#and I think her colors look richer

[ninelivesart]

Part 26 of Drawing My Reads was Legends and Lattes by Travis Baldree

[bigmeandragonlady]

o

[hoseoksluna]

A CELEBRATION OF 2K FOLLOWERS — PLEASANT, GOOD AND MERCIFUL | jjk

pairing: non-idol!boyfriend!jungkook x f. reader 

genre: smut, angst, fluff — the whole package

word count: 8.9k

summary: jungkook wanted to make the night better for you—but what he didn't expect is that he would come across his true, unabashed self while doing so.

taglist: join | cp: wattpad, ao3

warnings: jungkook, physical violence, jungkook is wearing that mesh top and that exact outfit (god, help me) and he's horny (god, help me again), abandonment issues, dissociation, panic mode, fear, swear words, dom/sub dynamics, protected sex, oral sex (f. & m. receiving), deepthroat:), teasing, pda, jungkook smokes and jungkook uses his busan accent (you have been warned), religion, praying, anxiety, hyper-independence, trust issues, begging, a little bit of a praise kink — barely, cowgirl:).

note: because we hit 2k incredible followers, i prepared this for you, my babies. a full fucking package of drama, smut, angst and fluff—all from jungkook's own pov!!!!! this is all for you bc i love you sm. thank you, guys, so much for being here with me, sticking around and reading my stupid fics. enjoy this one shot and let me know what you think. i'm sending you so many kisses until you get sick of me. seriously. i won't stop. i love you. MWAHMWAHMWAHMWAHMHWA.

It is a lucid dream, really, the way the lustrous colors of the fireworks bloom across the charcoal sky. They intertwine with the darkened clouds, like vines of wild flowers, that try and fail to remain hidden and Jungkook thinks you burst with even richer, emotive colors. 

With your kaleidoscopic glitter on the high points of your cheeks, and the tiny stars that you stuck on each arch of your brow. 

He can feel the vibration of the deep bass, belonging to the music, coursing down your chest as he stands behind you, drifting his hands down the upper half of your body while the rest of the strangers are hypnotized by the rapper on stage that he has very little knowledge of. The reason why he paid for the tickets, pumped a full tank of gas, drove you all the way to the countryside outside of the normality of your daily life and never let go of your hand—despite the fact they grew uncomfortably clammy due to the stifling heat—was because you loved the man. The vulgar headliner, whose lyrics nearly made his eyes fall out of his sockets once he fully and consciously listened to the songs that you always sing when you do your makeup or hum at random times when you’re doing your own thing. 

And what’s worse, it made his dick hard when he heard you scream out the swear words and the filthy imagery painted in the vivaciousness of the songs.

You, who scarcely cursed. 

Who omitted the vulgarity when rapping along. 

He doesn’t think he ever caught those words coming out of your mouth. Not even when he was balls-deep in you. 

Multiple times. 

It had only been four months ago when he found you and his long silent heart gained your voice. It was the sweetest, most languid sound that ever graced his ears and in an instant, you became a fleshly sanctuary of serenity. One he would find himself needing more often than he liked because the truth is—Jungkook doesn’t date. 

He considers relationships an unnecessary house of pain. If he spends a long time there, he forgets what the outside world looks like. Forgets how to get home. Forgets the roads and the rules and moralities of life and society because, deep down, he lets go of himself for the girl. 

He would kill a soul if she found herself needing it. Or at least destroy one so she would have a peace of mind. 

Break hands and break noses of people who looked at her wrong. 

That’s who he is and as much as he tried to change it, he failed every time. Failed like the clouds up above. His effort to stay hidden from you vanished into thin air because you would invariably find him and his heart would start praying with your voice. The pathetic thing would beg for mercy from the world. His knees would wobble and he’d let them sink right in front of you—all because of your deeply inert calmness and briskness that would, strangely, pour the nectar of mollification over his bloodstream. 

And he gave in to you because you didn’t ask, nor expect, anything from him. 

You didn’t do what the others did. 

You were independent and so full of life, of a different world, one he wanted to take a peek inside. 

And what he didn’t predict was that the road would be molded for his feet. And once he kissed you and learned the ins and outs of your intellect and the chambers of your heart, he still remembered the streets that line the outside world—its names, even. He remembered the address of his own apartment building, the number to his door and to the pass code. 

And so did you. 

You didn’t ask him to kill for you. And you didn’t ask him for tickets to see your favorite artists. 

He did it because he unreservedly loved you. 

And here you are, giggling, rubbing your little ass up against his groin and he detects happiness prickling his nerve endings. His hands are enveloped, snugly, as if no one was around and the artists traveled across the country for you, around your waist while your hands are up in the air, pointed fingers erect, dipping up and down to the rhythm of the music. 

And what he could never predict, not even in a million years—he’s enjoying himself. Feels the traces of the same vibrations ricocheting off your back into his chest, where the song enlivens him. 

He’s enjoying himself because you are enjoying yourself, brimming with elation and the radiance of your smile as you laugh, dance and scream out curse words that he’s equally enjoying hearing. 

Jungkook makes a mental note to pull those sounds out of you later in the early hours. 

And then you turn around, surprising him. You cup the side of his neck while you point that index finger in his face, screaming out the lyrics. And Jungkook regards it so overwhelming that he can only stare. Doesn’t know the lyrics to scream them back at you and make your experience better, but he’s learning them as he’s consuming them from you, his eyes tracing over each movement of your mouth that engraves them in his brain. He feels your hips moving under his palm at the bottom of your spine and when you roll your body forward, colliding into his like a star that meets its lover once only to never see it again, and brush your lips against his—he’s so horny and so in love with you that his eyes wet, his emotions rushing in and clouding his sight. 

The background fades out, fully, into the charcoal of the night, the colored lights softening and it’s just you that is the distribution of incandescence for the people present—and for him. And then you go down, dragging your hands down his stomach and his thighs, only to spring right up, grab his hips and make that collision happen—against the laws of the universe. 

A different star. A special one. 

Out of his darkened peripheral view, he can sense the audience having a way better time than they did before you turned around to face him. But Jungkook doesn’t give a fuck. 

Not when his cock is so tight in his pants. 

Thankfully, you’re obscuring it with the shape of your delightful body. He thinks he’s going to run with you to his car, pump more adrenaline into your body, so you can refresh the drowsy grass with a pristine layer of dew through the sound of your laughter. He also wonders if you’re wet yourself underneath that gray dress of yours and just as he’s about to lean over and yell that question into your ear, you turn around and get ready for the next song. 

And catch the glance of some guy to your right as you do. Jungkook grits his jaw because you linger for a second longer that he doesn’t particularly like.

A certain fever poisons his veins, but at the same time he feels the pinpricks of a cold sweat at the top of his spine. Who the fuck does he think he is, staring at his girl like that? 

But when he follows that line of the half broken gaze, he finds the guy’s slender face scrunched up in disgust. 

Oh, Jungkook might be ready to throw some hands and get him kicked out of this place, tell the cops it was all him so you can continue enjoying yourself in his arms. He’s seen some people sticking their tongues down their partner’s throat and he’s giving you a dirty look for dancing? 

This can easily be his very last night alive. 

Instinctively, Jungkook bunches up his fists and he’s ready to go after him, but you scream out and emit out your excitement, taking a deep breath to go absolutely mad as the rapper begins to perform the song that he’s heard you jamming out to the most. You take his hands, beaming at him from behind, and uncurl them on your tummy. Your glance was too brief and there’s still a furrow to his brows and now he worries you think he’s being a buzzkill. He doesn’t want to ruin the night for you, so he draws in closer to the crook of your neck and begins to dance, softly, with you. Your hands intertwine with his and you bang them in the air, jumping up and down at the bridge of the song that the headliner hypes up. 

And then you’re singing in a different language and he’s done for, his heart tightening in his chest. The one he’s heard your mother talk in over the phone while you replied in English. Jungkook squeezes you so hard and you let him, your smile growing. Your voice is more throatier and low-pitched and Jungkook senses your foreignness swathing his cock and he knows there’s a bigger tent in his pants. He presses it against you, makes you feel it and you throw your delicious ass. 

His eyes nearly go cross-eyed as he rolls them back, tilting his head. The wind sweeps across the sweat of his exposed forehead, sifting through his hair and he can’t wait any longer. Desire has overpowered the poison in his veins in such a mighty way and he begins to stand in the middle of a crossroad. 

Wait forty five minutes until the rapper finishes the show and then get stuck in the crowd as everyone tries to leave at once. 

Or wait two more minutes and then bolt to the car to fuck your brains out. There’s a higher chance you and him won’t be caught sinning in the backseat. It’s midnight and the villagers are asleep. And in the forty minutes, while everyone enjoys the last show, he can make you come so many times and ascertain that your experience will be heightened and ultimately better. 

He’s also sure you’ll be able to hear him—if he leaves the window open a little bit. 

He’s ready to turn you around, the decision throbbing in his sternum, but you make the move first. Swiveling on your feet, your body faces him, though your head doesn’t. Once again, he follows your gaze. You scowl at the guy, your brows knitting and your glossy mouth rounding before moving into the shape of the lyrics. You throw a dirty look his way one last time and Jungkook laughs in pride, his heart constricting in the love he bears for you, and he pulls you in, disposed to kiss you. You wrap your arms around his neck and open your mouth just as he kisses you—and it’s you who darts out their tongue, rolling it against his. Jungkook squeezes your bum, slapping it gently—and it’s simultaneous the way you and him both peek at the guy’s reaction. 

The fucker is grinning. 

You give him a vulgar gesture, the moonless blue light enveloping around your middle finger. 

Jungkook laughs so hard that heads turn in his direction and he’s fucking delighted. You devour it with your mouth, sucking his lips so intensely that he stops breathing. He senses you sealing it in him and he can’t wait any longer. 

He needs you and he tells you. 

Breaking the lip lock, he peppers kisses on the sensitive spot behind your ear, wafting his hot breath there. He feels the gooseflesh on your arm right upon his ear, too, and electricity courses down his stomach. Fuck, he loves it so much. Thinks you’re so incredible and he wants to fuck that fact into your guts. 

“Let’s get out of here. I want you,” he rasps, drifting his hand up your bum to the ends of your hair, bunching them in his fist. “I want to give you this dick. You deserve it.” 

You suck in a harsh breath and withdraw to look at him. He bites his lip at the way his words painted a palette of such flushed beauty on your face, using colors this festival has never fucking seen. And his mouth ends rise in a prideful smile, not for his ability, but for your body. For the way it’s able to react to him so wonderfully. 

And he blushes when you begin to mouth the lyrics again while dipping to the seat of the amphitheater and sliding his blazer over his shoulders. 

He knows why you did that. 

And you validate his knowledge when you take his hand and lead him away from the concert, keeping close to him just to be cautious. 

You did it to camouflage the evidence of his arousal for you. 

And when you walk by the guy, you let go of his hand. Throw both middle fingers in his face. “You wish you had someone to leave with, huh?” 

The fucker puts his dirty hand on you, stopping you from walking away, and Jungkook doesn’t fucking hesitate. Like a bolt of lightning, he grabs his collar and fumes in his face. 

“What makes you fucking think you can touch my girl, huh? Juk go sip na?” he snarls, shaking him, his Busan dialect impulsively spilling out, darkening his voice and the latter question—‘Do you want to die?’ He watches a tendril of challenge line his eyes with murkiness and what happens next is too fast. 

Too fast for his liking. 

Knuckles collide with his cheek and at the rapid, unexpected and jarring contact, his lip ring cuts his gums. Jungkook grunts at the twinge that overpowers the throbbing on the side of his face, metal percolating through the aftertaste in his mouth, but he doesn’t let go of the guy’s shirt. In fact, he tightens his hold. Seethes. Is about to push him off and leave before things get even uglier, but then he feels your hands on his back and his heart stops, your voice mute, despite the fact your whole face twists in fear and is smeared with harrowing emotions that he’s never seen on you. Shrinks at the sight of your wet, bulging eyes. Of one singular tear grazing your lower lashes in a caress before plopping onto the wildflower meadow of the glitter on your cheek. 

“Get back,” he tells you, despite the swelling of his own emotions at your state of mind. But you don’t comply in time, unclench your fist and step back because far too soon, in the middle of the distraction, another collision bursts in this impenetrable darkness. 

Falling into you or falling for you even deeper, he can’t tell the difference within the numbing pain and his temper coaxes his exceedingly too easy tears to blur his vision. You don’t topple back on your hands, for Jungkook catches you in time with a strength that you somehow help him remember that he possesses. From the force of the guy’s jab, he was only pushed into you, but it doesn’t diminish the grave mistake he made. 

One he will pay for. 

Straightening you, Jungkook guides you towards the edge of the amphitheater and you step back, at last, startled. Turning around, he swings his fist into the guy’s face and he whimpers like a little bitch. 

One hit for your dignity. 

A second one for your tears. 

And the guy would’ve received a third and a fourth one had he not been held back by different pairs of arms all of a sudden. But he shakes them off. Pushes the guy back to his seat. He lands awkwardly on his tailbone with a hard thud and moans in pain. Suits him right for thinking he’s allowed to touch you, make you cry and remain unharmed. 

Jungkook shakes his head, his chest rising with heavy breaths and numbing, adrenaline-infused fury. “Sit here and keep your fucking hands to yourself, gaesaekki. Who the fuck do you think you are, making my girl cry by hitting me?” 

The music cuts out and the rapper hollers. Jungkook turns around and finds all of the attention of the audience and the headliner on him. Doesn’t want to put you on the spot like that, so he rolls his eyes in annoyance, finds your rounded ones and tips his chin further towards the exit, signaling to you to walk that way, so no one gets to look at you. You’re still standing by the edge of the amphitheater with your tear-stained cheeks and his heart aches, though once he sees that you’re covered by the shadows, he lifts a palm towards the stage and strides off, placing a hand on the small of your back and leading you towards the grassy hill. 

People are fucking testing him and he’s not in the mood. Not in the slightest. 

He’d go with his original plan—take your hand and run with you to his car, but he needs to cool off. His anger is sapping all the delight he gained from your microcosm of joy and he doesn’t want to ruin the night more than he already has. Jungkook curls an arm around your neck, tugging you flush to his side as you strut together with no one around. Lifts your chin so he can inspect how you’re feeling on your face. 

Your cheeks are glimmering, damply, carmine in the yellow light, accompanied by the faint burn of the stars up above, but your eyes have lost their great spark and you’re no longer beaming. They trace over his deadened cheek and mouth and you whimper, stopping dead in your tracks and burying your face in his chest. You wrap your arms around his middle, a hand stroking his back—and Jungkook feels himself drifting to a state of coma. The rapper’s lines decline the harder you nuzzle your face in his mesh-clad pecs and he can’t move his own hands, can’t hug you back, his panic cascading down his sternum, which he senses your warm weight upon. A ringing noise fills his ears, but he can’t wilt. He has to put you first and make things right. 

But his body doesn’t listen. 

He wills strength into his muscles, lifting his head towards the unmerciful heavens and letting your voice sound out his prayer. You evidently need physical support and emotional reassurement and he can’t give that to you out of his own weakened will. Not when he needs it so despairingly and eminently because he’s hollowed out on the inside. Not when he can’t hear a damn thing owing to the ringing in his ears. 

He can’t ask you for help, so he lets you pray through his heart to his father’s God. 

But nothing happens.

Radio silence. 

White noise. 

A feeble, miniature whine loosens from him. He’s not sure if you heard it and he hopes you didn’t, and for that sole reason—he does the unthinkable. 

He begins to pray with his own voice. 

Because there’s nothing else to do. 

Give me strength. To be there for her and not mess this up more than I already have. Fix me for her and help me make this night better for her. 

The tiniest of lights against your face unbolts ajar in him, vines of the flowers of mitigation blooming from that sliver of open space—right into his arms that abruptly lift and wrap around your shoulders, pulling you as close as humanly possible. 

The ringing lessens. 

And then his lips move. 

He kisses your forehead, dwelling there for a moment, basking in the fact that his prayer worked, and mentally, he ejects the trepidation and agitation away and out of his system, though the fear loiters in his ribcage. The fear that the mistake he made is unfixable. And there’s no thrumming of the bass to distract it. 

What’s worse, his lower regions still ask for a release. He might not be as hard as he was, but the pressure of an ungratified arousal still palpitates in his groin. The unlit disorder of his feelings encourages the blood to pump his cock erect, slowly, and his breath quivers—as well as his body. 

The shakes are back. He knows them, intimately, from his past relationships. Feels the long-gone ghost of abandonment catching up to him—and he fears, terribly, that you’ve somehow learned its ways and you’re about to use them on him because of the way he ruined your night. Cover him from head to toe until his mind numbs and he forgets, foolishly, the direction to his home. 

To solitude. 

He lets go of you and nudges you towards his car. Lets you walk the rest of the short way. But he notices that your forehead, the place he poured his frail love upon, is smudged with blots of blood, the little stars on the arches of your brows crooked and devalued. He’s barely able to get out a cigarette out of his pack and place it in the center of his parted lips, his heart cracking and turning painfully. Though, somehow he does it—he gnites it to life, takes a big drag and hides his hands behind his back. Hides his shakes away from you. Because it’s easier to ruin yourself than it is to give. 

You don’t know about them. And in the four months he’s been dating you, he didn’t have a reason to tell you about them. Thought they were lost for all eternity, the tables turned—them forgetting about him. 

But now he realizes how naive he was. Begs his shoulder to stop trembling from the impact of his deeply-embossed issues. Wishes they were as beautiful as you when you gaze back at him with the weight of your love and he feels it, swiveling to lean against the side of his car. 

It’s a life jacket that straps him down. Abates his shakes. And he’s able to take another drag, pursing his lips in a small ‘O’ when he exhales the smoke, so it doesn’t get near you. 

Your hands are behind your back, too. They support your tailbone against the solidness of the vehicle. It reminds him that he’s glad he hurt the guy, but now he wishes that you weren’t such a delicious brat because he could’ve made you happier and pinker with the amount of orgasms he would’ve given you. Would’ve driven you home and washed you clean. Would’ve made you a late night snack to bed and held you while you replayed the songs in your head. 

Nevertheless, it’s him who needs to be held. 

Foolish, his sensitivity. Another thing you don’t know about. And he’s not too sure, at this very moment, if he’s able to let you in this closely. Let you hold him and stop, ultimately, his shakes. The fear of possibly letting that happen, only to get left behind after, paralyzes him on the spot and even though he can’t breathe, he still manages to flick the ash off his cigarette and puff on it, desperately. Needs the smoke to hold him down, mollify the raging disorder in him—the macrocosm that is too gritty and stony for your delicate feet. 

