#the second one is more probable and more positive

[sevikaswinkinghole]

A Weekend in Paradise˚⋆𓇼˚⊹ 𖦹 ⁺｡°

you and sevika take a trip away from everything

NSFW

modern!subtop!sevika, powerbottom!reader, pet names (doll, sweetheart, pup, etc.), scissoring, drunk sex (between consenting adults obviously……), Sevika is extra needy-

Word Count: 2.4k

𓆉 ⋆.˚ 𓆝⋆.˚

“Come on vika it’s just for a weekend!” You exclaimed, trying to hold your phone in Sevika’s face to show her the website you had been perusing. You’d spent the last 15 minutes trying to convince your stubborn girlfriend that she needed a vacation.

With the stress of both of your jobs, the mundanity of everyday living, and life in general, it felt like your relationship was falling into a hard domestic slump. Sevika was usually so busy and stressed that you were getting stressed just from her energy around your shared apartment. You happened to find a good deal on a resort stay in Jamaica, and the plane tickets weren’t too pricey that time of year. The thought of relaxing on the beach with a drink in your hand and Sevika next to you made your heart swoon and your stomach flutter.

The biggest problem was going to be getting the most loyal work obsessed person ever to take a break for once in her life.

“I have a lot of work to do (Y/N)..” she spoke tiredly, not looking up from the slew of paperwork on her desk. Her position as a diplomatic counselor was incredibly important, which meant she put all her time and energy into being as orderly and focused on the tasks at hand, which also meant you recently became second on her list of importance. The long nights of paperwork, meetings that ran well past her work hours, and early morning conference calls were starting to get in the way of the one you love- and the sex life you wanted back.

Sevika hadn’t touched you in weeks purely from stress, and she was usually too exhausted to be touched. So this trip was your big attempt to pull her out of the dark cloud of work and onto a sandy beach and a private resort.

“Sevika, my love, you work so hard.” You pulled her office chair away from her desk before plopping down on the larger woman’s lap, both your hands trailing up her clothed torso before cupping her strong jaw “I’m worried you’re spreading yourself too thin! You can take a couple days off from diplomacy to spend some time with me..can’t you?” You spoke softly, your eyes locking with hers.

Her tired grey eyes softened at the glint of hope in yours, her mech arm resting on your hip as she rubbed small circles into your side. Sevika knew how distant she had been for a while, and even at her busiest she missed the warmth of your touch. Work was driving her crazier and crazier by the day, and she hated letting it get in the way of her time and energy for you. She was truly starting to feel the effects of burn out, and a vacation away for a weekend would probably solve more than she ever realized. “Alright doll….if it makes you happy, we can take the trip-“

You squealed in excitement before she could even finish her sentence, peppering a million kisses all over her face as your legs kicked happily “Yay thank you baby! We’re going to Jamaica!!!!”

-

After another week of planning and scheduling everything from resort stays, to transportation, to activities for a long weekend trip, the traveling day finally came.

You and Sevika woke up at the ass crack of dawn to get to the airport on time. She insisted on keeping up with everything you owned and acted like a dad the entire time. You just stood next to her while she handled getting luggage in the uber, handling passports at the airport, even when TSA stopped your carry on for a bottle of perfume she almost argued the guy down for it. You had to pull her away and assure her you’d get more later.

The flight was long but the moment you touched down on the island it was truly a paradise. The views on the shuttle to the resort were beautiful and sevika took a million pictures and grinned like a kid the whole ride. It made your heart swell seeing the child-like wonder in her eye as she looked at the lush green foliage and blue waters of Jamaica.

Once you made it to your resort and Sevika did a million different room checks of your bed and closets, you practically passed out across the bed. The plush hotel sheets felt like heaven after a day of long travel and you wanted nothing more than to sleep the weekend away already. But you were so excited for the trip that you made reservations for a romantic dinner on your first night of vacay together.

Sevika laid next to you on the bed, her flesh arm immediately finding your waist and pulling you close “I’m glad we did this..” she admitted softly, a gentle blush creeping up on her cheeks. Her honesty making up for any hesitance she had about taking a break.

You smiled happily “I am too. You deserve time off Vika…working is important but you need time for yourself.” You spoke quietly as you caressed her cheek, getting a bit lost in her stormy eyes before pulling her in for a gentle kiss. It was innocent at first, Sevika’s scarred lips moving against yours with knowing precision, like she had a map of your lips engrained in her mind.

But as her tongue grazed past your lower lip, your body moved faster than your brain as your leg swung over Sevika’s hip. She instantly grabbed the underside of your thigh and pulled you closer, the movement deepening the lust filled kiss.

Her clothed thigh slotted perfectly between your legs as her tongue explored your mouth, your body melting into her touch and your hips unceremoniously grinding against the muscle in Sevika’s thigh. She pulled away from the kiss and groaned against your lips, her flesh hand gripping the plump skin of your thigh as her mech hand slid down your stomach.

“Baby what about dinner-” you pouted, the sun was beginning to set outside and you wanted the romantic first night you planned.

She nodded and kissed along your cheek and down to your earlobe, nuzzling the skin around it with her nose before gently biting on your lobe “We can go after i’m done with you..” she purred in your ear, sending a flood of warmth straight to your clit.

“Noooo we can do this after dinner!” You exclaimed hesitantly as you pulled yourself away from your girlfriend’s strong grip to get dressed. Her bruising strength could overpower you any day, but she loved you too much to fight back. So she instead decided to grumble under her breath the entire time it took her to shower and get ready for dinner.

-

Your legs carried your sluggish body through the halls of the resort. You and Sevika had a lovely dinner by the water front, and the food was some of the best cuisine you’d had in your life. But after an eventful dinner, Sevika insisted on “checking out” the resort bar next to the restaurant. And after one too many strawberry daiquiris and a couple shots of Jamaican rum at the bar, you two faced the challenge of getting back to the room.

You were no lightweight. But even after years of college drinking, adult drinking, and even some underaged indulgence, nothing could ever compared to whatever they poured you at that bar. Sevika was a tall lady, it took a lot to barely get her tipsy. You once tried to out drink her when you first got together, but you don’t remember getting home that night and woke up to a losers hangover. But even big strong Sevika was swaying on her way back to the room. You unlocked the room door and pushed inside, immediately stripping from your dress and heels as the intoxication made you all giggly and ready to lay down.

“Dinner was soooo good Vika” Your voice slurred a little as you laid on your back across the hotel bed. Sevika had been unusually quiet since you left the bar, but you were so drunk you barely noticed. She stripped down to her boxers and took off her mech arm before meeting you on the bed. As she hovered over you and buried her head into your chest, you casually ran your fingers through her hair, barely hearing the whiny groan that reverberated into your chest and sent the vibrations down south.

“You okay hun?” You ask, looking down at the love of your life cuddled into your skin. She was notably warm and fidgeting against your touch, her hips rutting against your leg as her soft grey eyes looked up to meet yours. Her pupils were heavily dilated and her hands gripped at your sides hopelessly.

“M-Missed your touch..” She groaned softly as her leg slotted between yours, grinding against the muscle in your leg needily. You rarely saw Sevika drunk, with her high tolerance and ability to control her intake. But with her guard dropped on vacation, you realized why you never saw her this inebriated. She’s a submissive horny drunk. “Missed you…” She whimpered pathetically, sending pressure to all the right places.

You move your hand to caress your lover’s cheek as your other free hand moves to assist Sevika in slotting her clothed mound onto yours. The poor thing was already soaking through her boxers as you pulled her close “You missed me sweet girl?” You spoke, helping her get into position “Show me” Your voice deep and sensual, sending a shockwave of heat and fire down to your love’s clit.

Her flesh arm looped under your leg and placed it over her shoulder as she settled on top of you, her covered clit bulging through her boxers and pressing against yours deliciously. Sevika moaned as her hips moved against your hungrily. You watched through hooded eyes as your big and strong girlfriend whined and whimpered for some over the clothes dry humping. Her eyebrows furrowed together and her eyes shut tightly as her clothed cunt weeped for more.

“Need-” She started, her voice trailing off as she got lost in the motion. Her eyes almost rolled back as she thrusted into you “..need more of you” She whined like a desperate slut. You moaned at the sight, your gorgeous girl getting so flustered on top of you she couldn’t help but whine oh so pathetically. It almost made you want to flip her over and make her cum all night. Almost.

“Okay sweet girl,” You cooed, helping her take off her boxers before taking off your own underwear. Once Sevika was freed from her damp cotton prison, she immediately got back into position and started grinding her needy clit into yours. Her slick coating you and your thighs while she moaned like a whiny pornstar on top of you. People often assumed because of her height and stature that Sevika was always on top, putting you through the mattress, and taking charge. But at times like this, you knew you had all the control.

“Fuck I love this pussy..missed it s-so much…” Sevika stuttered, your hands moving to grip at Sevika’s thick thighs as you moaned at the view of her between your legs. Her desperate movements sending pure pleasure through every blood vessel in your body.

“You look so good like this Vika…fuck you’re drowning me” You groaned out, throwing your head back against the pillows. Your own slick was adding to the sinful sounds that filled your ears and allowed for your girlfriend to move faster against your cunt.

“S-Shit you can’t say things like that” She whimpered as her hips sputtered, you could tell the liquor was helping her get her nut faster. You moved your hand to push her away gently before pressing into her lower stomach to rub her clit, collecting the sweetness you made together. As your other hand pulled her back down to grind harshly against your clit, your honey coated fingers slipped into Sevika’s mouth to coat her tongue.

“You know you like it, be a good pup and clean up” You mewled as your fingers toyed inside her mouth. Sevika moaned loudly at the taste and sucked your digits clean as her eyes rolled back. She rut against you like she was a wolf in heat while you watched in pure intoxicated arousal. The alcohol in your own system working to get you to the finish line just as fast.

“R-Right there vika mhnnn..” You moaned and met her thrusts, your eyes falling to watch your clits coat each others in perfect sinful melody. Your hand left her mouth and reached down to rub her clit with your thumb, the swollen nub slipping out to meet your thumb with every thrust. Sevika groaned pathetically and kissed the inside of your knee, her brain fuzzy and fogged out from the intense pleasure.

“(Y/N)..I-It’s too much baby please…” Sevika whined as her thrusts got sloppier, hinting to her impending climax “Please let me cum..”

“Let it out big mama, cum for me” You commanded as the tight coil in your stomach pulled tighter and tighter. When you looked back up, Sevika was gone and lost in her own gratification. Her eyes shut tight as her hips stuttered and seized, a strained sound leaving her body as thick white sap pooled at your core. It wasn’t long before the coil snapped and your own orgasm crashed into your body like a wave. Your toes curled as your vision went hazy, the come down mixed with the liquor spins making the pleasure even more enjoyable. Your bodies were coated in a thin layer of sweat as Sevika laid on top of you, trying to catch her breath and come down as well.

“Damn..I’ve never seen you like that Sevika” You laugh tiredly, the mention of her name making her sober up almost instantly. She sat up with wide eyes, her cheeks warming up as embarrassment flushed over her sweet face.

“Yeah um…I don’t get this drunk often.” She cleared her throat and stood at the end of the bed, stretching casually like she wasn’t just begging to cum on top of you less than 5 minutes ago. You laughed and rolled your eyes playfully, standing and walking over to kiss her soft lips.

“You know damn well it doesn’t take liquor for you to get whiny and bothered like that” You giggle and pull her to the bathroom to shower for bed. Another day of paradise awaiting you both.

𓆉 ⋆.˚ 𓆝⋆.˚

This took forever to finish and I deleted SOOOOO many drafts but...I hope you enjoyyy :)

Also I went to Jamaica back in 2021 and miss it everyday and wanna write about it so...maybe this will get a pt. 2 if ya'll like it!

I love reading your comments, don't be a stranger! Thank you for reading ily ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

~Squuoosh

Taglist: @lonerslug, @mewl3tte

[godoreo22]

Saja boys x Manager reader: Part 1

A loss can lead to a gain.

(Name) walks past a few missing persons posters and frowns before entering the cafe they works at. "Sorry (Name) but we're so short staffed I'm gonna have to close this place down but i appreciate all the time you've put into working here." Mrs. Yoon hands (Name) their last paycheck with a sad smile.

"Thanks Mrs. Yoon" (Name) bows her head before walking out the front door and turning back to see Mr.Yoon flipping the closed sign and holding Mrs.Yoon close with a deep frown.

(Name) sighs before walking back home to their small apartment to look for another job. (Name) pushes her apartment open and crashes onto their couch with a groan.

"Poor Mr and Mrs. yoon. Poor me, how am i gonna stretch my last paycheck to cover my rent and food. I can more than likely kiss those Huntrix tickects goodbye." (Name) sighs before going on their phone and looking through job offers and applications.

They scroll for what feels like hours but was realistically ten minutes.

They groan in frustration because all the jobs they see are either have crazy hours, seem sketchy, or have unrealistic qualifications. They prepare to put their phone down but come upon a job offer that catches their eye, Band manager.

It looks sketchy but it is the best they can find so they apply and put their phone down hoping to get a confirmation soon only for their buzz a second later. "Okay, that was a little too soon."

They pick up their phone and see their application was approved, and they received an address and a time to be their. "This gets sketchier the more i get into it but I've gotten this far in so i guess I'll be meeting this band tomorrow at noon."

They sigh and put it into their calendar before preparing their dinner.

The next day, (Name) is up and walking to the address they were sent.

"Okay, this is no big deal, just going to a suspicious address that i got from a kinda creepy job add to do a job I'm probably not qualified for... just gonna have the cops on speed dial. just in case of course." (Name) says to herself as she gets closer to the address.

Only for that address to take her to a expensive looking apartment building.

(Name) is starting to have second thoughts about this, but (Name) swallows their anxiety and walk into the lobby and looks around in awe as they extravagent apartment.

"Uh hi i came for a job at apartment, 185... is that the top apartment..." (Name) looks around a little bit anxiously.

"Oooh... those are our new tenants." The receptionist looks off dreamily before clearing her throat. " just show me some identification and proof you know them and I'll buzz you right in."

"oh uh- they didn't mmm... give me ah..." (Name) fumbles now realizing how unprepared and how sketch this job offer was.

"Honey if you don't have any proof im gonna have to ask you to leave or im gonna call security." This only made (Name) more nervous and they try to find some identification in the ad.

Suddenly they feels a warm hand on their shoulder.

"No need to fuss, we'll verify." A husky cool voice fills (Name)'s ears. They look up over their should to glassy smooth skin and deep dark eyes. Those eyes slowly move from the receptionist down too (Name).

"yeah jenny, no need to press our new manager." Said a much deeper voice only for (Name) cute blue eyes and an adorable baby like face. Suddenly more incredibly hot guys appear too.

"Oh of course boys, j-just wanted to make sure they were legitimately here for the manager position." Jenny stammers

The boys move past her leading (Name) up to their apartment.

"So... i got the job?"

OK so that is the full Part one, hope you all like, so i will put out a few more chapters and this story will be my number one priority but i will also be working on all the other stories even if they didn't win the votes. If anyone has any feedback or ideas they want me to use or even little requests just leave a comment and ill see what i can do because i read every comment and i try to reply to every comment.

Taglist: @sparky2020sworld @imaginarydreams

[reveriebae]

Encore Service

pairing(s) : Idol! San x Escort! Reader x Idol! Yunho

word count : 3972

summary : You was booked for one night. They turned it into a goddamn performance.

genre : smut

warning(s) : Heavy dirty talk & degradation, Spit play / face-fucking / throatfucking, Power imbalance / dominance / humiliation, Multiple positions, choking, edging, body worship, Non-consensual photo taken (within fantasy context), Crying, overstimulation, begging, light CNC elements, Mentions of public sharing / group chat humiliation, No aftercare (pure filth fantasy). Let me know if I missed anything!

A/N : I AM FUCKING OBSESSED WITH THOSE UNDER EYE BLUSH SHIT🥵🥵🥵

Minors do not interact, 21+ only!!

🪐smut under the cut🪐

The crowd was still screaming even after the lights dimmed.

Ateez had just killed their encore stage—sweat-drenched, shirtless, every fan in the arena losing their minds as they shouted the members’ names like a prayer. It was chaos in the best way. The boys fed off it. But now, backstage, the adrenaline was shifting.

San leaned back against the hallway wall, still catching his breath, towel slung over his shoulders. His chest heaved with each exhale, abs glistening. He licked his lips slowly, eyes scanning the lingering crew walking back and forth, too hyped to care about professionalism.

"Did you see that girl in the third row?" he asked Yunho, a smirk playing on his lips. "Red top, fake tits, tongue out the whole time."

Yunho didn’t look up from his water bottle. He tilted it back, drinking deep, neck flexing with each swallow.

San scoffed. “You’re telling me you weren’t looking? That mouth was open wider than her brain.”

Yunho finally glanced at him. “And you think that’s a good thing?”

San laughed, deep and low. “Point taken.”

It was always like this after a show—energy high, egos higher. The fans gave them everything, and once the stage lights dimmed, the boys needed something more. Something real. Something to fuck out the leftover tension.

"Where’s Mingi?" Yunho asked, stretching his arms above his head. His shirt rode up slightly, exposing the waistband of his sweats—and the sweat-slick V-line that had girls screaming ten minutes ago.

“Probably still sulking,” San grinned. “Said his girl last night had the ass of a pancake and didn’t even moan.”

Yunho made a noise of disgust.

“I told him, ‘bro, that’s what you get for picking randoms off Instagram.’” San pushed off the wall. “We need a proper one tonight. No risk. No bullshit. Just someone who knows what the fuck she’s doing.”

Yunho’s jaw ticked slightly. “Someone who acts professional... and leaves broken.”

San raised a brow. “Oh? In a mood tonight, hyung?”

Yunho didn’t answer, but the twitch in his lips said enough.

San turned toward their manager, who was speaking with staff nearby. “Hyung,” he called, casually, like he was asking for a charger. “You still got that escort contact?”

The man paused, eyes darting around.

Yunho stepped up beside San, towering, calm, unreadable.

“VIP agency only,” San clarified, tossing his towel over his shoulder. “None of that influencer bullshit.”

Their manager sighed but nodded. He tapped at his phone, muttering, “Y’all gonna give me a heart attack someday.”

Within seconds, a list was sent. Faces, stats, bios. Professional girls—high-end, clean, trained. The kind of women who didn’t beg for autographs or Instagram clout. Just money and silence.

San scrolled, unimpressed, until—

“Stop.” Yunho’s voice cut in.

San looked where he was pointing.

You.

Tight black dress, slightly parted lips, subtle curves, a still frame that looked like it was daring someone to ruin it. Your eyes weren’t even looking at the camera—you were glancing down, like the picture had been taken mid-thought.

