#client side rendering

[distinguishedcomputeranchor]

Server-Side Rendering vs Client-Side Rendering – Which one to choose?

Gone are the days when websites were only static pages displaying content. In today’s world, websites are much more robust and dynamic than ever before. In fact, with the introduction of Progressive Web App (PWA), the websites now look and feel like a mobile application. Also, with the growing importance of technical Search Engine Optimization (SEO), the need to create quick, responsive web pages is the need of the hour. This makes it very important to decide which web rendering technique to choose when creating your website. We have been introduced to various rendering techniques in the past, and each has had its pros and cons. In this article, we’ll talk about the two most streamlined rendering techniques: Server-side Rendering (SSR) and Client-side Rendering (CSR).

Server-Side Rendering (SSR)

What is SSR?

Server-Side Rendering (SSR) is a technique used in web development where the server generates the HTML for a web page and sends it to the client-side to display on the browser. The HTML is pre-rendered on the server-side, making it faster to load, better for SEO, and more efficient for slow internet connections. This process also helps to improve the overall user experience and reduces the time needed for the page to load. With SSR, the server sends the fully rendered HTML to the client, which then displays the page in the browser without waiting for JavaScript to execute.

Advantages of server side rendering (SSR)

Server-side rendering (SSR) has several advantages in web development.

SSR allows for faster load times, as the server generates the HTML for a web page and sends it to the client side to display on the browser. This results in a smoother user experience and avoids the blank page flicker typical of client-side rendering (CSR). 

SSR provides better SEO performance, as search engines can easily crawl and index the content of the website. This can result in higher search engine rankings and more organic traffic.

[aiquator]

Rendering, in the context of web development, generally refers to the process of generating the visual output of a webpage. It involves translating the code, data, and other resources of a website into the visual elements that users see and interact with on their browsers.

Server Side Rendering

Client Side Rendering

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[deep-definition]

Server-Side vs. Client-Side Rendering: Google Recommendation

Discover what Google’s Martin Splitt says about server-side vs. client-side rendering, structured data, and how AI crawlers handle JavaScript. Learn SEO best practices in 2025. Server-Side vs. Client-Side Rendering: What Google Recommends Server-Side vs. Client-Side Rendering Understanding how Google processes JavaScript content is essential for modern SEO. In a recent interview with Kenichi…

[yoongihan]

Services Rendered - BC - 2/3

pairing: escort chan x femreader

genre: smut, with little plot, a lot of talking, fluffy, but there be angst in this part

word count: ~ 13.5k

warnings: sex work, smut: pentrative safe sex, hand jobs (both rec.), oral (both receiving) ; a lot of kissing, older reader, chan goes by chris, reader shorter than chris, many more 'babys' and 'yeonins' because it's chris, the most ethical escort service ever; alcohol imbibed, but no one's drunk, more discussion of insecurities on reader's part, cursing. if i've missed something, let me know.

rating: 18+/M

summary: seeking a solution to your lack of experience, you assume the process will be business-like. you're entirely wrong.

a/n: I AM SO SORRY THIS HAS TAKEN SO LONG. i swear i thought it'd take a couple weeks and i started it right after posting the first part. i don't think the final part will take as long (she says while packing her apartment to move states literally next week). thank you so much for the kind reception of the first part. there's some book discussion in this part, those books belong to their authors. i hope you enjoy it. big thank you to @moni-logues for reading this over and making sure it actually makes sense.

part one

Part Two

You wake up at some point, way too early. The sleepy realization that you aren’t in your own bedroom gives a moment of panic, but it subsides. You also realize that you aren’t currently the little spoon, or any spoon at all. There’s another irrational moment of panic, this one about him, that he’s left, that he’s gone. 

You roll as gingerly as one can toward the other side of the bed, which reveals a head of messy hair and a peek of bare shoulders. Had he ditched his pajama shirt sometime in the middle of the night? Does it matter?

Your heart rate slows though. He’s still there. 

You turn back toward the nightstand and the bright digital numbers that tell you that you are up well before any person needs to be. You get out of bed, standing to walk to the bathroom. As you do, you realize that you are sore. It’s a stupid thought, honestly. Of course you’re sore, but still, it’s surprising, and unnerving. You’re sore because you’ve had sex. 

You had sex.

You shut the door to the bathroom before you turn on the light and once you do, you nearly audibly groan at what the mirror shows. Bedraggled. The last vestiges of your makeup are smeared (even though there wasn’t that much to begin with), eyes a bit bloodshot, hair a disaster. 

You wash your face thoroughly and pat it dry. You also decide to brush your teeth. You’re not convinced a stunning specimen like Chris would even have morning breath, but you definitely do, and maybe even if you sleep a few more hours, this will mitigate the worst of it. 

When you return to bed, he hasn’t moved at all. You slide in, staring at the back of his head, wondering about the course of today. 

Will it be a sex-fest? You doubt it because you hardly think you have the stamina, even if he’s studied tantric or whatever. 

Will it be awkward? Possibly. You’ve had only a handful of waking hours with him. What will happen when there are long, non-seducing hours? Conversation had been fine last night, but this is so much time. 

Will it be claustrophobic? The hotel room is yours until twenty-four hours plus from now. That doesn’t mean you can’t leave the hotel, but does an escort want to be seen in public with his less than perfect-looking client? Does he want to be seen with you, as though you’re a couple?

You shake your head, closing your eyes despite wanting to reach out and trace your fingers along those bare shoulders. You don’t know how much time passes; you don’t think that you really fall back asleep, but you do doze some. A pleasant dreamy fog of rest, mixed up with memories of the previous evening: a pull of emotions and impressions. 

When you come back to this plane of existence, you can feel lips on your shoulder. 

“Chris?”

“You expecting someone else?” His voice is deep from sleep and glazed with amusement. You rub your eyes, by the nightstand clock you can see that a couple hours have passed since your first wake up. There’s a lazy bite on your shoulder, you shiver before tentatively rolling over to see him. 

The wild hair, the barely-open eyes, the flushed skin. 

God, he’s so beautiful. 

“Hi,” you say for lack of anything creative. “Good morning.” His head tilts to the side and sniffs once. 

“You brushed your teeth,” he accuses as he covers his mouth with his hand. “That’s hardly fair.” He starts to pull back the covers, as though to leave the bed. 

“It’s not a big deal–”

“Nope,” he interrupts, laughing as he slides to his feet and heads to the bathroom. “We have to be the same here. Equality, right?” He winks at you before entering, the door shutting behind him. 

You sigh, embarrassed now for NOT having morning breath, before forcing yourself to sit up, back resting on the headboard. You touch your hair to make sure it’s not too crazy. 

When the door opens, not more than a minute or two later, you’re already back to feeling horribly anxious at what the day will bring. He walks to your side, looking down at you. 

“Equal now?” you ask softly. 

He sets his knee on the bed, gracefully climbing on without even touching you, enclosing you with his presence. You stare up at him, swallowing as your throat feels dry. He doesn’t say anything, his eyes sparkling. He leans in, his hands pressed into the mattress at your sides. His lips find yours, a minty burst. It’s biting, the mint, but his mouth and tongue are soft and warm. It’s like sinking into a hot bath. 

“Morning,” he murmurs, lips barely a millimeter from yours. He goes back in, drawing it out, making you sit up higher, your hands encircling him by the neck to keep him close. When he breaks for air, he lets his nose bump yours before sitting back on his heels. “Sleep okay?”

You’re muddled from his kiss, brain slow to engage. “Mmmhmm.” You move again to kiss him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. You can tell he’s grinning when your lips meet his, but you slip your tongue in his mouth, curling with his. He groans, reaching to pull you on top of him instead. His hands slide along your legs to your hips, gripping tightly as you continue to taste him. It’s relaxed this morning, the tangling of your bodies. He seems not inclined to speed up, rubbing his hand up and down your back, almost in rhythm to the kiss. It’s so engrossing, being wrapped up in him, that you don’t even question when your hips start to rock against his. 

Well, the stuff you’ve heard and read about morning wood certainly is true. He groans when you thrust just right; you echo his groan, barely audible since detaching from his mouth seems wrong. 

He breathes your name against your mouth. “Hold on.”

The words eventually make themselves recognizable in your mind and you break away. “You don’t…want to…I thought guys were always up for it in the morning?”

“Oh, I am. We are,” he says quickly, as though he realizes that you’re beginning to feel ashamed by your assumptions and zeal. “But you might be sore? A little? And it’s by no means required.” He cups your face in his hands before you look and dart away. “Talk to me.”

“A little sore.”

“Thought so.” He kisses you softly, nose brushing yours before letting his head fall back on the headboard. “Breakfast?”

It’s difficult to switch from desire for him to considering desire for food. “I mean, we can do room service.”

His fingers trace along your ears before dropping to his lap. “Let’s go out. Do you like diner food?”

“I wouldn’t trust someone who doesn’t.”

He laughs, reaching out and squeezing your thigh. “That does seem like a good litmus test.” He stares at you for a second. “Want me to shower first?”

You nod slowly as you roll off his legs, sitting back against the headboard next to him. “You want to go out?”

He looks over at you, still comfortable on the bed in the twisted sheets. “Supposed to be a nice day. I figure, good breakfast, maybe we go to the park…” He trails off at your expression. “Do you not want to?”

“No, that…that sounds nice,” you mumble, eyes falling to your hands, folding back the sheet like that will make order out of chaos. 

He leans over, mouth at your ear. “Did you think it would be sex 24/7?” His whisper and breath on the sensitive skin makes you tremble. 

“I both thought too much and not enough about this weekend.”

“Meaning?”

“I worried, but tried not to imagine what scenarios might happen. I didn’t think you’d…” When you look over at him, he gives you a questioning look. “Never mind.”

“Nope, you promised to tell me. What you’re thinking.”

“That’s still in effect? I think you mastered getting my brain mushy and senseless.”

He chuckles, hand grasping your chin to turn you to him for a kiss. He lingers, enough to make you want all over again. 

“Tell me?”

You want to look anywhere but at him, but his hold on you is firm. “I wasn’t sure going out like a date was something we could do.”

He stares at you for more seconds than you wish he would. “Sometimes I’m hired as a date for events.”

You suppose if you’d given yourself a moment to think about anything you know about sex work (specifically from films and books), you would have remembered that. Hopefully no one would blame you for focusing solely on the ‘sex’ part of the occupation. 

“Right.”

He kisses you again. “You’re worried about something.”

“Do you want to be seen with me? In public?” Might as well just ask. He already knows you’re insecure about things.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he counters, fingers skimming your jaw and cheek. 

“I’m older than you.”

“I know.”

With as insightful as he’s been already, you hoped you wouldn’t have to spell it out for him, but apparently he’s making you do that anyway.

“You don’t mind being seen with me? Even though I’m…”

He kisses you for a millionth time. “A couple things. I chose to take this job. With you. That includes being seen with you. Also…” He shakes his head. “I feel like I should make you say another positive thing about yourself.” He lets his hand glide down your neck, a caress. 

“Chris…” You think for a moment before continuing, “I don’t think I’m disgusting or repulsive. I really don’t. I just know how the world sees me. And my good qualities…” He grins when you smile. “Don’t seem as admired by society as the qualities I lack. It’s not low self-esteem, but a realistic understanding of the world?”

“That seems a little like justification for not thinking you’re beautiful. And you are.”

You can’t help your immediate grimace at the compliment. 

“See?”

“Sorry, sorry. It’s…I don’t trust compliments about how I look.”

“From anybody or from men?”

Insightful as fuck.

You sigh. “Why ask when you seem to already know?”

His thumb traces along your collarbone as he answers: “I like to make sure my assumptions aren’t completely off.” He takes a moment, his touch lackadaisical. “So, breakfast…out?”

“Yes. If you’re sure.”

He rolls his eyes before cupping the back of your neck to kiss you. “Yes. I’m sure.” And he gets up to walk back into the bathroom. He doesn’t close the door and you open your mouth to question, but he pops his head out. “Feel free to come in if you need to. I’m not shy.” He winks and disappears. 

Yeah, you’re not doing that. Sex is one thing (a thing you’re still processing), but domestic daily acts together? That’s a level of intimacy you can’t fathom. 

You are combing through your luggage for something to wear when he comes out of the bathroom…in only a towel.

“All yours,” he says, going to his own bag to find clothes. 

You stare, which is silly, because you’ve already seen him two seconds ago with only pajama pants on. It’s the same thing, right?

It’s not. The towel leaves less to the imagination, and the scattered drops of water catching the light on his torso heighten your awareness. 

He glances over at you when you don’t respond, or even move. He smirks. 

You scoff, embarrassed. “You know you’re hot,” you retort when you grab your clothes and move toward the bathroom. He catches you by the arm, pulling you close. 

“Thank you,” he says softly, nose to nose with you. His fingers caress your forearm as he lets go and you mutter a ‘you’re welcome’ as you dash into the bathroom, shutting the door behind. 

–

“Is that enough meat?” you ask, not in a judgemental tone, but more in astonishment. He grins cheekily across from you in the booth. 

“I told you. I’d share if you got the pancakes.”

“I know, but…” You gesture to his plate with toast, eggs, and enough bacon and sausage for the carnivore in anyone. “It’s…impressive. Thank you. I really do hate choosing between sweet and savoury for breakfast.” You set pancakes on the spare plate. 

“Well,” he begins, setting some of his protein on your plate. “I did use up a lot of energy last night.”

You don’t have to look at him to hear the amusement and know he’s smirking again at you. 

He says your name plaintively when you don’t look up or comment. 

“I think you just like embarrassing me.”

“I think you’re cute like this.” He points at you with a fork. “You’re cute always, but especially right now.”

The meal is mostly devoured in quiet as you are hungry (you expended energy, too, after all), but you find out that Chris loves working out, playing sports with his friends, going to concerts, and cooking.

“I’m not good,” he assures you about cooking. “I’m not awful, but I’m not going to impress anyone.”

“But cooking is a skill. There are people who pretty much order out for every meal. Minus like cereal and sandwiches.”

“I still do that…sometimes.”

You laugh at his sheepish expression. “I do too. Some days after work, I’m too tired to even think about making something. It’s enough to decide what I even want to eat.”

He nods. “Understandable.” He puts another piece of bacon on your plate even though you’ve definitely eaten your quota of food for the morning. “Do you like what you do?”

“Work-wise? I guess. It’s enough for now. I can do the job, some days I feel like I do it well. But I wouldn’t say it fulfills me. Helps me pay the bills.”

“Is that okay?”

You startle when you stretch out your legs and hit his. “Sorry.”

“S’okay,” he replies simply before hooking his foot around yours at the ankle. His eyebrows lift at your expression, like he’s daring you to make a scene. “Is it okay to not be fulfilled by your job?”

“I…” His foot is rubbing your calf and it shouldn’t be stimulating, but my god, it is stimulating. “Well, are you?”

“Fulfilled?” He cocks his head to the side, thinking. “Sometimes. Sometimes I feel like I’ve done well.”

“This job?” you ask, swallowing before grabbing your mug of coffee. Chris, with another very unique trait, doesn’t drink coffee and is having orange juice. “Your…current work?”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes warm. “This job.”

“I mean…not the acting, not like specifically…a…client…but your work overall…”

He leans closer, despite the table in the way. “I know what you mean.” He waves down the server and hands her a credit card before you can even get your wallet out of your purse. 

“You…”

“My treat.” 

“Tax-deductible?”

He laughs. “Sure. Something like that.” 

You finish your coffee by the time he’s signed the check. He slips his hand in yours (he’d done the same on the walk from the hotel to the diner) and leads you back outside. 

“Anything you wanna do?” he asks. “There’s a park a few blocks away. Some shops if you’re so inclined.” 

“Is this okay?” you ask. “Us just…hanging out?”

He watches you while you both wait at a crosswalk. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know. I…I feel like I might be wasting your time.”

He squeezes your hand. “I don’t feel like that. You said that you don’t take time off from work a lot.”