He allows a full, audible sigh to leave him and he hangs his head, but he shouldn’t have done that. 

Because he divulged to you how fucked up he is. 

You lift a hand to him. “Come here, Oppa.” 

But he can’t. He can’t get close. His legs are numb and the thick-soled boots his feet are shod in are too heavy. His fear keeps them planted that safe distance apart. And Jungkook plays it cool. Licks his lips, lifts his head and sucks on his cigarette. Feels something dripping down his jaw and he wipes his hand on the bone. His cheeks hollow out and the smoke gets in his eyes, stinging them, blurring the spots of blood on his fingers

A different type of wetness coats them now. 

“You wanna go home?” he asks, then cringes at his stupid words. The smoke makes zig zag patterns in the air as his hands shake harder. And then the breath he takes is too difficult. His chin wobbles, the tears rush in and he can’t stop it. “They’re still—” A soft sigh, a whimper. His breathing speeds up because it seems as though his lungs ask for too much air and he can’t inhale enough of it. The tears threaten to pour out and crown his fear. Ruin his life. But he keeps going as if nothing is happening. “Making hot dogs in that food stand over there. The night’s not over.”

And then he’s sobbing, sinking to his knees as his legs give out under all that weight of his issues compressing him. The cigarette burns on the concrete, as abandoned as he soon will be. And his hands feel the rough material of his jeans, needing something to bring him back to a painless reality. He’s tasting blood and the fumes of the smoke and then he sees your sneakers in front of his knees, the pink Calvin Klein shoes that he bought you last week, and he sits back, feels his head being lifted, feels himself being pushed to a point of absolute submission. 

And that’s not something he’s able to stop either. 

You sit down on his thighs, sinking your fingers behind his ears and into his hair, forcing him to look at you and he has to blink multiple times in order for his sight to clear up. Sees, while he whimpers pathetically, his bloodstained, fearful girl seeing him. The real him. The flawed, broken him. 

“Gguk, Ggukie, what’s happening? Talk to me, baby, please.” 

He only sobs. Can’t get a word out. Because you’re here and you’re going to leave him—now that you’ve seen that he’s not a half of the man you pertain him to be. That he’s weak, pathetic and emotional. That he has problems that he doesn’t like to talk about. Unresolved issues that will affect you and guide you out of his life. 

You press him to your neck, holding him to you, and you shush him, gently, rocking him from side to side. Run your wet hand up his hair on the back of his head while the other one rubs large circles on his back. The light opens wider in him—and as he listens to the lullaby of your voice, it distracts him from the fear. It stills the ringing in his ears and blesses his arms with strength that he uses, without thinking, to wrap around you. 

Something lukewarm plops onto the side of his aching cheek as he, little by little, calms down, and he realizes it’s your precious tears. The salt to his wound. 

You’ve cried too much when you should’ve been laughing so hard that you’d be sick from it. 

“What happened? Tell me.” 

Your hand caresses his bad cheek, careful around the bump that your feather-light touch traces, and it’s how he finds out it’s even there. He finds out his bleeding is from his mouth because you wipe at it and clean your fingers on your dress. And then you’re back to stroking his hair, your long fingernails scratching, tenderly, his scalp, spreading alleviation down his body. 

You’re patient and gentle, tolerant and kind, despite the fact you deserve an explanation and he’s unable to give it to you. 

It’s what makes his rationality snap back to normalcy and he tugs your dress down, withdrawing from you and helping you stand to your feet. He’s here to make your night better, not unleash his problems at you. He takes your purse dangling from your hand, replacing it with his palm, and hauls you towards his car. 

But you stay put and he bounces back to you as if he were on a leash. 

And maybe he is—because you stayed at the horrendous scene of his worst. Bound to you in a way that he’s too drowsy to comprehend. Even his fear is tired, scurrying away to some shadowed corner of his soul, instead of attacking him and remaking the scene. 

“Give me my purse back and let me buy you that hot dog,” you say, with a hint of a remarkable harshness that makes him submit to you on a higher level. Something positive that he can’t pinpoint breezes through his clavicles and he wipes his knuckles across his eyes, shyness encasing him like steel—like a shield, giving him the hope that maybe, just maybe, he can overcome this with you. 

You didn’t leave. You didn’t disappear. You didn’t wrinkle your nose. 

You held him. Cleaned the blood off his mouth. Put him, somehow, back together like a puzzle piece. Knew how to do it without needing to look at the full picture. 

He hands you the chain strap of your purse—and it’s more of a symbol of his submission to you. Of the acquiescence and the meekness that you seeped into his pores by your touch. And, oddly, he feels whole. 

His walls are broken down, but he feels whole. Confident, soft, and manly. 

Because he has you and you’re here to take care of him. 

You’re quick on your feet as you yank him by the two of his fingers. He follows behind you, but all he can look at is your pendulous, brown, leather purse, suspended from your small hand, and how that shift of the dynamic in yours and his relationship occurred by that exchange. How it’s felicitous, pretty and sturdy. How he can come back to it and remember it—if he ever wavers. Remember that it’s the cure to his shakes. 

Letting himself be taken care of by you. 

The festival has ended and the ladies at the food stand are packing up to leave. It overwhelms him how much time his issues have stolen, but when he watches you go from nice to bratty in a millisecond, convincing them to make that last hot dog from him because he feels faint and needs some greasy food in order to get home and they comply, his love for you rises sky-high. Your own expression of love for him tidies up the debris from his broken walls and he’s so warm all over that he feels as though he’ll explode. 

You pay for the hot dog and leave a huge tip, thanking them with a smile that makes his heart quiver in a way that is pleasant, good and merciful. You hand it to him and it’s another exchange that wets his eyes, that makes him dip to your mouth and give you a chaste kiss that you more than deserve. You coo, deeply, into the kiss, and it’s a sound that he’s never heard from you. A dominant, prideful sound that stirs the butterflies in his stomach that carry your name on their wings to beat so ferociously that he can’t breathe. 

In a different way now. Pleasant, good and merciful. 

You walk away from the stand and sit with him on the sidewalk. Jungkook lets you have the first bite, sliding your leg over his as he holds the hot dog to your mouth. People are exiting the amphitheater in hefty crowds, but he doesn’t care. Can’t peel his eyes off of you as you open your mouth as wide as you can and take a big bite, whining and fanning your mouth due to how boiling hot it is. He can see the half chewed up sausage on your tongue and if he didn’t love you, he’d look away now, but he can’t because he does love you and your secret, indecent ways enthrall him enough that he can’t help but to kiss you again. Kiss the ketchup and mustard off of your upper lip. Clean you up like you cleaned up his debris. Blow on the sausage in your mouth a little to make you laugh and you do more than that. You chortle so hard that you nearly choke on it and he laughs, too, strangely. 

Thinks the hot dog is the best one he has had in a long time solely because you had that first bite. 

It fuels him with energy, yet he feels lightweight. Feels as though everything’s going to be okay, despite the fact those issues in him are a persisting threat and they can be triggered anytime. But something tells him you can handle it. 

You weren’t afraid to throw your middle fingers in a guy’s face because he had a problem with your public display of affection. Weren’t afraid of Jungkook’s ugliness. Weren’t afraid to fight the ladies so you could fill up his stomach with his favorite food. 

You can handle it. 

It’s all he thinks about as he drives you to his apartment with his hand on your thigh. 

And it’s all he thinks about when he kneels before you while he takes off your sneakers and lingers there, scattering kisses just below the hem of your dress. And you know where this is going because you pull him back by his hair and as he looks up at you like this, a peasant to a queen, his heart hammers so intensively that all he wants to do is cry while he makes love to you. 

He came across his salvation—in the worst of it all. 

“Let me clean you up,” you hush out, and Jungkook doesn’t understand because you already have. Internally. And outwardly all the same. He can’t postpone this any longer. He has to give back to you, give you his gratitude on a silver platter. He needs to do it because if he doesn’t, he’ll crumble. 

“No,” he rasps in a whisper, closing his mouth over the inner of your thigh, placing a singular kiss there before he returns his gaze back to you. “Let me, please.” 

Maybe you can see his desperation in the glossiness of his eyes and it awakens your pity for him, for in a blink you nod, and for the second time today—he doesn’t hesitate to do the next thing. He fists the fabric of your dress and yanks it up over your tummy, nuzzling his nose into your clothed mound. Pink, like your sneakers. 

He inhales you. Inhales the beginning of your arousal—and the beginning of a brand new scene that will color his life in a soft manner. 

Dragging the waistband of your panties down your legs, he tosses them on top of your shoes. Yearns for your legs to part your royalty for him and in order for that to happen, he carries you, bridal-style, over to the white of his bedding. Pretends it’s clouds that he’s laying you down upon because he’s about to make sure he’ll bring heaven down to you. 

The heaven that helped him give back to you earlier in his worst. 

He hooks his fingers under your socks and slides them off, one by one. Makes you sit up to rid you of your dress. Ruins your ponytail in the process, but he quickly fixes it by lugging your hair tie down your length, rubbing his blood away on your forehead with his saliva-coated thumb once he places you back down. 

And it’s not an expression of his dominance, the way he disburdened you from the daytime. That has long ceased to exist in him since that exchange. 

It’s an expression of his servitude to you. 

Of his lessening and your heightening. 

And it’s pleasant, good and merciful. It doesn’t feel as though he’s giving all of himself. On the contrary, it feels as though he has just discovered his true self. 

He won’t forget the address of his home because he’s not staying over anywhere. 

He is at home. 

And your folds revealing your royalty as he spreads your legs is the feeling of homeliness. His mouth on your warm, swollen clit is the epitome of all domesticity and the only thing he can fear at this very moment is his future homesickness if he rips his mouth off your cunt. 

And you getting wet so easily just from being taken care of like a queen confirms and validates all that he’s feeling. 

And he lets you know. 

Peasants are savages and he eats your pussy like it. Sucks on your clit with a verve that surprises him and makes his cock tight uncomfortably in his pants, especially when you make those deep, guttural noises of yours. You’re not the soft girl he knew that omitted swear words in her favorite filthy songs. You’re a vulgar woman, rolling her hips into his mouth as he lets you use his tongue. 

And he stops—just to beg for those words. 

“Let me hear you swear for me, please.” 

You whimper, flopping into the mattress, only to raise your torso using your elbows. You grip the hair on the back of his neck and hump his mouth, but then you suck in a breath and draw back, sobered up all of a sudden. 

“Does your lip hurt?” you ask, rounding your brows in pity and Jungkook’s heart quickens at the portrayal of your care towards him. His senses flick to that faint throbbing on the side of his pierced lip and he perceives that he forgot about his physical pain. His cheek throbs as well, but it’s all bearable. 

You help him remember. 

“It doesn’t hurt, baby.” 

But the hand that gripped his hair slides over to his lip, caressing it with a thumb. “But it’s swollen. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

He also remembers that he was bleeding from the same place and he checks your folds if he spattered them. With the same digit, he runs it over them, finding no taints of it. Sends a quick, internal thank you to God. 

You’re pure—he doesn’t want to mar you. 

“You’re not hurting me. You’re saving me,” he utters without a breath, the words more raw than anything he’s ever said to you, alongside his first, secretly sensitive I love you. And while he doesn’t let his lungs lift, you inhale all of the air for him, wafting it over him as you pout ever so slightly. And then you caress him—the good side of his face and he does something he’s never expected to do. 

He invites you in. 

Rests his head on the apex of your thigh while you continue to brush your hand in circles. Over his cheekbone, his temple, long strands of hair and ear. An ouroboros of love so unsullied and intact that the world’s upcoming destruction could never afflict it, never even come near it. Jungkook pushes your leg back and darts out his tongue. Mirrors your circles over your clit and the gentleness he uses to do it with pull such alluring moans from the bottom of your throat that he’s nearly at the peak of his own orgasm. 

And it just makes him hungrier. 

He turns you over to your side and closes that leg of yours over his head. Flattens his tongue over your clit and eats it like his life depends on it, one hand holding yours while the other slips to your heat, rubbing the hole until you go mad. And he’s not holding your hand to keep you bound. He’s holding your hand to keep his sanity and not come in his pants like a boy. 

You move your hips so his fingers enter you and you scream out at the sudden fullness. Jungkook drips in sweat, your walls slowly stretching around him sending tingles down his spine, and he’s moaning when you fuck yourself on his digits. 

It doesn’t take long for you to come. 

It is the final piece to your own puzzle and your orgasm thunders through you, the swear words tumbling out of your mouth like refreshing raindrops. You interweave them into his name, adorning it, making it prettier, and Jungkook is so overwhelmed with pleasure that all he can do is suck on your clit until you convulse so hard that you can’t take it anymore.

You may have lost your spark earlier, but now that you’ve come so magnificently, you’ve become it. The star of light isn’t something that gets attached to your eyes whenever you’re happy anymore. 

You’re the queen of all firelights and constellations. 

He lets you lie on your side as he hauls himself up to face you. He touches your skin besprinkled with the beads of perspiration, kneading the fleshy parts and ending up at your neck. Your eyes are closed when he reposes his head on his pillow besides yours and he detects his pleasure creating a new kind of joy within him, one that etches a lopsided smile on his face. 

You said the words for him while your orgasm coursed through your body. He wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Thank you,” he whispers against your lips, kissing you with a certain roughness that makes you whine and withdraw. You give him a playful dirty look, fragrant with your love, and Jungkook’s smile deepens. 

“Gentle,” you reprimand, fluttering your eyes back shut. “Don’t be a masochist.” 

He laughs through his nose, his heart constricting, and he kisses you with the gentleness you spoke of just to show you he can do it. 

You hum in appreciation and Jungkook thinks this must be the best day of his life, despite all. 

“There we go,” you praise, sleepily. “Gentle, so your boo-boo doesn’t hurt.” 

He caresses your face in circles in your fashion, watches you visibly relax and your eyes close all the way, your eyelashes brushing against him. His sleep-kissed queen. 

“You wanna sleep?” he asks, fondling the shell of your ear. He doesn’t mind if you’re too tired to take him; he’s willing to study the way your mouth parts and lets out long, restful breaths as you drift off to dreamland. 

He thinks it would be an honor. 

Everything had changed. The way he sees you, the way he loves you, the way he senses yours and his connection. The pupils of his eyes have been purified and he’s acknowledging himself with the ins and outs of his own relationship. 

Everything is new. 

You shake your head, humming out a sound of disagreement. “No, give me a second. You made me come really hard.” 

He nods, even though you can’t see him, and he sifts his fingers through your hair. Trails his kisses from your cheek to your neck and shoulder, dwelling there as you recuperate from your intense orgasm.

And then you’re swinging your leg over and straddling him. Your lids are so heavy from your little eye-shut that he silently coos at you, but your tiredness doesn’t stop you from mouthing kisses down his mesh-clad chest. From unbuckling his belt and freeing him from his pants. The mesh shirt is the only thing you keep on him. You bunch up its hem in your fist, stabilize his cock with your other and you swallow him. 

Not all the way, though. 

You rid him of his sanity because you pop your mouth, over and over, on the tip of his manhood. He feels the sound deep in his groin, right beneath your hand, and his chest can’t help but to shudder with each suction, his face scrunching. He unabashedly whimpers for you and you like his noises so much that you give him what he never asked you for. 

You do take him all the way. 

And your throat is your scent floating through the air of yours and his home. 

Heady, oriental and feminine. 

You slobber all over him, running your tongue sideways upon the veins along his length and Jungkook slinks in and out of his conscience. The pleasure you’re blessing him with brings him to a rose garden when you gag around him. The pink petals tickle his stomach, encouraging his shudders, and all he sees is you in the middle of that garden. A mighty statue of its queen—with a mouthful of cock. 

And then he has to physically pull you away from him because if he felt the tightness of your throat one more time, he’d be spurting ropes of cum down your esophagus. 

You’re feral, staring him down with a maddened smile, returning to your original position on his hips. And as delighted as he is to have you be in charge, he remembers something. 

He hasn’t put a condom on. 

“Wait.” 

Jungkook holds your waist as he rummages in his bedside table and once he finds the package he was looking for and rattles it, he finds it empty. Cold sweat trickles down the back of his neck, but he remembers something else as well. 

“Did you not put it in your purse?” he asks, the scene where he hands you the last square of the rubber for you to keep in your purse in case you get in the mood during the festival shooting out before his eyes. 

You nod. “Yeah, I think so. Can you go get it?” 

He sits up with you and kisses you, gently, prolonging the kiss until you whine and he thinks twice before provoking you. He can’t help it—you just keep saving him. 

Walking through your corridor, he sees your pink sneakers first, embellished with your panties of the same color. A smile tugs at the aching corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t mind. Thinks it heightens the experience. Bending to pick up your brown purse that he set beside your shoes, the time seems to slow down as he’s reminded of the exchange out there in the countryside. The shift of dynamics that liberated him. Jungkook grows emotional, his feelings liquifying and prickling his eyes. 

And it’s automatic and absolutely instinctual—the way he dips his mouth and kisses the leather material. 

Gently. 

Opening it, he fishes out the white square and hangs your purse on the hook among his jackets. Gives it a long, meaningful look before he returns to you. 

And you’re the one who wants to put it on him. You’re so diligent, tugging the peak of the rubber multiple times so you’re unequivocally certain that you did it right. And when you tug him, he whimpers so inferiorly that you emulate his hunger. 

You depict it so eloquently when you fight through your residual overstimulation and sink down on him, little by little. And the more inches your walls squeeze around, the more his new role settles within him. 

Peasant with his queen. 

You ride him like it. 

You bounce on him with such hard thuds that it provokes the pressure in his groin. His balls tighten so rapidly and the cinematic view of your breasts slapping against each other doesn’t really help slow down the incoming explosion of his orgasm. A glistening ring forms around his cock from your slick—and Jungkook genuinely considers, right here, right now, buying you a promise ring that will be an eternal reminder of this sublime salvation. 

And you’re as aware of the shift as he is because once you reposition your weight onto your feet, you pin his hands back and use them as leverage. Intertwine your fingers with his. His vision gets filled with spots of white. You clamp down on him with each stroke and even though he can’t move, he feels unshackled. There’s no ending to his moans. He’s so close, the pressure deepens in his groin, and he needs one more thing. 

One more thing and he’s done. 

“Kiss me,” he rasps, and you slow down, crying out, your orgasm catching up to you just the same, but he needs your attention, so he begs. “Please, baby. Kiss me.” 

Lowering yourself onto your knees, you lean forward. “Fuck, I love it when you beg. I’d give you anything you ever wanted.” 