Yunho’s voice was quiet. “That one.”

San whistled low. “Pretty. Looks smart.”

“Good,” Yunho said. “I want her to know exactly what she’s agreeing to.”

San tapped BOOK.

The screen blinked.

Confirmed. She’ll be at the hotel in one hour.

Somewhere across the city, you fastened the last strap on your heels. Your phone buzzed. Location received. Payment secured. Instructions clear.

You glanced once at yourself in the mirror—clean makeup, glossy lips, tits high, legs long, expression unreadable. You knew who they were. You’d seen their faces on screens, in magazines, on stages.

But tonight, they were just clients.

And you? You were the service.

No fan shit. No hesitation.

Still, as you picked up your clutch and walked out the door, there was a flicker in your stomach. Something dark. Something electric.

Like instinct already warning you:

You’re not ready.

The hotel suite was warm with leftover tension. Expensive whiskey on the minibar, concert gear half-dropped across the couch, the faint echo of bass still humming in the floor like a ghost of the stage.

You stepped inside like you owned it.

Black heels, black dress, sharp eyes. You didn’t flinch at the man spread wide on the couch—shirtless, sweaty, cocky. Or the one standing by the window with his arms crossed and his stare like a weapon.

You knew them. Of course you did.

Choi San.

Jeong Yunho.

Big fucking deals. Even bigger egos.

“Damn,” San said, looking you over slowly. “They actually sent us a ten.”

You didn’t stop walking. “Depends who’s rating me.”

He let out a low laugh. “Ohhh, she’s got a mouth.”

“I’m a service, not a saint,” you said flatly, tossing your clutch onto the counter. “I don’t do fanservice, I don’t pretend to care about your careers, and I don’t stay longer than the clock. You’ve got ninety minutes and I’m paid in full. You want anything extra—ask nice and pay more.”

Yunho didn’t say a word. Just watched you from his chair—muscles relaxed, eyes ice-cold. Like he was imagining you naked, kneeling, gagging—and already planning how to get you there.

You met his stare, cocking a brow. “You always this quiet or just trying to intimidate me?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile.

Just said, “You’ll know when I’m ready to talk.”

Your stomach tightened—fuck. That voice. Deep enough to make your thighs shift.

San stood now, bare feet silent on the hardwood as he came toward you. He didn’t touch. Just circled—like a man appraising a new toy.

“You don’t act like the other girls,” he said.

“They act like you matter,” you replied.

That made him grin. Filthy and unbothered. “Ooh, fuck, I like her.”

“Most men do,” you said. “Until I walk out.”

Yunho stood up behind you. His height alone was enough to make the air thicken. You felt the heat of his body even without contact, the way his presence pushed your heartbeat up a notch.

San stepped in front of you, fingers toying with your dress strap.

“You come with instructions?”

You smiled. “Sure. Don’t fall in love. Don’t try to kiss me. And if you can’t make me cum, don’t waste my fucking time.”

Yunho moved in behind you now, close enough to smell—clean sweat, cologne, something musky and expensive.

San leaned closer. “And if I want to wreck you?”

Your voice was calm, lips close to his.

“Then fucking try.”

The tension snapped like elastic.

Yunho’s voice dropped behind you, low and firm:

“Strip.”

You turned your head slightly, still smirking. “Why? Scared I’ll say no once I see how small you are?”

San barked a laugh and stepped back.

Yunho didn’t even blink. “I said strip.”

This time it wasn’t a question.

And something inside you thrummed—a deep, dark heat pooling low as you stared at them both.

Two men who wanted to ruin you.

And maybe… just maybe… you wanted it.

You slid your fingers up to your zipper, pulling it down slow. The dress peeled away like silk, falling to your ankles with barely a whisper.

No bra. Just tits out, proud and perky. Black lace thong and nothing else.

No shame. No nerves. Just that look on your face—the kind that says I’ve been fucked better than you, but I’ll let you try.

San whistled. “Oh yeah. She’s gonna cry.”

Yunho sat back down, spreading his legs, still silent.

And then he said it.

“Get on your knees.”

You sank to your knees without a word.

Not because you were weak.

Because you knew exactly what this was.

And if they were going to fuck your body—you’d make them earn it.

San crouched in front of you, head tilted like he was seeing something fascinating for the first time. His fingers trailed from your jaw down to your collarbone, slow and taunting.

“Shit…” he whispered. “You really are something.”

You didn’t respond. Just tilted your chin up a little, daring him.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

"You ever been on your knees in front of someone who didn’t even have to touch you to make you drip?"

Yunho stepped behind you again, this time close enough to feel. He dropped to a knee, hands smooth and warm on your waist, sliding up over your ribs, grazing the undersides of your tits.

You breathed in sharply when his thumbs pressed into the soft flesh, pushing up, squeezing.

“No bra,” he murmured, more to himself. “Good girl.”

His head dipped, and his mouth was on your neck—no warning. Just wet, open kisses, tongue dragging slow up your skin before he bit. Not hard, but deep enough to make your whole body twitch.

“Sensitive,” he muttered. “I like that.”

San cupped your face, guiding your gaze back to him.

“You ever been worshipped, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low. “Not fucked. Not used. Worshipped.”

You hesitated. Breath shaky. But your eyes never dropped.

“I don’t believe in gods,” you said.

San grinned. “Me too, but you will.”

They made you sit back on your heels, arms behind your back—displayed. Yunho stayed behind you, holding you open. His palms slid up your thighs, spreading them until the lace of your thong pulled tight against your pussy.

San kissed your knee. Soft. Almost sweet.

Then trailed his lips up your inner thigh, pausing to bite just above the softest spot.

You gasped.

“Ohh, she makes noise,” he teased, tongue flicking where your skin was thinnest. “Thought you were gonna be all business.”

Yunho hooked his thumbs in the waistband of your thong. Pulled it down slow. You lifted your hips without needing to be told.

"Well-behaved," he muttered. "Wonder how long that’ll last."

They didn’t touch your pussy at first.

No—they stared.

Yunho ran two fingers along your folds, slow, not even parting them yet.

“Dripping,” he said flatly. “Didn’t even touch her clit.”

San looked up from between your thighs. “She wants to be ruined. Look at her. Look how her legs keep twitching.”

Then—spit.

San let a thick glob fall from his tongue right onto your slit.

It slid down slow, glossy, filthy.

You jerked.

“Ohh,” he grinned. “She likes that.”

Yunho took the spit and rubbed it in with two fingers, sliding through your folds, just brushing your clit—

And your hips bucked.

San slapped your inner thigh. Loud.

You moaned.

"Try that shit again," he warned, "and I’ll tie your legs open."

Then he went in.

Tongue first. Long, flat licks like he was tasting dessert. Then smaller ones, teasing circles over your clit that made you whimper.

Yunho pinched your nipples from behind.

"Use your words," he said, voice gravel. "You wanted this. Say it."

You bit your lip.

"Say it," San echoed, lifting his face just enough to smack your pussy. A quick sting. Your body jumped.

"I want it," you gasped.

“Want what?” Yunho growled, twisting one nipple while the other hand slid down your belly.

"Want your tongue," you breathed. "Want you to fuck me with it—please."

San moaned into your cunt, tongue pressing harder now, lips wrapping around your clit, sucking. Yunho shoved two fingers in without warning—deep—curling them just right, pumping while San worked you up top.

Your hands scrambled for something—anything. The floor. Yunho’s thigh. Your own skin.

It didn’t matter.

You were unraveling.

You felt it build—tight, hot, liquid heat bursting in your core—

“I’m—fuck—I’m coming—!”

San didn’t stop. Yunho didn’t slow. Your body shook, legs spasming, jaw slack as the orgasm ripped through you. You couldn’t even speak—just a long, raw moan, head thrown back.

When you came down, you realized your mascara had smeared. Your thighs were wet. Your arms were trembling.

San leaned back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “We haven’t even started.”

Yunho grabbed his phone.

You blinked, dazed. “What are you—”

“Gonna make Mingi jealous,” he said calmly, lifting the camera. “He didn’t get big boobies hoe yesterday.”

Click.

The camera clicked, and you flinched like it was a gunshot.

Your body was still twitching from the orgasm—legs sticky and trembling, lips parted, chest rising and falling in short, ragged breaths. San was still kneeling between your thighs, tongue lazily flicking across your inner thigh just to feel you jerk.

Yunho held his phone up, angled with that same calm you were starting to fear more than anything.

San watched you with a crooked smirk. “Hope you smiled pretty, baby.”

He leaned back and tugged at your ruined thong like it was a trophy, holding it up to inspect it. Then tossed it onto the coffee table like trash.

You blinked slowly, trying to center yourself, but Yunho’s voice cut through your daze.

“Sent.”

San snorted. “You didn’t.”

Yunho showed him the screen.

San cackled.

“Fuck, you really just did it. Sent a full pussy shot to the group chat. With her tits out and everything.”

You tried to sit up. Tried to breathe.

“What did you—?”

“Don’t worry,” San said, wiping a strand of hair off your cheek, “they won’t know who you are. They’ll just wish they were us.”

Yunho tossed the phone onto the bed behind him. Calm as ever. Still half-hard in his sweatpants like your orgasm was a snack, not the meal.

Then the buzzes started.

Vrrrr. Vrrrr. Vrrr.

San grabbed the phone again and started reading with a laugh.

Mingi: “BRO. I GOT A FLAT GIRL IN BANGKOK WTF IS THIS.”

Wooyoung: “No way that moan’s real. Did you edit it?”

Seonghwa: “I need a booking link. Immediately.”

Yeosang: [sends a photo of a broken couch] “That’s her spine next.”

Jongho: “Delete this. I’m blocking the entire group.”

Hongjoong: “Have some privacy, won't you?”

San turned the screen to show you. “You’re famous now.”

Your throat was dry. “You’re sick.”

San grinned. “You’re wet.”

Yunho stood, looming behind you. “Crawl to the bed.”

You looked up at him. Swallowed. “What?”

“Crawl,” he repeated. “You wanted to be treated like a toy. Toys don’t walk.”

Your stomach dropped. Your cunt clenched—traitor.

He didn’t say it again. Just waited.

So you moved.

Palms to the floor, legs shaky, knees burning with every shift on the hardwood. You crawled like they told you—toward the bed, tits swaying, face hot, pride somewhere far behind.

You could feel them watching.

San followed close, laughing softly. “Look at that. Thought she was in charge thirty minutes ago.”

Yunho sat on the edge of the bed, watching you approach between his legs. His cock was hard now—thick, tenting his sweats. One hand resting on his thigh, the other fisting the hem of his shirt like he was holding himself back.

When you reached him, you knelt again, breath shaky.

He looked down at you.

“Now beg.”

You swallowed hard, already kneeling between his legs, arms trembling from the crawl. The scent of him—sweat, Dyptique, the kind of power that clung to skin—wrapped around your brain like a noose.

“I want your cock,” you whispered.

He raised a brow. “That’s not begging.”

San sat on the edge of the dresser behind you, legs swinging, grinning. “Better try again, baby. He likes it when girls sound desperate.”

Your throat tightened.

“Please… Yunho,” you murmured, looking up, lips parted. “I want your cock in my mouth. I want to choke on it. I want to feel it down my throat until I forget my fucking name.”

That earned you a low grunt.

Yunho leaned forward and pushed his sweatpants down just enough.

And fuck—he was big. Thick. Veins running down the shaft. Heavy, dark, flushed and already leaking.

You stared for half a second too long.

San snorted. “Bitch saw God.”

Yunho grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled you closer, cock brushing your lips.

“Open.”

You obeyed.

The first thrust was a tease—slow, just the head. You wrapped your lips around him, sucking softly, eyes locked on his face.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t praise. Just watched.

Then—thrust.

He slid halfway in and you gagged, hands flying to his thighs.

San clapped once. “There it is!”

Yunho didn’t pause. Just held your hair tight and fucked your mouth like it was his right. Deep strokes, thick and heavy, making your throat stretch and clench.

Spit slid down your chin. Your nose ran. Tears welled in your eyes.

You moaned around him.

“Fuck, she likes it,” San laughed. “Look at her. That’s a whore face.”

Your mascara smeared, black streaks trailing down as Yunho started grunting under his breath. His hand tightened in your hair, pulling your face all the way down until your nose was flush with his pelvis.

You choked.

And he held you there.

“Breathe through your nose,” he said calmly.

You tried.

You gagged again.

Spit bubbled at the corners of your mouth as he finally let you pull back with a wet gasp, drool stringing from your lips to his cock.

You barely had time to recover before he slapped it across your face. Once. Twice. Wet sounds echoing.

“Back down,” he ordered.

You obeyed. Again.

This time San knelt beside you, watching, fingers lazily stroking your nipple as Yunho used your mouth like a fleshlight.

“Sloppy little cum toy,” he whispered. “You gonna cry when he fills your throat?”

You moaned around the cock.

Your eyes were rolling back. Drool had soaked your tits. Your whole body buzzed like a wire—overstimulated and loving it.

Yunho finally pulled out, cock glistening with spit. Your jaw hung open, lips red, mascara dripping.

You were a mess.

“Turn around,” he said.

You did.

On hands and knees again, your ass high, thighs trembling.

Yunho stood behind you, phone in hand.

Click.

No shame. No warning. Just a full shot of your wrecked, spit-covered body and your perfect, round ass.

He stared at the screen, then said:

“I’ll keep this one.”

You shivered.

He leaned down, voice right by your ear.

“Gonna jerk off to it when I’m too busy to fuck you again.”

Your body was already wrecked—and they hadn’t even put their cocks inside you.

Your mouth was raw. Your cheeks were flushed. Your throat burned from deepthroating Yunho until your makeup melted and your pride leaked out with your spit.

You were on your hands and knees again, ass still raised from the photo he’d snapped. You didn’t know where your thong was. Your dress had vanished. Your tits were wet with saliva and tears.

But San hadn’t even had a turn yet.

Yunho sat back on the couch now, spreading his legs and watching you like a show. The front of his sweatpants were soaked with spit and precum, cock twitching lazily as he stroked it.

San stepped in behind you, sweat slicking his abs. You felt the heat of his body as he ran his fingers over your lower back, down to your ass.

"Pretty little fuckdoll," he murmured. "And she’s still tight."

He grabbed a fistful of your ass and spit—a thick glob that landed right between your cheeks and slid down to your pussy.

You moaned—humiliated and desperate and soaking wet.

He rubbed it in with his fingers, circling your entrance.

“You wanna cum again?” San asked casually.

"Yes," you breathed. "Please."

He laughed. “Tough.”

Then he pushed in. Two fingers, then three. Thick, rough, curling up and pumping fast, mercilessly.

You arched your back and let out a cry.

"Y-Yunho—!" you gasped without meaning to.

San slapped your ass hard. “Wrong dick, slut.”

You sobbed into the sheets.

"Try again," he hissed, thrusting his fingers harder.

"San—fuck—San please—I need it—"

"Need what?"

"Need your cock. Need it now, please, I’ll take anything—"

Yunho’s voice came from the couch, deep and cold.

“Don’t let her cum.”

San smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He pulled out his fingers and wiped them on your thigh. You screamed at the emptiness, body twitching like a broken wire.

“Please!” you sobbed. “I was close, please—!”

San just climbed onto the bed and pulled you into his lap, one hand tight around your neck. Not cutting air—just control. He leaned in, lips dragging over your cheek, your jaw.

“You cum when we let you,” he whispered. “Not a second before.”

Then he pulled your face to his cock.

"Now open up again. Show me how much you’ve learned."

The next minutes were a blur of spit, moans, and hands.

San fucked your throat while Yunho palmed your ass, spreading you open, sliding his fingers back inside while San held your head still.

San’s cock hit the back of your throat over and over—fast, sloppy, loud. His moans were rough, his grip harsh, and he spat down into your mouth mid-thrust like it was part of the routine.

"Swallow it, bitch."

You did. Didn’t even flinch.

Yunho watched, then got up. He was done waiting.

San pulled out just before he came, pushing you face down on the bed.

"Yunho’s turn."

You could barely breathe, mouth glossy with spit, lips swollen.

Then you felt it—Yunho’s cock sliding through your folds from behind, soaked, hot and thick and angry.

He leaned down, one hand wrapping around your throat from behind, the other bracing on the bed.

"You begged for it," he growled into your ear. "Now take it."

He slammed in.

Your scream was half-air, half-sob. You arched up, hands clawing at the sheets, as his cock filled you completely.

“F-FUCK—!”

“That’s right,” he snapped. “Squeeze my cock, just like that.”

His hips hit yours hard, steady, ruthless. He angled his thrusts until he hit your g-spot with every drive and still didn’t let you cum.

San stood nearby, stroking himself and smirking.

“Her pussy’s clenching so hard. Poor thing’s about to cry.”

“She’s not allowed yet,” Yunho grunted.

You were gasping, crying, begging—your voice raw, your pussy twitching around him, trying to milk his cock for relief that wouldn’t come.

“Please—please, Yunho—”

He slapped your ass hard.

"You’ll wait."

He edged you three times.

Pulled out every time you started to scream, left you twitching and leaking on the sheets.

By the time San slid in from behind, you were trembling, face buried in the pillows, voice almost gone.

He was gentler at first—but only to mock.

“Aww, poor baby. You gonna cry on my cock?”

You nodded, tears streaking down your face.

He smiled. Then fucked into you so deep you saw stars.

San didn’t edge you.

He made you cum so hard you screamed into the bed, full-body spasming, throat raw.

And right when you collapsed, Yunho was there, sliding back into your pussy from behind, fucking you through the aftershocks like you were just a hole.

Your orgasm turned to pain. The pain turned to more pleasure.

Your voice cracked, your vision blurred.

And when it was over—when your body had nothing left, not even shame—

Yunho pulled out and flipped you on your stomach.

Your ass was red, dripping, thighs shaking.

He picked up his phone again.

Click.

“Gonna keep another one,” he said flatly

He tucked it away like it was just a note.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

San sat beside your head, petting your hair.

“Next time,” he whispered, “we’ll let Mingi join.”

[chiming-bluebells]

༘⋆ ꙳ now introducing: lexi in her maze runner dr !!!! ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ˚｡

close relatives: an oak tree and a human.

˖˙ ᰋ ⋆ ˚ ⊹ യ *◞ ˚ ꕀ .*

LOADING . . . W.C.K.D. SUBJECT FILE.

