#Blindspot musings

[championsofmyheart]

hello and welcome to soup and radar discuss the similarities between matt daredevil and muse muse and how interesting that is given one is sams mentor and the other is his nemesis. if you reblog this without radars addition ill kill you.

To Me both muse and matt are EXTREMELY white liberal coded

muse reads to me as one of those white liberals who constantly preaches about how inclusive they are and how accepting they are to minorities but then turns around and calls the cops on homeless people and poc. he's very much using his "anti-bigotry" for social capital while actively oppressing the groups he claims to support, and when confronted about it gets extremely defensive about how he's being "attacked" and how minorities should be grateful for his allyship and it can be taken away at any time if they aren't nice and thankful enough for his support.

i think it's clearest in his inhuman exhibit where he poses them doing mundane tasks to show that they are "human too", but he gets the inhuman bodies FOR the exhibit by literally murdering them. his support is entirely artificial and for his own benefit to seem progressive and gain points.

matt's white liberalism is i think most evident in the beginning of the run and he gets a bit better by the end.

here matt talks over sam, telling him to let daredevil (a white man) and matt murdock (a white man) to handle the problem. he talks over him and does not let sam into active work of taking down tenfingers in exactly the same way that white liberals love to ignore the voices and perspectives of the people harmed by the systems they claim to be against and excluding them from discussion and activism. i mean hes literally standing over sam in the panel, towering over him both as his mentor sure but also as a white man prioritizing himself in the discussion of a problem that affects sam, not him.

by the end of sam's arc matt is able to recognize that he does not and will never be able to fully understand sam's perspective, and asking sam to think for himself instead of telling him what to do.

holds them in my hands I Just Think He's Neat. The similarities between matt and muse and how they're two different species within the same genus offers what i think is a very interesting angle to view the sam-matt dynamic through, and a new perspective to sam's thought process when matt was in that hospital bed telling him he's giving up on daredevil.

[zekeyboy]

soule run best run? ill figure out how to draw sam someday

[milkyberryjsk]

idk what to do for this blog yet

[theblindspot]

○ KRP OC DEBUT - get to know:

JAESUNG "Sun" YOO | fc: Lee Know, Stray Kids

• age 25, Japanese-Korean

• he/she/they

• genderfluid

• homoflexible

current AU: COLLEGE | barista with a bad mouth.

more info: https://www.rprepository.com/c/jaesung

ask him some questions. anything. he's bored.

[ghstbrthr]

⭑ ࣪˖ The vigilante gasped in pain and ground the heels of his palms into his profusely bleeding eyes, trying not to scream. The world was on fire all of a sudden and he was choking on the blood ; it was in his mouth and ears and spilling up between his fingers. Then he heard Daredevil and reached a hand out, desperately grasping for someone who could fix it, ' I — I can't see. It hurts so bad please — '

— @dehrdevil : sammy ?   oh my god ,   oh my god -

[merveiilles]

// not saying that Sam would be a king at marco-polo... but im saying Sam would be a king at marco-polo at the pool party. Someone’s gonna start a fight with him about no invisibility suits in the water because man could jump out of the pool and cheat.

[mydearlybeloathed]

𝐆𝐎𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐀

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: zoro doesn't dance, but he has no issue in watching you twirl yourself off your feet. so long as you twirl back to him when your feet get tired.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: opla!zoro x fem!dancer!reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: use of Y/N, swearing, dancer!reader, fluff

He was terrified, but not terrified enough to deny that you held his very life in your hands. Zoro didn’t mind that, not at all; you were gentle and funny and lovely and kinder than he deserved. Yet, you were real, as he often was reminded when you carded your hands through his hair with a little laugh and a mumbled, “Dumbass.”

No, Roronoa Zoro was terrified of how much he’d grown accustomed to your entire being.

It was also mildly frightening that you knew fully well just what he would do for you. Zoro admitted, he never tried very hard to hide it, not after your quiet little confession of affection some months ago, under the starlit sky, the wind brushing your hair away to reveal your face.

He’d been yours long before then, but only now he didn’t care to hide his adoring stares and relished in the little way you hooked your pinky with his when you were nervous. How your eyes searched him out when you entered a room. How your kisses grew from shy to ravenous as your relationship progressed.

