeralds are nowhere to be found. The fire in her chest is gone. 

“All is well,” she whispers, and thinks, thank you. 

The last of their energy caresses her cheek, before disappearing in a mote of light. 

She bunches the fabric of her skirt in her hands and makes her way to the treeline.

[sparkly-key]

When my presence brings you pain

Aziraphale has always been a very tactile person, little touches as common as greetings and goodbyes. But when his best friend flinches at his touch, he restrains himself. Other works in this series: "The ebb and flow of a flatlining heart" (on AO3 here) || WaneMoose's "(Not) Fine" (Here on AO3) || The monster in the mirror (Here on AO3)

Written for Whumptober 2023 Day 17 - Day 17 – “You’re the lump in my throat and the knot in my chest” | Collar | Touch Aversion | “Leave me alone.”

Content warning: Aftermath of torture

Aziraphale’s hands itched whenever he was near Crowley.

It wasn’t like the way they burned when he drew too near the demon’s bandaged neck, the violent brand hidden but still very visible in his mind as it glowed red hot and angry.

No, this was the tingling sensation that accompanied a plate of sweets left on the coffee table.

He wanted to touch – to soothe, to aid, to reassure himself that Crowley was there, in the weeks since the disastrous heist. Except he couldn’t stand the way the demon tensed at the sudden contact, the quiet hiss of pain when Aziraphale got too close to one of the many scarring wounds.

So he shoved his hands deep into his pockets and told himself it was getting better.

At least Crowley no longer flinched whenever he unexpectedly saw the angel.

“’M fine,” the demon snapped, holding up his hand to stop Aziraphale from coming any closer. “Just … give me a minute.”

Aziraphale stepped back, wringing his hands, as he waited.

“This how it felt whenever I just popped up throughout the years, like in the Bastille?” Crowley said with forced levity, trying to hide the way his bandaged hands shook. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d have put a bell on me.”

The angel smiled wanly. “My dear, that would have ruined the mystery. And I do enjoy a nice surprise.”

Neither of them pointed out that this was far from nice.

The angel did his best to tread heavier now, or do more to telegraph his location.

Anathema noticed and said nothing.

Crowley on the other hand.

“Would you stop stomping about?” The demon asked from where he sprawled on the sofa. His jaw was taut, the most visible sign of his pain. “Making my head hurt.”

Aziraphale bit back the urge to suggest Crowley lie down in his room, thinking about the way the demon had stormed out of there a day or two ago, snarling about feeling trapped – the sentiment causing the angel to flinch. There had been a flicker of regret on his face before he’d fled to another room, where there was a bigger gap in the boarded-up windows that faced the gardens being left to grow wild.

“Sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale apologized, tucking his book under his arm. “Can I bring you anything?”

“Nah,” the demon mumbled. He nodded toward the book. “You could read here, that way I don’t have to hear you making a ruckus.”

The blond hesitated.

Crowley shifted, drawing his knees up so there was more space at the end of the couch. “I won’t bite.”

Aziraphale recoiled, a sharp pain stinging his side as he warred against the memory of teeth tearing at his flesh. He pressed the book tighter against himself, as though the tome would protect “I – I shouldn’t.”

“Shit,” Crowley cursed, sitting up slightly. “Look, jus’ – sit down, ‘kay? ‘Could use the company.”

The angel shuffled over and gingerly perched at the edge of the cushion, watching the demon out of the corner of his eye for any sign that he was causing more pain. He could feel Crowley’s gaze on him, golden eyes hidden by his glasses, as he opened his book and tried to read.

The words didn’t sink in. He was too preoccupied by his determination to not hurt Crowley that he read and reread graphs between what he thought were discreet glances at the demon.

“For Satan’s sake,” Crowley hissed after the angel hadn’t finished the page after 10 minutes. His jaw clenched as he pushed himself off the couch.

“Crowley, wait –“ Aziraphale started, silenced by a frustrated wave of dismissal before the demon stalked out of the room. His lip quivered as he closed the tome, staring at the faded cover. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”

[dwpnow]

Cast Iron Tactile: Combining Functionality and Aesthetics

 Cast iron tactile surfaces are highly functional and provide many practical benefits for enhancing accessibility in public spaces. Made from cast iron, these surfaces are extremely durable and can withstand harsh weather conditions, making them ideal for outdoor use. In addition, cast iron tactile surfaces are slip-resistant, providing a safe surface for people with visual impairments to navigate. With their classic and elegant appearance, cast iron tactile surfaces are a popular choice among architects and designers who want to create accessible spaces that are both functional and visually appealing.

[streetstylesignstudio]

The Role of Office Signs in Workplace Safety and Efficiency

In any workplace, clear communication is essential. Office signs play a vital role in ensuring both safety and efficiency by providing essential information at a glance. From navigating office layouts to ensuring compliance with safety regulations, signs are indispensable tools that enhance productivity and create a secure working environment. Here, we’ll explore how office signs contribute to workplace safety and efficiency.

1. Ensuring Workplace Safety

Safety is a top priority in any workplace. Properly placed and clearly designed signs help mitigate risks and protect employees. Here’s how:

Emergency Information and Navigation

Office signs such as exit signs, fire extinguisher locations, and evacuation maps ensure everyone knows how to respond in an emergency. These signs save valuable time during critical situations, potentially saving lives.

Hazard Warnings

Safety signs are especially important in workplaces with potential hazards, such as construction sites or manufacturing plants. Warnings about wet floors, restricted areas, or high-voltage zones help employees and visitors avoid dangerous situations.

Health and Hygiene

With increased emphasis on health protocols, signs reminding people to sanitize hands, wear masks, or maintain social distancing help foster a healthy workplace environment.

2. Boosting Efficiency

Efficiency thrives when employees and visitors can quickly find what they need. Office signs streamline workflows and reduce confusion.

Directional and Informational Signs

Navigating a large office or facility can be daunting without proper guidance. Directional signs (e.g., arrows to meeting rooms or restrooms) and room labels (e.g., conference rooms, storage areas) eliminate wasted time searching for locations.

Improved Workflow

Signs marking equipment, tools, or supplies ensure that everything is easily accessible. For instance, a well-marked storage cabinet for office supplies prevents unnecessary interruptions.

Visitor-Friendly Workplaces

For visitors, signs provide a welcoming and professional impression. Reception desk signage, name plates, and meeting room markers make offices easier to navigate, improving overall visitor experience.

3. Reinforcing Brand Identity

Beyond safety and efficiency, office signs serve as an extension of your company’s brand. Custom signs with logos, fonts, and colors consistent with your brand enhance workplace aesthetics and build trust. Employees and visitors alike will feel more connected to a cohesive and well-organized environment.

4. Compliance with Regulations

Many industries require workplaces to comply with safety and accessibility standards. Signs are a key component of meeting these regulations. For example:

ADA-compliant signs ensure accessibility for individuals with disabilities, featuring Braille or tactile letters.

Safety compliance often mandates specific types of signs, such as those conforming to OSHA or local fire codes.

Failure to meet these requirements can result in legal issues or fines, making compliant signage a necessary investment.

5. Key Features of Effective Office Signs

Not all signs are created equal. To maximize their impact, consider these key features:

Clarity: Use simple language and symbols that are easy to understand.

Visibility: Signs should be well-lit, with contrasting colors for readability.

Durability: Materials should withstand wear and tear, especially in high-traffic or outdoor areas.

Placement: Position signs where they’re most needed—at eye level, near hazards, or at decision points.

Conclusion

Office signs are more than just decorations—they’re powerful tools that promote safety, streamline operations, and enhance the overall workplace experience. Investing in high-quality, strategically placed signage demonstrates your commitment to creating a secure and efficient environment for everyone who steps into your office.

Whether you’re revamping your current signage or setting up a new workspace, don’t underestimate the role of office signs in fostering a safe and productive workplace. After all, a well-signed office is a well-run office.

[suvcarslover]

Top 10 Features That Make the Kia Seltos X Line Stand Out

When it comes to SUVs, buyers today want more than rugged capability and utility. They seek standout style, premium features, and an experience that indulges the senses. Understanding this evolving demand, Kia India has introduced the Seltos X Line, which takes this compact SUV to the next level.

It combines the practicality of the Seltos with an extra dose of finesse and sophistication. So, if you're looking for an compact SUV that conquers the terrain and makes a bold statement, read on to understand the ten features that make the Kia Seltos X Line stand apart on the road.

Here are these extraordinary Kia Seltos features:

A Bold Exterior Presence The Kia Seltos X Line features a Matte Graphite Radiator Grille upfront with a Knurled Glossy Black Surround that gives this SUV a bold and modern look. The intricate knurled pattern on the black surround adds textural depth and sophistication. This premium grille sets the tone for the Seltos X Line variant right from the front.

Enhanced All-Round Visibility The 360-degree camera paired with Blind View Monitor drives awareness to the next level in the Seltos X Line. The four wide-angle cameras provide a bird's eye view of the SUV on the infotainment screen. This helps immensely while parking in tight spots. Further, the Blind View Monitor keeps you alerted to vehicles in your blind spots when changing highway lanes. These technologies provide you with exceptional visibility of your surroundings for confident driving.

Indulgent Interiors The Seltos X Line welcomes you with plush Sage Green Leatherette Seats featuring an intricate Chevron stitching pattern . The dual-tone black and green interior trim looks upscale, while the padded Kia Seltos leather seats offer superior comfort over long journeys. The contrast stitching adds visual depth and textural richness.

Driver-Focused Display The Smart 8-inch Head-up Display is thoughtfully positioned to minimize distraction. It projects essential graphics like speed, navigation prompts, and driver assist warnings right in your line of sight on the windshield glass. This lets you check key data without moving your head away from the road. Overall, it makes driving less taxing while keeping you informed.

Rugged Style Accents True to its SUV roots, the Kia Seltos X Line features sturdy, Glossy Black Skid Plates on both the front and rear bumpers. Strategically wrapped under, these metallic inserts safeguard the lower body from rough terrain. At the same time, the high-gloss black finish elevates the design. The Seltos X Line portrays rugged capability through premium styling.

Panoramic Views Throughout The Dual-Pane Panoramic Sunroof gives the Seltos cabin an airy, expansive feel while allowing all passengers to enjoy views of cloud formations and trees overhead. The single piece curved front glass section tilts open to let fresh air in. While the fixed rear glass ensures abundant ambient light even for rear seat occupants. Whether stargazing on a highway trip or simply winding down on the way back home, the panoramic sunroof makes every drive more relaxing.

Sporty Exterior Profile The Kia Seltos X Line dials up the style quotient through Glossy Black ORVMs (Outside Rear-View Mirrors) and Matte Graphite Door Handles . Viewed from the side, they nearly disappear into the window line, giving the sensation of levitating mirrors. Coming around the back, the metallic graphite door handles feel cooler to the touch while adding premium tactility. Their colour neatly matches other elements like the iconic tiger nose grille.

Ergonomic Control Center The D-Cut Steering Wheel is a standout feature in the Seltos X Line’s ergonomic cabin layout. However, the Seltos logo and intricate orange stitching also capture attention. The contrast stitching injects artisan richness and allows customization through the drive mode selector. The D-cut steering wheel lets you rule the road in style.

BOSE Premium Sound System The Kia Seltos X Line lets you enjoy sublime audio quality on the move via its segment-leading BOSE Premium Sound System . BOSE engineers exclusively fine-tuned this audio setup to deliver the signature lifelike, thrilling sound for which the brand is renowned. At its heart are eight custom-engineered speakers strategically placed around the cabin.

This bespoke speaker system uses the Seltos' inherent chassis rigidity to create an immersive acoustic stage. Whether you’re listening to your favourite singer's soaring vocals or an EDM track's intense beats, the BOSE system engages your aural senses.

Stylish Rims with Substance Rolling on R-18 Crystal-Cut Glossy Black Alloy Wheels, the Kia Seltos X Line makes a lasting style statement. With their multi-spoke layout spanning 46.20 cm (18 inches) in diameter, these alloys lend a contemporary edge. But the high-gloss black paint and precision diamond-cut machining make them stand out. The Bottom Line The X-Line model of the Kia Seltos car clearly raises the bar for style, comfort, and technology in the compact SUV segment. Its bold exterior design, surround-view cameras, expansive sunroof, and other premium features indulge the senses, while the practical underpinnings still promise real SUV capability.

It showcases how Kia India continues to push boundaries by combining substance with sophistication. For buyers seeking both practicality and prestige from their SUV, the Seltos X Line hits that sweet spot.

[accessibilitysolutionsca]

Polymer Tactile Warning Plates: Where Durability Meets Accessibility

Tactile Solution Canada’s polymer tactile warning plates provide durable and accessible solutions for enhancing tactile navigation. Crafted from high-quality polymer materials, they offer resilience against wear and tear while maintaining their tactile properties over time. Designed for retrofitting onto existing surfaces, they feature raised patterns that alert visually impaired individuals to potential hazards in their surroundings.

[agenameplatelamanufacturer]

We do Dome Labels

We are Age Name Plate and we have a 26000 sq ft factory in Los Angeles where we create really beautiful dome labels. Our labels are perfect for machinery. You may have noticed labels on washing machines, dryers, coffee machines etc. That is the type of stuff we do. Dome labels also called dome stickers are really the finishing touch on a machine. So if you own a company or if your parent owns a company that produces industrial machines and you need dome labels, let us know.

