#circular referencing

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Christina Buttons

Published: Apr 11, 2024

[ Figure 3 from “Clinical guidelines for children and adolescents experiencing gender dysphoria or incongruence: a systematic review of guideline quality (part 1)” ]

A new systematic review of international clinical guidelines for children and adolescents with gender dysphoria has exposed deceptive practices by respected medical authorities who recommend medical transitions for minors. These guidelines are often cited as uncontroversial and scientifically robust. However, the review reveals that these organizations have misled the public by basing their recommendations on insufficient evidence and inaccurately labeling their approach as “evidence-based.” Furthermore, they have engaged in a corrupt practice known as “circular referencing.” Instead of conducting independent evaluations, they have relied on endorsements of sex-trait modification for minors from other medical bodies, artificially creating a consensus on the issue.

Commissioned by NHS England and chaired by Dr. Hilary Cass, the University of York’s research team evaluated 23 international guidelines using the Appraisal of Guidelines for Research and Evaluation tool to assess their quality. The study specifically examined how evidence informed recommendations, the development and agreement processes for these recommendations, the stakeholders involved, and how the guidelines referenced each other during their development.

Insufficient Evidence

The findings of the review were deeply concerning. It concluded that clinical guidelines globally used to treat gender-questioning children and adolescents were crafted in violation of international standards for guideline development. These guidelines recommended medical interventions for minors despite insufficient evidence, particularly regarding long-term treatment outcomes in adolescents. Additionally, they relied on other guidelines that recommended medical treatments as the basis for making similar recommendations.

Circular Referencing

The Endocrine Society (ES) and the World Professional Association for Transgender Health (WPATH) published initial guidelines recommending youth medical transition in 2009 and 2012, respectively. These guidelines became foundational for many subsequent guidelines, shaping their content and recommendations despite the lack of evidence and rigor. In the Cass Review, Dr. Hilary Cass highlighted the ways in which WPATH and ES were closely interlinked, noting their mutual co-sponsorship and input into each other’s drafts. This coordinated effort suggests that WPATH and ES were colluding to grant undue credibility to their guidelines.

The corruption persisted in the formulation of national and regional guidelines by prominent organizations such as the American Psychological Association, the American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry, the American Academy of Pediatrics, and the Society for Adolescent Health and Medicine. It also extended to international guidelines from countries like Australia, Spain, Italy, and regions including Asia and the Pacific. Rather than grounding their recommendations in robust evidence, these guidelines deferred to the endorsements from the initial guidelines of WPATH and ES.

Years later, when WPATH and ES updated their guidelines, they referenced the same national and regional guidelines that had initially drawn from their recommendations. This perpetuated a cycle in which each iteration reinforced the others, each time without sufficient evidence to support the recommendations. Dr. Cass highlighted the problematic nature of this circular referencing, stating, “The circularity of this approach may explain why there has been an apparent consensus on key areas of practice despite the evidence being poor.”

Part 1 of the systematic review includes Figure 3, pictured above, which illustrates the various ways in which guidelines reference or influence each other. It shows how guidelines draw on the initial Endocrine Society (2009) and WPATH (2012) guidelines, which have influenced nearly all the national and regional guidelines identified. Additionally, it demonstrates how these subsequent guidelines cite and rely on each other, and how the latest Endocrine Society (2017) and WPATH (2022) guidelines have cited and drawn on the national and regional guidelines.

The systematic review highlights an example of this circular referencing: WPATH Version 8, published in 2022, identifies numerous national and regional guidelines published as early as 2012 as potentially valuable resources. It cites guidelines from the APA (2015), Australia (2018), New Zealand (2018), and University California, San Francisco (2016) multiple times to support their recommendations. Importantly, all of these guidelines were themselves significantly influenced by WPATH Version 7 (2012).

Broader Context

In the research world, such circular referencing is sometimes referred to as a citation cartel. This occurs when a group of academic authors collude to excessively cite each other's publications to artificially inflate their citation counts. However, what has occurred here differs slightly; their aim wasn’t to boost citation counts, but rather to enhance their own credibility through mutual referencing in the eyes of the public and other medical professionals. Nonetheless, this practice is highly unethical. By engaging in circular referencing, these medical bodies have actively deceived healthcare professionals and the public, leading them to believe in the validity and reliability of recommendations founded on weak evidence. 

Unfortunately, much of the transgender rights movement has advanced through an approach that heavily relies on appeals to authority. Organizations that once focused on Gay and Civil Rights, now pivoting to champion transgender rights, are deferred to as authoritative bodies by news outlets, schools, teachers' unions, and even the Biden administration, which seeks their guidance on transgender issues. Within academia, idea laundering has bestowed Queer Theory and Gender Theory, foundational to modern gender ideology, with the illusion of legitimacy.

Moreover, significant changes in federal regulations under Title IX, granting biological males (who identify as women) access to female-only spaces and sport categories, have occurred through a process known as institutional leapfrogging. In this process, judges and administrators take incremental steps, each citing the authority of the other, ultimately leading to the expansion of federal mandates.

Not Evidence-Based

WPATH, whose stated mission is to “promote evidence-based care,” and ES, who refers to their approach as “evidence-based transgender medicine,” along with any organization advocating for medical transition for minors, are misleading the public by portraying themselves as being “evidence-based.”

In an investigative report for the British Medical Journal (BMJ), Dr. Gordon Guyatt, a highly respected figure in the field of medical research methods and evidence evaluation, and who pioneered the evidence-based medicine (EBM) movement, stated that the current guidelines in the United States for managing gender dysphoria in adolescents should not be considered evidence-based. He emphasized that these guidelines fail to offer cautious and conditional recommendations appropriate for such low-quality evidence. Guyatt further underscored his concerns in a social media post, labeling these guidelines as "untrustworthy."

Similarly, the systematic review team arrived at the same conclusion: 

Most clinical guidance lacks an evidence-based approach and provides limited information about how recommendations were developed. The WPATH and Endocrine Society international guidelines, which like other guidance lack developmental rigour and transparency have, until recently, dominated the development of other guidelines. Healthcare professionals should consider the lack of quality and independence of available guidance when utilising this for practice.

In the end, the team was only able to recommend two guidelines for practice: the Finnish guideline published in 2020, and the Swedish guideline published in 2022. Both guidelines conducted their own systematic evidence reviews, concluding that the risks of medical transition outweigh any purported benefits. As a result, they do not recommend medical transition treatments for minors but instead prioritize mental health support.

WPATH, ES, and any medical authority that misrepresents guidelines recommending medical transition for minors as “evidence-based” betray public trust and fail those seeking reliable guidance. Healthcare professionals and regulatory bodies must hold guideline developers accountable for these deceptive practices and ensure transparency in the basis of future recommendations.

The National Health Service England issued a statement in response to the Cass Report and new systematic reviews, asserting that their findings "will not only shape the future of healthcare in this country for children and young people experiencing gender distress but will also be of major international importance and significance."

==

Nobody who has been following the "gender medicine" space or read the interim Cass review would be surprised with the outcome. Or the denial of the activists. Including the ones masquerading as medical professionals.

What might be the most surprising outcome of the Cass review is the level of fraud and collusion by ideologues involved in the way pseudoscience and outright fantasy ("puberty blockers are fully reversible") has been framed as some unquestionable truth ("the science is settled").

It was always fraud. This was always an ideology.

[pickaropoprocks]

THIS!! I also want to add that not only is it that Ena and Tsukasa both think that they aren't good enough in their respective fields, they push themselves to continue pursuing said skills despite the internal and external doubts they face. It's kind of like them both operating under the mindset of "I am nowhere near the level I want to be, and I can't even begin to compare to the people I respect, but I'll be damned if that stops me from trying."

One of the first things we learn about Ena is that, in her middle school years, her father told her that she would never be able to become an artist. And guess what? She decided to keep making art out of spite. Even with all the obstacles she'd end up facing, with her losing the contest in her first event, constantly facing criticism in her art class, her doubt that she can even get into an art school for college shown in her Worldlink chapter, she still keeps drawing. Hell, when it came to her art class, she quit because she thought she wasn't good enough, only to go back to it in her second event so she can force herself to improve, regardless of the pain she feels at every critique.

The same can be said for Tsukasa!! His third event is especially interesting to me because of how he forces himself to stare his shortcomings in the eye, and then use that sense of "failure" to ultimately get the role he staked all of his efforts thus far on. It's a reoccurring theme in both his and other Wondershow characters' events- he fails, but he uses the situation he is left in as a result to propel himself until it can be counted as some level of success. Tsukasa failed to get the role of Alfred in Rui3, which he took to understand that his acting is inferior to Asahi's, but he would do everything he could to perfect his role as Barlett so he can still find success in the show. In his fourth event, Tsukasa was pretty much told to his face that he had ruined the scene he was in, but in a way that still made it clear that he accomplished his task of making his 3-line-character seem real.

We constantly hear both Ena and Tsukasa talk themselves down, say that their skills are inadequate, how their peers are so much better that them than they could ever dream of being, and yet, they don't let that stop them from pushing forward. Is that healthy? Absolutely not. I think in Tsukasa's case especially, how they're handling this could only ever lead to burnout, but that's a different subject entirely lmfao

Anyways Ena and Tsukasa parallels are real and true SEGA please let them interact again it'd be so funny

If I'm not wrong, Ena and Tsukasa both share the same characteristics that is thinking they're not good enough.

Tsukasa is always trying to perform his best while also downplaying his acting, only accepting his ‘best’ wasn't good enough. While Ena, doesn't even know how good her art is, as she's always criticized by her mentors (dad and art teacher). She literally gets happy because her COMPOSITION is great, but the rest of her art is trash.

They both share this mentality that is “I need to be the best, but I'm not even good.”, because of that, they appear to be egotistical asses that don't know when to stop talking.

This was shown when Tsukasa blew up on Nene and Ena calling Mafuyu selfish, Tsukasa wanted his show to be perfect but thought Nene had ruined it whilst Ena thought Mafuyu wasn't being appreciative to Kanade when she gave them the opportunity to shine (and Ena was praised for her drawings, which made her think Mafuyu was a bitch for downplaying Kanade's efforts.)

After their initial thoughts, they actually grow to be a supportive friend to others. But never to themselves. Like how Tsukasa always supported his troupe and Ena supported Mizuki when she was outed.

They both hold themselves onto this high pedestal that they both don't think they even deserve to see, and it's not like they even think they're sitting on it. They're having this pedestal for their talent, yet they don't even think it's good enough to be shown in the spotlight.

Both Tsukasa and Ena also don't communicate properly about their struggles, as they think it's something they both need to handle themselves. Making them tragic cases of their own pride.

I love Ena and Tsukasa, sorry if this is wrong

[ssahotchnerr]

reader helping aaron relax and make out session in the hot tub!!!!!!

hot and heavy

😵‍💫❤️‍🔥🦋!!!! cw; fem!reader, established relationship, playful teasing, a lot of heated kissing, very suggestive content, partial nudity 🫢 wc; 1.2k nsfw - mdni

It didn't take long during your conversation with Aaron for it to become clear that the case he'd just finished had been awful.

You could hear the stress in his voice, the kind that only came from days filled with long hours, endless frustration, a sad ending. There was a tightness in his words, a strain that made it clear just how much he needed to let go and turn his brain off for a while.

And so, once you hung up, you quickly devised a plan to relieve some of those tensions upon his arrival home. Or rather, a nice surprise to return to.

You strategically selected his favorite robe of yours - a short silk one that nearly floated atop your skin - and a bathing suit that barely covered up what it was made to.

You were in the middle of tying up your hair when the familiar sounds of his arrival home echoed up the stairs and into your bedroom. He called out -

"Sweetheart?"

His gaze lifted at the sight of your approach, you having rushed downstairs to greet him. He was in the middle of getting settled when he caught sight of you and froze.

He was far from subtle, letting his gaze linger over you for a moment, breath catching in his throat. Hesitantly with transparent amusement, he asked, "What're you up to?"

"Heading for the hot tub," you answered nonchalantly, making your way to the door that led to the backyard. "Thought it'd do you good to relax. Go get changed, I'll meet you out there."

As if he needed any further persuading, you turned towards the door, cleverly dropping your robe and heading out. A clear indication you'd make it worth his while.

The message was well received. You felt his intense gaze follow your form, not leaving until you were completely out of view.

The steam was curling up at the surface, illuminated by the blue-toned lighting underneath. You got in, enjoying the instant warmth of the water enveloping you, the night air chilled in juxtaposition. You slouched a bit deeper, the water pooling atop your shoulders.

You weren't alone for long; you opened your eyes at the sound of the door sliding open, Aaron joining you in record time.

"C'mon, get in." You pushed your forearms back to lift yourself out of the tub, sitting on the edge with your feet remaining inside. You also indulged yourself, checking him out also. His torso, the veins protruding in his forearms, his muscles openly flexing as he moved about.

He gave you an almost offended look. "And you're getting out?"

"Just hush and listen to me," you ordered lightly, playfully glaring your eyes at him.

He obeyed, getting in. You gestured for him to come near; he sat with his back to you, situated between your legs.

After ensuring he was comfortable, you started working at his shoulders. Really pressing your fingers into his skin, kneading at the lingering tension. It immediately caused a groan to leave his parted lips.

"Feel good?"

He nodded, his head falling back in satisfaction, practically involuntary.

"God honey," you sighed, referencing the case, the one that had achingly kept him away from you for a week. Your eyebrows drew into a troubled line at his stiff muscles. "That bad?"

"Mhm," he mumbled, his eyes closed as he leaned back into your touch. "Amongst other things. Needed you."

You laughed softly, leaning forward to press your lips behind his ear. The touch lingered for a moment before you whispered, "Well, good thing I'm here now."

You continued to massage his shoulders, paying attention to the areas that held the most rigid of his knots. You worked slowly, easing the pressure with gentle, circular motions. You prolonged each squeeze, each touch, hoping it would relax him while simultaneously rile him up in all the right ways. Long intimate contact such as this, after not seeing each other, easily comparable to foreplay.

And it was working. After a minute or two, he turned around, eyes locking onto yours. You raised an eyebrow, biting down onto your lip to hide your smirk. The glint in your eyes, however, certainly noticeable.

Aaron reached for you, using one arm to pull you down and onto his lap. He shifted to the side of the tub, allowing his back to be against it this time.

You looked at him, questionably yet innocently, awaiting his next move.

"You want to help me relax, don't you?" His voice was low, eyes dark with a small smile tugging at his lips.

You hummed in confirmation, quickly tracing a finger along the stubble producing at his jaw, unshaven for a day or two. Brushing away a lone water droplet that had come from the bubbling surrounding the two of you, you added, "I'll do anything."

He leaned in and kissed you, hard. Although expected, a surprised squeak still left you. Your arms found home around his neck and you pressed your front firmly to his, ever so subtly grinding into him as you forced yourself closer. You needed to be as close as you could manage.

His lips moved against yours in practiced yet feverish ease, with both the equal amounts of gentle and rough. He held onto your waist tightly, his fingertips digging into your skin, forceful enough to leave an imprint.

Your hands were soon all over him. To the nape of his neck, back to his shoulders, his broad chest. Indulging in the way his toned, strong muscles felt. Aaron's breath picked up, heavy into your mouth.

You knew each and every one of Aaron's scars. Location, how they felt, size. Your fingertips landed on a newfound, raised line, alerting you out from the haze you had entered.

"This is new," you stated against his lips, pulling away with a swollen pair of your own. Despite the darkness, you could see the red scrape, identifying its freshness. Panting, you manage to say, "It got physical?"

"It's fine. Nothing really. Something we can worry about later." He readjusted you on his lap, against the ongoing currents - again driving you further into him as his lips transferred to your neck.

His plan was to switch the topic, and he was doing a fantastic job. You turned to putty within a second, especially when his lips traveled down to your chest.

Your head fell back to give him more space to work, he sucked bruises into your skin. He took his time, wanting them to be as distinguished and dark as they could - you were his.

You frantically clutched his hair, bringing his lips back to yours. There was no feeling like kissing Aaron. It was exhilarating. You had to remind yourself you were grounded and not floating amongst the clouds.

Desperate sounds were leaving the back of Aaron's throat, hard under you, and they were driving you wild. Your body was practically shaking with need, and an uncomfortable layer of sweat was building on your skin. Hot from both the temperature of the tub and from the heated exchange. You obviously chose to ignore it.

His fingers expertly found the string holding your top, fumbling a moment before tugging it loose.

"Aaron," you laughed with a touch of warning in your voice, peering over your shoulders as your top dipped. No need to give the neighbors a show if you could help it.

"What?" He chuckled darkly, his breath fanning hot. He pried the wet top off you, discarding it onto the floor as your hands dove underneath the water to his waistband. "No one can see. Besides, we have high fences for a reason."

[daryltwdixon]

Chapter 5

series masterlist Summary: In the time between when he took you to now, something changed. His hands grew gentler. Your fear turned quiet. And somewhere in the stillness, love kindled. || angst & fluff, this chapter is nsfw, Stockholm Syndrome, Pre-Boston QZ, slow burn, raider!joel, captor!joel, a little bit of dark!joel,homestead, kidnapping, dark themes, morally gray comfort, slow burn, mentions of violence and death, referenced abusive family || a/n: thank you for your patience with this! shorter chapter today

As the rest of the afternoon wore on, your chest felt a little lighter. Your skin a little less itchy.

Joel had drawn you a bath the moment you stepped back into the house. He didn’t say much—just collected the water, checked the temperature after boiling, and left the cleanest of the ratty towels neatly on the edge of the tub. You watched his back as he walked out the door, giving you privacy. The moment the door clicked shut, a strange ache settled in your chest. Maybe it was the lingering tingle on your lips from earlier, or just the sudden quiet, but you felt alone again. Lonely. But still, you said nothing, and just washed the blood from your skin with a quiet stillness.

Afterward, you found him sitting back in the old porch chair, legs stretched out in front of him, a small knife working slowly over a chunk of wood in his hands. The late afternoon sun slanted across the yard, making the dust in the air glow gold. From behind, you could see his hands moving steady and sure, but the rest of him seemed heavy with thought. You couldn’t tell if his mind was on the task or somewhere much farther away—just that he was quiet, and the world felt small around him.

“What’s that?” you asked, your voice soft, almost testing the air. You stepped up behind him, hands bracing lightly on the top of the sun-bleached backrest.

Joel looked up, eyes blinking as if surfacing and for a second, he just studied you, like his mind was catching up with the here and now. And then he held up the little piece of wood between two thick fingers. It was small, thin, and on its way to looking circular but not quite smoothed over yet. It was round, still rough at the edges, the beginnings of a small hole where a string might go. 

“Dog tag,” he said simply. His thumb brushed over the carving, a little more careful now. “People to put these on pets, back... before.”

The soft curve of an ‘S’ was cut into the center, nothing fancy, but it felt deliberate and oddly sweet. You crouched beside the pup at his feet, rubbing behind one soft ear. “It’s for him?”

“Gotta fix ‘em a collar or somethin’,” he muttered, eyes still on the tag, blade shaving away careful curls of wood.

You watched his hands move. Broad palms, thick fingers, the edge of the knife so delicate in them. There was a furrow between his brows as he worked, lips set in a quiet frown. Something about the contrast struck you—how careful he could be with something so small.

You stood, hands drifting down to his. He stilled, his eyes climbing slowly up your body until they met yours.

“What is it?” he asked, voice suddenly soft and quiet.

He looked surprised. Like he hadn’t expected you to reach for him again so soon. And maybe you hadn’t either—not until now. You didn’t answer right away. Just slid your fingers down his wrists, opened his hands, and then, carefully, settled yourself into his lap.

The chair creaked. The only way to fit was sideways, your legs draped across his and your weight settled carefully onto one of his thighs. Your feet dangled above the porch floor, and you let go of his hands as you settled. After a moment, his arms found you, one wrapping around your lower back, warm and solid. The other came to rest on your knee, his thumb brushing gently over the bone like he didn’t even know he was doing it.

“What’s this about?” he asked.

You twisted your fingers in your lap, nerves coiling in your stomach all of the sudden. You couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

Sensing your shyness, his hand rose, thumb and forefinger catching your chin, coaxing you to look at him.

“Tell me.”

You studied the golds and greens in his eyes, the peppered gray in his beard. And somehow, when you spoke, your voice held steady.

“I wanted to try again,” you said softly. “What we did before.”

Joel’s eyes searched your face, slow and careful. The afternoon sunlight caught every fleck of gold and green in his irises as he lingered on your mouth, your cheeks, your eyes. He looked for something–what it was, you didn’t know– but whatever he found on your face made the corner of his mouth hitch up in the ghost of a smile.

“Oh yeah? With or without the dog slobber?”

You huffed a laugh, eyes narrowing. “Without, if you don’t mind.”

He tilted his chin up just slightly, inviting you in. His eyes dropped to your mouth again, then flicked back to meet your gaze, softer now.

“C’mere then,” he whispered.

You leaned in, slowly and carefully, watching his eyes flutter shut. His lashes brushed his cheeks, and your own eyes closed as your lips met in a soft, tentative, gentle kiss.

Your hand rose to cup his cheek, the coarse scruff brushing your palm. He pulled you closer by the back of your shirt, and you melted against him, breathing in the woodsmoke and pine and heat that clung to his skin. It made you dizzy. It made you ache.

His mouth moved against yours unhurried and explorative. When your lips parted with a sigh, he tasted you gently, his tongue brushing yours. You matched him, letting yourself fall into the rhythm of it, slow and deep and full.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing a little harder. You tucked your head beneath his jaw, resting your heated cheek on his shoulder. His arms locked around you, keeping you against him, letting you breathe.