It was safe to say he was certain you were as infatuated as he was, if not more, though that was a heated topic of debate between the pair of you (“There’s no way you love me more than I love you.” “Wanna bet?” “Zo, I literally took a bullet for you.” “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to bring that up… Why the fuck—!”)

A grin ghosted over Zoro’s face at the memory, and how you’d just laughed as he scolded your reckless affection. His grin grew to a smile before he could cool his expression, and then the warmth of your palm was cupping his jaw, drawing his face closer to yours. 

In the low light of the tavern, he swore you glowed. Or maybe it was the three shots of vodka in your system. Either way, you were an angel if Zoro ever knew one. An angel who blessed him with your touch and your teasing little smirk as you asked, “What’s got you smiling?”

“You,” he replied like a reflex. Leaning into your touch, he cast a look around the tavern, scoping out your other crewmates for signs of disturbance. Luffy and Usopp were at the bar, Nami was swindling a woman at the booth across from yours, and Sanji was charming up a brunette in the corner. None of the other patrons minded your crew, so Zoro allowed his shoulders to lose just a bit of their tension, and his hand drifted from his sword to your hand, tugging on it gently to urge you to sit beside him instead of across.

Giddy, you jumped up and hurried to his side, sliding in till your thigh was flush with his. Zoro’s body warmed as you leaned into him, not caring to ask as you took his arm and wrapped it around your shoulder, gazing up at him softly. Your comfortability filled him with confidence; how you moved with such familiarity in his presence, and how it contrasted from when you first met—it was enough to make his ribs crack just to have room for his rapidly expanding heart.

“Good answer,” you teased. You reached up to card your fingers through his hair, gently scratching at his scalp and smirking wider as he grunted and closed his eyes. “Tired?”

Zoro huffed a laugh. “No.” 

It was your turn to reminisce, watching as your swordsman melted before you, guard nowhere to be seen. Yours. Never would you have thought you’d actually get to call him that, but here you were, after all the odds and barriers of character.

You particularly enjoyed how he looked just now, eyes closed as you gazed up at him. Once upon a time, Zoro would whip around to make sure you never stood at his back, always ensuring you were nowhere near his blindspot. Now, you mused, he often slept with his back to your chest, your fingers trailing shivers up and down his arms. 

Now, his dead eyed gaze didn’t instill you with paralytic nerves; you knew he was more bark than bite, at least with you. 

Your dumbass.

“Oi, Y/N!” called Usopp, who had moved from the bar to the wide open space many used as a dance floor. The band of various instruments played a whimsical tune, the rhythm causing your knee to bounce in time.

You raised your brows. “Yep?”

Luffy wrung an arm around Usopp and laughed like a lunatic. “Come dance!”

Your eyes were droopy and honestly, you just wanted some sleep—but who were you to deny your captain? Besides, weren’t you the Strawhats’ resident deathly little dancer? 

Casting your boyfriend a look only to find him pursing his lips, you giggled and kissed his frown away, escaping the booth in his brief surprise.

Zoro watched as you leapt to your feet and practically floated with the grace in your steps. As much as Zoro trained and as hard as he tried, he’d never been as graceful with a sword as you were now. Somehow, that made him love you more.

A fiddle and drum, a flute and dulcimer—from what Zoro could tell with his limited knowledge, the music was exactly your style. A lively sort of sound. 

And as the music blossomed anew, Zoro spotted that tell tale sparkle in your eye; you had something up your sleeve, per usual, and as your toes started to tap against the ground he knew you’d be amazing, per usual. 

Luffy’s enthusiasm drew attention, and soon enough a crowd had formed.

You clapped your hands in a steady rhythm, twirling around in the middle of a circle of people, their gazes trapped by your every move. The crowd soon mimicked your clapping. From the front of the circle, Luffy and Usopp cheered louder than the rest.

Zoro leaned this way and that to keep his eyes locked on you, but it became increasingly difficult as you drew them near like moths to a dancing flame.

With an arabesque leading into a balancé, you glanced over your shoulder and caught Zoro’s eye through the people. His heart stuttered.