[ AUTHORISED ] password: **********

ꗃ a͟c͟c͟e͟s͟s͟ gr͟a͟n͟t͟e͟d by AVA PAIGE

project.LILITH

[ 24 / 6 / 2xxx, 21:00 ]

PROFILE. DAY 862 : THE MAZE TRIALS

「 S͟U͟B͟J͟E͟C͟T͟ A͟2͟2 ⊹ LEXI ⊹ ,,LILITH” ⊹ 21 Y/O

full name: classified.

subject information: arrival of subject A22 marks the 365th day since the initiation of the maze trials. notably, A22 is the first female individual assigned to group a. while she does not occupy a leadership position within the group, she actively participates in group meetings, and her contributions are frequently regarded as valuable by peers.

subject demonstrates extensive knowledge in medical care and human physiology, consistent with expectations given her prior specialized training. despite undergoing memory surpression (the swipe), A22 appears to retain vague memories from her pre-trial life. she has been observed engaging in discussions regarding the nature and purpose of the trials, often hypothesizing with other group members. distinctive feature of subject is a dragonfly tattoo located between her shoulder blades.

memo: subject A22 submitted a request for items (1) an unspecified quantity of medjool dates and (2) a new skirt. request for medjool dates has been approved. send up a bundle of dates with the box 1/7. request for a new skirt has been denied. no clothing item will be issued at this time.

HER‎♡ : S͟U͟B͟J͟E͟C͟T͟ A͟5 ⊹ NEWT ⊹ ,,the GLUE” ⊹ 22 Y/O 」

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GLADE MOTHER ꕤ since the moment she arrived in the box, LEXI WITHOUT-A-LAST-NAME has disjointed the predictable monotony of the glade in more ways than one. as the first and second-to-last girl to join group a, she quite stirred things up her first few days. ( scene: confusion, chaos, gatherings in the council hall, and… oh, she’s alright… wait, why do the farm animals have bows on them? in that precise order. end scene. )

despite the initial havoc that her unforeseen appearance caused, she quickly established her presence in the glade as a level-headed and skilled med-jack. together with fellow colleagues, best friends and partners-in-crime clint and jeff, lexi spends her daily hours tending to hurt gladers; using her extensive medical knowledge to soothe the runners’ swollen ankles, stitching up slicers, and acting as an anchor for any soul who happen to stumble into the med-hut that day; earning her the endearing nicknames ”glade mother” by some, ”doc” by others, ”the little lady” by most, and ”lexapexaroo” by those wanting to annoy her.

first swede in the american crowd. second european (first would be newt. and yes, the two best friends have indeed trauma-bonded over this fact more than once. they have an agreement: he lets her speak in swedish to him, she lets him speak in gaeilge to her…….not that they understand each other’s mother tongues, but she has indeed memorised the irish expressions ”mo ghrá” and ”grá mo chroí” by heart. i digress…..) lexi’s infamous first words to being asked whether she speaks english or not was ”sparingly.” don’t assume this is her admitting incapability; she is rather well-versed in the english language. this is simply her nordic humour peaking through — she’ll speak to you only when she wants to. and how much she speaks is entirely up to her. better get used to the swedish silence.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ᨳ

if she’s not in the med-hut playing doctor, then she’s most likely in the kitchen together with frypan acting as his sous chef. and if she’s not doing that, then she’s probably lying in the grass somewhere or on the floor of the homestead. despite being warmly received and considered part of the glader family by now, most still have a difficult time figuring her out. maybe it’s her (at times…as in rarely exhibited…) stoic nature, or the way her mere presence hums of something ancient and otherworldly; the way her intuition leads her with scary accuracy, or how she just manages to know the unknown with little to no explanation….there is something about lexi and her nature that is both fascinating and terrifying to the other gladers.

her free time is spent reading any book that gathers dust in the library of the homestead (yes, the homestead has a library. and yes, lexi is probably one of few who ever steps inside of it….. she reads. how she reads. too much, some would argue. but all-round education has never hurt anyone, she usually tells them), petting the cat ginger and cuddling bark the non-barking dog, creating mischief and pulling pranks on minho (while she’s tying his shoelaces together in impossible knots, he’s filling her ballet flats with mountains of glitter the creators decided to entertain him with), or painting artworks of gladers and and the glade itself in her little sketchbook. she takes great pride in her artworks, which she deems as an extension of herself, and in turn a way to subconsciously connect with her forgotten past. if she shows up with hands covered in charcoal or watercolour paint, don’t worry, she simply tried to remember something.

all in all, lexi has cemented herself into the glader culture with pure stubbornness — the same old stubbornness as she so often uses to her advantage. her loyalty lies not in the glade, but rather in its people. and she shows her deep-seated love for them with her ways to create a home out of this god-forsaken place. from weaving flower crowns for the farm animals to hanging bouquets of flowers upside down in every corner of the homestead, she is indeed a tiny speck of colour (all white linen outfits) inside the towering walls of the maze.

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FRAGMENTS OF HER SOUL ꕤ ⋆ sentimentality and a sense of wistfulness ⋆ sweet love letters dedicated to life and the universe ⋆ chaotic and artistic collages ⋆ messy watercolour palettes ⋆ lace and linen ⋆ eyes sparkling with mischief ⋆ wishing upon a shooting star ⋆ a sense of belonging and acceptance ⋆ a genuine smile from a stranger ⋆ pressed flowers and dried bouquets ⋆ flickering candles ⋆ pink carnations and baby’s breath ⋆ wooden stairs and pillars ⋆ cocooning oneself in a soft blanket ⋆ hands smudged with charcoal ⋆ birches and sturdy oak trees ⋆ warm summer rain ⋆ almonds and fresh medjool dates ⋆

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ᨳ

THE RECORD PLAYER IS ON . . . ꕤ the songs that best encapsulate her character. lyrics accounted for !!

◞ välkommen in by veronica maggio

◞ jako by ladaniva

◞ genesis by alkyone

◞ human by daughter

◞ soft universe by aurora

◞ hela huset by veronica maggio

so. there it is: my maze runner dr intro. it’s actually a rework of my first tmr dr intro from my old blog; now vastly improved, i hope. wanted to try something new with the wckd file intro, as well. also!!!! finally figured out how to make the gradient text thingy on tumblr, and i might’ve went a biiiiit overboard with it (or not. pretty colours pretty colours pretty colours!!!!!!).

the layout is, as always, inspired by @elysian-fawn , @girlberrie , and @kerryshifts !!! ·˚ ♡⸝⸝

[exar547]

SUSIE REPLACES NOELLE IN THE PROPHECY (and that might be a bad thing for her)

a short, loose theory post based on some things i've noticed throughout chapters 1 through 4 so far!!

extremely major spoilers for Deltarune's story as of the 3&4 release, especially chapter 4, will be present ahead.

so, a pretty big theory has been spreading around since chapter 4's prophecies were first seen on the 3&4 release. if you've engaged with the Deltarune community recently as of late, then you'll probably have heard of the theory that originally, Susie's place in the prophecy was intended for Noelle. the biggest backer of this theory is this right here:

at first it looks like Susie, sure. you've got her basic silhouette, the hair is pretty clear, if you look at the torso you might see a resemblance to her jacket's shape. it isn't unreasonable to think this refers to Susie, it's what shows up along the prophecy listing the other two heroes when Susie creates a dark fountain and shapes a new Dark World based on what she wants it to include, and it's clear that the game wants you to think this IS Susie.

however, many people also noticed this about the silhouette: the torso shape can resemble a dress, like the one Noelle wears in the Dark World, or the skirt she wears in the Light World. same with the hair: it could be her's, too. this is further proven by other details in the silhouette; the lack of a defined muzzle unlike Susie, though Noelle definitely has a face more shaped to fit. and there's also, of course, the sword rather than an axe. if you didn't know, Noelle can actually equip some swords in-game during chapter 2!

"THE GIRL, WITH HOPE CROSSED ON HER HEART." can refer to Susie, but too can it refer to Noelle, even moreso i'd argue. Noelle is clearly struggling a bit with her life as we see: an overbearing mother, a father in the hospital, academic pressure and of course her lack of willpower to admit her feelings for Susie to her face. thus, the hope crossed on her heart i'd say fits Noelle more than Susie: Noelle is hoping her father recovers and leaves the hospital to come home, Noelle is hoping each day that her grades will meet the standards she must hold up to, and she is hoping to get closer to Susie.

overall, there's a lot of very strong evidence pointing towards the idea that Noelle was supposed to be the second hero of the prophecy. it's not hard to see why many support this theory, and so do i!

and this is what makes Susie so interesting, with the position she holds in the story. throughout the entirety of the game, Susie has made it a point that she doesn't bend to the will of some outer narrative, nor does she follow what she's told, only what she wants. it makes her more of a protagonist than Kris, at times.

...but what if i told you, that i think Susie's revolution could bring upon her downfall later on?

due to Susie accidentally taking someone else's place in the prophecy, things have begun spinning out of place. she's done too much that clearly wasn't meant to happen: she's befriended Lancer, who was clearly meant to be solely an antagonist, as silly as he is. she's become an antagonist herself for a short time, and multiple times she has completely subverted what Ralsei would have expected to happen, simply because she doesn't conform to a written story.

and unfortunately, this puts Susie in serious danger.

why's that? well, just as this theory begins with an image from the prophecy, so does it come back to that here... with this simple wording.

"LOVE FINDS ITS WAY TO THE GIRL."

this is one line that people have been theorizing like crazy over too, and it's no wonder why. you can take the literal meaning (and seemingly the meaning Susie interprets it in as well), sure, makes sense, a romance between Susie and Noelle has been brewing over the course of the game so far, and that's clearer than ever after visiting Noelle's house!

...but then, there's the theory of the player's SOUL, as depicted right in her chest within the silhouette. the very same spot of the body Kris reaches into to rip us out of themself.

if you've seen the consequences of the Weird Route from chapter 2 all the way over to chapter 4, you'll know that the implication afterwards was that a part of the player's SOUL was left implanted in Noelle after we forced the THORNRING on her in the Light World. this is quite clear, at least to most, telling by the red splatter when it happens, and the unnerving red dot that can be seen later on if you choose to focus on what Noelle is doing, instead of Susie.

if in the Weird Route, the SOUL's essence has been implanted in Noelle, what does that mean?

if LOVE finds its way to the girl, could that refer to our SOUL?

and if that IS the case, does that mean the Weird Route is truly just the player accidentally setting the prophecy straight?

and if LOVE doesn't find its way to Noelle in the "normal" route...

then what does that mean for Susie's fate?

my theory, as simple as it gets, is that one way or another we are going to have to either force our SOUL onto Noelle in the Weird Route, or force it onto Susie in the typical route, depending on our choices. and if we don't want to force it onto either of the girls, then Kris might force it onto Susie themself.

now, that sounds a bit odd, right? if chapter 4 (and a lot of other subtle dialogue outcomes) is any indicator, Susie and Kris are absolutely CHILL by now (pun not intended sorry noelle). why would Kris want to inflict their own torture onto Susie, someone that Kris clearly sees as a close (maybe best) friend and possibly even admires?

well, they don't want to. that's why someone is going to make them do it; and that could be either us, or the voice from Kris' phone.

in chapter 2, accessing the Weird Route, which would eventually lead to Noelle having the SOUL forced onto her in chapter 4, requires precise, manipulative tactics as soon as Noelle joins your party. you go back, you make her freeze enemies, and you continuously force her to do things she clearly expresses she doesn't want to do, simply by repeating, pushing her to just, in simple terms, proceed.

obviously, this ends with a lot of destruction of the Cyber World, and it's a miracle Berdly is alive at all after everything. but let's be real: the point of all of it wasn't to be spooky and violent and kill everyone and woahhh genocide so scary!!!

it was to weaken Noelle's resolve. to make her less likely to resist, to make her not fight you. and when you later reveal your presence to Noelle in chapter 4, that exactly happens: she fails completely to defend herself, and she doesn't run much beyond scooting away on the couch.

i think in a similar way, Susie's resolve will be weakened as well. not necessarily through forced violence or through intimidation, but through persistence and carefully picked words, exploiting Susie's naivety and her love for the Dark Worlds and the Darkners within them.

it's hard to say how exactly it will happen, but i have a strong feeling that it will. in fact, i think we're already seeing early signs of our SOUL having an affect on Susie, as shown by the way that we are able to watch her without the requirement of Kris' presence, once every chapter, as encouraged by Ralsei. hoo boy, have i got a lot to say about how much involvement i think Ralsei might have, but i'm writing this at 2AM so i'll stop that train of thought here.

point is, the girls are both in serious danger of meeting the same fate that Kris has already met; puppets to the player. regardless of what route is taken, it's looking like one of them will have to get hurt.

but i think we can still change this outcome.

if you accuse Gerson (the old man) of not liking prophecies after he breaks one of them, he makes a very, very interesting point:

"Well now, a fairytale is a pretty little thing."

"Ain't it nice to believe a glimmer here and there…?"

"I jus' think, those words shine a bit too bright."

"A path so blue, it's all you can see."

"So I say… why don't we go between the lines?"

"It's darker there… Geheh… geheheh!"

and i think, more than anywhere else, this exact point that Gerson makes works the best when applied to Noelle and Susie's unfortunate positions. their so-called fates, as demanded by the prophecy. in fact, i think this line works so well with their situation, that it is actually foreshadowing.

i think THIS is exactly what we're going to need those Shadow Crystals for. to save both Noelle and Susie, rather than harming one in favor of the other.

Seam better cook up something good with those crystals.

and with that, i rest my case. feel free to reply with your own points and/or counter-theories, i'd love to debate this or just hear what others think of my theory!

[eponymous-rose]

My Trip Home, or: The Plane Design that Fails at Triangles

I fly fairly often. I offer that as context - I'm not jetting off somewhere glamorous every week or two, and I'm not even spending every second weekend in a hotel yelling business words at people in suits, but I'm lucky enough that, between a few work travels a year and a couple fun travels a year and now this strange new world of hobby travel, the shine of even my sickeningly optimistic and perpetually delighted perspective on air travel has begun to tarnish. "Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth!" Yeah, and then promptly discovered the surlier bonds of budget air travel.

(This will be a post of incredibly petty complaints!)

I was in California this weekend for a hobby thing, and I was flying the kind of non-refundable, lowest-budget ticket for which the gate announcement is an afterthought. Very "...and the rest" from that first iteration of the Gilligan's Island theme song. Right? We all know this incredibly topical reference. So, alongside the Professor and Mary-Anne, I schlep to my seat and find myself in the window seat in my least favorite of all seat configurations: the 3 seat-aisle-3 seat combo on board the Boeing 737-700.

I shuffle across the two people who paid for a refundable, normal ticket (and hence boarded approximately seventeen years ago), and sit down, ready for my two-hour flight. And promptly think, "Oh no."

For context, my height and weight approximate those of the median American human across all genders. My butt occupies about two-thirds to three-quarters of the seat. I am not especially tall nor especially short. I say this to communicate that I would, reasonably I think, expect people in a wide range of body types - including those several standard deviations outside of my own extremely median one - to be at least moderately comfortable in the seats aboard this extremely common aircraft. The bar is so low that Boeing engineers took that bar as inspiration for space-saving measures.

We all settle into our seats. We take off. The guy in front of me reclines his seat immediately. This is my line in the sand, my probably unreasonable stance that I will argue until the end of time: yes, you can recline on an airplane. No, I don't think you should. To me, reclining your seat falls under the same category as refusing to tip: yes, tipping is a terrible system and the proper response to unfair wages is for the employer to cover the shortfall, but hey, here we are in a reality where those tips are subsidizing fair (or at least legal) wages, and wouldn't you know it, in that reality you gotta participate in the flawed system as an individual to avoid being a jerk. So, yeah, you *can* recline your seat, and it's the airline's fault for smashing us all so close together that those couple inches of space mean you're either destroying someone's laptop, spilling their drink, or dreamily resting your head in their lap for the rest of the voyage, but that doesn't mean you're not a bit of a jerk for doing it. More on this in a sec, I promise you, but suffice it to say that the knees of my extremely median five-foot-seven legs are now lightly kissing the seat in front of me.

The first hurdle emerges in the form of the (genuinely very lovely) person sitting to my left. In the unspoken rule that is very loudly spoken anytime the subject is broached, the middle seat gets the armrests. This is well and good and one of the signal indicators to me of the social contract still being in place aboard an aircraft despite the abomination that is the seat recline. Here, we say to those objectively suffering the worst in our midst, partake of our bounty via these two plastic doohickeys. Lean ye thereupon and rejoice.

The trouble, of course, is triangles.

As an experiment at home, sit yourself down and imagine the wall of a seat in front of you. The armrests are positioned such that, if you let your arms rest down directly next to your ribs, your arms will be parallel with the rests. Now take out an imaginary phone or iPad or book - something that requires two hands to hold it. And remember, you've got your neighbor in your lap at this point and can't hold the device too far in front of you.

The result? Triangles! Your arms are no longer parallel with the arm rests. Your elbows are several inches over both arm rests, pressing directly into the ribs of the median persons to either side of you.

I generally expect a little bit of arm contact when sitting side-by-side with someone in a sardine can speeding through the air at frankly alarming speeds. I don't like it, but it's reasonable. What strikes me as unreasonable - and this has happened each time I've flown this model of plane lately - is having my neighbor touching my torso the entire flight. My torso! How often do you have prolonged contact between a stranger and your torso? Not often! Not often at all! It's deeply unpleasant!

The worst part is that there is absolutely nothing this woman could have done, short of sticking her arms directly forward and up the whole flight, to mitigate this problem. Miserably, we settled into a detente of her elbow in my ribs and mine jutting slightly into the space in front of her forearm. My body reacted to this strange and unwelcome experience by giving me a phantom sensation of being tickled in my left armpit. For two hours.

To distract myself, and for a change of pace, I brought down my tray table, which was approximately the dimensions of a typical sheet of paper. I tried putting my bottled beverage on it and found that whoever had designed the indentations that served as cup holders was perhaps confusing cups with, I dunno, acorns or something? They were very small. I gamely tried to eat the sandwich I'd brought on board, with the approximate range of motion of a full-body cast at my disposal.

A clunk on my toe: new stimulus for my tickled-out body to latch onto, delighted. The man in front of me had dropped his phone, and I was in a position to recover it! There are few things are immediately soul-restoring as being able to render a small service to a stranger.

Relieved, and under his nervous gaze back at me through the crack between his seat and the side of the plane, I managed to slide the phone toward me with my foot... and realized that, were I to try hinging at the waist to pick this phone up, I would end up giving this man a little smooch upon his forehead instead. I asked him to un-recline his seat so I could actually reach it, and managed, with my face completely crushed into the seat in front of me, breathing plastic and the safety information card all the way, to reach down and grab his phone. He thanked me and reclined once more.

