#nothing he says has anything to do with that line of thinking

[webism]

CHAPTER ONE: The Businessman.

kento nanami x fem!reader. nsfw.

your first night at Tsukumo's Angels, and you get put on the phone sex line.

masterlist. read on ao3

You sit on a peeling leather couch that sticks to the back of your thighs in the heat. An old metal-blade fan sits mounted on the wall to your left, but it’s a sorry excuse for one—someone blowing on you would quicker dry the sweat from your brow. It’s not as dingy as Toji’s apartment, which you suppose is an upside: things are looking brighter already. Yay.

The beautiful woman sitting across from you in a small black tank and jeans—in this weather—taps her nails against the surface of her desk. Her blonde hair gates her vision a little, but you can still feel the sharpness of her gaze on your skin. She’s sizing you up. You aren’t sure if you like it. 

“So,” she leans back in her seat. “Your name was..?”

You look up at her, at the way her hands are clasped together. She could look down at the faded resumé in front of her and see your name written as clear as day, but she asks you instead. Maybe to hear it from your own lips.

You tell her your name, and she parrots it back to you to test it on her tongue. She decides that she likes the taste. “I’m Yuki Tsukumo. I own Tsukumo’s Angels, the finest budget escort service in the city.”

You knew that, of course, but you nod as a formality regardless. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Yuki smiles at you—wide and toothy and ever so beautiful. She reaches into her drawer and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it and taking a drag. She blows her smoke to the left and you almost forget just how hot it is in her office. “I hear you’d like a job?”

You’re going to hell. Every late-night-TV preacher and grandmother in the congregation would tell you the same thing. It’s not just what you’re doing—it’s what you’re thinking, what you’re willing to become to make it out of this.

When you were younger, stupider, you’d fear hell like nothing else. Eternal heat, endless suffering, a constant lack of breath, a pit with no end. Now, you’re starting to think it might feel a lot like this city at night: oppressive heat rising from the pavement, the air thick and stifling, and an unshakable sense that something, or someone, is watching you.

Toji used to call the nightlife a cancer. And although he rarely managed the truth, this might have been one of the rare times it slipped past his lips. You tug at the hem of your dress—a little too tight, a little too short. It’s what you had to work with, cobbled together from a half-hearted thrift store run and whatever nerve you could muster.Yuki didn’t say anything about a dress code, and maybe you’re stereotyping yourself here, but you’re out of your element and this dress is short enough to strip the attention from your fidgeting hands. 

The fluorescent lights outside Tsukumo’s Angels buzz faintly as you approach, the words glowing in neon pink that is reflected in the puddles on the concrete. The heavy metal door creaks loudly when you push it open and step in. 7 on the dot. You’ll be here tonight, so you don’t have to worry about finding a place to live until tomorrow. Don’t think about it.

Inside, the air is cooler, though not by much. The same peeling leather couch greets you, as does the same faint smell of smoke and something cheap, floral, and over-applied. Yuki isn’t at the desk this time, but a tall man in a plain white button-up leans against it, his arms crossed. He’s an attractive man, a cigarette hangs from his lips—you’re starting to see a trend in staff here. 

“You the lamb?” He asks, though the way he looks you up and down tells you he already has an answer to that question.

“Lamb?” you ask.

He smiles, moustached lip curling upwards in something mocking and dangerously sultry. “Yeah, you’re the lamb—” he extends a hand for you to shake ���—Shiu.”

Shiu has a rough grip, you note. Not mean or calloused like you’d expect from a man of physical labours, but just… rough. “It’s nice to meet you,” you hum. He laughs. 

He takes another drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing brighter in the dim light, and looks you over once more before flicking the ash into an already overflowing tray on the desk. He blows a plume of smoke toward the ceiling, eyes narrowing slightly as the smoke curls. “You look familiar. I’ve seen you here before?”

You shake your head. “You haven’t.”

Shiu narrows his eyes even further, takes in the way your dress clings tight, how your frame stands in front of him. Your nerves… the tinge of excitement beneath them. “Have we..?”

“No!” your eyes widen, voice a little louder than you intend it to be. “Sorry. I just got out of a relationship so… no, we haven’t…”

“A breakup, huh? That’s always an interesting reason to land somewhere like this.” His voice lowers. He’s toying with you. “What’d he do? Not give you enough attention? Leave you out in the cold?”

You don’t owe him an explanation: you’re here and that’s all that matters, but you find yourself shrugging regardless. “Something like that.”

Shiu smiles, something teasing but not quite mocking. “Right, well if you’re here as a rebound I’d advise you to walk your ass right back out of that door. You’ll get attention here, for sure, but this isn’t the place for… soft comforts.”

“I’m not here for comfort.”

“Good,” says Shiu. “Keep it that way. You’re here to provide a service, an experience, but not without boundaries. Those lines blur when you start wanting cuddles and reassurance after, and when the lines blur you aren’t doing everything in your power to keep yourself safe. These men—and women—pay for sex for a reason. Remember that.”

You know. You know. There’s nothing warm and fuzzy about being an Angel, or a lamb, as he puts it. Still, you want to make the most of the hole you’re in. You narrow your eyes at Shiu and hope he doesn’t chide you for changing the subject when you ask: “and what about you? Are you—”

“For sale?” A door behind Shiu pushes open and in walks Yuki Tsukumo. She’s ditched the jeans from yesterday for a long black dress: one that hugs her figure and flows like liquid down to her ankles. She looks taller, and a whole lot cleaner than the gritty lobby you stand in. “Give me a good offer and I’ll rent him out to you. Shiu is security, he’ll take care of you if and when you need him to.”

Shiu scoffs at Yuki’s joke and takes a step to the left so that she can slot in next to him. Yuki, your boss, looks you up and down. You catch the way her gaze lingers on your dress, though you can’t tell if it’s judgement or approval behind her lashes. She flits her gaze to Shiu. “Are you trying to scare my lamb away, Kong?”

Shiu shrugs. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Yuki rolls her eyes and lands her gaze on you once again. Seeing you so out of your element, she gives you a soft smile to try and ease your nerves. “You’ll be okay here. I showed you my office yesterday, I’ll be in there if you need me at any time, okay? You’re never more than a few steps from security and if you have issues with anyone, co-worker or client, you can come to me.”

Weirdly, that does soothe you. Though your moment to take a breath quickly passes when Yuki straightens up and turns on her heels with only a nod for you to follow. “Come then.”

The door she came from leads down a long hallway with dim fluorescent lights flickering overhead. The walls are bare, the paint chipped in spots, revealing patches of old wallpaper beneath. Yuki doesn’t wait for you to catch up; her heels click with purpose on the tiled floor, echoing through the narrow space. You’re almost at the end of the hall before she speaks again, her tone matter-of-fact. “I’m not going to throw you in the deep end, but you’re not getting a soft landing either. I’ll introduce you to one of my angels, Utahime, and she’s going to walk you through our phone sex services. Sound good?”

Without waiting for a reply, Yuki steps through another door and leads you into a big lounge area. Against the back wall are a bunch of mirrors and vanity stations, makeup and hygiene products littered over each tabletop. A few girls in even fewer clothing sit and do their hair and makeup, chatting amongst themselves and shooting you soft smiles as you and Yuki walk past. 

Your boss steps over to a cream chaise lounge against another wall where a girl around your age lays splayed across the cushioning. She’s wearing a dress like yours, short and black and very ‘sex-sells’, and is tapping away on her phone with such rapt attention she doesn’t notice the two of you approach until Yuki clears her throat. 

“Utahime,” she drawls and gestures to you. “This is our newest lamb. I’d like you to walk her through our phone services tonight. Doable?”

The girl—Utahime—looks you over. She looks a little bored, gorgeous black hair falling over her shoulders and her nails still tapping absentmindedly against her phone screen. Her perfectly arched brow raises, just slightly, before she finally glances at Yuki.

“Doable,” she says with a lazy shrug. “I have the businessman booked in for a call in half an hour… maybe he’d like a session with the new girl?”

You look at Yuki, who looks at you in the same breath. She seems to think about something before ultimately nodding. “If you can get her up to speed before he calls, let her have a go with him.”

“The businessman?” You ask.

Yuki smiles. “He’s a hard worked man, but he’s so unfamiliar with his sex drive that you’d think he was a priest. He might actually benefit from talking to someone new.”

You nod—sex therapy for a businessman couldn’t be that hard. Utahime stands and adjusts her dress before grabbing your wrist and parting from Yuki to pull you across the lounge and into a room off to the side. Utahime’s grip on your wrist is firm but not unkind, and loosens once youre in what she introduces to you as the studio. 

It’s so much nicer than you expected. The room is decently sized and lit up with warm fairy lights. Almost like a recording studio, there are doors to a few booths across the wall, each one decorated to the nines with pillows and blankets and a station for water and personal items. A few low tables hold candles, fake or otherwise, alongside a small black box of… what you imagine might be toys. A plush little sofa sits in each one too, for comfort. 

“Nice, right?” Utahime hums and gently pushes you into one of the booths. “Everything’s designed to make you more comfortable. Clients pick up on that, even over the phone. It’s all sound-proofed in here too, so if you get into it you can be as loud as you want. Seriously, make it yours. You’ll be in here a lot until you start taking in-person clients.”

Utahime sits down on the floor and tosses a pillow in your direction. You startle a little but look at her with a knowing smile at her efforts to start feeling familiar. “So,” you start, sitting down on the plush sofa and toying with the small headset that hangs from the armrest. “The businessman… tell me about him?”

Utahime leans back against the wall and props her chin in her hand. “The businessmaaaan. He’s sweet. He’s only called in once before, spoke to me but got too nervous to do anything more than talk about his day. He was polite—apologised about ten times for wasting my time, which, by the way, he wasn’t. He’s got this earnestness about him that’s kind of rare. But you can tell he’s not used to this kind of thing. Not even close. It’s… cute.”

You look at her, a soft smile crosses her lips. If it wasn’t just work you’d think she had a soft spot for him. “Do you think he’ll mind talking to me instead of you? Changing things up might make him feel even more nervous.”

Utahime shakes her head. “I think he’ll appreciate someone who’s also new to this. You can learn from each other. He’s booked to call in twenty minutes. We could do some practice calls until then? I’ll show you the ropes.”

She puts her hand up to her ear to simulate a phone and you laugh at the gesture. “Sounds good.”

Meanwhile, in his small apartment bedroom, Kento Nanami—the businessman—paces from door to dresser. Back and forth, back and forth. He tightens his tie, and then loosens it just to feel unmade and tighten it again. 

Why did he book a second call? The first was ridiculous, he talked to a nice young lady about officework woes and quarterly reports and hung up after an hour with a call-girl sized dent in his wallet and no sexual relief to show for it. He’s of half a mind to walk over to his mirror and start practicing lines, but he hasn’t yet lost so much of his decorum.

For the next ten minutes, Nanami sits with his fingers drumming over his thighs, dull thuds against his slacks. He’s lost in his mind, is he even aroused? Capable of being aroused? He can’t remember the last time he jerked off—last month?

He’s two minutes late to call by the time he next checks his phone. “Shit,” he mumbles, fumbling to the contact saved under ‘Personal Services.’ Nanami stares at the screen for a moment, his thumb hovering over the call button. He clears his throat, adjusts his posture, and exhales sharply through his nose before pressing ‘CALL’.

The line rings, once… twice… and then— “Tsukumo’s Angels, what’s on your mind?”

His breath hitches. He shouldn’t freeze like this, but the poor man simply cannot help it. “Good evening,” he sounds clinical, and his mind is working faster than his mouth because he’s talking before he can register the words that leave his lips. “You… aren’t who I talked to last week.”

“I’m not,” the voice says, Nanami picks up on an edge of unsurety that traces your words. “You’ve caught me on my first night… you could get to know me, if you’d like to.”

Nanami nods, and then realises you can’t see him. “I’d, uh, I’d like that.”’

There’s a soft hum of acknowledgement from your side of the call, and Kento stops feeling the need to toy with his tie. “Great,” you say, your voice steadying a little. “So… why don’t we start with something easy? Tell me a bit about yourself.”

Nanami hesitates. “There’s not much to tell. I work in finance. My days are… predictable, for the most part.”

“Predictability isn’t always a bad thing,” you reply gently. “But I get the feeling you aren’t fulfilled.”

"You could say that. It’s a practical job. It pays the bills." He pauses, then adds, almost reluctantly, "though I think I’d like a vacation.”

From your spot on the sofa at Tsukumo’s Angels, you lean back and glance at the door. Utahime had stepped out a few minutes ago, giving you space to settle into your first call. “Are you a beach man or a mountain man?”

“Beach,” his reply is immediate. He clears his throat. “There’s something calming about the ocean. The sound of the waves, the salt in the air… it’s grounding.”

You smile at the vivid image his words paint. “I get that. The ocean feels endless in a way that’s comforting, doesn’t it? Like it can hold all your worries for a while.”

“Yes. Exactly that. I’d read, listen to the water, just exist.”

“What does a man like you read?”

“Anything classic. I like things tried-and-true, change is… difficult for me. Hemingway maybe. Or Murakami, if I’m in the right mood.”

“Tasteful,” you reply. “And if I were there on the beach with you, could I distract you from your book, or are you diligent in your focus?”

In his room, Nanami’s mouth goes dry as his cock twitches in his slacks. You haven’t even said anything lewd, but he’s feeling oddly restless nonetheless. “I like to think I’m a focused man,” he starts, shuffling back on his bed to rest against the headboard. He takes his glasses off and rests them on the bedside table. “But under the right circumstances, I could be persuaded to set the book down.”

“Careful, businessman, I could take that as a challenge.”

“I’d hope so.”

He’s blushing at his own words and, in the same breath, reaching downwards with his free hand to palm as his hardening cock. He takes a sharp breath in and prays to every god he’s ever read about that you didn’t hear him.

“You’re saying I’d have to earn your attention?” Your question is honeyed. 

“I suppose,” so is his reply. 

“Good, I like working for my meals.”

Nanami snorts— “what, you’re going to eat me?”

“Yes,” your voice makes his cock jump. He sighs and pulls his slacks down enough to hook it out. “Have you ever wanted something so bad that you’d consume it whole if you could?”

Nanami thinks for a moment about a promotion, and then shakes his head. His mind jumps instead to the hypothetical beach retreat, with a book in one hand and the back of your head in his other as he pushes your mouth down on his cock so deep you’re gagging and drooling all over the place. Ungentlemanly, but enough of a visual to incite his tip to start drooling precum. He smears it over the head with his thumb, and nearly chokes on his words. “I have.”

“That’s how I feel. There’s an intimacy to taking care of someone, especially when they’re stressed like you. I bet your muscles are so tight they’d be hard under my hands. Being the one to relax you, make you feel good? That’d make me feel good.”

Nanami hums. “Usually I’m the one doing the servicing.”

“I don’t doubt that. You should be the one being taken care of. Poor thing, working so hard every day: carrying all that weight on your shoulders. You deserve a break.”

Poor Kento moans at that—a break. God, the things he’d do for a break. He feels almost pathetic pumping his cock to the thought of reprieve from the monotonous 9-5 he lives, but he hasn’t felt this good in a long time. His breathing grows heavier as your words coil around him. “You’re… ha, you’re good at this. It’s your first day?”

“Don’t distract me,” you hum. “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

“You,” he exhales. “Your eyes. Looking up at me. Or your hands on my thighs. How you’d touch me like you know me. Like we know each other. Like we’ve done it a hundred times before and still aren’t sick of each other.”

He doesn’t know why he says that, why his fantasy quickly shifts from a beachside blowjob to the domestic life. To lazy morning sex or late nights in the kitchen that turn from snack runs to you hoisted onto the counter with his head between your thighs. He pictures you, whatever you look like, laughing as he kisses your neck and brings home gifts carved out of his paycheck. He pictures a life shared, and feels awful for it.