“I did?”

“In your interview. I figure this can be about some relaxation as well as…other activities.” 

“I don’t want you to be bored.”

“I don’t want you to be bored either.” He gestures toward the sign that announces that you’ve arrived at the city park. “But…there’s fresh air, trees, and a used bookstore all within a couple blocks.”

“A used bookstore?”

He grins at the delight in your voice. “Fresh air first.”

It’s a nice park. People are out on a clement Saturday, walking their dogs, playing frisbee, and having picnics. Chris leads a meandering pace, stopping to pet dogs whenever the opportunity arises. You also indulge scratching behind the ears for several, getting licked and jumped on. You don’t want to think about the dusty paw prints left on your pants, just Chris’s big smile and laugh when he falls from a squat position because the golden retriever is a little too excited. 

He’s still chuckling when you offer your hand to him (the excitable dog and his owners have already moved on). He takes it and you brace your feet to pull him up. He brushes himself off, and before you can overthink it, you do the same, wiping the stray dirt from his t-shirt. He grabs your hand after a moment, lifting it up and kissing it softly.

“Thanks.”

You want to ask if he’s the top employee at his company. How could he not be, with warm eyes looking at you like you matter. How can any client go back to their real life after time spent with him? 

It’s a dream. A dream that you made happen, but still a dream.

“You’re a dog person,” you reply to his gratitude, trying to move his focus off of you. 

“I am.” He doesn't let go of your hand, but draws you toward a bench. You sit next to him, clasped hands on his thigh as he looks out at the people milling about, dogs chasing sticks. “My folks have a dog, but my life is so busy that I can’t have one now. Maybe someday.”

“That sounds nice.” You stare at his profile for a few seconds. “Dog, house, white picket fence?”

He laughs. “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know about the fence. What’s your ‘someday’? Your job sounds pretty involved.” He glances at you. 

“It’s silly.”

“Is it?”

“I mean, what I want.”

“Lies.”

You take a deep breath and turn your focus on the trees. “I want a quiet life. Sure, I’d still work, but it’s mostly at home. I have a small garden where I grow things that end up on my table. The idea that what I put effort into actually is something that benefits me tangibly. Instead of just a paycheck.”

“Don’t insult the paycheck.”

“Everything I work with is conceptual, you know? I can’t touch it, see it. It’s documents and meetings, and something posted on the internet. There’s nothing to hold.” 

“Makes sense. I like traveling, but it’d be nice to have more than a tiny apartment to come home to.” He squeezes your hand. “Want some ice cream?”

You look around, confused.

“It’s behind those trees,” he says, pointing. “Stay here, I’ll go get it. What’s your favorite flavor?”

“Surprise me.”

His eyebrows rise. “That’s a lot of pressure to put on me,” he says, before leaning close. “You trust me?”

“You seem to have me pretty figured out already.”

His brow furrows. “I doubt that.” He’s so close with his unsure expression, it’s cute. You cover the remaining distance and kiss him softly. He returns it, light and breezy. “See…I didn’t know you’d do that.”

You grin at him. “That’s because you can’t see what I see.”

The blush growing on his cheeks makes him all the more endearing. “Smooth talker,” he mumbles before kissing you again and getting up. You watch him go before looking back out at the activity. 

You can’t remember the last time you sat somewhere and people watched, without taking out your phone either to scroll or work. It’s calming. Chris, his very presence reminding you why he’s here, sets your nerves alight. In all the good and anxious ways. You worry so much about what you say or do, that in this moment, it’s nice to just be. 

“I got two that I like, so whichever one you prefer, I’m good with the reject.”

You startle at his voice, intently watching the final outcome of a boy, about ten years old, in a tug-of-war with his beagle. 

“What did you get?”

“Chocolate peanut butter, and mango sorbet.” He carefully sits next to you, a cone of melting goodness in each hand. 

“They both sound good, but I'm leaning toward mango.”

“Interesting decision,” he says, handing over the bright yellow-orange swirl. 

You take a lick of it, closing your eyes to enjoy the burst of flavor before responding to his words. “Is it? Is there some psychological diagnosis about me choosing fruit over chocolate?”

“Possibly,” he replies, leaning against the back of the bench, staring out at the clearing, still inhabited by people, dogs, and activity. “Are you denying what you really want due to some social concern that you can’t have the thing you desire?” He raises an eyebrow when you laugh. “Are you assuming I would rather have chocolate and you are appeasing me over having the thing you want the most?”

“Maybe mango sounds better than chocolate right now.”

He scrunches his nose. “Unlikely.”

You laugh again at his mocking disbelief before enjoying several more bites of the sorbet. “Did you study psychology or sociology in school?”

“Neither. There was a gen ed intro class I had to take. It was cool.” He offers his cone to you. “You have to try it, to know if you made the right choice.”

The familiarity of sharing ice cream with someone you met yesterday is not lost on you; how strange this entire experience is. So you lean over to taste and it is really good. You offer your cone. 

“Equality, right?”

He chuckles and tries the mango. 

“I don’t regret my choice,” you say when he goes quiet, either pondering psychology classes or chocolate over mango. 

“Hmmm,” is all he gives you. “I can’t complain. This is really good.” 

You smile at his apparent glee for ice cream, and how the sun shines on his face, highlighting his skin, casting shadows of his eyelashes on his cheeks. 

The smear of chocolate by his lips. 

“You…you have…,” you begin, gesturing to the mark. 

He doesn’t look embarrassed, but leans toward you. “Can you get it?” 

You wipe it with your thumb, offering the remnants to him without much thought. Then you see his eyes spark when his lips touch your skin. There’s a light scraping of his teeth and the ice cream feels less like an enjoyable dessert and more like a precursor to something else. 

When he draws back, your eyes are glued to his mouth, your thumb still proffered in supplication as you’re frozen.

“It’s melting,” he says softly, nodding toward your ice cream cone. You blink and focus  on the sorbet, eyes straying back toward him after a little bit. “So…do you want to go to the bookstore after this?”

Your thoughts are definitely not on books, or shopping, or anything public. You don’t answer, unable to figure out how to say what you want. 

He says your name, drawing your gaze from what’s left of your sorbet to him. Does he know? Can he tell?

“I don’t want to go to the bookstore.”

His eyebrows raise. “No? Um, there’s…” He pulls out his phone, you assume, to look up what’s around. “There’s a farmer’s market several blocks away. And–”

“Chris…

He glances over. “Yeah?”

You take a deep breath, channeling whatever confidence you have in everything but sex. “I’d like to go back to the hotel.” The confidence lasts just the duration of the sentence, and you look away immediately.

“Yeah? Why?”

Your head turns so fast, because you can’t believe he might be oblivious, not after last night, but he’s grinning widely at you, those beautiful brown eyes heated. 

“You like making me spell things out, don’t you?”

“I do. I like how flustered you are about the very reason you hired me.” He stands up, waiting for you to do the same. “We can finish on the way.” 

He chats the whole way back about when he was growing up in Sydney, but you can’t really focus on his actual words. Just the rolling sound of his voice, the accent in full effect. You’re thinking too much, as per usual. Worried, as usual, about how you’ll perform. It doesn’t seem to matter that everything last night went way better than you could have hoped or imagined. Your brain doesn’t allow you to relax, to take in the evidence that you can ask for this, that he might want to even if it is why you hired him. 

When you two are waiting for the hotel elevator, ice cream wrappers discarded in a street bin, he bumps shoulders with you. 

“Where’d you go?” 

“Into the twisted, thorny mire that is my brain.” 

He laughs and kisses you without warning. It’s almost perfunctory, natural and domestic. “Your brain sounds like the part of the Sleeping Beauty cartoon, where the prince has to hack his way through the huge vines into the castle.”

“That. With no castle or end in sight. And probably a bit grimier.” 

The elevator doors open and you both enter as he is still chuckling at your description. “Grimier?”

“Yes. The cartoon seems too clean, you know? That much plant life would be dirty with soil and insects, and that mossy loamy smell.” You lean back against the elevator wall as the doors close. “Maybe swampy too.”

He’s still grinning when he turns toward you, lips finding yours in half a laugh. The relative privacy allows you the freedom to slide your hands around his middle, pulling him close. He’s cosily warm; the ice cream has left you a little cold and his natural temperature banishes that chill. He deepens the kiss, his tongue tantalizing. Your head falls back against the wall as the elevator dings to announce its arrival to your floor. He pulls away, hand slipping into yours to drag you toward the long hallway. 

It feels both interminably long in distance as you stumble after him, but also short because…sex…again. With him.

How does most of the world’s population consider sex to be a normal (albeit enjoyable) thing?

Once you’re both inside the hotel room, he looks at you with that raised eyebrow. 

“What?” you ask, wishing your missing boldness would not be missing. 

“I’m half-wanting you to just pounce, I guess.”

His smile softens the sharpness of your nerves. 

“Just half?”

He moves close, not touching you, waiting. “More than half…what’s got you looking so wide-eyed?”

“Nervous.”

“Why?” At this, his hand comes to your cheek, careful. 

“I guess I thought, you know, having sex once would make me less awkward about it.”

His eyes soften. “Once would make you a sex goddess?”

You make a face at the absurdity. “I didn’t say my thoughts made logical sense.”

His hand molds to your cheek and jaw. “It’s okay to still be nervous. And it’s okay to be awkward.”

You know you’re pouting, but you can’t help it. “I just…I want to…enjoy and for you to enjoy.” Your face heats at that last part. 

He dips his head so you can’t look anywhere but at him. “I do. I will. And I’ll tell you if I’m not and we’ll try something else.” His thumb pulls lightly at your bottom lip. “Trust me?” 

“I do…” If you think too deeply about it, it’ll worry you how much you trust and admire this man, after less than twenty-four hours of knowing him. “Really, I do. It’s more me, than you.”

He lets his lips brush yours delicately, as if inviting you to make the decision to add pressure and intensity. It’s so lovely, like the touch of a rose petal. You cover his hand on your cheek with yours and lean in, prolonging the kiss. His arm curls around you, pulling you flush against him. Using his hold on your face, he angles your head, shifting from a quiet kiss to hot and wet and shiver-inducing. 

“Wanna try something new?” he whispers, lips still touching yours with the question. 

“Um…”

He draws back, still holding you because he rightly knows you might try and run away. 

“Like…?” 

He bumps noses with you, teasing. “I have a feeling you already know what you want to try.”

Your eyes narrow. “Why do you make me say everything?”

“Cause you need to. So it’s clear,” he replies, unbothered by your frustration. “It gives you the power. This is your weekend, baby.” He dives back in, the kiss as stubborn as he is. You melt against him, wishing you could be absorbed by his heat and scent. “What do you want?” It’s as though he addles your brain on purpose, just to ask questions like that. 

“Orgasm,” you breathe.

“Sure. How?” His head drops to suck a mark on your neck, making your fingers dig into his arms. “You can say it.”

“Your mouth.”

He lifts his head. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Never mind that you know you’re flushed from saying it. “Do…you…mind it?”

The smirk is devastating. “If someone…in your future, tells you they don’t want to…dump that person. Immediately.” He maneuvers you to the bed, chuckling at your inability to walk normally. He sits you down, so your feet are planted on the floor. 

“You’re overestimating my dating life,” you finally say. 

He cocks his head to the side, regarding you before dropping to his knees. You swallow, hard. 

“I think, if you truly wanted to date, you could. Successfully.”

“Have you met people, Chris?”

He laughs, resting then sliding his hands along your thighs. “I have and I stand by what I said.” He presses one kiss on your knee before starting to undo the button and zipper of your shorts. “Why wouldn’t someone want to date you?”

You’re so focused on where his hands are, how he’s slipping off your shoes and socks. He massages your calves idly, like he’s barely thinking about it before tugging off your shorts. 

He says your name when you don’t reply. 

“I’m not answering that,” you breathe out as his hands map your legs.  “It’s like you asking for me to say something nice about myself yesterday.” 

“Lay back, baby,” he says, rising up on his knees to kiss you softly. “We’re back to the color system, okay? Red if it’s too much, or not good. Or if you don’t feel safe. Yellow to slow down, or change. Green if you’re out of your mind with pleasure.” His smirk makes your eyes narrow in mock-annoyance. “I really want it to be green.”

He kisses your bare knee before trailing his lips up along your inner thigh. 

“Yeonin?”

You make some sound in response. 

“You gotta relax.” You feel him cover your hand which is clenched tightly in a fist (you didn’t even notice) and carefully undo the curling of each finger. “You’re supposed to enjoy it.” He has that amused thread in his voice. 

“I do. I am.”

His fingers slot with yours. “Deep breath.”

You do as he instructs, and your muscles relax with the exhale.

“Good girl.”

Oh.

“Hmmm, I figured,” he says softly, lips back on the inside of your thigh. There’s a nip and a soothing touch of tongue. As he gets closer, you try not to squirm, but it’s impossible. He lets go of your hand to hold your hip down. “Easy.” Then you feel his mouth on the gusset of your underwear.

The noise you let out is humiliating, but you cannot be appalled at yourself because holy shit. He chuckles, and you can feel the vibrations in your core. He hooks a finger on the fabric, his finger brushing your swollen and sensitive and wanting cunt. You whine as he pulls the clothing down your legs and off. His hands slide back up your thighs, thumbs barely brushing you there.

“Chris,” the whine is more pronounced. “Please.”

“So polite,” he says, his breath fanning out on your clitoris. It feels like an eternity, his fingers digging into your skin, breath heating then cooling, before you feel his mouth. You’d levitate if his hand wasn’t so firm on your hip, keeping you on the bed. A slow lick, excruciatingly slow. He hums, sending vibrations again, this time more intense before his lips enclose over your clit and he sucks. 

You are forming words, you think, but you might be nonsense as well. There’s ‘Chris’ and ‘More’. 

“As you wish,” he answers one of those ‘more please’s with that low voice, full of provocation and fondness. His fingers, first one then a second, slip in, curling up and proving how much attention he pays as he finds the exact spot. You shudder and his fingers retreat; this time you whimper.

“Not so fast, baby. It needs to build for a bit.” His explanation in no way makes you not wordlessly complain the next two times he does the same thing. He checks in with you, asking for your color, and saying the word ‘green’ is its own kind of torture as breathing is challenging. Your hand is in his hair, twisting, tightening. He’s laughing, but when you raise your head to actually see him, his eyes are black, pupils blown out, and you’re sure the image of him looking at you while giving you oral will be seared in your brain for fifty years. 

Then he doesn’t back off or relent and you are sent beyond this mortal plane, the experience not old hat to you, the pleasure prolonged as he continues until you come back to yourself, breathing heavy and fingers releasing their grip on his tousled hair. He lifts his head, hand patting your thigh and wiping his mouth with the back of his other hand. When you stare at him, unable to speak, he climbs onto the bed to lay next to you. 

“Verdict?” he asks softly. You pull him to you, kissing him messily, trying to rid him of his shirt at the same time. He obliges, tossing his shirt to the floor before cupping your face in his hands to kiss you deeply, apparently not in a hurry like you seem to be. 

“Good,” you finally speak, breath somewhat back to normal. “So good, god, Chris…” You don’t know what to say, how to phrase how much this means to you: to be given pleasure so freely, that he cares enough to get you off with no expectation of reciprocity. 

But you want to reciprocate. You start to undo his jeans, and you don’t notice that he’s only smoothing your hair, pressing soft kisses on your cheek, forehead. 

“You always want to rush,” he murmurs as you shove down both jeans and his underwear. It’s not a protest, his dick definitely isn’t saying no, but you look up at him even as you take him in hand. 

You want to say that time is limited. That it’s less than 24 hours till he leaves, a part of that has to be dedicated to some sleep as you can’t function properly to get yourself home if you don’t. You have to rush because you don’t have any guarantee that you’ll get to experience this again.

And not with him.

So you say nothing, denying a realization of feelings that are better looked at tomorrow, when you���re on your own. 

