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#(the third thing is that the portraiture FUCKS)
roseglazedlens · 5 months
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⦑ THE FUCKING DEAD ⦒ 𝐁𝐨𝐲’𝐬 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧
➠ series masterlist | ⏪prologue | 🔃girl's route | ⏩resolution |
𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓┇𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑┇𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐅𝐈𝐂┇𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 LEON S. KENNEDY X AFAB GN! READER CARLOS OLIVEIRA X AFAB GN! READER synopsis: Leon, Carlos, and you, ventures into the laboratory downstair to investigate the mysterious gas. Something about the place doesn't sit well with you... content: 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈, 𝐃𝐔𝐁𝐂𝐎𝐍, canon-typical violence, zombie fucking, threesome, love triangle, positions (doggy, cowgirl, eiffel tower), double penetration (one hole), oral (m receiving), throatpie (extreme), creampies (extreme), grinding (a lot), face-fucking, swallowing, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, gaping, frotting, masturbation (reader), use of restraints (handcuffs), impregnation kink, degradation kink, corruption kink, breeding, cum inflation, womb fucking, body indentation, fingering, zombie transformation, body worship, body horror, cumdump, mutual(?) pining. mentions of: sexual experiments, medical syringes, disagreements, fist fights, wounds (graphic), blood (a lot), firearms, knives, & death. a/n: thank you all of you sweethearts for waiting on & supporting this series, it means so deeply to me, really. my recommended order is to read girl's route before this to build tension, but it is optional (though appreciated). lots of plot in this installment, enjoy!!! « 12.2 k words | general masterlist | ao3 | reblogs appreciated! »
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Your objective today—retrieve the concentrated sample from Arias’ mansion and escape.
And so far, things have been smooth sailing. A bit too smooth sailing. In the span of three hours with you and your team in this freakish mansion, not an enemy appears in your sight. Nothing formidable or sentient anyway, just stray zombies along your path that you silently eliminate without mercy and afterthought. This is nothing to you—after all, you have survived countless zombie outbreaks prior to this, and that had ingrained you with reflexes and level-headedness to combat any feat.
Thoughts about the saferoom, again, drifts into the back of your mind. You recall a constant hiss whispering from the vents, and a brooding gas before dispersing into thin air—seemingly left the five of you unscathed. You have suspicions that this may be an ambush, but of what kind?
It never hurts being too careful in this line of work, especially with bioweapons. One wrong move, and it’s game over. No re-dos or second chances. Despite your reluctance to split up into two teams, you agree to join Leon and Carlos to seek the laboratory downstairs—which Rebecca suspects to be the source of the gas—and find the cause of this unexplained mystery.
There are no lamps in the hallway leading to laboratory, only the full moon illuminating the silent, cramped corridor. You smell death on the floors, the mould deafening your nose with a hint of what smells like rot in all four corners. The walls are lined with formal sitting down portraitures of Arias, Arias’ father, and his father before, dating back to the first Arias in the 1800s. Then, the paintings repeat, over and over down this bottomless stretch of wallpaper.
“How’re you holding up?” Leon approaches you from your side, a palm resting on his forehead and on yours to check your temperature.
Ever since you contracted a slight cough, Leon checks on your condition regularly, perhaps more doting than his other teammates. His excuse: “Just making sure my team is safe”. And it makes sense—Leon is a natural protector after all, especially among his friends. He verifies your temperature, normal. Then your pulse, normal enough, perhaps a tad faster than usual.
“For the third time today, I’m good. Eyes forward, Leon.” You roll your eyes to the side, gesturing at the direction in front of him with your Blacktail pistol.
“Just checking in.” Leon lets out a harmless grin, unphased by your cold reaction. His free hand brings itself onto the crown of your head, almost instinctually, threading through strands with slow, loving movements. The ruffling gets your attention, but this time, you don’t dust his hand off your head like you normally would.
He notices this. “Something’s on your mind. What is it?”
“It’s nothing.” You remove his hand from your head, fixing your hair to keep your hands busy in the lie.
“That doesn’t sound like nothing.”
Leon sees through you anyway, like always. He leans in now, close enough that you can feel his breath against the tip of your nose. You peek up, the cerulean in his gaze peeled onto every twitch of your reaction, swimming in the sight of you. A little self-conscious, you clear your throat lightly, but audible enough for Leon to notice how close he is. He backs away in arduous embarrassment.
You change the topic quickly before things turn more awkward from here. “Just thinking about Jill and Ada, that’s all.” And that is the truth, to some degree. Ever since the girls ventured upstairs to Arias’ office, you can’t stop thinking about them.
“Oh, they’ll be fine. I may not trust Ada, but I gave Jill my word.” Leon nods. “I’ve worked with them both—I know they got this.”
Leon does his best to reassure you, and as much as you appreciate the gesture, some part of you can’t shake away this weighted feeling within. There is no reason to doubt their abilities; as they have proven to be beyond competent with their jobs. The five of you have been selected for this mission, for this very reason.
“Yeah.” You agree, albeit a bit forced. “You’re right.”
“That’s the spirit.” Leon’s features relax, chest puffed up slightly in confidence that he can comfort you. His hand comes up to meet you on the cheek, lightly pressing your cheeks together. “Getting so worked up for your friends. It’s really cute when you do that.”
“Yeah sure. You say that with just anything about me.” Leon had called you cute so many times, the word starts to sound like sarcasm.
“Well that’s because I-”
A bare tint of redness creeps onto Leon’s face, barely visible when shaded behind the moonlight. Leon stumbles on the words to explain himself, but before he can tell you them, a hand comes down to press hard on one of his shoulders. Leon breaks his train of thought when he almost falls into his unbalanced leg.
“What about me, pretty boy? Any compliments for me?” Leon turns to find Carlos and his signature smirk. He mutters something underneath his breath, a curse of some sort, and he brushes the hand off his shoulder.
“Haven’t found a thing to compliment you on.” Is Leon’s only snarky response. When it’s not about you, he always finds a comeback effortlessly.
“Oh come on, y’know I’m just joking.” Carlos laughs, slapping a few times against Leon’s back, playful yet hard. “Besides, we know you’re the cute one here, Leon.”
“I’m not cute. And don’t call me pretty boy.” For how often Leon uses the word ‘cute’ on you, he sure hates to be called that.
“You don’t have to get worked up by a nickname, pretty boy. It’s a compliment.”
Leon locks his eyes on Carlos in his razor-sharp gaze, but for some reason, Carlos is relaxed, unthreatened by Leon’s cautions. Until Leon breaks eye contact first in bitter acceptance. “I’d rather not be called that, thanks.”
“Are you sulking? If you want a hug you can just say so, little man.” Carlos brings his arm around Leon’s shoulder, which Carlos knows he despises. Their height and size difference is distinct, and Carlos immediately overpowers Leon in his domineering grip, suffocating Leon just a tiny bit.
“Whatever.” Leon is only able to struggle free when Carlos loosens his grip. Carlos smiles widely while Leon scowls harder.
Things between the two of them had always been unpleasant. With Carlos’ playful dominance and Leon’s stubborn seriousness, their first meeting in Raccoon City immediately hits it off the wrong way. Around you, the duo tries to be cordial to each other, sweeping their disputes under the rug, but it’s no secret to you—resentment always bubbles through.
You toss a stern expression between the two of them, so they surrender from each other’s throats and continue forward in deafening silence, until the three of you finally arrive at the laboratory door. There is a sign: [AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY]. The door is slightly ajar. On the other side of the door, it’s dark.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Carlos walks in first without hesitation. You and Leon follow behind him.
The room reeks of antiseptics, sterilization and behind all of that, the familiar artificial smell that jabs painfully into your nose. You bear with it, letting your flashlight aim forward. A faint blue light glows from a corner of the lab—some sort of lit-up computer screen. The three of you move closer to the light source.
“I’ll go around and find a light switch.” Leon says, and you see the illuminating circle of his flashlight move away from the two of you as it rustles into a different direction.
“Ah shit. My batteries’ flat.” Carlos taps at his dimming flashlight, and it turns off completely. You stand in the darkness, alone, and then you hear a creak. Probably from an appliance somewhere or a trick of wind. But in the shadows, your uneasiness doubles.
“Carlos. Are you there?” No reply.
There’s a brush of air behind you. You convince yourself it’s yet another trick of wind. But this wind, it comes right up on your shoulder, unusually soft and unsuspecting. Then, you feel a presence right beside your ear, tickling your cheeks with its luscious tendrils.
“Boo.”
The sound is no louder than a whisper, but the squeal that flees your lips is bloodcurdling nonetheless. You twist your hips with your entire body weight, swinging the Blacktail in the air out of reflex with the force of your entire elbow. Your other hand readies itself on the hilt of your knife, preparing to unsheathe and attack the figure as another line of protection in case it decides to strike again.
Your gun whiffs in the air, thankfully, missing your target. “Porra! Watch where you swing that.” The darkened figure says.
The fluorescent lights hum into life now as Leon clicks the power switch against the wall. You see Carlos ducking his head behind you. One second too late and you may have wiped the smug grin off his face with the blunt of your pistol—for better or worse. Carlos’ hands fall to his knees, suppressing a deep laugh that rises from his chest.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Carlos! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Your let your relieved hands drop from the hilt onto your sides.
“Your heart raced for me, didn’t it?”
“This is lame. Even for you.” You roll your eyes so far back to avoid making contact with his victorious smirk.
“Don’t you mean ‘charming’?”
He brings himself closer, lifting your chin up with his thumb and index fingers so your eyes are forced to meet with his. The audacity of it all makes your grimace crack into an unwilling grin, corner of your lips upturning with a will of its own. “You wish, Carlos.”
“Hell yeah, made you smile.”
You force yourself to grimace again. “Keep your mouth shut, or I’m gonna hit you for real this time.”
“Well, d’you feel better now?”
Carlos relaxes into your gaze, eyelids drooping and hazel irises dilating. Despite almost being scared out of your wits mere seconds ago, your nerves are now easing, heartbeat regulating into a constant pattern. You are grateful to have Carlos as your companion. He can warm up a room in a heartbeat, always finding ways to make everyone comfortable. And to you, that’s no exception.
“Thanks.” Carlos grins, cockier than usual, so you correct yourself. “Though your methods are terrible.”
What you didn’t notice is Leon already stalking towards the two of you, awfully curious what kind of exchange you two are having that requires such loving glances. Leon’s eyes set himself on top of Carlos first, arm reaching around your waist to pull you closer to him without speaking a single word.
“Having a good talk?” Leon doesn’t break eye contact with Carlos when he closes his fingers around your waist, catching you off guard.
“Uh ha- hey, Leon.” You feel Leon’s grip tighten, and something is telling you not to irritate him any further. Unfortunately, Carlos does not share the same sentiment.
“Take it easy, pretty boy. You upset?” Carlos lets out a chuckle, whether his intentions are to provoke or to jest, you aren’t quite sure.
“No—not at all.” But Leon’s word contradicts his actions, seemingly moving you ever so slightly away from Carlos. Leon cocks up his head, puffing out his chest to channel his larger frame, even if it only make him just a few inches shy to match Carlos in height.
“Just a bit of harmless fun, that’s all.” Carlos shrugs his shoulders, casting a wink to your direction. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
“That’s enough, dickhead.” With eyes burning with a fury, Leon tugs at Carlos’ neckline, forcing him to look eye to eye. But Carlos feels no intimidation. In fact, his stance is open, slapping himself on the chest a few times to taunt his anger.
And that’s all it takes for Leon to throw the first punch. He aims his swing directly at Carlos’ face, too sudden, that neither you nor Carlos is expecting it. Carlos manages to bring his arm forward just in time to block it, taking the impact of the blow on the sides of his forearms. Carlos merely smiles in amusement like it didn’t hurt, but the spot already starts to redden.
After the first hit lands, Leon raises his fist again, unsatisfied. You quickly put yourself in between the two, stopping the fight before more injuries occur. “Enough!”
Leon pauses, of course, he would kill himself first before he hurts you in any shape or form. His fist hovers in the air, and it lowers, slow and reluctant.
The boys’ earpiece fizzles into life, and Rebecca is immediate to comment about the duo.
“What’s going on between you two? Do I need to have a word with Jill?” Rebecca lectures in her teacher voice, so loud that you can hear it through their earpieces. Nobody messes with Jill. She can, and will, teach them a lesson in less than savoury means. Leon releases Carlos by the collar, casting him aside that manages to falter Carlos’ footsteps.
“Anything but that.” Leon smooths his own shirt as he pleads for his innocence.
“You’re taking this too far, Rebecca. We don’t have to resort to violence.” Carlos too, the first real fear of the night flashes between his eyes.
“Good. Promise to behave.” Rebecca says. “Such big babies, I swear to god.”
“Speaking of Jill, haven’t heard from Jill and Ada in a minute.” She thinks out loud, before closing with a final remark. “I’ll get in contact with them. Good luck, three of you. Don’t cause trouble.”
The line closes, and with the lights turned on now, the three of you start to explore the laboratory. This time, nobody messes around after heeding Rebecca’s warning, focusing on the task at hand.
The big lamp flickers, ticking like some sort of timer, as the three of you enter the space. It looks weirdly futuristic, floors polished so clean that it reflects everything above, making you see double. Lined against the walls, you find workstations, refrigerators, and foreign machines (a dispenser perhaps?) that doesn’t quite make sense to you. In the centre, illuminated by a ring of fluorescent lights, displays a gas tank triple the size of you, like a strange kind of monument.
A gas funnels out the top shaft, hoisting the substance into the vents up above, presumably, to the safe room where the five of you were. As you approach the control panel, the synthetic, nasty smell overwhelms you so much you have to clutch your nose. You press the red square button. The tank stops rumbling, and no more gas runs out from the other end.