“Sorry,” his strokes falter. “Sorry I don’t  know why—”

“I like that thought,” you stop him from spiralling. “Maybe we have. Maybe in another life you’d come home to me every night, waiting for you… ready to make you forget about everything but the way you make me feel.”

His chest heaves as his hand works faster, stroking his cock at a near brutal pace to the images you plant into his mind. You’re in his bed, you’re bent over his desk, you’re lazing on the sofa with him, you’re up against the wall in his shower. “Fuck.”

“I’d know you inside and out,” you continue on, and he swears he can hear a slight hitch to your breath—are you touching yourself? He pictures phone sex operators sitting bored at a desk as they read from a script. But you sound…invested. Heated. “I’d know exactly how to take care of you. You’d come home exhausted and I’d make it all better—god, you’d know all of me too.”

Nanami’s hips jerk up into his hand as he feels his release start to build. It’s already dizzying, after such a long dry spell, and his head tips forward in want.“You’re—ha—too good at this. How the hell… how are you—”

“Shh,” you soothe him. “Don’t think. Just feel, just let me take care of you… even from here. You’re touching yourself, yea? Imagine it’s my hand, stroking you after a long day, love. Or maybe I’m riding you, letting you lay back and feel me around you… you wouldn’t have to do a damn thing.”

His free hand fists the sheets as he imagines the warmth of your body pressing against his, the way your nails might scrape lightly over his skin. He pictures your head tilted back, lips parted in ecstasy as you moan his name over and over again. 

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he rarely curses like this. Still, he’s never indulged in something like this before—never let himself slip into the raw, visceral need he now feels. The restraint he’s so practiced in every aspect of his life is dissolving fast, leaving him chasing the pleasure you’re pouring into him.

“Good,” you hum. “I want you to let go for me, give me everything you have all pent up. I can take it.”

Nanami’s pace turns frantic, hips fucking up into his fist as he strokes himself at a torrid pace. His mind is hazed with fantasies of a simple life, domestic and passionate and before he can stop himself and force a few more minutes of pleasure he’s cumming—hard. A strangled moan, one made for porn, leaves his lips and is met with a sharp intake of breath from your end. Nanami feels self conscious for a moment, drawing his now-sticky hand from his cock as he listens to the phone—were you uncomfortable?

Far from. You hardly realise you have your dress hiked and your hand under the fabric of your panties until you’re timing your orgasm with the businessman on the other end of the call. This is far from protocol, but the last time you’ve been spoken to about making love was when you and Toji first started dating, when he was still sweet on you. Sex since then has been rough and passionate and bruising and great, but never love-making. 

You try and stifle your sounds, not knowing yet if it's appropriate for you to touch yourself alongside your clients. You hadn’t intended on it, that’s for sure. You blink the blur from your vision as you try and regain your composure, sliding your hand out of your panties and holding it up in front of you—your fingers glisten under the soft lights and you scramble for a tissue to clean yourself off. 

The silence on the phone between you isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s charged. “Are you… okay?”

“Yes,” you breathe out a lot quicker than you need to. 

“Good,” he says, and you can almost hear the faint smile in his tone. “I was worried I’d—well, that I’d crossed a line.”

You shake your head, even though he can’t see it, pressing your lips together to stop yourself from blurting out how very far from uncomfortable you’d been. “Not at all. I guess we both… just got caught up in the moment.”

He hums in agreement, his voice still a little strained, and something about the lilt of his voice lays deep inside of you. Maybe this line of work isn’t for you if… after one call with a man you don’t know otherwise, you’re already starting to feel open with him. When he speaks, you can hear the nerves lacing his words. “I’m not unhappy it happened.”

“Me neither. You’re full of surprises, Mr. Businessman.”

“You have a way of coaxing them out of me,” he replies. “If I call again, will I get to speak to you?”

It’s a simple question, yet it still implies something more. There’s no rule against it—not officially—but getting closer than needed with clients has already been explained to you as a messy line. Still, you’ve just fucked your fingers to his voice and the fantasies he spoke of—you aren’t in a habit of keeping straight edges. 

“Maybe,” you reply, leaving the door open just enough. “Ask for the lamb.”

“The lamb?” He laughs, you like the sound. “I’ll remember that.”

“Please do.”

There's a moment of silence, and you can see Utahime’s shadow in the frosted window on the door. A quick glance to the clock tells you that an hour has passed already. As if sensing your coming end, the businessman speaks. “My time is almost up. Take care of yourself.”

You stare at the door. “You too, Mr Businessman.”

“Nanami,” he corrects you gently. “You can call me Nanami.”

The call ends with a soft click, leaving you sitting there and rpelaying his correction in your head. Nanami. 

You’re so lost in thought that you barely register the door creaking open. Utahime steps in, and it’s only when her gaze drops to your lap that the realisation hits—your dress is still slightly rucked up, and your flustered attempt to straighten it comes a moment too late.

“Oh, lamb,” she drawls, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe. “Caught you, didn’t I?”

Your cheeks burn as you stammer, “It’s not—”

“Relax. It happens to everyone eventually.”

You gape at her, mortified. “This doesn’t happen to everyone.”

Utahime grins, her black hair falling over her shoulders as she dips her head down in laughter. It’s not teasing—moreso friendly. She’s trying to laugh with you, not at you. Though still embarrassed, you feel a little less like you want to melt into the couch as she continues. “And you know what that means?”

You tilt your head at her. “What does it mean?”

“That you’ll fit right in here, lamb.”

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[kafka-ish]

Art Donaldson would be the perfect person to lose your virginity to. It doesn’t even matter what the context is. Whether or not you’re each other’s firsts, desperately clinging to one another, still fully clothed, both pressing hot and heavy, sloppy, kisses onto your bodies and lips, not caring about the drool and spit, too enamored with the other one, too caught up in the breathless heat of the moment. You two can barely contain yourselves. And of course you want more but you’re somehow both ashamed, too embarrassed to use your words, to say anything that would indicate going further than this. It’s so fucking stupid considering your current position: your neck has already been bitten to the brim, littered with bite marks and bruises and it’s not like you’re exactly shy about rutting yourself against his thigh as a means for friction. Anything you can get, you’ll take; Art’s the same. You can feel his erection through his jeans and you can tell he’s uncomfortable, poor thing, but all you can think about is how big he is underneath them, what his cock looks like, all pretty and pink and weeping, and his even prettier face, what he’ll look like when you blow him. You wonder what kinds of sounds he’ll make, if he’s even louder than when you guys are just making out. So your hand moves down, out of the curiousness of it all, not forgetting to trace his jaw before your fingers ghost over the bulge that pokes at your stomach. You can feel him smile into your lips that this is happening. Even though he’s quiet, you hear him mumble, what are you doing? He sounds shy even when he’s trying to be playful.

“Nothing…” you breathe back, moving your hand away. His breath hitches and he starts to whine once he feels the pads of your fingers on his abdomen. This is your pathetic way of trying to give him a hint: you scratch your nails uselessly at his v-line, then hips before reaching for the hem of his shirt in a lazy attempt to try and remove it.

“Not fair.” He pouts like a girl but all it does is make you want to kiss him more, which you do. You attach your lips to his with more vigor than before. You kiss his stupid pout until it’s gone and he’s groaning, a fucking mess with his mouth open; he has to pull you apart from him which physically pains him but he has to in order to undress you the same way you did for him. “There we go. That’s better,” he says. Takes a minute to fully take your figure in. Appreciate it. “Much better.” A giggle escapes your lips. You don’t know if you should be embarrassed now that your chest is revealed to him for his eyes’ full discretion. He’s not exactly discreet with these things. But it’s Art Fucking Donaldson and you also can’t help but be flattered.

“Thanks.” You can feel your cheeks heat up, all flushed at the compliment and under the spotlight of his admiration. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you say, immediately regretting it. But it doesn’t matter. He locks your lips with his so he can keep you like this: in his grasp, in order to pin you down, switch positions. Him on top, now. You’ve never seen him this dominant. And he makes his way, through the sloppy, spit-ridden suctioning of his lips, that once held yours, to your neck, collarbone - lingering on the spot he knows that’s sensitive, stomach, and hips. He’s slow and tentative with his movements, wanting to draw out every second of the moment.

He hums against your skin, the vibration of his lips sending you into pure bliss. But he stops before he can go any lower. Looks up at you. Your face is all a mess, all twisted and scrunched up just from the heavy petting and light butterfly kisses - a vision that should’ve been the other way around: you eyeing him, getting a glimpse of what you do to him before wrapping your lips around the head of his dick. But there’s no going back. He asks if you’ll let him eat you out.

You want to say yes but there’s a moan caught in your throat, so you nod instead, vigorously shaking your head.

But it’s not enough for him. He needs vocal validation. He crawls back up; his breath is hot, hitting your temple as he whispers in your ear. Mumbles something like please, I want to taste you. And you give in, managing to muster out a please, too. That’s all he needs to hear. And he’s back where he started. Pulls your panties down with his teeth before lapping up the want and desire and wetness that the fabric prior had been collecting.

You could scream, but he’s already moaning for you. He gets off on the sole feeling of his head between your legs and how you’re dripping, drenched just for him.

“God, fuck me.” The words slip from his lips onto yours and your free ones say,

“Okay.” He wonders if he hears this correctly. He’s rutting into the mattress. His hard-on is about to burst. It doesn’t help when you say his name. His chest and cheeks feel hot and heavy even without clothes.

You pull him up by his neck, kiss the spot where your fingers left prints only to leave a different type of mark with your teeth.

“But I wasn’t finished,” he says sadly. He wants the first time you cum to be on his tongue. His head dips down again but right now you need to feel him. You cup his head in between your hands, tell him, that’s okay. And one trails down to his button of his jeans, relieving him of the tight feeling of his boxers, only to guide him to the tight entrance of your pussy.

“Isn’t this much better anyway?”

[kedreeva]

i have an odd animal husbandry question you seem like you might know the answer to, your comment about stan reminded me - ive been thinking about getting into backyard chickens for a couple years and the thing that makes me hesitate most is hard culling. im confident in my ability to put down an animal thats sick, or infirm, or for food, but for like, temperament? or for poor egg layers? just sticks on me for some reason. i think it would feel like telling them theyre not a good enough chicken for me. how to you process this part of animal husbandry?

This will be a little long, so bear with me.

If you want to keep use animals (animals bred for a purpose, to be used for a purpose instead of kept as a companion), you gotta get good with the idea that they are here for you under the agreement that you will only keep them as long as you need to. When you take them on, you are agreeing that you will release them to whatever their next life holds for them as soon as you do not need (or they've completed) their service. Maybe for some people that's just release to the biological cycle of life, for others maybe there's an eternal rest, for others maybe it's reincarnation. For soft culling that's just moving to the next household. Whatever it is, you are allowing them to pass to it in as humane a way as you can, and ultimately it is the single greatest kindness and gratitude you can show to them, to give them proper care while they are here and allow them to end with little to no pain- something animals outside of our care rarely get. You are thanking them for their service, and letting them go. Worth does not even begin to factor into it.

It is not easy to take a life. It is NEVER easy, regardless of reason, regardless of excuse, regardless of anything. It is ALWAYS heavy, and it will always hurt you. And it should. I am grateful for the weight of taking a life, because it reminds me that it is serious, and reminds me to take the production of life seriously, because at some point any life I cause to come into existence via breeding animals will have to end.

On top of that, some things ARE heath related that do not seem health related. Aggression in domestic animals IS A HEALTH ISSUE. A cock is aggressive because he is stressed about intruders, containment, mating threats, resource guarding, etc. Even with the best of care this can be true, and unfortunately for you both, this means the animal is not suited for domestic keeping. The same goes for animals (in any stripe of use, but particularly private care) that display repetitive stress behaviors from normal, proper captive care (for example, mice that are food chewing are stressed and should be culled from lines where possible because they are not having a good time). You are doing them a disservice to keep them in a stressful situation you cannot change because of their biology. It has nothing to do with not being good enough for you, and everything to do with producing/keeping animals that do not experience that stress in captive care and releasing the rest from duty because they will not be okay in any captive care.

For some issues (poor egg laying, for example) you CAN pet-home culls instead of hard culling. It's harder to do, you will spend time finding people who just want pets that don't intend to breed or don't care, but it can be done. However!! Is the bird just slow at producing eggs because her genetics say that's how fast eggs get produced, or is she producing slowly because there's a health problem that isn't immediately evident? Is her ovary damaged, is her reproductive tract infected, does she have a disorder that prevents her from processing food correctly so she can't get what she needs to produce eggs as fast as normal? Are you setting the bird up for failure (and someone else for heartbreak/money troubles) sending them to a pet home? Is it something which could lead to pain/suffering down the road if she's allowed to continue? Hard to say without spending a lot of money. Are you willing to risk your reputation, if someone takes a surprise illness/genetic issue down the road badly ("Oh THAT breeder sold me a sick/unhealthy bird/bird with bad genetics"), and compromise your ability to find homes for healthy birds down the road?

You are okay with culling a bird for food- there's nothing that says you cannot eat the bad temperaments, the poor egg layers, the one with genetic issues, and so on. And if you can tell early enough that you, personally, can't make use of the meat, there are plenty of folks with other animals that would LOVE feed for those animals. Take yourself down to a local reptile expo, grab the business cards for a few people who have big snake babies (retics, burmese, anaconda, redtail boa, even BP) that say they'd be interested in taking culls, OR look up local bird of prey rescues in your area (or reptile rescues or big cat rescues if there are any) and ask if they'd be interested in culls. There is ALWAYS someone that can use what you can't/won't. You may have to jump through some hoops to donate to some kinds of rescues (health testing for example), but it's an option you can look into if you want to combat the feelings you're talking about.

As a last note- and I am saying this gently and holding your face in both hands: do not anthropomorphize animals in reality.

In YOUR eyes, you are culling them an illness or an injury or for food or for temperament or for poor quality or or or---- it does not matter to the animal why you are culling them. A death is a death, to them. They are here, and then a thing happens, and they are no longer. They do not understand life or death or afterlife or reincarnation or that they are here for a purpose or not a purpose or literally anything you as a human might impose upon them in your head. They live while they are alive, and then they are not. They do not "want to live" in the "avoid death" sense because they do not necessarily understand "death" as a future concept. Instincts that have worked well to preserve life have been encoded in their DNA to one degree or another, they can and do respond to avoid pain, but with little exception (like... maybe elephants and dolphins and a crows and a few others), it's unlikely that they understand the connection between doing those things and being alive/avoiding death.

So while TO YOU it may feel like telling the bird they are not good enough, and TO ME it feels like allowing the bird to move on in peace... the bird doesn't know either way, and honestly the reason hardly matters. It is alive in the present, and one way or another it will not be alive someday, and you are responsible for making sure that the one way under your control is so peaceful or quick that the bird hardly knows it is no longer alive. The bird doesn't care about (and cannot understand) the why of their death, any more than they understand their pain/stress and how it relates medical assistance; it's why animals often freak out, refuse meds, etc. They don't hate the vet or the car or the carrier or anything- they just simply don't understand human stuff and react according to instincts/what they do understand. If you treat an animal like the animal it IS rather than the person you imagine it to be, you will find yourself with a lot better relationship with them during life, and be able to frame their passing a bit better later on.

[esotericbluntbaby]

bf! hamzah x reader headcannons (sfw!)

- i feel like his love language is acts of service. if you guys don't live together already, he definitely acts like you do. need to go run errands? he'll drive you. hungry? he'll cook you something. in fact, he has all the cabinets memorized so he really never has to ask you where anything is. he knows what you like and don't like, and obviously if you have any allergies, so everything he prepares is to your liking. stressed? he'll run you a hot bath, complete with candles and a laptop sitting on a table for you to watch movies. he would even sit down on the floor next to you to keep you company, just in case you wanted to talk. how sweet!