You laughed, pure joy in your lungs, and shifted your style from more classical to something looser. You twirled and curved your arms in an “S” shape before pointing your foot and scraping it in the dirt in a wide Rond de Jambe. The movement was swift and agile as you continued to follow the flow of the music, completely in your element. 

Mind elsewhere, Zoro hardly realized he’d stood up, not until he had forced his way through the crowd and stopped between Luffy and Usopp. The clapping all around him was deafening, only made worse by the sweet torture of your laugh. 

Again, your eyes locked him in place as you swept toward him, only to take Luffy by the hands and twirl him around with you. Zoro scoffed and folded his arms over his chest, unable as ever to hide the smirk tugging at his face. 

A giggle left you as Zoro’s face got lost in the whirl of your surroundings. You started a swing dance with Luffy, releasing him a second later to drag a newly approached Nami into the fun.

Your head spun and your feet ached—yet you would never feel happier than when you danced with your friends.

Well, you might’ve been a bit happier when dancing with your special green haired friend, but you knew him well. If you were to drag Zoro into the circle and dance him into the ground in front of all these people, he’d be compliant, but less than pleased.

No. When you danced with Zoro, it wasn’t like this; it was slow and steady, to the rhythm of nothing but the sea. It was deep in the belly of the Going Merry, when the crew was fast asleep, and the moon hung high. When you had the world to yourselves, and could sway in the hold of the other without interruption.

It was simple and plain, but it held a very special place in your heart.

Nami let you spin her around, rolling her eyes before she yelped as you pulled her in and dipped her low. She snorted into a laugh and stumbled a bit, grabbing your arms to keep you from whirling her around again.

Shooting her a wink as she all but ran back to the bar, you danced on light feet once more, starting up a roar of steady clapping. 

Your swordsman stood in awe, his eyes desperate to catch as much of your radiance as he could, like you'd disappear at any moment. He always believed good things never last, but he’d die before he let this one end. Because you were Zoro’s best thing, and he refused to grow a similar policy surrounding best things.

So when you had spun off your balance and teetered off your feet, he was there, his arms scooping under yours and catching you against his chest. Out of breath, you looked up and found his eyes, letting the rest of your weight lean into him as he stood a steady post. 

“Hey,” you giggled. 

“Hi.” Zoro tilted his head. “Ready?”

You were back on your own feet in an instant, thoughts of a warm bed more enticing than dancing through to dawn. So you took his hand and beelined through the crowd, shoving your way through and dragging Zoro along. You winded up collecting Nami by the door, and waited up for Sanji too. The navigator and chef yawned in time, their eyes droopy.

You were no better, your steps lazy as you mindlessly followed after Zoro and the others. It felt as if you’d blinked and you were back on the Merry, gazing up at Zoro who only nudged you with his shoulder. “You up?”

You grunted in reply and promptly led the way to your shared cabin, throwing open the door and letting go of his hand. You plopped into the blankets and at once felt yourself melt into them. The bed dipped a second later. Rolling over, you grinned up at your boyfriend, finding him with his brows met.

“Gonna take off your shoes?” he asked, though it sounded more like an order. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you huffed, lugging yourself back up to undo your laces and rip the offending apparel off. You turned to find him under the blanket, holding up one end to make you room, and you settled in beside him. Your head found its natural place on his chest, sleep just on the other side of the mental door, so to speak.

Lost in thought, you barely registered the words spilling from your lips. “I love you.”

It felt natural, like a breath you needed to survive. You wanted to say it again, then once more, and maybe again just for good measure. 

Zoro stiffened, his face going an embarrassing shade of red, and he was grateful you weren’t able to see it from your place tucked against his side. He barely even breathed, wondering how much time had really passed since you’d uttered those worldbreaking words. It must’ve been longer than a few minutes; you were fast asleep, none the wiser. 

He swallowed thickly and sank deeper into the bed, wrapping his arms tightly around you. He’d deal with figuring out how to say it back in the morning, and decide whether it’ll be the full truth some time later. Or, that was the plan anyhow.

Zoro really couldn’t hold back how you consumed his thoughts—his deathly dancer—and he could deny it all he wanted, but Roronoa Zoro had fallen in love, and apparently, you had as well.