“Can you get a condom?” he asks, his voice strained as you explore his length, intrigued by how hot it is, how delicate the skin, and how stiff. “Please?”

You meet his eyes with your own smirk. “Now who’s being polite?”

His lips twist. “I’m always polite.” And he gives your nose a peck. You ignore the flutter of your heart at such a small gesture, letting go of him to grab a foil packet from the box. You roll it on him, squeezing carefully. 

“That okay? Green?”

He huffs a laugh, face flushed and glowing with light perspiration. “Green.” He wraps his hand around yours and starts to press the head to your entrance. 

“Like this?” you ask, not sure why side by side, facing each other is shocking to you. Sex always seems like one person is above, the other below. There’s something even more intimate about this.

“Yes?” He smiles. “Okay?”

You nod as he slips in, your earlier orgasm allowing the breach much easier than last night. You clench instinctively and he slides a hand down your side to your leg, lifting it so it’s slung over his. The angle changes and you gasp.

“Better?” He tips your chin up to capture your lips again as he draws back to thrust. You grip his shoulders, lost in the feeling of his cock moving against your walls, the rhythm of his tongue with yours. You don’t think (not much anyway), drowning in the sensations of heat, sweat, sharp inhales and exhales. He whispers compliments, words you don’t really comprehend, but with his accent, the timbre, you think it’s poetry. 

His fingers bring you to completion before he lets go and comes himself.

Chris props himself up on one elbow once you both get your breath back. He’s giving you that sleepy grin, self-satisfied (you can’t be mad at him…he should feel satisfied) and content. He moves a piece of your hair out of your eyes. 

“Still green?”

You snort then laugh. “Yeah, if I had strength I’d give you a high-five.”

He holds up his hand and with effort you smack it, making him giggle. “That’s a first for me.”

“Never been high-fived?”

“Not after sex.”

“Pity.”

He falls to the mattress next to you, eyes never leaving you. You stare back, breathing mostly normal now. 

“It was good for you, too?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You aren’t sure?” He scoots closer, nuzzling your shoulder, leaving a kiss. 

“I mean, it sounded like it was good. But…I guess I want verbal confirmation.” 

He moves even closer so your faces are inches apart. “Yes. It was great even.” He kisses you without heat, only sweetness. He rolls to his back, looking up at the ceiling. “It’s early.” He glances at the nightstand clock then at you. “Any thoughts on how we can while away the hours until dinner?”

There’s nothing to hint mischief in his voice, but you still think he might be angling for more of something. You want to, but you’re also a little shaken by what’s just occurred. That he wanted to, did, and did so with skill. 

“You did say there was a bookshop?”

If he’s disappointed, you can’t see it in his face. “To add to that stack over there?” The books you brought have not moved a millimeter since yesterday.

“One can never have too many books.”

“Nerd,” he teases, clasping you by the jaw to turn you toward him for another kiss. “We’ll get dressed and go then. Maybe you can recommend something for me.” He dwells on the kiss, lips tasting yours. He pulls back as your eyelashes flutter open. “Hmm…though…” 

You go still entirely when you feel his hand rest high on your thigh. “Chris…”

“You can have three,” he says easily. “Should tide you over until after dinner, yeah?” When his fingers find where you are sensitive, you shudder. 

“I don’t think…” Surely you can’t again. He’s gentle, attuned to your workings so well that it takes a light touch, circling and pressing. 

“Sure you can. Just a little one.” 

With a kiss, he muffles your sharp exhale when your stomach drops yet again and the spread of pleasure tingles through your body. 

“A goddamn menace,” you huff out as he squeezes your thigh. 

“Yeah, you’re really upset about it, I can tell.” He slides out of bed and into the bathroom without another word while you’re prone for several minutes before hauling yourself up to gather your discarded clothes. 

–

“Oh, it’s lovely,” you say reverently when he slows you down in front of the bookstore. You were so intent on avoiding the two teenagers on skateboards that you missed it. 

He opens the door and you enter into tall, overstuffed bookshelves. It’s not a big space, but every inch of it is used. There’s a small counter and till to your right, and the clerk nods in greeting. You nod back, reaching for Chris’s hand and tugging him toward the fiction section. “You said to recommend something.”

“Yeah, I have a job that I have to fly to, so I’ll need something to pass the time.” If he notices your falter at the mention of another ‘job’, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t ask, though the morbid side of you wants to, if it's this kind of job: creating intimacy with a client, a stranger. You tell yourself it could be a legitimate acting job, but it punches you in the chest anyway. 

“What do you normally read?” you ask with a steady voice. You stop in front of the Bs, pulling out a copy of Wuthering Heights. “Want a great presentation of badly-parented children that grow up and treat each other horribly?”

He chuckles. “That’s such a sales pitch.”

“It’s a pretty copy, though,” you say, sliding it back on the shelf. 

“I read more nonfiction.” He sees your expression. “I know, it’s boring, but a lot of it has been acting methodologies. To expand my skills.”

“Would you prefer nonfiction?” You run your finger along the spines, stopping on familiar surnames. “I have a few I could recommend.”

“No, no way. Give me something that’ll suck me in.” He comes up behind you, resting his chin on top of your head, arms around your waist. 

“Okay…more recent, or stuff like this,” You gesture to the books in front of you. “Classics?” You lean back into his embrace, savoring. There’s a long list of moments from this weekend you want to carve into the stone of your memory. This is one. 

“Uhhhh, maybe more recent. I’m not that smart.”

You sniff, covering his arms with your hands, holding him close. “That’s ridiculous. And besides, there are multiple kinds of intelligence.”

“There are?” You feel his words in your hair as much as you hear them. 

“There’s a theory that there are nine, and less than half are what would be considered academic.” You pause. “Sorry, I get a little ranty about stuff like that. You know how there are people who are so good at reading others, registering their emotions and how to empathize?”

“My mate, Felix.” He’s so sure. “He’s very affectionate, very aware of how to care for his friends and those around him.”

“Yes, exactly. That’s its own intelligence. You can be an astrophysicist, but cannot walk into a meeting with any awareness of the people around you. Two types of intelligence.” 

“So all that to say?” His words are shaded with repressed humor. 

“I’m going to find one classic and one more modern book for you.” 

You feel him kiss the top of your head. “So generous.” And he lets go. “Am I allowed to find something for you?”

You turn to him. “You want to?”

“If you trust me.”

“Absolutely.” 

Your confident response visibly surprises him; he blinks then that devastating smile, complete with dimples, appears. He drops his head to kiss you before disappearing down another aisle of books. 

You wander along the classics first, considering what you know of him, what story might immerse him. It’s easier to focus on that than on the job he’ll work after you. 

You have no idea how much time passes when Chris finds you in a corner, legs crossed and seated against the shelves. There’s a stack of five books next to your knee as you leaf through one. He squats down in front of you and waits until you notice him. 

He chuckles when you jolt at his presence. “I thought you were only recommending two?”

“This is my short list,” you reply indignantly at his amusement. “You might go and play sports with your friends, but I read when I have free time.”

He plops down across, offering you one book. You reach out to take it as he speaks.

“I’ve not read it, but I know the author wrote a book I liked as a kid. And I read the first page? I don’t know…I thought it sounded a bit like what you were talking about at the park. A simple life.”

A Circle of Quiet by Madeleine L’Engle; a memoir of her time at her family’s farmhouse. 

“Oh this sounds lovely.” You clutch it to your chest. “Thank you. I didn’t even know she had nonfiction.” 

“Glad you like it…” He looks at the books. “Do you need help narrowing down?”

“No. I think I’ve got it.” You pull two and hand them over. 

“Okay, I’ve heard of Frankenstein…why that one?”

“It’s a good book that happens to be a classic. It’s not terribly long in case you are intimidated by the older language. And it’s very different than any movie that has Frankenstein in the name.” You tap the other. “The Talented Mr. Ripley–”

“Also has a movie or two.”

“Yes, but I thought, with you being an actor and that’s basically what Tom is doing, you might enjoy it. It’s a series, so if you do like it, there’s more. Though it’s really dark, so I don’t know if you are into that.” You start to second-guess yourself. “Nor is it that recent…It’s from the fifties. Give it back.” You reach for it, but he holds it out of your range. 

“No. These are the ones you picked and I’m intrigued.” He shrugs. “I also like that neither is like, Game of Thrones-sized.”

“You read those?”

“God, no. I thought about it when I watched the show. Then saw the number of books in the series and the page numbers and decided: not for me.”

“If you like fantasy, I can–” You start to scrabble off the floor.

“Yeonin…I’m happy with these. Thank you.”  He doesn’t say anything for a second, smile still bright. “Want to browse more? Or should we go get a drink before dinner?”

“You don’t drink.”

“I don’t, but there are some really good mocktails out there.” He stands up, holding out his hand for you. You take it, letting him pull you up with ease. 

You bend down to gather the books that you pulled in your pursuit of finding some for him, and start to put them back. He doesn’t say anything, but shadows the retracing of your steps, humming something you don’t recognize, but is comforting. When you're done, he plucks the L’Engle book out of your hand and heads toward the till.

“Chris…” You hurry to follow. “Don’t you…Christopher.”

He turns at that, surprised. “Oh, good thing you don’t know my full name if this is all it takes.”

“If you’re going to buy my book,” you say as the clerk takes the stack he holds. “I should buy yours.”

“No.”

You actually harumph. “Then I’m paying for dinner.”

He opens his mouth, says nothing, then closes it. “We’ll see about that.” He thanks the clerk, who seems amused by the both of you. He hands you the brown paper bag. “You can–No, I can’t even let you do that. I’ll carry them.”

You huff, “You’re ridiculous.”

He grins at you, holding the door open. “I’m okay with that.”

You wait for him to step alongside you. “I’m certainly fine with drinks, but do we need to change for dinner?” You were in what you’d put on this morning: shorts, a soft and fluttery blouse. He was in jeans and t-shirt (it sounds simple, but the way the t-shirt fits him is illegal). 

“I meant to ask. Did you want to go fancy?” He stops you both at a red ‘don’t walk’ light.

You think about it, noticing how your arm is almost touching his, thinking maybe you should take his hand again, stay in that moment for a bit. But you feel his gaze on you as the light changes and you both make your way across the street, so you don’t, trying to remember his question. 

“I don’t feel like you could fit a suit in that one bag of yours.”

“You really are fixated on me in a suit.”

“You put that image in my head,” you reply, enjoying his grin. “It’s really your fault.”

“Sure it is. I do not have a suit, though I could probably do a bit better than this, if you wanted to?” He looked down at himself before switching the bag of books to his other hand and taking yours. He does it so easily without a concern or second-guessing. You wish you could have his confidence.

“I didn’t pack my ball gown.” 

“Pity.”

“I’m okay with wherever, really. We’ve already established neither of us can do spicy, so I trust whatever you decide on.” You laugh. “I think I just like not having to make a decision.”

“You can make the decisions later,” he says so casually as he leads you to a bar, more tavern, but a bar. You almost stumble at his words, the implications of later sending a wave of heat through you. It reminds you of the decision he’d coaxed out of you an hour or more ago. 

You’re so flushed, it’s like you already had spicy food. 

He squeezes your hand and pulls you into a stool at the long curved wooden bar. The bartender hands you both a menu which includes food, but you flip to the cocktails while Chris looks at the ‘zero-proof’ section. You smile over the top of the menu at him.

“What are you smiling for?” he asks, not even looking up. His observational skills are off the charts. 

“No reason.” How can you tell him that every detail about him makes you smile? You wouldn’t have minded if he did drink, but the fact he chooses not to strikes you as admirable, and cute. 

You are so far gone on him, it’s concerning. 

The bartender comes back to take your order: for you a rosemary gin fizz and for Chris, something with papaya. 

“Thank you for the book, again.”

“I hope you like it.”

Can you ask for some sort of contact from him? So you can tell him what you think once you finish it? Can you ask for a phone number so you can hear what he thinks of his books?

But you signed a contract about confidentiality. You could request him again if you wanted to have another weekend, night, hour, but this truly had been a venture and dent in your financial security.

You’d be so tempted to use every cent to see him as much as you could.

“I’m sure I will.” You can’t look away from him, happy to soak in the brightness that he radiates. 

“Stop.” He laughs at you.

“You’re handsome, Chris. I can’t help it.” It’s nice to be on this end of the teasing, to see the red in his skin, the duck of his head and glancing away of his eyes. 

“Please stop.”

“Fine,” you sigh in mock-exasperation.

He looks back and grins before resting his hand on your thigh. Your drinks are delivered and there’s a swapping to try the other before settling and discussing favorite books read in school. During the entire conversation, he doesn’t stop touching you in some form. None of it is inappropriate (you almost wish it was, a little), staying in the realm of casual and affectionate. 

But you are so stirred by it. You’ve spent years seeing how your friends and their partners interact in public, and casual touch is a thing you envy so much. The reassurance of someone’s presence by you, always. 

Chris is saying something about Fahrenheit 451, and your eyes are welling up with your everlong internal monologue. 

He says your name, interrupting himself. 

You shake your head. “Sorry. Thoughts.”

“Gonna share them?” 

You sort of want to. Because nothing you’ve revealed to him has backfired; he has not shamed or chastised you for being open and vulnerable. 

But these thoughts put a burden on him, a possibly very unwanted burden. They shove your feelings and wants and needs on a man who is only next to you to fulfill a contract. There is no longevity in this transaction. 

You’re lucky he turned out to be as wonderful as he is.

You shake your head again in answer to his question. “Not this time.” 

He looks skeptical, but lets it pass, before asking if you want another cocktail. It was exceptionally good, but you don’t want a buzz from any substance. He’s enough. You’re also a lightweight with spirits and you don’t want to hinder any part of tonight. 

He nods and asks for the check. You protest again, and he smiles winsomely as he hands the bartender his credit card.

“Can I buy dinner then?”

He sighs dramatically. “You make it very hard to properly court you.”

You laugh at the old-fashioned word. “Is that what you’re doing? I feel like I’m already very wooed.”

He shrugs, signing the receipt before standing up, hand out to you even though sliding off a barstool does not require assistance. 

Like you’d deny yourself the chance to hold his hand. 

“So,” you begin, curling an arm around his as you move into the nearly-gone sunshine outside. “What’s for dinner, since we’ve dispensed with the fancy?”

He leads you across the street, his other hand resting on your arm that’s tucked into his. Perhaps ‘courting’ is the correct word. 

You wish it was an autumnal day, with chilling wind so you could have an excuse to burrow into his warmth even more. 

“Hotpot?” he says, stopping in front of a restaurant with that in its title. “I never go to these with friends because they get it so spicy, but I figure, you and me…”

“The non-spicy ones.”

He laughs and opens the door for you. “I like that. The non-spicy ones.” 

You’re directed to a table, and you’re chuckling as Chris explains to your server that, basically, you want the blandest option they have. He, your server, looks unimpressed by the both of you. But the food is delightful, and filling, and not too spicy, though it does come very close to your threshold of tolerance. 

You both drink a lot of water. 

Dessert is bingsu three doors down from the hotpot restaurant, with strawberry and chocolate. He playfully smears some chocolate sauce on your lips, giving you no time to lick it off before doing so himself as though he’s reminding you how easily he can turn you on.You don’t need reminders, but you enjoy them. 

Which leads you back to the hotel, and your room, and the bed. 

He sits on the end of the bed, leaning back on his hands with a glint in his eyes. “So…you said something about lingerie last night.”

“After that dinner?”

He smirks. “You think that’s gonna matter?”

“Of course I think that’s gonna matter,” you argue, hands immediately going for your stomach which is…quite full. 

He rolls his eyes and gets up, helping himself to your suitcase. 

“Chris!”

“You can’t tell me you have lingerie and not let me see you in it. You aren’t that cruel.”

You had felt very optimistic when you’d bought it, but that positivity is fleeting and currently absent. 

He pulls it out, finger-hooked in one of the shoulder straps. “Wow.” He looks at you. “Please?”