But when you closed your eyes, the warmth felt fleeting. You couldn’t stop your mind from showing you the memories of only hours ago. You couldn’t unsee the bloodshot eyes raging over you. The kind that had been terrifying and angry and unblinking. Human and not. You could still hear the wet gasps, the snarling, the tearing. Screams bubbling out of a ruined throat. Fungus protruding from its skin.

“Joel,” you murmured after a long stretch of silence, clutching onto his shirt and burying your face deeper into the crook of his neck.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

You hesitated. Your throat felt tight as you tried to form the words. “If…”

He heard the shift in you. His fingers stilled where they’d been drifting along your arm.

“If I ever… if something ever happens.” you squeezed your eyes shut before going on, trying to shake the memory of it, “…I don’t want to turn into one of those things.”

His head lifted, pulling back enough to see your face. “Why would you say somethin’ like that?”

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” you said, eyes fixed somewhere near his collarbone. “That thing—it was someone once. I just kept thinking… what if they’re still in there, and they know what’s happening, and they can’t stop it?”

“That ain’t ever gonna happen to you.”

“Just promise me,” you said, shutting your eyes. “Promise me that if it does… you won’t let me turn.”

“Baby—”

“Say it,” you whispered. Your hand curled in the front of his shirt. “Please.”

He was quiet for a long time. And when he finally spoke, his voice was steady, a soft brushing of breath against your ear as he laid his cheek on your head.

“I promise.”

And so, the days went on.

The little house became something more than shelter. It softened at the edges, filled out with warmth. Joel brought in game almost every other day—rabbits, sometimes a grouse, once a wild turkey that barely fit in the cast iron pot. He’d disappear for half-days on foot, always returning before dark, arms full of small treasures from the abandoned towns nearby: a chipped coffee mug, a patchwork quilt, a jar of honey, an old radio that only worked when the sun was out.

Each piece he brought back made the house less of a hiding place and more of a home, stitched together out of other people’s leftovers, but made new just by being yours.

Outside, the air warmed as spring settled in for good, sunlight stretching long across the porch, heating the wooden slats beneath your bare feet. Mornings began to smell like cut grass and rich earth. The seedlings in your garden pushed higher with each passing morning, small green promises rising from the dirt.

Samson was growing fast—his legs too long for his body, his oversized ears flopping with every bounce. He earned his keep by begging shamelessly for scraps and barking at every bird, squirrel, or shadow that dared move beyond the tree line. Around his neck, the mutt proudly wore a leather collar Joel had found in a crumbling old shop, the handmade wooden tag fastened securely to the ring at the front. 

He belonged here, just like you did now.

In the evenings, the three of you would climb into bed. A candle flickered low on the nightstand while you read Of Mice and Men aloud, again and again since it was still the only book on the shelf. Joel never minded. He said your voice helped quiet his thoughts, kept his mind from drifting into old places while he waited for sleep to take him. Most nights, he dozed off before you reached the end of the chapter. Samson started off at the foot of the bed but always ended up sprawled between you, his big paws flung across legs and ribs and Joel’s arm slung somewhere across your waist.

Usually both of them were awake before you, but once in awhile, before the sun would rise and the light was pale and gray, you’d wake to the weight of Joel still beside you—his hand curled around your waist, or fingers tangled in the ends of your hair like he’d reached out in sleep and forgotten to let go.

Your mornings always started the same. Joel would sit you between his knees as he took his armchair and ran a brush through your hair in front of the hearth. Every day. His hands were careful, practiced now. He’d separate the strands with patient fingers, braid them back from your face, tuck in any loose ends. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt a knot. You doubted you ever would again, not with him around.

The days were quiet but full—tending to the garden, building a small wooden fence, checking the traps Joel had taught you to set close to the yard. You stayed near the house now, especially with Samson always sniffing and barking, chasing game out past the tree line. You hadn’t wandered far in weeks. You didn’t want to.

And maybe it was that sense of routine, of safety, that made everything feel closer. Like the silence had started shifting shape between you and Joel. Not heavy, not uncomfortable anymore. It hadn’t felt that way since the morning you kissed him.

You started noticing the way his hand would linger on your back after brushing your hair. The way he stood a little too long behind you at the counter while you’d chop any vegetables from the small garden. The way you found yourself standing next to him more often than across from him.

One afternoon after you’d cleaned your hands from pulling weeds, you’d walked up the front porch steps expecting him to be in the living room, whittling at another project like he so often was. Or even sanding the kitchen table, his new obsession ever since you’d gotten a splinter once. Sometimes you’d find him by the hearth poking the fire, but today it was low embers, the cast iron still sitting and waiting to be of use.

“Joel?” you called softly, not quite loud enough to echo, but enough to be heard if he were anywhere close.

No answer.

Only Samson, curled up in the armchair he’d claimed as his own, let out a groan like he’d spent the whole morning laboring in the fields instead of napping in the sun. He watched you with lazy eyes, then promptly shut them again, exhaling through his nose like his work here was done.

The house was still.

Not empty—just quiet. The kind of quiet that hums against the skin, that stretches out between the walls like something alive. You moved through it carefully, bare feet brushing against the floorboards, expecting Joel to appear from around a corner with a rag in one hand and wood shavings in the other.

But he didn’t.

You paused at the foot of the stairs, hand skimming the rail when you heard a sound from above. Something deep and strained. It was rougher than sleep, but not as sharp as pain. You held your breath as you climbed the steps one after another, the boards creaking beneath your weight. At the landing, you stopped, and for a moment, the only noise was the thudding of blood through your veins.

But then, there it was again.

Louder now through the door ahead, light peaking through the crack that he left just barely cracked open. Though it was clear he was trying to keep quiet, he was making sounds that tightened low in your belly before your mind could name it. You could hear his ragged breathing, his quiet groans, the subtle rhythm of friction, rising and falling like a swell of a wave.

You didn’t even realize you were so close until the wood creaked beneath your feet. You held your hands against the doorframe, slightly open but not enough to see him quite yet. Your breath was shallow in your chest as your eyes traced the patch of light that swam in from the open doorway. 

Your ear met the wood, just ever so gently. And suddenly the sounds were much clearer. You heard a quiet curse, a gasp, a wet, unmistakable cadence of movement. 

Looking back, you’re not sure what made you do it. Your body felt like it was floating and tingling and in a hazy serenity that you couldn’t explain. Your hand felt for the knob, and pushed, just barely. Just enough to make out his figure on the bed.

He didn’t see you, no, his eyes were screwed shut and too distracted by the feeling in the palm of his hand. He sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread slightly and shoulders bowed beneath the weight of something private and quiet. The afternoon light shone through the thin torn curtains, casting shadows along his bare skin. It gilded his shoulders, kissed the slope of his neck, lit the fine hair on his arms until he looked like something out of a dream.

His brow was furrowed, as it always was, but not with the hard edged tension or concern you’d grown used to. This wasn’t the look he wore while checking a snare or listening to you talk about the infected from the woods. No. This was looser, so vulnerable and full of aching need. His jaw clenched and slackened and clenched again as he hissed, mouth parted ever so slightly. 

You’d never seen him like this, never seen…anyone like this. 

The muscle in his arm tensed and released with every stroke, flexing tight beneath sun-warmed skin as his fist moved in a steady, practiced rhythm. You couldn’t look away. The way his hand wrapped around himself—rough, sure, controlled—was mesmerizing. The wet slide of skin on skin filled the room, soft and rhythmic, echoing faintly beneath his breathless gasps. Sweat beaded at his temples, glinting in the golden light, while his lashes fluttered shut, long and dark against the flush rising in his cheeks. He was beautiful like this—flushed and focused, lost in it.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively, searching for relief that didn’t come.

And then, you watched as his lips moved, full and chapped and pink as they formed around syllables. It took you a moment to realize it was your name. It left his lips like a prayer, all hoarse and broken, as if it had been there, resting at the back of his throat, waiting for the right moment of release.

You watched as his body tensed, his breath caught on a whimper, his hand stuttered in its rhythm before white release spilled over his fist, chest shuddering through the release. 

You suddenly stepped back from the door like it might bite. Like the heat bleeding down your spine might catch flame if you kept watching. Your core throbbed deep and low and pulsing with something old—something half remembered. It wasn’t exactly foreign, but it had lived dormant for so long it felt like waking up in a stranger’s body. 

You padded down the stairs as quietly as you could, though everything inside you was loud: your heartbeat in your throat, skin flushed and tight, and the back of your neck slick with sweat.

You crossed the main room in a haze, fingers brushing the edge of the kitchen table. The wood was glass-smooth now beneath your touch, worn soft from Joel’s hours of care. He’d done it for you.

You stood there, barefoot and burning, trying to catch your breath. Alone, and yet… it didn’t feel entirely lonely. The echo of your name lingered in the space like a ghost. Whispered not in pain, not in fear, but in bliss.

It spun through your thoughts, featherlight and dizzying, warming you from the inside out until it leaked into every corner of you.

You needed air. You needed space. You needed—

No.

No, you just needed to gather yourself. To ground yourself. To splash cold water from the well across the back of your neck, your wrists, your burning cheeks—and then you’d be fine.

It was just heat. Just surprise. Just a feeling.It would pass.

You told yourself that once. Then again. As many times as it took to keep your feet still, your hands from trembling, your mind from drifting back to the sound of his voice.

taglist: @orcasoul, @ilovetoomanymen, @niceforcum, @glaszdoll, @therewastherewas, @axionn, @aleariixx, @izzy698, @shivispunk @demonsasss, @pedropascalsbbg, @urlivingdeadgirl, @televangrl

[blue-jisungs]

soft-hearted jealousy

#author's note ... i love wonwoo so fucking much did i ever guys tell u that. anywho this one is for zanzan bc i got inspired when we watched the kode ep <//3 and big big biiiig shout out to my beloved @l3visbby for proofreading <3 love u mother

#summary ... you're a little jealous of wonwoo n kerias frienship<//3

#word count ... 986

pssst the fic is referencing this cute vid:( wonwoo looked so good in it btw like what the actual fuck. also keria is my height and i fainted when i saw them hug bye

the door opened with a soft click and then all you could hear was soft patting of wonwoo’s footsteps against the wooden floor. 

sighing, you switched youtube to instagram and tried to act unbothered. but how could you? a reel of a new video featuring your fiancé popped out. a video you have just watched and it made you… a little jealous. 

“bedroom?” wonwoo called, trying to locate you. 

“yea” you hummed back, loudly enough for him to hear you. scrolling down, you noticed another reel. 

the love of your life with a cute, gamer boy. 

puffing your cheeks, you decided to exit instagram as well and check if you had any mails or texts. 

wonwoo entered the room, a small crease between his brows. 

“is everything alright, darling?” he asked, voice smooth as honey. which pissed you off even more. how dares he sound so attractive when you’re mad at him? 

“yes” you grunted a little too sulkily, drawing his attention. 

“oh really? because you didn’t run up to me once i entered the house” wonwoo teased and walked up to the bed, stretching his arms. you lost the battle with yourself and watched him, biting the inside of your cheek. how could one look so good in a plain white t-shirt and jeans? 

“yeah, im fine. how was your day?” you sighed and looked away once you saw he noticed your gaze. with a small smirk, he laid down next to you. the mattress dipped under his weight but that restored the balance – it somehow felt empty when he wasn’t there before. 

“it was good. me and mingyu did a live… i talked to my new friend… we might play a bit today” he answered, eyes tracing your face “oh, the video is out! did you see it?”

you hated how excited he was. and how much you liked it. keria is… 

“cute. i liked it” you mumbled and turned his back to him, fighting a smile. this is ridiculous. 

but it’s just not fair that wonwoo looked so handsome in that video and threw some flirty comments. he was so cocky in it too… 

“cute? yeah, keria is so adorable” wonwoo chuckled and you looked at him through your arm, shooting him a glare “what? what is it?” 

“nothing” you grunted. wonwoo’s lips broke into a grin, finally figuring you out. 

“something is clearly wrong. come on, talk to me” he purred, his hand sneaking its way under your t-shirt. 

“you looked good in the vid” grunting, you tried to surpass a smile. the warmth of his skin on yours sent shivers down your spine but your tried to remain calm. and not fold. 

“really? thank you, darling. keria said he liked my jacket” your fiancé hummed and leaned a bit closer, fingers tapping gently against your ribs. 

you couldn’t control the huff that left your lips. 

“we got along really well, i like his company. he’s so sweet” wonwoo continued to tease you and apparently that did the trick. 

“if he’s so sweet why don’t you date him, hm?” murmuring, you tried to hide your face in the pillow. wonwoo’s fingers ghosting over your skin in a circular motion made you melt, making it impossible not to crack.

“oh?” 

“forget it. go play your stupid games” you scoffed and wanted to move further away from him but wonwoo was quicker. he pulled you closer, calloused hands resting on your hips. 

“are you, perhaps… and i might be wrong here… jealous?” wonwoo’s cat-like adorned his features and you turned around, finally facing him. ebony eyes looking at you with amusement but also love, so much love, in them.

“yes, you’re wrong” you finally broke and cracked a smile, poking his buff chest. wonwoo tenderly grabbed your hand, placing it flat against his chest. his heartbeat softly drummed beneath your palm, making heat rise to your cheeks.

“come on, you know i would never…” he started and you shook your head. 

“it’s stupid and not that serious” you whined, covering your face with your other hand “it’s not the way you were… so flirty… and charming…”

“oh, pretty” wonwoo laughed wholeheartedly, the warm sound of his laughter bouncing off the walls of your shared bedroom. 

you leaned closer and hid your face in his chest, the smell of cologne filling your nostrils. his tender hands moved to the back of your neck, massaging it gently. 

“i made my angel jealous… by talking to my friend?” wonwoo sighed dramatically and you could hear the smile blooming on his lips. 

“it wasn’t just talking! you were so flirty…” your voice was a bit muffled by the material of his t-shirt “or i just… don’t know. you were really something that day, you know? so what if i’m a little jealous, i just don’t want to share you with the world… that much” 

wonwoo’s heart skipped a beat and he observed how you raised your head up. eyes meeting his, cheeks dusted with pink. you were so cute like that… cuter than keria. 

“can i make it up to you?” he hummed, hands trailing to cup your face. 

“a kiss. and no flirting with others, even if it’s a cute guy” you pouted and wonwoo leaned, capturing your soft lips in a sweet kiss. 

before you had a chance to deepen the kiss, he leaned away with a small frown. 

“but you do admit he’s cute, right?” your fiancé asked and you smacked his chest lightly.

“i wish we could adopt him” you laughed, and a grin formed on wonwoo’s face. 

“i’m afraid he’s a little too old for that…'' hiding his face in your hair, you decided to wrap your arms around his waist. 

“he’s 21… still a baby…” you huffed and shortly after, the sound of your laughs mixed in harmony. you guessed you might forgive him, it wasn’t really serious in the first place. 

masterlist <3

taglist. @mirxzii ,, @primoppang ,, @l3visbby ,, @nicholasluvbot ,, @planetkiimchi ,, @weird-bookworm ,, @slytherinshua ,, @kazmura ,, @laylasbunbunny ,, @mon2sunjinsuver,, @eternalgyu ,, @rubywonu ,, @haecien ,,@mine-gyu ,, @nonononranghaee

[rafesteddy]

since you said you haven't gotten anything about fight club rafe ima start it🤭…can we see one where we go watch him fight and after we wrap up his hands and cuts yk kiss his bruised up knuckles yk cutesy fluff😚

🤭🤭🤭 ahhhh hi bb thank you for your ask 💕🩷 introducing frat/fightclub!rafe

ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀꜱɪᴛʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍɪᴀᴍɪ • ꜱɪɢ ᴄʜɪ • ᴅᴏᴜᴄʜᴇ ʙᴀɢ • ʟᴏʏᴀʟ • ᴀɴɢʀʏ • ꜱᴘʟɪᴛ ʟɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ • ᴋɴᴜᴄᴋʟᴇꜱ ʙʀᴜɪꜱᴇᴅ • ʀᴏᴜɢʜ ꜱᴇx • ʜᴀꜱɴ'ᴛ ʟᴏꜱᴛ ᴀ ꜰɪɢʜᴛ ɪɴ 4 ʏᴇᴀʀꜱ • ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ

𝓯𝓻𝓪𝓽/𝓯𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽𝓬𝓵𝓾𝓫!𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮 𝔁 𝓯𝓮𝓶𝓪𝓵𝓮 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

+18 -> 𝓯𝓵𝓾𝓯𝓯

c/w: violence, blood, alcohol use, pet names, weed referenced, language, flirting, pining, implied illegal activity (fight club)

2K

You didn’t expect much when you got paired in a group project with Rafe Cameron. You assumed he’d be the type to disappear the second things got serious—a tall, tanned frat boy who coasted on charm and barely skated by on C’s. The kind who rolled in late, half-baked, reeking of beer and some drugstore cologne he thought made him smell expensive.

He was late, of course. But when he finally walked into the library—well over six feet tall, slouched in a faded hoodie and a backwards cap—his smile undid every sharp remark you had rehearsed in your head.

His blue eyes had that lazy, half-lidded look that somehow still managed to cut right through you. His hair was all sun-lightened and messy, like he spent most of his days outside and only wandered indoors when he absolutely had to. And then there was his voice—low, slow, that soft Southern drawl curling around your name like he’d said it a hundred times before. It sent a flutter straight through you before you could stop it.

The worst part? He wasn’t dumb. Not even close. He was sharp—quick with numbers and even quicker with his wit. He made jokes just to see if he could make you laugh, and when he caught you smiling down at your notes, he smirked like that was the prize he’d been chasing all along.

Now the two of you are texting. And that, honestly, is the real problem.

He’s charming—genuinely charming. Not in that rehearsed, frat-boy way, but in a way that feels warm and effortless. The kind of charm that makes you reread his messages twice, smile once, and bite your lip before you even realize you’re doing it.

As soon as you pull up, you have to do a double take. It’s not a regular house—it’s a mansion, straight out of a movie. Palm trees line the front, windows lit up like a stage, and the bass is already thudding in your chest before the music even reaches your ears. Luxury cars are parked all along the circular driveway, and as soon as you step out, you’re hit with the scent of weed, cologne, and overpriced liquor bought with someone else’s money.

Inside, it’s somehow even more insane. The ceilings are massive, chandeliers catching the light, and the whole place is wall-to-wall people. Red cups slosh. Sweat clings. The music crashes down like a wave, too loud to think over.

You barely get past the front door before someone’s calling your name.

“Ayy, sweetheart—Rafe’s down in the basement,” a guy shouts over the music, nodding toward the far end of the hall. “He’ll be up in a sec. You want a drink or somethin’ while you wait?”

Wait?

Something about his tone makes you pause. The casual shrug, the way he angles his body slightly—subtle, like he’s trying to steer you back toward the kitchen without making a scene.

“Rahhhh…”

You hear commotion over the pounding bass, cheering seeping from under the door in the direction you were headed.

“No, I’m good,” you smile, sugary sweet as you turn on your heels. His hand closes around your wrist as you step away. Not hard, not rough, just firm enough to let you know you shouldn't but you yank your hand back.

The hallway stretches before you, smoke already slipping under the door, fading into the chaos behind you. You walk toward it, one slow step at a time, heart picking up with every cheer that rises from beneath the floorboards.

The second the door creaks open, everything changes. The music down here is deeper, bass vibrating through the stairs as you descend. A sharp scent hits you—smoke and weed—that thickens with every step you take.

You squint through the haze. Shapes blur together at the bottom of the stairs, shadows dancing in the dim, pulsing light.

And Rafe… Rafe’s in the middle of it.

Your stomach sinks, wide eyes rounding the ring of bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, the air thick with sweat and smoke. Fistfuls of bills flash through the dark, voices barking bets over the music.

Rafe stands tall, chest heaving, sweat glistening on his tanned skin. His shirt’s long gone, tossed somewhere in the haze, and his torso is slick with sweat—every ab cut sharp, v-lines disappearing into a pair of weathered jeans. His stomach tightens with every breath, blood trickling from one nostril as he casually brushes his thumb across it. His sharp jaw flexes; biceps swelling as he tightens his fists.

His stare locks on you through the smoke, a wild look flashing in those blue eyes. His lips twitch like he might say your name but his opponent lunges, making you gasp.

A punch cracks across Rafe’s jaw, sending his head snapping sideways. Blood sprays from his split lip, and the crowd erupts. You flinch, hand flying to your mouth.

And then he snaps.

Rafe lunges, fists a blur. The crowd closes in, a wall of noise rising as his opponent staggers, arms barely lifting before Rafe strikes again. One blow sinks into his side, the next snaps his head back—a clean, punishing hit that feels less like a fight and more like a performance he’s perfected. The guy hits the floor with a sickening thud, and Rafe doesn’t let up until he's physically pried off him.

The whole place explodes with shouts and applause, cash thrown, falling to the seedy basement floor, floating through the fog like rain.

They grab Rafe’s wrist and throw it in the air, marking the winner. His chest heaves from the effort, every muscle strung tight. His skin gleams with sweat, his pretty face smeared with blood.

His eyes lock on yours again, the blues of his eyes almost gone, pupils blown wide. His eyes fall down your body, raking up nice and slow as his tongue glides along his bottom lip, catching some blood and soothing the sting as his lips curl into a smirk.

He holds out his hand, and the ring master drops a thick stack of cash on top.

Rafe starts toward you like the fight never happened—like he didn’t just leave someone broken on the floor for a pile of cash.

The crowd parts around him, hands slapping his back, voices shouting his name, but he doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t look away.