- though he's a busy man with his podcast and youtube channel, you rarely feel like you come second to his career the more the relationship progresses. although you probably reassure him that it's okay if he stays a little late to finish editing or filming, he makes it up to you by bringing you some food or flowers. he genuinely feels bad when he has to be kept away from his girlfriend, so he tries to make up for it afterwards by showing you that he thinks of you even when you're apart.

- he would definitely play games with you when he can. i feel like you'd get a random text from him while he's filming that says something along the lines of him playing a game with martin that he wants to play with you. if it's a horror game, he'd definitely have you sit on his lap. with each jumpscare, he holds you tighter as you both jump or possibly scream. you secretly know that it's just an excuse for him to hold you, but of course, you don't mind.

- whenever he watches you holding or petting red and blue, his heart melts a little. he enjoys when you take care of his cats since they're literally his children. there are times you'll sleep over and wake up to the sight of hamzah, red, and blue all cuddled up next to you.

- speaking of cuddle, hamzah seems like the type to have such a heavy grip on you when you're asleep together. i can imagine you trying to go to work or school and attempting to get up from out of bed but he simply doesn't let you. the grip he has on your waist is tight as SHIT like he's acting like he'd die if he let go. eventually you squeeze out of his arms and get ready, but he soon wakes up and asks you why you left him there.

- you are passenger princess. always. he HATES it when you drive because he doesn't see the point. he's always available to take you places and enjoys being your own personal chauffeur. he understands that you can do things on your own, but he wants you to understand that you don't have to since he's in your life.

- i feel like he's heavy on communication and comprehension. in the beginning of the relationship, he was probably scared to tell you when he got jealous or when you do something that bothers him, but over time he realized he has to talk or else nothing would change. if something's bothering him, he won't hesitate to talk to you about it in a respectful and meaningful way. he isn't accusatory, but talks to you with softness in his voice. you guys are a team. afterwards, he just basks in your existence and spends time with you to reassure you that you guys are alright.

- when you guys are out together, he acts like he hates when you baby him. he tries his best to seem as masculine and strong as possible when you two are in public. in private? the complete opposite. he prefers being little spoon and resting his head on your chest while you stroke his hair. he loves when you kiss him on the forehead and when you call him cute pet names. he looks at you with so much adoration when you treat him like he's your baby.

- when you're upset, he definitely tries to cheer you up by making you laugh. whether it's cracking joke after joke or pretending to fall or finding a funny game to play with you, he will not stop until he sees you smile. he hates seeing a frown on your face and will genuinely do anything to take any sort of discomfort or pain away from you.

--

authors note

i decided to write at 1:24 on a school night because i NEEDED more hamzah fics. ts is kinda ass tho but we thug! take care of urselves lovelies mwah i will write more soon!

[teeskzagain]

"i'm popular with older sisters."

• synopsis: in which the lines have started to blur between your long-term neighbor, sim jake.

• warnings: heavily suggestive content (as in this is one step away from being just straight smut basically), jake calls reader "noona", dry humping, hickies/neck markings, slight dirty talk, desperate!jake

• wc: 1.1k

• a/n: im thinking of expanding this idea into a one shot, but please let me know if i should.

» imagine younger!neighbor jake, who one day barges into your house, ready to hang out with you and your family- he'd been bored with nothing else to do.

» neighbor!jake, who roams around the living room and kitchen in search of someone, before finally working his way upstairs (there was no one around) and sees that your door is open. immediately, he beelines straight down the hall.

» imagine younger!neighbor jake, who wastes no time storming into your room, excited that you're home, only to get told off harshly by you. you're on the phone with a friend, back resting against the bed frame as you wave at him to go away.

» after scolding him and returning back to your conversation, imagine younger!neighbor jake's reaction. his face would contort unpleasantly, nose turning upright at your dismissive attitude. he'd stand at your door frame, mumbling out, "noona." over and over again as a means of regaining your attention. though, you would just ignore him.

» imagine neighbor!jake, who doesn't appreciate how you're acting towards him, stalking up to the end of the bed. his whines of, "get off the phone." combined with, "just talk to me instead." begin to irritate you, with you purposely keeping your gaze away from him.

» younger!neighbor jake didn't like being ignored. which is why seconds later, he's crawling onto your bed and swiftly engulfing you with his body. after the many years spent together, he already knows what gets you the most distracted.

» imagine neighbor!jake who, as your busy yelling and fighting him off of you, begins to bury his head deep into your neck. he produces little groans into the crevice, saying such verbage as, "noona, i miss you so much. please, just missed you so much."

» imagine neighbor!jake smothering you with his weight when he starts to press his full lips against your skin, trying anything to get your attention. you fumble your phone in an attempt to hang up the call because absolutely no way would you let anyone know about this. no. no one could ever know. “we are not doing this right now.” you hiss softly once you know your friend is unable to hear the scuffle going on.

» "why not?" neighbor!jake rumbles into your skin, "don't you love it when i-" without any hesitation, he starts to nip at your skin and instinctively a sharp inhale has you levitating. his arms wrap tighter around your torso as you now begin to feel trapped underneath him. wrestling you deeper into the mattress, he can't help the light rut his pelvis does into your side. the need to just have you becoming ever so consuming.

» imagine younger!neighbor jake, who in actuality, came over to your house because he's been missing you a little more than a neighbor truly should. while, yes, he was missing the comforting presence you would always bring to him. your caring tendencies in an almost sisterly way.

» imagine neighbor!jake, who's true reason for visiting, was because he began to miss you. he started to miss your thick, velvet walls that always feel so fucking good around his strained cock. the tiny whimpers you would produce when you were overstimulated. how much cum he would squirt out because only you could ever get him so aroused. he's longing for it, and now he needs this asap.

» "jake...." murmuring, you feel your head roll to the side as neighbor!jake uses a hand to push it out the way, needing an even greater space to kiss and mark you up, "we need...to stop. we need to stop this now. my parents are gonna be home-ah...soon."

» younger!neighbor jake is too much in a daze to even register your concern. fuck, how could he pay attention? despite your protests, you're already whining softly into the air, the little huffs of your chest has both you and him heaving up and down. this is how it always starts. it starts with your refusal to engage, your mature attitude that battles his easy going one, before eventually you begin to falter.

» imagine neighbor!jake slowly pulling his head back to gage you from above, and then recieving all the confirmation he needs. his noona. so fucking pretty, the way you're eyes are shut tightly because you always get aroused so fast. you want this, no matter how many times you try to deny. the evidence is all of your face. god, he feels his cock buzzing because of that pretty face. you just make him so damn horny. after admiring you, he lowers himself once more and goes back to producing fat, lazy hickies all over your neck and grinding his tip against you.

» imagine younger!neighbor jake, who's cock is pulsing so hard that he's seconds away from cumming on himself. raking his dick into your body, the sloppy kisses, all of it acts as the perfect foreplay for him. but what really does it for him, is when your legs involuntarily widens and closes to cage him in, solidifying the unspoken agreement between you two.

» a tiny smile starts to spread across neighbor!jake's face as he switches between splotching you red and huskily speaking, "you ready now?" he lands a larger kiss on the middle of your throat, "i'll be quick, noona." his throaty voice vibrates just perfectly into your ears. "just how you like it."

» imagine younger!neighbor jake, who's moments from stuffing you raw, muttering sweet nothings into your skin. he grabs a handful of your pants fabric and quietly pulls it down to reveal your commando state. when he brushes his fingertips against your bare clit, you have to bite your lip to stop a shuddered moan from leaving. his hazy eyes look up to your contorted face, "kinda wish you wouldn't hold back. i wanna hear your pretty moans. i wanna hear your soft pleads. let me hear you-"

» as you go to let out a throaty mewl, imagine younger!neighbor jake's dismay when he suddenly hears the front door opening then closing and indistinct talking emerges from downstairs. with an, ‘oh fuck’, the two of you jump and scramble apart, the sounds of footsteps echoing around. someone starts to make their way upstairs as you both go from a state of startling shock to sheer panic.

"Y/N! We're home!"

*

*

*

*

[dxrlingluv]

Player || Lee Myung-gi

Series : Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4 : Red Light, Green Light

Description : In which you desperately try to outrun a terrifying robotic doll in the deadly children's game of Red Light, Green Light, where one wrong move means certain death.

Lee Myung-gi x Fem!Reader

The possibility of only 1 player winning this game is high, but with the option to call off the game at anytime, there's a higher chance that you and Myung-gi would be able to get home safely with minor injuries and money that you both can combine to call off his debt.

"But then... If the majority of the players voted to continue the game..." You scrunched your brows as you continue to listen to the guards.

"Excuse me! Move it!" You looked to see an old lady moving her way to the front frantically as she approached the guy that has glasses and curly hair.

"Stupid idiot!" She slapped the guy's arm.

"Ma?!"

You gasp, his mother? What could have happened that made them both go here? His mom looks too nice to even have debts.

"Mom, what are you doing here?!" He yelled, checking his to see if she was hurt or anything.

"That's what I was gonna ask you!" She yelled back, clearly angry at her son. Her son looked around in embarrassment.

"What on earth do you think you're doing here?!"

Watching their argument made you miss your own mom. She often yell at you for doing things for her. She only wants you to study hard, but you can't help but feel bad that she's doing everything around the house. You felt guilty that you were just eating, sleeping, showering, and studying all day. You wanted nothing but to take her pain away from her but just like you, she's also stubborn as hell.

You smiled softly from the memories as you chose not to stick up your nose on the mother and son business. But what caught your attention was the reason she was here.

"What's gotten into you, old woman?!" Player 007 yelled.

"Oh, you wanna know why I'm here, huh?!" She yelled back. "To pay off my ungrateful son's debt!"

You felt bad, as you are experiencing something like she is experiencing right now.

Looking around, you tried to find Myung-gi again, but to no avail, he seems to disappear from where he was before.

"If you wish to participate in the games, then please sign the player consent form." The square guard announced.

Player 196 grabbed your arm and dragged you off to form a line. She pulled you in front of her then hugged your shoulders.

"We're gonna make it out from this games, alright?" She enthusiastically said. You nodded in response with a smile.

After signing the consent forms, 196 grabbed your arm again and pulled you to the side. (Please pretend that Myung-gi isn't behind her, just pretend that Myung-gi is at least 3-4 ft away from ya'll lol)

"196, your name is Kang Mi-na, right?" You asked with a raised brow.

She looked back at you with a cute smile, "Yeah? You like it?" She asked playfully.

You laughed and nodded. "Yeah! Do you mind if I call you Mi-na?"

You both sat down on a random bed side by side. She then shook her head, "No, I don't mind. In fact since you're so cute, I'll even let you call me nicknames."

You stared at her with widened eyes, "Oh! Thank you for saying that. I think you look beautiful too." You complimented, your cheeks turning slightly blushed at her compliment.

She looked at you with narrowed eyes and a pout, "I like you. We're friends now." She said as she side hugged you. "What about you?"

"Hm?"

"Your name, what's your name?"

"... L/n Y/n," you mumbled, holding her arm, "but you can call me anything you want."

Sho looked at you with a genuine smile, "Hey, once we get out here, let's drink some soju and go at theme parks, okay?"

"Okay!"

After Myung-gi signed the form, he moved to the side but was immediately greeted by Thanos and another guy with the number 124. They claimed that they got scammed by MG Coin and thanks to Myung-gi, they bonded together.

"Didn't those fuckers who made that shit-coing flew to the philippines with all the cash they took?" Player 124 scoffed, "What are you doing here? They ditch you too?"

"So what exactly do you want-?"

Before Myung-gi could finish, Thanos harshly grabbed a hold pf his nape with fury on his face.

You turned your head after hearing all the gasps from. Curious, you turned to look at what's happening but couldn't see anything from the people barricading the view.

Cautiously, you made your way behind the lines in order to see what was happening. You have a nagging feeling on your chest that something was wrong and you wont risk that feeling.

Player 196 followed you closely behind, constantly asking you where you were going and what you're doing.

"You'd be a fucking idiot!"

Was all you heard at the moment. That voice sounded familiar so you fastened your movements. "Excuse me." You mumbled to anyone who's at your front.

You finally made it to the corner and you saw purple hair and... unexpectedly, your boyfriend.

As Thanos was about to throw a punch at him, player 124 stopped him. "Who, chill, bro! Time out, time out, time out!"

Then without wasting a second, you approached them but before you could, player 196 grabbed you. She shook her head, silently telling you not to intervene.

Thanos let go of Myung-gi and after a second, he turned back and walked away. Leaving Myung-gi alone.

As he neared you and Player 196, he winked. Player 196 did the bother to bat an eye.

Myung-gi scoffed, but his face softened when he finally saw you looking at him.

196 let go of your arm. As if it was an instinct, you ran up to myung-gi, grabbing his face and checking if he had any injuries.

"Myung-gi! Are you alright? Shit! I was so worried." You frantically exclaimed, constantly grabbing his face, shoulder and arms.

"Y/n.."

You ignored him as you just continued ti ask him and check him.

"Y/n!"

That made you stop.

You looked at him. "Myung-gi..."

He looked at you sternly, "What are you doing here?" He grabbed your arms gently, "You're not supposed to be here!" He whispered yelled.

"I-" You couldn't form any words.

Just then, the square guard spoke again. "If all players are done signing the consent form, we will move on to the first game."

After taking a quick picture for identity, everyone climbed up the stairs to move on to the first game.

Once everyone was there, you were greeted with huge green doors, the doors opened and everyone immediately went in only to see a large empty area, and a huge doll with two guards beside it.

Myung-gi gripped your hands tight. "Don't do far from me, okay?" He told you with worry laced on his voice.

You nodded, "Okay, I promise, I won't."

The doors behind loudly closed, and soon followed an automated voice of a woman. "Welcome to the first game. You will be playing Red Light, Green Light."

"Seriously? A kid's game?" Myung-gi muttered, his hand still on yours.

"I wouldn't call it as just "a kid's game". There's something fishy going on here." You muttered back at him as you continue listening to the automated voice.

"Everyone!" A guy suddenly yelled.

You looked at the front, 'What is it now?'

"Everybody, you need to pay attention! Listen up!" He yelled loudly. Everyone quieted down.

"I'm gonna tell you something and you gotta listen close!" He continued, "This isn't just a game, it's more than that. If you move after "red light," you're going to be shot!!!"

Everyone chuckled at that, finding it funny that someone can joke about that at this hour.

However, you and Myung-gi looked at each other. It sounds ridiculous, but he looks too sure about it.

'What if...'

"I swear, if they catch you moving, you're gonna be killed! They're gonna shoot you because there's guns in the walls!"

"There's no way that it's true." Myung-gi mumbled.

"He reminds me of when my dad was drunk and he thought he saw aliens above the sky," you chuckled, letting go of Myung-gi to hug yourself as it was starting to get colder.

'When is this game gonna start. Seriously?'

"What is this bullshit?"

"I think he's just trying to freak people out! Then he wouldn't have to share the money. He could win all of it."

"Hey, you bastard, you're not fooling us!"

The doll moved and that made everyone stop their murmuring.

Then it shouted, "Green light!"

Everyone immediately ran.

"Red light!"

Player 456 moved his hand to motion for us to stop.

Myung-gi spoke not far from behind me, "y/n, be careful"

You hummed, not wanting to move in fear that whatever this guy was saying is true.

No body moved, as 456 instructed us clearly.

"Green light!"

Moving a few steps to the front, Myung-gi took hold of your hand.

"Red light!"

"FREEZE!"

You flinched, shocked from the louder shout of the guy. At this point, he'll be the one to kill you.

You held still, the bad feeling on your gut still evident.

"Green light!"

Few steps to the front.

"Red light!"

Player 456 shouted, "Hold Still!"

Not even a few seconds passed, "green light!"

"Red light!"

"Green light!"

"Red light!"

The exchange between player 456 and the doll has becoming ridiculous now, but no one has been eliminated yet, so you were thankful for him.

A few more green light, red light and no one was still eliminated.

Until, "Red light!"

