#can't wait to take more of that style

[the-rainbow-of-doom]

The artist and the art

[airenyah]

A LOOK AT STYLE'S JOURNEY | Eps 1-2

(Ep3 | Ep4)

Inspired by @secriden's metas on Style here and to a certain extent also here and also from some comments about Style's apparently "swagless" and "rizzless" flirting, I went on a rewatch of the first two episodes (a rewatch which I thought was a GREAT idea to start at midnight and made me stay up till 4:30am even tho I had uni the next day lmao rip), a rewatch that served as a quest to find answers to some questions I was wondering about.

Mainly I was curious about two topics:

1) Style and his level of Being Annoying™

How annoying is Style right now?

Is he being annoying on purpose?

Why? Why not?

2) Style's flirting

Is he actively flirting right now?

Why? Why not?

I wanted to know what exactly Style was doing and why he was doing it. And I figured I might as well share my thoughts publicly as some people might be interested in reading about how I personally see Style's journey in these first two episodes that have aired as of me writing this.

So without further ado... let's get into it!

Episode 1

No. 1: Meet Cute Meet Angry

It's Style and Fadel's first meeting and they're already off to a very bad start. Style has just crashed into someone else's car, which is not exactly something you would generally wanna do just for fun, Style gets yelled at for it (valid), and then, when Style actively tries to fix his mistake, the person whose car he crashed into gets even more pissy about it and even actively denies Style his attempt of taking responsiblity for his fuck-up.

And yes, Style is in fact annoying to Fadel here, because first of all, of course you'd be annoyed when someone crashes into your car, especially when that driver is potentially drunk and even admits to not paying attention to the road while driving and second of all, because in this particular case the accident comes with exceptionally bad timing for Fadel and the murder evidence in his trunk. But overall, I don't think Style is any more annoying here than your avarage idiot boy.

In fact, I would even argue that here Style isn't so much annoying as simply just very fucking stupid. He is stupid for getting behind the wheel when potentially drunk (he says he only had a single beer, but we can't confirm for sure as we didn't get to see it) and he's even more stupid for texting while driving. And he is stupid for not seeing either of these things as that big of a big deal. Your avarage idiot boy.

We know his heart is in the right place though, because Style instantly tries to take responsibility for his mistake (because despite his idiocy, Style is smart enough to realize that he did in fact make a mistake) and despite getting yelled at and scolded throughout the entire interaction, he isn't actively trying to piss Fadel off. Instead, he actually tries to calm Fadel down by fixing his mistake, in the metaphorical sense as well as in the quite literal sense of fixing Fadel's car. Style was just very unlucky that he got the wrong person at the wrong time who does NOT have time for Style's idiot boy stupidity.

Fadel, who was already grumpy to begin with, drives off in an even worse mood and Style is left behind, not in the best mood himself either.

Fun fact: throughout the entire scene Style and Fadel use the polite pronouns phom/khun for each other. However, when Style yells after Fadel, for just this one sentence he switches to the rude first person pronoun guu:

สอนกูเป็นพ่อเลยนะ [sŏn - guu - bpen pôr - loiie - ná] teach - I/me - as a dad - [particle for emphasis] - [particle]

(If you're not familiar with Thai pronouns, see here)

No. 2: Fadel Brings His Car

When Fadel shows up at Style's garage to drop off his car, Style is actually in a very good mood. He's having the time of his life jamming to the song and when Fadel shows up, Style greets him happily, despite their first interaction having been rather rough. Style doesn't hold a grudge for the way Fadel talked to him last time and he has no reason to piss Fadel off or to annoy him. I mean, why should he? After all it was Style's own mistake and Fadel's anger was pretty justified. For all Style knows, Fadel was just having a bad night that time and isn't usually this grumpy.

I don't think Style is really being annoying in this scene, nor is he flirting, even when he asks Fadel if Fadel thinks Style looked cool while dancing and immediately follows up with flexing his muscles. I think that's just part of his personality. Style is loud and eccentric and he is unabashedly being himself. Which, yes, this type of personality can be annoying for some people (Fadel), but I'd say it's a fairly normal, avarage level of being annoying for a person with this sort of personality. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Style greets Fadel happily and I think him asking Fadel on his opinion on Style's dancing as well as his muscles is actually an attempt to start an amiable conversation with Fadel. When Fadel doesn't take up Style's offer of friendly banter, Style lets it go ("Fine. I'm not messing with you anymore.") and gets down to car business, still in a good mood.

Style just tried to be friends with Fadel, and it's Fadel who comes in with an attack, questioning Style's skills as a mechanic ("I just hope you can fix it like you said you could."). Style assures him that he can and asks about Fadel's car insurance. Fadel doesn't have it. Style asks how he's supposed to fix Fadel's car in this case and if he's supposed to pay the repairs himself, which I think is a valid question for the position of car mechanic that Style is now at this point standing in front of Fadel as.

Fadel launches another verbal attack at Style ("You want me to pay for the whole repair? You were drunk and on the phone during the accident. It’s your responsibility to pay for that. Good thing it was just a rear bumper. If it had been a man you hit, what would you do?") and this time the tone of his voice is also very angry and sharp. Style tries to calm Fadel down ("Relax.") and yields, agreeing to fix the car nonetheless. He asks for the vehicle registration, which is his job as a car mechanic, but Fadel doesn't have that either.

And when Style then accuses Fadel of potentially having stolen the car, I think he isn't really actively trying to piss Fadel off with this, nor is he trying to be annoying. I think this is a direct response to Fadel's attacks. Because Style has been nothing but amiable and friendly to Fadel, has done nothing but try to do his job as a mechanic properly. I think Style does find it shady that Fadel doesn't have any of the paper work for the car and he does wanna avoid getting involved in any potential shady business (oh boy, just you wait...) but I think he also uses this moment to challenge Fadel back. I don't think Style is trying to start a real fight, because he is very quick to calm Fadel down and to yield again, agreeing to fix the car already, still in an attempt to be friendly with this strange, grumpy man.

Style doesn't hold a grudge, he tries to have an amiable conversation with Fadel, gets attacked multiple times again, does defend himself a little in a bit of a counterattack, but stays friendly with Fadel until the very end. When Fadel leaves the garage, Style's mood is more serious than it was in the beginning, but his good mood isn't completely ruined. I think part of him also kinda had fun challenging Fadel a little like that and talking back to him.

Pronoun situation: they consistently use phom/khun throughout the entire scene.

No. 3: Sensitive Nipples

I think this is the point where Style actively tries to be at least a little annoying. I think by now Style has figured out that Fadel is just naturally grumpy at all times. In both conversations that they've had so far Fadel has mostly just attacked Style with every sentence that has come out of his mouth. I think at this point Style is done with the constant attacks and with constantly being scolded and decides to mess with Fadel a little bit, because if he's already getting yelled at anyway no matter whether he makes an actual mistake (their first meeting) or whether he's trying to be friendly (their second meeting), he might as well have fun with it. Especially since part of him did have fun challenging Fadel last time. And this time he one-ups himself a little bit, even. Because this time he's not trying to be friendly and have an amiable conversation as if to make friends with Fadel. Why should he? As far as Style knows, this should be the last time he sees Fadel. Once Fadel has left with his car, they have no reason to meet again. He can afford to give Fadel a little bit of a "fuck you, see you never again" parting gift.

So Style teases Fadel, like when he pulls his hand away when Fadel makes a grab for the car keys, he challenges Fadel, and invites him to play along. You can see it in the look he throws Fadel after revealing the pin:

His facial expression kinda says: "Well? Whatcha gonna do about it? What is your next move?"

Style has now turned Fadel's constant stream of attacks into a game. And Fadel recognizes that actually:

The subtitles may put it as "I don't have time for this" but what Fadel says here in Thai is:

ผมไม่มีเวลาเล่นกับคุณนะ [phŏm - mâi - mee - whe-laa - lên - gàp - khun - na] I - not - have - time - play - with - you - [particle]

"I don't have the time to play with you." But Style doesn't care that Fadel isn't up for playing. He tries to get Fadel to play along anyway when he tells Fadel to get the pin off Style's shirt himself. It's a flirty move, but it's not meant to be actually flirty. It's another challenge in the game and this time Fadel agrees to play. And Style looks rather satisfied:

And then he goes even further when he tells Fadel to be careful with his "sensitive nipples". It's a flirty statement, but again, I don't think it's meant to be actually flirty in the traditional sense of "I want to get into your pants" but rather we're dealing a question of power, and attempt to get the upper hand even more. However, Fadel gets the last laugh by hurting Style. But Style now knows that Fadel will play along if Style is persistent enough. And Style has FUN playing with Fadel, messing with him:

Of course, when he yells this, he's being sarcastic because this exclamation is motivated by anger about Fadel poking him and also at Fadel's grumpy behaviour in general, but I do think he's telling the truth when he says he's having fun with it. It's in the way he huffs in amusement afterwards and smiles a little.

Pronoun situation: they consistently use phom/khun throughout the entire scene.

No. 4: Secret Deals

Style hadn't been expecting to run into Fadel again and now his best friend asks him to hit on the very guy he's been having problems with and wasn't planning on facing again. Style is very unhappy about this turn of events and really does NOT want to do it at first. Because as much as he was enjoying messing with Fadel in their last meeting, I think all in all he has decided he doesn't like Fadel. I think he's holding a bit of a grudge that Fadel dared to hurt his oh so sensitive nipples and I think Style is also very done with continuously getting yelled at by Fadel. Because in every single time they've met so far, Fadel has hardly ever said ONE thing to Style that wasn't in the form of yelling or scolding. So I think when Kant shows up with "hey can you flirt with the guy who's been verbally attacking you non-stop pls" Style is like nah i'm outta here.

But in the end he does agree to Kant's proposition because first of all, he sees it as an opportunity to finally get the car of his dreams and second of all, he was having fun riling Fadel up and playing games with him. And I do think Style is up for round 2 of that game. If only to get revenge for the constant yelling and the nipple pain.

No. 5: A Special Customer

And I think here is the first time where Style makes the decision to be annoying on purpose. Yes, he was already actively trying to be annoying in the "sensitive nipples" scene, but I think this scene is the first first time where he's not just trying to be a little annoying for his own amusement, but now there's a purpose to it, a goal.

Kant has asked Style to hit on Fadel, but Style doesn't walk into the diner with the goal of flirting with Fadel but rather Style walks into the diner with the purpose of annoying the shit out of Fadel. And it's 10000% revenge for the nipple. And also the constant stream of yelling. But mostly the nipple. And the fact that Fadel had the last laugh there. Joke's on Style, though, because Fadel will also win this one. But Style doesn't know that yet.

Style wants to get back at Fadel and so he really turns up his level of annoyingness. He invites himself into the diner when it has just closed, he makes Fadel serve him a whole bunch of beers and watch him get tipsy and he forces Fadel to stay at work way past opening hours.

Side note: They've been consistently using phom/khun with each other, except for that one sentence that Style yells at the end of their first meeting and that wasn't even to Fadel's face. Now, they start the scene with phom/khun, but Style calls Fadel nong a couple of times when he sits down and calls for more and more beers. He also calls Fadel nong, when he says "Won’t you join me, handsome?" What the subtitles translate as "handsome" in Thai is:

น้องสุดหล่อ [nóng - sùt - lòr] nong - most - handsome

When Fadel walks over and tells Style that he is drunk, Fadel uses khun to address Style and from that moment on Style is back to phom/khun as well.

Style was so done with Fadel that it's only when he's got a few beers in that he finally manages to do what he's actually supposed to be here for: to hit on Fadel for Kant.

He gets up, drops some flirty shit, then pulls Fadel closer. Fadel wants him gone. He pushes Style away and angrily tells him to go home. Style refuses. He came here on a mission and he'll go through with it, goddammit.

Fadel realizes that simply just yelling at Style won't work as a method of getting rid of Style and so Fadel changes his strategy. He starts playing along with Style's game. He leans down to Style, gets really close, pretends he's about to make out with him or whatever and Style thinks he's got him. Until Fadel drags him out of the diner by his feet. Fadel played Style's game and won. And Style is seriously angry now. We can tell not just from the way he rattles at the door and from the rage in his voice when he's screaming outside the diner, but also from his pronoun use in this specific sentence:

Because up until that point he was using phom/khun with Fadel in the scene, except for the beer ordering montage, where he called Fadel nong just to be extra annoying. Even when Fadel is dragging him out the door and when he is yelling outside the door, Style uses phom/khun. That is, until he says "I'm gonna take you out!" A more literal translation of what Style says here is something along the lines of "I'm making you my boyfriend!" and he is so angry, that he actually switches to the rude guu/mueng for this specific sentence:

กูจะเอามึงเป็นแฟนกูให้ได้ [guu - jà - ao - mueng - bpen - faen - guu - hâi dâi] I - will - take - you - be - boyfriend - I/my - for sure

Where the last few times whenever Fadel has left him standing, Style was kinda irritated and maybe a little offended (the nipples), Style is seriously pissed now.