His hand finds your waist, and before you can get a word out, he’s already steering you toward the stairs. His palm settles against your hip, thumb dragging slow over the curve as he leads you through the smoke and noise like you’re the only thing he gives a damn about.

Back upstairs, the world keeps spinning; music blasting, party raging on like nothing happened beneath their feet.

Rafe yanks an old frat t-shirt over his head, before running his fingers through his damp, sweaty locks, tugging on a backwards hat. A golden boy disguise… And if you had shown up a few minutes later, and he had a moment to wipe that fresh blood off his face, he would have kept playing that role. “You want a drink?” He asks casually.

You glance up at him, wide-eyed, still trying to piece together who the hell this guy actually is.

His eye’s already swelling—puffy, bruising fast, the lid twitching halfway shut as he talks. Blood drips ruby-red from the corner of his mouth, down his chin, catching the collar of his shirt.

You smile, letting out a breathy chuckle in disbelief, making him return a similar look at your reaction. “We should get you cleaned up,” you murmur, your voice soft enough to draw him closer.

He grins down at you. One side only. And fuck if he isn’t the most handsome thing you’ve ever laid eyes on.

Rafe grabs your hand this time, nodding toward the stairs. The two of you move through the house. Every step you take turns heads. Girls bend to look—some with confusion, most with pure envy. You catch the flash of a few whispered comments, a tight smile from a girl who was clearly hoping to be the one in your place tonight.

His grip on yours tightens for just a second, pulling you down the hall and into a bathroom, shutting the door behind you with a solid click.

The noise cuts instantly. Like you just slipped out of one world and into another. Before you say a word, he steps in close—lifts you effortlessly, like your body fits where his hands were always meant to be.

A quiet laugh escapes you as he sets you down with too much care for a guy with blood on his face. His hands stay on your thighs a beat too long, just enough to make you hide a smile.

“Fuck, you’re pretty,” he mutters, not really looking at you as he turns and heads for the cabinet. He flips it open, shifts his hat like he’s thinking, then starts sorting through what’s inside. Rubbing alcohol. Band-Aids. He pushes a bottle of Advil out of the way and pulls down the whiskey instead.

He shuffles over, his eyes studying you where you sit. Rafe sets the supplies down beside you, not saying a word—but in the way he looks at you, there’s a quiet ask: stay. fix me. please.

“Mmm?” You question, through a flirty little hum as you grab a rag.

“Mhmm,” he mumbles back. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Warm water rushes out of the tap. You soak a towel, wringing it out, turning toward him.

“Did I tell you you look pretty?” He whispers. “You look so damn pretty,” his words are, barely audible as he steps between your thighs.

“You did…” You smile as your cheeks burn hot. Neither of you says a word about the fight. About what you saw. The silence buzzes between you like a live wire. “So do you,” you smile.

Rafe blushes ever so slightly, the rosy hue bleeding into the purple bruise blooming on his cheek. “I look pretty, huh?” Grabbing the bottle of liquor he twists the cap off and lifts it to his mouth, eyes pinched shut as he takes a long pull.

You start with his cheek. The cut’s not deep, but it’s angry—red and raw across his cheekbone. You press the damp towel to it gently and he leans into you, wincing but barely.

“Tough guy,” you tease, giggling as you swipe your thumb along the uninjured side of his face.

He doesn’t answer—just watches you, eyes skimming over your features: the sparkle in your eyes and the soft curve of your lips that part in concentration as you press the small bandage, carefully over the cut.

“What was that?” You murmur, the question trembling on the edge of curiosity and concern, lifting the towel to his mouth now, wiping at the mess trailing from his lip. The blood is thick and dark against the white cloth, and still, his eyes don’t leave yours.

More specifically, your mouth. His gaze lingers there like he’s weighing the cost of kissing you with busted lips.

You tilt your head slightly, waiting. “Rafe?”

His eyes lift to yours, heavy with the tension brewing between you both. “We don’t talk about that, pretty,” he mumbles, voice rough and deep.

“What if I wanna know?” You whisper, not missing the way his breath hitches slightly.

His broad shoulders shrug, crooked smile tilting again. “Well, it’s exactly what it looked like. Fightin’. Exchanging money. Winning a shit ton of it.”

“And?” You press him a little further. Clearly intrigued by the man before you.

His eyes narrow just slightly, devilish now. “And no one can know. Well, no one that’s gonna do shit about it. Understand?”

There’s no menace in it. Just that cocky, conspiratorial charm of someone who knows he’s trouble and loves being it.

You adjust on the counter, thighs spreading a little wider as you tilt in. “Depends,” you murmur, lips close enough to feel his breath. “You always this easy to bribe with a towel and a smile?”

“Only when the girl’s as pretty as you,” he says, voice smooth and smug.

Your nose scrunches, lips pursed in a playful defiance like his answer doesn't quite please you. You press the towel to his lip again, slower this time. “So you do this often?”

He shakes his head, eyes still locked on yours. “Nah. Not really… Never really met a girl as pretty as you.” It doesn’t sound like a line. Not with the way he says it.

“You’re sweet,” you giggle as his hands settle gently on your thighs.

“I can be…”

Rafe’s knuckles are bruised and busted, dusted with dried blood, and adorned with rings that glint under the bathroom lights. A flashy watch sits heavy on his wrist, ticking steady as his thumbs brush absent circles against your skin.

You dab away the last smear of blood, brushing his bottom lip with the towel. Then you look up at him—at the cut, the bruises, the softness buried beneath it all.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice low, lips so close now they’re almost brushing yours. “Well… What do—” You steal the words off his lips, tilting in to steal a kiss, tender and sweet.

His lips press into yours with a kind of care that makes your heart trip over itself.

One of his hands finds the small of your back, steady and warm, while the other lingers at his side, like he’s holding something back even now.

The air around you thickens. Your fingers brush the hem of his shirt, curling there before you even realize what you’re doing. His body doesn’t tense. It welcomes you.

He exhales into it, barely pulling back before murmuring against your lips, “I could get used to this.”

You smile into him, your lips curving against his as his hand moves behind your back, drawing you closer. “So could I.”

new tag list in my pinned post

@rafesthroatbaby | @ietss | @lilithblackkk | @rafesheaven | @rafecameronsfavourite | @my-name-is-baby | @urmotherlvr | @forgiveliv | @barnesboo1967 | @wtfisastiles | @k4yr14 | @taliescapes | @rafesbuzzcutseason | @sky-44 | @biascriptum | @vanessa-rafesgirl | @lolasangelz | @st8rkey | @lhhlver | @slut-4-rafey | @gri959 | @prettybabyyyy | @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account | @maybankslover | @littlelamy | @buckybarnessweetheart | @angelicameron | @lover-girlyy | @rcameronlova1 | @rafesbabygirlx | @mayanqueenxx | @bimbob1tch | @dylsdaily | @blair-bears-blog | @akobx | @countryclubwhore | @esmerai-artemis | @jkmylove97 | @wtfdudesblog | @livie4lifestarkeyblyth | @yasmin-oviedo | @queen-cs | @floredaqueen | @alexxavicry | @aerie717 | @cokewithcameron | @premiumshitt | @rafecameronlova1

[chososdiscordkitten]

I'm Stuck!

artist: yunonoai on twt

Synopsis: Gojo buys new washing machines nd chooses a shitty placement for em ⸜( ´ ꒳ ` )⸝

Pairing: Gojo x Fem!Reader Content: smut, implied reader is thicker than a snicker, established relationship, teasing, r gets stuck between a wall nd said machines, dirty talk, multiple orgasms (f), a sprinkle of manhandling, he refuses to admit he's wrong, cream pie

(a.n) if u wanna see what I picture- look at this

MDNI

When you first moved in with Gojo, you became all too aware of the fact that he was very particular about his design choices. Almost all your suggestions were vetoed the minute you would offer them.

And when the cheap washing machines that came with his apartment broke; You saw this as an opportunity to control at least one room in the now-shared apartment.

You stood beside Satoru in the laundry room- eyeing the small space and telling him, “If you put them here,” referencing the back wall of the rectangle room, “-it’ll feel more open.” you pointed at the wall. Looking at his pensive expression. 

Gojo was just petty enough to ignore your suggestion. Holding a measuring tape and looking at the 28-inch mark. “The website says they’re this big-” looking up at you as he measured. 

Even if you were kinda right- Satoru wanted to put the washer and dryer pair on the opposite side. Leaving only the entrance of the small room- and a small gap between the wall and the massive machines. 

You parted your lips- about to speak. Remembering the photo Satoru had shown you of the machines- far better and more modern than the old ones that opened at the top. 

These new ones had doors that opened outwards- and as you looked at the gap between where the machines would go, and where the wall was. You were sure they wouldn’t be able to open fully. 

But you held your tongue- knowing Satoru would mull it over for a few days before telling you that you were right. 

The space was small- sure. But you were sure it was enough space to fit through, and besides, how long would Satoru let those machines sit in the wrong place before calling someone to help switch their placement. 

On the day of delivery, Satoru looked at the machines as though they were his pride and joy, like he was the one who did all the washing in the house. 

The way the handymen looked at your idiot boyfriend was laugh-worthy. “They’ll go against that wall”, he instructed. 

You were sure the men struggled more in placing them where Satoru instructed than if they just flipped them and pushed them to the back wall. 

Satoru generously tipped them for their efforts, and once they left, you stood at the small doorway. Looking at the washing machines placed against the wall as though it were a laundromat.

“I hate saying it-” he clicked his tongue, leaning against the machine and looking at you smugly. “But I told you so~” 

You grinned- amused at how right he thought he was. You winced, “Do me a favor real quick-” fighting off the laugh about to rumble from your chest. “Open one of the doors.” 

Satoru furrowed his eyebrows at your request, dragging a hand down to the circular door. Smugly popping it open, only to hear it ding against the wall. You puffed a small laugh from your nose at how his face fell. 

“And..” you started, walking towards him and fwipping your hand up and down- guiding him to move. 

Stepping into the small gap between the machine and the wall with the door open, and letting a small giggle leave your lips as your thick thighs pressed against the metal. 

Satoru looked down at your hips that were flush against the machine- he measured how much space the machines took up. But Gojo didn’t account for the space you would need to do laundry properly. 

You turned your head, looking at him over your shoulder. Watching him pull his lips to the side, thinking up some snide remark about how he was still right. 

Even a week after having those machines in the most inconvenient place- Satoru refused to admit he was wrong. He refused to call the handymen back and have them move the machines where you told him to. 

You were more affected by his mistake than he was. Bothersome little doors that had hit you more times than you could count when they would bounce off the wall. 

And all the times you would feel your hips brush against the open machines- you would furrow your eyebrows. Recalling how petty he could be. 

Truth being- Satoru hadn’t called the handymen to fix the minor problem because when you first stepped into the small space of the laundry room- Seeing your thighs press against the machine made him hope you would get stuck one day. 

As though he had manifested it- the day came.

You were doing laundry per usual- struggling with the stupid doors and growing more and more irritated by the second. 

And when you thought you were finally finished- slamming the dryers door shut and hearing it whirr. 

You turned around to see a discarded sock on the ground, thinking nothing of it and stepping back into the small space- hips pressed against the slightly protruding door of the dryer. Picking up the sock with a small huff. 

Straightening back up and aiming to take a step back. Only to feel resistance from the wall- you tried shifting with even more strength. Only for the wall and machine to refuse to let you go. 

You looked to the machine- recalling all the times this very same scenario had happened. Wondering what went wrong this time. And seeing the clear plastic bubble-like door trap your hips. Add that with the bending- causing your hips to widen in the slightest. 

You sighed- frustrated that you had actually managed to get stuck in the small space. You tried a few more steps- a small wiggle, a aimed step back- nothing worked.

And wearing mini shorts- practically underwear that left your plush thighs exposed against the wall and the plastic door. Knowing it would only hurt if you pushed yourself out. 

You held the stupid black sock in your hand as you contemplated calling out to the idiot that waited for you in the living room. 

You shouted his name once- waiting a few seconds to see if he would come running to see what was wrong. 

Only Satoru was sat with a handful of unfolded socks in his lap, watching the show you normally watched together- so focused on the scene playing out before him. 

You closed your eyes- cringing at the cliche you were in. Calling his name once more- with more urgency and a gruff to it. That’s what pulled Satoru from his focus on the tv show. 

His hand reached for the remote and pressed pause- trying to determine if he was just imagining things or if you actually called out to him. 

And when you called out to him a third time, Satoru tossed the socks from his lap and ran to the laundry room. All the urgency in the world.

Worried you had seen a bug, or a home invasion- or every single dangerous thing he could picture happening. Running into the room asking you what was wro-

His lips parted in amazement once he saw your bottom trapped between the machine’s door and the wall. Staring at your exposed thighs and the crease of your ass.

“Don’t just stand there- go get some baby oil or something to get me ou-” Satoru reached a hand out to your bottom, causing you to silence your directions. His cheeks flushed and eyes glimmering full of the possibilities. 

Satoru sighed and smiled, looking up to the ceiling with closed eyes to thank the deity that had granted him his wish. 

Looking back down to your ass- slightly bent and you trying to reach a hand back to push him off, all but telling him again to go get something to help you out. 

But knowing your boyfriend and his peculiar tastes- this was brewing in his mind from the minute he saw your hips against the small space. 

“I prayed for this.” he whispered, earning a small ‘what?’ to leave your lips. 

Satoru placed both of his hands on your bottom, his long fingers sliding beneath the light fabric of your shorts. Softly groping at the skin and peaked his eyebrows. You only clenched your jaw and closed your eyes. 

Hearing the ramblings of the man behind you. “You should’ve just listened to me.” you scoffed, planting your hands on the wall in front of you as though Gojo was doing a body search, trailing his fingers down your clothed core. 

His eyes dimmed- watching the light goosebumps form on your skin, lightly pressing his fingers against the little mound beneath your shorts. Earning a small exhale laced with a whimper to leave your lips. His other hand groped firmly at your ass, enjoying the view below him. 

“No. I know now I was right not to listen to you.” Satoru grinned menacingly, watching your hips try to shift against the whirring machine next to you. 

The tips of his fingers against your clothed core making you let out a shivering huff. “You still want me to help you out?~” Gojo asked- too smug to be considered as a genuine offer.

Satoru made light circles on the little mound at the top of your cunt- shivers running down your thighs as you tried to muster the words. 

“You must’ve planned this-” he scoffed, trailing his fingers to the side of your shorts. A small damp spot formed on them, telling Gojo all he needed to know. “Prancing around all day wearing this-” 

You parted your mouth- feeling the cool air hit your dampening cunt that pulsed with every accusation he spouted at you. 

Satoru sucked his teeth- placing the tips of his fingers on your clit, causing a small gasp to fall from your throat. You let out a ragged breath, his fingers starting small circles against you. 

Trying to keep your legs from buckling at the slow pace Satoru held. A small ‘tsk’ left his lips, full of feigned disappointment. “Tryna tempt me allll day.” The smile evident in his tone. 

You only breathed a small whimper at his words- knowing it wasn’t true, but what state were you in to deny it? 

“M’pretty sure I saw your pretty pussy a handful of times~” he purred- fastening his pace in the slightest. 

Your breathing took up in pace- trying not to let out the small moans Satoru was pulling from you with every small circle he made against you. 

The bulge in Gojo’s bottoms grew with every little whimper you let out- his hard cock twitching beneath the fabric as soft moans left your lips, landing in his ears as harmonies.

“If you wanted me to fuck you that badly-” he hummed, quickening his fingers and hearing the low squelches coming from your cunt. Knees threatening to buckle as Satoru trailed the hand on your ass up your slightly arched back, pushing up the hem of your t-shirt. 

“All you had to do was ask, baby.” he cooed, watching your hands on the wall start to slip as your moans became louder, feeling Gojo’s hard bulge pressing against your ass. Desperate to get some kind of friction, whereas you- were desperate to finish. 

An orgasm so close it had one of your eyes shut and the other threatening to follow its movements- “You didn’t have to scheme up ways for me to fuck you.” he teased, trying to dig your fingers into the wall as Satoru watched you come undone, cunt clenching around nothing. 

Feeling your core pulse onto his fingertips, small shivering sighs leave your lungs as he works you down an orgasm. You steady your breathing- becoming more aware of Gojo’s bulge pressing onto your plump bottom. 

You clenched your teeth- Satoru’s fingers trailing from your clit down to the source of the slick that coated his digits. The other resting on your side to stabilize you. Wouldn’t want you to come unstuck too soon now. 

You were glad you were faced away from him- your vision bordering on going double and the heat rising to your cheeks just thinking about the cliche you were in. Thinking of how easily accessible you were to him at that moment. 

You started feeling his fingers dip into your entrance- too slow and far too eager to prep you. “Just-” you huffed, feeling his hand halt its movements. 

“Just. Fuck me.”

Quiet- but clear enough for Satoru to hear you. 

Huffed and urged as you said it- it made Satoru realize you were unwilling to go through his teasing prep- and in no possession of the patience needed for it. 

Gojo bit his lip slightly, being able to see the tenseness in your shoulders- it wasn’t about him having a good time anymore. No, your tone made it sound like he was depriving you of something.

Satoru wasted no more than a second in tucking the hem of his shirt between his pearly teeth- a smile on the corners of his lips as he watched you writhe. All but telling him to hurry with the puffs of frustration leaving your lips. 

Though his mouth was busy trying to hold his shirt up- his messied hand pulled from your cunt and landed on the band of his shorts, you could hear the muffled giggles of amusement leaving Gojo’s lips as he slapped the tip of his cock onto your ass. 

Leaky as he was, Gojo still wanted to hear the words from your lips. “Tellme-m’right” he spoke with clenched teeth- muffled and barely legible and in a smug tone. 

You scoffed- biting your lip and peaking up your eyebrows. Knowing Satoru is just petty enough to pull away from you and jack off till he spurt his mess onto your ass. “You were right.” you mumbled, earning Satoru to release the shirt from his teeth with a smile.

“What was that?” lightly tapping your entrance with his tip as your hands pressed onto the wall again- planted to stay upright. 

You sighed. “You were right, ‘toru-” you spoke clearly, earning an appeased hum from Satoru. 

Taking his hand from his base- quickly taking off his t-shirt and lining himself up with your cunt. The only thought in his mind was praising himself for what a good idea the machine’s placement was. 

The second he slowly pressed his tip past your entrance- both you and Gojo could feel the difference between when you would be prepped compared to now. 

Soft ringing in your ears as you let out a soft moan, a light sting pulsing in your cunt as he eased himself into you. 

And Gojo- he swore he could cum right then and there had it been up to him. His eyes threatened to fall back into a soft roll as a groan tried leaving his throat. Falling from his lips with the sound of a whimper laced in it.

Even if Satoru had slid inside of you countless times- it always made his go vision blurry. Never getting used to how warm and welcoming your cunt always felt against his cock. 

Satoru spouted a curse- mixed with a whimper as he held onto your ass, bracing himself as he felt your cunt suck him in. 

With clenched teeth- “S-so fuckin’ tight-” he gruffed- making sure to give you enough time to get used to the light sting before he pulled his cock from you. Hands gripping too harshly on the malleable skin of your ass. 

His cock felt a light breeze hit the skin lathered with your essence, wasting little time before thrusting back into you- setting a slow but deep pace. 

Shutting your eyes tight as Satoru’s thrusts caused your hips to move against the harsh plastic and the wall. 

A few more rolls of his hips were all you had to spare- “Satoru I’m gonna fall-” you huffed, feeling his hands grope at your ass firmly- some attempts to assure you that you wouldn’t. 

A light sheen of sweat formed on your thigh, causing you to actually start slipping with every little thrust Satoru rolled against you.

Though he was whining behind you, he could feel your hips start to give against the machine’s door. 

Gojo mustered all the strength he could, dragging his cock from you. Allowing his leaking tip to kiss your entrance ever so slightly as he gave a hard yank against your hips. 

Hearing a low grunt of relief as you felt yourself come loose-only for Satoru’s hands to move you to the free edge of the machine quickly, aligning himself up with your entrance again. 

Pressing his heaving chest against your back- bending you over as his head rested the crook of your neck. Clenching his teeth with a low whimper- your hands planted against the whirring machine- bracing for him to bottom out. 

Only Satoru planted a hand atop yours- grasping it lightly as he slid himself in slowly. 

A sharp exhale took the form of a whimper as it left Gojo’s lips, invading your ear as you raised yourself onto your tiptoes. Giving his cock a new angle, his flushed tip nudging your sweet spot. 

A choked moan left your lips, the hand on your ass rising to your neck. Pulling you back to his chest and forcing your back into a harsher arch. 

Satoru sped up his pace- barely pulling out and prodding the spongy gspot his cock curved into. Barely pulling his hips from your ass with frustrated whimpers leaving his lips. 

His hand mindlessly rising to the side of your face- your parted lips huffing out small whimpers welcoming his fingers. Hooking the digits that brought you to your first orgasm, onto the side of your mouth as he tried to keep a steady pace. 

You could feel he was still holding back- unknowing why he insisted on keeping a medium pace with his thrusts. You clenched your walls around him in the slightest- “F-faster ‘toru,” you huffed, slightly muffled from his fingers in your mouth- earning for his hips to halt and his hands to raise. 

Satoru gulped- his cheeks flushed and ears hot as his hands hooked onto the ditches of your elbows. Pulling your arms back in tandem with dragging his cock out.

Gojo knew that whenever you bark an order, you were giving him permission to do what every part of his brain was yelling at him to do. 

And as he felt the very tip of his cock reach the taut circle of your entrance- he clenched his teeth, inhaling before pushing himself in.