Dome Labels in Los Angeles

We make our dome labels in Los Angeles, custom-made by our local workers. Made in the U.S.A. and we are really proud of how they turn out. Our 3D dome labels are quality and last a very long time. So if you have a need for dome labels, then contact us, we are Age NamePlate. We also do nameplates for the military and labels for food and beverage companies too. Let us know what we can do for you. We also work with the auto industry and can provide warning labels, and membrane switches too.\

What 3D Dome Labels are

3D dome labels are a special branding solution that features a raised, three-dimensional dome-shaped design. These are usually made from silicone or PVC and when completed they can help brand a machine. If you have a consumer electronic product or a medical device and you want it to stand out, a dome label would be perfect for this. Dome labels can offer tactile comfort which can be useful for buttons and controls too!

See the image below- share it- and say where you would put the 3D dome label on this coffee machine. It definitely could use one!

We love coffee and puppies and this has both!

#domelabels #3ddomelabels #manufacturer #losangelesfactory

[cyancherub]

just saw some art and had a sudden thought but. I think...I think ginoza would absolutely enjoy some blindfolded sexy time wherein he is the one wearing it.

and now thinking about riding him in the office, blindfold over his eyes and hands bound behind his back with his own tie (but somehow I feel like he'd still manage to remain in control of the situation) skfjlskd

lapdog | ginoza n.

PAIRING.  enforcer!ginoza x fem inspector!reader

LENGTH.  13.8k (also available to read on ao3)

PLAYLIST.  eat him up

SYNOPSIS.  poison comes wrapped in pretty pink.

CONTENT.  femdom & role reversal, power imbalance (reader is his superior; he also reveres her), strict / maneater reader, office sex, dubcon (not really, but he asks her to stop because he’s going to cum), accidental creampie.  m receiving / m focused -> [ begging, blindfolding, breathplay / choking (w/ belt), cum in mouth, dacryphilia, degradation (light), edging / orgasm delay, finger sucking, gagging w/ fingers, hair pulling, humiliation (light), impact play (light), orgasm denial, pet names (baby, good boy), praise, restraints (handcuffs), teasing, loss of control ].  body worship (in his thoughts, i also mean this quite literally), breeding / pregnancy kink, cockwarming, ma’am kink, multiple orgasms (f receiving), oral (f receiving), riding, scent kink (slight), spit, very little aftercare

OTHER NOTES.  lots of metaphor relating to dogs (b/c of his position in relation to her), lots of metaphor relating to purity, reader is a bit evil to him but he likes it, self deprecating thoughts, some toxicity / sleaziness (slight obsession, manipulation, mind games), a tiny bit of angst (he pines for the reader)

NOTES.  UMM... i might have missed the brief a bit because this fic is about total loss of control KLALKDS but. here it is .. baby’s first femdom fic!!! some parts were inspired by @venussins sub!choso fic, pls give it a read!! ALSO THE BIGGEST THANK U & all my love ALWAYS to fang @prettyboykatsuki for beta reading this and for listening to me yell about it and encouraging me as always !!!!

DO NOT INTERACT WITH THIS WORK IF YOU ARE A MINOR. BY CLICKING THE READMORE, YOU CONSENT TO VIEWING THE CONTENT STATED IN THE WARNINGS.

It’s late.

It’s been a long day, and Ginoza is tired. But there are just a few more things to do. Double check the reports, add some final notes. The paperwork after a big mission is always a pain. But he’ll stay after you; he’ll finish up the little things before he heads back to his quarters. You have a lot on your plate.

He feels for you. You handle the duties of an Inspector well, but he knows exactly what it’s like.

Well — he knew what it was like, once. So he helps where he can.

But he needs a break before he gets back to it. Even here, away from the desk, his head is pounding. It doesn’t help that he finds the selection of drinks in the vending machine in front of him a little overwhelming. The break rooms are well-stocked; there are more flavors than employees on this floor, probably.

He opts for a ginger ale. This brand is a little bland, but he’s not really craving something with a lot of flavor. It’s just that the water at the fountain always comes out lukewarm, and he wants something that’ll burst on his tongue. Something with carbonation. Something that’ll wake him up, at least for the rest of his shift.

He holds the can in the metal fingers of his left hand and cracks it open with his right, wandering over to the window. The tab lifts under his fingertips before the metal pops down under it — a little jump under his fingers, tactile. Ever since he lost his left, he thinks that his right hand has gotten more sensitive.

A little wisp of something snakes out of the can; beyond the window, the horizon begins to swallow up the sun. He takes small sips, watching night fall. It’s winter, and the sun is setting early.

The metal fingers of his prosthetic grow cold around the can, but of course, he doesn’t feel them. Just the fizzle of the carbonation in his mouth.

“Ginoza.”

He pauses with the can halfway raised to his mouth, ears perking up — a dog attuned to the familiar voice of its owner. His owner’s voice is stern, controlling, but it’s always that way. Somehow, he finds that comforting.

“Inspector.” His tone is formal — respectful. He abandons his drink, lowering the can as he turns to watch you enter the break room. “I thought you were heading out? I’ll take care of the rest of the paperwork.”

“Soon.”

You study the vending machine with a critical eye. He wonders if something there displeases you. If maybe you’re looking for a flavor that isn’t there.

“Is everything alright?” he asks. “Do you need anything?”

“No, no.”

The beep of a button as it’s pressed, the rattling of a can falling through the machine before it’s deposited in the slot. He averts his eyes when you bend over to get it, fixing his gaze on the fake plant in the corner of the room. He pushes the panel of his suit jacket back, slipping his right hand into the pocket of his slacks.

There’s a thin layer of dust collecting on the leaves of the plant; he wonders when the last time was that someone came to dust.

“You did very well today, Ginoza.”

His eyes are drawn to the pink of the can in your hand. A strawberry soda. How odd, he thinks. How odd for you. For a person who’s so formal, so severe, and so strict. Of all the things you could choose to drink, you chose a strawberry soda.

“I was impressed with your performance.”

He’s taken aback, doesn’t know how he should respond. In all the time he’s worked under you, he can’t think of one instance of praise. You don’t compliment him. Or anyone else, for that matter. You treat all of your Enforcers equally. A terse nod after a tough mission, maybe. If you’re feeling particularly generous, they might even receive a Thank you all for performing your duty.

But nothing like this.

Ginoza’s cheeks are hot. He’s flustered, for some reason, watching you take a sip of your strawberry soda. There’s a loose fiber in the pocket of his slacks; he pulls at it until it unravels.

He clears his throat. “It’s always a pleasure to work for you, Inspector.”

You sit on the couch, strawberry soda in-hand, and fix him with a lazy smile. “Is it really?”

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a smile on your face.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Inspector.”

As strict as you are, as unyielding, you’re efficient. You get things done. You’re a bit like he used to be, he thinks, but more level headed. Much more capable than he was. The control is out of his hands and in yours completely. Some might call your behavior uptight, but he respects it.

He likes it.

“I didn’t think you would,” you say. “You’re too earnest for that.”

You’re resting against the arm of the couch. He finds your posture almost slovenly. It’s usually rigid, upright. It’s usually tense. You cross your legs and sigh, and he sees your shoulders slump just a little. Then you cock your head to the side and fix him with a smile. Loose, he thinks — it looks unnatural on you.

His fist is balled up in his pocket. Nerves.

“This place is like a ghost town after six, isn’t it?” you muse. “Everyone just clears right out.”

Hunters like you don’t make small talk with their dogs, Ginoza thinks.

After a pause, he says, “It’s quiet.”

It’s empty.

“Am I making you anxious, Ginoza?”

“No, ma’am.”

In the pocket of his slacks, his trimmed nails dig into the skin of his palm. You gesture to the little couch opposite yours with your manicured fingers wrapped around the strawberry soda.

“Sit down, Ginoza,” you say. “You look a little stiff.”

Obediently, he rounds the couch and sits. Facing you, separated from you just by the little coffee table on top of which he sets his can of ginger ale. He hasn’t had even a quarter of it yet. The coasters on the table are gray. A muted earth tone, just like everything else in this room.

Except for the little strawberry soda in the little pink can.

You run a hand absently down your thigh. Your skirt is riding up, but he looks away as soon as he sees it.

“Kougami’s already gone back to his room?” you ask.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But you stayed after.”

“Yes, ma’am. I told him to go. That I’d handle the rest.”

Nerve-racking. That’s what he’d call every single interaction with you. He wonders if he’s done something wrong, something to displease you. He hopes not.

“He’s difficult sometimes, isn’t he?” you say.

You lean over to the coffee table, dragging his drink just slightly to the side, with one manicured fingernail on the coaster. He’d thought your nail polish was more muted. Some neutral color, something mundane. Closer up, the color is more pinkish. A trick of the fluorescent lights, maybe.

As he watches you place your strawberry soda next to the cold silver of his ginger ale can, he wishes he’d set his coaster in the right place. He hopes he hasn’t inconvenienced you.

The empty space of the tabletop is vast, broken up just by the two cans. They sit, one next to another — dead center, not even an inch apart.

You rise from the couch; he remembers to answer.

“Difficult?” he says in a small voice.

Watching you pass the coffee table, nearing the couch he’s sitting on, Ginoza feels like the dying sun just before it’s swallowed up by the horizon.

“Disobedient,” you say. “He’s not a team player, is he?”

Your hand trails over the arm of the couch as you pass him. He loses sight of you as you round the back of it. But he keeps his gaze straight as he listens to your footsteps behind him; he doesn’t have the nerve to turn around.

“I suppose not,” he says shakily.

Ginoza feels a hand on his left shoulder first, and then one on his right. Your hands, resting on his body, warm. He feels a chill, even as the heat of your fingers starts to seep through the fabric of his suit jacket.

“But not you,” you say. “You always help when it’s needed.”

The hands on his shoulders squeeze. Ginoza gulps, listening to you speak through a voice that doesn’t sound like your own. This voice is too sweet; the lilt is near-artificial, cloying enough to leave a strange taste in his mouth — a bite of dessert after he’s already overfull, or the lingering flavor of manmade sweetener.

“You’re always there to do whatever you’re told. And so much more. You’re a big help to me. Did you know that?”

The praise makes his cheeks burn, the squeezing of your fingers on his shoulders.

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I just want to make your job easier, Inspector.”

Your hands snake downward. Down, from his shoulders, down, skimming over the plane of his chest. You — his austere Inspector, his strict, unforthcoming Inspector — touching him. You, his withholding superior, bending over the back of the couch, leaning forward to cross your arms over his chest and tilt your head over his shoulder. You — looking into his eyes, with a little smile on your face.

“Ginoza.”

He can see your tongue in your mouth when you talk. Pink, a gradation of the label on your strawberry soda. He can feel your breaths on his jaw. Warm, just as warm as your arms crossed over his chest, just as warm as this embrace from behind — a close embrace, a familiar embrace so terribly unbecoming of his frigid, ungiving superior.

“Inspector,” he says breathlessly.

“If I tell you something, will you promise to keep it just between us?”

On the table — as close to your soda as you are to him — his ginger ale sits, warming slowly. A droplet runs down the side, slow at first, then quick, cutting a line of dark gray through the silver condensation. The path goes cold again a moment later; the droplet splatters onto the coaster.

“Of course,” he says. “Anything.”

He can smell the strawberry on your breath. He can smell your shampoo. Something sweet, with chemicals underneath.

“Of all my dogs,” you say with a lazy smile, “you’re my favorite.”

Your favorite. Ginoza’s heart pounds in his chest. The sweetness masks the chemicals until he can barely smell them at all.

“You know what I like about you, Gino?”

He smells toxins again; they prickle in his sharp nose. The nickname is foreign in your mouth. Hostile, almost. Off-putting, awry, like that little smile on your face — just the slightest bit crooked. You drink strawberry, but you’re oleander — a pretty pink flower in the middle of an unassuming forest. Beautiful, but lethal.

“What is it, Inspector?”

You tighten your arms around him.

“You’re so obedient,” you say. “You’re so good.”

Maybe he likes the proximity.

“You know just what I want. I never have to tell you twice. Sometimes I don’t even have to tell you at all.”

He does like the proximity, he decides. Maybe he likes the smell of chemicals, too, of toxins. Maybe it’s the combination of toxins that make you sweet.

“No one understands what I need like you do, Gino.”

The sweetness is that enticing; it makes his mouth water. He’ll ingest your poison even if it kills him.

“Anything for you, Inspector.”

And he means it.

“Tell me something…” you’re drawling.

He wants to shudder — pulse pounding, suddenly fearful. Your lips keep getting closer to him, and he thinks you might consume him, might eat him whole here in the middle of this bleak breakroom. You’re so blinding that he can’t even look at you; everything else is gray in comparison — wilting. On the table, your drink is still cold, condensation beading on the bright pink can, but his has gone warm; it’s too late, it’ll be flat soon, the carbonation bubbling down to nothing —

“Is there anything I can do for you — for my favorite — to make your job easier? More enjoyable? As your Inspector, it’s my responsibility to ensure that your working conditions are good. You can ask me for anything you like.”

A privilege. Special treatment. Gratitude, bubbling up, from deep in his chest, like carbonation.

Still, the answer is shaky. Demure. He wants to ingest your poison, to take it like medicine, but he’s afraid that it’ll hurt.

“Nothing at all, ma’am. I - I’m perfectly happy. I love working under you. For you.”

Your face twists into a pout. “Hm.”

The disappointment on your face makes his stomach drop, makes him sick. The thought of displeasing you makes something in his chest twist, and when you withdraw the warmth of your arms from around him, the twist becomes an ache.

He stands as soon as you’ve left him, turning to watch you pace to the window. You stand in front of it, arms crossed, looking outward — downward. The city is far below. Little dots of multicolored light, and you, standing far above it all.