Episode 2

No. 6: A Shower at the Market

Yes, Kant may have hired Style to hit on Fadel, but when Style spots Fadel at the market, I don't think he goes after Fadel with the goal of flirting with him. No. Last time they interacted, Style was left absolutely, seriously pissed and definitely also a little bit humiliated with the way Fadel just dragged him out of the diner by his feet. So when Style spots Fadel, he decides to be a little shit again. He is once again annoying on purpose, and not for his flirty mission for Kant. Style's goal here is to get revenge for what happened at the diner.

As I said, Style felt a little humiliated at the diner. I think it's interesting how immediately after that, the next time he sees Fadel he messes with Fadel in a way that paints Fadel as "the bad guy". Style purposefully flings the vegetables at Fadel's feet (a little satisfaction for Style) and then he even gets the attention of the other people at the market to then loudly yell accusations about/to Fadel. This is Style's attempt at humiliating Fadel to get back at the way Fadel humiliated him in the diner incident. We know this, because he explicitly says so: "You humiliated me. Now it’s my turn. We’re even."

Style is the one scolding Fadel now. After having been yelled at non-stop by Fadel, I think Style is very much using the opportunity to finally have an excuse to yell at Fadel as well. And the way he loudly and dramatically shouts at Fadel and shouts across the entire market? Oh, he is very much enjoying that he now finally gets to yell at Fadel himself, that he finally gets to scold him back, even if he had to create this opportunity by framing Fadel for something he didn't actually do wrong. Everything Style is doing here, every action and every word is motivated by revenge. Unfortunately for him, Fadel once again leaves the scene as a winner.

Oh, and by the way: Style is back to the polite phom/khun for this entire scene. Fadel also continues to use phom/khun.

No. 7: Anything for the Car

Fadel has left Style standing dripping wet at the market place, humiliating him once again and this time in front of dozens of people, even. Style is absolutely done with Fadel now. He's got no interest in any kind of interaction with Fadel anymore, not even to mess with him or try to get revenge again. And I'm sure least of all he would want to flirt with him. He even tells Kant "Ain’t no way I’m doing it."

Style is done, he doesn't want any part of this anymore. But Kant manages to convince Style. Style gives in and agrees to try once more because he does want to help his beloved bestie (who he believes to be head over heels in love for the first time) and because his beloved car is still waiting for him, too.

I think, though, that if Kant hadn't talked him into it again, Style would have actually left Fadel alone from now on. He hadn't really been getting anything out of his interactions with Fadel. All he was getting was getting yelled at, getting hurt, and getting humiliated on multiple occasions. I think at this point, going after Fadel is a waste of time for Style that is just not worth it. But then Kant shows up, practically begs him to continue bothering Fadel, and Style is like ughhh fine okay and goes to try again under the condition that Kant helps him figure out what Fadel likes so that Style has at least something to connect with Fadel over.

No. 8: Good Morning Krub

The last time Style talked to Fadel, Fadel left him standing dripping wet and humiliated in a market full of people. You'd think that Style would be accordingly irritated the next time he comes face to face with him and that Style would turn up his level of annoyingness again in order to get back at Fadel for it. But no. This time when Style approaches Fadel, he's not actively trying to be annoying, he doesn't approach Fadel with the purpose of being annoying.

Yes, he bugs Fadel again and yes, he is a little annoying about it, but I think this time it comes as a byproduct of the fact that Style is talking to a man here who he in reality doesn't really wanna talk to and who doesn't really wanna talk to him either. And yet, Style doesn't really wanna be annoying here. After his talk with Kant it's like Style tries to almost start "fresh" again. When he approaches Fadel, Style kind of genuinely tries now (for Kant. And the car. But I think he's mainly doing it in support of Kant this time).

And yes, he's being kinda loud and obnoxious, but that's just Style's personality. He actually tries to have a civil, almost amiable conversation again, similar the way he tried during their second meeting when Fadel dropped off his car at Style's garage. Style tries to be friendly again. It's in the way he's kinda a little amused when Fadel goes "This ain't badminton" after Style asks him to go for a run together and again, Style tries to be nice and friendly about it when he says that doing things in pairs is more fun than doing it solo.

But then Fadel opens his water bottle and for one scary moment Style re-lives his market place shower trauma. And he voices his worry out loud. And this is where it gets a little interesting when it comes to Fadel, because Fadel actually has a hint of genuine amusement on his face when he asks if Style is scared:

Style says no, he isn't scared, he's just not prepared to get wet again. And now Fadel is the one to start the teasing. He steps closer and threatens "If you follow me again, you’re not just getting soaked next time." But there is no actual malice in his voice, there's no real anger in his tone when he says "You’re not just getting soaked next time". And Style recognizes that, he responds to the teasing, the challenge that Fadel has just laid on the table: Style asks "What are you gonna do?", looking curiously and expectantly at Fadel...

And Fadel crushes his foot.

Of course, Fadel does this to one-up Style again and to make it clear how he feels about Style bothering him again when all he wants is some peace and quiet, but interestingly enough, he doesn't make another threat again nor does he order Style to piss off. Instead, Fadel actually invites Style to join him on his run: "If you want to join me, catch up."

It's debatable how serious that invitation actually was, since he literally just hurt Style's foot, getting him out of comission and making it unlikely for Style to actually follow him. And with that invitation Fadel is certainly also rubbing in the fact that he's just hurt Style when he says "catch up", rubbing in an unspoken "you can't anyway when you're in pain". But nevertheless, phrasing it as an invitation for Style to actually join him on the run is a risky move if Fadel is set on running solo, because there is still a chance that Style's determination and persistence is big enough that he bites through the pain and follows Fadel anyway. By now Fadel knows very well that Style is slightly unhinged and Fadel has no way of knowing what move Style is going to pull, no way of knowing if the pain is big enough to keep him from following Fadel or if he'll come running after Fadel after all. There is a real chance that Style would actually follow Fadel and Fadel seems to be okay with that possibility. Style doesn't try to catch up, though. Style has other plans.

Pronoun situation: they both use phom/khun throughout the entire scene.

No. 8: 10 Things I Hate About You (Style's Version)

When talking to Fadel just now, Style wasn't actually trying to be annoying, didn't mean to be annoying. Then Fadel crushed his foot. So now Style of course has to go be annoying again. Style shouting his encouragement and cheerleding chants at Fadel across the entire sports field isn't Style trying to flirt with Fadel. It's him being annoying on purpose to get back at Fadel for the pain in his foot. And it works. Fadel is annoyed.

No. 9: Moonlight Chick– Oh Wait Wrong Show

After that recent period where Style was completely done with Fadel and was starting to seriously dislike Fadel, wanting nothing to do with him anymore, this is now the point where Style is starting to actually have fun messing with Fadel again. Style is no longer pissed or holding any grudges. And while he is a little bit annoying on purpose here, his behaviour isn't motivated by trying to get revenge on Fadel. No, Style is now playing with Fadel and thoroughly enjoying himself now.

And he's not playing with Fadel in the sense of he's playing some sort of battle of powers where he tries to one-up Fadel like in some earlier instances before, no. It's more of a friendly sort of playfulness, he's trying to actively engage with Fadel, almost as if trying to get him to loosen up a bit. Which is why Style also immediately yields when Fadel says he'll go to a different store. Style doesn't want Fadel to go, Style wants Fadel to stay, he wants Fadel engage with him too, wants Fadel to play along with him. Fadel humors him, allbeit begrudgingly so. And Style is quite happy about that:

Pronoun situation: they use phom/khun throughout the entire scene.

No. 10: First To Eat... You

Fadel has humored Style and has let him help him with the groceries. Now he wants him gone. Style refuses to leave. Fadel doesn't care to argue anymore at this point. He's tired and he just wants to open his restaurant. So when Style sits down instead of walking out the door, Fadel can't be bothered to argue anymore and moves towards the kitchen. He doesn't make a single attempt to throw Style out, and I think Style sees that as a good sign, because he drops his "I’d like to be the first to eat… you" line. I don't think he's actively trying to hit on Fadel with this line here. I think he is trying to test the waters, wants to know how Fadel will accept his advances. Because right after he drops his line, he carefully checks Fadel's reaction:

And when Fadel just walks away wordlessly, Style shakes his head and stares after him, as if he's thinking to himself "This is never going to work, this man is impossible to get through to":

This is reflected also in the scene with Bison shortly after this where Bison tells Style to actually go for Fadel if Style happens to fall for him for real. It's reflected in the way Style is all "yeah that ain't happening, he can't even talk to me nicely". And when Bison goes "Fadel is rough on the outside and on the inside" and tells Style to give Fadel a good beating, Style looks at Bison with a kinda sceptical and hopeless expression. Then Bison walks away and Style thinks about it for a bit and then sighs, almost as if to say ooof, okay fine, let's do this, let's try this.

I think the conversation with Bison was another push to make him genuinely wanna try the flirting thing. Not just for revenge, not just because he wants to mess with Fadel and rile him up, not just because he enjoys being playful with Fadel. But because he genuinely wants to help his best friend and his potential one true love. And maybe, as @secriden points out, maybe also because he's starting to get curious what it is about Fadel, what's behind his thick high walls, if there's anything that makes Fadel worth the time and the effort, makes him worth loving.

Pronoun situation: they use phom/khun throughout the entire scene. (And so do Bison and Style, btw.)

No. 11: Cooking Show

With all these questions and the curiousity in mind after the talk with Bison, when Style shows up in the kitchen I think he isn't actually trying to be annoying at all, nor is he trying to flirt. I think he's trying to make friends with Fadel. Style is again trying to get Fadel to loosen up, to open up, is trying to connect with Fadel in an amiable way through something that Fadel is clearly passionate about. That's where he's coming from when Style starts pretending to be a commentator in a cooking show.

And Fadel? Actually plays along just a little bit. He's not very enthusiastic about it, but he's not complaining either. Except the more into his commentator role Style gets, the more annoyed Fadel gets and in the end he almost rolls his eyes kinda like "will this guy ever shut the fuck up":

Pronoun situation: Style uses phom/khun. Fadel doesn't use any pronouns. In fact, he does say a single word at all in this scene.

No. 12: Spotter

I think this is the first time where Style approaches Fadel with the actual goal of flirting. He doesn't approach Fadel in order be annoying in an attempt to get revenge on him, nor to mess with him because he's having fun riling Fadel up, nor does he approach him in a playful manner for his own enjoyment. No, I think this is the first time Style actively tries to flirt.

It's in the way he takes note of Fadel's veins. It's in the way he says he wants to build muscles because "maybe one day I’ll look as good as you", while shamelessly showing off the muscles he's already got. It's in the way he talks about getting frustrated at night and needing to let off steam (ahem...) (somebody sure will be letting of steam by the end of the evening). It's in the way he puts his knee between Fadel's leg's, right by his dick. It's in the little encouraging nod and look he throws Fadel when he tells him he can call for Style at any time if he needs a spotter and that he'll be around.

And well, we all know this lowkey totally kinda works on Fadel.

Pronoun situation: still khun/phom for both of them.

No. 13: Sauna

Again, I don't think Style is being annoying on purpose here but rather Fadel just happens to be annoyed with him because Style shows up again and then just keeps talking and talking and never shuts up. Like yeah, of course that's annoying, but that's also simply just Style's personality. Style is talkative after all.

Style is being playful again, mixed with some genuine flirting (like when he gets naked right in front of Fadel's salad and when he gives Fadel permission to look). And I think next to the flirting, he is still attempting to involve Fadel in an actual amiable conversation and is still genuinely trying to connect with Fadel, trying to learn more about him (like when he asks about why he opened a burger joint specifically). Fadel tells him to shut up. Fadel does not wanna be involved in any amiable conversations with Style.

But Style doesn't give up and immediately goes on to the next topic (the meaning of Fadel's name). He also can't help tease Fadel a little (when he says Fadel isn't generous) but the teasing isn't really malicious, it's more playful, and somehow it works on Fadel, and Style actually manages to almost get into Fadel's pants under Fadel's towel. Well, until the man walks in, ruining the moment.

Pronoun situation: still khun/phom for both of them.

No. 14: Love at First Sight

Style is looking for Fadel and I assume he wants to follow up on where they left off in the sauna just now? But then Fadel corners him in the locker room and this is where it gets really interesting again because with all that talk about "love at first sight" and with the kisses he's planting on Fadel you'd think Style was actively flirting, but that's just not at all what is happening here.

When Fadel throws Style against the lockers, he openly declares war on Style. And it's not just through the aggressive shove and the choking alone, no. If you've been wondering why I've made a point in keeping up with the pronoun use, it's for this and this scene alone. Up until the point where Fadel runs out of the sauna, the two of them have almost consistently been using the polite pronouns phom and khun for each other, save for a few exceptions here and there in some particular instances. Fadel runs from the sauna, and the very first sentence out of his mouth after he's ambushed Style is:

ใครส่งมึงมา [krai - sòng - mueng - maa] who - send - you - [past tense marker]

Up until the point he runs away from the sauna, Fadel has only addressed Style using the polite khun. Fadel runs away from the sauna, then ambushes Style, shoves him against the lockers, chokes him, and as if that wasn't enough in addition to that he also changes from addressing Style with the polite khun to addressing him with the very rude mueng. Fadel has just openly declared war on Style. And Style? Style immediately fights back:

ไม่มีใครส่งกูมา [mâi mee krai - sòng - guu - maa] no one - send - I/me - [past tense marker]

He too changes from the polite phom to the very rude guu to refer to himself. He has done this before, but this time he actually does it right to Fadel's face. And they stick to guu/mueng for the rest of the scene. Both of them are finally done with the polite language.

