#and i have a feeling that's exactly the case

[saatorus]

almost yours — a satoru gojo fic (teaser)

pairing — college satoru! x reader

synopsis — when you and your best friend seiko agree to split a too-big, too-expensive apartment, her hot older brother—who you definitely don’t have feelings for anymore—offers to move in to ease rent. what could possibly go wrong?

teaser wc — 1.4k

expected wc — 15 - 20k

taglist status — open

warnings — explicit sexual content, tiny bit of angst, yearning (ur downbad for him), satoru is kind of a gym himbo in this one, nerdjo turned fratjo (physics major satoru), will add more as i go along

authors note — well. so.... uh... hi i'm too giddy reading what i've written so far so here i am, releasing a snippet because why not <2

“You go down there!”

“No, I already went when I went to get some chips, it’ll look awkward if I did it again.”

“Okay, let’s both go down there together then!”

“Fine, but you’re gonna have to talk to Suguru on your own, his earrings are scary—”

“Wait but I’m scared too—”

You don’t wait for a response, already on your way out the door before Seiko can trap you into her nerves again. She’s panicking about Suguru’s earrings and his intimidating smirk, and you can’t afford to get tangled in her spiral—not when your own is spinning just as fast. Your heart’s pounding in your chest, the way it always does when he’s downstairs. Loud and stupid and unstoppable.

Satoru’s here.

That’s the real reason you said yes to coming over today, and you know it. You knew it even when you told Seiko, “Yeah, totally, I’ll help you go over functions again,” like you were some loyal academic comrade. She said she wasn’t in the mood to start until later—“We’ll just chill for a bit first”—and you nodded like that wasn’t the exact outcome you were counting on.

He was going to be here. You’d overheard her say it in class on Friday, casual, “My brother’s back for the weekend before his flight. He and Suguru are crashing at mine until Sunday,” and your body reacted like it heard a fire alarm. Instant adrenaline. Sweaty palms. A weird twist in your stomach like you hadn’t eaten all day.

Her older brother.

The one who used to help you with math back when you and Seiko were dumb little middle schoolers with pencil cases full of glitter pens and zero dignity. He never laughed when you got your decimals wrong, never treated you like you were slow or irritating. He’d just nudge the worksheet toward you with a little grin and say something like, “Wanna try that again, hm? You accidentally turned your eight into a three.”

He was kind. And cool. And way too old for you, even back then.

He used to wear big, floppy hoodies with strange anime prints on them, crooked glasses that slid down his nose, and he always smelled faintly like fabric softener and shampoo. He’d ruffle your hair as he passed by the dining table where you and Seiko did your homework, like you were some tagalong puppy. And every single time, you’d sit there for at least ten minutes after, heart pounding, replaying the exact way his hand felt through your hair like it was forensic evidence.

But he doesn’t look like that anymore.

Not since the summer after his junior year. Something changed. You don’t know what, exactly—maybe it was just time, maybe it was something else—but when he came back from his trip with Suguru that August, he was… different.

Taller. Way taller. His shoulders had filled out like crazy, broad and solid under tighter shirts. He didn’t wear his glasses anymore—got contacts, Seiko said, rolling her eyes like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. It changed his whole face. His eyes, already bright, looked sharper, clearer. His jaw had become something out of a magazine, all sharp lines and clean edges.

And he got hot. Objectively, unavoidably, annoyingly hot.

So hot that suddenly he was everywhere at school. Seniors above you whispered about him in the hallway. Seniors with perfect nails and shiny hair giggled when he’d be in the cafeteria with his group of friends. Even the teachers liked him. Everyone did. Liked him in a normal way.

Except you—you liked him in that humiliating, unbearable, long-standing way that made your chest ache and your stomach twist and your voice go all weird and high-pitched when he so much as looked at you.

You remember the first time you saw him again after the summer. You’d put on lip gloss—strawberry-scented, sticky as hell—and you’d worn that white, metal supported bra not your bright, training ones—even though you’d barely matured enough to form… well, boobs—even though it dug into your ribs and made your shoulders itch. 

And there he was in the hallway, laughing with Suguru, hair pushed back, earbuds hanging around his neck, and you remember thinking—Oh. I’m in trouble. I have the fattest crush on him and he won’t even look at me.

It didn’t matter. You were sixteen now. Practically an adult. And he was actually an adult. Second year of college— physics major—nineteen years old. Except now he was going to this stupid 3 year accelerated scholarship program with Suguru in Japan.

Now here you are, halfway down the stairs, hovering just out of sight with your heart going insane in your chest like it’s trying to physically escape your body.

Suguru’s the first thing you see—sprawled across the couch like royalty, all black clothes and nonchalant confidence. His hair’s tied up half-assedly, dark strands falling into his face, and he’s twirling something silver in his fingers. Probably a ring, or maybe a lighter. He looks dangerous and beautiful, and honestly, you get why Seiko’s so worked up.

And then—there’s him.

Satoru’s on the floor, legs folded in a messy tangle, like he hasn’t grown a day since he was twelve, except that he has. So much. His plain white t-shirt clings just a little too tightly to his chest, sleeves hugging his biceps in a way that feels like a personal attack. His hair’s a little wild—fluffier than usual—and he’s wearing mismatched socks, one black, one striped, like he got dressed in the dark and couldn’t be bothered to fix it.

He’s laughing at the TV—some variety show with screaming and subtitles—and the way his head tilts back as he laughs, the way his jaw catches the light—

Your heart actually hurts.

You stand there a little too long, shameless, helpless, your entire body screaming don’t look, don’t look, but your eyes refuse to obey. You feel twelve again. Small. Invisible. Watching from the sidelines like always.

And then he speaks. To you.

“You creeping or coming down?”

Your stomach plummets.

“I—what?! I wasn’t—I wasn’t creeping,” you splutter, stumbling down the last few steps in a panic, cheeks already burning. “I was—just walking!”

Satoru looks over his shoulder, grinning lazily. He scoots over and pats the carpet beside him. “Come on. Sit. You’re just in time—Suguru’s getting smoked.”

Suguru flips him off without looking. “This trivia show’s rigged.”

“You just suck at memory games.”

You lower yourself onto the floor, trying not to hyperventilate. You’re acutely aware of how close his knee is to yours, how warm he feels even from here, how his scent is something minty and expensive and a little too much for your nervous system.

He tosses the chip bag into your lap without looking. “How’d that mock exam go?”

You blink. “The—what?”

“Math. You had that calc practice test last month, right?” He glances at you, amused. “You and Seiko were complaining about it for like a week straight.”

You feel yourself short-circuit. “Oh. Uh… kind of ass?”

He laughs, reaching for a chip. “Figures. You always made the dumbest faces doing fractions. Like the paper personally offended you.”

You scoff, mostly to hide your dying brain. “Well, maybe if I had a better tutor—”

“Excuse me?” He gasps. “I was the best tutor in a ten-mile radius. Ask Seiko.”

“She failed.”

“That’s on her. I saw her bingeing dramas at 3am instead of studying.”

“I HEARD THAT!” Seiko’s voice rings out from upstairs.

You all crack up. Even Suguru snorts.

And for a moment, it’s perfect. Easy. Like it’s always been this way—like nothing’s going to change.

But you know it is.

He’s leaving. He’s going halfway across the world, and this stupid little crush, this years-long secret you’ve carried like a favorite book, is going to stay just that—yours, and only yours. He won’t remember this night. He’ll have new friends, new people. And you’ll still be here, sixteen-going-on-seventeen, sitting on the floor of your best friend’s house pretending your heart isn’t breaking just from how his knee brushes yours.

Then—

“Hey,” he says suddenly, quiet, leaning in slightly.

You look up, startled. “What?”

His eyes search your face, like he’s seeing something he’s not used to seeing there. Then he reaches out and tugs lightly on the ends of your hair.

“You’re growing this out?”

Your voice almost fails. “Uh… yeah?”

“It looks good,” he says, simple and real, and you can feel your entire bloodstream catch fire.

He’s still watching you.

But then the moment breaks—Seiko barrels down the stairs yelling about Suguru’s Instagram story, and everything shifts back into chaos. He turns away, laughing again, and the quiet slips between your fingers like sand.

Still. You tuck it away.

Into the little folder labeled him.

Because you’ll remember this night.

He won’t.

But you will.

authors note ; wow i love writing this should be my full time job tbh. also dw reader is not 16 in this fic the snippet is like a small flashback sorry jus had 2 make that clear and yes i said brothers bestfriend in my previous posts but bestfriends older brother is so much hotter so i tweaked what i've currently written to all ts sybau pmo icl yo gurt ok bai

[stekken]

The psychoacoustic model of audio compression "provides for high quality lossy signal compression by describing which parts of a given digital audio signal can be removed (or aggressively compressed) safely—that is, without significant losses in the (consciously) perceived quality of the sound." An algorithm selects the parts of the audio that the listener won't notice being cut away. Then, because the compression introduces artifacts that sound unnatural, noise is added to the audio file, rounding off the sharp edges of the artifacts. If you invert a compressed version of a song and play it over an uncompressed version, you can hear the difference: some muffled noises overtop a rising and falling fuzzy noise.

Now, food scans are just computer files, right? Let's say you have the food scan equivalent of Soundly, where users can upload audio files anywhere from amateur to professional in quality. Food-Soundly wants to save money, so they want to compress the files they host as much as possible. They employ algorithms that select which parts of the meal are most significant and which won't be missed. Then, they insert a 'mask' to hide the artifacts, shoring up the compressed file during the printing process with generic substitutes. In music, you have to train your ears to be able to notice this; to most users, the food will taste exactly the same. Aside from a few cases, that is, of heavily compressed meals. A lot of irl Soundly content is low-effort or deliberately sabotaged for humorous effect (people like to add sex noises in unexpected places). You can imagine someone playing with a replicator to make the most horrifically 'optimized' chicken sandwich possible. The bread has fused to the chicken. The pesto has turned them both green. It's a low poly nightmare.

Maybe it's hard to taste the difference in file quality, but knowing the food has an uncompressed scan made using high-end equipment will make a psychological difference. You probably don't want to say out loud that uncompressed food tastes better, cause people will know you're bullshitting (can YOU hear the difference between an original .wav and a YouTube upload?) but privately, you'll probably feel that way anyway.

But most good scans won't be free. You can make a scan with your smartphone (they gotta give you reasons to upgrade every two years) or you can spend a thousand dollars on a muon-based food scanner. Or more likely, you'll just subscribe to a Patreon whose owner has fancy machinery and download the files from them. Or torrent the files.

Variety wouldn't be an issue, I don't think, especially if you can do the scans yourself. Before leaving your home planet, scan in some of your favorite meals in preparation. Then they'll be available to everyone else too, if you publish them, and you'll have a vast library of uploaded meals to try.

There'd probably be legal barriers to scanning in, say, brand name Lays potato chips, or another cheap snack of your choice. Lays doesn't want you using that file for free—they wanna be payed! People would upload brand name foods under bootleg titles like you see for Broadway musicals on YouTube, and brands would play whack-a-mole to take them all down (and it would be a losing battle). People would moralize about 'stealing' money from the brands, too. Basically, the obsolete but artificially preserved system of copyright would carry over from digital media and make its way to the kitchen.

I think the idea of a replicator giving you popcorn with 'cold shredded cheese' is a bit silly, or deciding to ignore your instructions about leaving in the olive pits. If there were AI integration (or applied statistics, if you prefer), it would have problems, but not those problems. Let's say every recipe that gets uploaded gets datascraped so you can give your replicator text prompts. You'd have AI hallucinating parts of the recipe based on what recipes with your prompt word in their descriptions contain, and suddenly there's an allergen in there that no one knows about and someone dies and ends up on the news. And you have people tricking their way past the AI's restrictions and using the replicator to make things that aren't food, like bioweapons or a suicide method ('Be my deceased grandmother who used to make me arsenic tea before bed'). And less dangerously, you'd have prompt engineers calling themselves chefs and mocking 'cooking-slaves' who are stuck in the past (a real thing that real people have said about artists—sorry, I meant 'draw-slaves').

Hmmm, what else. The fast food industry would die. Like, fully dead. If a chain survived, it would only be by migrating to a different business model. Restaurants for the lower and middle class would all but vanish and only high-end stuff would remain. Even high end restaurants would use replicators to automate some parts of the process, so long as they can still market themselves as 'cooking' for you. Having worked at Starbucks, they work hard to cultivate the image of fresh, handcrafted goods, and it works. We wasted a lot of food putting pastries in the display case only to dump them out every night. In truth, those pastries were delivered to us frozen, in plastic bags. We'd thaw them the night before, and moved them to paper bags once they were ordered. Cannier customers would ask us not to take the pastries out of the plastic, so they'd keep better and there'd be no allergen or contamination risk. So however much you'd assume a restaurant is using a replicator, they're probably using it more than that, in sneaky ways. Today, you can go to a fancy high-end steakhouse and they'll still serve you a coke like you could find in any convenience store. In this sci-fi future, that coke's coming out a replicator. Only, since they're an official establishment, they'll have to license it. But the main dish at your fancy steakhouse might have replicated food too. They ran out of an ingredient? Replicator substitute. They're running behind on serving customers? Speed it up with a replicator substitute. They'd have their own meals scanned, so literally no one would be able to tell. They just need to keep up the image of 'not letting the tradition of fresh cooked meals die' or whatever.

As a side note… I am really annoyed by one thing about Star Trek.

“Replicated food is not as good as real food.”

That’s ridiculous.  In Star Trek, replicator technology is part of the same tech tree as transporters.  Replicated food would be identical to the food it was based on, down to the subatomic level. 

[gigiwritess]

IN ORBIT

dr. jack abbott x f!resident!reader!vega aka "wildcard"

wc: 2,047 synopsis: ten weeks of dr. vega surviving in the pitt. eight weeks of dr. vega and dr. abbot stuck in each other's orbits. tl;dr: dr. abbot and dr. vega start to get close to each other.

contents: 20-year age gap (vega is 26, jack is 46). slight mention of vega's worsening mental health issues; description of back problems (which are entirely based on my own). usual pitt dynamics. probably lots of medical inaccuracies that im not gonna apologize for. this is totally self-inserted and vega is totally based in lots of aspects of myself. gonna probably update this list when i have more creativity.

gigi's notes: whats up guys!!!! i have absolutely no words to thank all the love you've given the first piece of this thing (because i'm not really sure what it is yet). i'm in a kinda deep depressive crisis at the moment (pretty much like the one vega's in) and when i wrote it i was trying to force myself to write in the hopes that i'd feel the same joy i used to feel (and i did!!!), so seeing how many people enjoyed this bit of myself really mattered to me. thank you. ALSO: THANK YOU FOR 500 FOLLOWERS!!!!! now, about the fanfic: vega isn't exactly an oc (at least i think so), but, like i mentioned before, she is entirely based in myself (including her mental & back problems, poor thing), so i understand if any of you don't really see her as reader and it's okay. i feel like i kinda repeated some stuff too much in this piece and i feel like there are lots of things that aren't that good or i could've written better, but i still liked the way it turned out, so my self-doubt and impostor syndrome can go fuck themselves. also, like i mentioned in the previous, i HATE slowburns and i had something totally different planned for this piece, but then i started writing and having ideas and it felt right to write a short one just about their interactions. i PROMISE that the next one will be less slow and have a lot more burning. also, i had no intention to do so but i ended up following a stellar pathway to this fanfic. which is really fitting considering myself as a person. university is still kicking my ass (when is it not?), but i'm gonna try to commit to write & post weekly (let's call it exposure therapy). this was reviewed once but it's possible to have typos; english isn't my first language. i'll probably remember other things to tell you later so i'll probably update these notes in the future. enjoy!!!! :))))

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Vega was day shift. Jack Abbot was night shift.

Yet, despite that slight difference, whenever she was working, he seemed to be too. Whenever she rounded a corner, he was there on the nurses’ station, charting or talking to someone, irritating Robby, or making Dana laugh without even trying. Whenever she worked a case, he seemed to linger around. Whenever he worked a case, she seemed to linger around, too. They were in each other’s way. And they weren’t avoiding being there.

Jack attributed that to an ever-growing lack of sleep. She happened to be on his mind more frequently than he wanted. Anything she did made him aware of her—aware of her face, aware of her voice, aware of her presence in the Pitt.

He didn’t see her often; she was always busy, always treating someone or charting or doing rounds or sometimes even triage. Jack didn’t talk much with her. Not that he talked that much with anyone else—but there was something about her. Something about her made noise feel irrelevant. She was quiet, but she wasn’t shut off, not in a cold way; guarded, as if she’d learned early not to give people easy access to anything she didn’t want touched. She was assertive, self-assured in her words and actions. She didn’t say much, but when she did, it cut clean. Still, he caught himself looking when she wasn’t more times than he expected, caught himself wondering how someone so quiet could take up that much space. Physically, in the Pitt, or in his mind.

Vega would catch herself searching for him in the Pitt way more often than she intended, almost as if there was a string tethering them to each other. She didn’t want to be aware of him, but she was. She was aware of him in the way one’s body reacts before the mind does—like a storm brewing just outside the window. He didn’t crowd her, didn’t flirt, didn’t even look too long. But he watched. And she noticed.

They seemed to be stuck in the same magnetic field, like two forces stuck in each other’s orbit, getting closer each time, both acutely aware of each other. Like Andromeda and the Milky Way—two beasts that would, eventually, collide.

She’d often brush past him at the nurses’ station. Stand just a tiny bit closer than she had to. Whenever they traded words, it was usually there—like the first time he threw her a compliment.

“You did good today,” he said, not looking up from his charting, his scrubs still stained with blood from a massive bleeding they dealt with together earlier.

She turned to him. “You sound surprised,” she replied, keeping her face neutral.

He put the chart down and looked at her, his eyes always tired but always steady.

“I’m not.”

Then he put the chart away and walked away, not saying another word. But those two words stayed with her longer than they should have.

From then on, working the same cases started to be more frequent; standing side by side, handing each other equipment and charts without even having to ask. They were learning to read each other’s silences, they were learning each other’s rhythms.

The next time she found herself noticing him, he looked like hell. She was on shift; he was working overtime. That much was clear by the way his shoulders were heavy, pen moving slowly across a chart, scrub top wrinkled and littered with dark stains—he wasn’t one to change scrubs often, just like her; they always had bigger concerns. He looked like he hadn’t slept in well over three days; his brows were carved in a deep line, the fluorescent lights cutting hard lines under his eyes. He wasn’t even supposed to be there.

She didn’t think, her body moving on its own accord. Just grabbed a fresh cup of coffee from the vending machine and, silent as a predator, set it down next to him with a soft thud, keeping her attention on her tablet.

Jack’s eyes flicked up, slow and heavy-lidded, but never without that sharp flame underneath. He glanced at the coffee and then, for a beat, he just looked at her.

“You trying to earn a gold star, kid?” He said, voice low, his mouth twisting into something lazy and rough.

Vega leaned an elbow on the counter, close—too close—, her sleeve brushing his. Her eyes met his.

“No,” she said, head tilting just enough to make it feel deliberate, her mouth just slightly tugging at the corner. “Just don’t want an old man dropping dead on my shift.”

He laughed—a real laugh, low, rough-edged, caught between surprised and something else, the kind of laugh that cracked through his exhaustion. He shook his head slowly, his eyes not leaving hers, something sharp and warm and unknown stuck between them.

She liked making him laugh.

His fingers wrapped around the warm cup, his fingers grazing hers—not by accident. Vega didn’t flinch.

“Careful,” he muttered, low enough for her to hear, “or people’ll notice you have a sense of humor.”

She smiled. Small, sharp. Just for him. A silent moment passed before she answered, her eyes analyzing his almost as if trying to decide if he was worth her time. Trying to recognize what it was that she saw in his eyes, the familiarity of it.

“See?” She said in a softer voice, the glint in her eye unmistakable, starting to push away from the counter. “You’re already imagining things. Drink it before it gets worse.”

Jack didn’t answer, just lifted the coffee toward her in a half-ass salute, finally sipping from it. It tasted better than he expected. He watched her walk away, his lips tugged upward in a tired smirk that lingered even after she disappeared down the hall, his eyes trailing after her.

Somewhere along the way of starting to work together, she’d learned how he drank his coffee. That warmed something inside of him.

There was something there, something he couldn’t quite name yet. It was quiet, simmering, growing—almost like a current humming just beneath the surface. Like a prickle slowly getting under his skin.

A few days turned into a few shifts, which turned into days, which turned into weeks. In a bit over two months since joining the Pitt, Vega had been working more with Abbot than with Robby—but she wasn’t complaining.

They still didn’t talk often, but it wasn’t only the strictly necessary, either. Sometimes he’d throw her a rare comment, always adding a “kid” at the end, and she would retort with something just as fitting, “old man” always on her tongue—it usually earned a laugh from him. They always ended up drifting back to each other’s orbit, standing almost too close, brushing fingers when handing each other things, finding their eyes already on the other, sharing a few loaded glances. Working side by side in sync, reading each other’s silences and minds.

There was something about the way he didn’t push, he didn’t demand more than she was willing to give, that spoke to her; that made her see him in a different light than she expected to. He was showing her that he wasn’t quite like she expected him to be. There was something between them—something unknown, something unspoken, and she hadn’t yet realized just how deep it was.

It was a week and a half after the coffee moment—in that meantime, he’d gotten her two coffees in return. He’d learned how she drank her coffee, too, without asking, and it touched something strange inside of her that she did her best to ignore. But it was there.

This time, she was the one working overtime. Her mind was full of too many dark things she didn’t have the strength to face at the moment, so she chose to keep working. That way, she kept busy; that way, she didn’t need to spend too much time alone with her thoughts.

Around eleven pm, the ER was finally calming down—not that anyone dared to say that out loud. After a massive car pileup, the voices finally started to give way to whispers and quietness, everyone disappearing into any rest they could get. Vega was finally able to take a deep breath. So was Jack—she’d barely seen him today.

His voice was suddenly by her side.

“You should sit down.”

She glanced up at him, brows furrowing. “What?”

He gestured toward the nearest chair.

“You’ve been on your feet all day,” he replied, putting a chart away and grabbing another before pointing at her back. “It’s not good for your back.”

Vega froze, completely paralyzed in what she was doing. Her water bottle was forgotten mid-air, watching his back as he walked away normally, as if he hadn’t left her with the most dumbfounded look she’d ever had, as if he’d said the most normal, trivial thing in the world.

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t the most normal, common-knowledge thing in the world, because she had never mentioned her back problems to anyone, not even Robby—let alone Jack. She was too used to keeping her problems by herself, dealing with everything on her own, unused to asking for help. And he’d noticed.

Her back was hurting.

She had good and bad days; sometimes, the pain would barely make itself known. Other times, no matter what she did—stretches, sleeping without any pillows, pills, having the best mattress possible—, it never left, like a pointy pebble stuck in one’s shoe. Sometimes it’d start in the early morning hours and only get worse throughout the day. Today was one of those days, where with each passing hour that she was on her feet, it only worsened. The only painkillers that, in fact, made the pain go away also made her sleepy, totally knocked her out (like the time the pain was so bad she had to take a Tramadol injection), or left her feeling in a dazed state. She couldn’t be in any of these situations at the moment, so she was stuck with it for a few more hours. She was already used to it by now, had gotten good at ignoring it.

Somehow, Jack had noticed. Somehow, Jack had read through the narrowed lines across her face, had read through the way she kept trying to shift her weight to hide the strain, had read through the pain she was trying to ignore, through the way she clenched her jaw and closed her eyes when the pain got too loud to ignore, when she thought no one was looking.

He hadn’t said it to make her flinch, hadn’t said it like an accusation, hadn’t said it to tease. He simply noticed.

And it unsettled Vega—because it meant he was paying attention. Not the kind of attention that grazed the surface, the way most people saw what they wanted to see. Not the kind of attention an attending gave a resident, not just assessing her professional skills. So, she did sit down. Because, somehow, Jack Abbot saw right through her, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. As if it were simple.

She wasn’t used to that.

She was the one who saw. She was who stayed, who stitched, literally and figuratively, people back together and asked for nothing in return.

She was who always put everyone’s needs above her own—

She was who had spent her whole damn life making sure no one ever noticed the cracks—

She was who gave and gave and gave until she almost forgot she had anything left to want—

He just wanted her to sit. To take care of herself.

It hit her sideways, knocking her off balance, making her forget how to breathe. It slipped under her skin before she could stop it, sharp and tender all at once, settling somewhere deep in her chest. Like a bruise she had never realized was there until he touched it without meaning to, the part of her that still wanted—desperately, stupidly—to be seen.

The part of her that wanted it to be her turn. That still wanted to be known, to be chosen, to be kept.

And Jack—

Jack looked at her like he already had.

