#without directions. he just defaults to that.

[thebonesinmy-closet]

Mark and Rex should make out, and Mark should totally wreck Rex's face doing so, and Rex should let him. a tender kiss to Mark, when filled with passion and pent up energy, feelings like a vicious bite to Rex, but he's not quick to point that out. Mark should kiss Rex till it hurts and Rex should dig his nails into Mark's back, barely managing to break skin, even Mark says it's ok. Rex should try and match the speed and strength at which Mark is capable of defiling him, but ultimately fail — he could never dream of catching up to a Viltrumite. Rex should tell Mark he doesn't have to be gentle.

both have always had to be careful, but they can rip each other apart and welcome it. they've endured so much pain, why not find a way to enjoy it?

Mark should hold Rex tenderly with arms that could crush him, and Rex should relish in feeling secure. they should tangle their legs together and mingle their breaths and push each other against walls and mattresses and pillows. friction and heat building between them. moments where they stare at each other as Rex pants for breath and Mark waits for him to catch his breath with a look so patient it hurts they pant for breath, and there's the pull to be tender that feels slightly foreign but also so very good and right. their foreheads come to rest against each other at some point.

they talk about their insecurities. about the shit no one else wants to hear or knows what to do with. Rex covers Mark's hands with his own so he can't see the blood that isn't there. Mark takes hold of Rex's when they shake with a tremor that will never fully go away.

they aren't perfect. but they're something good. just for now.

[bonefall]

Is there beef with the Holstein cows and you or what was that joke lol

It's kind of wild It's just never come up on this blog before, but I HATE holsteins. Bottom 10 cow breeds for me. I hate how they're so common they account for the majority of milk produced. I hate that they're the "default" cow to the point where some don't even know cattle HAVE other colors. I hate their tiny horns (IF THEY EVEN HAVE THAT. LOSER ASS HORNLESS COW) and their painfully massive udders.

Legit I'm trying so hard to not launch into a No Mouth Must Scream style AM speech-- shoot my hand slipped.

(AM speech about why i dont like holsteins below the cut)

For starters, I have to give a brief lesson on what these terms mean; the "Holstein" is the American strain of the "Frisian" breed. Frisians are an ancient breed from Frisia, in the north of what we now consider the Netherlands. Crosses between the breeds are "Holstein-Frisians."

(There’s even more to this but im keeping it as simple as possible. Also one of my friends is Frisian and she is probably going to kill me for describing it like that.)

Historically, livestock was adapted to the environment they lived in. Frisians were bred by the Frisii people for hundreds of years in extremely grass-rich, lush, flat environments. The "polders" of the northern parts of the Netherlands. They're huge and eat a LOT of food.

Traditional Frisians were developed to produce as much meat and milk from a single individual as possible, without compromising the health of the cattle with constant inbreeding to get quick gains. We are talking about a breed that is over 2000 years old. They had the perfect environment to make The Ultimate Food Cow and by god they did it. I can respect that.

So, take that, drag it across an ocean to a place that does NOT have polders, and add the rapid enshittification of capitalism to it. BAM you've got a fucking holstein.

There is ONE goal for "improving" the holstein. Make More Milk. As long as the black and white milkbag leaks enough, nothing else matters. Health? Fertility? Feed ratio? Ability to not die of infection? WHO CARES. MILK LINE GO UP.

Over 90% of holsteins are inbred to start with, because Milk Line Go Up. To the tune of having an average COI of 8%-- where extreme negative effects (think Hapsburgs) start to crop up around 10%

Holstein bulls are aggressive bastards (many dairy bulls are), so no one wants to keep intact males in their herds, meaning most cows are artificially inseminated

Not being limited by the natural lifespan of a living bull means that the same stud can keep having direct offspring for decades after his death

Toystory the bull had 500,000 calves before he died, and hit over 1 million offspring in 2015. That's ONE animal and to put this in perspective, there are 9 million holsteins in the US.

DON'T WORRY IT GETS WORSE

Not only can 99% of holsteins be traced back to just two bulls-- 99% of male holsteins share one of two exact Y chromosomes with those two bulls.

The gene pool is so small that it's equivalent to about 60 individuals. Warrior Cat allegiances are larger than that. That's barely bigger than modern ThunderClan.

"Massive lack of genetic diversity" does not begin to capture the existential dread of this situation. Mark my words, WATCH, when the Bird Flu finally mutates a strain that rips through a mammalian population, it's gonna be in the USA and it's going to be through our dairy cattle.

This is not prophecy or me laying a curse on the land, this is the natural consequence of basing the stability of US milk production on the equivalent of 9 million clones of two classrooms worth of individuals, and then packing them in close quarters

And we don't have to wait for doomsday for the impacts to be apparent on the cattle themelves

Holstein fertility has also dropped by half since the 1960s when the intensive inbreeding really kicked into high gear

Because their whole body is dedicating all of their resources to milk production, they have a notoriously "bony" frame.

Show judges, however, like this because they think that's a very "feminine" look for a 1600 pound ruminant. Very normal thing to think.

Like. I don't know if i can communicate this to people who don't look at cows a lot (it's not quite as obviously dramatic as a pug skull) but here is a comparison of an "ideal" show holstein and an "unselected" holstein from a herd that's been established as a sort of "control group" for what they looked like back in the 1960s;

The way that the artery on the "modern" cow's belly runs to the udder like a big pink worm freaks me out the most ngl

The udder also bulges out from between the back legs

The show cow is so thin

And then compare these both to a Holstein-Frisian cross who leans more on the Frisian side;

Proper weight, developed legs. Its biggest "problem" is actually just the udder shape-- deep udders, which "hang" low like that, aren't optimal for milk-focused breeds because the higher away from the ground the less chance there is of infection. In that department, the "unselected" holstein clearly outclasses the holstein-frisian.

But it probably won't be surprising to hear that the "show holstein," with its massive, swollen udder, is SUPER prone to infections such as mastitis.

But it is also just more prone to getting sick generally

And, to keep up with these insane demands, holsteins need a TON of food. You aren't going to just turn these things out into a pasture and be done with it. Even its ancestor the Frisian needed premium Dutch polder grass to be such a good cow-- crank that up to 11 with these Monuments to Humanity's Hubrice

The Texas Longhorn developed in semi-feral conditions and can eat a bush to become the best thing in a 10 mile radius. The Scottish Highland was iron-forged in upland moors with a steady diet of turf and rain.

Meanwhile if a Holstein has less than 5 homemade meals a day without poland spring bottled water it will die to death.

And the WORST part? You have to use these if you want to make money in dairy farming. It's WAAY too expensive to just run a suboptimal farm. Their milk isn't great, but they sure do make a lot of it.

...so Holsteins and Holstein-Frisians (and other "super efficient" breeds) have absolutely decimated heritage cattle. The American Milking Devon is a deep reddish brown with gorgeous horns and low maintenance; rare. Randall Linebacks are painted with lines of white speckles down the back and can be used for any purpose; critically endangered. The Niata was a pug-faced cow who could fight jaguars; extinct.

And THAT'S what makes me hate them most of all. I LOVE cows, but whenever I see a reference to one, it's a holstein. It's always boring black and white splotches with big pink udders. They're practically synonymous with "cow" when their homogeniety is actually hiding much cooler breeds from you.

Did you know cows can be tiger-striped?

And that England has its own type of longhorn?

Or that cow horns can twist upwards like an antelope?

And that they can have REALLY LONG ears?

And that they can be blue?

And that's not even getting into some of the cows that have gotten a small crumb of attention lately, such as Highlands, Ankole-Watusi, and Texas Longhorns. There's so many cool cows out there! And they're all really different from holsteins! MOST of them are also a lot healthier and produce tastier milk and meat!

TL;DR yeah i don't like holsteins and I like sniping at them. For reasons both legit and petty.

[viviansturns]

𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒔 - wc: 15k+

... shy!matt x reader—a love story told in all their first moments

cw: flirting, kissing, sub!matt, p in v, riding, squirting, humiliation, jealousy, angst, fluff, literally everything. its a love story!

First Time Meeting

The library was almost empty.

It was late afternoon, the kind of time when the sun starts to filter in sideways through the windows and paint golden lines across the floor. Matt liked it then—quiet, still, safe. The way the shelves muffled everything, the way people whispered by default. He came here more than he liked to admit, always with a book or a sketchpad, always ending up in the same worn seat by the back window.

That’s where he saw you.

He noticed you before you noticed him. You were standing near the psychology shelf, one hand on your hip, head tilted like you were sizing up a row of books for a fight. He thought you were gorgeous— to put it lightly.

There was something about how still you were, how focused. Like you didn’t care who else was in the room. That alone made Matt’s stomach do something embarrassing.

He looked away. Then back again.

You pulled out a book, flipped it open, and sighed. It was almost imperceptible, but he heard it. And then, as if drawn by some invisible, stupid force, Matt stood up.

He didn’t plan on saying anything. He really didn’t. But somehow, he ended up a few feet away, pretending to look for something on the shelf beside you.

You glanced at him once, then twice.

“You need something?” you asked, not unkind, just direct.

Matt blinked, caught. “Oh—uh. No. I was just…”

He trailed off. What was he just?

You raised an eyebrow, book still half-open in your hand. “Just hovering weirdly near me?”

Matt’s face flushed instantly. “I—sorry. I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t—”

You smiled then, subtle but real. “Relax. I’m just messing with you.”

“Oh.” He blinked, shoulders tensing, then easing. “Right. Okay.”

You closed the book and tucked it under your arm, turning toward him a little more fully. “You hang out here a lot?”

He hesitated. “Yeah. Kind of my place, I guess.”

“Yeah? You seem like the library type?

That made him tilt his head. “What’s the library type?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. Glasses? Button up shirts? Tote bags or some shit??”

He laughed, caught off guard. “I mean, I do have many tote bags. And glasses. And button up shirts.”

You nodded toward the sketchpad under his arm. “You draw?”

Matt looked down like he forgot he was holding it. “Oh—yeah. A bit.”

“Can I see?”

His eyes widened slightly. “Now?”

“No,” you said, mock serious. “In a couple days.”

He laughed nervously. “Right. Sorry.”

He flipped open the sketchpad without thinking, hands clumsy, suddenly hyperaware of how close you were. The pages showed a mix of quick studies—hands, faces, street scenes—done in pencil, loose and warm.

You looked for a moment, quiet.

“These are really good,” you said.

Matt blinked, startled. “Oh. Thanks.”

“No, like—actually. I don’t usually say things I don’t mean.”

“I—okay.” He tried not to grin like an idiot. “That’s... really nice of you. Um t-thank you.”

You glanced at him again, more carefully this time. “You always this twitchy, or is it just me?”

He flushed. “Just you, probably.”

You smiled again. “Cute.”

His ears turned red. “You, uh… you come here a lot?”

“Sometimes. When I want to think. Or avoid people.”

He nodded slowly. “That’s why I come too.”

You looked at him for a moment longer, like you were deciding something.

“I’m gonna go sit over there,” you said, motioning toward the window seat he always used. “You can come too, if you want.”

Matt hesitated just long enough for you to raise an eyebrow again.

“Unless you’re scared,” you added.

“I’m not scared,” he said quickly, stepping forward before his brain could stop him.

You gave a soft hum of approval and led the way. When you sat, you didn’t spread out or mark your space—just leaned back, casual, like you belonged there. Matt hovered for a beat too long before settling beside you, sketchpad in his lap, palms sweating.

“So,” you said after a moment. “What’s your name?”

“Matt.”

You repeated it under your breath, then nodded. “I’m y/n.”

Silence again. Not awkward—just expectant.

“I really wasn’t trying to be weird earlier,” Matt blurted.

You looked at him sideways. “You kinda were.”

“I know,” he groaned, covering his face.

You nudged his knee with yours. “But I didn’t mind.”

He peeked at you between his fingers. “Really?”

“Really,” you said, letting your smile grow slowly. “You’re cute when you panic.”

Matt didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He just looked at you—composed, unreadable, and yet totally disarming—and felt like someone had pulled the floor out from under him.

You nudged his knee again, gentler this time. “Cat got your tongue, sketchboy?”

He blinked like he’d just surfaced. “Sorry, I’m—this is just... a lot.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Me sitting near you is ‘a lot’?”

“No, it’s just—you’re really…” He trailed off, like the word had gotten stuck somewhere between his brain and mouth.

“I’m really…?” you prompted, leaning in slightly.

Matt swallowed. “Distracting.”

You grinned. “I’ll take it.”

He laughed under his breath, nervous again, thumb grazing the corner of his sketchpad like it was grounding him. “You make it hard to think.”

“That’s the goal,” you said casually, watching him squirm. “But if it helps, you’re doing okay.”

He tilted his head. “Okay?”

“Better than I expected.”

“Better than—wait, what were you expecting?”

You shrugged like it wasn’t important. “I don’t know. More stammering. More sweating.”

“Oh, I’m definitely sweating,” he muttered.

You smirked and leaned back against the window, eyes squinting at the slats of sunlight spilling across the floor. “You’re funny, though. Kind of sweet.”

Matt opened his mouth, then closed it again. “You’re just… saying that.”

“No,” you said, without looking at him. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

And that quiet between you returned—just long enough for the tension to shift from playful to something heavier. More real.

“I, um…” Matt started, then stopped, biting his lip.

You glanced over. “What?”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking absolutely anywhere but at you. “I’ve got a lecture that I have to head to. Would it be super weird if I asked for your number?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him for a second too long. Then:

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you’re actually gonna use it.”

His head snapped up. “I—yes. I will. I mean, I want to.”

You pulled a pen from your tote and reached for his sketchpad. “Then I guess it’s not super weird.”

You scribbled your number in the corner, dotting the “i” in your name with a tiny star. Then handed it back like it was no big deal.

Matt looked down at it like it might vanish.

“Don’t overthink it,” you said as you stood, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Just text me.”

He nodded quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I will.”

You paused, gave him one last look. “Nice meeting you, Matt.”

And then you walked away, as calm and unreadable as when you’d arrived, leaving him blinking in the gold light, sketchpad in hand, heart doing things he didn’t know hearts could do.

First Texts

Matt: hey It’s me, matt, from the library?

You: Hey matt Whats up

Matt: so hypothetically if someone wanted to see you again in a setting that wasn’t just surrounded by dusty psychology books how would you feel about that?

You: i’d feel like that person should stop hiding behind hypotheticals and just ask me out

Matt: okay uh  d’you wanna go have a picnic? I know a quiet spot. Nothing fancy. Just food and you I guess.

You:  Food and me?? Sounds fun

Matt:  Good. I’ll bring snacks and a blanket. You just bring yourself.

You:  Deal. Saturday afternoon work?

Matt:  Yeah that works! I’ll pick you up.

First Date

The park was quiet, with just enough afternoon sun slipping through the trees to make the grass glow golden. Matt spread the blanket carefully, trying not to fumble too much with the snacks he’d brought. He’d overthought everything—the perfect spot, the right food— chocolate covered strawberries, all sorts of fruits and cheeses, and chips.

You plopped down right beside him, knees touching, grinning in surprise.

“Wow,” you said, eyeing his arrangement. “Look at you, all organized and stuff. I half expected you to show up with a bag of chips and maybe a soda.”

Matt’s cheeks flushed, a little overwhelmed by your energy. “Hey, I put some thought into this. Quality counts.”

You leaned in closer, voice low and teasing. “I like a guy who tries. Those fuckin’ nochalant guys piss me off.”

He swallowed hard, blinking, sort of unable to focus. He really liked your eyelashes. You did your makeup in the way that made them clumped together in triangles and spikey, framing your eyes. “I—yeah, thank you.”

“No, thank you.” You add, picking up a strawberry from the bowl. “You seem really sweet. Kinda random, but did you bring your sketchbook by any chance?”

Matt shifted, breaking out into a cute smile. “Yeah! I did, actually Why?.”

You laughed, the sound light and infectious. “You’re so excited!”

He smiled shyly, glancing down at the blanket like it was a lifeline. 

You dug into the basket again and pulled out the sketchbook, flipping it open to a blank page. “Alright, Picasso, impress me.”

Matt’s eyes brightened, and he took the sketchbook, already grabbing a pencil from his bag. “Okay, but be warned—I’m better at drawing nature than people.”

You smirked, nudging him playfully. “Then you better start with me.”

He bit his lip, concentrating, pencil moving carefully. You watched him, fascinated by the furrow of his brow and the way his fingers trembled just a little.

“I-I don’t know if it’s going to be good.”

You reached out and brushed a stray hair from his face, smiling softly. “You’re doing just fine.”

Matt’s heart did a weird flip-flop thing. “You’re way too nice.”

“Nah, I just like making cute nerds blush.”

He coughed awkwardly, cheeks flaming. “I’m not blushing.”

“Sure you’re not.” You grinned, then changed the subject, “So, what’s next after strawberries? I’m expecting a grand tour of your snack stash.”

“Grand tour? Wow, you really know how to flatter a guy.”

You laughed again, flicking a crumb at him. “Flattery and flirting—my specialties.”

Matt tried to catch the crumb but missed, ending up with it on his shirt. You giggled, and he gave up, just grinning like a total dork, then going back to draw.

“You’re distracting,” he muttered, eyes flicking up to yours as his pencil moved in short, careful strokes.

“Am I?” you teased, voice lilting.

“Painfully,” he replied without looking up, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

You sat back a little, giving him space, watching the way his hand moved. He was quiet for a bit, just sketching, tongue peeking out in concentration.

Finally, he stopped, blowing gently across the page like it’d smudge if he even breathed wrong. “Okay, um. It’s not perfect, but…”

He turned the sketchbook around and showed you.