His stomach spasms. Your nipples sail over his chest and you shudder, the mesh fabric stimulating you, and then you’re swirling your tongue around the arc of his open mouth. 

Teasing him, like the vulgar, bratty woman you are. 

Extra careful around the lip ring and his swollen flesh, healing it in a way. 

Jungkook whines your name. “Please.” 

You kiss him just once, but he needs more. Lifts his head off the pillow, chasing your mouth. You begin to swirl your hips in circles on the tip of his cock, just like your tongue, and the intense pleasure he gets from it forces him to bang his head back. 

You go for his neck. His collarbone. His nipple. 

And Jungkook can’t hold back anymore. 

His orgasm bursts in his groin and all the roses in the garden swell with freshness. He imagines he’s filling you up, instead of the condom and it elevates the momentous shocks of the explosion descending down all of his nerve endings. He hiccups and that’s it for you. You let go of his hands to massage your clit and you follow him out into that garden, his name and curse words trickling out of your mouth that lowers to his in a final, years-long kiss. 

His last rope oozes out of him at the feeling of your soft, wary tongue and he wants to weep due to the density of your care. More shrubs of roses bloom around your statue in that garden—and once again, he can’t peel his eyes off of you. 

Can’t stop brushing your hair back to see more of you. More of your rose-flushed complexion. More of the spark of your being that irradiates you from within. More of your care and love. 

And you give it to him. 

You wash out the dried blood on his face in the shower. Brush his teeth with extra care, which makes it more than difficult for him to stifle his tears. He lets you be a witness to his sensitivity and you welcome it, cradle it, hold him while the toothpaste foam numbs his achy lip. And it scares his fear away, most peculiarly. 

You hold him in bed, too, amidst the crisp, flower-scented linen of his fresh bed sheets, and you apologize. 

“I’m sorry for what happened tonight. If I hadn’t said a thing, you wouldn’t have ended up bruised and swollen,” you croak out, shifting the cold compress lower on his face, and you break into tears that trigger his. He had wished you weren’t a brat, but for a far different reason, and he tells you. 

“It’s an honor to get punched in the face for you.” He smiles through his tears and you sigh, removing the cold compress. “But I did wish things ended differently. I wanted to fuck you in my car. Keep the window open so you would hear your favorite rapper. But if things went according to my plan, you wouldn’t have healed me.” 

You sniffle, your eyes rounding at the onrush of your tender emotions, and Jungkook watches the waterfall of your tears. His own flows and mingles with yours, joining in unity. 

“What happened to you when we left?” you ask and Jungkook knows he wouldn’t avoid this question for long. Deems you deserve to know because of all what you’ve done for him. And he readies himself, pausing before he bares himself, fully, to you. 

“I got into panic mode because I blamed myself for ruining your night and…” he trails off, aware of the fact he needs to be more specific, and he takes a deep breath, wiping his tears with one hand before slapping it back on the duvet. “I have a constant fear that the people I care for will eventually leave me,” he explains and a wisp of pride envelops his bones for managing to get those words out for the first time in his life. You snuggle closer to his side, placing your head on his shoulder, and he gazes down at you. His fingers find your ear on their own and it comforts him enough, to touch you like that, that he’s able to continue. “I got left behind a lot of times in my past, which is why I swore off love. It just hurt too much and I stopped having the capacity for it. And when we left the concert, I thought you’d leave me, too, after what I’d done.” 

You press the cold compress back to his cheek. “I could never leave you, you’re mine,” you whisper, and another stream of tears soaks through the dish towel wrapped around frozen vegetables. Jungkook doesn’t take your words for granted. He puts great meaning to them and hides them, safely, in his sternum. “And you didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t ruin my night. It was all me and for that I’m sorry.” 

He squeezes your arm. “Don’t be sorry,” he says and means it. Lifts his head and plants a cold kiss to your lips. 

Gentle. 

“I love you, Ggukie. It’s me who should be fighting for you now.” 

Jungkook laughs through his nose. “No, I’ll keep protecting my queen.” One more kiss, gentler. “I love you,” he adds and means it. 

And he falls asleep like this. With you clinging to the side of his body while keeping the cold compress intact and unmoving with your forehead. One that he removes in the middle of the night and warms up the iciness of your skin by smothering it with his body heat. 

Returns to the rose garden and gapes at the statue of you, hand in hand with you—as a changed person, a sensitive, flawed and submissive person that is loved and accepted. 

Finds it hard to believe even in his dream. 

And you’re there when he wakes up. 

Drooling, indecent and vulgar as you are. And he wouldn’t want anyone else.

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, @hobiberrystuff, @kam9404.

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

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[fillyreports]

Meet Eleanora! She’s thick and also a knight :) 

Eleanora: 

🖤Her grandkids call her ‘grandma Ellie’  🖤She’s 75 🖤Became a knight at 17  🖤Was going to retire before her husband was killed  🖤Won’t rest until her husband is avenged 

[kedreeva]

This is Eris (left, 2020) and her younger half-brother, Bismuth (right, 2023)

This is Citrine (left, 2023) and her full brother, Bismuth (right, 2023)

I've talked a lot about how breeding and care matters so hugely to these birds, but I think this is a really obvious example.

When it comes to choosing breeders, 99.9999% of breeders I've seen and spoken to are mainly looking at the males and how pretty their colors are, and largely ignoring the hens. "Any" hen will do- I RARELY see people being choosy. Maybe they don't know how to be, maybe they think it doesn't matter - the hens are not as flashy, so what difference could there really be? - maybe they just don't care, maybe it's hard to find nice ones anyway because people don't care. I don't know. Once in a while I see people going gaga over a nice spalding hen with a lot of color on her, but by and large, they're ignored.

These three birds share a father. Indie is a beautiful boy, and he held his color very well, but honestly his train carriage left a lot to be desired and he was pretty small compared to my own birds. Regardless, he made a few really nice kids, including Amber (Bug), Bismuth, and Citrine (The Trio). He also fathered Eris, Opal, and Onyx, though not with my hens and not on property.

And here's where we get to the point. This is Eris' mom, Sasha:

And here is The Trio's mom, Aurora:

Sasha was itty bitty, with a small head, and very short legs. She also didn't have particularly good color- almost none, if I'm being honest, and her train carriage was Not Great. Aurora, on the other hand, while not as leggy as her offspring (which is partially due to feed... I raised her from 3mo old 15 years ago when 'game bird feed' didn't exist and the recommended "best" feed option was chicken layer feed mixed with kitten chow... atrocious by today's standards), still has pretty good type and excellent color. She typically carries her train high, she's spurred, she's Big. She's also an EXCELLENT mother and broody.

On top of having Sasha for a mom, Eris was raised in a brooder, and later in a small pen, and on feed that was 18% protein (instead of the 26-30% they should be on). She didn't have the space early on to use her leg and wing muscles, and it shows in her type. Even though i got her when she was just a couple of months old, those first few months are crucial to their development. Feed and environment can only go so far though.

Anyway, you can see the difference in breeding and care here. Eris is short, stout, short necked, and her rump curves down. Her face, particularly her beak length, is short like her mother's. It's hard to see in the photo, but I assure you her neck lacing is thick/muddy. In contrast, Citrine has thin, clean lacing, she's nearly as leggy as her brother, her neck has richer and more purple color, and her rump does not curve down- you can see the bend where her tail begins and is held down. She's also quite slender/racy in body type, like a good game bird should be, rather than heading toward the stout body type of domestication.

I can tell people that hen choice and care/environment matters until I'm blue in the face, but honestly, I think having comparison photos really brings it home.

[so-bitya]

Whitewashing in Anime - Agni ft. Cithis

Browns of the Same Shade

Hello again! I decided to revisit this topic again now that we have Agni's official appearance in the anime. I also wanted to go over some aspects that I did not get to include in my first post.

In the end, Agni also got lightened! His skin tone was always somewhat darker than Soma's in both the anime and manga appearances. Yana does describe his appearance as a "dark-skinned woman" in her genderbend sketches. So, for the anime to lighten him this much to such an degree is disappointing.

The skin diversity in the anime has been pretty lacking so far. Once again, A1 studios was not perfect, but they did manage to give all three Indian characters different dark skin tones, while this anime has every Indian generally the same lightened shade.

(every indian character in the anime are the same skin tone... cloverworks stand up, you can't let a-1 studios beat you like this)

Personal opinion of mine, I feel like animation studios aren't willing to play with skin color values as much anymore. I remember even seeing white characters being various shades of brown, especially under certain lighting and environments. Unlike now, when every character looks bleached the second they hit the sun.

I also wanted to review what I think of Soma's appearance. Soma's skin tone isn't any darker than it was in the teaser shot sadly, so we can't blame the lighting. I already was expecting it, but it's still a shame.

One positive feature I'll give to the anime is that Soma's nose isn't pronounced all the time. In certain scenes, his nose isn't as sharp as it would be for other characters. I believe that's just the style for the anime and its dependent on the shot.

Anyway, I felt this image was pretty on topic with Soma and Agni's situation and just anime remakes/reboots in general lately:

Brown ≠ Grey

Something I'm embarrassed I forgot in my last post is saturation! I mentioned often how darker skin tones tend to be neglected, but not only that, but the color! The vibrancy in the skin, the life!

A common feature I noticed, especially in East Asian media, is how they avoid the "brown" in dark-skinned characters, by constantly making their skin tone duller, ending up with more grey-toned skin.

I often see art advice for digital artists that they should pick desaturated colors or colors in the "grey zone" as to not overwhelm the art piece. Which is fine most of the time! But when you apply that advice for brown skin, what you get are mostly grey tones, and end up having your character look like a zombie.

Here are some colors I randomly picked. The colors on the left are those sandy, dull grey tones I was talking about. If you want to get those richer, deeper-toned browns, you need to pick colors with more saturation like the ones on the right.

Now of course, color is relative and you can't just color pick your way around without considering how it fits in with the rest of the piece. You can even end up washing out your brown character despite choosing a strong brown color. You have to consider the background, lighting, undertones, the environment, and how they'll affect your character. There may even be times desaturated colors work better, but you have to at least consider why it works "better".

Let's take a look at everyone's favorite manga artist right now, Ryoko Rui! Ryoko Rui is praised often for her diverse character roster and creature design, however I always found her darker skin tones rather... lacking, as such for the elf Cithis.

(I color picked her skin tone and it matched my light grey shades above lol)

Her skin tone is very washed out and grey. She not nearly as dark as she appears in the manga. Once again, there's that dissonance between skin tones. Now take a look at the manga's grey tones.

When you see this, what skin tone do you imagine for her? Do you imagine the greyish, washed out tones from above or do you imagine something more akin to these black fae models I found?

(credit: @jaharajayde on twitter and @glassmarigolds on pinterest)

I'll give Rui credit that her color illustrations of Cithis improved and she's gotten better giving Cithis stronger undertones. I really like how the fandom has been illustrating her too, there's been some amazing fanart of Cithis such as these (the lighting in the last one is lovely).

Just adding saturation helps so much with skin tone. I even found an fan edit of Soma that added more color back into his skin, and he looks so much better for it.

One might say, "Oh what's wrong with having grey skin tones in a fantasy story!" Well... nothing really! You can have green or purple or blue characters if you like. But when there's already a startlingly lack of brown characters in a fantasy story, it can get awfully uncomfortable seeing the story portray different fantasy "races" with obviously non white racial features... but don't want to include any black/brown skin tones.

(fantasy artists would sooner give an orc dreads than a human, forget a "noble" creature like an elf... such decisions only reveals the artists' viewpoints)

It all just comes back down to avoiding that dreaded "brown". When it comes to these "reasons", we have to question whether they aren't just more excuses to not include black and brown people in stories, which makes me come to my next point:

Essence of Brown

There's some severe misinformation I want to address about Soma. I saw a fan a while ago say that Soma has a white mother which explains why he has light skin.

Firstly, that information is false. It was a concept Yana had for Soma, but quickly decided to drop it. Soma is not half white.

In the early drafts of the series, Soma had a white mother and, thus, white skin. However, this was later omitted in final revisions.

(quoted from the official kuroshitsuji wiki as an excerpt from the character guide)

Yes, you can have mixed parents and any kind of skin tone really! But it feels... dishonest to create "reasons" why the manga's first major Indian character, joining a cast of white people in a European country, should have white skin as well. Especially considering Yana's artstyle, without Soma's skin tone and Indian wardrobe, is his physical characteristics like his face even distinguishable enough for him not to be mistaken as white?

Imagine I wrote a story set in France, and teased an appearance of an African character in story that only had white characters until now, only for him to be completely white in appearance, and identical to every other white man, except for the occasionally exotic dress and other drab stereotypes.

What would you think? That his race is only a dressing to fulfill an exotic need at times? That he's a supposed homage to another culture, but it's wrong to have him actually look like the majority of people who made said culture? Why is he even this way?

Did he have a white parent? A white upbringing? Lived in a white culture, lived a white life? Maybe he was separated from birth! From his hometown, his country, his people, anything to justify why my "brown" character is so divorced from that part of his identity, from that side of the family whose skin tone runs a little too dark.

And I think that's why Yana decided to drop the concept of giving him a white mother. Why go through all those loopholes and explanations? Why all that justification for him to have white skin?

It's just another way to avoid the "browness" again for a character, what makes them brown in the first place and related to black/brown cultures. It's what we should consider in the future when we find ourselves coming up with "reasons" why black/brown characters should be anything but themselves.

Whitewashing in Anime - Soma ft. Usopp

[neve-rook-datv]

The Trouble Within - Neve Gallus’ personal notes - Part 1

Disclaimer : This story is inspired by fan critiques and discussions regarding the romance dynamics in Dragon Age: The Veilguard, particularly around the evolution of Neve’s relationship with Rook. Many fans felt some frustration with Neve’s hesitance to fully engage in the romance with Rook, and her reserved demeanor. This piece explores why Neve seems to keep her distance despite the intensity of her feelings and reimagines her interactions with Lucanis, whose light-hearted flirtation serves here as a facade to mask her true emotions toward Rook.

Arlathan Forest is a place that almost feels alive—ancient, watchful. The trees arch overhead, their leaves filtering the light into hues of deep green, amber, and burnt red. The ground is blanketed with fallen leaves that shift in color as the sun moves, and the air is thick with the earthy scent of moss and damp wood. It’s hauntingly beautiful, yet there’s a weight to the silence here, as if the forest is holding its breath, waiting.

And then there’s her.

Rook moves ahead of me, weaving through the trees with an ease that feels almost unnatural, like she belongs here in a way I don’t. The dappled light catches on her face, illuminating her profile in vibrant, natural hues, casting shadows that shift across her skin as she steps in and out of patches of sunlight. I find myself watching the way the colors dance around her, highlighting the quiet strength in her posture, the relaxed yet sharp way she holds herself.

Something about the way she walks—confident, steady, each step deliberate yet unhurried—makes it impossible to look away. Hints of amber and evergreen seem to cling to her, as if the forest itself recognizes her presence, drawn to her as much as… well, as much as I am.

I don’t know when this pull began. At first, I told myself it was curiosity, a fleeting interest in her reckless nature, in the way she throws herself into danger without hesitation. But now, watching her in this light, the forest colors framing her like some figure from an ancient tale, I feel something deeper—something I dare not name.

She turns, catching my gaze, and there’s that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, her eyes glinting with a hint of mischief. “Something on your mind?” she teases, breaking the silence and pulling me back to reality.

I force a laugh, a quick, dismissive sound to mask the way my chest tightens. “Just keeping an eye out. No harm in staying vigilant.” But the truth is, I’m mesmerized. The word Trouble slips through my mind again, and it feels like a warning—to her, to me. She’s trouble in every way, and yet… I can’t bring myself to look away.

The deeper we move into the forest, the darker and richer the light becomes, casting Rook in a way that feels almost deliberate, as though the forest itself is revealing something hidden in her. There’s a quiet strength in her gaze, a softness I rarely see, and each time she steps into a beam of light, she seems to command the world around her without even trying. I don’t think she realizes the effect she has on me, the way her presence keeps me unsteady, questioning everything I thought I knew.

Calling her Trouble feels like my last line of defense, the only way I have left to protect myself. It’s a label that’s meant to keep her at arm’s length, to remind me not to get too close. But as that barrier slips, I feel something inside me begin to unravel, like a cord stretched too tight, finally giving way. I can’t stop myself from looking her way, each glance feeding a pull I don’t fully understand, one that unsettles and captivates me all at once. The way she moves, how the light wraps around her, draws me in deeper, makes her seem almost otherworldly, untouchable. And yet, in these moments, I feel closer to her than I’d ever let myself admit.

Lucanis keeps things light, and I remind myself that’s all I need. His flirtations are easy, harmless—a game that lets me forget the weight of everything else, if only for a moment. With him, there’s no need to dig deep or question anything; we can laugh, exchange glances, play at something that never asks for more. It’s uncomplicated, a distraction that feels almost safe in its simplicity.

But even as I tell myself that’s enough, I can’t help feeling a pull toward something beyond that ease, something that makes my heart race in a way Lucanis never could. And that’s when I feel her presence, like a quiet tension at the edges of my thoughts, impossible to ignore. And I… I am left to watch, caught between the fear of what this means and the thrill of simply being near her.

I wanted to keep things simple, to call her Trouble and pretend that’s all she is—a distraction, an annoyance. But standing here in the heart of Arlathan, surrounded by ancient colors and silent trees, I can feel my resolve slipping, the walls I’ve built crumbling with each glance, each step.

She doesn’t know, of course. How could she? She’s focused on the path ahead, oblivious to the chaos she’s causing in my mind. But as the reds and greens cast their final light on her face, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m losing this battle—that “Trouble” is no longer a warning, but a confession.

Edit: Wording, phrasing, flow.

[ree-dee-art]

Honestly, I must admit that I'm not too fond of fan artists changing/headcanoning Harry and James to be as desi/dark skinned. I personally think the Dursleys are far more despicable due to hating on someone not because of skin color/racial prejudice(because then they would've no doubt hated Kingsley), but because someone is not their definition of 'normal'/ looks & acts not to their standards. It's already stretching it with race changing Hermione and making her a big target of wizard prejudice on muggles. And it also kills the prejudice Lily faced, because she's still fair skinned.

Initially, I was just going to respond to this by encouraging anon to go touch some grass.

However, I feel somewhat compelled to respond, because there is just so much to unpack in this single nonsensical message.