The swordsman grinned, pressing a kiss to your hairline and forcing his eyes shut. How he got so lucky to have you love him, he had no clue. All he knew was you made his life a sweet kind of complicated, and he wouldn’t want you any other way.

[yeahspider]

blindspot 🫀

Ve’s note - hyunjin bf headcanon drabble . quickly wrote and sparsely proofread . part 1/8 . i’m gonna do all the members . lmk which member to do next ! enjoy my bees <3

just thinking about hyunjin (as always) and devotion. how we would love every inch of you . how he would take the time to memorize each dip and curve . kiss every dimple , every mole , every stretch mark . how he would slowly help yoh live every detail you view as an imperfection . he’d spend hours of his day trying to immortalize your body on canvas and not be satisfied bc his brush could never accurately depict you . never fully capturing the essence that is you .

hyunjin who would take thousands of pictures of you because the world must see your beauty . but he gage keeps the best ones for himself because he’s selfish .

hyunjin who believes your beauty isn’t of this earth . you must be a goddess and he’s grateful to even breathe the same air as you . he devotes his time to knowing you inside in our .

hyunjin who finds your mind fascinating . he could spend hours listening to you talk about anything . to him you’re the smartest person to grace the earth . he wants. to be inside your brain .

hyunjin who wants to be in your skin and on your skin at all times . detaching himself from you for even the shortest of time bringing him pain .

hyunjin who will find any way to profess his love for you . writing music that reflects his feelings . every song is about you . his muse . you inspire him to constantly improve and be better .

hyunjin who’s devoted to you and your happiness . so much that you have to remind him to love his life for himself sometimes . poor boy gets so lost in you , you often you have to pull him out .

hyunjin who will spend lifetimes learning to love you the way you deserve .

hyunjin who knew you were the one when you first met . he believes he’s lucky you chose him to call his . he feels privileged . but he’ll never take it for granted . your his pride . you’re his whole life .

[zer0carrds]

15 : BLINDSPOT.  a multi-muse template.

BLINDSPOTi is a multi-muse template; includes guidelines, muse list, and bonds pages. this utilizes custom css and html — there's scrolly boxes so you can type as much as you'd like about your muses, custom fonts, and text coding for different bold/highlight/etc styles. i highly recommend having a little knowledge on css, but it's not too hard and i'm more than happy to help via askbox! (: requires PRO PLUS OR HIGHER. my demo link includes my referral code, so your upgrades through my code will help me greatly :3

this is on a $3 pay what you can scale. demo and download link in the source.

[actionmemeplay]

Thought, learning and intellect headcanon asks for muses

[MENTAL CHATTER] Does your character have an ongoing inner monologue, or do they more frequently think wordlessly/in abstract?

[ENTANGLED] Does your muse experience synaesthesia? (eg. tasting sounds, or seeing colours in music) If yes, does this have any effect on their creativity or understanding of certain senses?

[ALOUD] Does your character subvocalise (sound out words in their head) when reading silently to themselves, or no? When reading fiction, do they “hear” individual voices for each speaking character?

[WPM] How quickly can your character type, read or write?

[MOTHER TONGUE] For bilingual muses: does your character think in one particular language more than another? Are there certain topics or themes that they may be more likely to switch to another?

[FOCUS] How well can your muse focus on their own thinking or study in the presence of distracting background stimuli (loud environments, background chatter, visual clutter…)

[OFF TRACK] Is your muse prone to letting their mind wander? To their detriment?

[INTEREST] Does your muse find it hard to learn about or remember details of subjects that don’t captivate their personal interest? Even if they might be useful or advantageous to know?

[AHAH!] Is your muse good at recognising patterns and putting information together to recognise correlations or solutions quickly? Or do they need others to spell things out to them?

[SEEING RED] How easily is your muse’s judgement or perception swayed by their emotions and state of mind? Are they most always cool and level-headed, or are they prone to rashness or switching stances quickly?

[JUMP THE GUN] What biases does your muse hold that impact how they perceive the world or choose to take in new information? Do their personal blindspots and preconceptions lead them to errors in judgement?

[RECALIBRATE] How frequently does your muse evaluate their own ways of thinking? Have they little self-insight/feel set in their minds for better or worse, or are they constantly questioning their own outlook? To the point of self-doubt, even?