Style isn't flirting here, isn't even being annoying on purpose. This is Style fighting. Fighting the battle that Fadel has just opened up. And when he kisses Fadel, he also isn't flirting. No, those kisses are a direct attack. And so is every word that Style utters in this scene.

The past few days I've seen several comments about whether Style is aware that Fadel is sus. Personally, I do think Style realizes (or is starting to realize at least) that Fadel is a lot more dangerous than Style had originally thought. And I think what clues Style in is the way Fadel is so set on Style having been sent by someone and persistent in his questions about who sent him. And also in the end when Fadel goes "don't say I didn't warn you", I think that that's also another moment of realization for Style. Like, Fadel is seriously pissed at this point and I think Style absolutel takes note of that. Not to mention how sus it was to Style already when Fadel didn't have the paperwork for his car or let him get close to his car the night of the accident. And now coupled with this ambush, I think all of it gives Style a hint that there's something very off about Fadel. There are only a couple more hours to go until episode 3 and I can't wait to see how this will continue.

[rmbunnie]

Another little inconsequential red hood thing and I'll admit that I'm decently biased but it irks me to see the whole "Jason can't shut up about his death/he makes his death everyone else's problem" take really frequently because he simply does not do that enough for it to be a thing in like any actual Red Hood story.

It's a thing you see sometimes in modern annuals/comics with large casts, particularly if a writer doesn't seem super confident with writing all of the characters that they're working with or if he's just a background character in this one, because with comics it's quicker to reduce a character to recognizable landmarks than to try and work out a whole new complex voice if you don't really need to, so it's tire iron, Jane Austen, Joker, and death, and it's all written out in dialogue because every character in a group event can't have their own internal monologue, but like. That's pretty much it. UTRH is the establishing event for Jason Todd post death so of course a lot of it is about his death, although it's arguably about the lack of response to his death more than his death itself, and he certainly makes it Bruce's issue but one beef doesn't make a trend. Plus if his death is anyone's issue beyond his own Bruce and Joker are like the number one guys whose issue it is. He THINKS about his death a ton in Lost Days, but it doesn't really reflect externally on any of his interactions besides with Joker, which again, that's justified and relevant beef. Teen Titans 29 is more about his place in the hero community/feeling like he was an outsider even before the bomb/Tim being the new robin than about his death, and side note, that being counted as an attempt on Tim's life also bugs me. He beat him up and then left of his own volition. That's not an assassination attempt its called a fight, albeit a sneaky and unfair one. But anyways. I can't speak on Battle for the Cowl because i haven't read it, both that and Batman and Robin 2009 don't really compel me, but it's entirely possible that's an outlier to my point seeing as I kinda sorta haven't read it and don't care to lmao. Even New 52 (although HIGHLY unpopular) and Rebirth/Dawn of DC/Whatever we're doing now Red Hood content don't really have him talking to people about it besides the occasional little quips. He might make stances that were developed because of his death other people's problem, like in the Mia Dearden Green Arrow situation with the "getting involved in other people's business" issue, but acting like he makes specifically his death everyone else's problem is ignoring all of the perfectly valid actually canon things he makes other people's problem. Most of the unpleasant traits he brings to the table are a result of his death and the sense of abandonment and betrayal that came with it, but that doesn't mean he's bringing his death into it when he acts unpleasantly any more than he's bringing his birth into it when he shows up in the first place. The consequences do not equal the event. All this to say it's irritating when people say the character is grating because he doesn't stop whining about his death when that kinda just indicates to me that they're working off fanon based on fanon based on kinda mid batman annual.

[thedarklyblue]

what if i just started t

[bambeedeere]

but what if asoiaf were an animated tv show by the same ppl who made blue eye samurai hear me out hear me out

[vitiateoriginator]

Very proud of myself, I went through all my clothes and threw out anything I no longer liked or wear. 2 boxes are now empty (yes I'm still partially living out of boxes, since I'm gonna move again soon). It amounted to 3 trashbags worth of stuff

[sirfrogsworth]

How do you take a photo of time?

I've been watching the track events at the Olympics since I was a wee lad. It was a tradition in our family. We'd gather around our ancient low-definition 19 inch CRT television and watch tiny blobs compete against other tiny blobs and root for our country.

It was a bit like watching YouTube on your phone in 144p.

Several heroes emerged.

Jackie Joyner-Kersee was amazing.

You can't forget about Flo-Jo.

And then the Olympics decided NBA players were allowed in the competition.

Which formed... The Dream Team.

Was this fair?

Well... they won each game by an average of 44 points.

So... no. It was not fair.

Though it became more fair as time went on.

But, umm... yeah. The other teams looked like the Washington Generals and the US looked like the Harlem Globetrotters if they stopped screwing around half of the game.

But my absolute favorite Olympian was a runner named Michael Johnson.

He was cool as heck.

For one thing... gold shoes.

But he also had this crazy, upright, Tom Cruise-ish sprinting style that just made him look like a running robot on the track.

And in the 1996 Atlanta games he just trounced EVERYONE. I mean, it wasn't even close.

Yikes. Those losing blobs are probably really embarrassed.

Last night I decided to invigorate my nostalgia and watch the track events again. And I got to see one of the wildest races in history.

It didn't even last 10 seconds but it was one of the most exciting sporting events I've ever witnessed. Almost every runner won the race.

After I saw that initially, I was like... who the heck won???

Even in slow motion I wasn't sure.

This was one of the closest finishes in history. There has never been a race where all 8 runners were within this margin.

The arena was silent as the winner was being confirmed. The runners just kind of paced around waiting for official word. My best guess was the Jamaican runner, Kishane Thompson. But then the loudspeaker announced Noah Lyles.

The last tiny morsel of American pride burst out of me with a big "Wooooo!"

I forgot what it was like to be proud of my country. I wish it happened more often. But this young man, despite being last place in the first 3rd of the race, turned on the afterburners and won in a photo finish.

And that's when my inner nerd took over.

Because when they showed the photo finish image, it looked super weird.

Why is the track white?

Why do all of the runners look all warpy like that QWOP game?

So I went down a research rabbit hole to figure this out.

Photo finishes are actually fascinating. The first photo finish captured the end of a horse race in 1890. But that was mostly luck and timing. The actual photo finish mechanisms weren't used until 1937.

Originally they would film the finish line through a physical slit.

And the first horsie head that appeared in that slit would be the winner. This technology ended a huge aspect of corruption in horse race fixing almost overnight.

But we have come a long way since then. And I'd like to introduce you to the Omega Scan 'O' Vision Ultimate.

This slow motion camera sits fixed on the finish line of every race. The concept of the photo finish has remained remarkably similar to the 1930s approach. The camera sensor is specially designed to only record a vertical slit.

Only the finish line itself is actually captured.

And because it limits what it records to only that slit, it can capture 40,000 frames per second to get amazing temporal resolution.

So why don't the photo finishes just look like, well... this?

That is because the camera takes a picture of time more-so than dimensional space. I guess it would be more accurate to say it *assembles* a picture of time.

As the runners cross the finish line, the camera combines all of the little strips of pictures into a single image.

It's almost like if you tried to reassemble a piece of paper after it had been shredded.

Imagine each strip of paper is a picture of ONLY the finish line, just at a slightly different point in time.

What if someone stopped on the finish line and didn't move... what would that look like?

Once they got there, the same part of their body would just be repeated.

So the right side of the photo finish picture represents earlier in time and it just assembles the image strip by strip as time passes and you literally get a picture of time itself.

NEAT!

Okay, but how do they determine the winner from the photo finish?

I mean, that shoe looks like it is ahead of Noah Lyles!

Clavicles!

The IAFF rules state the foremost part of the torso must cross the finish line first. And the endpoint of the torso is the outer end of the clavicle.

So if you get this bone across the finish line first, you win the race.

Two more fun facts!

The start of the race is actually just as carefully timed as the end of the race. There are sensors in the starting blocks of each runner.

The starting gun also has an electronic sensor.

They have determined the fastest a human can react to the sound of a gun is roughly 100 milliseconds. So if you start running before 100 milliseconds they know you didn't actually hear the gun, you just got antsy and started running too early.

And the final fun fact...

Did you notice the Omega logo at the top of the photo finish?

That isn't superimposed or added after the fact. That is captured by the camera.

But if this image is composed only of tiny little slivers, how did they get the Omega logo to show up?

That is a little display. And it is synchronized with the Scan 'O' Vision Ultimate to show a little sliver of the Omega logo for each frame captured.

So when the final image is stitched together, it looks like a cohesive logo at the top of the photo.

Pretty clever, Omega!

[hirazuki]

Hmm.

So, normally when I draw, I put something to play on my one computer screen while I have my references up on the other, as a form of background noise. I find music too distracting and I rarely watch anything with real humans in it, so it's usually an animated series I'm very familiar with -- FMA:B, Inuyasha, certain arcs of Bleach or Naruto, Uchuu Senkan Yamato, Death Note, Winx, W.I.T.C.H., etc. -- so that it's entertainment but not to the point of distraction.

I decided to go with FMA:B while working on this recent batch of commissions, as it has the additional perks of, one, being pretty much the only dub that has my approval (thus being extra less distracting by virtue of my not having to glance at subtitles now and then), and two, I've been toying with finally cosplaying from it this coming year and wanted a quick refresher. I'm not the best at math, true, but the possibility that my hyperfixation would abruptly jump tracks from one fandom to another didn't even occur to me because, come on, it's FMA:B, I've watched it a million times.

... I may have miscalculated 😔

[silverskyeline]

'look at me' 18+

oneshot - logan can't fuck like he used to, but you don't care. you get on top, gladly taking care of him in return. (2k words) pairing - logan howlett (logan 2017) x gn!reader tags: pre-established relationship, doggy style, penetration, dom!logan, reader rides logan, filthy talking logan, he talks you through it, rough, praise kink, cursing, mutual orgasm, choking, 'use your words', unprotected sex, creampie, sweet ending

logan can't keep up like he used to, but he still fucks you like a man possessed when he's able, like a rabid animal - hips bucking, muscles flexing, baring his teeth as he takes you.

his rough, calloused and scarred hands grip your waist, contrasting against your soft skin. that veiny length makes quick work of your needy hole, just like you wanted.

moments before, you'd teased him for the tent in his blue jeans. logan had cocked a smirk, that same signature smirk that always renders you weak at the knees as he began unbuckling his belt, taking his sweet time. you would wait, he knew you'd wait, you were good for him like that. the distinct sound of the clinking metal and the unsheathing of leather caused a shiver to run down your spine, a throbbing in your core. you needed him just as much as he needed you.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

it wasn't fair, how he could tell as soon as he entered a room just how much you wanted him. he could smell it, smell your arousal clear as day, he'd teased you about it so many times. the scent fills his mind every time, makes his cock twitch in his boxers, the need to have you almost overwhelming.

your soft wanting moans drift to his ears, one of his palms sliding up to the base of your spine as he keeps you firmly bent over on the bed, fucking into you with purpose. rough grunting spills from his lips, your head turning to catch his eye, watching as beads of sweat form on his forehead. chest rising and falling, logan grits his teeth.

"this what you wanted, huh?" he grunts, his sentence punctuated with a particularly harsh thrust that knocks the wind from both of you, "you wanted my cock? hm? just couldn't fuckin' help but tease and tease. . ."

you whine, gripping the sheets in front of you as the room fills with the lewd sound of skin on skin. he always liked it rough, plus - you'd known logan long enough to know how he liked to channel his anger into sex. and he was fucking good at it. you'd take it, again and again, as harsh as he wanted to give. because you knew that as soon as you were done, he'd be scrambling to pepper soft kisses along your neck, praising you for how good you'd been for him.

his thrusts falter, and you reach back to take his wrist in your hand in a comforting gesture. the harsh panting tells you all you need to know, his grip on you fading. but it's alright, you know how to take care of him, too. you tug at his wrist and after a brief moment of hesitation, he pulls out and lays beside you, looking almost defeated.

your hips find their home atop his and you nestle against him, slowly grinding back and forth on his length. his hands immediately search for your thighs, pawing at the flesh as he looks up at you. you drink in his expression, the way he's looking at you through his heavy eyelids, his scarred, sweaty bare chest rising and falling harshly.

"let me take care of you. . ." you whisper, your hands sliding up across the feverish skin on his chest, threading through the hair that grows there.

he licks his lips, attempting to protest "but i-"

"shhhh. . ." you shake your head, inching upwards to brush his leaking tip against your entrance and he hisses at the contact, "i said let me take care of you. . ."

you sink down on his cock, gasping as he fills you once more - at this point, you've memorised every vein on that thing. you love how he fills you so completely, how you almost, almost struggle to take him in all the way.