Firstly, I honestly don't get a whole lot of asks or messages in general, so receiving this one out of the blue was a bit wild for me. The nature of fandom itself allows for and embraces a plethora of different interpretations and headcanons for any given character. In many ways, this is the beauty of fandom--to take a beloved character and ask "what if?" I have no problem with someone having a different interpretation of a character from my own. What confuses me is this person's method for expressing their opinion. Why are you anonymously sending this to a stranger? Why not make a text post on your own blog about it? Like...what is your goal here, anon? I'm an artist who draws what I enjoy, and sometimes I share these drawings in the hopes that someone else might enjoy them too. Not your vibe? Not my problem. Go find some white Harry artwork to appreciate, there's plenty out there. Were you hoping I would change my own interpretation and headcanon of Harry or Hermione to fit your own? Lol, tough luck. No one is stopping you from drawing your own pictures.

All of that aside, your reasoning for your preference of having characters like James, Harry, and Hermione not be POC is incredibly confusing to me. You said you believe the Dursleys are "far more despicable" for hating Harry not because of skin color but because he didn't match their "definition of normal." I have a few follow-up questions regarding this (wildly inane imo) take:

1. Does this mean you believe the Dursleys hypothetically also hating Harry because of the color of his skin is in some way less despicable than them hating him because he can do magic?

2. What exactly do you think racism is, if not "hating someone because they don't match your definition of 'normal?'"

3. How does Hermione being black and muggleborn erase the discrimination Lily faced for also being muggleborn? Do you know that intersectionaily exists?

Some of the most interesting creations I've encountered in the HP fandom (fics and art) explore the complexities in the intersections between racial discrimination, white supremacy, and pureblood fanaticism. And there truly is so much to explore in these themes (for example: ways in which Harry could have been separated not only from his loving family, but also a part of his culture. It also allows for interesting and more complex ways for Harry and Hermione to bond and relate to each other in their friendship, etc).

For me, more diversity within these characters (whether it be race, queerness, or anything else) allows for much richer storytelling and much more interesting characters. If that's not your jam, then perhaps my work isn't for you.

However, I will say--this message is very much giving "only white characters and muggle discrimination allowed!!!" and I encourage you to ask yourself why that is the only context for these characters you feel comfortable with.

But seriously, go touch some grass.

[racefortheironthrone]

What did you think of X-Men Blue Origins?

(I may turn this into a People's History of the Marvel Universe later today, so keep an eye on this space.)

X-Men Blue: Origins and the Power of the Additive Retcon

(WARNING: heavy spoilers under the cut)

Introduction

If you've been a long-time X-Men reader, or you're a listener of Jay & Miles or Cerebrocast or any number of other LGBT+ X-Men podcasts, you probably know the story about how Chris Claremont wrote Mystique and Destiny as a lesbian couple, but had to use obscure verbiage and subtextual coding to get past Jim Shooter's blanket ban on LGBT+ characters in the Marvel Universe.

Likewise, you're probably also familiar with the story that, when Chris Claremont came up with the idea that Raven Darkholme and Kurt Wagner were related (a plot point set up all the way back in Uncanny X-Men #142), he intended that Mystique was Nightcrawler's father, having used her shapeshifting powers to take on a male body and impregnate (her one true love) Irene. This would have moved far beyond subtext - but it proved to be a bridge too far for Marvel editorial, and Claremont was never able to get it past S&P.

This lacuna in the backstories of Kurt and Raven - who was Kurt's father? - would remain one of the enduring mysteries of the X-Men mythos...and if there's one thing that comic writers like, it's filling in these gaps with a retcon.

Enter the Draco

Before I get into the most infamous story in all of X-Men history, I want to talk about retcons a bit. As I've written before:

"As long as there have been comic books, there have been retcons. For all that they have acquired a bad reputation, retcons can be an incredibly useful tool in comics writing and shouldn’t be dismissed out of hand. Done right, retcons can add an enormous amount of depth and breadth to a character, making their worlds far richer than they were before. Instead, I would argue that retcons should be judged on the basis of whether they’re additive (bringing something new to the character by showing us a previously unknown aspect of their lives we never knew existed before) or subtractive (taking away something from the character that had previously been an important part of their identity), and how well those changes suit the character."

For a good example of an additive retcon, I would point to Chris Claremont re-writing Magneto's entire personality by revealing that he was a Jewish survivor of the Holocaust. As I have argued at some length, this transformed Magneto from a Doctor Doom knockoff into a complex and sympathetic character who could now work as a villain, anti-villain, anti-hero, or hero depending on the needs of the story.

For a good example of a subtractive retcon, I would point to...the Draco. If you're not familiar with this story, the TLDR is that it was revealed that Kurt's father was Azazel - an evil ancient mutant with the same powers and the same appearance (albeit color-shifted) as Kurt, who claims to be the devil and is part of a tribe of demonic-looking mutants who were banished to the Brimstone Dimension, and who fathered Nightcrawler as part of a plot to end this banishment.

I don't want to belabor Chuck Austen, because I think that Connor Goldsmith is right about his run actually being a camp cult classic in retrospect. However, I think we both agree that the Draco was a misfire, because of how the retcon undermined Kurt's entire thematic purpose as established in Giant-Size X-Men that Nightcrawler was actually a noble and arguably saintly man who suffered from unjust prejudice due to the random accident that his mutation made him appear to be a demon, and because of how the retcon undermined the centrality of Mystique and Destiny's relationship.

X-Men Blue Origins

This brings us to the Krakoan era. In HOXPOX and X-Men and Inferno, Jonathan Hickman had made Mystique and Destiny a crucial part of the story in a way that they hadn't been in decades: they were the great nemeses of Moira X, they were the force that threatened to burn Krakoa to the ground by revealing the devil's bargain that Xavier had struck with Sinister (and Moira), they were the lens through which the potential futures of Krakoa were explored, and they ultimately reshaped the Quiet Council and the Five in incredibly consequential ways.

This throughline was furthered after Hickman's departure, with Kieron Gillen exploring the backstories of Mystique and Destiny in Immortal X-Men and Sins of Sinister, and both Gillen and Si Spurrier exploring their relationship with Nightcrawler in AXE Judgement Day, Sins of Sinister, Way of X, Legion of X, Nightcrawlers, and Sons of X. One of the threads that wove through the interconnected fabric of these books was an increasing closeness between Kurt and Irene that needed an explanation. Many long-time readers began to anticipate that a retcon about Kurt's parentage was coming - and then we got X-Men Blue: Origins.

In this one issue, Si Spurrier had the difficult assignment of figuring out a way to "fix" the Draco and restore Claremont's intended backstory in a way that was surgical and elegant, that served the character arcs of Kurt, Raven, and Irene, and that dealt with complicated issues of trans and nonbinary representation, lesbian representation, disability representation, and the protean nature of the mutant metaphor. Thanks to help from Charlie Jane Anders and Steve Foxe, I think Spurrier succeeded tremendously.

I don't want to go through the issue beat-by-beat, because you should all read it, but the major retcon is that Mystique turns out to be a near-Omega level shapeshifter, who can rewrite themselves on a molecular level. Raven transformed into a male body and impregnated Irene, using bits of Azazel and many other men's DNA as her "pigments." In addition to being a deeply felt desire on both their parts to have a family together, this was part of Irene's plan to save them both (and the entire world) from Azazel's schemes, a plan that required them to abandon Kurt as a scapegoat-savior (a la Robert Graves' King Jesus), and to have Xavier wipe both their memories.

Now, I'm not the right person to write about what this story means on a representational level; I'll leave it to my LGBT+ colleagues on the Cerebrocast discord and elsewhere to discuss the personal resonances the story had for them.

What I will say, however, is that I thought this issue threaded the needle of all of these competing imperatives very deftly. It "fixed" the Draco without completely negating it, it really deepened and complicated the characters and relationships of both Raven and Irene (by showing that, in a lot of ways, Destiny is the more ruthless and manipulative of the two), and it honored Kurt's core identity as a man of hope and compassion (even if it did put him in a rather thankless ingénue role for much of the book).

It is the very acme of an additive retcon; nothing was lost, everything was gained.

I still think the baby Nightcrawler is just a bad bit, but then again I don't really vibe with Spurrier's comedic stylings.

[thepinkdreamganjaqueen]

Subway Obsessions Arthur's POV ch.1

Arthur Fleck POV x Fem!Reader  

Masterlist 🩷

Summary: From Arthurs POV. It's just another night on the subway. A typical ride on the Gotham train on his way home from a long day of running errands and away from his tedious depressive thoughts. Perhaps he would catch a glimpse of the woman he could only seem to catch in passing, the woman he’d been secretly watching, following, fantasizing about nightly. Perhaps the unending misery that is the city above had him thinking of change, of something new to obsess about. Something to draw his mind away from the blistering and the mundane. Would he finally get the courage to talk to her? 

Warnings: SMUT, NSFW, 18+, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, public exhibitionism, subway cruising, swearing, stalking, obsession, mentions of violence, fem!reader, romantic smut, fluff

A/N: Beginning to a series? Who knows. May add things later. First fic, btw! I'm hyper fixated now, so expect more. This is something I've been mulling around with for a while. I've done this story from both the readers' POV and from Arthur's because I can't get enough!! So, make sure to read both! I loved writing from this perspective so much, btw! Literally! Send ideas, edits, etc. my way!! And be nice please. The first chapter is mostly fluff/ descriptive plot/character building. Cheers! Enjoyyy!

Word Count: 3.9k

SERIES: Subway Obsessions 

CHAPTER 1: Chance Meeting 

Today was another mundane day. Arthur had been out earlier in the evening running errands for his mother. Picking up T.V. dinners at the grocer and medications for him and her at the local pharmacy. Still, getting around the city was a chore in of itself. He figured the subway would be the easiest and quickest way home. It was nearing 10 o'clock pm. His mother would be worried, and it was getting late. He knew the dangers of roaming Gotham city at these hours. His mother used to say, "That's when the colorful people come out." A way to make something serious, completely unserious. Still, he knew the dangers and tried as hard as he might to keep his wits about him. Easier said than done when you're a man with a neurological disorder, apparently so many people hate you for. He wished they’d understood or tried at least.  

He always pondered why the people of Gotham were so... well so mean! Everyone he encountered save for the very, very few were just assholes to him. Perhaps it was the political climate? With Thomas Wayne running for government placement, it probably didn't help. Make the rich richer and the poor poorer he thought. Perhaps it was the state of the city itself, the infrastructure, the lack of resources. He sure has been on the wrong end of that stick one too many times. "Good people suffer Happy," his mother would say. But he never understood why it had to be that way. Life was circumstantial. He didn't ask to have what little he did. He didn't even ask to be born and thought life was the real joke.

It doesn't have to make sense to be funny! He jested internally. Because its fucked! And there lies the comedy for those broken enough to see, yet perhaps healed enough to laugh at the pain. Because, what else can you do?  

His mind wandered through these endless fields of thought when a train car stopped in front of him. He had been standing on the platform disassociating for some time. Perhaps he even forgot where he was for a moment, ruminating over the wrongs of life and playing them out differently in his head. The things he didn't say or do, what he could have done differently... 

The brisk hiss and click of the air brakes as they screeched to a halt brought him back to reality. He blinked a couple of times, waiting for the doors to open. As he did, a disheveled looking figure pushed past him while exiting. He burst out in a cry of compulsory laughter and stepped on the train. He was in the last car and immediately noticed it was bearable, as bearable as riding the subway can be he postulated. 

In his search for a seat towards the end of the train car, he noticed a large putrid looking spill in the back. It melted off the seats and slid across the aisle. It looked sticky. Best to avoid that then, he thought. He opted for a bench seat away from the offending area and sat down, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back, arm outstretched on the head of the seat next to him. No one was in this car except for him. He found a moment of solace and drank it in, filling himself with the noiseless satisfaction of silence and peace when a warbled voice broke over the loud speaker. He couldn't really understand it, but the semblance of words spoke what sounded like “platform 19”. It was all he could understand through the robot whine. He felt anticipation rising within him. 

At approximately 10:15 p.m., the doors of the subway train broke open with a gush of cold night air. At the other end of the subway, he watched as a woman stepped onto the train like a fawn. Scared and unsure of where to go or sit. She was bright and colorful; she immediately caught his eye. Was this what his mother meant by colorful people? He thought to himself. He quickly realized it was her! The girl he had fantasized about daily and nightly, hoping to catch her on the train but only seeming to in his thoughts and dreams, remembering her face, her scent that penetrated her surroundings. He had tirelessly followed her the first time he saw her. She was the only person to smile at him that day. He had to know more and had to know why. But she wasn't always on the same train. He always hoped to run into her and had almost given up, thinking she must have been some sort of hallucination he created for himself to lessen his own pain. But there she was.  

She looked different tonight. She looked like a predator, displaying colors brightly in the face of possible danger. She was a force; he felt the atmosphere change as soon as she stepped in through the steel doors, a thickness lifted in the air and he could feel himself tense in his seat. His clothes were suddenly uncomfortable, his collar too tight, his hands, sweaty. She always looked beautiful when he saw her, she always looked content and comfortable. Hair in a messy bun with strands falling about her face swayed by the wind that surged through the train car. Sweats he could still make out her figure through, leaving him wanting more every time, it drove him crazy! But today she looked like she was straight out of the films on the TV! He thought to himself. She made him think of glamour, it's the only word that truly fit, like the old films he would watch with his mom. Wow! Was she a sight to see, a cool pristine liquid flowing over his burning eyes. A soothing image of pure proclivity. An unknown sense of calm swept over him. 

He watched, frozen, as she cautiously observed the train car searching for a seat. He looked at her from top to bottom. She was significantly smaller than him, petite, probably around five feet three he gauged. Fuzzy black boots, blue jeans tightly hugging her figure, full thick thighs, his mouth began to water - he thirsted for her, wanted to drink in her every essence. He felt a lump in his throat as he tried to choke it down. A tight black shirt under a small cropped pink sweater with red hearts all over. It perfectly displayed her large soft breasts. Brown curls bounced about her shoulders as she walked, strands of them fell daintily on her face and cheeks. As she walked, she would flick it away with a quick movement of her head. The way she did that, moving her hair out of her face without using her hands. It made him tingle in all the right places. His mind raced. What else can she do without using her hands? he thought.  

There was something pink in her hair too, he saw as she walked past. She didn't notice him at first. Most people don't he thought to himself. Although this thought disappointed him, he didn't fault her for it. He had the urge to make her notice him. To be a presence and to be objectified by her, he only wished he could hold that kind of power.  

As she passed, the scent he had come to know as her- wafted past him, he sucked in through his teeth sharply. It was heaven on earth. Stimulating. He would follow that scent hoping to find her, mercilessly searching. It was like a drug, an aphrodisiac, and he felt his cock spasm. She was eyeing the seats towards the back where that odd spill was. A butterfly he thought. It's a pink butterfly in her hair. He immediately felt like a school boy again, fawning over and wanting to get the attention of the pretty girl and for her to return it.  

"This one's fine!" He blurted out, not really knowing what he was saying. She turned around, her beauty, dark, striking, and he found it hard to speak again. He stammered and was able to get the lump out of his throat to follow up with; "I don't know what that is back there but these are not so bad" his voice felt cracked but he tried to contain his composure, he didn't want to scare her off. He was the only other person on the train, and it must have jolted her since she didn't see him at first. Plus, she probably thinks I'm some kind of creep or weirdo, he thought to himself. There was some truth behind those thoughts, but that didn't make him a bad person, he thought. All day, he spends trying to have a nice day to make himself and others happy, trying to think good thoughts, trying not to let the bad influence the good he can salvage. 

"Oh, thank you!" A sweet voice broke the monotony of thought, and immediately he was flung back into the present. She made her way to the seats laid out in front of him. A row of sideways seating. He watched her sit gracefully, slowly, like a calculated ballet dancer, he thought. Every move fluid, every move perfect. When she sat, she arranged her things on the seat next to her and settled in. He wondered to himself where she was going. Why she had so many bags, why she was riding the subway so late, as a woman, she should be terrified. This city is not safe, especially for someone as strikingly beautiful as her. She was like a beacon of light, too bright to stare at, but he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame and simply couldn't resist the allure. 

She actually sat next to me! He thought. Only one seat away, actually next to me. But that wasn't all. She saw him, noticed him, heard him, and listened to him. The weight of these simple gestures made his hands sweaty, and he tried his best to remain aloof. The doors of the train opened on the other side of her, and a breeze blew her hair behind her and over her face. He couldn't help but see her, every aspect of her. He studied her every move, every inch of her body. He wanted this to last, for this image to never leave his mind.  

The wind that blew past her carried on it her scent. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the sweet alluring scent of peach? No. Some kind of berry? No. When the doors shut and the pressure created another breeze, the scent wafted to him again. Taking it all in, he identified the smell as watermelon. Some kind of fruity smell filled his senses with the feeling of euphoria. It was intoxicating. He wondered what it would be like to be pressed up against her, inhaling her deeply. He looked down with a deep sigh when he looked back over. She was moving a strand of hair out of her face and caught a glimpse of her looking at him as well. Her cheeks flushed instantly, and she broke her gaze. She was fire, burning too hot near him, and he wanted so badly to play, to burn himself, engulf himself in her flames breathlessly.  

He tried to come up with something to say, anything. How do I talk to her? What would I even say without sounding stupid? He thought. He watched on as the florescent lights above her flickered. It lit up parts of her he hadn't seen upon first observation. Glitter decorated her collar bones and cheeks. Her sweater was slightly unzipped. He could see the peeking out of her cleavage. Sparkling with glitter, so pretty, she reminded him of the stars of the night sky. Unmistakably beautiful, yet so. Far. Away. He had been working up the courage to say something to her, to hear her voice again, he didn't want to forget it. A symphony replayed in his mind. He needed more.  

He stumbled over his words, "Sorry, I-it's hard for me to talk, I meant to introduce myself. I'm Arthur, " he said in the kindest, most unassuming voice he could muster. She looked up and locked eyes. They burned his insides like hot coals. He anticipated her reply, not knowing if she would even engage in conversation with him. "No worries!" She spoke in a reassuring way that made his heart flutter. "I know how it can be, trust me!" She sounded genuine. Kind. There was something underneath her voice, though he couldn't quite conceptualize. Fear? Doubt, maybe? He wanted to take it away.  

"I'm Y/N. Nice to meet you, Arthur!" Again, her voice beaming so light and so lifting. She reached out to shake his hand that he had offered. Her hand was small and was practically swallowed by his. Her fingers were warm, sweeping softly over his palm as she grasped his hand in hers. It's a simple thing, he thought. It was a small touch, but it was enough to make him crumble inside. She felt so nice! "Y/N," he said. "I like that." He lamented. Such a beautiful name. But everything about her was beautiful. Her presence was wholesome and welcoming. Is this real? he pondered. Thoughts took over again, and not knowing how to continue the conversation, they sat in silence for a moment as he worked up the courage to speak again. 