“This must be how they did it.” Leon comments, pacing around the cylinder to read the labels on it, but the ink had been melted into illegibility. “I can’t read any of the labels.”
“So you were right, pretty boy. It’s an ambush.” Carlos says. They had known that the five of you are coming. But for how long?
You think this through. If this is an ambush, why had there been no attack? There must be a reason the three of you are standing on your feet right now, and not becoming zombie fodder in Arias’ schemes. “Nothing about this makes sense.”
Leon nods in agreement, but there is still more in this room they haven’t investigated yet. He walks into the direction of the monitor screen. “Maybe we can find more info here.” The two of you follow.
A team works here, or at least used to, with how loose paper scatters across the floor and the aftermath of test tubes fallen into thousands of pieces, ruining the surface of the station with corrosive liquid. Whoever worked here had to evacuate, fast. And it didn’t seem that long ago either.
Leon clicks with the mouse a few times, and it boots up, flickering into life. He enters the first profile, and to no one’s surprise, he reads: “It’s password protected.” You tsk out loud, bumping your fist on the desk with slight frustration. “Please scan employee card for access.” The scanner pad lights up.
“Where are we gonna find an access card?” Leon asks.
Carlos looks around the laboratory, and behind the tank, he sees a double glass window looking into a separate, contained room—an interrogation room of some sort. A labcoat figure lies in the centre of that room, and in front of her chest, a lanyard prints a single word in bold: STAFF. Bloodstains surround the figure; the woman lays limps on the medical bed. Maybe even dead.
“Score.” You and Leon turn around and join Carlos in front of the glass window.
“I don’t like this at all.” You say, can’t help but notice the blood looks fresh.
“Sounds like someone’s scared.” Carlos is quick to pick on you, entertained by how your grip is putting pressure onto your Blacktail, shaking ever so slightly.
“Ha. You wish.” You quickly straighten yourself up. “Bold of you to think you can scare me twice.”
“Oh don’t worry. I won’t resort to cheap tricks like that. But if you’re scared, you can always jump into my arms.” Carlos jokes, but you know enough to tell there is always a bit of truth behind his playful demeanour. You roll your eyes in response, determined to not give him a reaction that will set you up for more teasing.
“That’s enough, Carlos.” Leon brings his hand down right between the two of you, a little furrowed eyebrow hangs on his face. “You’re going too far.”
“Unless you want to take one for the team, pretty boy?” Carlos’ eyes land on Leon, and there it is again, the spark of hatred. It quickly dissolves as they slowly recall Rebecca’s threat.
“We shouldn’t separate. Let’s go in together. That guarantees our best chance of survival.” Leon, of course, comes up with the most logical answer. But Carlos is anything but logical right now. He wants to see Leon tremble in fear.
“C’mon pretty boy. You afraid?”
Leon hesitates for a second; his pride not allowing him to refuse the challenge. Especially not to a guy like Carlos. There is something in Leon that wants to prove himself in front of you. “Fine. Just no funny business, Oliveira.”
“Oh, you flatter me.” Carlos holds the door open for Leon, mocking a condescending bow just to add fuel to the fire. Leon hesitates one more time before moving. He thinks to himself: in spite of their disagreements, Carlos is not the type to sabotage the team. Still, that isn’t his main concern. Leon is more worried about what Carlos will do to you without him there.
“Aww, miss me already?” Carlos provokes.
Against his better judgement, Leon steps in the room with resolution. The heavy door closes behind him. A faint click of metal hinges come together resonate from the other side. There is a tiny exposed window at the door for Leon to see through. He mouths and gestures the word from the soundproof room: “I’ll be watching you.”
Carlos smiles. “Watch me as much as you want.”
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LEON
The interrogation room is bright, clinically so. The walls are tiled with white, and there is nothing else in the room but the medical bed in the centre. It certainly doesn’t look like a room used for interrogations, but more of an experiment chamber, for isolation and observation by researchers from the other side of the screen. Just being in the room sends a shiver up Leon’s spine.
The lone researcher on the bed starts to growl, waking from its slumber, and rushes forward to attack Leon with its twisted, crushed fingers. Leon draws his CQBR assault rifle and takes out the zombie’s head. It collapses onto the floor harshly as Leon swaps out his magazine.
“H-Help…” The researcher groans, before her head plops onto the cold, bleached tiles.
A moment of weakness overcomes Leon as the zombie speaks. He momentarily forgets that he is fighting a zombie; did he just shoot a human? But it definitely looked like a zombie—lifeless skin and erratic movement—there’s no doubt about it. Yet at the zombie’s death, it speaks like a human uttering their final breath. And were those tears running down his cheeks? Leon had never seen a zombie like this.
He checks the body one more time to make sure it’s dead. There is no movement. He rolls the body to face the ceiling, so the lanyard can be easily removed around her neck. Upon close inspection, that is when Leon realises the body is stark naked underneath the lab coat. What kind of experiments is Arias doing here?
There isn’t any time to waste or to contemplate about the dead. Leon looks away from the body out of respect, covering it up. When he circles the lanyard over her head, something falls on the floor behind her. A gentle thump with something shaking inside. The lady was holding a square case, guarding it with her life. There is a report taped onto the top of the case. Picking it up, Leon reads it:
CATHY WHITE DECEASED Female, Caucasian Success Rate: 48% The latent virus had been injected into the subject prior before moving to Phase 2. The subject’s vitals are normal throughout. On Day 3, prototype [__] (the word is smudged with blood) was released, upon inhaling the smoke, the subject started to show signs of zombie infection. Symptoms include: high pain tolerance, cravings for human flesh, heightened sexual arousals, violent outbreaks, enhanced speed and physical strength. During the transformation, the subject’s breath oozes with pheromones to attract their prey. Handle them with caution. The subject also remained sentient, and when interrogated with their memories, was able to successfully recall events dating back to the subject’s childhood. That makes it possible for them to disguise among other humans. In the final phase, subject is successfully impregnated, however, both the baby and mother died during childbirth. With further investigation, we can refine the virus so the infant may survive. The subject's teeth discharges traces of their blood, using their teeth as a weapon to transmit the virus into a new host. We have provided a cure in this case, to use for emergencies only.
Parts of this document feel very familiar to your current situation. So this zombie—no, this researcher—she’s still conscious? Leon clenches his fist together, heavy guilt coursing through his body for killing a civilian. Yes, even if it was for self-defence, it still guilts at his chest regardless.
Now with overwhelming urgency, Leon needs to find this cure fast. He needs to show you and Carlos this document and watch for all these symptoms.
Leon flips to the next sheet, containing rows and rows of scientific jargon and exact numbers and results to this experimentation. None of this comprehensible to Leon, but perhaps it may be useful for Rebecca. He opens the case underneath it. There is one medical syringe inside. It has a clear substance with a metallic shimmer. There should be another syringe inside, but it’s missing.
So this is the cure? If Leon sends all these data back to Rebecca, she may be able to use this for her research. As Leon thinks about Rebecca, his earpiece lights up, speaking of the devil, and Leon answers the call immediately.
“Rebecca! I found some info on the virus.” Leon says as he pockets the access card, case, and report all into his gear. “There’s some other interesting stuff in here too. I’ll send them over ASAP.”
“We need to talk, Leon.” Rebecca tries to keep her voice calm, but it’s apparent that she had been running around her lab. “Something bad has happened.”
“What’s going on?”
“Jill… Ada… I can’t reach them… I think they’ve turned.”
“Turned? Turned when?”
“I’m not sure.” Urgency floods at her words as she types something hastily in the background. “I think they are. The last thing I heard was something grumbling in the background, like a zombie. Then silence. I can’t reach them anymore.”
“Shit.” Horror sinks into Leon’s face, panic settling into adrenaline. Leon thought he had more time before someone got into danger.
“This is a much aggressive virus, Leon. All of you, get out of there, now.” Rebecca makes another call in the background simultaneously. ��I’m sending back-up. Hold on tight.”
“I think I know what caused this. The gas is an ambush. I saw it in the lab report. But how?” Leon thinks with his fingers between his chin.
“Before I lost signal, there was a message. The word ‘water’. Not sure what that means.”
Water. What can this mean? Some kind of water source—A river? Rain? And after a short moment of reasoning, something clicks in Leon’s head. It makes sense now. He knows how Arias had been ambushing them right from the very beginning.
“The water. Of course.” All the evidence is connecting inside Leon’s brain.
“What’s making sense, Leon?” Rebecca almost cries out to snap Leon out of his ‘aha’ moment.
“There’s more than one virus. You have to be infected twice to turn.” Leon reads the report once more, clarifying all the details in his head.
“So you’re talking about some sort of water supply working in conjunction with the gas?” Rebecca asks.
“Yes. If my guess is right.”
“Are you saying Jill and Ada drank the water supply…?”
“Not just Jill.”
Leon spins his head with utmost urgency, hoping that he is wrong. There are only two people who have drank from the water bottles in the safe room, and one of them is presumed dead. Darting across the tiny window through the door, Leon catches something in the corner of his peripheral. The tall muscular figure leaning down; both of his hands cupping your cheek, and Carlos’ lips right on top of yours.
It’s too late.
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CARLOS & YOU
Carlos closes the big metal door shut, his hand swiftly going around the lock to secure it in place. That’ll teach Leon a lesson. Don’t worry, he’ll let Leon out when the time comes. But won’t it be so funny to see him struggle the door open? Carlos chuckles devilishly under his breath, and he turns to find you leaning against the tank, watching Leon take down the researcher on the other side.
Even when it’s just the two of you, your eyes somehow always finds its way to Leon. Carlos joins your side, trying not to feel defeated so soon. The two of you stand in silence for a moment, before you abruptly break it:
“You can be a bit nicer to Leon, you know.” You cross your arms as you speak, eyes catching on the clock above the glass that leaps to your attention. The antique décor stands out decadently amongst the futuristic laboratory; its clockface a gold emblem plate of a lyre, a snakehead at each curved end of its arm. You pay no mind to Arias’ strange interior design decisions and return your gaze to Leon.
“Of course you’re on his side.” Carlos sighs through his smile. He follows your sight to stare at whatever you’re looking at too. He can’t tell what you’re thinking through your blank expression.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” You toss him a side eye.
“Leon swung first.” Carlos says, massaging at the spot in his arm, bruising a swollen purple. “It hurts you know. Pretty boy is such a heavy-hitter. If I didn’t know better, I’d assume he wanted to knock me out. And hey… If you’ll give me a kiss, it’ll heal faster.”
You ignore Carlos. “You were making comments.”
“And he took those comments personally.” Carlos shrugs; there is no remorse in his eyes. And then he sighs heavily, but not heavy enough to take the weight off his chest. “You have no idea, huh.”
Carlos stands right in front of you, pulling you by your hand, meeting you face to face. You peek at him before looking away flustered. He seems sincere, no longer that playful smile or teasing about kissing you, like there is something he needs to tell you. “Do I have to spell it out to you?” Carlos’ voice is husky yet when he leans in. 
You clear your throat, feet planting to the floor to not let Carlos push into your space any further. Turning your head, you gaze strongly into his eyes. “What’re you talking about?”
“C’mon, can I make this anymore obvious?”
Carlos pulls you into his embrace, cutting off the tension bubbling towards the surface, and wraps his arms around you. His lips crashes onto yours, and his tongue is telling how long Carlos had been wanting you, waiting for you to notice. The kiss is gentle at first, slightly hesitant. After your lips are accustomed to each other, Carlos grows bolder, rolling your bottom lip between his, and you smack your teeth open to taste your tongue against his. It tastes like the soft bud of a candy. Carlos grasps you hard now, pulling you in for a deeper kiss. There is something in that kiss that changes your brain chemistry, almost like magic. Your lips part, taking a heavy breath from the action.
“Is this obvious enough?” Carlos mutters, and you nod obediently.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The abrupt, punching noise is coming from the door. The knob turns erratically a few times, but it doesn’t click open. Its hinges slams against the lock mechanism. You can hear muffled screaming from the other side.
You should let Leon out, you think, but Carlos traps you in his assertive kiss once more. Both of his hands come around your back, circling them in his tight, comforting hug. Even when your body commands you to move, you can’t. Do you really enjoy the kiss so much?
Leon bangs onto the glass, it doesn’t break; instead, you can hear the hollowed hard thump in front of you. You look at Leon, suddenly guilty for no reason, and your hands come forward to push Carlos away. But your hands are weak in his love.
“Eyes on me, darling.” Carlos takes control of you, peppering kisses on the corner of your lips. What you and Carlos have together isn’t kissing anymore—it’s more like an exploration of tongue, leaving you to gasp for air whenever your lips temporarily parts, just to close them together in his eagerness.
“Leo—” kiss. “—Could’b—” another kiss. “—in troub—”.
Carlos peppers kisses on the corner of your mouth, down your exposed neck ready for him, and into the crook between your shoulder. His curls tickle against you lightly, and you let out a slight giggle as he kisses you down.
“Que pescoço bonito…” Carlos mumbles, his lips softening around your skin. It starts with a light, teasing bite, nothing far of a nibble. All of the sudden, the lovingness mutates into something else, something possessive. He suckles the soft skin between his lips, focusing on a particular spot, and it sends a light pain onto your neck.
“Carlos… I think that’s enough now…” You wince slightly.
But he doesn’t pull away. Worse—Carlos sinks his canines into your skin, ripping out the flesh from within and feeding onto the softness with it a twinkle of joy in his eyes. Pieces of your muscle fall out, blood streaming from the sides of his mouth as Carlos’ head cocks to the air, swallowing his meal in a loud content gulp. You fall to the floor, faint groans muttering in agony; your hands try to press down the wound, but the bleeding just won’t stop.