[SPLIT SECOND] How decisive is your muse? How confident do they need to feel about the outcome of their actions, or how much pre-thinking must they do before they feel they can act? Do they trust in their own decisions?

[FOREIGN] How does your muse fare when presented with ideas, concepts or experiences that feel far outside their usual norm? How hostile, sceptical or inquisitive might they be when encountering new viewpoints?

[STUDENT] Does your character enjoy learning for learning’s sake, or do they only seek out knowledge when they specifically need to?

[NOTES] How does your muse track their ideas and thoughts, or things they need to remember? Do they keep written or voice notes, or do they just think/hope that they’ll be able to recall what they need later?

[SELF ANALYSIS] How intelligent does your muse BELIEVE they are, versus how do they actually stack up next to others? What are the personal strengths and weaknesses of their minds and outlooks, compared to those of the people around them?

[nichecomicstournament]

propaganda under the cut

Koryak: no propaganda submitted

Samuel Chung: sammyyyyyy

sam chung is an 'illegal' chinese immigrant living in china town, nyc, who was brought to the us as a younger child by his (later) neglectful and abusive mother. he has a younger sister, hannah, who is the only us citizen in the family and therefore is the only one able to hold a secure job. he works odd jobs until he uses old knowledge from his childhood in china to become a vigilante named blindspot. he's horrible at it at first until he meets daredevil, the hero he took inspiration from in the first place. the two work together while his mother grows more involved in a cult who had stolen power from an ancient cult with ancient magic. he works his way out of it, being the icon that he is and confronts his mother. he later loses his eyesight trying to protect civilians from his soon-to-be nemesis, muse, who plucks his eyes out when daredevil comes to save him. his character is cool as fuck in the sense that daredevil comics as a whole does not steer away from political topics and the significance of sam as an 'illegal' immigrant and a vigilante trying to make chinatown better in a comic which focuses on a disabled (blind) man who is both a lawyer and vigilante who swears to make his town better both through the law and outside of it is important. to me. if you don't vote for him you're shunning a very specific kind of representation both when it comes to race, immigrant culture and survivors of abusive parents.

[championsofmyheart]

thiiiiinking abt sam and muse as foils again. how sams entire superhero career can be defined by his moral struggle deciding between prioritizing 1. dont die and 2. dont let anyone else die while muse has no such qualms and cares for neither and will let both go for the sake of Art. sams constant flipping, prioritizing the civilian lives in the sewers then spending weeks deliberating on the hospital bed how many people he would let die if it meant he could get his eyes back, definitely killing people as part of the Hand, letting matt be a sacrifice to the Beast and then changing his mind last second, finally landing on 2 as the priority and being willing to die to take muse down, but still not killing him when the occasion presents itself. muse going around killing the inhumans to make an art piece about how they deserve equality, breaking his own fingers without a second thought to pay them back for blinding blindspot, walking into the fire and burning himself alive for the Art of death at sams “hands”.

[zekeyboy]

pose for the camera, sammy!

[milkyberryjsk]

2 projects left and i am free this semester

[meowsmorales]

i think about this exchange a lot. but mostly i'm still thinking about that post about liking more grounded, street-level heroes while cosmic level events are going on, because it's like. for sam, the street-level problems are often as personally irrelevant to him as the universal-level problems. "look, there's something i need to finish. but if i can, i'll help you too." it's like... the vigilantes are there to solve the more personal problems, the more specific problems, which aren't overarching or all-encompassing. but even on this smaller scale, there are things that pass them by, that slip past them. there are still people who feel beneath their help, there are still unreachable, unseeable victims. and that is who blindspot is for; blindspot is for the problems nobody else will see, that nobody else will help. sure, i'll help you take down fisk, but you have everybody helping you to take down fisk. me, i need to take down muse. that's my priority. it's not revenge; it's necessity.

thank you for trying, i'm sure you did everything you could. story of sam and matt's whole fucking relationship. matt wants to help, tries to help, and sam wants it, but even still there are things matt is not equipped to help with, cannot help with, because even though there are so many things in common they are still fighting for different communities from different places. fuuuuck me dude.