It was you—your hair a little messy from the breeze, lips parted like you were mid-laugh, sitting cross-legged with a strawberry in one hand. Soft lines, but so intentional. Warm. Kind of how he saw you.

Your teasing fell away for a second.

“Holy shit, Matt,” you said, actually stunned. “That’s… that’s really good.”

He looked like he was about to short-circuit. “You think so?”

You nodded slowly, eyes still on the drawing. “It’s not even about the lines or whatever—it just… feels like me. Like how I felt sitting here. That’s kinda magical, you know?”

Matt blinked, definitely blushing now.

You leaned in, elbow nudging his. “You’re kinda magical, Matt.”

He looked away, smiling so wide he couldn’t stop it. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You leaned back on your hands, stretching your legs out across the blanket as the sun dipped a little lower, turning everything hazy and golden. The strawberry stem still sat between your fingers, forgotten.

Matt was watching you like he didn’t mean to. Like every time he looked away, he had to check again to make sure you were still real.

You caught him. “You good?”

He blinked, startled. “What? Yeah—yeah, I’m just…”

“Mesmerized by my beauty?”

“I mean…” He trailed off, but you saw the grin creeping onto his face.

You laughed, brushing your fingers lightly against his arm. “Relax, I’m just messing.”

“Kind of wish you weren’t,” he muttered under his breath, quiet but not quiet enough.

You stilled for half a second, then smiled—gentler this time. “I’m glad I came.”

He looked over at you again, blinking slowly, eyes all soft. “Me too.”

There was a pause—comfortable. The kind you don’t notice until it’s over.

Eventually, you helped him pack up, folding the blanket between you, hands brushing once, twice, until he finally just said, “Let me,” and took it from you, a little too careful, a little too flustered.

When you got to the path back toward the street, you slowed down. “Hey, Matt?”

He looked over, hair mussed from the breeze, sketchbook tucked under his arm.

You leaned in and kissed his cheek. Just barely, but definitely enough to make his ears go red.

“Thanks for today,” you said.

Matt blinked. “Uh. Yeah. No. Yeah—thank you. Too. I mean. You’re welcome. I mean—”

You grinned. “God, you’re cute.”

He laughed, finally letting out a breath. “I don’t know how you do that”

“Good,” you said, turning to go. “I don’t want you to.”

And with that, you walked off, glancing back once to see him still standing there, grinning like he couldn’t believe his life.

First Kiss

You’d been on a few dates by now—enough that Matt had stopped flinching every time your knee touched his under the table, but not enough that he’d figured out how to look at your mouth without going pink.

Tonight, it was a walk. No real plan. Just you, Matt, and the city lit up like it was showing off for you.

He kept sneaking glances. You kept pretending not to notice. Then purposely brushing your shoulder into his just to make him stumble over his words again.

“You know,” you said as you passed a quiet little streetlamp, “you’re starting to look at me like you wanna kiss me.”

Matt nearly tripped. “What—? I’m—No, I mean—yes? I mean—”

You stopped walking, turning toward him with a teasing smile. “Relax. I’m not gonna bite. Unless you’re into that.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I, uh. I do want to kiss you. Kinda a lot.”

A sold moment passed.

“Then do it.”

His eyes widened a little, like he wasn’t expecting you to just say it. He opened his mouth then closed it like a fish, unable to get words out.

But he stepped in anyway, one slow inch at a time. Close enough to see every little shimmer in your eyes. Close enough to get nervous again.

You reached up and tugged gently at the collar of his hoodie. “C’mon, Matt. You’ve drawn me twice. You can kiss me once.”

That made him laugh, nervous and breathless. His pretty eyes behind his glasses kept flicking between your eyes and your lips as you just watched him carefully.

Then he leaned in. It was soft. Careful. Like he was afraid you might vanish if he messed it up. But your hands found the sides of his face, grounding him, and when you kissed back—just a little firmer, a little more sure—he melted into it. 

His hands came to go around your waist as he tilted his head slightly to slot his lips perfecty against yours. His glasses make contact with your nose as he kisses you a bit harder.

When you pulled away, barely, his forehead bumped gently into yours.

“You okay?” you murmured.

“Yeah,” he said, dazed. “Just—processing. That was...wow.”

You grinned. “You’re cute when your brain short-circuits.”

“You’re cute,” he said, quickly, confidence boosting his ability to compliment you.

You laughed, threading your fingers through his. “True. But you’re especially cute when you’re flustered. Which, lucky for me, is always.”

Then without hesitation, put his hands around your face and kissed you again, this time without overthinking.

Progress.

First Sleepover

You were early. Not by much. Just thirty minutes. You had your reasons: the streetcar came fast, your outfit (which was just your pajamas) had come together better than expected, and… okay, maybe you just wanted to see him a little sooner.

What you didn’t expect was for Matt to answer the door shirtless and confused, hair wet and curling at the ends. He blinked at you, eyes wide behind his glasses, water still dripping down his collarbone. 

He clearly had meant to shave you had interrupted his frantic getting ready based on the slight scruff on his jawline— he usually had it cleanly shaved, and you couldn't help but love this look.

“…You’re early.”

You smiled like you hadn’t just swallowed a breath. “Yeah. Guess I missed you.”

Matt looked panicked. “I—I just got out of the shower.”

“I can see that,” you said, gaze shameless. “And you look very clean. Very damp. Very shirtless.”

He flushed to the tips of his ears. “Oh my God.”

You leaned against the doorframe, all teeth. “Should I wait out here while you compose yourself? Or do I get a pre-movie show?”

He made a strangled noise, yanked the door open wider, and turned away too fast. “Just come in—give me two seconds—Jesus—”

You giggled and stepped inside, not bothering to hide the way your eyes trailed after him as he disappeared down the hall.

By the time he reemerged, shirt clinging slightly from rushed dressing and curls still drying, you were perched on the couch with your legs tucked under you and the popcorn he had laid out in your lap. “Much better,” you said. “I mean, I prefer the previous look, but I’ll survive.”

“y/n,” Matt muttered, sitting down beside you. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You bumped your shoulder into his. “Nah. Not yet.”

After a while when Matt had turned all the light on and gotten settled, the movie played. Sort of. You weren’t really watching it. Neither was he.

You commented too much. He laughed too easily. He kept glancing at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice, and you definitely noticed.

At some point, his arm had somehow ended around your shoulder.

Neither of you said anything. It just stayed there, warm and loose between popcorn refills. Eventually, you leaned your head onto his shoulder. His breath caught.

“I really like this,” you whispered.

“Me too,” he said, even softer.

You turned your head slightly to look at him. Your faces were closer than you realized.

He didn’t move.

So you leaned in and kissed him—slow and easy, like you’d been waiting all week to do it again.

Matt made a soft sound, almost surprised, and kissed you back. It was warmer this time, a little more sure. In his mind, all he wanted to do was launch forwards and kiss you harder. You were just so captivating that it’s all he could think of, but he tried keeping self control, and pulled away.

He pulled away with a shaky breath, eyes fluttering open like he was waking from a dream. His lips were pink, his cheeks flushed, and you could feel the restraint vibrating off him.

You tilted your head, voice teasing. “What, that’s all I get?”

Matt laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “If I didn’t stop, I wasn’t gonna stop.”

Your brows lifted, amusement flickering in your smile. “Wow. Bold of you to assume I’d mind.”

He groaned, flopping back onto the couch dramatically. “Don’t say stuff like that. I’ll combust.”

You leaned on him, gently resting a hand on his leg that laid right beside yours. “You’re so cute when you’re like this.”

He looked up at you, still flushed, eyes dark with something and caught-off-guard. “You’ve mentioned,” he says sarcastically.

With a gasp of indignation, you gave a soft slap on the leg where your hand was resting. “Don’t you build up an attitude with me, Matthew.

He just opened his mouth then shut it, clearly not knowing how to feel about you saying his full name like that. He liked it, so he decided right then.

Before he could respond, you kissed him again—this one short, smiling against his mouth, before sitting back and curling into his side like nothing had happened.

Matt took a full sixty seconds to reboot. Then quietly—carefully—he draped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you in closer.

You didn’t say anything. You just rested your head back on him and let yourself melt.

After a couple moments, Matt shifted carefully, adjusting so he was lying down on the long couch. You moved with him, settling against his side, your body fitting naturally against his. The movie kept playing, the flickering light casting soft shadows across the room.

You blinked slowly, your breathing evening out as sleep started to claim you— you were a pretty early sleeper for people your age.

Matt’s eyes stayed on the screen for a moment, but his attention quietly drifted to you. The peaceful way your eyelashes fluttered, the slight rise and fall of your chest—it was like watching something fragile and beautiful.

When the movie’s credits began to roll, Matt reached out without a sound, grabbing the remote from the edge of the couch. His fingers hovered for a second, then he pressed the button to turn off the TV.

The room went dark except for the soft glow of streetlights outside.

Matt didn’t move, just held you a little tighter as you slipped fully into sleep, a small smile tugging at his lips.

First Time You Made it Official

The sun dipped just below the horizon, the sky swirling with peach and lavender as Matt pulled up outside your place. He jumped out of the car, already rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “Ready?” he asked, flashing that awkward-but-sincere smile you were already hooked on.

You nodded, sliding into the passenger seat. The car smelled faintly of popcorn and something sweet — maybe.

Matt started driving, stealing glances at you from the corner of his eyes. “So, this is kind of a last-minute thing,” he muttered, voice a bit shaky. “I hope you don’t mind.”

You grinned, heart fluttering. “I love surprises.”

The city lights blurred past as you drove out of town, the orange glow of the sunset melting into the cool blues of twilight.

Finally, you reached a quiet hilltop overlooking the drive-in. Matt parked, and you both sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the soft hum of the engine.

“Okay,” he said, suddenly breaking the quiet, “close your eyes.” 

You raised an eyebrow but obeyed, heart thudding in your chest. Slowly, you heard him walk around to your side of the passenger side of the car and open the door, holding both of your hands to guide you out, then eventually leading you around the car. You were grinning so hard it hurt. Then, he let go and you hear a little click and switch.

“Alright, open ‘em,” Matt whispered.

You blinked, and the trunk was wide open, spilling out a soft golden light from twinkling string lights Matt had strung up with obvious care. Cushions and blankets were arranged in a cozy nest, and a spread of snacks — popcorn, chocolate, fruit — sat invitingly in the center.

Right there, taped to the inside of the trunk lid, was a sign written in his handwriting:

“Can I be yours?”

Your breath hitched. You looked up at Matt, who was now practically glowing with nervous hope. 

“So…?” he said, voice cracking just a little.

You didn’t hesitate. You threw yourself into his arms, wrapping your legs around his waist and pressing your face into his neck.

Matt stumbled backward, laughter bubbling up as he caught you effortlessly.

“Matt!” you yelled with a squeal, leaning back and pressing a passionate kiss into his lips.

“Is that a yes,” he said, voice rough with emotion against your lips.

You pulled back just enough to smile, then leaned in once again, kissing him slow and soft, full of all the excitement and relief and warmth you’d both been holding back.

The world shrunk to just you two, the twinkle lights glowing softly, the sound of the movie starting in the background, and the feeling that this was exactly where you were supposed to be.

“Of course I’ll be your girlfriend, Matt. Of course.” 

First Time you Gave him a Nickname

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a stack of old vinyl records you’d pulled out from her collection. The soft crackle of the music filled the room.

You smiled and handed Matt one. “You always pick the best ones, baby.”

Matt froze. His face went bright red, and before he could stop himself, he covered his face with his hands.

“Wait... did you just call me… baby?” His voice was shaky and muffled.

You laughed, watching him squirm. “Yeah. So?”

He peeked through his fingers, cheeks burning hard. “I—uh—didn’t expect that.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to find words. “It’s… nice, I guess. Um. Um, sorry..”

You reached out and tucked a stray hair behind his ear, then leaned in and kissed him.

Matt’s eyes went wide. His heart was racing so fast he thought it’d jump out. He froze for a second, then kissed her back, shy and slow.

When they pulled away, his face was even redder.

“That was… really nice, baby,” he muttered, half embarrassed, half smiling.

You grinned. “See? You’re getting used to it.”

First Time You Cried in Front of him

You’d been at it for hours—highlighting, rewriting notes, flipping through textbooks—trying to force your brain to understand the material that just wouldn’t click. Your desk was a chaotic mess, pages strewn about like a storm had passed through. The clock ticked on, but all you felt was your chest tightening, breaths growing shorter, and the walls closing in.

Matt was lying on your bed nearby, earbuds in, half-asleep, his music washing over him like a soft wace. But then, even without hearing you, he noticed the subtle change—the way your fingers trembled, the catch in your breath.

Involuntarily, you gasped your vision swimming. Panic swelled fast and fierce. You couldn’t do it. You were going to fail your midterms. You couldn’t do it.

Matt was up instantly, heart pounding. He yanked the earbuds out, voice gentle but urgent. “Hey, hey, baby, what’s going on? Talk to me.”

You couldn’t answer. You were drowning in your own panic, breaths coming in sharp, uneven bursts, tears slipping down your cheeks.

Matt closed the distance, taking your shaking hands in his. “Okay. We’re gonna slow this down. Just breathe with me. In—hold it—out. Again.”

You tried, but your lungs felt tight, like air was slipping away.

Without hesitation, he guided you away from the desk. “Come sit with me. You’re not alone.”

You let yourself be pulled onto the bed, curling into him as he wrapped his arms around your trembling frame. His chest was steady beneath your head, his heartbeat a quiet anchor against your chaos.

“I’m right here,” he whispered, voice low and soft. “Nothing’s wrong with you. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

The warmth of his touch, the calm in his voice—it started to pull you back, like a lifeline.

You felt yourself start to relax, breaths becoming deeper, less frantic.

Matt’s fingers traced slow circles on your back. “You’re okay. You’re so brave for even letting me see this.”

You pressed your face against his shirt, embarrassed but too exhausted to care. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to break down like this. I’m just... so tired. And I don’t get it. I’ve been trying so hard. I feel like fucking shit, Matt.”

Matt kissed the top of your head. “You don’t have to explain. I’m not going anywhere.”

He tightened his hold, voice thick with care. “I hate that you’re hurting. But I’m proud of you for pushing through.”

A shaky breath escaped you, comfort blooming in the quiet room. “Thank you... for being here.”

He smiled, the kind of smile that makes your chest ache in the best way. “Always. Now, how about we put those books away for tonight? I’ll even let you pick the movie. Something dumb, something that makes us laugh.”

You let out a soft laugh, feeling a flicker of light through the panic haze. “Yeah... I’d like that.”

Matt brushed a stray tear from your cheek and whispered, “You’re the strongest person I know, y/n, don’t you forget it. And with that, he planted a firm kiss on your lips.

First I love you

It was a lazy Sunday. You were sitting cross-legged on Matt’s bed, eating fruit straight from the container while he lay next to you on his stomach, sketchbook open in front of him. The soft hum of music drifted from his speaker, blending with the late afternoon light that poured in through his window.

You popped a grape into your mouth and looked over at what he was drawing. “Is that supposed to be me?” you teased, leaning closer. “Why are my eyes so big?”

Matt huffed. “They’re not big, they’re expressive. It’s artistic exaggeration.”

“You just called me cartoonish.”

He glanced up, grinning. “Well, you’re my favorite cartoon character. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” you echoed, smirking.

He returned to his sketching, but you saw the smile that lingered at the corner of his mouth. You stretched out beside him, stealing one of his pencils just to annoy him. He didn’t stop you.

You were halfway doodling nonsense in the margin of his page when he muttered, casually and without looking up, “God, I love you.”

You froze.

So did he.

He blinked. Then his pencil dropped. And slowly, like his brain was catching up with his mouth, he turned to look at you. His eyes were wide.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, already flushing pink. “Wait. I didn’t— I mean, I didn’t mean it like—well I did but—” He sat up too fast and knocked the sketchbook off the bed. “I wasn’t gonna say it like that, not now, I—ugh—”

“Matt,” you said softly.

He ran a hand through his hair, now fully red in the face. “I was gonna wait for, like, a perfect moment. Maybe flowers? Or a sunset? Not while you’re bullying me over eyeballs—”

“Matt.”

He peeked at you through his fingers. “Yeah?”

You reached for him and held his face gently. “I love you too.”

He blinked again. “Wait... seriously?”

You nodded, smile growing. “Seriously.”

His whole body relaxed like he’d just exhaled a week’s worth of breath. “Oh thank god,” he said, then added in a rush, “I mean—not that I was worried. I mean, I was. But like—” He paused. “You love me?”

“I do.”

He grinned, giddy and dazed. “Sick.”

You laughed. “That’s your response?”

He shrugged, all flustered and glowing. “I panicked. But I’m really happy.”

Then he kissed you — not clumsy or rushed, but slow and sweet, like he finally knew where he stood.

And where he stood was exactly where he wanted to be.

First Makeout Sesh

It started like any other night. You were sitting cross-legged on Matt’s bed, half-watching a movie while your fingers absentmindedly toyed with the hem of your hoodie—his hoodie that you’d stolen weeks ago. He was beside you, leaning against the headboard, looking very boyfriend-coded in a black tank top and sweats, hair still slightly messy from earlier. 

His glasses were set to the side of his dresser, and he had that slight stubble that you just loved.

You weren’t really paying attention to the movie. Not when he kept tracing soft patterns on the side of your waist, not when he looked over and smiled like that—all shy and soft and so obviously in love.

At some point, you climbed into his lap.