"fuck. . ." he huffs, his eyes fluttering shut as he grasps your thighs, sinking into the bed. he hates it, hates how fucking tired he gets nowadays. but damn if you don't look like the prettiest little thing bouncing on his cock like that.

and you want to comfort him, to let him know that it's okay. you'd ride him every night if he'd let you, but he always insists that he can do it, that he can still go as hard and as fast as he used to all those years ago. fast or slow, it didn't bother you, as long as you had logan, you'd be happy, content with even a passing glance from him in your direction.

"look so pretty up there. . ." he coos breathlessly, watching you bounce, his hand snaking up to rest on your stomach as he admires you.

you moan, tilting your head back - and he groans in response, dick twitching desperately, aching to fill you as his hips buck against your movements. he loves watching you ride him like this, watching as you take control, set the pace you want.

the rough hand on your stomach drifts upwards, finding its home around your neck, gently still. but even the soft grip has you reeling, gripping his wrist. you know he still wants to feel some control, that it wasn't because he was losing energy that he was on his back, no. . . it was a choice.

and you indulge him, working down over his cock with your tight hole, clamping around him as your hips meet his over and over. he's groaning, grumbling, eyes fluttering shut as he's lost in the way you take him.

"logan, look at me. . ." you whisper pleadingly, nails digging into his chest, fingertips tracing across the scars there.

immediately his eyes open to lock onto yours, and when he sees you? fuck, he needs more. he uses his grip on your throat to pull you down into a deep kiss, breathing heavily through his nose as his tongue delves into your mouth. you love how much more experienced he is than you, how he makes quick work of you every fucking time, has you a mess for him, opening up to him in every way you can.

"yeah. . . that's it. . ." he grumbles against your lips, kissing you with a fierce passion that borders on animalistic between words, "keep workin' that cock, keep bouncin', you're doin' so well."

you clench around him at those very words, unable to even think straight with his tongue shoved into your mouth and his cock stuffed deep inside you. he's taking you in every way you'll give yourself to him. even with him on his back and with half his energy he's still able to have you squirming.

and the praise, the fucking praise. logan knows just how to talk to you to make you melt. he'll fuck you roughly, desperately pumping his dick into you whilst whispering that you're the prettiest thing he's ever seen into your ear. he'll have you split in half with his thick arms hooked around your legs whilst telling you that you're so good for him, calling you sweet pet names that contrast his rough movements.

that voice of his, gravely, deep, rumbling. you can't think straight when he talks to you this way.

"such a sweet little thing," he groans, his hand on your thigh snaking around to give your ass a quick slap before grabbing a handful. light work for him considering the size of his hands - don't even get him started on what he likes to do with those. . .

you call his name, whimpering against his lips as you try to keep up with his kisses all while riding him. your mind is blank, slamming your hips down against him as he bucks up, meeting your thrusts - sending him deeper and deeper.

his hand on your neck traces along your skin to grip the back of your head, feeling as his digits spread across your scalp. "fuuuuuck," he groans, "can feel how tight you are, you're gonna cum, huh?" logan asks, though it's less of a question and more of a statement. he knows your body better than you do.

you nod, whimpering pathetically, inches from his lips.

eyes darting from your mouth, up into your gaze, he grins, "use your words, c'mon. i asked you a question."

"yes logan, yes, fuck- i'm gonna cum!" you cry out, tilting your hips as you chase that high he wants to give you.

with his mouth open, he pants, watching you above him with a keen fascination as your face contorts in pleasure. slowly, a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. his favourite thing in the world is to watch you come undone around him, the way your eyes roll back, your pulse quickening under his fingertips.

"c'mon, c'mon, c'mon. . ." he growls, rutting into you from below, feeling as you spasm around his hard, girthy length, "if you cum, i'll cum nice and deep inside you, you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"logan. . ." you whine, a clear yes. your head dips down to press against his shoulder, unable to keep yourself upright with the intensity of it all.

he chuckles and it's like music to your ears, loving those rare little noises of his - treasuring the sounds he makes while enjoying you.

both hands are back on your hips now, guiding you, slamming you down onto him as you gasp with each thrust, "c'mon. . . give me what i want, what we both want - make a mess for me."

his words hit you like a command, a call to arms - you will cum for him, make a mess of him and his sheets. you're calling his name into the skin of his neck as you cry out, feeling the orgasm beginning to tear through you.

and he can feel it, feel how you convulse and clamp down on his dick, causing him to gasp. he's moaning, groaning, words catching at the back of his throat as he tries to continue to talk you through it - but he can't. you're fucking him too good, he's gonna cum too.

ropes and ropes of white hot cum fill you, pushed deeper and deeper by his faltering thrusts as his dick twitches with each spray. you gasp, writhing against him as he holds you firmly in place, pulling you down one last time and holding you there as he empties into you completely.

you're whimpering, whining, body jerking as the intensity increases as you roll your hips, riding out the last of your orgasm until you're both left a panting, sweaty mess.

"holy fuck. . ." he whispers into the air, closing his eyes to centre himself, world spinning.

meanwhile, you can't even talk, can't even think about forming words, mind instead occupied with feeling his hot cum dripping out of you.

logan pets the back of your head, stroking your hair gently in an attempt to help you come back into the moment. he wants to thank you, but that's never been his strong suit. instead, he kisses the crown of your head, peppering kisses down along your forehead as he hooks his thumb and forefinger under your chin to bring your face closer to his.

he looks into your hazy, exhausted eyes, his own gaze full of love and appreciation. this is what he lives for - watching you bathe in the afterglow, being lucky enough to look into your eyes every day, being blessed enough to have you here like this.

you greet him with a sleepy, almost bashful smile.

he smiles too, and god, butterflies blossom deep within your stomach. you love him, you love him tired, you love him angry, you love him grumpy, you love him on his back, on top - whatever, you just love him.

"you're too good for me," he whispers as his lips find your forehead once more.

you know those words are his way of saying thanks, but you shake your head in protest, "stop that, not another word."

logan looks into your eyes, really looks at you, those soft hazel hues meeting your gaze. he simply smiles in silence as his hand drifts to your cheek.

the room falls into a comfortable silence, and you wonder how logan ever let you this close. but you don't care, all you care about is taking care of him.

and you will, for as long as he lets you.

[gollumpanties]

it's so fun deciding to dedicate significant time to genshin now after having barely touched it in over a year

i have no clue what's going on and i'm sure i've seen spoilers around online but i have no idea what they are because i have no context

i'm trying to level characters up but i'm too weak to fight the things they need to get materials to make them stronger 😂

[shapelytimber]

You'll never believe who just spent a week doing pixel art...... Did the classic "let's take a 3d horror game, turn it into a 2d more cartoony (relatively speaking) style"

Pathologic's shitty DS port, to walk you have to drag the stylus across the touch screen and to attack you just have to circle your enemies a billion times :))))

[COMMISSIONS]

Yapping and close ups below vvv

Oh my god pixel art is hard- it's the second time ever I've tried it, and boy oh boy I was not expecting to spend a week on this fjfj But I had fun ! Especially with the small sprites ;w; they cute ! But yeah next time I won't bother with line art- that was a nightmare

Frankly I've played The Void (Tension) way more than Pathologic, but I can't say I'm not hype for patho 3 fjfjjfj can't wait to play the pompous bitch :))) only downside is that they didn't keep his platforms from the original </3 heartbroken- give me the angel with a shotgun ass paintings and demonia Dankovsky

Also the fact I discovered hbomberguy because one afternoon in 2021 I stumbled upon his pathologic video and went "oh a video about the other big games from this studio I love ! Let's hope it's good :)" kfkfjfjfj Great stuff indeed

Bonus close ups I made for insta but there is no reasons you can't also see them !

PS : The software I used for this is called Aseprite ! You can dl it via steam and it's really easy to figure out :))

[bi-writes]

attached | ghost x f!reader

i have no idea what it is that binds us together. but it doesn't really matter.

type: one-shot (8.4k)

cw: zombie apocalypse au, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!ghost, dark!reader, reader described as curvy/plus-sized + has hair long enough to braid, graphic depictions of violence + murder + gore, depictions of suicidal thoughts + intentions (no actual action), mentions of depression + sadness + loneliness, depictions of assault + harassment (not by ghost), horror movie vibes, unprotected piv, allusions to baby trapping, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving), 18+

Death can be a curious thing. It used to be something definitive. Exact. It used to mean the end of something.

No, now it's a beginning. Not a sweet beginning, but a beginning nonetheless. It turns a new tide. Reactivates cells that were once dead. Sparks nerves that used to be dormant, that used to be dark. It makes muscles move even when they aren't supposed to. Brain-dead, but still hungry.

He hasn't been able to understand the phenomenon quite yet. He's tried. He's picked up a few books and tried to do his own research, but it's difficult when there is no way for him to view the cellular structure of it all on a micro-level. He cannot see the way it grows or how it takes over. He hasn't been able to figure out what techniques it uses to keep a body awake even when the central organs no longer function the way they're supposed to. What keeps it moving? What keeps the feet running and the stomach hungry and the saliva warm?

Why is it that when he plunges his blade through its heart, it still kicks? The brain is its engine, as with his own body, but this is different. The brain runs even when it has lost its necessary components. Blood circulation, oxygen, the things it needs to thrive; but this state of being is not like his own. It doesn't need the same things it used to need because its purpose is not to keep a body running. Its purpose is to eat. To infect. And that is all.

He likes to play games these days. He has a lucky silver euro, one he pried off the dead body of someone that he hated. He spit on that body before raiding his pockets. He hated that fucking brute; he disgraced the style of wearing a mask by using a fucking t-shirt instead. Perhaps Austria is a beautiful country, but it certainly produced one of the most unlikable of men. He thinks even if the world was still right-side up, he would've killed him anyway. The only thing useful about him was that he was carrying a few extra magazines and this coin in his front pocket.

Every morning, when he wakes up, he makes whatever will happen that day a game. If the coin lands on heads, he gets to kill himself today. If it lands on tails, he has to endure 24 more hours before he can play again. The rules are simple. The game is easy. Everyone knows how to play it, but not everyone will like to win it.

Today, he decides to do something different. Today, he decides if he wins, he will wait another day. He has never won this game; he decides if he can't win it, he'll manipulate it until he gets what he wants.

It hits the table with a light clink. It rattles around in a few circles before settling, and when he leans back in his chair, he sighs. He knows what it will be even without looking, but he looks anyway. When he sees the carved outline of its face-side up, his eyes flash. He won.

He never wins.

Something is keeping him here. He chooses not to ask questions. There isn't anyone to ask anyways. No one answers when he speaks. He doesn't think there is anyone left to listen.

If someone would ask him why he doesn't just put the muzzle to his temple and pull the trigger, he would just say that it was because that was how the game is played. Those are the rules. He can't try unless that's what it tells him to do. There is no fun in cheating the game; it wouldn't be proper, it wouldn't be correct. It would be grounds for disqualification, and that just wouldn't do, not for him.

He has to do things the right way. Always. It's how you keep order in a world that has none left. It's how you maintain structure even without the lines drawn in the sand. This is the way things are done; God is not waiting at the end of a very long staircase, He is rattling that coin on the table and waiting for Ghost to take a peek.

He thinks it keeps landing on tails because perhaps God is tired of playing this game with him; Ghost has never been surprised. He will always be ready for disappointment. Giving a gift is no fun when the recipient simply receives it.

It landed on heads today. He won the game. He tried to play it differently, but someone won't let him.

There's snow on the ground this morning. It snowed all night, coating the ground in a few inches of powdery ice. He looks away from the window and back towards the mirror, continue to run the razor over his head. His blonde hair falls in clumps in the sink. He keeps it neat and short, close to the head, and then he does the same with his face. He cuts the stubble close, keeping his face clean, but it doesn't wipe away the rest of his face, the things he can't just cut away. The scars, the ridges, the skin that closed over wounds angry and white and uneven. He can see his teeth through the broken skin above his lip, the yellowing of them now that he only brushes them a few times a week with his lack of proper toothpaste, and he grimaces when he sees the new red spots of raised skin left behind from the dirty mask he wears now. He dips his toothbrush into his bottle of water before brushing, careful to scrub his gums properly before spitting into the sink.

When he finishes, he makes his way back into the bedroom to get dressed. He did the washing yesterday; he found a creek only half frozen over, and he made use of the bar soap he keeps and managed to clean off most of his clothes. He feels a little better slipping into his cargos now that they aren't drenched in sweat or dirt. He tucks a long-sleeve into his pants before putting a thick windbreaker on over it, but he finally feels complete once he slips his mask on over his face. In the mirror, he adjusts it, making the skull straight, and he blinks back at himself. The mask does more than just hide him from the dead.

It keeps the living walking a careful circle around him, and he wants to keep it that way. He hasn't spoken to a single person since it began. He stopped counting the days once his boots ran out of space for notches. Anyone he sees now, he scares them off with one look, or he puts them down before they can take a step closer to finding out if he's real or not.

He doesn't take chances. He has always had a special skill, being able to sniff out the bullshit before it begins. He leans into it now, and it isn't a bullet wasted if it stops the chaos before it can wind up.

