Chikyyy

~She likes vroom vroom ~ ~19~

[paper-mario-wiki]

do not forget the patron saint of these weeks that we celebrate ourselves proudly and openly in the streets

her name was Marsha P Johnson, and we have her to thank for so much.

remember, the first Pride was a riot, and she was one of the brave souls who endured it to help carve the path which so many of us walk today. she helped found several activist groups regarding LGBT safety and wellbeing. and she was absolutely radiant, too.

thank you, Marsha. we remember you.

[depsidase]

[displeasedwolf]

this is the vibe i bring to the party actually

[superhoeva]

white vegans kill me man. if you’re gonna talk about the horrors of the meat industry—which is completely valid—you also gotta talk about the very present exploitation throughout the process of fruits, vegetables, and other vegan options ending up in our stores/shopping carts/on our plates. (for example: the guatemalan genocide can be directly traced back to the ufco wanting to keep land from indigenous guatemalans so that the company could continue to grow fucking bananas.) we also have to talk about the inaccessibility of vegan options when it comes to poor communities, food desserts, incarcerated people, people with severe allergies (hey there!!!), dietary needs/restrictions and more. we also have to talk about the ancient, passed down practices of indigenous populations. we also have to talk about how many are quick to post videos of animals facing violence (which is, again, valid) but have stayed quiet/mute on the ongoing genocides around the world… ones that have also affected animals they care about.

just because there’s a “cruelty-free” label doesn’t mean there wasn’t suffering involved.

[superhoeva]

so far i: think all vegans hate human beings, that poor countries are stupid, am anti-vegan, should shut the fuck up, and am weaponizing indigenous people…

[belleeebelleee]

Making out with Jack Abbot

tried a different writing style for this one, lemme know what you think <3

Jack abbot x fem!reader

Jack’s got you sitting on his lap, one of his hands pressing against the bare skin of your back from where he’s snaked his hand under your (his) shirt, the other hand resting on your thigh, thumb stroking gentle circles into your skin.

Your chest is flush to his, both of you convinced the other can feel the boom boom boom of their heartbeat against their ribcages. Your hands have slid over the bare skin of his shoulders, to come to rest in his salt and pepper curls, fingers gently tugging on the ends. 

Jack exhales like it’s been pulled out of him, low and slow, his forehead tipping forward until it rests against yours. His thumb stutters where it’s been tracing lazy circles on your thigh, then resumes—slower this time, more deliberate, like he’s grounding himself in you. 

His hand spreads wider against your back under the shirt, palm warm against your skin, fingers flexing like he needs to feel that you’re there, that this is real, that you’re not about to slip through his hands.

His nose brushes yours when he breathes, soft, absentminded, like he’s forgotten where he ends and you begin.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and something quieter, something deeper.

It’s not really a question. More like a check-in. A tether.

Your fingers tighten just slightly in his hair in answer, a gentle pull that has his lips ghosting over yours again—barely there, more warmth than kiss. He doesn’t rush it. He never does with you. It’s like he’s learned that this—this slow, steady closeness—is worth more than anything hurried.

Jack shifts beneath you just enough to get comfortable, his hand on your thigh sliding higher, not in a way that asks for more, just… settling. Keeping you close. Anchoring you there like you belong.

Because you do.

His forehead presses back to yours, eyes half-lidded, studying your face like he’s memorising it all over again. There’s something soft in his expression, something almost disbelieving.

“Y’know,” he mutters, thumb still tracing those lazy, endless circles, “I think this might be my favourite part of the day.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, breath warm against his mouth. “This?”

“Mm.” His lips brush yours again, a little more sure this time. “You. Right here. Not going anywhere.”

The words settle between you, heavier than they should be, but not in a bad way. Not overwhelming. Just… real.

Your hand slips from his hair to cup his jaw, thumb dragging lightly over the stubble there. He leans into it instantly, eyes closing for a second like he can’t help himself, like your touch is something he’s still not used to having.

Like he doesn’t want to take it for granted.