Moments passed that felt like a lifetime, but he was content in her presence, soaking up her aura. As he went to ask her a question, she moved to speak as well. Catching each other off guard, Arthur profusely apologized "No it's okay, go ahead," he said, not wanting to interrupt her. "No, no, that's okay, what were you going to say?" She insisted back. Her voice was small and mousey, she seemed so shy. Why would she be? She screams confidence and power. Even in her apprehensive movements, she seems calculated, he thought to himself. He stole another glance at her. Her eyes sparkled reminiscent of a smokey quartz gem in a bracelet he once saw in a shop window. A thought of her adorned in nothing but gems crossed his mind. He tried to hold onto the image before it left his mind's eye. He felt a flush in his cheeks again, and his eyes darted. He couldn't look her in the eyes for too long. It made him nervous. He was working up the urge to speak again, to say something, anything.  

He broke the silence and asked, "So what brings you to ride the subway so late at night? Aren't you scared?" He uttered jokingly. After saying it, he felt immediate stupidity. Why would I say that? He thought and started an inner spiral. As if seeing his reaction to his own question and wanting to ease the tension building within him, Y/N said, " Well, I work at the Gotham shelter overnight. So, having to ride the train every night, I guess, I've gotten used to it for the most part. But, yeah, I do get scared sometimes. The city can be super sketchy, and I've been attacked twice already, so I had to buy mace and stuff to try and protect myself."  

The words spilled out of her mouth like a wave of glass, he couldn't fathom her ever saying this of all things, it was jolting for him and triggered something within him he had tried so long to hide. His mind raced. He felt anger and rage well up inside of him it hardened his sternum and burned in his throat. He became stiff but was unaware. The spiraling began to start again. This city was ruining people, hurting people, good people! He thought. She helps people, and then people hurt her?! Pieces of shit! He screamed internally. The emotions he felt were at war within himself. He felt rage for her pain and suffering at the hands of this city's denizens, he felt fear for her life knowing she rides the train every night, he felt regret, why couldn't he have been there to help, to do something? He all but took the pain on as his own, it soaked through to his core. He too had been at the mercy of some of the worst people he has ever had the displeasure of encountering in this god forsaken city, he too had been attacked, hurt, mercilessly tortured by these fucking terrible people.  

Lost in his train of thought and looking straight ahead he couldn't help but sternly say in sympathy "These people are just fucking terrible!" She must have noticed his change in demeanor at this declaration. He suddenly felt a warmth cross his leg, and lightly squeeze. It was smooth and comforting. His concentration broke completely. Pulled out of a trance by her as if the thoughts were just zapped out of his brain. His eyes quickly darted back to her where they followed the length of her shoulder, to her arm, and from her arm to her hand that rested upon his thigh. He felt the muscles in his face relax, his shoulders dropped, jaw unclenched. The sheer power she had over him he thought. The warmth emanating off of her palm was like security, a blanket of nostalgia. He couldn't remember the last time he felt what felt like love, like connection, or attachment. He couldn't help but see flashes of images in his mind, her moving her hand closer to his cock which had began to throb. He tried to brush away those thoughts but they plagued him. She was touching him. Something that never happens to him. He immediately craved her touch, he wanted more, he wondered how that would be possible. He thought this couldn't be real. Not this time.  

Once again, breaking his thought pattern she spoke, and he gave her his full attention. "Yeah, but I'm ok now!" She said in a reassuring tone. Her voice, like petals on velvet. Soft, gentle. "You're here now! And so, I feel safe." Safe? He thought, with me? Like she trusts me? He could feel the negative thoughts start to brim to the surface of his mind but quelled them by responding instead. He needed clarification. The words she spoke just didn't make sense to him. He couldn't see why she would or should trust him, although he so badly wanted her to, for this to be true, he needed it to be. He suddenly felt the urge to never leave her, to always be by her side. He would watch, he would follow, and he would do anything for her.  

He only imagined what it would be like to know her both romantically and intimately. "You feel safe? W-with me?" He spoke haphazardly, unsure of the answer he wanted to hear, hoped to hear. "I do." She looked into his eyes sincerely. His heart leapt into his throat; he couldn't breathe. She was so fucking beautiful. He wanted to grab her, to feel her against him. He shifted his legs at the thought. Looking up at him like that weakened him in so many ways. Most noticeably, in his pants, where he tried to conceal the results of his dirty thoughts. "Then I will protect you Y/N" he proclaimed proudly. A shy smile touched her lips and she continued to gaze into his eyes. He smiled back. I make her feel safe, he thought. She is comfortable in my presence. No one even bothers talking to me, no one ever wants to talk to me. He had the urge to speak once more but couldn't find the words.  

Before either of them could speak, the subway speaker rang out once again in that barely audible robotic toned voice announcing the next stop as the harsh brakes squeaked heavily to a stop. As if anticipating her to leave, he just as quickly stood up and offered out his hand. "Thank you," her voice sang. She turned to face him, her small stature looking up at him once more. He held his composure but felt the heat well up inside him. "It was so nice having someone to ride the train with tonight for a change!" She cheerfully exclaimed with a smile.  

She had grabbed her things and had let go of his hand. What sweet bliss it was for the few seconds he had held it. Her fingers, so dainty and soft. The train screeched to a halt, and he instinctively grabbed her hand again and put his other hand at the small of her back to steady her. He could feel the soft curve of her spine. He slowly moved a pinky closer, hoping she wouldn't notice, tracing the line of her jeans as he did, feeling the line of her panty through the fabric. He quickly pulled away as she exited the train. He had held back. He wanted to do so much more. He wanted to turn her around, grab her face and kiss her, shove her onto the subway seats, and have his way with her, make her cry out. He wanted her to miss work. He wanted her to quit! He wanted her all to himself.  

This moment was too perfect. It felt like a dream. As she stepped off the platform and began to walk away, he stood as the doors shut, helplessly watching her as she slowly walked. Unable to stop time. As the train brakes hissed and cranked, he saw her stop and turn around. She had stepped to the doors, but it was too late. He watched on as her figure shrunk into the distance as the train traveled once again into the dark tunnel. He waved. He would see her again. He would make sure of that. Platform 19. He thought, I'll remember this time. 

[enoughtotemptme]

a year and a day

Everyone knows that if you want to make a deal, you go to Eddie Munson.

Desperate to be rid of Jason once and for all, Chrissy makes a deal with the local demon. The consequences are…not what she expected. A story of friendship, love, and paying one’s debts.

Chapters: 1/13 Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Relationship: Chrissy Cunningham/Eddie Munson Tags: Alternate Universe - No Upside Down, Demon Deals, POV Chrissy Cunningham, Friendship, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Romance, Found Family, Roommates, Domestic Fluff, 1990s, Caretaking, Pining

Chapter One: June

Everyone knows that if you want to make a deal, you go to Eddie Munson.

---

It takes until the rehearsal, when Jason says, “I do” with a look on his face of complete and utter triumph, that Chrissy realizes, quite suddenly, that she doesn’t think she wants to do this. 

“And do you, Chrissy Elizabeth Cunningham,” the pastor drones in the echoing hall of the church, “take this man, Jason Harrison Carver, to be your wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death do you part?” 

She’d told him she didn’t want obey in the vows. He’d argued that it was traditional, and he wanted to get married with the same vows both of their parents had.

“Angel. Chrissy.”

Chrissy swallows hard, words sticking in her throat as Jason prompts her. The smile on his face doesn’t disappear, but his eyes grow flinty. His hands start to hurt on hers. 

“I…” she manages with a wince, but the rest still refuses to come out. 

“Chrissy!” her mother hisses from the front pew; her face, when Chrissy glances over, is rapidly turning the color of the inside of a watermelon. Her father looks uneasy, and her brother is glancing between all of the adults with confusion written all over his face. 

Jason turns his broad, All-American grin on the pastor and says in a jocular tone, “A little nervous. All brides are, right? Excuse us for a moment.”  

He drags her into the storage room off the side of the hall, where boxes of communion wafers and industrial-sized pallets of juice crowd the walls. 

“What the hell, Chris?” he demands, shutting the door with a small slam that belies the calm he’d been showing to the others. 

“I—I’m not sure that…” Chrissy winces again, tugging at her hand. “Jason, stop. That hurts.” 

He doesn’t let go. His grip only grows tighter, squeezing until it feels like her bones are grinding against one another. 

“What the hell do you mean, not sure? We’ve been waiting for this for four years. I’ve been waiting for you for four damn years,” he hisses, conveniently ignoring the fact that, while he was ‘waiting,’ he’d enjoyed the company of all kinds of other women. He hadn’t exactly made a secret of it, calling on the phone only a few months into her freshman year to confess and announce all in one breath that a guy has needs, Chrissy, angel; you understand.

Chrissy had been more discreet about her own needs, though she hadn’t allowed herself to give much thought as to why she’d kept it from Jason.

“I know,” Chrissy says. “I know that, it’s just—I really don’t like the vows, Jason. I told you that.”

He scoffs. His blonde hair is perfectly parted, not one strand out of place. He has a Ken-doll perfection that she’d always found appealing, but now it’s at odds with the puce color he’s gaining in his face.

“It’s just words, Chrissy. I told you we should do the traditional ones and you agreed!”

“No,” she says, “I didn’t. Words matter, Jason, and—”

“Why does it matter?” he interrupts, stepping closer still. Her wrist and hand are aching; his cologne, usually pleasant, begins to make her nauseous as he puts every inch of their height difference toward making her feel small. “You and me, we’ve always been on the same page. It shouldn’t be a big deal.”

“If I’m going to promise something, I want to feel comfortable with it—”

“Then hurry up and get comfortable,” Jason snaps. “They’re the vows we’re using. I’m the man, and you’re the wife, and this is what we’ve been waiting all this time for.”

In the traditional vows, the man doesn’t vow to obey the woman. He promises instead to worship her. It sounds laughable to her now. Vow or no vow, he’ll never worship her.

Chrissy looks into the eyes of Jason Carver, the man she’d said yes to four years ago when it had felt romantic to promise her future to her high school boyfriend. 

Even knowing they’d have to spend the majority of her undergraduate degree states apart, she’d felt so adult and worldly, going off to college engaged. True, they’d talked less and less as the semesters progressed—they’d talked on the phone every week, at first, and then every other, and then once a month until they only spoke when they saw each other in Hawkins on school breaks. 

But Chrissy’s future marriage to Jason was part of the facts of her universe: psych paper due on Tuesday, and she’s going to marry Jason after graduation. Avoid the inedible dining hall meatloaf, and she’s going to marry Jason after graduation. Bring James or Brian or Katie home for the night, and she’s going to marry Jason after graduation. 

It was so inevitable a truth that it seemed inconsequential, the way you know an orange falling from a tree will land on the ground but you’re hardly going to worry about gravity.

Until you’re the one falling, that is. And that’s what it had felt like, ever since graduation. Chrissy had come back to Hawkins and squeezed herself into her old life like it was a dress a size too small—church on Sundays, stingy dinner plates and comments about the freshman fifteen, wet mouth on her neck and a cool, clammy hand clamped possessively around hers—and spent the last month feeling that sickening rush in her stomach. Like she’d been on an elevator falling from the hundredth floor, waiting for impact.

In the space of a single breath, Chrissy finally understands why.  

She can’t marry him.

But when she looks into the eyes of Jason Carver, sees the rage narrowing them and feels the punishing grip his fist still has around hers, she knows, deep in her bones, that he’ll never let her go.

“You’re right,” Chrissy says eventually, the words tasting sour. “I’m just…nervous. But you’re right. We’ve been waiting a long time for this.” 

“Good. Jeez, Chris. Couldn’t you have gotten the hysterics over with before the damn rehearsal? What, are you PMSing or something?” Jason grumbles, but his hackles are coming down and his grip is growing looser.

She bites her tongue, then makes herself say, “Maybe that’s it. It is close to that time of the month.”

He grimaces, then pulls her back toward the door. “Come on. You’ve already caused a scene; let’s get this done.”

Bracing herself with a deep, silent breath while his back is turned, Chrissy goes back out into the church, pastes a smile on her face in front of the pastor, and says, “I do.”

Then, as the rehearsal wraps up and their families filter out of the church to drive to Enzo’s for the dinner, she places her right hand on Jason’s shoulder and murmurs in his ear. 

“I think you were right about the PMS. I’m having a feminine issue,” Chrissy tells him. Her hand is still red; the marks will deepen to a bruise by tomorrow. “I need to run to the store for some stuff. Drop me off and I’ll meet you at Enzo’s?” 

He rolls his eyes and tugs her up against him for a kiss. “Told you. Hurry up, Chris.” 

She smiles at him, pecks him on the lips one more time. “I will.” 

On the street a block over from Melvald’s, Chrissy shuts the passenger door and waves cheerfully as he drives on, then walks down the sidewalk toward the cross street that would take her to the general store. She listens to the roar of the engine, the gradual dissipation of sound as Jason drives the opposite direction to Enzo’s.  

The second she rounds the corner, she’s running for the woods.  

[click here to read the rest of chapter one on ao3]

[bengiyo]

Love Sea: Tongrak is Kind of an Asshole, and I Like It

I watched this yesterday with some friends, so my Stray Thoughts were a little scattered because we were talking about BL conventions, Thailand's tourism goals, and who MAME was. Now, with some time to think, I wanna talk about my favorite thing: Tongrak is a rich asshole. I love this for Fort and Peat.

He Looks Down on People Poorer Than Him

We open with Tongrak dressed inappropriately for his trip and the weather, whining on his phone, just to show his disdain for even being sent on this vacation.

Then when he first arrives on the island, he looks around at people enjoying themselves and a sign they dedicated to their home reading "Heaven on Earth" and immediately called it hell. This is these people's home! He is a guest! I deal with this show in my home city all the time. Be respectful!

Next, the first thing he does is start shouting at Mahasamut about the motorcycle and his luggage. He doesn't slow down to ask if Mut can speak the central dialect, or if there are alternative modes of transport. Instead he just screams at the man and then starts talking shit in front of him like he can't understand what is being said. I give Americans shit for doing this in other countries, and I give northerners shit for acting like they can't understand our accents down here along the Gulf.

He was rude about that bar, too. He went there for attention, and got pissed at the idea that people there might be into Mut more.tjsn him. He then stormed off without paying for his drink!

This man is so stubborn and petty that he literally just starts sending him thousands of baht instead of just asking him to speak in the same dialect as him. I'm totally with Mut on not speaking to him nicely until Tongrak did it first. What's so wild about this scene is that it's text that Rak is mad that his condescension is having no effect.

Mahasamut is Responding to Tongrak's Energy

Mut is just responding to what Rak is giving him, and is doing everyone a favor by bearing the brunt of this spoiled man's fits. He was even kind enough to let this man know right away that he could understand him.

The big thing for me is he can see when Rak is trying to get one over on him and turns that around. Rak tried to play like he had the upper hand sexually and felt played. He tried to play about being full and got played.

We see that the people of the island admire Tongrak, and he's involved in their lives. He's clearly playing a role here that Rak's friends hired him to play to help their cranky friend relax and finish his book.

I also like that Mut has made it clearly he is down to fuck with Rak whether he pays for it or not, because Rak is trying to hook up with someone for inspiration for his novel. I like that he removed the wealth component there, because it's clear Rak is used to throwing money at all of his problems.

Finally, Mut stopped immediately when he realized he'd actually scared and upset Rak. He doesn't actually want to hurt this man.

Why This Rocks for Peat and Fort

These two found a good rhythm in Love in the Air. They're good at this form of asymmetric bickering and flirtation. However, this time Peat gets to play the older, richer character. It's fun for me, because I think there's going to be a bunch of transference from LITA that covers how much of a jerk Rak is being to others.

I am glad that these two aren't reprising the same characters, and are being given a reasonable way to take advantage of their existing dynamic and tools. It's interesting that these guys can tap into similar beats without it feeling like the same characters.

On the Colorism

I see it, and it's there. However, I don't think MAME is an outlier in using it in her shows. There's a really rough sequence in Fish Upon The Sky (with Neo no less) that comes to mind immediately. I also just think that the skin tone stuff seems built in to a lot of the works we encounter (especially considering that some of these guys are literally brand ambassadors for skin lightening products or clinics). I think there's something to say about the way Mut is teasing Rak with a country bumpkin bit that could almost be read as race play, and there's maybe something to unpack there with far more nuance than I think we normally bring to BL.

But hey, while I have you here, now's a good time to say that if we want to tackle how race affects the queer experience, For The Boys is right there!

[one-night-story]

I Don't Know You, But I Would Love to Meet You (Jack Hughes)

a/n: I wanted to get this not under the wire, but I can't help but feel like it a little? Which, sorry about that. this is for @writingonleaves by way of @wyattjohnston 's annual winter fic exchange! I hope you enjoy it! this was as always a fun challenge to write. title is from "We Should Be Friends" by Josh Ramsay, which is v cute. (also it's so long oh jeez)

There’s probably a certain age when you’re fairly certain you’re “too old” to be waking up on strangers couches with little memory of A) who’s couch you ended up on and B) how exactly you got there.

I don’t think I’ve quite hit that age yet, so I think I’m in the clear for the understandable confusion I woke up with as the morning sun streamed in from the floor to ceiling windows. 

Shit, not only was I in an unfamiliar apartment, whoever was renting the place was clearly richer than my blood. 

Good news: my phone was on the coffee table and attached to a charger, so whoever I’d crashed with was a benevolent host, which boded well for my continued situation. I checked my texts and it seems last night me had been coherent and just exhausted, seeing as I remembered to text my roommate that I wasn’t coming home saying I was crashing “with friends” and that I’d text her when I got back on campus. 

Huh, promising.

It at least meant she wouldn’t send out a search party consisting of our friend group, their friends, and the National Guard. All incredibly good things for my continued health and existence. 

Now, to figure out who’s apartment I’d just woken up in. 

Carefully, I stretched out my legs and shifted the blankets onto my lap when I realized I at the very least had the sense to not try and sleep in jeans but had left my “nice enough to go out” t-shirt on, and scanned the area. A couple of photos on the wall of a relatively decent sized family, siblings at the bare minimum as they popped up in several photos. Rich, but a bachelor as no one with any interior design sense had popped by to huck a colored throw pillow into the mix, and that was assuming their lease didn’t allow for wall color changes. 

Honestly, I was coming up empty. 