He still wears his tactical gear. He can't part with it. His holsters have not failed him, still buckled around his thighs. His vest is still strapped on, and without it, he feels naked. He has long since discarded of the Union Jack patch on his chest; there is no king nor country anymore. They are colors in different shapes, and they mean nothing now; they were buried a long time ago.

His backpack feels light. He's running out of bullets, and he doesn't like how it feels. Nowadays, he has to go further and further to get what he needs, and recently, he's taken to picking up everything and simply moving to make the trips all the easier with no home to go back to.

It's not all that different to the life he had before. He never stayed in one place too long then either. He signed the shortest leases, and he would move once it was up, never lingering and never buying more things than he could carry in the back of his truck. His memories are in his head and nowhere else. He keeps no trinkets. He saves no pictures. There is nothing from the old life that needs to be brought into the new. He shifts between both lives, one foot in the past and one in the future, and he thinks that's what really makes him live up to his name.

He's a Ghost. A drifter. Standing between two places at the same time, not knowing which to stay in and which to leave. It would hurt, if he was really human inside, if he could feel anything at all.

But he's not. His insides are nothing but organic matter. His head is a clock, ticking, counting down, but he's not aware of when it runs out.

He digs the heel of his boot into the snow to gauge the depth. It barely comes up over his toes. He huffs a little before taking a peek at the map tucked into his vest. He had circled a place just north, a main street he is hoping will have a stash of things he will need.

Ammunition. Weapons. Food. Water. A new book, for fuck's sake, maybe a Sudoku puzzle that isn't already scribbled into.

The forest gives him cover, so he sticks to it. Out in the open, he would stick out, dressed in all black. He keeps to the trees, ducking under the leaves and trying not to leave too much of a track behind. He doesn't plan on staying in that cabin again, but if he must, he doesn't want anyone seeing a way to come back to it.

The one thing he does appreciate about this new place is the quiet. It lingers, and it's calm, and when he breathes, the world breathes back. He feels like he had always been telling everyone to shut up, but now, his voice hasn't been used in months. Even when he passes other people, he doesn't speak to them. If they don't spot him, he keeps to the shadows, and if they do, they don't see him for long enough to know what hit them.

It's a good stash. The store had been rifled through by now, but in the office, there had been a nice drawer filled with supplies. A few boxes of ammunition, a revolver, and a new blade to stick in one of his boots. He picks up some other odds and ends. Batteries. A roll of yarn. A small sewing kit. A few pens. His backpack feels a little heavier, and it's a weight he appreciates when he makes his way back outside.

He sticks to the alleyways as he searches for the roof over his head for the night. He decides the cabin he slept in last night was too close to the road; if anyone was driving or following it, they could find that place too easily, and he wouldn't be able to sleep another night comfortably there knowing this truth.

He finds himself veering off road just enough. It's fucking cold, freezing, and he's grateful to the mask for helping him keep it together as he ducks under the wind and keeps an eye out for any nearby landmarks. Sometimes, on slow days like this, he would sit on a ridge and kill infected for sport. Practice focusing his sight, calculating the wind, keep his mind in check by hitting his targets and ridding the world of another one of those things.

There are different kinds of hunters out today.

He hears them before he sees them. He knows what kind they are when he hears their laughter. Low and untamed, sloppy and fucking messy. They always are. These kind spoil their treasures. They eat their food until it makes them sick, and then they do it all over again. They never learn their lesson.

When he settles his rifle down along a fallen tree, he eyes them through his scope. There are two of them. Both are fattened, with dark hair and lazy eyes, and they look greasy. Their clothes are in ruins, and their packs are light, and Ghost figures that they look enough alike to be perhaps brothers, or maybe cousins. Their smiles are equally as sadistic. The taller one tugs something along, and when Ghost aims the scope down a little, he sees her.

Her.

He's dragging her by her legs. She's kicking, but it's hard for her to do much when her arms and legs are bound by mismatched bits of fabric and rope. She's crying, that much is clear, squirming as she spits and gargles around the gag in her mouth as she tries to break free. She has heart, but she isn’t a fighter. If she was, she would’ve realized her teeth could snap that fabric of her gag, and she would know that the knot they’ve tied succumbs easily to upwards pressure.

He follows them. They keep going, dragging you and laughing as they make it to a makeshift camp hidden amongst a clearing. There's a few tents set up, a small dip in the earth to hold a campfire, and when they settle on tree trunks to sit, the smaller one takes a blade and cuts your gag off, leaning over you with a low chuckle. They mean to maim and to take and then to kill, and you know this when you look into his eyes.

"Hello, darling."

"Bite me."

He laughs again, dropping onto his knees over you, but when he gets close enough, you sit up with what little strength you have and bite him along his ear. The cartilage rips, and you tear half his ear off, and then he's scrambling off of you, screaming, holding the side of his head as he rolls around in circles in the snow. He colors it red, and you snarl with satisfaction. Ghost takes a deep breath in and lets it out shakily. The look in your eyes–he can taste that, roll it around on his tongue. You did not clock the poorly-tied knots, but you do see opportunity, and you are the kind to take it.

"You bitch!"

Just as the taller one is about to get on top of you, Ghost decides he's seen enough. He closes one eye, lines up the sight, and he lets out a cool breath as he drops the both of them within a second of each other. They fall easy; a bullet clean through the back of their heads, and now they're finally quiet again. They will not get up, either.

Your lip trembles as you look towards the trees. You watch as the leaves rustle, and when you see a man emerge from the thick of them, you start to cry. You think maybe you're seeing things; you must be so dehydrated, so hungry, that a reaper has come for you, and you are much deader than you thought.

The reaper stares down at you curiously. He swings his rifle over his shoulder, tilting his head to the side as he bends, getting a blade out of his boot before he cuts the restraints that bind you. He doesn’t hesitate when he does this; he does not deem you enough of a threat to keep you bound.

You sit up slowly, wiping your face, and when you meet his eyes, you're surprised to see how human they are. They're dark, but alive, and he has blonde lashes and pale skin underneath. He covers himself, but you can still see him. There's a man under there, not a reaper.

Just a man.

I hate men.

You shake off the rest of the restraints, turning your wrists and ankles and flexing your muscles for good measure. When you realize you are nothing but a little shaken up, you look back up. He's still staring at you, hard eyes lowered in a glare as he looks you over. He's sizing you up, maybe, deciding what to do with you. You meet his eyes one more time before gathering the saliva into your mouth and spitting onto the floor. It's a garbled mess of blood, from the flesh you had severed from that man.

He blinks slowly at that, makes some decision that he doesn’t voice out loud, and then he starts to walk away.

You stand on shaky legs, taking it as your cue. You watch as he rips open the flimsy tents that those men had left behind, and he's already grabbing backpacks and rifling through them for goods. He already starts filling his own vest and backpack with the things he finds; some flashlights, fishing line, more food and ammunition. You follow him, moving to the other tent beside it and starting to grab their things and toss them outside. You get to your knees and open the packs, laying out what you find carefully. They have interesting materials in here, ones you associate with explosives. C4. Lighters. Batteries. Wiring. You clench your jaw when you pull out the last box in the bag.

Condoms.

Bunch of pricks.

He finds your discoveries useful. He opens up an empty pack he found and fills it to the brim with supplies. When he zips it up, your stomach drops when you think he might toss it over his shoulder and leave. It only sinks for a moment before he turns the backpack around, holding it up for you.

You pause for a little and think. It only takes a few seconds for you to decide to stand up and slip your arms through the straps.

When he walks again, you follow.

The sun is setting by the time you find somewhere to sleep, but it looks like luxury to you. A quaint little brick house tucked between the hills, a ways from the road and positively hidden. He spotted it through his scope a few hours ago, and he made a beeline for it. It's difficult to keep up with him; he has incredible stamina and the longest legs. He moves like a ghost, too quiet for his own good. You would never know from looking at him how stealthy he could be. For such a huge man, you would never notice him before he could get the drop on you. It makes you conscious of your own steps and how loud they are, and you try to mimic the way he moves as you keep walking.

You don't know why, but you think he must be very pleased with how quiet you've gotten. You don't know why that fact pleases you, too.

He makes you stay outside when you arrive. He pulls a small handgun out of his backpack, and he checks the chamber before handing it to you. He clicks his tongue, forcing your eyes on his, and he puts a finger to his mask-covered lips, telling you to keep quiet. You take the gun from him, pointing it at the ground and holding it at your side, and he touches a knuckle under your chin before he twists a silencer onto his own gun.

You watch with rapt attention as he clears the house. His movements are quick and calculated, and he keeps low to the ground. It's mesmerizing. Big and capable, one with the shadows. The only thing you see in the dark is the white of the skull over his face, and if you didn't know it was him, you would think that you have just seen God.

But God isn't real. Apparently ghosts are.

He is back outside in less than ten minutes, nodding his head at you. You take it as your cue to come towards him, and you hand him the gun back when you pass him. You go into the house and immediately start to light some of the candles scattered around. You set your backpack down, rubbing your shoulders out, and you take a seat on the couch.

It hits you then, the gravity of it all. Men are your captors, and then they are your savior. They'll never leave you alone. They'll never let you go. You were ruled by their iron fist in a previous life, and you will endure their wrath in this new one.

You start to cry. It's the first sound you've made since screaming. You cover your face with your hands, and you don't know why you feel safe enough to cry, but you do, and it comes out of you fast.

He tilts his head to the side as he watches you. It's a strange thing to see something so...alive. He's used to only seeing things moving that can't speak back to him. If he does see things alive, he puts them down as if they are rabid dogs.

He can't find it in himself to kill you. Something is so odd about it. About you.

Everything about today seems more than coincidence. He won the game today. And then he found you.

When he tries the sink in the bathroom, he's surprised to find it working. He grabs a bowl and fills it with water, and when he comes back into the living room, you are staring at one of the flickering candles blankly, shivering. You have stopped crying, but your face is still wet with fat, lingering tears.

It looks like you've been hit by a brick wall. Your hair is matted in places, in tangles. It’s in desperate need of a cut. It's stuck to your face around the perimeter, caked by sweat and mud and dried blood. Your clothes are in ruins; you wear a ripped jumper, thin jeans, and the soles of your boots are starting to fray and come off, and he can see where you've tried to mend them unsuccessfully with duct tape. You wear no jewelry, and your fingernails need to be cut. Those men have left marks on you, but those will fade.

He kneels in front of where you sit on the couch. Using a threadbare cloth, he dips it into the water and raises it to your face. You show no resistance. You let him wipe your face off, the tears, the dirt, the blood. It stains the cloth ugly, but you can't look at anything else except for his eyes.

They're so dark. Brown, like bark, like honey. You haven't spoken a word to him yet, but the silence is sort of bliss. All you can hear is the drip of the water when he rings out the cloth.

He helped you. He didn't have to. He could've kept walking, but he stayed with you. He didn't leave you. He could've walked away again, but he let you follow.

He isn't a good man. You know that. Anyone who has lasted this long isn't a good person. You've done the same. You've let it take you, once or twice, let the snarl in the back of your throat guide your hand. You've let the voices fester, let them eat at the acid in your stomach until they begged for more, and you won't admit it, but it felt good. Felt good to protect yourself. To rid the earth of something terrible. To say no.

He must understand that. He's decorated in its essence, the one of understanding, the one that says I know what it's like to take matters into your own hands, and he did it with you, too.

He's doing it now, cleaning you up, and you don't know him, or his face, or his name, but you'll try hard to give it back. To give him something. To tell him you are worthy and not useless. It doesn't show today, how far you've come, but you'll try.

"Thank you," you finally whisper. He's dragging the cloth over your bottom lip, and he blinks rapidly, as if a bit startled by hearing your voice. When you speak again, it's to tell him your name, and he thinks for a few moments before continuing, wiping under your jaw.

He doesn't sleep that night. He stares out the window, like a guard dog, and he lets the soft breaths of your sleep keep him awake.

The gas lighter on the stove still works. It takes a match to light it properly, but when the fire starts, you take some of the soup cans from your pack and make breakfast.

Your smile when he comes into the kitchen nearly blinds him. You look more rested than yesterday, and you ladle some soup into a bowl for him, setting it down at the table. He notices the two bowls, his and yours, and he notices that his bowl has more food.

It is then that he decides to keep you.

What he doesn't know is that you've decided the same. The world has thrown you the way out. A man, built like a bear, happy finger on the trigger and capable of getting you out of harm's way. You need to convince him that you are worthy. You need to convince him that you are valuable. A keepsake.

Men are what start wars, not what end them. Men are the cause of chaos and destruction, it is prevalent throughout history, and it is why you are here now, in a place that doesn’t exist, where people don’t breathe the same air anymore. A man thought himself correct, but he was wrong, and he didn’t listen when someone told him otherwise. They are the ones that take advantage of your vulnerability, and instead of trying to understand it, they use it to get what they want.

You can do the same.

You start by mending his clothes. He's laid some out to dry after washing, and you notice the tears in his shirts. When he comes back a little while later, with dinner hanging off his shoulder, you are seated on the couch, feet tucked under you, with a needle in your hand as you sew up one of his shirts.