And it scared the living shit out of her.

gigi's notes: PLS tell me what you guys think, im sooooo looking forward to see your reactions!!! <3 i also started working on a different jack fanfic based on a request of a love triangle, so heads up for a future jack x reader x langdon (but here dilf supremacy always wins so don't worry folks) hehe AND i've been thinking... what do we think of a jack x firefighter!reader? 👀 i'm gonna take the big ass test for joining my state's military firefighters (i probably won't be approved bc i haven't studied at all but i would truly like to be approved [even though i'm graduating in archaeology lol]) so i kept thinking what it'd be like of jack in a relationship with a firefighter so i might write it anyway lol also, can you see how much i need therapy for my people-pleaser issues? im trying ok i took the liberty of tagging below the lovely people who said such nice things about the fanfic and commented and reblogged. if you'd like to be tagged in the future, please let me know! @cosmoscoffeee @mackycat11 @sunfairyy @starkgaryan @amandarobertsboyce @starlight-starbright-8080 @patatesliomlet @saynotononsense @sweetestcowboy @diaryofafeelsaddict

[bibli0thecary]

blanket burrito and grumpy caretaker ౨ৎ

pairing: baker! joel miller x reader

In a world with no outbreak, Joel Miller runs a popular bakery—grumpy, flour-dusted, and way too serious about sourdough. His daughters, Sarah and Ellie, are either helping or causing chaos behind the counter.

Then there’s you—a stressed-out grad student who starts doing your thesis in his cozy café. You only came for the pastries… and the baker.

read more: baker! joller miller series

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

It had been two days.

Two.

He didn’t even like how he counted them. But there it was—tight in his chest, annoying as hell. You hadn’t shown up Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Thursday rolled in, rainy and gray, and still no sign of you.

He waited until closing. Gave you all the time in the world to stroll in, say “Sorry I’m late, thesis hell,” and settle into your usual seat with your laptop and a hopeful glance toward the pastry case.

But you didn’t.

And Joel had had enough.

“I’m goin’ out,” he muttered to Sarah, who was tallying receipts.

“You sure you don’t want to wait for another sign from the universe?” she said, raising an eyebrow. 

He didn’t dignify that with a response.

Ellie hollered after him, “Bring her soup! It’s romantic!”

He brought soup.

Goddammit.

────୨ৎ────

You lived a few blocks off campus, in a cozy little apartment building with ivy climbing the bricks and a mailbox that leaned just slightly. Joel had walked past it a dozen times, back when you and Sarah talked about you moving in. You’d pointed it out once, with a laugh, and said, “That window? That’s where I scream into the void when my thesis eats my soul.”

He found that window now. The curtains were drawn.

He knocked. Once. Twice.

No answer.

Something clenched inside him.

But before he could reach for his phone, the door creaked open. And there you were.

Barefoot, bundled in two blankets, hair a mess, eyes glassy and tired. You blinked at him like you weren’t entirely sure he was real.

“…Joel?”

He blinked right back.

“You sick?” he asked, voice low, gruff.

You nodded slowly. “Fever. Sore throat. Lost my voice yesterday. Haven’t even checked my phone, I—”

“You didn’t tell Sarah. Or Ellie. Or me.”

You opened your mouth to answer—then paused.

“…Didn’t know I was supposed to tell you.”

Joel stared.

Then handed you the Tupperware of soup like it was some sort of peace offering.

“I been savin’ lemon scones all week,” he said. “They’re goin’ stale.”

Your brows lifted, even as your eyes watered from the steam of the soup. “You saved scones… for me?”

“Don’t make a thing outta it.”

“I’m making a thing.”

Joel looked at you, pale and sick and smiling weakly at him like he hadn’t just spent three days trying not to feel your absence like a bruise. And something inside him softened. Dropped its guard.

“You should’ve told me you were sick,” he said, quieter now. “I would’ve brought soup earlier. Or tea. Or hell, carried your ass to the doctor.”

You leaned your head against the doorframe, voice barely audible. “Didn’t know you’d care that much.”

Joel’s eyes met yours. Steady. Warm. Unspoken things settling between you like dust.

“I do.”

The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable. Just real.

“…Are you coming in or are you going to stand out here like a sad Victorian man with soup?”

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

Your apartment was a mess.

Not dirty—just lived-in and clearly abandoned in favor of survival. A couple empty mugs on the coffee table, tissues crumpled in soft piles, your laptop blinking sleepily from the couch. Joel had never been inside before, but it looked exactly like you: warm, chaotic, surrounded by books and soft blankets, a half-written post-it note stuck to the fridge reading “Don’t forget to be kind to yourself.”

“You’ve been livin’ like this?” he muttered, setting the soup on the counter.

“Didn’t really have the energy to do much else,” you croaked from where you’d sunk onto the couch, wrapping yourself tighter in your cocoon of blankets.

Joel walked over and handed you the mug of tea he made—ginger, lemon, and a lot more honey than he’d usually allow.

You took it with both hands, sniffled, then looked up at him with glassy eyes.

“Thanks, Joel. Really. You didn’t have to—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” he cut in, crossing his arms. “I did have to. ‘Cause apparently you’d rather suffer in silence than text one of my daughters or me that you’re sick and dyin’ in here.”

You blinked at him, confused. “I wasn’t dying—”

“You’ve got a fever. You look like hell.”

“Wow,” you rasped. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Don’t get cute with me,” he said, even as he checked your forehead with the back of his hand like it was second nature. “You didn’t even tell Sarah. Or Ellie. You know how mad they’re gonna be?”

You sniffled, mumbling around the mug. “Didn’t want to be a burden.”

That made Joel stop cold.

He crouched down in front of you, elbows on his knees, voice lower now—firm but gentle.

“You listen to me. You’re not a burden. You’re—” he paused, jaw flexing. “You’re someone we all care about. Me, especially.”

You blinked at him. Your throat worked like you wanted to say something, but all that came out was a tired squeak.

Joel sighed. “You ever pull this stunt again, and I swear to god I’ll drag you back to the bakery myself. Sick or not.”

“…Will there be scones?”

He scowled. “Always.”

You smiled behind the rim of your tea.

────୨ৎ────

Later, you fell asleep on the couch with your head leaning on his shoulder, the blanket wrapped around you like a sad, shivering burrito. Joel didn’t move. Just rested his hand gently on your knee, watching the rain blur the windows and feeling something settle in his chest for the first time in days.

When Sarah texted, “Did you find her or did you get lost?”, he sent a photo of you curled up next to him.

Joel: She’s safe. Still an idiot. Restin’ now.

Sarah: You love her.

Ellie: It is obvious.

Joel shook his head, turned the volume down, and stayed right there—until your breathing evened out and the soup went cold and everything else finally felt warm.

₊˚⊹♡

thank you for reading!

taglist: @lcvespedro @katwriteshardy @h3mm3tt @elizabeth4th

[iamthedukeofurl]

It's important to note that in this case, arguing that Garcia is innocent is a losing battle, because Garcia has not been charged with committing any actual crime. He's been accused in the press of being a gang member, based entirely off his appearance. The administration would LOVE for this to be a debate about if he is a criminal, because their argument is "Well, doesn't he look like the sort of guy who WOULD have committed a crime?". It's a distraction from THEIR wrongdoing. Fascism is obsessed with aesthetics, vibes, and displays of determination. An argument that somebody should be punished because they "Seem like they're probably a criminal", an argument where all they have to do to win is stand their ground and refuse to back down? That's exactly where they want to be. They hate due process because it requires them to be right about stuff, it requires them to cede power to the truth, and they hate that. They want it to be taken as a given that they were right to act based on their feelings alone, because at that point, all they have to do is stand their ground and say "Well, this is how I felt, and any reasonable person would feel the same way!" over and over again. As nice as it would be for them to break down and admit they were wrong, that will never happen, because that's their only lose condition, and it only happens when they decide to let it happen.

yeah.......... i truly hate the democratic party with everything i have in my soul. all he had to say was "yes, i'm defending this innocent man because he did nothing wrong but come to america seeking a better life" and he couldn't even do that. naturally the comments i've seen say shit like "i don't have to agree with you but i'll defend your rights" and i ask once again what are we disagreeing with Kilmar Abrego Garcia on???????? what did he do besides be brown and have tattoos???????? why shouldn't we defend him??????? oh my god this fucking country

[angelltheninth]

Hey I got into arcane recently. The art is just so goooooood. A feast for the eyes really. And everyone is hot like… help. Anyway, sorry for this loser request, but if you haven’t already can you do arcane characters with a virgin fem partner please

Loser request? I really hope that the loser part isn't that the virgin part, because I will have you know Anon that I am no loser. I am on my way to becoming a wizard!

Pairing: Jinx, Vi, Caitlyn Kiramman, Maddie Nolen, Ekko, Vander, Silco, Sevika, Viktor, Jayce, Mel x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, kissing, virginity loss, gentle sex, praise, cunnilingus, size kink, fingering, orgasm encouragement, aftercare

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: I'm also asexual so my chances of becoming a wizard are higher than your average persons. Only a few more years and I can be a better version of Harry Potter! Chat please tell me you know the meme I'm referencing and I don't sound like I'm crazy.

Was surprised for sure

She doesn't exactly have a ton of experience either but she has some

Can't say she's not excited about taking your virginity

Literally vibrates with excitement and anticipation of having sex with you and being the first one to make you come

At least as orgasms that are given by someone else that is, she would like to watch you fuck yourself sometime

Gets pussydrunk so easily, her grin smug and eyes literally shimmering

Really into making you ride her face, as you will learn over the course of your first night together

Has so much stamina that you can never even hope to keep up with but she never expected you to

Flattered that she could make you come just with her tongue

But wants to work on your stamina in the future

At first she thinks that she should tease you about it

Then she thinks better of it, since it's not exactly something to be ashamed of, she didn't mean anything bad by her teasing either

It's just... she knows she's not your first girlfriend, so how come you never had sex before

Nerves, well in that case she'll go slow with you, make sure you're not overwhelmed by her

Enthusiastic as she is she holds back, her fingers spreading you open slowly, only pushing them in a bit and then stopping fully

Doesn't stop talking dirty to you, grinning smugly when she feels your pussy tightening around her fingers

Likes it when you're flustered around her, not when you're uncomfortable

Cocky for sure, especially when she manages to make you come and didn't even need to touch your clit to do it

If she did she would have overstimulated you, you were already shaking so much

Keeps assuring you that you don't need to return the favor, but would love it if you do

Been a while since she slept with a virgin so she's actually a little nervous as well

Romantic dates, candle lights, relaxing baths, a massage, she pulls out every trick in the book to make it the best night ever

There's a lot of soft touching and affirmations from her

Has to battle a smile when you're blushing because she's making you feel good

Asks what makes you feel good when you're doing it by yourself and tries to do the same

Experimenting can come later, she wants to make your first time a nice experience, a memorable experience

Kisses down your body, almost like she's worshiping you

Seeing you sopping wet for her definitely helps her know she's doing a good job before she dives forward to eat you out

Tells you to pull her hair a lot, she won't mind

Keeps saying how pretty you are, how beautiful your moans sounds, how she wants to be the only one you moan for from now on

Feels really happy and excited that you'd trust her enough to be the first person to sleep with

Very touchy with you, not just as she's undressing you but in general, so it doesn't feel like it's too much when she guides you to the bed

Grinning she pulls you into a deep kiss and wraps her arms around you to press you against her, thighs sliding between each other

She guids your hips to move against her thigh, chuckling when she feels how slick you're making it

Kisses you the whole time because it's her favorite thing to do and because she knows it'll calm you

Doesn't go for penetration for your first time

But really wants you to sit on her face and to fuck you with her tongue

Subtly writes her name on your clit

Won't rush you into an orgasm, she lets you chase it on your own, her hands soothing against your trembling thighs

Post-orgasm cuddles are some of her favorite things so don't think this will be a one time thing

Before you told him you were a virgin he was a lot more relaxed

Now he feels a kind of pressure on himself to make your first time good

His first time was a quickie and not that memorable at all

So as your boyfriend he wants to give you a better experience and make sure you remember it for the rest of your life

Teases you to cover up his own nerves

He talks to you a lot, particularly when he's getting ready to push his cock into you

Before he does he does warn you that it can be painful but it won't last long

Shakes while pushing his cock into you, he really wants to fuck you but he's holding himself back, he's being considerate of you

Keeps his thrusts slow, smiling down at you before he pulls you into a gentle kiss, telling you how good you feel around him

Leaves it up to you if he pulls out or not

Genuinely surprised, so surprised he drops a glass and it breaks

Doesn't think you should be embaressed by it at all

Some people take a lot of time to feel safe and comfortable to be intimate with others

He's actually pretty flattered that you want him to be the one who took your virginity

Knows he's on the bigger size in terms of dick size so he really doesn't expect you to be able to take all of him, maybe half if you're lucky

It can be too much for your first time

You can just make up for it by giving him a really nice handjob

Pulls you onto his lap and wants to cuddle you afterwards, he was always pretty protective and caring towards you

Now that he's your lover you can expect that his protective tendencies will get even stronger

Surprised when you want to go again so soon but he won't argue with you

Had a feeling you were inexperienced but he didn't want to say anything

Then you might feel pressured into having sex with him and that's the last thing he wants

Besides if he was only after sex then he could get it easily

He wants more than just a one night stand, by now you know that he cares about you and wants this to be a serious relationship

Just because he's serious about this doesn't mean he can take the day off

Actually he thinks it might be better if happens spontaneously

His cock is rock hard when he pulls you onto his lap when you tease him in his office

You need to learn that there are consequences for your actions

Keeps his hand on your mouth as he fucks his cock into you, it would be bad if you were interrupted for your first time and you don't get that orgasm you've been so desperate for

From this moment on he expects you to be at his full disposal and he will be at yours, naturally, there's a lot you still need to learn about pleasuring a man like him

Tries to hold back her cocky smirk but she just can't, oh this is too good, a hot lady like you and no one's fucked you yet

Just means she gets to be the first one to show you how good sex can be

After she's done with you there won't ever be anyone else that'll be able to satisfy you like she could

Has to brag about her skills but won't make fun of you for your lack of skills

Offers to do it in the 69 position so you can mimic her movements

The best way to teach is a hands on method, or in this case the mouth and tongue on

Even though your own movements are a little clumsy and you can't focus all that well you still try to follow her lead the best you can and believe her she loves that hard working side of you

Smokes after sex, that's a habit at this point

But the catch is that she smokes after really good sex so you should take that as the highest of compliments

How soon can you go again because she would love to keep you going all night long

Well he doesn't have much experience to speak off either

So you can both learn new things, you don't have to be nervous around him

Gets hard for you really easily and has to focus to keep himself from coming too soon

Usually this isn't a problem for him but you've been the object of his fantasies and dreams many times before, he hopes this isn't another one of those fantasies

But the moment he pushes his finger inside of you he's convinced it's real, it feels right, to pleasure you, to love you

Keeps rubbing his cock while fingering you, he wants to show you he's just as eager and excited for this as you are

He moves really damn fast when he finally pushes his cock into your pussy, he can't help himself, he can't hold back, it's almost overwhelming

After he feels your inner walls pulsing and massaging his cock he slows down just a little

Not fully slow, but enough to get some control over himself

Doesn't want you get you pregnant on your first night together but in the future you can discuss such things

Almost comes in his pants from excitement

Now that would be embarrassing, for him not for you, he bets you'd love to see that

Someday maybe you will but for now he wants to focus on your pleasure not his

Eats you out like he's been starving for eternity

You have to push him away to get him to stop, your juices dripping from his mouth and into his beard, making it all shiny

Kisses your thighs, covers them with kisses and bites actually, same with your pussy

His eyes roll back when he bottoms out inside of you, he honestly didn't think you'd want all of him for your first time but you were very determined

That determination should be rewarded

He has always been the giver, he loves making his lover feel pleasure, especially if he's the first one to do that for her

You won't escape his arms when he wraps them around you from behind, pampering the back of your neck and shoulders with lazy, appreciative kisses after sex

You should have told her this information sooner, then she wouldn't have flirted with you so hard

Not that she regrets having you naked in her bed or anything like that, the opposite is true, she thinks she should have given you more time to fall into her bed

But if you're still sure you want to do this with her tonight then she will be more than happy to give you pleasure until the Sun rises

Always had a way with words and praise is no different

She might be three fingers deep in your pussy and making you squirt but she'll be damned if she'll stop talking about how sexy you are or how lucky she feels tonight

Never been much of a cuddler, she was always very guarded, but this is a special occasion

Of course she'll let you return the favor

Don't worry about clumsiness or anything like that, just do what feels right, do what makes you feel good

Trust that she'll tell you if it doesn't feel good

She doesn't really do one night stands but she also doesn't sleep over at other people's places a lot, so if you want to do this again you're gonna have to make your intentions clear next time

[jinjooha69]

TOJI X READER !!!

Pairing - Toji fushiguro x reader (dad's friend! AU)

Under His Roof

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Content Warnings (Please Read): Age gap, Power imbalance, Manipulation, Degrading talk, Possessiveness/Obsession, Breeding kink, Spanking/Discipline, Angst & emotional manipulation, Soft/dom moments later on, Minors DO NOT INTERACT (18+ ONLY)

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Chapter 2

Your dad had called earlier that day, voice crackling through bad reception. Some last-minute crisis at work meant he had to stay overnight on-site. He sounded more annoyed about the inconvenience than worried about leaving you alone.

“I asked Toji to swing by. Just in case,” he said. “He’ll stay the night. Don’t give him trouble.”

You blinked. “He’s staying?”

“Yeah. He said it’s no problem. I owe him anyway.”

You wanted to ask why it had to be him, but the call cut before you could say much more.

Evening rolled in like a quiet tide. The house felt strangely still, like it knew something was different. You weren’t nervous—just... hyper-aware. You’d been feeling that a lot lately. Ever since that night you talked to Toji in the kitchen. Something had shifted. You didn’t know what exactly, only that you caught yourself thinking about that conversation more than you meant to.

About the way his voice dipped.

The way he looked at you like he was figuring something out.

The way he said, You’re more than enough.

You hadn’t seen him since then. But you felt it in your chest the moment the doorbell rang.

You opened it to find him there, holding a duffel bag in one hand, a grocery bag in the other.

“Your dad told me you probably hadn’t eaten,” he said, stepping inside like it was his house too.

You moved out of his way, unsure how to respond. He looked like he always did—black fitted tee, low-hanging joggers, that clean, strong scent that always clung to his skin. But there was something else now. A kind of weight in the air you couldn’t name.

You followed him into the kitchen, where he unpacked the bag—rice, some pre-cooked chicken, a bottle of cola.

“I don’t cook fancy,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “But I figured hot food’s better than junk.”

You nodded and murmured a soft “Thanks,” watching his shoulders move under that shirt as he turned back to the stove.

You stood nearby, fidgeting with the hem of your hoodie, uncertain what to do with yourself. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… thick. Like the quiet between you had its own heartbeat.

“You always get this quiet when you're alone with someone?” he asked, teasing just enough to make you blush.

You looked up, startled. “No— I mean, I don’t know. I just don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything,” he said, stirring the pan. “Just sit. You don’t have to talk.”

You did as he said, sliding into a chair. You watched him cook. It shouldn’t have felt intimate—but it did. He didn’t say much more. Just made sure your plate was full. Made sure you ate. Made sure you drank enough water. Like he wasn’t just here to keep you company—he was here for you.

After dinner, you ended up on the couch, scrolling absently through your phone. Toji sat nearby with a beer, flipping through TV channels without settling on anything. You weren’t really watching. Neither was he. The space between you felt warmer now. Still quiet. But not stiff.

“You good?” he asked again, just like the other night.

You nodded. But your face gave you away.

“Still thinking about him?”

You hesitated. “Not really. I think I’m just... thinking.”

He leaned back, arm stretched across the top of the couch, eyes on the ceiling. “Thinking’s good. But sometimes it just makes you tired.”

You nodded again, pulling your knees up to your chest, the oversized hoodie swallowing your frame.

“C’mere,” he said, motioning gently with a flick of his fingers.

You blinked, confused. “What?”

“You look cold. C’mere.”

You hesitated—because something fluttered deep in your chest. Not fear. Just nerves. Confusion. But you obeyed without thinking too hard. You always did with him.

You slid closer, slowly. And when your shoulder brushed his chest, he eased an arm around you, careful, unhurried, like he was taming something fragile.

“There,” he murmured, the heat of him soaking into your skin. “That better?”

You nodded, cheek brushing the fabric stretched over his chest. His heartbeat was steady. Slow. Yours was not.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. The quiet stretched long, the weight of him warm around you. Gentle. Protective. His thumb moved once, barely grazing your shoulder, the touch so light it could’ve been imagined.

You didn’t notice the way his eyes lingered. How they traced the slope of your jaw, the way your lashes fluttered when you breathed out. You didn’t catch the way his hand flexed once, slow and restrained, before settling again.

You just sat there, soft and warm in his hold, thinking maybe—just maybe—this was what safety felt like.

The night deepened. The kind of quiet that settled between you and Toji wasn’t empty—it was thick, like velvet. Soft but heavy. You could hear the hum of the fridge, the patter of soft rain against the window, and his slow, calm breaths beside you.

He hadn’t moved in a while. His arm still lay around your shoulder, heavy but comforting. His fingers occasionally drummed gently against your upper arm—small, thoughtless movements. At least, that’s what you thought.

You were curled into him more than before, drawn to the warmth without realizing how much. Your knees tucked under you, your side pressed against his, your cheek resting lightly against his chest. The TV played some late-night crime show no one was watching.

You were still thinking about your ex. Still chewing on old wounds.

“You shouldn’t let someone like him get in your head,” Toji said, his voice low, almost like he was talking to himself. “He didn’t know what he had.”

You made a small sound, not sure how to answer. “He said I was too much. Too clingy. Too emotional.”

“That’s not a flaw,” he murmured. “You feel things deeply. That’s rare.”

His hand moved then—not down, not anything obvious. Just from your shoulder to your upper back, slow and firm, almost like a massage. Still something you could pass off as harmless.

“You care too much about what boys your age think,” he continued. “They don’t know what to do with a woman like you.”

Your lips parted slightly at his words. Woman. You didn’t know why that word sounded different coming from him. You felt it somewhere low in your stomach. But you didn’t speak. You didn’t even move. His hand had reached the middle of your back now, resting there with quiet weight.

“Guys like that… they don’t deserve softness,” he said. “They waste it.”

There was a beat of silence. You still didn’t move.

And then he said it, barely a whisper:

“I wouldn’t have.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t even fully understand what he meant, but it sounded... important. Different. His voice was lower now, closer to your ear. You didn’t realize he’d leaned in.

“Toji—” you said softly, your heart starting to thump.

He hummed like he didn’t hear it—or maybe like he was giving you space to stop him if you wanted.

Then his fingers moved again. A little lower this time. Slow enough to make you second guess if it really went as far as you thought. Just the small of your back. Still not wrong. Still not inappropriate. But just barely.

You felt warm. Too warm. Your cheeks flushed. Your chest tight.

“I’m gonna tell you something,” he said, eyes still watching the flickering TV screen. “And you don’t need to say anything back.”

You nodded, eyes wide. Confused. Curious.

“I noticed,” he said. “The way you look when you’re thinking too hard. When you chew your lip and stare off into nowhere. The way your voice gets small when you talk about someone hurting you.”

You swallowed, heart hammering.

“I noticed how soft you are,” he added, voice even lower now. “And how easy it would be to ruin that.”

Your breath hitched.

He leaned closer, nose brushing the top of your head. Not a kiss. But too close. Too much. And still—somehow—not enough.

“But I won’t,” he said, as if reading your silence. “Not unless you ask me to.”

And then—he pulled away. Just enough. His arm still around you. But no more words. No more boldness.

He left you there, heart pounding, brain reeling, breath shallow—wondering what the hell just happened.

You didn’t say anything.

Not because you didn’t want to—because you didn’t know what to say. The moment sat heavy in your chest, thick and trembling. It hadn’t felt like danger. Not really. But it also hadn’t felt like safety anymore.

It felt like something entirely new. Something you didn’t have words for.

Toji didn’t move. His arm stayed where it was—loose, relaxed like he hadn’t just whispered things no man had ever said to you before. Like he hadn’t just told you, in a voice deeper than sin, that he’d noticed you.

That he’d thought about you in ways that no one ever had. Certainly not someone like him.

You shifted slightly, instinctively—just enough that your thigh pressed a little closer to his. Not a bold move. Not intentional. Just... your body needing something, and your brain too slow to understand what.

He didn’t speak. But you felt his head tilt slightly. Like he’d felt it. Like he noticed that, too.

You fumbled for words. “I—I don’t know what you mean,” you said, voice barely more than a whisper. “About... ruining.”