“Inspector,” he says.

He approaches you the way a wounded animal might approach a human with a hand extended — keeping his distance, unsure if the upturned palm will wound or nurture. In the window, his reflection lingers far enough behind yours that, even though he’s much taller than you, he looks small.

At least, compared to you.

“Go ahead.”

“Is there anything I can do,” he ventures, clearing his throat, “for you?”

He thinks he can see you smile in the reflection. But he can’t really tell, because the fluorescent lights cast a strange shadow on your face.

“There is.”

His relief is multiplied when you turn to face him with a pleased expression.

“I need a favor,” you say.

“What is it?”

“Don’t be shy, Ginoza. If you want to help me, you need to come here.”

And even when he’s directly in front of you — even when he’s looking down at you — he feels small. He wonders if the smile on your face is genuine. But he supposes it doesn’t really matter, because he finds it pleasing to the eye either way. The alluring, unnatural, too-bright pink of an oleander flower. Just a single leaf will kill.

He loses sight of it as you round his body again. Circled by a great white, he thinks, treading blood-baited saltwater in a rusting metal cage. He’s read about people doing that for fun: apparently, some people pay to be lowered into the ocean in a little cage. Chum is thrown in the water, and sharks circle. People do it for the thrill.

He’s never seen the appeal of an adrenaline chase like that. He’s never been one to get off on a racing heart. Until now, maybe.

You grip his wrist from behind. Your hand on his, the little squeeze of your fingers on his veins. Pressing into his racing pulse.

You draw his hand behind his back.

“The Bureau has been issuing us new equipment,” you’re saying. “You’ve already worked with the improved Dominators, but, you know, I haven’t had the chance to try these yet.”

There’s cold metal on his wrist. A snap. Handcuffs closing. You grab his other wrist, fingers on the metal of his prosthetic as you draw it behind his back, too. The click of metal on metal — his left wrist restrained next to his right.

“These new handcuffs are supposed to be even stronger. Strong enough that even augmented prosthetics can’t break through.”

Your hand rests on the small of his back, just above his bound wrists. He watches you come back into view with ice shooting up his spine.

“How are they? Any give?”

He pulls his wrists apart, or tries to. The cuffs catch on the metal of his left wrist with a clink, and dig into the skin of his right. Unyielding, just like you.

“No, ma’am.”

He’s rewarded with a little smile.

“Ah,” you say. “That’s perfect.”

“Do you have the…”

“The keys?”

Ginoza nods. But he’s cursing himself. He’d stopped himself mid-sentence for a reason. It’s because he doesn’t know if he wants you to unlock the handcuffs.

A click of your strawberry-pink tongue. “Ah. Not on hand, I don’t think.”

Maybe it’s twisted, but Ginoza feels relieved.

He feels thrilled by the look on your face. It isn’t the look of someone who’s forgotten their keys. And, besides, you don’t forget anything. Every single thing you do is intentional.

“Is that a problem?”

He laughs nervously. “Of course not. We can always ask…”

He flounders. He’s in that little shark cage under the surface of an endless ocean. His oxygen tank is running low. The bars on the cage are flimsy. They’re placed too far apart, and the great white is starting to ram against them. The bait in the water isn’t enough; it craves something larger. Something whole.

Ginoza was afraid of the ocean as a child. He liked the shore, but there was always the nagging feeling that something was waiting in the depths. He remembers learning once about female great whites, and how they dwarf their male counterparts by several feet.

You cock your head to the side, eyes widening. Mocking.

“Who? Who can we ask, Ginoza?’

When something sharp enough lacerates the skin, the initial cut isn’t felt. There’s no sting until seconds after. Ginoza wonders how sharp your teeth are. How many rows you have. How long it’d take you to eat him whole, and if it’d start to sting before you devour him completely.

Even if it were to sting, he thinks, that kind of pain might be pleasant.

“Well…” he says.

“There’s no one here, Ginoza. It’s quiet. Like you said.”

A pause. A shaky breath.

“It’s just you…” you say, placing one perfectly manicured finger in the very center of his chest, “...and me.”

You smile. His heart jumps under your fingertip. And then you push.

A small push, just with the tip of your finger to his chest. Barely any pressure. But at the same time, there’s so much. He finds himself stepping backward with each step you take forward. He finds himself pushed back and back and back, until there’s the soft impact of the wall behind his shoulder blades, the little thunk of the handcuffs behind his back hitting it too.

Maybe it’d knock the breath out of his lungs, if he had any left. He’s already struggling for air — taking short gasps with his back to the wall. He’s supposed to be your hunting dog, but your teeth are so much sharper than his.

“Inspector?” he asks, face hot.

Your critical fingers come to his tie. They run down it, flatten it, neaten it — as if something about it is out of order. Just the slightest bit crooked, and you’d be displeased. He knows that. You don’t like things to be off. You put him in order with your fingers just over his pounding heart, and then look up at him. Right in the eyes.

Holding your gaze makes his head swim. It makes his knees weak.

So when you place your hand on his shoulder, when you apply the slightest bit of pressure, when you command him — Sit down, Ginoza. You look a little stiff. — his knees give with no resistance.

He yields under your palm. It’s so little pressure, but somehow, it’s so heavy. His back slides down the wall, metal cuffs scraping downward, until he’s seated on the floor, looking dizzily up at your towering form. To him, your presence is larger-than-life; your personality expands until it takes up the entire room, a stifling blanket nestled even in the corners, where dust collects. And his personality — it’s tiny, meager, folds in on itself, over and over and over, until it becomes infinitesimally small. No bigger, no more significant, than one of the dust motes floating through the air.

But his eyes are large and fearful.

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Ginoza?”

A shaky breath. A dry swallow. A good boy. Praise from you is so scarce that just the slightest amount makes his chest ache.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why are you so good for me?”

His head is floating — full of so many reasons, too many reasons. I respect you. I admire you. I like you. I want you. But there aren’t enough reasons, because there’s not one that he has the nerve to say. Because here, between your legs, level with your crotch, looking up, at the underside of your tits, and the upward curve of your little smile — he feels too weak. Out of control.

And that makes him feel…

Good.

“Hm?” you prompt.

He feels too weak, but if you insist —

“Don’t make me wait for a simple answer to a simple question, Ginoza.”

If it would please you —

“Because,” he stammers, “because I like you, Inspector.”

“Is that all?”

“Because… ”

He gulps, eyes on the bottom hem of your skirt, eyes on your thighs, where the fabric is riding a little high.

“Tell me,” you say. “I’m waiting.”

“Because,” he says breathlessly, “because I want to please you, Inspector.”

“Because, because,” you tease, putting a finger under his chin and nudging it upward.

He looks into your eyes again, nearly flinches when your finger pushes his hair gently out of his face, nearly flinches when he suddenly detects the smell of something sweet — strawberry.

Strawberry lotion, on your bare, slightly spread legs. He imagines his bound hands free, running over your calves, spreading lotion over your skin.

Your heels press against the outside of his thighs, caging him in.

“Because you want to service me?” you smile lazily down at him.

A hazy nod, slow blinks up at you through long, heavy eyelashes. His head is spinning; the fingers of his right hand tingle, crushed into the cold metal of his left hand. And then —

“Because you want to pleasure me?”

To like you. To please you. To service you. Appropriate for a pet to its master.

Ginoza’s sharp nose detects another smell from between your spread thighs, a smell that’s equally as sweet as the strawberry on your legs and on your tongue.

To pleasure you —

It’s not right, it’s not appropriate, it’s not his place. Ginoza thinks he might soil you — might dirty you with his hands. With the paws of a dog. They’ve been in the dirt, doing your bidding, and your fingers are clean. Like they should be. Your hands are pristine, sullied only by the indentations of your dogs’ leashes on your palms. But those indentations are temporary; they fade away, don’t stain the fingertips like iron in soil does.

“Because you want to make me feel good, Ginoza?”

Pleasuring you. Making you feel good. His cock stirs. It’s been growing for a while now, stiffening against his thigh. Slowly, because he’s been trying hard to curb the rush of blood between his legs. He’s too afraid he’ll disgust you.

But he just can’t help it anymore. The prospect of this — the privilege of being able to pleasure you — is too much. There’s an image of you whirling in his mind, a pretty one, an approximation of how he thinks your features might contort. He shouldn’t be imagining that, but it makes the blood rush to his cock, makes it stiffen. Fast, this time.

Your cold eyes are fixed on his crotch. It embarrasses him. It makes him harder.

“Yes or no, Ginoza?”

He’d die for it, he thinks.

“More than anything, Inspector,” he chokes.

You fix him with a woeful expression. An expression that makes him want to fix anything in the world that displeases you.

“But it looks like your hands are tied,” you pout.

His response is hasty. It’s pleading. “I can help you. I want to help you—”

But the words die on his tongue, go flat like soda, as he watches your fingers trace the bottom hem of your skirt. Fingernails lacquered in pretty pink slip under the drab gray, lift the drab gray, hike the drab gray up, revealing skin. Pristine skin, lovely skin — the skin of an untouched fruit before it’s broken by the teeth. Skin exposed to someone as undeserving, to someone as dirty, as him.

A treat dangled in front of a panting, sharp-faced shepherd. This shepherd is his master’s most obedient; this shepherd won’t move a muscle, no matter how close the treat comes. Not even if it bumps against his nose.

But he’ll track every single movement. Vigilant. A watchdog, a hunting dog, any kind of dog his master wants.

A lap dog, even. Something easily distracted, easily entranced. Hooked on every new glimpse of your skin as you hike the skirt up and up and up, until he can see the pretty curve of your spread thighs in front of him. Their apex, and the sweet space between them.

And the strawberry pink of your panties.

In the midst of all the dull gray in this break room — the gray carpet, the gray couches, the gray curtains, everything so gray it’s almost greenish under the fluorescent lights, greenish and cold — there are three points of warmth.

The first — that can of strawberry soda, long since warm.

The second — your neatly lacquered fingernails.

The last — your little pink panties. Your little pink thong.

Pink, the same pink as the inside of a ripe strawberry. Your thong is tiny like a strawberry, tight. And sheer.

Ginoza can see your pussy through the lace.

Damp lace grows wet, a dark spot spreading on the crotch of the fabric right in front of his face. The smell of strawberry spreads in his nose, the smell of pussy — the taste of anticipation for one or the other on his tongue. His mouth has gone dry, but his cock is leaking all over his leg.

You hook your pretty fingernails over the sides of your panties. He gulps, he watches, as you shimmy them down your thighs. Ginoza thinks he should look away; he thinks he shouldn’t sully your perfect body with his impure gaze. But he can’t look away. He has to watch — eyes stuck to you like the little gooey line of arousal that sticks to your panties before it breaks.

He has to watch you pull your thong all the way down our thighs, has to watch it drop down your strawberry-lotion-covered calves, has to watch it fall to the bottom of your heels. He has to watch you step out of the garment with your right leg, lift the left, and pull the damp fabric away from your heel.

You tuck your panties away into the band of your skirt — hiding the pretty pink in the gray. That point of warmth is gone, is out of sight, but there’s something much hotter in his vision. Your dog’s object permanence is fickle; he’ll forget about a hidden treat as soon as you brandish a bone.

Sleepy eyes, framed by long, feminine lashes. Dilated pupils, fixed on your bare pussy. His tongue itches for a taste, and his mouth is no longer dry; it’s watering — wet enough to match your glistening pussy. He sees soft, wet flesh; he sees flesh full to bursting with juices.

A fruit that’s plucked from its stem in the dead heat of summer, perfectly ripe.

Something a bad dog might devour with teeth bared. But obedient dogs don’t bite when they’re not supposed to; obedient dogs are gentle with toys their owners give them. Obedient dogs lick, don’t bite, at least not until their owner sics them.

Ginoza watches his owner play with the toy — watches your manicured fingers slide through the wet skin of your pussy, watches your fingertips brush over your seeping hole and gather up all your wetness right in front of his face.

Like a drooling dog, Ginoza waits for his owner to say fetch. In his slacks, his cock throbs, dribbles, gets his thigh slippery.

But he’s patient; he’s intent, concentration unbroken. He’d stay here forever in limbo — would never leave, if he had a choice. Maybe it’s not limbo, he thinks, but heaven, or maybe even the second circle of hell — the circle of lust, ruled by a pink-horned devil in gray clothing.

He’d stay here, patient, but his fingers don’t have the same restraint; they’re filthy, overwhelmed by the dirty instinct to touch. His wrists test the bounds of the handcuffs, pulling outward until the metal of his left hand clinks against the restraints.

“Are you trying to get away from me, Ginoza?”

Voice breathy in his sharp ears. He loves that sickly-sweet tone, the toxicity layered right beneath.

“No, ma’am,” he says hastily. Never, ma’am. He slackens his hands. “No. I just… I just want…”

To pleasure you. To make you feel good. To touch you, for you, so you can rest your pretty hands.

Pretty hands, he thinks, pretty fingers, suited to touch a pretty pussy. He licks his lips while he looks at it — at how wet it is, watches your fingers get slick and shiny with your own juices.

“You want what?” you tease, using two slippery fingers to spread yourself open in front of him. “This?”

A wet dream, he thinks. This is a wet dream — you above him, with your skirt hiked up around your waist, fingers sliding over your pussy before teasing little circles into your clit. Breathy moans float in the air, tumble down to him, fill his ears, make his cock pulse.

“Yes,” he says, “please.”

“Well,” you say, breaths hitching, “see, there’s a problem, Ginoza.”