You try to argue again, but it’s hard to deny him anything, not with heat in his eyes, and a pout on his lips. 

Taking the garment from him, you squat down to grab the second piece, the bottoms, and he doesn’t move away. 

“You don’t have to put those on.”

Bashfully, you look up at him. “No?”

He shrugs. “Just saying.” He winks and walks over to the window to look out. “Up to you.”

“He says after begging for me to put it on.”

“Begging?” He turns to see you heading to the bathroom to change, but you waver at his tone. “You haven’t seen me beg…do you want to?”

“I…” You’re completely at a loss. “Do I?”

His smile verges on the arrogance of a smirk. “Maybe.”

You hurry into the bathroom and assess yourself as well as the lingerie. It’s difficult to see yourself as attractive to someone you find attractive, but surely with the evidence of the past day, you can accept that Chris does, on some level. And all things that are attractive can be enhanced with something pretty: makeup, a perfectly wrapped present, a book with sprayed edges. 

You repeat these mantras in your head as you undress and pull on the lace and satin. It’s a fairly simple piece, not in the realm of scandalous according to your friends who helped you pick it out. But as you remind them, and yourself, your deep end is not others’ deep end. You adjust the top, so it fits and holds in what it needs to hold in. 

You assess again, full view in the mirror. You tidy up your leftover makeup, and accept your hair (you can’t work miracles) as is. 

Deep breath. You look fine.

You open the door, and peek out. He’s still by the window, the city lit up below him. He makes such a lovely silhouette that you forget what you’re supposed to be doing (what are you supposed to be doing? A grand reveal? Should you say ‘tada’?) and walk out fully into the room. 

He turns.

“So…yeah.” Not much better than ‘tada’. 

He doesn’t say anything, but comes over. The silence of the hotel room is deafening. You fidget because he doesn’t move quickly at all. You also look everywhere but at him. So when his hands take yours (and cease your fidgeting), you’re staring at his socked feet before allowing yourself to look up. 

You regret taking no photos of him because his face is art. 

“It’s okay?” you ask as he still hasn’t spoken. His eyes travel, feet to the top of your head, down each arm to your fingertips and back up to your neck, then face. 

“‘Okay’ is not the word I’d use,” he says, voice in that lower octave that makes you shiver. 

“Above average?”

The corner of his lips lift in amusement. “A bit more than that.” He takes a step closer, his hands releasing yours and settling at your waist instead. He leans in, mouth at your ear. “You look extraordinary.” 

You blink at him as he draws back, the word reverberating in your mind. You choose to believe him, actor or not. You choose to accept his admiration and desire. 

And enjoy it. 

“Thank you,” you reply. His answering smile is proud (of you, you think, for not dismissing the compliment) before he kisses you, his fingers tightening against the satin. You lean into him, convinced that kissing him for decades wouldn’t be any sort of difficulty, would never get old even as you and he got old.

Oh. That thought does not need to be chased. 

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, mouth parted from yours. “Did you want to try anything new tonight?”

Do you? You’ve liked everything, and you know there’s a whole gamut of positions to be explored. Probably most beyond your imagination. 

But.

“I want–” You swallow as your throat is a bit dry. 

“Tell me.”

“I want everything we’ve done. Again.”

He half-laughs. “All of it?”

“Yes, please.”

He’s kissing you, laughing against your lips as he maneuvers you to the bed. He pulls you onto his lap, his hands sliding underneath the hem of your top, finding your skin. There’s a slight roughness to his fingers, grazing that makes you quiver. With hands in his hair, you kiss him as deeply as you can, tasting, tongues playing. He groans when you roll your hips, subconscious as your body works to quiet your mind. You do it again, feeling how hard he’s become in minutes, the friction almost too harsh for the thin and delicate fabric you wear. 

You want and crave, and break away to start on the button and zipper of his jeans.

“Baby,” he whispers, lips pressed to your shoulder and collarbone. “You first…”

“Can I…? Can you show me how to…suck you off?”

It’s his turn to blink, to take a moment to comprehend your question. “You wanna…fuck, yeah, of course. But in a minute, okay? I need to taste you first.” With hands spread on your back, he moves so you're lying down beneath him. His hands slip to your underwear like he’s going to take them off, but he pauses.

“What is it?”

He’s staring at you, specifically that underwear. “I’m always so grateful for lingerie. It’s the best thing.”

You try to hit his arm as he starts to giggle. He dodges you and drops down to press an open mouth kiss right to your clothed core. Your hips buck and he pushes them down. 

“You know I’m gonna drag this out, yeonin.”

It’s such a tease, to get his mouth, but have something in the way. To feel the heat and the wet, but not fully. 

“Christopher…” There’s nothing but whine and need in your voice. 

He hums, sending pleasant vibrations against your sensitive skin. 

“Please…take it off.” He may still be holding you down with his hand on your hip, but you can squirm, desperate to be closer, to have more. 

“I thought you wanted me to beg.”

“Chris…” It’s plaintive and without shame. 

He acquiesces and the sodden underwear is removed. But there’s not an immediate return.

“Fuck, you really are dragging it out.” You lift your head to see him watching you with all the arrogance someone as gifted with his mouth could be. 

“Maybe I like hearing you curse.” He leans back down, but kisses right below your navel, one hand finding purchase on your thigh. “Maybe we need a lesson in delayed gratification.”

You cover your face with your hand. “You seemed so nice till now. What if I write a complaint letter to the company?”

He moves up so he’s face to face with you, his expression stern. “That a threat?”

“Maybe.”

He drops his head to kiss under your jaw, near your ear. He bides his time, sucking the skin in just the right spot. You moan wantonly, unable to keep your hands twisted in the sheets, seeking his shoulders and arms to cling to. 

He’s still dressed.

You pull at his shirt when he finally withdraws from your jaw, undoubtedly leaving a mark (you know you’ll look at it in the coming days, remembering). He indulges you, removing his t-shirt so your greedy hands can caress the bared skin. But he doesn’t stay put, returning to where he’s left you so wanting.

You feel his breath at your entrance.

Your next ‘please’ is broken and without sound. 

When you feel his tongue glide up to your clit, you are gasping nonsense into the quiet of the room. He sucks and licks lazily, taking breaks whenever you feel the imminent high. You curse several more times, words catching when he adds his fingers to coax the build even more, curling inside you as his mouth reengages. 

And finally, finally, you break, pleasure throbbing and pulsating. 

He doesn’t stop when you come down from it.

“What–what are you–”

“You can give me another.”

And you can, to your surprise. It’s almost like an aftershock of the first one, remnants of bliss sweeping through. 

Only then does he lie next to you, wiping your essence from his mouth. Minutes go by as you come down. 

“So, do you still want to–” He doesn’t finish his question because you’ve rolled over, one leg over his hips so you’re straddling him. You go back to that button and zipper of his jeans, ignoring his hands trying to do it himself. You tug down his jeans, pulling them off before climbing back on top of him, palming his cock.

“Fuck..wow, okay.” He props himself onto his elbows as you discard his boxer-briefs as well. You wrap your hand around him, thumb at his tip, a little shaky. “You can use–” You cut him off again, this time when you bend down to lick. “Holy..fuck…yeah.” You look up at him, sucking the head before sliding down to take in more of him. You think what he says next is another curse, but you don’t recognize it. “You said to teach you…”

You slide off. “Wait, it’s good? It’s…well, it’s not much different than having a popsicle.”

He falls back, laughing bewilderedly. “I guess that’s not wrong…but–” 

It’s really quite fun to stop him talking with your mouth. 

He gives you sparse instructions (‘hands where your mouth can’t reach’, ‘suck harder’), but when his dick hits the back of your throat, he pulls you off.

“But…”

“No,” he states, reaching for a condom. “I won’t last much longer if you keep that up. Damn, you were good.” He slides the condom on in record time, then places a pillow under your lower back. He pauses when you cup his face in your hands, needing his mouth. He sighs at your kiss, his tongue entwining with yours, his hands gripping your thighs, moving them so they’re wrapped around his hips. Still kissing, he pushes in; it’s still a stretch, but it doesn’t jolt you. It feels:

“Decadent.” 

He retreats slightly. “What?”

“You feel decadent,” you say, uncaring that you’re breathy and needy. You trace along his shoulders and chest. “Hedonistic.”

He doesn't say anything, sheathed entirely in you, letting your body adjust to him. You’re smiling, eyes half-open; your ability to filter eradicated. 

“I always think of decadent…for like, sweets.”

You rub noses with him, delighted. “A very very excellent dessert, Christopher. Can’t stop from having another bite.” You punctuate this with a nip on his neck, causing him to shudder. He pulls out of you to thrust back in. You’re wrapped around him, hooking your ankles together at the small of his back. “So. Fucking. Good.” Staccato, nearly in time with his thrusts. You clench when he lifts your leg to his shoulder, the angle changing. “Oh god.”

“Almost there, baby?” he pants out, the drag of his cock along your walls making you to tense even more.

You nod frantically, seeking any skin to kiss, bite, taste, your hands scrambling for purchase on his back, nails digging. His works your clit, fingers practiced and you feel the drop in your stomach chased by the spread of elation through your limbs; you feel drunk and you force your eyes to stay open, watching as he thrusts faster. You smooth his hair as he stutters, spilling into the condom; his weight heavy on top of you. 

You draw your index finger up and down the middle of his back, relaxed and sated. 

Eventually, he lifts his head, setting his chin on his hands that rest above your breasts. You wonder if you both wear identical sleepy smiles and tired eyes. 

“Hi,” you whisper into the quiet of the evening. 

“Hi yourself.” He raises his head just enough to meet your lips before returning. “Am I too heavy?”

“No. Feels good.” You let your other hand drift down to the curve of his ass. He jumps at your grip. “Very good.”

He chuckles. “Not so timid now. Confident woman.” He takes a deep breath, words a little slower. “Wanna shower with me?”

You’re hesitant, but the looming deadline of this escapade is making you bolder, so you say yes. To have Chris wash your hair, his big hands massaging your scalp…shoulders and back with a loofah…

Still decadent. 

“So…since you seem like the expert.” You soap up his hair, returning the massage. He rests against you, his back to your front and you use the shower wall to hold you both up. 

“Hmm?”

“Shower sex? As sexy as it sounds in books or is it an accident waiting to happen?”

You wish you could record his gleeful laughter, uninhibited. 

“Um. You have to be really careful. Would recommend bathtub mats.” He turns to you, your hands still in his hair. “Is that a suggestion?”

You can’t help it, you glance down to see he’s already half-hard.

“Wow. You were half-asleep ten minutes ago.”

He leans close to you, kissing you softly. “You can’t beat the clean up when you fuck in a shower though.”

Now you’re laughing, then gasping because he’s slipped his fingers into you, mouth on yours. You don’t protest, you just hold onto his shoulders as your muscles tighten and tighten–

He swallows your moan, holding you up as you tremble. When you can stand on your own, he moves you both under the spray of water. He tilts his head to you, rinsing it, and you shakily run your hands through his hair to rid it of the shampoo. He flips it out of his eyes before reaching to turn off the water, but he freezes when you encircle his dick with your fingers.

“You don’t have to–”

“Easy clean up, right?” It’s empowering to feel how he stiffens at your touch, how stroking, gently squeezing works him into short breaths and his head thrown back. You keep playing with him as you eliminate the distance between you, mouth to his neck, sucking and licking.

“Fuck…I’m…”

It’s messy, but the shower washes it away. He slumps against the wall, energy depleted. He opens one eye to look at you. 

“Very confident.” 

The shower is turned off, and you both wrap up in towels. You rub his hair dry, smiling at its wildness. He tugs your towel off in retaliation, and makes a plea for you to sleep naked with him. 

“Or the lingerie?”

“I can’t imagine that’s comfortable to sleep in,” you retort, still naked, but pulling on your pajamas quickly. He’s pouting on the bed, your towel in his hand. You plop next to him, toying with his towel, wrapped around his waist. “But feel free to sleep naked.”

He makes a not-really-chagrined face at you before finding his own pajamas. Teeth are brushed, your hair is somewhat dried, and you both are in bed with the lights off. The dark and quiet take over. You look at the clock on the nightstand, time continuing to move toward his departure. It hits you again, in this moment, how much you like this man.

Chris drapes his arm over your middle, curling closer. “Good?”

“Yes, good…good night, then.” You work hard to not let any tell-tale emotion into your voice, and though you have been more open with him in these two days than anyone outside of your closest friends, you are adept at hiding how you feel. It’s a way of surviving and that’s what you need right now.

He nuzzles you. “No kiss?” The playful teasing lilt to his voice has you hesitating, but you turn your head and kiss him, languid. “You’re really good at that.”

“Kissing?”

“Mmmm,” he affirms. “I like kissing you.”

You swallow, shoving down the incessant ache of feelings. “I like kissing you too.” You can barely see in the lack of light, but you know he smiles at you. You can sense it, attuned to him. 

When his breathing seems to slow, you turn away carefully. You don’t move his arm from your stomach, but you don’t cover it either, lace your fingers with his. Half your brain is saying, ‘do it! Take this moment, this affection and enjoy it. You’ll never have it again!’. The other half, the stronger half that is built from the past, experiences and disappointments, doesn’t yell. Doesn’t need to. The voice is unrelenting and mocking; ‘don’t enjoy too much, because when he leaves tomorrow, you’re gonna hurt. You absolute idiot, you’ve gone and fallen for him. Keep as much distance as you can, because maybe then you won’t be devastated tomorrow in an empty hotel room, in your empty home.’

You hate that voice, the one that tells you the truth. You didn’t think there was danger of actually becoming attached to a man you hired for sex. Yes, sex produced oxytocin which gave anyone cuddly feelings, but this is no longer about the sex. You’re more devastated by the warm smile that wasn’t trying to seduce, the laugh, the hand-holding while walking in the park, the furrowed brow when you talked about books he hadn’t read. The compliments that had nothing to do with your looks, the compliments that did. 

You feel your eyes burn with impending tears, but you force them back and down. There will be time for that tomorrow. When you’re back home, in reality. 

–

It’s hazy, the sounds you hear. Rustling, movement. Something being zipped opened or closed. Then there’s a soft kiss on your forehead. 

“I’m gonna go grab some coffee, okay?” whispers, soft and low. You mumble something before hearing the door. You blink open your eyes to see that it's very early, before seven.

Seven.

When he arrived.

You bolt up in bed (it’s not quite that as you’re still seventy-five percent asleep), nearly falling as you scramble to the bathroom. He isn’t exactly paid by the hour, but you bought two days, forty-eight hours.

That forty-eight is over in fifteen minutes. 

You wash your face, brush your teeth as quickly as you can, then stumble back out into the bedroom, wondering about changing. Do you want Chris to see you in just your pjs as his last image of you? You are really overthinking this. It’s not cold, but you slip on a soft sweatshirt for coziness. You open up your purse for chapstick, a regular morning routine, and as you do you see the small stack of business cards. Your business cards. 

You rarely use them. You aren’t much good at promoting yourself and your skills, even worse your workplace. But the employee handbook insists on having them, so there they are in your purse, metaphorically collecting dust.

You look at Chris’ bag, unzipped, open. 

Surnames are not shared from the company, for confidentiality purposes obviously. You do not know his. He does not know yours. You imagine that during an engagement, assignation, whatever one calls this, the escort or the client could share their last name, their actual place of work, their town or city, anything that grounded them in actual reality. 

But Chris never offered his. You aren’t about to cross that line and ask. 

He might not want to know. He might not feel anything close to what you’re feeling. It’s his job. He might be incredibly good at connecting with his client every time, and you’re only another client. 

But you’re bad at letting go. 

So you drop one business card into the open bag. It could never be found, crumpled after several re-packings for his many trips…his many jobs. 

But you’re no good at letting go.

You hear the sound of the key card scanning and the door opens with Chris, dressed in a black henley and dark jeans, his hair as fluffy as air-drying makes it. He smiles to find you sitting on the bed, hands clasped in your lap. He offers you one of the two to-go cups.

