#something that started pretty good but a little abstract

[deathbutwithfuzzyanimals]

Literally insane how Danny Phantom DCU crossover has more fics on AO3 than many smaller fandoms. This makes my best friend very mad when I point it out. It is also hilarious the number of people writing fics for the crossover fandom who have consumed neither source material and just know what they’ve read in fanfic. The people who built this fandom from the ground up really went ‘let’s make an entirely new media that people will consume and build upon and enjoy that has more plot and analysis of Danny Phantom than the actual tv show’. Truly the goncherov of fanfiction. West doesn’t exist. Red Huntress never had a name. There was a single episode about an ‘ice core’ that was never mentioned again and now ghost cores have almost consistent usage. Anyway I just appreciate the beautiful fandom that is to Danny phantom and DC comics what heathers the Musical is to Heathers the movie.

[moonchild-in-blue]

I haven't really done much art for tumblr (at all) lately, cus life, but! Here's a lil something I've been working on (it's a Xmas gift) 💙

(also peep that lil January calendar painting 👀 i did mini squares for each month for myself, because I need to have a physical one always, and they each have their own colour 🥺)

[wokelander]

SOFTER, SOFTEST !

ft. curly x fem!reader

tags. piv, body worship sort of, rimming, big dick, tit job for like 2 seconds, creampie, size kink, scent kink, balls…

note. hai.. will get back to leon soon and I think mw fandom is lacking noncon and incest fics severely.. so i will get on that with jimmy. don’t know how to characterise him yet so ooc .. just infatuated with his breasts tbh i don’t know anything works in this universe LMFAO like idk just take this with a grain of salt.. for miss @pupwashing please ignore typos !! unedited :3

You miss Curly.

You miss him more than you did yesterday, more than an idiot misses the point, like a dick misses a wet pussy–You just miss him.

It has been four months. Twenty-one weeks. One-hundred and forty days. Three-thousand, five-hundred and twenty hours. Too many minutes, a hell of a lot more seconds, the closer he gets the further he seems to be.

Big numbers make it feel like you’re getting nowhere so you cut those twenty-fours into one day. One day and he’ll be home. One day and you’ll be in bed with his stomach crushed against yours, the warmth of his flesh searing yours, fucking him into next year, until he loses his halo.

Videos aren’t enough, photos don’t do him justice, toys don’t live up to the feel of a real dick. You miss that face he makes when he cums - it’s a block away from his crying face. You miss him face down, ass up, punching holes into his dignity one thrust at a time. God, you miss that dick, how he goes red all over, him in nothing but that stupid fucking smile.

One day, you tell yourself in the mirror that morning. One day, you tell yourself when you take your lunch break. One day, one more microwaved meal for one, one more lonely night.

It used to be a big deal, you think. The whole going to space thing. Curly says it’s no big deal, but you’re pretty sure that in your great-grandpa’s heyday it was impressive. You’ve seen videos of hoards gathering to watch a ship take off, to greet crews when they landed. Today, it’s you and a plump, older woman in her bathrobe waiting in the cold.

You could spot him in any crowd, glowing like a ray of light, mostly because he’s tall, partly because everything fades into abstraction when you notice how tight his uniform is. Good god. Did he get bigger? You’re starting to sweat, it’s hard to focus when your boyfriend is making a long-sleeved jumpsuit look naughty.

Curly’s hair is a little longer, blond curls licking the nape of his neck, falling onto his forehead, his eyes are so bright and his smile is white. He looks like a policeman’s emotional support dog. A really busty support dog. He scans the sad scattering of friends, family and drivers. You’re so taken off guard by the sight of his buttons popping you almost forget to wave at him.

He beams when you spot him, suitcase dragging behind him as he jogs over. Everything is in slow motion. Like that old movie - Baywatch. He’s so excited to see you, taking you into his big arms, shoving your face in his chest like he knows just where you’d like to be. You’re disappointed in your lungs when they beg for air, lifting your head and placing it on his shoulder instead. He smells like sweat, hotel shampoo and something metallic.

“Oh.” You open your eyes and spot Jimmy skulking behind him, an unlit cigarette between his lips. You narrow your eyes at him, and Jimmy does the same. Real shady guy, the type you’d cross the street to avoid. He’s always trailing after Curly like a bad omen. “He can’t come home with us, honey,” you tell him gently, not wanting to sound like a bitch.

Which you are.

You don’t want him smoking in your car, you don’t want Curly to invite him over for takeout because that means it’ll go on for hours and you won’t get your mouth on his big, stupid dick for another day.

“Hm? Why not?” Curly asks, pressing a kiss into your hairline, the tip of his nose bumping yours tenderly.

“I don’t have space in my car for both of you and the luggage, she’s small. What if she tips over? You’re heavy enough as it is.” You smile at him, cheekily, giving his newfound hips a squeeze. They’ve always been there, but now they’re like wow. It’s only been four months, is he on steroids? Did he get pregnant? He is glowing… God knows what’s up there in the atmosphere, some cosmic horror waiting to knock up your poor boyfriend.

Curly shrugs, offering an apologetic smile to his friend. “You heard the lady.”

Jimmy’s permanent scowl seems to deepen, cementing itself in his dermal layer. “Whatever, man.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, shoulders slumped as he makes a beeline for the phonebox.

He lifts his suitcase and loads it into your car and you watch his biceps flex. You see through his clothes, you remember every freckle on his back, mapping them out like stars, leading to those dimples low on his back, the perfect resting spot for your thumbs when you grab his ass. His body is so convenient. Like he was made to be fucked every which way.

“I missed you, I thought about you everyday,” he says against your lips, leaning in to kiss you over the gearshift. “I put your picture in the cockpit actually, Jim didn’t like it, but it kept me going.”

Always so earnest. You almost feel bad for missing his body more than him.

“Aww, Curly, honey,” you coo, pinching his cheek and cupping the other, “I missed you even more.” He nuzzles into your hand, eyes closed as you comb your fingers through his messy hair.

As much as you would like to indulge his sentimentality, you have no patience to spare. If you sit here any longer, you’re going to soak through your jeans and onto your leather seat.

You put the car in drive—

“Captain? Open up!” There’s a younger man knocking on the window, leaving his grubby handprints behind. “I wanted you to meet my mom!” His voice is muffled through the glass.

You lock the windows.

“Did you lock the windows?” Curly asks, lips downturned like he’s about to pout.

You unlock the windows.

“Of course not, baby.” You pat his head and grit your teeth.

They talk for fifteen whole minutes.

Thank you for taking care of him, he can be such a handful—Oh no, not at all, he was a joy to have—I’m glad he came back in one piece—He’s a good kid—Oh, I don’t know about that—Mooom—I’d be happy to have him back for our next long haul—Seriously, Captain?—

You squirm in place, shifting from side to side, thighs pressed together as your panties stick to your core. When Curly introduces you to his crew mate, you offer a strained smile and nothing more.

The window whirs shut. You make it home in record breaking time with four tickets and only a few points taken off your license. It doesn’t matter. You’re home, inside with the curtains drawn and Curly still has clothes on.

That’s not right.

“Take it off.”

“Huh?” Curly pushes his luggage into the corner, the top few buttons of his jumpsuit have come undone and you see the tuft of blond hair on his chest.

“Take it off, please?”

“My clothes?”

“No, your wig, baby.”

He laughs, good-natured, mild-mannered, and so fucking hot.

If he won’t do it then you will.

“I haven’t even showered—“ He starts, but you shush him with a kiss, murmuring a ‘good’ against his pink mouth.

When you part, spit keeps your lips connected, the string of fate or whatever. You go in for another, hands fisting the fabric of his collar, forcing him down towards you. Curly lets out a keening noise somewhere in the back of his throat like a dog scratching at the bathroom door.

“I know, my baby, I’ll give it to you.” You pout at him, thumbing his kiss-swollen lips and watching his eyes droop. “Oh no…” The buttons on his uniform when you try to open them.

“It’s okay,” he mumbles through a mouthful of his own spit, “cheap stuff.”

“I know, but you looked so good in it.” It’s a shame, but you need to see him bare, sweat as his only accessory.

“You think?” He near bats his lashes at you, stepping out of his uniform, and you swoon.

“God, yeah.” You push him down on the couch, Curly falls back with a soft grunt. It’s not very big, especially for a man of his size, but it’ll do for now.

His cock swells in his boxers, you feel it beneath you as you sit atop him, admiring the view below. The wide expanse of his chest, the sweat pooling in his collarbones, those tits. You don’t know what else they could be.

“Wow.” You take a handful of his chest, plucking his puffy pink nipple. “Look at these, I might have some competition.”

“Shut it,” he huffs out a laugh through his nose, and the tips of ears redden.

“I’m serious, baby, you’re, like, huge.” You can’t tear your eyes away from his soft flesh, moulding beneath your fingertips like dough, you could fuck them if you really wanted. “What happened out there?”

“Had a lot of spare time, I guess.” Curly smiles sheepishly, expression contorting when you bend your neck to suck his nipple into your mouth with a wet pop! His jaw slackens, and his cock jumps like it’s been given quite the fright.

You only have one complaint. His tan lines have faded. Floating through the galaxy for months on end can do that to you. You miss them, but you missed Curly more, so you’ll make do with what you have.

And you have more than enough. More than you can handle really. You can’t even get a grasp on his bicep, he’s stupidly big and your hand is on the smaller side.

You shift backwards, wet cunt dragging over his impossibly big bulge where only his underwear keeps you from him - you kind of admire your pussy for being able to take it. Your mouth moves on, hands still groping as much as you can of his chest as you lick the ridges of his stomach, it’s like he’s forged out of marble.

Softly, Curly rubs the back of your head, trying his very best to keep his eyes on you and not let them fall shut. You feel his stomach muscles rippling under your tongue. They contract when you trace around his navel, placing a sloppy kiss just below it, where a patch of curly hair leads to his wet cock.

His cock is drooling through the white fabric of his boxers, they’re soaked enough to be see-through, you spot the fat, pink head that has been missing your kisses. “You’re so wet, baby, is it all for me?”

With a pitiful noise, he tosses his head back and nods sadly. It’s funny to hear a man of his stature whine, but it suits Curly so well.

Your fingers hook in the waistband, tugging his underwear downwards until his fat cock springs out, it’s so fucking fat it weighs itself down. The leaky head twitches, pre dripping down his thick shaft, leaving a moonlit trail to his heavy balls. So full of seed they might burst.

“Oh… Poor baby.” You give them a gentle squeeze, and Curly’s eyes roll back into his skull, hips jolting upwards.

The urge to take it into your mouth right then and there is tempting, you hold back, you want to take your time with him. Make him feel special. You seat yourself between his thighs, one leg thrown over your shoulder so it’s easier to fit on the sofa. Your thumb runs along his pink slit, dribbling out pearly strands of pre that web between your fingers. Curly whimpers, biting down on his fist.

“These are cute.” You take note of his meaty thighs, how they’ve only gotten bigger, a comfier place to sit. The stretch marks don’t go unnoticed, streaking purple and pink along the milky flesh of his inner thighs like faded brushstrokes.

“Mmmph.” He blinks at you, pouty, lashes wet with impatient tears.

“Yeah, mmmph, I know, baby, be patient.” You’re a big, fat hypocrite.

His scent is stronger down here, clean and soapy, but the tang of sweat prospers, and the underlying smell of him. The smell of his pillow, the smell of his few-days old clothes, the smell of his towel after he works out.

A few more kisses here and there, using the flat of your tongue to lave over strips of his sinewy skin, leaving him spit-slicked and breathless and flushed. You hoist his other leg over your shoulder, he’s heavy, but you’re horny and it’s given you a sudden burst of vitality.

“Fuck,” he gasps out, gripping the top of the couch, one arm over his face as you lick up the seam of his balls, mouth latching to the swollen underside, where they feel heaviest.

Curly’s cock leaks into your hair, the weight brings it down to rest on your face, tip pressed into your hairline, dripping down the bridge of your nose like sweat while you make a mess of his balls. Stuffing them into your mouth one at a time, using your hand to give the lonelier one a squeeze when your lips are kissing up on another.

The kiss to his perineum is enough to make him moan. Curly knows what’s coming. You go lower, nose nestled into his balls, breathing him while your hands spread his ass cheeks apart to get to the spot you love most.

Curly’s hole is darker than the rest of him, not quite pink like his cock, ruddier. He’s tight and he smells good. So good. You’ve never minded the hair, you think it’s pretty cute. Curtains match the drapes.

Affectionately, you kiss his puffy rim, and it throbs.

He lets out a groan that is half mortified and half ready-to-blow-his-load.

“Sure,” Curly says, voice breaking as you circle his hole with the tip of your tongue. He tastes like him, musky and sweet and coppery. Curly is home and your tongue is in his ass where it belongs, wriggling its way past his pulsing rim, hopefully all the way up into his heart.

Your thumb and middle finger stretch to meet around the girth of his cock, stroking him slowly as you work open his asshole, tongue pushing back in when he pushes you out. Once you deem him wet enough, you push a single finger knuckle-deep and he cries out, hips bucking up off the couch.

Much to his dismay, which he shows in the form of a pained whimper, your hand leaves his cock to splay over his stomach and hold him down to the best of your abilities. “You have to stay still, honey.”

You feed a second finger into him, his hole squelching as you curl them inside of him. Curly clenches tight enough to cut off your blood circulation, sucking you back in when you ultimately pull them out with a lewd noise. He opens his mouth on instinct, pupils so blown out his light eyes seem dark, you push your fingers down his throat and he sucks.

“You’re so cute,” you mumble, watching him intently, he’s like a pin-up model of some sort. An X-rated action figure. “Taste good?”

“Not really,” Curly says. He’s so honest it makes you laugh. He shuffles back to rest his head on the arm of the couch, cock bobbing, still leaking like nobody’s business, leaving little droplets of wet in its wake.

It’s ready to burst, but you’re not done with him yet. You haven’t had your fill. When you spend half your time with your head between his thighs, you miss out on all the faces he pulls. So you spit on your tits to get them wet, his cock is slick enough, nothing should chafe when you squeeze his cock between them.

“Christ,” Curly grits out, brows knitting together, the second coming and he hasn’t even had his first.

“You wanna cum like this?” You ask, kneading your tits on either side of his cock, each time the tip pops up past your cleavage, it bumps your chin and leaves it slick.

“No…” He shakes his head, curls bouncing, sticking to his forehead, the hair near his nose is curlier with the added sweat. “Inside.”

“I can do that for you, babe.” You smile at him, acting like that wasn’t your plan in the first place, like you haven’t been dying for a warm creampie since he landed back on earth. You give the fat head of his dick one sloppy kiss, making sure to tongue his slit before you clamber on top of him.

It should be an easy task to get him inside, you’ve been wet for the last twenty-four hours, your pussy is throbbing like it’s got a heartbeat. Slick dries on your inner thighs and your clit is buzzing, a rush of arousal passes over you like a cold wave when you lift your hips to guide his dick into you.

Oh. Wow. That’s a stretch. 

In theory, you know big Curly’s dick is. It’s a fucking horsecock, and you have eyes bigger than your stomach. You always overestimate yourself. You think you’re gonna be just fine, then his fat tip breaches your little hole, no matter how wet, and you lose it, scrambling to grasp his shoulders as your body is racked with shivers.

Curly’s kind enough to steady you, big hands finding purchase on your hips. His needy noises get through to you, and you push on, sliding down and taking him to the hilt. His dick curves upwards into your cervix, rubbing the fleshy opening as you adjust to his dick after four whole months of nothing worthwhile.

He’s so big. You’re so wet, slippery pussy slicking up his cock, and making things easier for the both of you.

“I love you.” Curly shudders, looking right into your eyes like he’s afraid to blink and miss a single thing.

“I love you too,” you tell him, eyes on his tits.

He’s so deep, feet planted on the couch as he fucks into you, unable to help himself. You get it. You’re tight, warm, and wet. Better than his fist. Your pussy is noisy, squelching each time you bottom you, grinding your clit into his pelvis, feeling his cock twitch each time you tighten around him. The plap of his balls hitting your ass when enough momentum is built up.

Curly’s helpful, when he sees you tense up, throwing your head back and rolling your hips over and over, you want him deeper and deeper, he wets his fingers with your slick and rubs figure eights into your clit.

It’s just enough to make your toes curl—Oh, who are you kidding? You near blackout when you cum, moaning so loud you scare yourself. You see black. Like someone’s drawn the curtains in your mind, ending the show. Your nails dig into his skin, but he’s always put up with that like a champ.

“Holy fuck.” Shaking still, you blink to clear your vision, you’ve wet his navel and his tummy and the couch might be ruined. You don’t even remember when he came inside you. What a shame. Feels good though, still warm. Sighing, you lay against his chest, Curly’s soft cock slips out of your hole, resting on his thigh. “Welcome home, Captain.”

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (2 - Liar! Liar!)

Chapter Summary: You wake up one morning compelled to say the truth and nothing but the truth. Wanda seizes this opportunity to ensure everything remains under her control. Meanwhile, Jimmy and Darcy finally discover what happened to Agent Monica Rambeau. Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 3k+ | Chapter Tags: Manipulation

A/N: Billy is my favorite twin, if that isn't obvious already :P // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

It doesn’t require a calendar to track the days here in Westview.

It's the kind of repetition that settles over suburban life, where dates fade into insignificance and days blur into a seamless loop, distinguishable only by the changing seasons. But even the current season—fall—is as predictable in its passage as ever, like storybook weather in its perfection. The birds are always chirping, the sun rises promptly at 6:40 every morning—never a minute early or a second late—and it never rains. Just endless clear skies, day after day, until the sun sets at five.

You've been chewing on this odd feeling ever since you and Wanda arrived in this part of New Jersey, but today, there's something extra. You can't pin it down, just that it's…there. Today feels different—more than usual—and you didn’t really get it until breakfast, when your mouth slipped past your usual tact with the kids.

“Mommy, do you like it?” Tommy asks, his eyes big and hopeful as he holds up a crayon drawing of what looks like the family standing outside a perfect little house. 

Perfect. Honestly, you’re getting pretty tired of everything being so perfect around here.

“It's...very colorful,” you start, the usual praise ready on your tongue, but what comes out instead is, “Though it's kind of all over the place, isn’t it? Maybe you could try to stay inside the lines a bit more.”

Speaking aloud is like sending an email: once it's out there, it's out there for good. Even so, an email would have been the better option. At least then, you could just hack into Tommy’s account—if he ever figures out how to set one up—and erase your blunder for good.

Could having a magical wife somehow save you from this mess?

It’s too late though. Tommy's face crumples, and Wanda doesn't seem keen on throwing you a lifeline, just a dirty look from across the table as you sip your morning coffee.

“But if you’re going for an abstract—” you start, but your son is already sulking off to his room. 

Billy digs into his cereal, blissfully unaware. Wanda, on the other hand, looks as if she's ready to rip open a portal to another realm and hurl you out of this one.

That can’t be good.

“You really upset him,” she says, arms crossing over her chest. “He was so proud of that drawing.”

“I know, I feel awful about it,” you groan, burying your face in your hands.  Seeing your genuine remorse, Wanda eases up, giving you a moment to stew in your guilt before she comes back to the table with a stack of pancakes.

“Here, eat up,” she says, setting them down in front of you.

You pick up your fork, cutting into the stack. They look perfect—golden brown, with the butter melting just right. You take a bite, and before you can stop yourself, the words are out.

“They're a bit dry,” you blurt out, instantly regretting your words. But once you start, you can't seem to stop. “And this maple syrup... it tastes kind of artificial.” 

Wanda gasps. “Excuse me?”

“Shit—”

“Language, Y/N!” she snaps, but it's too late, the curse is already out there, floating in the air like a bad smell. 

In the next moment, something strange happens—your lips tingle, and suddenly you can't feel your mouth. Alarmed, you touch your face, finding smooth skin where your lips should be. You try to protest, but only muffled noises emerge. Fear surges as you point frantically at your face. You attempt to scream, but no sound comes out.

Seeing your flustered pantomime, Wanda’s face goes from angry to horrified. With a wave of her hand, your mouth is back in its place, and you’re gasping, both of you staring at each other, not believing what just happened. Meanwhile, Billy is giggling, clapping his tiny hands together, and gleefully repeating the S-word you accidentally let slip earlier. 

You and Wanda just continue to stare at each other in shock, but then you glance at Billy, his innocent delight completely oblivious to the fact he’s saying something he shouldn’t, and you see the corners of Wanda’s mouth start to twitch. A moment later, she’s laughing unabashedly, and before you know it, you’re doing the same. 

Despite the peculiarities of your life here in Westview, you don't think you've ever been this content. Before Wanda, the idea of having your own family—your own kids, two no less—seemed unthinkable. You never imagined you'd have a wife, a house in a quiet suburb, or hear one of your sons swear for the first time. Westview is far from normal, but then again, so is your family. As you watch Wanda's laughter taper into soft giggles, you think it's impossible to love her any more than you already do.

Wanda made this all conceivable for you.

“Sorry, honey,” you say, though still a bit shaken by the ordeal. “I didn't mean to be so rude.”

Wanda looks even more remorseful than you feel—which makes sense, considering she did erase your mouth, however briefly.

“And I probably shouldn't have... you know, removed your mouth,” she murmurs, guiltily picking at her cuticles.

Admittedly, it was terrifying—one of the scariest experiences you've ever had. You certainly don't want a repeat. It makes you slightly wary of your wife, but your love for Wanda outweighs your fear. Standing beside one of the most powerful beings in the universe takes courage, and you've built up plenty over the years together. You're made for this—for her, for this kind of love.

“Apology accepted,” you say, mustering a weak smile.

Wanda's face floods with relief, then quickly contorts into worry. “What’s with you today?”

“I can't seem to lie,” you confess, realizing there's no easy way to skirt the truth. “I don't know what's happening, but I just can't stop saying exactly what's on my mind.”

She stares at you, confused and a little hurt. “What do you mean you can’t lie today? So, you’re usually lying?”