Two hours later, we'd landed and the deplaning process had begun. The woman next to me asked if I was in a big hurry to make a connection or anything, but the way she actually worded the question was, "Are you in a hurry to get up?" and I genuinely wasn't sure how to communicate that I was both at my final destination and therefore wouldn't need to push past her to the front of the plane... and that I was at my metaphorical final destination and would probably spontaneously combust if I remained sitting for too much time. I just stared at her with very wobbly liquid eyes and she nodded and we stayed put, her elbow reassuringly in my ribs.

Having had the incredible experience of a cross-country Amtrak train trip across the US recently, I can now definitively say which mode of transport feels more like it was invented centuries ago. On the other hand, maybe all that time just gave trains what they needed to figure out the mystery of triangles.

[changingplumbob]

Second Round - Day Five (3PO) 1 of 2

@lostinsixam, @igglemouse, @simstagramsomeone, @daedriyth, @ashubii, @simscici - Sim creators and writers

Bright and early, the household wakes up. Room order was randomised with Jerrica and Lara getting the ground floor rooms. A wheel was spun for type of shower the contestants would have (opportunity for energised, flirty or inspired moodlet) and whether they would brush their teeth (possible confident moodlet). Once they are finished getting ready they're sent to breakfast. Autonomy is toggled on and room doors are locked.

The order the contestants arrive at breakfast matters a little. Deanna compliments each of them in the order they arrive. Those who are talked to early seem to have more chance of fitting in autonomous socials with Deanna. They might fit in a joke, flirt or gossip between her complimenting others.

Jerrica was first to breakfast today, she and Deanna deciding to share a hug before catching up.

Jerrica: How have you been?

Deanna: Busy. You all get days off but I don't. It's pretty non stop

Jerrica: Never underestimate the power of a good nap

Deanna: *chuckles* Oh Lara I keep meaning to say I love your jacket

Kennedy: It's real clever how it matches your hair

Lara: Aww, thanks you two. I do worry that I have a more limited wardrobe than some

Callie: You don't need a big wardrobe if you like what you have

Kay was last to breakfast, but she has some good moodlets on board!

Kay: Ohhh pancakes! Let me at em let me at em

Deanna: *chuckling* I hope they're alright. I figure you could probably make better

Abigail: Are pancakes baking or cooking?

*moment of silence*

Jerrica: My bisexual self says both is good

*laughter*

Kay: *while eating* Motion seconded

Lara: Do I have time for a quick swim before the challenge?

Deanna: *checks time* Yes, it's almost an hour and a half before they want us there

Abigail: You sure you can't tell us what the challenge is

Deanna: *hesitates* If I told you what it was you might leave

Abigail: *gloomily* That sounds so promising

Kay: It's alright Abby, it'll be an adventure

Kennedy: Did you pick this one?

Deanna: I did not. And I've not really done it myself

Kennedy: *gasps* Horse ridin'? Is it horse ridin'?

Kay: Horses are cute! Those ones at the shelter looked so sweet

Jerrica: If it was that surely it would have been an option for skill time

Kennedy: *sighs* You do have brains

Callie: Not necessarily. I mean we never got an option to work on our singing

Amidst the chatter Abby takes herself off to a mirror in the hall.

Abigail: Come on Abby, I know we woke up gloomy, but we can push through. Look how you did with karaoke. And you've already had your date so you don't need to stay positive all day... just the next few hours. Then we can come back and wallow in peace for a bit

Lara and Abby both return to the group at the same time. Lara feels refreshed from her swim while Abby has enough good moodlets now to quiet the negative ones. Callie had headed upstairs to play juice pong... although she didn't actually invite anyone so it came to nothing.

Kay: I love this movie

Deanna: Sorry Kay but they need us on set in ten. Time for a costume change

Abigail: Time for what now

Deanna: You'll have to put on your active wear

Jerrica: *sarcastically* Hooray

Kennedy: *quietly* Please be horse ridin'

Devin: Hello everyone and welcome to Tartosa Gym. Today's challenge was picked by our pa, who is a fitness fan. Each of you has been tasked with completing the beginners endurance challenge on the rock wall. Fastest time wins. Good luck everyone

Devin hands it over to Aaron who gives a brief tutorial on how the rock wall works. It operates like a vertical treadmill, ticking over as contestants get closer to the top. Aaron takes everyone through some pre climb stretching to warm up, we need to be safe after all.

Aaron: I've picked this challenge because love is a marathon, not a sprint. You have to keep putting in the work if you want it to thrive. I'm looking forward to seeing who wins

Devin directs everyone to the right walls and the cameras position themselves.

Aaron: Any guesses who might win this one?

Deanna: Most of the 3PO group are... how would you say it... indoor cats? I think Kennedy might have an advantage with her love of horse riding. She's probably the most athletic

Aaron: Care to tell me who you want to win?

Deanna: *smiling* Nice try, I'm not doing that pa

Jerrica: I'm willing to give it a try, but my lack of athleticism may not help me out much here.

Lara: Wow, that sounds awesome! I love a good adventure, but at the same time, I worry about the girls... Will they be okay with it? I bet some of them find the challenge a bit scary...

Abby: *gulp* ... I don't think my noodle arms are saving me from this one *nervous laughter*

Callie: I just hope I don't hurt myself!

Kennedy: Well, I climbed trees growin' up. How hard can rocks be?

Kay: *big wide eyes* Oh, uhm, well. I'm not the strongest here so this should be interesting.

The challenge is under way! Everyone starts off strong but the wall can be devious. Kay falls to the ground first, followed by Kennedy. Kennedy however sticks the landing. Next out of the running is Jerrica, who is surprised to land on her feet. Then lastly Lara falls on her butt, with a big oomph.

The only two who manage to complete the rock wall are gamer Abby and clumsy sim Callie. Abby completes hers in 23.87 seconds. Callie takes 25.15 seconds. Abby technically scoops the win but with a date under her belt we'll be giving her some bonus points. The date will be Callie's.

Kennedy: Rocks are NOT as easy to climb as trees...

Kay: I probably should work on my fitness skill...

Kennedy: We could go on some jogs on our days off

Kay: We could... or we could stay indoors and bake. I'd love to hear more about your horses and you can't exactly tell me if we're jogging

Kennedy: Fair enough

Lara: My hands and arms are a bit sore... I really wasn’t made for this sport, but it was fun anyway! 

Jerrica: Its nice to try new things even if i'm bad at them...

Lara: The falls reminded me of those funny videos online of people trying to climb and slipping with their hands, which made me laugh a few times during the challenge

Jerrica: ...now to go soak my hands in ice water for a year

Lara: There's a sauna downstairs. Maybe we can stay since we're not going on dates

Jerrica: I like that plan. I like that plan a lot

Villa renovation by @paracosmic-sims Gym build by @hashimasims

[eugenedebs1920]

“Oh ‘my’ God” is right….

I’ve tried. Pardon the upcoming pun but, my lord I’ve tied. I’ve tried to correlate the Christian teachings from my youth to the current ones. I’ve tried to equate the similarities between the values I was taught as a kid to what the Christian right states its values to be. I’ve tried to have tolerance for that which I cannot relate, and use the teachings of Christ to find middle ground with the theocratic Christians so prevalent in politics today. And I can’t. I simply can’t.

They have strayed SO FAR from the moral, guidance, and overall values of that the book they claim to adhere to.

I’ve read the bible, probably more than once, but I left the church long ago, mainly due to their stance on homosexuality, and the stifling hypocrisy.

The Christian right has infiltrated top positions of government. A government which was founded on the concept that religion was to be practiced freely without fear of reprise for doing so, and not to be dictated or to be guiding principle in governing. It’s very clearly spelled out in the first amendment. In fact it’s the first words in the first amendment, the first rights of American citizens in what can be called the Bill of Rights.

Now! Now things have gotten so saturated with religion that the lines differentiating church from state are severely blurred. The problem is that the religious doctrine being executed is not that of love thy neighbor, it is not that of be kind to the immigrant, it is not that of bear no false witness (lying), it is not that of do not steal, it is not that of even do not worship false idols.

It is that of hatred, the entitled judgement of others, a self fulfilling prophecy of preparing for the rapture, stealing from the poor to give to the rich, denying healthcare for the sick, the idolization of money, the discrimination of immigrants, these are the actions of the modern evangelical Christian movement.

Hypocrisy is the doctrine that seems to motivate their agenda.

It is a mental illness to think “god” told you that you are Moses, like Mike Johnson. It’s a mental disorder to show reckless abandon for life in pursuit of “the second coming of Christ”, it is a sickness to believe only your beliefs, only your perspective, only your way is the right way.

They try and say being trans is a mental illness, I don’t see any trans people disregarding human life in the hopes of everlasting life. I don’t see gay people pushing an agenda from a book that says the world was created in 7 days, that a man was swallowed by a wale then was just fine days later, that the Red Sea was parted, that we are descendants of just 2 people, then using that mythology to push a narrative of hate and oppression.

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion” the first words in the first amendment to the Constitution.

Maybe Republicans should revisit the Bill of Rights. Perhaps they simply forgot about it….

[kotonoba]

You were looking for some requests and i probably have something for you! Beckman x reader comfort. Reader is normally a brave and spirited fighter but during the last battle the red haired pirates had, she witnessed an enemy pirate kill a helpless child and it shook her hard to her core. That she wasnt strong, she wasnt quick, that she was useless. And beckman finds out all this happened when Hongo ran over and said she had suddenly passed out from lack of sleep and it was just really bad. So beckman has to navigate that and comfort her through this. As he is her safe space

Echo Chamber (Beckman/F!Reader)

Summary: After a recent raid, flashbacks of not being able to save a child haunts you.

a/n: I hope I wrote to the degree you wanted, I had to do a lot of research since this is my first time writing for him. Enjoy!

Warning(s): mentions of death, sleep deprivation, comfort, hurt, pushing away help, established relationship, female reader, hallucinations, description of trauma

Posted on AO3

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The pendulum swings backwards. You found yourself collapsed on the road, most taken, the view before you like an attack. Blood stained your hands, normally, it doesn't faze you, but this time, you felt your heart lodge in your throat as a sob choked in your throat. The smell of gunpowder invades your senses, your weakened limbs gently cradle a child gasping for air; a fatal hit to the trachea. Eyes widened with bewilderment, blood gushing out of their mouth as you did your best to stop the bleeding, but it was a clear shot. Fear radiated off the child. If only you were one step faster, you could have deflected the bullet. 

If only… You were more useful. 

“Hey, the fish is getting away,” you snapped from your trance, following the voice to hear your boyfriend poke fun at the several fish that had hooked on but got away. As he took a closer look, he spotted the dark circles beneath your eyes, “Are you okay, darling?”

Fake it until you make it; that's usually how you deal with your trauma and injuries. You didn't want to worry him, so you said, “I'm alright, just been a bit restless lately, don't worry about it.” You muttered, 'It should pass soon; it's only been three days since the fight.' Your eyes glance past the tall figure in front of you, the crew celebrating over the victory still, but you were hung up on the child who suffocated to death because you were just too weak to protect. 

“Dinner is starting, you can fish afterwards,” he left no room to negotiate, pulling your hand as he led you off the spot where you had been planted for hours. 

Surrounded by your crew, the idiocy and boisterous atmosphere eased you gently as you sat beside your boyfriend, who kept putting food on your plate. As he nudged you to eat, you glanced down at the medium rare steak, and you felt your stomach churn. The red liquid oozed out as your fork pressed into the tender meat. Flashes of blood on your hands, the child's fearful look, begging you to save them, resurfaced. You felt tears sting your vision as you covered your mouth. Abruptly, you stood up and turned your back to your boyfriend, who noticed the sudden change in demeanor, “Have fun, I'm just a little seasick,” you lied. A weary smile forced its way onto your tired features, the color drained from your face as you glanced one last time at the steak, then your boyfriend, and hurried into your room. 

You bent over on the toilet, vomiting what little substance was left in your stomach, a mix of water and gastric acid came up. Burning your throat as you tasted a tinge of metallic liquid lingering on your lips. Tears squeezed past your once brave eyes as you saw droplets of red lingering in the yellow emesis. Your legs shook as you got up from your kneeling position. For a second, everything was okay. As you wiped your mouth of the residual, you saw flashes of red stain your hand. It began pooling with blood, as you recall, trying to patch up a wound that didn't close. You rushed over to the sink, washing your hands desperately, washing the blood you swore you saw stain your calloused hands. You scrubbed beneath the nail beds, between digits, up to your arms, until the skin began to peel from your hands, stinging pain met with hot water; you saw the blood from your wounds and tried to wash it off. 

A knock on your door snapped you from your ritual, “Hey, Beckman's worried about you,” Hongo's voice rang. You felt nauseous again. The feeling of being labeled as deadweight gnawed at your sanity. You gritted your teeth as the ship's doctor continued to talk, “Let me take a look, are you not feeling well?” 

The knocking continued as you bit the inside of your cheeks, drawing blood out, “I'm okay, I'm just tired,” you lied; your lips trembled as you tasted blood on your lips. “I'm going to bed early, sorry for worrying you all,” you called out, putting on a tough front. You turned off the lights, listening to distant conversations about your health and the shuffling of feet as they moved away from your door. You prayed that sleep would come to you tonight as you lay in bed. 

Your heavy lids closed, but you were met with screams and cries for the child's mom and dad. The sound of threats from the enemies telling the kid to shut up, you barely held your own against the enemies. The child was crying out to you for help as you desperately ran for the child, but you were one step too late as the bullet penetrated the trachea and through the back. The child collapsed, blood gushing out of his mouth, with what little breath he had left, the words uttered through pained tears, “I-I don't want to… die.” 

Once again, you stood on the field, you glanced around; the crew was doing great. You were just deadweight, a weight that couldn't even save a child. You once again knelt before the child, desperately holding onto the weakening body. You cried for help, but nothing came out of your mouth; you glanced down, and the body melted into blood. 

You shot up from your bed, your mind racing as you turned on the lights. The stinging of your ritual burned your hands as you tried to wash the blood that stained your vision. 

You decided sleep just wasn't made for you. You grabbed your lance and decided training would help a little more with your uselessness. As you wobbled out of your room like a walking corpse, your mind was preoccupied with the scene of the battlefield. If you had only pivoted to your left, you might have reached the child sooner. If you only twisted your lance a little harder, the enemies would have fallen out of your way. If only you weren’t so useless, the child would still be alive. 

“You’re hurt! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Hongo’s voice knocked some sense into you as you glanced up at him, dazed. “Come with me,” he pulls you along to the open air, cleaning your wounds that no longer stung you like before. Your eyes trained on the wounds as they disappeared with each bandage wrapped around them, “I knew you would come out of your room eventually. Were you thinking about training? With these wounds?” He monologues, you let him talk. Hearing him talk distracted you from the screams of the battlefield that haunted your sleep without dreams. “Who am I to stop you from training more? Just remember to rest,” you looked up from your hands. He shrugged at you, “No one listens to the ship doctor until they’re ill, but do remember to rest.” 

You nodded. He left you be, bathing in the moonlight, left alone to your demons as your mind echoes with the raging battle. Days felt longer, nights were the longest, you trained alone under the moonlight, your mind playing tricks on you, “you’re not doing it right,” you muttered to yourself as training became brutal, “don’t even think about slacking,” your mind sneered as you felt the tireless nights catching up to you. “You’ll never grow if you ask for help,” your demons cackled in your mind. You didn’t deserve help, you can’t possibly ask someone to listen to your woes. 

You avoided your boyfriend, your captain, the doctor, your crew, and even yourself. Mirrors shattered in your bathroom, wounds reopened through the harsh training you put yourself through; meals barely touched as your mind replayed how useless you were on the barren battlefield. 

You heard whispers turned malicious, so you stopped attending feasts held by your crew. You stopped answering to your name when your captain called for you, and you disregarded your doctor's pleas to eat. You put on a tough front and smiled at your boyfriend to ease his anxieties, “I’m fine, don’t worry.” That was your mantra, and for a while, they all believed you. For a while, you also thought you were okay. 

For a while, it didn’t last long, as you saw the child, blood gushing out of his mouth point at you one day on the ship, “it’s your fault I died,” your breath hitched, tears stung your vision, you tried to run away, but your feet was planted to the ground, your lungs hyperventilated until the air stopped. Your world faded to black with a loud thud on the deck. 

You recall hearing the ship’s doctor call for your name, but you couldn’t move, your legs gave up; you recall the doctor urgently calling for the captain’s right-hand man, you remember, for a moment of your time, warm liquid dripping onto your bruised arm. But it could just be your mind playing tricks on you. 

You wandered in your dreamscape, in a dark, lonely world, the battle repeating over and over again, “Why are you slacking?” The child asked, blood pooling out of his wound, “You don’t deserve to rest when I died, how does my mother feel?” You gritted your teeth, tears rolled down your face uncontrollably, “Why me and not you?” 

You jolted awake with a shake from your side, bewildered eyes searching for an anchor until it rested on your boyfriend, who hovered over your vision, “Why do you shoulder everything yourself?” You studied him closely; his eyes were red, and there were bags beneath his eyes. You reached up to wipe away the tears. He held onto your bandaged hand, placing a kiss to your palm, “It wasn’t your fault, you’re not deadweight to anyone on the crew, especially not me,” your mouth was agape, you weren’t aware you sleep talk, but the only way he knew, “you were sleep talking, and I’m glad you were. You wouldn’t have told me otherwise, would you?” 

“I’m sorry, I–” 

“No, I’m sorry for not noticing sooner.” his hold on your hand tightened. Watching you sit up, he assisted you to your feet, leaning you against his chest. “You were crying out for help, and I just didn’t notice. I should have paid more attention,” he whispered. His embrace around you tightened, his digits intertwined with yours as he peppered kisses on your forehead. “You did your best; the outcome would have been the same if I were in your shoes.” 

You hesitated for a second, listening to him talk, “...you’re just saying that to make me feel better, I know you would have been fine.” 

“That’s not true,” he gritted his teeth, “we can’t win them all, at the end of the day, you’re all that matters to me,” his selfishness was a first for you. You felt his heartbeat faster and harder, “I hate to see you so hurt, so please,” he turned your attention to him, “let me share your burden.” He whispered, pressing his forehead against yours lightly, sharing his warmth with your more incredible body, “let me hurt with you, we carry it together. Even if it’s heavy, please.” 

Your heart melted at his words, and tears rolled down your face. As much as it’s hard to let someone in, your heart ached more seeing how desperate he was to be there for you. “Alright, I’m sorry for–”

He tilted your head up, and his lips met yours to stop your apologies. For a second, your burden left you alone, and your eyes fluttered closed. After a bit, he pulls back, “stop apologizing, it’s not your fault.” You sighed at that, but he pressed his hand over your lips gently, “if you can’t sleep, then we’ll stay up together. A relationship isn’t just about the ups, it’s also about the downs.” You nodded in his hold as he withdrew his hand from your mouth. 