It wasn’t planned. You were just tired, or at least that was your excuse. He blinked up at you, wide-eyed, his hands hovering near your waist like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch.

“You okay?” he asked, voice a little breathier than usual.

You leaned in, brushing your nose against his. “More than okay.”

And then you kissed him.

It started soft, familiar. You’d kissed before—quick, sweet pecks, slow moments on quiet afternoons. But this one deepened fast. You tilted your head, one hand sliding into his hair, and Matt made the softest sound—half gasp, half sigh—against your mouth.

He kissed you back like he’d been waiting for it.

His hands settled on your hips, tentative at first. You shifted a little, straddling him properly, and his breath hitched hard.

“Y-you’re gonna kill me,” he mumbled against your lips, cheeks flushed pink.

You smiled. “You like it.”

His eyes fluttered shut when you kissed down the side of his jaw, your lips grazing the edge of his throat. His hands gripped you tighter, like he needed to hold on to something.

“God,” he whispered, “you’re unreal.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him—his lips were red and kiss-bruised, hair all messed up from your fingers. He looked completely dazed.

You let your fingers trace the line of his collarbone, just barely under the tank top strap, and he whimpered.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, voice cracking with pure embarrassment. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to—”

“—you’re so cute when you’re desperate,” you interrupt, brushing your nose against his again.

Matt looked humiliated and so turned on. “That’s so unfair.”

But he didn’t stop kissing you. Didn’t stop pulling you closer, as you both held onto each other and made out in a rhythm.

“y/n…” he said, voice a little wrecked already.

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

“I—um.” His hands flexed on your hips again, eyes darting down to where your bodies pressed together. “You should probably stop,” he mutters with embarrassment. 

You smile and begin placing kisses down his neck. “Why?”

“B-because,” he tries to say, until you fully sit down onto his lap, making contact with his bulge. He groans, totally forgetting what he was trying to bring up.

“Fuck— this feels like a dream.”

You smirked. “Do your dreams usually include me grinding on you?”

Matt choked. Literally choked on air.

“Jesus Christ—” He threw his head back against the headboard, face flaming. “You’re evil.”

But he didn’t stop you when you rolled your hips, just barely.

He whimpered. A real, honest-to-God whimper. And it made you grin so wide you had to hide it against his neck.

“Y-you can’t just do that,” he said, his voice trembling.

“Why not?” you murmured, kissing just below his ear. “You like it.”

His hands slid up your back now, hesitant but eager. “You’re gonna make me lose my mind.”

“Good.”

You kissed him again—hotter, more open-mouthed. This time he gave in completely. He let you take control, lips parting under yours, breath stuttering as your tongues brushed. His hands were gripping the hem of your hoodie like he was afraid he might float away if he let go.

You pulled back just long enough to tug the hoodie off. Matt’s eyes widened like he’d just short-circuited.

“You’re so—” he started, then stopped, then swallowed. “I don’t even have words.”

You leaned back in, resting your forehead against his. “You don’t have to talk, baby. Just feel.”

That got a sound out of him that went straight to your stomach. He kissed you again, this time with urgency, with need. His hips shifted under yours involuntarily, and you both gasped at the friction.

You dragged your nails gently up his arms, feeling the tension there. “Tell me what you want,” you whispered.

Matt shook his head, dizzy. “I don’t—I.”

Then you heard a knock at the door.

Matt froze.

You both stared at each other, breath caught, hearts hammering. Another knock. Louder.

“Bro!” a voice called. “Open up—we brought snacks!”

Matt groaned like it physically hurt. He flopped back against the headboard, arms thrown over his eyes in pure agony. “No. No, no, no. I forgot Chris and Nick were coming.”

You laughed—quiet and breathless—as he muttered a string of hushed curses.

“They’re literally the worst,” he whispered, like he was being hunted. “Fuck m’sorry.”

You leaned down, still straddling him, brushing a kiss against his jaw. “Well, I guess you’ll just have to wait.”

He whined. You loved it.

The knock came again, followed by a chorus of his brothers’ voices arguing about who was supposed to text ahead. Matt looked at you with the most tragic expression. 

“Another day, baby,” you add. With a groan he tries to subtly tuck himself into the waistband of his sweatpants without you seeing, then begins trudging downstairs to open the door.

First Fight

It started with something small. 

Matt had been quiet all night. You’d asked if everything was okay once, twice—he just nodded and said he was tired. But when you made a joke at dinner, one you’d made a hundred times before, he barely reacted. And when he did, it was sharp.

“God, do you always have to say stuff like that?”

You blinked. “What?”

He sighed. “Just forget it.”

“No,” you said. “Say what you mean. You’ve been weird all night.”

“Maybe I’m tired of always feeling like a joke to you.”

You stared at him, mouth slightly open. “Matt, what the hell are you talking about?”

He rubbed his eyes, clearly frustrated. “You tease me all the time, y/n. And I usually don’t care. But lately it just—it feels like you don’t take me seriously. Like I’m just some soft guy who can’t handle anything.”

Your chest tightened. “That’s not true. I—I tease you because I like you. You know that.”

“I thought I did,” he said quietly.

Silence stretched. You felt it like a pressure in your ribs, heavy and awful.

“N-no, no baby,” you whisper, eyes widening. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I didn’t know you felt like that,” you said, voice smaller now. “Why didn’t you say something before?”

“Because I didn’t want to seem pathetic,” he mumbled.

That cracked something open in you. “You’re not pathetic, Matt. You’re one of the strongest people I know.”

He wouldn’t look at you. Just sat there, hands clenched in his lap, trying not to crumble.

You crossed the room and knelt in front of him. “I’m sorry. If I made you feel like you’re not enough—God, I’m so sorry.”

His eyes finally met yours. “I just want to feel like I matter to you. Like… not just the flirty version. The me version.”

“You matter,” you said, pressing your hand to his chest. “This version. All of it. I see you, Matt.”

His face crumpled, just a little. And then you were hugging, both of you holding on too tightly, too long, like the space between your bodies had been unbearable.

“I’m sorry Matt,” you whisper, tears stinging your eyes. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I swear I will.”

After a long time of you laying in his arms, he says into your hair. “I forgive you, baby.”

First time you cared for him while he was sick

Matt did not look good.

The second you opened the door to his apartment—code he’d barely managed to text you—you found him lying sideways on the bathroom floor, half-conscious, sweaty, and pale like a ghost with heatstroke.

“Oh my God,” you breathed, rushing to kneel beside him. “Matt?”

He groaned in response, one hand feebly waving in the direction of the toilet. “I threw up. A lot. I think I’m dying.”

You ignored the dramatics and brushed his damp hair back. He was burning up, forehead hot under your fingers, skin clammy and gross in a way that made your heart squeeze with worry.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were this sick?”

He mumbled something unintelligible and dramatically buried his face in your lap. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”

“You’re literally on the bathroom floor,” you said. “I want to be bothered for that.”

You helped him up slowly, got him into a clean shirt, and tucked him onto the couch with a cold compress and a puke bucket beside him. The whole time, he just let you do it, too weak to argue, blinking up at you like you were a hallucination sent by some benevolent god.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbled, grabbing your hand as you went to get him water.

“I’m getting you electrolytes, drama queen,” you whispered, kissing the back of his hand. “I’ll be right back.”

You set up camp with him after that—cool cloth on his forehead, hand in his hair, rubbing his back every time he groaned or whimpered. He kept mumbling delirious things like "You're so nice to me" and "I feel gross and you still look at me like that?"

At one point, as you were carefully helping him drink tiny sips of water, he whispered hoarsely, “If I die, tell my brothers I love them, but tell you… you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

You snorted. “Shut up and sip. You’re not dying. You just had gas station sushi.”

He groaned into the pillow. “I’m never eating fish again.”

You kissed his clammy temple anyway. “You’ve got the immune system of a Victorian child. You’re gonna be okay. I’ve got you.”

He sighed deeply, miserable but comforted, and whispered something like “Love you” before passing out halfway through. You stopped for a second, looking at his flushed, peaceful face, and tucked the blanket higher on his shoulders.

“Love you too, dummy,” you whispered. “Even when you’re disgusting.”

You stayed the whole night, checking up on him every hour and replacing his cold compress. Just in case.

First Time

It started with a kiss.

Not the rushed kind, or the one pulled between jokes and giggles—this one was different. Slower. Hungrier.

You’d been curled up beside Matt on his bed, talking about nothing. His glasses had slid slightly down the bridge of his nose, his curls soft from running his fingers through them all evening. You leaned over to fix them, and his eyes flicked to your lips instead.

“Can I…?”

You nodded before he finished, and the kiss melted into something deeper. Something needier.

His hands trembled a little when they found your waist. Yours weren’t much steadier.

You pulled away, forehead resting against his, eyes searching his face. “We don’t have to,” you whispered. “But I kind of… want to. With you.”

Matt's eyes went wide—so wide you half-thought he’d forgotten how to blink.

“I—I want to too,” he said, voice shaking, cheeks already flushed. “I’ve just never—well, I mean I have, but not like… not like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like… with someone I actually care about. Who makes me feel like I’m not gonna mess everything up.”

You leaned in and kissed him again—gently this time. “You’re not messing anything up.”

His breath caught when you shifted, pressing closer.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

He nodded too fast, then stuttered, “Yeah—I mean, yes. I just—can’t—um, function when you’re like this.”

“Like what?” you asked, already smiling.

He covered his face with his hands, groaning. “Hot. Okay? You’re so fucking hot. This is unfair.”

You giggled, reaching to tug his hands away. “Then I’ll go slow.”

And you did.

You kissed along his jaw, his neck, his collarbone—feeling the way he trembled beneath you. Every time your lips brushed his skin, a soft, surprised sound escaped him, like he couldn’t believe it was real.

You let your fingertips trail down his chest, pausing just above his waistband.

Matt looked like he might self-destruct.

“Still okay?” you asked.

He nodded, biting his lip. “Please don’t stop.”

You kissed him again. “I won’t.”

Then you eased your shirt over your head.

He made a strangled noise and squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then opened them again—like he was bracing himself for a heart attack and couldn't not look at you.

“You’re literally glowing,” he whispered. “How are you real?”

You took his hands and pressed them to your bare waist, guiding him.

He stared, completely flushed, completely in awe.

You straddled his lap slowly, carefully, watching the way his breath hitched as your bare skin met his. He was already half-hard in his boxers, twitchy with nerves, eyes flickering everywhere—your eyes, your chest, your lips, back to your eyes like he was overwhelmed but desperate to see everything.

“You okay?” you asked, brushing a hand through his hair.

He nodded, breathless. “Y-yeah. Just… you’re on top of me. And you’re, um. Naked.”

You leaned in, nipping his jaw. “And you like it?”

His laugh was breathy, nervous. “I love it. It’s just—my brain isn’t working. You’re so pretty. I don’t know where to put my hands.”

You took his wrists gently, guiding one to your hips and one over your breast. “Here’s a good place to start.”

He groaned, head tipping back against the pillows. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You kissed down his neck, lingering just below his ear. “You’ll survive.”

Your fingers slipped into the waistband of his boxers, giving him a moment. He nodded again—flushed, trembling, but sure. You helped him out of them, and when he was finally bare beneath you, he looked like he might actually pass out.

You paused just to look at him—legs spread slightly, cheeks red, chest rising fast. You let your fingers trail down his stomach, feather-light.

“You're beautiful like this, Matt.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, like he couldn’t handle hearing it. “You make me feel like I am.”

You leaned in again, kissing him slow. “I want you to feel good. You ready?”

He nodded again, a little more desperate this time. “Please. Just… tell me what to do.”

You reached for the lube and condom you'd stashed earlier, heart thudding at the way his thighs tensed under your touch. Once everything was ready, you settled over him, guiding him to your entrance.

“Go slow?” he asked, voice cracking.

“Always,” you whispered.

And when you sank down onto him, inch by inch, his hands gripped your hips like they were the only things keeping him tethered to the earth. He let out the softest, most broken moan you'd ever heard—like pleasure punched the air right out of him.

“Oh my god,” he gasped. “y/n, I—holy shit, you feel so good.”

You gave him a moment to adjust, and when he opened his eyes—dazed, overwhelmed, reverent—you started to move.

“Y’so warm,” he gasped “n’tight, oh fuck.”

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t rough. It was messy, breathy, and achingly sweet. His hands roamed your waist like he didn’t know what to hold onto. He whined every time your hips rolled just right, whispered your name like a prayer, told you over and over how good it felt.

“I don’t wanna come yet,” he whimpered. “I wanna stay inside you forever.”

“Don’t worry baby, we’ve got forever.”

And when he finally did come—loud, gasping, eyes wide and pupils blown—you leaned down and kissed him through it, riding him slowly, comforting, grounding him as he trembled beneath you, whimpering into your ear.

After, his hands curled around yours like a lifeline.

“You okay?” you asked softly, brushing sweat-damp curls from his forehead.

He was still catching his breath, face buried in the crook of your neck, but you could feel it. The little twitch of his hips. The subtle way his fingers dragged up your back. The soft, broken whisper of your name.

You pulled back to look at him. His face was flushed, hair curling damply around his ears, pupils still wide and glassy.

“You okay?” you asked again, gentle.

He nodded, but his voice came out hoarse. “Y-Yeah. I’m just… I still want you. Like, really bad. Is that normal?”

You smiled, brushing his lips with yours. “Hmmm. Maybe.”

Matt blinked up at you. “We can keep going, right? I-I know I came already but—” His voice cracked, and he squirmed under you, breath hitching as his soft cock twitched against your thigh. “You’re still hard,” you said softly.

He covered his face with both hands. “I know, I don’t even—like—how?? Fuck you’re ruining me.”

You gently pulled his hands away. “In a good way?”

“In the best way,” he mumbled. “Please keep going.”

And you did.

You kissed your way down his chest, making him squirm and gasp, mouth trailing over sensitive skin and leaving flushed marks behind. 

When you took him into your mouth—half-hard, still twitching—he let out the most pathetic sound you'd ever heard.

“F-fuck, you don’t have to—oh my god—”

But you wanted to. And the way he bucked slightly, trying not to, hands twisting the sheets like he was afraid to touch you, made you feral.

You pulled back a bit, letting it pop out of your mouth to speak. “Matt, you’re allowed to be greedy.”

“I’m not! I swear, I just—” He whimpered again as your tongue dragged over the head. “God, I am greedy. I don’t care. I want you so bad it hurts.”

When he got hard again, fully and shamelessly, you moved slowly, sliding back on top of him, watching his face as you sank down again. This time he cried out, high and breathy, thighs trembling under your hands.

“It’s so fucking much,” he panted. “It’s—it’s too much—but don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

You rocked your hips, slower this time, just enough to make him arch into you.

“Tell me what you need.”

“You,” he gasped. “Just you. All of you.”

So you gave it to him.

You took your time, moving against him with slow, grinding rolls. His eyes fluttered, and he gripped your hips like he was trying not to float away.

He got vocal—filthy in a way that surprised even him. Whimpers, moans, broken phrases between gasps:

“Y-you feel so good inside, holy shit—” “I can’t believe this is real—” “Please, I’m gonna—gonna come again—”

And when he did, he almost cried.

His body tensed, shuddering, then collapsed into you, face buried against your chest, mumbling soft things you couldn’t quite make out. You held him through it, kissing his forehead as he shook in your arms, your own pleasure humming hot under your skin.

You were just on the brink as well, but you could tell he needed a break.

“I wanna make you feel good too,” he whispered.  “Lie back. Please. Let me try.”

You blinked. “You just came twice. You need to rest. ”

“I know,” he whispered. “But I didn’t even get to touch you properly. And I—I think I’ll explode if I don’t.”

You smiled softly. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he cut in. “You made me feel like my whole body was on fire and full of stars at the same time. I want to do that for you. Or at least try.”

Well. How could you say no to that?

You laid back slowly, watching him move between your legs—awkwardly at first, like he wasn’t sure where to put his knees. His cheeks turned scarlet when he got a full view of you, mouth parting in a silent “oh my god.”

You reached for his hair, tugging lightly. “Breathe, baby.”

“I a-am,” he said, sounding like he absolutely was not. “You’re just—you’re so—how am I supposed to—” His sentence died as he kissed your thigh, soft and reverent. “Tell me what to do.”

You guided him at first. Where to put his mouth. How to use his tongue. What kind of pressure felt good. And oh, Matt was a quick study.

Tentative at first—gentle, nervous licks, like he was afraid to go too far. But once you let out that first real moan, he got brave. Gripped your hips tighter. Groaned into you when you said his name. Got messier. Needier.

“Right there?” he gasped when your back arched. “Like that?”

You nodded breathlessly, thighs trembling around his head.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You taste so good. Why didn’t anyone tell me this would be like—like this?”

He buried his face in you after that, moaning softly, like he was the one getting off. His entire face was trying to push further and further into your sopping pussy, licking up every juice you were letting out.

His nose nudged just right, his tongue flicked faster, and when you clenched his hair and gasped out his name

He groaned loudly.

Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, hot and overwhelming, and Matt just held on, staying there through every aftershock, every twitch, like he refused to come up until he was sure you were completely undone.

When he finally pulled back, his face was soaked down to his chin, lips kiss-swollen, and his smile was dazed and proud.

“I did okay?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You reached down, “M-matt, that was,” dragging him up to kiss you. “Insane.”

He buried his face in your neck and let out a muffled, exhausted, “Best. Day. Ever.”

First time you got jealous

It started off fine.