“Morning,” he says as you take it, dropping his head to kiss you softly. 

“Good morning.”

He tilts his head toward the large window and seating area. “Come.” Your hand finds his as you walk over to sit on the couch, looking out at the waking city. 

“What did you get?” you ask, gesturing to his cup. “Since you don’t like coffee.”

“Tea…I need something this morning,” he replies, shooting you a wink. The reference to last night’s activities and their endurance normally would embarrass you, heat your skin and cause you to drop your gaze from him, but you stare at his profile as he looks out the window, your mind full of saying goodbye. He takes the lid off his cup and blows on it. He glances at his watch. 

You wonder if he’s as hyper-aware of the dwindling minutes as you are. 

“Do you have a break before your next job? Or is it all work, no play?”

He half-grins, looking over at you. “Do you really want to know?”

He’s got you there. 

“Do you get enough time off?”

“I do. If I don’t, my friends make sure I do.”

“They sound lovely.”

“They can be.” He sets down his tea, leans toward you. “You good this morning?”

“Of course.” 

“I thought of waking you when I woke up, but I figured you needed your sleep?” He rests his hand on your knee, much like the first night, but so different from the first night. “I’m sorry we can’t–” He tilts his head to the side in apology, his silence filling in the rest of the sentence. 

“Having coffee…or tea with you in the morning for a few minutes is really nice.” You don’t know if you can explain to him how much of the non-sex parts of this weekend were as meaningful and special as the rest. Is that appropriate when so much of his job is sex?

His hand molds to your knee. “Yeah, it is.” You can feel his gaze as you sip your coffee, doctored like you like, which means he paid attention yesterday at the diner. 

Of course he did.

“Chris…” you begin, unsure of what to say. “Thank you.”

He waits until you meet his eyes before nodding. “You’re welcome.” He takes your cup from you, setting it on the table and cups your cheek in his hand. “You’re very welcome.” 

You try not to lean into his kiss too much. You try to memorize how he feels, tastes, smells; to tuck it away in your memory bank like an old photo album that you can look through from time to time. You savor for as long as it lasts. 

“So…is there a place that I go to, like Yelp, and leave a good review?” you murmur when he draws back.

You get his laughter, the bright sound of it, the image of shaking shoulders and eye-crinkles. Something else to add to that album.  

“I think the company does contact you with a survey.” His eyes sparkle when he looks at you, before he reaches for his tea. 

“It’ll be glowing.”

He shakes his head, amused and maybe a little embarrassed. That rosy hue highlights his cheeks and twists your heart in ways you don’t want to think about. He is the most devastating man. 

It’s quiet for a few, you sipping your coffee, him his tea. Then you hear him check his watch when something beeps. 

Seven am.

“You have to go,” you say before he can. He glances up from his watch, looking at you. You smile, probably tinged with sadness, but it’s a real smile at least. “Be safe.”

He doesn’t move as you do, to stand up. To walk him to the door and bid him goodbye. You walk to the bed, unmade and haphazard. You zip up his bag as you hear his footsteps follow. He’s very close when you hold out his bag. 

He takes it, but lets it drop to the floor before pulling you into his arms. He’d be a good hugger too, of course. You hug back, hands splayed against the breadth of his back, the ribbed henley scratching your fingers lightly. 

“You be good to yourself, okay?” he whispers in your ear. He draws back only a little. “Say a nice thing about yourself every once and awhile.”

You look up at him as he traces his finger along your eyebrows and nose, seeming to take you in. 

“You too.” 

He smiles at you, kissing your nose then your lips. You let go and he grabs his bag. He pauses at the door, looking back at you, then nods before opening the door and disappearing through it. 

You let yourself fall back on the bed the moment the door shuts. You don’t think you’ll be able to move for a while.

--

© yoongihan 2025. please do not steal, translate, repost, or whatever. stray kids belong to themselves and all idols used in this piece are just the inspiration for characters and do not in any way reflect the actual humans. 

[poisonsage808]

Play Pretend

Jinx x Reader

warnings: you work for madam margot— that means you’re a sex worker. there's no sex but it's mentioned so if that’s not for you then please don’t read! (some) established relationship, pretty fluffy ngl

She was always adamant she knew what fucking was and how to do it, even though you never asked. Madam Margot affectionately called you a quick study, said it was a very useful skill, you never pressed on sensitive subjects. It ruined the mood. Jinx, however, was more of a friend than a client. She still paid for your uninterrupted time, often getting more of it so as to not ruffle feathers of her Chem Baron, Silco. He and Margot did not get along, and he liked you even less when he learned where Jinx's stipend was being drained.

She brought it up again today, joking about the birds and the bees. Her eyes fluttered here and there, hands fussing with the belongings around the room. She’s too jittery, you noted but didn't dare bring it up.

“We don’t have to do that, you know.” You assured softly, patting the empty space next to you.

Her braids tangle at her feet as she spins around, throwing each step awkwardly towards the bed.

“I know.” Her voice was quiet, a word you didn’t associate with Jinx.

“You... do have me curious, though.”

Her head lolls backwards as she laughs, flopping on the silk sheets beside you, “I have that effect on people. Go on, ask away!”

You lay on your side, head propped up by your elbow. Jinx’s smirk fades and her eyes begin to drift away from you again. You decide to mimic her instead and lay on your back, looking to the ceiling. A gesture she appreciated, you can feel the tension evaporate from her almost instantly.

“Why do you keep wasting your money? We don't have to hangout in a stuffy room when we go go enjoy the stuffy air outside.”

She makes a pfft noise with her lips like she’s annoyed. With a speed you weren’t prepared for, suddenly kicks her leg over yours. Hovering over you, she's at last able to hold your gaze. Her big blue eyes hold enormous sincerity but her brows are pinched in concern. Your amused smile flees from your face, replaced by your own worry.

"What's wrong?"

She shakes her head, teetering the edge of frustration, "You still don't get it."

"I want to," you whisper like it's a secret, "I just need you to tell me."

Slowly, so carefully slowly, your hands rest on her cheeks. The desired effect works instantly, Jinx's eyes shut and her body drops on top of yours. She mumbles into the sheets that you're a witch, making you laugh lightly. You can feel her smile against you as your hands relax on her back.

“I like you, dummy. I don’t know why, but I do... And I know if I buy your time, you have to pretend to like me too.”

Your heart twists uncomfortably tight.

"Jinx--"

You turn your head and find yourself nose to nose with her. The speech you'd made so many times in your mind shrivels up at the sight of her, words die on your tongue. Before you can try and summon them back, she renders them useless by crashing her lips against yours.

[brunettemarionette]

hello :) could i ask for headcanons (separate) for how the guys from SOA (anyone you want :) i was thinking about Jax Juice Tig and Chibs but feel free to add or remove) would react to reader sketching them as they work on cars and bikes? i picture like darling reader working at the TM reception, no client is there and she really wants to practice her drawing skills so she just starts sketching the closest guy she can see? and maybe the guy notices or maybe sees the sketch in some way :) bonus point if said guy has a crush on her heheh thanks :)

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞���

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ― female reader. no description of features. no mentions of size, race or age.

🇲​​🇦​​🇮​​🇳​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​ 💜​🇸​​🇴​​🇦​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​

𝗝𝗮𝘅 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

At first, he doesn't notice. He's too busy working on a Dyna, hands covered in grease, muscles flexing under the shop lights. You're sitting at the reception desk, sketchbook in hand, quietly focused.

He finally catches on when he comes up to grab a beer from the mini-fridge near your desk. As he leans over to snag one, his eyes drift to your sketchpad, and he sees a detailed rendering of him—brows furrowed in concentration, wrench in hand, looking effortlessly cool.

A cocky smirk spreads across his face. "Damn, darlin'. You been staring at me that hard?" His tone is teasing, but there's a definite glint of interest in his eyes.

He picks up the sketchbook, studying the drawing closely. "Shit, you're really good. Got me looking like some biker model."

Totally milks it. "If you wanted a close-up, all you had to do was ask," he adds with a wink.

He keeps bringing it up. Whenever you have a pencil in your hand, he jokes about "posing" for you—flexing a little harder when he knows you're watching.

If he's got a thing for you, he low-key asks Chibs or Opie if he should ask you out. And then he starts paying way more attention to how he looks when he works, knowing you might be sketching again.

𝗖𝗵𝗶𝗯𝘀 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Doesn't notice at first because he's deep in concentration. He's fixing up an old Harley, cigarette between his lips, brows furrowed. You think he looks perfect like this, so you start sketching.

Eventually, he glances up and catches you staring. He raises an eyebrow, smirking. "What are ye up to over there, lass?"

You try to hide the sketchbook, but it's too late. He walks over, wiping his hands on a rag, and gently pulls it from your grip.

His reaction? Pure admiration. "This is… bloody hell, lass. This is fantastic." He runs a finger over the page like he's afraid to smudge it.

Super touched that you chose him as your subject. "Didn't know I was a muse, but I like it."

If he has feelings for you, this moment cements them. There's something about seeing himself through your art that makes his heart clench.

"You should keep drawing me," he murmurs, giving you a look. "I like the way ye see me."

𝗧𝗶𝗴  ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

The moment he sees the sketch, he is dramatic.

"Oh my God, you're obsessed with me," he gasps, clutching his chest like he's been hit with an arrow. "I knew it."

Absolutely hams it up. Starts posing ridiculously, one foot up on a stool, chin tilted like he's in a Vogue photoshoot. "Here, get my good side."

Then he actually takes a proper look at the drawing… and he's shocked. It's not just some casual doodle—there's real detail, effort, and skill.

"Jesus Christ, doll… this is amazing." His voice drops an octave, suddenly more serious. He stares at the way you captured his expression, the way the shadows hit his face.

A rare moment of sincerity from Tig. He might joke around a lot, but seeing himself through your eyes—your eyes—hits different.

If he has a crush on you, this boosts his ego so much. He'll start showing off even more when working, flexing when he turns a wrench, throwing you smirks.

"If you ever wanna sketch me in the nude, just say the word." (He is 100% serious.)

𝗢𝗽𝗶𝗲 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Totally oblivious. He's focused on the bike in front of him, forearms flexing as he tightens a bolt. You, meanwhile, are in full-on artist mode.

Jax is actually the one who busts you. He walks by and sees what you're drawing, then loudly says, "Damn, Ope, you got a fan over here."

Opie turns, confused, and sees the sketch. He instantly gets all awkward. Scratches the back of his neck and looks down at his boots.

"You… you drew me?" His voice is quiet, almost unsure.

When he finally looks at the sketch, he's genuinely amazed. "Holy shit. This is really good."

If he has a thing for you, he is dying inside. Like, full internal panic. He already had a crush, and now you're sitting here drawing him like he's some kind of inspiration?

Tries to play it cool but fails. "So, uh… you just… draw people? Or just me?"

Keeps the sketch if you let him. He folds it up carefully and tucks it into his kutte, carrying it with him like a secret.

𝗛𝗮𝗽𝗽𝘆 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

At first, he doesn't react at all. He's working on a custom bike, laser-focused, barely paying attention to anything else.

You don't even realize he knows until he speaks up. Without looking up, he says, "You been staring at me a long time, girl."

You freeze. The pencil in your hand stops moving. "Uh… I was just—"

He turns his head slightly, catching you in the act. One eyebrow raises. "You drawin' me?"

Happy is not a man of many words, but he's intrigued. He walks over, peers down at your sketch, and lets out a low chuckle.

"Damn. You made me look mean." He actually looks pleased.

If he has a crush, this messes him up. He doesn't get flustered, but he does start watching you more closely after this, noticing how often you glance his way.

Might actually ask you to draw him again. But he'll phrase it casually: "You should do another one sometime."

Later, if you're not around, he'll flip back to the page and just… stare at it. A rare, almost smile on his face.

𝗝𝘂𝗶𝗰𝗲 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

This man is a blushing mess.

He finds the drawing completely by accident. Maybe you step away for a second, and he happens to glance at your sketchbook lying open on the desk.

He instantly realizes it's him. His eyes go huge.

Panics. "Oh my God. No way. No freaking way."

When you come back and see him staring, he immediately starts babbling. "This is—you—you actually—Holy shit, you made me look cool!"

Cannot handle it. His ears go red, he's grinning like an idiot, and he keeps sneaking glances at you like he's trying to figure out if this means something.

If he has a crush, this just makes it ten times worse. He starts acting even more awkward around you, fidgeting dropping things, but also trying so hard to be smooth.

Low-key asks Chibs and Tig if he should frame it.

[gremlingottoosilly]

That Unwanted Animal [COD Fantasy AU] CursedKnight!Ghost x fem!Reader

Ghost was cursed ever since his king helped him get back to life from his grave. A stench of death, strong and inescapable, renders him unable to find a woman who will be willing to bed him. What will happen when he finally finds a perfect mate? CW and Tags: Dub-con, power imbalance, Medieval Fantasy AU, knight!Ghost, servant!Reader, sex work, brothels, dub-con kissing and touching, obsessive Ghost, dark Ghost, basically Ghost finds a girl and forces her to be his, Ghost is a half-dead resurrected knight, soft reader, submissive Reader.

AO3 Word Count: 2209

“I won’t go to him, he smells!”

“Drop the act, princess, not even half of our guests reek of anything more than their drinks and foul meat.” 

“You know how he smells, Katherine. You know what he is.” “What he is, is a client. Rich one. Do you wish to moan under the belly of another failing merchant? Or a peasant’s dick is more to your liking?” “I bring this place more than half of its earnings! I won’t bed a man who has barely got out of his grave and should be put back!” Ghost sighs, his head pressed against the wooden wall. For a brothel, this place has remarkably thin walls. For a brothel, girls out here have remarkably potent noses – and acquired tastes for anything that doesn’t taste like a man who was brought back to life with dead souls still clinging onto every inch of his very being. 

For a man of his regals – the blessed knight, the cursed knight, the kiss-your-enemies-goodnight, the spill-your-blood-he might, he has a particular choice in the brothel he tried to entertain himself with. Not like any willing woman would bed him without a sum of gold enough to feed a family for months – and not like he stood low enough to force himself on poor servants of his castle, bringing his dignity and family name down with each handmaiden he tried to grope while on meeting with the king. 

“Do you think he is really dead?” “Dead man wouldn’t need a cunt to drown himself in. He had to have something working.” “Maybe he likes to watch? Or to hurt.” “Maybe, we can’t afford to turn him down, princess. Drop your act before he is willing to burn us down for refusing him.” “Well, I heard he went through every brothel in town. Not a single soul bedded him!” “I heard he doesn’t even like girls. Has his royal knight by his side all day.” “He came alone.” “He will be coming alone for the rest of his life with a smell like this!” “Dark magic. King should have known to not trust the Empire and their lurkings.” “Having a blessed knight is good, no? We’re not at war.” “Cursed knight is good in your army, not your bed. But if you are so willing…”

He hears women – from the madam of this fine place, a woman of fine manners, exquisite figure, and the way of looking at him that almost convinces that she doesn’t want to press her fingers against her nose, blocking the smell of death that follows him ever since he became…that. He hears girls of not-so-fine manners, with fine bodies and perfect pretty faces, gentle hands that don’t know about the trials of war. He remembers the way they looked at him – the way they always looked at him. 

Scary, horrendous, dangerous. A skull mask and dark tendrils of smoke follow his body, the Grim Reaper himself embedded in his dark armor. No matter how many perfumes he uses, no matter how many washes per day he forces himself onto, nothing can hide the stench of death. He thought he’d be fine with it as long as his battle brothers were with him – as long as he was with them. 

Then he got lonely. 

Finding a lay in the brothel would be a scandal for a man of his status – but Simon Riley is no man. Not anymore, at least. 