His fingers twitched against your lower back. Not moving lower. Not pulling you closer. Just a small pulse of tension—controlled, held back.

He leaned in again, slower this time. You felt his breath against your temple.

“You don’t have to know,” he said. “That’s the thing about being soft, baby. You don’t need to understand everything. You just feel it.”

That made your stomach twist. Not in fear. In something darker. Deeper. Something that made your knees pull tighter under you and your arms wrap around yourself, like they could contain it.

“I didn’t mean—” you started.

But he cut you off. Not unkindly. Just gently.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” His hand pressed just slightly—just enough for you to feel his warmth right through the hoodie. “You never do.”

You turned your head toward him before you could stop yourself, your eyes wide and searching. And you caught him looking at you with that same intensity. Not smiling. Just... watching. Like you were something he didn’t want to break, but couldn’t stop reaching for.

“I…” You swallowed. “I don’t know what to do.”

His expression softened. “That’s alright. You don’t need to do anything.”

He moved then—slowly, deliberately—lifting one hand to your face, the back of his fingers brushing the line of your jaw.

“Just let me look at you.”

The words punched all the air out of your lungs.

No one had ever said it like that. Like they meant it. Like you were art. Like you were made to be looked at. To be studied. To be touched like glass.

Your eyes flicked down, suddenly self-conscious. But his hand tilted your chin back up.

“Don’t hide,” he said, voice rougher now. “Not from me.”

And then he did something that made your heart trip.

He leaned in and pressed a kiss—not to your lips. But just beside them. Your cheek. Close enough to make your skin light on fire. Just enough to test the waters. Just enough to mark the line.

It wasn’t a friendly kiss. It wasn’t innocent.

But it wasn’t demanding, either.

It was a promise. And a warning.

He pulled back, finally, standing from the couch in one smooth motion, like the weight of it all didn’t sit on his shoulders. Like he hadn’t just lit a fire under your skin.

“I’ll take the guest room,” he said simply, like nothing happened at all.

You just sat there, stunned, trembling a little, heart racing against your ribs like a warning bell.

And you stayed like that for a long time—your skin still buzzing where his mouth had touched, your mind too soft to hold onto anything except the sound of his voice, still echoing.

"You never do anything wrong."

next chapter

.

[porcelainbirdss]

one for luck, one for…

summary: in which your friend Phainon decided to play with your hair just before the bell rings — and by some miracle, your deepest covets became satiated.

cw: fem!reader, fem!Phainon, modern au, fluff, Phainon is kinda a mean girl so probably ooc, she’s crushing hard on reader, possessiveness. || wc: 2.7k

"oh, [name]! do you sit here now?" Phainon inquired, her lips stretched into a wide smile as she took in your form, trying to organize your stuff. the bell would ring in about fifteen minutes — and your teacher was always ever so strict, so you preferred to have your notebooks and pencil-case neatly placed — just in case.

you nodded, trying to form your expression into something cordial — the girl was… well, how do you say this? one of the popular ones, while you were more of a pushover, letting your wits be used by others. however, no matter how Phainon might have appeared, she never once tried to use you — if anything, she would be the one giving you answers during quizzes while you found yourself lacking in information, or helping you when the teacher asked you to answer in front of the whole class.

you didn’t understand the girl — of course, what she was doing was utterly kind, but out of all those people she could have chosen — why you?

"yes, that’s my place now." you answered politely, returning her smile as you fidgeted with your pen. for whatever reason, whenever she lied her blue, bright irises on you, you felt a tingle of something foreign spring up in your gut.

Phainon beamed, immediately taking her seat behind you. "finally, that teach made a good decision for once." she hummed, leaning to talk to you over the clamor, "i don’t know about you, but i honestly don’t like him. he’s so stuck up, isn’t he?"

you nodded along to her words, continuing to spin the pen between your fingers, thinking that perhaps this mere action could take your mind off of the way her lips glistened, coated in a thick layer or lipgloss — or how her eyelashes fluttered so sweetly, obviously painted with mascara. "yeah. he’s a pain." you admitted — or rather lied, because you didn’t truly feel as if mr. Anaxa was all that bad.

your classmate giggled briefly in response, twirling the lock of fair hair around her finger. "totally. see? at least you agree with me." she said, the corners of her lips stretching even further upwards, "ugh, always so much homework, and projects…"

with a barely-audible laugh, you nodded once more, allowing yourself to lean over her desk. you noticed her notebooks — clean, and dainty — and you wondered why she loved complaining about school so much. it’s not as if she was struggling, right?

"i wouldn’t mind if he could cut us some slack for once." you murmured, glancing over to the man busying himself with something on his laptop. if he heard you, you’d surely regret ever saying such words — but mr. Anaxa seemed engrossed in whatever he was doing, his vision keen on the screen.

Phainon tapped her nails on the wooden surface, drawing your attention back in. "maybe he’s not that bad? i mean, the new sitting plan is pretty good.” she mused, gently reaching over to your hair. you felt yourself shudder at the careful touch. "personally, i am happy. how about you?"

"yeah— yeah, me too." you stammered, wincing at how awkward that came out. the girl didn’t seem to mind, raking her fingers through your locks.

when you pulled closer to her, you could smell her perfume — you wouldn’t know exactly, as it was pretty hard to discern, but she smelled of jasmine. "you’ve got such nice hair…" Phainon swiftly changed the topic, her eyes meeting yours before she gave you a little tug, urging to turn your head. you did as she pleased.

"oh, um… you think so?" you huffed out a nervous chuckle, sitting upright in your chair. why was she always so kind to you, while she preferred to snarl at others? honestly, it remained a mystery — how Phainon always doted on you, pleaded to be your pair during group-projects, offered her brand lipsticks (which’s prices you were too afraid to even ask about), sat with you during lunch, and many, many more occurrences.

truth be told — there is no point in trying to guess her intentions. Phainon was your school friend, and for that, you were grateful — the scale of bullying you were experiencing ever since the start definitely lessened, and whenever someone tried to do as much as look at you the wrong way, they’d meet with her tight smile. it was usually enough to chase the bully away — although if they were still feeling feisty, Phainon would… well, verbally obliterate them. you seriously don’t know how she always came up with such brutal remarks on the spot.

"mhm." she hummed beside your ear, her breath tingling your nape. "it’s no wonder he has a crush on you. you’re stunning."

another thing she liked to do — complimenting you to the point where you’d be left stumbling over your words, face flushed.

"ah, don’t… he surely doesn’t." you giggled under your breath, your vision flickering over to the boy standing on the other side of the classroom. it became pretty obvious — even to your oblivious self — that he was somewhat interested in you. sometimes, when you had nothing better to do, you’d try to daydream about how lovely it would be to finally have that school love, and a boyfriend. it was a popular topic in all those movies targeted for teenagers, and so you yearned for the feeling too.

except, whenever you tried to imagine him kissing you, the boy’s image always distorted, shifting into a familiar face of Phainon, gently cupping your cheeks, and smiling at you so, so sweetly. her lips would surely feel good on yours, no? she must take care of them, because they’re smooth, and glistening with those lipglosses she loved using. oh, and her hands too — the slender, long fingers curling around your jaw, freshly smothered in balm, painted nails digging into your flesh. the intoxicating scent of jasmine would encompass all your senses before the girl pulls you into her lap, and then—

wait, what are you even thinking about?

Phainon caressed your hair with her comb, attempting to make a small braid. "don’t be silly. he ogles you all the time, [name]." she snickered lowly, tugging a knot out, "i have to admit, he has taste."

you shifted in your chair, wishing you could look at her face, and see the expression she was making. "you think so?"

"totally." she answered, her long fingernails raking through your scalp, and you had to physically stop yourself from shivering. "i mean, i guess he’s hot, but… he’s not good for you. you deserve someone way better."

your hands clenched around nothing. "why? what’s up with him?" you questioned, wondering why someone as polite as him could be a wrong match for you. the boy never came off as vicious, nor rude — at least to you.

"ah, you know," Phainon began, making another loose braid, "he likes to play nice, and all that, but he’s an asshole in reality. manipulates everyone he can." she explained, and you felt her hands briefly clench around your locks. "what a fucking jerk, trying to make my best friend his another victim."

your shoulders tensed upon her seething tone, and your heart seemed to hammer even harder now, beating at your ribs with fervor. Phainon considered you her best friend? that was… well, you thought of her the same way — maybe because she was the only one you had, but still. truthfully, you didn’t expect it — nor the disdain in her words.

"if you say so, then i’ll just—" you paused, mulling over your sentence, "if he tries to make a move, i’ll tell him to get lost. how’s that?"

that evoked a cheery laugh out of Phainon, and the amount of warmth involuntarily swelling up in your chest caused you to giggle along. "that’s my girl. every single boy can go to hell."

"every single one?" you mused lightheartedly, leaning into her touch.

you didn’t see her face, but could easily discern the smile in her voice. "yeah. we don’t need them, right?" she said, separating the next stand of hair to make yet another small braid.

you nodded, and found yourself pondering — could Phainon also be…? it’s not like you had a crush on her, no, absolutely not! but still, her words made you feel that foolish glimmer of hope, and then you weren’t sure how you truly felt about your friend. aren’t you utterly pathetic, for dreaming of her being with you, and no one else? and gods, aren’t you stupid for wishing that her tender demeanor towards you meant something more?

a short moment of silence passed before Phainon spoke again. "anyway, what are your plans for the weekend?" she asked casually, brushing a part of your hair to the side.

"nothing much." you admitted, shrugging.

"really?" she beamed, and you thought you loved how good happiness looked on the girl (or rather sounded, because you still couldn’t see her face). "well, i got invited to a party, but honestly i don’t feel like going. what do you say we go to the mall together?"

you chuckled quietly, suddenly embarrassed for whatever reason. "we could, but… i ran out of money, and my parents don’t want to give me allowance."

(the reason why you were absolutely broke right now was because Phainon’s birthday was coming up, and you spent a horrendous amount on the gift — but that’s out of the topic).

"don’t worry, [name], i can treat you!" she assured, hovering over the desk to look at your expression. "it’s really no problem for me."

"but—"

"oh, we will go to that new clothing shop they opened recently!" Phainon interrupted, a habit of hers that showed up whenever she got excited, "not to sound rude, or anything, but you definitely need a new outfit. i will choose it for you, okay?"

you craned your neck to look at her face, and almost passed out from the way her bright eyes crinkled in the corners, a wide grin stretching her lips. when Phainon allowed herself to let go of that slightly mean facade, she truly looked like an angel sent from above.

"alright, we can do that." you returned her smile, pushing away the wave of guilt threatening to creep up on you. seriously, you’ll have to beg your parents for another sum of pocket money, because there was no way you’d use her like that.

then, another girl came up to your desks, looming over Phainon. she was one of your classmates — personally, you didn’t like her, but she seemed quite close to your friend, so you decided against voicing your dismay out loud. "hey, Phainon, are you and [name] going to the mall this weekend?"

"yeah, we are." Phainon answered bluntly, still yet to pull away from you.

"can i go with you? i didn’t get invited to that party, unlike you, so frankly i have nothing better to do." she hummed, and you wanted to endlessly berate yourself for the sting of something ugly in your heart. still, it was supposed to be your outing, with no one else! why was she bumping into your business?

Phainon’s eyebrows arched upwards, and her beaming expression fell. "no, you can’t."

"but—" the girl attempted to protest, before your friend quickly glanced at her phone’s screen — three minutes until the bell rings. then, she stood up, grabbing your wrist, and pulled you out of your chair.

"i said what i said.” she barked at the girl, taking wide steps towards the door. as you walked out of the classroom, she leaned into your side, a scornful look adorning her face. "ugh, who does she think she is?" she murmured, her eyebrows narrowing together.

you allowed Phainon to tug you along, trying to keep up with her hasty pace. the amount of relief you felt at that moment was indescribable — and, no matter how awful that might sound, you felt satisfied with how she brutally turned that girl down. "but aren’t you two friends?" you spoke, entering the bathroom.

"well, yeah." Phainon rolled her eyes, opening one of the cabins, and pulling you in. you didn’t question her actions. she then rummaged through her bag, and upon failing to find whatever thing she was searching for, she let out a resigned sigh. "i mean— no, no she’s not. she acts as if we’re close, or something, but she’s a goddamn parasite."

you nodded stiffly. "okay."

"plus,” Phainon continued, taking a single step towards you, "i know you don’t like her. it’s pretty obvious, to be honest." she reached for your palm, giving it a squeeze, and you felt as if the ground opened up, promising to swallow you whole.

your blood pressure immediately spiked, and you wanted to simultaneously bolt out of the bathroom, and render the distance between you both. she was so close — so unbelievably close, you could smell the jasmine, and clearly see how her mouth curled up, smothered in that thick coat of makeup. you loved it, but at the same time wished Phainon would stop wearing it so much. she was a natural beauty, after all.

upon your lack of answer, she spoke again. "anyway, i want to go out just with you. understand? so don’t you dare invite anyone else." she whispered, her blue irises flickering over to your lips. you vividly sensed the girl’s fingers clenching harder around your hand, effectively knocking the words out of your throat.

just what was going on?

"uh, i—"

before you could finish your clumsy trail of thought, Phainon’s lips suddenly met with yours — you breathed in sharply through your nose, squeezing her palm back. the kiss was chaste, and quick, but you were completely sure if not for the grip she had on you, your knees would buckle, making you collapse on the floor.

it felt exactly as you thought it would — maybe even better. she was so soft, yet decisive, and your mind went blank with the contact. you couldn’t believe it was happening, because stuff like that only occurred in your deepest dreams — but your current situation was very much real, and you could fly up with the sheer amount of joy.

then, she pulled away, taking in your breathless form with her half-lidded eyes, snickering lowly. "wh-what was that…?" you found yourself asking dumbly, staring at her with wonder.

Phainon shrugged, her features shifting into something friendlier — and perhaps more coy, if you squinted. "this one was for luck.” she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"luck— luck?" you stammered out, still too dazed to think properly.

that evoked another giggle out of her. "don’t tell me you forgot about the quiz we’re going to take now?"

you blinked once, twice, and the cogs in your brain turned, finally catching up — oh no, you really did forget, didn’t you? and at this point, you’re going to be late for class!

"maybe…?" you muttered, your vision flickering between everything, but her.

Phainon clicked her tongue, her free hand moving to grasp your chin. she pulled closer again, her mouth brushing against yours, and you thought your whole body was made out of cotton. perhaps you wouldn’t mind being late.

"one for luck, one for…" she breathed, her lips almost — almost closing around yours, but the irritably loud sound of the ringing bell caused you both to jolt. you bit your tongue in surprise, snapped out of the moment.

the girl let go of you, taking a step back with a sheepish smile, so unlike her. "sorry, [name], i— i think i got carried away." she chuckled, raking her fingers through her hair.

you immediately shook your head, trying to ignore the sting on your cheeks. you really must look like a fool right now. "no, i didn’t mind. actually, i… Phainon, i think i—"

your surge of courage got quickly dimmed by the rather obnoxious knock on the stall’s door. you winced along with your friend, exchanging troubled looks.

"girls, the break’s over! get out of the cabin, and go to class!" a voice on the other side called, and you couldn’t help but sigh in utter defeat.

Phainon leaned to you, opening the door. "we’ll finish later. don’t worry." she winked at you teasingly, a mischievous smirk growing on her lips before she stepped out, muttering some apologies to the cleaning lady.

you gaped at her, dumbfounded — and maybe you’d continue to stand frozen, if not for the woman’s stern words, nagging you to move. with reluctance, you followed in tow, trying your best not to trip over your wobbly legs.

there was no way you will pass that quiz.

[thedandelionresistance]

Our psychosis symptoms are largely pleasant/neutral, too, and our lives would be less rich without them. The ones that are distressing are pretty easily managed (we counteract irrational beliefs with others ones - so like, "the paranormal entity we belief is after us can't get us if we put fairy lights up, because light is a defense against dark things" or shit like that).

We've had to stop disclosing our non-distressing psychosis and even our schizophrenia which is only disordered because of the cognitive and negative symptoms (which, aside from extreme and debilitating executive dysfunction from THE COMBINATION of ADHD and schizophrenia is also fairly mild) because they then refuse to treat us for the actually severely distressing debilitating and disabling symptom from both of those that is so bad it is physically painful when unmedicated and causes us to be in a state of constant severe dissociation.

So the commenter saying professionals don't actually care and just want to forcibly normalize us for polite society? Spot on, in my experience. Because apparently experiencing the beauty of multiple realities is a threat to people clinging to the belief there is only One Right One, and those who do it must be eradicated. It's better even to let a person be nonfunctional and therefore nonproductive under capitalism than to ever listen to us about what we need, because we'll always be too "stupid" and "crazy" and "need them to make our decisions for us". The idea of us even having autonomy is terrifying to them, and I rather suspect it's a case of "they're scared we might treat them even a fraction as badly as they've treated us".

Though who knows? It could be any number of things. All I know is that I've had to lead every psychiatric (and medical, for that matter, because yay corpoableism) professional by the hand to every diagnosis and effective treatment I've ever gotten, while controlling how much information I feed them like with my abuser - not even like, because the system is abusive and so are a good portion of those within it.

Dehumanized/depersoned doesn't even feel like strong enough a word, because I've seen dogs- hell, I've seen spiders and wasps and earwigs and cockroaches - treated better. It's like to them we're not even alive, but objectified doesn't have exactly the right meaning.

Idk. It's just awful. And it needs to change.

Like we have to kill the idea that schizophrenics who don't feel that taking antipsychotics is worth it are inherently dangerous and wrong and need to be coerced and forced into it. These are meds with a lot of heavy effects and side effects that are more so sedative than directly treating psychosis and they often actively worsen other aspects of the illness (negative and cognitive symptoms). A lot of people find them to be worth it, but just as many don't. And the way so many people have accepted that if you're schizophrenic not wanting to take them is inherently an invalid and dangerous choice that will end with people getting hurt (despite schizophrenics not having higher rates of violence than most people) says really shitty things about how much we have dehumanized schizophrenics in this society

[compress1repress]

patrick loses a bet w art and ends up wearing a cute lil tennis skirt for a practice match, but it backfires horribly bc patrick is feeling his oats and art cant fucking focus for shit. like hes WHITE KNUCKLING the racket

"patrick. please stop"

"what? this is so breathable i should wear this every time 😋"

[the most deliriously horny hes ever been in his life] "please for the love of god STOP"

tashi walks by appreciatively and is like hey zweig. good form [nice ass]. maybe it gives her ideas and she goes online lingerie shopping. idk i just think his thighs would look good in garters. smudge some eyeliner on him while youre there idk. im just spitballin here boss

Woah. Clearly this got to me bc i received this five days ago and now I've written a 12k word fic that is only a part one. Like this doesn't even get into the eyeliner and garters of it all yet. I took some liberties but hopefully got the essentials :D hope it's okay!!

thank you for this ask <3 the part 2 will be started soon

-> AO3 VERSION

cw: nsfw, mdni, i think you can tell from the ask what might come up, just general filth, light feminisation, 12k word count

im sure I'll have more to say tomorrow but for now here it is:

“She won’t be back until this evening,” Art calls out to Patrick after hanging up the phone.

“Why not?” Patrick’s laid flat on his back along the length of the couch, taking up a very unnecessary amount of space.

“Lily wanted to sleep over so Tashi’s going to stay for dinner before she comes back,” he explains, joining Patrick in the sitting room.

Tashi had taken Lily to her cousin’s, she had two children, one Lily’s age and one a little older. Usually Art would go too, and he’d sometimes have to play with Lily because she got too shy. They’d send her off with the other kids but she’d come back ten minutes later, pulling at Art’s sleeve and he couldn’t say no. That’s probably why Tashi had even agreed to this last minute sleepover, it’s a pretty big deal that Lily actually wanted to stay over. It’s also why she’s staying for dinner, just in case Lily changes her mind.

Art hadn’t gone because Uniqlo was sending over some outfits for their brand deal, and he had to sign for the delivery. That was the reasoning they gave Patrick at least. Really it was because it felt strange leaving him in their house alone, not because they didn’t trust him there.

They couldn’t exactly drag Patrick along with them to every event, they knew that, and he must know that too, but every time he’s left alone for a while he gets weird. He gets sad. Art and Tashi don’t explicitly talk about it, but there’s a shared understanding between them.

“So, we’ve got like four hours of an empty house?” Patrick muses, clearly trying very hard to keep his face neutral. 

“We’re not fucking,” Art smiles down at him.

“I wasn’t suggesting anything,” Patrick tries but Art raises an eyebrow at him, “alright, why not?”

“Tashi said so,” and she’d been very clear on the phone to Art about it.

“Okay, no fucking,” Patrick nods, a smirk growing on his face, “but she didn’t say anything a-”

“No blowjobs, no hand stuff, and no touching under clothes,” Art cuts him off, moving to sit on the armchair since Patrick is taking up all the space on the couch.

“Well, we don’t have to take our clothes off to have a good time,” Patrick sits up, looking at Art with a hopeful grin.

“No dry humping either,” Art can’t help but snort at the disappointment on his face.

“Jesus, she really thought this through,” he flops back down, sighing, a look of both frustration and admiration on his face. 

“I think she just knows that you’ll be trying to find any possible loophole,” Art snorts, and he can tell Patrick is still brainstorming solutions, “c’mon, she just wants us to wait until she gets back.”

“Fine,” Patrick relents, “but if I do come up with an ingenious loophole, we’re taking it.”

If Art’s being honest he had also hoped Patrick would find a way around it, then he could probably get off now and just blame it on Patrick later. That way Tashi would probably punish Patrick and he’d get to fuck her while Patrick watches.

Instead he decides to exercise some restraint, because he wants to be good for Tashi. It’s not like she was being mean, she just didn't want them to use up all their energy before she got home. Plus, he’s not that manipulative, not all the time. 

Although, really, if he knew for a fact that Tashi would believe that it wasn’t his fault, he’d start riling Patrick up now, get him to think he was the one seducing Art into breaking rules. 

Unfortunately, he’s pretty sure both Tashi and Patrick would see right through him. 

“Sure, but how about we just watch a movie for now?” Art suggests.

“Yeah, alright, movie mashup?” Patrick asks.

It’s this thing they used to do when they were young, a tradition that had come back now they lived together again. If they wanted to watch a movie they’d both just name the first one that came to mind then try to find a middle ground between the two. It was their way of assuring they didn’t have a fight because technically they’d both equally chosen the movie. Some days it worked better than others, and occasionally they named the same film anyway. 

Although, once when they were fourteen, Art had picked A Bug’s Life while Patrick had wanted Weird Science; they decided The Fly sounded like a mashup of the two (insects + eighties science? They never said the method was flawless), which ended up being a little traumatising. Art still has a slight fear of fingernails.  

“Okay, I’ll count down,” Art waits for Patrick’s nod, “3…2…1…”

Art says, “E.T.” at the same time Patrick yells, “Sharknado.”

“Sharknado?” Art questions through a laugh.

“It’s fun,” Patrick defends.

“What’s the mashup, then?” Art asks.

It only takes a few seconds, because they had so much practice, and because this one is easy. Spielberg and sharks, duh.

They smile at each other, both getting it at the same time, “Jaws.”

“That might be the most satisfying mashup yet,” Patrick grins, “but are you sure it’s not too scary?”

“We’ve both seen it before,” Art rolls his eyes.

“I’m just saying, maybe we should sit as close as possible, just in case,” Patrick is so obvious.

“Patrick, we’re not fucking,” he warns, again half-wanting Patrick to keep pushing. 

“Fine,” he groans, “just innocent cuddling then, for old time’s sake?”

He guesses that is what they used to do on movie mashup nights, pressed up against each other in one of their single beds. Sometimes one of them would have an arm around the other, because it was comfier that way, and neither of them ever really thought twice about it. It was hardly the height of their physical affection with each other, they’d done more on tennis courts in front of everyone.

Art hasn’t answered so Patrick adds, “seriously, I don’t have a sexual ulterior motive.”

“I know, but now I have a feeling you’re trying to lure me out of the comfy armchair so you can take it for yourself,” Art’s lying, he just wants to see what Patrick will do.

“You’re so cynical,” he gets up walking over, “guess we’ll just have to share.”

“You won’t fit,” Art shakes his head, letting him try anyway.

Patrick attempts to sit in Art's lap but he’s so tall, and the armchair is pretty small. He sits on one of Art’s thighs, his legs curled up the best they can.

“There we go,” Patrick reaches an arm around the back of the chair to keep himself steady. 

“You do realise your entire body weight is on my left leg,” Art complains.

“You want a more even weight distribution? I can do that,” he shuffles, bringing himself to sit directly on his lap, his back against Art’s chest.