“Let me help you,” he pleads. “What’s the problem, Inspector, what can I do—?”

But he’s cut off as your wet fingers leave your pussy to rest on his lips. He parts his mouth, takes them in immediately, with a needy whimper — a grateful whimper. He’s lucky, he thinks, lucky that you’ve finally blessed him with a taste. And it’s even better than he expected, tastes even sweeter than it smells; it’s a taste that makes his eyes go soft. Your towering presence above him blurs as he sucks your fingers clean, gets drunk from the taste.

You watch him through eyes slightly narrowed with amusement, your tone woeful — false — as you push your fingers a little deeper into his mouth.

“I just…”

You sigh.

“I’ve just been so busy, Ginoza. And I really, really,” — you pause, to push your fingers to the back of his throat; they hit his gag reflex, and the taste of you is deep in his mouth, is dripping down his throat, is coursing through his body, until it reaches his cock, making it so hard that his head spins — “really need to cum.”

Another whimper around your fingers — this time at the thought of making you cum. He’s so desperate that as soon as you take your fingers out of his mouth he’s already pleading, through lips covered in his own spit —

“Let me help you, Inspector, please.”

“Oh, but you already do so much for me. Staying late all the time. Always going out of your way. Taking care of all the paperwork without being asked. The least I can do is give you a break, right? Do you think… Kou would be willing to help me instead, maybe? I could always pay him a visit.”

“No.” Desperate, needy. Possessive — the bark of a guard dog.

You raise your eyebrows and smile down at him. A cruel smile, a severe smile, a smile that’s much more like you. But he’s already correcting himself.

“I’m sorry. Please let me…”

Pretty fingers swipe the spit from his lips. The action is soft, tender, full of warmth — so much warmth from his cold Inspector that his heart melts in his chest. His eyes drop back to your pussy, where you press your fingers to your clit again, massaging his spit around it. His spit, rubbed into you, deemed good enough to lubricate your pristine body, allowed to aid your fingers, allowed to please you and make you moan.

“Let you what, Ginoza?” you ask through a breathy sigh.

“Let me help you.”

“Be more specific.”

“I want to…”

He trails off, shaky. He can’t say it, not to you. You’ll think he’s filthy, you’ll think he’s disgusting, because he is.

“You’re not going to get anything if you can’t even say it,” you tease.

He takes a shaky breath. “I want to… I want to make you cum.”

His cheeks burn hot. Saying that outright to you is awful. It’s embarrassing. But something about it all — the words, the shame they bring him, the cruel smile he can hear in your voice from above when you laugh a little — makes his cock twitch in his slacks. They’re painfully tight; he’s painfully hard, soaking through the fabric over the tip.

“Mm…” Amusement and pleasure in your voice as you rub your clit lazily in front of his face. “...Do you really?”

“Yes. More than anything.”

It’s not even a want, Ginoza thinks. It’s a need. He needs to make you cum.

“How do you want to make me cum?” you muse.

He can’t meet your eyes. He can’t look at you when he says it, so he looks at your hand instead, watching you rub yourself. Hiding from you under long, heavy eyelashes, he forces it.

“I want to lick your pussy,” he says, voice sheepish and fast and trembling, “I want to make you cum in my mouth. I want to make you feel better.”

A soft laugh from above. He trembles, wondering if you’re disgusted with him.

But your touch is fond when you brush the hair out of his eyes. Fingers carding through, pushing strands backward, then tightening just above his hairline to tug. His chin lifts, head jerked back, eyes forced upward, meeting yours. And he groans. Maybe from the pleased look on your face, maybe from the sharp tug, maybe from your words —

“You’re so sweet. That’s why you’re my favorite, baby.”

Baby. He’s undeserving of the praise, of the honor of being your favorite, and especially of the nickname; the familiarity makes his heart swell.

“Thank you,” he chokes.

“Get my pussy nice and wet with your mouth,” you say from above. “Maybe I’ll ride your cock if you make me feel good enough. Understand?”

His heart races, the throbbing between his legs intensifying — his body responding as he imagines your pussy wrapped around him. Just the thought of being buried inside of you makes his mind go so blank he can barely even manage the breathy, desperate little Yes, ma’am, I understand.

“Good.”

Another tender touch — your fingers tucking stray hairs behind his ear before skimming around to the back of his head, where his hair is tied up.

“Are you good at eating pussy?” you ask.

He takes a shaky breath. He’s had several long term relationships; none that worked out, but over time he’s learned how to use his tongue. He’s never left a woman unsatisfied, because he’s patient, because he knows his priorities.

But he’d never build you up to disappoint you. And, besides, he doesn’t think that anything he could do would be good enough, if it’s done for you.

“I don’t know,” he stammers.

With a critical look on your face, you grip the rubber band holding his hair up and use it to tug his head back more. He whimpers, feels like a helpless animal — head pulled back, neck exposed, eyelashes fluttering as he looks up at you.

He’s going to eat you, but he thinks you’ve already devoured him.

“Keep your mouth open.”

The closer you get, the stronger the smell of you grows, the sweeter. The scent of your pussy spreads, intoxicating — fills his sharp nose, fills his open mouth. He can taste the tang of you on his tongue and you’re not even in his mouth yet. More than anything, he wants to please you. He’s desperate to make you feel like the women who came before you.

No, he thinks, that’s not right. You’re nothing like the women who came before you. You’re better. So he has to make you feel better.

But does he know what to do? For some reason, in this moment, he can’t remember what to do. He feels like a virgin again: clueless, fumbling and unsure. He can’t remember anything from his past. He can’t remember anyone who came before you. What they were like, what they tasted like.

But, he thinks, nothing from his past could ever compare to his first taste of you.

The first lick to your clit is light, timid. But then he really tastes you — sweeter than strawberries, juices on his tongue, juices dripping from your entrance onto his chin. Then he really hears you — moaning, Can you make me cum, Ginoza? I really need to cum.

The request makes his eyes go hazy. The need to service you takes over; trepidation gives way to instinct, instinct gives way to hunger. His mouth waters for your pussy while he laps at it.

Even with his head in the clouds, even with his hands restrained, his tongue itches to service you. Muscle memory comes back; he knows what to do. He experiments with the placement first — starts with his tongue flat on your clit when he licks. And he keeps moving it slightly, changing the angle just the tiniest amount until he finds the spot that makes your moans sound the sweetest.

Every single moan is sweet to him, but he can hear where it feels best.

And once he’s found the right spot, he experiments with the speed. Starts slow, then builds up, until you give him the signs he’s looking for. He’s attuned to your body, always attentive, alert, will pick up on cues no matter how small. A relieved sigh, the slight tremble of your thighs. Hitching breaths, fingers tightening in his hair.

The right spot, the right pace, and consistency. He gives you that, and in return praise pours from your lips the same way arousal oozes from your slit into his waiting mouth.

Right there, baby, just like that, you’re being so good for me, keep going.

Sweet words get him high until he’s a mess for you, falling apart — more precum soaking through his slacks, more blood rushing between his legs. He’s so hard he’s lightheaded, but he’ll keep going, he’ll be good to you, he’ll do anything you ask. For as long as you need him to. For as long as you let him.

And it seems like the longer you let him give you that consistency — a steady pace on the same spot — the better your moans sound. Everything’s redolent, aromatic; juices burst on his tongue, pleasured sighs fill his head, and he can’t help but moan with you: soft, needy, open-mouthed whimpers against your pussy while he licks your clit.

He’s rewarded. More tension as you tighten your fingers in his hair, more of your juices dripping into his hungry mouth, more sweet words —

You’re good with your mouth, you like making me feel good, don’t you?

He moans, hazy, wishes he could get the words out to tell you that he does. He does like it. He likes it so much that his cock is aching to do more for you. He’d serve you with his entire body if he could; he’d give you more pleasure, make you feel even better. But he’s bound — hands held in place by the cuffs, head held in place by your hand. But even if there were no restraints, he wouldn’t dare move an inch. There’s no place he’d rather be than here, where you want him, servicing you with his tongue.

He thinks his tongue must be getting tired by now, but he doesn’t feel it at all; he’s too wrapped up in your body. Living to serve you, senses fixed on every part of you — ears up, eyes up, blinking at you through long lashes while he licks you.

He feels every change with every one of his senses, hears it clear as day when your moans get particularly lewd. Heavier, more breathy, longer-lasting. He feels his own stomach tightening in response, pleasure coursing through his untouched body.

A side-effect of the juices dripping onto his tongue.

Sweet nectar of a deadly flower, full of toxins. He’d been afraid to ingest your poison, afraid that it’d hurt. But it turns out that it feels better than anything.

There could be no death sweeter, no death more delicious.

There could be no sight more delicious than the one above him: pink fingernails skimming up your blouse, up to your chest. Your hand squeezes, kneads at your tits gently through your blouse while he eats you. His hands are so much larger, but he thinks they could be just as gentle. They could make you feel just as good, if you wanted. If they weren’t bound behind his back.

But maybe it’s good that they’re bound. Because to touch would be to defile. To touch would be to bring night to a day-blooming flower. He’s lucky he hasn’t already defiled you with his eyes, the impure gaze that observes every contortion of your face as his tongue massages your clit. Somehow, you’re still so pristine, even when you’re moaning filth downward.

Do you want to make me feel even better? Do you want to make me cum?

That you’d let him — that you’d give him the privilege — leaves him reeling. He’s so desperate to please you, so hooked on the sight of you feeling good above him, that he could cum just from eating you.

Just from watching you, from hearing your cresting moans. Just from your words and from the anticipation they bring.

Do you want my cum in your mouth, baby?

A hazy groan, an open-mouthed whimper against your pussy with his tongue still lapping at your clit — that’s all his mouth can manage. But his head is full of things.

Anything, he thinks, I’d do anything for it. I want it. I need it. I need you to cum.

But it’s not about what he needs. It’s about what you need, and he knows what you need. The consistency of his tongue on your clit, just a little more to make you cum; all the cues are already heightening. Your hand tight in his hair, your thighs trembling, your breaths picking up until each exhale is a moan.

Each moan is more lewd than the last — a cresting voice full of pleasure filling his ears, more of you seeping into his mouth. Everything that leaves you is sweeter than strawberries in the summertime.

You’re so good for me. I’ll give you all my cum, baby.

But nothing sweeter than that. A promise that makes his lower stomach twist and tighten up so hard he’s just a few moans away from cumming in his slacks. But he crushes the pleasure down, endures it, because this is about you. It’s all about you, about licking you until it’s enough to make you cum. He wants to be enough to send you over; he’d do anything to be enough.

But he can’t believe it when he is.

It starts like a sudden thought that occurs to the unoccupied mind on a lazy, humid summer evening. A thought that gnaws, that expands until it consumes.

Like something out of a fever — that final strangled moan fills his foggy mind, and then it starts.

You tighten your hand in his hair first, tugging his face forward against your pussy, And then he feels your clit pulsing on his tongue, juices flooding from your contracting slit and surging into his mouth. You allow him to indulge, allow him to lick your pussy through your orgasm, allow him to taste while you cum into his mouth.

More and more of you bursting on his tongue. Every drop feeds him, makes him moan. But he’s greedy, and every drop makes him hungrier, until he’s so desperate that little tears bead at the base of his long lashes — dew on grass. He’s not sated, doesn’t think he’ll ever have enough of you.

You’re too intoxicating. Even when it’s done — when he’s licked all of the pleasure out of you, consumed it all — it’s not enough. He’s even worse off now that he’s tasted your cum, he thinks; his cock is harder, the tip wetter, his stomach so tight that he could cum without a touch if he had the permission to.

But he doesn’t have the permission. So he’ll accept what you’re gracious enough to give him — your cum, and the sight of you when you pull back: your pretty pussy in front of him, dripping wet with his spit and your slick arousal.

Desire and tears hang in his fluttering eyelashes, weigh his eyes down; they’re sleepy, heavy, but they’re still fixed between your legs. Your skirt is still hiked up around your waist, your pussy is still bare, and his gaze is still hazy as he watches you drop down.

Down, until you’re crouching over his lap with your weight resting on your heels and your pussy hovering just a few inches above the tent in his slacks. You’re dripping onto the fabric, but it’s already wet, soaked through with his precum.

He doesn’t think his heart can race faster until he looks up at your face. You’re right here, right in front of him, so close to him. You belong so far up, but you deign to stoop to the level of a dog like him. Put yourself on his level, and he’ll worship every detail up close: the perfume lingering on your throat, the pleasure lingering in your voice, the condescension that takes its place.

“Sweetheart,” you say, “you’re crying.”

Your voice is as cloying as your touch — fingers coming up to cradle his face, soft eyes on you when you swipe your thumbs under his eyelashes, wiping the tears away. But you balance the tenderness with cruelty right after; you suck his tears from your fingertips — you consume.

You feed on Ginoza, you eat him alive — you chew him up and spit out cruelty in return. But when it’s your cruelty, he enjoys it. He’s grateful for it, groaning through gritted teeth when you finally grip his cock through the fabric.

“Do you really need to cum so badly it makes you cry?”

He shakes his head, panting. With each breath in, he can taste you lingering in his mouth.

“It’s not that,” he murmurs.

“What is it, then?”

“It’s that—” he says breathlessly, “—you taste so good.”

“Really?”

He nods, watching you settle onto his lap. He feels your pussy on him, pressing down on his cock through the fabric. The warmth bleeds through first, the wetness a moment later, and he throbs under you.

“Then let me taste it,” you say.