“Do you think it’s true?” You questioned softly, you already knew his answer, but you wanted to hear him say it, “should it have been me and not the child?” 

You didn’t have time to react by the time he slammed his forehead against yours, “don’t be stupid, my love.” You covered over your forehead from the sudden collision, “you think it should’ve been you?” He hissed at your question, “I’d rather have you wounded and broken than buried.” 

“But you didn’t have to headbutt me!” 

“You wouldn’t have listened!” Despite the tough conversation, he lets out a laugh to see you return a little to your old, joyous self, “we carry it together. Even if it’s heavy.” He repeated, and you nodded in response, leaning against his chest. 

The days leading up to today seemed to be long behind you; the wound to your heart and mind was destined to heal with your lover by your side. You should have reached out sooner than letting the demons eat at your confidence. The days would get longer as you begin to heal, but at least you had someone to lean on and share with. 

“I’ve been forgotten…” Hongo whispered to himself, a blank expression on his face as he stood by the door of the infirmary. 

Today, the pendulum swings forward once again.

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I did a lot of research into how to actually describe this & a lot of research went into reading up on his character; I kindly ignored the sentence in the wiki that said, "he is a playboy and loves women." I don't think the girlies need that in this fanfic right now.

[cherryfcola]

Tight Spaces & Tighter Confessions

Shadow the Hedgehog x reader

⚠️: tight space

Prompt: “This might be a bad time to mention it, but I really like your cologne.”

You had no idea how this had happened.

One second, you were walking through the old base with Shadow, casually exchanging dry sarcasm and mission updates. The next, the ancient, rusted floor gave out beneath your feet — and you fell straight into what felt like a maintenance shaft the size of a coffin.

And of course, because fate had a twisted sense of humor, Shadow had jumped in after you to save you. Noble. Heroic. And ultimately very, very inconvenient.

Now the two of you were jammed together, shoulder to shoulder — well, more like chest to chest and hip to hip — in the cramped vertical shaft. You were practically in Shadow’s lap, your legs tangled with his as you tried not to crush each other.

And the silence? Deafening.

“…Sooo,” you started, your voice sounding much too loud in the metal tomb surrounding you, “this is definitely not OSHA approved.”

Shadow didn’t answer. He merely exhaled through his nose, jaw clenched and crimson eyes focused somewhere above your head. Whether it was irritation, embarrassment, or quiet plotting to Chaos Blast his way out of this, you couldn’t tell.

You shifted a little, trying to find a less awkward position, and your knee accidentally grazed his thigh.

Shadow flinched. “Stop moving.”

“Right, sorry. Just—uh—trying not to die of cramp-related injuries.”

Another beat of silence. The space was so tight you could feel every rise and fall of his chest. The way his quills occasionally brushed against the wall — and sometimes your cheek — as he tried to angle his head. You could smell the faint, clean scent clinging to him. Like smoke and pine and—

Oh no.

You mentally cursed yourself for noticing. You were already in an impossibly close situation, and now your brain wanted to register how good he smelled?

“This might be a bad time to mention it,” you muttered, cheeks heating up, “but I really like your cologne.”

You didn’t even mean to say it. It just slipped out. Probably a side effect of the claustrophobia. Or the proximity. Or sheer panic.

Shadow blinked.

Then turned those intense red eyes directly on you.

Your stomach dropped. “Forget I said anything. Just—y’know. Ha. Trapped in a tiny box together, normal things to notice, right? No big deal. You smell like…soap and menace. That’s a compliment. Really.”

He didn’t respond for a moment. His expression was unreadable, but you swore something flickered in his eyes — not annoyance. Not amusement. Something else.

“You’re flustered,” he said simply.

You huffed, trying to lean back — and promptly hit the wall behind you, forehead-first. “Yeah, well, I don’t usually end up sitting in a guy’s lap while plummeting into a vent shaft. New experience for me.”

“You landed on top of me.”

“You jumped after me.”

“Because you’re reckless,” he snapped, his tone sharp but not unkind. “You don’t scan areas before entering. You walk too close to unstable floors. You trust too easily.”

“Wow, okay, great time for a personality critique, Shads.”

He didn’t deny the nickname this time. That was…new.

You risked looking up at him. His face was so close you could count the individual strands of red in his quills. “You know, for someone who’s allergic to people, you sure didn’t hesitate to follow me down here.”

“I didn’t want you getting hurt.”

There it was — simple, honest. No grand speech. No posturing.

You stared at him, the air suddenly heavier than before. Maybe it was the space, the pressure, or the fact that his voice had gone low and quiet in a way that made your heart stutter.

“Shadow…”

His eyes flicked to yours. “What?”

You hesitated. Then: “I really wasn’t kidding about the cologne. You smell like…campfire and rain and…I don’t know. The woods after a thunderstorm.”

His lips twitched. Just barely.

“That’s very specific.”

“Well, you’re very specific,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “Mysterious ultimate lifeform with a tragic backstory and an unexpectedly good taste in fragrance.”

That earned a soft exhale — not quite a laugh, but close enough that you felt like you’d won something.

“I don’t use cologne.”

You blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

He nodded, and your brain short-circuited a little. That meant he just naturally smelled like that?

You tried not to let your brain spiral again. Too late.

“Well, that’s just unfair,” you mumbled.

Shadow tilted his head slightly. “Unfair?”

“I’m trying to survive being crushed to death in a glorified closet, and I’m doing it while practically sitting in the lap of the most frustratingly attractive hedgehog in existence, who just so happens to smell like a forest deity. It’s distracting.”

He blinked. “You think I’m attractive?”

Your face went nuclear. “I—I mean, objectively. You’ve got the whole brooding antihero thing going on, and the voice, and the eyes, and the—look, can we just not do this in a four-foot shaft of death?”

He was quiet again. Then: “I think you’re attractive too.”

You stared.

“What.”

Shadow’s expression didn’t change. “I’ve thought that for a while.”

Your heart skipped about three beats. “Is this—are you hitting on me in a vent shaft?”

“I don’t ‘hit on’ people.”

“That’s debatable.”

“I’m simply stating the truth.”

You didn’t know where to look anymore. His face was too close, the space too small, your brain too fried. But somewhere beneath the panic was a slow, simmering heat — and not just from the cramped conditions.

“Well,” you said weakly, “this is the worst possible time and place for mutual attraction, so…perfect.”

Shadow didn’t seem nearly as perturbed. In fact, he looked almost…calm. Maybe even pleased. “There are worse ways to be stuck.”

“Name one.”

“Alone.”

Okay, that was smooth. And deeply unfair.

Before you could reply, there was a loud creaking above, and then a flash of blue and gold light — and the unmistakable sound of metal being torn open.

“Sonic to the rescue!” came a cheerful, muffled voice from above. “Man, you two really know how to find the weirdest places to hang out.”

You groaned, pressing a hand to your face. “Of course he found us.”

Shadow’s voice was dry. “Remind me to destroy that camera drone later.”

As the opening above widened, light poured into the shaft — revealing your position in excruciating detail. You, tangled on top of Shadow. Shadow, sitting like some unbothered dark prince, arms still casually resting around you like you belonged there.

Sonic peeked down and immediately burst out laughing. “Oh man. Oh man. Wait till Rouge hears about this.”

“Leave,” Shadow said flatly.

“Sure thing, lover boy.”

With some effort (and a lot of awkward maneuvering), Sonic helped pull you both out. You stumbled out of the shaft, brushing dust off your clothes and refusing to look at anyone for a full minute.

Shadow emerged behind you, completely composed, like he hadn’t just confessed in a metal coffin.

You turned to him, still flustered but slightly braver now. “So…once we’re not being publicly humiliated, maybe you could show me what else you smell like.”

His brow lifted, ever so slightly. “That’s a bold request.”

You grinned. “Bold is kind of my thing.”

He leaned in, just enough for you to hear him over your own heartbeat. “Then I look forward to it.”

And just like that, the mortifying ordeal of being trapped with your crush became the beginning of something far more interesting.

[vicolette]

𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐘𝐞𝐭 !

– Warnings : English isn’t my first language, uses of y/n & pet names, storms, not proofread

"Already?"

"Yes, already." You replied to his whiny complaints, his arms tightening their hold around your waist as Marc pulled you closer and didn’t let you stray away from him just yet. It has been a while since you had last seen each other, and now you had to go.

In Marc's mind, he thought that you needed to go, because you simply couldn’t resist his charm and attraction – which was exaggerated, but the truth. In his mind.

"Not yet…" He repeated for the thousandth time, which was also exaggerated, but you had never experienced Marc being such a clingy person. Sure, he liked physical touch and occasionally hugged you without any reason, but now?

Now, Marc had you caged within his arms and had a tight grip on you, his face hidden in your shoulder as his chest was pressed against your back. He didn’t care if it was too late, probably around ten in the evening, or if your parents wanted you home.

You felt safe in his arms. He felt safe with you in his arms.

"Just a little bit longer, then my father can drive you back." Before you could reply and argue back, saying that you didn’t want to disturb his parents this late, you heard something happen.

All of a sudden, a thunderstorm was audible from outside, followed by another one, which was much louder.

Marc had seen the prediction of the weather early in the morning today, so he wasn’t so surprised, even if he hadn’t thought that it would have been this bad. Meanwhile, your fear of storms made your heart race faster by each passing second, looking at his window before a lightning appeared.

As you squirmed and moved within his arms, Marc looked down at you and raised an eyebrow at how afraid you seemed, thinking that it was just pure shock from the moment. However, when you kept your face hidden from everything and pulled him closer, his eyebrows furrowed.

He gave it some time to let you talk, to tell him if you needed something or if you were truly scared. When you had yet to responded to him, Marc gave it some thought as to whether or not he should be allowed to still force you stay in his arms.

He quickly got an answer when he had tried to unwrap his arms around your waist, only for you to pull him closer – or yourself – impossibly near him. Marc seemed surprised, with a raised eyebrow and his lips slightly agape, yet no words left from his mouth.

Silence stretched over the room, if you excluded the noise from outside of the storm happening, until you finally spoke up. "… are you scared?"

"Me?" Marc laid down in a more comfortable position, which was to just lay on the mattress on his back and have you on top of him, slowly stroking your lower back with his fingertips. "Nah, not really."

A few seconds passed, and when he saw that you were only getting more anxious by the minute, Marc decided that enough was enough. "But I was as a kid."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Like, really scared." Empathizing the word 'really', Marc started to tell you a story about how he had always clung to his mother whenever there was bad weather, even reminding himself of the time when he couldn’t go back home due to an extreme weather and then had to sleep over at his cousin’s house, which was the only good thing about that.

Over time, you slowly loosened your grip on his shirt and listened throughout his speech, even if you eventually heard a few more lightnings and hugged him tightly.

"You're scared, aren’t you?" The question made you tense up, having thought that you were perfectly hiding it away from him. He merely rolled his eyes at you, amused by the foolishness of the situation. "Please, you’re literally trembling."

"Oh, shut up!" You yelled and immediately regretted it, hoping that his parents weren’t bothered by the volume of your words. However if that was what awakened them instead of the thunderstorms, then Marc didn’t know how it was possible.

Then, as you felt your phone vibrate in your pocket and also felt Marc reach out for it with a wide grin, you flicked his forehead and watched as he read a message, yet wasn’t able to when you suddenly grabbed it back.

As you felt your body tremble once again due to the lightnings, you saw that it was a notification from your mother, reading it before you gasped in surprise. "Oh my- I can stay over!"

"Yeah? Let’s go!" Marc pumped his fist into the air, watching as you giggled at how ridiculous he looked beneath you. Nonetheless, it was sweet to see how much you trusted him, even though he had lied about his previous fear of storms and the story was also completely made up, yet he kept it both a lie and a secret.

With his arms now once again circling your hips, Marc pressed a soft kiss on your forehead and threw his head back, just barely managing to hear the sound of your yawn, knowing how late it was and how exhausted you must be, even if your adrenaline is too high to sleep.

"Dream about me, alright?"

You gave him a look, rolled your eyes and snuggled closer, slowly shaking your head at your boyfriend's weird request – as if you could fall asleep now.

"Nope."

– A/N : the moment he’s gonna play again we WILL be there‼️‼️ also there was a storm yesterday and I thought it hit my house🌚

[phantomofthemountain]

Your boy has begun learning quads!!!

•ﻌ•𐂯𐂯𐂯𐂯𐂯⋆ᓚᘏᗢ⋆♡⋆ᗢᘏᓗ⋆𐂯𐂯𐂯𐂯𐂯•ﻌ•

Honestly, I never thought I'd be the type of therian that preforms Quadrobics. For a while I honestly thought quads were cringy and a surefire way of determining someone's validity as a nonhuman. But, as I've done more research and saw the joy it brought other Nonhumans, I began to feel jealous. They all look so free, happy, and confident. I wanted to be like them

•ﻌ•𐂯𐂯𐂯𐂯𐂯⋆ᓚᘏᗢ⋆♡⋆ᗢᘏᓗ⋆𐂯𐂯𐂯𐂯𐂯•ﻌ•

The problem, though, is that I have unmedicated chronic pain. Even just laying in bed is painful if I don't constantly flip myself around like rolling hotdog. So, I never really entertained the idea of doing quads all that much. Instead, I daydreamed about what it would feel like to be on all fours, to be feral.

But, for the past month or so, I've been getting better at understanding that, no matter what I do, I will always be in pain. And if I want to have any sort of quality of life, I need to learn how to be okay with that. I can't just rot in bed all the time as a way to avoid being in even worse pain, you know? If I have to be in pain, at least it's on MY terms.

•ﻌ•𐂯𐂯𐂯𐂯𐂯⋆ᓚᘏᗢ⋆♡⋆ᗢᘏᓗ⋆𐂯𐂯𐂯𐂯𐂯•ﻌ•

So, today I finally made the decision to begin learning Quadrobics. I set a bunch of rules to make sure I don't push myself too far or do something that could lead me to injury. I must stretch, hydrate, and asses my pain/energy levels before I even THINK of my front paws touching the floor.

I watched a bunch of different tutorials, stretched, and began learning how to walk. And it was... Interesting. I won't lie, it was extremely fun and affirming. But, it was also really scary and exhaustive. I underestimated how difficult it would be. I was unbalanced, my posture was all off, it was hard to breathe, and the whole time I felt like I was just falling. Just 30 seconds of walking was exhausting. I would do one lap around my basement, and pause for a few minutes to catch my breath. Then do another loop.

In total, I believe I completed about 10 loops today, and improved each time. But, there is still a LOT of learning and improvement I need to do. It's probably gonna take me a few months to feel confident and comfortable in my walk. I need to learn how to adjust my speed, to trust that I won't fall, to position myself more comfortably so I can breathe properly, and allow myself to slowly get into things so my heart doesn't explode lol

•ﻌ•𐂯𐂯𐂯𐂯𐂯⋆ᓚᘏᗢ⋆♡⋆ᗢᘏᓗ⋆𐂯𐂯𐂯𐂯𐂯•ﻌ•

All-in-all I am excited to start this journey and to have a new way to express my alterhumanity! It's gonna be a very slow process of building muscle, memory, rhythm, and posture. But, I feel hopeful! My pain/discomfort levels are good, and I feel excited to do more!

I don't know if I'm ever going to post videos of me doing quads as I do not have a mask and would like to remain anonymous. But, if you all find this interesting I may document my journey here through text!

•ﻌ•𐂯𐂯𐂯𐂯𐂯⋆ᓚᘏᗢ⋆♡⋆ᗢᘏᓗ⋆𐂯𐂯𐂯𐂯𐂯•ﻌ•

Anyway! (Unrelated rambles ahead) I know this post is longer than my usual, so, if you've read this far.. thank you! I've never been super good at summarizing my thoughts, and I'm not sure if anyone even reads these beyond the header. But, it's fun to write regardless! I enjoy letting you all in on this side of my life, and I'm incredibly thankful for the community we have here. I love you all and am once again so happy to be back! I have another long post coming in very soon and I hope y'all like it!

[scrapyardboyfriends]

Episode Thoughts…

Well I think that was my least favorite of the three episodes this week. Definitely less in depth than the other two as far as Robert’s character is concerned. I mean I understand the purpose was to get them to some kind of truce so they can drag this story out longer but I wish they had found a way to do that, which included a little more of villain John.

I mean John still watched him get spiked and waited till the last second to rescue him from Owen so he could put him in the back of his own van. We don’t really know what he told Vic. I also have to imagine he manipulated Vic into thinking Robert staying in a locked van all night was her idea. He probably said like “we should bring him in the house so he’s less confused but there is Harry to think about” and then she was probably like “no you’re right, it’s better he stays in the van.”

And then has Vic seen his creepy little non sanctioned syringe bag? That didn’t come from his official paramedic backpack. And why would you need to give a sedative to an already unconscious person?

It was definitely all very plotty. I mean I didn’t expect a whole kidnapping plot. They were never going to do that one week into him being back in the village. But I was kind of hoping John would take him off somewhere and at least contemplate doing something to him before he brought him back to save him. I don’t know. It is what it is. I guess.

I do also agree with the people who have commented on the glossing over of the spiking and that it would be pretty traumatic for the first date you try and have to do that to you. But I don’t really expect they’ll circle back to that now.

If I ignore all of the above, it was very fun watching Robert lunge out of the back of the van at John and I thoroughly enjoyed him punching him.

I thought the little potential foreshadowing hints of John commenting on Robert not being believed or telling Vic that it was all going to go pear shaped were interesting. I hope those little seeds are allowed to grow into something. I just want John to be more villainous.

I do think Oliver has been much more “alive” in these Sugden scenes than he has been in this entire story thus far so that’s a positive.

I liked getting to see Sugden land. I want that to mean something too.

And the little fake hug and truce as they promised each other they were still coming after the other was fun and soapy.

I agree with everyone that wants to let Robert move on from this for the moment and interact with other characters. I agree, give me my Mack scenes.

I do also want to see Robert continue to just not trust John and keep an eye on him. But yeah, John needs to step up his villain game before we all get bored.

[mypoisonedvine]

𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗮𝗶𝘀𝗮𝗹 | "hot neighbor" (harris maderbach) x reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 | to some, he was hot neighbor, but to you, he was hot coworker-- and you figured he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 | 7.4k

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 | smut (18+ only!! minors gtfo), unprotected sex, creampie, oral m receiving, alcohol consumption, lots of dumb workplace flirting, basically porn with very minimal plot

You weren’t used to working in an office like this, even if your position here was incredibly similar to the last one.  All the departments actually talked to each other, had shared events— even went out after work to drink together, from time to time.  And that was how you ended up with something else you weren’t used to: a crush on a coworker.