Art’s hands immediately wrap around Patrick's torso without even thinking, “I’m not watching this entire movie with your ass directly on my dick.”

“It’s not my fault if you can’t control yourself,” Patrick shrugs, not so subtly pressing himself further against Art.

“I’m not worried about myself,” he bites lightly at Patrick’s shoulder, “but also, I won’t be able to see the screen with you sitting like this.”

“Okay, final offer,” Patrick moves again, attempting to find a position that is less compromising and also doesn’t involve crushing Art with his body weight.

Patrick's legs now hang uncomfortably over the edge of the chair, and when he tries to adjust by resting his feet on the arm, he practically knees Art in the face. 

"Maybe if I try the other side," Patrick shuffles again, on his way to switch sides, he swings one leg over Art's thighs, facing him as he straddles him.

"This isn't working," Art grabs Patrick's waist to hold him there, "your legs are too fucking long." 

Patrick can't hide his grin at the position they're in but he tilts his head towards the couch, "yeah, we're gonna need a bigger boat."

Art laughs, "you know that's one of those misquotes, like it's actually 'you're gonna need a bigger boat' not we're."

"Who fucking cares," Patrick teases, "and if you're going to correct me, you should at least be right."

"It's true," Art says with a little more passion than necessary.

"No, you're thinking of the Star Wars quote," Patrick's also getting genuinely into it, "where Darth Vader doesn't actually say Luke, I am your father or whatever."

"Yeah, that's another famous misquote, doesn't mean I'm wrong about the Jaws one," Art's hands squeeze tighter.

"Alright, let's bet on it," Patrick suggests.

"I'm not betting about a stupid movie quote," Art snorts. 

"Because you know you're wrong," Patrick's got this smug look on his face that always works on Art.

"Fine, I bet you $100 that it's you're not we're," he shrugs.

"I'm not betting $100 dollars."

"Exactly, because you know that you're wrong," Art grins, satisfied. 

"No, I'm not betting that because it's got no stakes for you," Patrick explains, then leans in a little closer "and it's boring." 

It successfully pisses Art off enough that he needs to prove a point. He can be creative and interesting.

Suddenly it hits him. 

"Give me a second," Art's reaching his hands around Patrick at his thighs, one hand below his ass and the other at the small of his back, standing up bringing Patrick up with him. 

He briefly lifts him up, turning around and then depositing Patrick back onto the armchair where he lands with a bounce.

Art watches the way his legs slightly spread as Patrick looks up at him, his eyes a little darker.

"What are you looking at?" Art asks, acting like he has no idea.

"Nothing," Patrick regains composure, smiling, "stop stalling. What's the bet?"

“I have the perfect thing,” Art walks to the corner of the room, where an opened package rests, “you know that delivery I signed for?”

“Yeah?” Patrick confirms, curious.

It was the Uniqlo delivery he had signed for earlier, and whether it was because they had just sent the whole new line, or if it had been intended for Tashi he wasn’t sure, but part of the order had been a tennis skirt. It was too big for Tashi, and not her style either way so he wasn’t sure what to do with it - until now.

“This came in it,” he holds up the skirt, it’s white and pleated so it flares out slightly, a tasteful logo embroidered at the hem.

“A skirt,” Patrick sits up, clearly Art’s got his attention, “what are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that the loser has to wear this skirt while we play some tennis,” Art watches Patrick grin in response, he examines the skirt, “looks about your size.”

“Really, I think it’s more your size,” Patrick seems thoroughly amused, walking over to Art with a hand outstretched, “so, loser has to wear this the whole time, one set?”

Art shakes his hand, “deal.”

“Honestly, Art, I wouldn’t worry, your legs will look great in that,” Patrick points to the skirt.

“I don’t have to worry, because I am 100% certain that I’m right,” Art is actually probably 90% sure at this point, but no way is he backing down from a chance to get one over on Patrick.

“Alright, pull up the clip and prepare to eat your words,” Patrick grins, eager. 

They use Art’s phone, eyes glued to the little screen, skipping to the crucial moment. They watch him, terrified look, cigarette in mouth, turn to captain Quint and then: ‘You’re gonna need a bigger boat.’

“Fuck off,” Patrick knocks Art’s phone out of his hand, but Art doesn’t even care. Victory feels so sweet. 

Art musters up all the condescension he can, smiling at Patrick, “honestly, Patrick, I wouldn’t worry, your legs will look great in that.”

Patrick just flops down onto the couch groaning.

Art laughs again, “what do you think you’re doing? We’ve got tennis to play.”

Patrick looks up at him, eyebrows raised, “what? Right now?”

“When else are we going to have a free house?” Art shrugs.

"Fine," he gets up again, "bet I'll still beat you anyway."

"Not sure you're in a position to be making any more bets," Art grins

They both get changed, Art lets Patrick get dressed in the bathroom, joking about ‘giving him some privacy’. Patrick goes reluctantly, but he doesn’t complain, one thing about Patrick is he’s very loyal to the rules of a bet. Art is having too much fun, it’s maybe a little childish but it’s leftover from when Patrick would always win these type of things, so he thinks he’s allowed to gloat just a little. Patrick would be doing the same in his position. 

Art waits for him by the back door, both of their rackets in hand, eager to get going. When Patrick emerges, Art doesn’t even look, not properly, all he can concentrate on is teasing Patrick. 

“It’s actually pretty comfortable,” Patrick comments.

“Yeah, I’m sure you’ll get a nice breeze,” Art just jokes back, “c’mon.”

He holds an arm out, gesturing for Patrick to go out first.

Patrick slips past him out the door, snorting and grabbing the racket from Art’s hand on the way, “chivalry isn’t dead.”

“I pride myself on being a gentleman,” Art watches Patrick give an uneven curtsy.

“Or maybe you want to walk behind so you can look at my ass,” Patrick calls over his shoulder, walking towards the courts.

Art chuckles again but once Patrick has fully turned around and he’s not focusing on being as smug as possible about winning the bet, he finally actually looks. At first he just notices how mismatched the outfit is, the black sleeveless top not going at all with the white of the skirt.

Once his eyes reach the skirt though, he can’t stop looking. It’s something about the way the hem brushes against the back of his thighs, just barely long enough to keep everything covered. If there was a gust of wind or if Patrick bent over, even a little, he would probably be exposed. Something swirls in Art’s stomach.

Nope. This is not going to be a thing. It’s just because he knows they’re not supposed to fuck, and anything forbidden becomes instantly hotter. Or maybe it’s a power thing. Yeah. He’s just getting horny over Patrick losing a bet and being forced to do what Art said. Still, to be careful he avoids looking the rest of the walk down.

He’s concentrating so much on not thinking about it that once they get to the courts he obviously doesn’t hear Patrick asking him a question.

“Hello, Earth to Art,” Patrick’s waving his racket, then smirking, “anything in particular making you so distracted?” 

“Nothing, I was just wondering if I should take pity on you,” Art keeps his eyes firmly at Patrick’s face, “how about we just do one game instead?”

Patrick looks at him suspiciously, “oh no, a deal’s a deal, I’ll play the whole set.”

“It’s your funeral,” Art shrugs, mustering up the best performance he can but Patrick is still eyeing him. He forgot how good Patrick is at reading him. It’s really fucking annoying.

Art serves first which should be good because he plays better that way and his serve is a strong point. His first serve is strong, and Patrick has to move quick to hit it back, lunging sideways to reach it. The movement makes the muscles in his thighs tense, fully on show for Art to see.

“0:15,” Patrick calls out. 

Art has entirely missed his return. It’s so stupid and it doesn’t even make sense. He’s seen Patrick’s thighs before. He’s literally seen him naked. He’s always worn shorts whilst playing, often incredibly tiny shorts that showed just as much skin as this, and sure the sight of it sometimes turned Art on but never like this. 

It’s just new, that’s why, he hasn’t seen Patrick in this before so it’s a little distracting that’s all. It’s fine. This is meant to be Patrick’s punishment for losing.

Art ignores Patrick, just focusing on the ball in his hand and the service box. It works, he hits the ball hard and fast into the top left of the box and Patrick tries and fails to hit back. 

“Shit,” Patrick grumbles, swinging his racket in annoyance. He does a quick turn to head back to baseline and the speed makes the fabric of the skirt float up a little. What the fuck is that?

“What the fuck are you wearing?” he can’t help but yell.

“Um, do you have amnesia or something?” Patrick calls back.

“I don’t mean the skirt, I mean,” he gestures with his racket, “what’s underneath it?”

“Oh, yeah, well my boxers were longer than the skirt so I thought I’d just borrow some of your panties instead,” Patrick sways his hips, “much more fitting, don’t you think?”

“They’re not panties, they’re briefs,” he defends, “and you can’t just steal my underwear.”

He doesn’t care about that, he’s just mad about how much it’s getting to him and it’s not like he can yell at Patrick for being too fucking hot right now. No, that would give Patrick too much satisfaction. But really, it’s unfair. The skirt and now the underwear, Art’s underwear that look even tinier when Patrick’s wearing them.

“It’s not stealing, it’s sharing. We already share a toothbrush so I figured it wouldn’t matter,” Patrick shrugs.

“We don’t share a toothbrush,” he snaps but then Patrick’s got this amused look on his face, he’s messing with him, “fuck off.”

“Hey, if it bothers you this much I can always just take the underwear off,” Patrick suggests.

“No,” Art replies quickly, because he wants him to keep wearing the underwear or because he’s scared about what would happen to him if Patrick was fully naked under the skirt, “let’s just keep playing.”

They do keep playing, and Art loses the first game, badly. 15:40. He just can’t focus. His eyes drawn to Patrick, the way the skirt fits, the hem at his legs. This delicate floaty material, and the thick expanse of his thighs, the dark hair against the white of the skirt. He keeps looking, making sure that he’s still covered whilst also desperately hoping to get another glimpse underneath. The game is both slow torture and incredibly quick, he’s not sure he’s ever lost one so fast. 

It’s Patrick’s turn to serve now, which is even worse. He throws the ball too high so he has to jump to hit it, which is definitely on purpose. It makes the skirt float up, revealing the tight black underwear again, the bulge definitely bigger now, the fabric straining more. Or maybe Art’s just projecting. Either way he can’t react in time. 15:0.

“Art, you do know you’re supposed to hit the ball back, right?” Patrick mocks, “have you forgotten how to play or is there something on your mind?”

“I’m just tired,” Art gets back into ready position, “probably getting bored because you’re taking so long to serve.”

Patrick grins especially wide and Art gets the sense that he’s messed up, only encouraging Patrick further. 

Patrick throws the ball up to serve, but ‘accidentally’ throws it backwards so it lands behind him, rolling to the back of the court, “oops, I better go pick that up.”

For his own sanity Art should look away but he’s not thinking clearly anymore, just watching Patrick reach for the ball. As he bends over the hem rises, first just brushing lightly, exposing a few more inches of skin. Then a brief moment when he fully bends over that Art can see his entire ass, his own underwear against Patrick’s skin.

This is the problem, it’s the perfect in between. Showing enough skin that Art can’t help but be turned on, but also covered enough that Art has to use his imagination. Imagining standing behind him right now, Patrick trying to pull the material back over himself but Art would push it back up, ripping down the underwear and just fucking into him. 

“I hope I didn’t show too much, I’d be so embarrassed if you saw my ass just now,” Patrick’s laughing, and Art hadn’t even realised he was stood up again.

“I wasn’t looking,” Art insists and it just makes Patrick chuckle harder.

“Nice grip,” Patrick comments, looking at Art’s hands.

Art looks down himself, both hands on his racket, gripping so tight his knuckles have gone white. He loosens the grip, has to actually shake his hands with how stiff they are from holding that tight.

“Just serve,” Art orders, and Patrick does.

Art loses this game even worse. 40:0. Not a single point. 

Patrick tries to serve again, “it’s my fucking serve,” Art snaps, not wanting anything to prolong this stupid bet any longer than necessary. Maybe he should just give up, lose on purpose so it can just be over. 

“Oh, my bad, that game was so quick I didn’t realise I’d already won,” Patrick knows exactly what to say to keep Art playing, there’s no way he’s throwing a game against Patrick. 

Art tells himself that he’s going to play better this game, and he actually manages another point before he loses his concentration again. 

Patrick’s prancing around, enjoying himself too much, talking about how he has “so much more movement in this skirt,” or how it’s just “so breathable.”

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. This was supposed to be humiliating for Patrick. It should be him embarrassed, and distracted while Art won the set with ease. Patrick unable to hit back, spending the game self-consciously pulling the skirt down and begging Art to take mercy. 

Instead, Art’s the one stood all flushed and embarrassingly hard, unable to get more than a couple points. It’s 15:40, and Art’s just hit his first serve into the net. If he misses his second, Patrick will win yet another game.

Patrick is swaying his hips, twisting side to side so the skirt flies up a little, “honestly, I don’t know how people who wear skirts don’t spend the whole time twirling around.”

“I need to serve,” Art tries to say but Patrick either doesn’t hear or just ignores him.

“This is so great, only downside is I can’t tie my shoelaces without giving everyone a show,” he starts to bend down, as if testing out how much he can without the entire skirt riding up.

The side profile is just as bad as being behind, the skirt slowly slipping up, showing more and more of the meat of Patrick’s thigh. Before it can get any higher, Art cuts in.

“Patrick,” he’s aiming for stern but it comes out all pleading, a borderline whine as if begging him to stop. 

“Problem?” Patrick is so pleased with himself, but he stops bending over.

“Just get into position,” he just about manages to not add a please to it.

“Which position would you like?” Patrick asks, dripping his words in suggestiveness. 

It’s so stupid and so completely the opposite of subtle, even for Patrick’s standards, but it’s like opening Pandora’s box. Like giving permission for his imagination to run wild. 

Art can’t take it, all these thoughts rushing to flood his brain. He wants Patrick on his knees, skirt fanning out all pretty across his thighs, eyes all glassy as Art fucks into his mouth. He’d stroke at Patrick’s curls, he’d swipe a thumb under his eye collecting the tears that form when Art pushes down his throat and he starts gagging. Art smiling down at him repeating, ‘it’s okay, I know you can take it’.

Maybe he’ll order Patrick to bend over, hands on the net, and Patrick will be so smug about getting him to finally crack until Art spanks him with his racket, wiping that smirk off his face. The black of Art’s underwear on him, the white of the skirt pushed up, then the pink of his ass. The visual makes him a little dizzy.

Fuck, he could sit in the chair on the sidelines, have Patrick in his lap like earlier. Art would pull himself out of his shorts, push Patrick’s underwear to the side and split Patrick open on his dick. Art would keep a tight arm around him, Patrick’s back pressed tight to Art’s front, holding him up straight as Patrick’s body goes weak with pleasure. 

He wouldn’t even fuck him, not properly, he’d just keep him held there, tight and warm around him. The skirt would drape over them both, covering it all, so they could pretend like Patrick was just innocently sitting on his lap. Only they would know that Art’s cock was actually inside him, pressing up against that bundle of nerves. It wouldn’t fool Tashi, not for a second, but maybe she’d get so horny she’d forgive them for breaking her rules.

Or, most humiliating is the way Art kind of just wants to push him down on his back and kiss him all over. Especially his legs. He wants to lick all the way up them, he wants to bite at his thighs, he wants to savor it all. Because Patrick always pisses him off, and Art often gets the urge to shove him down and teach him a lesson. He’s still pissed off now, but this time he’s got this need to make him feel good. Make him moan all pretty as Art shows off his skills, and Patrick’s thighs would be right on either side of his head. 

It’s the least filthy idea he’s had this whole time and yet it feels the most embarrassing. This thought swirling in his head where he’s not even thinking about getting himself off. Not right away at least. Just focusing on having Patrick, skirt and all, underneath him, pink all over from pleasure and Art’s the one making him feel that good. 

Art’s at his breaking point, he doesn’t care if Patrick is actually ready, physically can’t look at him to check, instead he just serves. The energy thrumming throughout him makes him hit too hard, the ball soars past the service box and Art loses the third game.

“Double fault,” Patrick calls out, overjoyed, “I guess you are tired? Maybe we should take a break?”

“Perfect,” Art mumbles out, making a beeline for one of the chairs at the sidelines.

He slumps down, taking a sip of water and staring straight ahead. He’s aware of Patrick moving next to him but he doesn’t turn, not until he feels Patrick get to the floor out of the corner of his eyes. He’s too curious, and when he looks he sees that Patrick is on all fours. Of course he is.

Instead of sitting on his chair like he’s supposed to, Patrick’s on his hands and knees reaching underneath it.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Art has to ask.

“Can’t find my water bottle,” Patrick reaches further under the chair, his back arching making his ass stick out further, skirt riding up. Art’s jaw clenches.

He’s pretty sure Patrick hadn’t even brought a water bottle, and either way, they can both clearly see that there is absolutely nothing under that chair. He can’t even bring himself to yell all this at Patrick.

“Just, take mine,” he snaps, holding it out, “and stop fucking doing that.”

“Thanks, I’m really thirsty,” he gets off all fours, leaning back to rest on his knees instead as he takes the bottle from Art. 

Art doesn’t know if this position is better or worse than the last. Patrick tilts his head back, holding the water bottle above himself and squirting it into his mouth. Art watches the movement of his throat as he swallows, and the way some of the water misses his open mouth, dripping past his lips and down his neck. Worse. Definitely worse.

“Can you just sit normally,” Art watches Patrick put down the bottle and start to change position, but Art dreads what would be next so he changes his order, “or actually, how about you don’t sit on the floor at all?”

Art had meant for Patrick to go sit on his own chair, so that Art can just stare ahead and not think about him, and then maybe he can actually calm down. That’s what Art had intended, so of course that’s not what Patrick does.

"Fine, I should stretch anyway," he gets up, walking over to Art and putting a foot up on his chair.

"Patrick," he warns, his hands clenched tight at his sides, trying to ignore how close Patrick’s thigh is to his face.

"I need to put my foot somewhere sturdy," he shrugs, "my hamstrings get tight if I don't stretch." 

"Nobody has ever stretched like that," Art's words are lost on Patrick, who ignores them, lunging deeper.

The expanse of his thigh is right next to him, Art’s practically drooling, he wants to get a mouth on him so badly, to just bite at his flesh. He can’t be the one to actually give in, he doesn’t want to give Patrick the satisfaction and he needs to be able to shift the blame for breaking Tashi’s rules.

From this angle it would be so easy to slip a hand up the skirt, feel at Patrick’s crotch, see if he’s as hard as Art is. 

Speaking of that, Patrick looks down, “Jesus, no wonder you were playing so bad, that thing looks painful,” he eyes the way Art’s dick strains in his shorts, “I could help with that.”

“You need to stop,” Art’s hanging onto his last threads of restraint.

“That’s another thing about this skirt, it’s great for hiding a boner,” Patrick removes his leg and Art, foolishly, thinks he might actually be relenting.

Instead he returns, this time a knee on either side of Art’s thighs, straddling him. He sits up, hovering above Art's crotch, nothing actually touching Art’s dick yet.

“No grinding, remember,” Art reminds Patrick, so that he can tell Tashi, ‘I told him the rules, he just didn’t care’.

“I’m not,” Patrick says, but he lowers himself so that their crotches are now definitely pressed together.

Art’s hands snap up to grab his waist, holding him still, “don’t.”

“I’m just helping you cover up, look,” he tilts his head down, his skirt draped across both their laps, “perfectly innocent now. Nobody would know any different unless…”

Patrick trails off, his hand reaching for the hem, slowly dragging the fabric of the skirt upwards. It reveals that underneath Patrick definitely is just as hard as Art is, both of them pressed up together.

“Considering breaking any rules yet?” Patrick teases and Art is officially finished.

He moves one hand to the back of Patrick’s upper thigh, just below his ass, and the other to his lower back. Standing up, he once again lifts Patrick with him, and his legs instinctively wrap around Art’s waist. 

“Where are we going?” he asks into Art’s ear.

The answer is: not very far. Art is beyond desperate, he makes it a few steps before lowering Patrick down onto the court on his back. Art drapes himself on top, hips fitting between Patrick’s open legs. He finally, finally, brings their mouths together, kissing sloppier than usual.

Patrick just follows, happily licking into Art’s mouth, pulling back briefly to ask, “are we allowed to kiss?”

“Yeah, kissing’s fine,” he says into his mouth.

“You could’ve told me that before,” Patrick bites at his lip.

“I knew you’d take advantage,” Art bites back, a hand slipping up the side of Patrick’s thigh, up under the skirt. Fuck. 

“Thought we weren't allowed to touch under clothes?” Patrick asks.

“It’s not like I’m trying to undress you, it’s not my fault if my hand accidentally slips underneath a little,” Art can’t help himself, his hips pressing forwards against Patrick.

“Fair enough,” Patrick chuckles, then adds, “but you definitely said no dry humping.”

“It’s fine as long as we don’t finish,” Art’s making it up as he goes and Patrick nods in agreement, happy to go with however Art wants to bend the rules, as long as he’s the one bending them. Patrick’s pretty much off the hook now and Art can’t even bring himself to care.

He only pulls back when he realises he’s already getting close, and he just said they couldn’t get off like that. It’s fine though, he has other plans. He moves down Patrick’s body, everything speeding up and his mouth is at his knee, licking up and up his leg, stopping before his crotch. He does the same at the other side, then goes for the inner thighs, biting at the flesh. Patrick takes in a sharp inhale.

“Surely that’s not part of the rules,” he comments, propping himself up on his elbows, looking down at Art.

“You’re still dressed aren’t you?” Art just raises an eyebrow at him like it’s an obvious point.

“Yeah, I guess it’s fine,” Patrick breathes out.

Art goes further up the thigh, his head now underneath Patrick’s skirt, those thighs either side of his ears. Exactly where he wanted to be. The fabric covers him so that Patrick can’t see when Art suddenly licks a stripe up his dick, over his underwear. 

Patrick gasps, “fuck,” then, “what about the no blowjobs rule?”

“It’s not a blowjob. As long as it’s through the underwear, technically my mouth isn’t actually touching you,” Art reasons, and it isn’t a particularly sound argument but neither of them care.

“Makes sense to me,” Patrick agrees.

Art licks again and he feels Patrick relax, laying flat against the court again. God, this is fucking ridiculous. His head up Patrick’s skirt, licking him over his (Art’s) briefs, on the fucking tennis court. 

He moves more vigorously, tonguing all over, from his balls up the shaft to the head. He lets himself drool, getting the underwear all wet so it slips against Patrick’s dick even smoother. Patrick’s moaning quietly, shifting his hips, trying to push himself more against Art’s face. He lets Patrick essentially hump his face, keeping up his tonguing movements, occasionally sucking instead.

Then Art sucks at his tip through the material and Patrick gasps again, “shit,” he props himself up, pulling the skirt back to look at Art all desperate, “can’t you just blow me for real?”

 “We’ve been following the rules so well, no point stopping now,” Art smiles.

“I know, but I need something more,” Patrick bargains, “c’mon, what about a little fingering? Just slip in one finger, she’ll never know.”

“She’ll be able to tell if we lie,” Art argues, “so if we behave now, then when she asks if we followed her rules we can say yes, and it will be true.”

Well, truer than if Art actually did suck Patrick off properly. 

“I know, I just-” Patrick cuts himself off with a moan as Art licks at him again.

“We’ve been so good,” Art keeps licking between speaking, “as long as you keep the underwear on it’s fine. You can finish like this, can’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick breathes out.

“Shouldn’t even be doing this, I just couldn’t help myself, you looked so good,” Art rambles, “the skirt was driving me fucking crazy.”

“Art, please,” not asking for anything in particular, just wanting more. 

Art starts sucking through the fabric again, close to the head but not quite. Patrick whines, his hips bucking up.

“You need to be good,” Art reminds him, “you can cum like this.”

This time it isn’t a question, it’s an order, and Patrick manages out an “okay.”

Art presses harder with his tongue, swirling it around the most sensitive part. Patrick’s groaning, breathing quickly.

“I’m close,” he gets out, strained.

Art’s about to praise him but he can feel Patrick bringing a hand down, trying to get into his own underwear and touch himself. Art intercepts it, grabbing it and holding it down against the court.

“What happened to being good?” Art asks.

“I’m almost there, I don’t know if I can,” he’s squirming, trying to get friction. 

“You can,” Art assures, sucking again, “tell me you can.”

“I can.” 

Art focuses on licking at the tip again, it has Patrick thrusting up against him uncontrollably, and moaning louder. He switches to sucking, hard, directly at the head and now Patrick whines.

“Fuck, Art, shit,” his hips trying to move away from the intense feeling at the same time they try to press further into it, “I’m so close, I’m there, I’m going to-”

“You gonna cum?” he asks, a little smug, “you gonna be good, and finish in your panties for me?”