None of my friends were this rich, hell if they were I feel like it would’ve come up way sooner, not to mention why the hell would they bother commuting to campus when they probably could leverage online classes and still come out with a degree. 

I was just about to fashion enough of a blanket skirt to at least try and find my pants so I could start rifling through a mail stack when there was creaking coming from down the hall. Well, maybe I’d have an answer soon enough. I readjusted the blanket a little so I could look over from where I thought the creaking was coming from and was greeted by… okay calling it a familiar face might’ve been a stretch, but so would the text to my roommate saying I was staying with a friend, so somehow that was two birds with one stone. 

I did recognize him, which was an improvement over my worst fear, he was a friend of a friend of a brother of a friend. Which put me at four degrees of separation, and raised my “why the fuck did I crash here” hackles, but the fact that I was on a couch and not in someone’s bed felt safe, even if it wasn’t all there yet. 

He didn’t seem to be fully coherent yet, as he rubbed his eyes and ran a hand through his, admittedly very pretty, hair so I tried to hold back a large laugh when he startled at seeing me sitting on his couch.

“Hi,” I said with a sheepish wave. “Sorry, I’ll get out of your hair soon enough,” I remarked. What I really needed to do was find out where the hell half-dead me had hucked my pants so I could tug them back on and then make a beeline to the nearest train station to get home.

“‘S fine, just… uh… shit, there’s no like… good way of asking this,” he mulled over.

“It’s okay, I don’t quite remember your name either,” I said, saving him the embarrassment. He laughed, and it was goofy and light, which was way too endearing for… shit did that microwave clock say 9:30 in the morning? I couldn’t help but join in with a chuckle of my own. 

“Oh thank god,” he said once he stopped most of the laughter, “I didn’t want to seem like a complete asshole, but also there was no way I was going to remember it after last night.” He added.

“Yeah, I don’t remember much either, and I don’t even think I drank that much?” I said with just a dash of question in my tone, he nodded once.

“You didn’t, but I think you mentioned that you didn’t want to risk taking the train back so late.” He said. “I offered to let you crash here when you refused to let someone pay for a hotel.”

Yeah, that sure did sound like me.

“Well, thank you, I’m Sadie,” I said, and as soon as I did, he brightened like he suddenly did remember and just needed the metaphorical kick in the brainstem. 

“Yes! Okay, see I thought it’d be in there,” he said with another chuckle. “I usually at least try to learn the names of the girls I bring home.” I couldn’t help but laugh at the way he chose to phrase it and even more when he very clearly winced realizing how it sounded.

“We’ll chop it up to “lack of coffee” and call no hard feelings, sound fair?” I proposed as an even solution to our silly little predicament. 

“Fair, I’m Jack by the way.” he said as he came over to the couch and offered up his hand. “Nice to actually meet you Sadie,” he said. 

“Nice to meet you too,” I said with a chuckle as I shook his hand with a bit of teasing vigor. 

“Can I at least offer you breakfast before you sneak out in the middle of the morning?” He asked while still holding onto my hand. I thought it over, and remembered the time, and figured that… yeah I could probably stand to be held up for coffee and a minimal breakfast before jumping on the train. 

“Yeah, if it’s not —“

“Don’t worry about it,” Jack was quick to cut me off. He let go of my hand and wandered back over to the kitchen and I was quick to try and figure out where the hell I’d put my pants so I wasn’t having to talk across the apartment and be perceived as rude on top of whatever else one could make assumptions about a girl who’d crashed on the couch of a guy she barely knew. After being assured that the blanket was carefully tucked around me I leaned down to check under the couch and was relieved when I found them sticking out. I carefully maneuvered my body so that I could reach under the couch, grab them and carefully bend back up onto the couch so I could put them on under the blanket. When I eventually sat back up and stood. Jack was looking at me with a look of bemusement. 

“Were you…”

“No, last night me wanted to not sleep in jeans. So I must’ve haphazardly hucked them off.”

“And you managed to get them on… without getting up from under the blanket?”

“Old trick from summer camp. Trust me, you haven’t even seen half of it.” I could get dressed pretty entirely without getting up from under the covers. When Jack still looked amused I chuckled and finished walking over to where he was in the kitchen. “What? Upstate New York gets cold in the morning in the summer.” I remarked. Jack fully laughed and again, I couldn’t help but join in.

“Oh I know, I guess I’m just used to living in houses with heating too.” He said. I simply shrugged, low tech summer camps, what could you do? I watched as Jack maneuvered around his kitchen to get the coffee going from the cautious spot of his breakfast bar, trying to not take up too much space or get in the way, no one likes multiple people in a kitchen at once, it was practically a fact. “I only have milk and sugar, I hope that’s okay?”

“It’ll be fine, I’m hardly in a position to be picky,” I said as I tried to focus on something that wasn’t the way Jack’s hair was falling that made him seem… softer? than just my brain’s logical, knee jerk reaction of him being “just some guy”. I mean, of all the people that my sleep addled brain could remember, I definitely remember that Jack was one of the better looking ones. I could feel my fingers wanting to pick at my nails and the social morays of it all was pretty much the only thing holding me back from doing so. I wanted to say something, anything, pretend for one morning that I was good at socializing. The fact that I’d managed to get through last night with enough grace and charm that I had managed to score a place to crash after the friend of a friend I came with ditched me to hook up with on of the myriad of white boys that were there that night meant this morning I was praying I had enough left to at least make it through coffee.

Jack set the Keurig off to do its thing and rifled through the cupboards to try and find… something. Honestly, while I was hoping for cereal, I would’ve settled for toast, when I heard him curse someone under his breath and went over to the fridge.

“Shit.” He muttered.

“Roommate eat you out of house and home?” I said taking a shot in the dark. Jack looked over, remembering he was making coffee for two and gave me a look that read as though I’d gotten it in one. He padded back over to the breakfast bar and leaned in conspiratorially, something I couldn’t help but meet him halfway about.

“So… I might’ve lied about breakfast. My brother was supposed to go grocery shopping yesterday after practice and it looks like he forgot.” I chuckled and opened my mouth to assure him that really, it was fine, thanks for even offering, I’ll just go; but he pressed on, “there’s a spot around the corner that does… probably better than I ever could and that includes the coffee. If you want, I could… take you there?” He proposed. 

On the one hand, that was incredibly sweet and his smile was very much continuing my brain’s belief of him being endearing. Not to mention I love a good brunch spot as much as the next girly and that included a good little diner.

On the other hand, I felt gross being in yesterday’s clothes and I didn’t want to impede Jack’s ability to get on with his day. That, and the somewhat social expectation to turn down anything offered with you without an obvious way to pay back. We weren’t really friends, and we weren’t dating, so what the hell could I even do? My obvious gut reaction was to reject it, to chop it up to the fact that really, he was just being polite and there was no real reason to go with him. But then I snuck another glance at him, a little open and earnest and maybe the offer was just a genuine “let me be a good host in spite of the fact that my roommate is making that a challenge.”

“One condition,” I said and Jack nodded, “you mind if I borrow your shower? I feel super gross,” I said and Jack immediately nodded.

“Yeah, course, I’ll get you a new shirt if ya need.” He was quick to add. I smiled and thanked him as he pointed me toward where the bathroom was. It was very clear a bachelor’s bathroom, but at least they had more than one bottle of soap. So… small victories.

I was quick to wash up and thankful for the t-shirt left precariously balancing on the bathroom island that fully suggested it’d been put there without someone looking. Changing was just as fast and I came back out feeling a little less like death. I grabbed my phone and my bag from the end of the couch (ungracefully shoving my t-shirt from last night in) and met Jack where he was by the door. 

The trip to ground level was mostly quiet, with both of us seemingly trying to pick and choose what to say about all of this. I didn’t want to put any sort of anything on it, hell, I was prepared to pay should need be and blow the rest of my fun money budget for the month. 

And Jack hadn’t been lying when he said the place had been around the corner as, sure enough, the glass faced front of a quaint brunch place, Edison light bulbs and all, was in front of us. For a late Saturday morning, it wasn’t horrendous by any means. I predicted a twenty minute wait without reservations, but I was willing to be surprised. Jack got the door for me and I muttered a quiet thank you as we walked in. The front area was small so I suspected that this was probably a strict “reservation or get lucky on a walk in” place. I snuck a glance at Jack, but he didn’t seem to be fazed by any of it as he made his way over to the hostess and they had a quick exchange before menus were being grabbed and we were being led to a quiet little back booth, out of sight of the main windows. The hostess gave her usual spiel about the menus and our waiter being over in a few and we both thanked her for her time. As she left I finally looked over at Jack.

“What?”

“Does the owner owe you money or something?”

“No, but he is a fan,” he said. That made me tilt my head slightly but I was quick to shake it off. “Relax, I made reservations while you were showering. Got lucky that they had a last minute cancellation.” He said. Yeah, that seemed reasonable all things considered, so I let the topic drop and gave the menu a scan. There wasn’t a lot that didn’t appeal to me, so that was a good sign. 

“Got any recommendations?” I asked as Jack fidgeted with his fork.

“Oh, uh… the pancakes are pretty killer. And my brother swears by their waffles. But pretty much everything’s good.” He said. I nodded and adjusted my own silverware as our waiter came over and poured water. While I was of the firm belief that brunch didn’t count as brunch without mimosas, I just ordered coffee with some of their fancier fixings. We asked for a bit more time with the menus and our waiter agreed to come back with the coffee. We fell into a silence, not quite awkward but nowhere near comfortable, and I settled on biting the bullet first.

“So why New Jersey?” I asked.

“Why New Jersey?”

“Yeah, you don’t seem like you’re from around here so why’d you move to New Jersey?”

“Work,” he answered simply. My memory of the previous night was still a swirling mess of exhaustion and bright lights and a smidge too much noise, but I think I remembered that those at the table who hadn’t been with my acquaintance group were coworkers. Must be a tight knit workplace. “You?”

“School, got a scholarship.”

“What for?”

“Creative writing, not the flashiest of degrees, but it’s what I’ve always wanted to do.” I replied. 

“Working on the next Great American Novel, then?” He asked and I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Ah, maybe. Right now I’m fighting to try and keep my voice while meeting every professors’ wildly different expectations. It’s a… hassle.” I said. The conversation spiraled from there, breaking to order brunch, but otherwise swapping stories about his family and my schooling. What could I say, I had an odd high school experience, even by American Public School standards, and eventful friends.

By the time food came out, we’d eased up the tension by a couple points, and I only felt sort of bad when my phone vibrated insistently in my pocket. I made a gesture asking if it was chill if I got it and he nodded. I fished it out of my pocket and scanned the notification. Multiple texts from Anna, the friend I was supposed to travel home with last night, as it seems she’d finally woken up from her adventures last night. Most of them were standard, if sweet, a “did you get home”, a “sorry for ditching you”, and then finally “oh holy shit this guy is rich rich”. It was funny, and I was just about to put my phone away when I saw the last text come in.

what kind of rich as hell guy has a two bedroom? Shit, did i sleep with a married guy?

That finally got me to audibly laugh and Jack raised his eyebrow, “The friend I was supposed to get back to campus with, she just woke up and is questioning if she just became the other woman.”

“Nah, none of the guys out last night were married. What’d she look like?” He asked.

“Blonde, dark eyeliner, wearing the purple tank top,” I said. Jack then stifled a laugh.

“Ask her if the guy she went home with had poorly taken care of curls,” he said offhandedly. I did and set my phone on the table as I continued eating my brunch.

A couple minutes later my phone lit up with a notification.

yeah, that is *oddly* specific, how did you know?

“Yeah he is,”

“Oh my god,”

“What?”

“She’s at my place.”

“You’re kidding,”

“She went home with my brother, you’ve been in the same place all night,” he said and I couldn’t help but nearly double over as I started laughing. The entire reason I’d crashed was because she had ditched me and now it turns out we’d been in the same apartment the whole night.

“Oh that’s so fucking funny,” I said once I could breathe again. I shot off a text to Anna.

I’m still downtown, I’ll meet you at the train station in a half hour if you want?

deal.

I finally put my phone back in my pocket and we finished up brunch with a companionable edge. By the time the waiter came back to clear our dishes we were getting close to having to negotiate the bill.

“So…” I started to say.

“I’m paying,”

“You didn’t even—“

“I was never gonna let you pay, my mom raised me better than that.” He said. 

“At least let me cover for my coffee?”

“Sadie, don’t worry about it,” he said with a tone that got me to drop it. Like I wasn’t going to be able to win this no matter how I negotiated it. As the waiter came back with the bill and Jack handed over his card I said a quiet thanks which got a grin out of him. Brain, pick a struggle, we cannot be enamored by this boy after waking up on his couch in a first meeting we can barely remember. He finished paying and we got up to leave and I did my best to keep my internal argument off my face as we did.

I managed to make it to the street corner before I was willing to confront the fact that I had to actually leave and go back to campus, and Jack had to… wait. Hang on. 

The coffee had started to kick in and things were finally lining up. I knew I had to have gotten into school for some reason right?

“Oh shit,”

“What?” He asked with a tilt of his head and okay fine I’ll admit it brain he’s cute, but the realizations that my brain was finally having made it so that this was never going to happen again.

“You’re a Devils player,” I said as I smacked my own forehead and Jack started laughing. 

“You only just figured that out?”

“Leave me alone, I haven’t had a full night's sleep in like a week,” I joked, still covering my face a little. Jack carefully moved me out of foot traffic and gently pulled my hands away from my face.

“Is that a deal breaker?” He asked.

“What?”

“Me being a hockey player?”

“What, why?”

“Well, I thought that went well all things considered and I was gonna ask for your number to hopefully do dinner sometime.” He said with a soft smile, letting his hand fall into mine. I thought it over, between the fact that he was indeed cute, that he was nice, and funny, and asking with such an expression that seemed that, if he wasn’t trying to convince me he was cool and at least a little normal, he’d be rocking on his heels about; and the mere fact that he took me out to brunch after offering to let me crash on his couch. It was pretty much enough in the category of good signs that I was inclined to say:

“It’s not a deal breaker,” and he grinned a little wider, “besides I was going to ask for your number anyway. I have to get your shirt back somehow.” I chuckled.

“Ah, keep it, I can always buy a new one.” He joked. I passed over my phone and he put his contact in before quickly texting himself and passing it back. I chuckled at his contact photo, a terribly taken close up of him, and saw that I had a text from Anna that she was at the station already.

“I guess I’ll talk to you to figure out scheduling?” I proposed with just a hint of awkwardness. 

“Yeah, I gotta check with my brother about some things and what have you.” 

“Okay,” I said with a little chuckle of disbelief. “Thanks for brunch, by the way.” I said.

“Thank you for agreeing and not sneaking out in the middle of the morning,” he replied with a bit of a chuckle that lit up his face. There was no good way to leave this, with a promise of something stronger, but still uneasy about what one's dynamic is in the now, “can I give you a hug?” He asked.

Oh thank god.

“Yeah, yes,” I said with a stumbled out laugh as he matched it before giving me a friendly “see you around” style hug. We parted with a half wave and I started making my way back to the train station.

I made it with a bit of a light jog as Anna dragged me in the direction of the platform so we could catch the train just pulling into the station. We quickly collapsed into seats before she finally turned to me.

“So… who's this?” She asked tugging on the sleeve of the clearly borrowed t-shirt.

“The guy who’s couch I crashed on last night. I made a comment about feeling gross about being in last night's clothes that he lent me a t-shirt.” Lent, gave, I wasn’t certain I wanted to broach that topic with Anna yet. Roommate first, acquaintances second. “How ‘bout you? Did you at least get coffee?”

“Yeah, he made a comment about his roommate being out so we ordered breakfast at his place, he was so nice.” She gushed. I watched as the realization crossed her face, “wait you said you’d tell me how you knew what he looked like when we met up,” she lightly wacked my arm with the back of her hand, “spill.”

I laughed and rubbed the back of my neck, “I was at breakfast with his roommate. Also known as his brother.” I said.

“Shut up! No fucking way,” she said with a laugh. We were getting looks from a few commuters in our immediate area and I tried to quiet her down. “That’s too funny,” she said in a slightly quieter tone. “Are you seeing him again?”

“Are you?” I countered.

“Maybe, he gave me his number, but I’m not certain.” She said, “Now tell me you coward,”

“Maybe,” I countered and she groaned at my dramatics.

“Insufferable, you fink.” She joked. I grinned a little as we continued some small talk before I agreed to let her rest on my shoulder until we got to the campus’ stop. 

I fished my phone out and figured that I should probably try and organize a date huh?

[ienjoywritingfilth]

the blue burrow part ii

trope: sugar daddy PP character: Dave York x f reader story summary: money has always been a hard thing to come by, so when a handsome man offers you everything you've ever dreamed of, you'd be an idiot to say no, right? chapter summary: Dave returns to see you and you both make plans.

warning: alcohol.strippers. smoking. finger kissing. book mansplaining. Dave York being hot as fuck just by existing. just so you know this story is gonna get 18+ in later chapters

words 3.7k

wanna see my other stuff?

part ii: the blue burrow

You think about Dave for the entire week.

You think about his eyes as you clean your kitchen.

You think about his voice when you go for a walk to pick up a carton of milk.

You think about how he walks when you make dinner for you and your stepfather during one of your visits. It's burnt macaroni and cheese but manageable to choke down. 

You think of Dave's deep chuckle when you do repairs on the leaking faucet in the bathroom in the shitty apartment you rent.

You think of his kindness when you take a fifty from the wad of cash he gave you and spoil yourself by getting a manicure.

You think of him when you decide on the baby blue colour, the same shade as the tie he often wears. 

You think of how good he smells when you tuck yourself into bed. And you think of his body in his suit as you touch yourself at night, cumming hard when you recall the way he called you Sleeping Beauty. 

You can't understand why you can't stop thinking about him. It's it his generosity? His quiet confidence?

You realize somewhere between Real Housewives and a documentary about overfishing that the reason you like Dave is because he listened to you like you were the only person on the planet. His attention was completely focused on you. He never pushed, he never tried to touch you, he never initiated something you weren't comfortable with. 

And then it's Friday. A day that has arrived both painfully slow and terrifyingly fast. You shave everywhere, you curl your hair and gloss your lips before spritzing yourself with a light, sweet-scented perfume. 

You kiss your stepfather on the top of his head and remind him that there's leftovers for him on the top shelf of the fridge. He thanks you, taking a swig from his beer and an hour later you arrive at the Blue Burrow just in time to see Tiffany walk off the stage two hundred dollars richer. 

"Your gentleman caller coming in tonight?" She teases you breathlessly as she rubs the glitter from her chest with a wet wipe in front of her light up mirror.  