His thrusts were rough- too deep as your shoulder blades pressed against each other- clearer moans falling from your lips. Satoru’s forearms pulling you back with every harsh thrust- unpatterned and sloppy as he whined into your ear. 

Your calves started tingling from being raised on the tips of your toes. And almost as though Satoru heard you- he released one of your arms and reached down to your thigh. 

A smile took shape in a huff- “Up we go~” he grinned with a breathless tinge. 

Assisting you in resting it on the top of the machine, now easily at level with his rough hips. The foot on the ground barely touched the tile- half of your body on top of the machine as Satoru grabbed a handful of ass. Biting his lip as he looked down to your cunt linked with him. 

With every tenacious thrust Satoru rolled against you- he watched your ass bounce. 

And as though it was instinct, Gojo pulled his gripping hand from your ass and gave you a firm spank. 

You whimpered in response- shutting your eyes and muttering a strained, “Fffuck!” his hand soothing the warmth rising onto your bottom- clenching his teeth with muffled groans leaving his pursed lips. 

Your hands pressing onto the top of the machine as some sort of attempt to brace for Satoru’s quick drilling hips. Keeping yourself up on your forearms as his hand gripped the malleable skin of your ass. Groaning harsher and harsher as he felt his orgasm build in his tummy. 

Satoru knew you were close too- the moans you spewed were now shorter and more breathy. Your cunt twitching around him every other thrust- 

“Say m’right.” clenched teeth and a low tone as his thrusts became even more sloppy- bordering on raising himself from the ground from how harshly he was pushing you onto the machine. 

Gojo stopped his thrusts- nuzzling himself inside of you entirely. And staying still- knocking the air from your lungs with a gasp- “Say.” pulling his cock , “I’m.” a firm thrust, “Right.” urging you to with every deep thrust. 

You whimpered, knowing he was barely bumping his tip against your gspot on purpose. 

“You’re r-ri-” he continued his fast pace again- the words trying to make their way out of your lips. 

Satoru grunted with an amused smile- “I’m-” he sighed, “I’m what?” out of breath and edging himself.

You bit your lip, the knot in your stomach slowly slipping with every little thrust. 

Feeling his unforgiving hips nudge you closer and closer against the wall. Your jaw went slack-jawed as he refused to give you a second to answer. 

All it took was another firm spank to push you over an orgasm- cunt spasming around him as he grunted. Sudden tightness sucking him in with every pull he did. 

“You’re righ- fuck-” you moaned, “You’reright-” babbling as Satoru let out a breathy giggle. More than pleased with your mindless prattling. 

As Gojo succumbed to his own orgasm- you groaned lightly, feeling his seed coat your walls. Warmth filling your cunt as your eyes fluttered closed. 

Satoru rode himself down with slower thrusts, still reaching as deep as he could- but slowing them. 

Wincing softly as his tip got a shock of overstimulation, heavily breathing as he eased his hands from you. 

Leaning over your ass and placing his forehead onto the center of your shoulder blades. 

“Call the delivery men,” you breathed- sighing softly as Satoru rested himself atop you. “And tell them to move them.” you demanded- knowing that if they stayed the way they were now- more little instances like these would keep happening. 

Satoru huffed against your clothed spine. “You just said,” taking a breath and feeling his heart pound in his chest. “-that I was right?” keeping a teasing tone as you tried easing off the machine. 

Wondering how on earth Gojo managed to shift you from the floor to the top of the washer.

-

I luv him sm <3

[formlines]

Fusion

Susan Point

from the website: "Fusion" is the original maquette that was used to create a fourteen-foot-tall public sculpture of the same name situated at Granville and W. 70th Avenue in south Vancouver, a few hundred metres from the ancient settlement of c̓əsnaʔəm. Created by combining red cedar with powder-coated aluminum, "Fusion" stems from the theme of the "People of the Grass" and the "Salmon People," which are uniquely Musqueam.

Carved and painted red cedar in the form of green river grass sprouts from the sculpture's circular cedar base which is carved with traditional Coast Salish trigon motifs. From the base, ten Salmon emerge from a central axis that spreads out in the four sacred directions. Faces emerge from the bodies of six of the Salmon, referencing the human aspect of the artwork, with cattails interconnecting their swimming forms. Nine of the Salmon also have black, inlaid eyes of carved and painted red cedar.

When speaking about the artwork, Point said, "The human element within the salmon has universal appeal that symbolically relates to all peoples. The faces are revealed with traditional Salish elements... giving a sense of place and a landmark that respects past, present, and future. Spawning salmon on their journey up the Fraser River have passed the Musqueam People for thousands of generations. A story this big means they need to be big to be characterized fittingly."

[changbunnies]

Suit Dance (18+)

♡ Pairing: CEO!Changbin x Office Siren!Reader

♡ Genre: office au, smut, porn with some plot, rich & sexy ceo trope but make him Subby™

♡ Word Count: 7.8k

♡ Summary: In which you discover that your ever strong and stoic looking boss wears dainty, pretty lingerie underneath his tailored suits.

♡ Warnings: hyunjin featured briefly as reader's office bestie, mild play fighting and 1 joke about strangling him

♡ Smut Warnings: uneven power dynamics (due to boss x employee relationship), power play, dom/sub dynamics, sub!bin, dom!reader, vaguely plus size reader, semi-public sex, slight exhibitionism, marking (with lipstick), mommy kink, nipple play, anal plug use, referenced masturbation, spit kink, praise kink, finger sucking, fingering (m rec), tiny bit of oral (m rec) and handjob, spit as lube, teensy tiny bit of edging. this is so unrealistic lmao but it's fiction so. just take it for what it is gdfsgdf

♡ Notes: back at it again with a self indulgent bin fic! written purely because i saw these pics on twitter and was immediately struck with the vision of changbin wearing it instead lmao and while i read a lot of fics involving anal play, this is my first foray into writing it myself so sorry if it isn't the best :')

♡ Disclaimer: please read responsibly, and remember that this work is fiction and meant strictly for imaginative fun. the idols used in fics are more accurately faceclaims and personality outlines for imaginary characters, and should not be interpreted as factual representations of existing people.

Throwing your hands up and over your head, you let out a soft noise of relief as you stretch, eager to return home and relax after a stressful week at the office.

Your manager has been on your ass the entire week about making sure your quarterly finance report is without flaw. “Mr. Seo has business ventures lined up that require an accurate reflection of the company’s spending and receiving of funds,” she repeatedly drilled into you– as if that isn’t always the case.

You don’t know what all goes into striking a deal and fostering a successful business partnership, really– you’re just paid to reflect the numbers, so that’s what you do; and you’ve never submitted a flawed report. Still, while you’re used enough to staring at numbers on a screen and inputting them into a balance sheet, scanning them extra carefully all week has really put a strain on your eyes.

You remove your glasses, toss them next to your keyboard and close your eyes as another sigh passes your lips. You slouch in your chair, rolling away from your desk ever so slightly as your legs stretch out. You can’t wait to sink into a bath once you get back to your apartment, maybe have a glass of wine to unwind while watching some trashy reality tv over dinner.

“Uh– Y/N?” a voice calls, and you shoot up in your seat, stiffening your posture– you relax when your brain finishes registering that it’s just Hyunjin. If it was your manager, Mrs. Kim, she surely would’ve ripped you a new one for slouching at work, the strict harpy that she is. 

“Hey, sorry! Were you waiting up for me?” you ask as you scoot back over to your desk and grab your glasses to put back on. Hyunjin was one of the few coworkers you got along with beyond the expected professional level, so the two of you often chatted on your way out of the building. He was also Mr. Seo’s personal receptionist, and you envied that he got to stare at such perfection all day.

Mr. Seo is hot– really hot. All professionalism and sex appeal, with his perfectly styled dark hair and expertly tailored suits hugging his thick arms. You don’t cross paths with him as often as you'd like, stuck to your cubicle as you are, but God, the glimpse you got of him this morning was divine.

Dressed in a dark blue suit you were certain was designer, a circular silver pin stuck in the left lapel– the company’s logo, which he always wore proudly. He had on two chains– one a pretty, mixed gold-silver resting on his collarbones, probably worth more than you make in an entire year. His other chain is pure silver and long, hung low on his chest, ending just above the first button of his stupidly beautiful suit. 

There’s no button-up or other such dress shirt worn underneath the suit– just purely bare, tanned skin. The small glimpses you got of his bare chest nearly made you drool– and when he rounded the corner to get to his office, and you got a glimpse of his tight slacks hugging his thick thighs and ass, Christ, you don’t know how you managed to keep yourself together.

You loved looking at Mr. Seo, but it was probably best for your sanity, and your work performance, that you didn’t have too much exposure to him. And it was most certainly a good thing that you weren’t his receptionist– you don’t think you’d get through the myriad of phone answering and appointment scheduling successfully if you had such eye candy in front of you for hours a day, 5 days a week.

“No, I’m just supposed to tell you that Mr. Seo wants to see you,” Hyunjin says, and you blink– once, twice, brain struggling to process what you’ve been told. Mr. Seo wants to see you? You think you’re going to combust on the spot from just the thought alone of having a personal meeting with him.

“D-Do you know why?” you question with an embarrassing stutter that you hope Hyunjin will ignore. “Nope, he just asked me to let you know to see him before I leave for the weekend,” he replies and you swallow, nerves suddenly threatening to eat you alive.

And it's not just because you’ll be alone with someone you’ve been thirsting after for months. The most pressing issue is that even putting your attraction to Mr. Seo aside, he is still very much your boss, even if he doesn't often personally oversee your work.

You emailed him your report just moments ago, so surely he hasn’t had the chance to look through the whole thing yet.. Fuck, what if there’s a mistake right at the start? You’d be mortified– and surely it’d be grounds enough to fire you given how vital this report is to his upcoming business plans. 

Hyunjin sees the apprehension and can’t help but giggle as he reassures you. “Relax! He seemed like he was in a good mood, I’m sure it’s nothing bad. Trust me, I’ve seen Mr. Seo angry, and he’s definitely not right now. Maybe you’re finally getting that raise you’ve been gunning for.”

You appreciate Hyunjin’s positive input, but you doubt that– if it was a raise, you’d be having a discussion about it with HR and your manager, as you have every time before; someone as high brass as Mr. Seo simply doesn’t have the time to talk to every person receiving a raise individually. A promotion..? Same situation– the decision for you to receive one is his, but you doubted he would see you personally over it.

That’s what your manager is for, after all– Mrs. Kim is essentially his mouthpiece, having discussions about these things with you and overseeing your duties herself so that Mr. Seo can put more of his focus on keeping the business going in the direction he wants. Still, Hyunjin said he doesn’t seem to be upset, so.. 

Maybe it is something good! Maybe your manager and the head of HR have been called to his office too, and you’ll all discuss an appropriate reward for all the effort you’ve been putting in. Maybe you can squeeze in a deal for more vacation time too, if you’re lucky. 

"Or maybe he found out about all your dirty fantasies about him, and now he's calling you to his office to–” Hyunjin starts, and you bolt up from your chair, swiftly shutting him up with a smack to the arm. “Oh my god, stop! Shut up!” you cry as he simply laughs, swatting away the hand you slap him with.

“Should I still wait for you?” he asks when the giggling subsides, and you quickly shake your head as you turn back to your desk to start shoveling your belongings in your bag. “Nah, I don’t wanna keep you waiting if the talk goes on long. I’ll see you on Monday! ..hopefully,” you mutter the last word as you pick up your bag, still not entirely sold that this abrupt meeting is a positive one.

Hyunjin, being a menace to your nerves, shoots you a wink and a “good luck!” after you wish him a good weekend. You think you’ll strangle him when you see him on Monday– if you’re still lucky enough to have a job here, that is. You walk out of your cubicle block, swallowing as you step past your fellow coworkers who are all similarly readying to leave, and up to Mr. Seo’s large office door.

It’s glass, and typically he’d be able to see you apprehensively standing there waiting, but the blinds are currently pulled closed. Should you knock? He’s expecting you, but all of a sudden you aren’t sure how to act– the last thing you want to do is be impolite. Still, maybe it’d be worse to keep him waiting– his time is extremely valuable, after all. So tentatively, you knock on the black frame of the door.

“Come in,” you hear him call out, and with one more breath to steel your nerves, you take the knob into your hands and open the door. And fuck, he’s alone– your manager and the head of HR are nowhere in sight. You’re going to have a solo meeting with Mr. Seo. God, please help me, you cry internally as you take a careful step inside, the door closing behind you with a soft click. 

“You wanted to see me, Sir?” you do your best to keep your voice steady as you look at him, pensively standing no more than a few inches away from the door. You’ve never been more nervous in your entire life– and when he looks up from the papers on his desk to address you, your heart nearly stops; he’s just too gorgeous.

“Don’t just stay by the door, please, come in,” he reiterates, motioning for you to come further into the room and take a seat at his desk with his hand. Again you swallow, taking small steps away from the glass door, your heels clacking on the sleek wood with each step.

His office is so luxurious– and you’re certain it’s bigger than your entire apartment. Floor to ceiling windows that take up the entire wall behind him and show the impressive expanse of the city, the sky turning a darker shade of blue as the sun disappears behind the other skyscrapers. Impressive bookshelves full top to bottom, with not just books but awards he's won throughout his life, as well as decorative art pieces.

He has well cared for plants in every corner, two sofas for additional seating, and a chandelier that rivals any you’ve ever seen in its extravagance. There’s a large rug underneath his desk and the opposite chairs, and your heels quiet as you step on it, carefully pulling one of the chairs back to sit.

It’s comfortable, the same shade of rich mahogany as his desk, and you practically sink into it. Despite that, you do your best to keep a good posture after setting your bag on the opposite chair; sitting up straight, hands folded in your lap as you cross one leg over the other.

Your skirt squeezes against your thighs in this position, but you’d rather be caught dead than have an informal posture in front of the CEO of your company. He’s looking at his papers again, and heat, as well as apprehension, spreads through your body when he looks up at you once more– but mostly, it’s heat; how and why is he so attractive? 

You’re so rarely given the opportunity to be this close to Mr. Seo– and there’s still a large desk between you that gives you a fair amount of distance, but you’re able to drink him in much more than you usually can. His eyes, that normally appear quite piercing and stern, are always much softer up close– all of his features are soft, really. 

Round cheeks, soft nose, defined chin that somehow isn’t harsh in appearance despite how sculpted he is. His lips are so pink, look so soft and plush, in the prettiest pouty shape. Cute, handsome, pretty, sexy– he’s all of it in one package. You want him bad.

Mr. Seo has expensive-looking round earrings on that you realize you failed to notice earlier, perfectly matching his necklaces. A ring too, you note as he turns back to his papers to flip a page– gem black as his hair, but with the same silver as the rest of his jewelry encircling it. He’s so stylish– it’s almost enough to make you salivate with desire.

It’s almost astonishing how you can still thirst for him while this concerned over your livelihood– but he’s so undeniably handsome and perfect that you just can’t seem to help it. If this ends up being your last day here, you don’t think it’s the money you’ll miss the most– it’ll most definitely be seeing Mr. Seo in all his impressive glory.

Finally, he holds out the tiny, stapled stack of papers in his hand to you, gesturing for you to take them to look at. “Mrs. Kim went over this with you, correct? You recognize it?” he asks, watching you carefully as you run your eyes over the top page. “This is my review from last quarter..?” you say, an air of uncertainty in your voice. Fuck. You really are getting fired. 

“Did I make a mistake since then? Do something wrong?” you question, doing your best not to fall into your anxious habit of chewing on your bottom lip. It’s also taking everything in you not to start unloading a string of apologies over the finance report you emailed him, convinced by this point that you suffered a major performance dip and sent him a report chock full of mistakes. 

Even at his angriest, Mr. Seo never grilled or chewed out his employees– but you almost think the look of sincere disappointment he’d give you before firing you would be worse than the anger. “No, don't worry! The opposite, actually,” he reassures you, so sweetly and genuinely that it sends you reeling.

The relief that should come with realizing you aren't being fired or scolded doesn't even hit you, because all your brain latches on to is how beautiful his smile is. Negative or positive, you come to the conclusion that this will be the most difficult meeting of your life– he’s just too stunning; your poor heart can’t take it.

“I realized that a mistake was made in regards to your raise– you actually should’ve been given more. It is not my intent to undercut the value of my employees, and I sincerely apologize for the error,” Mr. Seo stands to bow to you, and the axis of your world tilts further off balance. Mr. Seo, the most successful man you’ve ever known, whose net worth is easily millions upon millions of won, is bowing to you? 

“Your work is always done diligently and accurately, and it keeps my business going smoothly– and to make up for the error, I’d also like to offer you a bonus on top of immediately rectifying your salary. A sum that is equal to what you would’ve received these past few months had your raise been accurately relayed and processed sooner.” 

Wait. Wait, wait, wait. It’s true that you were upset when your raise was only a few measly cents, but you assumed that was intentional, that you just needed to work harder– and surely, the mistake isn’t Mr. Seo’s fault. If anything, it’s definitely your harpy of a manager Mrs. Kim's doing– she should be the one groveling at your feet. The fact that he’s even apologizing to you for it is insane. In what world does it make sense for him to grovel to and appease you? 

You suppose it isn’t just his business smarts that make him such a good CEO, but his ability to take responsibility like this, and his genuine care for the members of his team. But that’s not even what’s at the forefront of your mind anymore– what has really captured your focus is the glimpse of pretty, white lace you see peeking out under his suit, deliciously hugging his pecs.

Surely this isn’t real– you must’ve fallen asleep at your desk, and are having a fever dream from the stress of the week. Surely Mr. Seo isn’t actually wearing lingerie underneath his suit, right? That would be crazy– not even in your wildest fantasies would you ever be met with such a sinfully delectable sight.

He doesn’t smooth out or adjust his suit nearly enough when he rises back up, and the edges of the intricate lace continue to peek out from behind his lapels. Your eyes stay transfixed on it, the urge to drool over Mr. Seo the strongest it’s ever been as every subsequent word he says goes straight through one ear and out the other. 

You lick over your drying lips, swallow thickly, unable to focus on anything but the entrancing visage of pure white lace squeezing his muscles. Your body was already running hot just from being in his presence, but now it feels like a furnace, mind racing as you consider how much more lace there is beneath his suit. 

How much skin does it cover? How little? And maybe if you were paying more attention to literally any part of him besides the lace on his pecs, you would’ve noticed the shiver that traveled through his body after he stood back up right, or the slight flush to his cheeks. 

He thinks you did notice from the way you stare at him, but then he realizes your gaze is focused solely on one specific place– his chest. Even without glancing down at himself, he realizes what caught your attention– it causes his cheeks to flush a deeper pink, an awkward cough leaving him as he finally rights his suit, and obscures the lace beneath it.

Lace out of sight, your trance is broken, and your eyes return to Mr. Seo’s face. You’ve never, absolutely never, seen him so red and timid. “Uh, I–” he starts, but for perhaps the first time in his professional life, he is left at an utter loss for words. “J-Just– pretend you didn’t see that, please,” he quickly mumbles a moment later as he returns to sitting in his chair, hoping you once again fail to notice the way he shivers when he’s sat. 

You’re both professionals– surely you can move on from this and go on as if nothing happened without making things around the office awkward. No, you think immediately– you know you’ll never be able to scrub the delectable image of lace over his toned, honeyed skin out of your brain; it’s already rooted itself much too deeply. 

Except when you watch his eyes widen before his brows furrow, you realize you accidentally said “no” audibly. “..No?” he questions, and you already know you’ve dug yourself into a hole; but you can’t take it back now that it’s been said, so you may as well commit. “I mean– it was very pretty, Sir. You’re very pretty. I don’t think I can forget about it.” 

He blinks, blush slowly crawling its way to his ears as the information soaks in. And though it’s certainly grounds for a swift and stern dismissal in ordinary circumstances, he entertains the compliment, workplace code of conduct be damned. “You think I’m pretty?” he questions, and it almost makes you laugh. Is water wet? Is the sky blue? Is grass green? Yes, he’s pretty!

“With all due respect, I thought that was obvious, Sir,” you answer, surprising even yourself with how forward a statement it is– never in a million years did you think you’d admit how attractive you think Mr. Seo is to his face. “Obvious that I’m pretty, or obvious that you think so?” he tilts his head as he asks, and smiles– one that is as shy as it is devastatingly charming. 

To see him smile at you in such a way sends a whirlwind of emotions through you, the most potent of them being desire. There’s an eager glint in his eyes, one that you’re sure you match– maybe even surpass. You’re self aware enough to realize your ogling of him when he walks in a room is noticeable– it wouldn’t surprise you if he’d been aware of it all this time.

And maybe, just maybe, he too has been waiting for an opportunity like this to present itself. Maybe he likes the way you stare at him with pure, unfiltered want. Maybe the tight blouses and skirts you wear make him crazy, always hugging your curves just right. Maybe his skin runs hot when he sees red lipstick stains lingering behind on your coffee mug, imagining that same mark covering every inch of his body.

He shouldn’t feel this way, he knows, he’s your boss for God’s sake– but he’s also only human; and he can’t keep resisting the call of you, the veritable siren in his office. How many more of those dark gazes of lust behind your thick, rectangular glasses is he supposed to be able to take? How many more times is he supposed to pretend he doesn’t notice the way you bite your lip as you look him over? 

Truthfully, it was an accident that you saw the lace decorating him beneath his suit– but he can’t find it within himself to complain about it. Unintentional though it certainly was, he finds himself eager to take this opportunity to pursue you. Reason and responsibility lost, he follows his deepest, most base desires– he wants to indulge your hunger for him, wants to let you consume him, body and soul. 