"look, there's something i need to finish. but if i can, i'll help you too." fuuuck ME dude. but if i can i'll help you too. there are problems that are more relevant to his community and himself, but then there are problems that aren't his. it's an echo to when he first chases muse, to me, when he asks himself, "why am i doing this? who asked me to do this? how far am i willing to take this?" as he finds himself trying to save a judge he knows would condemn him for his undocumented status. but blindspot helps people; that's what he's for. if i can i'll help you too. but in the same breath, sam doesn't insist that daredevil come help him, lets him go after fisk with his many fellow fisk-hating coworkers, all the other street-levels... thank you for trying i'm sure you did everything you could. even after they've come all this way, even after all the trust and care sam has grown for matt, sam still considers matt as if he's above him. sam can help matt, but as hard as he tries, matt cannot help sam. sam, who is less experienced, has less resources, can help matt, but cannot be helped by matt. fuck me dude. sorry i don't really have a cohesive point i'm just thinking so so much here. you understand.

[lewisyellowhelmet]

ocean blue (lewis hamilton x reader)

summary: a collection of you and lewis on holiday by the beach. 2k+ (18+)

talk to me here ! or read everything else here! 

i.

Lewis is always tuned into the direction of the ocean. Anytime you ask him, anywhere, he can gesture to a particular direction, tell you how far away it is. You were a fish in another life, you tell him, licking the salt water off him after he collapses on the beach next to you. Maybe, he muses, shaking out his wet hair, only if you were there.

ii.

For a weekend, you go to the coast. A spot that’s quiet, far from town, but the surf is good, the waves constant. Some of his friends come, and the house is sprawling across the dunes, all wood and overhanging balconies. It’s too cold to sunbathe, walk through the shallows, so you bring a stack of books, drink a lot of tea, listen to the ocean. Lewis sleeps better than he has in months, the window open for the sound of the repetitive pattern of waves. He wakes you, gently, in the mornings. The windows steamed up with condensation, rain on the roof. His warm body snuggled up to yours, lazy kisses under your ear, down to your collarbone.

 “Good morning,” you rasp, not sure if it’s a dream or real. The cold air outside the bedclothes is biting. His hands are hot on your tummy, up under your t-shirt.

 “You were dreaming about me,” Lewis tells you, his mouth under your jaw now, up to your cheek, his eyelashes fluttering on the skin of your nose.

 “How do you know?”

 “You were saying my name,” he murmurs, and you flush, remembering why you were calling for him, the dream returning in hazy snatches as you start to wake up. He kisses you softly, your top lip between his, lingering. Your body hums in response, a current of energy that connects you to him.

 “And because of this,” Lewis says, his hand slipping down your belly, into your underwear, to hold where you’re already hot and pulsing. You don’t need him to tell you, it’s easy enough to know from the way his finger slips into you. You’re wet already, had dreamt of him doing this, somewhere nameless, a memory more than anything. You could be embarrassed, deny it, but your body makes the decision for you, arching up into his hand. Lewis laughs, but it’s fond, and he dips his face to kiss you properly.

iii.

You sit on the beach in one of Lewis’ big coats, bare feet in the sand. Your book lies open, but abandoned, pages fluttering in the wind. A thermos of tea is half buried in the sand beside you. You watch Lewis surf, slick and graceful in his wetsuit, shining wet. You hadn’t expected it to be this captivating, the elegant dance of it, his strength working in tandem with the power of the ocean. When he catches a good wave, his whooping is carried to you on the shore by the wind, the laughter of his friends. He’s better than most of them, jumps to an easy crouch on the board, flies through the tunnel of froth to emerge victorious at the end of the wave. You could write poetry about it, the way he moves, the endless roaring of the waves, the grey clouds, gaps of sunshine breaking through.

They call out to each other as they paddle out for the next set, bobbing black shapes as they crest each ignore wave, patient. Finally turning to catch the perfect one, angling the surfboard just right, Lewis seemingly in control of every moment, what you know must be quick actions seem slow, like he has all the time in the world to get to his feet, balanced perfectly. The lip of the wave curls, and he powers down the body of it, zig zagging across, leaving currents in his wake. It curves over him, the tunnel, and just at the last second he emerges from the whitewash, grinning. Even from the beach, you can hear him laughing.

iv.