"Dunno," you lie even though he said he'd be coming in. 

All the girls know about your crush on Dave. Ever since he turned both Tiffany and Candi down for a lap dance. And they keep assuring you he feels the same because they tell you he was watching you the last time you were working, looking away quickly when you glanced his way. 

The thought brings heat to your cheeks every time and a pulse between your legs. 

"He'll be in," Tiffany assures you with a wink. She tosses her caramel colored hair over her shoulder before leaning forward to you, urging you to do the same. "I know when a guy wants to fuck, girl. Trust." 

You look away from her, finding the eye contact with her words intense. It makes you giggle nervously. You won't lie, the thought of fucking Dave is more than enticing. You just know he's good at what he does in and out of the bedroom; he's got the focus of a man who wants to be good at everything. 

"Oooh you got your nails did," she says holding your fingers in hers. "You never have fancy nails!"

"Yeah well, I had a bit of extra cash this week," you shrug, pleased that she noticed. "Wanted to do something special."

"Good for you," she says dropping your hand so she can squeeze your shoulder. "You deserve good things, honey." 

You can feel the moment quickly turning somber and so you force a smile before remarking that you better get on the floor before Jared loses his shit. 

The start of your shift is the usual, patrons filling up on beer and cheap wings while the bass of the music on the stage pounds in your ears. You're just returning to the bar when you're intercepted by the other server on the floor. She’s trying to brush past you, but you see the tears in her eyes.  

“What’s the matter, Rita?” you ask, rubbing her back as she sniffles.

“It’s nothing,” she hiccups.

“Babe.”

“I-I need to get Robby this steroid thing for his lungs but they’re so fucking expensive and I’m pulling doubles and-“

“Stop, stop,” you whisper, holding her and rocking her back and forth. “How much do you need?”

“Like three hundred dollars.”

Fuck. All the money you got from Dave last week went to rent and your manicure. You don’t have anything until payday.

“We’ll figure something out,” you promise, even though you have no idea how you’ll manage to pull of that miracle.

“Am I paying you to gossip or to serve customers?”

Jared the asshole boss swoops in and the two of you break apart.

“Sorry Jared,” you both mutter, trying to hold in your sneers. Jared pops the gum in his mouth obnoxiously before rolling his eyes.

“Yeah yeah, sorry doesn’t pay the bills. Now get your asses out there and sell some booze.”

He takes the cash from the register, slipping it into an envelope and heading out the door to the bank.

"Can you take over my tables for like, two minutes?" Rita asks with a mournful look after he exits. "Ryan’s coming here with Robby and-"

"Take your half hour," you assure her. "I'll cover. No sweat."

She squeezes you in a quick side hug with a breathless thank you. You watch as she goes jogging to the front of the club. You see a man about her age waiting with a baby in his arms looking anxious. 

Rita's kid is often in and out of hospital with a chronic respiratory issue he was born with. Rita and her husband Mark are young, barely out of college and you know this stress takes its toll on them. Rita is so sweet despite everything that goes on in her life, everyone loves her. 

You take over her tables, making sure they everyone is satisfied with their food and drinks. You're just about to swing back to the bar when you hear a low voice behind you. 

"Busy night." 

Everything in you clenches as you turn around to face the voice. You try to bite back the smile but it's useless the second you see him. Dave sits at his usual table near the back and the second he smiles at you; your face breaks into a beam. 

"Hey stranger." You hold the drink tray under your arm, smoothing your suddenly clammy hands on the apron tied at your waist. 

"Glad you were actually working today.”

"What? You thought I'd give you the wrong day?"

"Never know," Dave shrugs, tipping back in his chair. "You mighta thought I was a creep." 

"No," you say quickly, too quickly. "I don't."

Dave nods, his dark eyes falling to your hands where you hold the tray at your side. He reaches across the two of you, taking your fingers between his large digits. 

"You did something to your nails."

He holds your fingers in his large hand, thumb coming to graze the back of your knuckles as he takes in the shiny gloss. Your heart skips an entire two beats.

"Uh ye---yeah, I got them done." You give him a shy smile as he examines your manicure closely. "I should actually be thanking you for them."

Dave raises his eyes to yours with question. 

"Your money is the reason I was able to treat myself," you explain. “I've always wanted to get a manicure but could never justify the cost."

The smile that spreads over Dave's face rivals the very sun. He looks like you've just told him he won the lottery. He smiles so broadly you see a dimple in the apple of one cheek and it makes you hold in a dreamy sigh.

"Yeah?"

You nod and he finally releases your hand, you let it fall to your side, missing the connection already. 

"Why blue?"

Because they match the ties you always wear. 

"I just like the colour." 

Dave nods, leaning back in the chair as Cinnamon’s song ends behind you. He still has that dopey grin on his face and it makes your heart flutter. He opens his mouth to say something else when a flurry of movement distracts you. 

"I'm back, thank you so much," Rita says giving a thankful look as she takes the drink tray from you. "I'll take over. You go have your break." 

Rita has no idea about Dave or the massive crush you're harbouring on him. She has no clue that she's getting in between a major flirt session. 

"Uh, thanks," you say trying not to look too disappointed. You give Dave a short wave before making your way to the back room. 

You grab your bag from your locker which consists of your dinner- casserole leftovers and your latest read. You head out the back door into the breezy evening. You take the seat in the alley between the buildings, eating your meal and reading.  

"I really do like the colour."

You look up to see Dave standing there at the corner, watching you read as he holds  a cigarette loosely in between his fingers. He smiles as you do. 

"I wanted to do rainbow," you confess. "One color for each finger but they wanted to charge extra so I decided blue was a good choice."

Dave is quiet for a moment, looking thoughtful. "So what're you reading tonight, Sleeping Beauty?"

You flush, pleased. 

"Don Quixote."

"I just realized you're on your break," Dave says shaking his head as he sees you curled up there with your food on your lap. “I’ll give you space.”

"No," you say quickly. "I like talking to you. Please stay."

You don’t miss how Dave’s cheeks flush slightly. He moves his long limbs to shuffle next to you on the rickety old bench in the alley. You offer him a bite of your casserole and not surprisingly he shakes his head.

“Not hungry, but thanks.”

You nod, poking at the charred remnants of your casserole. “I don’t blame you, it’s pretty shit.”

“Why are you eating it?”

“Because last time I checked groceries don’t grow on trees,” you say with a sardonic laugh.

"I have to head out," Dave says looking disappointed. "How about when I come in next week we can get that champagne room again and you can talk all about Sancho Panza?" 

"You've read it?"

"I have." Dave smiles at you. "You working next Friday?"

“Yep.”

“Okay, see you then, bookworm.”  

He walks away and you bite back the giggle that’s there in your chest. It makes you feel fluttery to think of going back to that room with him. You hope he doesn’t expect a dance though. You really like Dave and the thought that he sees you as just a fun time makes you suddenly self conscious.

Nevertheless you head back inside after your break, a skip to your step. You’re about grab your tray and head to the tables when Rita catches your eye. She’s dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her apron but when she sees you she waves, calling you over. When you go up to her behind the bar she gives you a watery smile and slides an envelope across the bar to you. It’s a simple black envelope.

“Your friend left this for you,” she says. You flush, knowing right away that it’s from Dave when you see that its simply got “Sleeping Beauty” on the front. Curious you look inside, gob smacked when several hundred dollar bills peer up at you. A quick inventory tells you that there is a thousand bucks inside. You stomach jumps.

A thousand dollars? Does Dave run a charity? Is he some philanthropist that haunts strip clubs? Whatever it is, it’s the answer to a very specific prayer. You pull five hundred dollars from inside the envelope, slapping them into a shocked Rita’s hand and telling her to “keep the change.”

--------------------------

Rita won’t stop texting you.

You are an angel from heaven.

I am making you dinner.

I cannot believe you don’t want me to pay you back.

Do you like anchovies?

Robby is breathing so much better. Attached is a photo of Robby grinning up at the camera.

Your heart swells. But at the same time you wish you had given her the money anonymously. All this attention feels gross, especially when it’s not like you did anything for it. You helped out a friend, just like anyone would.

When Friday rolls around you’re thankful Rita isn’t scheduled to work because you don’t know that you could take the adulation. You glance at your watch several times through your shift, and at eight pm on the dot he arrives.

When Dave walks in, dressed in his customary suit looking so handsome it hurts, he meets your eyes and just tilts his head towards the champagne room when you look at him. You practically skip after him, feeling your chest swell happily.   

"Hey," he says warmly. 

“Hi.”

You notice he has a black briefcase with him today. He must have come right from the office. You wonder what kind of line of work he’s in. He seems like he’s in finance if the clothing and confidence are anything to go by. But his demeanor and his sweetness make you think that he works with people.

"I'd like to order back to back dances if possible," he explains to Randy as the two of you approach. "How much for an hour?" 

Randy raises his brows at this, shooting you a look. You nod, smiling eagerly. Your joy is short lived though as a cough sounds behind you. 

"Where are you going?"

The two of you turn to see you boss Jared with his hands on his hips like a scolding parent. You immediately shrink at the irritation in his features. 

"I requested a private experience with your employee."

"We got plenty a girls that'll give you what you want," Jared replies. "Ones that actually know how to dance."

"I don't want the other girls," Dave says. "I want her." 

You feel your heart squeeze at his words and the command in his tone. This Dave doesn't resemble the man you usually see with gentle words and soft gazes. This Dave is glaring openly at Jared, his body poised at your side like a cobra preparing to strike. 

"We don't let servers off the floor," your boss scowls. "Takes away from the other customers."

You have never hated Jared more than this moment. 

Dave looks the man up and down before reaching into his pocket. You don't see the amount he pulls from his sleek leather wallet but it must be a lot because when he passes it into Jared's pudgy hand, his bald head gets pinker. 

"If anyone complains about slower service buy them a drink on me." 

Dave's hand flies to your lower back, gently urging you ahead of him into the room. You wait for Jared to deny you again but he simply nods before going to count through the stack of bills. 

Once inside Randy closes the door, giving you a nod that says I’m just right here.

You and Dave take the same seats as the first time you were here and he grins at you, bringing a briefcase onto his lap and opening it with a snap as sultry music begins in the background. You curl your legs up under you, looking at him.

“I brought you something.”

Inside is a leather-bound book. He hands it over to you, watching with anticipation as you open it to the first page. You let out a loud guffaw and he joins in with a deep chuckle.

“Slaughterhouse Five? Really?”

“I think you need to give it a re-read,” he insists with a wink that sets your heart hammering.

“For you, I will,” you promise him, gazing down at the beautiful book. You don’t think you’ve ever owned anything so expensive-looking on your bookshelf.

“I uh, I got you something too, actually,” you admit. You reach into your back pocket, to the wrapped item you bought this week at the mall. Dave looks utterly shocked as he takes it from you, his dark eyes wide.

“You bought me a gift?”

“Yeah,” you nod, hesitating when he doesn’t move to open it. “Is that okay?”

“Yes, of course,” Dave nods. “I just. . . You didn’t have to.”

“I know that,” you say with a roll of your eyes. You nudge his arm with your elbow.  “Open it, tell me what you think.”

Dave opens your pathetic wrapping job, pulling out a pale blue tie with weaving as the pattern. The second you’d seen it in the shop you’d fallen in love with it. It matches your blue nailpolish perfectly.  

“It’s from Tom Ford,” you explain as Dave stares at it. “The girls told me it’s a good brand.”

You stop, realizing you sound like a salesperson for the store. 

“These are expensive.”

“Yeah, well, you tip well what can I say?”

Dave looks unhappy and your smile dies.

“You don’t like it?”

“Of course I do it’s just. . . That money was meant for you,” he explains, his thumb tracing along the fabric of the tie. “I wanted you to spend it on something you wouldn’t normally.”

“I did,” you explain with a shrug.

“Not on someone else,” he says. “I wanted you to spoil yourself.”

“I did,” you repeat. “I got this manicure last week remember?”

“With a colour you settled on.”

“I like blue.”

“You wanted rainbow.”

“Are we really arguing about this?”

You can’t help but let out a breathless laugh, shocked at how this conversation has gone. You’re amused but also a little irritated. You reach out your hand for the tie, your eyes on the ground. Tonight isn’t turning out how you wanted.

“If you don’t want it I’ll take it back.”

Silence.

You raise your gaze to see Dave staring at you. You lower your hand, seeing that he still has the tie in his hand. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I love the tie. I just wasn’t expecting a gift.”

You watch as his fingers go to his collar, loosening the current navy tie he wears, something called a Stefano Ricci that he tosses into the briefcase. He replaces it with the pale blue tie you bought him, knotting it with ease and grinning at you.

“How’s it look?”

“I like the colour,” you smile toothily as you bring your hand to the bottom of his tie, showing him how it matches your manicure perfectly. “A good match isn’t it?”

“I’ll say,” Dave smiles softly.  

He takes your hand in his, thumb rubbing the center of your palm. You sigh softly, watching as he raises your hand to his mouth. Your breath hitches as he presses his pillowy lips against your fingertips.

“Thank you.”

You finally find your voice after you swallow, nodding. “Welcome.”

He finally lowers your hand, placing it back on your lap before tilting back a bit, his arm on the back of the booth seat.

“So, I was promised an in depth discussion about Sancho was I not?” he asks playfully.

For the next forty minutes the two of you discuss Don Quixote, the themes, the symbolism, your favourite parts and the parts that made you sad.

“Why do you feel sorry for Don Quixote?”

“Because he was a fool,” you explain. “Those people pitied him. He was mocked.”

“He’s living out his dreams,” Dave assures you. “So few people are brave enough to do that. We should envy him, not pity him.”

“I don’t agree.”

“Well, then I think you’re very confident in your misunderstanding of the novel.”

You burst out into a laugh and Dave chuckles again, that warm melodious sound that makes you shuffle closer to him, not even realizing it.

“You always have to be right, don’t you?”

"Not all the time." Dave breaks into a wry grin. "But pretty often." 

"Can I ask you something, Dave?" 

"Shoot."

"Why do you come to a strip club? You're not like the usual clientele." You quickly amend that. "Not saying the people who come here are bad. It's just that a lot of them aren't as polished."

That sounds awful. You are about to rephrase your statement but Dave gives you a look of amusement from underneath his long lashes.

"I started coming because I saw you worked here." 

"What?"

"That first night I saw you helping that guy in the cab I was intrigued. It's not a lot of people who would care that some barfly got home safe." 

You feel guilt lodge in your throat at this but you swallow it down. 

"But you were outside the club."

"I was in a meeting next door with a client when I stopped for a cigarette. That's when I saw this beautiful woman helping a man into the back of a taxi." 

"Oh." 

Your cheeks feel hot. 

A knock comes at the door. Randy is signaling that the hour is up. How did time move so quickly. Dave stands up, holding out a hand for you to take. He helps you to a stand and then remembering the rules of the champagne room quickly drops your hand.

"Your boss didn't seem too happy about me taking you away during work,” Dave observes as you gather your book.

"He's an asshole."

"Still. It might be nice to discuss classic literature somewhere a little more inviting. Would you be interested in getting coffee sometime?" Dave asks. "My treat of course." 

"You already treat enough," you say waving the offer away as you hold up your book. "Coffee is on me and if you're extra good maybe I'll throw in a muffin too."

Dave chuckles deeply at this, his eyes disappearing as he grins at you.

"So that's a yes?"

"Would this be, like, a date?"

"If you want it to be, yeah."

"I want it to be."

Dave gives you a genuine smile and the two of you make plans to meet on Saturday at the busy Starbucks in town. Even though you like Dave you still don't know him very well. You have to play it safe and meet somewhere public and bustling. 

“Promise me you'll give the Slaughterhouse Five a shot this weekend, okay?" he asks before you part at the door.

You nod, hugging the books to your chest.

"I promise." 

[cowgurrrl]

It Ain't Me Babe

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader

Author’s note: A holiday present from me to you ❣️

Summary: Ellie’s first art club meeting [2.8k]

Warnings: creative insecurity, mentions of financial instability, teacher things, Ellie talking about Sarah, more flirty flirt, I think that’s it??

Nothing has ever been as annoying or guilt-inducing as an unfinished piece of art. Sure, every artist— no matter the medium— has felt like an uncreative, unoriginal hack, but it still feels just as new as it did the first time. Moonlight streams through your window as you glare at the canvas, hoping for an idea or stroke of genius. It's late. You should be in bed, especially since it's a Sunday night and you spent your weekend working at the bar down the street. But you're holding a paintbrush between stained fingers and praying for a miracle. It's been eight months since you last sold a piece for a whopping $200, chump change when it comes to living in Austin these days. Even with two jobs and doing commission work, you're living paycheck to paycheck. Maybe that's why it's so hard to create? That has to be the reason. You don't remember it being this hard when you were younger.

Creating art was the only thing that brought you solace during your teenage years. It didn't matter if it was drawing, pottery, painting, sculpting. All that mattered was that you were doing it and you were good. You won awards, scholarships, and attention. Your art teacher, Ms. Henry, was a godsend. Grey-haired, glasses-wearing, colorful Ms. Henry glided through lessons and projects like it was second nature. She always had pencils in her hair, a mug in her hands, and a kind word on her lips when you entered her classroom. She's the one who pushed you to go to your artsy liberal arts college full of people richer and better than you. Even with her love and support, you struggled and almost dropped out after that first semester. 

"There's always someone better," she told you when you ended up crying across from her in a coffee shop. "But there's nobody in the world who can make what you will because there is and never will be another you. I mean, God, what a gift. I'd hate to see you waste it." That sobered you enough to keep going and eventually pursue a teaching certification. Ms. Henry has since retired to the Pacific Northwest with her wife, Mable, and sends you a postcard every once in a while because she believes smartphones will be the downfall of civilization. After so many years in education, you're ready to agree with her. 

You sigh, feeling your motivation fluttering away with your breath, and plop your paintbrush down in the cup engraved with the words "DO NOT DRINK" in bold. The canvas doesn't look like much of anything right now— just a mass of colors and shapes that could potentially pass as an abstract version of a landscape. It looks like the other painting you left at the school to work on when you have time. And the painting before that. And the one before that. You curse at exactly the same time your phone buzzes with a text. 

You awake?

You don't bother responding and go straight to FaceTiming her. She picks up on the second ring, her beautiful, round face greeting you with a smile. You met Andie during high school, and her effortlessly cool attitude and bulky violin kit quickly became a part of your heart. You two were inseparable all four years of high school, dividing your time between rehearsals and time spent in the studio, but college took you to art school and her to a prestigious orchestra program in Vienna. She's been there ever since graduation, playing for diplomats and royals alike, but she comes home for holidays, and you've been trying to save money to go see her. Being so far from her is hard, but you make it work. 