“Can’t both be true?” you ask as you toss the report he handed you aside and inch yourself closer to the desk, all sense of timidity within you evaporating now that he’s entertaining your blatant desire for him. “I think you’re well aware you’re pretty. I think you know you make everyone crazy,” you rest your elbows on the desk, leaning forward as you speak, “I think you know everyone wants you.”

You offer Mr. Seo your prettiest grin as you watch him swallow, his eyes traveling down to your blouse, where the top most buttons lie undone and offer him an enticing view of your cleavage. “A-And you– you want me?” he asks, slowly directing his gaze back up to your eyes; a question that is perhaps silly at this point, but that he wants the verbal confirmation of regardless.

“May I be forward, Sir?” you ask, gauging how deep his interest in you really runs, how honest you’re truly allowed to be about your desire. Your smile grows when he utters a rather meek yet eager “yes” in response. “I’ve always wanted you, from the very first moment I saw you,” you tell him candidly, “I want to kiss you, I want to touch you, and I want to see what other pretty things you have underneath your suit.”

“I-I see,” he says shakily, very nearly squirming in his seat from how intently you stare at him, the burning desire you have for him palpable. The tension is strong, and now it’s up to him to release it– with just a word, the dam holding you both back will break, the fervorous flood of lust all consuming; and despite how much he shouldn’t, it’s all he wants. 

“Kiss me, please,” his plea comes out in an airy lilt; conceding to his desires, he surrenders all of himself to the irresistible temptation. You rise from your chair, round the desk to approach him, and he watches in breathless anticipation. The few steps it takes to reach him feel so impossibly slow, and his heart feels like it’s thundering in his chest; he can even feel the sweat building on his brow as he waits for you to finally touch him after all this time. 

Placing your hand on the top of his chair, you push it, making him swivel to face you. His breath catches in his throat as he stares up at you, eyes swimming with need. Your fingertips just barely brush over the bit of bare chest peeking through the v-line of his lapels, but it’s enough to send goosebumps over his heated skin.

You hook your finger into his long, silver chain, tug on it just enough to urge him to lean up to meet you. He shivers as he shifts in his seat, has to suppress the whine that threatens to rise from his throat when your lips just barely touch his, a phantom of a feeling left behind. And make no mistake, you want him bad– but you don’t want to rush; you’ve wanted this for too long to do anything but relish in having him in your grasp.

When you return to him, you press your lips to the corner of his mouth instead of kissing him directly, leaving the prettiest trace of lipstick behind. And even despite the ardency he feels to have you, he makes no move to hurry you along; because when you finally kiss him, full and deep, it makes all the build up worth it– it’s true bliss, countless butterflies dancing in his stomach.

And truly, you intended to keep kissing him slowly– but now that you’ve felt his perfectly soft and full lips against your own, your restraint begins to evaporate. You wanted to take your time, to indulge in the sensation– but when you lick over his lips, and he eagerly allows you entrance into his mouth, you get the impression that he can’t hold himself back from his desires either. 

The kisses quickly grow messy, your hands urgently popping open the buttons of his suit. You’re trying to be careful to not rip the buttons off, knowing very well how expensive his clothes must be– but even if you did completely ruin it, he wouldn’t have found it within himself to care. He can buy a new suit, doesn’t give a shit about how much it’d cost– your lips and hands on him are far more important.

Buttons successfully undone, you push the suit off his shoulders, and he quickly pulls his arms out of the sleeves, freeing himself from the fabric. You pull away from the kiss, bring your hand to his face, trace your thumb over your lipstick lingering on his lips and further smear it over his skin. It’s a dark red, pretty mess, starkly contrasting the dainty elegance of white lace hugging his body below.

“You’re beautiful, Mr. Seo,” you breathe, utterly mesmerized by the sight of him. You trace your fingers over the scalloped edges of the lace on his chest, follow it down until it stops just above his stomach. It covers his arms as well, up to the edges of his deltoids. The bulk of muscle beneath looks so tantalizing– it’s positively mouth watering.

“Changbin,” he speaks up, and you look at him curiously, a slight smile playing on your lips. Of course, you know it's his name– it’d be astonishing if you didn’t know your boss’ full name; you’re just pleasantly surprised he wants to drop the formalities. “Call me Changbin, please– o-or Bin, or Binnie! I– I’d like that more.”

“Of course, Binnie,” you smile sweetly as you call his name, and though it’s such a simple indulgence, it makes his cock throb in his slacks. You can see it, hard and straining against the tight fabric– you’re positive it’s uncomfortable, thick as he seems to be. You run your fingers over his belt, tracing the buckle. He watches with labored breaths, trying not to squirm in his seat from the anticipation.

“What’s my name?” you suddenly ask him, and he says it in a question, brows slightly furrowing– do you think he doesn’t remember it? He pouts as he waits for you to speak again, and you giggle ever so slightly before you do. “Mhm, but what do you want it to be?” you ask and oh, fuck– you’re asking what title he wants to call you by, he realizes.

“A-Ahh, uhm–” Changbin hesitates, swallows the lump in his throat, face burning as you look him over expectantly. Fuck, everything about this situation is so unreal– but if he’s already come this far with you, why shouldn’t he allow himself further indulgences? Why not give in to what his deepest desires are?

“M-Mommy, you’re– you’re my mommy,” he finally forces the words out, face and ears positively on fire as he waits for your reaction. Oh, that’s what he likes? Your smile grows, and you sweetly caress his face, enjoying the feeling of heat radiating off his cheeks.

“Binnie needs his mommy to take care of him, doesn’t he?” your question makes him whine, nodding his head in a shameless, eager display. He’s so unbearably hot, his erection strains against his tight pants, his skin tingles as you trail your hand back down to his chest– he wants and wants and wants. Touch him everywhere, kiss him everywhere, talk to him sweetly as you go– he needs it.

Very little lipstick remains on your lips after all the kissing you’ve done, but the last traces of it end up on his neck, trailing downwards as you kiss and lick every inch of skin you come in contact with. You run your hands over his torso, squeezing him from the bulk of his arms to the soft edges of his waist, delighting in the soft, breathy whines and moans you pull from him. 

You return to his lips at the same time your fingers find his nipples, and he mewls into your mouth as he squirms, the sensation of your tugs and pinches through the lace almost overwhelming. No, it is overwhelming– but he likes it too much to ask you to do any different. And the more you play with his nipples, the squirmier he gets, his hands harshly gripping the armrest of his chair in an effort to ground himself. 

You fall to your knees, and he watches breathlessly as you press kisses over his pecs until you eventually reach one of his perked nipples. He keens when you take it in your mouth, swirling your tongue around it over the lace. He gasps when you suck on it, his nails trying their best to dig into the unyielding leather cushioning his armrest. 

“Does my Binnie like having his nipples played with like this?” you ask before you run your tongue over this other one. He whines, writhing in place as you resume pinching and tugging on the one that was just in your mouth, the lace now soaked with your saliva adding even more to the delicious friction. 

“L-Like it– like it so much, mama,” he finally answers in a shudder, voice squeaky and high pitched. He gasps when you graze your teeth over his nipple, head falling back and another loud moan drawing out of him when you gently bite it. He’s so sensitive, can’t stop himself from shivering and squirming under your diligent touch.

He moans again when you lean up to kiss him, your hand traveling down and down, until your hand reaches his belt again. “Will you take these off for me?” you ask, tugging ever so slightly on the buckle. You could do it yourself, of course, but you like the idea of watching him undress himself for you– and from the way he eagerly nods, you conclude that he likes the idea too. 

You smile at him before you rise back up to your feet and you take a step away from him, resting yourself comfortably against his desk while you wait for him to start. He glances at his door first– he knows it’s unlocked, but the blinds are drawn closed, at least; even if someone heard him, they hadn’t seen anything happening in the room. 

He looks at his windows next– tall and expansive, not a single curtain in sight; the view it affords him is normally well worth the lack of privacy curtains would provide, but when he considers how naked he’s about to be in front of them, it makes his heart race faster. But you’re so high up– surely, no one from the street will see anything.

And if someone from the skyscrapers sitting opposite of his building happens to see, well.. He supposes he’ll just have to hope they enjoy the show they’ll be receiving. Changbin rises from his chair, and with trembling hands he fumbles with his belt, doing his best to unbuckle it quickly. Once done, he proceeds with undoing the button of his slacks and pulling down the zipper. 

Given how tight his slacks are, they don’t fall down his legs just because the button has been undone and the zipper has been pulled down– he has to make a purposeful effort to remove them. He glances at you, notes how intently you watch him, ready and eager to see all of him– and that desire you harbor for him encourages him to go beyond the shyness that grips him. 

Pulling them down over the swell of his ass, the first sight you’re met with is more white lace, perfectly matching the top he still has on. Your heart feels like it’s positively going to burst from the view of his cock– short but impossibly thick, pressed down by dainty lace, leaking pre-cum and turning the otherwise pure white translucent.

Your breathing grows more labored just looking at it, and God, as if you weren’t already on the brink of drooling over him before– you absolutely need his cock in your mouth. But still, there’s more for you to see– so you sit patiently, swallowing as you wait for him to keep undressing himself for you. 

He has to bend over to pull his pants down his thighs, and his blush darkens when he notices you quite blatantly leaning to the side to look at his ass from his peripheral. There’s a glimpse of something shiny between his cheeks under the lace, and it makes you gasp with surprised delight. Changbin himself closes his eyes, trying not to let out a flustered whine when he realizes you’ve noticed it. 

A plug rests inside him, shiny steel with a pretty pink gem in the center in the shape of a heart. Has he had it inside all day? The thought makes you dizzy– and suddenly all the times he’d shivered after moving makes sense. “Gosh, wearing this to work– you’re so dirty Binnie,” you muse happily, and he whines, wishing for nothing more than to cover his face behind his hands. 

Though it’s obvious by this point that you like it, he’s hesitant to meet your gaze after stepping out of his slacks and standing back upright. But you can’t have that– so you grab his face, making him turn to you. “You’re so sexy, it’s unbelievable,” you tell him before you kiss him again, and he easily melts into it, nerves evaporating with your lips back on his.

Changbin can’t help being shy, but your desire for him makes it more bearable to push through– and the more you kiss him, the more floaty he feels. You reach behind, blindly and hastily shove everything off his desk before you turn him around, and guide him to sit on it. Neither of you pay any mind to the loud clatter the objects make hitting the floor, or of how mixed up any unstapled papers he had there will become– you’re much too absorbed in the feeling of one another.

You instruct him to lean back when you pull away from kissing him, and he listens in a heartbeat, tipping himself back on his desk. He props himself on his elbows, watches as you bring your hand to his cock, still contained by lace panties. He gasps when you squeeze it through the fabric, whines when you trail your fingers further down and press on the plug still nestled between his cheeks.

“What were you prepping for, hmm? Tell mommy about it,” you say, and again he squirms as he tries to speak, the blush on his face flaring. “I-I– Binnie was gonna–” he stumbles on his words, voice quivering, and he has to close his eyes to try to focus on getting what he wants to say out effectively. 

Waking up this morning feeling naughty, he knew he wanted to fuck himself– got himself ready bright and early, so that by the time he got home tonight he’d be nicely stretched and ready for his favorite dildo. He was going to suction it to the floor, ride it while he fisted his cock with one hand and tug on his nipples with the other, close his eyes and imagine it was someone else sweetly playing with him. 

The lingerie was to make him feel pretty– and looking at himself in the mirror before pulling his suit on, he really felt he was; he was giddy with the feeling of being sexy and cute simultaneously. He liked knowing it was there under his suit, liked feeling the lace against his skin, liked how much it contrasted the rest of his physique. 

He’s trying to tell you as much, knows even without seeing your face how expectantly you’re waiting to hear it– but he struggles embarrassingly, because he can feel your hand stroking his cock over his panties. All he can do with his eyes closed is focus on the sensation your hand grants him– so he opens his eyes again, forcing himself to keep eye contact with you as he speaks.

“A-Ahh– Binnie was gonna– gonna fuck himself,” he admits, trying not to whine from the way you pleasantly coo and smile at him. “Mommy can fuck you,” you tell him sweetly, and God, he feels like he could cum from the words alone. “Would you like that? Want my fingers to fill you up?” you ask, and he nods so fast it almost makes him dizzy.

“Yes! Please, please, fuck me, need it so bad, please–” he begs, and you coo at him as your fingers slip under his panties, once again finding the plug he has nestled inside. He lifts his legs, holds himself under the knees to make your task easier– and it’s effort on his muscles, but what has he spent so much time building them up for if not this? 

“You’re ready for me to take it out?” you ask, watching him carefully– he certainly seems eager enough, but you don’t want there to be any unpleasant surprises. “Ready, ‘m ready, do it please,” Changbin pleads, desperate to feel you inside– he wants it, needs it, more than he feels he can vocalize; but he’d certainly try his best if you asked him to. 

You kiss him sweetly, shove his lace panties to the side as much as you can manage too and swallow his whines as you slowly and carefully pull the plug out of his hole. You put it on his desk, but it rolls right off, hitting the floor with a dull thud– not that he cares about it right now; he’ll retrieve it later. All he can think about is how empty he feels now, but how deliciously your fingers will replace the feeling, and make him full again. 

He prepped himself well, was diligent in his use of lube– but you still want to get your fingers plenty wet and slick before you try to slide them in. He watches you bring two of your fingers to your mouth, utterly mesmerized by the way they disappear into your mouth, how shiny they are with your saliva when you pull them out. 

You spit on them too for good measure when you’re finished coating them, and he licks his lips as he stares at your fingers– again, he wants, wants, wants. You notice it, of course you do– the blatant yearning in his gaze, how he licks his parted lips once more, how he practically drools as he stares.

“Want to help me get them wet, sweet boy? Want them in your mouth?” you smile as you ask, amusedly tilting your head. “Or was it me spitting on them that you liked? Should I spit on you too?” “Both, please, want both,” he answers in a hurry, utterly shameless. “Is that so?” you ask with a grin that sends a shiver down the length of his spine.

“Open your mouth for me Binnie, show me your tongue,” you instruct, and he complies obediently, opening his mouth and sticking out his tongue for you. He moans when you spit on it, and again when you press your wet fingers into his mouth. He closes his lips around them, diligently swirls his tongue around your digits before he sucks.

He gags when you press them in further, the tips of your fingers brushing against the back of his throat. His eyes water, saliva pools in his mouth and dribbles down the corners, and it’s so utterly entrancing that you just have to praise him. “So good for me, Binnie’s such a good boy,” you coo, and he keens as he quickly nods his head, as if to say ‘I am! I’m a good boy for you!’

Changbin almost wants to whine when you slip your fingers out of his mouth, but then you slide your slicked fingers over his waiting hole, and all he can do is gasp and whimper. “Mommy’s gonna fuck you now,” you tell him, voice so saccharine it makes his head spin– he still can’t believe this is really happening, but he’s so happy that it is. 

He jolts when you easily slide two of your fingers inside, his cock twitching against the lace panties still holding it down. There’s very little resistance thanks to the plug that was in prior and how slick he and your fingers are, but you still take it slow, carefully watching him for discomfort. Ultimately, you sense none– all he feels his pleasure, licking over every inch of his body.

“Look at you, you take it so well,” you praise as you watch your fingers disappear into his hole, and he whines as he watches with you. He whimpers loud and pretty when you curl your fingers into his spot, his head falling back as he bites his lip. He’s trembling all over, he’s seeing stars behind his closed eyes, he can hardly breathe when you start to thrust your fingers expertly in and out.

“Feels good, Binnie?” you ask him, and God, it’s so hard to speak like this, but he does his best for you. “F-Feels so– so good, mama, Binnie feels so good,” he cries, jolting again when you spit on his hole, adding more to the wetness so you can easily add a third finger. His breath catches in his throat when it’s fully inside, his eyes rolling back as he gasps and moans.

Your eyes travel to his cock, twitching and throbbing where it lies neglected, pre-cum still steadily leaking from the tip. You stop moving your fingers for just a moment, sink to your knees and lick at his cock over the lace still containing it. “O-Oh, mommy– oh my God–” he gasps as he lifts his head back up to look at you. 

It’s such a dirty sight, and he can hardly handle the way you stare back at him through your glasses. His back bows off the desk when you start moving your fingers again, that moan that follows obscenely pornographic. He feels so hot, body trembling, thighs twitching– he’s already so, so close. “‘m gonna cum,” he whines his warning, his hands desperately grabbing at his desk as he feels his orgasm build deep in his stomach, “Please, can I? L-Let me cum, please mama–”

He whines when you stop, his impending orgasm ebbing away as you rise back to your feet. You grab his face, make him look at you before you resume the motion of your fingers– and when you squeeze his cheeks, he knows what to do. He opens his mouth for you, sticks out his tongue, obedient and eager. 

He moans when you spit on it, swallows it like the good boy he is and opens his mouth for more after. “You’re so dirty,” you comment, letting go of his face to slip your hand into his panties, and wrap your hand around his cock. You spit in his mouth once more, now fisting his cock to the same rhythm of your fingers thrusting inside and hitting his spot. 

His eyes roll back as he swallows it all, a steady stream of whimpers leaving as his toes curl. “Mommy, I-I’m–” he trembles, release so close he isn’t sure he can hold it back; he'll try if you tell him to, but– “cum, gonna– gonna cum, please, I can’t– mama, please–”

“Let go, sweet boy, cum for me,” you urge him, and he wants to thank you– but it hits him so hard, all he can do is cry. You can continue to stroke him through it, his cum releases in thick spurts, coating your hand and soiling his panties. You don’t stop until he starts to writhe from the oversensitivity, gently releasing his cock and sliding your fingers out of him as he lies breathless against the desk. 

His eyes are closed, heart racing as he lies limp, utterly exhausted from the intensity of his orgasm. You look to the floor, find the tissue box that previously rested on his desk and grab a few to clean your hand up with, as well as gently wipe away the cum that seeps out of his panties. 

Changbin smiles at you sheepishly when you wipe the sweat from his brow, and kisses you after you help him sit back up. “Are you thirsty?” you ask him, rounding the desk to retrieve your bag from your chair. You pull out a water bottle, and he accepts it graciously, thanking you after he takes a few big sips. You both giggle when he tries to stand, but quickly realizes he’s still wobbly in the legs, so you help him get dressed too.

He can't help but give you another shy smile as you help him smooth over suit, giggling happily when you kiss him afterwards. He knows he’s still fairly debauched– after all, his face is still impossibly flushed, his skin is still running hot, and there’s lipstick marks all over him that can’t easily be wiped off with a few tissues; but he likes it. 

He just hopes that no one made the decision to pull some over time– it’d save him a lot of embarrassment leaving the building if you’re the only two left. But speaking of leaving.. “Uhm– Y/N,” he calls you timidly just as you both finish re-tidying his office, and tilt your head as you hum in question, giving him your full attention. “Will you– will you have dinner with me?” he asks, the faded blush returning when you beam a smile at him.

“For business or pleasure?” you tease him, and he huffs as you giggle. “Pleasure,” he replies meekly, hoping you’ll come home with him after; he’ll return the favor then, do everything he possibly can to make you feel as good as you made him feel. “I’d love to, Changbin,” you tell him, giving him one more kiss before you link your hand in his; and he smiles at you before you leave the building together hand in hand, with the night still young and so much more fun still to be had.

network tags: @ksmutsociety

[quikyu]

Heya! I'm obsessed with your Ogerpon art and I was wondering if you have any advice for posing it? I have a comic with one and it's sometimes tricky to make her hood arm thingys work. Once again mentioning that I'm obsessed with your art and I hope you have a great day!

Howdy!! It took me a very long time to figure out how to actually draw Ogerpon so I can VERY MUCH UNDERSTAND THIS. But I'd love to teach you how I think about her cloak and its physics!

Firstly, she is SO round. Like, SO SO ROUND. It's kind of impressive how circular she is. But this is something I analyze and use to my advantage!

Looking at some of my recent art gives a nice example:

I like to emphasize Ogerpon's circular silhouette.

(But I also do a little cheating...)

See, Ogerpon's restricted in her 3d model in that her outer "flaps" must serve as her figurative hands. It makes any posing involving her holding items with both hands a little awkward, especially with coloring.

I use a trick! Most of the time, when I need Ogerpon to hold something or make a gesture, I used the inner "flaps" to do so, as seen above. It's anatomically incorrect, but who's paying attention anyway? :) It's easier to draw!

Hopefully the rest is a little simpler. Ogerpon's cloak maintains a general shape (closest I can compare it to is like... a lemon, I guess?) Honestly, I totally recommend scrolling through my blog and referencing off of my art if my style of drawing her is something you wanna replicate!

Here's a quick coloring reference I drew for this ask too :) Have fun Ogerdrawing!!!!!!

[dissociativehomestuck]

It Keeps Happening

dave's fall down the stairs in his fight with bro is an obvious reference to the first sweet bro and hella jeff comic. however i've not often seen people touch base on one key line: "it keeps happening".

at first, this line seems to be referenced only fleetingly, in how dave will continue falling down the stairs indefinitely at the end of the flash until you go to the next page. but i think there's more to it than that.

first of all, it implies that this isn't the first time bro has done this to dave. it's somewhat circular - bro pushes dave down the stairs, dave writes about it in sbahj, bro reads the comic and is motivated to push dave down the stairs once again.

however, i don't think this line is solely literal. it's all part of dave's time powers as allegory for cptsd.

so, what does "it keeps happening" mean? i'm glad you asked.

essentially, this comic is about the seemingly eternal nature of trauma. when you are in the thick of a traumatic situation, it seems as if there is no escape. you live it all over,

and over,

and over,

and over.

during the game, dave uses his powers to live through more time than would be possible linearly - three whole days. his experiences overlap and bleed together. things keep happening, and he is forced to allow them to keep happening, by threat of his life. for dave, time travel is do or die.

this idea of time travel as allegory for coping with trauma is an extension of "it keeps happening". there are multiple sweet bros, all at once, being injured in a way that parallels dave's abuse. he is unable to stop this, to do anything but just take it, while the person he is meant to trust looks on. i warned you about stairs bro!!!!