He was from the realty division, probably the furthest from your own work, and yet he was one of the first people to introduce himself to you.  The whole conversation had seemed just a touch flirty, but you couldn’t tell if that was actually his intention or if he was just charming (or if you just had wishful thinking).

“Always nice to see a new face around,” he’d said to get your attention, making you spin around in your chair and look up at him.  He wore a friendly smile, running his fingers through his hair which you thought might be considered dirty blonde in certain lighting; it’s not that you were checking him out, necessarily, it’s just that you had acquired an eye for color in your years working with fine art.

“Oh— hey, yeah, I’m the newbie,” you awkwardly replied, not sure how to respond to that.  Always nice to see a nice face around seemed too forward.

“Are you new in town?” he asked.  “‘Cause I could show you around if you need—”

“No, actually— I’ve lived in Manhattan for about five years now,” you explained, “Christie’s is in Rockefeller center, just a few miles away…”

He pushed his lips together and nodded, like he took it as a rejection, and you felt a little guilty.  

“But you’re really sweet to offer!” you blurted out.  “I mean, if there’s any good spots for lunch around here, I’m all ears.”

He nodded quickly, but crossed his arms and changed the subject instead.  “So, Christie’s?  What did you do there?”

“Same thing I’m gonna do here— sell art,” you smiled.  “Hopefully.”

“I’m sure you’ll be great,” he encouraged.

It didn’t really mean anything, coming from a stranger, but somehow it still made you feel better; you thought about it the rest of the day, actually.

From then on, you’d become pretty curious about him.  You asked around, but most people in your department didn’t know much: he was a realtor, after all, so any details past that would require talking to another realtor.  The problem with that plan was that you figured if you asked somebody who worked closely with him for any gossip, it would end up getting back to him— and he’d probably be all cocky about it, from what little you could tell about his personality.

All you’d really put together was that his name was Harris, he was divorced relatively recently, and that he had quite a talent for architecture and interior design.  Everything else you knew about him had been easy to put together: friendly, yet smooth; sexy voice; well-dressed, if more casual than some people in the office.

And everything else you wanted to know, you went to an after-work happy hour to find out.

You were getting worried that he would notice you glancing at him every, I don’t know, ten or so seconds; only once or twice did he meet your gaze, and whenever he did, he would look back at whoever he was talking to with a little knowing smirk.  Bastard— he was taunting you, daring you to come over and talk to him— wasn’t he?

But you refused to give in so easily: you focused on chatting with other members of the art sales department, laughing too hard at their stories and jokes in the hopes that, for once, Harris would look at you first.  If he did, you were too absorbed in conversation most of the time to notice.

Like all work events, though, people trickled out to head home steadily throughout the night.  Probably half of them were gone within an hour; by eight, barely ten people were left.  Rarely, the conversation would merge into one big group, and you would catch Harris’ eyes drifting over you when you added something, but usually people were within their little sub-conversations and you never quite seemed to cross paths with Harris.

Until, finally, he relented— only when you ended up sitting off to the side of one of the tables the secretary had booked; the person you’d been talking to left, and everyone else was wrapped up in what they were discussing, and you found yourself nursing your beer and staring off into space for a little while.  Actually, you didn’t even notice him coming up to you until he pulled out the chair across from you and sat down in it with a sigh.

“How’s Samuel treating you?” he asked, and you gave him a confused look before he motioned to the glass in your hand of, as you’d apparently forgotten, Samuel Adams.

“Oh,” you laughed softly, shaking your head, “he’s alright— inoffensive.  A work thing seems like the wrong place for hard liquor.”

“Is that a diss on my whiskey?” he frowned, swirling the dark liquid in his crystal glass.

“Do they have good whiskey here?” you wondered.

“No,” he snorted.  “I was trying to be sophisticated, but it’s swill.  Serves me right, huh?”

“I guess,” you shrugged, “I can’t blame you for trying.  Everybody here’s pretty uppity.”

“I hope no one’s made you feel out of place or anything,” he offered, putting his hands out slightly in a gesture of concern.  “We wouldn’t want to discriminate against you just for being a poor vagabond from Christie’s.”

You laughed again, harder, and rolled your eyes.  “Oh, really?  I’m some kind of charity case?”

“Yeah, 20 Rock?  That’s basically the inner city,” he joked.  “Hey, did you ever go skating on that big rink?”

“No,” you admitted, “it feels like a waste that I didn’t— I saw people out there every winter.”

“You could still go,” he noticed.

“It would be even weirder now that I don’t work there,” you shrugged, “and besides, it’s just ice skating— expensive ice skating.  I can fall on my ass whenever I want for free.”

He smiled and nodded in agreement.  “I should probably do more ‘New York’ things, you know.  I’ve been here— gosh, over ten years?  I don’t actually do any of the stuff I’m supposed to, except some of the museums.”

“The museums are really excellent,” you agreed.

“Of course, you’re the art nerd,” he remembered.  “Sorry— expert.”

You scoffed.  “Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“Do you own a lot yourself?” he wondered.  “Do you get a good price on stuff, or do you have to save all the best ones for clients?”

“I don’t have a ton, but I have plenty of pieces I’m proud of, yeah,” you answered, “but I focus on new and upcoming artists, I don’t have any masterworks.  Every once in a while I would buy something from an artist we chose not to sign, out of pity.”

Harris laughed, and you let yourself use the moment that his eyes were closed to take a closer look at him.  He really was attractive in the most specific way, and his flirty attitude didn’t help either— but you had no idea how flirty he could really be until the conversation continued.  

“Do you own anything?” you asked.  “You must, with your eye for design.  Unless you’re one of those people who gets those massive, mostly-blank interpretive paintings just to fill a wall.”

“You mean like in hotels?  God, no,” he grimaced.  “I have a few pieces, yes  Actually, I’ve got this one painting at my place that I’ve been meaning to have someone take a look at,” he said after he finished a thoughtful sip of his whiskey.

“For what purpose?” you wondered, though you could already tell he was asking you for a favor.  What kind of favor, though, was still up to interpretation.

He gave you a look of faux confusion.  “It’s a painting— you can’t do much else with it once it’s hung.”  You laughed, and he looked a little proud of himself before giving a real answer.  “I’m sure it’s worth something, but I don’t know how much.”

“Shouldn’t you have gotten your valuation from Sotheby’s upon purchase?” you asked with a smirk.  “We’re always telling people about how great that is.”

“Well,” he started with a mischievous look, leaning in closer to you with his elbows on the table, “don’t tell— but I didn’t get it at Sotheby’s,” he admitted in a whisper, making you laugh and raise your eyebrows.

“Oh!  Naughty naughty,” you scolded playfully, noticing right away the way his eyes darted down to your lips for a moment.  “Where’d you get it, then?”

“If you can believe it— Christie’s,” he laughed, and your eyes got even wider.  

“Fuck off!” you yelped, probably a little too loud.  “No way— I didn’t see you around or anything!”

He shrugged.  “Maybe you did, and just forgot.”

Your heart already raced before you even said it, but you couldn’t stop yourself.  “I would’ve remembered you,” you replied, lowering your voice; you saw his expression change, if subtly, and you bit your lip for just a moment before you caught yourself.

Just when you wondered if he would come any closer, he straightened himself up with a little groan and sigh.  “Actually,” he began, “it was my ex that bought it.  I ended up keeping it in the divorce, not that I specifically wanted it— I think, for her, it was too many memories… or something like that.”

You nodded, not totally sure what to say.  Thankfully, he spoke again before you.

“Say what you will about her, she has good taste,” he chuckled a bit.  “It’s a nice piece, but all the paperwork is long gone.”

“Well, if you bring it to the office and get it insured with us, I can guarantee the best estimate and a formal appraisal,” you explained, “but if you don’t mind just a ballpark…”

“I don’t need specifics,” he agreed, “I mostly just want to know if I’m sitting on something really special and don’t even know it.”

Mostly I just want an excuse for you to come to my place, is what you heard him say— not that it bothered you.  “Well… I’m free tonight,” you told him, trying not to look up at him expectantly, but you couldn’t help it; you were too anxious for his response.  Thankfully, you got a small smirk and a knowing glance.

“No time like the present, eh?”

~

Both of you pretended this was still something it had stopped being before you even left the bar, even if there was a sort of undertone to everything.  Even the coworkers who realized you were leaving together seemed to pick up on something, and you hoped silently that they wouldn’t make too many assumptions.

Even you had to resist the urge to make assumptions.  You weren’t sure what was going to happen, if anything— nor did you have a clue if he was going to consider anything that might or might not happen a path to dating or just hooking up or… something else?  If there are even other options…

After all, the cab ride was only small talk, nothing too forward; maybe the offer of a glass of wine when you got to his house was a little flirty, or maybe it was just polite, you couldn’t be sure.  You accepted the offer regardless, taking a glance around his house while he shuffled off to the kitchen (after hanging up your coat for you).

“It’s a gorgeous place,” you noticed, “and, of course, you’ve decorated it beautifully.”

“Oh, thanks,” he returned, voice raised slightly so you could hear him in the living room.  “Brownstones are so hard to get, you know— but it’s easier when you’re already in real estate.”

“Is this it?” you wondered, approaching a painting he had hung up on one of the walls— something modern, you couldn’t make out the signature, but it looked trendy and interpretive (if not quite as generic as those hotel paintings you’d mocked back at that bar).

“What?  Oh, that one,” he realized as he emerged with a glass of wine in each hand.  “No, my friend actually painted that, it was a gift.”

“Oh!  It’s fun,” you smiled, “you can tell your friend he’s talented.”

“I do,” he agreed as he handed you your glass, “but he doesn’t believe me.  Every six months he swears he’s quitting painting altogether— I can usually convince him to get back into it, but it can take a while.”

“Artists have to face a lot of negativity and rejection,” you hummed.  “I don’t envy them.  Most of the good ones won’t even be appreciated until they’re dead.”

On that morbid note, you paused to take a sip of the wine, which was overall pleasant but nothing too revolutionary.  There were wine experts at Sotheby’s who could probably say more than that, but you were obviously not one of them.  “Don’t tell Anton that,” Harris joked, “he would take it much too literally.”

“Dramatic artistic type, huh?” you assumed, seeing him tilt his head in reluctant agreement.  “I’m familiar— they can be fun, but exhausting, too.  And self-destructive.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience,” he noticed, “let me guess: dumbass ex-boyfriend?”

“More than one, but yes,” you smiled snarkily.

“The painting I wanted to show you is in the dining room,” he finally informed you, gesturing for you to walk with him down the short hallway.

At first glance, you just noticed how well the color scheme of the painting blended with the decor of the dining room— there was a pale green, teal-ish accent to the whole place, but where the chairs and table were modern and minimalist, the painting was of a classic, Romantic style— Impressionistic, even.  You recognized first that it was beautiful, before even worrying about the potential value.

Approaching it, you let yourself get closer than most casual viewers do— looking for any damage or aging— as Harris waited behind you.

“It’s in great condition,” you noticed, “it’s not very old, is it?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he agreed.  “Have you heard of the artist?”

“Ilyayev,” you read the signature.  “Yes, it rings a bell.  He’s not usually so subdued.”

“This is subdued?” he realized.  “I always thought it was a little loud.”

“It fits well in the room, though,” you decided, trailing off slightly as you tilted your head to examine it.  “And this is an original?”

“To my understanding.”

You nodded, using your free hand to hold a fist under your chin, as if that would help you discern anything.

“So?  What’s it worth?” he asked, but when you turned around to face him, he was standing a little closer than you realized— not too close, but… close.

“Well, that’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it?” you noticed.  “Your kid could do a finger painting, and it could be priceless; a half-finished sketch is worthless until someone can prove it’s a Rembrandt.  So— what’s it worth to you?”

He pondered that as he finished his glass and set it down on the table, taking a step towards you.  “A lot less than it used to be,” he decided.

“If you’re desperate, I can probably get you five or ten for it— maybe a touch more if I’m willing to call some old contacts at Christie’s and pull your original valuation.”

“I’m not desperate,” he replied, something a little too suave about his tone.

A moment passed, in which something in you— potentially the red wine— told you to stop pretending this was a normal stop by someone’s house to roughly estimate the value of their painting: if the way he’d looked at you when he said what he just said was anything to go by, he was on the verge of acknowledging what this really was.

And if he was going to, then so would you.  You set your glass down on the table.

“You ever heard the saying, don’t shit where you eat?” you asked, making him laugh a little and tilt his head in a sort of relenting expression.

“Yes, I think I’ve heard that before,” he replied.

“I try to live by that,” you explained— and even though his reaction indicated that he knew what it meant, he played dumb with a raise of one brow.

“What do you think it means?” he pressed, speaking softly and slowly.  “In this context.”

You took a moment to respond, mostly because you realized he was moving closer to you, his glass set down next to yours on his way.  “Well, I think it means that… if you keep things separate…” you began, lowering your voice as he stepped up to you, “then you can avoid—”

“Contracting e. coli?” he finished for you, making you smile and glance to the side— mostly because, if you didn’t, you’d have to either stare straight forward at his chest, or look up to meet his gaze. 

“I was going to say complications,” you finished instead.

“Right,” he nodded slowly in agreement.  “And you like to keep things simple, don’t you?”

“When I can,” you agreed, but your breath caught a little when his hand rested gently on your hip, fingers tracing gentle and lazy shapes through the fabric of your dress.

Then, finally, you dared to look up at him through your lashes; his gaze was low and watching where his hand was touching you, but it darted up to your own eyes— then your lips.  Fuck.  You weren’t strong enough to think clearly, even if you knew you should reach up and gently push him back; tell him that you were flattered, but that this wasn’t a good idea.

“Well, I think this is pretty simple,” he decided.  

“Oh?” you pressed, smirking slightly.

“Yeah,” he breathed.  “I find you… very attractive,” he said simply, making you swallow a bit, “and I’d really like to take you out sometime.”

You raised an eyebrow.  “Is that all?”

He smiled a little, shaking his head.  “I was trying to be polite.”

But his hand pressed flat against you and snaked around to your lower back, keeping you close; what was the point of mincing his words if he was going to be so forward with his movements?

“But no, that’s not all I want from you,” he added— his eyes were a little darker and you felt paralyzed by them, though you also didn’t really mind it.

You’d been wondering if you could get him to say it; but he did you one better, his free hand cradling the back of your head so he could kiss you.  It wasn’t too hasty or rushed, but hardly a peck either; only a moment after he’d pressed his lips to yours, you felt his tongue gently guide your mouth to open for him.

He leaned over you even more, pressed against you even more, forced your head to tilt back even more— and you hummed against him, reaching up and wrapping your arms around his neck.

It was mostly pretty relaxed at first— no rush to go further, just a chance to enjoy this moment— and you felt like it had been far too long since somebody kissed you like this.  (Or at all, but that was another issue.)  But something definitely changed, if subtly, when you reached up to run your fingers through his hair.

You didn’t mean anything by it, specifically, you just kinda thought he had nice hair from the start and you finally had an appropriate time to get away with it; he responded with a low groan and a tighter grip on your waist.  It all got a little more intense after that— your head tilted more and he reached down to get a handful of your ass through the dress which, yes, was a bit unclassy but you were not complaining.  In fact, you just gasped against him and rocked your hips forward against his thigh.

And then, just to be a little shit, he bit your lip: not, you know, too hard or anything, but it startled you.  You tugged on his hair, mostly out of instinct, and then all pretense and patience was out the window.

“Fuck,” he mumbled against your lips, and you whimpered as his hand slid up your back, tracing the zipper of your dress— he wasn’t really about to take it off now, right?  Not that you would stop him.

“I want you,” you blurted out, not really even capable of filtering the pathway from your brain to your mouth anymore, and you just felt him nod as he started to guide you backward.

See, the whole push you against the wall idea was great in theory— it really was hot, like something out of a steamy movie scene— but it was just a little too hard.  You were fine with it, actually, but as soon as your back collided with the wall while he pressed himself against you, that damn painting broke off its hook and clattered to the ground.

You both turned to look at it, startled by the loud noise, and watched as it balanced on its side for just a moment before falling face down onto the dining room floor.  Apparently you had some instincts that could override the one that had been running the show just now: you tried to go for it, your inner art preservation expert couldn’t stand to see something flat on the ground like that— you needed to at least check that the frame wasn’t damaged—

But as you reached for it, he smiled and gently guided you back towards him.  “It’s fine,” he promised.

“But—”

“It’s fine,” he said again, a little darker, pinning you back by your shoulders— gently, but the message was clear.  You looked at him shyly, feeling slightly more self-conscious about all this than you had just a moment ago.  It was different without that haziness in your brain; but god, it was almost better when he kissed you again, neither of you quite as drunk on the moment.  You had to admit to yourself, again, how badly you wanted this even knowing it was misguided at best.

And then his lips moved to your neck, making you whine a little and grab onto his shoulders.  “F-fuck,” you gasped, feeling his lips and teeth tease all along your pulse.

“You’re sensitive here,” he noticed with a small laugh.  “Are you trying to rub yourself on my thigh?”

You hadn’t even noticed— but yes, your hips were rocking forward in search of some friction all of their own accord.  And the gentle condescension of his voice only made you more desperate, honestly.

Irritated by how composed he seemed to be while you were totally losing your mind, you impulsively reached forward and rubbed your hand over his pants— and it wasn’t too hard, no pun intended, to find what you were looking for.

You smirked to yourself when his own hips jerked towards you just a bit, a small sigh falling from his lips; not quite so cocky now, hm?

But you weren’t doing much better, not when you felt how thick he was, not when you could see the outline of him in the slacks.  “Fuckin’ big,” you mumbled without really questioning it, hardly even noticing you said it out loud, and he grinned with a breathless laugh.

“You think so?” he encouraged, not exactly pulling off the humble act.

“Yeah, fuck,” you sighed, instantly getting to work on his belt.

“Shit, okay,” he laughed, “I guess we’re really gonna— oh, fuck.”

You’d managed to open his fly enough to reach inside and wrap your fingers around him, feeling him get harder in your grip.  

He purred and kissed you again, hungry but slow.  You couldn’t really stroke him at this angle, but you ran your fingertips along the shape of him and smiled when you felt him shiver.  “C’mon, not here,” he decided as he pulled back slightly.  “Let’s go to the bedroom.” 