Before dinner he drives you out to the point. The rental car is a mammoth of a four wheel drive, but Lewis controls it easily. It’s distracting, watch him drive, always. The flex of his hand, the crook of his neck when he checks his blindspot. He’s packed good red wine and vegan banana bread, spreads a blanket out over a flat rock. He’s boyishly proud of his makeshift picnic, overlooking the crashing ocean, roiled by a coming storm. The sun sets in reds and pinks, overtaking the whole sky. Lewis takes a picture of you standing in front of it, a silhouette, puts it on his Instagram story and then hides his phone somewhere it won’t distract him. When you walk back to him on the rock, he reaches out, pulls you down to kiss him. His face is warm, even in the cold wind, and you crawl into his lap, face in his shoulder, held like a small child. You can feel his heart beating. You could sit here forever, listening to the waves, wind pulling at your hair, but hidden in the warmth of him. Still, time passes, and you want more wine, emerging from his chest to find your glass. Lewis watches you sip, kisses your red mouth after, licks the taste out of you. Your legs either side of his waist, still in his lap, grinding down onto him like two teenagers hooking up on the cliff. You shiver when he takes your jumper off, so he carries you to the car, lies you out in the backseat, kneeling between your legs. It’s cramped, and heartbreakingly intimate, the wind battering the car, Lewis breathing hot air onto your cold skin. There’s no rush, nowhere to be, no one waiting. Just Lewis taking his time undressing you, helping you wriggle out of jeans, covering your body with his so you don’t get chilly. He kisses you for a long time, his hand between your legs, working you into something mindless and messy, wriggling under him, mouth by his ear saying more, more, more. Eventually, he gives in, everything almost too humid in the car now, slick bodies. The heaviness of him over you, the way he shakes as he guides himself inside you, sighs into your mouth, has to hold himself still so as not to lose control.

 Your face pressed into his neck, breathing him in, sweat and the ocean, so familiar, so safe in the car. Surrounded by him, knowing nothing but him and how he makes you feel,

 “Is that good?” He asks, his voice rough, “Does that feel good?”

 “Yes,” you whisper, hands sliding over his back, pulling him closer, “Yes.”

v.

“Look what you do to me,” Lewis tells you, one afternoon when you’re alone in the house. His friends have gone home now the weekend has passed, but Lewis wants to stay a few more days, just you and me, he’d said, and you tried to hide how much your heart swelled. The remnants of a Monopoly game are strewn across the coffee table, all the properties with houses on Lewis’. He’d bankrupted you, and asked for you to pay him in a different way, suggested that then maybe he’d let you go debt free. You’d find his deal creepy from anyone else, but for Lewis you’d scrambled up onto the couch with him, eager to please. You’ve barely kissed when he’s pulling your hand to his lap, the already hard length of him in his sweatpants.

 “See?” He says.

You can’t help but laugh at him, if only from the pleasantness of being reminded of how human he is, how his body reacts to you. Just from a kiss, a touch. It’s nice to know you’re wanted just as much as you want. He rolls his eyes at your teasing, but it’s cut off when you bow your head, pull him out of his pants and spit on the wet, pink head of him, watching it drool down the shaft. Lewis groans, and his hand twists into your hair.

 “Baby,” he says, and then seems to lose all language skill as you sink your mouth down onto him, tucking him into  your throat, your hands around the base of him, down to cradle his balls, pulled up tight and close to him. Lewis has slumped into the couch, the tense muscles of his belly on show as you blow him, messy and wet and filthy. His breath stutters when you gag around him, spit dribbling out of your mouth, go back for more. He comes quick and hard, hot in the back of your throat, each of his moans sliding into another as his hips twitch up into your mouth with each wave of his orgasm. His eyes are heavy and his jaw slack when you sit up, licking your lips.

 “You’re gonna kill me one day,” he tells you, his voice rough, and drags you in to kiss himself out of your mouth.

vi.