(as a side note, i don't think it's any coincidence that sweet bro and hella jeff's creation is sparked by terezi talking to dave throughout nonlinear time. terezi is, in fact, a major instigator of and guide for dave's usage of his time powers, which links these ideas further.)

[noirsdoll]

-> chain of fools

pairing: wesker / experiment!reader

words: 1.7k

tags: dubcon, master/pet dynamic, referenced self-harm, collars and leashes, kinda hybrids??, smut!!

notes: writing porn of my favs sigh.... title and intro inspired by chain of fools by arethra franklin!! ummm i want this man idc what he'd do to me yeah!!

read it on ao3

You’re just another link in his chain. 

A small, insignificant piece of metal, rusted from overuse— all it would take is a nimble pair of pliers for you to break. And for the whole chain to come apart. 

He is something so exciting, you’re like Icarus, every time he gets close is like the sun on your cheeks. It’s dizzying being around him. You’re floating, unable to realize what you’re becoming until you see the final product in the mirror. 

Wesker stands behind you, spectating your reaction, never present as much as he is observing. He’s got a hand on your shoulder, the gentle touch still betrays that inhuman strength of his. 

“What do you think?” He’s so close he could brush his lips against your temple. The proximity is nauseating. 

Your skin has taken on a greyish hue. You raise your forearms to the mirror, displaying them to your gaze and his. A myriad of raised scars. Thin reddened lines of your own making, peppered with circular markings from the needles he’s stuck in you. Like your own rendition of a Starry Night. 

You don’t know what half of the medications were. The polysyllabic words were too much for you, so you just trusted him. 

“Dear?” He asks again and you realize you’ve been staring. A long empty stare back at your own reflection, creating an infinity mirror through your pupils. 

“I feel… stronger…” The white tiles and white walls and white ceiling panels burn your eyes. Everything is melding together. Wesker’s skin is alabaster, devoid of the rosiness of life. You can see the hint of his black veins where the skin is thinner. 

He hums, logging the information. He squeezes your shoulder. The touch burns, any contact burns when you’ve had so little of it. Something is itching the back of your throat, something only he can reach. 

The hand on your shoulder goes to turn your face this way and that. A gloved hand, not latex but something equally as demeaning, slips into your mouth to spread it open. Your jaw goes along with it, baring canines that are much too sharp. 

Wesker leans in closer then, enough for his chin to hook on your shoulder. “Do you feel hungry?”

You think for a moment and then shake your head. You don’t feel hunger, you don’t feel your old emotions anymore, just this overwhelming sensation, like you’re being condensed from every angle. 

Wesker’s other hand is on your lower back. His thumb digs into the divot of your spine, you feel the protrusion just as he does. “Good,” he says, more to himself than you, “good.”

He leaves then, and you collapse to the corner of your room in a heap of limbs. 

The next time you see him, you are at his feet, both in this sprawling dark room, filled with computers and fancy monitors, the buzz of fans and the hum of the screens. 

People drift in and out, they look at you and then look away, like a prolonged stare will make them go blind. They talk to him only, about his job and many other things. 

Wesker’s adorned you with a collar, a leather one. It says something on it, you feel over the embossing with your fingers. Patient, it reads, followed by a string of numbers. In the center, there’s a thick metal ring to which he’s fastened a thin winding chain. Just thicker than a jewelry chain, it clinks as you rest your head on his thigh. 

Every second you spend with him, you feel your thoughts grow muddy. Your memories, wants, and needs all smoothed over once his fingers wind in your hair. His flesh is so cold that it stings, a soothing rush against your warm body. 

Wesker tilts his head to look down at you from his desk. His hand slips down, ghosting over your cheek until you hear the telling clink of the chain. He pulls you up, up, up just to position you in his lap. His thighs part yours, indirectly hiking up the flimsy material of your hospital gown. It’s two sizes too big, the fabric had run down to your knees. Now here you are, baring yourself to him unceremoniously. 

“How are you feeling, pet?” His expression shifts so easily from mean to smug. He is all-knowing and patient, waiting for you to find your words.

Speech comes harder and harder each time you speak, like you’re closing in on your word limit. “Good…” You squirm under his gaze, a bug under a magnifying glass. “Feel good.”

“Is that right?” With one hand on your chain, the other trails behind you. Wesker grabs the base of your growing tail. He digs his thumb into the flesh and you whine, your spine pulled straight. Your hips twitch faintly and you turn away. 

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.” He continues to massage your flesh, pleasure washing over you in waves.

You don’t feel in control of yourself, turning back to face him like you’re on autopilot. The light of the monitors shine on his face, casting him in an artificial green. They do nothing to displace his crimson eyes— they glow red despite everything.

“You’re taking well to it,” he says, looking over you, “perfect.”

The praise makes you smile, canines spilling over your bottom lip. He coaxes your mouth open, admiring them once more. Wesker leans in and drags his tongue along your teeth. He licks into your mouth before he kisses you, saliva drools down your chin from where your mouths connect. 

Wesker plays with your budding tail, so close to the curve of your ass. The feeling is indescribable. Each stroke of your tail makes your pussy preen, glistening with slick through the wiry hair. 

He kisses you like he has all the time in the world, your eyes closed as you hear rustling on his end. Then his hand stops massaging your tail just to grab the base and squeeze and your face shrivels up as you cum unexpectedly.

Your orgasm feels like it’s attacking you, you can’t get air down as fast as you’re letting it out. You’re crying out more than you’re moaning, hips stuttering, inadvertently searching for something to fill you up. 

Wesker runs his fingers through your hair, calming you, studying you as he presses the head of his cock into your dripping hole. Your nails dig into your palms, enough to draw blood. You mewl, panting openly into the silence. 

He lets you do the work, grinding against his cock. It fills you up just right, like you were made for it, kissing your cervix every time your hips meet. 

Why is he doing this? There’s so many unanswered questions when you’re around him, it feels like every pitched whine and keening motion are all anticipated—like you are a hypothesis and he’s testing his theory.

He spreads you wide, letting you lean against him as he parts you open like the Red Sea, steadily meeting each torturous grind into you. You moan, drooling all over yourself, mindless and full and unable to remember anything outside the four walls of this facility— anything other than the stretch of his cock and how his fingers dig into your flesh hard enough to bruise. 

You paw at his chest, unsure where to put your hands and what to do about the maelstrom of emotions coursing through you. Your cunt pulses with a need you’ve never felt before. This unwitting, unending subservience to Wesker, a pull as certain and assured as your heartbeat.

The chain clinks and jingles, gentle as it sits between your breasts. You can feel the cold metal against your sternum, cold like him, slowly warming from your body heat.

“Has anyone known you like this before?” He asks, eyes heavy, throat bobbing. A perfect picture of a man, not a hair out of place.

You think and think but you cannot remember. Your memories start and end with Wesker, with that white room and the needles and this collar that is as second nature as your skin.

Your answer ends up being an intelligible string of sounds and noises as you wilt around his cock, melting into a perfect puddle that he, no doubt, was expecting. You have your fill, the sudden lifts and drops of your hips have him violently slamming into your cervix. Yet, you’ve never felt more alive.

You cum a second time, lifting your hips, revealing the sodden state of his cock, coated in your cream, glazed like a donut. More leaks out of your overwhelmed cunt as you mewl and whine despite yourself.

Not needing instruction, you return to your knees and with a trembling stature, go to finish him off. His cum leaves a film of him in the inside of your mouth, it makes you feel as close to him as you possibly can— your tail flops eagerly on the floor behind you. For the first time at the facility, you feel this blooming happiness.

Wesker never touches you again after that.

You are far from perfect.

An amalgamation of various drugs and clinical trials, one of the sparse surviving subjects of the experiments Wesker has run. None of them being ethical, documented, or consensual. He’s very good at making it seem like it’s all three of those things— the only reason he does so is purely because it affords better results.

The virus strain’s growth in you is finally complete. You are something that has never been seen before. A deadly beast of limber frame and lethal strength, a mouth full of sharp teeth and unyielding loyalty. Somewhere along the line your intelligence was lost, but you are still useful.

Wesker takes samples of your blood for replication. Everything he needs for his viral research is housed in your cells. There are still problems that need to be worked out before mass production, of course. Your tendency to self-soothe, your obsessive nature, and your overreliance— more psychological aspects that can eventually be trained out of the incoming fleet.

The heavy chain around your neck weighs you down to the floor, more like shackles than anything truly restrictive— but you lay there as if your bondage is functional. Your loyalty is so intriguing. But you have served your purpose. He has you taken away to be put down.

Because Wesker desires perfection.

[lyrakanefanaticwriting]

okay so i got this ask on my other acc and although im planning on writing a separate fic with grayson and lyra in their tgg stage, i had a new idea for a fic that i really wanted to write!! 🤭

Ill Struggles - grayson x lyra

——————————————————

LYRA:

Lyra peeled off her sporty leggings and shirt from her body before stepping into the shower in her temporary bathroom, recalling what had happened just moments earlier.

Graysons lips on hers, his hands in her hair, hers on the back of his neck, and then— nothing.

Although, she was probably the one to blame, as it wasn’t Grayson who jackrabbited off the second they separated.

She shuddered in horror at her actions, before rubbing shampoo into her hair and rinsing it off. Showers were the only therapeutic thing in her life at the moment, and the warm water felt more like a hug than a mere liquid. Lyra stood in the shower for a few moments more, soaking in the heat, before she turned off the water and stepped out. She grabbed one of the towels and immediately froze at how soft it was. It was little things like these that reminded Lyra of the billions of dollars the Hawthorne family had to their name. She sighed and revelled in its texture, drying the water off her body. And then she was changing into clothes, and stepping out of the washroom, slipping in her shoes as she did.

She sat on her bed, tapping her fingers on the thigh. Alice Hawthorne. The name gnawed at her, until Lyra had to get up, walk over to the desk with the laptop that each contestant is provided in between phases of the game, and sit in the chair in front of the desk.

Opening up the laptop, she searched up the one name that hadn’t been able to leave her mind ever since it’d become relevant to her. Alice. Alice. Alice. Alice was a grandmother. She was married to Tobias Hawthorne. Her mother’s name is Pearl O’Day. That’s all Lyra could find.

But, her brain told her, latching on to one piece of the article she’d found, Pearl O’Day is still a lead. Lyra searched Pearl’s name, and after scrolling through media after media, finally found something that referenced her: “a porcelain antique lamp, donated by Pearl O’Day.”. Lyra read more. It appeared to be an auction site. Lyra kept scrolling down the site until she found the exact piece the website had mentioned earlier. It was donated two weeks ago. Which meant… Pearl O’Day was still alive.

Adrenaline coursed through her veins. This is how she would be one step closer to finding out what Alice did to her father. If anybody would know, it’d be her mother.

A sudden grumble from Lyra’s stomachs reminded her that she hadn’t eaten in a day. Lyra glanced back at her laptop, before sighing and standing up. Better to eat now than starve later. Opening her door, she stepping outside of her room, and walked down the long, circular staircase. At the end of the hall stood a kitchen. Lyra walked up to it, and then froze once her brain realized what she was seeing.

Grayson’s body limp on the floor.

His limbs were sprawled out in an awkward way, and the sight of it brought back memories of him. The broken accent. The hands that held out the calla lily and half eaten candy necklace out to her. Her father, Tomas Tommaso Thomas Thomas.

The flashback was so sudden and fervent, that Lyra had to fight back the sickly metallic smell of blood, and the feel of it sticking onto her feet. And then she was running, shouting his name as she kneeled before him.

“Grayson?” She called to him, her voice shaky. No answer. His eyebrows were furrowed, and there seemed to be movement under his eyelids. Did he pass out? Or maybe he hit his head? Lyra breathed in and out, trying to calm herself, before placing her hand under his head and immediately being hit with the heat coming off of it. Lifting it up slightly, she glanced under. No blood. Eventually, she let her hand trail back to his forehead, feeling its warmth all over his face. He’s sick, she realized, finally breathing. She went to pull her hand away, but Grayson’s hand grabbed her arm before she could. Lyra froze, staring at him as she gently brushed her hand above his brow.

“Grayson?” She asked again, softer than earlier. He didn’t reply, but his brows furrowed deeper. He really was sick.

Lyra spent too much time staring at him, at the sweat he was beginning to work himself to, at the lines of his face, before she realized that she had to do something. Slowly and softly, she patted down his pockets, feeling for his phone. Once Lyra found it, she pulled it out of his left pocket and opened it. She stared at his lock screen, which was a beautiful picture of a sunset over a lake, before feeling her cheeks heat up as she realized that this was far too personal.

She wasn’t the person who could open up his phone without a second thought. She wasn’t that person to him. She was, however, not going to run all over the house trying to find somebody to help her.

“Siri?” Lyra asked the phones robot. The robot replied, with a “Yes? How may I help you?” Lyra mulled on that for a moment. She knew she had to call one of his brothers or Avery, but she didn’t know who. Nash, she had never met, Avery was the Game creator and probably the best person to call, Jameson was… Jameson, and Xander she had danced with at the ball. He seemed nice enough, and honestly, even though she knew this wasn’t about her, the one thing that made her believe he was worth calling was the fact that he constantly wore a smile, just like Lyra’s four year old brother.

“Call Xander.” Lyra told the Siri, hoping that Grayson didn’t have some creative name for his brothers as their contact info.

“Calling Xander,” it replied. Lyra sighed with relief, sparing one last worried glance for the sick man lying beside her, before listening to the line keep ringing. And ringing, and ringing. And when Lyra was sure that he was asleep and that there was no point in continuing to call him, he answered.

“Hey-o, Gray! What are you doing up?” he immediately said, shouting loudly with something whirring in the background. Lyra immediately flinched, and was about to reply, before Xander spoke up again.

“Jameson and I are in my lab, because you know I had to beg Avery to implement a lab in the house design, just hanging out! Say hi, Jameson!” he shouted. Lyra didn’t hear Jameson say hi, but she did hear him tell Xander to “shut off the part of the Rube Goldberg that won’t stop whirring”. Uh, okay. Lyra grimaced, before finally speaking up.

“Uh, Xander?” she said, before he could go on again. There was silence, before the whirring suddenly stopped.

“You’re not Grayson.” Xander said slowly. Lyra sighed.

“It’s Lyra Kane. I found your brother in the kitchen and…” Lyra trailed off, finding her eyes going back to him yet again. “he seems really sick. He’s passed out on the ground, and won’t wake back up. Can you come?” She pressed his phone to her ear worriedly as she waited for his response.

“Yeah, yeah, of course! Is…” Xander trailed off just as she had, and she could tell he was worried. “is he okay?” Lyra mulled on that.

“Maybe not right now, but he will be.” she replied. Lyra wasn’t the best at comforting people, but the more Xander talked, the more she was seeing him as her brother. It had always been easy to comfort her brother. There was silence, before another voice answered.

“We’ll be there in a minute.” Jameson said, closer to the phone now than he had been earlier. Lyra didn’t say another word before hanging up. Somehow, her eyes always drew back to Grayson’s, and she wondered if he was fighting the deep sleep that he was currently in. He seemed to be, with his brows that kept furrowing and going back to normal, but Lyra wasn’t sure. And, well, maybe she just wanted to stare.

Lyra slowly placed a hand on his chest, feeling the heat that was coming off his whole body, and began to work his suit jacket off of him. She pulled it gently off his arms, before giving it a little tug, and yanking it from underneath him. There, she thought, now he won’t be so hot. Although, he was always pretty hot before-

Lyra cut that thought off with an expression of embarrassment before it could fully take form in her head.

“Lyra?” A voice called behind her. Lyra turned to see Jameson and Xander Hawthorne walking up to her, their strides quick and long as they walked up to their brother.

“Shit. He looks pretty bad.” Jameson swore, his face unreadable. Then he glanced behind him, staring at the living room that seemed to be a pretty close walk from the kitchen.

“Alright. Xander and I will carry him to the couch, since there’ll be no way of carrying him all the way back up to his room. Afterwards I’ll call Avery and Nash and see where to go from there.” He glanced back at Lyra. “You don’t have to stick around anymore. You should probably go back to sleep.” Lyra noticed how he used emphasis on the probably, as if it would be the smarter thing to do, but it was up to her. Lyra wondered if he was testing her from the glint in his eye, but Lyra just blamed it on her fatigue. Which, she couldn’t feel at all right now.

“No, it’s fine. It’s not like I’m going to be sleeping tonight, anyway.” Lyra said, glancing to the side as her brain sorted through what she’d learned in the Grandest Game escape rooms. Jameson just nodded, before he knelt down, holding Graysons feet.

“Hold his arms.” Jameson told Xander. Xander walked over to Grayson again, before wrapping his hands around Graysons arms as they both pulled him up. Lyra was going to walk behind them as a way to spot them in case they drop an ankle or an arm, but she decided on doing something else, and walked towards the kitchen.

Searching through the drawers, she finally found one with rags and towels. Picking one that she deemed good enough, she ran it under cold water, ringing the water out of it, before walking back over to Grayson’s unconscious body on the couch. Folding it in half, Lyra draped the cloth over his forehead, pressing it on. Immediately, Grayson’s face cleared the slightest bit, and Lyra, in all her internal struggles, forgot about everything regarding her father for a moment. Footsteps behind her dragged Lyra’s attention away from Grayson for a moment, and Lyra watched Nash and Avery approach, while also seeing Jameson and Xander share a look in the corner of her eye.

“What happened?” Nash immediately asked as soon as he walked towards the group that was huddled around the couch. Then, his eyes flickered to Lyra, and he seemed to be studying her. “Why’re you here? Were you with him when he passed out?”

“No.” Lyra immediately answered. She realized, too late, that she sounded defensive. Nash’s eyebrow raise deepened, and Lyra was quick to continue with her sentence so as not to spur the cowboy on more. “I went to go get something to eat, and found him lying on the floor in the kitchen. But he didn’t seem sick in the first phase of the Game.” Lyra furrowed her brows at Grayson. He was fine, earlier. Was he just suddenly hit with some kind of sickness? Was that even possible?

“He must have passed out from lack of sleep, or perhaps food. We all know he was spending all of his spare time catching up on work in preparation for the Grandest Game.” Avery interjected, giving Grayson’s passed out body a worried look. Lyra mulled on that. Honestly, Lyra was surprised she hadn’t passed out yet. God knows how long it’s been since she’s gotten a full night of sleep, or slept at all.

“Kid,” Nash Hawthorne said suddenly, placing a hand on her shoulder. Kid? Lyra thought. Really? “I think you should get some rest before the next phase of the Game.”

“I don’t need to,” Lyra replied stubbornly. “I’m fine with staying up.” Nash just fixed her with a look.

“Last time I checked,” He drawled, “‘staying up’ ain’t a synonym for ‘getting some rest’.” Staying up isn’t a synonym for getting some rest. Did he really think that Lyra could be easily deterred by corny made-up sayings?

“And last time I checked,” She replied, her pettiness in full force, “Kid isn’t a synonym for Lyra.” Behind her, Jameson snorted, but covered it up the second Nash gave him a look. He continued to fix her with a look, but whatever Nash saw in her expression caused him to relent.

“Listen, Lyra. Stay as long as you want, but know that you’re the only one that’s going to get the consequence from this. You need all the energy you can get for tomorrow.” He explained. “I’m not saying this just to continue with our petty disagreement. I’m saying this because you deserve to win, and I don’t want you to lose tomorrow all because you didn’t get a proper sleep.” Lyra’s brain caught on a part of his lecture: “you deserve to win”. Had he been the one to give her that note?

Lyra studied him just as he had done to her moments earlier, but she knew that he didn’t intend it in that way from the look on his face. It wasn’t knowing, or secretive. It was sincere.

“Fine,” Lyra finally relented, sighing. Nash gave her a pat on the back, before striding up beside her.

“I’ll walk ya’.” He told her. Lyra walked beside Nash and wrapped her arms around her chest, feeling the hollowness she had experienced before begin to creep back in. It wasn’t exactly what she’d found out about her father that disturbed her. It was what she hadn’t yet found out. God knows how cruel and terrible Tobias—no, Alice had been to her father. God knows how screwed she might be for complicating herself with the Hawthorne family the way she had.

But no amount of pain, or hollowness, or guilt took away the feeling that she found herself revelling in when she was around Grayson. And seeing him like that, on the floor and sick, gave her a numbing feeling that she could never even begin to put to words.

“Got something on your mind?” Nash interjected, cutting into the silence as he walked her back to her room. Lyra gave him a side-eye.

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with.” She retorted, unsure herself why she was being so petty. Nash snorted.

“Yeah, right. Believe it or not, but just because you’re a contestant in the Grandest Game doesn’t mean that you have to fend for yourself. Tell a Game master what you’re going through, and we can try and help.” He told her, his Texan accent thick. He gave her another look, but this time it was more serious. “At least tell me one thing that’s on your mind today.” Lyra had a million different things on her mind, and none of them she could admit to Nash Hawthorne. Still, Lyra sorted through which would be easiest to admit. She was never going to tell him about her father, or why she couldn’t sleep, or even begin to explain how she felt about the whole Grayson-passing-out situation, so she went for an easier one. It was the slightest bit rude, but honestly, out of all her options, it was the safest.