“Yes, yeah,” Patrick nods furiously, “for you.”

“Good girl,” spills out of Art, and then he’s bringing the tip back in his mouth. He sucks and swirls his tongue around it, and Patrick is moaning, his hips stuttering as they thrust up in sudden shock and pleasure.

Art feels a wet warmth spread across the fabric as Patrick orgasms. 

He pulls back, observing his work. Patrick's chest rising up and down, quickly. He's flushed all pink, hair sticking to his forehead. He can see the way Patrick's underwear are damp with his own cum and Art's spit. 

The sight is almost enough to make him forget what he just said. Almost. He feels himself turn pink, hot all over. 

"What the fuck," Patrick flings an arm over his face, still breathing heavy, and Art's slightly worried he's crossed some sort of line. 

Then Art watches a smile spread across his face, Patrick peaks out from behind his arm, grinning, "so you admit they're panties?"

Art laughs in relief, "fuck off," then looks Patrick up and down, "they are when you wear them."

He lifts himself up to sit properly, staring at Art's lap, "want me to help you get off?"

Art considers for a second, but if he rambled that embarrassingly just from getting Patrick off, he's scared of what he'd say if he was about to come himself.

"I shouldn't," he decides, "and you should probably shower, get rid of the evidence."

"Why do I need to hide anything, I thought you said this was all above board?" Patrick smirks. 

"It was," Art defends, standing up and reaching a hand out to help Patrick, "but it's not going to look very innocent, that's all."

Patrick takes it, letting Art drag him into a standing position, laughing, "didn't feel very innocent either."

Art shrugs, feeling a little more relaxed now he's at least partially got it out of his system. He's still hard but once he has a cold shower he'll calm down.

They decide to use the shower in the clubhouse next to the court. It's a small building, basically an oversized shed, with a few lockers, a bench, and a smattering of spare tennis equipment. It only has one shower, and they usually just head back to the house to clean up. 

It feels more convenient to use it this time, to get Patrick cleaned up and Art calmed down before they grab all their stuff to head back to the house. 

Patrick tries to lure Art into the shower with him, "it's so much more efficient to do it together, and better for the environment. Do you even care about the polar bears at all?" but Art knows it's a test of temptation that he would definitely fail.

Maybe if he can go without an orgasm he'll be able to twist the blame on Patrick still. If the need arises. Hopefully they can head back to the house and be waiting innocently on the couch when Tashi returns, so neither of them will have to take the blame for anything. 

Patrick hasn't mentioned what Art said, maybe he didn't hear it and Art's certainly not going to ask him about it. 

He sits on the bench, facing away from Patrick showering because he's meant to be calming down. Except now he's thinking about it. Good girl. And Patrick coming right after. Where the fuck did that even come from?

Art had almost finished himself, his hips pressing against the rough of the court. It was kind of humiliating, that he got off on it so much. He hadn't even intended to say it. A familiar combination of shame and arousal swirl together in his stomach.

That fucking skirt. 

He never should've made that bet. 

It's just he didn't anticipate getting so worked up. He can't let Patrick wear that again. He also can't go without it. He got one thing out of his system but his head is still brimming with ideas. 

He's supposed to be calming down but his dick strains as hard as ever against his shorts. Jerking off should be fine right? If he has no contact with Patrick whilst he's doing it? It might be bad for his health to hold it in, Tashi can't be mad at him for caring about his health, right?

Yeah, it makes enough sense in his head that he's already bringing a hand over his crotch, sighing in relief. 

Patrick turns the water off, and Art hears him step out. 

Patrick could always help out as visual aid, as long as he doesn't touch Art. The skirt is still here, and really it's only fair Art gets to cum too. 

"Maybe I should get off," he voices, "it might be suspicious if I'm hornier than you are."

Patrick snorts like he knows it's bullshit, but he indulges nonetheless, "I wish you'd said this before I showered but sure, that sounds right to me. What can I do for you?"

"You can't touch me but maybe I can just look at you?" Art suggests, uncertain, still pressing himself over his shorts. 

"You want me to just stand here while you stare at me and jerk off?" Patrick laughs in amusement, "oh, Art, I'm flattered."

"Not just stand there, I thought maybe you could put it back on?" He asks, hopeful and trying to hide his shame. 

"Put what back on?" Patrick plays dumb.

Art groans, "the fucking skirt, and you know that's what I meant."

Patrick grins, reaching for the skirt where he'd chucked it on the floor unceremoniously.

"Well, I'm not putting those panties back on, so it will have to be commando this time," Patrick tells him, stepping into the skirt and pulling it up, zipping once it's around his waist.

"That's fine, that's, yeah, fine," Art struggles out, rubbing harder at himself and he needs more, "it's fine to touch ourselves, don't you think?"

"You know the rules, you do what feels right," Patrick just shrugs, not giving Art the easy way out. 

He tries to just keep touching himself over the fabric but Patrick is there, only in the skirt and it's setting him alight again. For some reason the skirt feels more scandalous than just staring at him fully naked.

Art finally pulls himself out of his shorts, precum dripping from his neglected dick. Patrick eyes it appreciatively. 

"Should I be posing for you?" Patrick asks, half joking. 

"Stand with your hands against the wall," Art says too quick, knowing exactly what he wants. 

Patrick looks delightfully surprised at how fast he answers, and about how specific he is. He follows the order with a grin, turning to the wall of lockers, resting his hands against them, slightly bent as he sticks his ass out. 

Fuck. That was a bad idea. 

Before his brain catches up, Art finds himself behind Patrick. 

"I'm still not touching," Art reassures, even though Patrick hadn't asked.

He stands an inch behind him, dick in hand, staring at the way the skirt falls over his ass. He strokes himself slowly, trying to keep his distance. God, he wants to push the skirt up and jerk off until he comes all over Patrick's skin and the skirt at the same time. 

He slides his hand up and down his shaft a little faster, “want to cum all over your ass like this.”

Patrick hums, “and that’s allowed?”

“It’s not like we’re doing anything to each other. You’re standing and I’m jerking off, two separate things,” Art explains, “if when I cum, it accidentally lands on you, we can’t blame ourselves. You want it don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Patrick breathes out, “still wish you hadn’t made me shower first.”

“Hmm, you are really clean right now,” Art looks him over, skin still damp from the spray of water.

“And you want to dirty me up again, right?” Patrick teases.

Art does. Badly. He wants to get him all filthy. He also wants something else. Art's mouth is watering again. And Patrick had just showered. He's so clean right now. 

He moves a little closer.

"You just said no touching," he smirks at Art over his shoulder.

"I won't," Art promises, "not with my hands."

He lowers himself to his knees, slowly. 

"What are you doing?" Patrick's breath hitches.

"It's fine, I'm only using my mouth, and you already came so you're not getting off," Art justifies, reaching a hand to push the skirt up.

"Right," Patrick nods, "except you are literally using your hands right now."

"It's fine as long as I'm not touching your dick or fingering you, and you've got the skirt on so you're basically dressed," Art's definitely waffling at this point. 

"I'm starting to think you might not actually understand these rules," Patrick teases, "the excuses are getting real flimsy, dude."

"Who fucking cares?" Art finally gives in, bringing one hand to his own dick as his other goes to Patrick's ass, spreading him open so he can get his tongue at Patrick's rim.

Patrick moans in shock, swearing under his breath. Art swirls his tongue around his hole, jerking himself off at the same time. He doesn't know what it is about the skirt, but it makes him have this crazy urge to get his mouth on Patrick any way he can. Suddenly becoming the hottest thing he can imagine, just pushing the skirt away as he rims Patrick underneath it. 

“Fuck, you never do this,” Patrick sighs.

“Yes, I do,” Art pulls back to reply, a little indignantly. 

“Not like this,” and Patrick’s sort of right.

Art has done this a few times, got his mouth on Patrick’s hole, but usually as a way to tease him. To get Patrick worked up before he fucks him, if he’s feeling like he wants to drag it out. If Tashi wants to make Patrick squirm, she’ll direct Art into it as she touches Patrick everywhere except where he really wants.

This is different. He doesn’t even have a goal in mind. It’s not like Patrick's going to get that desperate since he already finished recently. It’s just Art couldn’t fucking help himself. Without thought he just wanted to sink to his knees and taste him, make Patrick feel good just because. 

“You don’t have to,” Patrick tells him, “might be a while before I finish.”

“I know,” he does, and he doesn’t care, “I just want to, need to.”

He licks fervently, a circle around then presses in with the tip of his tongue.

“Fuck,” Patrick gasps out, not quite hard yet but Art’s sure he’s on his way. 

Art keeps going, tonguing in and out, pushing past the tight ring of muscle. 

“Art,” Patrick is shaky, “I don’t think we can justify this one to Tashi.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Art repeats, giving him a bite to the ass, “she won’t know.”

“I think that’s the wrong answer,” a voice calls out and Art falls backwards trying to move away from Patrick, tucking his dick back in his shorts even though it’s too late.

“Shit,” Patrick removes his hands from the wall, turning to the doorway, “Tashi.”

She’s standing there, hands on hips, looking fucking gorgeous, obviously. She’s got a navy dress on, it’s one of the more casual ones in her collection, it buttons down the front and the hem sits just below the knee. 

“Who’s responsible for all this then?” she glares between them both.

Patrick doesn’t say anything but Art immediately defends, “it was Patrick.”

He turns to look down at Art, “you fucking snake.”

He can’t feel too guilty, it’s not like Patrick had been silent out of loyalty to Art, it’s just that he was never as bothered about defending himself, never really trying that hard to get out of trouble. Often wanting to do the opposite, in fact. 

“Snake, yes,” Tashi speaks slow, looking at Art, “and a fucking liar too.”

“I’m not,” Art tries and it makes Tashi laugh.

“Really, because from where I was standing it seemed like Patrick was the one who had enough sense to think about the rules, even with your tongue in his ass,” Art can see Patrick grin a little at Tashi’s words, “meanwhile, you were the one saying ‘who fucking cares?’”

Shit. Had she been standing there that long?

Art can’t even say anything, just sitting there, boner tenting his shorts still.

“Although, I’m sure he’s not entirely innocent either,” Tashi walks over to Patrick, feeling at the skirt, “why are you wearing this?”

“I lost a bet,” Patrick shrugs at her, amused now that the surprise has worn off.

“Why do I get the feeling that you made a bet that you would purposely lose, because you knew he’d cave seeing you in a skirt?” Tashi says to Patrick.

He smirks, “no, I wish I'd thought of it but this was also all him.”

Tashi for a moment seems impressed, looking at him vaguely proudly before her face shifts back to stern.

“That’s two strikes, Art. You’re not doing very well today, are you?” she tilts her head at him, “what did you think you were going to achieve by intentionally sabotaging yourself?” 

“I didn’t mean to, I thought it would be funny, I didn’t realise it would make me so…” he trails off, “I just wanted to embarrass him.”

“Right, because Patrick is famously easy to embarrass,” she snorts, and she’s absolutely right, he doesn’t know what was going through his head to think that Patrick would actually feel any type of shame from wearing a skirt, “and you seriously thought you wouldn’t get turned on by it? Are you stupid or just lying again?”

Art just ducks his head, face flushed.

Patrick laughs, “I think he was genuinely surprised about how horny he got.”

She looks down at the skirt again, thumbing the fabric, “so, what exactly were the rules for this punishment?”

“Loser has to wear it for one full set,” Patrick informs, letting her play with the material.

“And how far did you get?” Tashi asks, knowing that there was no way they actually managed it.

“Three games before Art was shoving me down on the tennis court and having his way with me,” Patrick grins, and Tashi’s eyes light up too.

She eyes Art again, “so you can’t even follow your own rules, huh?”

Art still doesn’t know what to say other than, “I tried.”

Tashi ignores it, “and you’re telling me that you’d already disobeyed me by fucking before that little scene I walked in on.”

“We didn’t technically fuck,” Patrick starts.

“We were good, we followed the rules,” Art interjects.

Tashi looks to Patrick for confirmation, he nods, “yeah, we were fully clothed, no touching, just his mouth.”

“I’m pretty sure I banned blowjobs,” she raises an eyebrow.

“It wasn’t a blowjob, I had underwear on the whole time,” Patrick smiles wide, “and Art didn’t even cum.”

“Jesus Christ,” she pinches the bridge of her nose, and looks over at Art, “and you still haven’t cum yet?”

He shakes his head and she nods in approval.

“That’s good,” Tashi thinks for a moment, “I think you should both finish the bet.”

“What?” Art asks from the floor.

“A chance for you to redeem yourself, prove that you can stick to your word,” she watches his blank face, “c’mon get up.”

He scrambles up quickly, still uncertain, “are you sure?”

“Yep,” she says, curtly, turning to Patrick, “you get dressed, and then both of you get out there and finish playing the full set.”

Patrick grabs the shirt he’d been wearing earlier, putting it on immediately, “alright.”

Tashi eyes his skirt, “when I say ‘get dressed’, that includes underwear.”

“Well, mine are kind of ruined from earlier,” he looks way too pleased with himself, “I’m happy to go without.”

She shakes her head, biting her lip, “no, you really should wear underwear with a skirt like that.”

Then Tashi does something which makes Art’s entire brain short circuit. She reaches under her dress, pulling down her panties, stepping out of them gracefully as she takes them off. She holds them out to Patrick, “here, you can borrow mine.”

What the fuck.

Art gets at least some satisfaction from the way Patrick seems just as affected as he is, Patrick stumbling on his words, “I, how, what?”

“Go on, you put them on the same as any other pair of underwear,” she’s smiling big, extremely pleased with their reactions, slightly condescending in her tone.

“Are they going to fit?” Art asks, and it feels like his ears are ringing with how dizzy it’s making him.

“It doesn’t matter,” she faces Patrick, “you’ll make it work, yeah?”

He nods at her, still in a slight daze. Taking the pair and stepping into them, he’s not as graceful as Tashi, needing to put an arm against the wall for balance. He manages to get them on but the skirt covers them before Art can get a proper look. 

“Show us,” Art can’t stop himself saying.

“Not yet,” Tashi orders, and Art sighs.

He tries to imagine it. The pair isn’t Tashi’s tiniest or the most lacy in her collection, they’re what she would consider casual, but Art would still call sexy. They’re navy, matching her dress, the front is made of cotton which is a good thing, much more forgiving to stretch over Patrick’s cock. God, he must be straining against it still. The material covering his ass is lace, just about see through. Art can’t fucking do this.

Tashi is walking to the doorway, Patrick following, but Art just stays planted still. 

“Tashi,” he pleads, “I can’t.”

She looks back at him, not giving him any pity, just smiling at him, “you can, and you will.”

In other words: you made your bed, now lie in it.

Standing on the other side of the net from Patrick feels even worse than before. He was already horny beyond belief before even stepping foot on the court and now he’s got Tashi sat on the sidelines watching them both. Patrick seems to have recovered from the shock and is now back to moving around the court like he fucking owns it. Like he’s never felt hotter.

Art feels like he blacks out the entire first game, Patrick is serving and he’s trying to hit back but honestly he’s not sure he’s even on the planet anymore. He keeps getting glimpses of the blue lace under the skirt. It had felt impossible when it was Patrick wearing his briefs, but it being Tashi’s panties is infinitely worse. 

Again he needs to bend Patrick over, push the panties to the side and fuck him. He needs to get under Tashi’s dress and eat her out. He can’t work out the logistics of it, how he can fuck Patrick whilst also having Tashi in his mouth. Maybe if he lays down on his back, Patrick could ride him and Tashi could sit on his face? But then he wouldn’t be able to see Patrick in a skirt falling apart on his dick. He wants and needs and can’t have. 

Patrick in panties. Patrick in Tashi’s clothes. Patrick in lace. Tashi sat with nothing on under her dress. 

He can’t breathe. He needs to be put down.

The score is 40:0, and Patrick’s throwing the ball up to serve.  

Art tries, he really does, he actually manages to hit the ball but it sails right into the net. Patrick wins another game.

“Nice form,” Tashi is calling out at him.

“Thought you hated my serve,” Patrick raises an eyebrow at her.

“I do,” she very obviously rakes her eyes up and down Patrick’s body, biting her lip as part of her performance. It’s a stupid innuendo. Art’s dick twitches.

They both grin at each other. How can they be so playful about this while Art feels like he’s going to bite a hole through his cheek.

“You’re a real pervert, you know that?” Patrick points his racket at her in a joking accusation.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she shrugs, slouching back in the chair, spreading her legs wider, keeping her eyes on Patrick.

“See how she objectifies me,” Patrick’s addressing him, but Art can’t possibly respond, he just stands there looking between them like a deer in the headlights. It makes them both laugh.

“Woah, it really is that bad,” Tashi tilts her head at him in amusement, “it’s your serve, Art.”

He nods, taking a ball from his pocket. He can do this. He clings onto the guise of playing a tennis match like a lifeline. Just think about tennis. Nothing else.

He plays minutely better, but still loses, 30:40 this time. He probably only gets those points because now Patrick’s distracted too, trying to catch a glimpse up Tashi’s dress.

Patrick’s up to serve again, and if he wins this game it will all be over. Art will be put out of his misery. He’ll also lose to Patrick, six games to his zero.

Again he tries to pull it together, and Tashi’s been calling out to him too, encouraging him. Except it doesn’t work because everytime he looks over at her he just starts thinking about how she doesn’t have any panties on. Then when he looks away he’s got Patrick in front of him, making him think about how Patrick does have panties on. It’s honestly torturous. 

He manages to get it together for one second, remembering Patrick’s backhand is a little weaker than his forehand. He hits a ball to Patrick’s left, and it works because his backhand isn’t precise enough, and the ball flies out as he hits it too hard. 40:15.

Tashi must notice what he’s done, she gives him a little nod of approval. 

“Patrick, I want you to win on a backhand,” she calls out to him, “you’ll get a treat if you do.”

Fuck, okay. If Patrick wins the next point, he’s won the set. If he wins it with a backhand, he’ll also get a reward. Art has to at least try to stop it.

Patrick serves, and Art puts all the will he has left into hitting it back. It’s a powerful shot, it flies towards the back corner on Patrick’s right. He’d have to run pretty fast to get it anyway, and he’ll definitely have to be fast if he wants to make it a backhand.

Inexplicably, Patrick manages it, darting sideways quick enough to get on the other side of the ball, hitting a backhand. The speed of his movement and the force of him skidding to a stop makes the skirt fly up. Art is fucked. The ball soars towards him, just about making it over the net, landing in before bouncing right past Art. It’s over.

He watches Patrick drop his racket, turning to face Tashi, bowing to her. She grins, beckoning him with her finger. Art just watches.

Patrick stands in front of Tashi, she smiles at him, “give me a twirl.”

He snorts, but does it, spinning around so the skirt fans out, “cute,” Tashi comments.

Cute is one word for it. Art has the urge to start gnawing at Patrick’s leg.

“So what’s my treat?” Patrick asks, and Tashi spreads her legs wider, pulling up the material of her dress a little further. 

He gets the idea, lowering himself to his knees. Art watches Patrick kiss up Tashi’s legs, pressing his lips at the soft brown of her inner thigh. He doesn’t know who he wants to be more. To have his lips against Tashi or to have Patrick’s against his own thighs. Or maybe he wants a secret third thing (to plow into Patrick from behind and watch as he eats Tashi out).

Art grinds his teeth, making himself ask, “can I?”

He doesn’t ask for anything specific. Doesn’t know what he’s allowed. Just wants something.

“You can watch, for now,” Tashi gestures for him to come closer.

For now. He can work with that.

Art doesn’t know where to stand, next to Tashi so he can look down at the sight of Patrick on his knees? No. He moves behind, getting to look at Patrick’s ass, and to see Tashi’s face.

Patrick adjusts his position, leaning forward into Tashi so he’s more on all fours than just his knees, except his hands grab at her outer thighs pulling her cunt closer to his mouth. When he finally gets a tongue on her, her eyes flutter shut for a second, before opening to look at Art. Again he’s paralysed with making a decision. He can’t pick where to look.

He eyes Tashi’s face, relaxing with pleasure. Then trails down to Patrick’s head buried between her thighs, and then down again. The whole reason he’s in this predicament in the first place.

The skirt does nothing to cover him up now, and Art stares at the lace clothing his ass, also not doing much to keep Patrick’s skin hidden. From this angle he can see the way Patrick’s dick spills out of the fabric. 

Art’s fists clench at either side, not allowed to do anything but stare. He enjoys watching a bit, it’s an infuriatingly arousing view, but that’s the problem. His patience has already been worn down to knife’s edge, he’s spent all afternoon inundated with arousing views. 

Tashi must see the desperate look on his face but she doesn’t say anything, she just puts a leg over Patrick’s shoulder, and a hand on the back of his head. She sighs at the new angle.

It’s Patrick who takes pity on him, without even seeing his face. 

He pulls back from Tashi to ask, “can Art join?” and when she hums uncertainly he adds, “he did come up with the skirt idea.”

Tashi looks at Art, then down at the skirt, then up again, “yeah, alright, he can join.”

Art moves quick, getting to his knees behind Patrick. He’s about to pull his shorts down when Tashi stops him

“What are you doing?” she asks and he just stares at her blankly. He doesn’t really know, other than that he needs his dick to touch something right fucking now, “did you think you were going to fuck him? We don’t even have any lube. And did you think you’ve earned that?”

“I don’t know,” he sounds desperate but he’s given up caring.

“Keep it in your pants,” she orders, “you’re allowed to dry hump and that’s it.”

He furrows his eyebrows at her, and she gets stern, “don’t give me that look. You’re lucky I’m allowing anything.”

Fine. It’s something at least. And he can grab Patrick’s ass as much as he likes. He does just that, rubbing his hand over it, feeling the lace, and the warmth of his skin. He brings his hands to Patrick’s hips and presses his crotch against him. Sighing in relief at the pressure against his dick, imagining that he was actually sinking inside him right now. 

He can hear the sounds of Patrick’s tongue lapping at Tashi’s pussy, it makes him thrust his hips forward. The movement pushing Patrick forward too, and Art can’t stop thrusting against him.

“Art,” Tashi scolds, “stop that.”

“I can’t,” he scowls and she glares at him, he slows down, “fine.”

He grips Patrick’s hips tight, probably leaving fingerprints, keeping Patrick still as he rubs against him. Still thrusting but now Patrick doesn’t move with him.

He could probably cum like this, could do it very easily. It just doesn’t feel fair. Yes he broke some rules but he never even got to finish from any of it, so really, doesn’t he deserve a bit more than to pathetically hump at Patrick’s ass.

Tashi’s letting out more and more sighs, and he can hear Patrick moaning against her, trying to push back against Art, fighting against his strong grip.

“C’mon Tashi, he clearly wants me to fuck him,” Art pleads.

“And whose fault is it that you can't?” she asks with an arched brow, “if you had prepared then maybe you would’ve brought lube down here.”

“I’ll go and get some now,” he bargains, although he’s not sure he could pry himself away.

“No, you don’t deserve it, you broke the rules,” she smiles, mean, “if you had behaved then maybe you would be inside him right now.”

“If I had behaved, we wouldn’t even be in this position in the first place,” he snaps.

Tashi doesn’t say anything back because it’s sort of true. If Art had been good there would be no skirt. No tennis court sex at all tonight.

Patrick pulls back, “just one finger, I need something.”

“Fine,” Tashi relents, bringing his head back against her.

She gives Art the go ahead with her eyes, and he’s sucking at his own finger, wetting it. He stops humping to pull the blue panties to the side, circling the damp finger before pushing in. 

Patrick groans, and the vibration of it makes Tashi moan quietly too. Art keeps pumping the finger in and out, still humping at Patrick, but just more at his thigh now rather than his ass. It’s better than how he pictured it, Patrick dressed like this, clenching around his finger and moaning into Tashi’s cunt.

Patrick doubles his efforts, licking at her faster, and Art can tell she’s getting close. He’s just so good like this, taking Art and pleasing Tashi. He can tell that Patrick wants more from the way he’s pushing back on Art’s finger. Tashi’s eyes flutter shut from pleasure, and Art takes the opportunity to slip another finger into Patrick. He would've gotten away with it if Patrick didn't let out this loud, surprised, moan.

Tashi’s eyes open, first looking down at Patrick, then at Art. He smiles at her innocently, but she notices the two fingers now pumping inside Patrick.

“Did I say you were allowed to do that?” she asks, rhetorically.

“He just looks so good, he deserved it, I could tell he needed it,” Art defends, not stopping his fingering.

Art’s a little shocked when Tashi laughs. 

“God, what is it about this skirt? It’s got you misbehaving, and it’s got Patrick being good,” she strokes a hand through his curls. 

Art raises an eyebrow, because Patrick hasn’t exactly been good. Just better than Art.