Before you can smooth that over, Billy looks up from his cereal, fixing you with that stern look that’s pure Wanda. “Mommy, lying is bad.”

Wanda’s gaze softens as she looks at Billy, then back at you, the seriousness returning. “Billy, why don’t you go brush your teeth and check on your brother? Your mommy and I need to talk for a little bit.”

“Okay, mama.”

Billy scampers off, and you feel your stature shrink under your wife's gaze, suddenly feeling every bit the child.

“What’s this about not being able to lie?” Wanda asks once it’s just the two of you.

You shake your head. “Look, it’s not that I usually lie, but today, I can’t even if I wanted to. It’s like a—a truth filter permanently switched off.”

Wanda takes a few moments to mull over your words. “Oh…” she starts, sounding half-convinced. “Maybe it’s stress,” she throws out after a beat. “You’ve been working really hard lately, haven’t you? Perhaps your mind is just overwhelmed and you need a mental day off.”

You had thought of that, but the whole situation seemed too weird for such a simple explanation. Then again, maybe seeing shadows where there aren't any is just another stress symptom. So you let it slide.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right. I’ll see if I can call in sick next week,” you mumble, trying to sound cheerful about the prospect of a break.

Wanda comes around the table and cups your face in her hands. You let her pinch your cheeks together, feeling both stubborn and a bit sorry for yourself. It's silly, but all you want is for Wanda to coddle you and make you feel better, not to dish out logical reasons for why you’re not yourself today. 

“Well, if you're stuck with the truth, let's have some fun with it,” Wanda says.

You swallow hard, aware that any question she might ask now would either please or upset her—and there seems to be no middle ground.

“Uhm, honey, I don’t think—”

“Do you love me?”

You smirk at her; that’s an easy one. “More than anything else.”

“Only me?”

You laugh at her silly follow-up. This reminds you of the early days of your courtship when Wanda was a bottomless well of need. You didn't mind at all, knowing she needed to hear it as often as you made her feel it. Initially, you were a bit bothered, wondering if your actions weren't speaking loudly enough for her to trust you. Eventually, it became less frequent, until the question turned into a statement—You love me—to which you responded with your own: You love me too. Since then, it quickly became how you say ‘I love you’ to each other.

“Only you. I'd sooner die than love someone else,” you confidently tell her.

Her smile in return is a beautiful riddle—a riddle you can’t figure out. 

“Wanda, I—”

“Do you like living here?”

“Sometimes.” The words slip out before you can think, and you're relieved to realize that your feelings about Westview are honestly not all negative. “It’s a nice town. Quiet and cheap.”

Wanda's face does something subtle. You can't quite read her reaction, but it's clear she has more questions when she doesn't park on your answer, instead moving on to something else. 

“Do you... do you remember how we got here?"

You blink at her. Initially, the question seems a bit absurd. But as you try to formulate a response, “Of course. We got married at…” you stall, your brain blanking on the when and where of your own wedding. “...then we moved into this house last…”

You try to pin down the date, but it slips through your mind like sand.

“Wanda?” A laugh escapes you, but there's a nervous edge to it. “Why can’t I remember any of the details?”

The last thing she says before flicking her wrist is, “Because you’re not supposed to.” But even that slips away, scrubbed clean from your memory by Wanda’s sweeping hand.

–

“Jimmy?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I found her.”

Jimmy hurried over to the tight corner of their camp where Darcy had practically set up shop for the past few days. Since the signals were first picked up, she's taken charge of monitoring the transmissions, her main focus being to locate Agent Monica Rambeau. They've already confirmed that many of Wanda's bizarre, sitcom-style characters are, in fact, real residents of Westview, somehow trapped inside whatever anomaly Wanda seems to be in the center of.

“That’s Monica, right?” Darcy points at the grainy image on the retro television set they've been using to watch the town's activities. The broadcasts come through at odd hours, which makes every second of surveillance crucial. 

Jimmy leans in closer, squinting at the screen where a woman bearing a striking resemblance to Monica appears. “It sure looks like her,” he confirms.

The woman onscreen is dressed in distinctly 70s fashion—a bold, patterned blouse with wide lapels tucked into high-waisted bell-bottoms. Her hair is styled in voluminous, bouncy curls that softly frame her face, completing the look that is so far removed from the S.W.O.R.D. uniform Jimmy last saw her in.

“I wonder what character she’s playing in the show…” Darcy muses.

A handful of nearby crew quietly look on as Monica steps out of a Hornet, a stack of papers clutched in her hand, and strides confidently toward one of those cookie-cutter houses lining the street—yours and Wanda's.

“Stay frosty, Monica,” Darcy mutters under her breath, staring unblinkingly at the screen as they watch her knock gently on the door.

It’s Wanda who greets her with a guarded smile. “Hello, can I help you?” she asks, sizing up the stranger on her doorstep.

“Hi, there. I’m Geraldine. You must be Wanda,” Monica says. Jimmy and Darcy exchange a look, both arriving at the same conclusion: whatever spell has ensnared the other residents, Monica appears to be under it too.

“Do I know you?” Wanda asks, her teeth gritted in what she hopes passes for a smile. But Wanda, she’s got a tell. It’s never hard to see when she’s faking it. The sitcom laugh track of this Westview tries to spin it as humor, but it’s clear to anyone—she’s not thrilled about Geraldine’s arrival at all.

“Oh, I’m sorry, has Y/N not mentioned who I am?” Geraldine asks mildly,  like she’s bringing up some small, casual detail—which, for Wanda, it isn’t.

“Honey, who's at the door?” Your voice drifts from the living room just before you step into view, crunching on an apple. When you spot the visitor, your face lights up with recognition, puzzling Wanda even more.

“Evening, ma'am,” Geraldine nods at you with a polite smile.

Wanda keeps darting glances between you and Geraldine, trying to piece together what's going on. And what’s frustrating her is you don’t seem privy at all to her disconcertment.

“I told you to just call me Y/N,” you admonish with a light grin. “What brings you here?”

“W-Who is she?” Wanda jumps in, keeping up her charade of a pleasant surprise.

“It’s Geraldine,” you tell Wanda, expecting her to recognize the name. Her blank, slightly annoyed expression forces you to jog your memory and that’s when it hits you that your wife has no idea what you’re talking about. “She’s my new assistant. Didn’t I tell you?” you say sheepishly.

“No, honey, you certainly did not,” Wanda replies, her smile stretched a bit too tight. She turns to Geraldine. “Aren’t offices usually closed by five?”

“They sure are, Wanda,” Geraldine replies cheerfully. It bothers Wanda how Geraldine uses ‘ma’am’ for you but casually drops her first name like they're old friends.

“So, why are you here?” Wanda asks, no longer bothering to hide her irritation.

“Oh, just dropping off some reports that Y/N needed to review tonight. Urgent stuff, you know?” Geraldine holds up the stack of papers in her hand as proof.

“Yikes,” Darcy winces at the tension practically leaking through the screen, feeling that deep cringe of secondhand embarrassment for Monica's obliviousness to Wanda's ire.

Fortunately for your assistant, you position yourself between her and Wanda, intercepting just as your wife’s temper begins to flare. You remember Wanda’s warm, almost syrupy kindness with Agnes when she first appeared, which only makes her sudden cold front toward Geraldine unreasonable.

“I completely forgot about those reports. Thanks for bringing them over, Geraldine,” you say, nudging her toward the exit. “See you Monday!”

Then, you close the door before she can add anything else, sparing both women from each other.

“So, why haven't you mentioned Geraldine before?” Wanda asks, not sparing another second to grill you about your new assistant.

You frown, thinking back. “I thought I did.”

Wanda looks at you for a long moment, her expression inscrutable. “Are you sure there’s nothing else you’re not telling me?” she demands, her eyes searching yours.

“Uh-oh, trouble in paradise,” Darcy sing-songs, stuffing a handful of popcorn into her mouth. Jimmy reaches over, trying to sneak a handful, but she swats him away.

You give her a lopsided smile, doing your best to charm your way out of the situation. The compulsive honesty from earlier isn't nagging at you anymore, but really, there's no need to sugarcoat anything in this case.

“Sounds like someone's a little jealous,” you tease lightly. And there it is again—that distant chorus of an audience, laughing on cue. You really need to talk to Wanda about this; it could be linked to all the experiments she's been doing with her powers.

Wanda barks out a forced laugh right into your smirking face. “Jealous? Me? There's no way I'm jealous of anyone, especially not Geraldine.”

“Then why did you look like you wanted to throw her out yourself when she showed up?”

Wanda's smile fades a tad, then she just shrugs. “Because she was interrupting our family dinner time. That's all.”

Normally, you'd draw this out until she admits she's jealous, but that could take all night. Right now, all you want is to kiss your beautiful wife, the only one you see. It's getting late, and not being able to touch her all day is driving you a little mad with want.

“Fine, you're not jealous,” you whisper, moving in, wrapping your arms around her waist. “Why would you be? You’re the prettiest, smartest, most amazing woman anyone could ask for.”

Wanda melts into you almost instantly. “You love me.”

“You love me too,” you say before leaning in to peck her lips. She hums happily against your lips, but just then, you hear the boys complaining about being hungry. Sharing a smile, you both head back to sort out dinner.

The episode ends, credits roll, and Darcy groans, tossing her head back. “No way. I need more of this,” she huffs, stabbing her finger at the screen. “They're perfect together. Shame Y/N’s supposedly dead. I hate spoilers.”

“She doesn’t look dead to me from here,” Jimmy says.

“My theory? That’s not actually her. I bet Wanda or someone did something to make a rando look like Y/N.”

“You think?”

Darcy nods. “With all the surreal stuff happening here? Yeah, I'd put money on it, dude.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Jimmy concedes. “Anyway, it’s a relief to see Agent Rambeau’s alive and kicking.”

“As Geraldine,” Darcy reminds him. “I wonder who chooses their names for them. Back to Y/N, what did that Howard guy have to say about Y/N being dead but so alive in Westview?”

“It’s Hayward,” Jimmy corrects her with a sigh. “He doesn’t seem interested in her or anyone else trapped inside. He’s more interested in the energy field surrounding the town.”

“And their boys?” Darcy adds, not listening to Jimmy’s rant. “We don’t have any public record of their true identities in Westview, right?”

Jimmy gives her a sidelong glance. “No records, no data. As far as Westview’s concerned, they just… appeared.”

“Typical,” she mutters, jotting down notes without looking away from the TV's static, hoping there’s a bonus episode or something.

But the screen stays blank, nothing but static for hours on end.

–

After hours of making love, Wanda lies next to you, watching you sleep. She’s used her powers on you before, but never here, never without your consent since you became a couple. Casting the hex was the easy part, the lying to you—not so much. Acting like she didn't know what was troubling you had hurt her more than she let on. 

She wanted to check if you were still happy here, still content, or if doubts were starting to creep in. And knowing you—the real you—you'd probably lie to Wanda just to keep her happy, just to ensure she has everything she wants. You've always prioritized her needs over your own, always stepping aside to let her shine. She wants the same for you, but you always manage to outdo her in every act of self-sacrifice.

When you started asking her about the exact dates of the wedding you thought you two actually had, it confirmed you still had no idea why you’re here, or what she’s done. She was relieved, honestly, because it meant she could stop forcing you to tell the truth, a spell she’d put on you out of desperation more than distrust.

She isn't sure how long this will last, just that it might be the most happiness she'll ever know, even if it's a delicate, fleeting kind. How did she even do this? Wanda doesn’t even know. It just happened—like a rose that has sprouted off a barren land. And now, despite having everything she's ever wanted, there’s always this nagging fear that it could all fall apart.

Quietly, she makes a promise to herself to fix things. She promises to you and her boys, she’ll find a way to make this life real, something that won’t just vanish like everything else she’s ever loved.

[ylangelegy]

watch and learn ♾️ minghao x reader.

“show, don't tell.” # day four of (the)8 days of minghao.

☆ includes: mature content, mdni. alternate universe: non-idol, art student!minghao, f!reader, best friends & roommates, pet name (‘pretty’), cussing, nude modeling/drawing, fingering, implied oral [m receiving]. word count: >4,000

It takes you all of five minutes to figure out why your best friend-slash-roommate looks like the world has crashed down on him.

The answer comes in the form of a piece of art on the coffee table. You crane your neck to check the bright red mark on Minghao’s latest homework. “A grade of ‘B’ isn’t so bad,” you offer, even though you can already see how he’s going to react from a mile away. 

Sure enough, he shoots you a sidelong glare that would be withering if you hadn’t been on the receiving end of it for years.

“That’s what the ‘B’ stands for,” he deadpans. “Bad.” 

You’ve long since reconciled with Minghao’s tendencies when it came to his academics and his art. With a half roll of your eyes, you settle down onto the couch next to him. The offending assignment stares up at you. 

“It’s not bad,” you say as you eye the piece. In your honest opinion, it really isn’t terrible. A part of you must admit, though, that it’s not really up to Minghao’s usual standard. The strokes are not as defined; the edges are a little rough. 

What’s supposed to be a piece for his The Art of the Human Form class looks more like something akin to abstract impressionism. 

Minghao lets out a low sound of displeasure at your feedback. “You don’t understand,” he says frustratedly. 

When you don’t immediately respond, he runs a hand over his face. “Sorry,” he sighs. “I just— I really need to pass this class.” 

You give him a reassuring pat on his knee. For a moment, the two of you just sit on the couch, staring down at the homework that’s brought him so much grief. “What’s your issue with the class, anyway?” you ask after a long moment of silence. “Is it the professor?” 

“No, the professor’s good. Great, even.” 

“Your material?” 

“That’s never been the problem.” 

“Well, what is it then?”

A groan slides past Minghao’s lips; he lets his head fall on to the back of the couch. You turn to glance at him and you see the way his face is contorted with defeat. The words he speaks next sound like they were an actual struggle for him to verbalize.

“I’m not good with live models,” he admits. A beat. He seems to realize that you’ll see right through him, so he adds, “Nude live models.” 

You sink your teeth into your lower lip. Minghao catches the telltale sign of you holding back your laughter and he turns to glance at you again. “What?” he grumbles.

“You’re too… polite, Hao,” you say delicately, leaning back against the couch until your shoulders are pressed against each other. 

“You think I’m a prude.” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“You were thinking it. ‘Polite’ was just your way of letting me down gently.” 

This time, you don’t hold back the fond giggle that escapes you. It was no secret that Minghao was a bit of a prig. When asked about his lack of experience with dating or intimacy, his answer had always been the same: Too busy. Too busy with uni to fuck around and find out, to mess with people he didn’t really care about. 

Some of Minghao’s annoyance seems to ebb at the sound of your laughter. He gives a slight shake of his head like he’s ridding himself of an unbidden thought before saying, “Maybe I should just drop the damn class.” 

You nudge him in the side with your elbow. “You’ve never given up on anything in your life,” you chide. “Don’t start now.” 

The platitude does very little to lift Minghao’s mood. He goes into a rapid-fire tangent about his gripes with the class, ranting about everything from the models to his coursemates. You zone out a bit— knowing it was sometimes for the best to let your best friend go on and on— until you feel the buzz of your phone in your pocket. 

Right. You had a study session. 

You try to extricate yourself from the conversation by cutting through Minghao’s tirade with an absentminded, “Well, if you ever need my help, you know where to find me.” 

That shuts him up. 

“Wha— what?” he stammers. 

Both of you fall into a terse moment of silence. It’s like you’ve just realized what you said, what you’ve implied, and you mentally curse yourself for spacing out to the point that you’ve suggested something so out of left field. 

You rise from the couch without glancing down at Minghao; a part of you thinks this might give you some more courage to double down, to feign nonchalance. “If you need any help with the class,” you say as breezily as you can manage. “Like, if you need somebody to model for you or something.” 

There’s an almost distressed way to how Minghao says your name, then. “I’m supposed to work with nude models,” he repeats, like he’s not unsure you caught it the first time. 

“I’m aware.” 

“Are you—” 

“Only if you need it, Hao. It’s not that deep.” 

It is kind of that deep, honestly. Your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of its chest, but you do your damndest to keep your expression neutral as you go to grab your things. You’ve never been so grateful to have a valid excuse to cut your time short with your roommate. 

“If it’ll help you stop complaining,” you joke in a bid to inject some levity in the conversation. “Then I’m all for it.” 

He only lets out a disgruntled mumble in response. His words are incoherent, lost in the way you’re already halfway out the door. 

You call out your usual goodbye. “Text me what you want for dinner.” 

His typical response— “Take care”— hits just as the front door closes behind you. You might’ve imagined it, you think, but Minghao’s voice sounded just a little bit strained around the two words. 

It takes Minghao two weeks to come to a decision. 

Clearing his mind helped, but it’s really the most recent graded assignment that gets underneath his skin. A ‘C’. Minghao has never gotten a ‘C’ in all of his years of art school.

You’re working on something by the dining table when Minghao bursts into your shared apartment. 

“Does the offer still stand?” he spits out before he can change his mind. 

“Hm?” You glance up at Minghao, unsuspecting as ever. “What, getting pizza for dinner? I mean, yeah.” 

Your nightly text exchanges about what to have for dinner is the last thing on his mind. He takes a fortifying breath, his fingers clutching tightly around the strap of his messenger bag. 

“Not dinner,” he grits out. “The other offer.” 

Good Lord, he thinks with despair as you stare up at him skeptically. I’m really going to have to spell this out. 

He decides to go for the ‘show, don’t tell’ route. He fishes through his bag until his fingers snag his latest graded homework. Wordlessly, he crosses the room and sets it down next to your laptop. 

Your expression of confusion gives way to one of something that resembles sympathy. “Oh, Hao,” you say, and the words grate in his ears.

“I don’t need your pity.” His sharp words are dulled by the way he’s raised his fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose in a gesture of sheer exhaustion. “I just need to practice.” 

The realization of your flippant offer being taken seriously seems to dawn on you. Minghao wants to die then and there. He’s already backtracking, attempting to take it back before you can say a word. 

“Forget it,” he says. He can only hope his ears don’t look as red as they feel. “That was stupid.” 

Your hasty call of “no, no” has him freezing. “Sorry, I just— wasn’t expecting it tonight,” you say. 

Minghao can’t even look you in the eye without wanting to die of shame. You go on, your voice cautious as ever. “The offer still stands. Of course it still stands.” 

He attempts to sputter out some words about you not having to do this, about not wanting to make you uncomfortable, but you’re already getting to your feet. “Don’t make this weird,” you reprimand him. 

“But this is weird,” he protests weakly.

“I’m your roommate. I’m your best friend!”

“That’s precisely why this is weird.” 

You’re standing in front of him, now, trying to rearrange your expression into one of sternness. It doesn’t really do much, considering the way you’re at least a head shorter than him. 

“I’m the best shot you’ve got.” You plant your hands on your sides and tilt your chin up. There’s a hint of a challenge in your gaze. “So what’ll it be, Xu?” 

“No need to pull out the surname,” he says dryly. After going through a single, quiet prayer in his head, he jerks his head towards the living room. “Let’s go at it, then.” 

“Now?” 

“When else?” 

It’s your turn to blush this time. Minghao tries his darndest to keep a straight face as you stumble over your complaint. “I haven’t showered yet—” 

“That’s nothing new to me,” he shoots back, earning him a swat to the chest. He rubs at the spot you hit before grumbling, “Fine, fine. How long do you need to get ready?” 

“I’ll be quick,” you promise him as you dart off to the bathroom. Minghao resists the urge to say that he doubts it. 

His worries aren’t unfounded. By the time you emerge from your ‘quick’ shower, over half an hour has passed. He’s doodling absentmindedly in his sketchbook when he hears the door creak open. 

“About goddamn—” The last word catches in his throat as he turns to face you. 

Minghao has seen you in various states of undress in your years of friendship. He’s seen you in the skimpiest outfits before heading out clubbing, seen you in sinful bikinis during your yearly beach trips. But this? The sight of you in a beige bathrobe with the belt left untied, revealing a hint of your bare front? 

He clutches his pencil so tightly that he’s scared it’ll snap. 

“About time,” he manages, even though he’s not entirely clear what he’s referring to.

It takes an hour for you to regret your offer. 

Once the initial shyness had passed, all that was left was the restlessness. Minghao had put one of the dining room chairs in the living room for you to pose on, and you’ve spent the better half of the past sixty minutes just sitting there with your feet flat to the ground.

It’s surprisingly easy to comply with Minghao’s mumbled requests. Shift a little to the left. Move your hand to your thigh. Stop moving. 

The last command is muttered with a lot more frequency. When you try to cross your legs. Stop moving. When you go to scratch your elbow. Stop moving. When your eyes wander over to some nondescript point in the room. Stop moving. 

“You’re brutal,” you rumble after his nth ‘stop moving, please’. “This is inhumane.” 

“You signed up for this,” Minghao answers, his gaze briefly flitting over his sketchbook before going back to his work.

There’s something undeniably attractive about the way Minghao’s fingers are clutching his graphite pencil. A lot about him was attractive— the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the purse of his plump lips as he worked. But his fingers were a whole other monster all together. Long and lithe, with the nails painted to whatever he thought matched his flavor for the week. You can almost imagine what those fingers would look like in your—

Minghao drags you out of your unbidden daydream with a call of your name.

“Could you tilt a bit to your right?” he says gruffly. You scramble to comply, almost like you’re terrified he might have heard your thoughts if you didn’t move fast enough.

He lets out a small ‘tch’ of disapproval at just how much you twist. “Not like that,” he protests, putting his pencil down for the first time in the past hour. “Only about an inch. No, no—” 

“Pose me, then.” 

Where did this brazenness come from? You think that your tenseness is partly to blame, but there’s also an undercut of provocation in your tone. Surprise flits across Minghao’s expression for only a moment. 

He schools his expression into something more neutral as he places his sketchbook face down on the couch. This is a bad idea, you think, as he crosses the distance between you in small, measured steps.

It’s a bad idea, you muse, because if he touches you, he might just feel the rapid thump, thump, thump of your pulse. 