“I bet he wears a mask because he is hideous.” “Maybe he is just wounded?” “What kind of wound would make him hide his face while not being hideous?” “Maybe, he just doesn’t want to show his face here.” “No use. By the dawn, all women in the capital will know about great lord Riley, refuced at every brothel.” “What if he kills us?” “What if he burns us?” “What if he…” “Let the servant bring him tea. Make her useful.” Before he could react – as if eavesdropping on a bunch of whores was something of a pleasant chore he was dealing with – a door to his room had opened. Girl, in much simpler clothes than the ones that courtesans were wearing. With a tea tray in her shaky hands, grabbing the poor thing like there was no tomorrow. Huh. Perhaps, with a mug like his as her client, there is no tomorrow for a poor girl. 

Ghost sits on the bed, large, muscular legs spread, his dick swaying with attention the longer he is looking at your face. He can’t be picky, not in his state as a not-dead not-man, but he has to admit that you’re pretty. Without all the mannerisms of a prostitute, you look like a poor deer stuck in the predator’s den. Your hands are shaking – but he looks at your face, having no shame in drinking up your expression like a vampire – and he didn’t once saw you wince at the smell. Hm. Must be potent tea you’re serving. 

— I didn’t ask for the tea. 

Rude, as always – he didn’t come here to be ridiculed by poor attempts at pleasing him without a girl under him, getting her pretty legs open for his cock. He didn’t intend to come here and listen to all of the workers laughing at him like he was a monster – yet, he can’t leave now, his wounded ego grows into something ugly. 

— Most of our clients prefer to drink this before the…act. It makes them more potent, as they say. 

His cock didn’t have any warm body to dump his semen in years. He doesn’t need tea to make him hard – he sees the glimpse of your skin under those simple robes of yours, and he can already feel it stir, standing up for attention. 

— You don’t sound too certain. Your client must not drink it then. 

— I…I am not a prostitute, sir. Merely a servant. 

He knows already – your makeup is too plain, your manners are off, your clothes are simple grey wool with not a dash of color. If you were his – as a prostitute, a wife, a lover – he would bring you something much brighter and skimpier. You’d look good in silks, he thinks. 

Not like you’d allow him to bring you home – not willingly, at least. 

— So I figured, love. You’re pretty enough to be one, that’s clear. 

“You’re pretty enough to be a prostitute” is a compliment that only sounds good in the head of a man who hasn’t talked sweetly to a woman in ages. His whole life, perhaps, exchanging the embrace of a lady with tight hugs of the war. 

— You’re flattering me, sir. 

— Bloody hell, woman. Not a flattery if that’s the truth. 

— If you say so. 

You shift under his gaze like a rabbit in front of an apex predator. Ghost doesn’t want to force any woman to sleep with him – but he looks at the sway of your chest, at the softness of your hips, at the way you tug and scratch on the rough fabric of your skirt as you’re too nervous to look at him…

He must contain himself. 

— Why you work as a servant? 

— I…tried to be a prostitute, sir. Most clients here don’t like it when you’re not…

He slowly rocks his body closer to you, his head almost laying on your shoulder. He saw the way you looked at him as he leaned to you – you’re surprised, scared, but not disgusted. your nose didn’t twitch a single time, and he is sure that no tea would ever make you this blind to the stench of death lingering on your shoulder now. 

There must be something wrong with you – and he wants to save you like a rare treasure because of it. 

— Most clients here don’t like what, luv? 

— I…have damage, sir. 

So he figured. Just didn’t exactly know what you have. 

— What is it? 

— A…after a bad cold, my sense of smell…never returned. Not for the last three years. 

— You don’t smell anythin’? Must be bloody hard. 

— It is. But…I manage. As much as I can. 

He slowly drapes his hand over your shoulder – you wince at the touch. He thinks of the madam of your fine establishment. The woman didn’t seem the type to beat her girls, but you had such a shy, scared expression as he started to touch you, he can’t wait to burn this fucking place to the ground. Maybe spare a few of your friends if you’d ask him nicely. You won’t be working here again, ever – that much he can be sure of. 

— Doin’ a good job, love. 

— I hope so, sir. 

He drags his hand on your face, squeezing the soft skin of your cheek. You’re adorable – servants shouldn’t be so pretty, it makes him feel bad, it makes him sinful. He should try to hit on the girls who actually work here – not the poor soul that as sent here to bring him here, as a little lam sacrificed to a vicious god. 

— You don’t smell me, then? 

— I don’t smell anything, my lord. 

He chuckles, but your pained expression only makes him chuckle more. Poor thing, living in a place like this without a sense of smell – he can’t believe how you could survive without the smell of heavy incense and creams that all of the whores were using. He loves it when a pretty girl is making herself even prettier – makeup, all of those little elixirs they are putting on their faces, the flowery smells that make his rotting existence a bit easier. It never worked on him, on his disintegrating skin and stench that followed him everywhere – but then it dawned on him. 

You have such an adorable, shy smile and a small posture, playing with the edges of your clothes like a girl who is extremely embarrassed to be in a room with a man of his position. But women aren’t shy in his presence, not anymore – they are disgusted, horrified, they want to put their noses into little candy boxes and smell roses just to get rid of the smell. 

But you, adorable creature, aren’t disgusted. Hell, how he missed a pretty girl being so shy around him. 

Ghost kisses you before he can think of anything else. Before he could give you space to escape, to come to your senses and understand what kind of man he is. Broken, wounded, pushed to the cage, and locked with a key dangling from the side – god knows, Simon Riley isn’t a good man, never tried to be. Devil knows, he will drag you to the grave with him. 

Your lips are soft, untouched, you smell of cleaning supplies and sweet tea. Your hair smells like roses and dust, your hands are covered in little scabs – probably from the days spent cleaning and doing the hard work. He will make sure you will never have to work again, not with your hands, at least – he will kiss your callouses and nourish the skin into something delicate, fragile, to the smell of home he lost long ago. 

Your mouth tastes like heaven, and Ghost isn’t a man who deserves to push this angel further, isn’t a man who deserves to have a pretty girl moaning under him. He makes you cry, he terrifies you, he kisses you relentlessly and can feel the way your skin burns, tears streaming down your face. If he was a better man, he would oblige to your hands, pushing him away, your mouth is trying to cry for help. 

Simon Riley isn’t a good man, and he pushes you on your back, firms hands on your back, on your hips, touching, groping, feeling the skin of a somewhat willing woman. You’re scared, but you should know the kind of job girls here are doing – he didn’t pay all of this money for charity projects, after all. As much as he would pay even more gold just to take you away, to push your legs apart in a scenery much nicer than a room in a brothel. You deserve a real bed, a nice dress that he can rip away from you, 

All you get is his hands on your body, ripping your simple skirt apart because he can’t wait to get to the soft skin underneath. He looks at you, precious girl, as adorable as you are, and can’t resist kissing you, stealing breath from your skin. When he finally hears you moan, when his hand goes to grab the softness between your legs – moist, prepared, smelling of roses and arousal, of all things sweet and sinful – all of his sense of self-control shatters. 

He will take you on the floor of this room – over and over, claim you as his little maiden, his favorite girl, until he is sure his cursed, rotten seed has filled you to the brim. He will take you away, bringing as much money to your madam as he can manage, buying you all for himself – taking you as his prized possession for the new castle he was ordered to as a lord knight. 

Ghost will make you his, hells and heaven be damned. 

You cry, but he knows you’ll come around. And he can be very, very patient. 

[thehoneybeestings]

──˚₊𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭‧₊˚──

Hello! I'm so glad you're here! To make navigation as easy as possible, all of my works will listed first by universe, second by character, third by fic type, and then labeled for content. Before you get to browsing, here are some disclaimers!

What I do write: 

Fluff (F)

Smut (S)

Angst (A) (With happy endings only!)

Hurt/Comfort (H/C)

One Shots

Headcanons

Drabbles

What I do not write:

non-con

x male reader or male characters

any kink I am not comfortable writing; this is up to my direction

angst with no happy ending! I'm not strong enough!

You may also notice that my character lists are a little short! This is simply because as of right now, I only plan on writing for the listed characters; if you'd still like to see me write for a character that you don't see listed, though, please don't hesitate to send in a request! 

Happy Browsing! 

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐁𝐞𝐞 ୨ৎ

──˚₊𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐞‧₊˚──

𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚

──˚₊𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬

୨ৎ (S) Under A Full Moon

Synopsis: Sevika sees you once at Babette's before deciding you're her favorite girl; and luckily for you, she's your favorite client. Thus blossoms an unspoken exclusivity between the two of you... or so you think, until one night, you happen upon her in between your coworker's legs. You're left blindsighted, hurt, and just plain jealous; and worst of all... you know it's unfairly so.

୨ৎ (S) Pretty Girl

Synopsis: Some good ol' comfort sex with Sevika when the body-shaming bug creeps in.

୨ৎ (S) Sweet as Honey

Synopsis: Sevika has grown awfully fond of the owner of Zaun's only bakery; in fact, she'd do anything for her. So, when a hard heat hits the baker, Sevika can't help but offer a helping hand.

୨ৎ (S) Sweet as Honey pt. ii

Synopsis: A year of the baker by Sevika's side, but the baker still has no bite. This bodes questions from certain ill-intentioned alphas, and Sevika must decide if she's ready to answer them.

──˚₊𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

୨ৎ (F) Sevika w/ a Partner who has PMDD

୨ৎ (F) Arcane Actor Au's - Actor!Sevika x Actor!Reader

୨ৎ (F) Utterly Clueless, Entirely Helpless

Synopsis: Sevika is intent on discovering whether or not you're into women...

──˚₊𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬

୨ৎ (S) More, More, More

Synopsis: The last time you slept together, you asked Sevika for more than she had equipped; she makes sure she's prepared for the next time 'round.

୨ৎ (F) Sevika when she's on her period

୨ৎ (S) Service Top!Sevika at Babette's

𝐕𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐭 

──˚₊𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬

୨ৎ (S) Sugar Plum

Synopsis: After years of competing for the title of Star Senior at Piltover Springs Dance School, the hatred that Violet Lanes and Y/n Y/l/n have garnered for each other is rendered a waste when in a turn of events, they are both awarded the distinction. When this forces them to confront what feelings they have for each other outside of unbridled loathing, they find that the line between hatred and lust is much finer than they thought...

──˚₊𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

୨ৎ (F) Enemies to Lovers with Dancer!Vi x Dancer!Reader

୨ৎ (F) Vi Sleep Headcanons

୨ৎ (F) Arcane Actor Au's - Actor!Vi x Crew Member!Reader

୨ৎ (F) Dancer!Vi x Ballerina!Reader Headcanons

𝐀𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚 𝐌𝐞𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐚

──˚₊𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬

୨ৎ (S) Royally Screwed

Synopsis: Your best friend has invited you to a Piltover Gala. You wouldn't be so worried if the guest list didn't include Ambessa Medarda: the woman you've been seeing secretly for months, and, of course, your best friend's mother...

୨ৎ (S) Royally Screwed pt. ii

Synopsis: A reflection on the events that led you to your current predicament, in which you've been caught sneaking out of your best friend's mother's room... by your best friend... oops!

𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧

Coming soon...

──˚₊𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐎𝐟 𝐔𝐬 𝐈𝐈‧₊˚──

𝐄𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐦𝐬

Coming soon...

𝐀𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐀𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧

Coming soon...

──˚₊𝐀𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧’𝐬 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝: 𝐎𝐝𝐲𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐲‧₊˚──

𝐊𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐚

──˚₊𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬

୨ৎ (A) (H/C) Feral Creatures May Bite (ao3 exclusive)

Synopsis: Deimos. Named after the God of Terror. To know her was to fear a war weapon forged by fire. Melita seemed to be the only person unafraid of getting burned.

──˚₊𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬

୨ৎ (S) Athenian Summer Nights

Synopsis: Your father has offered your hand in marriage to an insufferably arrogant Athenian Polemarch. To make matters worse... he's terrible in bed. What a pleasant coincidence that he's just so happened to hire a certain mercenary known for her excellence in the area?

──˚₊𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

୨ৎ (F) A Place to Call Home

Synopsis: When Kassandra of Sparta runs into Phoibe for the first time in a year, the future she'd planned for herself quickly unravels, and the trajectory of her life is changed. Frankly, she should have figured this would happen; Phoibe always gave her a run for her drachmae.

──˚₊All Characters‧₊˚──

୨ৎ (F) Is Your Blorbo a Passenger Princess?

──˚₊ 𝐄𝐍𝐃 ‧₊˚──

[sst4rdst]

I’m just wondering how yan! Xiao would react to his darling being an escort/entertainer. darling does engage in physical contact with clients and Xiao just has to watch from the window. Does he pick off clients one by one? How does he deal with watching his darling entertain clients from outside the window? Does *he* ever end up requesting his darlings services when all other clients are gone? Just so much to think about!!

warnings : yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, mentions of reader having sex with others but no describing sex scenes. author's note : SORRY FOR THE WAIT NONNIEEEE 😭 my job consumed my soul these last days T.T don't recommend being an adult, 0/10. but i made this one a little longer than usual, hope that's a great apology :']

the first time he sees it, truly sees it, something inside him shatters.

it is one thing to know what you do. to hear it murmured between passing travelers, to catch the lingering traces of perfume on their clothes, to watch the way they return to their inns with a dazed, satiated sort of stupor, as if their time in your company has rendered them whole. he has always known, always suspected, but knowing is different from witnessing.

and now, here he stands, just beyond the glow of your lantern-lit window, the scent of incense curling in the air, thick and cloying, wrapping around his lungs like a suffocating chain. he sees the way you smile, soft and inviting, sees the way your fingers ghost over the wrist of the man before you—no, not a man. a client. one of many.

xiao has slaughtered creatures for lesser sins than the one unfolding before him.

his hands curl into fists at his sides, nails biting into flesh, but the pain is distant, inconsequential compared to the fire searing through his veins. his body is rigid, a silent force of barely restrained violence, watching as you lean in, laughter soft against the shell of another man’s ear.

his stomach twists.

he tells himself this is normal. that this is your job, that there is no affection in the way you let your fingers skim over another’s thigh, no meaning in the way you let them cup your chin, trace the line of your jaw. and yet, his mind betrays him.

does your touch linger like that when you are alone? do your smiles hold the same softness when there is no one to see them? do you ever speak his name in the dark, whisper it like a secret meant for no one but yourself? or is he only ever a shadow, something you will never notice, never choose?

the thought gnaws at him, festers beneath his skin like something diseased.

the rational part of him—small and weak in the face of the hunger clawing at his ribs—knows that this is not something he can change. that you are not his to claim. that you are a free, mortal thing, meant to weave in and out of lives like drifting petals on a breeze, untethered. but xiao has never been good at wanting without taking.

the disappearances are slow at first. a client here, a client there—nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that would immediately raise suspicion. after all, men with loose morals often meet unfortunate ends in liyue’s underbelly, swallowed by debts they cannot repay, by enemies they do not see coming. it is easy for the city to forget them, easy for their absence to be written off as consequence.

xiao does not think of them beyond their final gasps, beyond the moment their bodies collapse into the dirt, empty, discarded. they are nothing. they have always been nothing. but you—you are different.

you still smile when new clients come. you still let them brush their lips over your skin, still let them press coins into your hands, unaware that the man before them is rotting beneath the earth. and he hates you for it.

hates the way you continue as if nothing has changed. hates that he can never be the one you turn to, the one you choose to hold, to whisper to in the dark. hates that, no matter how many bodies he leaves in his wake, you will never belong to him.

but if he cannot have you, then no one else should either.

it happens in the quiet of a late evening, when the streets are empty and the lanterns light flicker weakly against the wind. you are alone. finally, finally, you are alone. no clients, no lingering hands, no laughter that is not meant for him. just you. and him.

he does not enter through the door—he never does. the window is open, curtains shifting with the night breeze, and it is easy for him to slip inside, easy for him to cross the space between you in a breath, a heartbeat, less than that.

you do not flinch when you notice him. you never do. you have grown used to his presence, his silent appearances, his tendency to linger at the edges of your world like a specter you cannot exorcise.