Taking your hand out of his trousers, you let him guide you there.  As he stepped into the room with you just behind, he flipped on a lamp in the corner that lit the room with a dim golden glow— the curtains were drawn so only a few slivers of reflected city lights could peek in.  You were thankful for the darkness, actually, as you would’ve found this a bit awkward in harsh, direct lighting.  The room had a sensualness to it that matched him perfectly; you kicked off your flats quickly as you stepped in.

He sat on the corner of the bed, taking your hand and gently pulling you towards him, looking at you with a kind but expectant smile.  “C’mere,” he mumbled under his breath, reaching up to trace your silhouette lightly.  He had a delicateness and carefulness to everything he did, but you weren’t feeling quite so patient.

You quickly went to your knees in front of him, thankful for the plush carpet as you started to tug his pants down.

He laughed a little.  “You really wanna—?”

“Yeah,” you answered quickly, licking your lips as his cock bounced free and curved up to his stomach.  You weren’t sure why but you just needed to do this to him— you already decided it, didn’t feel like being polite and, you know, asking.  Thankfully, the way he ran his hands over his hair was obviously encouraging, it seemed like he was more than happy to let you go ahead.

As soon as you had the chance to get your hands around it again, your mouth was around the head, and he groaned lowly above you.  “Fuck,” he breathed, and you hummed as you swirled your tongue around him.

Maybe it was hasty, but you started to bob your head and move your hand along with it, finding the pace that made his hand tighten to a fist in your hair and doing your best to stay steady there.  The size of him was a bit of a challenge, you couldn’t go that far down yet and your jaw was already a little sore from being open so wide, but that didn’t faze you in the slightest.  If anything it just gave you a challenge to work towards, patiently taking just a little more with each stroke, tasting whatever your tongue could reach in the meantime.

When you gagged as the tip brushed against your throat, he purred a bit; it was obvious his ego got a boost from that, which was a little concerning since he was already plenty cocky enough.

Maybe you were trying to humble him a bit by stopping, pulling your mouth off and moving your hand out of the way so you could give him one long lick: starting all the way at one of his tightened balls and going up to the very tip, tickling the opening there for a second.  He shuddered, his cock flexing up as if trying to get back into your mouth, and then he started to laugh breathlessly.

“Fuck, you’re…” he began, then shook his head.  “I’m really glad you came over tonight.”

You laughed a little, too, because that seemed like a weird thing to say at a time like this— but, you also agreed with him.

The hand on your head moved back and brushed over the back of your neck as he found the zipper of your dress; he leaned over you to lower it slowly, opening it all the way to the bottom.  “Stand up,” he requested softly, and as you did, his hands grabbed the hem and pulled it to the floor, letting the garment circle your feet.  He hummed a bit as he admired you in your bra and underwear— you would’ve picked nicer ones if you’d known this was happening tonight, but if you’d known this was happening tonight, you would’ve missed out on all this sexy spontaneous energy.  At least your panties had a bit of lace around the hips and were free of old period stains… that was a win in your book.

Regardless of if they weren’t your fanciest, Harrison seemed perfectly happy with the sight of you like this.  His hands rubbed your thighs gently, and he leaned forward to plant a few soft kisses to your hip and lower stomach.  He looked up at you, and his expression was inherently pleading and pathetic from this angle, but it was obvious that he was still totally in control.

“Fuck,” he whispered yet again, his breath tickling your skin, “so pretty.”

He carefully pulled the panties down, and never broke his eyes away from you as he did it; you felt slightly nervous from being so exposed like that, but his reverent sigh kept you from feeling insecure.

“God, you’re perfect,” he decided.

“N-no, definitely not,” you chuckled awkwardly, stepping out of the underwear and adding them to the pile with your dress.

“You are,” he insisted, “come here.”

He guided you to straddle his lap, still looking up at you but from much closer now.  For some reason you were expecting him to say something else, so it was a bit of a shock— in a good way— when he guided your hips and lowered you down onto his cock.  You gasped from the suddenness and the stretch, then whimpered as his lips found your neck.

“Oh my god,” he breathed before he’d even finished filling you, “you’re so fucking wet…”

When you were completely seated on his thighs, a shiver ran up your back: it was deep, a little deeper than you bargained for, and you had to take a shaky breath to try to adjust to it.  One hand stayed at your side but another moved down to pet your thigh soothingly— he must’ve been able to tell you were struggling a little.

“Take your time,” he encouraged sweetly, “I’ve got you.”

Both of you exhaled deeply when you lifted yourself up slightly just to drop down again; he pulled you down to bury himself as deep in you as he could go, and a quiet yelp jumped from your throat.

He wasn’t holding you tight enough to keep you from moving, but he kept a strong grip on you as you started to carefully set your pace.  You whimpered when the motion made your clit rub against him.  “Feels good?” he asked, sweet with a hint of smugness.

“Yeah,” you breathed, dropping your head onto his shoulder.  “Fuck, yeah, feels good…”

He started to unbutton his shirt, and you tried to help him, but your shaky fingers weren’t going to do much; you could at least help him get the undershirt off, which you pulled almost too eagerly off his head before kissing him again.

He hummed proudly as you rocked your hips a bit further— not faster, yet.  The stretch was still making your toes curl, he could probably see that when you broke the kiss.  But the slight sting only served to increase the pleasure, and the pleasure helped your body relax to take him more easily.  Soon, you felt that energy building within you, that ache for something more: you rocked your hips faster, chasing after your mounting pleasure.

You moaned louder, tangling some fingers into his hair.  

“Fuck,” he mumbled against your skin, lips brushing against your clavicle and hands running up your back encouragingly.  “Fuck, that’s so good— baby—”

You whimpered and held tighter to his shoulders, gasping into the crook of his neck, increasing the speed of your motions yet again.  Those hands on your back started to work on your bra’s clasp— you had barely noticed you were still wearing it, clearly you’d been sidetracked— and helped you slip it off your shoulders.  Of course you expected him to grab your chest after that, maybe carefully pinch a nipple between his finger and thumb, but the way he instantly latched his lips onto you caught you off guard in the best way.  “Oh!” you gasped, tossing your head back suddenly.  “Oh, fuck, Harris—”

He hummed proudly, his tongue flicking your bud inside the wet warmth of his mouth.  He broke away and kissed a path to the other: once, he bit you lightly, and you tensed up inside.

His grin was just diabolical then, and one of his hands gave your ass a smack to make you moan and flex again.  But then he got back to work, spoiling your other breast with licks and kisses and playful brushes of his teeth.  Your grip on his hair tightened, and you began to bounce more eagerly on his lap than ever.  

The friction of your clit against his skin was good, but it wasn’t quite enough— maybe he read your mind or something, because he looked up at you as he slipped one hand between your bodies and held his hand against your lower stomach.  He just pressed down at first, gently, but enough to feel his cock moving within you.  Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, he lowered his thumb down to your clit and gave it some attention too.

“Ah, god,” you groaned deeply, shivering as his thumb drew circles on the bud.  He kept watching you intently, studying your face which surely revealed how wrecked you were already.  It didn’t take much of that to push you right to the edge— he didn’t have to be fast or hard about it, just consistent, to make you fall apart.  “I-I’m close,” you admitted with a gasp.

“Wanna see it,” he purred.  “Wanna see you come.  C’mon, baby, show me.”

You clenched your teeth together hard, summoning the physical strength to move as fast as you needed to, desperate to come for your own sake but happy to appease him as well.  His eyes on you were so overwhelming, his hand on you was too, but you loved it; it all came to him so naturally, like he already knew your body as well as his own.  It made you feel a little predictable, a little… silly, for lack of a better word.  Weirdly enough, you kinda liked that too.

As you finally reached your climax, all the energy in your body seeming to tighten up and center at one point, you worried your moans were loud enough to be heard in the adjoining houses.  But he was happier than ever, smiling widely at you as you were overcome with ecstatic sensations.

You wanted to stay in it forever, and it really felt like that as long as you kept moving it could just keep going and going and going… but sadly, the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak.  Your legs quivered and your hips faltered, and you were forced to slow to a stop as soreness and exhaustion caught up with you.  Damn, I need to get back in the gym, you thought to yourself for a second, before you blinked and found him still staring proudly at you. Or maybe I can just keep doing this for my workouts…

“You sound so pretty when you come,” he praised.  “Can you do it again?”

“Y-yeah, probably, but not… not like this,” you sighed, “too tired.”

“S’okay, honey,” he assured sweetly, holding you close and turning to quickly drop you on the bed.  You giggled a little as he hovered over you, but when he moved again, it all felt so different: he hit different places inside you, especially when he held your legs and pressed them forward to all but fold you in half.  

Your eyes rolled back when he gave his first thrust into you like that.  “Fuck,” you growled, hardly believing how your own voice sounded at that moment.  He chuckled proudly and did it again, really savoring the feeling and rolling his hips teasingly.

Turns out, your thigh and hip muscles might’ve been done for the night, your inner muscles were as happy as ever to flex and pulse with every drag of his cock against them.  “Fuckin’ tight,” he praised roughly.  “God, you feel so good.”

You whimpered a little, gripping the sheets under you.  He turned his face to kiss along your calf, beside your knee, basically anywhere on your leg he could reach— and you weren’t sure you’d ever felt so worshipped.  You whined properly then, and his fingers gripped tighter onto your thighs; him holding and positioning the body just how he wanted was so erotic and dominating, yet he used his power not to satisfy himself but to give you exactly what he knew you needed.  Clearly he was the generous type…

Truth be told, you weren’t a good judge of how much time passed during all that: the pleasure seemed endless, and you constantly lost yourself in the feeling until he shifted himself above you and sharply brought you back to reality with a punch of his hips.  “Oh, that’s it,” he praised, before even you had realized you were getting closer again.  “That’s it, baby, I can feel it—”

“Oh god,” you whined, fluttering your eyes shut.  “Yes!”

He growled through his teeth, moving your legs out of the way so he could press himself against you; you felt surrounded by him, filled by him…completely helpless to him, and it was wonderful.

You wrapped your arms and legs around him, holding on as tight as you could as he pounded into you.  “I’m coming!” you shouted, and it came out all whiny and wimpy but you couldn’t do anything about that now: pleasure was crashing over you so hard you struggled to even breathe.  You definitely stopped breathing, for at least a few seconds, and your vision had little dots that flashed and twirled around like glitter or something.

Only when you let out the air you were holding did reality seem to catch up with you.  You felt yourself go a bit limp, you suddenly became aware again of the bed under you and the man above you and the pins and needles in your fingers and toes.  “So good,” he praised in your ringing ears, his pace having slowed down a bit to not overwhelm you, “you’re so good for me, huh?”

“Me? You’re good,” you returned with a thin laugh.  “You’re so— fuck, that was incredible.”

“Yeah?  Looked incredible,” he agreed, “felt incredible.  Feelin’ your little pussy squeeze me like that…”

You shivered at the lovely filthiness of his words.  

“Fuck, should I pull out?” he groaned roughly.  You shook your head quickly.  “Inside?”

You nodded, and you felt a small laugh fan against your neck.

“Really?  God, that’s so hot…”

As he trailed off, his thrusts became faster and more aggressive, forcing your back to arch up off the bed even when your body was totally spent.  He chanted curses with every breath, mumbled something about how good you felt— and then he shuddered and let out the loveliest shaky groan you could imagine.  

His grip on your thighs loosened, and you felt a new heat and wetness between your legs compared to before.  Slowly, he started to catch his breath, and you felt like the two of you were in the same half-dream together, soaking in the same afterglow.

When both of you were a bit more conscious, he sat up a bit; as sexy as getting filled with come, or filling with someone with come, can be… the after part can be a little unsexy.  But then again, maybe that’s true of all sex.

“Hold on, I, uh— I have some… tissues…” he mumbled with a rough voice, reaching over you to his nightstand and pulling some Kleenex from a box.

“Convenient,” you noticed, and you hadn’t meant it as an accusation, but he smiled with a hint of nervousness. 

“They’re, uh, not normally for this,” he assured as he brought the handful of tissues back with him, sitting up more instead of leaning over you.  “I really don’t do this kind of thing very often—”

“O-oh, I wasn’t—” you interrupted.  “I mean, it’s fine if you do.  Wait, do you mean you don’t have hook-ups often?  Or you don’t, uh, have to clean up creampies often?”

He laughed, dropping his head above you like he couldn’t believe you, but he seemed endeared by it anyway.  “Uh, neither,” he explained.  “So, this is a hook-up then?”

Now that you were on the other end of the personal questions, you felt a bit more awkward about it.  “Um, well…” you trailed off.

“‘Cause I was kinda hoping I could take you out to dinner sometime.”

“Right, yeah— I mean, you can,” you agreed.

“Maybe I should ask you again after I’ve cleaned you up a bit,” he noticed.  “You’ll be more impartial.”

“Sure,” you agreed with a little chuckle, and he leaned back to get a better look at where your bodies were still joined, as if assessing the damage.  

“Let’s see if I can…” he trailed off, mostly talking to himself as he tried to find the best angle to get the tissues under you before he pulled out and inevitably let the mess flow out of you.

“It’s kinda like Indiana Jones,” you blurted out, and he gave you a quizzical look.  “You know, like, with the golden idol and the sand bag… you gotta get the dick out and then catch everything with the tissues…”

After a short silence, he laughed and shook his head a bit.  “Indiana Jones,” he repeated.  “You’re a trip.  I love it.”

He seemed to get more serious again for a second as he did it— pulling back and quickly using the tissues to gently wipe up the trail of come that leaked from your opening— but then he started to laugh softly again.  

“I don’t think I’ll ever get that image out of my head,” he announced.

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t be,” he soothed.  “I mean, I guess being compared to Indiana Jones in bed is pretty much always a good thing.”

You laughed a little, too, and his eyes widened as he pressed the tissues up to you again; apparently your laugh had pushed a little more out.

“Okay, I think that’s as good as that’s gonna get for now,” he decided as he laid down beside you on the bed, turned onto his side to look at you with a smile.  He laid his hand on your waist, stroking your flushed skin with his thumb.  “You are… really incredible.”

You wanted to refute the compliment, but you knew he wouldn’t let you; “Thanks,” you mumbled nervously.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Do you even need to ask?” you scoffed.  “I haven’t come that hard in… I don’t even know.”

“Don’t flatter me,” he smirked.  “Can I get you some water?”

“Yeah, thanks,” you agreed with a nod, and he sat up to slip off the bed— not too fast, you noticed, indicating he was feeling some of that tiredness you were.

Finding his boxers discarded near the bed, he slipped them back on and crossed the room, smiling at you one more time before disappearing out of the doorway.

You took the moment alone to process all that had just happened, as best you could at least.  You sort of knew what you were getting yourself into by coming over to Harris’ place, but you couldn’t have predicted this: how forward and aggressive yet sensual he was, how amazing he would make you feel.  And then that it wouldn’t just be one night but, apparently, something he wanted to continue… you were smiling to yourself, without even realizing.  Of course you shouldn’t be hooking up with— or dating— or whatever— somebody from your work… but aren’t all the most fun decisions also the riskiest ones?

When he came back with a bottle of Evian, your eyes widened.  “Woah, woah, I thought you were just gonna use the tap,” you chuckled, “this is too much.”

“Oh, it’s the least you deserve,” he grinned, sitting next to you on the bed and handing it to you as you sat up a bit.

“So is the quality of the water proportionally to the quality of the sex?” you asked before taking your first sip.

“Totally,” he joked.  “Dasani for the truly mediocre encounters.”

You snorted before drinking more from the bottle and setting it aside on the nightstand.  “Sorry about your painting, by the way,” you mumbled.  “It’s… probably worth less now that it fell on its face.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he shrugged.  “I think I’ve got something more valuable in front of me now.”

[formosusiniquis]

public broadcast morticia, platinum record gomez

Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson wc: 3.9k | T | @stevieweek day 3: horror/princess; transfem!stevie; post-canon; getting back together AO3

Stevie shuts the prop book in her lap slowly, allowing the scene to transition out of the story animation and back to real life. For the seconds it is in frame, the red cloth-bound cover of the prop stands out in stark contrast against the gold and black of her skirt. The camera pans slowly back up to her face.

“That would be scary, wouldn’t it?” she asks her future viewing audience. “To wake up one morning and not recognize who you are.”

Wings beat, and a grey tentacle wraps around her shoulder. Robin clicks and coos, moving the demobat puppet in time with the noises. She's probably asking a real question, but Sevie hasn’t picked up much of the language she’s invented for her puppet.

It’s all scripted anyway.

“I agree, Demi. Not having an adult to go to makes it scarier. But wasn’t it brave to keep going even though he was scared?”

Robin chirps and squeaks again. Flapping the puppet’s wings with the special pull cord, she maneuvers the bat around the stage to make it look like Demi is flying.

“Of course, Demi, I’ll always be someone safe for you to go to. I love you.”

Her eyes sting as she says it. God, she cries so much more easily these days. Fucking hormones.

The puppet shivers and shakes in a full-bodied chirp. I love you too.

A howl sounds from just outside the room. Signaling the end of this segment and the start of the next one. 

“Dart must hear someone at the door! Let’s see who’s come to visit.”

The pace is her favorite part of the show. Slow, easy. All done as much as possible in one smooth take. Stevie pushes herself up from the dark-patterned wingback chair, smoothing down her skirt, she walks from one room of the set to the other. The camera trails her, giving Robin a chance to move throughout the specially designed paths that keep her out of frame while she’s holding the Demi puppet.

Unlike Demi, Dart doesn’t that closely resemble his namesake. That was for the feds more than the children. Demi had some aesthetic changes to make her look more friendly, rounded body and visible eyes. Dart was changed fundamentally. Instead of the puckered fleshy face, Stevie can run a hand through sparse fur between two pointed ears. The animatronics Dustin helped their puppet master build let them move, giving the whole face more subtle movement than the other puppet is capable of. Good for the larger, German Shepherd-sized build. Even if the focus of the camera is usually on the face, the top jaw dog, wire-haired and angular, and beneath its pink nose, a split bottom jaw that opens in two wide, distinct joints. More cute than dangerous when a long forked tongue lolls out from it.

As Stevie’s thick rubber heels thunk against the floor of the set, Dart’s pit bull stump tail wags in its excitement at her approach. Back from college, Dustin is operating it today. He maneuvers the body so it faces her now that she’s come to get the door. The charmingly dumb look on its face gets her every time — a grin she has to school back to a more appropriately sized smirk. 

From off stage, someone cues Dart’s reminding bark.

“Has our guest arrived, Dart?”

Dart can nod when Dustin operates it. Always more sure than the rest of them about the intelligence that lurked beneath those demo creatures. Still, someone once again makes the appropriate answering cue.

Robin is standing outside the set, positioning Demi in a window. She chirps and flaps, Stevie’s cue to begin introducing who is behind the door.