BANG!

Everyone flinched, you moved your eyes in search for whoever got eliminated.

You gasped, tears threatening to run out of your eyes.

Player 196!

You continued to stare as blood pooled around her head, having been clearly shot in the head.

Beside her was Thanos who stared in shock but refuses to move a muscle, in fear of being next.

Suddenly, people started panicking after seeing the dead body, they tried their best to run away from the field and onto the green doors, but to no avail, they all got shot.

Myung-gi held your hand tighter.

Continuing the game, player 456 instructed everyone to move behind someone bigger as the doll wont be able to see if you got covered even if you move.

Myung-gi moved you behind him as he himself moved behind someone.

"Green light!"

"Red light!"

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

"Green light!"

"Red light"

"Green light!"

"Red light!"

You groaned, feeling dizzy all of a sudden.

"Y/n! Are you okay? Just- just hold on a little longer..." Myung-gi spoke as you clutched his jacket.

"Green light!"

"Red light"

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

"Green light!"

"Red light"

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

As if time slowed, you jumped to the pink line, signifying that you now passed the game.

You clutched your stomach as Myung-gi immediately went to comfort you. You couldn't help but cry as everything is going down hill now.

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

"It's okay, I'm here. I'm here."

Myung-gi said, as he continue to pat your head.

"Don't worry, I won't leave you. It's okay."

BANG!

[ofbatsandballads]

Hi Rae. Who gave you permission to snap my heart in two at midnight? No, really, this has me going insane so have my ranting under the cut:

He's not normal. Not someone you should be happy to see. […] But you are– everytime he drags his weary body to your window– you're happy. You smile, welcome him inside like he has a place there.

The way I’m already screaming “because he does have a place there!” before we’ve even hit the end. Something about Jason not being able to accept love not because other people are liars or insincere but because he can’t comprehend why anyone would love him is so heartbreakingly in character.

It's not like he can offer the same back or return the favors you so freely give. He wants to– at least he thinks he does– he just gets stuck when it comes to what to do with you.

Reciprocity—tit for tat, an eye for an eye—being so ingrained in his perception of the world and of himself that he can’t realize he doesn’t have to return the favor, that he can just accept the kindness for what it is, makes me want to cry. Thanks.

shocked to stillness each time your hands don't bring a wave of hurt to his skin.

Stray dog coded Jason who doesn’t know what to do when touch doesn’t hurt is so dear to me. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: your characterization of him is golden.

He adores you. He won't admit it to anyone, not even to himself most of the time. But he does.

Jason who loves so deeply, so completely that it could destroy him. Jason who has spent both of his lives just trying to stay above water, running from anything that could harm him. Jason who was killed because he loved so fiercely. Just…him finding himself loving someone that much again and sort of bluescreening on what that means for him.

There is no happy ending when all he can offer is fleeting comforts and one word answers. He doesn't deserve your patience, your endless willingness to understand and wait for him to figure himself out.

The absolute overpowering emotion of needing to drill it into his head with love and kindness and care that there is a happy ending with all of that actually. And that he does deserve good things and patience and love. I just know loving him would be so frustrating sometimes but that each time it would just make you want to stick around more.

If he knew how, he'd ask if you were really okay with who he is, what he does, how he acts. Your eagerness to make him feel like he does fit into any place in your life makes him wonder if it's all just a mask. If you're just waiting for him to be at his worst to reveal that it's all a lie– that he's truly and devastatingly unwanted.

So this whole paragraph took me out but that last line destroyed me. The phrase “truly and devastatingly unwanted” is going to live rent free in my head for a while now.

it's just that the store was out and he was bleeding too heavily through his suit to stop at anywhere else.

I recently read a piece of Jason meta that said that he would accept any and all harm or mistreatment just to get the companionship and love he craves and this really speaks to that because why are you picking up ice cream when you’re bleeding out??? Oh, it’s because he thinks he’s unworthy of basic human decency if he has nothing to offer.

You're just too good. Everything Jason isn't. He feels like he's dragging you down with him when you offer to keep emergency weapons for him hidden in your apartment. He's definitely staining everything you are with his greedy hands when you start keeping extra first aid kits in your closet.

Clawing at the walls while screaming “they do it because they love you!!!” I love reading this from the perspective of his partner because it’s just sitting here listening to the internal monologue of man that is confidently incorrect. Your description of him being an unreliable narrator is spot on.

And when you clean out a drawer in your dresser for him to keep clothes in, when you stock your cupboards with all his preferred foods, fill your shelves with his favorite books, and play the songs he loves to hum along to, he selfishly lets himself believe you might want this forever too. You do.

One of my favorite things about how you write Jason is that he always, without fail, breaks at the end just a little bit. The sustained love and care and kindness always manages to get the tiniest foothold in his soul, like a flower growing through a crack in concrete. Even when he thinks he’s being selfish or delusional or blindly hopeful. It’s so true to what loving someone like him would be like—slow and gradual and hard fought, but resolute and unflinching.

So yeah, in short I love this with my entire being and I will be sending you the bill for my therapy (please never stop writing).

If He Could

Jason is an unreliable narrator ~1k words

Jason's no good for you. He's too brash, too rough, too easily pulled away to defend the streets of Gotham. He's a liability in your life, a dark stain in the otherwise perfect fabric of your reality. He's all the worst of shadowed alleys and tortured corners of decaying apartments.

He's quick to pull a weapon, even quicker to throw a punch. He doesn't quite remember how to make his smile look natural, how to stand without his shoulders tense and ready to dodge whatever comes his way. He's not normal. Not someone you should be happy to see.

But you are– everytime he drags his weary body to your window– you're happy. You smile, welcome him inside like he has a place there.

And he doesn't know what to do with it. Doesn't know how he should react to your bright eyes and soft touches and fond words. It's not like he can offer the same back or return the favors you so freely give. He wants to– at least he thinks he does– he just gets stuck when it comes to what to do with you.

He knows he shouldn't tense up at your reassuring pats to his arms– but he freezes, shocked to stillness each time your hands don't bring a wave of hurt to his skin. He knows he shouldn't be so quiet when you ramble about your day, but he can't find the words to describe just how much he does care about every mundane fact you share with him.

And oh, does he care. Too much even. Cares in a way that scares him off the grid for days at a time, only to sheepishly find his way back to your fire escape with a tub of melting ice cream or cooling coffee and a half-baked excuse on his tongue.

He adores you. He won't admit it to anyone, not even to himself most of the time. But he does. It's you who he wants to come back to when his feet ache and his eyes strain to make out words and figures. It's you who makes him feel not so heavy when the sun starts to rise over the tired, crumbling buildings he knows better than his own skin.

He has a portion of his heart and mind set aside just for you. But Jason can't tell you that. The more he relents to you (because he can never say no when you ask), the more he threatens to ruin you. He's a slow rot, a plague that sets into the very marrow of your bones.

But you don't see it. He doesn't want you to, but you should. You should understand that by carving out a place for him besides you, you are going to destroy yourself from the inside out.

There is no happy ending when all he can offer is fleeting comforts and one word answers. He doesn't deserve your patience, your endless willingness to understand and wait for him to figure himself out.

It's not fair to you– to either of you. But he always ends up back in your living room, always ends up with his hands curling into fists as you graciously take whatever food or trinket he's brought to try and win your continued affections.

He secretly believes he must be the most selfish person in the world when he leans into your warm hugs, when he passes out on your couch after your semi-regular movie nights. (He tries not to linger on what it means when he sleeps better on your old, worn furniture than his own bed)

It's cruel of him to lead you on like this. It's cruel of him to set himself up for heartbreak. You'll learn that he's not worth your time soon enough. But, for now, he can't help but bask in the way you offer to stitch the tears in his clothes, the way you so excitedly ask him to try every new recipe you've made.

If he knew how, he'd ask if you were really okay with who he is, what he does, how he acts. Your eagerness to make him feel like he does fit into any place in your life makes him wonder if it's all just a mask. If you're just waiting for him to be at his worst to reveal that it's all a lie– that he's truly and devastatingly unwanted.

Those words still haven't come from either of your lips– don't come– even when he messes up and brings you the wrong flavor of ice cream. (It's not that he forget what you liked– it's just that the store was out and he was bleeding too heavily through his suit to stop at anywhere else)

The words don't even come when he doesn't tell you why he disappeared for over a month this time. (Someone got too close to his identity– to you. He had to track down everyone involved before he could even think of resting or seeing you again)

Jason wants to have the right words, wants to do the right thing, and make you laugh and watch your eyes light up because of something he did. He wants to hug you back in a way that makes you feel safe and needed and wanted above all else. He wants to. He just doesn't deserve to give you that, even if he knew how to do it.

You're just too good. Everything Jason isn't. He feels like he's dragging you down with him when you offer to keep emergency weapons for him hidden in your apartment. He's definitely staining everything you are with his greedy hands when you start keeping extra first aid kits in your closet.

But for the life of him, he can't stop. Can't stop his familiar trek to your windowsill. Can't stop craving the hugs you offer, the conversations you share.

He wants this forever. He wants to keep this– you– whatever this is, in between his fingers and never let go. (He could if you'd just let him) You would.

And when you clean out a drawer in your dresser for him to keep clothes in, when you stock your cupboards with all his preferred foods, fill your shelves with his favorite books, and play the songs he loves to hum along to, he selfishly lets himself believe you might want this forever too. You do.

[wisteriagoesvroom]

a couple of people have asked for a carlos POV of in theory and actually. thinking about it. it's pretty funny. imagine being carlos, carlos who gets everything in his life he's ever wanted carlos, carlos who feels he has nothing further to prove to anyone carlos (this is a lie btw), carlos who gets saddled with OSCAR, who barely tolerates him, as an executive assistant.

oscar who shows few emotions. doesn't give a f about seniority. thinks carlos is incredibly arrogant (he's not wrong here but, like recognises like.) oscar who knows carlos can't even do his own expenses without having an emotional support espresso or spending half an hour whining to oscar even though he did it himself years before oscar even joined, etc etc.

and carlos has to. endure it. while oscar blatantly ignores his charm offensive and his attempts at being jovial and his bad bilingual puns and carlos, because everyone usually loves carlos, and he-- he just. he cannot for the life of him figure out why he's also so compelled by this australian dude. doesn't know what to do with himself. just keeps interactions to a transactional minimum and puts up a front like he is soooo curt and uncaring about everything but. the warmth seeps through anyway, a vine that's destined to grow despite his attempts not to let it.

so what, if carlos lies awake in bed with racing thoughts too late at night thinking of revenues and EBITDA and platinum tiers and air miles. so what, if this sometimes bleeds into thoughts regarding his work-life balance or lack thereof, and therefore, oscar's stupid little hair swoop, his frown. his insane excel sheet formulas that even carlos, MBA graduate, takes a second to understand. oscar and his indifference and his scary efficiency and the way he talks a bit too fast when he's tipsy and his ice cold hands.

(at the christmas party with yuki. carlos pretends not to listen but hears every word. why would oscar tell yuki all that, and not him, when he’s tried to ask about oscar's interests before? anyway.)

and then. the christmas gifts happen and carlos thinks he's crossed a line. was the terrarium too far, he wonders. normally people love it when carlos is thoughtful like that. his exes even said so. but no! oscar takes the terrarium, the one carlos made a specific detour for on an airline that he couldn't even get miles on!

and oscar just. stares, and stares at the terrarium. then he gives carlos this...look. and it gets embarrassingly intimate and carlos "really does have to go take his call" even though the client did say it is fine to switch to email because, christmas. yeah. and then he's thinking about it the whole way back to madrid too.

then oscar QUITS on CHRISTMAS DAY (rude) for no explainable reason and carlos is like oh my god is it really ME. how can anybody not like ME ? reddit, AITA???

so carlos mulls on it. carlos wants to atone. just maybe. set things straight. let oscar know that. actually. all feelings aside, he was really an excellent EA and carlos wishes him the best with everything. he maybe sends a text to thank him with those very words. but christmas eve comes and goes, and so does christmas day, and there's no reply at all from oscar. what the hell, carlos thinks. no i can't have him leave and there's so much in my email that i – i didn't even say. he just. needs to let oscar know that he appreciated it.

(he doesn't know what "it" is per se. just that. he feels strongly. so he needs to do something about that.)

soooooo then carlos, who values for family more than anything in the world, spends christmas day just only half paying attention to things going on and thinking jesus, what did i do. and his sisters are like, hermano, please just. get it together and sort this out if you care so much. we'll be fine with mamá and papá and piñón okay there's roast ham for days. and his ma is like: "if you are visiting someone at least pack some dessert. where are your manners". and carlos is like "what". and his mum is like: "did i not teach you anything at all. are you or are you not a sainz". so carlos just takes his tiramisu and his sister's teasing and. he goes. might even try to pull a favour from a client to use a private jet and get there in time.

he flies back to the city in a fit of possible stupidity to try and clarify... his feelings for oscar his professional record and integrity.

and then. oscar is. actually HAPPY he is there.

(carlos knows he's happy, not because oscar's face changes. but because oscar puts his actual plant shears down in order to talk to him. which in oscar-world is a very big deal really. before, oscar always used to look like he wanted to stab carlos with a pen when carlos spoke to him. and if carlos were truly honest with himself, and hindsight being 50/50, well– he'd say that actually, the times oscar looked like he wanted to stab him were actually some of the moments he felt most alive.)

and the rest is... well.

you know how it ends.

[atriza]

Bound by Lies

Yandere Park Sunghoon x Reader

Summary: a fake relationship between you and Park Sunghoon spirals into something much darker. What started as a harmless lie to fend off prying friends quickly turns into a suffocating trap as Sunghoon's feelings blur the lines between reality and obsession.

Word Count: 2,000 words

Trigger Warning: This story contains themes of obsession, emotional manipulation, possessiveness, and implied non-consensual behavior.

It all began with a harmless lie.

Your friends had been teasing you relentlessly about being single, so in a moment of panic, you blurted out that you were dating Park Sunghoon. It wasn’t entirely out of left field—he was the perfect candidate. With his angelic face, effortless charm, and aloof demeanor, no one would suspect a thing.

But what surprised you the most was how willingly Sunghoon played along.

“It’ll be fun,” he had said, his lips curling into a smile that made your heart skip a beat.

And it was fun at first. Sunghoon would wrap his arm around your shoulders when your friends were watching, flash you teasing winks, and even post carefully staged photos on social media. You never thought much of it—it was all pretend.

Or so you thought.

---

Now, sitting across from him in a quiet café, you could feel the weight of his gaze. Sunghoon stirred his coffee absentmindedly, his dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your skin crawl.

“You don’t seem happy,” he said, his tone calm but carrying an edge you couldn’t ignore.

“I’m fine,” you lied, forcing a smile. “It’s just… this has gone on longer than I expected.”

Sunghoon set his spoon down, the clink of metal against ceramic making you flinch.

“Why does it have to end?” he asked, leaning forward. His voice was soft, but the look in his eyes was anything but.

You blinked, startled. “Because it’s not real, Sunghoon. We were just pretending, remember?”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. He simply studied you, his gaze unwavering. Then, he smiled—a small, almost pitying smile.

“Pretending,” he echoed. “Is that what you think this is?”

Your heart sank. “That’s what we agreed on.”

He tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “Y/N, do you really believe that? After everything we’ve done—everything I’ve done for you?”

You froze, unsure how to respond. “Sunghoon, I—”

“No,” he interrupted, his voice firm but not loud. “Let me ask you something. Do you feel nothing when I hold your hand? When I look at you like this?”

He reached across the table, his hand brushing against yours. His touch was warm, but it sent a chill down your spine.

“Sunghoon,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “This isn’t real.”

His eyes darkened, his hand tightening over yours. “Don’t lie to me, Y/N.”

You tried to pull away, but his grip was unyielding. Panic bubbled in your chest as his calm facade began to crack, revealing something far more sinister underneath.