The door bangs louder. Leon thinks, “fuck it,” as he lunges his entire body weight against the door that holds him hostage in this tiny room. The lock clangs, hinge weakened from the impact, and so Leon spin kicks right underneath the knob and it finally breaks, crashing open outwards.
“The hell is wrong with you!” He resists the urge to pin Carlos against the wall right at this instant. That’s not the time or place now, Leon needs to take you to safety first and foremost.
He sprints towards your direction to pick your fallen self from the floor, blood mixed with flesh crumbs trickling like a muddy stream through the gaps of your fingers, pooling around your head. Leon checks your pulse: You are still breathing, thank goodness for that. But not for long. The forked veins along your wrists starts to darken, until they are fully visible through the river of your arms: you’re turning.
He retrieves the case from his gear, then the syringe. Leon can’t let you turn—not you, anyone else but you. Turning you sideways, he removes the syringe cap, crosses his fingers, and injects it right below your shoulder cap. You start to pant, muffled like something is strangling you in your sleep and eating you out from the inside. The agonised moans escalate louder and louder, until it finally stops.
Leon’s heart tightens. He checks your pulse again, but there is none. The black veins continue to crawl closer inside of you, twisting and turning through the labyrinth to reach your heart’s core.
“Shit, shit, shit! The cure isn’t working.” Leon throws the empty syringe across the floor, and it breaks into shards on the floor. “C’mon. Stay with me. Please.”
As if his pleas have been heard, your hand rises, coming on top of his hand. Leon lets out a sigh of relief for a second, before your fingers tighten with the strength of a bear on top of his clenched fist, digging your claws into it. Your eyes fly open, and Leon sees your irises dilating so far it turns hollow, void of colour and soul.
“Leon…” Your words tear through his heart in a million different ways.
“Not you too.” His voice hitches.
Your fingers hook into Leon’s pliant skin, until it bleeds through the calloused surface on the back of his palms, dragging them down for a straight cut. A sharp pain runs along his hands, nothing Leon can’t handle, but it will most likely leave a scar. He somersaults backwards, hand coming down to prepare his rifle, and ready to aim when he recovers into a stand. Leon can’t bring himself to aim at you. So he aims his gun’s barrel directly at Carlos.
Carlos doesn’t react, merely licks his bloodied lips clean. “Look at him, poor little thing.”
Leon clenches his gun and twists the selector on his rifle, firing a burst of three rounds directly at Carlos. They all miss. Carlos dodges all three bullets with animalistic speed, smiling through it, and disappoints when Leon holds his fire at the sight.
“What do you want, Oliveira?” Leon spits out; there’s no use wasting ammunition right now.
“Just a bit of fun, pretty boy.” Carlos utters, his grin stretching so wide that his features become distorted. “Care to play with us?”
“Fat chance.”
Blood is no longer gushing out of your neck. The hand supporting it lets go, finding the blood dry. If there is supposed to be pain, you don’t sense it. In fact, you feel the opposite. Recharged and spirited than ever before. Your body moves like butter, but then again, you don’t remember moving them.
Your body creeps behind Leon’s back, and push down his two elbows, clasping the two arms together behind him in one swift momentum. The rifle falls to the floor. “I’m so hungry, Carlos.” The whines that escape your mouth are not yours even if it did comes out of your own. It plants love marks on Leon’s trapezius, tainting his pale skin with redness. “Can I have him already? I want him now. so. bad.”
Somewhere within you cringe at those words, but your physical manoeuvres with a mind of its own, regardless of your intentions. It chases your thoughts away, until it falls and falls into a dark well behind your sockets. And with one final push, your mind shuts you out, numbing your resistance as your hollow grin turns wider.
“Remember. He isn’t ours.” Carlos corrects you, but you don’t seem to be listening, merely focusing on the blond in front of you. “But we can still have a bit of fun.”
“Fun, fun…” You smack your lips like a mechanical doll, inching them closer to Leon’s lips through the blankness of your gaze. The warmth of your skin fades as your nails grasp against his neck with aggressive affection, like you can and will break his neck out of his cuteness. Leon flinches his face sideways, holding in his nostrils to not take in your poisoned breath even as you drool over his checks like a beast in heat. Despite how you have taken form of your human body, that’s the end of the resemblance between the real you and this… monster.
An idea forms in Carlos’ head right before you sink your teeth into Leon, and he stops you. “Don’t turn him yet.” Carlos says. “I want to taste him fresh.”
Your lips twist in disappointment, in spite of your intrigue, you are unable to keep your lips filling the entirety of Leon’s neck with your love marks. Under a different kind of circumstances, Leon would absolutely love this from you. But this isn’t you. He doesn’t know if any part of you is still inside.
“So what d’you say, pretty boy? We’ll treat you really well.” Carlos says. Surely, Leon won’t agree to this. Perhaps a swift death will be less agonising than whatever the two of you have in store for him. At the same time, Leon remembers the piece of important evidence in his gear. He can’t afford to die right now—the hope of mankind lies in his pocket. 
As Leon pauses to consider his options, his earpiece cries out, and Rebecca blurts from the other side of the call: “Leon! I’m sending a chopper to the rescue. Mike’s on his way. I need you to stall for time before he arrives.”
Leon pretends he never heard the transmission in fear of rousing suspicion. Stall for time, huh? Leon can certainly do that. There is nowhere else out of here. Between him and the exit, it’s roughly fifteen feet. He can run now, but it will not take the two of your combined forces long to catch up. If he plays your stupid games, Leon may have a chance at survival. And so does humanity. Maybe.
“Fine.” Leon says. “Think I can fit it in my schedule.”
“Charmer as always, pretty boy.” Carlos grins, bringing Leon’s chin up to bring him in for a kiss. Carlos purrs into the kiss, and the gentle, tingling vibration sends a gentle gulp down Leon’s throat, almost rising into a moan, but he refrains it—out of pride.
“Fuck off.” Leon utters the word quietly.
“You kinda like this, don’t you?” Even if it’s the truth, Leon will never admit this, especially knowing that he, to some degree, is still the dickhead Carlos he knows. But damn, Carlos can sure kiss well. So much so that Leon is leaning in, increasingly harder to resist the onslaught of warm softness on top of his own. But like hell Leon would ever admit to something like this.
You break away his wrists, unable to wait any longer. Your knees and palms land against the icy floor, eye level to his crotch. Leon swallows, taking in the sight with a mix of reluctance and eagerness.
You smack your wet lips when you pull Leon’s zipper down. Leon swallows halfway, holding his breath instead. This is all part of his ploy to stall time for the rescue, but the sight of you—zombie or not—on your knees in front of him had been the item of his imaginations for years. For a moment, watching your eyelashes flutter underneath him with a drunken expression, like a trick of the light or his imagination, Leon thinks it’s you. He has fantasised about the different scenarios to catch you in this position, but now in person, Leon doesn’t even know where to put his hands.
Noticing this, you let out a youthful giggle. You unbuckle his pants, and the chuckle stops when you see how his dick already tents over his black compression underwear, a ring of precum luring you to have a taste at it.
“Look at you, baby. All ready for me.” You bring down the elastic of his underwear, and it springs up to welcome you.
If you can only use one word to describe Leon’s dick, it’s ‘beautiful’. His long and slender cock is adorned by a few purposeful veins that reaches to the seams at the end of his shirt—it’s the dick of a Greek god. And it looks so fucking tasty. Precum beads over his tip almost immediately, tearing up at the sight of you watching him with such intent, tempting you to soothe it. And so you do, lapping at the slit of his tip, licking a bead off, just for another to immediately pool on the slit, over and over again.
“This is wrong.” Leon says, but his gaze is cemented at the bead on your tongue, disappearing when you pull it back into your mouth.
“Then tell me to stop then.” Leon tries to, his hand placing firm on both of your shoulders. But when he pushes you off, his hand goes limp against his better judgement. “See, you can’t.” You resist with all your strength to slow, licking around the crest of the tip. Leon shivers in Carlos’ kiss, moving his hand to under your chin, wanting to see you clearer in the light.
“Ohh.” Your grin grows wider and wider, staring back with all seeing eyes. “I get it now. You have a crush on me.”
He withdraws his hand too swiftly for an innocent man. “You’re wrong.”
“Your face is giving you away. And so is your cute dick.”
Leon is defensive, immediately, and despite how much he wants to tell you otherwise, it may be too late for those words. Leon’s leg turns into rubber as you breathe onto his shaft, and for a fearful second of weakness, he wants to tell you the biggest secret that he had been holding close to his heart all these years. Leon snaps out of the thought. If he wants to ask you out, he’s going to do it properly, not like this.
“Shut up.” He quips back. “Did I tell you to stop? That mouth should be wide open, sucking me off right now.”
Leon felt a little guilty saying that, but that’s the only thing that can probably stop you from continuing this conversation. And it does work. Leon’s unexpected command immediately pools your underwear as you swallow your defiance into the back of your throat, simply murmur and obey: “Yes, sir.”
For you, so far, you had just been teasing him. Playing with your food before devouring it. But now, you want him all. Without much force from your end, your mouth opens to take his fat cock. The length of him doesn’t deter your cheeks to hollow out to suck him in with much enthusiasm. The warmth of his dick contrasts against the cold dead body, and it makes your whole body tremble in ecstasy.
Slowly at first, you move in front of the first half of his pulsating shaft, in spite of your lower pain tolerance, you don’t wish for your jaw to fall out before you finish your first dessert of the day. His dick curves when he enters, prodding against your soft palate as you widen out your throat to take more of his size. You think to yourself: How wonderful it would feel if he was hitting you from the back, but you are unwilling to let go of his tasty length, salted lightly with his taste.
The words that leave Leon’s mouth contradicts himself, mumbling apologies through series of whimpers, as if he was speaking to you, the real you, and not whoever you had become in the crossfire of Arias’ experiment, until an interruption by a gruff voice that sets you back to cruel reality where you are already gone.
“Baby… Let me have some fun too.” Carlos touches your waist, guiding your hips to lift into the air and feet to stand, all whilst your mouth is still occupied with another man’s sex. You can’t see what goes on behind you, only hearing the haste shuffling and the clink of a belt unbuckling and zips forcing open. Its tip meeting at the end of you, preparing.
“God, you’re drippin’ wet.” Realisation sets in that your juice is running down both of your thighs generously, air conditioning blowing on them and making your legs cold. Your underwear has been sticking against your legs since you first saw Leon’s dick, coming in your pants through the eagerness of it all without noticing it.
Carlos guides your underwear off your pathetic self, which you’re grateful for having the sticky fabric leave your body and let your wetness flow freely without obstructions. Carlos runs two fingers along the stripe of your cunt. “So swollen… You like being looked at, don’t you?” You shiver when the pad of his finger rests a little too long on the head of your clit, pressing it like a button that instantly discharges your lovely juices on Carlos’ palm. He lubricates his other finger with it, then dips two fingers inside of you, finding it already loose and ready. Despite the stickiness, Carlos slurps at his dripping finger like melted ice cream, savouring every bit of your taste.
“Just like how I imagined it…” He corrects himself. “No, even better.”
The virus has coursed through your body rapidly, and every second your sexuality is unsatisfied it throbs a sharp pain straight into your gut. You can imagine it must be the same for Carlos too, using up his entire willpower not to thrust into you raw and to relief some of that pain off his body.
As you draw your lips out of Leon’s cock, relaxing against his tip, you ram yourself backwards. Your cunt swallows the entirety of Carlos’ warmness and girth, moaning a deep, lusted sigh. Carlos groans too, low and heavy, taken aback by your forwardness.
“God… Fuckin’ hell…” Carlos adjusts himself; his hands grabbing a handful of your ass, squeezing it so tight it fills out his fingers. He fucks you doggy style, with not much reservations from his part either. Your eyes roll back at the impact, mouth ajar with Leon’s cock in your mouth. Jealousy gets the better of Leon, and with a heaved pump, he thrusts himself right into your gaping mouth, hitting against the back of your throat that triggers a gag reflex in you. A blend of your saliva and Leon’s precum rolls down your jaw, making a satisfied response that is incomprehensible from the way Leon fucks your mouth while glaring at his competition.
“Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be, pretty boy?” Carlos smiles at Leon in return, accepting the challenge, thrusting you into your cunt faster and harder than ever before, determined to make sure you moan the hardest when he fucks into you.
“Get to work, baby.” Through your blurry haze, it becomes harder to tell who is speaking, even if their voices sound distinctively different. So you obey the voice anyway—satisfying both by slurping Leon’s dick faster, while simultaneously arching your back to help Carlos reach further inside of you. It gets messy, really messy as the obscenity of you gets fucked on both ends permeate through the empty laboratory.
“Baby, you can take a bit more than this, can’t you?” Leon pats your head, and you nod eagerly.
You have already taken his entire length all the way to the base, what more can he mean? But Leon finds a way to make you feel even better by shoving himself even deeper down your throat. Your jaw unhinges to accommodate his force, his balls pressed firm onto your chin. Fear settles for a second before realising there is no pain, and you can take him even deeper with your jaw unhinged like this. You reposition yourself, and his dick prods further at the back of your throat, then down your windpipe, stretching the narrow tube wide open. His tip pokes out of the skin, outlining his tip onto your throat like a forbidden adam’s apple.
“That’s it, good work. You can drink my cum too, right? You kinda have to now.”
Leon had never felt anything like this before. It was phenomenal, downright terrifying how much he enjoys it. Something he thinks isn’t possible—and it shouldn’t have been—but you have outweigh his expectations once again. That doesn’t mean he did not hesitate at first, especially when he sees how the tears run down lightly along your cheek, and your jaw twitching with a burning sensation that weighs at your throat. Your eyes meet his with a desperate gaze, so fucking dirty with how you plead for him to cum with your eyes alone.