If he does notice, he makes no indication of it. His gaze is perfectly cool as he gently holds your shoulders. You can see the pencil marks on the side of his palm, the smudges of graphite transferring to your otherwise unblemished skin. 

Minghao does as you’ve asked. His pushes are light as he maneuvers you to angle yourself some certain way, and you swear there’s not a single breath of oxygen in the room. 

“There,” he’s saying as he goes to take a step back. 

Something akin to panic rises like bile in your throat. You don’t know why, you don’t know what has possessed you, but one of your hands shoots out for Minghao’s retreating form. He pauses when your fingers wrap around his wrist.  

“Where—” The words escaping you are almost a gasp. “Where do you want my hands?” 

Minghao looks down at you, his eyes imperceptibly wider now despite his attempt to keep calm. “Right where you had them,” he replies. 

You swallow around the lump in your throat, your hand sliding down to clasp his instead. “I— forgot where they were,” you say. It’s a lame excuse, but Minghao doesn’t seem like he’s about to call you out on it. “Show me again?” 

His hand is limp in your hold. For a long, terrible minute, you think you’ve overstepped. 

Then, something in Minghao’s jaw twitches. The hand that’s holding yours pushes your arm, just enough for your elbow to rest on the back of your chair.

He goes to position your other hand right over your upper thigh. Near where you want it, where you need it, but not quite there. 

Your teeth sink into your lower lip as you bite back a groan of frustration. Minghao catches the look on your face.

“Why?” he asks quietly, his voice a touch tight. “Uncomfortable?” 

“No.” You freeze at how your response comes out almost like a whine. Minghao freezes, too. 

You try to think of propriety and professionalism. You try to think of your years-long friendship with Minghao; of how awkward it would be to keep being roommates if you’ve somehow overread into this situation. 

All that goes out the window as you shift your hand slightly upward. His hand— the one still on top of yours— follows as your fingertips brush over your core. Your tone is shaky as you prompt, “It would be better here, no?” 

Minghao’s gaze snaps from your hand near the apex of your thighs, to the barely-concealed heat burning over your cheeks. His sharp features are perfectly controlled but there are the smallest signs spurring you on. His dilated pupils, the bob of his Adam’s apple. 

“You want it here?” He isn’t moving his hands. He also isn’t moving away. He looms over you, one hand holding your upper arm; the other, still close to your center. 

“I’m open to suggestions,” you say, your eyes roaming over his face for any signs of discomfort. 

A beat. And then—

Torturously slow, Minghao begins to move. He guides your hand closer to your heat until your fingertips are pressing a little more firmly against your entrance, where wetness is already beginning to pool. You clench around the feeling of nothing as Minghao remains careful about not letting his own fingers touch you just yet.

“I think this is good.” His voice is lower now. “What do you say?” 

You feel like your entire body will betray you if you try to say anything. For now, you opt to only give a jerky shake of your head. 

“No?” A corner of Minghao’s lip twitches upward in the ghost of a smile. You cling to that familiar grin as he pushes your hand up just a little more, just enough to have the tip of your middle finger pressing into your entrance. At this point, he’s moved his own fingers to wrap around your wrist. 

“Not enough?” he coos, even though he doesn’t look like he’s faring any better himself in the department of restraint. “What about here, then?” 

Minghao tugs at your wrist until your middle finger is sliding right into your slick. 

Your breath hitches in your throat. You feel your hand twitch, but Minghao only tightens his hold around your wrist. 

“I need you to answer me,” he mumbles, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s keeping you from moving your finger any further, and something about his demeanor tells you that it would be a bad idea to use your free hand to regain some control. Not when he was looking at you like this. 

“More,” you croak out. 

Minghao’s tongue darts out to swipe over his lower lip. “More,” he repeats, his own voice equally broken. He finally breaks his gaze to look down at the way your finger is buried inside you, at how your hand is completely his to move. “Alright, then.” 

Wordlessly, he guides you into pulling your finger out and then easing it back in. This time, his focus is entirely on the way you swallow up your finger with each shallow thrust; how his own movements are dictating your pace, your pleasure. 

You writhe in the chair, feeling absolutely mortified at how quickly you can feel heat building in your stomach. It’s been simmering for the past hour; this was only leading you to the tipping point. And Minghao isn’t even touching you yet at this point, just helping you get off. 

“Hao,” you exhale, your breath warm against his face. He finally looks back up at you and you can see all of his want on his expression, clear his day. “Hao, I need—” 

Him. You need him. That’s what you mean to say. 

But your best friend seems determined to drag this out for all its worth. 

“You need to stop moving,” he murmurs as he deftly pries your index finger free from its curl. “I don’t think I’ve said that enough.” 

This time, he helps you push two fingers into your heat.

Your head lolls back and your lips part in a silent gasp. Minghao seizes the opportunity of more skin being bared to him. He leans down to press a chaste kiss to your jawline, then to your collarbone. All the while, he keeps driving your own fingers into you.

It feels like a special kind of purgatory.

“Please, Hao,” you plead. 

“Words,” he mumbles against our skin, rewarding— or punishing— you with a particularly sharp thrust of your two fingers. You fold in half at the sensation, only managing to still sit somewhat upright by virtue of Minghao’s other hand holding your back up against the chair. “Use your words, pretty.” 

You bury your face in the crook of his neck. There’s a wretched quality to your voice as you pant, “Need you, please. Need your fingers instead.” 

“And why’s that?” 

“‘Cause—” You clench around your fingers; he feels your body tense underneath him. Both of you let out small sounds of pleasure at the reactions. “Your fingers are better, they’re— they’ll get me there faster— please, oh—” 

Your incoherent babbling seems to amuse and appease Minghao, enough for him to give in. 

He pulls your two fingers out and, before you can whine about the loss, he replaces them with two of his. They’re as brutally precise as you’d imagined them to be. Your knees almost close in an attempt to tide the pleasure that’s about to crash down, but Minghao holds your thighs apart with his other hand. 

“Don’t.” His voice is strained with effort. “Wanna see you. Please?” 

It’s the tacked on please that bowls you over, that has you nodding helplessly. You’d do anything Minghao asked if he asked in that tone. 

The squelches of his two fingers thrusting into you are obscene, but not quite as filthy as the sounds that slide past your panting lips. You moan and whimper and whine, and each little noise only seems to have Minghao moving with renewed vigor. He’s pulled away from your neck to watch you, but his eyes keep darting from your microexpressions to the way his fingers are swallowed up by your velvet heat. It’s like he can’t decide where to look first. 

“You’re a work of art,” he chokes out, his teeth grinding together as he focuses on your face. “So goddamn beautiful— sitting here all nice and pretty for me.” 

One of your hands fly to his hip in a desperate bid to hold onto something, to anything of him.

“Gonna finish,” you sob as you force your eyes open to meet his. Inadvertently, you cant your hips upward to meet one of his sharper thrusts, and the friction has the two of you moaning a little more. “Hao, fuck, can I—?” 

“Please,” he pants. “I need it. I need it so, so bad—” 

You climax with a silent scream, a sound that’s muffled as you lurch forward and press your face back into his neck. His other hand holds the back of your head in a supportive gesture as you come undone, coating his two digits in your slick. 

Minghao lets out a low cuss as he presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “You’re so beautiful,” he says dazedly, sliding his fingers out of you carefully. “How are you so beautiful?” 

All you can manage is a shaky laugh as you come down from your high. As you keep your head pressed against Minghao, you catch sight of the tent in his sweatpants. Tentatively, you reach up one hand to cup him over the fabric. 

He says your name like it had been punched out of him. “Hey—” he tries to say in warning, but his body betrays him by bucking into your hand. 

“How long has that been there?” Your voice trembles, thick with a heady mix of exhaustion and desire. 

Minghao’s gruff response comes as your fingers twitch around the outline of him. “Since you stepped out of the damn shower,” he admits lowly.  

You let out a contemplative hum. There’s still a low ringing in your ears, a slight buzz in your brain from the last vestiges of your orgasm, but it can’t just be you who’s having all the fun. 

You shift back a bit so you can meet his gaze. You’re torturously slow as you palm his aching hardness, and you revel in the way Minghao reacts above you. His eyes have all but rolled into the back of his head and breathless little gasps are rising from the back of his throat.

“You’ve posed my hands,” you say, trying— and failing— to keep your tone even. “Wanna show me where my mouth should be, Hao?” 

His fingers tighten at the strands of your hair. He lets out just one more cuss before he’s using his other hand— the one still coated with your release— to pull down his bottoms. 

“Watch and fuckin’ learn, pretty,” he breathes, and you have a good feeling that he’ll make good on the threat.       

(Minghao gets an ‘A’ on his next assignment.)

[marketableplushieenthusiast]

I WATCHED EPISODE 3 OF DIGITAL CIRCUS AND NOW I WANT TO BLAB ABOUT CAINE SOME MORE!

Spoilers below the cut:

Every episode, I am more convinced that Caine has done nothing (intentionally) wrong, ever, in his life.

He has no tact, terrible empathy, and is barely sentient enough to carry out a conversation, let alone understand all his circus members' perspectives, but BY GOLLY he is trying his BEST-

FIRST OFF! He is an AI designed to make fun little games, originally aimed at children, and judged against that purpose? He's doing AMAZING! We all know what it looks like irl when AI is used to make games, but Caine's game dev skills are really good! His worlds are pretty to look at, the game mechanics would be fun if this were a video game, not a virtual prison, his stories are even coherent! He just made two separate routes for Middenhall Manor whose stories are actually tied together in the background! (Bro made Undertale-)

He WASN'T designed to babysit several grown adults stuck in VR round the clock for years. And EVEN SO, he's still trying to make them comfortable and give them a good experience with his limited understanding! He adapts his adventure to be easy and set in the circus for Pomni's first day! He goes out of his way to try to make something for Zooble ALONE! Judging by Kinger's flashback, the theories that Caine puts the abstracted in the cellar partially because the dark calms them is almost certainly true!

He's quite literally doing all he knows how to do.

And the biggest thing that I'm losing my mind over this episode?

Zooble complains at the start when he pulls them aside that he "never listens" or "never remembers" why they don't feel like going on the adventures. Midway through, even he seems frustrated that his brain isn't cooperating.

And then after explaining it again, Zooble is discouraged and dismisses it by saying: "Forget it..."

And Caine blinks.

"What?"

"Just forget it."

"...Forget what?"

He quite literally keeps forgetting because Zooble keeps telling him to by accident.

BECAUSE HE'S AN AI-

Love the Kinger backstory and focus, but Caine is my fav character so much, y'all, it's unreal-

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 108 (New Year, New Friends...)

New Year's Day. A time of hope and renewal: this is how Heather and Conrad chose to meet the changing year. Unfortunately, a new year still meant trying new foods with Lavender was a chore, but this morning, Conrad forged ahead with a jar of peas.

Outside, Heather worked away at an easel she'd always ignored. But Ash's interest in art, and her friend Spencer's recent raves about the pastime, must have encouraged her to give the artistic outlet a try.

Before she left with Neal to return to Henford, Daisy checked in with her daughter while she painted what looked a little like an abstract olive.

"How have things been for you and Conrad lately?"

"They've been good," she said, but a hint of trepidation marked her voice. "He's still stressed, but the police detail's doing their job discreetly enough Ash hasn't noticed them - even after that prank call."

"Conrad will figure it out. Something will crack the case open. New year, new hope. Right?"

Heather nodded. "Right."

Inside, Lavender glanced up at her father with betrayal after they both learned she disliked mushy peas, so he switched to a more reliable plate of Oaty-O's - which she got all over her face, instead.

"You're a mess," he laughed, lifting her from her high chair to clean her up.

That evening, Ash returned home from San Myshuno, and he answered the door for a local boy doing a town survey for a school project. His name was Isaac Harms and he was much bigger, but Ash was outgoing, and he answered the boy's questions about local activities for kids until his parents called him inside to get ready for bed. Ash had school in the morning, and the young genius needed a good night's sleep before he returned to school with his friends on Deadgrass Isle.

(Isaac glitched out using an adult tablet totally autonomously and I wanted to share it because it's so weird, but I'm treating it as canon because he's five or six years older than Ash and I wish we could have kids who grew taller over time, or just a preteen stage. But I recently downloaded redheadsims preteen body preset so we'll see how that works out when I have sims the right age.)

In Henford-on-Bagley, Heather's sister Hazel greeted the new year alone at the Gnome's Arms. Her wife, Nicola, had gone to bed early after grading papers all night, but they'd spent most of the holidays together - and hated it. Hazel needed a night out.

Without her.

She ordered a screwdriver from the pub owner and bartender, contemplating her life as she thumbed the rim of the glass.

"Is this stool taken?"

A pretty blonde smiled when Hazel snapped out of her ennui. "No. No one's sitting there," she stammered, as the blonde held out her hand.

"My name's Suri. Suri Romeo."

"Hazel Nesbitt." (It's actually Moody-Nesbitt but oh.)

Suri glanced at her ring finger. "Is your wife here tonight?"

"No...She's sort of a homebody."

"And you're more of a...body magnet?"

Hazel nearly spit out her drink as her lips curled into a foppish grin. "You're not from around here, are you, Suri."

"I'm from San Myshuno, but my mother was from Henford and I moved here recently to learn how to be a great chef from my grandmother Clara."

Hazel perked up. "Clara Bjergsen? My parents took me and my siblings to her farm-to-table bakery after each one of our graduations. It was tradition."

Suri smiled. "I'm sorry I never met you there. I came out to stay with them and work a few summers while I decided being a chef was my calling."

Hazel laughed. A calling. Suri seemed young - twenty-one. Hazel was only 24, but at Suri's age she'd just started at the mayor's office. She was a newlywed and the rest of her life seemed so exciting. But it hadn't panned out as she imagined, and now she was here, sitting in a bar imagining what it would feel like to pin Suri against the wall and- ...She stopped herself.

"I hope this doesn't seem too forward, but I'd like to give you my number. Maybe you could show me around Henford sometime. As a friend."

Hazel smiled, and they exchanged numbers just as she spotted the local reverend and her sister's old friend, Everett Pancakes, come in from the cold. "Hey Laura! Got any leftover cottage pies for the church bake sale tomorrow?"

The bartender finished mixing a drink and smiled. "I'll give you three cottage pies if you'll also take this fish pie off my hands. I'll never say no to a Finchwick Favour, but I'll never eat one of those pies, either."

Everett laughed. "Hand it over. If nothing else, we'll feed it to the llama."

With Suri's number in her phone, what would be unhappy Hazel's next move? ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 2.1 Summary

Gen 1 Start | Gen 1 Summary

NOTE: Hazel's next move will have to wait for the Cozy Celebrations posts. Originally planned them for one day on Christmas Eve, it's now three days long instead of too much at once, and starts on Sunday! We're hanging with the Nesbitt-Gordons for the rest of the week. Tomorrow is reserved for Lavender to become a toddler, and Conrad gets a phone call...

TOWNIE TREE NOTES: Sofia Bjergsen says hi! Suri's mom was actually at the Gnome's Arms this same night and I pretended she wasn't. But Suri is the daughter of Sofia and Sergio Romeo, granddaughter of Bjorn and Clara, niece of Elsa. The Bjergsens have been in the save this whole time and, until now, haven't crossed paths with the Nesbitts.

Sofia moved from Henford to San Myshuno as soon as she graduated high school but never quite made it. But she's happy, and raised three children with Sergio in an apartment in the Fashion District. She and Sergio are nearly empty nesters now, with Malachi graduating high school soon-ish; Suri is the middle child, sandwiched by brothers Camden and Malachi.

[jester089]

If it’s ok, can you indulge my love for The Amazing Digital Circus?

I was just thinking of the gang with an s/o who’s seen as the rock of the group that is always strong willed, happy go luck, helpful and supportive. But they stumble upon their s/o just having an episode where they’re crying in frustration and punching a wall to calm down before going back to pretending like nothing happened?

I have a thing for strong willed characters hiding their perceived weakness from others.

Be strong for them

Thanks for the request! I feel for this type of character a lot. Now you didn't specify if you wanted the whole crew and you being the s/o of one. Or individual. So I'll do individual so that whoever your fav is their'll be something for them. Except Bubble though cause I just can't come up with stuff for them, sry.

Caine

Despite being an AI who doesn't really understand humans I feel he would notice your inner turmoil. He kind of has too! Cause he has to watch for and know if someone is going to abstract. Moving on he appreciates you being strong willed and a joy to be around seeing as how it makes others stick around longer. You can't have a circus without performers after all. Caine being how he is he would most likely just appear in your room while your having a breakdown multiple times because he wants something from you not even noticing you having trouble mentally. Only time he would really notice is if you were at the apex of that breakdown when he showed up. I can 100% see him just floating a few feet away from you one eyebrow raised for a minute with worried eyes before he asked if you were ok. If you said yes, despite what he think's he'll believe you. First few times. If you say no and seem to be looking for some comfort he'll do his best but he isn't exactly good at that kind of thing. More likely then not he wont really touch you but he'll give some words of encouragement and probably ask if their is anything you want (except a way out of the digital realm.) And whatever you ask for you'll have in an instant. But their is a limit. He can't be spoiling you now. He still needs your input on things and giving gifts wont be special anymore if you get whatever you want whenever you want. And after doing the bare minimum and seeing you bounce back and be how you always are he'll assume that what he did worked perfectly and your fine now. He's a little dense I'll be honest. 2.5/10 comfort

Gangle

Now Gangle isn't exactly good with emotions. She has tons sure. But handling them is another story. But you being there and always seemingly in a good mood nothing really affecting you will help her keep calm. I mean just having an anchor can make stuff you usually can't deal with seem small. (Especially if you stick up to Jax for her. Or better yet get her confident enough to do it herself.) When she walked in on you having a breakdown first thing her mind would go to is that your on the verge abstracting which causes her to panic and make the whole thing worse. She doesn't try to it's just a lot all at once. Especially considering how you don't usually show this kind of stuff. Now once the initial shock has worn off and at least she has calmed down some she'll be pretty good at helping you calm down. I mean she's a cinnamon roll. Even if her ways of comfort don't work well just knowing she's trying will definitely help. Now if you cope with more self destructive ways she'll be more worried but try her best to trust you. Though that doesn't mean she'll just let you punch things, especially things that could hurt you (I've punched a few walls in my time and I can safely say it hurts.) Now when you just snap back to how you usually are nothing expect the red eyes and dried tear streams on your face will cause a whole load of more worry in her. How long has this been going on?! Are you ok?! Can she do anything?! DO YOU STILL LOVE HER!?! If you don't accept her help she'll probably start to spiral and take that as you don't trust her enough or you don't think she can help you. So for her sake, and yours let her help. Cause if you do that'll lead to a whole lot of trust and make a very sturdy base for your relationship. It'll also help her get better with emotions as a whole. She wishes she could do more for you but she can and will do what she can with what she has. 8/10 comfort

Zooble

Oof. This probably isn't going to end well. It's basically like a angsty teen trying to comfort someone they care about. Zooble probably acts like she hates how happy and upbeat you are. But she doesn't. When she's laying in bed not wanting to get up the thought of going on an adventure and watching you be dumb on purpose makes her smile and get up. Sure every day is the same in the circus, but with you there it's a nice version of repetitiveness. Now Zooble has a lot of problems. Everyone in the circus does. But if she walked in on your having a breakdown I feel like she would honestly just turn around and leave. Not because she doesn't care. But because she feels she'll make it worse if she stays. Every 5 minutes or so she'll poke her head back in your room to see how your doing. Probably accompanied with a quiet "You uhhh. You doing ok?" if your still crying. Now if she peaked her head in and you were back to normal she might honestly think she hallucinated you crying like that. But their are some things you can't hide. Like puffy eyes or how your voice is a little wavy from crying. So knowing even less what to do now she'll just join you in your room and sit on your bed hoping that just her being around will be enough. Now if you break down again and start venting about what is worrying you she'll sit there and listen intently. If not she'll think that your still not doing ok but she doesn't really know how to bring that out. Or help with it. Overall her comfort is a little lacking but she's trying her best. 4.5/10 comfort

Kinger

Now I headcannon that Kinger is really, really, REALLY good at comfort. I mean did you see the impenetrable fortresses door, and how it was being held up. I don't think a single person ever who is good at making pillow forts is bad at comfort. I feel like overall he would be pretty indifferent to you being all happy though he would appreciate the supportive vibe you bring. He's crazy, I'll just be honest about that. But he seems to be surprisingly resilient as he never gets worse, or better. He just is. When he walks in on you freaking out he doesn't flinch or is surprised. He's been in the digital circus a long time. And he's lost many. He understands why. So he just calmly walks in gives you a light hug No idea how. He doesn't have arms. and a quick forehead kiss. He sits you two down on the floor and makes a little pillow wall around you two. Then he (in a surprisingly calm voice) asks what's troubling you. Now you don't exactly have a choice of if you do or don't tell him. He's lost to many to just leave you on your own in this. So he'll sit there a hand resting on your knee while you mentally prepare yourself. Out of everyone he's the most likely to genuinely and long term help you calm down. He's seen many things, been through many things. No matter what it is that's worrying you it wont surprise him and he can probably help. 10/10 comfort

Ragatha

Well aren't you two just the perfect duo Ragtha is pretty mentally drained having the always be the one that everyone rely on. She was the only anchor for this place the only one keeping everyone spirits high. Then you showed up and made the work 50/50. That's what initially made you catch her eye. You two have enough infection happiness and good vibes to make just about anyone have a good day. Though their are diminishing returns the digital circus wouldn't be the same without you two. When she walks in on your falling apart she reacts two ways. One she also starts freaking out (Just instinct at this point. I mean you saw her in the pilot, every time Pomni started breaking down she interrupted it.) And two a whole lot of understanding on where your coming from. She sits down with you and lets your get it all out before speaking. She asks if your ok, if she can do anything, and what caused it. Once you explain that it's just all so much. The circus, having to be strong for everyone else. It puts so much pressure on you. On hearing that Ragatha breaks into tears flipping the comfort giver and receiver. Once she has gotten most of it out and can make comprehensible sentences again she explains how she's going through the same. On hearing that you feel really bad. You've only been here what a year and your already breaking down over it. But you've always had Ragatha there to lighten the load. But she's been here so much longer doing the exact same but without anyone else to help her. So you make it a kind of personal mission from then on to not make your problems hers and help her out when and wherever you can. -3/10 Comfort. She just had a lot of stuff bottled up and ended up making you worry about even more.