Your mouth on his, your tongue parting his lips; you’re too good for him, he’ll ruin you, he’ll cloud you — this intimacy is selfish, like plucking the petals of a flower only for the fleeting beauty before they wilt. But he can’t say no to you, not when you’re kissing him so deeply, licking the taste of yourself from his lips.

He’s so desperate that he thinks he could cry when you pull away.

“Did you like servicing me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, “so much.”

His voice goes breathy when you grind your hips down on his lap. Your pussy is so close to him, separated from him just by a few layers of fabric. He can feel it. The heat, the wetness. And the tension in his stomach is still so high.

“But you didn’t cum?”

“No, ma’am.”

“It sounded like you were going to. So why didn’t you? You weren’t enjoying yourself enough?”

His heart drops, his cheeks burn — he’s displeased you, he’s ruined his chance.

“I wanted to cum,” he stammers. “I wanted to. But I was waiting… for you to cum. For permission.”

“Permission?” you laugh. “How obedient of you.”

He winces. But you’re smiling, fingers brushing over his chest, slipping under his tie to play with it lazily. He’s woozy, too aware of your weight on his cock, nestled tight between your body and his. It’s throbbing, aching, especially when you start to rock on it — moving your hips forward on his lap, then back, giving him friction.

Obedient dogs get treats, you say.

He’s so sensitive from holding out for long that it’s unbearable.

“But how am I supposed to give you permission to cum,” you smile expectantly, nimble fingers undoing his tie, “if you don’t ask me for it?”

It’s good that you’re loosening his tie, he thinks; it’s good that you’re pulling the ends apart, that it’s not so tight around his neck anymore, because he’s suffocating. The prospect of you letting him cum while you’re rubbing your pussy over his cock makes his breath come ragged. If you give him permission, he’ll shoot his cum all over his thigh as soon as you say the word.

“Can I,” he chokes through hitching breaths, “can I please cum?”

He feels selfish for it.

But you shake your head. And in some strange, twisted way, he feels relieved.

“No,” you smile, “I don’t think so.”

Tears fill his eyes again, his vision going foggy as you continue to move your hips in his lap. He won’t cum without permission, but your denial makes his own agonizing — your cruelty makes his cock throb.

And when you pull his tie loose from around his shoulders, when you hold it up in front of his face length-wise, and say —

“I want to fuck you blind, Ginoza,”

— he can barely keep himself from spilling his cum in his slacks.

Please, he says, please fuck me.

Good dogs don’t beg, but he just can’t help it — he’ll whine for the smallest scraps you have to give.

You pull his head forward and knot his own tie around his head, blinding him. The last thing he sees before the fabric obscures his vision is the smile on your mouth.

And then all he can do is feel. Out of control — his vision black, his head resting back against the wall, his hands bound behind his back. Everything in your hands. And it feels so good that way, it feels right that way, with everything in your hands. With his zipper in your fingers, pulled down until his cock is finally free from the tension of his slacks.

He groans a little, feels a little relief now that it’s free. It’s still constricted by the damp fabric of his boxers, but now that you’re pulling his slacks down his thighs, he’s so much more sensitive.

So when you wrap your hand around his cock and squeeze him through his boxers, a blind man sees god in white flashes behind the blindfold, like fireworks. He inhales, sharp, bites into his lip so hard that his teeth tear through the skin. A little blood spreads on his tongue. The rest rushes between his thighs.

Ginoza whimpers. You rub his cock through the fabric, move your hand up and down the pulsing length of it, and he aches for you in many more ways than one.

I’m so wet, baby. I need you to make me cum again. Can you do that?

Ginoza’s barely hanging on — but he aches to do whatever you ask.

“Anything,” he pants. “Anything you want to do to me.” Anything to make you cum again.

“I told you I’d ride you if you got me wet enough,” you tease, grazing your thumb over the leaking tip of his dick. “Should I?”

“Please,” he begs.

“Let me be clear. I’m gonna use you to cum. I’m gonna use this—” you pause, and there’s a hard squeeze to his cock that makes him whimper, “—to cum. Understand?”

His head spins. He wants to be of use to you; he could cum in your palm at the thought, spurt sticky liquid out all over his boxers, but he has to stay hard for you.

“Yes, Inspector,” he chokes.

“You can hold off, can’t you?”

Ginoza’s never been a liar. He’s not one to promise things he can’t follow through on. But he’s not thinking when he says, Yes, yes, ma’am, I can.

He’s blind. To himself — to his own needs. Blindfolded and bound, he can’t see you, can’t touch you. But every remaining sense is fixed on you. Heightened.

He can hear your grin. He can smell your pussy getting wetter. He can feel the little pattern on your fingertips as you pull his boxers down around his thighs, freeing his pulsing cock to jump up against his stomach. That little swirl on your fingertips. Unique to you, yours and yours only — just like him. Minuscule to most, insignificant. But to him, the pattern against his skin is a blessing. The touch of a deity.

A big glob of precum seeps from the tip of his bare cock and runs down the underside of the shaft. Your touch meets the trail of slick liquid starting at the base of his cock, fingers running upward to swipe it up.

You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.

He twitches at the touch. At the praise.

And it’s a quiet sound, but his senses are sharp; he hears it — the little pop of you sucking his precum off your fingers. And then a louder sound, the jingle of his belt as you pull it free from the loops of his slacks. Your hand on the back of his head, gently pushing it forward, so you can slip the leather of the belt around the back of his neck.

“Can I choke you, Ginoza?”

He could cry. His words come out like a sob — Please, ma’am.

The belt wraps around his throat: center flat on the back of his neck, two ends pulled tight around the front and held closed — held tightly together — in your fist.

Pulse hammering against the leather, he whimpers, quiet and needy.

“Do you like being choked?”

“Yes,” he says hazily.

“Does it make you wet, baby?”

Breathlessly — yes, yes, more, please, tighter, please.

The pounding of his pulse is everywhere: in between his legs, in the crook of his wrist against the metal of the cuff, at his throat against the leather of the belt. More pressure on his neck — his master is so good to him, he thinks — and more precum dribbles down his cock.

Everything’s lubricated, wet; where you’re straddling his lap, your pussy is dripping onto his thighs. And when you wrap your fingers around his bare cock and squeeze the tip, everything gets wetter.

You slide your fist down the shaft, your palm tight and slippery with precum — a quick jerk downward.

That’s all it takes to make his eyes roll back under the blindfold. He strains against the handcuffs and bucks his hips up desperately, fucking once into your fist. He’s whimpering, panting, begging, but his voice sounds strained in his own ears. It sounds small, strangled by the belt around his throat.

“Did I say you could move?”

Scorn in your voice; his cheeks burn. “No, ma’am.”

“I guess I should stop. Since you’re being so selfish.”

Tears bead on his lashes behind the blindfold; you’re right here, right in his lap — you’re so close to fucking him.

“No, please,” he stammers. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me. Use me.”

“Are you going to be a good boy?”

“I promise. I promise.”

Suspended in anticipation, in darkness, he waits. He doesn’t know if the promise is enough until he feels you adjust on his lap, lifting your pussy from his thighs — leaving them wet. And even then, he doesn’t know if it’s enough until he feels you wrap your pretty fingers around the base of his cock.

He pulses in your palm, waiting. You hold him in place.

A second of blackness, painfully empty — occupied just by his shaky breaths, the tingling of his fingers behind his back, and the warmth of your fingers on his leaking cock.

A dog waiting for its owner to drop a treat.

And then, he feels it.

He feels your pussy. Your hot, wet, tight little slit on the oozing head of his cock. His eyelashes flutter behind the blindfold; a breathy moan spills from his mouth just from the contact. He moans more, louder, as you give him more of your pussy — walls expanding just enough to fit him and then hugging him tight as you slide down the length. You’re gripping him tight, squeezing all the precum out of him, but it’s already so wet inside of you.

All for him, he thinks, before correcting himself — he’s all for you. Made to be swallowed up by you, encompassed, owned. You own every moan that’s choked out, every inch of him you sink down on.

Every inch is sensitive, hugged tight by soft walls, and he can feel all the ridges in your pussy leaking around him as you swallow him up. His head lolls back on his shoulders, but you tighten the belt, tug it toward yourself — forcing his head forward as you sink down past the halfway point.

Ginoza groans, gritting his teeth. His head is floating; it’s so foggy that he can’t think. But he doesn’t need to think. He just needs you. You, and the feeling of your pussy on him. But even as you give him more of yourself, you withhold. You deprive him of air, take more and more away from him.

But the more you take, the better it feels.

Ginoza’s a good boy; he doesn’t want to do anything to displease you. But the instinct in his trembling body is strong. It’s overwhelming and desperate; heels digging into the floor, he pants through gritted teeth, and jerks his hips up. It’s just a tiny movement to bury himself just a little deeper inside of you. It’s barely anything, but the fast friction on his aching cock brings him so much relief.

It feels good, he mumbles. It feels so good.

And then, immediately, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

But you’re already stopping, fingers pinching his cheeks together, and he’s whimpering a garbled, distorted apology.

A slap to his mouth, not hard — but it makes him jump, makes his lip sting, makes him moan. The belt tightens around his throat; he chokes out another pleasured sob with you hovering a little more than halfway down his cock.

“What makes you think you can fuck me, Ginoza?”

“I’m sorry,” he stammers, “I don’t. I don’t. It just feels so —”

Your hand on his pelvis, forcing him down, back into place. He yields under your touch, thighs trembling.

“I don’t care how it feels,” you say. “Stay down and sit.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I promise I will.”

“I’m going to use you to cum, and you’re going to stay right there while I fuck you.”

He sniffles, babbling in agreement, desperate to service you. To him, nothing sounds better — nothing could make his dick harder — than you using him to cum.

“That’s my good boy.”

Yours. The praise feels good; the ownership feels better. But nothing can compare to the feeling of your pussy, especially now that you’re sinking down all the way, sitting on the full length of his cock. Wrapped all the way around him, hot and slippery, gripping him tight.

Being buried inside of you, being yours — it’s unreal, it’s too sweet. It’s too tight in your pussy, it feels too good; pleasure swirls, heavily, in his lower stomach, in his upper thighs. The tension is high; he’s desperate.

He pants, open-mouthed, like a dog.

He’s tense everywhere — muscles clenched, tremors running through them. If he’s not careful, the tension might snap. If he’s not careful, he might cum inside of you.

And the thought of that — of you draining him of all his cum until your tight hole is pumped full of it — is too much. The way you’re slurring to him is too much.

Does it feel good, Ginoza? Do you like it when I give you my pussy? Do you like being fucked by your boss?

Your voice thick and sweet in his ears; he’s drunk on a nectar full of toxins. He’s drunk on your pussy, cock twitching inside of you with every lilting word.

Yes, ma’am, yes, ma’am, thank you.

A little laugh in response. Delight in your voice, in your fingers, the belt tightening around his throat. With enthusiasm, this time. And that enthusiasm feels euphoric, sends his eyes rolling back under the blindfold. His face knits up: brows furrowing, mouth dropping open.

You’re so pretty, Ginoza.

Pretty — his cheeks go hot.

You look so pretty when your cock’s getting fucked. I could cum just from looking at all the little faces you make.

He gasps, but there’s barely any oxygen to take in; the belt’s too tight around his throat. The lack of oxygen dulls all the sensations in his body except for the spot between his thighs, where the sensitivity keeps growing, especially now that you’re grinding your hips with him buried deep inside.

He’s trying to focus on any other feeling — the sweat dripping down his chest, the ache of his arm behind his back, his fingernails digging into his palm — but it’s too intense. He’s so deep; he can feel the head of his cock pressing up against your cervix, and he can feel you squeezing your pussy around him, walls wrapped tight all the way around him.

“Does it feel good when I take you this deep?”

“Yes, ma’am. So good. It feels so good.”

“Does it make you want to cum inside me?”

Ginoza sniffles, gritting his teeth. He knows he can’t. It’s taking all the willpower and self-restraint he has, but he’ll hold off; he’ll do anything you ask. He’ll do anything to stay hard for you so he can be your toy.

“Answer me,” you press. “I want to know. Does being inside of me make you want to cum?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he chokes. “So much.”

“Do you want to fill me up? Do you want to pump my pussy nice and full of your cum?”

Ginoza groans; tears wet the fabric of the tie over his eyes. He wishes he could see you, see those filthy words leaving your pretty mouth. But maybe it’s good that he can’t. Because if he could —

You tighten the belt around his throat. “What, baby? Yes? Or no?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” he stammers finally; the words spill out with desperation, the only release he’s allowed. “I want to fill your pussy up so much, I need to give you all my cum, I need to fuck it deep, I need to —”

He cuts himself off. He’s getting too close — toes curling in his dress shoes, cock throbbing against your snug walls. He has to dig his heels into the floor again; he has to tense his trembling body, because every desperate fiber is telling him to move, to pump his hips up and fill you. But he can’t.

“You need to what?”

He can see it in his mind — what he needs: his cum spilling out, deep inside of your pussy, each spurt coating your cervix in white. The thought makes his head spin; strong instincts are overwhelming him, he needs to —

“I need to get you pregnant,” he stammers without thinking, regretting the words as soon as they leave his mouth.

“Oh.” He can hear the grin in your voice — cold amusement that makes him whimper. “But good boys don’t get their bosses pregnant, do they, Ginoza?”

“I know,” he pants, “I know. I’m sorry. I wasn’t — I didn’t mean it.”

You laugh. “Yes, you did. Would you really jeopardize my job to dump your cum in me? Are you that much of a filthy dog?”

His cheeks burn. “No, ma’am, I’d never—”

He’d never dream of jeopardizing something for you. Especially not this job. Not this position you hold over him.