“These titles that you give yourselves are pretentious.” she told him, not bothering to beat around the bush one bit. A sudden laugh burst out of Nash Hawthorne, and he seemed every bit intrigued as he grinned at her lazily.

“Go on,” he told her, smiling. Lyra went on.

“I mean, seriously? ‘Game masters’? It might not seem like it to you guys, but to me, it’s honestly sounding like either a power play, or just an inability to create titles that don’t make you seem like an otherworldly being.” She explained. Nash just seemed to laugh more, and gave her a Cheshire Cat grin.

“Well, alright. I’ll take that up with Avery and em’ and see how they feel about changing up the names.” Nash said, shaking his head with laughter. “What do you propose, since “Game Master” is too pretentious of a nick name? Game Bros?” Lyra mulled on that.

“I think “Game Runners” has a better ring. It’s still similar to “Game Masters”, but there’s less of an overlord feeling to it. It’s a title that still means one who’s first in command, and still let’s everyone know that you are the “leader of games”, or whatever nonsense you tell yourself, but diminishes that otherworldly aspect that the little nickname entails.” she replied. Nash cocked his head to the side, before giving her a shrug.

“That’s not too bad of an idea. Thanks for the tip, Lyra.” he told her. And then, he stopped walking, and Lyra’s fatigue-riddled mind wondered why for only a moment before she realized she was standing directly in front of her room.

“Thanks for walking me back.” Lyra told him awkwardly, as she felt she had to say something. He replied with a firm nod, and gave her a cowboy smile as he walked away.

“G’night, Lyra.”

“Goodnight.”

Lyra waited for his footsteps to slowly fade into silence before opening her door, slipping off her shoes, and collapsing into the bed. She hadn’t realized how tired she was until she melted into the soft sheets, the mattress comfy and soft in all the right ways.

Pearl O’Day, her mind repeated. But somehow, above all that, came another voice. Another worry.

“Grayson.” She whispered. The anxiety about his state came crashing back to her, and Lyra squeezed her eyes shut. Somehow, she couldn’t stop remembered the feeling of her hand on the back of her neck. In her hair. His voice, bringing her back to the light after wading through thick darkness.

Lyra.

Come back to me, Lyra.

You will come back to me, or I will make you come back.

It was with his grounding words that Lyra felt herself slipping into sleep, focusing on a voice so close, yet so distant.

————————————

Lyra jolted upwards, her mind foggy as she tried to blink herself into consciousness.

She was dreaming— the dream, the one with her father, when suddenly, just when the guns about to go off, she hears his words.

Grayson’s.

And then, she knew. While asleep, Lyra remembered the way she saw him collapsed on the ground, and that worry pulled her out of the thick haze of a dream she was in. She didn’t know what exactly it was that compelled her to sit up. She should go back to sleep. It was only 4:13 AM. Yet still, Lyra slipped her shoes back on, brushed out her tangled hair, and padded down the hall to the living room.

Once she made it there, her eyes immediately went to the couch, and to the man on the couch.

Grayson was shirtless, with a blanket straddling his lap and one of his arms hanging off the couch. Lyra’s eyes began to travel down his body, from his biceps to his defined abs to his v-line just barely peeking out from the sweatpants he had apparently changed into, before immediately catching herself, her eyes darting back to his face with shame and embarrassment. Still, he was in a deep sleep, and Lyra was thankful for that.

She didn’t know why she was here. He wasn’t awake, just like earlier. It didn’t matter. Lyra finally turned around, ready to walk back to her room, when her knee accidentally hit the table, causing her to stumble forward the slightest bit. Lyra immediately catches herself and straightens, before seeing a metal decoration globe knock over. She barely had time to catch it when it slammed down on the table, creating a loud noise. Lyra mentally cursed herself and immediately reached to set it back up the way it was before, when she heard somebody stir behind her. Lyra set the globe down slowly, being as careful as possible, before slowly turning around.

Her amber eyes met his greyish-blue ones immediately.

“Lyra?” he asked her softly, his voice deep in a way that rang through her body as he sat up. Lyra could see more of his bare chest now, and she hated how her eyes kept begging her to give it just the barest glance. Lyra refused to though, and kept her eyes on his.

“I’m sorry for waking you up.” she told him quietly. Grayson was silent for a moment, before meeting her eyes again.

“It’s fine.” he replied. Lyra was about to walk back to her room, when Grayson’s sleep-riddled deep voice slowed her movements to a halt.

“Stay.” he ordered. Lyra froze.

“I’m sorry?”

“Stay,” he repeated slowly. He didn’t seem like he was going to continue, before he finally sighed and gave in. “please.” Lyra mulled on that, before providing herself, and her reddening cheeks, a distraction.

“Why’d you pass out?” she asked him. He tilted his head slightly.

“The doctor just said I need more sleep, and food. My brothers and Avery have been forcing me to rest, but I can’t bring myself to eat.” he explained. Jaw tight, he went on. “Food just… doesn’t exactly seem smart for me at the moment.” Lyra stared at him, an idea forming in her head, before walking off.

“Stay here.” she told him, although she was unsure where else he would go. Walking to the kitchen, she headed inside the huge pantry, and got some snacks from there on a plate. Walking to the fridge, she grabbed fruits, cheeses, and some other finger foods, before grabbing two more new plates, and filling up a glass of water. Walking back over to Grayson, she kneeled by the coffee table, putting her plate of foods down, as well as the two empty plates and his cup of water.

“I’d rather not eat all of that.” He stated, his voice dry. Lyra put two strawberry’s on the empty plate she put in front of herself, and then two on the empty plate she put in front of Grayson.

“It’s just two strawberries. I’d be more impressed if your body couldn’t handle two strawberries than shocked.” Lyra said, starting to bite at one of her own strawberries.

“Any ideas for what we’re to expect for Phase 2 of The Game?” she asked Grayson. Grayson stared back at her, seemingly searching for something in her face, before patting the spot on the couch beside him. Lyra raised a brow at him.

“Don’t kneel on the ground. It looks uncomfortable.” He stated coldly. Lyra just blinked at him, before snorting and continuing to eat her strawberry. Grayson sighed.

“Sit beside me on the couch, and I’ll eat the strawberries.” he told her. Lyra’s eyebrows raised. That wasn’t a bad offer, considering food wasn’t all that reliable of a substance to him currently. Getting up from the ground, Lyra took her plate, and joined Grayson on the couch. This time, she couldn’t stop her eyes from straying to his chest, but she darted them away before he could look at her.

“You didn’t answer my question, Hawthorne boy.” Lyra told him, her brow raised to give him an accusing look. He returned her brow raised with one of his own, his head resting on his hand, turned towards her. He almost smiled.

“I haven’t got a clue. Believe it or not, but my brothers aren’t cheats, and would never drop hints to me about what’s to come in The Game,” he said, shrugging. “I’m just as in the dark about all this as you are.” Lyra sighed. Then, remembering his offer for if she were to sit on the couch, she gestured to the strawberries on Grayson’s plate with an expectant look. Keeping his eyes on her, Graysons careful fingers reached out to grab one of the strawberries, taking a bite out of it. Lyra cursed herself as her body let out the slightest, almost unnoticeable shiver from the sudden eye contact, unable to control herself. However, Grayson’s prodding eyes noticed it immediately. Grayson, misreading the sudden shiver, took the blanket that was draped across his hips and draped it across Lyra’s shoulders instead.

“Thanks.” Lyra muttered, not meeting his eyes lest heat rises to her cheeks.

“No worries.” He said, his voice firm yet quiet. Suddenly, as if realizing he wasn’t wearing a shirt from the blanket not covering him anymore, (although it wasn’t covering his upper body either anyway) he seemed the slightest bit awkward. Lyra, never having seen Grayson awkward, snorted. His eyes immediately darted to hers.

“What?” He asked, from her sudden snort. Lyra met his eyes.

“You’ve been shirtless the entire time we’ve been talking. I’m surprised it’s only started to bother you now.” she said, laughing. Grayson looked surprised, before actually smiling at her. It was soft, and barely noticeable, but there.

“Very well then.” he replied, and straightened again. Conversation began to start up again, with expectations for the next phase of The Game, and comments on the last phase. Grayson ate the strawberries on his plate slowly but surely, and once he did, Lyra added 2 more foods on his plate, saying “It’s only 2 more. You really can’t eat that?”

Every time Grayson finished the tiny portions of food on his plate, Lyra added small bits onto hers and his, until the main platter, the one that held all the foods in the first place, was nearly empty. Lyra didn’t feel the hunger from earlier anymore, and her stomach was probably thanking her for finally providing it with something. She was sure that Grayson’s was as well.

Finally, now that he and Lyra had gotten some food in them, she couldn’t stop her mind from straying back to what she’d found out. About Pearl, and most importantly, her daughter. She didn’t know why her mind always strayed back to her father whenever she was around Hawthorne’s. Around Grayson.

“I wish….” Grayson started, before suddenly shaking his head firmly. “Never mind.” Lyra turned to him, momentarily intrigued.

“What?” She asked him in a soft tone. His eyes always found themselves straying back to hers, and Lyra couldn’t read the the expression on his face as he held her gaze.

“I wish your mind didn’t always go back to that place whenever you’re around me. I know why, but I……” he trailed off, his voice so quiet Lyra had to strain her ears to listen to his words. “I just wish it wouldn’t.” His words made Lyra immediately freeze, knowing exactly what he was talking about.

“What place?” Lyra asked, playing dumb. But she knew. Her father. A Hawthorne did this. Alice Hawthorne.

She knew, and she hated that she knew. She hated this so much. The torn feeling in her bones that wanted to pull him in and push him away all at once.

“You know.” He finally told her, his voice low. She did know. Finally expelling a breath, she turned away from him, not wanting him to have to see the look that was currently on her face.

“What do you want me to say, Grayson?” Lyra finally said, cutting into the silence, her voice no longer quiet. He looked down.

“I don’t expect you to say anything. I myself just needed to say that.” Grayson told her. Her mind began to go elsewhere, not to her father’s death, but to the kiss.

The one she ran away from.

“I’m sorry about running. I don’t even know why-“

“It’s fine.” Grayson cut into her previous statement, his voice less gentle than earlier. Lyra felt ashamed as she turned her head, when out of the blue, she feels Grayson’s fingertips under her chin, turning her head to face him.

“Lyra. It’s okay.” He told her, his voice more gentle compared to his last statement. Lyra saw in his face the self control that he was battling with. At a loss for words, Lyra licked her lips, and immediately saw any piece of it that Grayson had left crumble. He slowly pulled her closer, lowering his head. Lyra didn’t know how to feel. She didn’t know why she felt the way she did. Push him away, her brain pleaded, he’s a Hawthorne. Forget what Odette said. He could never be your Hawthorne. But still, there came another order, one that resonated in the beat of Lyra’s heart. One she heard vividly the moment she saw Graysons eyes tick to her lips.

Go on, it whispered. Why did she feel this way?

“Grayson...” She finally whispered, her tone a statement, an accusation, and a question all at once. He closed his eyes, before finally opening them again, and Lyra could see now that the icy grey blue of his eyes earlier was now stormy, a thundercloud over a grey sea. Lyra saw, in the way that he held her eyes, that he was trying to be natural, but she could see past that to the desperation in the set of his brows. His body was rigid, so rigid, but his hand was gentle as it took the back of her neck in its soft grip.

“Please,” he whispered, his hoarse voice somehow a match for his desperate eyes, “don’t run away.” And then he was lowering his head, his eyes full of questions as it held hers. But she knew what he was asking. Lyra didn’t know what possessed her to fight down any voice of reason that was currently battling with her heart. But she did. And, as her hand gripped his shoulder, feeling his muscles, she whispered, “go on.”

Grayson didn’t hold back this time. Lowering his lips, he kissed her softly, feeling her lips like it was a temporary treasure. But Lyra didn’t want slow. The adrenaline now coursing through her body reminded her of that. Lyra responded to his gentle kiss by kissing him back more passionately.

The kiss escalated, from soft, hesitant brushes, to a need to kiss deeper. To be closer. Lyra was hyper aware of every inch of skin on her body as Grayson took her waist in his hands and pulled her closer, to the point of her almost being in his lap. Lyra separated from his lips for only a moment to catch her breath, before Grayson was pulling her back, his hands circling her waist. Her body was half draped across her lap, his hands in her hair, and every one of Grayson Hawthorne touches on her body felt magical. Suddenly, Grayson deepened the kiss, his teeth gently pulling on her lower lip before he continued to kiss her breathless. His lips were starting to trail down her face to her jaw, leaving a trail of fire everywhere he touched, and-

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…..” came the sudden babbled interruption, the strangers voice confused and… familiar. Lyra grimaced as she immediately separated from Grayson, flying backwards from him on the couch, and locking eyes with Xander. Hawthorne. Oh no, Lyra thought, her terrified eyes a match for his awkward-yet-scared-yet-intrigued ones, kill me now. Xander stumbled back awkwardly, even as his brother quickly got up from the couch.

“I just wanted to come and check on you.” Xander stammered, his eyes still wide as he stared at his brother now walking away from the couch.

“Xander.” Grayson immediately started, his tone every bit the power-wielding man that Lyra had known in the beginning of The Grandest Game. “This wasn’t something you were meant to see.” Lyra grimaced again. Understatement wasn’t even a strong enough word to define that sentence. Xander eyes kept darting from Lyra’s to Grayson’s to Lyra’s to Grayson’s again, as if he was confused, yet unsurprised at the same time.

“I won’t tell Avery and the others……” Xander started, his shot-up eyebrows finally beginning to lower and the ends of his lips lifting. “But, you owe me big time, Gray.” Grayson’s eyes darkened heavily, and he told Xander something in a different language that Lyra assumed was Latin, his tone threatening. Xander replied in that same language, but his tone was high pitched and excited. Lyra had never wanted to speak Latin more in her life than now.

Finally, they both stopped and were staring each other down, or, Grayson was staring Xander down and Xander was beaming at him, when Lyra finally decided she had enough of this.

“I’m going to assume that this is some brotherly antics thing.” she said, cutting into their long and awkward eye contact. Xander beamed at her, squealing “yup!” the same time Grayson countered “no”. Lyra took that as her ticket to leave. Grayson did ask that she didn’t run away this time….. but did it count if she walked respectfully away?

“I should get ready.” she awkwardly said, darting up from the couch and away from Grayson. “Phase 2 of The Grandest Game is supposed to start today, anyway.”

“I’ll walk you to your room.” Grayson stated, ignoring his brother’s excited giggles at his words. Lyra remembered how Nash had said nearly the same exact thing as Grayson, and had to stifle a laugh, lest Grayson sees her randomly start laughing and thinks she’s a lunatic. Same people, Lyra thought, different forms.

She started walking before Grayson did, but after only a few moments, she heard his footsteps coming closer, before he was walking beside her. Lyra had her shoes on, and the outfit she planned to wear today, but he was only in socks, sweatpants, and nothing more.

“Do you only have these two outfits?” she eventually asked when they were just a couple feet from the door to her room, eyeing down his clothing—or lack of them. “A suit, and a pair of sweatpants?” Grayson sighed, giving her a look.

“Am I ever going to hear the end of this?” he asked her, curtly. Lyra snorted.

“It’s a genuine question.”

“No,” he replied, smiling ever-so-softly, “I somehow have more clothing than just a suit and a pair of sweatpants.” His words just kept reminding Lyra that Grayson was shirtless, and, when she turned around to give him a doubtful look, her eyes immediately were pulled to his chest. Lyra’s eyes were begging her to stay put on his defined abs, to gaze just for a moment more on his v-lines that were barely peeking out of his sweatpants, and the biceps on his arms, but Lyra ignored their demands, not letting her eyes linger on his chest for even a second before darting them back to his. As annoyingly long as the look at his torso felt, it was only a quick glance.

But she knew Grayson was perceptive.

So when his eyes immediately went from neutral to teasing and he stopped walking forwards to walk towards her, she knew that he could see right through her.

“Is what I’m wearing a problem with you?” he asked, crossing his arms with a teasing look. The ends of his lips lifted just the slightest bit from the look on Lyra’s face when he took a step closer.

“No,” she immediately replied, her cheeks growing red, “why would it be?” He did a small half-shrug.

“I could ask you the same thing.” he retorted, his curt voice coming back. Lyra realized suddenly that he was beginning to close in on her. She had her back to the wall, not yet touching it, but she would be if she took a step backwards, and he was only a foot away from her, his arms crossed as he stood over her.

And the closer he got to her, the more she found her eyes trailing right back to his body.

There had to be something wrong with her. Maybe it was just science that made a girl do a little double-take on a guy with some subtle-strength. But nothing seemed subtle about Grayson’s strength.

“You’re overdramatic.” Lyra deadpanned, stepping away from him and closer to the wall. Grayson saw right through her, and why she was trying to get away from him.

“You’re staring.” he replied, as he took a step forward. His tone was simple, as if he wasn’t accusing her, but just stating a common fact. She pushed down the urge to look away and instead just gave him a look, pushing past him and walking towards her door. Grayson followed her movements, taking hold of the knob before she could and opening the door for her.

“Such manners.” Lyra said, pretending to be in awe.

“Well, I’m trying to be polite as possible to you. I wouldn’t want to ruin my chances with the woman who couldn’t pry her eyes away from my chest all morning long.” Grayson retorted, testing her to see her reaction. She was sure that he didn’t get his answer from her slacked jaw and incredulous eyes, as those screamed “hello? vain table for one?”, but rather from the blush that crept up onto her cheeks. “Ah,” was all he said.

“You’re ridiculous.” Lyra stated with an incredulous laugh. He gave her a doubtful look. That only got Lyra angrier.

“I mean it, Grayson. You are. Maybe that sickness is causing your eyes to see things oddly.” He gave the slightest shrug, as if to say, “maybe”, but Lyra could see the humour in his eyes. He always could rile her up. Something about him just seemed very anger-inducing. But Lyra realized, that in her last kiss with him, and all the way up till now, that she hadn’t even thought of her father once. Was her mind straying from what really mattered here so quickly?

“What Odette said…” Lyra said suddenly, the topic changing rapidly. “About you and I being “the right disaster just waiting to happen”…” Lyra couldn’t help but trail off, as she didn’t know exactly how to say what needed to be said. But Grayson knew what she meant.

“I don’t believe it will impose a threat of any kind in the future.” he immediately shut her suspicions down. Lyra side eyed him.

“You wouldn’t, Hawthorne boy.” she retorted. He held her gaze, not speaking. Not until he finally did, anyway.

“It’s a chance we should take, no matter what kind of threats may impose,” he said slowly, causing Lyra’s heart to race, “for your father.” Lyra swallowed, looking down. He took a finger and nudged her chin upwards gently, his touch gentle, yet brief.

“We should take it.” he said, his voice more certain than earlier. We. For once, Lyra didn’t shy away from that word.

“We should.” she said, meeting his eyes. His own held hers, a million prospects of an acceptable form of justice for her father, and his unfortunate death. For once, she didn’t push down the desire to get that justice with Grayson.

Neither did she push down the determined look in her eyes that seemed to match his.

“Get ready, Lyra. Phase 2 of The Game is starting today.” he finally told her, smiling—truly smiling—as he pushed open her door. She smiled back at him.

But this time? Instead of it being like all those years ago when she was younger and had to continue playing the role of a perfect, happy lyra?

It wasn’t fake.

“Same goes for you, Hawthorne boy.”

————————————————————————

yes lyra may have gone a bit crazy drooling over graysons chest, but not enough writers in this fandom talk about it, so i figured i had to do you guys (MYSELF I GIGGLED WRITING ALL THOSE PARAGRAPHS ABOUT HIS ABS 🤭) a favour 🥰

also i can’t be the only one who thinks that lyra would like an old video of grayson when he was swimming and shirtless from like 2018 by accident. just me? okay 😢

ALSO YES I WILL EVENTUALLY GET AROUND TO THE ASKS IN MY INBOX. I HAD ONE I WAS WORKING ON BEFORE THAT A MOOT SENT ME BUT I NEVER GOT AROUND TO DOING IT BC I HAD TO WRITE THIS AND I KEPT GETTING STUCK AND COULDNT THINK OF AN ENDING AND ARGHHHHH IM SO GLAD ITS OVER

also @littlemissmentallyunstable this is kind of (REALLY) embarrassing but i DEFO looked through your entire blog to see how u finish off fics and write an ending for them bc when I tell you i was stuck… I WAS SO STUCK!!! i felt like all my endings r usually cliche and corny and BORING so yeah i had to get inspiration from the master 💋💋

[thespnreferencedesk]

A Fic Writer's Guide to the 1967 Impala

Part 1: Exterior | Part 2

Click for the full-size, annotated versions of images! Unlabeled screenshots here

The given dimensions for the four-door hardtop Impala are 213.2 inches long (17.6 feet, 5.4 meters), 79.9 inches wide (6.6 feet, 2 meters), and around 55 inches tall (4.5 feet, 1.4 meters). Its wheelbase (the distance between the front and rear axles) is just shy of 10 feet. For comparison, the Impala is about three feet longer than a modern Toyota Corolla with a 1.5 foot longer wheelbase, but the same width and height. Fully loaded, it weighs easily over 2 tons and rides low to the ground. Baby is big.

Baby is a “hardtop” Impala rather than the sedan. This means it does not have a support post between the front and rear windows. The bit of trim/seal between them is part of the rear window and retracts with it when the window is rolled down. The exterior color is Tuxedo Black, and this color is still available today. It has a faint metallic finish to it due to small suspended glass particles that catch the light.