You and Matt had come to a small get-together at a friend’s apartment—just a cozy group of people, some music, snacks, and low lighting. At first, you were curled up next to him on the couch, his arm draped lazily over your shoulder, the two of you in your own little bubble.

And then she showed up.

You didn’t know her name. You didn’t want to know her name. All you knew was that she laughed a little too hard at Matt’s joke’s, and she touched his arm a little too long when she complimented his hair.

Matt didn’t even notice. He was just being his usual charming self—smiley and sweet, answering her questions like she wasn’t clearly flirting with him while you sat literally two inches away.

You excused yourself to get a drink. More for emotional support than hydration.

When you came back, she was still there, still giggling, and Matt—Matt was smiling— AND blushing, and it was the smile he gave you when you made him laugh.

You plopped down next to him and not-so-subtly rested your hand on his thigh. Matt glanced down and smiled at you, oblivious.

“Hey, you good?” he asked, leaning in slightly.

“I’m great,” you replied, a little too cheerily. Then you turned to the Flirt and said, “Do you need something, or were you just raised to hover?”

Matt choked.

The girl blinked, gave you a weird look, then mumbled something about checking on a friend and walked away. You watched her go like you were manifesting a trapdoor beneath her.

Matt blinked at you, wide-eyed. “Babe…”

You turned to him. “What?”

“She was just being friendly.”

You scoffed. “Friendly? Matt, she was one compliment away from climbing into your lap.”

Matt blinked a few times, still recovering from your snark. “I really think you’re overreacting. She wasn’t flirting.”

You stared at him. “Matt. She touched your arm three times. I counted.”

“She was just... touchy,” he said, weakly. “Some people are just like that.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And you blushed.”

Matt flushed even more. “I didn’t blush.”

“You so blushed. It was your flustered blush too, not the ‘it’s hot in here’ blush. The one that means you’re shy and you liked the attention.”

He opened his mouth to argue, then hesitated.  “No-But I wasn’t trying to like it—”

“Oh my God,” you said, pulling your hand from his thigh and crossing your arms. “You did like it.”

Matt looked stricken. “No! That’s not what I—babe, no. I didn’t like her, I liked—it’s just—you weren’t there and someone was being nice and it caught me off guard, and it didn’t mean anything, I swear.”

You didn’t say anything. Just stared straight ahead, jaw tight.

Matt groaned and scooted closer. “Hey. Hey. Look at me.” When you didn’t, he gently cupped your jaw and turned your face toward his. His expression was soft, earnest. “I swear, I didn’t even realize it until you pointed it out. And if it made you feel even a little bit bad, I’m sorry. I would never want you to think anyone could even come close to you. I’m yours. Fully.”

You tried not to melt. Failed.

“…You liked the attention a little bit,” you muttered.

“I swear I didn’t. But like your jealousy? Way hotter. Honestly, if you’d actually fought her I would’ve passed out.”

You rolled your eyes, but leaned in anyway, bumping your nose against his. “Next time someone flirts with you, I’m not warning her. I’m swinging.”

Matt grinned, brushing a kiss to your lips. “Got it. I’ll start wearing a “I have a girlfriend” shirt to social events.”

“You think I won’t get you one?”

He kissed you again, and this time, there was no one else in the room. Just him, you, and the quiet satisfaction of winning.

First time he made you squirt

You were tangled up in your sheets again, the low hum of your fan spinning overhead, the room dim with only the lazy spill of golden-hour light pushing through the curtains. Matt’s fingers were fidgeting with the hem of your sleep shirt, his eyes darting from your collarbone to your lips, then away again, like the sight of you was too much all at once.

“You’re looking at me weird,” you teased, brushing his hair out of his eyes.

Matt flushed. Flushed. That deep pink that crawled from his ears to his cheeks, like you’d caught him doing something scandalous. He groaned softly and buried his face in your neck.

“I’m not,” he mumbled into your skin. “You just—look really pretty right now.”

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

“Right now?” you echoed, grinning. “Not, like, always?”

He whined, lifting his head just enough to glance at you. “Stop. You know what I mean.” He was smiling, but his voice had that hushed, almost whimpery quality it got when he was overwhelmed. You loved it. Loved the way his hands were already slipping up under your shirt like he was asking permission without saying a word.

Matt made a small, needy sound and melted against you, his fingers still trembling just slightly as they traced along your ribs, then lower. When you pulled back to look at him, his pupils were wide, his lips parted.

You were already bare-chested, sitting up and straddling Matt’s lap, but he still looked overwhelmed.

“You’re shaking,” you murmured, smiling against his jaw.

“I’m not—” His voice cracked as you shifted against him. “Okay, yeah. Maybe.”

Your hands slipped into his hair, tugging gently. “You nervous?”

You smirked. “Good.”

Eventually, you flipped them over, guiding him to kneel behind you as you braced on your elbows. You heard his breath hitch when he got the full view. He wasn’t touching you yet—just looking, frozen like you were art he was scared to ruin.

“You can touch,” you teased, voice low and warm.

That broke the spell. Matt’s hands slid over your hips, tentative at first, thumbs brushing the dip of your lower back. You could feel him trembling again, but it didn’t stop him from leaning down and pressing the softest kiss to your spine.

Then another. And another.

His fingers trailed lower, between your thighs, and you let out a quiet gasp as he explored with slow, shallow strokes.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Feels good. Keep going.”

Matt obeyed instantly, licking his lips like he was trying to stay focused. You could hear his ragged breathing as he slid his fingers inside you—so careful, so hesitant. And when he felt you clench around him, he made the softest sound: “Oh my god…”

His fingers started to curl, slow and searching. He didn’t know exactly what he was doing—he just knew he wanted you to fall apart. That he loved hearing your breath catch, loved the way your thighs trembled the more pressure he added.

He plunged his fingers in and out, leaning down to place his lips around your clit and swirl his tongue around.

You gasped at the contact.

Matt froze. “Was that okay?”

“Yes—fuck, yes—just—don’t stop—”

He didn’t even think. He kept that same pressure, same rhythm, his other hand anchoring tight on your hip as you pushed back into his touch. He was panting now too, overwhelmed, lips parted like he was barely holding it together.

“Matt,” you choked out, “you’re—holy shit—don’t stop—”

It hit fast. A wave crashing through you, intense and blinding. Your body tensed—and then gushed.

Matt jolted as wetness sprayed onto his wrist and thigh. His mouth dropped open.

“What the—” He stared at his soaked fingers. “Did I—?”

You collapsed forward, breathing hard, too stunned to even speak. You’d never—ever—done that before.

Matt sat back on his heels, still blinking like he was in shock. His boxers were damp now. His arm was soaked. He looked wrecked.

“…Did I make you… squirt?” he whispered.

You huffed out a breathless laugh. “O-oh my god.”

He looked down at you like he’d just unlocked a cheat code. Still blushing. Still dazed. And maybe—just a little—proud.

“…That was insane,” he mumbled.

You could only nod, hips still twitching from aftershocks.

Almost hesitantly, he leans forwards and licks you, slurping up the juices.

Matt reached out, brushing his fingertips along your spine. “Can I… still be inside you?”

You turned your head, eyes heavy. “You better be.”

First Anniversary

You hear a soft knock before dawn, and when you open the door, Matt’s there— holding a small, slightly wild bouquet of flowers. They’re not fancy, but perfect. “Happy anniversary,” he says, cheeks pink, eyes bright but shy.

You smile, heart already doing that stupid flutter thing. “You’re early.”

He shrugs, grinning like he’s won something. “I wanted to surprise you. Today’s all planned. No backing out.”

You grab his hand, feeling the warmth that’s not just from the flowers. With a quick motion, he sweeped you around dramatically, kissing you while you leaned back all the way.

You let out a surprised giggle, then put your hands on either side of his face.

“I love you, baby,” you whisper.

His face turns pink and crinkles with joy. “I love you more.”

_______

He lets you change out of pajamas while he waits in the kitchen, and when you come out, he’s set up a little breakfast picnic on the floor: toast, strawberries, whipped cream, and a small thermos of your favorite drink. There’s even a playlist softly playing in the background—he made it himself, and it’s all songs that remind him of you.

You raise a brow. “You made this whole playlist?”

He flushes. “It’s kind of embarrassing. One of them has your name in the lyrics.”

You press a kiss to his cheek. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He actually smiles a little when you do that, then tries to play it cool and offers you a strawberry like that will make him less flustered.

After breakfast, he hands you a tiny envelope.

“Open it when I tell you,” he says mysteriously. “No peeking.”

Then he leads you outside, clearly trying to hide how excited he is. You walk to a small park you used to visit all the time when you first got together. There, under your favorite tree, is a little setup: two foldable lawn chairs, a sketchbook, and a small box of supplies.

“I thought… maybe we could draw each other.”

You waggle your eyebrows and grin. “Like one of your French girls?”

“No—!” His face flushes. “I—I mean if you want? I—!”

“I’m messing with you, Matt.” You’re laughing as you sit across from him, and the two of you draw, occasionally glancing up at each other and bursting into giggles.

Lunch is homemade—by him. He packed it himself: sandwiches with little hearts cut into the bread (yes really), a tiny note tucked under the tupperware that says “ur hot and I love you :)”

You keep the note.

In the afternoon, he takes you to a local art exhibit—something quiet and beautiful. You walk through slowly, sometimes holding hands, sometimes just letting your pinkies brush. He leans in close during one painting and whispers, “That one reminds me of the way you look when you’re sleepy.”

You turn to find him already looking at you.

“I’m so glad I met you.” you whisper.

He ducks his head with a smile. “Me too. You have no idea.”

As the sun starts to set, he finally lets you open the envelope.

Inside is a small card and a single pressed flower from the first bouquet he ever gave you.

On the back is a list: “Reasons I’ve loved you every day this year.” There’s 365 of them.

“I was gonna just write one,” he says, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “But then… I couldn’t stop.”

You fling your arms around him and don’t let go for a while.

That night, he cuddles you in bed, forehead pressed to yours, still pink when you say he’s the sweetest boy on earth. He mumbles something into your neck you don’t quite catch.

“What was that?” you whisper.

“I said I’m gonna love you for a lot more years.”

You kiss him again.

He kisses back— entirely, completely yours.

FINALLY.

It’s just after sunset when he takes your hand.

The sky is that kind of soft—streaked with violet and gold like it’s blushing for you—and there’s a quietness in the air that feels intentional. Like even the wind knows what’s coming.

“Come with me,” he says gently, fingers warm in yours.

You follow him up a familiar path—a small hill where the two of you used to come to watch the stars back when you were still unsure of what this was. It’s quieter now. Grown. Like both of you.

At the top, there’s nothing fancy. No flowers. No decorations. Just a soft, folded blanket, and a lantern that glows like candlelight in the middle. He lights it with a flick of his thumb and sits down, patting the space next to him.

You sit. And your heart starts thudding when you see he’s nervous.

Not shy nervous.

Trembling-hands, can’t-meet-your-eyes nervous.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Breathes in.

“I’ve been trying to plan the perfect way to tell you this,” he says, voice quieter than usual.

You tilt your head, completely obvious and confused. “Matt, are you good? You can tell me anything you know.”

He grins at that, but doesn’t look at you right away. He picks at the edge of the blanket instead, like he’s walking himself toward something.

“I know,” he says finally. “That’s kind of the problem. You make everything too easy. I had this whole dramatic thing planned. Flashy. Big. Public.” He glances at you. “You would’ve hated it.”

You snort. “Correct.”

He laughs again, but this time, his eyes flick to yours and hold. His hand slides over to yours, fingers curling between yours slow and deliberate.

“So I thought maybe I’d just take you here,” he says, “where it all started. Just us. The stars. A blanket. Like the first time you made fun of my hoodie and accidentally made me fall in love with you.”

You’re still grinning, still thinking this is just some sweet, nostalgic moment on a hill you both love. 

He shifts onto one knee.

You still don’t register it.

You’re smiling at him, waiting for the punchline, until you realize—

he’s still down.

And he’s pulling something out of his jacket.

Your heart stutters.

“Matt,” you say, a whisper.

“I didn’t want you to see it coming,” he says softly. “Because I want this to feel like how it’s always felt with you—sudden. And perfect. And exactly where I’m meant to be.”

He opens the box, and the ring inside catches the warm flicker of the lantern light.

You go still.

Completely, utterly still.

“I love you,” he says. No trembling. No hesitation. Just truth. “And I want to keep loving you. In every version of our life, every phase, every morning-after and fight and late-night grocery run I love you more than anything in this entire world, and I will spend the rest of my life for you, with you.”

A moment passes.

“Will you marry me?”

You stare at him.

Your hand is over your mouth. Your chest is a mess. There are tears in your eyes and you don’t even remember them starting.

“Are you—Matt, are you serious?”

He smiles—wide and boyish and a little cocky now. “Yeah. Been serious for a while.”

You’re grabbing his face and kissing him so hard you both fall sideways onto the blanket, the box somewhere between you, forgotten for now because—

“I love you I love you I love you,” you whisper again, voice breaking against his skin as you pepper kisses across his cheeks, his jaw, his mouth. “I can’t believe you just did that!”

He’s blinking up at you, stunned by the force of it. “Is that a yes?”

“YES!!” You shout it. “YES—of course it’s a yes—you insane, incredible, perfect man!”

He lets out a choked little laugh and finally gets the ring on your finger, both of you shaking, neither of you letting go.

“I was trying to be smooth,” he mumbles into your neck.

“You ambushed me,” you giggle back. “I didn’t see it coming at all.”

And he smiles, eyes bright, because your heart’s still racing, and your hands are still clutching his shirt, and you keep whispering—

“I love you I love you I love you,”

Like you’ll never get tired of saying it. And he’ll never, ever, ever get tired of hearing it.

a/n- if you got this far, I LOVE YOU!

i put my entire soul into this fic, and I am praying to every god that this doesnt flop and people are actually willing to read all 15,000 words.

if this does flop, i'm going to release each part as an au, bc i worked way too hard on this for people to not read it.

anyways thats day 1 of my special!!

comment to be added to taglist

[mw00nie]

when you first met producer!suguru, he didn’t even say hi.

he just nodded from behind his massive desk, a lit cigarette resting between his fingers, smoke curling around his cheekbone as he tapped something into the beat sequencer. his black hair was messy in an admirable way, his eyes barely flicked in your direction. if shoko hadn’t walked in behind you and gone “suguru, this is her,” you would’ve thought he hadn’t noticed you walked into the studio at all.

“you sing?” he asked, voice low, dry. you nodded. he gestured to the mic booth. “go.”

that was it. no warm-up, no icebreaker, no compliments about your viral video that landed you in this basement studio in the first place. he played a loop, some scratchy vinyl sample over a gritty bassline, and let you figure out what to do with it.

you didn’t impress him right away. he didn’t say anything after your first run. or your second. but after the third take, he reached over and stopped the track.

“try again,” he said. “don’t think so hard this time.”

and for some reason, you listened.

***

three months passed like weather. fast. quiet. unpredictable.

you showed up to that studio almost every day. some days you’d write for hours and only get one clean take. other days you’d record nothing at all. he didn’t force anything. if the energy was off, he’d light up, lean back, and scroll through sounds for hours without even looking at you. but you didn’t leave. you stayed. the silence between you started to feel like music too.

he wasn’t exactly warm, but he wasn’t cold either. he was still. unreadable. a little strange. he didn’t say much unless it mattered. didn’t have any other artists coming in. no flashy equipment, no plaques on the walls. just you, him, and whatever beat he built for the day. his instagram had no posts. no stories. just a profile picture of his recording booth with dimmed lights.

you started calling him “ghostface.” he didn’t laugh, but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch once.

you’d talk more in the later sessions. after midnight. when the windows steamed up and your voice was a little rough from singing too long. he’d ask about your old band, your hometown, the first song you ever wrote. you’d ask him why he didn’t work with anyone else, and he’d shrug and say, “don’t like most people.” he never really answered questions. he just let them float.

you started leaving stuff there. your hoodie, your lip gloss, your charger. he didn’t mention it, but you noticed he moved your things to the little side table by the mic booth. like it was your spot.

he smelled like vetiver and incense. clean but earthy. his hands were always cold. he rarely looked you in the eye unless he was adjusting your mic. and when he did, it felt too loud in your chest to breathe right.

you didn’t know when it started. the tension. maybe it was always there. maybe it was the way he listened when you sang. not just to the notes, but to you. or how sometimes you’d glance at him through the booth glass and find him already watching you.

the first time he touched you, it was an accident. you reached for the same knob. your fingers brushed. and you didn’t move yours away.

neither did he.

***

the night it happened, the track wasn’t even finished.

you were in the booth laying harmonies over a hook he’d built that morning. just a scratch loop, moody keys and that signature dusty drum pattern he always defaulted to when he wasn’t trying too hard. you’d run through the same few lines a dozen times, but it wasn’t clicking. you felt off. exposed. raw.

you pushed open the booth door and leaned against the frame. your tank top clung to your skin, sweat cooling on your lower back. no bra. cotton shorts. the kind of outfit you only wore around him now, like it was your shared little secret.

he was in his usual spot. sockless, cross-legged, his bun loose and falling apart, smoke trailing from the joint between his fingers. he glanced at you over his shoulder, but didn’t say anything.

“something’s off,” you said softly.

“your timing’s behind the snare.”

“that’s not what i mean.”

this time, he turned.

for a few seconds, neither of you moved. the beat kept looping on his screen, the faint hum of it bleeding through the room. he just stared at you, like he’d already heard what you were about to say and was waiting for you to admit it.

so you walked up to him. close. he didn’t lean back, didn’t shift away, just tracked your movements, eyes darker than the room.

you took the cigarette from his hand and stubbed it out. his fingers twitched when yours brushed them. still, he didn’t say a word.