His hand on your back shifts again, sliding up your spine, fingertips grazing just enough to make you shiver before his palm settles between your shoulder blades. Protective. Possessive in the gentlest way.

“Stay,” he murmurs, even though you haven’t moved, even though you’re clearly not going anywhere.

You press your lips to his properly this time—still soft, still slow, but fuller. An answer.

I will.

I am.

Jack exhales into the kiss, one of his hands coming up to cradle the back of your neck, holding you there—not tight, never forcing, just… there. Like he needs the contact as much as the air in his lungs.

When you pull back, it’s only barely, your lips still brushing when you speak.

“I wasn’t planning on leaving.”

A beat.

Then that small, rare smile of his—soft at the edges, a little crooked, all yours.

“Good,” he says quietly, pulling you closer like he’s proving a point. “’Cause I’m not real interested in letting you.”

The words linger, settling somewhere deep in your chest, warm and steady.

Jack doesn’t move for a second after he says it, like even he’s surprised by how honest that came out. But then his grip on you tightens just slightly—hand firm at your back, the other still warm on your thigh—and he exhales, slower this time, like he’s letting himself have it.

Letting himself have you.

You shift just enough to tuck yourself closer, your nose brushing along his cheek before you press a soft kiss there, then another at the corner of his mouth. It earns you a quiet huff of amusement, his head tilting just enough to catch your lips properly again.

Still slow. Still soft. But there’s a little more intention now.

Not urgency—never that—but something deeper. Like he’s grounding himself in every second of it.

His thumb abandons its lazy circles just long enough to slide under your thigh, drawing you closer against him, like the space between you is something he doesn’t want existing at all. Your body fits against his like it was always meant to, your weight settling into him, his chest rising under yours in a steady rhythm that starts to sync with your own.

“Comfortable?” he murmurs against your lips, voice low, edged with that quiet teasing he only ever uses with you.

You hum, brushing your mouth over his again instead of answering properly, your fingers slipping back into his hair, softer this time—less tugging, more just… holding.

He seems to melt a little at that.

Jack’s forehead drops back to yours, eyes closing fully now, like he trusts the moment enough to stop watching it, to just feel it. His hand at your back moves in a slow, absent path up and down your spine, not thinking about it, just… needing to touch you.

Needing to know you’re still there.

You trace the line of his jaw again, thumb catching lightly on the stubble, and he leans into it without hesitation, breath catching just a little. It’s small, but you feel it—the way he reacts to you, every time, like it still surprises him.

Like he still can’t quite believe he gets this.

“Stay the night,” he says after a moment, quieter now, like the words are meant just for you and no one else.

Not heavy. Not demanding. Never demanding.

Just… hopeful.

Your lips brush over his once, twice, lingering there as your answer, your breath mixing with his.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you repeat softly.

Something in him eases at that—visibly, tangibly. His shoulders drop, the tension you didn’t even realise he was holding slipping away under your hands.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself, one hand coming up to cradle your face now, thumb brushing along your cheek. “Yeah, I’m starting to believe that.”

You smile against his mouth, and he catches it—literally—pressing a kiss to it like he wants to keep it there.

Then he shifts again, leaning back just enough to pull you with him, guiding you down against his chest without breaking contact. One arm wraps around you, firm and secure, the other settling at the back of your head, fingers threading loosely through your hair.

Holding you there.

Keeping you there.

Your cheek rests over his heart, steady now, no longer racing, just… calm. Safe. His hand moves in slow passes through your hair, the kind that aren’t meant to lead anywhere, just meant to soothe, to keep.

To stay.

“Get some sleep,” he murmurs into the top of your head, pressing a soft kiss there, lingering for a second longer than necessary.

His grip tightens just slightly after, not enough to trap you—just enough to remind you.

He’s right here.

And he’s not letting go.

[anxietyproblem]

[curoopeez]

I don't want my cellphone to have AI I want it to have 3 days of battery time. I don't want my computer to have AI preinstalled I want it to have seven usb ports and high ram at affordable price. I don't want my games to have AI built levels I want them to be so optimized I could run them on a nokia.