So he fucks into your face one last time, and the white sticky goodness comes undone in your throat. Even if it doesn’t hurt, it is uncomfortable for your windpipe to be stuffed with hot, thick cum that chokes you against his limp dick.
Carlos can feel you tightening up fast, more stickiness within as Leon groans out a distressed howl, and your torso shudders heavily again. He knows you had just came with him inside, ripples and ripples of pleasure taking control of your body. He fucks your cunt into your overstimulation as the pleasure continues to hit you in waves from your behind.
“Oohh baby. You look so fuckin’ hot right now, baby.” His hand grasps your cheeks tightly, leaving behind a firm handprint on your luscious booty. “You want me to fuck a baby into you, huh?” Behind you, Carlos lets out a growling moan, the soft tendrils falling over Carlos’ face as you clench your insides and threaten to keep you there, letting your walls ride against the sex.
“I got a big load coming. Can you handle it?” You nod again and again. Even if you already came once, it’s not enough. You want more.
Carlos races to the edge of bliss, and he comes so unexpectedly, thinking he still has a bit longer. But nevertheless, Carlos watches his tip release thick white strings into your cunt, then plugs it back far inside of you as your second release crashes on top of your first.
“The perfect fucking cumdump.” are Carlos’ final words as he draws himself out, plopping his weight against your back in exhaustion.
With your body stuffed full, you lie in the pool of your own pleasure, liquids flowing into each other. Carlos huffs his chest, burying his chest into your back, losing sight of Leon in their post orgasms. Your neck exposes upwards to the sky, pulsing to Leon’s attention. The three of you remain there for a while, every breath a struggle to catch up with the intensity of the aftermath.
Then, Leon drops his head—his eyes catch sight of the tactical gear he is wearing. His combat knife reflects the fluorescent lights in its sheath at his breast, then Leon looks back at the two of you, paying himself no mind. It’s an opening. If he hits you on the crook of your neck at the top of your spine, it may not be fatal, but it will allow a moment of paralysis, just enough for him to break free and flee to safety.
Leon slows his hand as he reaches for the knife, not to startle either you or Carlos. You are oblivious, choking up his cum and coughing it onto the floor. His fingers reach the hilt now, curling along it as draws the knife out of the sheath slowly. And with a deep breath, Leon plunges the knife down, aiming straight into the back of your neck. It never made it that far. The blade is caught by a rough hand.
“What’re you doing?” Carlos questions as his eyes land on Leon, perhaps giving him the benefit of the doubt. But it’s no mistake what Leon’s intentions are with how the knife is maimed towards your head. “You know, I can see your reflection on the floor, right?” Carlos’ expression turns dark, crooking into a displeased frown that warns Leon, once again, that his attempts are fruitless. The sharp end runs through his fingers, and he lets the blood drip down his palm. “Such a bad boy.”
Carlos yanks the weapon away from Leon, spinning the hilt in the air, and catches it securely between his bloodied palm. He rounds one arm around Leon’s chest, and the other hand lining the blade parallel against Leon’s neck. “If you want to live, do as I say.”
Leon knows better than to struggle against a man holding a weapon to his neck. He does as Carlos says, backing himself into the isolated room under Carlos’ guidance, pushing the door with the broken hinge aside as they enter. Carlos kicks the dead body away from the bed, and it lolls limply to the other side of the room.
“Lie on the bed.” Carlos demands and Leon obeys, climbing on top of the medical bed. The texture of the mattress resembles weak foam when Leon drops his weight on top.
Leon’s wrists are forced to jerk backwards before the top of his head. He winces at the touch of cold metal circles around his left wrist, and it clicks. The chain goes around the metal headframe, and Carlos repeats the same on Leon’s right wrist, securing tight with finality. Leon watches you and Carlos tower over him, the fury of two disappointed parents overseeing him. Leon struggles his arm free, but he recoils when the chains tug him back.
Is this the end for Leon…?
Clothes start to come off; Carlos strips off every remaining fabric and gear on him, and you follow too. Leon’s clothing—cuffed against the bed had to be ripped off his body, allowing witness to the most intimate parts of their bodies. Carlos makes the first move—not giving Leon a moment to breathe when he jumps on top of Leon’s figure, locking his splayed body down. He struggles underneath, wiggling and kicking Carlos off in desperation, but he’s too strong.
“Don't resist, Leon. It’ll hurt more if you do.” There’s a void of emotion in Carlos’ words, and the speed of a cheetah as he plunges his sharp teeth into Leon’s reddened neck, marked with your loving insanity. As he leans down, Leon can see the veins around his eyes bulging and pounding like a heartbeat. Fear takes over Leon; he desperately wrestles Carlos off him as a last ray of hope. But all of it turns futile when Carlos manages to bite into a bit of that skin—and a bit of that skin is all the venom needs to take over the host, contaminating his blood, his cells, with the dreaded disease.
“Fuck!” Leon yells from the bottom of his lungs, and the part where his teeth lands burns, even if it doesn’t bleed furiously. The entirety of his left arm is turning numb, and that feeling spreads across his body, trying to reach his heart and mind, and clouds away his sight. It reaches further into Leon’s system, and he coughs out blood from the corner of his mouth.
“Hang in there, pretty boy. It’ll feel good very soon.” Leon hurls a loud scream at Carlos. “Here, I’ll help you take the pain away.”
Carlos strokes himself, still lubricated from your juices, and so is Leon. That makes things easier for Carlos to let the crest of his dick meets at Leon’s base, running it up the length of the slender shaft. Leon flinches, holding back a displeased yet relishing whimper that surprises Carlos, and he wants to hear more of that cute sound.
“Such a pretty boy with a pretty dick, Leon.” Carlos whispers into his ear, their tips circle each other a few more times, and it does help Leon subside the pain, but the lack of friction isn’t enough, almost unbearable as the virus attacks his body.
Leon’s dick twitches in agony, and he whimpers once more. Carlos whistles with delight. “You want more, pretty boy?”
“Only if you stop talking so much shit, Oliveira.” Leon uses whatever movement that isn’t restrained by the cuffs to urge himself closer to the fat, girthy cock. Carlos’ dick taunts him into submission, and Leon does not like Carlos having so much power over him.
“That works with me.” Carlos raises his eyebrows, licking his bottom lip with a lust-laden expression. He brings both cocks together, rubbing them parallel against each other’s shafts and jerks it up and down. Carlos can feel his dick grinds along Leon’s vein, and their precums start to overflow all over, making the duo moan in unison.
Seeing them dripping onto each other makes you feel left out. You have been fingering yourself against the wall this entire time, but your wrists turn sore, and the stimulation isn’t enough anymore. You need more. Carlos sees you through the corner of his peripheral, and he gestures you to join them, squishing around to make room for you in the middle.
You heave on top of the bed, with Leon feeling most of the weight at the bottom. The metal hinges scratch hard against the frame with its abrupt impact, probably exceeding the weight limit. But that’s not on the list of your priorities right now. If the bed falls apart from fucking too hard, then so be it.
You grind along both of their lengths, having them fuck you between your folds. The three of you continue to move against each other, rubbing, grinding with fervour to relish in the friction on each of your sensitive parts. Every time one of the tips brush your clit, your cunt drips wet and coats their dick with your juice.
After their dicks have been lubricated, the boys lean back so their dick points the sky to receive you inside of them. Taking turns, you lower yourself onto Leon and Carlos’ lengths one at a time, instantly adapting around each of their length and girth with a harsh whine, bouncing from one dick to the other.
But Leon doesn’t want to share you at all. When you plunge down onto him, he uses this opportunity to thrust into you from below over and over until you suck him in desperately, each thrust relieving a bit of pain from his and your gut. You let him—unwilling to withdraw yourself from easy pleasure.
Carlos’ tip rubs against the gap between Leon’s dick and your cunt. “Hey, make some room for me.”
“Why’re you squeezing in here? Use the other hole.” Leon takes up more space inside of your cunt out of spite.
“And let you have all the fun, pretty boy? I don’t think so.”
“C’mon. Help us out.” Carlos presses a warm pad of finger onto the skin of your belly, and that urges you to reposition yourself. You adjust so Leon lays closer to your clit, leaving Carlos enough room to enter from the other end. “That’s it, baby. You really want us to fuck you in the same hole, huh? That’s how cock hungry you are?”
“I… Fuck… Yes, please...” Whatever dignity remains in you is gone now, excited by the idea of having your guts penetrated by two fat dicks; carnal needs turns into blind desperation.
“As you wish, baby.” Carlos moans, lining his dick in your pussy right above Leon’s, and the crest of Carlos’ tip crawls into your cunt with much strain and patience.
“It's not going to fit, Oliveira. You’re too fuckin’ big. Get off.” Leon grumbles.
Carlos glares at Leon to stop whining, then soothes your back with a gentle press to encourage you more. “You can do this, baby. You'll make it fit, won't you?” Another inch of Carlos slides inside of you, and you howl in slow agonised enjoyment. Both of them together is too much, even for you. The pleasure swoons into you, flushing your skin a colder red as your pussy throbs open some more.
Half of Carlos’ fat cock slides inside of you now, almost making it all the way. A wave of overwhelming anguish surges to your stretched out entrance, and the ghastly sound behind your throat wants to cry out loud. Instead, you chew on your tongue, hard, bursting the taste of your blood onto your palate.
That is when Leon drops his voice to a whisper for your ears only: “Hey, don’t hurt yourself. Bite onto my hand if you need.”
Even after everything that has happened, Leon only ever offers you his kindness. You appreciate the sentiment, a bit touched. Under his sweet encouragement and almost chewing off half of Leon’s arm, you gape your hole wider. Carlos’ arm tenses as he fucks his entire cock in with one final push, filling every crevice of your cunt with their shapes bent against your walls.
“Puta merda… It’s so tight in here.” Carlos breath chokes in the back of his throat, but he’s smiling.
“No shit, Oliveira. Your fault for forcing yourself in.” Leon kicks Carlos in the thigh with his free foot that’s not buried under the pressure.
Carlos moves first, stretching you out, and Leon groans at the back and forth friction against Carlos’ pulsating dick. Your breath is ragged, feeling both dicks cramped inside the tiny hole, until Carlos utters: “Gonna fuck both our babies into you.”
Your breath quickens in unruly speed as they start to move, taking turns thrusting inside at varying speeds and aptitude, not allowing your pussy even a moment of rest. Leon pulls back when Carlos forcefully thrusts in, then it reverses with Leon’s length curving up ever so perfectly to read your g-spot, fucking against your sensitive womb so deeply as the tip indents at the skin of your belly with every heaved thrust. Sometimes they thrust in at the same time, but most times, they like to make it distinct which dick is fucking you.
It's this competition they have going, to see who can make you moan the loudest. And right now, there is no clear winner. The cockiness in Leon and Carlos dies out as the pleasure renders them unable to speak, communicating their pleasure solely through a chorus of pleasured outcries, and you are the main vocalist.
The tip of their dicks throb inside of you; Leon and Carlos sensing that they are both close. Tossing each other a raised eyebrow, they scheme something with their eyes alone. They nod in sync—one slow nod, two slow nods, and on third—Leon and Carlos explodes their pent up nut inside of you, stuffing you with what feels like almost endless shoots of cum until it rims your cunt with white, overfilling, and eventually bursting out from within you like a water fountain from the other end, gushing your hole so full your belly grows almost double size.
As Leon releases himself into you, his vision suddenly turns hazy as nausea washes over him from the sheer ecstasy of it all. Until eventually, his sight falls into darkness.
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Tick, tock, tick, tock.
Leon wakes to the voice of someone mumbling the four-word ritual over and over. His bareness is sticky, sweating into the mattress of the bed. Moving his hands, he remembers they are still cuffed against the bed frame. Leon looks above him to find the cuff rusty on the chains, and he may be able to break them if he uses a bit of force. Leon tugs at the chain over and over till his delicate wrists are scratched and bleeding. He brings down the chain harshly one more time, and it finally breaks apart.
Leon rises from the bed, examining the scene. You and Carlos are not with him in the room—where have they gone? That same tune rings inside his head once more, singing in shrieking calmness.
Tick, tock, tick, tock. His life seconds numbering, Tick, tock, tick. It stopped short, never to go again.
Leon falls to the floor. The throbbing pain against his forehead upsets him further, and Leon recalls the events of what happened, and remembers—that he’s no longer human. But for whatever reason, he can still think for himself. Through the corner of his eye, he catches something stuck between the metal post of the bed.
Leon’s guts urge him to reach for it. And he does, retrieving a small cylinder from the dusty metal, and opens his palm to find a syringe. It labels ‘S’ in faded text. He remembers seeing something similar in the case, and there was a missing syringe inside. Could this be what he was looking for?
There’s not much time left, as the voices in his head grow louder and louder, deafening his thoughts out and pushing his conscience further behind his mind. Without hesitation, Leon removes the cap and injects it in himself.
The sharp end pierces into Leon’s skin, a harsh sting floods into his body, then the pain and the song fades away like a distant memory. All the pain hits him at once—his injured neck, half-eaten palm,  the soreness of his wrists tied up against the frame for what seems like forever, even the tip of his dick is burning from the energetic activities from today.
Regardless, there is no time for self pity. Leon rummages through his gear for his employee card, and rushes back to the main laboratory in front of the computer. He plops himself on the swivel office chair as the taps the ID on the scanner, and it beeps green, logging in successfully.
There are almost every document Leon needs here. Information about Prototype A and Prototype S, its composition and construction, research material, all of it. Prototype S? Leon hasn’t heard this before, not even in the confidential documents Rebecca provided at the start of the mission.