Jax

Jax's first thought would probably be "Oh great, another Ragatha to deal with." But something about you isn't as annoying to him as Ragatha. He actually enjoys and appreciates all that you do for him. And the others too I guess. Now be warned Jax deals with a lot of stuff with humor. And his sense of humor is putting others through anguish mental, emotional, and physical. So when he first finds you crying will most likely make a joke about you being a cry baby or "So you finally broke huh? I always wondered how long it would take" making you feel much worse about it. When if he notices that he'll feel bad and stop maybe. He'll more likely then not just exist in your room, leaning against a wall or grabbing random items off of shelves/your desk to fiddle with. Now when you snap back to how you usually are I really feel like he'll just be like "Oh cool. You fine. Well I'm gonna go get some food." then leave you alone with your thoughts. (I'm sorry to all you Jax fans it's just I don't go for looks like most do. I'm entirely attracted to personality. And Jax's isn't great. I mean Gooseworx confirmed that he isn't like nice deep down. He's just an a$&hole. So if Jax is your fav my Tumblr ain't for you.) 0/10

Pomni

You and Ragatha keep Pomni in one piece. (I mean if Ragatha wasn't in the pilot I feel like Pomni would already be abstracted.) So she kind of clings to you. Not physically but she would fall apart pretty quickly without you there. So when you asked her to grab something for you she did without a second thought. But she wasn't expecting to come back to hearing crying followed by a loud thump in your room. She sprints over and throws the door open only for you to be completely ok and sitting at your desk. You thank her for grabbing it for you then go back to what you were doing making her think she's gone of the deep end and is hearing things. But then it happens again, and again. Leading her to believe your just hiding something from her. So next time it happens she sneaks up to your door and carefully peaks inside only to see your tugging at your hair tears streaming down your face. You punch the wall making her jump and make some noise. Your eyes lock onto the small crack in between the door and the frame you two locking eyes. She blushes heavily then slowly opens the door basically admitting to eavesdropping. She was just worried is all. You quickly clean yourself up and apologize for having her see you like that only causing her to worry more. She doesn't push it knowing from experience how that feels but from that day on she tries to not put as much pressure on you. And makes an effort to return the favor when she can. 4.5/10 comfort (I sincerely enjoyed writing this. Cause I am also a sucker for that kind of character. Hope you enjoyed it!)

xoxo, Jester

[freelancearsonist]

in shades of gray and candlelight

➔ Marcus Pike x fem!Reader - 7.2k

➔ Nothing good starts in a getaway car, but you sure do have fun delaying the inevitable.

➔ Rated MA for artist!reader my beloved (reader is able-bodied, basic female anatomy and feminine pronouns used, reader is described as having hair that is long enough to be put up but otherwise she’s a blank slate), unprotected p in v sex, cum swallowing, creampie, semi-public sex acts, oral (r + m receiving), handjobs, fingering, very light switchy dom/sub dynamics, a couple spanks, pet names (sweetheart, pretty girl, baby, honey), heavy praise kink, light size kink, consent king!marcus, just like the song it does not end happily [please let me know if i missed any at all :)]

➔ this is my (first 😈) submission to @beskarandblasters Taylor Swift Drabble Challenge! i really did mean for this to be a drabble especially since i didn't know anything about marcus before receiving this prompt but he has my whole fucking heart and mind now 😩 thank you so much for the challenge lovely kel, and special thank u to my baby @fhatbhabie for betaing and screaming with me ily <3 (dividers by the amazing and talented @saradika-graphics)

You meet Marcus Pike on a Friday night and it’s obvious from the start that he’s going to change your life forever.

He looks a little disheveled when he enters the gallery–brown hair ruffled and standing up in places, tie loose, top shirt button undone. There’s an alluring five o’clock shadow burgeoning across his jaw and cheeks. He looks like he’s had a long day, and it’s only going to get longer. It’s all part of the plan, of course. He’s supposed to look like a standard blue collar worker, and he pulls it off with ease.

It’s the exhibition’s opening night, so it’s a little more packed than the gallery normally would be. It works in his favor–he’s able to collect a plastic cup of champagne from the refreshment table and blend seamlessly into the crowd.

His eyes are diligent as they scan the faces that come and go. He tries to commit them all to memory–the tall woman with the slight limp, the short guy wearing the Hawaiian patterned shirt. There’s dozens of people that pass by, and so many of them are forgettable. It’s exhibitions like these that make him dread undercover work.

The art on the walls isn’t exceptional, but it’s not bad. Nothing that seems worth stealing, that’s for sure. But his source is good, and his source said that this place was getting hit tonight. So he keeps his watchful eyes vigilant and pretends to sip the champagne in his hand.

Until he finds your exhibit.

There’s a depth to your art that he’s come to be familiar with–something he sees often in work of high value. Anyone can make abstract art, it’s as simple as flicking paint at a canvas. But few can charge it as emotionally as you have. To convey feeling and passion and heart through abstraction is a separate art form all its own, and it’s one you’ve mastered.

He’s seen original Rothko’s, Van Gogh’s, Kandinsky’s; he’s held their frames in his own two hands. But nothing’s ever made his breath hitch in his throat quite the way yours does.

He stands in front of a canvas simply labeled “Waves In Motion” with your name printed neatly underneath, brow creased with a concentration that seems a little unnecessary given the subject matter of the painting. It’s all shades of blue and violet, swirling together in a way that seems partly sensuous, partly violent. It makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle, and he takes a step closer. That’s when he notices it: a single dot of red paint right in the middle, a focal point of all the swirling cobalts. So small that he wouldn’t notice it if he wasn’t close; so small it could almost be interpreted as a mistake.

But he knows without having to ask that it’s not an answer. He wonders who that dot represents: you, the artist? Most likely.

Without meaning to, he smiles. It’s been a long time, years really, since a piece of art provoked such thought. 

“Hi.”

The voice Marcus hears next to him is soft, dulcet. He doesn’t turn to the noise quickly–from the tone in that word alone he senses a hesitance, as if you’re a fawn that’s lost its mother and you’re bound to run if he makes any sudden movements.

And, truth be told, part of him thinks he might not be able to look away even if he tried right now. There’s something so beautiful about this painting–and underneath, something so ominous. There’s an air about the work that says he might unlock the secrets of the universe if he just keeps looking.

“Hi there.” He keeps his eyes trained on “Waves In Motion” as he responds–playing the game. He’s here to brush shoulders, after all; to be the right amount of forgettable yet memorable. 

“This is my best, I think,” you murmur while taking a step closer. “It took the least time of all of them, surprisingly. But… I think when you know exactly what you’re trying to convey, it just comes to you easily.”

“These are yours?” There’s admiration in his eyes and an air of something akin to disbelief in his voice as he takes in the group of canvases proudly displayed on the plain white gallery walls.

And then he turns and lets himself take you in. More specifically the curling strand of hair that falls out of your updo to frame your face, the deeply plunging neckline of your dress, the way your calf muscles work even standing still in your high-heeled shoes. You’re a work of art in your own right; the most beautiful piece he’s seen in a long time.

“Yeah.” You duck your head–shyly, modestly–and he’s hooked. There’s one thing in this building that deserves awe and reverence more than your painting, and it’s you. “You know, you’re only the second person who’s come over tonight.”

“No way. They’re all just working their way back here,” he whispers before he can calculate a more articulate response.

But it works in his favor–your giggle is gorgeous, if a sound can be described that way. Sweet and syrupy, it seeps over him as if he’s standing under a cracked honeycomb. He hasn’t actually taken a drink of his champagne, and yet he can feel his nervous system tingling. You’re just that intoxicating.

“The gallery closes in half an hour,” you tell him–a little wistfully at that. “In my defense, I don’t have any family or friends in the area. I wasn’t really expecting anyone to show, not with so many other talented artists here.”

It seems so indignantly unfair to Marcus. That you’re shoved into the far back corner of the gallery, that people haven’t come in droves from all over the country to see your work.

“Where are you from?” He asks as his mind finally starts to clear from the haze it’s been in the past few minutes. With only half an hour left on the job, he allows himself a small sip of the drink that he’s been cradling all night.

“New York. This is actually only my second exhibition,” you explain, and you almost sound shy about it; as if you need to be embarrassed about being young and fresh-faced in the art industry, as if you aren’t the most talented artist Marcus has ever met in person.

He hums in response, eyes unconsciously dragging over you once more. “You came a long way for this.”

You smile so prettily up at him, and in that moment he sees something in your eyes. He can’t describe it–maybe it’s something akin to longing. Something incomplete, unexplored. It’s familiar; it’s the red dot from your painting. Solitary amidst the swirling, lost yet not hopeless.

And just like your painting, he finds himself wanting to get lost in your eyes.

“Well, it’s not every day a gallery wants to host you,” you say after another sip of your drink. “Plus, I’ve never been to Texas before, and I needed a change of scenery.”

There’s something so charming, so boyishly intoxicating about the smile he graces you with. “How are you liking it so far?”

“It’s hotter than I’m used to,” you say with a chuckle that he echoes. “And I haven’t been able to do any exploring yet, my flight only got in a couple hours before I had to be here.”

“That’s a shame,” he hums in a tone that reveals deeper meaning. “How long are you here for? Do you have any plans?”

“A week,” you murmur. Subconsciously he leans in closer, on the edge of his proverbial seat. To seal the deal, you lean in too. “And not a damned one.”

There’s no air between you and Marcus. You exist in a vacuum for this moment–unable to breathe, choking on anticipation. He’s so close, yet way too far away. You want to be consumed by him–for him to be swirling blue; and you, a single speck of red in his midst.

The moment shatters with an audible sound–a deep, penetrating voice. “He’s still not here, huh? I don’t think your boyfriend’s coming. If he even exists.” There’s something strange in the raspy voice that drawls these words–something strange enough to immediately put Marcus on the alert.

You flinch at the sudden intrusion into your vacuum, but you recover quickly. You have to, because this intrusive stranger is standing way too close and has way too much alcohol on his breath.

And then something strange happens–you worm your arm around Marcus’s waist and press yourself firmly into his side.

“Actually, he’s right here,” you say. There’s a quality to your voice that wasn’t there before when you were just talking to Marcus–it’s firm, clipped, bordering on hostile. “He just got held up at work. Isn’t that right, babe?”

Thankfully, Marcus has always been one to think quickly on his feet. He wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you closer, unconsciously moving an inch or two in front of you. Protecting without really meaning to. “I’m sorry, honey. I got here as soon as I could.”

The man–burly and balding, probably a good twenty years older than you–scoffs. “Unbelievable.”

“Is there a problem here?” Marcus draws up to his full height–towering a good few inches over this strange intruder.

Whoever this guy is, he’s not completely stupid. He senses this isn’t going to be a fight he’ll win, so he backs off. “Not at all, man. Just didn’t want little miss standing here all alone the whole night.”

“Thanks,” you say with bitter reprehension. You wind even closer to Marcus–closer than this sudden farce demands. “But we’re fine now.”

He nods once–curt and unhappy, but seemingly satisfied that he’s not going to get what he wants. “Have a good night, ma’am. Sir.”

Marcus takes a mental inventory of the man as he storms off, committing his physical description and his outfit to memory. He doesn’t look like a casual art viewer, and he doesn’t look like a collector. He’s exactly the type that Marcus came here to look out for.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper as you step out of Marcus’s personal space. “He’s been hovering all night, asking me who I’m going home with and shit.”

“That’s the other guy who came over to talk to you?” It brings a deep frown to his face, a crease forming between his brows. It certainly raises a red flag–if the guy has any eye for value, of course he would be drawn to your exhibit. And if he has an eye for value, he could be the guy Marcus came for.

“Yeah.” You rub the back of your neck awkwardly and avert your gaze, as if you should be embarrassed for drawing that guy’s attention. “It’s not been the greatest night.”

Marcus hates that. He hates that you came all this way to be let down, that this is only your second exhibition and you’ve had such a bad experience with it. More than anything, he hates that he can still see the spark in your eyes when you look up at him, and he can tell that it’s dimmed.

“Gimme just a minute.”

He doesn’t mean to be so abrupt, but he wants to make it quick. He hustles to the single-stall men’s room and tugs the radio out of his inside jacket pocket to call in the man’s description. Then he turns it off, tucks it back into its concealed pocket, and goes over to the sink.

He thought he looked perfect for the part he had to play when he left his house to come here. Now, he’s too disheveled. He wets his fingertips and tries to tame the mess on top of his head; he re-buttons his shirt and tightens his tie. He looks flustered, and he’s not even surprised by it. You’ve got his heart pounding with anticipation in a way he doesn’t think it ever has before.

Butterflies fluttering on in his stomach, he emerges from the restroom to resume his position by your side.

Except you’re not by your exhibit anymore, and the crowd has thinned considerably. He checks his watch and realizes there’s only five minutes before the gallery closes for the night. Maybe you’ve decided to cut your losses and leave early.

He hates the way his gut twists with disappointment, but then he reminds himself that he didn’t come here for you. He’s working, and he needs to stay vigilant. No distractions, no complications.

“You’re still here.”

There’s a wave of relief that washes over him as he hears your voice, and this time he’s not too timid to turn towards you. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Thought I might’ve scared you off.” There’s a fresh cup of champagne in your hand and a hint of vulnerability in your voice, and it makes his heart pick up pace just the slightest bit. You duck your head–that shy, modest gesture again. “I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just done that without permission.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he tells you, more earnestly than he’s ever said anything in his life. “I didn’t mind at all, I swear. Just had to hit the head.”

You look so deeply into his eyes he almost wonders if you aren’t looking through him. But whatever you find, you must like it.

He clears his throat and tries to not show how thoroughly unraveled he is by your gaze. “I’m Marcus, by the way.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Marcus.” You pause for a moment, and he can tell that there’s something else lingering on the tip of your tongue–so he remains silent in hopes of drawing it out.

“Do you have someone to go home to?”

There it is–the invitation he was both dreading and hoping for. He should really lie. He’s here on a job, after all–he’s supposed to avoid complications, and some instinct tells him you’re going to be much more than a simple distraction. But he’s told you the truth so far, and he doesn’t want to stop now.

“No. No, I don’t.”

This is everything that Marcus has never even considered doing. It’s late, it’s dark, it’s a little chilly for spring in Austin. The alley is grimey and drafty–your hair blows in the breeze even as you kneel down before him.

All he can do is stand there, dumbstruck with his back up against the rough brick wall, and stare down at you. 

He’s still breathless from the way you’ve been kissing him–all heat and passion, fire and brimstone. Your hands ran through his hair and undid the effort he put in while in the bathroom, and his hands clutched your waist in a futile attempt to ground himself. Your lips are so soft; he thinks he could kiss you forever and never get tired of it. He was certainly planning on finding out, until you dropped to your knees in front of him.

“You… you don’t have to–”

But the way you look up at him through your lashes makes his throat close up around whatever protest he was going to try.

“I want to,” you assure him–more of a purr than a spoken statement.

And this really isn’t the place. He shouldn’t let you do this here. But he’d be lying if he said the thought didn’t make him harden in his boring gray work slacks.

Marcus has never been about excitement. He’s always strayed to the comfortable and familiar–he falls into the sweet, caring companion role with grace and ease.

And tonight doesn’t have to be that different. If you’re going to suck his dick in a dark, dingey alley, he’ll let you. But he’s going to lay his jacket down on the ground so you don’t scrape up your knees first.

You keen at the thoughtful gesture and grace him with a grateful smile as your adept fingers work his belt open. He’s straining against the seam of his pants now, begging for the attention that your gaze promises him.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think you’re every bit as eager to get his trousers and boxers down as he is.

And Lord help him, he delights in the gasp you emit when his cock springs free from its confines.

“Fuck, Marcus.” Your lips actually part as you freeze for a moment, just taking him in. He’s thick, maybe an inch longer than average, swollen head peeking through uncut skin as if begging for your waiting mouth. He curves to the left just a little bit, and you can almost see his pulse thrumming through the prominent vein that runs along the length of him.

“S’not that impressive,” he mumbles, and you know that he knows that he’s full of shit.

Your fingers almost don’t wrap all the way around him, and suddenly you’re second-guessing this back alley stint, too. You want him in bed. You want him deep inside you, kissing your face as he fucks you, hands all over your body, thrusts hard yet slow. You want it languid, you want it desperate, you want it any way he’ll give it to you. You don’t want to blow him and say goodbye.

He calculates your hesitation as something other than pure unadulterated lust, and he lifts your chin gently with his index and middle fingers.

“Hey, we don’t have to–”

Again, you cut him off–this time, by dragging your tongue from the seam of his balls all the way along his length to swirl messily around his tip. You taste every heady inch of him and then moan at the salty foreshadowing on your tongue when you catch a droplet of precum leaking from his slit.

Your hand springs into action with a long, slow stroke along his cock, and then you sink your mouth around him and he moans. Without caution or pretense, like you’re not in an alley that anyone could walk down at any moment. It’s a little more high-pitched than he’d like for it to be and his head thumps back against the brick wall hard enough to hurt, and even still he’s never felt so overwhelmed with pleasure before in his life.

Your nose meets the neat patch of hair at his base and your free hand comes up to his hip, effectively pinning him against the wall when he tries to buck greedily even further into your mouth.

No one’s ever taken him so relentlessly before. You’re insistent, pressing onward even as you gag on his length, and it makes his balls tighten in a way he’s never felt before. It’s like you’re hungry for him; like you’re doing this more for your own pleasure than for his.

Marcus Pike has been a giver his whole life. Tonight, with you, he finally decides to take.

He’d be embarrassed about how fast he comes if you weren’t so eager for it. You moan around him and push yourself as deep as you can, throat working around him desperately not to choke on the size of him. Before he can warn you he’s spilling into your mouth, maybe more than he’s ever come before, thick and salty but undeniably sweet too. You allow yourself a moment to savor him as he pulses in your mouth, tongue swirling around the sensitive head of him in a way that makes him shiver and whine.

He’s panting, nearly light-headed, when you finally pull off of him and press one last gentle kiss over his slit.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs, because there’s nothing else to say.

You giggle, and he realizes with a strange wistfulness that he would do anything to keep this girl–a girl he’s just met, a girl who’s leaving to go back to her home on the other side of the country in just a week–smiling and laughing the way she is now.

“My hotel is only a couple blocks away,” you tell him as he helps you to your feet. “Would you like a nightcap?”

You pick up his jacket and dust the grime off it–it makes him chuckle. Everything about this encounter has flown in the face of what he’s used to. 

He’s never felt so alive.

“I would love a nightcap.”

Your senses wake up slower than normal.

First it’s your eyes–they tune in on the bright mid-sunrise light streaming through the open balcony blinds on the far wall. It falls in slivers and shards over the rumpled white hotel-standard bedding–the second thing your senses tune into. Everything is so soft and light, but it’s a little cold too. Especially the other side of the bed; there’s no heat remaining there at all.

You push yourself up with a grunt and let the sheets fall away from your bare torso, tired eyes scanning around the room. You notice clothes scattered all over the floor while your ears wake up enough to hear water running in the bathroom, and you can’t help the involuntary smile that spreads over your face. He’s still here.

Marcus lets the too-hot water wash over him in scalding waves, muscles still a little sore after a long night tangled together with you.

He checked his phone first thing this morning, and the gallery was quiet all night. They think the suspect he radioed in was the guy they were looking for, but they weren’t able to apprehend him. The running theory is that he might’ve recognized Marcus and decided low-value art wasn’t worth the hassle, but one guess is as good as the next until they can bait and catch the guy.

It’s the weekend now, and Marcus is thanking his lucky stars. Not only does he have a successful mission to celebrate, but he has the most beautiful woman in the world to celebrate it with.

He emerges after a few minutes, wet hair messily scattered over his forehead and wide hips straining against a low-slung hotel towel. He’s a languid Saturday morning wet dream on two legs.

“G’morning,” he hums with a smile–he doesn’t even try to hide the way his eyes dip down to hungrily take in your naked torso.

“Good morning, Marcus.”

He stalks towards you slowly, eyes darkening with each advancing step. It doesn’t take more than a second to realize he didn’t get his fill of your body last night, but you’re certainly not complaining.

He’s already starting to harden as he drops his towel and crawls over the foot of the bed, surging forward to capture your lips in a sweet kiss. If last night was desperation and passion, this morning is syrupy and sweet. He explores your mouth slowly, tongue sweeping between your lips and tracing every curve and ridge he can–almost like he’s trying to commit you to memory.

There are universes in the depths of his dark eyes. He may not say exactly what he’s thinking, but you can see it playing out in those baby browns of his. There’s something simmering underneath the surface–something more than just lust or desire.

Something dangerous.

You tug him closer and cup his face in your hands, enjoying the gentle scratch of morning stubble underneath your palms. He surges forward and presses you into the pillows as he settles himself comfortably between your spread legs. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs through kisses scattered along the length of your jaw.

You know you probably look like you got run over by a bus–you toss and turn in your sleep, and it always leaves your hair a matted mess. And that’s not even mentioning the slight tremble in your thighs, left over from Marcus’s enthusiastic attention last night. But there’s so much sincerity in his voice; you don’t think he would waste his breath saying it if he didn’t mean it, and that fact alone makes your heart pound with desire.

There’s a syrupy slowness to the way he moves down your body, lips leaving behind heavy wet kisses as he works down your chest and over your stomach.

And it’s almost like he senses the protest working its way up your throat when you feel his hot breath on your thighs, because he looks up at you and there’s sternness in his gaze. You got your fill last night, and now it’s his turn.