“I’ve been by your side this whole time,” he said, his voice low and trembling with suppressed emotion. “I’ve protected you. Made you happy. And now you’re telling me it meant nothing?”

“I never said that,” you stammered, desperate to diffuse the situation.

“Then what are you saying?” he pressed, his tone sharp.

You looked away, your heart pounding. “I’m saying this was supposed to be temporary. We can’t keep pretending.”

He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Pretending? Do you really think that’s all this is to me? A game?”

Your silence only seemed to fuel his frustration. He stood abruptly, pulling you to your feet with him.

“Sunghoon, let go,” you said, panic rising in your voice.

He didn’t listen. Instead, he leaned in, his face inches from yours. “Do you think anyone else will care about you the way I do? Do you think anyone else will protect you?”

“This isn’t protection,” you snapped, tears pooling in your eyes. “This is control.”

His jaw tightened, but his grip didn’t falter. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his voice soft but laced with danger. “I’m doing this for us, Y/N. You’re just scared. But that’s okay—I’ll help you see.”

“See what?” you asked, your voice breaking.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That we’re meant to be together.”

---

Sunghoon led you out of the café, his hand firmly gripping yours. You looked around frantically, hoping someone would notice, would intervene. But the streets were empty, the night swallowing your cries for help.

“Where are we going?” you demanded, your voice shaking.

“Somewhere safe,” he replied simply.

“Safe for who?” you snapped.

“For you,” he said, his tone final. “I can’t trust anyone else to look after you. Not your friends, not your family. They don’t understand you like I do.”

Your breath hitched. “Sunghoon, you’re not thinking clearly. Please, just let me go.”

He stopped abruptly, turning to face you. His eyes burned with an intensity that made your knees weak.

“I’m thinking perfectly clearly,” he said, his voice cold. “You’re the one who doesn’t see it yet. But you will. I’ll make sure of it.”

Before you could respond, he pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly. His embrace was suffocating, his presence overwhelming.

“I love you, Y/N,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. “And I won’t let anyone take you away from me.”

You struggled against him, but it was no use. His grip was too strong, his determination unshakable.

As the night wore on, the realization sank in like a stone in your chest. This wasn’t a game to Sunghoon. It never had been.

To him, this was real.

And he was never going to let you go.

---

[blessedbyahuntress]

i saw your post asking for requests so i have one! odysseus x chubby!reader who is insecure about being his queen due to their weight?

Alright! *Excited clapping of hands* Thanks for the request!

Too Good

Pairing: Odysseus x Chubby!Fem!Reader

Warnings: Nah, just insecurity on Reader's part

Word count: 690

You stared at your reflection.

Your handmaiden swayed slightly from holding the mirror for so long, snapping you out of your daze. You waved your hand to dismiss her.

As she left the room, you stood, running your hands down your dress. You tried to ignore how large it was; nothing was just your size exactly. The only time you could find anything that wasn’t too small or wasn’t too large, was around your day of birth, when you always asked Odysseus if you could get fitted for a dress.

You looked at the mirror across from you. Gods, this room had too many mirrors. You ducked your head to avoid the searing eyes of your reflection as you shuffled toward your bed.

“What am I going to do with myself?” You asked no one in particular, flopping down on the perfectly made sheets.

~

You stayed there all day, the only one allowed to come into your room being your handmaiden. 

As she brushed your silky hair- you couldn’t see what more to be brushed; it was the only part of your body that you were proud of- she began speaking. “Queen Y/N, are you going to appear at the feast tonight?”

“No,” you mumbled into your pillow.

She sighed, removing the brush from your hair. “Shall I tell King Odysseus?”

“No.”

That earned you another sigh. “He won’t be pleased,” she warned.

“I know.”

~

Odysseus was more worried than furious. He knew you didn’t like going to the feasts he arranged, yes, but he thought you’d want to be at this one.

“Y/N,” he said, marching into your room. He took one glance at your figure, and concern flashed in his eyes.

You scowled, shifting slightly so that your eyes met his. “You didn’t knock,” you said stiffly.

Odysseus raised his eyebrows. 

You groaned as he came closer. “Go away.” You threw an arm over your head.

“Love,” he started. “What’s all this about?”

“Ody,” you whined as he sat down beside you. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Odysseus snorted. “I wasn’t going to press,” he said, gently stroking your hair. 

“That sounds like such a ‘you’ thing to do, though.”

Odysseus made a disapproving noise in the back of his throat before breaking into a smile. “I- yes. That sounds a lot like me,” he admitted.

You returned his grin triumphantly. “Ha, ha, ha!” You cried, imitating how he always acted when he managed to fool you. “I was right!”

Odysseus’s smile turned into more of a smirk. “Oh?” He asked. “And who says?”

You crossed your arms over your chest, though it didn’t have much effect, as seeing you were still laying down. “I do, that’s who.”

“Well, maybe I was just trying to get you to laugh.”

You blinked.

“Ody-” You were rudely interrupted by Odysseus, who put a finger to your lips.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he scolded. “I think I know what this is all about. You’re feeling insecure about your body again, aren’t you?”

You huffed indignantly, which was answer enough for Odysseus.

“Ithaca couldn’t have survived with me being away for so long without you,” he began. “You kept the suitors at bay- and yes, I’ll remind you that you had a hundred and eight suitors lined up to marry you-”

You flicked your wrist. “We both know that they were only here for the title of ‘king’.” 

Odysseus shot you a glare. “Shush,” he ordered. “I wouldn't care if you were the skinniest woman in the world, nor the prettiest.” He leaned over to tap a finger on your forehead. You went cross eyed to glare at it, causing Odysseus to laugh. “All I care for is your smarts and your intellect- very impressive way you fooled the suitors for that long, by the way.”

You groaned and looked away, swatting at his hand. “Why are you so good at this?”

Odysseus blinked, false innocence written all over his expression. “Good at what?”

“You’re too good at making me feel loved,” you complained. 

Odysseus let out a low chuckle. “Well, that was always the point, wasn’t it?”

[epicmarrowbonesoup]

Headcannon that postcannon Charles doesnt like leaving Edwin alone for long streches of time.

You know the way he did in the beggining of the show, leaving Edwin alone so that Charles could be with Crystal or just giving Edwin space to be with other people(Monty or Niko). I think post-Hell Charles Rowland would feel uneasy about not having Edwin in his line of sight while at the same time not wanting to make a big deal out of it.

Like how in the last episode Edwin is alone and Charles leaves others to pack so he could check up on Edwin, that sort of thing. Or how he was hessitent to follow Crystals plan at first becouse he has to rescue(see) Edwin ( to me it also looks like Charles was so busy rushing to Edwin he didnt noitice Nikos body but that might just be me)

Anyways i think it would be a fun direction to take Charles's characther in. Considering in s1 he is already weary of Edwin spending time with the Cat King, youd get that whole jealousy thing but doubled and mixed in with his feeling of inadequacy as the brawn. But also s1 establishes Charles as being at least partially insecure about their bond: having to correct Edwin whenever Edwin says how Charles would move on quickly and constanty seeking reassurment from edwin about their friendship (ep 1 when he asks what would happen if death came, ep 4 with his fight with the night nurse, seeing Brad and Hunter the best friends as him and Edwin)

And then you also have the reversal of how Edwin was jealous of Charles spending lots of times with Crystal and now Charles is protesting every second Edwin isnt with him. And ofcourse Charles does it from a place of fear and love but Edwin would maybe interpret it the wrong way, who knows?

And, from what the writers have told us, Edwin in s2 spent at least some amount of time flirting with other men (hopefully without Charles lurking in the background) and from what we know from that one cameo Jayden and George did, there was a lot of tension between the boys...

Now im not a writer i didnt write the s2 script or anything, im not saying this is what would have happened in s2 but.... i think the tension might have come from that. From Charles seeing Hell as a traumatic expirience and his PTSD manifesting as his insistence on Edwin not leaving his side, Charles's insecurities and his fear of losing Edwin being at an all time high. While Edwin, who has learnd how to forget Hell, is acting as if nothing happened at all, exploring his sexuality and making new friends in the process.

It would make Charles confront all of the skeletons he's been hiding in the closet but also it would ask the simple question of why is Charles so insecure in their friendship? Why is he constantly mentioning them being best mates? Why does he need it so much? Why is he constantly searching from reassurences that they are best friends?

And for more angst, from Edwins point of view he is doing everything Charles wanted him to do in s1. Hes accepting and letting the dead boy detectives workplace to grow and change, he is being more open and friendlier, he is encouraging Charles friendship/relationship with Crystal and he is no longer playing trauma Olympics at the drop of a hat. So why is Charles so mad? Hes working through his shame and his supiriority complex, hes growing as a person and Charles is still stuck at the staircase.

[suspiciouslackofclowns]

She thought that coming up the hill would be the hardest part, but that proves to be wrong once she’s at the top.

Max hadn’t had the courage to visit by herself. Hadn’t wanted to experience the awkwardness of being both alone and un-alone, talking to someone and no one.

Most likely no one.

She thought about buying a Ouija board, but Robin very narrowly talked her out of it.

This seemed like a better alternative anyway.

Of all the birthdays she knows her brother spent alone, held up in his room with no gifts or cake because he claimed to not care about that shit, she figured that he shouldn’t get to choose this time.

So, there’s a blanket spread out on the grass with an unopened cake from Melvald’s on top, and a bouquet of flowers.

“Man, he would’ve called this gay,” Steve muses.

He leans against his hand, legs semi-stretched beside him, admiring the inscription on the headstone like it’s nothing more than a rock with writing on it.

And maybe, to him, it isn’t.

Max huffs a laugh, but it’s clipped near the end. Heavy, when her throat bobs, and she nods as tears slip down her cheeks.

“He’d call me a shithead and probably still try to steal a slice when nobody was looking,” Max says with a chuckle.

Steve huffs amusedly and shrugs.

“He was a funny guy.”

His gaze wanders off as he tugs some blades of grass up from the ground, snapping and sprinkling them into a small pile at his side with his free hand.

The finality to his words has Max’s brows drawing together.

She often wonders if, maybe, she and Steve never clicked for a reason, and if she probably shouldn’t have invited him up here when Robin suggested it.

Trust me, she had said. Take Steve, if you take anyone.

“Guess so,” Max murmurs.

Her eyes wander down to the cake sitting between them, blank, just as it was on the shelf. She wipes her eyes and thinks about reaching out to pop the plastic lid off when Steve shifts.

“Wasn’t really big on sweets,” he says.

Max blinks at him.

“What?”

“Billy,” Steve says, glancing over at her and gesturing vaguely to the headstone. “He didn’t like sweets.”

She stares for a long moment, searching her mind for a protest. Comes up blank when she tries to think of the two of them getting ice cream or something together, but she can’t recall him ever ordering anything for himself.

Across the blanket, Steve hums amusedly and smiles to himself, fiddling with a single grass blade between his fingers.

“He liked the apple pie at the diner, though. With a scoop of plain vanilla ice cream.”

“You guys went to the diner together?”

Steve’s face flushes a light pink and he shrugs again.

“Yeah? Quite a bit, actually. I think they still have his senior photo up by the register. Guy could demolish a burger.”

Max’s eyes mist over again, but she chews her lip and nods. Pushes a hand through her hair and turns her gaze down toward the blanket.

“I always thought he was, like, out partying or something.”

“We partied,” Steve admits. Shifts and lays down on his side, propping his head up in his hand. “But we usually… found somewhere quiet and just talked. Sometimes at the diner, sometimes the quarry, I think even the pool once or twice.”

He suppresses a grin as he thinks to himself, lightly nudging his sneaker against the stone. Like he’s unaware that it’s even there.

The line between Max’s brows deepens.

“If you guys were so close, then why weren’t you at his funeral?” she snaps.

Immediately, she cups a hand over her mouth, eyes widening as Steve glances at her again.

His brown eyes grow bigger for just a moment.

“I don’t know,” he confesses. A new heat rises to the surface of his skin, eyes becoming glassy. “Felt like maybe I wasn’t supposed…” he pauses to clear his throat before continuing, “I, ah, visit a lot, though.”

“You do?” Max blurts.

Steve nods. Nudges the slightly older, more brittle bouquet lying next to the fresh one with the tip of his shoe.

“Who do you think leaves the flowers?”

With her hand still clamped over her mouth, Max stares at him again.

“How often do you come here?”

“Oh, just… whenever,” he says. “Maybe like three or more times a week?”

“Three or more times a week?”

Now, Steve sits up, brows drawing together.

“What’s your deal? If I knew you were gonna freak out and yell at me about everything I say, I wouldn’t have agreed to come up here.”

Max holds her hands out in front of her.

“Okay, no, you’re right, I’m sorry,” she says. Sighs and rubs a hand over her face. “I guess I just… I dunno, we were never close, but I kinda always thought I knew him best. Now I’m finding out you guys were apparently linked at the hip, and he never… I didn’t even know he didn’t like sweet stuff…”

Her skin grows hot and her eyes well with tears again. Chapped and boiling over.

Steve’s expression relaxes, and he drops his shoulders.

“He wasn’t just secretive with you. Most of what I learned about him was just by observing,” Steve reassures. Then chuckles. “He was always calling me these stupid nicknames, and the one time I called him something back — angel face — he flipped and yelled at me. No idea why.”

Max sniffles and wipes her eyes with her palms, accepting the small bundle of napkins when Steve passes it over to her.

“Angel face?” she asks.

Suddenly, Steve looks away bashfully.

“Dunno, it was kind of a spur of the moment thing I said. He hated it, so I never used nicknames again.”

Max shakes her head, which earns a puzzled look.

“He didn’t hate nicknames,” she says. Glances briefly at the headstone and then away again. “Angel face is what his mom called him.” It feels like a betrayal, to say it out loud, and Max winces. “I overheard Neil mention it in their arguments once or twice.”

She fiddles with her pant leg in her lap for a moment. Looks up to see Steve’s eyes nearly overflowing with tears, staring at the headstone.

“Oh,” he croaks.

The sight, the sound of his voice has Max’s throat going tight.

She shifts in place. Watches as Steve takes a shaky breath and reaches up to wipe his eyes with the heel of his palm. Then, she’s pushing herself up and shuffling across the blanket on her knees, reaching her arms around his shoulders.

At first, he doesn’t react. Then there’s an arm stretching around her back.

Hugging him is exactly like she thought it would be. Like he’s comforting her, and not the other way around. Steady, grounding, like she knows him to be for others.

She makes a mental note to thank Robin later on.

“He really was a funny guy.”

[ahsoka-in-a-hood]

Crawling out of my cave for one more round.......

Eh, for that I'd have to subscribe to the idea that they didn't work at all in the outer rim as hard canon, which I don't. See I'm far too fond of Quinlan Vos. A character that has grown across multiple continuities from a random tall dark and handsome guy in the background on Tatooine in the phantom menace to beloved star of my heart. What exactly was he doing on Tatooine? Who knows, he is mysterious as the dark side of the moon. He works in the shadows. Why did he not interact with Qui Gon in TPM? Aside from the fact that he wasn't really a character then… maybe he was in deep cover. Maybe he had whole networks of lives on the line. Maybe he was helping an underground railroad. Maybe he was rescuing toddlers from the jaws of death while I Need A Hero played in the soundtrack

(it's not like there being no activity in the outer rim is an unfair extrapolation from just the film, mind, it's not just not a given. "the republic doesn't exist out here"- Shmi. "i didn't come here to free slaves"- Qui Gon. But Shmi did say the republic and can hardly be omniscient, and Qui Gon was talking about himself, as a guy on an entirely different mission with a ship full of political refugees being actively hunted down who ended up stranded entirely by accident on random planet number however many thousand that he nevertheless knew enough about to be the giver of exposition to the literal ruler of a neighboring planet and now that I think about it, that's sort of funny. The film is pretty clear on the jedi not being able to maintain justice across the entire galaxy, for sure, but it also doesn't argue that they don't do anything at all, and there's a pretty big difference between doing nothing and doing a bit, in my book.)