"you're here again," you murmur, voice soft, lacking surprise. your fingers trace the rim of a porcelain cup, half-finished tea still warm within it. "it's late."

he does not answer. he only watches, gaze burning into the curve of your throat, the slope of your shoulders, the places where others have touched, where their fingerprints still linger like something permanent.

you sigh, setting the cup aside, tilting your head slightly. "something's wrong."

he exhales, slow and controlled, as if he has not been unraveling at the seams since the moment he first saw you with another. "i don’t like what you do."

it is not an accusation. it is not even anger. just a fact, laid bare between you.

you blink, quiet for a moment, before a ghost of a smile tugs at your lips. "you don’t have to like it, xiao."

but he does. he does have to like it, because if he doesn’t, if he lets this feeling fester any longer, he knows he will not be able to stop. he will not be able to stop at just a few disappearances. he will not be able to stop at only watching.

your eyes hold something knowing, something almost pitying, and it makes his blood burn, makes his fingers twitch at his sides. but then, you shift, leaning forward slightly, just enough to close the space between you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your touch is meant for him.

your lips are warm against his, a fleeting thing, a moment so insignificant that it should not matter. and yet, it does. because now, you have touched him. and xiao has never been good at letting go of things he has touched.

xiao’s breath is shallow, barely there, as if the weight of your warmth against his skin has stolen the air from his lungs. he does not move. he does not blink. he does not even think. he only feels. feels the heat seeping into him, feels the sharp, electric buzz beneath his skin, feels the unbearable, suffocating knowing—

that this will never be enough.

your touch is fleeting. it always is. you do not hold onto things the way he does, do not cling to moments as if they are the last lifeline in a raging current. no, you let them slip through your fingers, let them pass without hesitation, without meaning.

just like now. because you release him as easily as you had reached for him, pulling away with a sigh, unaware of what you’ve done, of what you’ve set into motion.

xiao stands there, still as death, his mind blank save for the feeling of your lips against his, the ghost of warmth still lingering on his own. it should be enough—it should be more than enough. but it isn't. it's nothing. a scrap tossed his way out of pity, a meaningless moment that you will forget by morning. but he won’t. he can’t.

his fingers twitch at his sides, aching with the urge to grab, to pull you close, to demand that you understand—that you see him, choose him, the way he has already chosen you. but you only exhale softly, gaze dipping toward the floor, a distant sort of exhaustion clinging to your features. you think this is done. you think this conversation has ended. it hasn't.

because xiao has spent too long on the outside, watching, waiting, enduring—and now that your touch has seared itself into him like a brand, now that the fragile thread of his restraint has finally snapped, he cannot go back to standing in the shadows, to watching you let others touch you, kiss you, take from you what should be his.

his vision blurs, heat licking up the back of his throat, something monstrous stirring in the depths of his chest. it is not jealousy—no, jealousy is too human, too small, too weak. this is something greater, something worse—a hunger that cannot be reasoned with, a possession that has no name.

"you don't understand," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. it is not a plea, not a request for you to see what he sees. it is a fact. a finality. you don’t understand—because if you did, you would never let others near you. if you knew the depth of what he felt, you would never push him aside so easily, never let your affections be bought like they mean nothing.

but he will make you understand.

your brows knit together, the first flicker of wariness appearing in your gaze. "xiao—"

he moves before you can finish, before you can even think of pulling away. his hand finds your wrist, fingers wrapping around delicate bone with a grip that is not yet bruising, but firm enough that you freeze beneath him. a warning. a promise.

your lips part slightly, the breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, just a moment, something flashes through your expression—something like fear, like realization. and yet, you do not fight him. you should.

you should struggle. you should demand he release you, should shove at his chest, should scream—should beg. but you only look at him, wide-eyed and silent, and the way you do nothing sets something vicious alight in his chest.

because this means you know. somewhere, deep down, some part of you has always known that you belong to him.

that no matter how many men come and go, how many coins exchange hands, how many nights you spend wrapped in the arms of strangers, you were never theirs to claim. that in the end, you have only ever belonged to him.

his grip tightens just slightly, just enough to make your breath hitch, to make your pulse hammer against his fingers. and he leans in, slow, deliberate, until his lips ghost over the shell of your ear, until his voice—low, quiet, certain—spills into your skin like something inescapable.

"you don't have to do this anymore." a statement, not a suggestion. because this is no longer something you get to choose.

"you’re always like this," you murmur, shaking your head. there is no bite in your voice, only something small, something resigned. "i don’t know what you want me to say, xiao. i told you before—this is my job. you don’t have to like it, but it’s not something you can change."

your words should hold finality. they should put an end to whatever this is, should set a boundary between you that cannot be crossed. but they don’t..

he clenches his jaw, forces himself to look at you, to meet your gaze without letting the heat behind his eyes bleed through. "it can change." the words taste foreign on his tongue, heavy and unfamiliar, but the intent beneath them is not.

your lips press together, your expression unreadable. "xiao." his name is softer now, almost warning. but you do not understand. you never do. because xiao has already changed things.

the men who touched you are gone. the ones who whispered promises in your ear, pressed their lips against your skin, left their scent on you like a mark—none of them will return. he has already altered the course of your life without you knowing, has already started reshaping the world around you to fit his own image of what it should be.

and now, standing in front of you, with the lingering heat of your touch still burning against his lips, he knows this is the next step. the only step left.

"you won’t have to do this anymore."

you exhale sharply, shaking your head. "that’s not your decision to make."

"but it is."

you freeze. just for a moment. just long enough for something wary to flicker across your face. and then, you laugh, short and breathless, as if the weight of this conversation has settled over you all at once. "you don’t get to decide that for me."

but the thing is—he does. he already has.

xiao is not a man who asks for things. he does not beg. he does not plead. he does not bargain with the world in hopes that it will grant him something in return. he takes. and he will take this, too.

because he cannot watch any longer. cannot stand beyond the glass, shrouded in shadow, forced to endure the sight of you letting strangers have what should be his. cannot keep swallowing down the sharp, acrid taste of jealousy until it curdles into something deeper, something unrecognizable.

no, he will not let this continue. he will not let you continue. not like this. not when you belong elsewhere. not when you belong with him.

[questionable-squirtle]

🐶 COSMO in Marvel Rivals style 🐶 ☑️ COMMISSION ☑️

Second commission I’ve received for a character in this style, and I’m so happy people like these!!!

Admittedly this one was a struggle. With the human characters there are already a lot of characters in the game roster to reference, but the closest thing to a dog in game would be Rocket or Squirrel Girl for fur references. And while I’m not completely sure the fur rendering is perfect, I’m happy with the overall result, and the client is happy too!!

I’ve had a few ideas for abilities in game. Cosmo’s basic attack would be telekinetically throwing the tennis balls. One ability is psionic howl that launches a beam that does damage to enemies or heals allies for like 6 seconds before it has to recharge. The different websites say that Cosmo can telepathically cloak people, so figured he could do that, and while an ally is cloaked they gain a small increase in health. Good for stealth players. Get Black Panther or Spider-Man cloaked for x amount of seconds so they can infiltrate the back line. Also like the idea of a telekinetic fetch/throw, to really fit the dog side of him. If targeting an ally with low health: able to pull them away from battle while restoring some of that health in the process. If targeting an enemy: picks them up and throws them in the opposite direction.

For cosmo’s Ult I figured something with gravity, like lifting up all enemies within a certain radius that does damage over time. And it’s a good last attempt to get a team off the point.

I’d also give Cosmo a passive ability similar to Punisher where he can smell the other team so their aura is shown through walls every so often. A good one to have so you can ping them or inform your team of different enemy players.

Gonna take a small break from Rivals art for a moment, I got a few other things I want to work on (mostly because I saw Sinners at the weekend and I need to make art on it)

Anyone here that would be a Cosmo main??

Insta // Ko-fi

[distinguishedcomputeranchor]

https://www.infidigit.com/blog/server-side-rendering-vs-client-side-rendering/

[flooferland]

I find kernel level anti-cheats and generally client-side anticheats like BattleEye, EasyAntiCheat, and Vanguard really stupid, because they really aren't stopping cheaters, all they're doing is discouraging them while sacrificing performance, user privacy, Linux support, and generally risking accidentally banning casual user.

I started developing my own anti-cheat for a game and it hit me, you should never have any anti-cheat on the client. All anti-cheats should be server-side, because to this day players are still figuring out ways to bypass these anti-cheats, like using hardware-level exploits which are physically impossible to detect unless they start serving anti-cheats as AI-powered robots that are physically in your room looking at you while you game.

Think about it.. Wall hacks let you see other players through walls, easy solution right? Just don't tell the client where the other players are, do server-side calculations for occlusion, you already have a system for it to do it client-side since it saves performance not to render players that aren't on the screen. But nope, because it would slightly increase server costs, even if it makes cheating impossible to perform.

The number one rule in multiplayer is "NEVER TRUST THE CLIENT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE", and these huge game dev corporations are consistently not following it, then complain about having cheaters while going "Oh, it must be the Linux users!!! Not our flawed approach at anti-cheat!!!"

[thegoldencontracts]

Every Unethical Act Azul Has Committed (And Why None Of Them Were Actually Illegal)

We don't even need this list. I know, I know. But it was funny.

Notes: This may seem a bit redundant but clarification, discourse, and the like are always welcome! I'm not a lawyer, so please tell me if I've made any errors.

Slavery- It's legal based on some very specific technicalities that I will go into if you ask - Basically, it's boiled down to he likely can claim this as an employment agreement with a TRAP clause which is unethical but still technically legal. There's been some movements to make it illegal but none have been fruitful yet (not in the US, at least).

Child Labor and Contracts With Minors - The way he went about it is unethical, yes, but this is legal because 1. They were above the legal working age in most states 2. Crowley seems to have agreed to the Mostro Lounge's work and approved their hours and 3. Contracts signed by minors aren't automatically voided, they simply have an option to be voided with parental approval.

Possession of Property - He rendered the main character homeless, which is deeply unethical, but once again, not illegal. They signed the contract agreeing to give him their home, and he didn't actively threaten them. Crowley could be held liable for child neglect, but Azul's hands are (legally but definitely not ethically) scot-free.

Assault - We've never actually received canon proof that Azul attempts murder. Though other Overblotters are shown doing so, Azul hasn't. Also, the reason we stop the overblotters is for their own safety -they'll die if he don't. His true Unique Magic could still count as assault, though. Here, his defense is automastim, though whether it'd be classified as insane or sane I'm not quite sure.

Blackmail - Wording. Wording is everything. Blackmail is a crime, but Azul's wording makes it so he isn't technically blackmailing anyone.

Bribery - See previous section.

Solicitation - When Azul sends out the twins to harass clients. Wording is once again key here. Azul sent them out, by technicality, to 'assist' in dealing with clients. Add onto this that Jade doesn't usually do much in terms of physical harm and suddenly - Would you look at that? Floyd just happened to harm the client. Look at him, so short-tempered. Tsk. He's the only one with legal issues here, not Azul and Jade! (Side-Note: F in the chat for Floyd)

None of this is meant to woobify Azul. In fact, I believe this serves as a testament to his skill with loopholes <3

[girlactionfigure]

Look.

At every single face.

134 innocent people brutally stolen from their families after 1200 Israelis were massacred in a single day, in an unprovoked barbaric attack by Hamas. This Islamic fundamentalist terror organization has the support of many Palestinians. Still. And worse, much of the civilized world.

Amongst the surviving hostages, there are different nationalities and religions, babies and elderly people. There are mothers and fathers, children, uncles and aunts, grandparents, brothers and sisters.

We have no idea how they are.

They've been held for 6 months now. 6 months.

It's unthinkable.

Their freedom not being an absolute priority for the Western world is outrageous. The world speaks of Gaza as though this never happened by the people who made it happen: Jihadi terrorists and their supporters.

The world continues to adopt THEIR narrative.

It's shocking to see affluent, educated individuals, advocates for various rights - from climate change, trans and women's rights - siding with Hamas sympathizers after their October 7th atrocities. As Sam Harris said, it just reveals how confused and decadent and morally vulnerable our civilization has become.

Israel's October 7th was like America's 9/11s. But worse. The equivalent is 40,000 victims—13 times more than the number of Al Qaeda victims on 9/11.

But not just in numbers.

In intensity. Everyone here knows someone who was lost.

In brutality. They were individually eliminated in the worst way imaginable.

In continuity. The attacks went on for months with daily rockets rendering people across the country, like me, running to bomb shelters with my kids. Months. And armed terrorists attacking us - who still do.

And yes, the hostages. They are still there. And in political debate, by armchair pundits, they are often not even mentioned.

I never imagined how many people I considered friends and trusted colleagues who have decided to remain quiet - not a peep. Somehow they think that speaking up for those massacred and the hostages means they aren't FOR the many innocent Palestinians killed in this conflict.

You can be for both, for ALL innocents, as I am.

War is ugly but unfortunately right now, necessary. To those who are too afraid to say it for fear of being canceled - there, I said it. Cancel my a**.

We will NOT be quiet about it.

Not on Facebook.

Not on any social media platform.

Not with our friends.

Not with our co-workers.

Not with our clients.

Not on the news.

Not on the streets.

These people are family to us.

They ARE our family.

Look at their faces.

May they come home alive, soon.

Words by Eitan Chitayat

[weepingwitch]

i think an easy important step to Knowing More about websites and shit is to start using the element inspector / source code viewer / js console in the browser. like fake screenshots are so easy to make by editing the page, and you'll get used to removing/disabling those "subscribe to continue reading" popups and shit. you'll be a more proficient user of your existing adblock tools if you understand what kind of elements to block, or how to identify the specific class/id names. you can start to look at what cookies/cached data a website is storing. like bc of how javascript is executed and CSS rendered client side, you have a lot more control/insight over how websites appear and function. u can make hard-to-read text into a better color or font, or give things solid backgrounds. inspect those elements!

[leslie-lyman]

Menagerie

Part of the Euclidean Geometry ‘verse

Summary: Early on in their relationship, when everything is new and exciting and uncertain, Pero introduces their girl to his work as a glass artist.

Pairing: modern!Pero Tovar x Frankie x Jack x nameless!OFC/f!reader (written in third person, reader is only referred to as she/her, with no physical descriptors)

Word count: 3.9k

Rating: Explicit 🚨 absolutely no minors!

Warnings: smut; mentions of sex between everyone in this polycule (Frankie x Jack x Pero x reader), but the actual smut is just Pero x reader; unprotected PIV; completely unregulated POV switching; that thing where I write all the dialogue in italics instead of using quotation marks because it just feels right for this series for some reason?; everything your author mentions here about glassmaking she learned from YouTube/Google

a/n: look mom, I actually finished a fic again! Maybe my ability to write hasn’t abandoned me after all…?

Masterlist.

———

She notices the sculptures the very first time they take her home. (Though not, she must admit, until the morning after, having been awfully distracted the night before by the attention Frankie, Pero, and Jack lavished her with on the way to their bed.)

Three glass animal figures sit together in a proud display in the living room built-ins next to the fireplace: a falcon, wings spread wide and claws poised to attack; a rearing horse, tall and magnificent; and a bull, one hoof raised and head lowered as it prepares to charge.

They are Pero’s work. In his post-Army career he now runs a small but highly regarded workshop of glass artisans, all veterans like himself.

His talent is obvious. Each feather in the falcon’s wings is rendered in exquisite detail. The horse stands on just his back two feet, perfectly balanced. The bull’s pose denotes a gracefulness underlying all that brute strength. They feel alive.

It’s the three of them, they tell her.

Frankie, the pilot, is the falcon. Precise, controlled, deadly. Vigilant. Protective.

Jack, the cowboy, is the horse. Proud, independent, wild. Confident. Courageous.

And Pero, of course, is the bull. Strong, stubborn, fierce. Masculine. Powerful.