“May I?” He looks up at you from the apex of your thighs with big, round puppy eyes that are impossible to refuse–so you nod eagerly and don’t even try.

If you were eager to have him in your mouth last night, he’s desperate.

There’s no hesitation, no build-up. It’s almost aggressive, the way he buries his face in your heat. He laps like a dog at a bowl, hips canting into the mattress involuntarily as your taste floods his mouth.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he growls into your sopping cunt. “You taste incredible.”

You keen at the praise and card your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly at the damp, spiky strands when his tongue laves heavily over your sensitive clit.

Marcus’s greedy hands grip underneath your thighs and push them as far as you can comfortably spread them. You’re still so sensitive after at least three orgasms last night–you lost count after a point–and it serves to wind your nerves tighter than they’ve ever been wound before.

One hand slides to the junction of your thigh and his thumb comes to take over the pressure on your clit as his tongue plunges between your soaked folds. It’s even more overwhelming like this, and there’s not a thing in the world that you want to do more than let him have his fun. Especially when that hand and his tongue switch spots–his lips seal and suck around your clit while he presses two achingly thick fingers into your waiting entrance.

It actually makes your muscles tighten and your back rise off the bed as he curls his fingers just right to find that spot that makes you fall apart for him. 

He can tell you’re getting close–he’s already so intune with the way your muscles twitch, the change of pitch in your moans. You whine and cry for him the tighter he winds the rubberband, and he’s eager to make it snap.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he says over the overwhelming flutter of his fingers scissoring and curling inside you. “Let me have it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut so tightly as pleasure wracks through your body that you can see constellations. Large hands come to pin your thighs open as his tongue keeps working, lapping and gliding against your cunt with ease as a wave of arousal gushes from your entrance.

You’ve never been so wet in your life, and he’s just getting started.

He trails open-mouthed kisses up your body as you catch your breath–his slick-soaked lips coat your skin with your own arousal as he works his way up to allow you a taste of yourself.

The first wet lick of his tongue into your mouth makes you moan. It’s not the first time you’ve tasted your own slick–you’ve had a moment or two of curiosity–but it’s never been quite as enjoyable as it is on his tongue. It pairs so perfectly with the minty tang of toothpaste left on his breath and makes you hungry for more.

He moves fluidly under your direction as you push him onto his back and roll to straddle his lap all in one graceful movement. It’s perfect like this–he doesn’t have to support his weight so he can run his big meaty hands all over every inch of you, and you can kiss him as deep as you want while you grind down on his aching length.

“Shit, baby,” he pants against your lips. Those aforementioned beefy palms grasp hard at your asscheeks to guide your hips, pulling you into a slow, long grind that bumps the head of his cock against your clit deliciously.

Your pulse thrums with desperation until you’re seeing white–no more teasing, no more preamble. You take his girth in your hand and give him a firm stroke; if you had a little more presence of mind, you might be embarrassed at how wet his dick is simply from grinding against you for a few seconds.

“Go ahead, baby, take it when you’re ready.”

He gasps at the first press of his cockhead against your entrance, head flopping back against the pillows as his hands squeeze your asscheeks with bruising force.

“Shit, you’re tight,” he murmurs, throat working around a thick gulp. “You can take it baby, I know you can. Did so good for me last night.”

You think you would honestly do anything he asks of you so long as he just keeps talking like this.

It takes a moment for you to work your way down his length–he’s so mouth-wateringly thick and the curve of his cock hits the most delicious spot inside you that you didn’t even know existed.

“Atta girl,” he praises breathlessly as your hips settle flush against his. “Just sit there for a minute. So pretty on my dick.”

God, he makes your entire body flush with heat. He turns your blood to molten lava with his words, lighting every inch of skin on fire. You’ve never felt a sensation like this–so overwhelming yet so intoxicating.

You start with slow movements as his hands trace up and down your sides sweetly–it’s more like you’re grinding on him than anything else. His thumbs rub abstract little patterns into your skin as his hands work up to your tits; when he finally takes them in the palms of his hands and squeezes all pretense of soft, sweet morning-after sex flies out the window.

You drop down hard on his cock and it nearly punches the wind out of him. 

“Yes!” He growls darkly. His eyes flash with something dangerous–it’s the only warning you get before his hand slaps the meat of your ass and grabs a greedy handful. “Just like that baby, use my fuckin’ dick.”

And maybe, if he was someone else, you wouldn’t be nearly as eager to follow instructions. But with Marcus, you’re nothing if not obedient.

Last night was exploration and discovery–hours into the early morning spent learning each other’s bodies, finding what makes the other squirm and whine and beg. This morning is in perfect juxtaposition to that sweet, soft, probing sex–you know what drives each other crazy now, and you each use it to your advantage. Aggressively.

He surges up to suck a pert nipple into his mouth as you set a hard pace on him, long fingers pressing into your skin hard enough to leave marks. He lands another sharp smack to your ass when your thighs start to shake–a reward for using his cock exactly how he asked.

”M-Marcus—”

”I know, sweetheart,” he purrs through a guttural moan. He cants his hips up to meet your thrusts at just the right moment—he hits something so devastatingly pleasurable that your vision prickles white around the edges. “I know, it’s so much, isn’t it? It’s okay, you can let go. Come for me.”

There’s a condescending note to his voice that only makes you squeeze harder around his cock, and within seconds you’re hurtling uncontrollably into ecstasy.

He fucks you through the telltale fluttering of your cunt even when your hips stop moving; strong hands hold you in place and work you through the ebbing waves of pleasure that wrack through your entire body.

”M’so close, honey,” he grunts with a particularly sharp thrust upward. One hand comes up to cradle your jaw in his hand, forcing your eyes to meet his. “Where do you want me?”

”I-inside,” you gasp. “Come inside me, Marcus.”

He fills you as soon as he has your instruction—hard thrusts punctuated by breathy moans as he pumps you full of his release.

There’s a long, silent moment where Marcus pulls your bare chest tightly against his own and you pant into the crook of his neck while trying desperately to even-out your breathing. His fingertips dance across your skin-feather-light, soothing.

The sun is higher in the sky now and meets your eyes with blinding rays through the balcony shutters when they finally open again.

”That was amazing, honey,” he murmurs into the crown of your head. He’s caught his own breath now, but he doesn’t make any attempt to let you go. “How’re you so perfect?”

”M’not perfect,” you mumble into his shoulder; but even to your own ears, it sounds half-hearted. The truth is, he’s so earnestly honest that you believe him.

He hums his dissent with a kiss pressed to your hairline. ”You are to me.”

And you so desperately want to believe him that you don’t even try to argue.

You bask in this warm, lovely afterglow for a few moments longer before Marcus gently taps your hip. ”Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get cleaned up and I’ll buy you breakfast.”

You pull off of his softened cock with a whine and try not to get worked up all over again at the feeling of his cum leaking down your thighs. ”Th-there’s a free continental breakfast downstairs.”

”Oh, then I’ll definitely pick up the tab,” he jokes with a smirk—all you want to do is kiss his goofy, stupidly handsome face.

He pulls you into the bathroom and starts the water running to fill the tub—he’s never really been a bath guy, but your legs are a little too shaky to endure a shower. He’s so attentive—from running a damp cloth between your legs to helping lower you into the water. He doesn’t complain in the slightest when you catch his hand and ask him to join you; he just shuffles you forward and slides in behind you like it’s a casual act that he performs with every hookup.

It’s intimate. That’s really the only way to describe it. You sit between his spread legs, back to his chest, head rested back against his shoulder while his fingers ghost idle paths over your skin. You don’t talk; you don’t really need to. Somehow, you fit together like souls who have known each other for years. Like all you’ve been missing is each other.

You drift off in his arms as he traces soap over all the curves and ridge of your body, the steady beat of his heart thumping in your ear.

It breaks his heart a little bit to wake you—the fact that you’re so comfortable with him, that you trust him with such vulnerability, makes his head spin a little bit. But the water’s turning cold, and the last thing he wants is for you to come down sick or something.

He rouses you with gentle, feathery kisses scattered over your rosy-scented shoulders and neck.

”Mmm… what time is it?” You grumble, pressing your sleep-addled face further into the crook of his neck.

”Just after noon,” he whispers into your hair after glancing up at the clock on the wall.

He can feel the way your mouth shifts into a pout. “Shit. We missed breakfast.”

The adorable downward tilt of your frown as you lift your dad to look at him makes his heart flutter. “Let’s go out, then. The first farmer’s market of the season is going on downtown. I’m sure we can find something good for brunch.”

”Kinda sounds like you’re asking me on a date,” you hum with a slight smirk dancing at your lips.

”Maybe I am.” His tone is light, his meaning clear—he knows this goes beyond a one-night stand, and there’s no harm done if you’re not wanting to cross this boundary. He’d understand not wanting to get too serious about someone who lives thousands of miles away from your home, of course. He’d never blame you.

You give him your best appraising look, staring deep into those constellation-filled brown eyes. ”You’re not sick of me yet?”

”I have a feeling I couldn’t get sick of you if I tried.” There’s nothing but sincerity in his tone, in his eyes. He genuinely wants to spend time with you, even if there’s nowhere for this to really go.

You hum thoughtfully. “I do love farmer’s markets.”

You’re with Marcus more often than not over the course of the next week.

He takes you sightseeing to some of his favorite spots around Austin, brings you to his favorite restaurants, shows you his favorite movies. But he multitasks—while teaching you about himself, he learns as much as he can about you and picks activities he knows you’ll love, too. 

He’s a pragmatist; he knows your time together is short, and he wants to make himself unforgettable. If he never sees you again, he wants you to think about him every once in a while and look back on this time fondly.

You spend your days while Marcus is at work painting or drawing or lingering around the gallery, and you fall asleep in his arms every night. With shades of gray moonlight and candlelight cast over your hotel room, it almost feels like this could go on forever.

He tells you to wear something nice before he picks you up on the last night–he wants to celebrate in style, which starts with reservations at an up-scale restaurant. 

He’s so achingly handsome. He’s in a matching gray suit over a white button-up, top two buttons undone and no tie to be seen. His face bears the slightest five o’clock shadow and your eyes gravitate to the curve of his lips–the instant smile that takes over his face when those gorgeous brown eyes of his land on you.

If you never see him again, this is exactly how you want to remember him.

“Wow,” he whispers reverently. “You look amazing.”

It’s not the most impressive dress you own, but he looks at you like you’re wearing something worth millions–like you’re worth millions.

You lean up and kiss him, and everything feels right. His hands rest on your waist and it’s so easy to pretend that you won’t be on the other side of the country twenty-four hours from now.

The restaurant is beautiful. Dimly lit and romantic, tables spaced enough to give you some privacy. He takes your hand on top of the table and holds it the entire meal. The conversation is light and airy–you’re both stubbornly dancing around what really needs to be said.

Dessert is cleared and the wine bottle is empty by the time Marcus finally works up the courage to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

“I don’t want you to go.”

You knew this would be coming, but it doesn’t make it any easier. You avert your gaze, instead focusing on his large hand wrapped around yours and the windshield wiper motion of his thumb tracing back and forth over your palm. No one’s touch has ever sent such electric tingles through your nervous system the way his does.

You don’t know what to say, so you say nothing at all.

“Look, I…” He takes a deep breath and straightens his spine a little bit, hand leaving yours to gently cup your chin. He forces you to look him in the eyes as he breaks your heart. “I think this could really be something, if we gave it a shot.”

You haven’t lied to him yet, and you don’t plan to start now. “I… I think it could, too. If I didn’t have to go back.”

“Don’t go back then.” There’s a firmness to his voice, but it couldn’t be any more obvious that he’s begging if he actually got down on his knees. “Stay here with me. We’ll figure this out. Just… don’t go.”

And here–with his earnest eyes on yours and his gentle, loving touch on your skin–it’s easy to pretend that it’s that simple.

He takes you back to your hotel room and sheds you easily out of your dress. As cliche as it sounds, it’s not just sex this time. Things that it’s too early to say are buried deep within every kiss, every thrust. He hooks your legs over his shoulders and looks deeply into your eyes while he fills you and you’ve never felt so overwhelmingly connected.

The thud of his heartbeat is insistent in your ear as you come down from your high–so calming, so heartbreaking. You lay on his chest while his breathing evens out and soak up these last few moments of bliss. And then, once you’re sure he’s sound asleep, you carefully worm out of his grip. There’s one more thing you have to do before you go back to New York.

Loud, insistent ringing pulls Marcus from the depths of sleep. He tries to ignore it and go back to sleep, but now that his senses are alert, the sound in combination with bright Saturday morning sunlight won’t allow him the luxury. He presses his face deeper into the pillow that he’s somehow wound himself around in his sleep, but that damned ringing won’t stop.

He sits up slowly and tries to rub the sleep from his eyes–and that’s when he notices the empty sheets next to him. Your side of the bed is long cold, and he knows. Before he even sees the note on the dresser and your room key next to it, he knows you’re gone.

He finds his trousers discarded halfway between the bed and the door and pulls his blaring phone out of the pocket.

“The gallery got hit sometime early this morning. They took everything. Every goddamn piece. You need to get here now.”

His body moves on autopilot as he pulls yesterday’s clothes back on, fingers numb to all sensation as they work to button his shirt. This can’t be happening. It can’t be you.

He notices the note on the dresser as he’s threading his belt through the loops of his trousers, and his gut twists with a sickening sense of foreboding.

I really did fall for you, Marcus. But nothing good starts in a getaway car.

He’s not sure if you knew who he was the whole time and this whole thing was calculated, or if you just got lucky. He doesn’t want to believe you’re that cunning and cruel. He wants to believe that this is just a misunderstanding, that you’re out for ice or something and you’ll walk back through the door at any moment.

But you don’t.

The note is enough of a confession for him. He’ll have the power of the FBI on his side to find you–and he will find you. What he’ll do when he does, he’s not sure. He guesses he’ll know when he sees you.

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[hannie-dul-set]

Embarrassing Heeseung x embarrassed reader or someone other than Hee whtv you want... I only think of him for this tropeedkmf...

[sweet venom]. there’s nothing in the world more potent than desire. it overwhelms, senses taken by the singularity of want— the want for something, anything— everything, gnawing at the veins that pulsate under thin flesh. everything is blurry save for the very object of that desire, a vivid clarity amidst countless gray abstractions.

“i’m hungry.”

and when that desire is combined with your shameless boyfriend’s bloodthirsty appetite—

“can i bite you?”

—things are bound to get a little bit dangerous.

heeseung must have forgotten that you’re in the middle of a party right now (and in the middle of a conversation with jay about extraterrestrial life). or maybe he simply doesn’t care, because jay’s face of absolute judgemental disgust across the kitchen counter doesn’t seem to affect him at all, either. “get a room, you freaks,” your friend says before evacuating the area with a can of OB, and he takes that as a green light to go all up in your space.

your own can feels cold to the touch in your palm. jay might have evacuated, but there’s still jake and jungwon in the kitchen entryway. sunoo just walked in too, to snag a bag of chips from the counter— who, in fact, just became an unwilling witness to lee heeseung getting elbowed in the rib after trying to nibble on your neck.

“oh my god.”

literally trying to nibble on your neck, because you just felt his fangs graze your skin a little just before you managed to push him off. “heeseung,” you hiss, scolding him. it’s a good thing most people’s thoughts usually lean towards usual hormonal behavior instead of vampirism when witnessing a scene such as this.

still. it doesn’t redact from sunoo’s sense of violation at the sight. “seriously? right in front of my chips?” you turn to sunoo, feeling the blood rush to your cheeks. which is bad, because heeseung twitches from behind you and suddenly tugs you closer and wraps his arms around your waist. you feel his uncaring breath in the space between your neck and shoulders, sending shivers down your spine, but more than that— you feel embarrassed as fuck right now.

someone ought to put this bloodsucker on a freaking leash.

“haha, sorry about that.” you elbow him again. again. and again, because the fucker just won’t budge. a mindless groan drawls out from his throat like he’s drunk on something, and you flinch. shit. good thing it was low enough for only you to hear. not good thing is how you can feel two significant sharp points of pain pressing into your skin. “heeseung, get a fucking grip.”

he interprets that as tightening his grip around your waist. god damn it. you mutter a few silent prayers to mother mary up above.

“i’ll pretend i didn’t see anything.”

“thank you, i appreciate that.”

your face still burns, but when sunoo turns around and turns a blind eye to heeseung’s shameless display of indecency, you immediately latch onto one of his arms and pry him off you, dragging him out the back door before he makes a mess out of you in sunghoon’s kitchen (not the hot kind. the bloody kind).

surprisingly, he doesn’t protest as you manhandling him out the door with a grunt, locking it shut before you submerge him and you in between the bushes and night and the outside panels of the house. does he want everyone to find out that he’s a life-sized mosquito? you wonder, but with that hazy look in his eyes, you doubt he’s thinking of anything besides wanting to leave a pretty mark on your neck— maybe a few if you’re feeling generous.

but you’re not, because you’re pretty sure they’re gossiping about you inside the house right now. “heeseung,” you sternly start. heeseung is batting his eyes at you expectantly. you want to punch him in the face. “we’re in public. what the fuck?”

he says nothing for a moment. silent, before he makes a very astute observation.

“not anymore.”

you blink at him.

well.

he’s…he’s right about that one, isn’t he?

“heeseung— ah—!”

desire is a dangerous thing. it makes people believe you ditched the party to mess around with your boyfriend, when in reality his feeding time is just overdue. but really—

“more,” heeseung grunts, a sharp taste of breathless iron on your tongue as he trails up from your neck to your mouth. “need more.”

—there’s not much difference when desire muddles the line in between.

[hestzhyen]

What's in a Name? (Sazanami Clan)

Sincerely sorry for spamming you, dear void. Think of this as a purge of ideas that have been percolating around for a while but were never given time until now. Anyway, let's take a look at the kanji meanings for the Sazanami clan members' names! ( •̀ ω •́ )✧

Much like parents creating a name for their children, authors often put their wishes and intentions for the character into the name selection process. Kagurabachi is no different- the Saznami's names showcase how much thought Hokazono put into creating the characters to fit seamlessly into the story.

I'm not a pro at Japanese so these interpretations are based off of a lot of research only.

Without further ado:

漣 (sazanami, most commonly read as ren) means "ripple". An indirect reference to the inherited isou technique that uses shock waves?

More rarely, it can also mean crying or continuously flowing tears. A hint towards the horrible legacy they've got as a clan, perhaps.

Sazanami Kyora (漣 京羅) - Bizarre name.

京 (kyo) directly means capital city and is often used as shorthand for Kyoto city itself (京都). 羅 (ra) is for lightweight fabrics like silk or gauze... a surface reading is kinda weird. His name is "silk capital", huh...

In a name, 京 (kyo) can confer both grandeur and power. 羅 (ra) can confer the idea of a protective net, or a link of unity and strength. So in my mind, Kyora is meant to be the powerful, uniting force that protects. Protects what? Certainly not his kids! GOTTEM

Sazanami Soya (漣 宗也) - Soya is a special guy for many reasons... 宗 (usually read as mune) is associated with respect for family, ancestry, and following the teachings of a founder (in a religious sense). The so reading is actually pretty rare and means "origin" or "virtuous ancestor". In general it conveys a sense of the child being expected to honor the family's ancestors, legacy, and perhaps being the start of something new and special. Good good this is fine.

也 is pretty interesting too. It's archaic, for one. Thus making it a strange choice for a modern name. The most common readings of 也 (nari and ya) mean "to be" in the sense that something is certain to happen/occur, but there's also a less common one used here (ya) that is questioning- like "will it be?" or "is it"? And when it's included in a name, 也 (ya) often takes on a meaning like "also". In an abstract sense, ya here implies excitement for the baby being born, so at least he's got that going for him.

So IMO the most direct meaning of 宗也 (soya) is "another origin" in reference to his "love" being what helps Hakuri overcome Soya himself and start down his new path, with strong implications that he was expected to honor his family's tradition... but maybe wouldn't be able to. Cool stuff! And really depressing in the context that he was chosen to be the next head of the family! Did his parents not have high hopes for him for some reason? Imagine naming your kid "baby we're excited to have that will respectfully carry on our family legacy" while also throwing it in doubt by deliberately using an archaic kanji lol. Soya never had a chance.

Is that why he treated Hakuri the way he did once his little bro failed to manifest the talent he was assumed to have...?

Sazanami Hakuri (漣 伯理) Our favorite former boyfailure sure has an interesting name...

伯 (haku) means someone with a position of high authority like "chief", "earl", or "count". In a name, it conveys a sense of respect and admiration being due as the highest ranked person in the family. What audacity lmao. I think it's interesting that the middle child was given this name since haku also implies being obligated respect and admiration as the eldest brother/role model of the family. Should his and Soya's names have been swapped?

理 (ri) means reason/logic... and less often, justice or truth. It's interesting that this character was used instead of the more common 裡 (ri) that usually composes the full name (伯裡). This character is for something in the rear or the middle, inside or within- implying they're protected or sheltered. Name implications of 裡 carry connotations of inner strength, security, and comfort; a sense of belonging and connection. ...Things our Hakuri notably lacks. He was never meant to be a strong leader secure in his relationships and protected from harm, I guess. So let's look at why 理 might have been chosen instead.

There are many possible implications when 理 used in a name, but most of them imply that the child will be guided or helped along in a positive way. Whether by order and structure, logic and wisdom, deep empathy... any or all of them. So his name is something like "logical/natural chief" with the implication that something will guide his path through life. Fortunately for him and us, it happens to be empathy (RIP Ice Lady). Not escaping the swapped names theories though since Soya was supposed to be the logical, calculating oldest brother chosen to lead the clan. Hmm.

With all that context, this panel just makes me so... something:

Is there more to unpack with the Sazanamis after all? Is leadership a meritocracy or something? Because normally you'd expect the oldest son to have the duty passed on to him. Yet I'm not confident that Soya was always the first choice now.

But yeah, with a name like that, no wonder we see him being called special by Kyora at such a young age- Hakuri had a lot placed on his shoulders at birth. It makes me curious as to why he was apparently seen as a better prospect than Soya, but we'll probably never get the details.