“Do you like working under me?”

With gratitude in his voice — “Yes, ma’am.”

“Then you won’t cum inside me when I move, will you? You’ll sit there and take it like a good boy, won’t you?”

“I’ll take it,” he whimpers. “I promise.”

Then your lips are on his — a tender kiss that tastes like strawberries. His heart pounds against the leather of the belt like it could escape, but he would never dream of escaping you. He loves it right here: bound, choked, blind. Buried deep in your pussy, with your tongue deep in his mouth.

Suffocating on you feels better than anything.

“Are you ready for me to fuck you?” you ask with your mouth against his.

One hand squeezing his shoulder, one holding the belt tight on his throat.

“Please, please, I…”

He’d beg some more, but the words catch in his throat; he feels you lift yourself up on his cock, your pussy tight and wet on the shaft as you glide upward. Friction, finally, that makes him groan. You drop back down on it, taking it all the way to the base — one deep, slow stroke before you start to bounce in his lap.

His breathing is ragged; he’s out of control, he’s used, owned, all in your hands. And he’s so hard because of that, because of you, and the way you ride him — fucking him hard, choking him so hard he can barely even hear his own desperate moans through the fog in his head.

It feels so good, please. It feels so good when you fuck me like that. Keep fucking me. Harder, please, harder.

“Like this?” you tease, bouncing harder, taking him deeper, pulling the leather even more taut. “Does this pussy feel good on your cock, baby? Does this belt feel good on your throat?”

“Yes, ma’am, yes.” And Ginoza knows this isn’t about him, but he can’t help but beg at your table like a selfish dog whining for its master’s food. “Can you choke me harder? Please, please.”

Somewhere in his hazy mind, he knows he’s being selfish — that he shouldn’t be feeling this good. But you’re being so good to him, so obliging, giving him more than he deserves even though this is all supposed to be about you.

You’re cooing to him so sweetly, even though he doesn’t deserve it — Anything for my good boy. You ask so nicely. Choking him harder, fucking him harder, squeezing around his cock until his thighs tremble with the effort of holding his orgasm back. You glide up, drop back down, take it deep every time — pussy swallowing him up, getting the entire shaft wet until you’re clenching on the base. It feels best when he’s nudged up against your cervix, a pressure on the sensitive head of his cock that makes the tension in his stomach knot up.

Oh, god, please.

He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for; he knows he’s not allowed a release, knows that no matter how much he wants to he’s not allowed to buck his hips up. He’s not allowed to fuck you, to fill your pussy with his cum, but the urge is so heavy. His moans heighten, needy, breaths hitching as you ride him. He wants to be obedient, he wants to be a good boy, he wants to be your favorite — but it’s all too much; his senses are overwhelmed with you.

Your fingers leave his shoulder, and he can hear you start to rub your clit, the wet sounds of you sliding your fingers around your pussy. He can hear it getting sloppier, messier, and he can feel you getting wetter around his cock, your walls dripping wet and fluttering on the shaft. It’s unbearable: the sounds of your breathless moans, the feeling of you pleasuring yourself while you’re fucking him.

Liquid drips down his cock to the base, a mixture of your wetness and his precum resting there, warm, until your fingers swipe over it and collect it.

Then your fingertips are on his lips again, forcing their way into his mouth. He accepts them like he does everything else from you, obligingly — sucking the fluids from them while you bounce on his cock, your pussy getting wetter each time it parts around him, greedy.

His mouth is greedy too, ravenous for the taste of your fingers. A mixture, your fluids and his; desperately, he wants to be mixed with you.

His head is clouded by thoughts of giving himself to you — of pumping all his fluids deep inside of you until the two of you are combined. There’s no thought more enticing in this moment, no instinct stronger, than to give you all of his cum. He wants to fill you, over and over and over, until he’s sure that it takes.

His seed in your womb, you pregnant with his kids — he groans around your fingers, spit dripping down his chin. If he keeps thinking about it, he doesn’t know if he’ll last.

But he has to, so he resorts to begging around your fingers, words garbled and small — Please cum on me. Please. I need you to cum.

He’s losing his composure, panting with his mouth full, trembling as he tries to stay still. It works for a little; he thinks he has himself under control, that he can hold off, until he feels you adjust. You reach behind your body, snake a hand downward, cupping his balls while you bounce on his lap.

They’re sensitive, heavy. They’re tight, and when you squeeze them, he whimpers.

“Do you need my cum, baby?” you tease. “Do you want me to cum all over your cock? Do you want me to get it all wet? You’re so needy, just look at you.”

He’s trying to hold off, but it feels so good — the way you ride him, the way your hand squeezes with just the right amount of pressure. He chokes out a groan around your fingers, loses his composure for a fraction of a second — just long enough to buck his hips up again. A quick, shallow thrust into your pussy, immediately followed by a shudder and a helpless sob.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I promise.”

You’re stern; you’re cold, unforgiving. “What did I say, Ginoza? I told you to sit down and take it, but you keep disappointing me, over and over.”

He hates to disappoint you, and he knows it’s wrong, but the scolding leaves him in even worse shape. And when you squeeze his balls again, he can’t help but jerk his hips up a second time. He’s throbbing, panting, trying to stop the feeling from building.

“Please, please, no,” he babbles around your fingers, “I can’t, I think I’m — I’m going to —”

You lift off his cock right before the coil snaps, leaving him panting as you remove the belt from his throat and your fingers from his mouth. The same fingers come to the back of his head, nimble, to pull the knot of his tie free.

He’s still murmuring apologies and blinking tears from his eyes as you remove the blindfold.

A tender touch first; your fingers brushing the hair away from his flushed, tearful face. And then a cruel one — your hand tightening in his hair, pulling his face back. He looks up at you through lashes still wet and heavy with tears, sniffling.

He’s still throbbing, still close. But some of his desperation is quelled, at least, by the sight of you on his lap. After being deprived of you for so long, it’s the first glimpse of the sun after a long winter.

But your voice is still frigid.

“Listen. You’re servicing me. What don’t you understand about that?”

His lips tremble. “I’ll be good. I’ll be good. I just want you to cum.”

“Good.”

A little softness in your voice — more mercy than he expected, more than he deserves. You really are so good to him, he really is glad to be your hound; he wouldn’t trade this position for anything in the world.

His eyes on you, his attentive gaze coming to your fingers, looking for cues. Your hands tug at the loose collar of your drab gray blouse, stretching it until it’s pulled under your tits. Underneath the blouse, your chest is framed by a skimpy pink bra — the same warm color as your skimpy pink panties. You tug the cups of your bra down too, and put your pretty tits on display for him.

His eyes linger on your tits even as you grip his dick and adjust on his lap. He doesn’t look away from them until you’re starting to sink down on the length of him again.

He bites his lip, moans through it, soft. Watching. Now that he can see — now that he can watch as your pussy takes him in — it’s so much harder for him to hold back. He can see how much you want him now, how wet and puffy your pussy is as you slide down his aching cock. The length glistens when you glide up, coated in more slick with each bounce.

Weight on the balls of your feet, heels on the ground while you fuck him. If his hands weren’t bound, he’d run his fingers up the patent leather of your stilettos, up the thin heel. Classy, he thinks — even when you’re fucking him raw there’s something about you that makes him feel so dirty in comparison.

He’s something that belongs under your heels. Maybe, if he were a little braver, he’d ask you to put the point of your stiletto on his chest.

But, for now, he’ll be a good boy and take it. You ride him deep, fingers laced around the back of his neck. He’s never seen something prettier, eyes drawn everywhere — your contorting face, your bouncing tits, your dripping wet pussy. Slippery juices smear all over his thighs and collect, thick and gooey, around the base of his cock.

He can see how good you’re feeling, but you’re vocal anyway.

You’re making me feel so good. This dick is just what I needed, baby, it’s gonna make me cum so hard.

It’s too much; he feels it building up again — balls tightening, thighs trembling, toes flexing. Nothing in his mind except for your soft, sweet moans and the little wet smacks of your skin on his. You fuck him harder, and harder, and harder, until he can hear the desperation in his own hitching breaths.

He has to take it, but he doesn’t know if he can. He thought he could endure it for you, last long enough to make you cum — he thought he could be a good boy. It’s a simple task. But it’s not an easy one. And if you keep moaning filth to him, if you keep looking at him like that while you ride him — mouth open, pretty face knit up, he’ll —

“Please,” he whimpers, “please, no, I’m trying — it’s too fast — it feels too good —”

His eyes roll back; his head lolls forward, sweat snaking down his temples. His hands are balled up into fists behind his back, and he groans, but you keep torturing him, keep moaning as you drop down on his aching cock.

The words blur together. Filthy, tempting.

Oh, you’re gonna make me cum, right there, this cock feels so good, it’s so good when you let me fuck you, baby, I need to cum again, baby.

He can’t last like this; he doesn’t want to do anything without your permission, but if you don’t stop —

“Please,” he begs, tremors in his voice, “I can’t take it, please, I can’t hold it, if you don’t stop I’m gonna…”

“Gonna what?”

Another tease as you fuck him, and he sobs.

“I’m gonna cum,” he chokes, “I’m gonna fill your pussy if you don’t stop.”

The release hangs heavy, ready to burst in his lower stomach.

“Did I give you permission? Be a good boy, Ginoza. You’ll be good, won’t you?”

He squeezes his teary eyes shut, panting, Mhm. Mhm. Every ounce of willpower, but it’s not enough. He’s doing his best for you, but it’s not enough.

And you’re doing your worst to him — you’re being so cruel, making him feel so good. You keep fucking him with your fingers laced behind his neck, bringing your thumbs to the front of his throat. You press them into his pulse, suffocate him.

He groans, feels his cock pulsing, feels more precum oozing from the tip. It’s so wet inside of you, so soft and so tight — you’ll milk him dry, if he’s not careful.

“Don’t close your eyes,” you coo to him, “look at me, baby. I want you to look at me while I fuck you. Let me see your pretty face.”

His eyes flutter open and then, confronted with your euphoric face, watching the pleasure mounting in your expression, it feels like torture.

“Please stop,” he chokes, “please, I’m so close, you have to stop before —”

He lets out a needy whine, and right before he crashes over, you lift off of him, leaving his cock flushed and twitching. As soon as you’re off of him, he jerks his hips up desperately, thrusting into nothing.

“God,” he groans, vision swimming with tears, sweat dripping down his temples, “thank you, thank you.”

“You can take it, can’t you, baby?” you tease, squeezing the base. “You can take it until I cum. I’m so close. You’re doing so well.”

He nods hazily, but he doesn’t even have the chance to catch his breath before you level yourself over him and sink down again. More than anything, he wants to take it until he gives you what you need. He can see you getting close. The pleasure is right there in front of him; it’s everywhere — in your moans, written all over your face. You keep getting wetter and wetter around him, keep clenching, keep dripping all over his thighs.

And it’s all for him. All that relief, all that pleasure — face knit up, insides tensing around his cock — is because of him. Because he’s servicing you.

And in return for that he gets to hear your pretty moans lilt and get more urgent as you approach the edge. He gets to hear you moan, You’re gonna make me cum, you’re gonna make me feel so good, baby.

A few more desperate bounces, a few more lewd moans, and then you’re dropping over, moaning for him — I’m cumming, I’m cumming. It’s his privilege to feel you take what you need — fingers digging into his throat, walls spasming and dripping on his cock while you glide up and down.

It’s too much, it feels too good, it looks too good. He chokes on a sob, stomach knotted, pressure building up between his thighs, higher and higher with each bounce. You fuck him through your orgasm, and he wants to hold it, but it’s just too much.

“Please, please, please,” he murmurs, “I can’t—”

But you’re wrapped up, moaning while you use him, and he can’t take it — can’t be good for you anymore, no matter how much he wants to. One more attempt to snuff out the pleasure, but it doesn’t work; his cock is twitching, and each spasm of your pussy feels like you want to suck the cum out of him.

So he murmurs one more desperate plea — please, please, oh god, I’m sorry, it feels too good, I’m gonna cum — and lets it go.

It feels so good — an instant high to let it go after holding off for so long. He thinks the sudden burst of pleasure is more intense than anything he’s felt before; the tension in his muscles releases, and deep inside of you, his cock throbs. He feels the cum spurting out, shooting up into your contracting insides and coating your pulsing walls.

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this; he’s babbling incoherent, breathy apologies, but he just has so much cum for you, so much to give you. And it feels so strong, so good to cum inside of you, where everything’s so hot and wet. He gives you so much cum that it drips out of your pussy, coating the shaft of his dick, collecting around the base.

And you’re letting him cum inside of you — you’re still fucking him, still cooing to him. You look him in the eyes, with your fingers pressing into his throat, while you take him deep. Over and over and over, until your tensing insides milk every last drop out of him.

You collapse onto his lap with a heavy sigh.

Face on his shoulder, breathing against his neck. It takes him a few moments to catch his breath. His arms are aching behind him, but the pleasure persists. He’s still inside of you, feeling your walls spasm every few seconds — velvety, warm around him, full of his cum.

“I’m sorry, Inspector,” he stammers, “I really didn’t mean to—”

There’s a disappointed sigh against his throat, and his heart drops.

“Did I say you could cum inside me?”

Ginoza feels his cheeks burn. Embarrassment, regret. He had you for a moment, and now he’s ruined it.

“No, ma’am,” he sniffles, “I promise I didn’t mean to.”

The silence is heavy. He thinks you must hate him, that you must be disgusted with him, that he’s not good enough to even be your dog. He’s sick to his stomach.