You've bathed, found new clothes, warmer ones, and your hair is braided and off your face. He hates to say he prefers you a little dirty, but he likes this, too. A natural beauty. A soft face.

You make a real dinner that night. There's canned vegetables that you try to spruce up with the spices you find in the cupboards, but the real meal is the venison you're served. He butchers it outside like a professional, and he sears it on the stove with a perfect touch. When he feeds you that first bite, your mouth explodes with flavor. Your belly is full that evening, and when he blows out the candles for bed, he eats you out in the dark of the corner bedroom.

He's not sloppy like you thought he might be. Not overeager. He's easy with it, casual. Big hunk of a man smothered between your thighs, and he laves his tongue through your folds like his very own personal dessert. He drinks straight from the source, holy water spilling sweet between his teeth, and when he gets his tongue inside of you and holds it there, you nearly leave earth for somewhere else. You come like that, too, his filthy mouth sucking on your clit before he's slipping that tongue in you again, and you mewl against the bed as he tucks his hand under your ass and spreads you wider.

He tells you his name a few nights later. He doesn't speak, not ever, but when you're crying around his thick fingers, he whispers it against your ear.

"'s Simon," he growls, and you know what he means by that. He wants you to say it while you bounce on his fingers, when you rut against his thigh. He wants you to say his name when you're coming undone riding his face, when you're wetting his mask with your pussy and making him choke on your cum. Such a wet, sweet girl you are, and sometimes he skips wash day for his mask so he can shove it into his mouth and pant around it and taste you while he fucks his own fist.

It's insanity, he thinks, as he's cleaning his rifle. The idea of traditional. But it's what befallen him, what he sees all around him, and he tucks his index finger into a hole too small to pinch himself just to make sure he isn't living a dream. You're in the kitchen, mending more clothes, something warm boiling on the stove. There were seeds in the greenhouse, and you're saving them to plant in the spring, so for now, you make do with canned goods and whatever Simon hunts for during the day. You found books in the attic, and you read them at night, head in Simon's lap as he plays with your hair or rubs your sore ankles or cuts your nails. You're the only one that ever speaks; he hasn't said a word to you except for telling you his name, and you're content to be the only one that uses their voice.

He always listens. You told him one time that you loved the shade of green that the trees wore, and he came back one day with a sweatshirt of the same color for you. He noticed you trying to mend those terrible boots, and he found a new pair for you, your size this time, barely worn and fit for winter. He brings lots of things for you; books, clothes, even rocks sometimes, when he just thinks he found one that you might like.

You do like them. You have started filling a small bowl with the ones he brings, and he notices you rifling through it sometimes, just looking at them, and it makes his chest swell with pride.

Like giving a treat to a dog. Like giving him a fucking bone.

He teaches you how to shoot. You know how to pull a trigger, but that’s the extent of your expertise. He teaches you how to stand, how to turn the safety on and off, how to hold the gun between two hands so not even his own can take it away from you. He makes sounds when you please him. Hums low, lets out a soft breath, sucks in the air through his teeth. You can’t see his face, but the way he looks at you when you fire a bullet and knock bottles off their ledges, it warms you, all the way down your spine, reaching your toes. You want him to keep looking at you this way, so you try hard, and he notices.

You’ll never be what he is, but the small victories are what have him chubbing up in his cargos and falling asleep between your thighs. You give, and he takes, and he keeps coming back for more.

He teaches you that distance is your strength. You aren’t like him; you aren’t built like a brick house, you won’t be bigger than a lot of your opponents. You need to keep them away from you, however you can. He makes you good with that gun because it’s your best chance, but in the even that you lose it or you run out of bullets, he shows you how to aim a hatchet so that the blade always lines up between someone’s shoulders.

The way you listen makes him salivate. The way you blink up at him and say yes, Simon and take his orders, it makes it difficult to keep away from you. 

Today marks two months in the house tucked on the hill. Simon hunts, and you cook, and you live in some sick, twisted housewife fantasy at the end of the fucking world. Simon provides, and you keep, and when the box of condoms falls out of your backpack one day, you glance at Simon for just a moment before he's on you.

It's animal, that first time. He tackles you practically onto the carpet of the living room, and he props you up onto your elbows and only pulls down your jeans enough that he can fit his cock between your thighs. You hear the tear of the condom wrapping, and then he's laying over your back, sinking to the base, cock nestled inside of you as he grips your throat gently and fucks you into the carpet. Poor beast, he's definitely going to need his knees massaged after this, but you can't think about that much when you're taking the fattest cock of your entire life and trying to survive underneath him. It's that fine line between pleasure and pain that you're desperate for, and you pull threads out of the carpet as you try to hang on and take it like a good girl.

You can hear his voice. It's low, and subtle, but he grunts with each agonizing thrust, hips snapping against your ass as he fucks you back onto him over and over and over again.

It's primal. Nasty. You wish he wasn't wearing a condom, you want him to be in your skin, you want him to fill you until you're full, let it spill over, and then do it all over again. You want him to bite into your throat and tear, and you want him to eat you and then put you back together, and then do it again and again and again.

"So big," you gasp, and he falters at that. You recognize it, the need for praise, and you latch onto it with claws and stay there. I need him to stay here with me. "So good...so good t-to me, Simon–"

He groans. It's music.

Keep me. Keep me. Keep me.

"Simon, please–" You scratch at his arm, not satisfied until you feel blood. When you break the skin, he laughs, a breathless laugh that has your eyes rolling back in your head as he shoves your face into the carpet and mounts you like a fucking horse. The deep slap, slap, slap of skin is enough to send you away, send you home, your mind foggy as your pussy squeezes him for all he's worth. The slick of the condom is pleasant, but you want it raw. You want every part of him carved into you, and you arch your back, suck him in, whine and cry and beg for him to just, "please, Simon, I need it, I need it."

"Need wot?"

The sound of his voice is whiplash. He hisses when he sinks deep, staying there, holding you at a sharp angle so he can knead your ass and watch it bounce back on him. He sucks on his teeth, and there's drool slipping out of your mouth. That accent, his voice, like velvet, from deep within his chest. You want to hear more of it.

"Be a man," you gasp. "Be a man, and fuck me."

He doesn't see the desperate look on your face when he slips out of you. He doesn't see the relief that washes over you when you hear the condom come off, latex crumbling as he tosses it, but he feels the warmth of your pretty pussy when he sinks back in, skin to skin, and feels you clench for dear fucking life.

"Fuckin' Christ," Simon groans, and you reach back for him, gripping his arms, forcing him to fall over on top of you. He settles with his elbows on either side of your head, and you bow your back and grip the carpet again as he fucks into you nice and slow, deep, fat head leaking precum and making you cry because finally, yes, please, this is it, what I want, I'll have you forever.

You're so pretty. Even in his past life, Simon never got to have anything pretty. He was too ugly, too big, too awkward. Any woman of good faith stayed 100 yards away, as if his mere presence was a warning alarm, some invisible radius that kept them away from him. He always thought it was for the better. He always thought good riddance, they shouldn't have me, I shouldn't have anyone. Not when only days before, he had tortured a Russian militant until he had no teeth and hung his severed fingers on twine around his own neck.

But you won't run away. He's given you opportunity. He's left the cottage and staked out the outside just to watch you, and all he sees is you moving between windows, shaking out the dust from old blankets and washing the dishes. All he sees is you sewing his clothes and cooking his food, and when he comes back inside, all he sees is your smile and your face and your pretty mouth that falls open when he makes you come all over his hand.

Now it's the end of the world, and he lets a coin flip decide whether or not he lives or dies. And even when he flips it now, it never agrees. When he asks to die, the coin tells him no. When he asks to live, it’s always interrupted by you.

Yes, it tells him. Yes, yes, yes, because it's been keeping him here, because it knows, because it saw, because he couldn't see both sides of the coin, but he can see it now, plain as day, and she's underneath him now, letting him inside, and she's begging him to come and to fill her up, and she's crying because he's such a big man, and she wants him everywhere and always and all at once, and Simon is nothing if he isn't an insatiable bastard that can finally be fucking selfish.

The way you say his name could make him move mountains. That soft breath you take. The falter of your voice. The whine. The world has gone quiet, but he'll make a new one, and he will leave it at your feet for you to step on or pick up.

Whichever you choose. You can do no wrong.

When he comes, he moans. Into your ear, he lets you hear him, lets you bask in his pleasure as he spurts hot inside of you, hauling you a little higher on your knees so he can make sure you come, too. He gives you the palm of his hand to grind on, fucking into you at the same time, humming deep when he feels you squeeze around him and shatter like glass.

He takes his mask off for the first time that night. You see his face, all of it, not just glimpses when he lifts it to eat or to drink, you see the whole thing. He has a terrible looking face. Something only a mother could love. Too old of scars to be from this new life. They slash across his brow, across his cheeks. He has a jagged nose, and the skin around his lips had been reconstructed poorly from however they had been slit.

He's a terrifying piece of flesh. He is surprised when you lean in and kiss him. He's even more surprised when you kick off your jeans, turn over, and fuck him again.

The mantra that sounds like mine repeats in his head over and over. He feels it, deep, warm and beating under his ribs alongside his heart that hasn't moved in a long while.

He found you in those woods, kicking amongst predators, and he took you home with him. Picked you up like a stray, fed you, clothed you, and now you've stayed. For a moment, he thought it wasn't real. Thought your full belly is what kept you here, the warm house. He didn't mind pretending, but he figured it wouldn't last.

He doesn't think that anymore. Not with the way you kiss his severed face. You nuzzle into it, cup his cheeks, and he finds it agony when you pull away.

He hovers now. In whatever room you are in, Simon must also be in it. If he leaves, he makes you board the doors, and you are only allowed to open them if he knocks in his special way. He tested you once, came back earlier than expected, and he was so pleased you did not open the door to his casual knock and only the special one that he made you come one, two, three times with your thighs locked around his face.

A terrible thing happens.

Not to you.

You're searching the greenhouse. Hoping to find some flower pots for the herb seeds you found, you're rummaging through the cabinets beside it. Your gun is sitting away from you, and although Simon would chastise you for this, you feel safe here, and it doesn't bother you.

It flings itself at you. It cries, what used to be a teenage girl, reaching for you because it wants a chunk of your softness, of the life you pump into the muscles that keep you running. You're protected by all the clothes you wear for the weather, and it is slow because of the cold freezing their rigid, dead bones, but it does not lessen the hunger, the fight, the determination to eat and spread.

Before it can bite, the back of its head explodes. You close your mouth and shut your eyes as rancid brain matter splatters the white snow and you, and it is wrenched off of you immediately. Simon stands there, his pistol in hand, and you have never seen him quite so angry as he is right now.

His eyes are wild. He heaves under that tact vest, breathing hard, and his grip on the handgun shakes, so much that he has to shove it back into the holster at his thigh and lean over to pick you up off the ground.

He jostles you. Growls. Is nearly an animal himself as he shoves you up against the glass of the greenhouse and snarls.

"Wot the fuck is wrong with ya?!" Simon snaps. "Is y'r fuckin' head on?!"

It's so quiet in your head even as he yells. Your eyes tear, but not because you're upset. You reach out and cup his face gently, and he stops. Stops talking, just watches, just looks at you as he bends and leans his forehead against yours and squeezes you to his chest.

What is this thing you have? What have you become? What innate thing has festered between you? He’s gripping the edge of the glass so hard, you hear it crack under his hand. There is some kind of sick sense of devotion among you. Some kind of responsibility. He’s angry because something under his tongue tasted bitter when he saw you struggling. It won’t be this easy. He won’t make it this easy. If he doesn’t get to die, then neither do you, and he will make sure of that, because that is the only way this game can remain fair.

You never wander to the greenhouse again. He makes you promise (lest he wastes his cum between your thighs instead of inside you, that's it, promise me).

Another terrible thing happens.

Not to you.

They're wanderers. When they knock at the door, they don't use Simon's special knock, so you don't open it. Instead, you blow out the candles and hide, peeking at them from the fogged window in the attic.

They are men (you aren't surprised, they seem to be the only thing that survives nature's heavy hand). Cold. Shivering. One of them is bleeding, you can see it from the blood trail he leaves in the snow that seeps from somewhere under the hem of his jeans. The one uninjured tries to force his way through the door, but Simon added more deadbolts to it, and it doesn't give under his weak attempts. You trade your handgun for the rifle, aiming it at them. If they get through the door, maybe you can draw them back out, keep them away from the house.

You try to stay quiet, but the healthier one uses his body and a log of wood to get through. They're desperate, desperate enough to not care that breaking through the door cuts him severely, splits through his jacket. The second man limps behind him, getting inside, and you decide to put the rifle back.

You will stay quiet until Simon gets back. Your strength is not being a bulldozer, so you'll hide until he can be that for you. You steady your breathing; even if they make it to the attic, you won't go quietly. You tried that last time, and if it wasn't for Simon, you'd surely be naked and dead in that clearing that you were dragged to.

This time, if you go, you will take someone with you at least. Severed ears are not enough. You will not make them artists, you will make them forgettable and unrecognizable, and you will give back what they give you tenfold. Even if it kills you.