The original plates are Sedgwick County, Kansas front and rear plates with the number KAZ 2Y5 (referencing Kansas and 2005, the year the show started). After 2.19, they switch to Ohio front and rear plates with the number CNK 80Q3. When John first buys the car in 1973 in 4.03, it has a vintage rear Kansas plate with the number RPC 45P4. In 4.13 and 11.08 flashbacks to 1992 and 1997, the front and rear plates are Kansas BQN 9R3. In the djinn dream in 2.20, both plates are Kansas RMD 5H2.

The Impala has a circular driver’s side mirror, but no passenger side mirror. Between 1.01 and 3.09, it also features adjustable spotlights/searchlights on both sides. It also has two-speed chrome windshield wipers, an antennae on the front passenger’s side, and bumper guards on the front and back bumpers.

Up through episode 3.09, the Impala has chrome aftermarket Unity spotlights mounted on both sides. Mounting instructions and a up-close view of these on a fan replica can be seen here. Note that Baby's spotlights have black handles with a thin red stripe. Turn the handle to turn the spotlight's base (up/down), and twist the handle to turn and aim the light (left/right). There is a small switch under the half-sphere part of the handle that locks the light's position.

Baby's wipers have chrome arms and have two speeds, low and high. The doors feature mounted door handles with opening buttons just below them. You push in these buttons to open the door instead of pulling on the handle itself. If locking the door by pressing the door lock button on the window sill, these buttons need to be held down while closing the doors so as not to hit the physical locking mechanism.

Unique to the 1967 are these cage-style corner lamps. They are completely absent on the '66 and different on the '68. The headlights are controlled by a knob on the dash and a high beam button down in the floorboard (pushed with your foot). These come on when the parking lights are turned on. Of the two inner circular lights, the outer one is the low beam and has a low and high filament. The inner circular light is the high beam only and comes on when the floor switch is pressed. The rear lights feature the outer turn signal, center tail lights, and inner brake lights (see below).

To the best of my knowledge, Baby has 15x7 (15" diameter, 7" width) chrome steel wheels in the front and 15x8 in the back. This particular style is currently discontinued but was sold through a variety of brands under different names. The brand Cragar refers to this style as the "Super Spoke."

Outside of the in-universe book series’ fandom, four door Impalas are not sought-after or particularly “cool” classic cars. The Impala was marketed as a mid-luxury “family” car rather than something sporty or muscle-y. Other classic car buffs that Dean comes across might appreciate the way Dean has maintained the Impala for a daily driver, but not compared to a show car. They may also find the Impala underrated, but it is not a typical "dream car" the way a classic Camaro or Chevelle might be.

Without Dean, Baby would have likely ended up used for parts for other more desirable cars. This generation of Impalas is also virtually identical to other Chevrolets like Caprices and Bel Airs. Since Baby is debadged except for the “Chevrolet” on the grill, anyone who recognizes it as an Impala would be a massive nerd.

Just like Dean.

[blearyfog]

My military brat, Jira. I wanted to design what a korean inspired shadow dragon armor would look like! For those interested, my references and explanation for it are below the cut

I mainly meshed 2 different styles for Jira's armor. To start: his torso piece and arm guards are in the lamellar armor style called chalgap (찰갑) that dates as far back into the three kingdoms era. You may recognize and compare it to traditional japanese armor as they're made similarly. Chalgap would be either made of metal or laquered leather plating strung together in a scale like look, I chose leather for Jira as shadow dragon tend to wear a lot of leather already, but I omitted the visible outer leather straps because it made it look too busy otherwise. I copied the style for his shoulder guard but in an more simplistic abstract way. I wanted to put as many sharp corners as I could for him lol.

Then secondly I referenced the circular scale like armor style called doseoklingap (두석린갑) but I omitted the fur that would peak out as that it'd be absolute torture to wear in the climate of Tevinter. This armor has flashy brass scales on the outside and are usually studded with leather plating underneath the long flaps over their legs.

[anythinggoesbutme]

Scavenger of Hearts

Jameson Hawthorne x Avery Grambs

Warnings: Implied past trauma and injury (referenced but not graphically depicted), Emotional tension and moments of vulnerability, Mentions of gun violence (non-graphic, related to Avery’s past), Brief moments of anxiety and uncertainty, Some travel-related stress and fatigue, Romantic themes and proposal scene, No explicit sexual content or graphic violence

Synopsis: On Avery’s birthday, Jameson takes her on a globe-trotting scavenger hunt filled with clues, memories, and a surprise that could change everything.

Song: “Our House” — Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young

Word Count: 3,435

Authors Note: do not let me write stuff this late at night again.. i am so sorry if it’s confusing i’m praying the ending made any sense

Hawthorne House — CDT 6:00 AM

The morning light seeped softly through the floor-to-ceiling windows of her room at Hawthorne House, casting long golden shafts across the plush carpet. Avery stirred beneath the weight of silk sheets, the quiet hum of the estate settling around her like a protective cloak. The house was still — as it always was in these early hours — but today carried a peculiar feeling, a whisper of something new waiting to be discovered.

She sat up slowly, eyes blinking against the soft light, when her gaze caught a folded envelope resting neatly atop her nightstand. The paper was heavy and smooth, ivory with an embossed Hawthorne crest faintly shimmering in the morning sun.

Curious, Avery picked it up and unfolded the note inside. The handwriting was unmistakable: neat, confident, with a hint of teasing flair.

“Good morning, heiress. Today marks the beginning of a journey you won’t soon forget. Your first clue awaits where the heart of the Hawthorne legacy beats — the library. Seek the place where knowledge and secrets intertwine. Trust your instincts; they will guide you.”

No signature. No hint of who had left it, but Avery’s pulse quickened. She glanced around the room, half-expecting to find Jameson lurking in the shadows with a smirk, but the house was silent.

Pulling herself out of bed, she padded softly toward the door, her bare feet warm against the polished hardwood floors. The house always felt like a puzzle itself — every corner holding whispers of the past, secret rooms, and hidden passageways. It was fitting that today she’d be sent on a scavenger hunt through its very bones.

The Hawthorne library was an imposing space, circular with towering mahogany shelves packed tight with leather-bound volumes. The scent of aged paper mingled with polished wood and faint traces of lavender—the subtle signature of the late Grams Hawthorne, whose presence lingered like a guardian spirit.

Avery’s eyes scanned the shelves, recalling all the times she’d snuck away here with a book or a quiet thought. Her fingers brushed over spines with familiar titles—history, puzzles, classic literature. Somewhere here was the clue, tucked away like a whispered secret.

Her heart leapt when she spotted it: an old, weathered copy of The Prince, resting slightly askew on a lower shelf. She pulled it free, fingers trembling, and as she opened to the inside cover, a thin piece of parchment slipped out.

Unfolding the parchment revealed a cryptic message written in elegant script:

“To find where time bends and secrets sleep,

Seek the chamber where shadows keep.

A cipher sleeps where the clock stands tall,

Unlock its face to unveil the call.”

Avery frowned, heart racing as she remembered the grandfather clock that stood near the back wall—a towering relic with an intricate face, rumored to hide more than just time. She approached it, her fingers tracing the delicate carvings and the cool brass hands frozen at midnight.

Carefully, she inspected the clock’s base and discovered a small panel cleverly disguised as part of the woodwork. Her pulse quickened. Sliding it open, she found a small metal disk etched with strange symbols and numbers—a cipher disk, exactly like the ones Toby had crafted during their family games.

With deft fingers, she rotated the disk, aligning symbols with numbers until a coded message emerged.

“Your wings await in the city of fog and secrets. London calls.”

A soft thrill ran through her. The games had always led them to places beyond the walls of Hawthorne House — places steeped in mystery and history. London was the next step.

Just as she was about to tuck the cipher disk into her pocket, a small folded card fluttered from within the clock’s mechanism. She opened it and smiled softly at the familiar scrawl:

“Pack light, heiress. The night is young, and adventure beckons. I’m already making the arrangements.”

Her mind buzzed with questions, excitement, and the quiet certainty that Jameson had orchestrated every detail. She glanced once more around the library, her sanctuary and the place where so many secrets had been uncovered.

The scavenger hunt was just beginning.

London, England — BST 11:00 PM

The hum of the airplane engines beneath her was a steady pulse, lulling Avery into a quiet state somewhere between excitement and nerves. London awaited — a city of fog and secrets, where history coiled in every shadowed alley and beneath every gaslamp.

She stared out the window as the city’s sprawling silhouette emerged below, gray rooftops blurring with mist, the Thames cutting a winding silver thread through it all. Jameson’s words echoed in her mind, calling her “heiress” — a reminder that this journey was more than a game. It was a step into their shared legacy, the tangled history of the Hawthornes, and the future still waiting to be claimed.

London was alive with that old-world elegance and an undercurrent of danger. Avery’s hotel was nestled near the heart of Mayfair, and though Jameson wasn’t here to greet her, the arrangements he’d made spoke volumes. The scavenger hunt had started with a subtle nudge, but now the stakes were unmistakably real.

She wrapped her coat tighter as dusk settled over the city and made her way to The Devil’s Mercy, a high-society gambling club whispered about among those in the know. It was a place where fortunes were won and lost in a single hand, where whispered deals and secret alliances turned the tide of power.

Avery remembered that night with Jameson — how they had once risked everything in this very club to reclaim a lost estate, for Jameson’s father, a man Jameson could only call a father by blood.

The club’s entrance was discreet, a polished black door set into a stone façade, marked only by a small emblem of a red devil’s tail curling around a playing card. She hesitated briefly before stepping inside.

The air was thick with cigar smoke and the clink of chips. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over velvet-draped walls and polished mahogany tables. Men and women in tuxedos and gowns moved like shadows, their eyes sharp and their smiles sharp as knives.

A waiter approached, sliding a folded note into her hand with practiced ease before disappearing into the crowd.

She unfolded it carefully:

“In the game of hearts and power,

Look where fortunes bloom in the hour.

The Queen holds court where stakes are high—

Find her throne where the aces lie.”

Her mind raced as she scanned the room. The central table dominated the floor, circled by plush chairs and guarded by attentive dealers. The high-stakes poker game was in full swing — the players locked in silent battle, expressions unreadable.

Avery moved closer, weaving between onlookers. Her eyes landed on a seat draped in deep crimson velvet—the ‘Queen’s chair,’ ornate and commanding. Beneath it, taped carefully to the leg, was another envelope.

She slipped it out and unfolded a map of Europe, hand-drawn and detailed, with one spot circled in deep blue:

“Prague awaits, where bridges and secrets entwine.”

A small card was tucked inside:

“Keep your wits sharp, heiress. The game is far from over.”

The muffled chatter of the club swirled around her as Avery folded the map and tucked it safely away. She could almost feel Jameson’s presence beside her — the quiet confidence that had seen them through darker nights and deadlier gambits.

But for now, the hunt was hers alone.

Prague, Czech Republic — CEST 3:00 AM

Avery’s breath fogged against the airplane window as the city lights of Prague glittered below like scattered stars. She’d left London behind with its smoke, secrets, and high-stakes memories, stepping off the plane into a different kind of magic—a city of bridges, ancient alleyways, and hidden histories.

The driver at Václav Havel Airport met her with a polite nod and a sign that read A. GRAMBS in clean block letters. He was older, grizzled, with eyes that didn’t ask questions. Avery offered a tired smile as she settled into the backseat, the leather cold beneath her jeans.

They drove through Prague’s winding streets, where shadows curled beneath baroque facades and cobblestones gleamed with the memory of rain. The car’s headlights cut through the fog, illuminating centuries-old statues standing guard over silent squares.

Jameson had always spoken of Prague with a conspiratorial grin, as if every bridge and alleyway was a stage for the games he loved to play. She remembered the stories he’d told her—how he’d once followed a Hawthorne riddle through these very streets to recover a missing piece of the puzzle that had haunted his father.

But now, he wasn’t here. This was her journey, her hunt—guided by his clues and his voice on paper, but silent all the same.

The car stopped abruptly at the base of the Charles Bridge. Avery stepped out, her boots crunching on the damp cobblestones. The bridge stretched ahead of her like a spine of stone, its statues of saints watching over the river below.

A folded note rested on the pedestal of the statue of St. John of Nepomuk—the protector of secrets, his face weathered by centuries of rain and devotion.

Avery unfolded the paper carefully, her hands trembling just a little.

“Where time stands still, the hour is marked,

A clock that’s more than just a spark.

Seek the face where stories chime,

A secret waits in the arms of time.”

She exhaled a slow breath. The Astronomical Clock. Jameson would have picked the most iconic—and the most complicated—landmark in Prague. Of course he would.

Avery pulled her coat tighter around her as she walked across the bridge. The night air bit at her cheeks, but adrenaline kept her warm. The streets of Prague’s Old Town lay ahead, winding through a maze of ancient buildings and hidden courtyards. She moved past shopfronts shuttered for the night, the smell of roasting chestnuts from a nearby vendor lingering in the air.

The Astronomical Clock loomed in the square, its intricate face glimmering under the streetlights. The dial’s golden details marked the passage of time with an elegance that felt almost magical.

She approached cautiously, her footsteps echoing on the stones. At this hour, the square was nearly empty, save for a street musician packing away his violin. She paused, the air thick with the scent of rain-soaked stone and centuries of whispered stories.

Beneath the clock’s mechanical apostles, she spotted a small brass plaque, tarnished with age. Its edge was loose, just enough for her to pry it up with her fingernail. Tucked beneath was another note, folded with precise care.

She unfolded it, her pulse quickening.

“Tuscany calls, where vines entwine—

Secrets sleep in hills of wine.

The game is far from over, heiress.

Follow your heart.”

A plane ticket was clipped to the note, the name Avery Kylie Grambs printed neatly on the boarding pass. Florence, Italy—departing tomorrow.

She felt Jameson’s presence in every line of that note, every turn of phrase. He’d always known how to craft a challenge that felt like a confession. And though he wasn’t standing here beside her—no mischievous grin, no teasing tone—he was everywhere: in the game, in the city, in the promise of what came next.

Avery pressed the note to her chest for a moment, closing her eyes against the city’s quiet. Then she slipped it into her pocket and turned away from the clock, her steps echoing on the ancient square.

The game continued.

And so did her heart.

Tuscany, Italy — CEST 6:30 AM

The morning air in Prague was damp and cold, a chill that clung to Avery’s bones as she boarded the early flight to Florence. She’d barely slept—her mind kept circling Jameson’s last note and the promise of the game’s next step. She could almost hear his voice: “Secrets sleep in hills of wine.”

The flight was a blur of half-awake thoughts and too-strong coffee, the horizon slowly brightening as the plane crossed the Alps. By the time they touched down in Florence, the sky had turned a brilliant blue—so different from the gray haze of Prague. She stepped off the plane and inhaled the sweet, warm air that carried the scent of cypress and old stone.

The driver—a young man with sun-kissed skin and a polite but distant smile—held a sign with her name. She followed him through the sunlit terminal, the architecture a mix of old-world grandeur and modern glass. Tuscany was already working its magic on her: a place where every breeze seemed to carry a secret.

The drive from Florence to the hills of Tuscany was a slow unraveling of landscape, each mile revealing rolling vineyards, fields of poppies, and ancient farmhouses perched on hillsides like watchful sentinels. She thought of Jameson, of all the games they’d played together—and all the games they hadn’t yet.

When the car finally stopped, Avery found herself at the gates of a small, family-run vineyard. She recognized the name—Castello di Rossi—from one of Jameson’s stories. He’d once told her about a night here, drinking cheap wine with Xander and Nash, playing poker by candlelight in the wine cellar.

The air was warm, heavy with the perfume of sun-warmed grapes. The vineyard stretched before her in neat rows, the vines heavy with fruit. A weathered stone arch led to a small courtyard, where an envelope waited on a rustic wooden table.

She picked it up carefully, her fingers trembling.

“Where hearts grow roots, love takes hold—

A secret waits in stories told.

Find the hidden cellar, the place we once played.

Inside, a treasure only you can claim.”

Avery’s throat tightened. The place we once played. She could practically hear his voice, that teasing lilt he used when he was up to something.

She made her way through the vineyard, the dirt path winding between rows of vines until it ended at a small, ivy-covered building. The cellar door creaked open under her touch, the cool air inside a relief from the summer sun.

It was exactly as Jameson had described—a room carved from stone, lined with dusty bottles and old oak barrels. She remembered the poker game he’d told her about, how he’d won and lost fortunes in laughter and secrets.

A single candle burned on a wooden crate in the center of the room. Next to it sat a wine bottle—deep red, labeled with a hawthorn flower. A handwritten note was tied around its neck with twine.

“To the girl who made me believe in more than games—

This bottle holds a promise: that no matter where we are in the world, you are never alone.

The game continues, heiress.

Santorini awaits.”

Tears pricked her eyes as she held the bottle close. It wasn’t about the wine. It was about him—always him—and the way he turned even the simplest moments into something unforgettable.

She pressed her palm to the stone wall, grounding herself. Jameson had never let her forget that life was a puzzle to be solved, but also a gift to be lived. And as the shadows of the cellar wrapped around her, she felt more certain than ever that she was exactly where she was meant to be.

The adventure wasn’t over.

Not even close.

Santorini, Greece — EEST 6:30 PM

Avery stepped off the small prop plane onto the sun-drenched tarmac of Santorini’s airport, the sharp scent of salt and sea air instantly filling her lungs. The island’s whitewashed buildings gleamed under a clear cobalt sky, perched like pearls on cliffs that plunged dramatically into the Aegean Sea.

Her heart fluttered—a mixture of excitement and exhaustion from the whirlwind journey. She clutched the small leather bag that held the notes and clues Jameson had left so far, each one a thread weaving her closer to him and the truth behind this mysterious scavenger hunt.

The driver who met her was younger this time, sun-kissed and smiling with the easy charm of the Mediterranean. He slid the car door open, greeting her with a warm “Kalimera, heiress,” before guiding her through winding streets paved in stone, the scent of blooming bougainvillea trailing in their wake.

As the car curved along the edge of the caldera, Avery’s breath caught. Below, the sea stretched infinitely, shimmering like molten glass. Blue domes and terracotta roofs dotted the cliffs, contrasting with the white walls and the endless sky.

She arrived at a small café overlooking the sea, tucked away on a quiet terrace shaded by olive trees. A note was pinned to a bottle of ouzo waiting on the table, beside a single blue hydrangea—the color of the ocean itself.

“Where the sea meets the sky in a kiss,

Look for the door that hides a wish.

Behind it lies the memory we share,

A secret kept with utmost care.”

Avery’s fingers trembled as she folded the note, eyes scanning the terrace. There, almost hidden behind a vine-wrapped trellis, was a small wooden door painted the exact shade of the ocean. She moved toward it, heart pounding.

The door creaked open to reveal a cozy room filled with old photographs and trinkets—a small shrine to moments she and Jameson had shared, though he’d never spoken of them aloud. There was a faded Polaroid of them laughing in a rainstorm, a ticket stub from a concert they’d both loved, and a small, leather-bound journal with her initials embossed on the cover.

She flipped open the journal, the pages filled with Jameson’s looping handwriting.

“To my heiress,

No matter where we wander, this game is ours to play.

Meet me where the sun sets over the sea—where time stands still and hearts find home.

Next stop: home.”

A shiver of anticipation coursed through her veins. “Home.” That word wrapped around her like a promise—and a question.

As the sun dipped lower, casting a golden glow over the cliffs, Avery sat on the terrace’s edge, the warm breeze tugging gently at her hair. The sea whispered secrets below, and somewhere beyond the horizon, Jameson was waiting.

And she was coming.

Blackwood Forest, Texas — CDT 1:00 PM

The sun had just slipped beneath the horizon in Santorini, painting the sky with streaks of pink and gold, when Avery closed the leather-bound journal and tucked it carefully into her bag. Her heart raced with a mixture of hope and nerves. The final note had led her here—to the promise of “home”—and Jameson’s words echoed in her mind: “Meet me where the sun sets over the sea—where time stands still and hearts find home.”

But as she prepared to leave, her phone buzzed—a message from Jameson. Just two words.

Blackwood Forest.

The name sent a thrill down her spine.

The Blackwood Forest was no ordinary place. Nestled deep in Texas, it was a sprawling ancient woodland bordering the Hawthorne estate—a place steeped in family lore and whispered secrets. It was where the brothers Hawthorne had often disappeared during childhood, where shadows stretched long beneath towering oaks and where time seemed to slow.

Without hesitation, Avery booked a flight. Her journey was far from over.

The plane touched down in Texas at midday, the heat of the Lone Star sun wrapping around her as she stepped into the thick summer air. A hired car awaited to drive her to the edge of Blackwood Forest, where the dense canopy of moss-draped trees loomed like a gateway to another world.

The drive was quiet, her thoughts spinning as she gripped the note Jameson had left in Santorini. The familiar scents of pine and earth filled the air, grounding her.

At the forest’s edge, a weathered wooden sign carved with the Hawthorne family crest greeted her. Avery stepped into the dappled shade, the crunch of leaves and twigs underfoot the only sound besides the distant call of a lone hawk.

She walked slowly, the soft rustling of the forest wrapping around her like a cloak. The path wound deeper into the woods, leading to a clearing bathed in gentle sunlight. There, a single leather satchel sat resting against the trunk of an ancient oak.

Inside was another note, penned in Jameson’s unmistakable handwriting.

“Heiress,

This is where stories begin and end.

Where the roots run deep and the branches hold dreams.

Find me where the wildflowers bloom, beneath the oldest oak.

Your journey ends soon, heiress. I’m waiting.”

Avery’s breath caught as she looked up at the towering oak, its gnarled limbs stretching wide and strong.

Somewhere nearby, Jameson was waiting, ready to turn this scavenger hunt into something more—a promise, a beginning.