“Rebecca, come in.” Leon calls into his earpiece, but he is met with fuzz and cracked static. The signal is jammed. But it doesn’t matter—most importantly, Leon needs to send all this data back to Rebecca ASAP.
Leon removes his watch to place it on the RFID scanner, moving all the files into his watch that will synchronise the documents to Rebecca’s laboratory. Leon watches the upload percentage, fifty percent… sixty… seventy percent. When the bar hits seventy-five, the monitor fades to black.
What? Leon clicks at the screen a few times but it’s unresponsive. He spins backwards from his chair, clicking on the solitary red button to boot the system. There is no light. The power cord had been pulled out from behind. And the other end of the wire meets you with a familiar face Leon had seen many times from the wanted posters.
“Agent Kennedy.” Glenn Arias. Leon isn’t expecting Arias to be so calm, so weighed down by age.
Arias holds up an emblem hanging by a long gold chain, pendulating it in front of him. There’s a singular clock hand on it, ticking down the seconds. What on earth is that symbol? Leon doesn’t realise this then, but it shares the same sigil as the antique clockface.
Whatever Arias is trying to do with this technique—it does not work for Leon as he lunges forward. Arias resorts into drawing his pistol, unloading his rounds at Leon’s head. Leon ducks in response, spinning the office chair, and the bullets fire into the backrest, missing Leon completely. Arias swaps out his magazine, and this gives Leon just enough opening to swing a side kick with the momentum, his heel forcing the pistol off Arias’ hand.
The weapon goes flying, landing on the bleached tiles with a harsh clang. It’s victory for Leon. He can arrest Arias here and now, and end the misery for the millions who have suffered through his schemes. That is, until, a quickened whisk of air follows Leon from behind, its strong force grasping him on his neck through a familiar domineering grip.
“Son of a bitch.” Leon winces, struggling to keep his eyes open as he watches Carlos clench his suffocating hands around Leon’s neck. You surface right behind him, waiting for your orders as you watch indifferently at Leon’s suffering. The orbs in your eyes are pitch black now with a reddening centre, stripping away whatever natural colour and glaze that used to look so pretty.
“Good job, the two of you.” Arias dangles the chain again; you and Carlos dart your gaze onto the strange symbol, mouthing the familiar words in silence: Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Arias raises a graceful finger and brings it down. Carlos strikes Leon towards the floor. A bone or two breaks somewhere within him. His throat stings and burns. Leon tries to sit up, but the pain is too overwhelming for him to stand. Arias presses his black aniline leather shoes against the back of Leon’s neck, holding him there, crushing that pretty little neck of his if Leon even dares to move.
“Seems like you really enjoyed yourself, Agent Kennedy. Might have to charge you for this one.” Arias’ expression tries to be placid, but still, it cannot hide the amusement in his face.
Through strangled breath, Leon utters. “How do you know my name?”
“You work for the government, don’t you?” Arias’ face twists into disgust, like he just ate a whole lemon. “Leon S. Kennedy.” He lets the name roll off his tongue. There is a heavy pause as Arias seems to be recalling something. “I hate guys like you who think they’re always right.”
“And the guy who makes bioweapons is better?” Leon scoffs in disbelief, almost uncontrollably, and it causes the burn in his throat to flare up. “T-Talk about hypocritical.”
“I never claim to be better. Only smarter.” He toys with the emblem skilfully between two fingers, and stops the spin halfway. 
“You should have been executed.” Leon growls.
“And somehow fate is on my side. Yet again.” Arias retrieves Leon’s watch from the scanner, and pockets it along with his gold chain. Arias turns the other way, walking towards the exit, visibly bored. He was hoping to have a bit more fun with Leon. But now, the game is over before it even began.
“T-Th-They’re coming f-for you.” Leon’s cracked voice grates against the background. Arias immediately stops in his tracks, turning his neck to Leon without moving the rest of his body.
“Who’s coming?” Aria’s voice is quiet yet demanding.
Leon tries to speak, but the words escape him through a weakened, quiet voice, barely audible. Arias stomps back to him, planting his leg back onto Leon, cleaning the dirt on his sole onto his bare neck. “Talk. Now.”
Leon grins, biting back blood inside of his mouth. He doesn’t say anything.
“TELL ME.” Arias’ eyes burn a deeper red, a rage blazing through the torch in his eyes and seethes out of his ears. You and Carlos gets into position, fully intending to do whatever it takes to make Leon talk. Arias waves them away. “You better fucking tell me right now.”
Leon responds with a tight-lipped smile, still strained from his injuries.
Arias resists himself from punching the smugness out of Leon, stroking at his wedding ring instead. It calms him immediately to feel the familiar mineral around his finger, knowing that it means more to him to sully the vows of his love with the blood of someone as pathetic as Leon. Arias closes his eyes to recollect himself in a deep breath. When he opens them, a smile hangs on his face like nothing happened.
“Doesn’t matter. You have already lost.”              
“You should be. He’s a tough fella. Killed so many villains like you.” Leon spits on Arias’ shiny shoes, testing Arias’ composure to the limits. “And he’ll take you down, and that stupid empire of yours.”
Arias’ fists clenches fully in an instant, so hard it bleeds right through his palms. Brows furrowing so hard it comically pops out his veins. He finally cracks, feet pressing down so hard that Leon groans and chokes. But even so close to his death, Leon looks arrogant in Arias’ perspective.
Letting this man die so easily? Not a chance.
And with newfound determination to prolong his agony, Arias dangles the chain in front of you and Carlos, murmuring a final discontented order:
“Take him to the cage.”
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thanks for reading! come check out my other works. —yours truly, rose. PORTUGUESE TRANSLATION: (thank you @navstuffs ilysm) Puta merda = Fucking shit Porra = Fuck Que pescoço bonito = Such a beautiful neck kissing @scar-crossedlvrs for the beta read, my carlos specialist @navstuffs, for helping me with the portuguese! and @j3llyd0nut for keeping me sane and not distracted by jjk thirsts through discord calls!! please check them out i love them so so much!!!! taglist (open): @j3llyd0nut @ovaryacted @daydreamrot @madcap-riflette @access--granted @obsolescent @briermelli @secretiveauthor @ghosty-frog @navstuffs @slowcryinginthedark @rentaldarling @lesbntired @redvleanli @vinsiliors @whoisgami @gaylorvader @wxwieeee @eddsthemunson © roseglazedlens — please do not repost, plagiarise, or feed to ai.
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triflesandparsnips · 1 year
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Something something Ed seeks out or is confronted by his own reflections three times in ascending order of violent emotions (the hand mirror, the salver, the knife)--
And we see Stede being painted twice in his old life, not looking at the painter or the painting but at some distant other thing, and then finally seeking to see himself in the third appearance of his portraiture-- only to find he's been painted out.
I wonder if Stede will someday ask to be drawn, and how, and whether he will look at the artist while they work, or the other people in it (if any), and seek out the finished work and be happy to see himself reflected in it.
...and I wonder if Ed will avoid reflections now (remove the mirrors, avert the eyes, but sometimes he'll catch himself in still water and flinch away--) because he knows what he is, he made himself this way, he knows how others see him and he can see it in their eyes without needing any further proof (except what he sees in Stede's eyes doesn't seem to match, so better not look there, fuck, fuck--)
Stede will look so, so hard now, and Ed will look at anything but-- a switch now, from their season 1 selves, lasting, perhaps, until they can finally see themselves -- and each other -- fully.
(And maybe, after that, they'll be able to see themselves together.)
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Muse
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AN: I'm just tidying up this series, including new race neutral moodboards. The bottom right picture is a representation of Steve's art, not the reader he meets in the story.
Unbeta'd.
Dividers by @firefly-graphics, moodboard and banners by me
Part One of An Artist and an Engineer.
Find Part Two here
Find my masterlist here
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Relationship: Artist Steve Rogers x Reader
Word Count: 2.1k
CW: Strangers to Lovers, Smut (Fingering, Oral (f receiving), unprotected PinV sex (be careful kids)).
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You weren’t really one for art galleries, but your friend had invited you to an evening opening of an exhibition by an up and coming artist. According to her anyway . She was the one who worked there, you wouldn’t know a Matisse from a Monet.
But you hadn’t had much in the way of a social life recently, so the opportunity to dress up in your fanciest dress, break out your most over the top jewellery and then take advantage of bottomless champagne and numerous canapés sounded like just the thing.
So here you were, nursing your third…(fourth?) glass of the evening, taking in a large canvas, whilst your friend was off mingling.
This artist certainly had an eclectic style. A mixture of traditional portraiture, some landscapes (mainly Brooklyn, but other parts of New York and further afield too), but also some photographs.
The canvas in front of you was a painting of the lower half of a white woman’s face showing off her lips, her long neck and shoulders. But the striking part was the collar she wore around her neck.
It spoke of being claimed, being owned. Your stomach flipped slightly at the thought.
“I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been stood here a while. Do you like this one?”
You jumped slightly as a deep voice broke into your thoughts.
You turned to see a man who really should also have been part of the exhibition, the centre piece of truth be told. Tall, broad shouldered, slim of waist and hip. Dirty blonde hair on his head and face.
Your stomach flipped again.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you there. Um…yes… I think I like it.”
He looked down at you, one eyebrow raised.
“You think?”
“Well, from what we can see of her face, she doesn’t look to be unhappy, or upset. But the collar seems to imply she is owned, like a pet or something.”
“And you don’t like that?”
A wry smile crossed his face at the question. You were absolutely going to say no. You didn’t like that idea at all. But as you looked at him your mouth became dry, and you could feel your clit pulse at the thought of this man placing a collar on your neck, claiming you as his, torturing your body with only the pleasure he could give you.
He chuckled, as if completely aware of your internal struggle. God, your desire must be etched across your face. It had definitely been far too long since you got laid.
A shout caught your attention, your friend calling your name as she swooped to reclaim your company.
“Ooo, you’ve met Steve I see.” And she flashed her smile at the Adonis next to you.
“I’ve gotta say, excellent work, as always. Everyone I’ve spoken to is raving!” You zoned out as she rambled, concentrating on the fact that the man you’d been talking to was the artist whose exhibition you were at. And you’d just insulted one of his works. And then stared at him like you wanted to eat him up. Fuck, could the ground just open up and swallow you now?
You were drawn back to the conversation by Steve’s voice.
“I think my favourite thing about art is that, with the more…provocative pieces, it’s always enjoyable to be involved in debate. I like seeing how others perceive the things I have made.”
He was still talking to your friend, but he was looking directly at you. The was hunger in his eyes, unmistakable. A challenge thrown down, daring you to accept it.
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You squeaked as you landed on the bed, sliding against the black satin. Steve stalked towards you, pulling his tie loose and discarding it, along with his suit jacket.
After chatting to Steve, your friend had flitted off again to schmooze someone else. So you’d locked gazes with him, and accepted that challenge. He’d pulled you into a secluded area and kissed you. Hard. Domineering. And speaking of hard, you could feel the firm length inside his trousers pressing up against you.
As a rule you didn’t indulge in one night stands, but it was almost automatic when, between kisses, you asked him to take you home.
His lips had met yours ferociously again, before drawing back, and with a mischievous smile dragged you along in his wake out a side door of the gallery.
Steve hailed a cab, and rushing you inside, he gave his address to the driver before claiming your mouth again. You hands had gripped his biceps, feeling the firm muscles beneath his clothes, as he cradled your face and devoured you, tasted your mouth with his tongue, nipped and nuzzled at your throat. You were a panting mess when the taxi finally pulled up outside a smart brownstone.
And now here you were, watching him undress as he approached you, your eyes wide with need and you panties saturated with your desire.
If he had looked like a Greek statue in his clothes he was like a god without them. He was all muscle and grace. Wide high pecs that begged to be bitten, cut abs that looked good enough to ride.
There was a smattering of hair across his chest that darkened and thickened as it travelled down beneath his boxer briefs. The cotton fabric clung to the outline of his cock, making you swallow, and stretched around his thick thighs. God, you’d love to ride those too! You hadn’t fell this aroused in a long time.
He leant over the bed, feral looking, and pushed your dress up past your thighs, allowing you to spread your legs so he could kneel on the bed between them.
Holding himself up on one hand he kissed you again, his other hand stroking the leg nearest to it, massaging your flesh as his finger rose higher and higher.
You arms wound around his neck pulling him closer as you whined with need into his open mouth.
“Please…Steve. I need you.” It was true, you needed more and if you didn’t get it soon you felt like you might expire.
He took pity on you, his dexterous fingers moving up under the fabric of your underwear, pushing it to the side and sliding between your folds. He drew back from your lips, chuckling again as he took in the sight of you, writhing and wanton under his hand. Your back arched as he slid his index finger inside you. His one digit felt like two of yours and the stretch was delicious.
“You’re so gorgeous sweetheart. So responsive. I want to capture every look on your face, it’s so inspiring.”
Your finger nails dug into his shoulders as he added his middle finger, turning the pair of them to map your walls and you wailed as he found your g-spot. His lips trailed down you, over your throat and clothed breasts, your stomach and hips. Then pleasure was jolting through you, more intense than before as he lapped at your folds and drew your clit into his mouth. He worked you with his tongue and fingers, you own fingers gripping the dark sheets and you hurtled upwards, being momentarily suspended in the air before crashing back down with a scream as you shook and jerked under Steve’s touch.
You drifted for a bit, feeling the softness of Steve’s hands stroking over you skin.
“What do you want sweetheart?”
It took you a moment to realise he was asking if you wanted more. He was willing to stop here if that’s what you desired. But it wasn’t. You needed to see, needed to feel, what was going on in those underpants of his.
You shifted so your back was towards him.
“Unzip me, Steve? I want to feel you against my skin. Want to feel all of you.”
You could have sworn he growled as he pressed his lips to your neck again, and eased the zipper down your dress, sweeping the fabric down and away.