There’s evidence of his work elsewhere in the house the three of them now share. Their kitchen cabinets are full of mismatched glasses, bowls, and plates, many of them early versions of new techniques or designs Pero worked to master before offering them as options to clients. The base of an end table in the den is a cresting glass wave nearly three feet tall. Brilliantly colored vases that sell for thousands at the workshop line either side of the back deck steps, filled with impatiens and begonias carefully tended by Frankie.

Pero asks her to come to the workshop with him one day, and she can sense without being told that such an offer is significant. It’s still early on in…whatever this is between her and the three of them. Early enough that it hasn’t solidified yet, it hasn’t settled. She wants them, all of them, and they want her (all of her), but whether the fantasy can manifest as reality is uncertain. Can they all rearrange their lives enough to build something lasting, something real?

Pero has been the hardest to figure out. He is the quietest of the men, the least quick to laugh, the last one to betray what he’s thinking. He fucks like he wants to consume her, devour her, and yet he can be as gentle as Frankie or Jack when he’s done, silently cradling her to his chest as long as she wants as they come down from their highs. He’s much less forthcoming about himself than the other two are, and she’s far less sure about what he wants.

It’s a chilly Sunday morning when she meets him at the workshop. It’s the first time she’s spent any real time with him alone, her stomach full of an odd combination of excitement and nerves.

He takes her in through the gallery of finished works at the front of the building. Bright lights and mirror-backed shelves show off the many pieces, from large imposing sculptures to tiny coupe cocktail glasses that sparkle and glimmer. The middle of the space is dominated by a sculpture of a dragon-like creature larger than she is, its many-fanged mouth open in a roar and its skin a rich rippling green.

Pero doesn’t give her time to linger, however, leading her quickly into the back where the workshop itself is housed. A tension in his shoulders loosens when they enter, and she gets the sense that he isn’t interested in showing off his finished pieces. It’s the process of creating that he likes, that he needs.

If the gallery is bright and shiny and polished, the workshop is a dark, gritty warehouse-like space. Multiple forges line one wall, and it is clear each artist has their own space set up here. Pero’s space is near the back, tucked into a corner. Various tools and implements hang from the walls and rest on tables: blowpipes of every length, tweezers, pliers, clamps, paddles, torches, molds. It looks a little like a medieval torture chamber.

Despite the cavernous feel of the space, it’s warm inside; the forge nearest Pero’s corner is already lit and glowing. She sheds her jacket, leaving her in a soft chambray button-down shirt and black leggings. Pero gives her a gruff explanation of safety basics and insists that she wear a pair of enormous clear safety glasses.

Really, Pero?

Do not argue with me, querida.

The endearment is new, and makes her shiver.

You make all the girls you bring here wear these, hm? She says it playfully, but there’s curiosity behind it.

I have only brought two others here, and Jack and Francisco wore the glasses without complaint.

That pulls her up short, but Pero merely hands her the glasses and busies himself with his tools.

She’d assumed at first that this would be entirely a demonstration on Pero’s part, with her as mere spectator. Normally the idea of a date spent watching a man show off some skill to try and impress her as a one-woman audience would make her roll her eyes. But Pero isn’t boastful about any of this. This isn’t about his ego. He’s letting her in, showing her things that are important to him rather than telling her.

And, she quickly discovers, she’s hardly expected to sit idly by and observe.

Pero loads the tip of a pipe nearly as tall as she is with a glowing lump of molten glass the size of a softball.

Glasswork is rarely a solo endeavor, he tells her. Large pieces often require an entire team of people working in sync. Even small pieces necessitate a partner. It takes not only speed and skill, but also constant communication and trust to successfully bring a piece to life.

As he speaks, he rests his pipe against the edge of a table and rolls it back and forth, helping the glass to keep its roughly oval shape.

Give it a try, querida. He offers the end of the pipe to her.

It’s heavier than she’d anticipated, the heat of the glass sinking through her clothes like the rays of a tiny sun. Her first few rolls of the pipe are too fast, but after a minute she begins to get the hang of how to keep the glass from bending and morphing under its own weight.

Good, Pero says, and suddenly there’s a flare of heat in her stomach. Keep that steady turn all the while, and bring it over here.

There’s a large tray set out on the end of the table, filled with tiny squares of glass in shades of blue and green and milky white. Pero instructs her to roll the glass on the pipe through the squares like a lint roller until there’s a rough coating covering it. It’s an oddly satisfying sensation, the molten glass acting like putty or taffy that grows steadily less pliant as it cools.

Now we take it back into the forge, Pero says, and she gives him room to take the pipe from her, but he merely gives her an encouraging nod of his head toward the forge.

The opening into the heart of the furnace isn’t terribly large, maybe a foot or so in diameter. But the heat roars from it with a power she can feel, rather than hear. It throbs and beats at her like a warning.

She hesitates, but then Pero’s arms are around her, gently but firmly grasping the pipe on either side of her hands.

Like this, he murmurs in her ear as he guides the ball of glass into the belly of the forge. She’s intently aware of every inch of him pressed up behind her, the firm wall of his chest and his slightly softer belly, so close she can feel him breathe.

He likes to fuck her from behind, she’s found.

Every time they’ve had each other, in the handful of times they’ve been intimate thus far, Pero’s put her on her hands and knees, his impossibly big hands holding her down as he fucks her with his impossibly big cock. He likes to wait until Frankie and Jack are done and spent, their cum dribbling out of her or dripping down her skin, before rolling her over and sinking deep into her heat. His grip is firm and possessive, his fingers insistent at her clit. He never fails to make her come with a pace just the right side of too much, the other men soothing her with soft praises of good girl and you take it so well for him, sweetheart.

It’s an automatic response now, the fire that blooms in her belly when she feels him at her back that has nothing to do with the flames licking the molten glass in front of her.

————-

She somehow manages to concentrate on the tasks at hand enough to safely move through the rest of the process.

Fire the glass, roll it, shape it, fire it again, push, pull, fire, roll, shape, fire…

How did you learn to do this? She asks Pero, holding the pipe steady for him while he plucks at the glass with a massive pair of pliers.

My father, is all he says at first. She lets the ensuing silence be, lets him decide if he wants to elaborate. He does.

My father was a glassmaker. When I was a boy in Spain, I would spend every spare minute in his workshop. He taught me everything he knew. I would watch him craft beautiful things out of nothing, shaping and coaxing the glass to his will in an act of creation. He was like a god in my eyes.

She tries to square this information with the little she already knows about Pero’s life.

Why did you leave Spain?

He plucks the pipe from her hands and returns to the forge. His grip is so sure, his movements so fluid. When he returns to her, he passes her the rod and picks up the pliers.

My father died. I was fourteen. My mother moved us to America, and I was full of grief and teenage rage. A combination I was all too happy to let the US Army exploit.

This part she’s heard. Twenty years in the Field Artillery, operating mobile rocket systems and infantry support guns, leading men and their weapons into combat zones across multiple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. A life lived under fire.

But you found your way back to this, she says.

He looks up at her from where he crouches over the glass, now taking shape as a small vase.

It is the only other thing I know how to do.

She frowns at his modesty, but before she can respond he beckons her around the other side of the table they’re working at. He’s rolled and pulled the glass until no more than a slim column connects the bottom of the base to the pipe. He puts on thick heat-resistant gloves and cradles the vase, instructing her to tap ever-so-gently at the connecting sliver of glass with a small mallet.

With a barely perceptible chink the column breaks, freeing the vase. Pero then fires the bottom of the vase with a handheld blowtorch to smooth it out, and settles the vase into the bowl of a large round kiln for the final cooling process.

The vase stands maybe ten inches high, vaguely v-shaped with a flat bottom. The once bright orange ball of molten glass is now a brilliant turquoise, speckled with the tiny green and blue and white fragments she’d rolled it in. The rim is uneven, pulled and twisted by Pero’s pliers and it makes her think of the edges of a crashing wave.

She stands next to him and looks down at it before he closes the lid to the kiln. It’s small and simple and doubtless less polished than what Pero could have made with a more experienced partner, but it’s theirs.

We made that, she says, turning and giving him a shy smile.

His lips quirk up - not quite a smile, but there’s a softness to his expression that makes her breath catch.

A satisfying process, no? He asks. She nods. The moment stretches between them, the silence not awkward, but instead full of a warm, quiet intimacy.

Come on, pretty girl, Pero murmurs, reaching up to gently remove the safety glasses from her face. Let’s clean up.

Somehow she finds even the sight of him returning every tool back to its proper place, knowing exactly where each piece goes so that it’s ready for the next time he needs it, terribly attractive.

She catches his hand after everything’s put away, pulling his focus.

Thank you, she says, for this. Thank you for letting me in, for revealing this part of you, she doesn’t say, but hopes he knows that’s what she means. I’d…I’d love to do this again sometime.

He brushes his other hand across her cheek.

Anytime you like, querida.

She moves in to kiss him and it’s soft in a way she hasn’t felt from Pero before. He pulls her flush against him and simply holds her there, lazily exploring her mouth. He smells like sweat and heated metal, and she turns her head to lick the salt from the skin of his neck. A sound rumbles from deep in his chest, and the moment goes white-hot in an instant.

Touch me, Pero, she whispers. Put your hands on me.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He slides one hand to the back of her neck to yank her lips back up to his, the other disappearing into her leggings to grab a fistful of her ass. He swallows the pleased little gasp she makes, greedy for more.

He backs her up against the side of his workbench, moving to unbutton her top. Once he has access he pulls down the cups of her bra and turns his full attention to her breasts, kneading the soft flesh with his hands and laving his tongue over her nipples.

Her fingers run through his hair, longer than Jack’s but with curls less unruly than Frankie’s. His hips press against hers and she squirms against the bulge in his jeans, searching for friction.

Need more, baby? He coos up at her, a wicked glint in his eye.

Need you, Pero, she whines.

He straightens and turns her around to bend her over the workbench, curling his fingers in the waistband of her leggings to yank them down and expose her gorgeous ass to him…

Wait.

He freezes.

Could we…I want…

He runs a soothing palm over her hip.

What do you want, pretty girl?

She twists back around to face him. He lets himself be nudged backward until he feels the edge of a nearby chair behind him and sits. She towers over him now, and he looks up at her with one brow raised.

I want to see you, she says shyly, and his blood heats. He slowly spreads his legs in invitation.

She slips out of her shoes and shimmies her leggings and panties off, then similarly loses her shirt and bra. He reaches for her with a growl and hauls her into his lap. She goes willingly, wrapping herself around him as his hands rove over every inch of her skin. This time their kiss is messy and desperate, and when Pero trails a hand down her stomach and finds the soft hair of her mound to pet at her clit, she whimpers into his mouth.

You want it? He rasps. She nods frantically, their noses brushing.

Then take it out, pretty girl.

She undoes his jeans and frees the stiff length of his cock, pumping him slowly, drawing bead after bead of precum from the tip.

But then her grip falters.

This is okay, right?

Pero frowns at her, confused.

What I mean is…I know we talked about it, and you all said it was okay, that we don’t always all have to be together, but…

Ah, so that’s her concern. Something wild and beastly claws at his ribcage in triumph at the realization that he’ll be the first of them to have her all to himself.

It is more than okay, he reassures her, smoothing a thumb over her kiss-swollen lips. We told you we can each take our pleasure from the others whenever we wish, and none of us is a man who says things he does not mean. Least of all to those we care for.

He can feel her body relax at that, and he tilts her chin and draws her in for another kiss. Her hand starts to move up and down his cock again, the tip of him grazing the pillowy skin of her inner thigh with each pass, and a hiss leaves his mouth at the sensation.

This will not go the way you intend if you keep that up, he warns her. A newfound deviousness unfurls itself in her grin.

Maybe this is what I intend, she says. Maybe I want you just like this, hard and aching in my hands until I make you come all over yourself -

He cuts her off by crashing his lips to hers, stilling her movements on his cock and hooking one hand under her ass to push her up until his length prods against her entrance.

Perhaps, he murmurs, perhaps one day if you’re a very, very good girl, I’ll let you have such a way with me. But for now - he notches himself just inside the slick rim of her pussy - put me inside you.

She obeys, working herself down on him inch by inch. When he’s fully seated inside her she sighs as if in relief, a dazed look in her eyes. There’s a distant thought in the back of her head that despite the workshop being closed today, one of the artists could still walk in unexpectedly at any moment, but she can’t bring herself to care.

They make twin sounds of pleasure at the first swirl of her hips. As her body adjusts to his size she finds her rhythm, bracing her hands on his shoulders as she rides him.

And god, what a sight.

She knows what sex with Pero feels like. She knows what it sounds like, smells like, tastes like. But none of those things has prepared her for what it looks like. What he looks like, as they move together, face-to-face for the first time.

The clench of his jaw, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. The tendons that pop and strain in his neck. The dewy sheen of sweat across his brow. And his eyes…

She could fall forever into the endless black abyss of his eyes, she could lose herself entirely in their depths and never look away and would be thankful for it. How could she not be, when he looks at her with such unrestrained want that she feels it like a physical thing…

She brushes a thumb over the scar that bisects his left eye, as if she could soothe the long-ago wound with present tenderness. She knows it’s far from the only scar he carries, and would that she could heal them all through sheer force of will.

Pero swirls his thumb around her clit, bracing his feet as he begins to meet her hips with thrusts of his own. Her movements stutter as her control over her body wavers. She becomes nothing more than molten desire in his hands, to be molded and shaped and consumed by flame as he sees fit. The pressure he puts on her clit is unrelenting, and this is familiar, the way he doesn’t coax an orgasm from her, but demands it. It builds and builds in between her legs and when she would close her eyes and tip her head back to welcome it he grabs her chin to stop her.

Look at me, he pants. Look at me when I make you come, querida. Look…

It starts as a command, but ends as a plea.

The tension bursts inside her, and her cry of his name and the way her climax tightens her pussy around him like a vice pulls him headlong over the edge with her. He cums with a roar, pulling her down on his cock as he empties himself as deep as he can inside her.

It’s a long minute before they both fully come back to themselves, breathing hard as their bodies milk every last drop of pleasure from each other. She collapses into his chest, and he’s content to hold her there for as long as she wishes.

We can do that again anytime you like too, he says quietly in her ear, and she smiles into his neck.

——————

There’s no big reveal, no fanfare or presentation when it happens. She simply comes home one day (and funny, how she’s started to think of it as home, how her apartment has become merely a place where most of her things are, including the vase she’d made with Pero, but not where she lives) and there it sits on the shelf, catching her eye immediately.

The falcon, the horse, and the bull, now clustered around a fourth statue.

A lioness.

She moves towards it as if pulled by gravity. The beauty of it steals her breath. The great cat is posed sitting, tall and elegant, her body at a three-quarters position but her head turned to look straight out at the viewer. Her tail is wrapped neatly around her, and her tiny delicate ears are alert.

What do you think? says a soft voice behind her. It carries an uncharacteristic hint of uncertainty.

She doesn’t turn, doesn’t need to look to know the man behind her is the one who made this.

She’s gorgeous, she murmurs.

Pero hums low in his throat, and comes to stand over her shoulder.

You can ask, he says. I want to tell you.

Why a lioness? she whispers.

Pero is silent for a moment.

She is strong, and graceful. Clever, and brave. Loyal. Beautiful.

A tingling warmth floods her chest. It feels like too much, the implied praise too high.

They’re remarkable creatures, she replies.

They ain’t the only ones, darlin’, Jack drawls from the doorway. He’s flanked by Frankie, who has one arm wrapped casually around Jack’s waist.

I don’t know what to say. Tears prick her eyes as she turns to face them.

You don’t have to say anything, Frankie tells her.

Just be ours. Pero says it so softly she almost doesn’t hear him. As we are yours.

She pulls Pero in for a kiss, her answer whispered like a vow against his lips:

I already am.

———

Fun fact I learned about glassblowing equipment during my research for this fic that I wasn’t able to work into the story but absolutely need to share with you anyway:

Did y’all know that the furnaces like the one Pero uses here to heat the glass are called GLORY HOLES?!?!?!? Swear to god. Be careful googling that if you don’t believe me. 😂