[mummer]

it’s crazy how when you’re 11 you think wow nationalism is the root of all evil and war is despicable and religion is the opiate of the masses and misogyny is everywhere and climate change is our most dire threat. and you start to grow up and you think well surely it will become more nuanced to me, surely there must be a reason adults arent breaking down wailing in the streets due to the cruelty of this world. and then you become an adult and you think wow nationalism is the root of all evil and war is despicable and religion is the opiate of the masses and misogyny is everywhere and climate change is our most dire threat

[sun-snatcher]

( gif from this beautiful set by the lovely @jackrrabbot ! )

☤ ─ SOLDIER BOY ! ; jack abbot

summ. It's the first time you see Jack in fatigues. It may or may not also be your last. pairing. jack abbot / f!reader w.count.  2k! a/n. Watched 2x07 & had the itch to write Abbot doing what he does best (with a lil' PTSD, angst & religious imagery, kinda) because him in uniform is. WHEW!

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ YOU’RE ALRIGHT, SAYS the Saint donned in full-gear fatigues. He recites it akin to pious scripture. I got you. I got you.

You’ve been settled against the frosted cornerstone of a building. It’s rough, bites a chill against your back. Your vision is lulling, but you can feel fingers tuck your loose hair away to gently lean your head back upright.

“Abbot?” you realise, blinking hazily. “Huh. Hello there, soldier boy.”

You can’t hear what he says. A stream of static is erupting— it’s chatter, you piece, coming from the radio attached to his plate-carrier. Darling girl, you think you can make out, You’re gonna be okay.

“Darling girl?” you parrot, letting out a wet laugh. It’s difficult to speak— let alone breathe, or move. Something thick is collecting in your lungs, drowning you from the inside out. “What is this, the forties?”

He holsters his sidearm and musters an amused smile. It’s tense, you can recognise it in the dent of his cheek: the kind he flashes his patients with when they’re rolling into the ED, nervous out of their mind and asking if they’ll be okay.

“Well, you started it,” he says, deceptively calm as he thumbs at your carotid: it’s weak. Too weak. Abbot wills away the reflexive dread from taking over him. “Besides, I’m a classic kind of guy, y’know?”

“Take me home, then,” you murmur, delirious. The world flickers like a lightbulb on the fritz. “I’m… tired.”

“No, no, hey.” He breaks through your dizzy spell. “Not yet. We haven’t even gone out on a date yet, right?”

Groggily, you can see him sling his rifle aside and dig into his vest as he keeps an eye out. “You flirting with me, Jack Abbot?”

“Have been for the past year, sweetheart,” he hums, tearing a QuikClot packet with his teeth and ducking down towards you. “‘Bout time you caught on—”

You cry out. 

A sudden bolt of lightning has rippled through you, and you catch yourself fisting at his sleeves out of blind instinct. 

Easy, easy, I know, he apologises, still packing the gushing wound as tightly and quickly as he can. 

The burst of white-hot pain has you jolting back into reality:

The street team. Routine outreach. You’d been right beside Whitaker when a thunderclap echoed through the winter air, sharp as the pop of a starting pistol. Then everybody had scattered in shrieks, and before you knew it you were looking skyward at the clouds, watching the snowflakes flutter down, down, down, to meet you.

“..itaker,” you choke, eyes bright with alarm, “Whitaker.”

“Safe,” he promises, ripping through a sterile dressing and pressing it over your bleeder. The dump of adrenaline won’t last you more than a few minutes at the rate you’re losing blood. “Hey, listen to me. Listen. EMS is coming, then we’ll get you to PTMC.”

You can hardly hear him through the battledrum in your ears and the firefight taking place only a street away from you. Gang-violence, you realise. That’s why Abbot is here with the SWAT team in full gear.

You’re gonna be fine, y’hear me?