“what are we doing?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

his voice was lower than yours, almost a rasp. “you tell me.”

you kissed him like you needed to. his hand caught your waist instantly, grounding you. the other slid up the back of your neck, slow, steady, holding you still like he couldn’t risk you leaving.

his mouth was warm. soft, but patient. deliberate. not frantic, not greedy, just present. every movement slow, like he wanted to drag this out. like he’d been imagining it for a while and didn’t want to get it wrong.

you climbed into his lap without even thinking about it. straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips. his palms found your thighs, dragging up under your shorts. you felt the heat bloom in your stomach when he gripped your ass through the fabric, pulled you tighter against him.

your tank was pushed up before you even noticed his hands move. he kissed your collarbone first. then the curve of your chest. then your breast, tongue slow, eyes half-lidded, like he was worshipping it. your breath hitched when his teeth grazed your nipple.

“fuck, sugu–”

he exhaled through his nose, like he felt that. his name in your mouth.

you pulled his shirt off, then reached for his jeans. he stopped you with a hand around your wrist.

“booth,” he murmured.

“what?”

“i want you in the booth.” which made sense because it was soundproofed.

he stood and lifted you with him in one motion. didn’t give you a chance to protest. just walked you straight into the recording space and pressed you back into the padded wall. the door clicked shut behind you.

you gasped when he dropped to his knees.

“oh–wait–”

but he’d already hooked his fingers into your shorts and tugged them down, slow, mouth dragging along your thigh as he kissed his way up. your legs trembled a little. he looked up at you, one brow lifted, like he was asking if you’d tell him to stop.

you didn’t.

he licked a long, deliberate stripe up your center.

your hand hit the wall.

“fuck–”

his tongue was slow, purposeful, tracing around your clit before sucking it gently between his lips. two fingers pushed into you without warning. the angle was perfect. his rhythm was maddening. steady, unhurried, like he enjoyed how much it wrecked you.

you came fast. embarrassingly fast. legs twitching, breath catching in your throat, hips grinding against his mouth like you couldn’t help it.

he stood up again, mouth slick, eyes so dark they barely looked brown anymore.

“you okay?” he murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“yes,” you breathed. “please–”

you tugged at his belt and he let you, but he didn’t rush. undid his fly slow, dragged his boxers down just enough. when he lined himself up, he waited. forehead to yours, hands on your hips.

“look at me,” he said softly.

you did. and he slid into you in one long, aching push.

your lips parted, breath stuttering. he was thick. deep. your back arched as he bottomed out, the stretch perfect, almost too much. he groaned low in his throat, jaw clenched tight.

“so fucking wet,” he whispered.

you couldn’t respond. just nodded, legs wrapped around his waist, arms hooked around his neck. he started to move. slow at first. then harder. deeper.

your moans filled the space. quiet at first, then louder. helpless.

he kissed you through it. your lips, your jaw, your throat. said your name under his breath like it was something sacred. and when he hit that spot that made you cry out, he kept hitting it. over and over. precise. focused. until you came again, nails dragging down his back.

“oh my god– fuck– don’t stop–”

he didn’t.

he fucked you through it, grunting softly in your ear. you heard him mutter, “good girl,” and you clenched around him so hard he stilled.

“you keep doing that and i’m not gonna last,” he said, breath ragged.

“then come,” you whispered, teeth grazing his shoulder.

he whimpered. actually whimpered.  and drove into you once, twice more before pulling you down hard onto his cock and burying himself with a broken moan. you felt him twitch inside you, his arms tight around your back, his mouth open against your neck.

you stayed like that. tangled, panting, your heartbeat stuttering in your ears.

then he blinked. tilted his head toward the mic. 

“shit.”

you froze. “what?”

he exhaled.

“…still recording.”

you looked up at the red light blinking on the mic. blinking. still on.

your stomach dropped.

“suguru..how long–”

he leaned out, pressed the stop key on the monitor.

00:49:53

“fifty minutes..”

you smacked his arm. “are you serious?!”

he winced, then smirked, lazy and smug. “fifty minutes of pure soul.”

“delete it.”

“nope.”

“i swear–”

he kissed your temple. then your cheek. then your lips.

“we’ll sample it,” he murmured. “cut around the names.”

“you’re insane.”

***

A/N: i almost went insane while writing this and i have absolutely no motivation so idk if this good :<

[thewitchblue]

Damian was staring. He knew he was. He couldn't stop it even if he tried. You were perfect. He loves your warm eyes that seem to light up with love when you look at the animals you are working with. He adores the way you laugh at the black bear you work with when it rolls onto its stomach for belly scratches because it knows you give the best ones. He falls in love every time you give in and pet the insistent wolves that were headbutting your hands and asking for it. It was all too perfect. You are everything he wants in a partner. He had to meet you.

"Quit being a creep."

Jason whispered to him. It was his turn to get dragged to the animal sanctuary, and he was sick of all this ridiculousness. He will drag Damian kicking and screaming if he doesn't start talking to you. He's not fifteen anymore. He's a grown adult with no confidence when it comes to relationships.

Damian tried again to look away, but your eyes turned to meet his gaze, and he froze in place. He couldn't move. You were crouched down and playing with the happily growling wolves when you sent him a wink and a smile that seemed to know exactly what Damian was thinking. You had noticed him. He knew your schedule and followed you to every animal exhibit. It was so obvious your coworkers started betting when he would finally ask you on a date.

Jason rolled his eyes and shoved Damian towards you. He was done with this constant rotating shift. He's seen these animals for what feels like hundreds of times. He's exhausted all the questions he was forced to ask just for Damian to talk to you. He said, clearly very annoyed,

"Just talk! You're worse than loverboy Dick with a crush."

Damian grumbled but obeyed and walked up to you through the other side of the glass. Damian took a deep breath before lightly knocking on the glass to gain your attention. You smiled fondly at your wolves before standing up and walking to the glass, then walking around the back to talk to him properly when he gestured he wanted to talk to you without needing to shout through several layers of protective glass.

"Do you have questions about the wolves?"

You asked him firstly. It seemed like a default question that you were forced to ask everyone who wanted to talk to the zookeepers, but you both knew exactly what he wanted to talk about.

"No. I wanted to..."

He lost the words. He was lost in you. You smirked at him like you knew exactly what he wanted to say to you. You were close enough that he could smell the hand sanitiser you use after working with an animal. You had wolf fur on your uniform and ruffled hair that vaguely matched their own wildness.

"The answer is yes, cutie. I'll meet you at the cafe downtown around six."

Damian felt lovesick with your gentle smile and kind eyes directed at him. Jason looked and felt like he would rather be anywhere else. He loved Damian, but he's sometimes ridiculous. All of his confidence drained when a pretty enough person crossed his path.

Damian showed up far too early, but he was anxious. You didn't seem to mind, strolling in with your uniform still on and an air of confidence that Damian could feel in your steps. To be fair, anybody with the ability to pet bears without consequences would make them confident and fearless.

You did manage to get the fur off your uniform somehow, so the cafe remained as clean as it was before you got there. You looked at Damian for a moment before saying with amusement,

"Do you have any questions about the wolves?"

Damian laughed. It was the perfect icebreaker. It put him immediately at ease as he shook his head. He said,

"Not this time, wolf-master."

You grinned like a wolf, and he could see his life with you instantly. It was only for a moment, but it felt like time froze. He could see a little life together. He can picture what his future with you could be.

Maybe you'd even live on a ranch together with horses, cows, chickens, roosters, maybe even several livestock dogs, or maybe a guardian dog or three. He'd work in the hospital and really find fulfilment. He'd finally be complete. He made it his mission to become a doctor like his grandfather Thomas Wayne and survive the brutal hours residency has thrown at him. He can make room for your budding love together. If being a hero contradicts his goals, he'll give it up freely.

"What's on your mind, beautiful?"

You asked him with a curious look on your face. You could easily picture a life with him. Somewhere away from the rat-hole that is Gotham City, preferably. You'd love every second of a domestic life with the man who can hardly speak around you.

His thoughts were all jumbled and confusing to even him. He was on a loop, yet you seemed to patiently wait for him to think straight once again.

He wanted the normal life with you that he's imagining. He wanted the boring, domestic mornings as you feed the animals you both raised as he puts on his scrubs for his residency. His heart was set on forming a normal family with a normal life now that his thoughts can't stray away from it. He doesn't want to be a hero anymore, yet he feels torn between his responsibility to Gotham and his fantasy life with you. He wants the fantasy he can't escape from anymore. He needs that normalcy in his unusual life. He was willing to give up his suit for you.

He took your hand gently in his and smiled softly at you. Yes. He wants you. He wants a basic life despite both of his parents' expectations. He doesn't want the Batman cowl. He wants more than the seemingly unfulfilled life Bruce lives. His hands were made for healing. He wanted to save lives and atone for all the pain and death he's caused in the past.

He will let the responsibility of becoming Batman to his siblings. He will follow this budding love with you regardless of how the family feels. He will not take the cowl. He is already busy enough with his residency at the hospital. He can give up the vigilante life for someone he can already see a future with.

He wants to cuddle with you in the morning and kiss you in the garden he has plans to plant and maintain. He doesn't care if he even stays in Gotham. He wants to spend his happily after ever with you now, and he will.

His happily ever after was eventually spent on a quiet ranch with you cuddled in his arms and three dogs surrounding you both with a cat on the windowsill that was licking his paws peacefully.

[thelogicalghost]

I'm sure Nate isn't homophobic - the show makes it pretty clear that all his catholic guilt is directed firmly inwards and we never see even a hint of disapproval over others' personal lives - but he's still an older white guy and definitely defaults to cishet assumptions.

Which makes me desperately want, like, a 5+ type fic of gay flirting for the con where Nate progressively gets his mind blown.

Because Sophie flirting with a woman might throw him for a beat or two, but she's a world class grifter and an actress, of course she can flirt with anyone

And then Parker had to be taught how to flirt in the first place and she's Parker so sure, she's completely faking it either way, she has no internal biases, okay

The first time a man chats up Hardison and the hacker reacts exactly the same way he does when he tries to flirt with women, Nate is so glad Sophie takes over the comms to give flirting advice because it takes him half a minute to recalibrate and edit his expectations

But then Sophie's failing to hook a mark and Elliot steps in without missing a beat, flashing his farm boy smile, and Nate is finally like, "how is it that I'm the only one here who's surprised by any of this?" and the team just shrugs and goes "idk that sounds like a you problem"

The +1 is the only time Nate attempts it and they all agree to never try that again because it was awkward and embarrassing for everyone involved

[stellarsecrets86]

Venus In Signs In Groom Persona Chart

✮⋆˙Venus in Aries

Future spouse is direct, brave, and doesn't mess aroundexcept perhaps when he's messing around at love or humor. He's got a rough, boyish form of charm and probably fell in love with you immediately and without second thought. There is a quality of his confidence that is irresistible and an added measure of the hero complex: he'd like to rescue, pursue, and conquer. He loves with passion and intensity, sometimes close to a fault of impulsiveness. He's the one who skydives and proposes or composes 3 a.m. poetry readings with guitar accompaniment. Marry him, and get ready for spurts of romance, passionate fights (and passionate makeup sessions), and a desire to go out there and conquer the world. He likes to have a partner who allows him to take charge but also keeps him intellectually engaged. Quickness to anger or jealousy may be the areas on which he needs to work. This is a husband who has to feel alive in love if it's not exciting, then he questions whether it's worth it. Passion and spontaneity are his default settings, and slow love is his secret ingredient.

✮⋆˙ Venus in Taurus

Meet the man who does slow love, deep foundations, and lasting pleasures. He is not flashy, but he is consistent and possesses a voice that can lull you to sleep after a long day. His sensual quality is secure and tangible; he loves to touch, snuggle, cook for you, and spoil you in little but sensual ways. He's the husband who arrives home with flowers at random, or knows exactly how to have your tea. He's not a hurrier-he's a constructor. Security draws him in. He may be possessive or resistant, but his commitment runs deep. With marriage, he likely cherishes creature comforts: comfortable home, quality time, security, and physical bond that improves with age. He is not necessarily über-verbal, but every action is a silent vow. He works on trust, reliability, and sensuality. He's the protector.

✮⋆˙Venus in Gemini

Your future spouse is witty, smart, and endlessly curious. He might have been attracted to your brain first and face second or maybe your sense of humor regarding punning at a party. He demonstrates love in the form of talking: texts, jokes, thoughts, and constant questions. He's a gabby flirt with a cheeky, young heart, age aside. And diversity is his oxygen; if the relationship becomes stale, he'll psychologically leave before he physically does. He needs in marriage a companion who will facilitate his duality he's there and agitated, intensely concentrated and occasionally unfocused. Intellectual closeness is simpler than emotional depth. He might surprise you with spontaneous new hobbies, pursuits, or trips. Novelty matters in the relationship: mix up the routine, stimulate his intellect, laugh a lot together. He's not clingy but thrives when he is intellectually and socially challenged by his partner. Boredom is the foe banter is the love language.

✮⋆˙Venus in Cancer

This guy leads from the heart and protects what he loves like a crab protects a velvet shell. He's highly nurturing, emotionally attuned, and yearns to build a home not just cohabitate one. He's the one who remembers your notes, remembers your grandmother's birthday, and cries when your dog dies. Marriage to him is coming home. He's emotionally invested from the start and seeks a marriage with emotional security and shared values. He may lean towards traditional roles, especially if that's what he learned growing up, but his caregiving nature keeps him emotionally present and committed. But he's moody and sensitive, requiring reassurance and routine. He's not flashy, however: he enjoys intimate gestures such as hand-holding, home cooked meals, and gentle affirmations. He's the type of companion who wishes to raise children, enjoy holidays, and grow old together watching birds eat in your yard. You can expect warmth, protection, and the fullest emotional fidelity.

✮⋆˙Venus in Leo

Your fs is destined to love like royalty. He's melodramatic with affection, extravagant with love, and perhaps slightly addicted to applause. He's proud and charismatic, and must be worshiped but he spends worship lavishly as well. His ideal relationship is one that's epic and heroic, with a hint of romance, loyalty, and theatrics. He's generous with compliments and energy; he might overwhelm you with presents or stage dramatic nights on the town. He's the kind of man who'll pen a love letter and recite it in moonlight. But he has a giant heart behind the drama he wants someone with whom he can glow, not merely shine alone. Loyalty is paramount in marriage. Betrayal wounds horribly, and disrespect can generate deafening drama. But love him publicly, honor his pride, and he'll be your greatest cheerleader, protector, and snugglebug. He's the husband who will build your love into something of a legacy and a perfect Instagram one at that.

✮⋆˙ Venus in Virgo

He's not flashy and dramatic, perhaps, but he shows love in the most dependable ways: being there, fixing what is broken, and planning ten steps ahead of what you'll need. He loves through actions, not declarations he’ll alphabetize your spice rack but may forget to say “I love you” unless prompted. He may be modest or even shy at first, but beneath that calm exterior is a deeply devoted partner. He holds himself to high standards and may expect the same sometimes too much so. In marriage, he's the one who remembers appointments, refills your prescriptions, and teases your coffee making abilities with affection. He is a critic, but usually out of concern and a desire to improve things. Emotional vulnerability is something he learns over time, usually through trust. Give him safety, routine, and appreciation, and he'll be the kind of husband who improves with age: plain but valuable.

✮⋆˙ Venus in Libra

Your fs shows up in a tuxedo, flowers, and probably with a sonnet already composed. He's the gentleman sophisticated, romantic, and obsessed with fairness and beauty. For him, love is something idealized and sacred. He's drawn to equity, beauty, and gracious give-and-take in relationships. He wants a true partner in every sense equal, elegant, and emotionally perceptive. In marriage, he's the one who plans anniversaries, negotiates with wardrobe, and makes sure both are heard. He can sidestep conflict like the plague and overcompromise, so resentment is pent up. But he deeply does crave peace and intimacy. Watch for elegant courtship, heavy emotional diplomacy, and long-term concern to keep romance alive. He's a "us" believer as a unit and will give up more than he should to maintain harmony. Spoil him like both your best friend and sweetheart, and he'll be loyal through every high and every low just make sure to keep things reasonably nice and relaxed.

✮⋆˙Venus in Scorpio

This man doesn't fall in love he plunges. Rich, deep, and intense, he's drawn to transmuting, all consuming connection. He wants to know every single nook of your head and can't abide superficial relationships. There's something mysteriously seductive about him picture smoldering eyes and a secret he'll never really reveal. He is hugely devoted and fiercely protective within marriage, but needs emotional integrity and trust above all else. Betrayal is an atom bomb. He may have jealousy issues or control tendencies, but this stems from deepest fear of loss. It's an epic romance novel, not a casual romance, to be in love with him. If you can do the work, get in touch with your shadows, and hold space for each other, he'll give you a loyalty that's unbreakable. But don't do it with emotional dishonesty, he can sniff out lies like a psychic bloodhound. For wishy-washy love, swipe left. He's the ultimate ride or die with a Scorpio smirk.

✮⋆˙Venus in Sagittarius

Your future husband is half philosopher, half wanderer, his heart beating to the rhythm of curiosity and laughter. He's a big-lover, loud-laugher, and most drawn to open-minded, adventurous, and spirited partners. He requires intellectual challenge and liberty like oxygen. Don't put him in a cage he'll begin plotting an escape route. In marriage, he's the playfully supportive man who wishes to grow, discover, and develop together. He may avoid intense emotional drama but will arrive with energy, hope, and great respect for your uniqueness. He's committed when inspired and honored. Laughter, shared growth, and a vow of shared liberty open the door to his heart. He shines with travel, meaningful conversation, and common purposes. He's the husband who inspires you in your passions and challenges you to see the world in a new way. With him, love is a journey never captivity.