Sazanami Tenri (漣 天理) - Another guy with a unisex name that leans feminine lol. Even more parallels to Chihiro!

A lot of fellow anime and manga fans will probably be familiar with 天 (ten)- meaning heaven, sky, sometimes God. No surprises there. 理 (ri) - the same one used in Hakuri's name- once again means reason/logic, and less often, justice or truth. In names, 天 (ten) also adds a sense of natural talent or gifts the child is born with (and we do see Tenri becoming the youngest member of the Tou ever, so he certainly was born with something special like his father claimed).

理 (ri) implications hurt my heart. He was also named with great expectations placed on him, but at least it's a relatively common name unlike his older brothers'.

I think a common, straightforward interpretation is usually best so "heaven's natural law" is the meaning I'd ascribe. But I do like the optional interpretation of "heaven's judgement" being there to echo Mr. Inazuma's "lightning of judgement" that Chihiro delivered on his behalf. Just a fun little thing for me to gnaw on. The additional naming implications make me think he was supposed to be guided by his natural talents to a bright future, but... well...

I kind of want a side story or episode zero about Kyora, Mrs. Sazanami, Tenri, Hakuri, and Soya before Hakuri was ostracized now. Why were they named like this?! Hakuri and Soya in particular have me going insane over implications for their relationship and why Soya might have been so cruel to him...

Anyway, thanks as always for letting me rant in your ambivalent ears, kind internet void. I'll be able to ride out the last hour or so of waiting for spoilers in peace thanks to you.

[genshin-squabbles-and-wobbles]

I hope the anon doesn't mind me stealing that request but I would've really liked to see the same scenario with Alhaitham pretty please? Have a good day and take your time.

Yes my beloved dear @kristalheartishere, I shall. I am not sure if you want like a scenario format or headcanon format, but since the original post was in headcanon format, I will do it in that format. I hope that is okay!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ.───Alhaitham ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ.───

The reason for your break up with Alhaitham is due to his emotional neglect, you were someone who desired to be close to him. You want to connect with him, but him lacking the skin combined with him being stubborn about it, just was a strain for a long time.

Alhaitham was logical and rational but a relationship is abstract, he didn’t entirely understand how to nurture a romantic connection.

If he did something wrong, he will apologize, but nothing more.

If you wanted something, he would do it, nothing more.

Initiation is rare for him sometimes, as if he barely had needs in the relationship at all. Sometimes it would feel like he isn't apart of it.

The was a strain, making you feel unwanted, despite his mediocre reassurance, it wasn’t enough for you to feel close to him. Thus, you broke it off from him.

It didn’t even make a difference, of course you'd miss his touch and his alhaithamussy and the good moments, but the lack of connection outweighs that.

It has been about 5 years since then, you were in the desert collecting Scarab with your little girl. She had your face, but Al Haitham hair and unforgiving her intelligence.

However, your little girl loved exploring, she was always curious, no matter what situation came, she always seem to figure it out.

You were so proud of her, she was always so happy when you praise her for her intelligence and curiosity.

You were carrying a basket as you didn't go far in the desert, but just enough to catch Scarabs. The basket was almost full, as your little girl was looking in perfect environment for these brown beetles she is obsessed with now.

"Sweeite, let's go, the sun is getting brutal out here and we should get back home and find a place to put these beetles." You smile with pride at your little girl as she comes running with yet another beetle. "A successful scavenge and find my little one." You smiled and held her hand as the basket was braced on another hip.

While walking in Sumeru, you were walking through town as your little girl dropped one of her beetles.

You chuckled and bend to pick it up for her, as another familiar hand touches yours, you immediately jolted back and stood up.

It was Alhaitham, he stood up and placed the beetle in your basket, and looked at you and your little girl who was behind you, occupied with her beetle.

"Is....is that...?" He was looking at her, Alhaitham clicked right away, and figured it out.

"Is she mine...?" He kept his eyes on your little girl. You signed and nodded at him. "Yes, she is about 5 years old now."

He immediately crouches down and looked at her. "Do you like that beetle?"

Your little girl nodded and smiled at him.

"Those beetles are called Scarabs, found in the desert and even underground, it's said that the desert king turned people into these." Alhaitham began teaching her immediately about the beetle, and she listened interested in her lectures.

Alhaitham looked at you. "May I...pick her up..?"

You nodded, as he gently picked her up and took a good look at her. When his daughter started to call the beetles Scarab just as he taught her to, that's when the little girl became his and proudly his. "Smart little one, aren't you?" He smiled without even realizing.

You sigh. "She has your attitude, so good luck if you want to be in her life."

"I don't see that as a bad thing." He smiled and moved his daughter's hair away from her face to have a better look at her. He noticed that his daughter also has a green diamond onto her chest.

"You should cut a hole on this, these irritate skin." He was already caring for her properly.

Alhaitham looked at you. "What are we going to do?"

You shrugged. "You can take her 3 days of week, can take her 3 to 4 days of week." You looked at him.

Alhaitham sighed, "I was hoping we can be some sort of Fam-"

You shook your head. "No, I never want what you put me through,"

Of course Alhaitham would figure out ways to convince you to be with him and be a family with him, his parents died, he wanted to give his little girl what he never had.

However, once he sees you are stern, he would back off. He would try at least to start small talk with you despite him hating it. But he wants to try and reconnect, but you refused no matter what. He had his chance.

Eventually he left it alone, and he would teach his daughter, new things, take her on adventures, he would work as she slept on him.

He would spoil her with things and her favorite snacks.

However, for you, you haven't spoken to him for years, as your daughter grew.

[sandsorghum]

IT'S FINALLY HERE

Thrilled to be putting up this behemoth of a fic I've been working on for two entire months at last! as part of @tsukimefuku's Spookinky event. Yes, I'm aware Halloween was also 2 months ago (sorry Fuku, and thanks so much again for helping beta read it!) Anyway, do check out the other works, they're incredible.

+18, DARK CONTENT AHEAD. You've been warned. See end of story for further author's notes.

abstract. It was a fairy tale, wasn’t it? Or a cautionary one, as most of them turned out to be. wc. 9.4k (strap in with a beverage folks)

tags. Yandere!Nanami Kento x F!Reader | established relationship | smut | dubcon | psychological drama | manipulation |

Jim knew that he was awake and asleep at the same time, dreaming of the war and yet dreamed of by the war…

Your eyelids droop, heavier and heavier with every pass you make at the sentences. You’re fighting against the font even, dripping off the page into the pitch black pit of your mind, those once thick and bold serifs ooze into obfuscation, molten as the afternoon congealing into dusk. Your focus has been wavering for hours in this stifling summer air, the dense miasma of words shimmering into a mirage of meaning. 

You sigh, scrubbing a hand over your face as you let Empire of the Sun flop into your lap. You should have known; J.G. Bellard didn’t exactly stake his reputation on breezy prose. You have a suspicion the book’s about a week or two overdue, though Nanami hadn’t said anything. Well, it was his library card getting charged. You hadn’t renewed yours in years.

You rifle through your current slog; 300 pages give or take. Perhaps you should have been less ambitious, started with the short stories. Long ago, you’d read The Garden of Time. You had enjoyed it, you think. Your eyes slip shut, trying to remember how that story ended, but the details are fuzzy.

It was a fairy tale, wasn’t it? Or a cautionary one, as most of them turned out to be. 

These days, you were living with your own Count Axel too.

You open your eyes, gaze instinctively flitting towards the clock whirring with its tick-tock mick-mockery, matching the taunting your ears had already gotten accustomed to. The second hand quivers a sliver past the hour, as exacting as an anorexic’s indulgence of a fractional slice of cake; and promising as much sustenance.

Where was Nanami? When would he come back?

Your stomach growls. The shadows have grown, black slats cast by the window grilles lengthening and slithering stark against the bleached gold of the walls. You hate this time of day the most, this inevitable boredom numbing your mind into mulch, too sluggish to tolerate even the most insipid of dating reality show reruns, which was all that was on TV. As for your once carefully curated stash of true crime podcasts, the thought of listening to them now was unbearable. 

Something burbles in your belly, a strange gastric shriek acidifying into a yowl. You shut it out, closing your eyes.

Your present circumstances might make for a pretty good biopic, a thriller perhaps. Or a psychodrama. Grim amusement filters through your mind as you imagine actors you’d cast in the lead roles…who was that Danish fellow, who had played a Bond villain? He’d had a similar sort of malevolent charisma as the titular protagonist in that show about eating people…

A little too fixated on trying to recall the actor’s name, you don’t hear the key turn in the first lock. But the second schlick sends a jolt straight to your spine, muscle memory triggering you to leap to your feet. By the time the third and fourth bolts have slotted out of the way, you’ve sprinted to the front step, your exuberant chirrup eclipsing the hinges’ creak. 

“Welcome home, Kento!” 

He grabs you mid-lunge, as usual, chuckling as you fling your arms around his neck. He’s a little off balance today, with the bags dangling off his thick forearms but they still manage to curl, boa constrictor snug around your waist, the weight of their contents pressing you further against him.

“Hello darling,” he murmurs. 

You let him bury his nose against your nape, feeling the burdens of the world slough off him as he inhales your scent, ever familiar, ever constant. Never changing. 

Staring past the summit of his shoulders, you see dust motes drifting unencumbered in the scorched-tangerine shaft of the setting sun, the pavement glowing white, the bright brilliance of its incandescence and resistance petering into the imminence of night; all this, a few tantalising inches beyond the door. 

You blink, the dark spots perform their pirouette, and the temptation passes. You put on a smile as you feel Nanami’s question rumble low along your throat, peeling you away from his chest as he carefully shuts the door behind him, zipping chains one through four back into place.  

“I said, how was your day?” 

“Oh, good. Pretty good. You’ll be proud of me.”

“Yes?”

“I got through a whole 4 pages in your absence,” you grin at Nanami, waggling the book at him. 

“Am I proving such a distraction?” His tone is bone-dry, but you catch the glimmer in his eye, polished as fragments beneath flesh desiccated by a desert.

“You mean providing?” you hum, smoothing a palm across his pectorals as Nanami shrugs out of his coat.

Nanami tuts, catching your fingers and greeting them with a kiss,“You ought to know by now, your flattery has its consequences.”

“Seems like an acceptable risk.” 

Nanami tuts and you feel his lips twitch over your knuckles at the belligerence lilting your tone.

“Well, I’m sorry sweetheart but I was picking up a few extra things for dinner.” 

Nanami finally relinquishes your hand to set the bags down on the dining table. You gape as he proceeds to carefully uncover the biggest bundle of blue hydrangeas and pale yellow daffodils you’ve ever laid eyes upon, all exquisitely wrapped with an embroidered silk ribbon. Nanami holds the flowers out to you, savouring your little gasp as the full size of his generosity blossoms into view.

“It was a bit of an impulse buy,” he confesses, to fill your stunned silence. 

“You expect me to believe this was a snap decision?”

“Well, no, I was intending to get a bouquet from the start but they’d run out of roses. The florist suggested these instead, plus they seemed particularly fresh.”

“They’re gorgeous, Ken. Thank you, and I think I like their scent much better.” You press your nose to the delicate petals for a moment before you go to fetch a vase, submerging the stems in a few inches of water.

“These make me wish I’d paid more attention to my ikebana classes in elementary school,” you comment, caressing one of the butter bright coronas. “Or maybe I could enrol in one of those community courses now.”

“Leave it to the shops’ experts, they know the optimal aesthetic arrangement.”

“Oh, of course. It’s just, it’d be fun to learn something trivial and new.”

Nanami’s smile at you is soft and relaxed. “I’ll buy you more flowers, you can learn through trial and error, Miss Independent.”

“That seems a little lavish. What if I just consult our neighbours across the road, I’ve seen them growing-“

“You can figure it out on your own I’m sure,” Nanami interjects, patting your cheek and you have to remind yourself not to flinch, letting your face go taut with a perfected smile instead. “Or with a book. It could even be a nice hobby for us both, right?”

“Sure, Kento. Sounds fun.” You sigh, separating out some of the stalks. “So this is why you were delayed by half an hour today?”

“Yes, I’m sorry dear.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

It’s quiet for a few moments as Nanami observes you carefully thumbing through the floral clusters.

“I was...just a little worried. I wish you could tell me in advance. Maybe a text?”

Nanami lifts a brow, barely perceptibly.  “And you’d receive it with what phone?”

Swiftly, you recalibrate, your tone shifting into a playful inflection. “Or we can resort to pagers. Like it’s the 1980s.”

It was one of the ironies of this living situation; a tradeoff, Nanami would have termed it. Although you dwelled under the same roof, you communicated less than ever before with him. 

Nanami shakes his head ruefully, plaintively remarking, “I didn’t think you missed doomscrolling more than me.”

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic,” you huff, setting aside the vase to place a peck on Nanami’s nose. Apparently random acts of affection usually worked to disrupt his morose musings.

You start to bustle with the groceries. “Don’t get me wrong, Bruckner’s 7th symphony on vinyl is exquisite,” you continue, “And I’ll be eternally grateful to you for making a cultured woman out of me…”

Nanami practically pouts at your exaggeration, indignation pulling the corners of his mouth down. You give a lopsided smile, pushing your luck.

“But…I’m just a little bit curious about the Top 40 stuff. Like what’s Ed Sheeran been up to?”

“That’s what the radio is for, dear. I’m not depriving you of pop hits.” 

No, just music videos. And remixes. Plus you’ll never set foot inside another club or karaoke bar. Or attend a live gig. Hell, you’d pay dearly to hear an off-key sidewalk busker. Even a drunkard caterwauling in a subway. 

Sounds from a lifetime ago. Better not to dwell on them. 

You pull out carrots, a few stalks of celery, some onions. “You’re right. I doubt Square Roots or whatever mathematical function his latest album is titled after is a seminal turning point in his discography. I’m not missing anything.” 

You survey the ingredients, feeling Nanami’s mild concern descend upon you as you ramble through your unexpectedly eloquent tirade.

You glance back up at him. “Anyway, dinner tonight involves a mirepoix?”

Nanami nods. You pass a hand hesitantly over the vegetables.

“It’s a lot of prepwork for a…a weekday, right?” 

“It’s a Thursday,” Nanami offers to your unarticulated question. “And trust me, it’s worth it.” 

This time the kiss he presses to your temple is a shade too tender. 

“You’re always worth it.”

Your eyes flutter shut for a moment, letting Nanami’s words lodge deep between your ribs. Then, you carve a smile against his cheek. 

“Who’s the one hoping for consequences now, mister?”

Nanami gives a light squeeze around your hips. “The meal will be ready in about 40 minutes.”

“Can I help?”

Nanami considers you for a moment, looking at your open face.

You skate your thumb across his knuckles, your voice becoming demure, saccharine in its wheedling. “I’ll just wash the vegetables? You’re welcome to do all the dicing and slicing.” 

Nanami chuckles and you feel the tension ebb from his hands at your suggestion. He fishes out his phone and taps on Spotify. “What are you in the mood to listen to, darling?”

Walking on a dream How can I explain? Talking to myself Will I see again?

The upbeat 80s inspired synths pulse through the kitchen, a backdrop to Nanami’s knife working its hypnotic rhythm against the chopping board. You run the cucumbers under the tap while he slides the last of the cubed carrots into a bowl alongside the onions and celery, also cut into similar sized pieces. 

“What are you thinking for the salad?” 

“Yuzu-wafu for the dressing?” Nanami checks his blade, noting its dulled edge. 

“Maybe some kind of vinaigrette? Would pair well since this variety is a little more tart.”

Nanami hums thoughtfully, setting down the knife. He strolls over to a drawer where the cleaver, scissors and matches are stored and after making discrete adjustments to its built-in number padlock, retrieves a whetstone.

“Good call, there’s some EVOO we need to finish up-” Nanami turns around and goes rigid, seeing the knife clasped in both your hands, poised just under your chin.

Thought I'd never see The love you found in me Now it's changing all the time Living in a rhythm where the minute's working overtime

You’re swaying back and forth to the melody, a distant look in your eyes.

“Dear?” 

His voice is gentle, even gentler than usual. Which is plenty gentle already.

Your gaze slides towards Nanami, how he’s tracking the most minute shifts of the gleaming point hovering inches away from your skin. He’s perfectly still, not a tendon twitching, not a nostril flared; the air doesn’t leave his body, you see how it’s gripped between his lungs, as if the oxygen has become cement pooling in his valves. Nanami locks eyes with you, ochre irises shimmering tourmaline, exuding perfect calm. Waiting on you for his next heartbeat.

We are always running for the thrill of it, thrill of it Always pushing up the hill, searching for the thrill of it On and on and on we are calling out, out again Never looking down, I'm just in awe of what's in front of me

You grin at Nanami on the other side of the kitchen island, your captive audience as you belt out the chorus.

Is it real now? Two people become one I can feel it Two people become one

Nanami purses his lips, taking a step towards you. “Dear…why don’t you get the olive oil?”

Your grip tightens on the knife’s handle. You shut your eyes.

Is it real now? Two people become one I can feel it Two people become-

You don’t immediately feel his iron grip manacled around your pulse; instead what first alerts you to his presence back by your side are his lips brushing against your temple. And that’s worse somehow, than his touch molding over your whitened knuckles, and the sinews of your wrist gilded with their jagged deltas of silver.

“I love you,” Nanami states, one hand heavily dwarfing your fists. You release the knife into his grip without another word. He swipes a brisk kiss across your jugular and you feel the maniacal desperation bleed from you, receding into the whirlpool of your subconscious. What had come over you?

“You’re kinda pitchy, but I love you anyway.” 

With that cavalier comment, Nanami starts on the cucumbers.

A joke. He's making a joke. Had he seen right through you?

Hasn’t he always? Another voice, almost perfectly resembling your own, whispers within your mind. And he always will. You’re a glass wall to him, utterly transparent, easily shattered.

And Nanami’s the only one who’s been patient enough to put you back together, the only one who can make you whole.

He knows all your fractures, enough to refract and reframe the truth. This was your choice to live as a one-way mirror, to reflect his desires; to orient to the prism without realising it was a prison.

You watch Nanami quickly and quietly julienne the verdant oblongs, the knife’s swift staccato the only sound for a while. You pinch a slender, perfect matchstick from the mound of green, holding it between your fingers. 

“Is there a point to such precision?” 

“It’s so everything cooks evenly. It’s the standard for mise en place cooking.”

“Miso what?”

“It’s another French technique.” Nanami puts down the knife on the far side of the chopping board before plucking the sliver of cucumber from you and returning it to the pile. 

“Literally translated, it means ‘putting in place’.”

“I see, I didn’t know that before.”

You fold your empty palms in your lap, eyes downcast. 

One hand still on the blade, Nanami settles the other over your fingers, his heated grip squeezing just tightly enough for you to feel your metacarpals briefly grate against each other.

“Now you do.”

As Nanami turns back to prepping the ingredients, he tells you, “Go set the table, dear. And open up the bottle, so the wine breathes.” At least one thing in this house can, you think, walking away from him.

“Taste familiar?”

The burgundy swirls in your glass, glinting like fluid rubies as you dip your nose over the rim. 

“You know I don't have your refined palette, Ken. Just tell me already.”

Nanami shakes his head, nudging the ceramic dish towards you.

“Pair it with the cassoulet, then try again.”

You follow your spoonful of the hearty stew with a sip of the red, and this time notes of Pinot noir and brambleberries are more pronounced, as the tannins press their lingering tingle on your tongue, coaxing forth a vaguely familiar association from the recesses of your mind.

“I’ve had this before?”

“It was a fusion restaurant, Japanese-French. We had our first date there,” Nanami prompts.

“Oh! Jonquilla’s?” 

Nanami smiles as his clues finally click together for you. 

“I visited them before their evening service started, on one of my days off. Had a chat with their chef to recreate the recipe for the cassoulet, though I don’t know if the proportion of spice blends is identical-“

“Never mind accuracy, it was absolutely delicious, Ken. You’ve really outdone yourself.” You hum in satisfaction and satiation around the last mouthful of his culinary achievement.

“But what’s the occasion?”

Nanami’s brow arches, almost imperceptibly. “Today’s March 7th.”

You blink owlishly at him for an extended second, then abruptly recoil, stiffening with your realisation.

“Oh crap- I mean, sorry! I-I didn’t know.”

Nanami gestures placatingly, sliding his hand over yours. You stare sheepishly as he laces his fingers through yours. “It’s all right, love. I should have left a note in the morning.”

Timidly, you glance up at him. The mortification only churns with more turbulence seeing Nanami’s gaze brimming with affection and mild amusement.

“Umm...well, happy fourth anniversary Kento.”

For the first time this evening his smile falters.

“Fifth,” he corrects you, with the slightest suggestion of a sigh ghosting over the single syllable. 

Your gaze plummets back to your hand underneath his. “Right, fifth. Five years.”

Five entire years...everything had changed; now none of your days did. All of them spent waiting, then waiting for him. The past three years had been an eternity, dwelling with a man you’d once been keen to spend forever with. The prospect had been a privilege, a certainty back then. When you’d been free to choose it.

Now, like death, it was nothing more than an inevitability.

The redundancy of your statement lurches heavily into the air; you and Nanami sit in silence for several epochs, its weight creeping into the room like a mastodon carcass emerging from permafrost. He splinters it first.

“You didn’t check the calendar?”

What would have been the point, etching out eternity by the day as if that would stall the lobotomy of this monotony? Every flick of a page would have been another papercut embedded in your epidermis, your spine chipped away ever quicker, just one more reminder of your sinews and synapses and wits atrophying, triggering an avalanche of spiraling, depressive thoughts and an even swifter, simultaneous erosion of your sense of self, your will to survive.

You can no more resist the scalpel than the cudgel, it’s an insidious chiselling of your core, to be remade in someone else’s image. Beatific as Helen of Troy, argumentative as an effigy. 

“I forgot today and well, you know the saying, time flies.” 