It takes them all night before they finally make it to the attic. They eat your food and take showers in your bathroom and stink up the living room, you can hear them. And when their bellies are full and their minds wander, you dread the pull of the attic door as he wrenches it open and the ladder falls.

You manage to kill one as he drags you out from the corner. He latches onto your ankle, and as he pulls, you put your finger on the trigger of your handgun, and you put one right between his eyes. The other takes advantage of your moment of pause, turning you over onto your stomach so hard the gun flies across the attic from your hand. He tosses you down from the attic, and you land on your side in the hallway, and you cry as you get to your elbows and crawl, trying to get to your feet, but he's larger than you.

He catches you in the kitchen. Slams you over the kitchen counter, using his weight to pin you down, but Simon taught you better than that. He taught you not to give in. He taught you not to give up. You think about him when your fingers find the discarded fork on the counter and you drive it right through his fucking eye.

You don't stop. You don't let his cries keep you from bringing your arm down again. And again. And again. You make his face your blank canvas, and you paint it with your anger. For every man that ever touched you. For every man that ever thought himself worthy to have you. For every man that tried to make your body his prize, you poke a thousand holes in him, and you scream with him as you do it until he can't scream anymore.

You're holding the fork and standing over him when Simon comes home. His handgun drawn, silent as he makes his way in, his body visibly relaxing when he sees you. He glances at the man at your feet, still alive, gurgling there, choking on his own blood as he tries to breathe through the holes that are scattered across his face and neck. You meet his eyes, and you smile. It's uncanny to do it now, but you are happy to see him.

"There's..." You sniffle, wiping your face with your sleeve. "There's another i-in the attic."

You don’t get to see him smile under the mask. You don’t hear the near purr that leaves him as he climbs the ladder and sees the perfect place you’ve left your mark. He’d frame it if it wouldn’t rot.

You twirl the fork in your hand before going to the sink, dropping it in there, and you close your eyes as you listen to Simon's footsteps as he goes into the attic. It takes him a little less than an hour to get the bodies out the back door, and when he comes back inside, you're already wiping up the floor in the kitchen.

There's nothing to talk about. This is normal. This is just another day. Tomorrow, you might have to do it again, and you'll still cook dinner after sunset and clean the kitchen like you're doing now and sit Simon on the edge of the bathtub and cut his hair.

Simon found chocolate on his trip today, and you make cake with it. You sit in his lap under the candlelight, and you feed each other, bite by bite, and you giggle when Simon gets it all over his lips.

You kiss him to clean it off, and then you reach for another bite of cake. There's some measure of satisfaction you feel when your tongue finds the dent in the fork prongs from when you used it earlier. The chocolate tastes better somehow. Sweeter.

You catch him in the morning, limbs tangled with yours under the sheets, flipping a coin. You smooth a hand over his thick chest, along his pudgy stomach, and you watch with him as the coin lands on the bedside table, falling flat.

It comes up tails.

He decides then that he doesn't have to flip it anymore. It's pointless. He asked for answers, and he got one.

You were not luck. You were fate. And because of it, the coin will always land the same way.

His thoughts are interrupted when you reach for the coin. You twirl it between your fingers, thinking. He doesn't see what you see, but that's okay. Maybe he'll let you play now. Some other game, a better one.

Heads or tails, win or lose, alive or dead. Either way, you are attached. Woven together, thread by thread. There are no vows to say in this new place, but you aren't tested by the same kinds of things. There is no law to keep two people together, no governing power of men that say if left is truly left and that right is really right.

You are drawn together by shared experiences. The same trauma. You won't leave each other not because you said you wouldn't leave, but because there is no one else in the world that has seen the same things you have seen and has done the same things you have done. There is no one else in the world that will forgive you for what you had to do to survive. That will love you not just in spite of it, but because of it, because you did what was necessary, and you are here now to learn a lesson and not suffer its consequences.

It's just a game. If you win, he wins. If you lose, he loses. If you're alive, he's alive.

And if you're dead, then he must be, too.

[pinkfemgurl]

You groaned to yourself after reading that text message. This meant you had to go about your day caged and with her pink satin panties on under your clothes.

But naïve and hopeful enough to finally get unlocked, you sent pictures of yourself every hour on the dot showing off your entire body caged with the her panties on. Sometimes she asked for your face to be in it just to tease you and other times she would ask for different poses.

You check the clock and notice that she should have been home 20 minutes ago. Surely she's just stuck in traffic right?

Three more hours go by and you've been restlessly pacing at the front door waiting for her to get home. She wouldn't reply to any of your texts except either to make you do a new pose or to reply to the picture you sent her every hour.

You swing your head towards the front door the moment you hear it open and see your girlfriend smiling while holding a few bags in her hands. "Sorry honey, I had to stop by the mall to get a few things on the way back home. I hope I didn't make you wait too long?~" She teases you, knowing you were in agony the entire time.

You rush up to her no longer caring about how long you waited because now you can get unlocked and finally be able to cum again.

"Hold on honey, before I unlock you can you do something else for me? I know I've made you do something embarrassing but it just made me so wet at work all day that I couldn't get anything done!" You don't notice the malice in her words as you nod your head to this unknown task.

"Here, I want you to put this on to match your panties, I spent so long to find something that would look perfect on you!"

She hands you a bag as you take out the clothing to put on. You see that its a matching pink bra and a pink long sleeve tutu style dress, all in the same shade of pink as the panties that she made you wear all day.

You can't wear such a thing! You tell her.

But she changes your mind soon after, "I want to be fucked so badly while you wear all this babe! I'll tease you like I did last night, but only for a few minutes," she reassures you with a lie, "and then I'll unlock the cage and let you pound me until you've released your entire load in all of my holes!~ Seeing you in my panties all day made so unimaginably horny this would just make me go over the top! I'm sure that would make up for the entire day and a half of being unable to cum right?~" She gives you a pouty look, knowing she put you through pleasurable torture, you normally cum at least once everyday so not being able to has made your brain fuzzy this entire time.

You finally relent and change into the entire outfit, your girlfriend helping you put on everything the entire time. After hearing that you will be able to fuck her relentlessly you've gotten so horny that you begin leaking into the pink panties again.

She lead you to the bedroom and tied you up on the bed once again. This time it was a little different, instead of just having your arms tied behind your back and your ankles tied together, she went the extra step and began tying every inch of your body in a way that seemed to accentuate the pink outfit and the cage.

"There we go! All done! And I just got to say wow. I can't believe you actually let me do all of this to you!" She says cheerfully while looking at you hungrily.

Click

She snaps a picture of you all tied up, “Who would have thought that it would be this easy to feminize you this far so quickly?! I guess my friends were right when they said that the hardest thing was to get you in a chastity cage but then the rest would be easy!” She laughs to herself. "I mean getting you caged wasn't even that hard either."

She pats your pink caged clitty and no longer needing to hide her true intentions behind an innocent face, she can't stop smiling at your predicament.

"You know babe... I didn't just buy these clothes, I'm sure you saw the dozen other bags I brought home right? Those will be your new clothes! I made sure to only shop in the lingerie sections and sex stores of the countless malls I stopped by after work to give you an even higher quality of clothes compared to my own wardrobe!" She says proudly.

Suddenly she moves close to your ear and in a low but demanding voice whispers, "And if you ever... want a chance of getting out of that cage, you'll have to do everything I say from now on, or I'm going to send these dozens of photos of you in my panties as well as you all tied up like this to your friends and family through your own phone! I'm sure you especially remember the photos with your face in them! Wouldn't that be such a relationship crusher? She teases.

"Now be a good sissy doll and let me see you leak into your pathetic little clitty in this new outfit! I want to record every new milestone you achieve in this new relationship we'll be sharing together honey~"

Hope you enjoyed this super long story made by @pinkfemgurl!

[dollfacefantasy]

ONLY BAD PUPPIES ♡

pairing: logan howlett x fem!reader

summary: when you get needy, you act up. lucky for you, logan understands that means you just need a firm hand to get you back in line.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, masturbation, pillow humping, pet play, light anal play (plug), daddy kink, praise/degradation, brat taming

wc: 1.9k

kinktober slot: day 23 - pet play

Of course, he'd do something like this. You should've known your punishment wouldn't be so simple. He wouldn't just make you touch yourself in front of him while he watched. That wasn't Logan's style as it pertained to taming you when you acted up. When you bratted out like you had earlier, he took it upon himself to truly humble you.

Today had been a busy day for both of you, but you'd been having a rough week. You felt extra needy for him as of late. The exact cause behind those feelings remained a mystery, but regardless of the specifics, you knew that the long list of tasks you performed over the last several hours did not make you happy.

All you wanted to do today was curl up with your boyfriend. You longed to sit in his lap while the tv played in the background, to have his hand stroking over your head and down your back, to feel him brush his thumb over your lips as he told you what a good girl you'd been.

But you didn't go about getting that attention the best way. In hindsight, you could admit that. It probably wasn't the best idea to tease him. Multiple times you rubbed the softest parts of your body against him and looked up at him with puppy eyes while innuendo spilled from your lips. You'd made a point to be huffy when he rebuffed you to finish up his work around the mansion. You tried giving him the cold shoulder to no effect which made you whiny.

And that was the one thing that guaranteed you a punishment. Because only bad puppies whine.

Right as the high-pitched words about him being so mean to you fell upon his ears, he suddenly finished up with whatever he was doing much quicker.

His hand curved around the back of your neck, guiding you up to your bedroom.

"You think you're cute, huh?" he asks under his breath, "Think you can get what you want by stamping your feet and throwing a tantrum?"

"I didn't-" you try to deny. But Logan doesn't take excuses either.

"You did. You think I don't know you? That I can't see the gears turning in your little head?"

The door to your room flings open with the force of his hand. He shuts it behind you firmly and leads you to the bed, sitting you down.

Already, your head hangs in shame, like a guilty pet who knows they're moments away from being scolded. He clicks his tongue at you in disapproval.

"What happened to all that attitude?" he taunts, yanking you by the hair to make you look up again, "C'mon. Let me have it. I was so mean to you today, wasn't I?"

Your lip sticks out into a pout. "I didn't mean it…" you try to justify.

"But you had no problem saying it before. So let me hear it again," he goads.

You whine and try to plead with your eyes to know avail. "I just wanted you to spend time with me," you say, guilt making your words much less convincing. You knew you'd been bothering him and that you could have waited. You just didn't want to.

"Spend time with you? Is that what you call it?" he says with a raised brow, "Be honest. You were getting fussy because you wanted me to 'spend time' bouncing you on my cock."

Heat creeps up from your belly, through your chest, and into your neck and cheeks. You can't answer because you know that he's right.

He chuckles, his hand rubbing down your scalp to massage the nape of your neck. "Mhm. You don't have to hide it, baby," he says. Dropping his hand away from your head, he walks over to the other side of the room to grab a few things you'd be needing soon. "I know how you are. You just can't help it. My puppy can't function if daddy doesn't give her attention for a few hours."

When he invokes his title and your own, the humiliation brewing in your belly feels more severe. You now know exactly what he's grabbing. As soon as he turns around to return to you, your suspicion is proven correct.

His hands hold the exact items you expected. One palm holds your collar while the other cradles the fake ears and tail. Your chest aches at the sight of them. They felt so good most times, but when you'd been bad, they became the ultimate tools to put you in your place.

He can see your reaction, and if the grin on his face is any indication, he loves it.

"What's wrong, pup? Thought you wanted to play," he says.

You don't have any coherent response to that. In no time, he strips you down and buckles the sleek band around your neck. The simple tag that reads 'puppy' dangles at the front. Next, the ears slide into place on your head. They were a nice set, pointing proudly upright. Last comes the tail. You don't get any real lube for it. That's a treat for good girls. All you get is his spit spread over the bulb before it prods at your puckered entrance. It slips in with relative ease, only drawing a tiny whimper from you as you adjust.

He stands back to admire his work. You kneel on the mattress, looking at him with the same guilt from earlier. Anticipation chews up your spine as you wait to hear your sentence. In the past, he'd made you get off on his boot. Another time, he leashed you to the bed while fucking you rough. Once he made you crawl around with a vibrator in. You could only shudder now as you imagine what lies ahead.

But it doesn't seem to be anything so drastic based on his words.

"You wanted to cum so bad all day today, puppy, so I'm gonna let you. You're just gonna have to be a big girl and do it yourself," he says, heading to the chair several feet from the bed.

He sits down and settles in, eyes staying on you the whole time. It's weird. The idea of starting to touch yourself while someone else just sits there. Doing it was one thing, but beginning feels separate to you.

Either way, your hand ventures between your thighs to rub at your folds. But before it can really get into it, he stops you.

Now you find out what the real punishment is.

"Ah ah ah, sweetheart. Puppies don't get to use their hands," he chides, that fucking smirk plastered across his face

You blink at the statement. It replays in your head again. His expression only grows more smug as you gawk at him, heat creeping up from your belly into your chest and neck.

"But… how?" you ask, as if you didn't already know, "What do you want me to do?"

"You're smarter than that. Use that little brain," he teases.

You take your bottom lip between your teeth, air puffing out from your mouth. The solution is right in front of you - or rather, behind you, resting against the headboard at the top of your bed.