✮⋆˙ Venus in Capricorn

Your man is the solid, reliable, driven one. He won't show up with flowers but he'll show up on time, every time, with a 10-year plan and your insurance policy filed. To him, romance is less about frills and more about foundations. He takes love in earnest and may wait until he's "ready" to settle down with a relationship. But when he does settle down, it's for life. In marriage, he's protective, possibly old fashioned, and always future-oriented. He loves by duty: doing, arranging, and being grounded. He might struggle with emotional displays, preferring physical expressions of love. But get past his defenses, and he softens up, showing a vulnerable side that few people ever see. His loyalty is zealous, and he works hard to maintain harmony. If you want a partner who's substance over flash and who'll build an empire with you this is your guy.

✮⋆˙Venus in Aquarius

This man is intellectual, quirky, and remarkably impersonal when it comes to love. He's not clingy he's too busy plotting how to build a utopia with solar panels and a retro jazz club. He's a believer in equality, freedom, and mental connection first and foremost. When he does get married, he wants a best friend to begin with and then a romantic partner preferably in one deal. Although he may not be heterosexually hyperemotional, he's incredibly loyal in his own rule-bending way. He needs room, experimental architecture, and a mate who respects his independence. Get ready for offbeat evening outings, cerebral arguments, and a romance more like artistic collaboration. He is attracted to the intellect first, and if you respect his ideals, he'll be hopelessly besotted with you. Don't expect gooey sweetness, though he's Tesla coil, not teddy bear.

✮⋆˙ Venus in Pisces

He is romantic, dreamy, and sentimental. He may live half in this world and half in a fantasy world. He's empathetic, emotionally expressive, and sensitive to the unspoken needs of his spouse. He loves extravagantly and may even get lost in it. Marriage to him is a mystical experience, where love becomes healing, transcendental, and sacrificial at times. He might struggle with boundaries or idealize you so much that he ignores warning signs. But when grounded, his love is remarkably moving. He'll write songs for you, cry at movies, and sit with you in silence when words fail. The catch is keeping him earthed and validating his rich inner life. With this type of husband, love is not necessarily emotional it's paranormal.

[PS: For entertainment purposes only. Enjoy! ]

[callsign-rogueone]

Going off your wingleader!Liam idea… Liam and reader are third-years and total couple goals. A first year comes in and starts flirting with reader every time he sees her. He doesn’t know she’s dating his wingleader. She’s polite but doesn’t mention Liam.

One day during training the new guy is watching reader and running his mouth about how hot she is, nudging other guys in his squad and making all kinds of remarks, even going so far as to make a comment to Liam. Liam just smirks, showing off those cute little dimples, as reader walks over and kisses him in front of everyone. New guy just stares in absolute shock (and horror when he realizes the woman he’s been objectifying is his wingleader’s girl.) Need a fic like this immediately 😭

I love this so much. I don't have the bandwidth to write this into a whole chapter but I DO have ideas. so here they are. (future Liz here… I got very carried away. but it’s Liam, so it’s fine.)

this guy clearly thinks he's hot shit. not even bonded yet, but his ego is bigger than Tairn's. so of course he goes after you, a third year with a leadership position at the top of your class. (because Liam's girl is as perfect as him.)

at this point you're used to these boys coming in and trying to flex on everyone. so you know how to brush it off. it's so routine that you don't even mention it to Liam, because you've got more important things to do / discuss.

anyway.

a couple weeks go by of the same thing, until one day, mister confidence is just in the wrong place at the wrong time. running his mouth without realizing who's around him, watching you demonstrate something and making comments to his friends instead of paying attention. Liam's about to elbow him and tell him to shut up, and then he realizes that they're talking about you.

immediately, he's upset — he's just itching to tell this guy off, both for talking when he's supposed to be listening to directions that could save his life, and also for saying those things about you, making comments on your body and how much he wants to... you know what I’m getting at here. anyway.

you can see Liam standing at the back of the gym, can see the visible frustration on his face and the way his jaw is clenched, his shoulders tight and tense... and you know it's hard to upset our sunshine boy, so something bad must have happened.

you wrap up the demonstration, get the youngins paired up to work, and then you slip away to Liam and give him a little kiss, because that’s your default greeting, that’s just automatic at this point when you see him, and take his hand and ask what’s wrong.

and then all the stress and tension just fades out of him, and he gives you a genuine smile, pulls you closer and holds you in a way that makes it clear that you’re a couple.

normally he isn’t one for PDA, so you’re a little surprised, but you don’t question it at all, just happy to cuddle up with him, resting your head on his shoulder and taking a moment to relax — his presence is always so soothing, and you don’t get moments like this very often in your very busy days as a wingleader and a section leader.

you don’t even notice the boy’s slack-jawed look as he realizes that you have a boyfriend. you’re too busy appreciating the moment you get to spend with Liam — but over your shoulder, he’s definitely smirking at the kid, like… get fucked, she’s mine. not that our boy would ever say that. he’s just thinking it really hard.

he gets a little pouty once you're behind closed doors, though, and tells you about it.

you laugh, and remind him that the first year boys can look all they want, but he's the only one who can touch, and if they do, they're going to get their nose broken. and that he's the only one who can set foot in your room, because you absolutely warded them like Xaden and Violet's.

that pacifies him, but he’s still thinking about it for the rest of the day.

he doesn’t consider himself particularly possessive, but he realizes that he just wants people to know that you’re his — or more so that you’re together and in love, and you’re it for each other.

the pair of you have always been focused on the present, the incredibly stressful lives that you lead here at this death trap of a school. but now he starts really thinking about the future.

you’ll be graduating soon, a pair of lieutenants headed off… somewhere. he hasn’t decided yet. he’ll get his choice, being a wingleader. but what about you? section leaders aren’t promised anything. there’s only one other way to guarantee that you’ll stay together… and damn, does he like the idea of you having matching name patches on your flight jackets.

but you deserve a real proposal, a romantic one, not something rushed, decided out of practicality. and when is too soon in your relationship to talk about that? you’ve been together since your threshing, but it feels like a lot longer than that — everything you’ve endured has brought you closer, he supposes.

you curl further into his side with a sleepy hum. “what’s on your mind?”

he’s about to tell you it’s nothing, but you know him better than that. “you have that look on your face,” you mumble, your eyes still closed. “know you’re thinkin' about something.”

“about you," he answers honestly, lifting the arm you have slung around his waist and finding your hand, taking it in his. it fits perfectly, your skin smooth against the callouses and scars decorating his hands from years of making his carvings. a dangerous hobby, you’d joked. you have a point. he’s amassed more tiny injuries from his own knives than from anything Basgiath has put him through. “about us.”

“yeah?”

“yeah,” he answers, his thumb brushing over your ring finger, where a wedding band would go. “about the future.”

“two kids and a cat,” you murmur. “and trips to Morraine in the summer. rent a little house on the lake for a week or two, and just lay around.”

“sounds perfect.”

you just hum in reply, too tired to keep talking. Liam presses a kiss to your forehead, pulling the covers a little higher. “I love you.”

“Love y’too.”

[goodluckchamp]

PURE NICOTINE (18+)

PAIRING: Patrick Zweig x Art Donaldson x Reader  WORD COUNT: 2415 CONTENT TAGS: Smut, MMF threesome, bondage, edging, cigarette burns, sex toy, vibrator, ruined orgasm, overstimulation, light sadism, everyone is technically a switch but mostly bratty!Patrick + subtop!Art + dom!reader SUMMARY: You and Art have had enough of Patrick Zweig. Time to tie him up.

Patrick without Tashi is a problem. 

He’s always been smug, always been rowdy, but Tashi could keep him grounded. But with her away on a trip? He’s like a dog who managed to slip away from his leash— all unchecked energy and sharp teeth. 

And it’s wearing you and Art down. 

He’s the worst in the bedroom— dominant by default, with an endless stamina that leaves you both scrambling to keep up. He throws his weight around, laughing when you squirm and going harder when Art cries. It’s not that he doesn’t care, he does— he’s just excited to finally have some form of control, abusing his newfound freedom. 

God, you miss Tashi. 

Because now, you’re spread out on your and Tashi’s beds pushed together, the gaps between the mattresses barely noticeable beneath the damp sheets twisted around your legs. It still smells like Tashi against your face, her perfume something flowery and addictive. The air is thick with salt, sweat, and warmth, but the half-broken fan does nothing to cool you, stirring the heat around while you try to catch your breath. Your fingers idly trace the aching parts of your body, sticky with a mix of Art and Patrick. 

Art is worse, collapsed against the pillows, chest rising and falling rapidly as he pants. His golden hair is wet against his forehead, skin stained pink where Patrick’s fingers had dug in too hard. He barely moves with his eyes squeezed shut, except for the slow, twitchy shift of his fingertips against the sheets, like he’s trying to bring himself back to reality. 

And then there’s Patrick. 

Patrick is half-sitting against the headboard, one arm draped behind his head while the other entertains a cigarette. His body glows in the shitty, dim lighting of your room, letting the smoke curl up to the ceiling and dissipate. His hair is a mess, but he leaves it like it's all a part of the experience, looking too pleased with himself. 

His gaze flicks between you and Art, relishing his moment of glory— and when your eyes meet, he grins. 

You recognize what it means and groan. Not again. “No.” 

Patrick rolls towards you but you shove him away, hard.

“Patrick, get the fuck away from me.” 

“Come on, one more.” He practically whines at your rejection, hand crawling towards your stomach as he exhales smoke in Art’s direction. Art shivers. “You both look like you can handle one more...” 

You huff, pushing yourself up from the sheets. Art blinks at you, dazed, and you stare at him with intention— and you don’t even have to say it. He knows what to do. 

Art takes a breath to steady himself, then crawls towards Patrick. He shakily brings himself up to press his lips to Patrick’s, and Patrick grins, taking it as a sign of Victory. Not missing a beat, he grips onto the blonde curls to yank Art closer, deeper. There’s a muffled gasp at the pull and Patrick chuckles against the kiss, completely lost in it, not even realizing that you have grabbed his discarded belt from the floor. 

As you climb onto the bed again, Art shifts, straddling Patrick and pushing him onto his back. Art grabs Patrick’s hands and forces them up towards the headboard. There’s a sharp change in the way Art is kissing him now— teeth digging into his lower lip, threatening to break the skin. Patrick moans, trying to move away to touch Art— but Art is determined, locking him in his place.

Patrick falters for a moment, his cigarette slipping from his fingers and landing on his stomach. 

A choked sound escapes Patrick at the sudden contact. The hot tip of the cigarette presses against his skin and he jerks— it stings. You quickly use the time to wrap the belt around Patrick’s wrists, securing them tightly against the headboard.

“Shit—” Patrick sputters. “You— fucking—” 

Art watches smoke drift from the cigarette, almost satisfied at the way Patrick writhes beneath him. You give him grace and reach for the cigarette from his stomach, watching his muscles tense at the graze of your fingertips. Patrick lets out a sharp breath at the sight of a red mark, but you ignore his pained, almost betrayed expression.

He watches as you bring the cigarette to Art, pressing it to his pink, puffy lips. 

Art takes it without a word, locking eyes with Patrick before slowly inhaling, letting the nicotine fill his lungs. He breathes out, letting the smoke drift across Patrick’s slick skin. 

Patrick tugs against the leather restraints, like he’s testing how serious you two are with this, but there’s no way out now. You smile, pleased with the turn of events, taking a drag of the cigarette yourself. Bitter. 

“What are you gonna do to me, huh?” Patrick tries, trying to claw back some control. 

Without indulging him, you head to the drawer beside the beds, pulling out a small, unmarked cardboard box. You lift the lid, revealing a neat collection of toys, some bought by you and some gifted by Tashi. Your fingers ghost over the selection, eventually choosing a sleek black dildo.

Patrick stills at the sight of it, a nervous laugh leaving him. 

“Why do you even buy those?” A smirk. “You have me.”

“Well,” You flick on the small button and the silicone starts to pulse. You press it against your palm, letting the sensation ripple out as you lift your gaze to Patrick. “You don’t vibrate, so…” 

Patrick swallows, eyeing the silicone as if to size it up. He’s excited, you can tell, with his cock an angry shade of red and hard as a rock— totally shameless about the fact that he is.

And that’s the annoying thing about Patrick Zweig— he’s never embarrassed about what he wants and how he gets it. If you try to humiliate him, he’ll lean into it. If you make him beg, he’ll do it loudly. If you try to break him, he’ll give you a show.  

So, how do you wreck someone like Patrick? 

Art moves away to sit beside Patrick as you settle back onto the bed, kneeling between his legs. He watches you with an expected grin. Like he knows he’s still getting what he wants out of this. 

“You’re both acting like I won’t enjoy this.” 

His arms flex against the belt. His cock twitches, blatant, but you don’t give it focus yet. You press the toy against his stomach, watching Patrick hungrily move towards the vibration. You move it across his abs, following his happy trail but not quite getting to the pleasurable areas. Patrick’s breath hitches, anticipation forming from his depths as he licks his lips.   

“What do you want from me?” He’s too impatient. “You want me to beg? I’ll beg.” 

Annoyed, you push the toy on the cigarette burn and he hisses, muscles twitching at the aching sensation. 

“Mm.” He tries to shift away, body bending and rocking the bed with it— but Art’s hand snaps out, slapping his chest. Patrick lets out a surprised gasp at the sting, a red mark blooming over his pec. “Jesus Christ, Art—” 

Art ignores it, forcing another sharp slap down to the same place. This time, Patrick moans, the heat of it going straight to his groin. 

You turn the vibration up, then slowly drag it down to the tip of his cock, rubbing it against the precum beading at the slit. He drops his head back against the pillow, mouth parting open with a happy groan. You let it hum right there, just enough to give him some friction as Art moves towards you. 

He starts kissing your jaw, hand moving to touch your tits to give Patrick something to watch. Patrick bucks his hips because it’s not fair, it’s not enough— his head clouds at the smoke curling at his face and you flick the ash off the tip of the cigarette. It falls in a fine gray trail, landing against his pelvis. 

Just when Patrick feels like something is starting to form, you turn it off, taking it all away. You bring the dildo to Art, pressing it against his mouth and he obeys, letting you slide it between his lips. He coats it in his saliva, taking it deeper as you peer down at him, drawing another hit of nicotine. 

Art closes his eyes for a second, breathing through his nose as you push it down his throat. You can hear him moan softly as he works around the length, letting Patrick see it all. The toy slides in and out with a wet, rhythmic sound. 

“Cock slut,” Patrick says from the background. 

Art pulls back with a glare, letting you wipe some of his spit off his lip. You laugh at Patrick’s unearned confidence, lining the dildo up to Patrick’s entrance. 

“Finally.” He grins. “You’re gonna fuck me good.” 

Out of spite, you shove it inside him, the sudden intrusion making his body jolt. A sharp gasp tears from his chest, and he clenches around the toy, twisting at the belt around his wrist. 

You don’t give him a chance to adjust as you start the vibration again, this time at the highest setting. It slides in deep, legs bracing and abs rippling at the pulsing sensation. Meanwhile, Art squirts some lube then moves to take Patrick’s cock in his hand, watching it twitch against his touch. He starts to stroke him, up and down, at an unbearably slow speed. 

“Mmm, fuck,” Patrick pants, thrusting up towards the contact. “F-faster–” 

You twist the dildo and it hits the spot that makes him whine like a dog, his head tilting back, revealing his Adam's apple bobbing with every strained breath. You smoke as you watch Art pump Patrick up and down, going faster by the second. 

It’s not long until Patrick starts to beg.

“Keep going, I’m right there, I—” He stutters, clenching his eyes shut. “Holy— fuck—” 

“Stop.” 

Patrick’s eyes flutter open in panic. 

“Wait—” 

Art obeys immediately, and you turn off the toy as Patrick’s head tilts backwards. He thrashes in his place, as if he can somehow chase his lost orgasm. 

“Oh, come on, come on,” He babbles, turning to you with a strained smile. Like he’s amused but deeply terrified at the same time. “That’s your plan? Denial? That’s—” He cuts himself off when you start the toy again, the low buzz just enough to make his hips convulse. He huffs. “Okay. Okay.” 

You give a nod towards Art who starts again, looking at you with arousal in his eyes. You realize that his own cock is standing at the sight of Patrick’s subjugation, and you smile, leaning closer and locking lips with him as he continues to work the length.

And the two of you edge him over and over again. 

It's been, what, an hour? Maybe two?

And Patrick is a mess.

His body shifts instinctively toward any touch, seeking relief, seeking pleasure— but the moment he gets too close, you remove everything, pulling him out, forcing him to simmer in the cruel, dizzying ache of being edged to his breaking point. 

Patrick is so loud— he’s always been loud— but louder now that you’re being mean. His voice is raw and hoarse as he whines and curses between short, erratic breaths. 

But after a while, you hear no noise, except for the shallow, wrecked sounds slipping out of this throat. When you finally look at him properly after an hour of disregarding his pleas, he’s flushed all over, skin damp with sweat, lips swollen from biting down too hard. Half-lidded eyes glossy with something dangerously close to tears. His hands are slack against the restraints, body trembling with muscles twitching uncontrollable from overstimulation yet no release. 