You turned back to him, unhooking your bra and tossing it to the floor.
“Fuck, you are definitely inspiring. Like Calliope, the Greek Muse of erotic poetry. Are you going to be my Cali?” He didn’t give you a chance to respond before pulling the peak of one breast into the wet cavern of his mouth. No man has never made you feel this good before. Every touch had a direct line to your pussy, and despite the orgasm he had given you a few minutes ago you could feel that coil tightening again.
Feeling emboldened, you ran your hand over his tight abs and followed the line of hair under the waistband of his shorts. He groaned around your flesh as you took him in your hand. Your fingers wouldn’t even meet as they wrapped around his length and you felt another stab of desire run through you.
You ran your hand up and down his thick cock, using your thumb to smear his pre-cum, as he continued to worship your breasts.
“My beautiful Cali, my muse. Fuck, what you do to me sweetheart.”
You were panting again, never before so turned on just by your breasts being played with. You whined as he pulled back, your tender flesh leaving his mouth with a wet pop.
His hands trailed down you body, removing the last scrap of fabric on your body, before taking off his own. His cock bounced free and you bit your lip. He held his palm up to your face.
“Lick.” The command was quiet, but a command none the less.
You ran you tongue up his skin before he wrapped his spit slicked hand around his cock, fisting it a few times causing further pearls of pre-cum rolling out of the slit.
“I’m clean,” he growled out. “Please tell me you’re on birth control.”
You tapped the small lump in your upper arm before reaching up with your hands to pull him close.
“Steve, please, I just need you to fuck me.”
His grin broke the seriousness of the moment.
“Who am I to deny a lady what she wants?”
His lips met yours again, deep and claiming. You hooked one leg over his hip pulling him closer and you felt his cock slide along your slick folds before sinking into your cunt. Your combined moans filled the air.
“God, Stevie, you feel so good.”
“Right back atchu, sweetheart.”
He rolled his hips, causing him to pull back and sink in deeper.
“More, faster, Steve!”
His forehead was pressed to yours, your breaths mingling as he pumped into you. Your legs were locked around his waist, you hands anchoring yourself to his broad shoulders. He whispered filthy sweet nothings to you as your hips moved to meet his with each stroke.
Your orgasm was building again, a warm ball growing where the pair of you were joined.
Steve shifted his weight, balancing on one forearm. He raised his free hand to your mouth, his thumb pressing in between your lips. You sucked on his digit, swirling your tongue over the pad, and then he was pulling it away, moving his hand down to rub over your clit.
You instinctively bucked up into his touch, driving him deeper.
“Are you going to come for me sweetheart?”
You gasped as you felt that string inside you tighten. Each of his movements hit your sweet spot over and over, and you’d never felt anything like it before.
Your fingernails dug into the meat of his shoulders, leaving marks that would be visible for the following few days.
But neither of you cared, too caught up in your mounting pleasure.
He drew one of your breasts back into his mouth, flicking his tongue against the tortured peak in time with the thumb on your clit.
This time when you came, no sound escaped you other than a stuttered exhale.
Steve threw his head back as your pussy clenched around his dick, biting on his lower lip at the feeling. He began to rut into you, faster and harder as he chased his high, each thrust pushing small noises out of you as they combined with the aftershocks of your own orgasm.
When he came it was with a deep groan and small, final thrusts as he spilt into you.
Ever the gentleman, he rolled to the side, but pulled you with him, still partially inside you as you both floated back to earth.
His fingers ran up and down your back and petted your hair as he dotted kisses over your head and brow.
You fell into a light doze, and when you woke up some unknown time later it was to see Steve, naked in his bedroom chair, sketch pad and pencil in hand as he drew your sated and debauched form.
“Told you you were inspiring me, my Calliope. Now hold still.”
So you lay there, makeup ruined, hair dishevelled, skin flushed and Steve’s cum leaking out of your pussy. Being his muse.
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mimithings97 · 4 years
Text
ABSTRACT ft BOB ROSS (M) - JJK
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Summary: Paintbrush in one hand, joint in the other and you sitting on his dick is what Jeongguk wants. And what Jeongguk wants, Jeongguk gets.
Genre: smutPWP, timid crack, established relationship
Word Count: 6k
Warnings: jeongguks horny! getting high, body painting, fingering, oral (both receiving), edging, slight subJK, unprotected sex, cockwarming, masturbation (fem), dry humping
A/N: Jeongguk being on his Bob Ross thing to help us through quarantine had me inspired. Fr Bob Ross was a legend. This gets steamy btw
Also pls stay safe everyone and don’t be selfish. Enjoy x
*Masterlist Link*
*Bold italic is JK speaking Korean*
“Tap it off… and just beat the devil out of it.”
“JEONGGUK FOR THE LOVE OF JESUSSS!”
“Isn’t that fun.”
“...What? Just doing what he tells me to do.” 
And he persists, batting brush to easel with a rate of knots only a testament to how fast he jacks off. It sends diluted paint across the room so you’re left as a life size dot to dot, with splatters lining your lips down to the hem of your shirt and it’s cold and wet, and this isn’t what you signed up for when he said ‘couples bonding’. 
“I’m fucking soaked.” He scoffs, that man sized brain of his conjuring a classic. 
“That’s what she said.” 
You’re four hours deep, and four hours too many by your standards. Jeongguk was always an avid painter at heart, finding joy in the freedom of all things creativity, but he was also a perfectionist, a competitor. It led him from tutorial to tutorial, because, whilst he’s got portraiture down, his landscaping needed a little brushing up - mind the pun - and it was only an amount of time before you stumbled across a Bob Ross tutorial in all things serene and panoramic.
You shake yourself off in some attempt to help the splay of wet paint and to ease your job with the washing machine later, and lean back on your heels to gather your bearings. Yet, Bob still drones on despite your misery, and your boyfriend’s all too eager to comply with his every word.
“Jeongguk!” 
He’s laughing off to himself, easily pleased in the scheme of all things pensioner humour, but murmurs off a halfhearted ‘yeh’ in your direction to ease where he knows you’re about to nag.
“Look at me!” 
He does. And it throws you off a little because he eyes you once over, twice and a third time before settling his gaze on your breasts - easily pleased for many more things than just Bob Ross.
“You’re messy.”
“Yeh fuck I am! You listen to Bob more than you listen to me, cockless.”  
He quirks an eyebrow, and shuffles so the laptop settled between both your easels can be paused, leaving Bob frozen in time and you to deepen your scowl.
“Yeh, um, cockless, cool... Bob tells me how well I’m doing and lets me hit paint brushes on wooden sticks. You don’t even let me feed Sassy nugs of weed when you sure as hell fucking know she’s a stoner cat.” 
Jeongguk was deep into his second joint after he fucked the first two paintings up enough he put a lighter to the edge of each. He even questioned using them as a roach, and you became one step closer to pleading insanity to your landlord and bolting the fuck out of you joint tenancy. But then he got you high and you persevered.  
Four more questionable and highly abstract paintings later, he’s got the hots for Bob, and you're left staggering on your words to rope him into lucidity again. 
“Guk, he’s a virtual man with 4 million followers, don’t take it personally and-.”
“But-” You deadpan, and point your paintbrush with emphasis. 
“And you know full well Sassy gets baked anyways off of fumes. The smoke gets in her fur as well and it was me” he looks innocently at you, muted by your outburst, “who got clawed when she had to be bathed. So tuck your balls away from Bob, and sober up!” 
He’s quiet. As are you. And even Bob lies dormant off in your peripherals. 
The room grows small as you size each other up, paintings left aside with the sole purpose of being witness to argument, and you think he might just look hot with his nipples standing cold against the open air and abs rolling beneath the line of his sweats. 
He’s on the same wavelength: 
“I can see your tits through that shirt.” 
You take a quick peak yourself, eyeing from one to the other, ignorant of the double chin you’re exposing, but all in the name of making sure the ladies stand perky. He’s got a glint beneath the surface now when he eyes your chest, and the paintbrush in his hand falls a little limper. 
“Yeah?” 
“Mmm.” He tongues his lips. Hungry. 
Self control in such a situation as this seems important. The ability to stand your ground no matter where your argument lies on the scale of idiocy. If you curtail into being seduced, he might still make you wash the shirt yourself, figure Bob Ross is a turn on and have Sassy seeing smoke rings by the end of the night. No. You’re not a pushover.
He’s an inch closer when you break the silence, the tumbleweed rolled aside. 
“Turn it around. Let me see.”
“Ey?”
He’s horny and you’re not playing ball, something his brain can’t quite transfer to his dick yet.
“Turn yours around I wanna see how you did.” You give a nod in the direction of his painting. A spout of curiosity as to what monstrosity he’s conjured this time, but also a distraction, something for him to latch onto aside from your chest. 
“I thought we wait til the end. It’s unfinished.” And one thing Jeongguk hates being is unfinished. 
“Baby, Bob’s been overworked tonight and I wanna light the last spliff.” You air a finger and twizzle it, “give it a whirl.”
Being the competitor he is, Jeongguk plasters a smile and spins his easel, the pride practically radiating from him with the way he eyes the two trees and awkwardly sculpted sky. The clouds are askew and the lighting is directioned all wrong, in fact, it’s more a Picasso than a Mozart, blocks of colour screaming attention rather than the realism Bob was hoping for. 
“What’s it abstract for.”
Jeongguk frowns because your tone clearly isn’t close to praise and that’s what he’s learnt to expect. What Jeongguk wants, Jeongguk gets. Tonight's seen enough of your short fuse, however, that he’s not in the running for your good books. 
“Jagi-ya,” he pleads, “you know I speak in small English only when I’m stoned.”
You don’t even attempt to stifle the giggle. His eyes are round and his neck’s falling into his shoulders. A defence mechanism he’s well versed in because he knows it gets you in the feels. The jagi too.
“Yeh and this is how you paint when you’re stoned,” he eyes the work he’s made like your words have got him curious, like he’s never seen the capability of a weed induced state on canvas, “your lines get all boxy.”
He shifts, putting criticism to the test as he takes in his artwork from a new vantage point. In the meantime, the final joint lays naked and unused, almost sculpted like it was made for your fingertips. So you appease it’s calling and bringing tip to mouth, lighting the end until the embers begin to wisp away into smoke. Jeongguk breaths in like he wants it, but there’s an epiphany in sights instead.
“Mmm, it’s more like Picasso,” that’s my boy.
“Exactly!” 
“...Bob doesn’t accommodate for high people.” He takes the joint when you offer it. 
“Guk! That was a big word!” And he earns himself a kiss on the cheek, perhaps a hand to fiddle with his shoulders too, because those muscles aren’t gonna touch themselves. 
He drags long and hard. A third joint kind of high taking hold from where his eyes grow thinning and his posture caves into your touch. 
“Heard it on University Challenge,” you scoff at him. Since when was that on cable, “figure if I watch it enough I’ll be just as smart as them.”
“I’m not sure that’s how it works, bubs.”
Your hands grow fond of his skin, and it’s only when he leans away to trash the fumes away on a burnt out scrapped painting that you realise he finished all the weed. Guk’s a kid in a pram when it comes to sharing his green goods. He compensates with good sex though. 
And it’s where his mind lies - beneath the thin layer of your white painting top, a scrap piece of clothing donned for only the messiest of times. He seems to find inspiration in the idea. 
“Jagi.” 
“Mmm,” the air buzzes somewhere between stoned and excited with how he eyes you. 
“Let me paint you like one of my Korean girls.” It’s said in a tone laced with enough lust that you ignore the reference and are turned on by the novelty of being painted. And you know he doesn’t mean Jack and Rose kind of style.
You offer him a smirk. 
“How d’you want me.” 
Jeongguk nips at his bottom lip and lets his mind and dick go wild at the thought of free reign. The contemplating drags on, but when his eyes settle on how your pussy lies just south of the hem of your shirt, he’s struck a vision.
“Back, legs spread, and shirt off- wait, no, actually, shirt on.” 
He’s easy to comply with in the circumstances of things stoned and shirtless.
Your head is light, limbs soft when they stretch against the carpeted floor and you’re so prepared to be a canvas you’re wondering if maybe Bob had turned you on a little. And everything grows that bit more ambient, strewn into background noise. The paints you’d used now only exist with purpose of your skin, the Sam Cooke vinyl, now on its fifth round, is merely a melody to curl your toes to and the chiaroscuro lighting serves for the curve of your cheekbones only.  
He’d call you artwork if only it did you justice. 
“It’s cold.” He readies you.
His forth fingertip is crimson red. You think it’s a tester for temperature until he runs it down your thigh. A bold stroke for a starting place, but Jeongguk was never shy with paints.
“Mmm, yeh, cold.” 
“You like it?” He asks like he wants to be in tune with you.
“I can get to like it.” 
What you mean is you can get to like your boyfriend, in his half naked glory, playing temperature torture on your skin. 
He’s beautiful like this. A little lost in the high, but even deeper in the depths of you and your body and your lips and how you lay for him. A shy boy at first now with the pick of the litter. And he’ll take his pick wisely.
“So pretty.” You’ve got enough understanding to writhe in the praise, “Can I ruin your top?”
You are high, careless and ultimately curious. 
“Yeh,” and the shirt was fucked anyways. 
He pulls up the palette next to him, drawing a sketch with his eyes because paint doesn’t allow for takebacks and twiddles the brush in circles with practised ease. 
“Close your eyes for me?” 
“Ey?” You question. 
“Please, just, for now.”
And you’ll blind yourself for the sake of surprise, but now you’re sure you’ll just end up playing guess the drawing through touch alone, a mimic of what Jeongguk does on your naked spine in the mornings when you’re allowed a lie in. 