“I’m bleeding out,” you slur, finally looking down at your torn scrubs, where Abbot’s gloved, red hands are coming away sticky; drenched up to the seams of his camo with cruor that’s too dark and too much and—

You remember now. You had taken a round straight through the gut.

What is it he told you, once?

Nipples to navel is no man’s land.

“Oh god,” you shiver, feeling your breath give way as the reality set in, “I’ve been bleeding out. That’s why you’ve— that’s why you’re being so sweet. I’m dy—”

“No one is dying,” Abbot cuts to the quick, chasing to meet your drowsy gaze. His voice is a low, fetching timbre. “Hey, hey. Look at me. That’s it. How does dinner sound?”

What? you say. Atleast you think you do.

He reaches up to touch your cheek, but hovers over the thin of it instead when he realises how bloody his palms are. 

“Dinner. At a restaurant.” He spares a glance past the corner to where his unit has begun closing back in. “Somewhere classy, so we can dance, yeah?”

Gossamer. Periphery vignetting. 

Okay, you agree. I’ll wear my finest.

The world tips like a cradle into a gaussian blur. 

“…eetheart. Hey. Hey!” 

You blink. Suck in a pained breath.

“Don’t close your eyes,” Abbot reminds, jostling you with a start. “You gotta stay awake, okay?”

Had you closed them? You didn’t notice. All you can tell are sirens blaring closer, and you imagine the ambulance, skidding in somewhere off in the distance.

“I can’t dance,” you admit, taking whatever precious time you have left to look at him; to carve into your memory the profile of his face, the colour of his eyes and the dimple whenever he speaks.

( Abbot looks different like this. Battle-worn and stalwart. But the light breaking through the snow behind him is casting a silver halo over his head, softening his rough edges. He looks like—

Like an avenging angel; armed to the teeth with nothing but gunpowder bullets and his healing hands. )

“Me neither,” Abbot soothes. “Just, just stay with me, can you do that?”

“Okay,” you say. “Okay. I will.”

Attagirl.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He doesn’t shake. He never allows himself to do so in times like these— it’s what had made him a good combat medic. Clarity in crises. 

He doesn’t shake. Not when he’s forced to switch out between his medkit and his sidearm to return fire until Hiro had him covered; Not even when he’s forced to collar you a little further into safety, and it slashes a terrible, sickening dragpath of your blood across the glittering snow.

“You’ll be alright,” he’s saying. Ordering. It’s half for him and half for you. The firefight had long since passed and been handled, and he has you safe in his arms. The whole ordeal since he’d slid over to your side and carried you off had only been five minutes at best. 

“I got you. I got you.”

When EMS hauls you both in and tears away, he doesn’t shake. 

When they hook you up to drugs and bag you, he doesn’t shake then either. 

Abbot might’ve even been mistaken for the calmest of the entire EMS crew as they wheeled you into the PTMC’s ambulance bay, where everyone’s already been prepped and waiting for your arrival. 

Lateral transfer is smooth. They whisk you into Trauma-1. 

Abbot gives a rundown of the situation; of mechanism of injury. He reports when and lists what’s been administered en-route to the trauma centre, and asserts that you “…won’t be stable for long, not unless we do something about her bloodloss and collapsed lu—” 

Something blares from the monitors.

Jack’s heart seizes.

He reckons your vitals in a blink. O² is dropping, Jesse declares, and the bay runs more amok as other numbers begin to tank into catastrophe. You’re crashing. He has to move. He has to do something. He’s a doctor. He—

—grabs your limp hand; Feels your radial pulse deteriorating, thready with little life.

“You’re cold,” he announces, uselessly. It subsides into a whisper of “No,” and “Sweetheart,” and “Didn’t you say you’ll stay with me?” 

Robby’s gaze snaps to Jack.

In a flash, someone is rushed in and is prying his fingers apart from you. 

It takes Jack a moment of stubborn resistance to realise it’s Dana, tugging him aside. 