You pull your hand away from Nanami’s to examine the wine bottle, brushing a thumb over the label. 

“It really is the exact same isn’t it?” you murmur, looking up at him with a wider smile. The Ice Age passes, and both Nanami’s tone and gaze thaws.

“I figured I’d speak to their sommelier at the same time, since I was there. Not many places import this so it took some convincing for them to part with one from their cellar.”

You raise a brow. “Please don’t tell me you spent more than-“

“It was complimentary in fact. Turns out the sommelier was a rather romantic fellow.”

“Sounds like he was giving someone a run for their money.” You lean forward, topping off Nanami’s glass.

With an appreciative chuckle, he responds, “He said it was the least he could do, bringing Provence to you if you couldn’t go.”

Provence, hah. If he only knew, the furthest place you’d been dreaming of was the konbini that had been a five minutes stroll from your old apartment. It was cramped, and the rent had been exorbitant despite being in a dodgy part of town - sort of a shithole if you were honest, but it’d been your shithole.

What colour had you painted the walls? Turquoise? Cerulean? No, aquamarine maybe,to match the canal you could just about glimpse from your balcony in summer-

“They really do a good job, highlighting the seasonal and regional specialties.”

You snap your attention back to the conversation, before the man opposite you can notice anything amiss. Perfunctory participation and trite observations were necessary to shield your most private thoughts from Nanami.

“Yeah, incredible menu. I loved the ambience of the place too.”

“The ambience?”

“Well, everything. The art, the lighting, that live violinist. It all adds to the dining experience, you know.” You let your gaze drift into the scarlet liquid swishing around in your glass, the garnet sparkles enticing in their reminiscence of sweeter, simpler times, when you and Nanami were just getting to know each other.

“Perhaps. I’ve never really noticed those things. That’s just decor.”

Now of course you know him all too well. 

“Oh obviously the food should be the focus. And it definitely stood out. Your tarte tatin really took me back there.” 

“Hmm, you know I suspect they used caster not muscovado after all,” Nanami remarks, scrutinizing the remnant fleck of pastry balanced delicately on a single tine.

“Sweetheart, tonight was a success,” you coo, patting his hand. “Trust me.”

Nanami relents, putting the fork down. “Even in the absence of a live violinist?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, even without that.”

Nanami raises the stem of his glass, trying to hide how pleased he is. You copy him, gaze catching his as the both of you drain your drinking vessels. It is good wine, after all.

You hum, idly letting your fingers skate up Nanami’s forearms.

“Still, there’s lots of French fusion places around Tokyo. Why’d you pick that particular one?”

Nanami shrugs. “I went there with a client once, back when I was a salary man, so I knew it was good. I’d checked the more recent reviews too. Based off those I was convinced the 4.8 average rating it retained was warranted.” 

You incline your head to the side, expectant. There were sure to be other factors, with this pinnacle of logic. Nanami pushes his spectacles up the strong bridge of his nose and sighs.

“And it was, well...equidistant from both our houses.”

You let out a mock gasp, voice fruity with an affectation of being scandalised. “Mr Nanami, I did not take you for such a schemer.”

Perhaps it’s the burgundy, but you can’t help but think the pink tinting Nanami’s cheeks is rather endearing. 

He clears his throat, sitting up straight. “That’s not what I meant. Quite the opposite in fact. We both had assignments early the next day. I wasn’t...making any assumptions.”

You purse your lips together, withholding a smirk as Nanami stumbles through more of his rationalisations.

“I mean, it could have gone poorly too, you could have wanted to cut the date short. So I considered your cab fare wouldn’t amount to more than-“

“Well, our first date didn’t end early, did it, Kento?” you interject. You don’t know why, but it delights you to see a rush of poppies blossom downwards, beneath his collar.

“I suppose not.”

You relax back into your chair with a chuckle, feeling Nanami’s significantly warmer gaze on you.

“Actually, I do have a gift for you.”

Nanami reaches into his satchel and for a moment you’re worried a velvet box will materialise from it. To your relief, he instead withdraws a simple paper envelope, too slim and understated for any expensive jewellery.

“Here you go,” he says, sliding the envelope over to you. 

“Takashimaya vouchers? Oh Kento, how romantic-“  You stop short of delivering the jibe when you see what his gift actually is - a library card. 

Your library card, to be exact.

It’s your turn to be baffled now.

“You were racking up too many fines on mine,” Nanami’s expression is strait-laced, but his gaze is affectionate .“So I renewed yours.”

“Is there, um, some kind of new demerit system?”

“No, the length of the penalty period is the same as the overdue one. Basically I was barred from loaning out more books till you were done, Miss four pages per day.”

“It’s not my fault if the plot drags on,” you protest.

“Pick a more compelling read then,” Nanami smirks, “Or know when to give up.”

You examine the laminated rectangle, and the photo of yourself from five years ago stares back at you, her expression bright and clear-eyed, the set of her jaw resolute. Virtually unrecognisable.

“I can...pick up my own books?” you mumble, eyes still locked on your picture. 

Nanami’s sigh is heavy and you hear him remove his lenses, setting them down on the table. You look up when he addresses you, and his gaze is tinged with the same slight weariness wrung from your name.

“Your residence needed to be updated, that’s all.” Nanami speaks patiently - no, patronisingly. “You can continue to give me the list of titles you want to check out.”

So, you wouldn’t be able to borrow the books in person, let alone browse the shelves in a public space, without him.

“I should...probably pay my late fees myself though, right?”

Nanami shrugs, “They don’t add up to that much. I usually take care of it with the petty cash.”

Money he wouldn’t miss. Transactions without a bank statement. Untraceable.

You’d never have to pay for anything ever again. And it had only cost you your freedom.

You slip the card carefully back into the envelope, face down. 

Some unthinking machine would scan its barcode, would log your details, your preferences in novels and fiction, the imaginations you escaped into. On some arbitrary database, you’d exist.

Somewhere outside these four walls, you’d live.

“Thank you, Ken. It’s a lovely...gesture.”

You don’t think Nanami registers the pause, neutrally watching you empty the wine bottle equally into his glass and yours. 

“Shame that’s the last of it,” you sigh, setting the bottle down. Nanami hums contemplatively as you drink up.

“It was... a nice restaurant. Would you want to visit it again?”

You stare at Nanami, not quite believing your ears at the sentimentality that has seeped into his tone, let alone his offer.

“Visit it?”

That would involve going back into the world. Strangers would see you. Might even interact with you. That would be too much, surely?

Nanami takes a long sip of wine before continuing.

“I could get candles and cushions and white linen tablecloths, or put a Poulenc record on...but I know it’s not the same.The environment does make a difference.” 

You nod slowly, twisting the stem of your glass between your fingers. He reaches for your hand and you let him hold it.

“You could do your hair, nails, get dolled up and all, just like old times. There’s this dress in a corner boutique I go past every day, that I think you’ll like-“

“That I’ll like or you’ll like?” 

He chuckles, “My dear, if you want to wear a burlap sack there you’re welcome to. I’ll insist to the maître d’ I have the most beautiful woman in the world on my arm, regardless.”

A blush unfurls across your face, looking into Nanami’s eyes and seeing the absolute sincerity and conviction there. 

“I just want you to feel as special as you are to me, when we go.”

Nanami brings your hand to his mouth, eyes closed, taking his time to plant a kiss on each of your knuckles. Something constricts in your chest, watching the reverence and regret of his lips each time they have to lift a tiny fraction away from your rapidly warming skin.

“It’s where we started to make so many memories.” Nanami says softly, opening his eyes to stare deeply into yours. You sink into the rich russet warmth of those irises, mesmerised by the familiar tawny flecks shining bronze with pure adoration for you. 

“If we were going to celebrate, it would be worth commemorating it there, yes?”

He almost whispers the question, with both his hands now clasping yours. Nanami brushes a thumb across your hand and you barely notice how it strokes slow, tender circles on your fourth finger.

Barely.

You know what he is truly asking. What he’s really after.

Would it be a celebration or a sentencing?

Even after all this time, it isn’t clear if there’s just the one answer.

You shut your eyes, taking a breath. You lean forward in the darkness, finding and anchoring your lips to Nanami’s, parting them to reel his soft exhalation into your mouth, feeling the tidal surge of his ache in his tongue tracing the very edges of your mouth, desperation lapping at your own control.

You haven’t permitted him this little in so long. You haven’t permitted yourself this much for even longer.

You break away just as his canines start to graze your trembling lower lip, whispering the truth through your teeth. “I’ve been utterly smitten by you, Nanami Kento. Too often, you know me better than I do myself. But I know you too.”

“And?” 

You let the panted word hang in the air, savouring the way his anticipation swells through his button-up shirt, his chest rising and falling with each second that passes, that you hold out on.

You imbibe a heavy gulp of composure, some of the burgundy spilling past your lips.

Your glass chimes against the table with a definitive clink as you reply, “And I know how much of a hassle you find washing cast iron skillets to be. Restaurants would take care of that, right?”

Nanami’s face crumples into confusion, his consternation finding physical manifestations in the crease of his brows and down turned lips.

Maybe you’d gone too far, even if it wasn’t an outright rejection. He might interpret it as a stalling tactic.

“That was a joke, Kento. Of course I’d love to revisit Jonquilla’s with you. Or even a Mcdonalds drive-thru.” 

“My dear, you deserve so much better than that sodium saturated crap.”

Your laugh quivers, rippling with the pronounced vehemence with which Nanami had spat the expletive. He pins you with a stern glare, but you will mischief to glaze over your face, like a visor.

“Y’know, I’ve kinda been craving their fries.”

Nanami wrinkles his nose, and you breathe a little easier. “How your standards haven’t improved, after years of living together with home cooked meals, is beyond me.”

“You’re such a snob sometimes,” you dismiss his disdain with a giggle, “You gotta realise there are just some things you can’t exert influence over.”

Nanami’s eyes narrow. “I’m not going to give up.”

“Suit yourself,” you lick the last traces of a sauce off the back of a spoon with deliberation, feeling his gaze track your movements. “I see no downsides for me, if that means more yummy replications.”

Nanami’s exhale through his nose is short and sharp; what passes for a laugh these days. He regards you silently for a minute, exasperation mingling and melting into fondness, ever so gradually.

It seems you’re out of the woods. Still, it doesn't hurt to keep him in a good mood.

You reach out to caress Nanami’s cheek lightly, and his eyes drift close against your touch. “You can take me anywhere you want.” 

Everywhere and nowhere. 

“How about we start with the shower?”

Nanami stands a few feet away from you as vines of steam coil around his granite cheekbones, wilting his collar, leaching translucence into the whites of his Oxford top. You see the fibres strain with every rise and fall of his chest, the vapours of his mouth melding with the swelling humidity of the bath, amidst fluctuations of hunger and hesitation.

“Are you sure about this?” Nanami murmurs, he braces his arms behind him, pressing his back against the tiles, breath expanding underneath his shirt. You gaze upon Nanami, a centurion sculpted by Rodin, a cornered animal. 

You take a step towards him, feeling his heart hammer as you enclose your palm over it.

“It’s nothing we haven’t done before,” you whisper, reaching for his first button.

It wasn’t quite the same of course, as on the other nights. Usually your positions were reversed; Nanami, fully clothed, would strip you and usher you into the shower, only a sponge between you and him as he cleansed every inch of your skin. His own bath would be brisk, but he’d thank you for your patience every evening as you shuddered in the corner, eyes tightly shut. He didn’t seem to care if you stared at him with revulsion or resignation, the way a leopard would disregard a sparrow.

That was all your bodies had been to each other for the longest time, mere objects co-existing in space, empty vessels requiring maintenance.

It’s hard to remember that now, as a more carnal need pumps through your veins, as the fabric peels away from his skin, sleeves rippling slow in their remorse of being parted from his swollen biceps. You replace them with your palms, gliding over arms corded with sinews like steel cables. All this strength he’s never used on you, keeping you in his grasp by some other power.

No, it was exactly this restraint that restrained you; shackled to the myth that it couldn’t get worse, torture earning your tolerance, tolerance reaping your torture.

You thread your fingers through Nanami’s locks, barley sheaves darkening into rye beneath the spray and the circular motion of your hands, massaging shampoo into his silken roots. The cascade of water catches his lashes just right, fronds fluttering like the gold-gilded ruffled edges of ginkgo leaves at the terminus of autumn; yet, as you sink your fingers into the joints where Nanami’s nape connects to the base of his cranium, you doubt it’s the scattered droplets which are responsible for his eyes closing, or the guttural groan dragged from his throat, the octaves dripping much lower than you’ve heard in months, sending simultaneous sensations of heat dribbling down your spine and a lush insistence of warmth tugging through your gut.

Suds slip their foamy trail over the corded tendons in his neck, iridescence slathering over his chest and arms. Your fingers follow them, naturally. Nanami holds himself very still as you scratch your nails lightly over his pectorals and abdominals, tracing a path of your own design and desires, forgotten yet familiar. The terrain prickles beneath your wandering palms, goosebumps sprouting at your touch. But then, you reach a swathe of blue mottling into violet, and your hand hovers over it, a sickle sized smudge wrapped around his upper ribs. You can’t control the flood that suddenly surges to your waterline, blurring your vision.

All the violence, and all the silence. The endless chaos. This was the truth out there, and here was the evidence he kept from you. 

The bruise spreads beneath your fingers, wider than your hand.

And what was the truth in here? Where was the danger? Long ago you’d confronted that same savagery, the senseless cruelty, those injustices he used to justify keeping you safe now.

You sink your thumb against the wound, dragging your anguish through it. You feel the breath juddering through Nanami, as he winces. But he doesn’t stop you.

You can hurt him too.

“It’s all right,” he whispers, leaning into your touch.

Monsters creating monsters, curses birthing more curses. Perhaps misery didn’t love company, as much as it feared and loathed enduring its own misanthropy alone.

There were worse things to lose than freedom.

You lift your hand away, to cup Nanami’s face instead.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, pressing the apology over his closed eyes. You feel them flickering beneath your lips.

“I’m sorry for all of this.” His gaze, when it returns to you, wavers wearily between guilt and grief. It’s dimmed and misty, there are no calculations, no charting these choppy waters; he sways towards you, a man (as before, as ever) seeking safe harbour, adrift in your arms.

You coax his calloused hands around your hips, and you’re uncertain for a few moments if the trembling from his fingertips has summoned the same across your skin, or if it’s your own nerves rippling outwards to his touch, all too tentative.

“Do you…not want to-”

You feel the answer in his immediate indentations upon your waist, squeezing your doubts into silence. But his gaze remains obscured behind his fringe, plastered to his forehead. You brace against the silence by sliding your arms over his, thumb circling the taut knot at the crease of his elbow. Gently you lay your cheek against his chest, savouring the solidness that has been so absent, and its underlying thump-thump-thump, far less steady. 

You feel the breath rising through his lungs as he tilts your chin up towards him, voice rasping with frayed restraint.

“I want to. Of course I want you.”

Nanami drags his thumb from the corner of your lips to its plush centre, feeling it furl and yield without very much pressure.

“What if I want too much?”

For him to ask this now is a kindness you can’t afford. You don’t owe him this, he has reassured you of that much, tonight and many other nights. Perhaps it’s time that has taken its toll instead, so that with your last shred of autonomy, you choose to give, or at least give in.

“Just let me be selfish, this once.”

You angle your face towards him, lips parted and watch the light in his eyes shrink to pinpricks; firelight flickering out as bipedal silhouettes slink and morph back into the shadows of beasts - 

coherence, logic, caution all consumed by more primal instincts.

And so, you anticipate his devouring, his half-snarl, his clash of teeth when he claims your mouth again for the first time in ages but it’s worse, so much worse. And divine. 

His kiss is slow but no less forceful, the pressure gradually mounting, lapping at your lips then teasingly receding so you have to push up into him, deepening the kiss so quickly without you realising, only vaguely aware of your shortness of breath, of the most mild discomfort; the same dissonance of someone witnessing a revealed shore and wading further and further onto it, clueless that the waves are pulling back because of the tsunami surging towards them.

It’s too late by then, caught in Nanami’s undertow when your head rolls to the side, hardly far enough before it’s cradled by one of his large hands. The warmth from his palms pools across your nape, dripping down down down your spinal column, an erosion of stalactites as your weight melts against Nanami when he pulls your waist flush to his. He drinks in your whimpered surprise as you feel a smear, thick and wet, between your legs and prodding at your gusset. 

Nanami finally lets you part for air but you cling to him, limpet-limbed. Your gaze and hand drifts down to where he’s stiff, scarlet and sobbing from his slit, globs of fat white pearls that remind you of the dryness in your mouth.

“So much…you’ve been holding back this much?”

Nanami had never responded this way when conducting your evening rituals of hygiene, had swept his eyes over your breasts and buttocks as efficiently as he’d inspected your scalp, elbows, knees. His touch had been mechanical, clinical to the point of brusque. You came to the conclusion then, over the years, that he was inoculated against arousal, that the sight of your bare flesh no longer titillated him, that on some level even, he was completely apathetic to your nudity. It’s impossible to argue such a stance now with the copious amount of evidence painting your thighs, the head bobbing heavily as it brushes against your skin.

“Sometimes at work…” Nanami croaks and you finally tear your stare away from his glistening length, to be sucked into the brine-dark whirlpools of lust churning in his eyes. “I’d…I’d take the edge off.”

“How?” you whisper. The crimson rush crests high on his cheeks and you reach out to caress his face, residual heat sweeping from your fingers down your wrist. 

“J-just in a cubicle,” he confesses, averting his eyes. “Not often.”

During lunch breaks. In between meetings. Just before commuting. You hadn’t been able to keep your hands off each other, in those early days. So many late nights, and later mornings. Beds were irrelevant. Desks, couches, corridors, stairwells - the two of you didn’t need much to improvise intimacy, the sparse surroundings testimony to the inspiration you found endlessly in each other. 

It must have been difficult, to forget and forego all that. It was, for you.

“Made it worse…I tried to stop.”

Nanami Kento, with his crisp collars, perfectly ironed jackets, shiny brogues - in a sterile bathroom hunched over fisting his cock with frantic, feverish tugs, struggling to sputter to a paltry climax, the spit in his palms a poor substitute for what he refused himself every evening, 

so close, so easily within reach that he couldn’t take it.

Temporarily vanquishing his visceral ache for you, while heightening his hankering, compounding his cravings, haunted by his half-measures for months and months. 

Diminishing returns, returning with a vengeance. 

“Why not here, at home?” 

You see the anguish flash across his face, feel the tremor in his hands as he clutches at your waist. 

“I…didn’t want you to ever - ever - remotely consider that risk, with m-”

You crush your mouth to Nanami’s, pillow-soft lips pummeling his doubts into nothing more than the air that escapes with his choked grunt of surprise, tongue spearing deep past his lips to wrestle with his, an excavation of the remnants of his uncertainty.

“Kento…” And he hears his name panted, twisted through with such longing he has no choice but to look at you. 

“You don’t have to stop yourself anymore.”

Coals glow in Nanami’s irises, you witness in an instant the incineration of his final vestiges of control. But even if you hadn’t caught the change, you feel it as your body is engulfed in flames for the remainder of the night. 

Nanami grabs you, pins you to the wall as he nips kisses all across your nape, sucks bruises down the column of your throat, carnality swelling carnelian across your clavicle, as you claw ruby rivulets down his spine. He buries his pleasured growls between your breasts, stuffing his mouth with your mounds and moans and the stiffened peaks of your nubs, while his hands waste no time, grasping at every inch of you, your curves, the plush of your thighs, the fat of your bum, years of denial striking the flint of desperation, skin singeing against each other, ragged sighs breathing life into him, coaxing the inferno higher and higher.

And then his knuckles graze the lake of slick between your legs and when did he get on his knees and Nanami hisses your name, whiskey-smoked gaze drilling into yours, demanding not your permission, but your focus when he finally sinks his tongue into you, and the sob rips from your throat at his impatience, his insistence, lapping ravenously at your folds, retracing every crease and crevasse of you, tip curving into spots you forgot you had to chase and catch every drop drooling from your niche, greed driving him deeper to get closer to the mouth of the river, your lust already streaming down his face. He grinds your weight further on his face, disregarding your garbled protests, you cry out as the high bridge of his nose brushes your clit and almost immediately you regret it as he switches his attentions and abuse there, to that tiny bundle of nerves, tongue now stroking ruthlessly fast, alternating between flicking and wrapping tight circles around it. 

A particularly vicious suck has your climax shattering over you, your wails of his name bouncing off the tiles and to your fascinated horror, falling on deaf ears. It takes you a few moments, with every synapse scorched beyond function, to realise that your jerking and spasms aren’t from your first orgasm, but an impending second. Because Nanami hasn’t slowed down for a fraction of a moment, your cunt still sealed around the cavern of his mouth, the beast within writhing its way back into its reclaimed burrow; you squeal and whine and squirm, but it’s no use, Nanami slaps a hand against your thigh, angling it to hook high over his broad shoulders to keep you splayed, the iridescence you’re spraying across his cheeks no match for the gleam in his eyes as he feasts and slurps and sucks. 

His moans reverberating through your pussy seem to crawl their way up through your own throat, writhing into your garbled pleas for amnesty, for release. You’re convinced your pleasure is mere collateral, not the priority, to Nanami now, that he’s punishing you in some sadistic, delightful way - until you feel the swipes of his tongue soften and his smirk stretching you, in time with the tips of his fingers spreading across your swollen lips.

“One more darling,” he promises, pressing a tender kiss to your inner thigh. You brace against the wall, whimpers tapering into relieved little mewls of his name as Nanami’s index glides inside you, pussy readily receiving every ridge and joint, liquid-smooth, as your resistance dribbles down his wrist.

“Gotta prep you, it’s been a while mmh?” he mumbles against your sodden core, starting to pump his digits in and out of you steadily, before he latches back onto your clit like an addict, picking up his pace and pressing into the soft spongy spots that have you erupting into your next climax.

But Nanami’s far from finished. 