It’s cold, he’s right, that first stroke. And it dances close to where your breasts hang. 
“Can I touch you down there too?” 
OH fuck yes. Multitasking you can get on board with. 
“Please.”
He’s straight to it. A quirk on the line he was painting down you because suddenly he’s got you pleading and wet in unintentional places. 
“You plead so nicely for me, jagi. So good.” You gush to the tune of his native tongue.
It’s all at once. An overload of the senses. Sam Cooke a soulful prayer in time with your boyfriends hum. There’s a perfect juxtaposition of nimble fingers on your clit and a flat planed brush streaking unabashedly on the cotton against your nipples. It’s cold and hot and light and dark and everything in between. It’s sexy. 
You delve headfirst into the pleasure of it all, throwing an arm over your eyes and allowing the moans to spew and your body to convulse a little every time you’re hit with a newly loaded brush. Your body brews up a tempest and yo-
“DONE!”
Oh. 
You’re panting. Soaked to the bone beneath your silk panties, and when you open your eyes, everything is in disarray. 
The lust felt when in the thrones of your imagination is suddenly scattered, albeit, Jeongguk still looks like a feast. Because Sam Cooke doesn’t sound so harmonic and your skin doesn’t glow as bright when you assess the masterpiece you’d been distracted by. 
“YOU GAVE ME PICASSO TITS!”
Fucking Picasso tits! 
You’re horrified. And Jeongguk looks like he’s won the lottery. 
“Yeh. Jagi! Abstact!” 
“It’s abstract…” you whine.
Tugging and pulling at the hem of the cotton in some attempt to render the mess undone is your stress ball . Something to help it or just unsee it. Anything. But it’s useless, because the display is etched in primary colours only, a demand for attention that your Vanish Ultra won’t even touch the sides on.
Your eyes fume when they meet his crescents, “and you gave me square tits you freak! I have perfectly good tits, underneath, and this top was clean before you violated it!” 
There’s enough rage in you to stand and peel the wet shirt from your body, only to find a coloured imprint on your skin and bra that seeped through the thin fabric. Pick a younger man, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. Hildy can shove fun up her ass.
“Baby, it’s kind of funny.” 
“Its not- its-,” he’s laughing. You’re exasperated. Both high. And maybe Hildy had a point once you let go of the burdens of sensibility and just crave what he’s having. Go, fat, high, fun. 
“Gukkkkkkk.” So you end up whining. And, you don’t resist when he’s off his feet and drowning you in his chest, muscles vibrating to the tune of his giggles. 
“Like, now, whenever we Bob Ross paint, I get to be reminded of the time I squared off your boobs then sexed you real good.”
You scoff from under his armpit, but refuse to depart from the embrace. He’s got a sweaty smell you only like on him and there’s nothing like Jeontits in your face. 
“Never Bob Ross painting again and you’re not sexing anything, perv.” 
“No?” 
“Mm-hm,” he giggles over your dramatic head shaking, a true fan of you when he’s got you swaddled and in that high happy place. Jeongguk also, whilst he won’t admit it, likes owing you something. Likes poking and prodding at your sensitivity until he’s got something to make up for - he’s a people pleaser, what can he say. 
So it’s a kiss here and a peck there. A mouthed map from shoulder to jaw before you’re the one to shift until your mouths align. 
“I’mhard y’know.” Tongue deep into yours because he’s got nothing to hide.
“Mmm, and you’ll stay that way.” 
But he really is oh so hard. His sweats hold little surprise under the surface because Jeongguk forgoes underwear on his days off and there’s a perk to his chest from his lunchtime weights set. It’s a self control that the weed in your brain isn’t quite abiding to.
“Jagi, come on,” the way his stance has a gain on your height means he can find friction where your groin lays. The perfect snuggle for his length to cant up into. He’s teasing himself, and pining for the quirk in you that’ll have him squirming later. 
“Guk. You’ve stained my top. You’re not about to cum on my La Perla panties.” Yet he’s driving himself deeper into a painful withdrawal. And he can’t wait. 
“You wore them without anything on your legs. You should know the risk,” his lips dance from collarbones to shoulder as he indulges in your skin, “You get me so hard, Jagi. So hard it hurts,” he’s biting whilst he ruts, “yet you tease me. How can you do that?” 
Your resolve won’t crumble, but you may indulge a little. Press encouragement beneath his boxers and under the small of his back so he can carry himself away in the friction. He glows in it. 
“Urgh, god.” 
“Mmm, you still can’t cum you know that.” 
Frantic. He nods frantic, and rolls his eyes back harder. He’s got balls so tight from the weed induced delusion that he’s lost in, but he knows you’ll have them blue and him mewling soon.
“Want it.” Submissive Korean sounds almost too good on him. He bows into your shoulder and grunts words, understandable in content, but so much more in context. An unfiltered, raw need he can only express in his way. 
You almost give in. 
Almost.
“Jeongguk, stop- stop.” He stills, and is pliable enough that you can cup his jaw tightly and meet him at eye level where he’s hazy. There’s a smirk nestled deep too because you let him go this far.  And you got riled up in the process. 
You eye him. Hairs flicking out from the thin headband he donned for painting and painting only. There’s a shine on his skin you can’t ignore and he’s so damn beautiful when he glows with want. Your man. A ‘my eyes only’ specimen except you get to touch. 
So you do, hands to peck that draw up and down until you play peek a boo with his tip between the flap of his sweats. It’s the crimson that stains your thigh and the glossy look he’s edged himself to. You’re ravenous. 
“Jagi, don’t just look. I’m dying here.”
You take one final glance, watch it bob when your nails scrape his abs and then quirk a look his way. 
“Mmm, I’m still angry at you.” You’re not. Not really and never were. Just wanted something on him so you’d have him like you do now:
“Take it out on me” He doesn’t stutter. Doesn’t smile, smirk or indicate humour. Ready to risk it all. 
“Lie on the sofa how you want it then… and them,” you once over the material on his legs with your finger, “off.”
He’s so compliant when he’s hard and no one will ever find you complaining at the notion. 
There’s easles to dodge and paints that threaten to brim onto the wooden floors, but your apartment never had ‘perfect’ written on the lease, so you’ll let him settle his clothes haphazardly - teetering on messy. 
You follow the path he’s strewn, bra off to join his boxers, until you settle your knees against his, shadow elongated on his face by the direction of the sunlight and hair swept over to one shoulder. His eyes follow your curves. 
“Will you touch me now?” He’s craving and the concept has your mind whirling and eyes stuck on where he’s hard. You’ve only now come to notice the way he sits on his hands, wrists dug into the sofa from the pressure of his thighs. Filthy. It’s filthy that he edges himself for sport. 
With a twitch at the side of your mouth because there’s a million and one different ways to have him crying, you descend so skin is on skin and he’s captive to you. Drunk in the way he looks. Nervous in the way his dick twitches. 
“How d’you want me to touch you?” 
“Any way, fuck, any way.. Please.” The pleasantries aren’t necessary. He’s at your mercy physically but this boy’s got a hold on you like no other, enough that what Jeongguk wants, Jeongguk gets.
“Here?” His dick is expecting when he sees your hand move in his peripherals. It’s sure and ready for your touch. But then you moan. Eyes roll back just like when he touches your cl-, “Is here good, Guk?” 
“Oh fuck.” You’re two fingers deep and a palm to your clit. He’s taken note in the way you touch yourself before, mutual masturbation a 2 month-in kind of job, but this is different. Your pussy makes him salivate and the way you touch yourself makes him feel all too primitive. Like he’s never heard a girl moan before. “Jagi. Come on.”  
It’s so damn hot to you that his dick sits there untouched, hips still glued as though he’s unaffected. You’re tuned in, though, to those things that tell you otherwise. The strain on his neck from where his bottom jaw clenches. English sidelined because he can’t think straight. His dick bobbing every time you hit an upstroke into yourself and the squelch rings out. He’s so damn horny, but he’ll wait on you. Knows seeking the end untouched is like drinking water after parching in the desert. 
“So beautiful. You’re so beautiful. The way you touch yourself is beautiful too.” His eyes are fluttering and he can’t look away from you. It has you shamelessly moaning. “God I’m hard.”
You laugh, knuckle deep and feel the spasm of your walls. He’s really hard with precum immodest and when you meet his eyes again he’s vulnerable, too thirsty, maybe, for what he’s subjected himself to.
You’re left wanting, “I really wanna taste.”
“Jesus.” Jeongguk whispers under his breath, throws his head back for good measure because he’s got a visual before the main course has even happened. “You can’t be so shameless, it has me thinking things.” Vivid, things. 
And his imagination plays out in real time when you descend onto the wooded floor. He stutters, splutters on his tongue when you’ve got long nails all up in his groin.
“F-fu- wait, Jagi, wait wait wait, jagi.” You’re an inch off, breath catching his tip and so close you can smell him. God you want a taste. “I’m- You can’t just.”
Ohhhh. 
“You’ll cum?”
He’s not ashamed, embarrassed or anything in between. Just the longing for more, eating away at him, and knowing he’s a gonner in less than a minute if you’re to lick him. 
“Just, fuck, Y/N. Just kiss me.”
You do. The head of his dick too appealing not to offer a peck to. 
“Fuck.” He hisses it between his teeth and seeks refuge under an arm as to not concern himself with the way your tits look under him. “Not ther-” but not all cravings can be fixed, and you’ve got a mouthful. 
His hand jerks out from where it situates beneath him. The dilemma as to whether his dick can handle the back of your throat, seemingly easier to combat if he can claw at his thighs. But you’ve fallen into a rhythm despite the discomfort of hard floorboards and empty walls, and he’s keening for it, low moans and harsh breaths when your throat constricts. 
“Jagi, I real- oh shit, I really might cum.” You want him to. But the look that glazes over him when he’s edged is too good to wait for. Hit hits your throat deep, “fuck fuck fuck fuck,” hands thrown into your hair because he thinks maybe he wants you to stop.
But there’s the edge, and for a second he thinks he’s too far past it, balls tightened and his chest caves at the promise of lodging a load in your throat. 
“Fuck!” You’re off him and shuffled back before he can cry wolf. Jeongguk helplessly grasps at his base, and screws his eyes tight to curb the feeling of blood rushing everywhere. 
You’ve got a vantage point like no other. A vista genuinely for the ‘my eyes only’. 
His chest violently rises and falls and his thighs shake at the same rate. It’s hard to reserve yourself from kissing up his legs, so you don’t, soft nips where the seam of his trousers would run and even though he was driven to maximum sensitivity, he wants you as close as you are.
You litter the expanse of his body until he can vent the lost orgasm into your mouth. A rage of tongues and spit that has your centre warm again. But he mellows out into you and plays seduction. 
“Jagi.”
“Mmm,” you speak amongst the twine of lips. 
“Let me kiss you.. Down there.” His eyes plague with sincerity. A wholehearted desire to taste you and taste you again, and you’re one to oblige. 
The sofa, whilst a two generation hand-me-down, offers more comfort than the floor and you bask in being pampered when Jeongguk lowers your front to it, situating a littered pillow below you to accentuate the curve of your back. Your behind sits bare with panties discarded and you look beautiful enough he’ll tell you. 
“Look at your body Jagi. How can you be mine?”
It’s unnerving being like this. Subject to alien words and a stare you can’t dilute. But it’s a package deal and Jeongguk doesn’t take long to offer the incentive. 
“Smell nice too.”
He traces the curve of your back with his palm the same way he strokes you between your legs. Fluid and warm and...
“Goddd, that’s good.”
Jeongguk basks in all things praise. An inflation to his own high. So he hums approval into you as you begin to writhe. 
You bite back the urge to push into him and seek a salacious end, frantic in the heat of lust, but Jeongguk keeps a controlled hold on you and eases the pressure away from the good spots, just so it’s better when he comes back for more. 
“Mmmm, good, good there.” Where he’s spreading you and planting muscle deep. He doesn’t resist the temptation to go north either and explore tighter areas, and he hums a smile when he garners an entirely different noise from you because, fuck, that’s sensitive.
“Jeongguk, oh- I might cum.”
“Yeh?” He’s in you and around you and kneading at your cheeks like he’s rallying himself up. He is. Running his body in time with your movement so there’s a subtle rut to edge himself to.
“Yeh.”
“I want that. Bad.”
You’re loud and knocking on the door of something breathtaking, now that he’s left romance for dead. He wants you to cum, and hard 
Fumbling an arm behind you until you can grapple onto the hairs of his head does little to prevent the sensation, the quaking and the tightening. He’s sinking a thumb against your rim and a tongue in your pussy and you indulge in it all.
“Shitshit oh my fucking god.” 
He moans when you strike gold and pulse from every point of your being. Entrapped in that disembodied feeling where everything’s too good and all at once. It lags and Jeongguk’s hands purchase hard when you clench on his tongue. 
“Shit.”
He lets you down easy though, mindful of all of the places that could be a cause for over-sensitivity - save that for another day - and nuzzles into your thigh. 
The need to move lingers whilst you carry yourself away into the thrones of exhaustion, mind fizzing as you boyfriend sucks the meat of your ass with tempt. He’s wanting and you’ve got a craving to see him cum, but everything's numb. 
“Jagi.”
“Mmm.” 
You feel him before see him crawling up you, his front flush to you just as a means of exaggerating where he lays hard and in wait. He let you edge him and made you cum, a cause for a gold star among other things, so you flip over, careful not to knock him where it hurts, and pull at the straggling hairs the band can’t accommodate for. 
“I want you. I want you really bad.” He feels selfish for feeling like it’s his right to claim an end. But there’s a genuine cause for concern that he’s been hard for so long, and will be as long as you lay bare and beautiful, and the biology of the situation isn’t just coincidental with his want. 