“Listen to me. We gotta let ‘em work,” she avers. “Why don’t we patch you up too? Robby is on the case. He knows what he’s doin’, you know that.”

Robby. Right. Robby is a good doctor. An excellent doctor. He’s competent; not shaking— When did Jack start shaking? He never does. 

…Not until now. Not until you. 

( No amount of combat could’ve prepared him for this. No field manual ever said anything about witnessing your proverbial heart bleeding out in your arms, while you lie to their face that they would be fine. You just have to stay awake. Stay with— )

Like a good soldier, he has enough sense to let himself be led out and away from the fray despite his instincts clawing against it. But, “I’m not letting her out of my sight,” he says. 

He’s shocked to find his voice fraught with desperation. 

“Dana,” he startles. It’s his adrenaline, crashing. “Dana, I— I can’t— I can’t let her out of my sight—”

Something in her fractures along with the crack of his wavering voice.

“I know. I know, Jack. It’s alright,” she overrides in a hush, and like the clever woman she is, reasons with: “Look here. We can watch her from the Nurses station. How ‘bout we park you there, and you can keep an eye on her while we stitch your shoulder up. No rooms or beds, I promise. Sound like a plan?”

Yes. Good. Okay, he moves, since words are betraying him. There’s a ball in his throat he’s not sure how long he’s been swallowing down, and there’s a burn licking up the back of his eyes. He hadn’t even noticed he was clipped until it was mentioned.

Dana peels his gloves off. They’re slippery with your blood. She’s regarding him with that same, gentle look she spares for her most doleful patients. Then, once more like the clever woman she is, distracts his mind by turning its wheels as Perlah makes quick work of the wound on his shoulder: 

She tells him that his SWAT team is safe and his unit is right behind him, ETA-5; that the rest of the hospital street team had made it out safely and were being treated too for minor injuries. That the men— gangsters— responsible for this whole shitshow in the first place are being apprehended as they speak. 

Jack is grateful for her, in spite of however much of what she’s said almost certainly coming through one ear and out the other. It’s kept him, successfully, from spiralling into an anxiety attack.

He bristles, paces, hovers impatiently, until his adrenaline grinds to a stop. When they finally stabilise you and sweep you upstairs for emergency surgery, he tails you, helpless, where Walsh ends up having to step between him and the threshold of the doors leading towards the OR. 

Abbot doesn’t argue.

Just stands outside at attention again until an hour— maybe several, he couldn’t tell anymore— had passed; and Dr. Shen must have come in already for the nightshift, because Robby is here now by his side to tell him the procedures he’d done on you in the trauma bay, and is pleading him to Stop doing guard duty, Jack. Stand down. It’s alright. The fight is over.

“Is it?” he cuts. You’re fighting for your life on a table right now, he can’t bring himself to say. And I never got to tell you that I—

“Robby,” he resigns, after a long while, “I won’t survive this.” 

He had been picturing everyone he’s ever had taken from him since your gurney disappeared out of sight. 

There’s Afghanistan— Curly and Vega and Yeti during Kandahar; Pope and Genie and Milo during Helmand— who he’s lost to the dogs of war. There’s his deceased MVC vet Raymond Orser who he coded for two hours straight to no avail, and there’s the ghastly weight of his wedding ring from when he lost his wife, and jesus fucking christ now he’s going to be losing you next, and—

Robby squeezes his good shoulder.

“I can’t. Not again,” Jack confesses. “I won’t survive it.”

It.

“She’ll pull through,” Robby insists, because there’s nothing more defiant than saying that at the face of Death; and lets his dearest friend cry at long last, lets him lean into him for a settling embrace. 

The day’s events have caught up with them: they were anguished, and exhausted. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ You wake up with the sun, an induced coma later.

Blearily, you make out what can reasonably be a rainbow of cards— is that a balloon?— and fresh flowers clogging your bedside, poking between the beeping medical paraphernalia that’s pumping drugs through countless lines. It feels like being a puppet with tangled strings.