"Why are you awake?" You ask by way of a greeting, more than accustomed to your seven-hour time difference and her early riser habits. She laughs, and you hear a tea kettle whistle in the background. 

"Well, hello to you, too," she says. "I have rehearsals all day today, so I got an early start. Why are you awake?"

"I'm staring at my waking nightmare." 

"Oh, God, are you having another spiral?" 

"I'm a hack."

"You're an artist."

"I got rejected again this weekend," you say as if to prove your point, and she sucks her teeth. "They said my art didn't fit their vision for their exhibition, but to feel free and submit another time."

"Well, they must not know great art when they see it. There will be another exhibition and another chance for you to show off your amazing skills. And when you get accepted, which I know you will, I'll fly in, and we'll drink fancy champagne and talk shit the entire opening night." She says, and you sigh. Her persistent optimism is one of the things you love about her, but sometimes, all you want to do is sulk. 

"Or I could fly to you when your first composition gets performed, and we could do all those things in Austria instead of this shithole."

"Hey, some of us like that shithole."

"Some of us haven't lived in the shithole in ten years." 

"Touche," she concedes. "But I'm serious about what I said. You're a good artist, just going through a little bump in the road. One day, we'll be really sexy and successful, and we'll look back at this and laugh with our rich spouses while drinking expensive wine."

"One day," you say, smiling. "How are rehearsals going?" She groans at the question, and you laugh. Whenever you talk to her, she's working on a new show or with a new conductor and always has something to say. There are many things you could call your best friend, but lazy is not one of them.

"I feel like we're stuck on this one part, but the conductor won't listen to me. He says he knows better than I do, which might be true, but also, if he just listened to me, then we can move on. I don't know. I'm sure if I poke him enough, he'll have to listen to me."

"Sounds reasonable." 

"That's what I'm saying," she says as she shuffles her coffee mug and breakfast to her dining room table before checking the time. "It's midnight there. Don't you have school tomorrow?" She asks, and you sigh.

"And an early morning staff meeting and art club after school." 

"Sometimes, I worry about your mental health." She says, and you laugh a little too deliriously to prove her wrong. You stay up talking with her for a while before finally getting hit with a wave of fatigue and crashing into bed. 

The next day is not any less hectic than your weekend was. The staff meeting early in the morning is mind-numbing and completely unnecessary. The printer in the teacher's lounge breaks halfway through a heavy-duty print job, and you're left scrambling for new activities and lessons. Not only that, but your students were more out of control than usual, prompting a veteran teacher to come in and scold your class on your behalf. It would be kind if it didn't make you feel two inches tall and your students didn't look at you like you betrayed them. You spend your planning period indulging in the silence of your empty classroom and fighting off a migraine. 

The second the final bell sounds, your art club kids are knocking down your door, more than ready to work on their projects for the winter showcase. The winter showcase is hosted by a local art gallery that opens for submissions from students every fall. If a student's work is taken, it gets shown in the gallery, and they get entered into a prize to win money and a chance to paint a mural downtown. It's a big deal. So far, you haven't had a student win first place, but you've had them get very close. You always assure them you're proud of them no matter what, which is especially true when Ellie slinks into your classroom with a shy smile.

"Hey! We're just setting up supplies to work on stuff for the showcase. Do you have something to work on?" You ask, gesturing to the students working around the room in a buzz. 

"I think so. Are you gonna play music?" 

"Who do you think I am?" You make a face, and she laughs. "Why don't you find a spot and get comfortable while I queue up a playlist?" She hesitates for a second before she takes a deep breath and musters up the courage to approach another student to ask if she can sit with them. They start chatting easily, and her shoulders relax as she gets more and more comfortable with all the new people. You put on a random playlist and move around the room to answer any questions about colors or give an opinion when asked for one. Over the course of an hour, Ellie makes her own little group of friends, and they all talk as if they've known each other forever as they work. She seems so in her own element, and you can't fight the pride beaming in your chest. Okay, so maybe your job can be pretty cool sometimes. Not fame and fortune cool or traveling overseas cool, but cool nevertheless.

Students gradually start packing up their things and leaving when they get texts from impatient parents in the parking lot or close to dinner time, but Ellie stays behind, bobbing her head to a beat or bouncing her knee under the table. She's the only one left in the classroom when you start packing your stuff and preparing the room for the next day. "You've got a ride home, honey?" You ask, and she glances nervously between you and her phone.

"Yeah. My dad should be here soon." She says. 

"Alright, well, I've gotta lock up here, but I'll wait outside with you until he gets here."

"Oh, you don't have to do that."

"It'd make me feel better knowing you weren't left behind. Plus, I'm the adult responsible for you until he picks you up, so it's kinda illegal for me to just leave you here." You say, and she looks hesitant again but nods. Together, you walk out of the classroom and through the empty hallways until you get out to the scorching September afternoon. You stand outside in silence for a few seconds, taking in the sunset, before you turn to look at her.

"How'd you like the club?" You ask. 

"It was fun! I met lots of cool people."

"I told you, kid. You just needed to give it a chance."

"I know, I know," she rolls her eyes, and you smile. "Thank you for pushing me to go. I don't think I would've gone without you." She's so genuine and kind in her tone that it throws you off-kilter. You're used to being berated by students, staff, and parents. To be told you actually had an impact on someone is not commonplace, to say the least. 

"I'm sure you would've found your way there without me." 

"Maybe, but you helped me get there a lot sooner than I would've on my own." She says, and you take a deep breath. It feels nice to be acknowledged, especially after the day you've had, and Ellie seems to sense it. You're looking for something to say when she looks down at her shoes and kicks a stray rock. "Just take the compliment and move on. Don't make it a thing." 

"Alright." You say, laughing, and she cracks a smile, too. Traffic will be horrible on the way home, and you have nothing to eat for dinner, but it's okay. You did one good thing today. That's all you need. 

"Sorry, my dad is taking so long." She changes the subject, a touch of anxiety creeping in, and you shake your head. 

"Does he always work late?" You ask, and she shrugs.

"Sometimes. Dad and Uncle Tommy have been picking up jobs to send money to my sister in Boston. "

"What's in Boston for your sister?"

"Medical school. She's about to go into her internship at a hospital there."

"That's a big deal." You say, and she hums. 

"Yeah. She'll probably save the world or something one day." There's a hint of something nostalgic in her voice, and you decide to push just a little. 

"Do you miss her?"

"A lot," she says. "She's my best friend."

"She's lucky to have you." You say. She smiles but doesn't say anything. You want to ask more about her family, but a rickety, greenish pickup truck comes rumbling through the parking lot before you can. Ellie shifts her backpack on her shoulder as her dad and uncle come into view, and you smile at them. Joel, however, looks frantic. 

He's unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the driver's side door before the car can even finish moving. There's dirt on his pants and a little bit of a sunburn across his arms, the muscles straining across the black fabric. He politely pulls the ball cap off his head to reveal sweaty curls as he approaches you, jerking his head toward the truck at Ellie. "Why don't you wait in the truck with Uncle Tommy? He's got a snack for you." He says, and Ellie lights up at the mention of food. When you're alone, he tucks his hands in his pockets and gives you an apologetic look. 

"'M so sorry. We got caught up at work and lost track of time. It won't happen again." He says, wringing his hands like he's waiting to be scolded, but you wave him off. 

"It's okay. Things happen, and I'm just glad she's got someone picking her up." You say. 

"How'd she do today?"

"Really good. I think she fits right in."

"She make some friends?"

"I can't give away all my secrets. What else are y'all gonna talk about at the dinner table?" You tease. 

"I guess that's right," he says as he stares at you, a muscle in his jaw jumping. "Thanks for waitin' with her."

"It was my pleasure." You say. You stand awkwardly for a few seconds, rocking back and forth on your feet. His eyes are locked in yours, and there's a silent competition to see who's gonna blink first. "Well, I should let you get home. Have a good night." 

"Uh," he starts, stopping you before you can even fully take a step. "I wanted to apologize for the other night. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"You didn't make me uncomfortable," you say a little too quickly, and he smirks. "I was very flattered. Besides, it's not the first time."

"Beautiful woman like you, I'm sure you've got 'em linin' the block for a chance with you." He says. You're dancing a delicate dance here. You're not not flirting, and you're not not interested in him, but if your principal finds out, it could cause a whole new world of problems. Still, it's nice to be wanted after so long of being on your own. You're not a saint, but you're also not doing anything inherently wrong, right?

"The teacher thing usually freaks 'em out before they can get very far."

"That's a damn shame." He's quick with it, and you have to resist the urge to roll your eyes at the line. A buzz in your bag reminds you of the time and why you're still at school, and you find your footing again. 

"Uh, I usually give out my contact information to the parents of my art club kids in case they need anything or need to contact me quickly. Since Ellie's an official part of that, I figured I should give you my phone number in case anything comes up. If that's alright?" You say, and he pulls his cracked phone from his back pocket. 

"Yeah, yeah. That's more than alright." He says, handing it to you to punch in your information. 

"It's for emergency purposes only."

"What d'you consider an emergency?"

"Mr. Miller-"

"Joel." He corrects, and you give him a look as you pass his phone back. 

"Don't abuse it. I'd hate to have to put you in a group chat with all the PTA moms."

"You're evil." He groans, and you laugh. Tommy, leaning over and honking the truck horn, interrupts your conversation, and he shoots daggers through the back window. 

"I'll see you next week, Joel." You say, dismissing him, and he hesitates for another second before nodding.

"See you next week." He says and turns on his heels to get back in his truck. You think you vaguely catch Joel scolding Tommy for being impatient, but you ignore his deep voice and the engine sputtering as you walk to your own car with a little more pep in your step than this morning.

TAGLIST: @abbyhaslongshorts @kiwiharrykiwi @sumsworldz @myloveistoolittle @anavatazes @marantha @cosmoscoffeee @shyminnie07 @beezusvreeland @eddiemunsonsbedroom @harriedandharassed @doodlebob-mp3 (look at how many of you there are!)

[beautification-tales]

The Lesson

A prequel to “The Video”

April sat cross-legged on her bed, the flickering light from her computer casting eerie shadows across the walls. The serum she had perfected was in a small vial on her desk, its contents swirling lazily as if it were alive. Her heart raced with excitement and anticipation, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached out to touch the vial. This was it, the moment she had been working towards for months. The moment she would finally find out if her serum worked as she hoped it would.

She took a deep breath, steadying her nerves before unscrewing the cap of the vial. The sharp smell of chemicals filled her nose, making her eyes water slightly. Carefully, she drew a small amount of the serum into the syringe and brought the needle close to her skin. “Here we go” she whispered to herself, summoning all the courage she could muster. She plunged the needle into her arm, feeling the cool liquid seep into her veins.

For a moment, nothing happened. April sat there, breath held, waiting for something, anything to change. But the seconds ticked by, and her heart continued to beat at its steady rhythm. She glanced down at her arm, expecting to see some sort of transformation, but it looked exactly the same as before. She ran to the bathroom as she looked in the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her, unchanged. Her heart sank as she realized that the serum hadn't worked. She had failed.

“Argh you’re such a loser April. You never get anything right.” Her inner critic was relentless, and she couldn't help but feel a twinge of despair. But as she stood there, staring at herself in the mirror, she noticed something strange. The color of her eyes seemed different. Not lighter or darker, but...richer. Like they had always held that depth but had been obscured before. She stepped closer, studying her reflection intently.

“Yes! It’s working! I’m a genius. Dr. Brown is going to be so impressed.” April’s brown hair turned platinum as she imagined telling her favorite Professor of her success. He would smile and kiss her before pushing her against a wall and fuck her.

April frowned at the idea and shook her head trying to remove the image from her mind. The more she tried to think of something else the more vivid the images became. April’s body responded to the thoughts as she bit her lip. “W..wait no this is wrong. Ungh get out of my head!”

The images stopped for a moment as a voice whispered in her head. “But it’s what you want and now you can have it.” April could feel herself get wet as her nipples hardened poking through her shirt. “No, stop it. I just wanted his respect… and his cock.” April covered her mouth in shock at how sultry the last statement sounded. It was not her voice. The voice in her head grew louder. “Stop fighting this there’s nothing holding you back. You don’t have to be that pathetic nerd. You can be more! You can feel more” April’s hand moved like it had a life of its own rubbing her jeans as her hips gyrated.

“Mmm what am I? What am I doing? Feels so good” April’s eyes fluttered as she lost control feeling woozy. April’s vision corrected as she no longer needed her glasses as her vision became blurry behind the thick lenses. April in a trance opened her jeans as she plunged her fingers deeply inside her. She felt hot as she gasped and heard the voice again. “Dr. Brown is going to love the new you. He won’t be able to resist.” April’s fingers picked up speed as her flat butt ballooned in her jeans. Her flesh dug into the denim as her thighs got thicker and her hips widened.

April’s moans became throaty and sexier as her face shifted. Cheekbones rose, her nose softened, and her lips plumped. April arched her back as the changes began to reach their end. “I’m gonna, I’m gonna…” April’s breast grew bigger as they began to make her t shirt rip down the middle. The sound of ripping and moans echoed in her apartment as her niples hardened into two perfect pebbles. “I’m gonna Hhhhahh!” She grunted as the orgasm rocked throughout her body. She felt energized as she got up and looked at herself in the mirror. “I’m gonna fuck my professor mmmm fuck! It feels so good to say it out loud.”

April walked over to her desk and grabbed the note she had written to Dr. Brown. She crumpled it up and tossed it in the trash can. She smiled seductively as she put on her new outfit. A black bra and panties set that perfectly accentuated her new curves. She ran her hands over her body, feeling the smooth skin and the weight of her breasts in her hands. She finished getting dressed in the least modest outfit she owned.

With a confident swagger, April left her apartment and made her way to the university. She couldn't help but feel a sense of power and desire coursing through her veins. Every step she took was a reminder of the changes she had undergone. Her hips swayed subtly, her breasts bounced with each step, and her new scent filled the air around her.

When she arrived at Dr. Brown's office, she couldn't help but feel a little nervous, but also incredibly aroused. She took a deep breath and knocked on the door, her heart racing in anticipation. The door opened, revealing Dr. Brown's familiar face, but she barely registered it as her gaze was drawn to his own obvious arousal. Dustin had seen beautiful students before but the way the pencil skirt and blouse hugged her skin. It was almost as the clothes were too small but still looked so good.

“Ahem yes! May I help you… Miss?” Dustin Brown said, his voice slightly shaky. He cleared his throat and tried to maintain his composure as he took in the sight of the stunning woman standing before him. Her eyes were locked on him, her expression a mix of confidence and desire that was both unsettling and intoxicating.

April smiled seductively, walking into the office. She closed the door behind her, effectively shutting out the rest of the world. "Dr. Brown, I wanted to speak with you about my latest paper." Her voice was soft and sultry, barely above a whisper. It sent shivers down his spine. "But I think there's something else we should discuss first." She stepped closer, her hips swaying as she moved.

Dustin Brown felt himself growing harder as she approached. He couldn't take his eyes off her. "Miss... I'm sorry, but I don’t recall seeing you in any of my classes." He tried to sound firm, but his voice betrayed him. It came out as a whisper, barely audible.

April laughed softly, shaking her head. "No, I'm not one of your students, Dr. Brown. I'm Pepper. I am a biologist with my research focusing on one thing." She moved even closer, until she was just inches away from him. Dustin could feel the heat emanating from her body, could smell the sweet scent of her perfume. His control was slipping fast.

"What... what is your focus ?" He managed to stammer. His heart was racing, his mind reeling from the sensual onslaught. He couldn't take his eyes off her.

Pepper smiled, running her hands up his chest, stopping just above his shoulders. "My focus, Dr. Brown, is on transformation. On changing. On becoming something new and exciting." Her fingers danced along his shoulders, sending shivers down his spine. "And I've been wanting to change you for quite some time now." She leaned in closer, her lips brushing against his ear. "I want to make you into something that's been aching to get out of you."

Dustin's breath hitched as he felt her body against his, her breasts pressing into his chest. His hands moved to her hips, pulling her even closer. "What do you mean?" he whispered, his voice thick with desire.

She smiled, her lips curving into a wicked grin. "Oh, Dr. Brown, you know exactly what I mean." She stepped back placing a hand on his crotch. "I've been watching you, you know. Seeing the way you look at your students, the way you fantasize about them." Her hand moved, unbuttoning his shirt slowly, revealing the defined muscles of his chest. "I want to give you what you've been wanting.. it’s time for you to be bad.”

As she spoke, her fingers moved with a practiced ease, undoing his shirt and pushing it off his shoulders. His skin gleamed in the soft light of the office, and she felt her mouth water. She leaned forward, her breasts brushing against his chest as she reached around, unfastening his slacks. "You're such a good boy, Dr. Brown. But I'm going to make you naughty." Her breath fanned across his neck, sending shivers down his spine.

With practiced efficiency, she stripped him bare, revealing his hardened length. She took him in her hand, stroking him gently, feeling the heat and strength of him in her palm. "You've been holding yourself back… it’s time to let it all go." Her words sent a thrill of excitement through him.

Dustin felt himself growing even harder as she continued to stroke him, her touch both gentle and possessive. He could feel the blood rushing to his groin, his breath coming faster and faster. "P-Pepper," he stammered, his voice barely audible.

She looked up at him, her eyes dark and smoldering. "That's right, Dustin. I’m your dreams come true. A bad girl who just wants your cock." She leaned forward, taking his aching length into her mouth. Her lips were soft and warm, and she began to bob her head, sucking him deeper. He cried out, his hips bucking forward as he lost control.

Her head went up and down vigorously as she sucked. Her tongue and lips wrapped around his member expertly as Dustin’s head tilted back. His hands found their way into her hair, gripping tightly. He could feel the heat from her mouth and the softness of her lips as they slid up and down his length. He arched his back, pressing deeper into her mouth. The sensation was overwhelming, and he knew he was close.

"That's it, Dustin. Let go. Let me take you there." She whispered, her breath hot against his skin. He could feel his control slipping further and further away as she continued to suck him, her lips and tongue working in perfect harmony. His hips bucked wildly, his body tensed, and he cried out her name as he came, spurting hot cum into her mouth.

She took him all the way, swallowing every last drop, before pulling back to look up at him. His chest heaved, his eyes closed tightly as he tried to catch his breath. "That's it, Dustin. You're such a good teacher, but I'm going to help you be bad. Really bad." She smiled, running her fingers along his still-hard length. "I think you're going to like it."