Anyway, on Mandalore. Is there an implication that Mandalore at that time wasn't worthy of aid? Obi Wan is sometimes loose with the truth, but even if he was exaggerating when he said that most of Satine's people were killed in the civil war, that's still a major level of brutality and civilian death. If more than half a world's population is getting killed, that's a huge crisis and tragedy. Is that alone not enough of a motive?

And then let's consider Deathwatch, the major faction that was active at that time. We get to know deathwatch in tcw. We see how they operate- they conquer a settlement, steal all their resources, kidnap all the young girls as hostages and force them to serve them. It's dark as shit. And they are explicitly imperial revivalists. I'm going to make a silly comparison, but imagine if like. Britain was in a civil war, and there was an army of far right extremists who were gaining ground in a reign of terror under a banner of rebuilding the british empire, with like maps of imperial britain on their flags and plans to take back the colonies etc etc. Would it be politically motivated to protect the leaders of the opposition to that when they were in exile with assassins after them? Sure. But like. Maybe the rest of the world doesn't want to have to deal with an attempt at british empire number 2.0, if they won their internal war. And I would say that's fair enough, actually. So maybe the "potential resource" they would gain is not having an army of mandalorians trying to invade planets and enslave people in 10 years time.

Intervention is a tricky thing though. We're all familiar with the damage missionaries can do, and with how 'soft power' is often exploitative. If this were a history book, the basic assumption would be that there's very little altruism in politics. But this is a story. The thing about Satine and Obi Wan is that we get a strong sense, from the very first arc about them, that Satine is not a client queen/puppet/corrupt and Obi Wan is not there to manipulate her on the chancellors behalf. This is, in fact, the plot of those three episodes. Satine is fiercely protective of Mandalorian independence, does trust the jedi as long as they're acting as an independent body, and Obi Wan actively helps her thwart not only deathwatch, but also Chancellor Palpatine's scheme to get Mandalore under his control. He explicitly does not subvert Mandalore on behalf of those controlling the republic.

And now I'm going to invite you to imagine Quinlan again. Standing on a sand dune, a breeze ruffling his hood, gazing out into the soft light of dawn, with a face that could have been chiseled by the gods,

Okay so I’m thinking about how Satine’s initial reaction to Obi Wan’s visit is really hostile until he explains he’s there on behalf of the jedi council, not the republic, causing her to immediately relax. How that whole arc is about her resisting republic attempts to encroach on Mandalore and the neutral system’s sovereignty and independence, and how she is so consistently insistent on that. And I’m thinking about Obi Wan’s description of his year on Mandalore during their civil war- how they were ‘living hand to mouth,’ aka they had little to no funding or resources for the mission, and also just the simple fact that… as far as I know Mandalore isn’t in the republic so how they operate there is fundamentally different to how they would operate on a republic planet?

So anyway I’m now convinced that that mission was not affiliated with or funded by the republic. This was a jedi operate independently sometimes sort of situation.

[thewinter-eden]

Blink Twice if You Need Help

images are mine (except middle CB pic that I got from pinterest). please do not use without permission. ATE pcs are my inspo for this series.

part 3 of the skz crack!horror series.

pairing: Seo Changbin x fem!reader rating: mature, dark themes summary: stalker!Changbin has been following you for weeks. He’s looking for his next target, and he’s obsessed with you. While he’s watching you, however, he learns the secret you keep—you’re being routinely robbed by your addict brother. After watching this cycle of abuse end with you crying almost every night, Changbin takes pity.

warnings: Familial abuse, drug addict brother, satirical but definitive death of character, physical abuse, stalking, nonconsensual photographs, creepiness, fear, breakup, blood and injury, strangulation (brief, no death), automotive-related death, please for the love of god don’t take this seriously, Changbin’s kinda icky (I’m sorry babes I swear I love you), chai lattes

word count: 6k

Comment a request to be tagged.

series info

You’re radiant.

You always are, have been since the moment you first stepped foot in his café.

But today, you’re radiant in blue. It’s a sweater he’s seen a dozen times, but now as you tiptoe up to the counter, pushing your sleeves up to your elbows and baring half a dozen clinking bracelets of various metals and stones, he thinks he’s never seen anything so perfect.

He responds to your chirped good morning and waits for the next notes of your voice to tell him what you’re ordering, and he can’t help but trace the lines of your face with his eyes as you glance over the menu.

Startled out of his admiring trance by your sharp gaze pinning him with a smile, he forces his stare to stay above your lips as you give a half laugh and request, “A chai latte with oatmilk and extra cloves, please.”

You never try anything new.

Today it’s yellow.

The bell above the door rings an announcement of your arrival, and there you are; wearing a warm yellow dress with thick black tights that keep the chill off, your cheeks flushed from the cold.

He can’t say your smile lights up a room, because from his perspective, your smile blacks the room out. Everyone else disappears. No one and nothing exists except for you, right before his eyes, your windswept hair a halo around your brow.

He hands off the drink he’s just finished making for another regular customer, sending them out the door with a kind smile, and then turns to you just as your fingertips touch down on his counter top.

It’s almost procedural, the way he anticipates each move you make just before you make it. You slide your fingertips towards the register before laying your palms flat, cocking your hip against the counter as though you have to lean closer to see the menu.

Your eyes trace the words and pictures for a few long seconds, gifting him with the view of your throat curving up towards your jaw, and the contemplative bow of your lips. And then, finally, you’ll drop your eyes to his, smile like you’ve never been more excited to order a cup of coffee, and then you place your order.

Always a chai latte with oatmilk and extra cloves.

“Good morning,” He greets you when you appear in a pink jumpsuit. His eyes follow the sounds of your bracelets jingling, up to the clink of the two necklaces you always wear, up to the cheeky swish of the earrings that ornate all three of your lobe piercings.

Your eyes fall from the menu to his face like they’ve been physically pushed, surprised by his friendly voice, and he doesn’t think he imagines the sudden rush of heat that crawls up your throat with a wash of color. “Oh.”

He’s caught you off-guard; he knows, because you’ve never given him that upward tilt of your voice before.

“Good morning!” You sing back, that smile pulling your lips back.

“Chai latte with oatmilk?” He recalls, already lifting a cup and holding his marker at the ready.

“With extra cloves.” You confirm, slightly in awe that he’s remembered.

Of course he remembers.

He flashes you a wink just before he turns around to start on your drink, and sees you in his peripheral moving towards the pickup counter. You’re smiling down at the rings that clutter your fingers, and he can’t help the swarm in his chest that floods in as a result of the fact that this time, you’re the one flustered over him.

The day that you arrive at the café to find that your latte is already made and ready for you, you’re missing one of your earrings. He catches your eye as you enter, his gaze flickering over that blue sweater again as you approach the register.

Before you can order, he’s pushing your full, steaming cup towards you and the screen is already flashing your total. His eyes flick from yours to the empty piercing on your left lobe. “Good morning,” He says.

You’re staring down at the cup with a sort of delighted, half-confusion, before your gaze snaps back up to him. “Is this—”

“Chai latte with oatmilk and extra cloves.” He confirms with a grin. Then he falters, tilting his head at you. “Unless you want something different today?”

Your hands bring the cup closer to you, possessively. “No, this is perfect.” You argue, and then you’re digging for your billfold. “Thank you…” You drift off, eyebrows lifting hopefully as you hint around for his name.

“Changbin.” A pink tint covers his cheeks as his grin softens. “And you?”

You give him your name, and your money, and leave the café with butterflies in your stomach.

When he finds the missing earring a few feet from the entrance to his café, accidentally dropped on the sidewalk, he scoops it up and tucks it in his pocket with care.

On an unseasonably warm day, you appear at his register in a shorter black skirt and a slouchy gray sweater that hangs off all the protruding points of your body with teasing subtlety. He passes you your drink, with the addition of a new flavor of muffin that his baker is trying out in the form of mini pastries, and notices that your skirt is well above your knees, fluttering around your mid-thigh in a way that has his gut clenching.

The tights don’t distract at all from the musculature of your legs and the curve of your ass that suddenly seems dangerously close to the hem of your skirt.

“Good morning, Changbin,” You greet cheerfully, and the sound of his name in your mouth brings his attention back to your bright features.

He makes sure no one follows you home. Your sweater is too flirty with your curves, your skirt too short, for him to rely on the strength and decency of lesser men.

You make it home, safe and sound, to your modest and tasteful townhouse. You live on the ground floor, surrounded by windows and bathed in soft fluorescent lighting.

You listen to pop music in the mornings, and early 2000s grunge rock in the afternoons. He takes note of the artists you listen to the most, and, soon enough, when you walk into the café in the mornings, there’s familiar music playing through the speakers.

He lives for the way it makes you smile when you notice.

As you get ready every morning, you put the same TV show on in the background, so he finds the station. It takes a few days for you to realize that he has it on one of the TVs mounted in the corners of his café, but when you do, you start lingering for a few extra moments every day to catch a couple seconds with fondness on your face.

He’s never watched an episode of the show in his life, but if it gets him two more sentences out of you every morning, consider him obsessed. He watches it all the time.

All of your snacks and meals are high protein and low sugar, because you go to the gym for two hours every other day and your one self indulgent treat is the sugary chai latte with oatmilk and extra cloves that he makes for you.

This fact warms him from the inside out, because he resonates with this lifestyle choice. Your gym is near his, and it’s almost as large, almost as nice. You’re a hard worker, your beautiful curves the product of self discipline and dedication. He stops offering you his baker’s pastries and starts giving you the rich and smoky cheesy egg bites instead, and starts to realize that the guilty smile you once accepted your freebies with is now replaced by weightless excitement.

There’s not a single inch of you that needs less sugar, of course. He’d give you every muffin in his shop if he thought that was what you wanted. But he understands the yen for the feeling of progress in the gym, and the burden of cheating yourself through bad nutrition, so if he can help you feel like you’re getting stronger, he will. Hell, he’d start serving steak in his café if he thought you had an iron deficiency.

“Changbin!” You keen one morning as you flounce to the register in a flattering red blouse that he watched you pick out this morning. You lean against the counter with a great heave, and past the rush of excitement he feels for the very deliberate interaction you’re giving him, he notices a trace of greenish blue wrapping around your throat.

Then you turn your head and the light shifts the shadows on your skin, and he’s not sure.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” He greets casually, despite the pink tinge to his cheeks. “What’s going on?”

You scrub your nails over your scalp with exasperation and then set your enormous pleading eyes on him. “Binnie…”

His gut swirls.

That’s a new nickname.

It’s in his head now, locked into his brain, the way your tongue forms the sweet sound of his name like that.

“Changbin,” you say again. “Changbinnie.”

Despite the absolute earthquake happening in his chest, he gives you the flattest expression of suspicion that he can manage, and hopes his skin tone isn’t currently tomato. “I’m not sure I like the sound of this.” It’s a lie.

A bald faced lie. He loves the sound of this. He wants you to keep repeating his name like that until it’s all he can hear.

Your bottom lip juts out in a pout, and he has to physically turn away to clean the milk steamer before he loses control in his place of business.

“Tell me you haven’t made my latte yet?” You plead, leaning further on the counter.

When he glances over his shoulder, he sees the way you’ve inadvertently showcased your breasts for him, and he spins around again, pinching his eyes shut. As though his apartment walls aren’t disappearing more and more by the day behind pictures of you.

As though he doesn’t know every single color in your underwear drawer.

“No, not yet. Why?” Another lie. The latte is sitting by his left hand, still steaming, just waiting for your manicured hands and perfectly lined lips.

“My blender broke this morning.” You whine, and dig in your purse for something. “I know you have smoothies on your menu, but I was wondering if you would add my protein powder to one? Is that legal, to take an ingredient from a customer?” You flap an admittedly suspicious looking ziplock bag at him. “I have a protein smoothie every morning for breakfast, and at this point it’s more of a crutch than my latte and I’ll just spiral for the rest of the day if I don’t start it with a strawberry shake, so please, Binnie—”

He cuts you off with one hand covering the one of yours that holds the ziplock, and the other pushing your latte towards you. “I have protein powder. You want vanilla or strawberry for your strawberry smoothie?”

Your mouth makes a beautiful “O” shape as your free hand cups the hot latte. “I thought you hadn’t made it?”

Changbin tosses a wink over his shoulder, already grabbing the vanilla protein powder. He already knows it’ll be vanilla. He already knows you want the whey powder and not the plant-based. He already knew about the blender.

Your morning may have started with an unexpected hiccup, but his is going exactly according to plan.

“Pull up a chair and drink while I make your smoothie. The latte is on the house.”

You immediately protest, but he won’t hear of it. He basks in your company as you sip down every bit of your comfort beverage, and then offers idle chatter between the scenes of your TV show as you spend ten minutes more than usual in his café, drinking your protein smoothie.

He got a full thirty minutes with you this morning, and it’s worth every second.

The morning that you wake up with another man steals the smile from his face. You must have brought him home with you last night, invited him to stay over, and are now foregoing your sacred protein smoothie in your new blender for a more traditional breakfast of eggs and toast, for the sake of your half-naked guest.

Changbin’s heels haven’t cooled even by the time you make it into the café for your latte, and he’s especially somber when you order an additional drink, a reeking pumpkin cappuccino that he’s forgotten to erase from the menu from a month ago.

He notices the extra warmth in your smile; your excitement is diminished, replaced with a satisfied contentment that makes his shoulders tense.

You’re falling in love with this new man, blushing down at your phone and walking home with your chin high, waking up in the mornings with a smile on your lips.

Changbin serves you every morning, your rich and creamy oatmilk chai latte with extra cloves, and the nauseating pumpkin cappuccino for your bedfellow. He doesn’t know why this man doesn’t come to the coffee shop with you, if he sends money or if he makes you pay for both of your drinks, if he even likes the autumn atrocity that Changbin makes with shaking hands every day.

The fire in his throat only heats when your drink order abruptly changes to two hot green teas. He watches you turn down his readily prepared chai latte with an awkward darting of your eyes, lifting your hand in refusal as though if he doesn’t take it away, you’ll reach out and snatch it from him.

“I’m actually getting some green teas this morning,” You say, and he knows he isn’t imagining the disappointed chuckle in your tone.

He takes your discarded usual away without hesitation, suddenly concerned that you may have developed an allergy or an intolerance for your favorite drink, but you just swipe a palm over your forehead and lean your elbow on the counter, settling into the comfort of your casual friendship with the attentive barista. “My boyfriend and I have decided to start eating healthier,”

Changbin can’t bring himself to believe you. You eat vegetables and chicken or fish for lunch, you snack on cheese and meat, you bake with honey instead of sugar, and he can’t remember the last time he’s seen you without a water bottle in hand, in various stages of emptiness.

“We’re opting away from the lattes and cappuccinos for a bit.” You give another awkward laugh that turns his stomach, and he raises his eyebrows at you.

“You like the green tea?” He’s surprised. You have tea at home, of course, but it’s all black teas—rich and spicy and meant to be topped with a swirl of milk and brown sugar.

The skin around your mouth tightens as you fight a shiver. “Oh, no, but my boyfriend does.”

“I can make you something different,” He offers. “I have a bunch of teas. I just got in a new chai spice blend—” He breaks off when you raise your hand again, a physical barrier between your weakening determination and his tempting offer.

“That’s okay, Binnie. I think it tastes like soap and grass, but I promised him I’d give it a chance. Just the two green teas, please.” And you give him a sweet smile, just to make sure he knows that you’re not frustrated with him so much as your new dietary commitments.

You know he’s about to argue again, so you toss an appreciative glance around his coffee bar. “You live around here? I can’t imagine working every day like you do.”

“The apartment upstairs is mine,” He explains. “This café is my life; it’s not really a job anymore.”

“Wow.” Your soft voice is awash with jealousy. “That sounds like a dream.”