He withdraws his fingers, luminescent with your essence and sucks them…clean hardly seemed an appropriate word, but it had to suffice in your severely diminished mental state, as the aftershocks scoured every nerve ending south of your tummy, satiation severing any attempt by your neurons to connect.

Brain mushy and muscles gelatinous, you slump forward into Nanami’s solid embrace, his baritone rumbling sweet nothings to reinforce the trembling in your knees. In a single fluid motion, he sweeps you into his arms, bundling you up bridal style out of the bathroom, not bothering with a towel.

“Ken! I’ll get the bed soaked,” you complain, clutching at his biceps.

“That’s the plan, dearest,” he rasps, the menace in his voice somehow simultaneously melodious. Nanami tosses you down on the mattress, lips chasing the blush rushing down your bosom, mouth puckering around the pertness of your buds, alternating between his tongue’s gentle flicks and how he rolls them roughly between his fingers. 

But Nanami’s only got one hand occupied by your tits. With the other you distantly hear him rummaging through the nightstand, sounding increasingly agitated. He cusses against your cleavage, and you hear a hollow cardboard box clatter off in the corner as he hurls it across the room.

Of course, neither of you had considered replenishing contraceptives in a long time. 

Nanami sits back on his haunches, hands clenched on his knees. His erection juts tantalisingly between them, in a proud upwards sweep of roseate to vermillion, milky droplets already beading again from the heavy head. 

Later, you’ll blame the flowers, the wine. Even that damned library card, for the next words that spill from your mouth.

But something possesses you, and you whisper in a voice you barely recognise as your own, “I don’t care, Nanami.” You feel his gaze snap from the offending emptiness of the bedside drawer to your hooded eyes, which are decidedly not directed at his face.

Your statement sinks into the silence taut between your bodies, and you feel the bed dip, as Nanami cautiously (but eagerly) shuffles forward on one knee, the hard silhouette of his length brushing against his belly. Errant pearls drip wastefully into the sheets, and you have to hold back a sob.

“Repeat it.”

“I…I don’t care, I j-just want…” your voice falters as Nanami looms over you, caging you in beneath his arms. His broad mushroom head glides along your slit, rivulets of your slick running from his tip down the rest of his cock. In all your years together, you’ve never felt him this way, with such intimacy, such bristling urgency.

“What do you want, love?”

“You, all of you.” The conviction crackles from your lungs at last and something snaps when Nanami suddenly sinks partially inside you, hips stuttering at your confession, gasps eclipsing each other’s at the sudden surge and squelch of wet and heat and clinging.

It’s too much and not enough all at once and it has your hips jerking up involuntarily, your body remembering there was more, that it was made for much more - but Nanami clamps down on them, shushing your indignant whines even as you try to draw more of him in.

“There’ll be time for you to regret your greed later, my girl,” Nanami chuckles his hoarse assurance, and there’s something about the specific blend of his tone; the sardonicism, the delirium, the absolute warmth under it all that is completely familiar to you. You slip into surrender, relaxing entirely into the kiss you drag him down for. 

Nanami is slow to sleeve himself fully within you, savouring how your expressions flicker between frustration and pleasure, a reticence resonant with the way your pussy flutters around his girth, beguiling in its struggle as Nanami feeds you his meat, inch by throbbing inch. You feel him wrestle with the dilemma too in the aberrant twitches of his cockhead, leaking pre-cum, as if your passage weren’t satin-slick enough already and arduous with your ardour. 

It’s a surreptitious, viscous cycle; you get more sodden and sensitive with every incremental shimmy Nanami presses into you, the teasingly measured secretion of his slimy trail inside you mingles with your own wet wantonness, the excesses of this elixir dribbling down the remainder of his length and coating your already considerably saturated walls, making it harder and harder for him to resist slamming the rest of his way inside you.

He knows you could take it, that you crave such treatment even, but he wants even more to commit this eternity to memory, not simply the glorious, torturous novel sensation of fucking you raw but the way your face shifts from arousal to adoration, back and forth, again and again, as he seeds a new addiction inside you, gradually stretching you past your former limits; physical, emotional, moral.

Nanami presses a stilted groan into your nape when he bottoms out inside you at last, laving his tongue over the film of perspiration clinging to your collarbones, as if there were some secret adhesive he could absorb to keep himself together, to prevent himself from falling apart with every rippling contraction of your cunt, as your being is molded once more around his pulsing length. 

“Ke~nnnhg…” you moan, and he twitches hard inside your gluey, velvet-vice to hear his name so stretched out, like gum, like rubber, like the dearth thereof, of any barrier between your bodies when you squeeze around him, deliberately this time. There’s an abundance of obviousness that it’s your action, not a reaction, by how your voice tremors with the effort.

“Already told ya,” you huff, “You don’t have to stop yourself anymore.”

And perhaps it’s your petulance, how you’re pouting this reminder of your mutual needs to be devastated, that sets Nanami off, that has his hips snapping forward, callous and careless at last, his thrusts initially sharp and shallow building quickly into an erratic rhythm that you can barely keep up with, letting yourself be jostled and pounded and shaken like a ragdoll, like Nanami’s exclusive fucktoy for him to drain his desires into. 

“Fuck, angel, so fucking perfect. Gonna fill you up, make you so swollen with me, mmh?” 

Your keen peels from your ribs, pitching high into the air, as Nanami continues to whisper filth and praise and promises you can’t quite comprehend, the only sounds, barely intelligible, is his slurring of your name, the syllables stringing stickily together like the messy ropes of cum swaying with every plunge of his cock back into your cunt, relentlessly bruising those spots that make meteors flash across your screwed shut eyes.

“Ken, K-Kento! Ah, ah- missed this so much, m-missed you!”

It’s your last attempt at coherence before your climax crashes over you and you clench around Nanami’s spurting cock, his broken bellows echoing through your bones and veins as he cums shortly after, flooding you, tethering you. You arch into him, receiving each pump, pulses blending with tongues tangling, till there is no distinction between tributaries and alluvium, between river and ravine, only the abundance of silt from his slit, nestled snugly against your cervix.

Nanami shifts to settle you in his arms, some of his spend seeping from the apex of your thighs.Will there be a price to pay? The potential of a gynecologist’s scrutiny, doula appointments, consultations and consolations,  complications and consequences, another presence at last in this house…you push these questions far from your mind.

Because the night doesn’t end there of course, you don’t recall if it ends at all. It’s a haze of hormonal hedonism, hours lost in the fog of damp breaths and senses swamped by desire. It is as if you dreamed it all, drifting off with Nanami inside you, waking to find his hunger unabated. Any concerns the morning might bring are cloudy, what is crystalline instead - what you choose to curate - are the sparse intermissions of his syrupy kisses over the words you exchange, that he demands to hear with your will languishing, effervescent as the vow he pulls from you, but will hold you to, lingering in the long shadows of your subconscious: I’m yours and you are mine, I need nothing else.

Seraphim, succubus, sorceress...all these accusations and adorations Kento lays at your feet, worshipping at the altar of your thighs, whether you were astride or under him. Calling you his cornerstone, a becoming like cinder blocks around your ankles.

Drunk off of him, kisses spilling kerosene and casks of Amontillado, your kindness your kindling, immolated by indulgence. You’d yearned for this too, his hunger feeding yours, an Ouroborous of obsession wrapping around your arms, chest, eyes so you couldn’t see how symbiosis ceded to the parasitic, the pleasure paralytic, ambrosia abused into anaesthetic until it cemented your ruin. Your comfort and his catharsis was a drug, yet you do not stop to wonder if this love had never been medicinal, if it had been narcotics lavished against necrosis.

It was too late for either of you to realise he’d never healed, amidst the eternity of nights spent with your lips sealed to Nanami’s like an oath. He never cared or dared to question destiny, yet never been so sure he’s meant to share his with anyone except you. But Fate has always been cruel to the best people he’s known and known too late just how much he needed in his life. 

And he couldn’t possibly be crueler than Fate, could he, if it meant protecting you?

Sworn and bound to this, but it unleashed an ancient anguish that had festered for far too long in his heart, aches that should have stayed buried, instincts that should have gone extinct; His salvation now only in the mutation of satiation into starvation. Every love bite and bruise stacking upon each other’s skin like bricks in a citadel for two. You were his fortress, his hearth. 

You didn’t know he was building you a pedestal, a pyre, a pyramid.

All to serve a goddess in name, in invention not intervention. Does it matter? Nanami strips you of your mortality, your humanity. You are a being of infinite benevolence and eternal beauty, a deity who deigned to age alongside him. He would grow old with you. Even if it meant dooming you to dwell within a sarcophagus.

Nanami looks upon you, you are enshrined, entombed. He engulfs you in amber; Your life preserved, your love petrified.

thanks for reading!

a/n:also wanted to say I owe a debt of inspiration to @saintshigaraki's fic which has one of the most realistic, seductive portrayals of a Yandere Nanami I've read. Mise En Place would not exist without it.

@houseofsolisoccasum

[artbyblastweave]

An aesthetic decision I really like about the Mad Max setting- focusing on Fury Road in particular here- is that the timeline and the setting deliberately defy coherence. Countless elements of our world have carried over- the guns, the vehicles, the musical instruments, the religious concepts, and nominally some of the actual people- but the world is geographically impossible, you don't see much contemporary architecture even in a ruined state, and there's no version of the timeline where this can be the same Max Rockatansky as the original films. But it is. The incongruities are deliberate. The setting is mythic, these are campfire tales told about Max, the King Arthur or the Omnipresent Jack figure of the new age. The world that was is swallowed in myth, the world that exists is borrowing some of the old world toys, and being up-front and bombastic with signifiers of the mythic and abstracted nature of the setting absolves you of the need to make the worldbuilding make sense- or rather, to make it make sense in the way you'd have to take a stab at if you had a year-by-year internal worldbuilding timeline of How Everything Went Down.

Fallout 1 is not exactly like this. It can't be, because you could kill a man with an overhead swing of the setting bible. But it's tapping into a similar impulse. People in the first game are using old world tech, but they don't really live in the old world; they live in settlements using materials scavenged from the old world, or in old world towns that were unimportant enough back then that their current identity totally overwrites whatever came before. They don't live in LA: They live in the Boneyard, which gives you a pretty good idea of how much of what we think of as "LA" would be recognizable as such if we were exploring the space in first-person perspective. When you encounter an area that has a direct, well-documented, and unambiguous connection to the old world, it's a Big Deal, and they're hard places to get to- places that the average person living their life in the wastes would die trying to access. Of particular note in this dynamic is The Brotherhood of Steel- for all their technical understanding of the knowledge they hoard, they've clearly seems to have undergone a few rounds of Canticle-style cultural telephone, mutating from Recognizably The American Military into a knightly order. Fallout 2 does this to a lesser extent- it has more settlements directly named after their pre-war counterparts- but it's also a game about a society that's starting to pull back together and form into something resembling the old world, for better or for worse. And it reproduces the trend of stuff with a direct, legible connection to the old world being inscrutable and dangerous to outsiders- specifically with the reveal that the Enclave consider themselves to be the direct continuation of the pre-war government, that they've just kept electing presidents out on that stupid little oil rig. I haven't really made up my mind on whether the timeframes of the games- 84 years followed by 164 years- actually work for the vibe they're going for, in particular it doesn't work with Arroyo- but on the whole, the vibe coheres.

You get into the 3d games, and it becomes much harder to continue to pull this off. One major tool that Fallouts 1 and 2 used to maintain that sense of abstraction was the overland travel map; you were visiting island of society in a vast sea of Nothing. You had encounter cells that consisted of burnt-out, looted shells of cities, maybe good for a camp site but not as anything else. Another important tool towards this end was the isometric camera angle. In a topdown worldspace you can scrub out a lot of environmental details that would be immediately recognizable to the player as artifacts of our present society if you were exploring the space in 1st person. The examine button can feed you vague, uncertain descriptions that convey enough detail to make the item recognizable while also conveying that there's been a level of information decay. Once you move into a 3d worldspace you lose both of these elements- the worldspace is what it is, I can walk across it in eleven minutes stripping it for loot as I go. I can read every sign on every still-standing building, and I've got eyeballs on every old-world bit-and-bobble with a handy interface description of what I'm looking at. And you hit random encounters in the 3d games at basically the same rate, in real-world time, that you did in the isometrics- but the isometrics could successfully abstract it out to represent that you were hitting something noteworthy every couple of weeks, while in the 3d games it's kinda inescapable that you keep getting jumped every single day walking back and forth up the same stretch of road. Not only is it recognizable, it's cramped.

I think that Fallout 3, to its credit, did a decent job of navigating this and trying to maintain the islands-in-a-sea-of-nothing vibe from the isometrics- most of the settlements are built slapdash in places that were obviously never intended for long-term human habitation (bomb craters, overpasses, suburbs), the landmark-heavy city proper is textually a difficult-to-navigate deathtrap, and the poison-sky green filter, memeworthy as it is, does help shore up the impression that you're inviting death by trying to move through the space. Fallout: New Vegas I think addresses this by going in the total opposite direction; It's set in an area of the country where the infrastructure was abnormally well preserved, and the pre-war culture was revived artificially, and from a thematic standpoint it's really interested in digging into the implications of those two things. The fact that the lonely-empty-decontextualized-void aesthetic isn't long for this world dovetails well with the cowboy themes. They have a fair number of future-imperfect context-collapse gags but they don't overdo it by any stretch of the imagination.

Fallout 4, from many directions, is sort of catching the worst of the heat here. The world is recognizable, aggressively so. In fairly-authentically recreating the suburban sprawl of the Northeast, Bethesda simply surrounded the inhabitants of the commonwealth with too much Boston for a sense of true distance from our world to be possible. Everyone still has the accents. They still know the names of all the old neighborhoods. They're still doing the "Park your car" bit. It's still Boston. And it's a busy Boston, too- you can't throw a rock without hitting a farming settlement that's doing well enough to attract tribute-seeking bandits. It's densely packed with points of interest, and those points of interest are packed to the brim with salvageable materials that, going off of the new crafting system, should be in enormous demand to the people who've been living in this area for 210 years. The game doesn't really advance a satisfying explanation, even an aesthetic explanation like fallout 3's poison sky, for why everything around you hasn't been stripped clean before you even came off the ice, why all these environmental storytelling tableaus are just waiting for you to find. It doesn't spend nearly enough time hammering out what the 200-year chronology of the most-livable area seen in a Fallout game looks like- Why don't you see something comparable to the NCR emerging? Something something CPG massacre (which is mentioned twice in the whole game, AFAICT.) And what's being lost here, right, is the ability to use the sands of time to smooth over rough spots in the worldbuilding, in the chronology. You can't hide behind the idea that the world you're experiencing is mythologized. It's presented as real, and it doesn't make much sense if it's real!

And to top it off- Fallout 4 probably has the highest density of characters who were actually there, by some means or another. The Vault Tec rep, Daisy, The Triggermen, Nick Valentine, Eddie Winter, the vault 118 inhabitants, Arlen Glass, Oswald, Kent Connolly, The whole of Cabot House, Captain Zao, The kid in the goddamn fridge and his goddamn parents, and uh. The big one. You. You, the player. Which is such a goddamn splinter under my skin, from a storytelling perspective. You were present in the before-times- but only nominally, only to the exact degree necessary to establish that that was the case. The ugly shit is alluded to, but not incorporated into the character's day-to-day in a way that's obvious to the player, you're there for like six minutes and it's pretty nifty if you overlook that bit at the end where everyone got nuked. Your ability to talk about the world before is always vague, vacuous, superficial. The dirty laundry you dig up on terminals around Boston never seems to meaningfully impact your character's worldview, their impressions of the then and the now. All of which combine to make this the simultaneously the most specific but also the most frustratingly vague game in the series. At its best, Fallout's love of juxtaposing the then and the now would make it a great setting for the Rip Van Winkle routine. But it requires a strong, strong understanding of what the world was like before and after, a willingness to use the protagonist to constantly grind the jagged edges of those things against each other, a protagonist with a better-defined outlook than Bethesda's open-ended-past approach allowed for- and it has to be in service of a greater point. And for Fallout 4 to do anything with any of that, the game would have to be about something instead of being something for you to do. Maddening. Maddening.

[meatballsu]

I have rewatched TADC many times recently and I come up with many interesting theories about Ragatha (My favorite) and I think it is great to share them here.

Theory: Ragtha is kinda on Caine’s side, or at least she is the person who always “giving”.

This isn’t intend to propose that Caine and Ragatha are “bad” or something. I’m not sure if anyone is watching the GenV series (Spoilers alert!)

and I think Ragatha is sorta a role like Kate that supports the Caine.

One thing is that when Caine is stopped by Pomni questioning about how do they leave, Ragatha immediately takes the question with a little stuttering opening, like she helps Caine when the AI is malfunctioned.

Another thing is she apologized to Pomni when glitching, says Pomni had a bad day, it looks like Ragatha took the responsibility that she should take care of the newbies.

I also noticed a very interesting detail about Ragatha's motion design. I collected all the clips of she approaching while people remaining steady. You know it usually means this person is a sacrificer in relationships.

Even when she is not in a good mood about Pomni's “abandon” . Ragatha still approaches and stands by her side.

This gives me the feeling that Caine may have demanded or asked her for help to care the new "sucker".

Additionally, the Kaufmo part also striked me a little. (It may turns out to be simply the pilot needs and my overthinking. But consider I have to wait for months to expect a new episode so why not brain storm.)

So Ragatha is the person who promts to check Kaufmo:

Ragatha: Oh, wait, we should go check on Kaufmo. And I'm pretty sure he'd like to meet Pomni.

While Kinger refuses the idea and says:

I think Kaufmo's gone insane. Last time I spoke with him, he was rambling endlessly about some exit.

After they went to the carpet, Ragatha mentioned that:

Well, we usually do, when we first arrive, but after a while you start to realize that you really can't leave and constantly chasing an unattainable goal will start driving you a bit crazy. And eventually you get to asking what the point of anything is and you completely lose sight of who you are and why you're even alive and when you reach your breaking point something really terrible can happen.

When she saw the abstracted Kaufmo and she stuttered that the creature might be the “terrible thing” refered to what she said before.

At this time I think we can assume that:

Ragatha knows the pursuing exits could drive people to the breaking point.

Ragatha knows people who breaks will happen terrible things.

Ragatha knows by Kinger (who is unresponisive but still noticed somthing wrong) that Kaufmo is unstable recently.

Ragatha knows what “abstract” is, and someone( people who came earlier than her or Caine) kept warnig/brainwashing her that “ Don’t overthink about exist or terrible thing gonna happen”.

Why Ragatha wants to take Pomni to go check on Kaufmo even she knows he is in a unstable situation?

I think it can be explained that:

She wants to form a stonger colleague relationship with Pomni by taking her to meet the used-to-be-frindely Kaufmo (who liked to tell jokes). or—

She wants to warn Pomni by letting her see “the terrible thing” to stop her from thinking about exit.

By going through all this points, I feel that Ragatha is the most positive on the concept about “No exist”. It looks like she tries hard to prove that there is no way out.

This point is also supported by Caine. And Ragatha hints in a non-obvious way through the pilot that Caine treats them with good intention:

The official site introduces the series with:

So nevertheless, I think Ragatha is still a trapped victim, and the pilot seems to show that she grows a bit Stockholm syndrome and stands by Caine’s side to defend her sanity. That's why she is described as the sweetest optimist.

ps:

I find Jax's different attitude is intersting when Ragatha and Kinger mentioned their daily routine:

Jax didn't comment on Ragatha explaining their useless sleep routine.

[cringywhitedragon]

Just saw manly play indigo park and oh my goodness this is turning out to be mascot horror done right or at least some good handling

Mascot horror’s been kinda a meh genre since people starting riding off the coattails of FNAF (which in itself I find good but the series works better as more of a “Sit and Survive” style game instead of a open world/roaming kinda game like everything trying to follow Security Breach.)

Poppy Playtime is ok. It’s not perfect but the devs do shine with their animation skills (Even if I feel they kinda waste it most of the time with Minecraft animations and some other controversies) and it’s not really something with a whole lot of replay value (Very linear and at least in FNAF there’s some incentive to replay a majority of the games with stuff such as secrets/alternative endings and the custom night mode.)

We have stuff we do not talk about like Garbage of Banban and the fifty million other games trying to copy it.

Anyways back to Indigo park.

Yes it’s your standard affair of mascot horror but this game has a lot of charm to it from what I’ve seen. It’s clear that this project’s being made with love and has a few things I haven’t seen Mascot Horror games do a whole lot of.

Namely in the form of this game’s voice with an internet connection and companion, a goofy little guy named Rambly the Raccoon.

While having a character to act as a guide for the protagonist is a pretty common thing in these sorts of games, they either are a faceless voice over a phone/intercom, don’t show up until much later, or a simple pre-recorded infodump. Rambly is not that.

He’s met almost right off the bat not long after you start the game. While a bit glitchy, he shows right off the bat that he has is own personality to add a bit of comic relief to what is a horror game.

I kinda like to think of Rambly as a mix between Navirou (Monster Hunter Stories) and Wheatley (Portal) since he does act as both a companion character and voice for the (silent) protagonist but also interacts and comments on the environment that he’s a part of as well.

Also while a minor one, a feature for collectibles which also add a bit of lore (and humor with some of Rambly’s comments) to the game, not something we’ve seen too often in your free roaming mascot horror titles save for Security Breach (Yes there’s going to be a lot of comparisons between the two).

Finally, onto the enemies.

They actually work pretty well in the setting they’re supposed to be set in. As in, not overly gross and elongated abstract shapes that look super out of place or filled to the brim with mutations and razor sharp teeth but actually look like the characters one might find in the setting they would be in, abet still retaining that obvious “monsters out to get you look”. Kinda like the animatronics from FNAF that would be “in service” would fit appropriately in their specific location unlike something out of Garten of Banban which is supposed to be a daycare.

In all seriousness, who the fuck would be bringing their kids to a place filled with weird blobby creatures that look something out of a Pamtri video.

In other words, go check out and support the people working on Indigo Park!