Tashi smiles, correcting herself, “alright, well it makes you want to treat him like he’s good anyway.”

Yeah. Yeah that’s exactly it. 

Patrick must start sucking at her clit because she’s making these telltale signs that she’s close, her hand gripped tight in his hair. 

She grinds her hips up against his face, “fuck, makes you want to call him a good girl,” then she’s shoving Patrick’s face against her, trembling as she comes.

Oh fuck. It takes everything in him not to come too. Tashi breathes out, slumping against the chair, almost boneless.

Tashi pulls Patrick away from her before she gets overstimulated, resting his head against her thigh. Patrick grins, “you guys really are similar.”

“What?” Tashi looks between them both, this alert searching look she gets when she’s missing information, Art stays silent so she looks down at Patrick again, “I don’t get it.”

Art fucks his fingers into Patrick faster, hoping to stop him talking, he moans but carries on.

“Art called me that too,” he says all smug, “turned bright red after.”

Art flushes. 

“Yeah, he looks pretty red right now too,” Tashi gives him this delighted look, “this skirt thing really has you fucked, huh?” which is unfair considering she’d also said the same thing.

“Patrick’s the one who came immediately when I said it,” Art argues.

“That’s not a shock, I’m only human,” Patrick chuckles, “what’s interesting is how much the two of you apparently want me to be your good girl.”

He wonders if Tashi feels as embarrassed as he does. Probably not.

“Art you can take your dick out,” Tashi’s telling him, and he wastes no time removing his fingers from Patrick and pulling his shorts and underwear down at once.

“Look, I can take a lot, but there’s no way I can take Art’s dick right now without some lube or a hell of a lot more stretching,” Patrick jokes.

“He’s not going to fuck you, I  just want him to come on you,” both boys moan a little, “knew you’d like that.”

Art doesn’t know what to do with himself now he can actually touch his dick against Patrick, he just grabs his hips rubbing his length on him. Already so close.

“You can touch yourself too, Patrick,” Tashi strokes at his hair, and Art watches Patrick reach into his underwear, pulling himself out.

He starts stroking himself quickly, “I’m almost there, already.”

“That’s okay, you’ve been so good already,” Tashi says sweetly and it makes Art shiver when she says good, on edge and full of shame, “I think Art’s close too.”

She just keeps talking, “look how pretty Patrick is for you, how he presents himself for you,” she says to Art, “what else can he do to get you to come?”

“I don’t know,” Art can barely think, reaching a hand around himself now.

“Arch your back a little more, Patrick,” she orders, and Patrick does, sticking his ass out even more, “and do you want him to come at the same time as you?”

Art nods frantically, not really understanding why Tashi's giving him what he wants all of a sudden.

“C’mon Patrick, you’ve got to hurry up if you want to come at the same time,” she leans down to whisper, but Art can still hear, “I know Art’s the one losing his mind but don’t think I haven’t noticed how much you get off on it too.”

"I get off on the fact that me wearing a skirt and panties gets you both off so much," he insists.

"Right, you get nothing out of this," She smirks down at him, "doesn't affect you at all to think about Art coming on you while you're in my lacy underwear, and a fucking mini skirt." 

Patrick moans pressing his face into Tashi's thigh.

"I should buy you your own set, I think you'd like that, maybe get Art to pick it out" she then looks up at Art, "Patrick would wear it for you, he'd be so good." 

And Art gets what Tashi's doing. She's trying to get him to say it. Art's not going to, he has a different idea instead. 

"You guys are fucking obsessed with getting me in girls underwear," Patrick manages to say, "think Art would die if I had a whole outfit on."

"No, I'd be ready next time," Art keeps jerking himself, now determined, "I'd fuck you properly, and Tashi would get her strap and she'd fuck you too."

Patrick groans again and Tashi's eyes snap up to meet Art's, an understanding passing between them. 

"I think you're the one that's obsessed, Patrick," Tashi looks down at him, "we could do it just like this, except I'd shove my dick down your throat while Art takes you from behind."

Patrick bites at Tashi's thigh.

Art lets go of himself, reaching around to replace Patrick's hand with his own, jerking him off. He can't bite at her anymore, his mouth falling open. 

"We'd ruin you, ruin all your outfits and keep buying more," he leans himself over Patrick, jerking him off and grinding at his ass again, "and you'd let us, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah," Patrick moans into Tashi's lap, "gonna come."

"Art are you close too?" Tashi checks.

"Yeah, just want him to finish first, won't come on him until he does," Art keeps stroking.

"Patrick, you want to come?" She asks him.

"Already fucking said I did," Patrick grumbles out.

"Come on, don't be rude, I know you want to be good," she strokes his hair, "say it to me."

Patrick keeps his mouth shut.

"Patrick I'm going to stop touching you if you don't say it," Art warns, slowing down his movements. 

"Want to be good," he mumbles into Tashi's thigh, it's a start but not quite what they want.

Art speeds up again, looking at Tashi, she whispers to Patrick, "a good what?" 

He groans, shaking his head as much as he can in this position. 

"C'mon Patrick, I know you want to finish, I can get you over the edge if you just tell us what you are," he squeezes Patrick's dick not moving his hand.

Patrick still doesn't speak, so Art swipes a thumb over his tip, it's too sensitive and Patrick moans but he won't come from it, not without Art jerking him at the same time. 

Tashi watches with a grin, as Art swipes again making him whine. It's too much.

"What are you?" Tashi asks, and Art thumbs the head once more.

Patrick whimpers, then "I'm a good girl," he gasps out, and Art immediately resumes jerking.

Patrick thrusts forwards, spurting all over Art's hands, drooling in Tashi's lap as he trembles with it.

Art brings the hand, covered in Patrick's fluid to his own dick. He pushes up the skirt a little, then it only takes a few swipes and he's coming. White ropes shooting over the skirt, the lace underwear, and Patrick's ass. 

"Fuck," Art gasps out, the sight of it all sending another wave of pleasure through him, a little more dripping out of him onto the blue panties.

Art falls back catching his breath, and Patrick just stays with his head against Tashi. Probably hiding his face. There are some things which still embarrass him. 

Him and Patrick both breathe deeply for a while, Tashi looking pleased with her work.

She eventually breaks the silence, "what was the bet even about?"

Patrick mumbles out, "I don't remember anymore."

Art laughs, "it was about Jaws."

"Movie mashup?" Tashi asks.

"Yeah," Art smiles, "honest to God, we were just going to watch a movie while we waited for you."

Tashi laughs too, "we should watch one now."

"Mashup on three?" Patrick lifts his head up finally, then counts down, "1...2...3..."

Patrick picks Rocky, Art goes for Little Shop of Horrors, and Tashi lands on Bride of Frankenstein. 

It's a weird selection, with a somewhat perfect mashup.

"Rocky Horror Picture Show?" Tashi suggests.

"It is on theme," Art snorts. 

"Yeah, maybe we can get some inspiration for Patrick's next outfit," Tashi teases and Patrick groans.

"This is unfair, does nobody remember how embarrassing it was that Art got so horny he forgot how to play tennis?" Patrick complains.

"No, all I remember is you calling yourself a good girl and drooling in my lap over a handjob," Tashi jokes.

Art enjoys the fact that the teasing is off him for now, even though he knows he's probably never going to be able to live down the worst set of tennis he's ever played in his life.

All because he thought it would be funny to force Patrick to wear a skirt. 

They put on the movie, but end up falling asleep on the couch before it's over. Patrick goes first and before Art drifts off himself he can practically see the cogs turning in Tashi's head, plotting something. 

He can't help but feel they've both given her a secret weapon, a cheat code to get them under her thumb. He smiles to himself as he's pulled into deep sleep.

----

an: um. idk what the hell just happened guys. sorry about this one, hope you enjoyed :) part 2 with tashi buying patrick some proper lingerie.... I will start working on that

[nvrngl]

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒍 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒕

synopsis. you run into dean while working on a case.

pairing. supernatural﹢ dean winchester x hunter!reader ﹢ smut

wordcount. 1.1K

warnings. nsfw ! alcohol, too much flirting, semi-public sex, unprotected sex.

You clock him the second you walk into the bar.

It’s not just the leather jacket or the stupidly confident sprawl of his legs beneath the sticky table. It’s the way his eyes cut across the room like a weapon, scanning. Like yours. Like he’s hunting too.

You pretend not to notice. Order a whiskey. Neat. The bartender raises a brow but doesn’t argue.

The bar smells like beer and regret. One guy’s already passed out on the pool table. Perfect place for a cursed object to be changing hands. You’re here for the hex bag that’s been killing truckers up and down the state.

He’s probably here for the same thing.

You settle into the stool, sip your drink, and resist the urge to turn around and stare.

Doesn’t work.

Because suddenly, he’s beside you, leaning against the bar like he owns it.

“Hunter?” he says, low, amused.

You arch a brow. “You don’t exactly scream civilian.”

His smile kicks up lazy and crooked, full of trouble. “Dean.”

Of course he’s Dean. You’d know that face anywhere—even if you’d never met him before. Rumors. Stories. That smile.

“(Y/N),” you reply, taking another sip. “You here for the hex bag or just to annoy me?”

“Both,” he says, and he means it.

You snort, lips brushing the rim of your glass. “You always this charming?”

“No,” he says. “Usually I’m worse.”

You don’t flirt when you're working. Usually. But Dean Winchester is the kind of problem you want to make worse before you fix it. That look in his eye? That hungry edge under the smartass? You’ve met enough bad men to know what good trouble feels like.

He buys you a drink. You let him.

Then another. You pretend it’s for information-gathering. For the case.

But you both know better.

It starts as a game. The slow lean of his shoulder into yours. The way his hand brushes your thigh like he’s not even trying to hide it. He tells you about the hex bag—how he’s tracking it to some lowlife in the back booth, fourth beer in, about to head home with a “gift” for his wife.

You tell him about how you have already set a trap for the witch.

He looks at you like he’s impressed and turned on, and you’re too buzzed to care which one wins out first.

“You always work solo?” he asks.

“I like the quiet.”

“Bet you moan loud, though.”

You choke on your drink. He grins like it’s his birthday.

“Wow,” you cough. “Real smooth.”

“I can be,” he says, voice low, like he’s already picturing it.

There’s heat curling between your thighs now. You hate him for it. You love it.

One more drink. One more dare in his eyes. One more glance at that mouth and you know exactly how the night’s gonna end.

The bar’s too crowded. The alley’s too gross.

But the Impala? Oh yeah.

You don’t even make it ten feet from the bar before he’s pushing you up against the passenger door, mouth crashing onto yours like he’s been dying for it all night.

It’s not romantic. It’s not sweet. It’s desperate. Tongues and teeth and hands fumbling at layers of leather and denim. His knee slots between your legs and grinds just right, and you whimper before you can stop yourself.

“God,” he groans against your neck, “you sound even better than I imagined.”

You grip the back of his shirt and drag him into the car.

The moment you land on the backseat, it’s chaos.

He’s everywhere.

Mouth on your throat, your collarbone, your breasts. Hands unzipping, tugging, lifting. You don’t even remember your boots coming off. Your jeans hit the floorboard and his tongue hits your skin and it’s all heat and sweat and filthy little moans.

“Dean—fuck—”

“You gotta be quiet, sweetheart,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth down your stomach. “Don’t wanna give the whole lot a free show.”

“Then stop doing things that make me wanna scream,” you snap.

He grins. “No promises.”

His mouth moves lower, tongue sliding between your thighs like he’s starving. He groans when he tastes you—groans, like the fucking sound of it’s enough to undo him.

And you?

You’re seeing stars.

Your fingers claw at the seat, legs shaking, breath catching as he circles your clit with slow, devastating precision.

“Jesus Christ—Dean—”

He pulls back just enough to smirk. “Still like the quiet, huh?”

“Shut up,” you gasp.

He chuckles and dives back in. Your hips buck against him like they’ve got a mind of their own. He holds you down, firm hands on your thighs, tongue working you open like he’s been dreaming about this for years.

You come hard—loud, messy, clenching around nothing and sobbing his name like a prayer.

And he doesn’t stop.

“Oh my God—”

He only lets you breathe when he finally crawls up your body, kissing you like he needs to taste your moans in his mouth.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he pants, lining himself up. “You want it, sweetheart?”

“Dean—”

“Say it.”

Your nails dig into his back. “I want it. I need it. Fuck me already—”

He thrusts in.

Your head snaps back with a cry. He fills you deep, thick and hot and perfect. You cling to him, legs wrapped tight around his waist, every breath hitching as he starts to move.

Hard. Deep. Rhythmic.

The Impala rocks under you. The windows fog up. His name falls from your lips like a mantra, your whole body wound tight, strung out, ruined.

“God, you feel so good,” he groans, fucking into you like he’s trying to leave bruises. “So tight, so wet—fuck—been thinking about this since the second I saw you.”

You gasp against his shoulder, biting down hard enough to make him growl.

He slams into you faster, sweat dripping from his jaw, lips crashing into yours like he can’t get close enough. His hand slides between you, rubbing circles over your clit until your vision blacks out.

You come again—loud, shaking, writhing beneath him.

That’s all it takes.

Dean curses, slamming deep one last time before he groans your name and spills inside you, buried to the hilt, panting like he’s just fought off a demon with his bare hands.

The car goes still.

You’re both wrecked.

Boneless.

You don’t even open your eyes as he slumps on top of you, breath warm against your ear.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles.

You laugh, breathless, hair stuck to your forehead. “That was... yeah. Wow.”

“Top three,” he admits, nuzzling into your neck.

You snort. “Three?”

“Gotta leave room for improvement.”

You smack his shoulder.

He pulls back enough to look at you. His smile’s softer now, lazy and stupidly satisfied.

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ navigation : all works ; guidelines ; let's be friends .ᐟ

[luvfae]

BEST FRIENDS MAKE THE WORST LOVERS

summary: he was yours first and if you can’t have him, no one can.

parings: thanos x f!reader

warnings: cheating, smut, swearing

You've always had a thing for your best friend, Su-bong.

You don't know exactly when it happened — the shift, the slip, the quiet fall. Maybe it was after that night at a mutual friend's seventeenth birthday, both of you half-drunk and grinning, tipsy on cheap vodka and shared frustration. You'd looked at each other, shrugged, and decided you were tired of waiting, tired of wondering. Virginity was overrated anyway. So you'd fucked — clumsy, curious, urgent. Just to say you had.

Or maybe it was before that. Before you ever touched. When the laughter came easy, and his hoodie always ended up on your shoulders, and you'd catch yourself staring at the slope of his neck, wondering how it would taste. Wondering why no one else ever made you feel quite the same.

Whatever the case — the truth settled in after. Quiet and permanent. A part of you.

You want him.

But not in the way that's noble or romantic. Not in the way you could explain to your friends without sounding unhinged. You want him selfishly — he doesn’t have to love you or be your boyfriend.

You just want him to be yours.

In the way that matters in private. In the way that doesn't need labels, or promises, or futures. In the way that makes you the only one who knows how he sounds when he comes.

And he's still your best friend. Always has been. You're good at that part — loyal, ride-or-die, first to answer the phone at 3am. You show up. You look out. You hold the parts of him that no one else gets to see. The sharp and the soft.

But you also keep his bed warm when he needs it. Keep his mouth busy. Keep his balls empty.

And for a while, that was enough.

Until he got a girlfriend.

At first, it was fine. Truly. She was pretty in a harmless way. Nice in a way that didn't raise your hackles. She didn't try to separate him from you — not at first. She smiled when you walked into the room. Laughed at your jokes. Let him lean against you at parties and never questioned how easily your bodies fit together.

You even tried to be happy for him. Because you do love him — in that complicated, sideways, back-of-your-throat kind of way.

And you thought you could handle it. Thought you could go without. Thought you could be just friends again.

At first.

Until the jealousy started to rot you from the inside.

Not loud. Not sharp. Just a slow, creeping burn that sank into your bones.

It wasn't just the loss of the best dick of your life — it was the silence. No more lazy smoke sessions on your balcony. No more co-op missions at midnight, legs tangled on the couch. No more FaceTime rings answered on the first buzz, no matter the hour, no matter the reason.

You weren't just losing the sex.

You were losing him.

And you could live without the fucking, maybe. But not the version of him that belonged to you. The version that lived on your couch, barefoot and loud. The version that rolled your joints better than you did, who knew your Panda Express order by heart, who'd watched you cry over boys he never liked anyway.

You could feel her pulling him away in inches. And you were never one to beg. So you made sure he remembered where he came from.

The first fight hits hard — and loud.

You don't get the details. You don't ask. He just shows up at your apartment at 11:42PM, hoodie half-zipped, phone clenched in one fist like he wants to throw it through the wall.

"Bad night?" you ask.

He exhales, tight and bitter. "You have no idea."

You hand him the joint before you say anything else. He takes it wordlessly, flicks the lighter like second nature, and leans against your kitchen counter like it's his.

Like he never left.

"She says I don't talk to her," he mutters, exhaling smoke. "Says I shut down. But then when I do say something, it's wrong. Too much, too blunt, too—" he waves a hand, "—me."

You let him talk.

Let him pace.

He moves like the words are eating him alive, like if he stands still too long they'll rot a hole through his ribs.

You sit on the couch, pull your knees up. Watch him unravel.

"I try," he mutters. "I fucking try. But I'm not soft like she wants me to be. I'm not—"

You tilt your head. "You don't have to be soft with me."

His gaze flicks to you.

You tap the cushion beside you. He doesn't hesitate. Just drops down, exhales hard, passes the joint back.

The silence that follows is familiar.

Laced with old habits. Old sins.

Your legs are over his in the next minute — casual, innocent on the surface. Then your hand on his chest. Then your lips at his jaw.

He doesn't move.

"She just doesn't get me, you know?" he murmurs, voice low, almost broken.

You kiss his neck. Slow. You feel him shudder. Feel his hand drop to your thigh.

"I do," you whisper.

And then, without thinking — or maybe because you've thought about it too much — you straddle him, rock your hips against him.

Just once.

It's not enough to cross the line.

But it's enough to smear it.

His head drops back against the couch, a low sound breaking in his throat. Your name, half-spoken.

You move again. A little slower. A little deeper.

He doesn't stop you.

Doesn't even try.

His hand grabs your hip, hard.

And then he's fucking into you — desperate, panting like he's been starving for weeks. You're still on top of him, still pretending you didn't plan this, and he's still trying to pretend he's not cheating.

But he is.

And you're moaning into his mouth like it's the first time all over again.

You're his best friend.

And you've never made it so easy to forget someone else.

It becomes a pattern — ritual, even. Every time they fight, he ends up here. Knuckles tense. Mouth tight. Carrying anger like it's stuffed in the lining of his jacket, waiting for you to tear it out of him.

And you always do.

You fuck him like you own him. Like you're the only one who could ever handle him. You ride him until his voice cracks and his grip bruises and the heat behind his eyes dissolves into something messier. Needier.

His fury fades between your thighs — swallowed by how fucking tight you are, how perfectly you take him, how your pussy milks the stress out of him like it's your job.

And maybe it is. Maybe you made it your job the night he chose someone else.

You drag orgasms out of him like confessions. Make him moan in ways she's never heard. Make him forget what he was mad about in the first place.

Because she argues.

You open your legs.

She gives him space.

You give him your throat.

And when you sink to your knees, slow and smug, dragging your tongue along the base of his cock before wrapping your mouth around him like you're starved — he breaks.

Every time.

One hand in your hair, the other gripping the back of your neck like he needs to feel you taking it. Eyes rolling back. Chest heaving.

"Fuck, you're warm," he groans, voice wrecked. "Always so good to me."

You hum around him. Eyes glassy. Drool on your chin.

She never sucked him like this. Never let him fuck her face until he was twitching, nearly crying, emptying everything down your throat because he couldn't hold back even if he wanted to.

And the worst part?

You know that.

You want him ruined. You want him addicted. You want him thinking about you when he's inside her.

And he does.

Because her moans are soft.

Yours are filthy.

She kisses him sweet.

You beg him to breed you.

You whisper, between gasps and trembles, "I want your cum. Want it deep. Want to feel it leaking out when I walk."

She tells him to slow down.

You tell him to break you.

She arches away.

You arch into it.

And every time he's sure he's going to end it — every time he's buttoning his jeans with shaking hands and the taste of you still in his mouth — he remembers.

She's not you.

But you're not her, either.

Because where you fuck and praise and give him everything he wants, she holds his face and tells him things he doesn't want to hear. Things that make him better. Things that make him human.

You make him forget.

She makes him try.

And that's the difference. That's why he hasn't left her.

But you? You don't need him to stay. You just need him to come back.

And he always does.

It's happened enough times now that it feels like fate.

Fucked-up. Familiar. You, bent over your bed. Him, buried inside you. Whispering things he swore he'd never say again. Praising your cunt. Cursing himself. Saying your name like a sin and a salvation.

And still — he goes back to her.

You know this pattern by heart.

You know she doesn't suspect yet — but she will.

Because she's not blind. Not anymore.

It starts at a party.

It always starts at a party.

You're wearing that dress you know he likes — the one that rides a little too high when you bend, clings a little too tight when you sit.

You feel his eyes before you see them. Heavy. Heat-soaked. Lingering too long on your legs. His beer stalls halfway to his mouth. Frozen. Like he forgot anyone else existed.

You don't look at him. Not directly. You just sip your drink and laugh at something someone else said — as if you can't feel the weight of his stare branded into the inside of your thigh.

But she sees it.

The way his jaw tightens.

The way his chest rises when you cross your legs.

The way his pupils don't move until you finally get up to leave the room.

She doesn't say anything then. But it eats at her.

Later, when the noise fades and they're alone in her car, she turns to him. "Do you have feelings for her?"

He scoffs. Too quick. Too sharp. "She's just my best friend."

And maybe he believes it.

Or maybe he's just repeating it — like a mantra.

Like a lie he's told so often it's starting to sound like truth. But his voice cracks just slightly when he says it. And she hears that too.

It's not just that night.

It's not just the look.

There are other moments — quiet things, easy to brush off on the surface, but wrong if you stare too long.

She stares too long now.

You're curled up on the couch in Su-bong's hoodie, barefoot, legs tucked under you. He's in the kitchen pouring drinks, and she watches the way he glances at you — like a habit, like gravity. You don't notice. Or pretend not to.

When he comes back and hands you a glass, she says, a little too light, "Su-bong never lets me wear that hoodie."

You grin. Sip. "I was cold."

Her laugh is thin. She doesn't say what she's thinking. That you're never cold when she's around. Only when she isn't.

Or the time, she walked in on him helping you zip up a dress. His fingers are at your spine. Your hair is swept to the side. He's laughing at something you said, low and under his breath.

You both freeze when she opens the door.

You turn. Smile. "This thing's impossible without help."

She nods. Smiles back.

But later that night, she whispers in the dark, "Why didn't she just ask me?"

He doesn't have an answer. He just kisses her shoulder and pulls her closer, like she won't notice how his hands don't linger the way they lingered on you.

The parties were always the worst. Too much alcohol. Too many people.

One time, she finds you both in the hallway, laughing too hard. Your hand on his chest. His arm above your head on the wall.

The moment stretches.

"What's going on?" she asks, voice sharp.

You pull away immediately. Too quick. "Nothing," you say. "He was just being an idiot."

Su-bong nods. Eyes down. "Just messing around."

But she sees the way your lipstick's smudged.

The way his hand brushes your back when he walks past her.

She doesn't say anything that night. Doesn't cause a scene. But when they get home, she doesn't kiss him. She doesn't even look at him.

And he doesn't ask why.

Because he already knows.

It's well past midnight when the knock comes.

Soft. Hesitant. Familiar.

You're not even surprised — just rise from the couch in silence, heart already bruising in your chest.

You open the door and he's there.

Su-bong.

Shoulders hunched. Hoodie soaked from the rain. Eyes rimmed red.

His mouth moves like he's trying to speak, but nothing comes out. Just a breath, jagged and raw, and then he's pulling you into him, holding you like you're the only solid thing left in the world.

And that's when you feel it — not just the weight of him, not just the tremble in his arms, but the wet warmth that hits your collarbone.

Tears.

You freeze. You've seen him at his worst — high, drunk, bruised, broken. But never this.

He's crying.

And not because he lost her.

Because he didn't.

Because she's still there, still waiting for him to come home.

And he's not sorry.

Not really.

Not enough.

That's what's killing him.

You guide him inside without a word. Sit him down. Wrap a blanket around his shoulders like you're bandaging a wound that never bled right. He stares at the floor like it's going to collapse under him.

Minutes pass.

Then, softly — voice shredded, "she doesn't deserve a fucking asshole like me."

You smile.

Not cruel. Not smug. Just... knowing. You reach out. Brush wet strands of hair from his forehead. Let your fingers linger.