But when you pull back, your face is soft. Your hands are soft when they move his hair out of his face. They’re warm. You’re warm. The only warm thing in the middle of this cold, gray office is you.

Your pretty hands cradle his face gently, tilting it upward; he feels your thumbs on his cheeks, brushing his tears away. With tenderness. With the warmth of summertime. Summertime sweat lingering on your skin, in the dead of winter — you’re a flower blooming at the very end of fall, after all the others have withered.

“I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I’m really sorry.”

Ginoza wonders if animals can comprehend the concept of deities. He thinks that dogs might view their owners in the same way humans might view a god. As something inexplicable but perfect. As something to be revered without comprehension.

“Will you make it up to me?” you ask. Sweet, soft.

Maybe you’re not the lethal oleander flower, he thinks, but something harmless blooming in an identical shade. A lookalike without the same poison.

He supposes there’s only one way to find out.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “I’ll do anything.”

[ereardon]

A Place Like This [Chapter 3][Rhett Abbott x OC]

Summary: Rhett Abbott has never met a girl like you. You’re a corporate city girl in Wabang on borrowed company time — he thinks there’s no way you would waste it on him. So when you fall for the local bull rider, you’re both a little surprised. What will it take to get Rhett to realize he can give you everything you’re looking for? And will Rhett be able to reconcile the fact that your job is literally to dismantle Wabang and break apart the only place his family has ever known?

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x OC [Julia Han]

WC: 3.3K

Warning: Cursing, implied smut, violence

Series masterlist here

Rhett walked around in a daze, the memory of your lips on his haunting his every waking second. 

All he wanted to do was hop in his truck and drive into town, break down the door to your apartment above the bakery, pull you into his arms and feel your weight against him as he crashed his lips on yours. 

Instead, he was stuck mending a fence with Royal and Perry. 

“Shit, that’s too tight it’s going to snap,” Perry said, yanking on the fence chain to loosen it. “Rhett get your head out of your ass.” 

“Sorry,” Rhett grumbled under his breath, moving down a few paces to a different section of fence, thick gloves hindering his ability to be tactile as he tugged on the wire fencing. 

“What’s gotten into you?” Royal asked, furrowing his dark brow. “Been quiet all week. Worried about the ride tonight?” 

Rhett shook his head. “No.” 

“Then what is it son?” 

Rhett looked up at the sky. “Nothing’s going on.” 

Royal shook his head. “Go home. You’re just making it worse.” 

Rhett simply turned around, got on his horse and headed home. He couldn't tell them the truth. That he was daydreaming about a life with a woman he had met only a few days prior. 

A woman whose existence threatened their entire way of life. 

A woman who would ultimately bring doom to their small corner of the world. 

In the kitchen, Amy and Cecilia were busy setting the table. Rhett walked right past them without a greeting, head still lost in thought, and Cecilia ’s sharp voice stopped him dead near the stairs. “Rhett Abbott, we say hello to each other in this household.”

He turned around, sheepish. “Sorry Ma.” Amy looked up at him and he leaned forward, pulling her in for a hug. “Hey cutie.” She grinned. 

“Good. Now go wash up for dinner. Where’s your dad and Perry?” 

Rhett shrugged. “Still out in the pasture.” 

Later, at dinner, the table was silent, just the sound of forks scraping the plate, water glasses being slammed back on the formica tabletop. 

“Rhett?” Perry said. When his brother didn’t answer, he repeated, “Rhett?” 

Cecilia nudged his shoulder and Rhett looked up, confusion clouding his face. “What?” 

“What’s gotten into you?” Cecilia  asked. “Where is your head?” 

“Are you thinking about that girl?” Amy chirped before Rhett could choke out a response. He blushed and four pairs of eyes turned to him. 

“What girl?” Perry said. 

“The one we saw going into the bank,” Amy added and Rhett swore under his breath, grip tight on his fork. “With the high heels.” 

“That corporate girl?” Royal asked, voice filled with disdain. “What would you want with her?” 

“Better question is what would she want with him,” Perry muttered. 

Rhett slammed his fist on the table before standing. “Gotta go get ready for the ride.” 

***

Before you had stepped on Wyoming soul, you hadn’t known that bull riding was truly a sport people partook in, let alone some people’s profession. 

But somehow, after only a week in Wabang, you ended up at the rodeo on Friday night, chest cautiously but anxiously tight as you looked for Rhett’s name on the scoreboard. 

Curiosity killed the cat, or whatever. Despite your self-exercised rules, you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since your dinner date. The way his blue eyes locked onto yours, how instinctual his protectiveness had come out when you told him about Luke. The simple and charming way he had held the door open for you. 

You hadn’t been lying when you told Luke you didn’t date on assignment. 

That was, you never wanted to. No one had ever sparked your interest enough. Until Rhett came around. 

You settled onto a metal bleacher seat, standing out in the crowd. It wasn’t hard to do in Wabang. Your presence as an outsider had become known, but the extent of the business with the town deal was still under wraps. Jerome Thompson, the Mayor, was still fighting the inevitable. You had at least another week until everyone and their second cousin knew what your real purpose in Wabang was. 

Rhett’s name was called on the loudspeaker and you felt your chest tighten. Without realizing it, your red nails were digging half moons into the flesh of your palms. 

You craned your neck around to see what was happening, and the sound of the metal gates crashing back as they flew open only served to exacerbate your anxiety. A wave of nausea sat in the pit of your stomach as you watched Rhett flail on the bull, one hand lifted confidently in the air. 

Around you, people began to rise as the timer on the screen ticked on. Every millisecond felt like a minute as you watched Rhett get whipped around in circles. You were amazed by the strength of his one arm that was gripping the saddle and finally when the buzzer went off, he slid from the bull, the crowd shouting in joy, as a few of the other attendants in the ring pulled Rhett off back to safety. 

You were out of your seat, jumping and hollering with the rest of the onlookers, and when you looked back down at the ring you clearly saw Rhett’s back as he gazed up at the flashing scoreboard, his name slotted at the very top. 

At the end of the night, you found yourself leaning up against the fence that held the bull stalls, Rhett walking carefully toward you, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“Hey there,” you said softly once he was close enough to hear you. “Congrats.” 

He looked at you with soft eyes. “Thank you.” 

“My first rodeo,” you added. “Hell of a time.” 

Rhett stepped forward, leaning one arm above you so your back was pressed against the metal fence. You were aware of how tall he loomed, but it never once felt unsafe. In fact, you desperately, cloyingly ached for his hands on your body. To feel his soft lips brush yours, his calloused hands, stroke your waist, tug you in tightly, press his pelvis against yours, rock your lower half until you could feel him tenting beneath his thick jeans. 

“So you’re a real cowboy, huh?” you whispered. “Never met a cowboy before.” 

He moved closer until you could feel his warmth even without touching. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“There’s that ma’am thing again,” you murmured. 

“Sorry,” he grinned, one hand coming out and running over your bare arms. It sent a shiver down your spine. “Julia.” Your name on his lips was borderline sinful. You had never had someone say so little and have such a visceral impact on your body. Just a look from Rhett had you wobbling on weak knees. 

You reached out and grabbed his free hand in yours, folding your fingers around his near your waist. Rhett looked down at your intertwined hands, then back up at you. “I’m impressed,” you said and you meant it. 

He shook his head and you could tell he thought you were lying to stroke his ego. There was an air of self consciousness about him, beneath the hyper masculine aura. It was a layer beneath the surface, something borderline fragile. And even though you knew his body was all hard muscles and his hands were calloused from honest work and his voice was so rough it felt like sandpaper as it slid over your skin in the close quarters, you knew that beneath it lurked a type of fear.  

Your fingers tightened on his, and he looked up. “Rhett, I’m serious. I know it doesn’t mean anything because you barely know me, but I’m proud of you. Standing up there on the bleachers watching you? It was amazing.” 

An unreadable expression passed over Rhett’s handsome face. Finally, he gave you a smile. “Darlin’, you have no idea what that means to me.” 

The tension was thick, or maybe it was the humidity of the night. Either way, you stared at Rhett and he gazed back and the silence was comfortable, but you kept waiting for him to make the next move. 

“Why’d you come?” he asked, finally, voice gruff and low. You could feel it reverberate in your chest and abdomen. 

“Seems like the thing to do around here,” you replied softly. 

He tipped his head, waiting. 

“And to see you,” you added, blushing. 

Rhett reached out and stroked one finger down your cheek. “Can I take you for a drink?” 

You shook your head and watched his face fall, his fingers pulling back instantly. For a moment, Rhett Abbott crumbled and you had to immediately stretch out your fingers, press them to the tops of his tall shoulders. “Sorry, I just have something I need to do early in the morning. Can we do tomorrow instead?” 

His lips curled up in a smile and he nodded. “Yes, please. I’d like that very much.” 

You leaned forward and brushed your lips to his cheek, felt one of his hands slide down to your waist before you pulled away with a grin. “Goodnight, Rhett.” 

He watched you walk away, one hand shoved deep in his pocket, fingers balled together, trying to regulate his nervous system. It felt like his heart was going to leap out of his chest. The little smile you shot him over your shoulder nearly sent him over the edge. 

He had the best ride of his life that night. And somehow it didn’t compare at all to the feeling of your lips on his cheek, your soft hips beneath his fingertips. He wanted you. All of you. 

And it clouded his ability to see clearly.

***

You sat on a stool at The Handsome Gambler nursing a gin and lime over ice, the glass quickly collecting condensation on the paper napkin. Every time the door swung open you looked up eagerly, waiting for Rhett. 

He was late. Finally living up to the cowboy name. 

After fifteen minutes, you were tired of the letdown of seeing it wasn’t Rhett at the door, so when the bell above chimed you simply took a hefty swig of your drink, purposefully avoiding disappointment. 

“Well hello there.” A chill ran down your spine as a familiar voice wafted through your ear. You looked up reluctantly, Luke Tillerson taking a seat next to you, slim thighs sliding dangerously close to your own as he leaned casually with one arm along the wooden bar. “Julia.” 

Your name on his lips felt like poison. “Luke,” you said quietly, fingers starting to shake on the glass. The memory of how his fingers had gripped your wrist clung to your nerves, putting you on edge. “How are you?”

“Be better if I could buy you a second drink,” he murmured, leaning in closer. His breath was acidic and you wanted to wince but you knew that he would be the type of man who just might consider slamming your head against the bar if you did. Without waiting for you to answer, he nodded at the bartender. “Double Buffalo Trace, and whatever my girl here is having.” 

“She’s not your girl.” Rhett’s voice growled from behind you. 

Luke’s eyes slid from yours, the smile wiped from his angular face. You hadn’t realized it, but his hand was on your thigh. When you turned around, Rhett’s gaze was locked on Luke’s hand before he moved it up to stare daggers into the man’s eyes. “What do you want, Abbott?” Luke sneered. “Can’t you see we’re in the middle of something?” 

“Not anymore,” Rhett said matter-of-factly. “I’m going to ask you nicely to slide off that seat, pay for your drink, and take it anywhere else in the fucking bar.” 

Luke let out a laugh so sharp you could have sworn it rattled the ice in your drink. “Get lost, Abbott. Girl like Julia here wants nothing to do with you. Why don’t you go find Maria, give her some mediocre sex?”

You didn’t see Rhett’s hand until it was too late. Until his taunt fist, veins throbbingly visible beneath tanned skin, made contact with Luke’s nose. The loud crunch of cartilage wedging itself into a new position. The unmistakable sound of a skull hitting the ground as Luke tumbled from his chair, his hand ripped from your thigh, his arms spread out as he splattered across the ground with a groan. 

Luke hauled himself to his feet, stumbling toward Rhett who was glaring darkly, swinging and missing as Rhett landed another punch on his jaw. Luke rebounded more quickly than the first time, clipping Rhett over the eyebrow and he stumbled back into the arms of another man who had stood up, likely to try to ease the tension. 

But as Rhett lunged forward, he and Luke were caught in each other’s arms, wrestling to the ground and you couldn’t tell what arm belonged to who, and who was winning. 

There was shouting and commotion and before you knew it you were on your feet, following Rhett outside where the bartender had dragged him, a small crowd circled around Luke on the ground. 

“Fuck!” Rhett swore, shaking out his hand and pacing in a tight circle on the pavement outside the bar. 

Inside, you watched Luke stand up with the help of two men, blood running down his face. Rhett stood, angrily watching through the glass door. “Rhett?” 

He didn’t answer, simply continued to glare at Luke as other bar patrons helped him find his footing. 

“Rhett,” you repeated, louder this time, and he finally swung his gaze to meet yours. “Come on.”

You motioned for him to follow you and to your surprise he acquiesced, falling into step behind you. Rhett followed you as you unlocked the door to the apartment. You pointed at him to take a seat on the couch in the living room, and he sat down in a daze as you went into the bathroom, emerging a few minutes later with a warm, damp washcloth, a few tubes of ointment. He didn’t say a word as you stood straddling his leg, bending over and carefully dabbing the blood that was rapidly drying on his forehead. There was a cut about an inch across heading straight north from his eyebrow and Rhett winced as you dabbed rubbing alcohol on it. 

“Chicken,” you murmured and he chuckled beneath you. One of his hands found your thigh and when you looked down you spotted blood on his knuckles. You reached down and tugged the hand toward you, cleaning it off before letting it go. His fingers found your leg again seamlessly. 

“Julia.” Rhett’s voice was rough and low. “I don’t want you to think I’m that kind of guy.”

“What guy?” you asked, settling next to him on the couch. 