The house sits on the bluff, so you can sit wrapped in blankets on the front porch watching the sea while Lewis boils the kettle. You’ve been trying to count all the different colours of blue the ocean produces, your phone full of pictures of waves breaking. On your walk this morning Lewis had written your names in a big love heart on the sand. Stood with you in the water up to your ankles and kissed you in front of it. Gonna love you forever, he told you, tucked your hair behind your ears, can’t wait.

 Now, he brings you a steaming cup of peppermint tea, ginger for him. You curl into his side on the driftwood couch, mug held carefully in your hands. Lewis kisses the top of your head, smoothes his hand down the back of your head to tuck you in closer.

 “I put cold water in for you,” he says, and you smile over the rim of your mug, just how he knows you like it, ready to drink. You watch him watch the waves roll in, a peaceful, calm expression on his face. He wants to teach you how to surf, he says, but it’s too rough here. He’ll take you somewhere different, somewhere warm, like Hawaii, next month, and teach you properly. The relaxation is easy to melt into, sat with him on the couch, sipping tea, smelling the ocean. The silence is warm and soothing. No need to break it. Comforting just to sit in the quiet, lean into each other.

 He gets fidgety, eventually, always needs something to do. When he kisses you, he tastes like ginger, warm and bitter. Your fingers close around the soft fabric of his hoodie, drawing him in. His big hands are warm on your face, your neck, kisses you and kisses you like he could sit here forever, sucking your lip into his mouth. There’s no one around, no reason to stop, when he gets his hand in your sweatpants, rubs his fingers over you. Gasping in ocean air as he fucks his fingers into you, slow and steady, curling them inside you into the spot that makes your eyes squeeze shut.

 “You’re so gorgeous,” he tells you, in this soft voice that seeps its way all through your body. Your hands grasp at him, wanting him closer, and he tucks you in against him, kisses you lazily as he works his hand against you. When you come, you see the whitewash of a crashing wave behind your ears, hear it, Lewis’ body sheltering you from the cold.

vii.

On the last night you decide to light the fire, nothing more than a pot bellied stove in the centre of the lounge room. The wind whistles down the chimney, but the flames are stubborn. You put pillows on the floor, play cards, inch closer together until the game is abandoned and you’re watching Lewis pull his hoodie over his head, the fire reflecting warm shadows on his bare chest. The room is cosy, and warm, dimly lit, and it feels like a cheesy romance novel come to life, watching him undress, take you out of your own clothes. The phrase making love flicks across your consciousness, as Lewis ensures there’s a pillow under your head, the blanket is between you and the floorboards. You’re impatient, eager for him, but he kisses his way slowly down your body, lingering at your tummy, your hips, before his mouth is on you, kissing you there greedily, his tongue dipping into you. The feeling is overwhelming, panting knees pulled up around his head, catching his eye when he looks up your body at you. When he crawls back up, his mouth is wet from you, his gaze heavy, his cock dragging hot up your thigh.

 “Lewis,” you breathe, trembling, throbbing on the edge of orgasm.

 “You’re gonna take me so well, aren’t you,” Lewis croons, his lips ghosting over yours, letting you take his cock in your fist to rub it over yourself, so close its hurting.

 “Yes,” you tell him, wild with it.

 “You want my cock so bad, look at you, begging for it.”

 “Yes, please, please.”

When he slides into you, the world pinpoints on just that, how he’s too big for your body, stretches you out, takes up space you didn’t know you had. The way the breath punches out of him as he finally feels you. He swears, quietly, so it doesn’t even seem like a bad word. And then your leg up over his shoulder, and he’s fucking you like he’ll never stop, sure, steady movement of his hips, his head bowed to yours so he can kiss you. Your orgasm peaks, crying out, hands low on his back, almost too much as it crashes through you, white hot and overbearing. Lewis fucks you through it, whispering against your mouth, about how good you feel, how good you’re taking it, how much he loves you, adores you, is obsessed with you. Your body never seems to come down from the orgasm, hovering on the other side, heat and power washing over you. Lewis is sweating and breathing hard when he buries himself into you, fucks unsteadily into you as he comes, groaning and shivering.

 You turn your head to watch the fire, after, Lewis laid out on top of you, his face in your neck. He might be sleeping, worn out. But his hand is tracing soft patterns on your hipbone. From outside, you can hear the steady waves of the sea.