He’s somewhere between pleasure and agony, and he has never looked prettier.  

You lean closer to him, taking out the dildo but he barely registers it, clenching around nothing. You brush your hand against his chest and he jolts, thighs contracting and breath stuttering. He’s too sensitive, too desperate, every nerve alight with the unbearable ache of being denied. 

Delicious. 

“You want to come?” You whisper against his skin. 

Patrick releases a strangled moan. He’s beyond begging now— he doesn’t have the strength. 

You tell Art to move over and glide your hand on Patrick’s cock, squeezing and tugging the way he likes it. Patrick mouths something none of you can hear as he feels his orgasm approaching. You press your fingers into his mouth and his tongue circle around them, like he’s thanking you for this, thanking you for torturing him—

With a twist of your hand, the tension snaps— the orgasm hits him like a train— and you immediately move away from him. 

“Fuck!” Patrick cries, watching his cum splatter onto his spasming muscles yet feeling no pleasure. It’s too much and not enough all at once. The contractions are practically painful as he pathetically winces, and fuck, he’s still hard. He groans. “No, no, no…” 

You look over to Art, who looks painfully turned on at the sight of Patrick. 

“Think he’s had enough?” 

Art smiles. “He looks like he can handle one more.”

“Fu-uck,” Art drawls, rutting into Patrick as the headboard slams against the wall. 

Patrick's cock hits his stomach with each thrust, squirting out precum every time Art reaches a particular spot. You place the vibrator on his tip again and he wails— finally breaking down. 

“S- So deep,” Patrick sobs as you pat his hair, wiping the sweat off his forehead while he falls apart underneath Art. “So fucking deep—” 

And Art takes that as an invitation to thrust faster, harder, giving Patrick exactly what he needs. The sound of skin meeting skin echoes in the room. Patrick lets out a broken cry, body completely surrendering to the two of you. Art slaps his hand over Patrick’s mouth, cutting off the only form of resistance he has. 

You grin, pulling out your phone. The screen glows as you frame the shot— focused on Patrick’s weak, desperate expression, with Art hovering above him, his back tenses and glistening with sweat.

Perfect.

You snap the picture, attaching a follow-up message with it. 

Attachment: 1 image Come home the kids miss you <3

And then, just for the hell of it, you take a cigarette from Patrick’s stash, lighting it up. You watch the smoke swirl through the air as you hit send.

NOTE: Cigarettes are also called fags. So. Also this is my first time writing SMUT smut so... yikes it's kind of rough, kind of wattpad, but... I'll get better !!!

[wannaeatramyeon]

Being Goo Kim's Secret Friend: Gitae Kim

2.2k. G/N. Gitae Kim x reader. Reader is morally grey. Gets spicy (Prequel-ish: An Introduction) Other Masterlists

“So, let me get this straight."

"Mm." Goo hums, meaning go ahead.

"You're paying me to babysit?"

"Man-sit," he interjects.

"Whatever." You flap your hand, "but I am looking after this person, correct?"

"Yes my little sweetpea." Goo rests his head on your shoulder, so close you could count his eyelashes and see the way his pupils dilate. "It's my secret friend's first time back in Seoul after being away. It'll be good for you to show him around."

"...I'm charging my usual rate."

"Sure-"

"And you're covering our expenses."

He rolls his eyes, "Ugh, fine."

.

.

Gitae Kim, from what you have managed to find out, is patricidal and a powerful man with unsavoury dealings.

"Play nice," was Goo's parting advice when you came to him with your concerns.

"Play nice?!" You say, voice shrill. Goo grins.

"Fuck you, my rate just tripled."

The grin drops and is replaced by a scowl.

.

.

"I thought we could try this place. It serves the best yukhoe." You gaze over to Gitae sitting in the passenger seat as you navigate the roads, checking if there's any response. 

Nothing.

"Raw beef tartare." You explain, "I've heard you can be bloodthirsty."

His eyes flicker to you and you give him your most charming smile.

.

.

Head resting in your palm and elbow on the table, you observe him.

You find his table manners leaves a lot to be desired and watching him has put you off your own meal.

He eats like a beast but if the ferocity that he attacks his food is anything to go by, you're right on the money with guessing his taste.

"Let's get you another drink," you murmur, signalling for the staff. "Goo will kill me if you choke to death and I'm not practised with the heimlich."

.

.

"That was good, right?" You ask, striding alongside and trying to match Gitae step for step as he ignores you.

"I think you enjoyed it. Or you look like you did. I'm not really a fan of raw anything to be honest but gotta be a good host." You direct a smile his way and he hasn't even glanced over at you. You shrug it off and continue to ramble. "I'm still pretty hungry. There's a really good bubble tea place round here and they have a limited edition drink I want to get-"

"No," Gitae cuts in rudely.

"It won't take five minutes."

"No." He repeats, indicating there's no room for argument.

"Aww, cmon," you pout and he once again continues to ignore you. You consider going anyway, with or without Gitae. 

Goo, face scrunched up in anger and shrieking obscenities, pops into your mind's eye when you imagine telling him that you might have lost his secret friend because you wanted a bubble tea.

"Fine," you grumble and throw Gitae a dirty look.

.

.

Gapryong's eldest is a man of few words and it only adds to his intimidating and menacing aura.

You've seen his list of achievements and he is not someone you want as an enemy. But when someone is this difficult, your default is to try and see what response you can get out of them.

"You know they have vapes now," you signal at the pipe hanging from his belt as you continue to walk next to him.

"Do you smoke?" you ask, and expectedly, he doesn't respond,

"No? I guess it's cool you're committing to it for aesthetic reasons." Then dammit, you wonder what has gotten into you. Maybe it's hanging out with Goo too much because you can't help but add, "Even if it makes you a bit... y'know."

He slows, looking over at you at the same time that you pull a face. Indicating clearly you meant 'cringe' even if you didn't say it aloud.

"You do you though," you say, giving him a thumbs up.

He looks at you for a beat longer, head tilted and eyes narrowed, before continuing on his way with you scurrying to catch up.

.

.

By the end of the first week, Gitae has responded to exactly three things that you've said.

The second week, he's still mostly silent but he actually looks at you sometimes when you talk.

The third week, he calls you by your name when he demands your attention and you're surprised that he even knows who you are.

And the fourth - you manage to make him laugh.

Ok, maybe laugh is a bit generous, but he exhales harder than usual and you're sure he's at least amused.

.

.

GItae thinks you're strange.

You run your mouth like you don't know who you're talking to, though you anticipate his needs and preferences like you've been studying him for most of your life.

You're this side of irritating, but not irritating enough that he wants to kill you. 

And, the few times he tunes in to your comments, he admits that he finds you quite entertaining.

No-one has spoken to him like you do in a long time. There's a refreshing honesty to your words, and he's also confident that you're not going to stab him in the back at any second to wrest control of his cartel territory, which is also a welcome change from his usual company

It means that he can relax around you, or relax as much as someone like him can..

All in all, progress. Gitae finds himself trusting you like you're his second-in-command.

.

.

"What do you do for fun?" You ask. Gitae doesn't respond.

Right, you think, back to ignoring me.

You roll your eyes and start to ramble about this and that. You tell him that you're chronically online, giving a wry smile, and say it's a general side effect of your job but at least it's interesting to know the ins and outs of a few things.

Really though, maybe you should consider taking up some exercise to get fit or even as a form of self defence with your line of work and the people you come into contact with (you give Gitae a side eye at this) but it's kinda hard to find the time and-

"I can teach you," comes Gitae's low voice.

"What?"

"I can teach you," he repeats and your mouth drops open in shock.

.

.

Ok, as far as bad ideas go, this is a terrible one.

First, Gitae is huge. There is no chance you could even win in a spar or anything against him. You doubt even bullets would be able to penetrate that muscle.

Second, there is a lot of close contact and even more touching.

You aim a punch with all your might at him, any part of him. He deflects without effort, capturing your fist in his palm and he pulls you to his body. Chest against your back, wrapping his arms around you and pinning your own to your side as you try to wriggle out of his grasp.

He leans down to murmur into your ear. "You're very weak." You can feel his voice rumbling through his chest. "But you're very fun."

Your eyes snap to his at his words.

He's grinning, for the first time you've been with him. Eyes crazed and pupils blown, breath hot on your skin.

"Thanks!" You dip your head just before throwing it back sharply, connecting to Gitae's nose with a loud crack.

.

.

Gitae's nose isn't broken though it is bruised.

You apologise profusely and he tells you you have nothing to apologise for.

"It's a great hit."

You halt in your apologies, peering up at him through your lashes with a smug smirk, "I know."

.

.

Your response plays on his mind.

The lift of your lips, the sharpness of your smile, the confidence in your eyes, that half-lidded gaze.

"I know."

.

.

Gitae sees you in a new light.

He has enough of an understanding of Goo Kim to know that he's selective with his secret friends, and you have talked enough that Gitae also understands you play the role of brain rather than brawn.

Though he did not expect such viciousness to hide under your veneer, or you to be capable of such an underhanded move.

He's impressed.

.

.

"Why do all these shows make Mexico so blue?" You ask, watching a scene unfold on your phone. "Is it actually?"

You hold out the device to Gitae, some drama show playing and Mexico is indeed blue tinged.

"No."

"Hmm. It'll be cool to see for myself." You murmur, pulling your phone back.

Gitae pauses. The idea of you in his territory is very appealing. He can demonstrate to you exactly the kind of man he is, the power he wields. He can relish the impressed (or horrified) look on your face.

"I can show you," he says and you beam at the offer.

"Deal!"

.

.

“How many people have you killed with this?” you flex your hands, signalling ‘gimme’ and Gitae passes over his axe.

“Too many to count.”

“Cool,” you say nonchalantly,  testing your grip. Gitae gives you a strange look.

“I gather intel, remember. That’s my thing,” you say, swinging the axe experimentally a few times and appreciating the heft behind it.

The meaning is clear: I know all your secrets and Gitae, to his surprise, feels some respite at this fact.

.

.

"Fuck," you squirm to no avail, trapped underneath Gitae as he looks down at you lazily, inches from your face.

Your wrists are pinned above your head, held in place by his grip as his other hand rests, light but threatening, on your throat.

You have had a few other training sessions since the first one, and the way they had gone was all pure luck. You had managed to gain the upperhand by complete fluke.

This time you feel completely stuck. Movement completely restricted. Gitae straddles your hips and you’re left unable to escape. You have no way to get close and cause any damage.

"Looks like you lose," he says.

You buck your hips, trying to throw him off but the weight and strength difference is too vast. He barely moves even with all your effort and you’re left more dishevelled than before. Shirt riding up and hair in your eyes and mouth.

“Fuck,” you groan again, elongating the word and pouting.

You peer up at Gitae and find his eyes flicking between your jutted out bottom lip and your sliver of skin on show.

An idea pops into your head. It may be your worst one yet.

Throwing caution to the wind, you tilt your head up in one swift movement and kiss Gitae full on the mouth. You make contact harder than anticipated, almost clashing your teeth painfully together but adjusting the angle just in time. 

His body stills when he realises what you’re doing.

“Why-” he asks, pulling away, and you take advantage of the distance to nip at his bottom lip and reel him back in.

Gitae’s thoughts are cut off. 

You bite down roughly, feel your sharp canines punctuating skin.

Blood bursts onto your tongue and he lets out a guttural groan, eyes boring into yours and darkened with lust.

His other hand releases your wrist, caressing over your body, slipping down until it reaches your bare exposed skin. He slides his palm under your top, long, thick fingers splaying over your ribs.

With your hands now free, you continue kissing him, mingling spit and saliva and bursts of metallic tang.

You squirm and this time, Gitae gives in to what you want; rearranging his position without breaking contact. Tongue delving into your mouth. Tasting you as you wrap your legs around his hips.

Taking advantage of the situation, you hug your arms around his neck and use your body as leverage to flip him over. Straddling him as his hardness grinds into you and his hands circle your waist to press your body close.

You can feel exactly how turned on he is, how much he wants you. And god, you’re just as fucking horny. You want him just as badly, except now you’ve managed to climb on top, the whole point of this came rushing back. You absolutely hate yourself for stopping this but-

It’s the principle.

“You know,” you murmur into his mouth, then pushing up off his chest to sit up, “I think I’ve won. Again”

Gitae frowns at the sudden loss of contact, “What?”

“I’ve won. Pretend this is a knife,” you smirk, holding your hand against his throat, in an almost-mirror image of your previous position. “I would have killed you.”

Gitae’s eyes widened in surprise, “You did this… to win?” 

“Yep!”

“I didn’t expect you to play so dirty.” He says, grinning maniacally as the pieces click into place and he finds himself completely captivated.

“I play as dirty as I need to,” you tell him, tongue swiping out to lick the remnants of his blood from your lips before dipping your head down to kiss him and continue where you left off.

[reasonsforhope]

"As a Deaf man, Adam Munder has long been advocating for communication rights in a world that chiefly caters to hearing people. 

The Intel software engineer and his wife — who is also Deaf — are often unable to use American Sign Language in daily interactions, instead defaulting to texting on a smartphone or passing a pen and paper back and forth with service workers, teachers, and lawyers. 

It can make simple tasks, like ordering coffee, more complicated than it should be. 

But there are life events that hold greater weight than a cup of coffee. 

Recently, Munder and his wife took their daughter in for a doctor’s appointment — and no interpreter was available. 

To their surprise, their doctor said: “It’s alright, we’ll just have your daughter interpret for you!” ...

That day at the doctor’s office came at the heels of a thousand frustrating interactions and miscommunications — and Munder is not isolated in his experience.

“Where I live in Arizona, there are more than 1.1 million individuals with a hearing loss,” Munder said, “and only about 400 licensed interpreters.”

In addition to being hard to find, interpreters are expensive. And texting and writing aren’t always practical options — they leave out the emotion, detail, and nuance of a spoken conversation. 

ASL is a rich, complex language with its own grammar and culture; a subtle change in speed, direction, facial expression, or gesture can completely change the meaning and tone of a sign. 

“Writing back and forth on paper and pen or using a smartphone to text is not equivalent to American Sign Language,” Munder emphasized. “The details and nuance that make us human are lost in both our personal and business conversations.”

His solution? An AI-powered platform called Omnibridge. 

“My team has established this bridge between the Deaf world and the hearing world, bringing these worlds together without forcing one to adapt to the other,” Munder said. 

Trained on thousands of signs, Omnibridge is engineered to transcribe spoken English and interpret sign language on screen in seconds...

“Our dream is that the technology will be available to everyone, everywhere,” Munder said. “I feel like three to four years from now, we're going to have an app on a phone. Our team has already started working on a cloud-based product, and we're hoping that will be an easy switch from cloud to mobile to an app.” ...

At its heart, Omnibridge is a testament to the positive capabilities of artificial intelligence. "

-via GoodGoodGood, October 25, 2024. More info below the cut!

To test an alpha version of his invention, Munder welcomed TED associate Hasiba Haq on stage. 

“I want to show you how this could have changed my interaction at the doctor appointment, had this been available,” Munder said. 

He went on to explain that the software would generate a bi-directional conversation, in which Munder’s signs would appear as blue text and spoken word would appear in gray. 

At first, there was a brief hiccup on the TED stage. Haq, who was standing in as the doctor’s office receptionist, spoke — but the screen remained blank. 

“I don’t believe this; this is the first time that AI has ever failed,” Munder joked, getting a big laugh from the crowd. “Thanks for your patience.”

After a quick reboot, they rolled with the punches and tried again.

Haq asked: “Hi, how’s it going?” 

Her words popped up in blue. 

Munder signed in reply: “I am good.” 

His response popped up in gray. 

Back and forth, they recreated the scene from the doctor’s office. But this time Munder retained his autonomy, and no one suggested a 7-year-old should play interpreter. 

Munder’s TED debut and tech demonstration didn’t happen overnight — the engineer has been working on Omnibridge for over a decade. 

“It takes a lot to build something like this,” Munder told Good Good Good in an exclusive interview, communicating with our team in ASL. “It couldn't just be one or two people. It takes a large team, a lot of resources, millions and millions of dollars to work on a project like this.” 

After five years of pitching and research, Intel handpicked Munder’s team for a specialty training program. It was through that backing that Omnibridge began to truly take shape...

“Our dream is that the technology will be available to everyone, everywhere,” Munder said. “I feel like three to four years from now, we're going to have an app on a phone. Our team has already started working on a cloud-based product, and we're hoping that will be an easy switch from cloud to mobile to an app.” 

In order to achieve that dream — of transposing their technology to a smartphone — Munder and his team have to play a bit of a waiting game. Today, their platform necessitates building the technology on a PC, with an AI engine. 

“A lot of things don't have those AI PC types of chips,” Munder explained. “But as the technology evolves, we expect that smartphones will start to include AI engines. They'll start to include the capability in processing within smartphones. It will take time for the technology to catch up to it, and it probably won't need the power that we're requiring right now on a PC.” 

At its heart, Omnibridge is a testament to the positive capabilities of artificial intelligence. 

But it is more than a transcription service — it allows people to have face-to-face conversations with each other. There’s a world of difference between passing around a phone or pen and paper and looking someone in the eyes when you speak to them. 

It also allows Deaf people to speak ASL directly, without doing the mental gymnastics of translating their words into English.

“For me, English is my second language,” Munder told Good Good Good. “So when I write in English, I have to think: How am I going to adjust the words? How am I going to write it just right so somebody can understand me? It takes me some time and effort, and it's hard for me to express myself actually in doing that. This technology allows someone to be able to express themselves in their native language.” 