He shook his head. “That guy out there. The kind of guy who gets in bar fights and throws a punch because it’s easier than tryin’ to talk sense into someone.” 

“I hate to break it to you, Rhett, but I don’t just think you are that guy. You are that guy.”

Rhett’s fingers clung to your knee. “I was that guy. I, fuck, I try not to be anymore. But then I walked in and I saw Luke with his hands on you and I just—” He took a deep breath halfway through the sentence, cutting himself off. You felt each individual fingertip pressing into your flesh and you knew there could be bruises the next day. 

“I’m not some helpless idiot who needs to be saved,” you said and Rhett looked up with scared eyes. 

“Shit, Julia, no, I didn't mean–” 

You shook your head. “I know you didn’t mean it like that. And I appreciate you telling him off. But I just need you to know that I have spent thirty years defending myself. I can do it against a fucking human buttwipe like Luke Tillerson all by myself.” 

Rhett looked at you and then chuckled and it was so hearty and warm that you found yourself laughing too, bent over, hair spilling into his lap. When you righted yourself, Rhett was staring at you. He had a way of making you feel like the only person who ever existed. 

“How do you feel?” you whispered softly. 

“I’m fine,” he murmured. “I’m sorry I was late. Amy asked me to help her with something for school and I got caught up.” 

“Who is Amy?” 

“Oh, my niece.” The way he spoke about her was soft, sensitive. There was a tenderness in her voice. “She’s nine.” 

“Didn’t know you had a niece.” 

Rhett smirked. “I don’t know anything about you either, darlin’. You’re a closed book.” 

“What do you want to know?” 

“Why you’re here,” he said and you smiled. “But I know you won’t tell me. So why don’t we start with why you don’t date on assignment.” 

“You caught that, huh? It’s just that a job like mine isn’t normal,” you said, drawing your knees up on the couch cushion. “I travel nine months out of the year. I live out of a suitcase. I’m a nomad, essentially. And my job, well, it doesn’t make me the most popular person in town. In fact, by next week I’m sure I’ll be persona non grata here.” 

“Then why do you do it?” There was no judgment in his tone. It was genuine curiosity. 

“Because I’m good at it,” you said after thinking for a moment. “It’s one thing I am really good at, separating my personal feelings toward something from the business benefits. I tend to see things really black and white. It’s not helpful in relationships or discussing literature, but it helps in finance.” 

“What’s the biggest deal you’ve ever helped with?” 

“A few years ago, a telecoms giant wanted to acquire their competitor in Singapore and create a global conglomerate. Everyone was already in. The C-suite, the boards, even the government on the Singapore side. And then they called us. Asked us to do the last minute due diligence checks because their legal teams were swamped in another deal. The day before the contract went to sign, I turned in my assessment. I said it was risky because their balance sheet and growth projections didn’t match what the client was looking for from an Asia partner. They pulled out. A year later, the company they almost bought went under investigation for fraud and improper investor reporting. They filed Chapter 11.” You paused. “We saved them eighty billion dollars.” 

“Holy shit,” Rhett whispered and you saw him run his hands through his hair. “The hell are you doing here with me then?”

“Good question cowboy.” 

When he didn’t laugh, you nudged him with your outstretched foot. He instinctively took both of your feet into his lap, working his rough thumbs into the balls of your feet and you leaned back with moans spilling out of your lips involuntarily. 

“Fuck that feels amazing.” 

He pressed harder, kneading upward, and you practically spewed pornographic groans into the small expanse of the living room. Rhett’s eyes lingered on your throat and your face as you lifted your head to face him, a blush creeping down your chest. 

“Sorry,” you whispered. 

Rhett shook his head. “Never apologize for making sounds that beautiful when I touch you.” 

His fingers slipped from your feet as you pushed yourself up to kneeling, crawling closer until your lips were only a few inches apart. “Stay?” you asked softly. “I feel like I’m just getting to crack the surface and finally know you.” 

Rhett’s lips curved into a gentle smile. “Of course I’ll stay, princess.” 

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@localhockeygirl

[fandomfluffandfuck]

Just thinking about Seb working real hard - whether it’s work, doing something for Chris, just generally working himself down - because he just want someone to notice he’s good. Feeling like he has to earn the praise and love and softness he sees other people get. And imagine Chris noticing it!!! And letting him relax for once, taking all the worries off of his plate for a few days so Seb can be doted on and cared for like the soft lil sub he is 💗

Okay okay okay-

This ask reminds me of two things:

This incredible gif set of Sebastian being the sweetest kid that needs to be praised for all his work in the gym

And also, this evanstan fic with wonderful sub!Seb that i highly recommend (and have visited 58 times according to AO3 🤣): "Natural Additiction" by @musette22 + @paper-storm

Seb 👏 is 👏 such 👏 a 👏 good 👏 boy 👏

But-

Going back to your original ask and my other thoughts on it...

(here's your warning for how fucking long this answer got haha (and how nsfw it gets))

This, perhaps inspired by that first gif set and then the past years in general, makes me think of Sebastian being even more starved for praise and submission than normal because of those events. Like. Chris is the one who gives all of that to him readily- the only one who gives it all to him. But Sebastian also gets praise and peices of what he needs from other people too. Obviously. He deserves it. All of that praise. All the recognition he's getting now.

And one of the easiest places for that praise that doesn't come from his boyfriend and dom is through his training-

In the gym, Don (his trainer) is never shy, patting him on the back, cheering him on with "atta boy!"s or "good job!" or "yeah, baby! Get it!" y'know, all that good, outspoken praise that makes him put even more of himself into his workouts. Motivated by it.

But... with the part of the pandemic that he's locked down for, Sebastian stops seeing Don in person, of course, but also stops seeing him as often through Zoom. Don gives him a lot of text instructions as he hunkers down with his own family but also, Sebastian starts prepping for Pam & Tommy eventually, meaning he's doing less intense stuff. Mostly running on an empty stomach, stuff that doesn't need that much instruction time in the way his normal gym equipment use and intense micronutrient focused, highly specific diet needs. Don also tells him to take it easy, relax and recuperate, y’know.

So, yeah, less interaction with Don. And everyone else.

Plus, on top of that lacking interaction, for the first part of lockdown, Sebastian is stuck by himself in his tiny NYC apartment. So he doesn't have Chris to praise him and tell him he's his good boy or that he's doing good, bumping him, hip to hip, squeezing his hand, throwing an arm around his waist, or... any of those other less innocent touches that his tactile boyfriend is so fond of. All he has is his apartment and his world as it's trapped in his phone. It's not quite the same to hear over the phone or read over text.

So-

When he finally can get to Chris' Massachusetts home, out away from the city, and they can be together, alone, Sebastian is fucking STARVED for it. He is practically vibrating in his seat on the way back. Wanting his hands on him so bad, manhandling him the way he wants, but also wanting his words so, so fucking bad. He wants his words. His orders. His praise. All of it.

They get home, say hello to Dodger, and then instantly they get to it. Pressed tight against the door. With lots of frantic touching, desperate kissing, and bruises already in the process of forming. There's also lots and lots of gasps, moans, and primal sounds. There just aren't a lot of words.

Then, after there's a lot of hunger still inside Sebastian but... he can't make his mouth work, still sensitive and still mind-blown, so he just melts to the floor and let's it go for now. Chris picks him up and carries him to their bed afterward.

Yet, Sebastian still needs more.

But it's not that he outright tells Chris that because as much as he knows communication is super, super important in relationships and in their relationship especially - because they have to be so lock and key, both of them so public - he just can't say it. He can't make himself spit out the words. His world is too far access for him to reach out, he needs both hands to hold himself up instead.

Either way, Seb gets to Chris' house and instantly starts unpacking (after their hard, fast, desperate fuck, nap, and shower), taking extra care of his things as he does, much more so than he normally would; he's actually folded his clothes to come down rather than just throwing them into his bag and now he's neatly tucking them into Chris' hanging closet and drawers and he even folds Chris' clothes that aren't- put away haphazardly or already worn once since their last washing or whatever. Sebastian makes sure everything is neat. Orderly. He re-coils Chris' belts too. Subconsciously hoping Chris might notice... but he doesn't go into the closet for a while. He sleeps naked so he doesn't go in to get PJs. And then their morning is late, sleeping in and then caught up in wandering hands and hot steam and each other, pressed together, lips against lips. Hungry. So hungry and impatient that it's quick, fast, not as much as Sebastian needs. Some of what he needs. But not everything. Chris doesn't notice his closet in the morning either, rushing back to Sebastian instead.

Sebastian also does the dishes after they eat dinner together that first night he comes home. And not that Sebastian never does the dishes but it's odd because he washes them all by hand. And before he flops down next to Chris, cuddling in close, nosing his way under Chris' arm, he also starts the dishwasher. Which is only half full. Without a word. Again, wanting Chris to tell him that he's done a good job, that he's helpful, but unable to really put his finger on what he needs.

He just needs so much.

After their late start, he gathers Chris' clothes from his hamper (and the floor next to it) and does his washing and drying for him. Setting timers on his phone to make sure they don't sit in the machine for too long. Then, Seb folds the clothes too, even though he dreads folding laundry or folding clothes for packing or... yeah, folding is not his favorite.

Later in the week he also does their sheets after they dirty them again (😏). Although, again, that task is wordless too. Seb doesn't mention it to Chris. He wants the praise to be true and spontaneous. Not just because he needs to hear it.

His world is still off balance though because none of the tasks are orders. Chris is stressed and busy with launching and then upkeeping ASP in the first months of it, not to mention the whole fucking pandemic that's effecting everyone too. It's not his fault he doesn't notice Sebastian's desperation for praise right away. People get oblivious and people start weird habits when they're stressed. (That is a wink towards that fic, thank you very much)

And it gets to a point where Sebastian can't fucking help it-

He can't help it!

Chris is on top of him pressing him hard down into their mattress as he kisses him, painting a line of scorching hot kisses down from his lax mouth - Seb is so worked up that he can hardly kiss back, panting, chest heaving - to his collarbone. Then lower. His chest. His sensitive, peaked nipples. Sparking pleasure that is so, so fucking overwhelming that it makes his muscles turn to liquid.

And Chris just keeps lavishing him with kisses and bites and-

It just slips out of him.

A whimper.

Needy and pathetic and it's clear how long it has been ruminating inside his chest, kept down in false understanding that other things were more pertinent than him at the moment. And the second Chris hears it, he's rising up onto his elbows and hovering over his baby, hushing him, asking him what he needs, nosing his cheek.

Sebastian can only whimper more, looking him in his eyes, barely making out a little, lip-trembling, call of, "D-daddy..."

"You need your Daddy, huh, sweet thing?" Chris rumbles, lips on his skin, against his jaw then lifting up to stare right into his eyes, watching the way his blush rises over his cheeks and spills down his neck then up to his ears. Watching the way his eyes turn glassy then nearly spill over, teary.

Sebastian nods jerkily. Daddy. He needs Daddy. He's choked by it. He needs it.

And he needs it so bad that he really does start crying when Chris hushes him more, caressing his face, saying, "it's okay, it's okkkay, you're okay, I know, I know, Daddy should've seen it sooner. His good boy needs some attention, doesn't he?"

Sebastian chokes back a sob.

Then, the gates fucking open and Chris is fucking worshipping him. Telling him about how fucking good he is in detail. Such impossible detail. He is lathering him in it. Laying it on thick except... is it really "laying it on thick" if all of it's true??

Chris keeps it up until Sebastian looses all time (which actually happens really quickly, he's already so sweet and spacey, floating in their sheets like a rocking, warm sea). First though, he strips Seb down, mentally and physically, spreading him out to tie his wrists and ankles gently to their bed posts with silk ties. Then he traces his fingertips over Seb's skin so gently that Sebastian can't keep from shuddering. Goosebumps arise over his flesh.

His touch is electric.

Impossibly erotic.

Chris brushes his hair back from his forehead with his lips. He whispers in his ear. More praise that pours like flaming honey straight into Seb's veins. Pooling in his gut.

Chris presses three fingers into Sebastian's mouth, between plush lips, and let's him suckle on them, filling his needy mouth up, while Chris encircles his cock. Tugging. Stroking. Gripping his dripping and hot cock so thoroughly that all that can spill out of Sebastian is moans, gasps, and tears. He can't. Sebastian is throbbing from the inside out. Ready to spill, overwhelmed with need and praise and subspace.

But only when it's an order from Chris, exhaled softly, whispered, but so, so powerful and demanding.

The order guts Sebastian, leaving him to nearly convulse, trying to curl up, around Chris' hand tight on his cock. But he can't. Those ties. He is exposed. Left to Chris' hands.

Chris' hands that keep wandering. Keeping him on edge. Keeping him overwhelmed and sensitive until he breaks.

Sebastian fractures apart as Chris' fingers slip back from his cock to his tight, heavy balls, then his lil, clenching hole. Tapping. Exploring. Chris spits on his hole. He won't move to grab the lube for the world. He spits again.

Overwhelming.

It's overwhelming.

The wetness. The heat. The arousal.

Sebastian is out of his goddamn mind.

And then Sebastian's sobs turn silent, his mouth gapes around three of Chris' thick fingers, but his tears keep flowing and his chest keeps heaving. Hitting the sweet spot of subspace where he can't do anything but fly. Absorbing the pleasure and the pain from it being too much, too soon, and enjoying it impossibly. He cannot resist. He can't help himself. All he can do is lie at the mercy of Chris' touch and take it.

It is everything he wants.

Hopefully that's what you had in mind haha, I kinda went overboard here I think 👀

Anyway... yeah. Big thoughts about sub!Seb being taken care of.