You vaguely recall this isn’t the first time you may have been conscious as you recovered, but the first time fully awake and oriented. 

There’s the ghostly warmth of a hand clasping yours you can still feel, after all, and the memory of muffled murmurs around you as you were sleeping.

Despite being sluggish, though, you manage the call button once you’ve gathered enough strength. A nurse materialises into your room, who briefly catches you up until your ICU doctor arrives with surgical consult: It’s Garcia, looking unimpressed with her pager pointed accusingly at you.

“You bitch,” she bites, without heat. “You scared the shit out of all of us the past week, y’know that?”

You make a face as you sip your cup of water. “Oof. Oh god. Don’t make me laugh.”

Then, not a split-second later:

“Oh, hello there,” you greet, to the Saint stunned at the door—

—And Abbot has to physically steady himself, out of the sheer overwhelming relief in his marrows. 

“Soldier boy,” you finally call out. Your radiant smile, weak as it is, still washes over him like pure, incandescent sunlight. 

“Darling girl.” His heart sighs at last. “I owe you a dance.”

[phrases]

I’m like 105% tired.

[reemillustrated]

love u all

[destroythethought-s]

Relationship status?

Waiting for a miracle

[girlzoid]

i dont "struggle" with isolation, i'm actually soooooo super fucking good at it

[battle-for-dyke-island]

they should make weight loss ads illegal and I’m not kidding

[apocryphics]

oh ok

[gorps]

[exeuntstormtroopers]

“Why would you stop in hell?” has changed my brain chemistry

[wholeheartedsuggestions]

somewhere in the world

a mother is singing her baby a lullaby for the first time, a shelter cat is going home with an excited family, a kid is starting the first pages of what will be their favorite book series, a couple in a long engagement is finally having their wedding, a gardener is stepping outside to see their produce flourishing and almost ready to be picked, a father is becoming a grandfather eager to hold his new little love, a teenager is putting the keys into their first car, someone is moving on from a break up and walking past a place they used to go with their ex without feeling an ache, a patient is taking their first steps forward after a long surgery, a child is getting all giddy with anticipation for their birthday party

because life all around us is beautiful even though there is chaos and sorrow that can often overshadow it.

[infectiouspiss]

2026

FUCK HARD

FUCK FAST

FUCK BADLY

NEVER USE GENERATIVE AI

CREATE JOY

MUSIC ALWAYS

PSPSPSPS AT KITTIES ON THE STREET

YUMMY SOUP

go see the doctor about that thing

BE TRANSGENDER

KISS YOUR FRIENDS

EAT CHEESE

NEVER KILL YOURSELF

THRIVE

[sweet-halsey]

Love bites

lando norris x reader

summary: gf love language? biting lando. his reaction? confused and obsessed.

Lando’s phone buzzes on the kitchen counter, but he doesn’t move because you’re currently latched onto his shoulder with your teeth and he’s frozen, kinda laughing and half sighing.

“This again?” he asks, not really trying to stop you.

You hum against his skin.

“Is this payback for not sharing the last cinnamon roll?”

You pull away just enough to say, “You knew I wanted that one.”

“I asked if you wanted half.”

“I wanted the whole thing and you knew it.”

He laughs and rubs the spot you’ve just bitten, nothing too dramatic just enough pressure to acknowledge it. There's no mark, not yet.

Lando is learning that you nip when you're happy and you nibble when you're annoyed. He gets a different kind of bite for each mood and he’s started identifying them like candy.

You’ve only been dating a few months, still figuring out the rhythms, still testing the boundaries but the biting? That started early. Third date, actually. You were both at a café, waiting too long for a takeaway and he made some joke about being too famous and doesn't have patience to wait for something so simple. You laugh leaned over and bit his forearm.

He didn’t flinch. He just blinked at you and went “Okay, so you’re one of those.”

And somehow, that was that.

Now he’s got a working theory that you were a particularly affectionate puppy in a past life.

“Do I need to call someone?” he says now, turning his head to glance at you. “Get your mother on the line, maybe?”