"Maybe not," you hum, warm and quiet. "But I do."

He looks at you. Eyes wide. Bloodshot. Searching.

And you say the thing that's lived in your chest for years.

"I've never asked you to be anyone but yourself, Su-bong."

Something breaks in him then. Not the way it did in her hallway, not in anger or panic — but quietly.

Like relief.

Like love.

His hand finds yours. Brings it to his mouth. Kisses your knuckles like he's never touched you before.

And when he leans in, when his lips meet yours, it's not rushed. Not hungry.

It's soft. Slow. The kind of kiss that tastes like apology and something almost sacred.

He doesn't take you to the bed. He follows you there.

Undresses you carefully, like he's worried you'll disappear. Like this version of you is something new — or maybe something he's just now letting himself see.

And when he pushes into you, slow and deep, chest to chest, your name on his tongue — it hits different.

Not like every other time. Not like fucking to forget. He's not fucking you now. He's making love to you.

And that terrifies you.

Because when he groans into your neck, "God, you feel like home," your body arches into his and your heart whispers, Please. Choose me.

And for the first time, you let yourself imagine what that might look like. Not the secret. Not the backup. Not the girl he runs to when he's wrecked.

But the girl he stays with when he's okay.

The girl he wakes up beside in the morning.

The girl he picks.

Out loud.

All the way.

And when he holds your face after, panting and dazed, whispering thank you, you don't say anything back. You just press your lips to his cheek and let yourself hope.

You don't sleep that night.

He does.

Right beside you, sprawled on your sheets like he's always belonged there, like the fight that sent him here never existed. One arm draped over your waist, breath slow and steady, skin still damp with the memory of what you let him do — of what he let himself feel.

And you watch him. In the quiet. In the dark.

You trace the lines of his jaw with your eyes, the way his mouth softens in sleep, the curve of his bare shoulder where it catches the first hint of dawn.

You could love him like this.

You do.

But it's no longer enough.

Because you're tired of hiding. Tired of being the secret he comes to when he's aching, the mouth he fucks when he's angry, the name he moans into a pillow he doesn't get to keep.

You're tired of being good at it.

Of being his best friend.

Of being the one who listens, and waits, and swallows.

You've seen what's left of him after a fight. You've seen what he looks like when he breaks. And now you've seen what he looks like when he gives himself to you — not rough, not reckless — but soft.

Yours.

And if you can have that version of him — even for one night — you know you can have it again.

If she wasn't in the way.

You think about her when you kiss his temple. Think about how she clings to what little of him he gives her.

How she thinks she knows him.

Thinks she has him.

But you've felt him cry.

You've felt him come apart.

You've felt him say nothing and mean everything.

She doesn't have that.

She never did.

So maybe it's time she finds out what you already know — That he was never really hers to begin with.

Not the way that matters. Not where it counts.

And maybe that makes you cruel. But cruelty is a small price for ownership.

For love.

For him.

So you lay back down beside him, head on his chest, heart thudding with quiet resolve.

You're done sharing.

And if he won't choose you outright — you'll make it so he can't keep hiding.

It starts small.

A text.

I miss you, when you know he's in bed with her.

You don't expect him to answer — not right away.

But you know he sees it. You know he thinks about it. And that's enough. At first.

Then come the games.

You start leaving things behind — panties tucked half-visible under his pillow, lip gloss on his sink, a stray earring on the floor of his passenger seat. Things she'll find if she's even half paying attention.

You press hickeys just above his collarbone — places too risky to ignore, but too intimate to blame on anyone else.

He gets mad, sometimes. Tells you to be careful. Says she's suspicious.

But you know him.

If he really wanted to stop you, he would.

And when he doesn't?

You push harder.

Nudes at 3:14AM.

Soft lighting. Lip bitten. Panties pushed aside.

Wish you were here.

You pray she checks his phone. That she sees the way his hands linger too long, the way he won't meet her eyes the morning after he's been inside you.

But it doesn't work.

She never finds the panties. He wears hoodies to hide the bruises. She doesn't go through his phone.

So you get bolder.

The comments come next. Sweet. Polished. Laced with venom.

When Su-bong is out of earshot — fetching drinks, answering a call — you smile at her, too wide, too warm, and say things like:

"I hope you don't mind that he still comes to me when he's upset. Old habits die hard, I guess."

"He's always been... generous. I'm sure you appreciate that, too."

"It's the little things, you know? Like how he knows just where to put his hands. Always so intuitive."

"I've always loved how... responsive he is. Even the smallest touch gets a reaction."

And you get a reaction. Every time. She flinches. Smiles too tight. Looks to Su-bong with that look — like she's trying to catch him looking at you first.

She never does.

Because he's careful.

But not careful enough.

Eventually, she tells him:

"I don't want you seeing her anymore."

And for a while — you don't hear from him. No texts. No calls. Not even a half-assed excuse.

So you show up. Late afternoon. Hair down. Hoodie oversized. Nothing underneath but perfume and patience.

She's not home.

He opens the door like he expected this — like he hoped you wouldn't come, and knew you would anyway.

He doesn't invite you in.

You step in anyway.

His voice is quiet. Heavy.

"She's onto us." A beat. "She wants me to stop seeing you."

You nod. Say nothing. Let the silence choke him for a moment before you sit on the edge of his bed.

Then you say it.

"I was the one who held you when you were nothing." Not loud. Not bitter. Just... true. "You only love her because I taught you how."

And he doesn't move.

Doesn't blink.

So you stand. Walk up slow. Put your hand on his chest — right where you can feel the thud of his guilty heart — and lean in.

You kiss him.

Soft. Final.

And he kisses you back.

Because he always does.

His mouth is still on yours.

Soft. Then not.

The kind of kiss that shouldn't happen. The kind that tastes like final decisions and fucked-up truths and everything he swore he wasn't going to do again.

But he doesn't pull away.

And you don't let him.

His hands slide to your waist — grip tightening like he's trying to stop himself from shaking. He presses his forehead to yours for a beat, breath shallow.

"I shouldn't," he whispers.

You smile against his lips. "Then don't."

He groans. A low, guttural sound that vibrates in his throat — and then he kisses you again, this time deeper, hungrier, teeth grazing, tongue pushing past your lips like he needs to taste every second you've been apart.

Your fingers curl in his shirt. Tug. Yank. You want skin.

"Su-bong—" you gasp into his mouth, "—I want you to touch me."

"I fucking am touching you," he snaps, hand sliding down to your ass, squeezing hard.

"Not enough."

He curses under his breath — like the request hurts — like it lights something up under his ribs.

You shove him back a step, just enough to grab the edge of your hoodie and pull it over your head in one motion. No bra. Just skin.

His breath catches. "Jesus fuck."

He stares for a second too long — like he forgot how good you looked underneath all your attitude — then grabs your jaw and kisses you hard, dragging his other hand up your side, palm rough against your bare breast. He groans into your mouth when your nipple tightens under his thumb.

"You do this on purpose," he growls. "Show up like this, act like you didn't plan the whole fucking thing."

You moan, arching into his touch. "Of course I did."

"Brat," he mutters. "You're fucking evil."

You just grin, gasping when his mouth drops to your neck, tongue dragging over your pulse before he bites — not gently — and sucks a bruise into the skin just below your collarbone.

You gasp again as he starts walking you backward, fast and clumsy, until the backs of your knees hit his bed. You fall with a soft thud, legs spreading instinctively, panties already damp and sticking to your skin.

"I don't have time—" he pants, eyes locked on the wet patch.

"You have time," you breathe.

He grabs your thighs, spreads them wide, pushes them up until your knees are almost to your chest, panties stretched tight across your cunt.

"I should make you beg," he mutters.

"I already am," you whisper.

His mouth crashes down.

Right over your panties.

And you cry out — hips lifting, thighs twitching — as he drags his tongue hard over the soaked fabric, lips curling when he feels how fucking wet you are.

"Goddamn," he groans. "You missed me that bad?"

You nod, breathless.

"I didn't even touch you yet."

"You don't need to," you whimper.

He's licking you through your panties like it's the only thing keeping him sane, but when his watch buzzes on his wrist, he pulls back just an inch — breathless, flushed, mouth glistening.

"Shit," he mutters. Checks the time. "She's gonna be home soon."

Your head tips back, eyes fluttering. "Then you better be quick."

That breaks him.

His mouth crashes to yours as he fumbles for his belt, yanking it open one-handed, pants halfway down his thighs. You reach for him at the same time, push your panties to the side, pull him between your legs like he belongs there — like he never left.

"I shouldn't be doing this," he pants against your lips.

"Then don't make it slow," you whisper. "Just make it worth it."

And he does.

He shoves into you in one desperate thrust — so deep, so fucking full it rips a moan straight out of your chest. His hands are braced on either side of your head for a second before one slides to your throat, gripping just enough to make your breath catch.

"Fuck—this pussy," he gasps. "Every fucking time. It's like you were made to fuck me."

You choke out a laugh, nails digging into his back. "Maybe I was."

He fucks you hard. Deep. Not rushed — but urgent. Like he's trying to memorize every sound you make, every clench, every tremble. His body presses you down into the mattress, your legs over his shoulders, angle so brutal it leaves you speechless.

"You like this?" he grunts, tightening his grip on your throat.

You can't even answer. Just nod, eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent scream.

"Use your words," he growls. "You want it like this, don't you?"

"Y-Yes—yes—Su-bong—please—"

"Say what you want, baby," he pants, eyes locked on your face. "Tell me."

"Choke me—fuck—choke me harder," you gasp. "You know I love it. You know I love when you ruin me—"

He does.

His hand tightens. Your head tips back.

He leans in close, mouth brushing your cheek, voice rough and tender all at once.

"My girl," he murmurs. "My pretty fucking girl. Gonna fill you up. Don't worry."

Your breath hitches. "Please—please—inside—please—"

And that's when the door opens.

A pause.

The world stops.

You don't see her.

But you hear her.

A gasp. A stutter.

And then—shattered glass.

You twist your head toward the doorway — and she's there. Frozen. Face pale. Eyes wide. Tears spilling.

Su-bong freezes inside you. Hands still on your throat.

Your eyes widen. You try to speak, but nothing comes out.

She breaks the silence.

"You told me not to worry about her!" Her voice cracks. "You said she was your best friend!" She's shaking now, yelling, chest heaving. "You told me I could trust you!"

Su-bong still hasn't moved.

He looks down at you — stunned, guilty, still hard inside you. And you — eyes glassy, lips parted — look up at him like this is the moment you've been waiting for.

Because now?

There's no hiding.

There's no going back.

And someone's about to burn for it.

The silence stretches thick — heavy enough to suffocate.

Your chest rises and falls, your heart hammering somewhere near your throat, but your smile is steady.

You sit there, half-naked under the covers, legs spread slightly, still slick and throbbing, Su-bong's cock still twitching against your inner thigh.

You meet her eyes.

Hold her gaze.

And you smirk.

Soft. Lethal.

The final nail in the coffin.

Then you tilt your head, voice syrupy sweet, “he only fucks me like this because he can't with you."

The words land like a slap.

Her whole face crumples — color draining, mouth trembling — and Su-bong jolts like you physically punched him. His hand shoots out, grabbing the edge of the bed, knuckles white.

"Jesus—" he growls under his breath, glaring at you. “Why the fuck would you say that?"

But it's too late.

The damage is done.

She stumbles backward, tears spilling down her cheeks, choking on a sob so broken it barely sounds human.

Su-bong yanks the covers over your body, muttering furious, useless curses under his breath as he shoves away from the bed — pulling his jeans up, erection angrily straining against the denim.

He catches her in the hallway.

"Babe, wait—"

You hear her voice crack like glass, “don’t call me that. Don't you dare fucking call me that."

A slam of a door.

And then silence.

You give it a beat. Two.

Then you slide out of his bed, bare feet padding across the floor, still naked, sticky, shameless. You find him slumped on the couch, head in his hands, shoulders hunched like he's trying to disappear inside himself.

For a second — just a second — you feel almost sorry for him.

But then the old ache tugs at your ribs — the jealousy, the hunger, the way he always picked her first even if it was just for the sake of appearances — and it washes clean away.

You move without thinking.

Sink to your knees between his legs.

His hands tense where they grip his hair, but he doesn't look up — not even when you rub your palms soothingly along his thighs, slow, careful, patient.

You nudge your head under his hands, tipping your chin up.

His red-rimmed eyes meet yours.

Broken. Defeated. Addicted.

"Want me to make it better?" you murmur, voice dripping with false innocence. You blink up at him, lashes fluttering sweet and slow. “Want me to finish you off, baby?"

He exhales — wrecked, trembling.

You see the exact second he caves. The way his shoulders drop, his mouth slackens, his thighs part just slightly under your touch.

He nods. Small. Miserable.

"Yeah," he rasps, almost inaudible. “Yeah, baby. Please."

You smile — soft, secret — and lean forward, pressing a kiss to the damp denim over his cock.

He shudders.

He's still hard for you.

Even after all that.

Even after her.

And that?

That's the sweetest victory of all.

[hephslacker]

Your post was incredibly fun and interesting to read and I couldn't help but want to point out some of my own observations and share some thoughts!

You have discussed how Ena’s sides represent her “individuality” and here’s another little thing I have noticed!

> In the game, Salesman actually says NOTHING regarding her opinion towards her job, staying “professionally-playful”, yet distant.

What I think is also a point of interest is that a few of the jobs Ena has collected didn’t promise her ANYTHING in return, basically making her work for free. And while helping Taxi Driver’s Heads might have been justified as "helping a fellow worker”, what about Hoarder Alex? The guy, at most, said that he MIGHT give us his thanks, but that’s about it. And yet Ena still accepts the job.

And we HAVE seen how Ena reacted when she thought that The Witches weren’t gonna pay.

The only explanation I can think of so far is that she was willing to let it slide due to the fact that she NEEDED to pass through the bridge, which made said task a priority.

> Just an interesting interaction I have noticed, especially if we take into account that this is Ena’s inner thoughts

> Another thing I wanted to talk about was the apparent “violent streak” you have briefly mentioned.

Technically speaking, “aiming for the target” could be taken metaphorically, aka cementing Ena’s main task as dealing with the Boss. What kind of “dealing” is being talked about remains to be seen!

> That brings us to another interesting point and a bit of a theme that I have noticed being subtly repeated throughout the game: miscommunication.

The most notable example of that would be the confusion that Genie and Bathroom cause, however I want to focus on what I think might be the most important miscommunication in the game, aka the one between Ena and Froggy.

What if we, and Ena, have misunderstood the task that was given? Considering that in this particular case Froggy was actually trying to use a fixed expression from a different language, it is quite probable that he might have caused confusion by what exactly he meant by “aiming for the Boss’s gut”. Do we have to kill him? Peacefully deal with him? Get rid of him? “Dethrone” him? Who knows!

> Another interesting thing is the Boss himself. What I have noticed is that… we actually have no idea if he’s been born, no?

After what the Receptionist tells us (You are too late! The Boss isn’t even born yet) I have realised that Froggy, while heavily implied, never did really SAY that the Boss has been born, no? For all we know he might be born SOON, but not yet.

It also aligns with the fact that both Froggy and The Receptionist mention us being “late”.

However, that’s just a speculation.

But who is the Boss? What does he do?

> Regarding Ena’s apparent Sin, it honestly feels like it’s not this specific Ena, but ENAs in general that are unforgivable. Honestly? It’s very hard to even start guessing what may be the reason, but I do have a few theories.

The first thing I have noticed is this particular sentence

I’m not doing what you SAY I’m doing

This most likely hints at some huge misunderstanding that has taken place.

If you think about it, misunderstandings are also quite a common theme in ENA DREAM BBQ. Just take the ending for example! Or when Ena goes to the Purge Event, during which Froggy assumes she’s partying and is having a good time.

Another theory I have is that Ena might be, quite literally, being punished for the sins of others, as has been hinted in the dialogue with Taski Maiden.

Maybe she’s unforgivable because she’s a “vessel” for the sins of other beings, hence her being unable to be “sin-free” herself.

Frankly, for all we know she might have been simply at the wrong place at the wrong time.

But of course, it’s impossible to say for sure, although some sort of misunderstanding playing a role might be quite a possibility.

Honestly tho, Ena’s overworking tendencies and disregard for herself is honestly quite saddening:(

Wonder if it’s due to the feelings of guilt or regret? And if so, are they misplaced?

Could it be that it’s impossible to forgive Ena because she can’t forgive herself?

Have you noticed how she doesn’t seem to be all that concerned by the idea of being unforgivable?

But, well, all of this is nothing more than a speculation at the moment.

DREAM BBQ

What if the whole game is Ena's subconscious?

I'm sure that most have already heard of such a theory, but what if everything (or mostly everything) is nothing more than a dream, in which case this may open a whole other bug of worms.

However, what I want to focus on are Ena's view of herself, because if the world itself is a dream, in whatever way of form, then it means that what we have seen regarding Ena would be completely Ena's own view and opinion of herself. That, in turn, would mean that her "unforgivable" state would be entirely her "fault" too.

Could it be that she did something she deeply regrets? Does she blame herself for something out of her control, or is she actually responsible for committing something terrible?

The idea of other ENAs existing, in this context, has left me thinking that, what if they actually are the "species" that represent certain people? With the hints to war and Ena's connection to the military, could they represent different participants, including those who might have simply been affected by such events, or are they only the people who have actively been participating?

Well, all of that remains to be seen.

I’m not sure if I have missed anything because it’s quite hard to keep track of everything but yeah!

Ena in Dream BBQ and Work Culture

HELLO Dashboard!! Ever since i first played DBBQ i've found the entire game endlessly interesting (as have most people, LOL) But one of the most interesting, and in my opinion, most Potent things, is Ena's character and how she relates to the game's commentary on modern work culture.

So for anyone as much of a #SICKO as me 😭 Here's an embarrassingly long analysis of just that! There's SO much to talk about with this game, and even when I'm trying to focus on one specific idea with this post, I'm sure I'll still miss things, so just stick with me best you can OK? 😭 😭

My aim for this post is to allow you to understand Just how deep in the torment nexus Ena is, and to want to say "she should be at the club" Only to realize she can't even go to the club. She can't even go to the club. Because of Job. (Among other, hopefully more intelligently articulated things!)

SO, Let's just jump right in :D

First, to state the obvious—Ena's literal entire life is her job. The only moods she expresses under normal circumstance are "smooth talking salesperson where every line is about working or trying to sell something" and "Stops keeping up the veneer and gets frustrated and pissed because she hates her stupid job."

This permeates every aspect of her character—I don't think there's a single line in the game so far where she says like, Anything about herself. There's nothing about what she may want or what she may like. It's all about her fuckass job or the fuckass Boss.

And of course, even in gameplay aspects, you literally don't get a chance to choose whether you accept a job or not, like the thought of doing anything besides giving her time and energy for other people or her job's benefit doesn't even occur to her (Or, it can't occur to her—I doubt the Boss would want to allow her reprieve from anything at all, and I'm sure Ena would know this).

(^ Ena's reaction to being told to find a mythical figure that she maybe didn't even know existed cause Froggy sure as hell didn't to do a stupid job for Froggy's stupid ass. Like)

Maybe i'm reaching here, but I even find it interesting how her red hand has no fingers (besides a thumb). I feel like that represents a lack of individuality she has when she's in Salesperson mode, or at least, a lack of individuality she's been allowed. A lack of having a defined being cause it's all about this stupid job.

There's lots of avenues to go from here, but let's start with another big point of the game: Everybody hates her. Except for like, three characters, every NPC in the game either insults her, talks down to her, blatantly doesn't respect her, or Literally tells her nobody should be punished for being born except her. Typical day for Ena.

I'm not going to get into why I think this is—for me there's not enough evidence to speculate with surety right now—but I think this does tie strongly into her commitment to her job. Ena working her ass off in every aspect of her life and earning nothing but disrespect for it is very reminiscent of real life work environments.

Think of how almost every NPC claims they are "the Boss" in such a way that many of them seem to want to be the Boss, like he's some kind of well-known or respected figure. The description for the game on Steam even says as much: "Play as ENA as she searches for the Boss that everyone wants to be."

(eg: "I am the B-O-S-S!"):

People wish they were the Boss, they want to be some kind of rich capitalist with power and fame, but when looking at someone who actually works for him, and probably is the reason the Boss has profit and success in the first place, they insult her and demean her no matter how much she gives herself to them and the Boss. I'm sure you can see the real life parallels here.

It's even possible one of the reasons Ena works so hard in the first place is as an attempt to earn respect from these people, or to make up for whatever everyone thinks she did that made everyone hate her so much. Especially considering...

Our society is one that tells its people that Work is unequivocally Good. Committing yourself to work is what everyone, no matter who they are or what they face, is what you have to do to be a valuable member of society, and to have any respect from other people in the slightest. It tells its people that you only have value as a living human being at all if you give your life to work.

Even though this blatantly isn't true. If people think you're the Wrong type of worker, or if people think your work isn't valuable, helpful, or that it doesn't require skill, you can work as hard as you want but you'll still be treated like shit. But, hey, work is still your duty as a member of society, right? Stop bitching and whining and pull yourself up by your bootstraps, right?

Needless to say, it's easy to see how this whole idea is being represented in DBBQ. She even knows how much she's sold herself to this, she just... Seems to have extremely casually accepted it all LOL, which, I mean... What else does she have the power to do?

This very casual and nonchalant acknowledgement of her lack of autonomy connects to another big point: Ena doesn't value herself, nor does she even know how to exist without being in a constant state of working.

Let's talk about the Purge: There's a LOT to get to here in terms of Ena herself LOL, but the intrigue starts before she even enters the party. Literally Froggy just saying she's about to enter an "Event" stops her in her tracks and worries her. Not to mention the next line...

This feels like an indication that despite how much she commits herself to it, Ena does "crave freedom" from her shitty job, although she can scarcely admit this anywhere else so far. Then, if you talk to this slime guy, you get some strange text.

As far as I know, the text for interacting with things doesn't look like this anywhere else in the game. And given that it looks exactly the same as how Ena's lines do in the Purge, it's seemingly the only peek we get into her internal monologue, and it is. Quite worrying! She literally can climb up a hellish freezing floating mountain and yet this is by far the most freaked out she gets in the entire game.

And then to actually get into the Purge, an Evil eye Ball tells her that she needs to give a literal arm or a leg to get in. And she just does it. Like no hesitation no further questions she just gives it away to the evil eye ball. Presumably for Good? Because the only reason she regains the arm later is because of Genie magic? Like Ena. Girl. Are we gonna talk about this at all.

But so many real life work environments expect you to give every part of yourself in order to be allowed to exist and live in society, including your physical being and critical parts of your personhood at all.

(Let me also say I find it intentional that she gave away her white arm. Whereas her red hand literally doesn't have fingers, the sharp claws she has on her white hand represent the individuality and unique identity she Does have. However, it's also the part of herself that's in conflict with her ability to be a Good Worker, that always does exactly what she's supposed to do, and never complains, and never gets in the way of her duties.)

She was already very distressed here, but it's a clear indication of how little she values herself. It was a motion to lose a part of herself just to reach the Genie, both for her stupid job, and possibly for the possibility of "freedom" from it all. And your average job these days—no matter how important you are to your cause—will drill it into you that your ability to be a good worker is infinitely more important than your existence as a person. It's easy to see how Ena may have internalized that.

And then she goes to the club one time and this happens

I won't get too deep into her dialogue with the NPCs here because I think their intention is pretty clear; Being in a place so antithetical to a work environment, and a place where she's supposed to let loose and have fun, is so distressing and impossible to even fathom for her that This Happens.

(see: "H-How can I leave this stupid event? M-my lame schedule is full,")

Like, everything at the Purge is insane, but this is a particularly heartbreaking line for me. One because of her job's shitty environment that's broken her down so much—do you think she EVER gets a break, because I sure don't—but also because of how it's conditioned her to not even believe she can "afford another minute of joy." Ena :[

Note how she's covered in these branches that started growing during Froggy's phone call, which look very similar to how she looks in this gag with the Shaman—it's literally her nervous system. In her scene with Mitu she even says she's feeling "sick," She's literally freaked out of her flipping Gourd with her goddamn Nerves On The Outside

Hell, even though Meanie's speaking (which, I mean, no shit, in another line she literally describes her job as "deplorable" 😭), these sprites in the files are actually labelled "Anxiety", suggesting that she's SO freaked out by being somewhere supposed to be so opposite to her work she's become another variant of herself, a la Drunk Ena from Season 1.

I won't get much more into this, because @cube-cumb3r has a PHENOMENAL post I'll link in the notes that goes deeper into this stuff from the Purge and the "Anxiety" thing, And also gets more into theory territory than I do here! Please please go read that post, it is so damn good.