He hums softly at you, pulling the tea from his shelf. “It only tastes like soap and grass if you brew it too hot,” He says, and flicks on the kettle, indicating the thermometer on the lid. “If it tastes fishy, or sudsy, it’s either steeped too long or brewed too hot. Brew it low, steep it briefly, add a drop of honey, I swear it tastes like summer. If you don’t like it, I’ll give it to you for free.”

You protest, rolling your eyes nervously at his kindness, insisting that you’re not going to like it but you’re going to pay anyway. But when he hands you the drink—yours with honey and the boyfriend’s without—he urges you to take a delicate sip and watches your anticipating frown fade into pleasant surprise.

“Oh, it’s not bad.” You say, and beam at him.

He beams right back. “You want more honey?”

You shake your head. “No, this is fine. I’m still not sold on the flavor, but it’s not rancid like it’s always been from other shops. Thank you, Changbin!” And then you skip right out of his shop, on your way to deliver the drinks you don’t even like to your boyfriend.

But then, the morning that you arrive at his register with dark circles under your eyes and a downward slant to your lips doesn’t bring him the sense of relief that he thought it would. Your voice is low and unengaging as you order the teas, your smile unconvincing as you pay and leave without so much as a glance toward the TV.

Your boyfriend starts waking up earlier than you, leaving you to eat breakfast by yourself. It allows you to go back to your usual protein smoothies for breakfast, which seems to grant you at least a little bit of peace.

It seems that you’re still meeting him for lunch, because you still come in and order the two teas that you hate so much, but you hardly even talk to Changbin anymore. He watches your posture droop when you walk home, watches the way your muscles bunch and tense when your boyfriend looms behind you to greet you, hears the rising voices float across the street as you argue for the hundredth time.

Changbin hates the man who’s taken you from lovesick and floating on air to burdened and fearful. He hates the snippets of your life that he gets to see, the early morning sighs of disappointment as you realize you’re waking up alone again, the drag of your feet as you prepare to head in and grab the teas, your discouraged slump after lunch when your boyfriend comes home from work.

So when the morning comes that you arrive with your makeup sloppily done, tear tracks splitting the seamless layer of your foundation, and you order a single chai latte with oatmilk and extra cloves, Changbin smiles sympathetically at you and gives it to you for free.

He had watched you receive the breakup text over breakfast, his heart keening as you cried into your smoothie, his gut clenching as you sniffled your way through applying and reapplying your mascara, smiling proudly as you stared at yourself in your bedroom mirror and set your shoulders, determined to go about your day as you intended.

“His loss, gorgeous.” He says, unprompted, as your purple-tipped fingers curl around your cup of comfort.

Your eyes snap up to him, wide with surprise, and for a second his smile stalls. But then he reaches across the counter and presses a napkin into your hand, gesturing to where your eyeliner has fallen from your lower lid, and says, “I assume the tears, the single drink, and the lack of rancid green tea means your boyfriend isn’t in the picture anymore.”

Suspicion falls from your shoulders and you dab at your eyes brokenly. “Your tea was never rancid, Changbin.”

He reaches across the counter in a move that he, himself, wasn’t anticipating, and covers your hand with his own. “I know you’re having a bad day, gorgeous, but you can always talk to me.”

That brings a smile to your face. “Do you give all your customers such five star service?”

“Only the crying ones,” He winks, and then gives your hand a squeeze once he notices that you haven’t tried to pull it away.

You gather yourself with a bit of his offered strength, pushing your shoulders back and swallowing the next threatening round of tears, and flash him a smile that holds a trace of your old vibrancy.

He smiles proudly back at you. “Can I assume you’ll be taking your usual from now on?”

You nod, pulling a long drink from the beverage you’ve missed for so long, and give him the most beautiful sigh of contentment. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Binnie.”

“See you soon, gorgeous.”

It turns out, that ominous bruise on your throat from a couple months ago wasn’t a trick of the light.

You bounce into the café wearing a shade of green that makes your eyes pop, earrings jingling as you make your way to the register. When you take a habitual gander at the menu, as though you’ll ever order anything but your usual ever again, he sees it again.

Not greenish blue, like it was that time, but a bright red and darkening purple, freshly settling into the flesh of your smooth throat.

You’re chattering about something, his peripheral catching flashes of your teeth as you talk, and his ears catch the clatter of your bracelets when you gesture with a hand to punctuate whatever point you’re making, but Changbin’s eyes are on the faint handprint beneath your jaw.

A paper to-go cup, mercifully empty, crushes in his angry fist, and your words stop abruptly.

“Binnie?”

His mouth stutters open, mind searching for words to demand an explanation for the signs of violence against you, stare still stuck on the marring of your perfect skin and supple flesh, when a delicate blanket of warmth covers his shaking hand. His mouth clicks shut, gaze dropping to where your hand is wrapped around his.

“Binnie. It’s fine.” How you knew what is speeding through his mind escapes him, because all he can see is another handprint, this one wrapped around your wrist, barely concealed by the stacks of mismatched bracelets.

When he finally catches your eyes, you look embarrassed and ashamed, but not unwell. Your smile is weaker this time, and his fingers pinch around the crumpled cup when he notices your lips trembling. “Binnie, I swear it’s fine.”

He takes your hand on his as permission to reach for you, and he tosses the cup in the trash and leans against the counter, his hand sliding up your forearm to grip your elbow. “Is someone hurting you?” His eyes narrow and his head cocks to peer under your jaw at the large, obviously male handprint.

Now that he’s close enough, he sees redness on your scalp, thin spots in your hair, tiny specks of crusted blood. Someone’s been yanking you around by the hair, and he’s almost sure it’s not a consensual act.

His mind is made up then, certain that something bad is happening in your house after he’s gone, determined that he needs to stick around longer and make sure you’re okay. Some time between his afternoon watch and his early morning check in, you’re being harmed by someone much larger than you.

When he looks away from the bruise at last, feeling your perfectly painted nails dig into the muscle of his forearm, he finds tears in your eyes.

“I’m okay, Binnie, I swear.” You whisper, and your free hand reaches for the latte that he tried to give you right before he noticed your damaged throat.

He loosens his grasp on you—it wasn’t tight to begin with, but he doesn’t want you feeling trapped. Instead of helping you reach the latte, he brings his hand up and lifts some of the loose strands of your hair away from your throat.

Changbin hears your breath catch, sees the pulse racing beneath your ear, so he pulls back. He drops his palms on the counter and watches you with a frown, observing as you desperately try to collect yourself from the intimate touches he’s surprised you with.

He can’t do anything about it until he knows what’s going on, so he just matches your weak smile and clears his throat. “Don’t go letting someone hurt my best customer, alright? No, put that away, it’s on me today.” He makes a waving motion at you as you go for your billfold, and the tension escapes from your chest.

Your voice sings with light laughter. “How can I be your best customer if you keep giving me things for free?”

Changbin just nods towards your latte. “Get out of here, gorgeous. Enjoy your drink.”

“I always do, Binnie.”

It’s your brother.

There’s a definite family resemblance in the slope of your noses and the bends of your knuckles, but the similarities stop there.

It’s after dinner that he arrives—two, three times a week—bursting into your house with no regard for your privacy or boundaries, rifling through the wallet that you keep on the mail table. His voice booms through the house, calling for you, so loudly it travels across the street.

He’s the reason you start coming in with darker bruises, poorly concealed by makeup on your throat, on your wrists, under your eyes. He’s the reason more of your hair tangles in your shower drain in clumps bunched together by clotted blood. He’s the reason for the spattering of bruises across the smooth skin of your chest, the reason you’ve stopped wearing bras with underwire that press into your damaged ribs for the sake of soft and gentle sports bras.

Your brother is the reason you sit on your bed at night, pressing an ice pack to your naked thigh where a faint boot print has stiffened the flesh. He’s the reason two of your fingers are wrapped and splinted, and the reason that Changbin has watched you sell your family piano and your late father’s expensive stereo set.

All for drug money.

Threats and violence and theft from your own brother so he can meet with his dealer outside the fourth street McDonalds.

Your smiles grow heavier and Changbin’s heart pounds harder as he watches you tremble in front of him, holding your latte with both hands. The expensive stones from your jewelry collection are gone, as is the vintage watch that your grandmother gave you.

It’s getting worse.

Your brother comes by more often, he gets more desperate. He’s no longer just looking for drug money, now he’s in debt, and you don’t have the means to help him pay it back. Not that he can be convinced of that.

You stop coming to the café. Changbin knows why, he knows you don’t have the money to spend on a drink every morning—even though most times he gives it to you for free. You won’t take advantage of him, even though he tells you you don’t have to pay.

Instead, he sees you tenderly rise from bed, walking on stiff and pained legs to your closet, dragging loose clothes over your mottled skin. You haven’t stocked up on your protein powder; it’s an expensive supplement, and your bank account is drained from your brother’s latest visit. Your breakfast is the last of your frozen strawberries, blended with yogurt and honey, and you sag over your straw like you can’t hold yourself up anymore.

He sees you bend over your work with your water bottle next to you, not having the energy to take your usual gym break. Instead, you nap.

You’re drained of money, drained of strength, drained of hope.

He sees you lock your door, and then sweep up the splintered wood after your brother breaks it down. He sees you block the door with a bookshelf, and then collect all of your books off the floor after your brother shoves it aside anyway. You try everything, from nailing the door shut to setting a burglar alarm, but you just end up having to clean up shattered windows or stand silently while your brother explains to the police what a silly misunderstanding it all is.

And then one night, the one night that Changbin has to stay late to update his inventory after his weekly supply shipment at the café, there’s a knock on his apartment door. He’s fresh out of the shower, upper half bare and a towel draped over his shoulders, one end of it clutched in his hand and scrubbing the dampness from his hair, when he swings the door open and there you are.

You’re a tortured vision in white; white t-shirt and white sweatpants, your face streaked with tears and your left eye swollen from a fresh beating, and you throw yourself into his arms like you’ve known him forever.

He’s stunned, panicking, desperate to get you out of his apartment, but he’s a weak, weak man because you’re wrapped so tightly around him, your hands pressed into his back, your chest flush against his, your damp face curled into his neck, and his brain just blanks out.

The towel drops from his grasp and his arms find their way around you. Whether it’s his heart or yours that’s pounding like a jackhammer between you is unknowable, especially when he breathes in the scent of you. He knows the smell, knows it like his own home, but it’s different when it’s directly from you.

You’re weeping into his ear, trembling beneath his hands, and he’s forgotten everything he needs to hide.

“Slow down, gorgeous, I’m here.”

You crumble in his arms, sagging against his chest.

“I’m here.” His hands smooth delicately over your hair, mindful of the abrasions that you’ve suffered, and his strong arms keep you on your feet.

“I need help, Binnie.” You weep, pulling back ever so slightly. Your eyes flutter open and it’s like the entire ocean is inside them. “Please, Changbin, I—”

And then it’s too late.

Your gaze drifts over his shoulder, and there they are.

The walls are covered. Printouts, pictures, drawings. You sipping your smoothie in your kitchen, you working at your computer in your home office, you tugging a shirt over your head, the lace of his favorite red bra peeking out between the hem of the shirt and the skin of your stomach, you doing your hair in your bedroom mirror.

You.

You.

You.

It’s too late. He can’t get a word out before you bolt.

Gone in a second, terrified by the man you had run to for safety, disappearing into the night.

You pull all your curtains closed after that. The lights in your house are always off, a for sale sign goes up in your yard. You exist in the darkness, hiding in the shadows, suffering alone.

His heart breaks as he feels you slip further and further through his fingers.

You’re still hurting, still being hunted. Your brother keeps coming, keeps attacking you, keeps stealing from you. He’ll take the money from your house, too, Changbin already knows it.

It makes him angry.

He’s so angry, he hasn’t touched his camera in weeks. He’s so angry, he hasn’t swiped an article of clothing to hold onto the scent of you in ages. He’s so angry that your own brother has treated you so badly, that now all he does is watch.

Because you won’t be getting any more bruises.

You are so scared and tired of your brother’s treatment of you that you ran to Changbin’s apartment for the first time in your life, just to seek protection. You trusted him. You wanted his help. You knew he would protect you.

A million pictures of you aren’t worth that gift.

So he watches.

And waits.

And then, one night, just as the sun has disappeared beneath the neighborhood houses behind yours, your brother pulls up in the driveway. He stumbles out of his car, jerking with nerves, and pounds your door down, disappearing inside your home.

Each crash fills Changbin with rage. Each shatter, each groan of damaged belongings sets his blood on fire, until he’s across the street and on your porch. He finds the key where you’ve left it in the hanging pot and pushes the door open, skillfully dodging the creaky floor panels in the entryway.

The desperate grate of your brother’s voice worms into his ears like a venom, and the ensuing whimpers and cries from you settle in his stomach with painful weight. He rounds the corner and finds you there, your back pressed to the wall, your brother’s hands around your throat.

Your face is red from strangulation, your eyes wide and reddened from burst blood vessels, trails of crimson streaming from your scalp. Your brother is screaming about the money you owe him, money that he’s expected to find by some miracle after having already pilfered your paycheck earlier this week.

And then, just as your eyes begin to roll, you catch sight of Changbin. For a second, you freeze, and it’s fear in your expression as you behold the barista that you thought you knew, creeping through the shadows of your dark living room.

But then your brother’s other hand smacks against the split skin of your cheek, and your expression changes.

Changbin sees it.

You’re staring at him in relief, your mouth forming desperate pleas for help, tears spilling down your face in a sudden moment of vulnerability.

His chest clenches.

At your next whimper, he has your brother by the collar, hurling him backwards. At the thump of your feet hitting the floor, the rest of your body falling in a heap, his hands are fisted in your brother’s shirt, shoving him out of the house.

Your brother is spluttering and shouting in confusion and protest, while you’re coughing and gagging behind them.

There’s only a few seconds where your brother attempts to fight back, his wired muscles throwing stabbing punches into the dark at Changbin’s face, but he doesn’t land a single one. Instead, a deliberate blow strikes his jaw, knocking him back. Another hammers against his eye, and he sprawls in the grass, gasping for air.

You’re on your feet then, following them out of the house, standing on your porch as you watch through stinging eyes.

While your brother is stunned, Changbin turns and sees you, and he freezes. He knows he’s scared you. He knows he’s crossed every line of acceptable social interaction, and that you caught him red handed. He says your name, a whisper into the night, and your gaze shifts to him.

You’re thinking, panicking, mind no doubt tracing back through the evidence of his intrusion plastered all over his walls, the sanctity of your home utterly violated by his undetected presence.

While you try to make up your mind about it, Changbin can’t breathe.

But at this point, your brother can. “What the hell?” He gasps, breath clouding above his face. “This is none of your business, asshole.” He’s up on one knee then, cupping his face and getting his wits back.

Changbin whips around to face him, his fists once more clenched in fury. “Touch her again and I swear to god—”

“Binnie.”

Your voice is a song in his ears and his head snaps back around to you. Your hands wrap around his still tight fist, your eyes peering up at him in earnest. You’re leaning into his arm, begging for safety, and he sees the blood that spills over your lips.

You’re hurt, you need medical attention, and you’d rather be with him than with your brother.

“I’m gonna take you to the hospital, okay?” Changbin whispers, and when you nod weakly, he brings his hand to your temple. You’re hot, feverish, under his touch. “Will you let me do that, gorgeous?”

“You’re not taking her anywhere.” The voice is an inch away, and your hands grip Changbin’s bicep.

He reacts on impulse, shoving your brother away from himself, away from you, and can only watch as the larger man stumbles out onto the street, illuminated by the yellowish glow of headlights. And then it’s like that scene from Mall Cop—one minute he’s there, the next he’s been plowed out of sight like a sliding transition in a Star Wars movie.

You don’t scream.

You don’t cry.

Both of you gasping in shock at the completely unintentional turn of events, Changbin feels you press yourself into his side, your weak and bleeding arms winding around his back. He can’t believe you’re there, trusting him, clinging to him, but he holds you like you’ll disappear if he lets go.