Ultimately, Munder said that Omnibridge is about “bringing humanity back” to these conversations. 

“We’re changing the world through the power of AI, not just revolutionizing technology, but enhancing that human connection,” Munder said at the end of his TED Talk. 

“It’s two languages,” he concluded, “signed and spoken, in one seamless conversation.”"

-via GoodGoodGood, October 25, 2024

[scientia-rex]

Sometimes people tell me I'm a good person. I'm not a good person by nature, or by default. I'm a good person because I've decided that it's important to me to act like one, on a daily basis, forever.

My actual nature is that I want power. I want power and I want my life to be easy and I want other people to be forced to be nice to me even if they hate me. I want other people to have to suck up to me, I want to watch people who I know hate me suffer through the indignity of having to suck up to me. I want to hurt people who hurt me. I want all of these things in the same exact deeply recognizable way that a gorilla or a chimpanzee does. I watch those documentaries and I recognize myself, intimately. The fact that I can behave like a good person in spite of that has taken me a long time and a lot of effort to achieve.

What you feel isn't as important for your "goodness" as what you do. And you get good at what you practice. So practice your skills at being polite, pleasant, kind. Practice gently interrupting negative behaviors--whether that's someone's negative behaviors directed towards themselves, or directed towards someone else. The idea that we have to be inherently without sin is such Christian garbage. It's psychological gibberish. We want things! We want everything! That is normal and human and the key is not acting on every bad feeling you have.

I have taken my insatiable desire for power and to manipulate people and I have used it for good. I have learned how to manipulate people into coming to the doctor and taking their blood pressure medication and being honest about their recreational substance use. I have taken my psychology education and I have used it to craft a persona that makes people feel at ease. I go home at the end of the day exhausted, because maintaining a persona for ten hours straight is exhausting, but I do it happy, because I manipulated the people I work with into feeling better and having brighter days. I manipulated my patients into feeling good about their achievements and recognizing where we need to do things differently.

The hard part is that when the mask slips, people find it not just off-putting but deeply upsetting. When I explain things like "I have thought very carefully about how I would conduct a career in domestic terrorism because I would genuinely like to bomb the headquarters of most American insurance companies, but I don't see a way to do it without getting caught and either killed or spending the rest of my life in prison, and at the moment I consider that an unacceptable outcome," people go from "ha ha! my wacky colleague" to "Jesus Christ, I didn't realize there was something actually wrong with you."

Anyway, don't make your kids read the extended works on Machiavelli at twelve, my dad thought he was helping me but all he accomplished was making me sad I'll never be a king.

[bumbled-bees]

How Lily Draws In Her Audience

One of the more disturbing aspects of Lily’s influence is that she specifically attracts people who are vulnerable—people who have been abused, marginalized, or mistreated—and then weaponizes that against them.

For abuse survivors, especially those who are still healing, it’s easy to latch onto someone who speaks with absolute certainty. Lily presents herself as someone who’s been through it all, who knows what abuse looks like, who sees through manipulation—but in reality, she just demands blind loyalty and paints anyone who questions her as an abuser.

A few ways she traps people:

She presents herself as an authority on abuse. Since many of her fans are survivors, they naturally trust her judgment. But she exploits that by redefining abuse to suit her needs, convincing them that anyone who criticizes her must be an abuser.

She provides a "safe space"… that’s actually a trap. The more people invest in her community, the harder it is to leave. If they start questioning her, they risk losing their entire support system.

She feeds into their fears and trauma. Many of her fans have a deep fear of being manipulated again. Instead of helping them build healthy skepticism, she teaches them to see her enemies as manipulators while blindly trusting her.

She isolates people from outside perspectives. Any criticism of her is framed as “transphobia,” “abuse apologism,” or “bad faith.” This keeps people locked into her narrative because they fear being seen as bigots or enablers.

Lily also specifically appeals to neurodivergent and LGBT+ fans by framing herself as a champion for marginalized groups—someone who "tells it like it is" and "fights for the oppressed." But in reality, she weaponizes their experiences and struggles to keep them under her control.

How She Hooks Neurodivergent Fans

A lot of neurodivergent people, especially autistic folks, struggle with black-and-white thinking, difficulty navigating social nuance, and a strong sense of justice. Lily exploits these traits by:

Presenting herself as a voice of moral clarity. Many ND people prefer clear-cut rules over messy social politics. Lily gives them that by framing every situation as good vs. evil.

Encouraging "righteous" anger. Many ND people have been dismissed, gaslit, or ignored in real life. Lily taps into that frustration, making them feel validated—while directing their anger toward her enemies.

Punishing critical thinking. If someone questions her, she dismisses them as "brainwashed," "supporting abusers," or "part of the problem." Since ND people can already struggle with social cues, they may second-guess their own instincts and default to trusting her version of events.

Using a rigid rule system. Her community operates on a set of unspoken but harsh, inflexible rules. Break one, and you’re ostracized. Many ND people follow strict rules in social settings to avoid conflict, so they adapt to Lily’s without realizing they’re being manipulated.

How She Hooks LGBT+ Fans

Lily markets herself as an unapologetic trans woman who doesn’t care what cis people think. This attracts other trans and queer people, many of whom have faced discrimination and feel like they have to “play nice” in society. Lily offers them an alternative:

"You don’t have to be polite anymore." She encourages LGBT+ fans to be openly hostile to their critics. This is appealing to people who have been bullied, harassed, or discriminated against. But instead of healthy boundary-setting, Lily fosters a siege mentality—"you’re either with us or against us."

Weaponizing transphobia accusations. Any criticism of her, no matter how valid, is labeled transphobic. This makes her LGBT+ fans afraid to question her, because they don’t want to be seen as betraying another queer person.

Claiming she understands LGBT+ oppression better than anyone. She dismisses any queer person who criticizes her. She uses this as a way to delegitimize her LGBT+ critics—even though many of them respect her identity but simply disagree with her behavior.

Lily’s entire mode of operation hinges on controlling the narrative. She doesn’t present arguments—she declares facts and expects her audience to accept them without question. If you challenge her version of events, you aren’t just wrong in her eyes; you’re malicious, an enemy, a “stalker,” or a “bad faith actor.”

This is why she never provides evidence or proof for her claims. She doesn’t feel she needs to. Her authority as a figure in her community is enough for her followers. If Lily says something, then it’s true by default. Any contradictions or inconsistencies get hand-waved away because her fans trust her, not facts.

Her black-and-white mindset reinforces this. There is no room for nuance in her world. Either you support her fully or you’re against her completely. There’s no middle ground. This ensures that even when people start noticing inconsistencies, they’re unlikely to speak up for fear of being branded as part of the enemy camp. It’s easier to rationalize the contradictions than to risk being exiled.

This same strategy applies across all aspects of her behavior. She tells her fans Joon the King’s documentary is just drama and should be ignored—so they ignore it, despite the fact that it presents mountains of evidence.

This is why Lily thinks she can lie so freely. She assumes her audience won’t remember or care if she contradicts herself. And in many cases, she’s right. Because she’s conditioned them to trust her above all else.

[hellspawnmotel]

haha okay okay, I'll share my thoughts (this got long whoops. lots to cover)

first of all, just to clear I'm not saying that I think toby is trying to make the fanbase assume wholesomeness in EVERY relationship he writes, or even every lesbian relationship. I don't think he did that for alphyne, I think that is just a genuinely wholesome relationship for the most part. they have some stuff to work out (mostly based around alphys' lying and insecurities) but what couple doesnt? I did theorize that toby might have kept that in mind while writing suselle specifically though, given the surface-level similarities to alphyne (which essentially just boil down to 'tough girl x shy girl'). considering that toby's been developing noelle and susie since at least 2015 I doubt that's where he started out with the two of them, but I think it's plausible it influenced how he chose to frame their scenes in the final product.

I haven't seen whatever post you're talking about discussing alphyne vs RG01/RG02, and to be frank I don't remember seeing a lot of art of the knights that was overly sexual as opposed to just cute. I do believe that there's some level of it that I just haven't encountered but I don't know if it was the best example to illustrate this point. it IS true though that when it comes to shipping, there's a trend of viewing relationships between two men as inherently more sexual than relationships between two women, because misogyny and I can't get into why that happens in more specificity without going on a massive tangent and I trust you guys already know all that.

so let's just assume that we all understand these basic societal ideals, and the fact they get subconsciously drilled into our heads whether we like it or not: the default way to be a woman is to be a domestic caretaker. gentle, kind, pure, level-headed, someone who does all she can to avoid emotional conflict. or any conflict for that matter- a well-adjusted woman hates conflict, to avoid it she'll become submissive or run away or try to mediate or just faint into the arms of a man about it. men are the ones who initiate or confront conflict, who "make things happen".

then what happens when there are no men around? if a relationship is just two women in love, and the relationship is healthy, then there must be no conflict. all you're left with is sweet and pure domestic bliss. that's when it's "wholesome". therefore, if a relationship between two women DOES involve conflict, it must be unhealthy because it means something is "wrong" with one or both of them. so to that end I think it's much easier to conclude that a ship between two women is "toxic" than a ship between two men. or a ship between a man and a woman, for that matter. picture your average romcom centered around a heterosexual relationship, and ask yourself, if everything was exactly the same but it was two women instead, would it get called "toxic yuri"?

FTR, I understand that the phrase "toxic yuri" rose in popularity and prominence as backlash against this exact kind of thinking- we want lesbian relationships that involve conflict, and calling it "toxic" affectionately is in direct response to those who argue that any relationship between two women that isnt all sunshine and daisies is unhealthy and abusive. and there are PLENTY of girl/girl pairings that I would actually describe as "toxic" in sincerity and that's the appeal and what makes them interesting. but I think the (over)use of the word has gotten to a point where you gotta look at yourself and ask if that's what your ship really is, or if you just want to use a popular phrase- and more importantly, if mislabeling these relationships as "toxic" when conflict gets involved is just looping around and perpetuating the problem in a different way.

(remembering this was supposed to be about suselle) UMM. in conclusion I think if more people start to acknowledge the conflict or potential for conflict in susie and noelle's romantic storyline then we're gonna see it called "toxic yuri" even though nothing about it has changed. and I think that on the other side of that, those who exclusively want cute and lovey-dovey suselle are prone to ignoring any conflict or even denying it's there. not all the time! but it happens.

[cupidsworstcrime]

teehee hey @goatgoesmbe i said 20 minutes, it is here in 30 minutes, sorry its late pooks

Gaz x Reader

You’d never seen Gaz like this before. The calm, collected, almost annoyingly confident man you were used to was nowhere to be found. Instead, you had him at your mercy—his breath ragged, his hands trembling as they gripped at your body like he was trying to hold onto something solid in a storm.

"Fuck, I didn’t mean—sorry, fuck," he muttered, his voice hoarse as his lips dragged along your neck. Every word was punctuated with desperate, almost frantic apologies. "I didn’t think I’d get this—fuck. You feel so good."

He didn’t even seem to care anymore that he was a complete mess, that his usual composure had completely shattered. His mind was elsewhere, overwhelmed with the sensations of you. His hands gripped at your hips, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t get enough of you, like every inch of your body was some sort of lifeline he couldn’t let go of.

"You sure you want this?" you teased lightly, knowing full well the effect it had on him. His reply was immediate—so needy, so uncharacteristically desperate.

"Yes, yes, please—god, don’t stop," he begged, his forehead resting against your shoulder. His breath was hot against your skin as he continued, muttering under his breath like he couldn’t stop even if he tried. "I’m sorry for everything, fuck... I shouldn’t have been such an asshole earlier. You’re all I can think about, please... I’ll make it up to you. I swear, I’ll make it up to you."

You could feel him twitch beneath you, the effort to keep himself together clearly taking all his focus. His usual arrogance had been replaced by an almost feverish need, his body moving against you in a way that was equal parts frantic and reverent.

"Please," he whispered again, voice barely above a rasp as he looked up at you with dark, pleading eyes. "I’ll do anything... fuck, just let me show you how much I need you."

It wasn’t just a sexual experience for him; it was like some sort of religious experience, like being this close to you was something sacred, something he wasn’t prepared for but couldn’t live without once he had it. His hands tightened on you again, his grip shaky but possessive. "I swear, I swear I didn’t mean to act like that, I—I’m sorry for everything. Just don’t leave me."

His words faltered, and he kissed you harder, more desperate than before, as if it would somehow make up for the mistakes he had made. You could hear the apology in every kiss, every touch, and it was all so real—raw, vulnerable, and undeniably Gaz.

He was a man who didn’t beg often. But for you? He was begging like he was losing everything, and it was exactly what you wanted.

"God, you're all I can think about," he whispered between kisses, his voice thick with need. "Don’t stop, don’t ever stop."

He was a mess, a babbling, begging mess—and for the first time, it was exactly what you needed.

You stirred beneath the sheets, sore but buzzing, your skin still tingling from everything that had just happened. The room was quiet now, save for the soft hum of the fan and the distant beat of your heart still trying to slow itself down.

Kyle sat at the edge of the bed, back turned, head in his hands.

He hadn't said a word since it ended.

You watched him for a moment, studying the tension in his shoulders. That perfect soldier stance, the one he defaulted to when he didn’t know what else to do. And fuck, he didn’t know what to do now.

You shifted, the sheets rustling, and his spine straightened like you’d just drawn a gun on him.

“Kyle,” you said gently.

His head dropped lower into his hands with a groan. “Fuck.”

“Hey,” you crawled closer behind him, arms circling his waist. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he bit out. “I’m supposed to be the one in control, and—fuck, I was begging. Crying. Like a—” He stopped himself, but you could hear the self-directed venom in his voice.

“Like a man who felt something,” you finished for him. “Like someone who trusted me enough to fall apart.”

“That’s not how this is supposed to go,” he muttered, still not facing you. “You’re not supposed to see me like that. I’m supposed to have you crying. Not the other way around.”

You kissed the back of his shoulder, slow and grounding. “I liked seeing you like that.”

He gave a dry, bitter laugh. “Course you did. Got me down there sobbing on your chest like I’m some fucking rookie. Can’t even look at you.”

You slid your hand up his chest, fingers grazing his throat, gently pulling his head back until he was forced to glance over his shoulder at you.

“I don’t want a robot, Kyle. I want you. The man who goes feral for me and apologizes halfway through fucking because he’s so deep in it he forgets what planet he’s on. You can cry all you want. Doesn’t make you any less of a man. Especially not to me.”

He swallowed hard, jaw clenched. “…I wanted to wreck you.”

“You did.”

“Didn’t feel like it,” he said under his breath.

You smirked, pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth. “You made me cum three times.”

He blinked. “...Wait. Three?”

“Uh huh.”

A long beat. Then, very quietly:

“…Still embarrassing.”

You rolled your eyes and pulled him back into bed. “Then you’ll just have to fuck me again when you’ve recovered your ego.”

He huffed. But he curled into you anyway.

[orkbutch]

Rambling about Astarion bc im bored at work. I like Astarion because I think he is a genius take on The Evil RPG Companion, and is an especially great take on The Fixable Bad Guy. I don't think hes evil, but I do think Astarion is a genuinely bad person at the beginning, and I think Astarion is only drawn away from being a bad person - and experiences a great redemption arc - via active intervention from others. Astarion would not redeem himself without guidance; he is absolutely bent toward self destruction and evil at the beginning of the story.

I think comparing him with Shadowheart is what drew me to that conclusion. If you are nice to Shadowheart, as in you talk to her and respect her boundaries and do stuff she generally agrees with, she will choose to free Nightsong all on her own. You don't need to roll to convince her at all, or romance her or even push back on her Shar worship that much. You just leave it up to her, and she chooses that path. (Side note, what brilliant writing.)

Astarion is not like that at all. Even if you were tight as fuck he would not choose the good option, with no input, in Act 2. Astarion, like all the companions, needs help and connection to reach healthy actualization, but I think its great, resonant writing that Astarion needs the most active intervention of all. Because he's had his autonomy so completely taken away from him, he simply doesn't know how to use it anymore. He doesn't know how to connect with other people anymore. He's someone that's learned to enjoy cruelty, to resent the pleasure of others, and to be entirely selfish for survival. It makes sense that he must be dragged back into being capable of trust. He needs to be forced to be part of a community again; caring about things; allowing for vulnerability and optimism.

And like. How fucking smart is it to have THIS guy in THIS game. Because of the tadpole and the existential threat they're up against, he is actually forced to work with you. This kind of character is so hard to do in most RPGs because its like... why wouldn't he just betray you all and leave? Why would he stick with you? The tadpole clears all of that up. Astarion must stick with you or hes lost and dead. Astarion knows that you and the other companions are collectively stronger than him, so he can't betray you. He is forced to rely on you by default.

This is also what makes him SUCH a good version of the "you can fix him" romance; you are almost never the direct target of Astarion's bastardry because he can't fuck with you. The problem with Fix Him's is that usually they are a threat to the romantic lead, and fixing him requires enduring, soothing and forgiving the worst of his badness as some kind of test of loyalty, hopefully proving to him that being bad isn't necessary (toxic shit). But Astarion... can't do that. He is afraid to actually fuck you over because you are directly tied to his survival, and because you quickly show yourself to be more capable than him. He cannot have real power over you. (Until he's ascended, then he becomes the absolute worst version of the fix-it.)

I do think the trade off is that Astarion not directing his bastardry at you makes it easier to Ignore that Astarion is A Bad Guy, but I think that'd happen even if he was more of an asshole to you, so who cares. I think he's got the best written Redeemable Evil RPG Companion arch I've seen honestly. I love that he's so fun while being so tragic, whether redeemed or not.