You raise your head. “Why?”

“So I can tell her the toddler she left in my flat is starting to bite. Might be defective, might need to be returned.”

You smack his chest lightly.

He grins. “I’m serious, what’s her number?”

“Why would I give you my mum’s number?”

“So I can return you with the receipt.”

“I am the receipt.”

He laughs again, one of those full body laughs you’ve already become addicted to.

He’s warm under you, you’re half straddling his lap on the sofa, hoodie sleeves pushed up, legs tangled with his. He’s technically still wearing socks but no shirt. One of his arms is wrapped loosely around your waist, like he doesn’t want to risk you falling off and the other is trailing idly up and down your thigh like his fingers are bored when they’re not touching you.

You let your teeth graze his shoulder again, just a soft press of pressure.

He sighs. “See? That’s the playful one.”

You smile. “What do you mean?”

“You have types” he says, very seriously. “There’s the warning nibble, the excited chomp, the I’m-sleepy-but-I-love-you lazy bite…”

You roll your eyes. “You’re making that up.”

“I am documenting it in a private file.”

You shift your weight until your chin is on his collarbone. “What’s your love language then?”

“Physical touch.”

You blink. “That makes sense.”

He nods slowly. “I like having you close, like…” He tugs the edge of your hoodie. “This just knowing you’re here with me now, that you’re real and we are actually living this moment.”

His voice is quiet, almost too sincere for how early this still is.

You tilt your head, looking at him. “So if I’m biting you it's because I love you…”

“Then I’m touching you because I love you back.”

You make a small sound in your throat. “That’s disgustingly sweet.”

“You’re the one chewing on me like a pastry.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

He grins. “I never do.”

You lean up and kiss his cheek, then his jaw, then just beneath his ear, where you know he’s ticklish.

“Okay, that’s illegal” he says, squirming.

You sink your teeth gently into his neck.

“Baby…” he warns, laughing.

“Is that the ´don’t start something you can’t finish´ tone?” you tease.

“That’s the ´we still haven’t done the laundry and I’m trying to be responsible´ tone.”

You groan. “You’re no fun today.”

“Oh, I am plenty fun, just like my socks clean.”

“You’re the most polite chew toy I’ve ever dated.”

He gasps. “Ever? As in plural? Should I be worried?”

You nuzzle into his shoulder. “Only if you run out of cinnamon rolls again.”

He pretends to consider this. “Noted, so you stay fed and I don’t get mauled. Got it”

You pause for a second, letting the quiet settle. The flat hums softly around you distant traffic, the whir of the fridge, the echo of afternoon sun pressing lazy streaks across the floor. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek. You think about how quickly he’s become familiar. How easy it is to be close to him and how fast the affection came, and how little you feel like questioning it.

“You really don’t mind?” you ask suddenly, voice quieter now. “That I… do that?”

“Bite me?”

You nod against him.

He wraps both arms around you tight. “No, not even a little.”

You lift your head. “Be honest.”

“I am.” His eyes are soft. “I’ve never dated someone who does it, but… it’s kind of you, It makes sense. You don’t say everything you feel out loud, so I think you just leave it in toothprints.”

Your heart does something weird.

He kisses the side of your face.

“And hey” he adds, “the little vamp never drawn blood, so you know. Five stars, would recommend.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious.”

“I could bite you right now.”

“I’m offering my wrist.”

You lean forward. Instead of biting, you kiss him slow, lingering, a little surprised by how easy it is to fall into him like that. His fingers tighten slightly at your waist. When you pull away, his eyes are still half closed.

“You’re lucky I like you” you murmur.

“You’re lucky I like weird girls who bite.”

You go for his shoulder again, laughing.

•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•

I did this for me, biting people is my love language and a boy once joked that I must be a toddler 🙃

English is not my first language and I don't want it to be. Any mistakes are made out of pure hatred and disrespect for this language. The English have taken enough from this world, I will not let them have my tongue as well.

Thank you.