“Today’s scary job will have us confronting our glossophobia, that’s our fear of public performance. If your palms get sweaty when you answer a question at school or you think about throwing up when you have a piano recital, we picked this job to give you a special scare.”

Never a theater kid, Robin teases her at how quickly she’s picked this up. Her cues, like this one to open the door, are always hit. She knows exactly what her face is doing, the way her dark lips hint at a smile, and the way the dark of her makeup makes something dangerous and anticipatory flash in her eyes. She’s yet to have a guest not spook just a little when the door swings open. The danger that she used to be humming under her skin was obvious to them when the sound and light cues hit, making the stage flash and sound with lightning and thunder.

It’s one of the joys of the job.

The outside of the “house” is dark, a dual-purpose choice to hide the sound lot that pairs with how nice it looks in post to have the first glimpse of their guest be in that horror movie strobe.

“Welcome home,” she says as always to the blackness outside her door. Thunder booms first, then lightning streaks, and she’s looking at someone who shouldn’t be here. “Eddie Munson, front man of the band Corroded Coffin.”

She steps numbly out of the way, letting Eddie through her door. 

Six years.

Dart rubs its head against her skirt, a move that would be accompanied by a whimper if it were able to make its own sound effects. As it is, she takes the comfort she can get from Dustin. Robin makes a trill; she's not a good enough actor to disguise the nerves in it.

It’s too much to deal with, so as with all things, she decides it’s better not to. There’s a procedure here, a routine. Stevie turns on her heel and starts walking to the set they’re supposed to be on. Eddie can fall into step behind her or, hell, maybe she’ll get lucky and he’ll run away. He’s always been good at that.

Stalking is what she’s doing; it might be what Eddie did too, to find his way over here. Hers means she’s moving too fast through the set for the pace they’re setting, the emotions she’s feeling moving her body like a rocket through the familiar frame of her pretend house. Eddie’s means he’s ruined her fragile peace.

It’s a real multifaceted word. Maybe they should use it for a show. Maybe they could get a zookeeper to bring a big cat on, too.

Eddie finds the guest’s seat at the table, sitting down across from her at the kitchen island, ruining the slight lift of her mood at the plans for a new episode with his continued presence.

He’s already got his hands in the spread on the table. Fingers smudged with the dyed red frosting, pinching a brownie carved into a coffin shape. It looks garish in the bright light of this set. The kitchen, the only set she refused to bow to the other aesthetics of the house. It unnerves instead in its rich, pastel, Stepford glory. Eddie looks just as out of place here -- even with the spiderweb detailing on the cabinets -- as he did in her kitchen in Hawkins.

“Good evening, Eddie,” she says what she’s supposed to say.

His mouth is full, his answer muffled in rich chocolate she baked herself before shooting.

“Why don’t you tell us about your band? I’m a big fan of your guitarist, Jeff Best.”

Jeff, the person who was supposed to be on the sound stage when she opened the door. The band member she had approved of, after being told by producers how enthusiastically the band had been supporting the show. How they wanted on, desperately.

She asks, “What’s the scariest part of your job?”

And asks, “Isn’t it frightening performing in front of thousands and thousands of people?”

And asks, “Are you ever afraid the stage will collapse?”

And asks, “Pyrotechnics are fires and fireworks that can be done inside, but aren’t you worried that something might go wrong?”

This segment has always been less of an interview and more of an exploration of worst-case scenarios. The things that frighten, the accidents that end up on the news, but rarely ever happen. A way to show the kids who tune in that the world can be scary, but it’s usually not. That fear of the coulds shouldn’t be the thing that keeps them from trying.

But she flings these worst cases at Eddie like knives, like saying they might manifest into coming true.

But each interview always ends the same way.

“What’s the scariest thing you’ve ever overcome?”

Eddie spins a chocolate eyeball around on the white china plate. It blurs with the movement until it’s just a white sphere moving around and around the border of fine, red blood splatter. Is he trying to figure out how to skirt his NDA? Is he inventing some stage diving accident or bar fight? Some story that will make him sound like the worldly rockstar the world knows him as?

Sure, he’s softened his aesthetic for this appearance. The only leather is his jacket. His wide-legged black pants, with the red and black brocade vest, straddle the line between professional and showman.

But he’s still Eddie, dungeon master drama queen to the last.

“The scariest thing I’ve ever done?” he repeats. Incorrectly to that point, done implies it’s scary because of his fuck up, overcome implies it’s the world. They’d workshopped the wording of that final question for days before her first interview.

Eddie continues, because if there’s one thing he’s going to do it’s continue whether she wants it or not. “The scariest thing I’ve ever done is go attempt to make amends with someone that I hurt very badly and hope that she’s good enough to forgive me.”

She’s supposed to ask a follow-up here, but she really doesn’t want to.

“Some of those were in the present tense, Mr. Munson.” She’s borrowing words from Robin now, stealing them from somewhere in her soulmate's brain because all Stevie knows is a blank rage that she hopes isn’t in her eyes.

That’s bad television.

“You’re right. The going has happened, the attempt is ongoing, and the fear is in both.”

A clock’s chime fills the room. Loud, sourceless, she’s taken to thinking of it like a school bell, and that’s better than remembering a grandfather clock and Max’s broken legs. Eddie flinches back, not that big a fan of the show apparently. Midnight ends every episode.

“Time sure flies, doesn’t it, Eddie?” A thump comes from behind them, a spot on the third wall out of the sight of the framing of their primary camera. Robin in position for her favorite job.

Stevie gives her her cue, “Gordon?” Robin, on her mark and her applebox, brings down the thick, fleshy, grey hand with the too-long fingers and the blackened nails onto Eddie’s shoulder. It’s weighted at the front, dislodges Eddie from his seat, and jostles him backward. “Introduce Eddie to the others? I know he’s just dying to stay for a while.”

Hand in place on Eddie’s shoulder, all Robin has to do is pull and he’s stumbling off stage like he’s on a vaudeville hook.

She blinks slowly, wills her blood pressure down. Her heart has been thumping in her ears since she laid eyes on Eddie, and even now that he’s technically off camera, she still can’t let go of her rage.

But there’s a show to finish, and she’s going to do her job. She can ignore Eddie’s big, brown eyes that somehow manage to haunt her even in the dark beyond the camera. She can turn down the camera, face it head-on.

She can. She does. “And don't forget: you're smarter than you think, braver than you feel, and you always have a friend right here. Until next time.”

She’s moving even before she can hear the director call, “Cut.”

“Whose fucking idea was this?”

“Not me,” Robin answers, gleeful at Stevie’s rage. She’s got Eddie still pinned in place with her long arm.

“Listen, Stevie, baby.”

“Nope,” Robin says, popping that P and giving Eddie a shake.

Not that anyone but Stevie would have heard that over the way she yells, “You don’t get to call me that.”

“Eddie, dude, not that it’s not good to see you, but I talked to Jeff,” Dustin comes out from the set with his hands already raised.

“And I saw that, Henderson, but don't fret, I wasn't offended. I figured you wouldn't mind if I remedied the situation myself.”

“Never let it be said you've ever learned a single lesson the easy way, Munson,” Robin says.

“Yes, and I'll be glad to catch up with you about that, Buckley. And with you, Henderson. But right now, I would love a moment with the talent. Stevie?”

It's on her tongue to say no again. To send him packing, the quest failed. Let him turn it into some ballad of spurned love and wretched harpies; she doesn't care.

But she doesn’t. She doesn’t. She says, “Five minutes.” And stalks off toward her dressing room.

He doesn't jingle anymore. That strikes her somewhere in the chest. The sound of his trailing behind her, the same melody as hers, told in a round: thick rubber heels on a concrete floor.

She sits down at her vanity and starts stripping off the thick paint of her on-camera makeup. As she slathers on cold cream, she can see Eddie find a seat on the coffee table. It throws her back to that last summer together, getting caught in her mother’s bathroom by a boy she liked in ways she didn’t know how to say yet.

The more things change.

“Listen, Stevie.” It’s funny how she can still tell when he’s started a sentence, not knowing how he plans to end it.

“You came all this way and you didn’t think about how you wanted to actually apologize? Did you get so lost in the drama of crashing my set that you didn’t think of what would happen when it was over?” She keeps her eyes on him in the mirror as she says it, moving through her routine like usual. With each condemnation, she takes her hand towel and wipes a little bit more of Stevie, Princess of the Dark, away until she’s bare-faced, annoyed, and just Stevie Henderson again.

“No,” he lies. “I mean, maybe. Look, Steph, for what it’s worth.”

She grabs her normal makeup, the lightweight stuff that doesn’t have to look good to the limited eye of the camera or sell a character that she’s only sometimes.

“It’s not worth a lot, Eddie. Let me try to save you some time. We finally gave in and gave the band the time of day, you leapt in ass first without a plan, because I’m Princess of the Dark, Princess Stevie, Lady Stevie of the Night, whatever the fucking branding has decided this week so I’ve got the image now. I’m not some baby freak borrowing wardrobe pieces from her socialite mom and her dyke best friend, I’m the right kind of metal that perpetual bachelor, frontman Eddie Munson can be seen with now. Does that about cover it?”

“No, no, Stevie, I swear.”

She can’t even slam down what’s in her hands. The stupid spongy applicator from her eyeshadow would get lost, and if she breaks another one of the eyeshadow colors, she’ll lose her mind. Setting it down gently does nothing to temper the absolute, white out emotion she’s feeling.

“You swear? You swear. The way you swore nothing would change. The way you swore you’d leave on tour and come back with nothing but stories and homesickness. That was the tour that you called me from Wichita to tell me you weren’t coming home, and you didn’t think it would work out if we tried to stay together. In case you forgot.”

“It’s not-”

“This was after you told me you didn’t want me to come when I offered. That it would be stupid of me to leave my -- easily abandoned -- job at the record store. But why would you want the idiot you’re about to leave playing merch girl as you wandered through the Midwest.”

“Are you finished?”

She’s got brown eyeshadow on one eye, her cheeks are pinked, and it’s not from blush. She’s pretty far from done. “That foot-in-mouth condition ended up being terminal, I guess.”

“Stevie.”

She can’t storm out if her eyes aren’t done. A half-done face is one thing, but it’s at least got to be even.

“Stevie, you’re getting mentioned in the same sentences as Elvira, R.L. Stine. You’re Sesame Street if the face was the Count and not Elmo. That’s you, that’s all you. It’s something you created from the ground up with nothing but your charm and vision, and yeah, stunning good looks and a little bit of black mailing the United States government.

“If you had come with us back then, you know what you’d be? My muse, sure. You’d be the merch girl that people whisper about, and wonder how many of the band members she’s sleeping with to get to play groupie. They’d find out things about you, and if you were lucky, they’d just make your life miserable.”

She can’t believe this. “Are you really trying to pull some ‘I left you to keep you safe,’ that is the biggest crock of shit I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Her face is done, she could leave. She’s given him more than the five minutes she promised. 

But then Eddie’s standing. No, he’s collapsing, off the table to her feet. Hands clutched in her skirt, looking up at her from the floor. “You’re right, it wasn’t about you. It was about me being the same coward I‘ve always been. You know what I’m most afraid of, Steph? That one day you would wake up in our rank ass tour bus and you would resent me for trapping you and all of your potential.”

The vanity counter bites into the meat of her hands. “It took you six years to come here and say that.” 

“Yeah, yeah, it did. And it was too long and it wasn't long enough. I would wait forever, Steph. It’s about who you are, not what you’ve become.”

“You’re contradicting yourself, Teddy.” He’s trapped her here, kneeling on her skirt the way he is. “Either you left so I could fill my full potential, which is pretty fucking bold to assume that everyone had that itch to leave Hawkins the way you did and that I wouldn’t have been just fine waiting tables or rewinding video tapes for the rest of my life. But it’s that or you love me no matter what, and it wouldn’t matter if I hung up the witch's broom.”

She’s feeling generous, and she likes how big and wide his cow eyes get when he’s desperate. It reminds her of different times. Eddie’s hand pulls hers off the vanity, and she lets him keep it. Let him pull it close to his chest. He’s probably imagining he’s some knight pledging some oath, and fuck even imaginging what he’s thinking endears her just a little bit more to him.

Letting him in was always going to be a mistake.

She’s never held a grudge as well as Robin.

“There isn’t anything you could do that would make me want you less.”

Still, in the last six years, she’s learned that even though she loves too hard and too long, sometimes it’s more important that she protect her heart. Like her head, it can’t take too many more beatings.

“You want a burger. You want a new record. You want a quick fuck with someone who knows what they’re doing. Wants are quick and fleeting, and sometimes they aren’t even that good. I can’t be a want, Eddie.”

He clutches her hand tighter. He drops his hold on her skirt so his other hand can grab her at the elbow instead. “Stevie, I need you. And if you send me packing, I’m still gonna need you. You’re it. You’re just- you’re it.”

“And if I didn’t follow you on tour, like some love-sick groupie? If I stayed here with the show, you couldn’t see me for weeks and months. You’d still need me?”

“Like air. I’ll call, I’ll write, I’ll come in and compose. I can be your first recurring guest or handle a puppet. Anything at your order.”

She can feel herself caving. Like a sink hole in her chest, the ground giving way to nothing but a yawning starvation. It’s been years, and she’s sunk all of her love and her care and the desperate need she has always had to be seen into this show. It was good, but there has always been so much of her to give.

So she spits back the worst thing he ever said to her.

“And I’m not just some stand-in for Chrissy Cunningham.”

She expects him to drop her arm. To scurry away like some frightened mouse now that the claws of the cat have dropped in front of it. To remember that before the tits and the smirky face she patterned off of Elvira, she was still always a mean girl.

The quiet collapse of Eddie’s face is less satisfying than the rage, the sadness in his eyes more like a kicked dog than an international rockstar.

“I shouldn’t have said that.” He says.

She could echo it, but hers needed to be said.

“If I thought you hated me, it was easier to leave. I could make you just one more thing I fucked up. I don’t see her when I look at you.”

She scoffs, and he pulls her closer.

“I don’t, Steph, I don’t. You’re not some damsel I couldn’t save. You’re the knight who rescued me. Let me make my oath, let me prove myself.”

“I want a new theme song. Something catchy, not metal. And you’re going to come on and do a special segment on the show about dealing with scary things, in terrible corpse makeup. Stop smiling, it’s not going to be fun.”

“I’m sure you’ll make it wretched.”

“I’m going to make you confront all the stupid shit you’re scared of and if you don’t act scared enough I’m going to bring in the rest of the band and tell them you’re the reason this is happening to them.”

“Gareth hates spiders, and Freak is scared of clowns.”

“And I want Jeff on the show. I had to cut out half of our interview questions about the things he’s had to face being black in the scene because you think you’re charming.”

He has the nerve to stand up, stepping on her skirt before he’s shoving his way into her space on the bench seat of her vanity. His hands are warm, fingers long and familiar as they curl around the curves she’s developed since they last saw each other.

“Whatever you want forever, Steph.” He whispers it into the side of her neck like he thinks he’s Gomez Addams, and she’s too weak to not be delighted.

“In that case, you can also explain all of this to Robin.”

“And when she kills me for wronging you?”

She grabs his chin between her fingers, lets her coffin-shaped nails dig into the stubbly skin until she can see the bite of pink crescent moons. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring you back. Everyone knows Miss Stevie is a witch.”

[pastel-rights]

{ms assistant professor! with the recent star rail short- what aeon emanator do you think you and your friends would be?}

I fucking hate this game, man. (/j)

For Tae, I feel like I’m legally, contractually obligated even, to say she’d be an emanator of destruction, since, well:

There’s just something about these damn emanators of Destruction. And being styled with white and yellow. (<- yellow is her second favorite color next to green and she’s sick of it)

I’m telling you guys, I cannot STAND the destruction. First you nearly take out the space station, then you make me feel bad for the General (that was ALREADY crossing the line, mind you.) and now, this?

Oh my good LORD, dawg, look at my emanator of Destruction!!!!!!!!!! We!!!!!!! Are!!!!!! So!!!!!!!! Cooked!!!!!!!!! Argggghhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’!!!!

It also doesn’t help that uh. In Honkai Impact 3rd, there’s these two herrschers. The Herrscher of the End and The Herrscher of Corruption. The Destruction feels a lot like those two Herrschers to me, and with the way the Herrscher of Corruption is related to The Elysian Realm (which is what Amphoreus is based on in part) and we’ve already seen glitches and rewind, I feel like we’ll definitely be seeing more of that DAMN Herrscher.

Oh and with the way the Eurdition is just one big computer? Nous, you would be SO cooked if HI3rd and HSR ever truly collided in any way that mattered.

Okay so, more than anything, more than ANYTHING, really, I can’t stand the Herrscher of Corruption. But, I still can’t stand the Destruction either, that hasn’t changed.

There’s red flags to it, and oh boy, I am NOT colorblind.

Anyways Tae as an Emanator of Destruction, I’m legally, morally, mentally, and contractually obliged to say that.

…

Yuu? honestly I could see them as an emanator of Akivil/The Trailblazer, but maybe it’s because I’ve always associated them with the unknown and adventure.

There’s something about them that always called for a little mystery, a little adventure, and they sure love getting themselves into trouble. Which, yeah, I can understand that. Me too me too…

Fifi… I could see her as an emanator of Propagation, to be completely honest? It’s like, rats, but instead of rats, it’s giant bugs that multiply endlessly. And we all hate to see it, and we hate to fight it even more because it’s like the goddamn hydra, where you cut off one head and two come up in return.

Klai feels like an emanator of Propagation too. And Joe.

Beth… uhhh… huh. Nothing comes from the top of my head. Like, I’d say emanator of Abundance but their aeon is a dick to the highest degree. Like, good heavens why are you such a hateful tick. Beth is like…… good abundance. Kind Abundance.

Yeah.

Pins… Pins gives off like. Not quite emanator vibes but whatever Ratio is to Nous. Anti emanator. (/j)

Four, Emma and Al ALSO all gives off Propagation vibes. Damn why are so many of you bitches giving off big bug vibes.

Screw it, everyone (but Tae) is now an emanator of Propagation! Fuck you!!! (/ref)

…

Oh wait this asks what *I* would be too, huh.

Uhm. That’s a good question!

I don’t know!

Part of me wants to say Nihility, since, well, nihilism. I’m not a very positive person in reality, I heavily border on nihilism most days so it makes sense to me????

But the other part of me likes Remembrance for myself?????? I dunno I like the way the path of Remembrance is, how it plays, what it is in concept, blah blah blah blah…….

I don’t know which one…..

I crumple into the floor face first

I probably missed some people but erm. It’s okay. I’ll be honest, you’re getting me right as I wake up so.