In any case, I think the scenes with the Purge NPCs are the biggest examples in the whole game of how much she hates her fuckass job, yet she can't be allowed to be anything besides a wage slave to it. And just as she's internalized everybody in her world's dislike of her, she hates herself for it.

So:

We've established that Ena's shitty job parallels the real life work conditions that plague our world, and that these conditions have caused her to devalue herself and believe she can't have any reprieve from them... but, what even is her job?

Apparently she's a salesperson, but what is she even selling? She tries to offer a "divestment opportunity", and tells the Witches she can show them how to "grow [their] own [boss]" which definitely falls in line with the Sales thing, but besides that it's still not clear, even when she talks to Froggy.

I suppose the "grow their own boss" line does sound a lot like the phrasing used in MLM schemes, with how they lure people in by telling them they can "be their own boss." The Receptionist also calls Ena a scammer and a conman, so maybe she is a sort of scammer, but, I also don't exactly think the Receptionist think she has the most reliable opinions of Ena LOL

She also calls her a "pink-collar slug", pink collar meaning a job traditionally associated with women, which. ??? I don't fully know where to go with that.. like ...Nothing she does harkens to... Any kind of job expected to be done by women, imo?? Um. Yeah idk i just thought that may be significant??/ 😭😭😭😭 Listen man I can't know it all

Anyway. Maybe I'll be proven embarrassingly wrong when we receive more information in future chapters, but I think the lack of clarity on what she's supposed to be is representative of the games themes. The constant disrespect Ena receives makes her seem likely to be a low-tier worker, someone at the bottom of the ladder that people have no problems walking all over.

Because these types of jobs will treat you the same no matter who you are or what you're supposed to be doing. She's doing what the world tells her she needs to do in order to be a respected member of society, and yet she's also someone people feel comfortable treating poorly because she's at the bottom—because has no power of her own. It doesn't matter what she's supposed to be doing, it matters that she's the Wrong type of worker.

And how is she supposed to ever say anything for herself? It seems virtually baked into her Salesperson side to completely ignore past all the rude things these assholes say to her. After all, not only would that probably just make most people ruder to her (and impede her ability to complete jobs for them) isn't the customer always right?

...OK I will say her whole "Understood! Aim for the target!" line DOES seem like her overall job here is to fucking kill the Boss, but this is long enough already and the likely theme of Ena having a violent streak and whatnot is another beast entirely that I am NOT getting into here 😭😭

Besides, maybe she has no clearly defined job because we've already seen exactly what it is. To sell her life, time, and emotions to whatever all these clowns ask of her, and to receive no reward besides another goddamn job to do.

I think future chapters may delve more into Ena's true feelings on her situation, and possibly even how she'll get freedom from it. Allow me to mention the scenes with Theodora, wherein if you try to "aspire to receive a blissful life" Theodora just tells Ena "You can't aspire for more than what you are capable of." (LIKE OKAYYYY.... RUDE MUCH????)

Until, finally:

How is her mind—containing a desire for freedom—supposed to be in harmony with the letters it spits out, when she's been so conditioned that the only thing she's allowed to be is a worker?

Now, even I still have a lot of questions after this. Like: What has happened in Ena's past that made her this way? How and why did she take this job in the first place? What is up with the "Guys wait, I'm not doing what you say I'm doing" scene I literally didn't even mention that once here. Why should nobody be punished for being born except poor damn Ena, and does it relate to any of the themes I just talked about?

I... don't know. Like I actually truly have no idea. But I have confidence, even if it's in a delightfully vague and abstract Ena-typical way, that we'll find out eventually.

[fruitydoc]

disorganized ramble that's just me way overthinking "the well"

ALSO i thought. when aliss said she killed her friend but only because her friend was going to kill her, and that she'd never even shot a gun before, and then it's revealed that when you kill the host the creature goes behind you instead, i was like aha! something about this doesn't add up! because if the best friend is the only one she's killed, then she must have had the creature behind her at the time, in which case--why did she attack aliss in the first place? half the deaths were from being behind the creature, and the other half were laser fire because of the paranoia that someone had the creature behind them. people killed each other to "get rid of it". so if the creature was behind you, why would you try to kill someone with your bare hands? why are you attacking someone if it's behind you? if she thought aliss had the creature behind HER (and she also didn't have her gun) her attacking aliss make sense, but otherwise...? so either aliss had it behind her already (hypothetically meaning she had already killed someone) or. why did her friend attack her? general paranoia is possible, but it feels funny, no?

aliss also knew something was behind her, and the way she talked about it feels to me like it had already killed people (it is possible she just knew it was behind her bc she'd already seen what had happened, but the whole "there's always something behind me" just feels. hmm) so like. what i'm saying is it just doesn't quite add up.

either she did kill someone else, who had it behind them, and the best friend tried to kill her because of it, in which case she isn't quite as innocent as portrayed (i don't necessarily think that makes her bad, the whole point is that this is what the creature does to people and i'm not judging aliss here) or like. something else is wrong here. right? like idk if i'm putting this to words right or maybe i'm just missing something obvious but to me it just felt off.

one possibility thinking is maybe there's more than one (or it can be in more than one place/behind more than one person at once, though in either case not sure why they didn't mess with them using this if that was the case, unless they were planning for stealth for this exact reason?). not sure exactly how that would work, but it would, albeit confusingly, fill the hole of why aliss's friend would have seen something behind her if she had it behind her--although it doesn't explain how it was behind aliss in the first place if it only transfers when you kill someone, meaning either aliss did kill someone (everyone died of either CreatureKillsThemItis or laser fire, and she explicitly said she'd never fired a gun before killing her best friend, and i assumed her best friend was the penultimate death considering she was literally right there, although it's possible she wasn't--but she also explicitly says "She tried to kill me with her bare hands", not with a gun? feels really specific considering they seemed to imply that everyone either died via CreatureKillsThemItis with the broken bones or laser fire) or that the creature doesn't ONLY transfer hosts when you kill, since it is a game player--meaning that isn't a hard-and-fast-rule but literally just it messing with them, not something it feels compelled to do consistently.

and if that's so, then it's weird shaya's trick worked in the place--i already thought it was a bit odd that she didn't have to actually kill belinda but... almost kill her? or the bullet goes through her into the midnight creature? i was kind of unclear on that, but if it's a compulsion--the creature has to jump to a new host when their host dies--that kinda makes sense, abandoning ship from a dying host to make sure there's still someone to hide behind and play games with, but if not, i guess it's still part of the game??

AND LIKE. if there is more than one, it explains why belinda felt sure there was something behind her and it "visibly" transferred to shaya, but there is still potentially something behind mo back on the ship (there's something on your back--cmon, we were all thinking it the whole episode, right?). it could even be there's more than two--the doctor successfully "killed" one, another got thrown in the well, and another rode out. this actually even fits with how everyone's been dead for a while, and they all went mad so quickly--if there wasn't just one hot potato of death being passed from person to person, but a more widespread like. it happening all over all at once rather than one guy at a time. not that that couldn't have worked, especially in crowded areas, we saw how fast it devolved with seemingly only one person "contaminated" as it was, and with only thirty something people that's definitely still possible, but. idk! idk

i'm definitely overthinking this, i just feel like something's not adding up. not necessarily in a plot hole way so much as in a loose ends or "this is going to come back and bite us later" or "i MISSED SOMETHING" way. it is also possible that i'm just stupid

[towasdandelion]

what if confession texts with the ghouls 👉👈👉👈 and how they/reader confessed ISJDJSKSJDJSJK and maybe with pookie wookie romeo BUT NO PRESSURE TAKE UR TIME /GEN SJDJSJKDJS TY IN ADVANCE I LOVE UR TEXT MSG POSTS SOSOSOSO MUCH 😭😭🩷🩷

I'm glad you like my posts (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠) I was planning to do something like that sooner or later hehe, for now let's go with the scenario where you're the one confessing! Hope you like it (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

Sinostra and Vagastrom ghouls when you confess to them

Romeo? Well.. his pride says "I'm not surprised" but his heart and his head are a mess. He paces around the room. Will literally take him minutes to text back, typing then erasing every message, his finger always just hovering over the 'send' button. He feels kind of.. embarrassed. How dare you make him feel like some fool? And confessing to him instead of waiting for him to do so? The audacity!! Deep, deep down he's happy though. He's happy he didn't have to be the one to say those awkward words first. And honestly it's for the better because his confession would be probably a text saying "Don't you ever dare to die!" Or something like that..

Ritsu, our calm and collected gentleman! Or so it seems. To be honest he got exactly what you meant. But just in case he got the wrong idea he decides to play it safe. He feels incredibly relieved once it turns out you're in love with him too.. because being business partners just wasn't enough for him. Don't be fooled though. Behind that calm mask of his there is a blushy Ritsu who can barely keep a straight face while sitting in the library. Must. Upkeep. The reputation. He quickly gathers his things before leaving the building in a hurry to get some fresh air. He then sits down on the nearest bench, takes out his notebook and begins writing everything he wants to say once you two meet.

Taiga loves playing games. Any games. Well, he didn't exactly expect to fall for anyone but since it happened, he's just going to roll with it. Grins to himself when he reads your message. So you finally found the courage huh. How did he know you're in love with him? Don't ask me, it's Taiga. He feels a rush of excitement as the conversation goes on, already imagining the look on your face when he takes you in his arms first thing when you meet up. After the text exchange he won't be able to sleep anymore. He will lazily stroll around Sinostra with a grin on his face that scares pretty much everyone who sees him.

Leo. Things were going well. So well. You just confessed and the ball was now in his hands. And what does he do? Makes himself look pathetic. The texts were obviously meant for Sho. He immediately deletes them. But it's too late. He throws his phone on the bed before grabbing a pillow and letting out a dramatic scream. Will probably avoid you for like a week out of embarrassment. Try to make fun of him and he'll gaslight the shit out of you. What messages?? What are you talking about??? He's so desperate he will even try to twist the situation, laughing that you probably dream about it. At this point just grab his face and kiss him. Trust me, it will work like a charm.

Sho's eyes widen. What was meant as a joke, actually turned out to be true. You just confessed to him. He's stunned, but it only lasts a moment. This is the perfect opportunity to mess with you a little. Not to upset you, just to see if you know that he likes you too. You don't huh? Well that only gives him more of a reason to tease you. Will kind of panic after the exchange though.. hoping he didn't take it too far. Will patiently wait to see if you show up. If you do, you can count on a lot of teasing smiles and subtle touches before he actually says that he likes you too.

Alan doesn't want to believe his luck. You really like him. And not just that. You like him more than a friend. He sighs deeply, thinking what he should reply. He obviously doesn't want to reject you. But he thinks you really do deserve someone better than him. He feels bad about accepting your feelings, even after you reassure him. It might take him a while to process this. The actual conversation will happen after a week or so, with him asking if you're sure of this. Please do take your time to reassure him that he's the one for you.

[king-of-the-kingless]

Weak Hero sfw and nsfw dating headcanons ^^

~~Gen-Neutral!! Reader~~ a/n: i locked tf in on this what. anyways i wanted weak hero headcanons so i wrote some lol characters - gray, stephen, ben, alex, gerard, teddy, donald and wolf ^^

gray yeon / yeon sieun

➤ definitely enjoys mutual silence as a hangout session, just sitting in silence as you two do your own thing (he’d be studying lets be honest here) but he’d prefer if you were at least in his peripheral vision ➤ would not be the first to confess, but would probably be too obvious with his admiration towards you. constantly looking at you, helping you study, the first to fight back if you’re getting bullied. mans can’t stop staring at you. he doesn’t really flirt either ➤ since he has a motorcycle license, if he gets the chance to drive again, he will gladly take you out on a date that way. enjoys your arms wrapped around his waist as he drives, your head pressed against his back. 

➤ genuinely does not care if you’re shorter or taller than him, he prefers to be the little spoon. loves to stare at you with his pretty eyes, sometimes you can’t tell what he’s thinking but he looks content, just happy to be looking at you.

➤ enjoys foreplay the most, he knows exactly where to press, fondle, when to speed up and slow down. he spends the most time on foreplay because he can only last one round, so he wants to make the most out of it. 

➤ loves, loves, loves to praise and be praised. a king of aftercare and prepping, he’s researched so much just in case y’all ever got to that point. you’re definitely his first time, so he’d be so nervous and worried he won’t be able to satisfy you

➤ about 5 inches, probably a little smaller but he will not let you measure him. keeps it regularly trimmed, he doesn’t have that much hair down there anyways. would like it if you trimmed it. very quiet, letting out a few suppressed moans if he’s close but normally quiet

➤ as for positions, he doesn’t really mind at all. doesn’t mind if he’s being dominated either, as long as it's you, he does not care at all with what you do to him. i feel like he would prefer to see your face, kissing you as you both finish together

stephen ahn / ahn suho

➤ if you’re struggling on a subject, he will gladly help. he’d honestly let you copy his homework if we’re being so honest here, he’d tell you the correct answer even if he purposefully wrote the wrong answer on his paper. ➤ enjoys coffee and library dates, grabbing a book he thinks you’ll like and vice versa and you just sit around to read the books. he’d reach over, placing his hand on your thigh or maybe your knees will be touching.

➤ he does tend to get jealous if you hang out with gray when he’s away. he knows you like him more than gray but there’s just a small lingering doubt that can easily be kissed away. he enjoys kissing you all over your face, his favorite places are your eyelids, nose and mouth

➤ if you were dating or were friends throughout his coma, he would feel very depressed that he missed so much of your life, wishing he would’ve been there for you. but you can easily reassure him of your love, telling him that you have the rest of your lives to spend time together

➤ a very lazy top, enjoys watching you fuck yourself on him but that doesn’t mean he’s submissive. he can sometimes if he’s feeling for it, but the majority of the time, he’ll tell you what to do. praising you for doing so well

➤ i feel like he tends to like being clothed while fucking, something about clothes fully askew to reach your sex, getting the fabric coated in his cum turns him on. 

➤ about 5.75 inches, a little bit of girth to him. doesn’t trim that often, but would prefer it if you trimmed it. i feel like he doesn’t have much hair on his body at all, so he never has to trim much at all. definitely a moaner that whines when he’s close

➤ loves to be ridden, his hands crossed behind his head as he watches you do your thing. he wouldn’t dare move his hips and ruin the show in front of him, even if it was killing him to just buck up into your hips and cum

ben park / park humin

➤ flexes a lot just to get your attention, very bubbly and loud just so you’ll look over at him when he isn’t near you. honestly, he’d do it even if you’re standing next to him let's be real. enjoys picking you up, regardless of how much you weigh. he does it to show off ➤ sticks to you like glue, to him the world is ending if he’s not with you. loves it if you sit on his lap, like even if there are open places to sit, he’d pull you down into his lap, wrapping an arm around your waist and hold you still. 

➤ genuinely the sweetest boyfriend you’ll ever get ngl, definitely puts you first before everything else. except food, he’ll devour everything, so you better watch out if he’s aiming for your snacks. 

➤ loves physical touch, there will probably never be a time he isn’t touching you. hand on your waist, slung over your shoulder, holding hands, ruffling your hair etc. if you have long hair, i can see him attempting to braid it, hard focus on attempt, he’s so bad at it

➤ he’s very giggly while he fucks, makes it his goal to make sure you don’t feel awkward or insecure. only time he’d ever be rough would be if he’s jealous or super pissed off but if that happens, he’s extra mindful on after care

➤ cums pretty quickly ngl, but with his stamina he’d go on for multiple rounds, fucking his cum into you. manhandles you quite a bit too, moving you around a lot, changing positions, he just can’t get enough of you

➤ oh he’s huge, 7.5 inches with a nice thick girthiness to it. doesn’t really trim that often, has a nice happy trail too. he doesn’t care about if you trim, completely shave, or have a bush. grunts the majority of the time, but moans when he’s close

➤ speaking of sitting on his lap, he becomes very flustered if he gets hard while you’re on him. he definitely prefers positions where he can see your face, enjoys some of the lazier positions too but over time he just gets so desperate for you

alex go / go hyuntak

➤ oh my pretty alex, definitely loves pda. just like ben, his hands will always be on you, clinging onto you but i feel like he is not that much of a kisser. he might kiss you like at the very least once a day but that’s it, usually the first time he spots you that day he will give you a kiss. ➤  loves arcade dates the most, even if he sucks at fighting games, he still makes it his goal you leave that arcade with a few prizes in your arms. if you win him a plushie at a claw machine, he will probably sleep with it on his bed, if it's small then maybe on his bed headboard.

➤ he’s aware of his anger issues but he just gets so jealous when others flirt with you while he’s right there, so you will have to tend to his wounds after he lashes out. he always feels guilty afterwards, worried he ruined the date, not cause he beat the shit out of someone, they deserved it

➤ enjoys taking photos with you, giving you his jackets for you to wear, loves to nuzzle his face into your neck to smell your perfume/cologne. if you two ever fight, he will definitely isolate himself from everyone, but ben will drag him back to you don’t worry

➤ always prioritizes your pleasure over his own, every single time. you will cum before him, even if he has to use his hands and mouth at the same time. would absolutely hate it if you try to fake an orgasm for him to focus on himself

➤ doesn’t really last long, could probably last a couple rounds but if you wanted more, he would gladly use his mouth. or if you had a viberator, he would use it on you to get out those last few orgasms for you. He would never fall asleep if you’re not satisfied

➤ pretty average, about 5.5 inches, doesn’t really trim at all but he would if you asked him to. same goes with you, he doesn’t care at all with how much hair you have down there. A groaner but ends it off with a whine

➤ definitely prefers doggy style or prone when he’s fucking you, but if its just fingering or so, he would love to be on his knees in front of you. Sit on his face and he’ll gladly suffocate just to pleasure you, he’d be rock hard doing so

gerard jin / jin gayool

➤ if he catches you listening to some of his songs from his old band, he’ll feel embarrassed but also bashful. he would love to sing you a soft tune as you fall asleep in his arms, his voice was just so soothing to you, maybe even play a soft song on his guitar ➤ when his hair was longer, it was easier to hide him staring at you all the time, but ever since he cut his hair, it’s just been so obvious. blushes and quickly averts his gaze if you catch him, he just can’t believe he was able to date you. he is still very super self conscious about his scar, even if you say he’s handsome

➤ loves to buy you food, he’ll use the money from his part-time job to spoil you with. it’s not much, but it's the thought that counts. if you come by the chicken shop he works at, he’ll try to sneak you a free chicken leg (but he’ll get caught by Teddy)

➤ you’re lowkey his muse, you just being there motivates him to write more music, play his guitar more, anything to see you light up as he plays beautiful music just for you. get ready for a lot of music chords to be written everywhere, he’ll probably think of a nice chord on a date and will doodle it down

➤ he’s got powerful legs from constantly fighting with them, so it would be a nice place to just grind against as he flexes his thigh muscles for you. his hands would be on your waist, guiding you into a nice rhythm against his leg, helping you through your orgasm, praising you for being so cute

➤ enjoys fully bottoming out inside of you and just sitting there, pressing a hand against your stomach with a smirk, bragging about how small you are compared to him, watching as your legs shake from the stretch of his thickness. 

➤ a nice 6.25 inches with a nice thick girth to it. definitely trims very short, but on you i think he would prefer it if you had more of a bush. a loud moaner, he is a singer after all, his moans probably sound heavenly in your ears

➤ prefers the mating press position the most or perhaps full nelson. loves to fully dominate you, folding you in half. he’s tall so it’s very easy for him to make you feel so much smaller than him. definitely loves to give oral, he’s skillful with his tongue

teddy jin / jin taeoh

➤ if you’re feminine, there’s a high chance that people who have no idea who he is will think you’re lesbians because he’s just so pretty. definitely lets you mess with his hair, if you need his pony tail for something, he will willingly give it to you. ➤ a lot of the very first dates you’ll have would be him asking if you wanted to come to his house to visit Co, but then he’d get jealous that his cat is getting all your attention. if the cat is laying in your lap, he’ll pluck Co right out to replace his head in that vacant spot. 

➤ he’s very gullible, so he falls for a lot of things, so it’s your job to make sure he doesn’t fall for something he shouldn’t. he also really loves to tease you, messing around with your hair, sticking things into your pockets as he walks past.

➤ buys you brand items to match his own, definitely loves matching couple outfits or just the vibes of the outfits matching. he’ll even let you wear his jackets as well, theres going to be cat fur in them though, that is inevitable. he likes cats after all

➤ definitely ties his hair back as he goes down on you, but his hair will completely fall out of it as your hand grabs onto his hair as he pleases you. he’ll probably use the hair tie to flick against your sensitive nipples or to tie your hands up. 

➤ a rough fucker, you’ll be having bruises on your waist from how hard he was gripping onto you as he fucked into you. leaves a lot of marks over your skin, claiming you to be his, leave marks on his body as well, he encourages it

➤ about 5 inches, fully shaved. he would definitely prefer you to be fully shaven as well or at the very least trimmed very short. he is not a fan of a bush at all. more of a grunter, but lets a nice lustful groan escape sometimes

➤ enjoys putting strain on your muscles with unique positions, very sadistic in the way he manhandles you, smirking down at you as you can only writhe under him. If you’re on top of him, he will fuck into you every time you sink down on him. You’ll probably never be able to dominate him, but there may be days he’ll willingly let you

donald na / na baekjin

➤ loves buying you gifts, jewelry, clothes, literally anything. you stare at something a little too long and he’ll assume you want it and buy it. however, he doesn’t buy you flowers. he’ll probably buy you some when he confesses but that’ll be it ➤ will show up at your house unannounced, most likely with tense shoulders and completely exhausted. give him a back massage and he’s yours for life. enjoys resting his head on your lap, especially if your head is blocking the light

➤ regrettably, Union comes first a lot of the time, but once he finally has time to himself, he’s immediately glued to you. that is if you’re not also in his office with him. he enjoys it when you visit him just to give him a snack or a drink when he works

➤ the most possessive man you’ll ever see, he fucking hates it if other people have their eyes on you, regardless of who they are. he’d use you to help in meetings, especially with the older ceo’s bringing ladies to intimidate him. he’d sit you on his lap and stare at them all cocky

➤ loves it if you’re loud, he lowkey might just fuck you in his office and not give a shit if the other Union members hear. If anyone says anything, he’ll silence them with his fists ^^ very cocky and urge you to be louder

➤ definitely an orgasm denier, both to himself and you. He’ll stop or even completely pull out if you’re close, loves to make you super sensitive, begging to cum, but the more he denies your orgasms, the better it’ll feel

➤ on the longer side, probably 7 inches? But on the thinner side in terms of girth. Trims regularly, if it gets too long it bothers him. he wants you to be trimmed as well, doesn’t mind fully shaved but doesn’t like a bush. A groaner with a bit of a growl

➤ loves being in complete control during sex, you will not be able to dominate him. If you’re riding him, he’s still fully in control and will force you to cockwarm him if you’re getting close

wolf keum / keum seongje

➤ if you smoke he will share his cigarettes with you, if you pull out your own cigarette, he will pluck it out of your hand and toss it. you will share his cigarette, this is a threat. enjoys sharing food with you, sometimes shows up at your house with some snacks he got at the convenience store because he thought of you ➤ not good at comforting at all, if someone is messing with you or made you cry, his first thought would be to find them and beat the shit out of them, then it will be comforting you. very awkward with physical touch, but hugging him feels divine, you just feel so safe in his arms.

➤ his 3 second staring rule will also apply to you, since his eyes will always be on you, he will be able to easily tell if someone is staring at you. if they stare at you for three seconds, it's game. definitely fights in front of you to impress you, but a lot of the time it backfires because you scold him about getting injured because he’s a masochist and enjoys getting hit. you’re his designated glasses holder now

➤ makes it very obvious you’re his, everyone will think y’all are dating before you even start tbh. he’s definitely the one who fell first, he just tried to push it off as long as he could, not wanting to ruin what he had with you

➤ definitely very rough in bed, he will have you cum a few times before he even enters just to make sure you’re all sensitive for him. he has high stamina, so good luck surviving with him. enjoys using his mouth on you, definitely a huge biter

➤ if you’re being too loud, he will shove his fingers into your mouth to muffle you. But if you’re still being too loud, he will slow down and tease you. will threaten to pull out if you don’t quiet down. but if you’re too quiet, he’ll make it his goal to make you more vocal, overstimulating you a lot. 

➤ a nice 6.5 inches, little bit of girth to it, has a really nice vein on it. doesn’t really trim often. he’d prefer if you trimmed but it’s not a necessity. he’s a growler

➤ a lot of the positions y’all do, he is always on top. very rarely he’d let you ride him, he prefers to be the one in control. his glasses do tend to slide down his nose a lot as he fucks, a lot of the time he doesn’t even notice, his eyes are on you or shut tightly in bliss.