He needs to take you to the hospital, let them figure out why you’re coughing up blood, check your bones for new breaks, but right now your face is nestled against his throat and he can’t move.

“You’re still such a creep.” Your broken voice whimpers, but your hand tightens in his shirt.

He could cry with relief. You’re not letting go. “I know,”

He gets a grumble in response. “You stole my favorite sweater.”

Not even the flashing red and blue lights speeding around the corner can take this moment from him. “I’m sorry, gorgeous. I’ll give it back.”

“Promise me you’ll burn the pictures.”

“All except the ones that incriminate your brother.”

“You swear?”

“I swear.”

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[rosescarletful]

Written for For @divinit3a Café Lunch Rush prompt list. All great inspiration, I had a blast writing this! Take this *throws Eclipse at you.

Drabble name: Tireless Work Brings May Flowers

Contents: Canon Eclipse x Reader, yn is a mechanic, post fire au.

Chosen words: Clouds, honeydew, bonfire, hope, celebration.

Word Count: 2185

Day fifteen. You wipe the grease from your brow and exhale, turning screws back into place. This isn’t the first time you have had to fix this circuit, nor will it be the last, but you persevere this way regardless. 

You plug in the animatronic to your wall, press a switch in his open chest, and wait, leaning over his face plate to hold him.

“Hi sweetie.” You coo to him. His optics are black, and you do not know if he hears you, but you will talk to him this way regardless, just like you did back then. You’re not sure who it is, really, Sun or Moon. They merge perfectly in this form, his hat you stitched up piece by piece dangling over the table and his rays carefully mended.

“I fixed one of your core wires. It blew out again - this should be a better piece now.” You lament your limited access to good parts, but if Faz caught wind that you stole one of their own, they would probably hunt you down real quick. You would never see him again, and that's not something you can bear. The fire already made your heart break and weep enough.

You found him lying there, smoking from the bonfire. He was posed reaching for the entrance, clothes almost entirely burnt off. You wept and gathered him up, pressing apologies upon apologies into his metal. How scared they must have been, under the pressure of the burning heat.

You trace a finger on a ray, pushing it gently to rotate. You miss when Sun span his rays when he saw you, making wave patterns to make you laugh. “Should be any day now.” You comment, trying to hold it together as he fails to boot up again. Something sparks down by his leg, and you take a deep breath. 

It's alright, the world is not ending. Something is preventing them from booting up, and you just need to figure out why. 

Day twenty eight. You know you are getting closer because they do not spark anymore, at least. So far, he gets to his optic lights flickering, then powers off again, so you are so close you can taste it. 

“It's a beautiful day out today.” You hum, opening the blinds. A sunbeam shines on his chassis, you hope he can feel some of the warmth, or at least know the sun is there. “I hope we can have a picnic soon. Remember? I said I'd show you, and Moon pinched my cheek making fun of me. You can’t leave, he said. But I said I'd figure it out.” You type rapidly at your computer, going through his code line by line. The answer to his failed boot up, or at least why the sun does not change their appearance, is in here. You are sure of it.

Day forty five. You rest your head in your hands next to your attendant, taking slow, deep breaths. You will not give up, no matter what, but you feel frustrated close to tears. Fixing the code isn’t working, and there’s nothing theoretically wrong with their body, yet they won’t wake up. 

You pick your head up and rest it in your hands, just staring at him. “I won’t stop.” You mutter. He has to know you aren’t letting this setback stop you. What if they are listening in there? Stuck? It would be a living hell to you, so you refuse to leave them in any capacity. 

You stand, stretching and cracking your spine. You can, although the memory is getting a little hazy, remember Sun reprimanding you about your posture, so you straighten up.

No, don’t think like that. He will wake up. You are a decent mechanic and you will get to see them again. There is no other outcome.

You wonder what they think of you, working tirelessly. You harbor your silly feelings in yourself, too afraid to say anything. 

Day fifty arrives with little fanfare. You are a little worse for wear, eye bags heavy from long nights and constant work. You have him sitting up, trying something new with the cables on the back of his head. You are petrified to touch his motherboard, but as the weeks dragged on, you are running out of options. 

“You know, soon, I can get some boots for you so you can stomp in puddles. I think both of you would like that.” The rain beats heavy against the window, muffling the world outside. You would give anything to sit with either of them on your porch, just watching the storm. “Maybe a poncho. Do they make ponchos nine feet tall?” You snort at your own joke, carefully soldering the pins connecting the wires. 

Once done, you lay him back down, and plug him into the wall. Again, you press the button, leaning over his face plate once more. “Okay. Give me something sweetie. Anything.” You stare at him intently, eyes flicking over his body rapidly. Like always, his fingers twitch, core beginning to boot up. His optics turn on, flickering, but then the whole body shuts off right after.

You curl your fingers. You’ve increased the electric output way more than what should be necessary, so why is this happening? 

You go back over to the plug, inspecting it. The storm booms horribly outside, but you pay no mind to it. 

Is it your electric output? You think you would cry for a whole day if this all amounted to not enough power. But, you have checked this outlet countless times, even got a power maximized for it. Nothing. 

Lighting strikes close. “Don’t worry.” You say out loud. You would be worried if you had never heard a storm before, too. “It will pass. I'm gonna try the startup sequence one more time, okay?” You take a breath, and plug it back in.

You are thrown back, shouting in pain. Electricity shoots up your arm, and you shake, almost biting your tongue. “What the hell!” You shout, shaking your head. 

No. Your heart stops for a second, because that was plugged into your friend!

You scrabble to your feet, choking. This can’t be it. All your hard work can’t end here. Oh god the hard drive could be fried! You could have a smoking motherboard, never to see them again! You watch in horror as he spasms, electricity coursing through the body.

You lean over him, assessing any damage. His internals look okay, and you don’t smell smoke. Instead, you watch with fear turned rapidly building hope as his optics turn online, electricity turning the gears in his internals. 

You hold your breath, praying to anything that could be listening. “Sun? Moon?” You call, shaking with adrenaline. Anything, please. Just let him wake up.

Slowly, pinpricks turn on, and he blinks one. You almost start sobbing.

Abruptly, he sits up, rays popping in and out of his face plate. “Happy birthday!” He cheers, in a voice that does not sound like either of your friends. Your watery smile falters. Who…is this?

“Happy..birthday?” You echo, unsure. He seems to light up brightly, swinging his feet to the side. At least mobility is okay. You are so shocked, you aren’t sure how to react. 

He calls your name, startling you out of your thoughts. “Still us.” One voice, low and soothing. “Still us!” Another cheer, light and airy. 

You can’t help it, you break down in sobs right there. You throw your arms around his neck, shaking and trembling. “Oh, thank god. You’re here, you’re alive, you…merged?” You ask. He wraps arms around you, and you could cry from how gently he holds you. You thought that this form was some kind of safety protocol, when the day and night cycles got messed up. Apparently not.

“Yes! My name is Eclipse.” His tone is cheerful and bright, yet warm and slow with an even cadence. He really is both of your friends. “Don’t cry, starshine! We’re back in tip top shape, thanks to you!” You press your wobbly lips together, overjoyed. 

He lifts a hand, holding your cheek. You pick up your head to face him, ugly crying as you are. He holds you everywhere, touching your sides, your hair, your legs. Like he is memorizing you.

“We’re so happy it was you fixing us. You’re perfect, just perfect.” He hums, rubbing thumbs on your face. This new version of your friends is very…affectionate! “Ah, we could hear you, as well. Everything.” He says dreamily. Your face flushes, but you are so glad you assumed that they could. “Even the anime updates.” A deeper voice grouses. You choke out a laugh, bubbling up from deep within your chest. He stares at you intently, optics flicking over your face.

“Let's do that right now.” He says abruptly. You tilt your head. “Sit in the storm. That sounds like a lovely idea! We can watch the ever moving blanket of clouds, with our favorite mechanic!” Arms reach out to hoist you up, and you squeak, patting his chest to stop.

“Wait! Wait! You need to go through diagnostics first! Hold on!

Your life changes like the flip of a card, with Eclipse. He is so happy to do anything with you, whether that be finally showing your friends anime, cooking, or just sitting next to you, buzzing in a way that can only be considered purring. 

You were a little worried that your friends would fade away, merged like this, but that could not be farther from the case. Your morning walks are exclusively with Sun, his higher pitched voice and straight posture show his control. The rays shrink almost into his head with Moon, who fights you in video games and hums to you sometimes, when he thinks you are asleep.

Eclipse however, is very…hands on. You have a very hard time saying no, those feelings you shoved deep inside of you overjoyed at getting to touch freely. You can’t break this easy camaraderie that the two of you have, but lately you can’t stop thinking about kissing his silly face. What would it be like? Would they take turns, or just kiss you as Eclipse? You wouldn’t mind either way.

When he is stable enough, and you are sure he isn’t going to keel over outside, you take your friend on that promised picnic. You bring food for yourself, some tools just in case, and a fluffy blanket. 

The day is crisp and shining, Eclipse watching in fascination as his steps sink into the ground. His gaze darts around, taking in the birds, trees, and a deer running off in the distance. Your heart swells, feeling like you won the lottery as his rays sink into his face plate to spin rapidly. “Up that hill.” You direct, carrying your things up with you.

You two sit under a tree, enjoying the sunshine. He points out every day things to you, like a squirrel staring at him intently, like the cloud formed in the shape of a fish. A smile is stuck to your face, nodding along. You celebrate every new instance, overjoyed.

“Toldja.” You remark, gesturing to your set up. “I promised. This is a good old fashioned picnic!” He scoots closer to you, picking you up bodily and placing you in his lap, hugging you. Jeez! He doesn’t have the same boundaries as a human, but give a person a warning!

“Eclipse!” You shout, squirming in his lap. He rumbles in his voice box, pulling you to his chest, resting his face plate on your shoulder. “That's better..” He gives you a squeeze, fans whirring in his chest. 

“Actually..” Sun’s voice cuts in. “It's missing one key part.” You turn, trying to see what he’s talking about. Instead, he presents a flower to you, a tulip in fresh bloom. “For you.” Moon’s voice rasps, and presses it into your hair, over your ear. You touch it, in wonder. 

“Thank you, that's so sweet of you.” You get your knees under you and turn, greeted by a tender look on Eclipse’s face plate.

“This is a new emotion for us.” Eclipse starts. You blink. “But what we do know is that we would have no other. You are precious to us, honeydew, and we hope you feel the same.” Your face turns red as a tomato, sputtering. He leans closer. “Would you be ours?” The voices break Eclipse’s steady cadence, both of them speaking at once. 

“Do you…do you know what you’re asking? To be together, that's more than just friends.” It's okay if they don't understand. You are content to be this way - 

“Yes.” They answer firmly. “We know what being partners is. We want that. We want everything with you, whatever you will give us. Your hopes, your fears, love, as well.” Your lip wobbles. This is something you could only dream of, working on them tirelessly.

Shakily you nod. “Yes. Yes, please. Yes.” He pulls you in for a kiss, fans so loud you can hear his chest rumbling.

You share a kiss that is all encompassing, pressing your hands to his chest.

A new beginning, a new love.

Fin.

[didyoulookforme]

lazy sucking bf matty’s cock on the couch while watching a movie idk :)

it’s a thursday evening and you and your sweet boyfriend are lying on the couch watching jurassic park which is a movie both of you know by heart but matty’s had a stressful day and there’s nothing more comforting than watching a familiar film with his girl draped all over him and a cozy blanket enveloping you both. your legs are lazily tangled together as you rest your head on his chest, one of his hands under your shirt drawing mindless figures on your lower back, his other playing with the rings on your fingers as he often does. every now and then he kisses the top of your head and you cannot help but grin like an idiot because you love him so damn much.

not even jeff goldblum can make you focus on the film because you’re too distracted looking up at matty, his brows furrowed and often reciting a line under his breath because he’s too fucking adorable for his own good. his curls are half damp from his shower prior so they hang loosely over his face and the cushion below making him look like the perfect human being. you notice the sharp angles of his jaw, the way his lashes cast shadows over his cheekbones, the curve of his lips when he concentrates. he bites the tip of his tongue when he’s thinking, and it’s the kind of thing that still drives you utterly mad after years and years of knowing him. that paired with his hand now fully splayed against your back pushes you over the edge, wanting to touch more of him so you do so, gently pulling your hand away from his but not before you kiss his knuckles.

your hand lowers until it’s under the hem of his striped jumper, brushing the soft hair trailing down his navel. he doesn’t really react until your fingertips are under the waistband of his joggers. it’s then that he looks down and asks what you’re doing and you tell him nothing, to just keep watching. he kisses the top of your head again, mumbling an “okay, if you say so” very sweetly but he definitely knows what you’re up to by the way his lips curl.

you place a kiss on his chest before continuing to push your hand under his grey sweatpants, knowing well that he doesn’t usually put on boxers after an evening shower hehe. you palm over him, feeling him soft against your hand. you pump him oh so slowly as he grows harder with every lazy stroke of your fingers. he doesn’t say anything, but his breathing changes and you glance up to see his eyes flutter closed, his bottom lip caught between his teeth again. you never speed up and eventually his hips join the slow rhythm moving up and down to get a bit more friction. he’s so fucking beautiful like that. he always lets you do whatever you want to him and he couldn’t be any more adorable.

he finally looks down at you, pupils blown wide and he has the sweetest, dopiest smile on his face, and when you ask if he’s okay, he just nods as he rakes a hand through your hair. you shift down as he watches you, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his joggers, pulling them down as he lifts his hips to help you. once he’s free, you just stare at his pretty cock because, yes, it’s perfect and no one will convince you otherwise. beads of precum drip from his tip and you can’t help but lick and place soft, open mouthed kissed all down his dick. sometimes sucking gently and grazing your teeth against the sensitive skin there. again, you go as slow as possible and there’s not one single part of him that your mouth and tongue don’t touch.

you can tell that matty is doing his best to not just fuck your face right then and there, but he’d be damned if he’s not enjoying every single second of you tasting him. his fingers are somehow able to function enough to mute the television, this way he can listen to the way your lips sound when you kiss him or when you kitten lick along his slit. he doesn’t want to miss a single moan that falls from your lips either.

now that you have his full attention, you let saliva pool on your tongue and let it drip on him because you know he likes it wet and messy. you pump him one, two, three times before taking the tip in your month, sucking softly while your tongue swirls around it. his fingertips are now really digging into your back but you don’t give a shit because the whimpers coming from him are delicious and otherworldly. you spend a couple of minutes sucking the head while your hand strokes the rest of him, but when you feel his tummy quiver nonstop, you take him in fully until he hits the back of your throat. you gag once but that’s enough for matty to ask if you’re okay so you just hum in response, those tiny vibrations making his dick twitch against your tongue. slowly you bring yourself up, savouring every inch of him, before you start bobbing your head up and down in the same slow, maddening pace you’ve set for the night.

matty, being the gentleman that he is, uses his hands to bring your hair into a makeshift ponytail so the strands don’t get in your way. but honestly, it’s mostly so he can clearly stare at you sucking his dick and making an absolute mess of him. he nods each time you ask if he’s okay, and when you call him your sweet boy, he doesn’t even hesitate to ask you to call him that again and even thanks you in return. 

he gets impossibly hard in your mouth and you know he’s so, so close. when he whines that he’s about to finish, you pull your head back and stroke him only one more time before he’s spilling onto his stomach, carefully watching as his warm cum pools on his abdomen and some of it trails down the side, staining the couch. not that it’s the first time that’s happened, but no one needs to know that. you look up at him and smile as he tries to catch his breath, but it doesn’t help when you lean down and lap up every single bit of his cum because it’d be a shame to have it go to waste. once he’s clean, you shift up to finally kiss him and he very adorably cups your face and makes out with you, moaning as he tastes himself on you <3