Slowly, you turn around and reach for his pillow. You bring it around your body and crawl on top of it. The smoothness of the linen is cool against your cunt. It feels wrong there, like it won't provide enough friction to make you cum.

You give the puppy eyes one more try on him, but they yield no success.

"Get to it, pup. Let's see you take care of yourself for a change," he says.

And that's that. Arguing any further would be pointless and only get you in more trouble.

You lower yourself a bit more, making sure you're flush against the cushion. It puffs up from the pressure of your legs on either side. Then you start. You begin to drag your cunt back and forth, rocking your hips in small strokes.

It doesn't do much at first except make your head foggy with shame. Humping a pillow is a much more intensive process than just using your fingers. All of you moves with each thrust of your pelvis. Your breasts bounce with your momentum. The tail sticking out of your ass shakes and catches on your leg. Even the tag on your collar bobbles around.

"Atta girl," Logan praises from the sidelines, "You're gonna learn how to do this, so you don't have to bother daddy when he's trying to work."

You nod before your head falls back. Despite this method of self-pleasure not feeling that great at first, you were finding out it was a slow burn. The more you rutted on the plush surface between your legs, the greater the intensity of the sparks of ecstasy between your thighs.

He can feel himself starting to stiffen in his jeans. Everything about you was so needy and pathetic right now. It drives him crazy. His hand slides over his lap to palm his semi-hard bulge. From the sharp jerks of your hips to the shaky whimpers coming out of your mouth, everything about you calls to every cell in his body.

Like always, you don't last long. Puppies are never good at being patient. As soon as you find a rhythm you like, it only takes a couple minutes for you to work yourself to the edge. Your eyes go glossy, breaths morphing into harsh pants. Your tongue practically lolls out of your mouth. And then, once you realize how close you are, come the pleas.

"D-daddy," you choke out around other sounds of carnality, "Please, can I cum? Please please please please."

You were a natural when it came to begging. But you were bad, so he doesn't let you off easy tonight. He doesn't answer your calls for him and continues to watch. Being ignored is worse than a no to you, and he knows this.

"Please. I need it- I- I can't wait," you cry, "Pretty please, daddy."

"You think you've earned it?" he asks.

"Uh huh, I did. I earned it," you repeat, slurring your words a little.

He pauses for a moment, making you wait before he gives his permission. "Alright. Go ahead then. It's the only one you're getting tonight."

You try to force the words 'thank you' out, but instead, you can only moan as release crashes into you. Your hips buck wildly on the pillow. Arousal gushes from you and darkens the already existing wet patch. Your chest heaves with all the feelings rushing through you, your back arching before you topple forward.

Even with your face smooshed against the blankets, your hips still twitch in the afterglow. You ride out the little remaining bursts on his pillow. When you finally get yourself to sit up, eyes droopy and mind hazy.

He's in front of you now. His cock is out, his hand stroking it slowly.

"You did good, puppy. You were a very good girl," he praises.

You bask in it for a moment before your eyes fall down to his hard shaft in front of you. He smiles, knowing you could never resist a chance to have his dick.

"That's right. You were good, so now you get a treat. Daddy knows how much his puppy likes to lick."

[suskz]

JOCK!CHAN X NERD!FEM READER SMUT??🙇🏻‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️

pairing: Jock!Chan x Nerd!Fem!Reader

t/w: smut ; breasts play ; clit play ; slight oral kink.

w/c: 1.5k

a/n: NO BC I actually love this idea sm 🙇🏻‍♀️ Hope you like it anon ♡

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

"Come over after practice?"

You adjust your glasses on your nose after sending the text and get up to change into your pajamas.

You don't expect an immediate response, but you're too bored because you have nothing to do and you can't wait for him to text back.

You receive a reply only two hours later.

"Of course, baby, I'll take a quick shower and I'll be with you."

Only half an hour passes before he's standing in front of the door of your dorm room, with dark curly hair still wet and dressed in his usual black pants and t-shirt.

Before you know it, his soft lips are on yours and without breaking apart, you usher him into the room and he closes the door.

"Your hair is still wet." you point out as if he didn't already know.

"I wanted to be with you as soon as possible." You blush slightly at his words.

"How was practice?" you ask him.

"Changbin missed all his shots today." he chuckles.

"He's too short for basketball, I've always said so." you laugh with him.

"What were you doing in the meantime?"

"I was reading a book Seungmin lent me."

That's why shortly after you're sitting on your bed with your boyfriend's head in your lap while you read aloud word after word.

His eyes are closed as he listens to your soothing voice, but at some point you stop and he opens his eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asks you, and when you don't answer, he raises an eyebrow and gently lowers the book with one hand to see your slightly flushed face.

The story is getting a bit... hot, "Uh... I'm not sure if I should continue..." you admit, and he immediately understands what it's about. A smirk forms on his lips as he gets up.

"No, keep reading, I want to know how it continues." He has you sit in the middle of the bed and positions himself behind you, wrapping his arms around your body and keeping his eyes on the book, without reading, "Then?"

"Uh... he- he started kissing her neck," his soft lips immediately press against the skin of your nape, leaving slow, wet kisses, "As his hands roamed all over her body." And so does he, releasing the embrace and moving his hands over your body still covered by the light pajama shirt, running his fingers over your belly and higher, grazing the outline of your breasts.

"You're not wearing a bra?" He whispers against your neck, his breath lightly tickling you.

"I'm more comfy without."

He groans almost imperceptibly, feeling your hardening nipples through the fabric of the shirt.

"Keep reading." he orders, and you do as he says.

You read quickly in your mind, trying to get to the parts where it only describes his actions. "His- his fingers play with her nipples, squeezing them between his fingers and—" you pause as a yelp escapes your lips when you feel his fingers brush against your nipples and then squeeze them in between.

Before you realise it, his strong arms lift you from where you're sitting on the bed. One arm goes under your legs, while the other holds the upper part of your body, picking you up bridal style, and gently lays you with your head on the pillow.

Sometimes you still marvel at how truly strong he is.

He then positions himself between your legs. He lifts your shirt to uncover your breasts and plays with your nipples, pinching and licking them.

"Then?" His voice is low and sensual, causing a throbbing sensation in your lower parts, where his covered cock brushes against you through his pants.

"His- his hand travels down her body—" the movement of his hand sends shivers through your body. He swiftly removes your pajama shorts, and kisses various spots on your leg as he moves up to place his head at your level, locking eyes with you.

One of his hands takes the book from your hands while the other slips under your panties, feeling your wetness with his middle and ring fingers. A gasp escapes your lips before you can control it.

"You're so wet already.” he breathes on your lips, feeling all the slick that has come out of your hole. He gathers some of your juices and uses it to glide his fingers in slow circular motions on your clit, making you sigh. "This pretty pussy's begging for attention, mhh?”

He moans with you as his fingers slide into your hole. He moves them back and forth slowly, curling them upwards to brush against that sensitive spot inside you.

His breath is heavy as yours and his pants feel tight.

His thumb rests on your clit and moves as best he can to stimulate you more.

Your faces are so close. He looks into your eyes and can't resist the urge to kiss you. It's slow and sensual, your tongues meeting and your breaths mingling.

When you break apart, a trail of saliva connects your lips. Your boyfriend removes his fingers from inside you, making you whine at the sudden feeling of emptiness.

Your panties are soon on the floor next to your pants, and your shirt follows shortly after.

"You're so gorgeous." he compliments as he admires your exposed body beneath him.

It's not the first time he's looked at your naked body, but his gaze feels heavy on you.

He notices your embarrassment and leans in on you. "I can't wait to be inside you." he whispers in your ear.

"Then don't." you urge him.

And a few seconds later, his cock is inside your tight heat, making both of you moan in unison.

Soon he begins to move. You need more time to get used to the intrusion, but the desperation of both has taken over.

Despite it not being the first time, the stretch still hurts initially. But it only takes a few slow initial thrusts for you to get used to it.

His pace quickens and becomes more steady, and one of his hands has to cover your mouth to stifle your sounds.

Your moans come out muffled against his palm, and he closes his eyes, biting back a moan, "As much as I love hearing you, we don't want to get caught, now do we?" he whispers. You nod, and he removes his hand from your mouth.

You grit your teeth and throw your head back into the pillows —as much as you can without hurting yourself because of the ponytail— trying to be as quiet as possible, but it's difficult.

Your glasses are askew on your face, and just one wrong move would be enough to cause problems for them. That's why Chan carefully takes them off and places them on the nightstand next to the bed.

It's when his cock hits a certain sensitive spot inside you hard that a cry escapes your lips, and you're too taken by surprise to hold it back.

Two fingers are shoved into your mouth to try to stifle the sounds trying to come out, "You did that on purpose so I would put my fingers in your mouth, huh? You like being fucked like this, don't you?" he whispers in your ear, licking and sucking on the lobe.

Your tongue moves upward, wanting to speak, pressing against his fingers. At your movement, he throws his head back, letting out a pitiful moan; his hips falter for a second, and his cock twitches inside you.

You close your lips around his fingers and nod instead, unable to speak.

"You feel so damn good." His head rests in the crook of your neck. "Fuck." He breathes.

The sound of skins slapping together grows louder in the room. A drop of sweat falls from his forehead, and his hands grip the sheets tightly at the sides of your head.

"Baby, I'm close." He whines, warning you.

Your legs tremble, your limbs feel like jelly.

"Me too." You reply, "Chris, please."

He brings two of his fingers to your clit, moving them quickly, but the movements are not steady, distracted by his impending climax.

"Y/n, I'm going to cum—" he urgently moans, "You have to come now." It's an order, despite the slight desperation in his voice, like you could control your orgasm.

You place your fingers over his that are still on your clit and move them together.

Your breaths are heavy and loud. Anyone passing by your room would understand what you're doing, but in the heat of the moment you don't give it much weight. The only thing on your minds is reaching your highs.

And you do; you come first and he follows right after. His well-defined muscles, built from the gym he attends with his friends, twitch gorgeously as he cums into the condom.

It takes a few minutes for both of you to catch your breath. He pulls out of you and tosses the condom into the trash bin at the end of your bed.

He joins you again in bed and looks at you, perhaps a little embarrassed, "It won’t go down..." he admits, referring to his still somehow hard dick.

You prop your body up on your elbows. Your eyes shift to look at his half-erection and then back to his eyes, with a smirk.

"Round two?"

[reshinless]

hear ye hear ye

imagine kinichs nightsoul burst activating... mid sex... feralkinichferalkinichfer-

its alr if it doesn't abide by ur rules and/or ur too stressed!! pls take care of urself <3

he doesn't know what triggered it- but ssshit he felt even hornier than earlier.

your cheeks flared with red, dusting your cheeks a pretty crimson as you held a hand over your mouth to keep yourself quiet. yet your lover, kinich's hand reached almost chasing it away.

"l- let me hear y- you hhnngh-" he whispered desperately, hunger and list continued throughout his voice. it was clear he became much more.. needy than before.

his hurried thrusts into your sweet cunt had gotten him almost lovesick, waiting for your climax.

excitedly, a plethora of emotions slowly got to his head, pleasure and list dominantly taking over.

he felt almost overwhelmed, and vulnerable.. he shouldn't feel this good—shit he knows you've been together for long.. but embarassment was something he didn't wanna feel in front of you..

so embarassed of the sight of your body, and feeling his cock move on its own, into the soft folds of your entrance.

"ahhn- haah.. s'good, mmmfffuckkk.." stammering, and whimpering small apologies as if it was his fault. his hips thrust at an unsteady beat as if muscle memory kicked in.

"mmf- can i cum inside you? fffuck, p- please?" his whines spoke to you themselves—gosh he needed you like a little puppy in heat. such a different, and much more wild thinking style he couldn't think of anything else when it came to you,

but even the knot in your own stomach got tighter. damn, you were a sight, if only kinich could speak. the robust pounding that came from his cock, and into your entrance felt like a dream. all the other times you both made love were more on the vanilla side if anything.

his back laid atop yours, watching your every expression in the mirror in front as you rolled your eyes back, your head throwing back as well. your eyebrows knitting oh-so-perfectly fuck he could do this forever.

you craved this kind of kinich. one would put you in your place whenever he liked, taking you right then and there as soon as you both got into the car. but you also preferred the kinich who cared deeply about you, pulling chairs out for you at the fancy restaurants you went out to. (marry a man who can do both LOL)

whines and wails drag themselves out of your mouth—kinich hadn't even realized he had one of his hands around your waist as if to keep himself inside you. not to mention he hadn't even slowed down.

"ooh," he briefly grunts, he felt something tug onto his shaft, slowing him down effectively. "shit, y'close, baby?" he curses under his breath as he flips you over, your back no longer stuck to his chest. pinning you against the mirror.

"h—haah- y- yes, please don' stop-" you manage to whimper out with all the incoherent babbles from earlier. his emerald-amber orbs loved to take in the way your cunt sucked him in so good, or how your hips jolted, almost immediately wanting your orgasm, and he can't do anything else but help you.

putting you into a position similar to a mating press, he leans in close to land a french kiss on your lips, moaning and grunting as well.

this was gonna be a long night.