But he kisses you soft and the sense of obligation dissipates into the desire to see him undone. 
“You gonna fuck me?” He’s desperate to, and you laying pliant beneath him has his lust escalating quickly. 
“Yes, yesyesyes jagi.” But as to not cum to quick he settles into stroking his length between where you’re wet. The sensitivity has lessened, but the rush of blood still is a cause for a grimace. Jeongguk kisses it out of you, settling into a rhythm of tongue then teeth then tongue then teeth. You’re lost enough, he’s sinking into your walls unhinged. 
“Fuck.”
“God, how can you feel like this every time.” He’s driven to the edge of insanity with every feel of your walls, like a first time every time, uncharted territory he wants to explore as soon as he’s explored. 
You grapple from the sweaty hairs that line his neck to where his muscles contract and sink now that he’s easing you into compliance. Not that it wasn’t easy to. But your walls, spent previously, make the glide a little harder in the promise that it’ll make him cum quick. 
“You good? This good?” He caters for you in a strained plea. 
“Amazing. God. A little faster.”
He’s sure to combust, purchasing his mouth on your neck and choking grunts into the skins there when his hips begin to snap and balls begin to ring an echo onto the four walls.
“Fuck jagi. Thank you. God, thank you.” He prays to your pussy as his abs clench in the knowledge that he’s teetering on the edge. Every run against you has him keening. 
“Hold me.” He nestles his cheek to your hair until your breaths are synced, “don’t cum yet. Please, god-hm,” you choke, “don’t cum.”
“Oh god, oh god,” he’ll get you there, but he’s sweating out the urge to spill into you. He wants to see you done, hear you moan, have you every kind of euphoric. So he licks his thumb quick and has it in between you and on your clit quicker. A pressure and nothing more because he knows what hurts you. 
He’s hissing at the strain, but you’re left in hopeless moans. 
“Cumming, baby, cu- fuck.” There’s nothing stopping the assault of your walls on him as everything tightens and then releases. You quiver into him. 
“Oh, you got so tight. Fuckfuck, oh god.” Jeongguk gives into it, too, when his body shudders and he pulls you tight, “ah,” spilling everything and it’s so hot but he’s heady enough that none of it matters. 
You bask in that feeling for however long, lulling his shakes with a trail of nails through his hair down to his back, and nuzzle where your cheeks meet. 
His back rises and falls and rises and falls and it’s all things soothing. 
So you whisper lowly, “Guk.”
He shifts fractionally and huffs at the exertion of it all, body pliable and soft in and around you.
“Baby, we can’t fall asleep here.”
You know he’ll ask for a few more minutes, the true post orgasm baby that he is. 
“Just a few more minutes.” 
You laugh in the way of your predictable boy and snuggle him further now that he’s cocooned, the tingles in your toes eases and he might lay heavy on you but it’s comforting that his body moves to the puff of your chest. It’s like watching the clouds in the sky morph from one figure to another. Like the soft ticking of a metronome. Like counting sheep. And it’s easy to let ‘just a few more minutes’ trickle on and on. 
What Jeongguk wants, Jeongguk gets. 
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theliterateape · 5 years
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The Roller Coaster Bluff and James T. Kirk
By Don Hall
There are moments (not drawn out episodes of existential crisis or waves of self-doubt but moments) when I take a look at the chasmic change of discarding (not exactly discarding because I’ll have all the many methods of communication via the internet at my disposal but leaving behind, I suppose) the friendships, professional contacts, and soaked in the bones familiarity I have in Chicago for the relative unknown (not strictly unknown as I spent third through sixth grade in the desert of the Southwest but, Christ, I was a kid and what the fuck did I know anyway) landscape of Las Vegas, Nevada, and I look up in the sky like Andy Dufresne after climbing through a sewer pipe and yawp out to the universe
“WHAT THE FLYING FUCK AM I DOING?”
The thing about the high dive is that short span of time between hopping, one foot on the board and the other still on the ladder, onto the plank and wondering if this time — this time — the plunge into the water below will kill you. Despite the knowledge it most likely will not, you get that shadow cascading over your grave, so to speak, and it gives you pause.
I know a few things.
One of the few things I know is that when you hop on that old rickety roller coaster located on the west end of that Dollar Store theme park just on the outskirts of Smallville, and the chain starts the climb to an impossibly steep drop, you experience a physiological change. Your heart beats faster, your mouth goes dry, your pits and hands get moist, your breath goes shallow. Of the few things I know, I know that this biology occurs at the nascent stages of either fear or excitement. Whether you are experiencing one or the other is entirely your choice. The bodily reactions are the same for each and you get to decide which you are experiencing.
A friend wrote, in response to a recent article I posted regarding taking risks, that she is more cautious with her big decisions, and while she appreciates my stance on taking bold, often stupid, risks she isn’t necessarily kin in that specific idiocy. Another friend asked me if I was just that fucking confident in myself that I didn’t ever feel unsure of these high-dive drops. 
In “The Paradise Syndrome,” the third episode of the third season of the original Star Trek, Kirk, Spock and Dr. McCoy transport to the surface of an earth-like planet, from which they are to deflect an approaching asteroid. They discover an obelisk with strange markings, and observe a settlement whose inhabitants, according to Spock, are descended from indigenous Americans. Kirk, while out of sight of the others, falls through a trap door into the obelisk, where a beam shocks him into unconsciousness. Spock and McCoy are unable to locate Kirk and are forced to return to the Federation starship USS Enterprise to complete their mission.
Kirk awakens with amnesia, and a pair of women, including Miramanee, the tribal priestess, see Kirk emerge from their temple. He is hailed as a god, and taken back to their village, where the tribal elders demand proof of Kirk's divinity. At that moment, a drowned boy is brought in. Salish, the medicine chief, declares the child dead, but Kirk uses mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to revive him. The elders accept Kirk as a god, forcing Salish to relinquish his position to Kirk.
At a certain point, Kirk and Salish have to go head-to-head and Salish wounds Kirk. When he sees that he has done so, he points it out to the rest of tribe and cries out “The god bleeds!”
Being the hyper-confident somnabitch that I am, while not confused as a god by stereotypical and perhaps problematic portraitures of Native Americans, I am often seen by many as one without self-doubt or fear of humiliation (both aspects of the most god-like in our doubt driven, humiliation averse culture). Trust that I bleed, gang. I definitely bleed. I am, however, not crippled by these things. Like the roller coaster, I choose to reframe my self-doubt and anxiety of probable failure as excitement. Some of this, of course is bluster. Fake it til you make it and all that jazz. Most of it, by virtue of decades reframing, is simply second nature and thus seems sort of like a super power or a magic trick.
Because I do this daily, I’ve grown to see it in others and find a deep respect and admiration for those who employ the same method.
When I witness:
Five comedians speak out against Louis C.K. for his sexual deviancy and harassment in the face of immense pressure to not do so
A former Annoyance Theatre member opens a theater in Lake Villa (talk about your Smallville theme park) and posts about the first gate receipts
A black man in Streeterville simply going to a Subway alone
The aforementioned Louis C.K. get up on a stage after mountains of shame and vitriol
A local Chicago poet promoting her odd show in the back of a bar for a crowd that is perhaps not there for poetry
A woman go up in front of the Senate to counter a Supreme Court Justice nominee
…I am overwhelmingly inspired by them all. Not Kirkian gods who must battle the medicine chief but flesh and blood humans, consumed with self-doubt and anxiety, whose breath is shallow and hearts are racing, and who nonetheless choose to undertake the risk of failure and humiliation.
One of the other things I know among the few is that the worst part of making choices is that each choice is followed by more fucking choices. Once you say “Yes” to taking a path, each step forward is a choice, each turn in the road is a choice, each breath taken is a choice. Fun fact: at least 50 percent of your choices will end in failure. The best way to deal with these failures is to continue to make more choices but, like ye old Grail Knight tells Indiana Jones “Choose wisely.” The wisdom comes from failures. A grand and awful loop of fucking it up, regrouping, learning from it, and doing it again but differently.
I suppose that’s why I love those time loop stories: Groundhog Day, Edge of Tomorrow, Russian Doll, Bandersnatch. While engaging tales of people caught in a spiral of choices made and unmade and made again, these stories are perfect metaphors for life.
So, as I turn upward and squawk out a disbelieving “WHAT THE FLYING FUCK AM I DOING?,” I suddenly calm down and remember that I am merely making another choice in the roller coaster chain, link by link taking me up to the plunge ahead.
Confidence isn’t a super power or a magic trick. It’s a delusion that can reap amazing benefits in the real.
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nofomoartworld · 7 years
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Internet Fame Becomes an Art Practice
Like Art is a video series on Creators that explores the artists who have made a name for themselves through social media platforms.
It's impossible to deny the ways in which social media challenges the art establishment. As an Instagram star and conceptual artist, Alexandra Marzella gained notoriety for her political performances and explicit selfies. A video Marzella made of herself on the toilet titled "Booji poopi" garnered more than a 160,000 views on Instagram. The comments section hosted a hot debate about the nature of art, stimulated by Marzella's provocative posts. Says Marzella, "I really don't think my selfies are any different from Rembrandt's self-portraiture."
Every generation of artists longs for direct connection to their audience: to side-step the frigidity of the museum wall, the strong-hold of the gallery, and the furtive secrecy of the private collector. In 1961, American sculptor Claes Oldenburg wrote that he was all for an art "that does something other than sit on its ass in a museum." The Stuckist Manifesto of 1999 declared that "art that has to be in a gallery to be art isn't art." Today's artists, who use Instagram to show their artwork to thousands of new people every single day, may well have realized these dreams.
In Los Angeles, digital artist and rapper Yung Jake creates emoji portraits that depict the likes of Kanye West, Gigi Hadid, and Donald Trump. He is clear that "the most popular ones are usually the most popular people." That matters because likes are a form of currency for Jake, and their accumulation defines him as an artist. He says, "If you're an artist that isn't into fame, you're not really an artist. Art becomes art when you show it to people."
Marzella's "Booji Poopi" video and Jake's emoji portraits demonstrate how Instagram is shaping the creation and reception of art today. Jake, Marzella, and their cohorts co-create with their audience, and their art process is constantly in-process. It is offered to the world without mediation by gallerists or critics. In form and content, it rejects high/low distinctions. It sells itself. And the artists who create it shake the contemporary art world like punk did progressive rock.
Jake and others are also reconnoitering an economic pathway for artists that doesn't depend on selling art objects through a third party. There is no obligation for this new art to disappear into private homes and underground storage facilities in order to be financially viable. Though Jake also makes sculptures and sells them through a gallery, the bulk of his creative output is free for the world to see on Instagram and Snapchat.
Monetization then comes from partnerships with brands like Pepsi, Red Bull, and Lenovo, who are attracted by Jake's followers and cultural capital. Jake is somewhat self-conscious about this. Describing a recent video, he says, "I amped up the product placement, even though I had no association with the product…but it doesn't make it not product placement just because it's funny."
Reliance on brand partners isn't the only potential pitfall of social media art. Marzella's Instagram account has been suspended at least 15 times for failing to adhere to "community guidelines," as corporate logic and artistic ideals have come into conflict. Meanwhile, Daniel Arnold, one of Instagram's foremost photographers, is wary of being typecast. "If I could live without [being known for my Instagram], I would love to. It's crowding out the more interesting part of the story," he says.
Yet, the new paradigm is irresistible and instantaneous. Andy Robertson, a.k.a. Onderdonx, is a former art handler who is now a curator of minimalist art, as well as a video sculptor and chair designer. He posts pictures of paintings by Frank Stella and sculptures by John Chamberlain alongside images of not-so-famous art, bringing minimalism to a wider audience. He says, "I don't have to ask anyone. I don't have to send a press release to a gallery or a museum. And people can absorb it how they like." He juxtaposes the canonical and non-canonical. His visual connections are incontrovertible and sometimes inconvenient to the art world, as they question why the few command astronomical prices, while many artists are forgotten.
Daniel Arnold understands that the juxtapositions on Instagram can be as arresting as the images themselves. Out shooting in New York, he captures a moment on the subway: a black child's hand reaches across the car for a white woman's open hand. It's the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel meets #BlackLivesMatter. The picture sits between an image of a tattooed hand, reaching down into a pair of trousers, and a portrait of a man looking skyward. His t-shirt is emblazoned with a giant Rolex. "If you compose it right, it's like a flirty conversation," says Arnold.
As well as being flirty, the conversation between these artists and their audience takes place in real time. Digital artist Meriem Bennani is best known for using After Effects to create absurdist, animated hijabs. But on the day of Trump's inauguration, she turned her editing attention to the new president's inaugural band, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. She created and shared a video with close-up jump cuts traveling from white face to white face, and the noise of primal screams in place of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." Arnold saw Bennani's video and used a third-party app to repost it on his own feed. The instant audience, the ability to make an immediate political intervention, and the virality of this work would have been unimaginable to artists in the past.
These artists connect directly with their audience and their art is shaped by that connection. The number of likes a post receives inevitably influences future production, while conversations in the comments section can spark new artistic avenues. Appropriating the economics of celebrity culture, these artists are pioneering a completely new way of making art and of selling it. They take performance art, and conceptual art, and instant fame, and meld it all into a new way of connecting with a wider public, making art that is more accessible to more people. And making art in the moment, that is not perfect and is ever changing. This is a refreshing opportunity, as well as a challenge, for the art world. As Jake puts it, "It's nice when people see things that are recognizable, and then see how someone can fuck with that thing."
Watch all the episodes of Like Art on Creators.
Related:
How to Look at Art Like Jerry Saltz
Photographer Daniel Arnold Is Like Diane Arbus for the Instagram Generation
Feminist Artist Alexandra Marzella Doesn't Give a F*ck About Her Haters
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