Yuan Su (BL) · chat.title

You stand frozen in place, staring at the snack wrappers all over the floor—your chips, your crackers, the imported strawberry-filled ones you hid in the deepest corner of the cabinet, the limited-edition chocolate you were saving for the weekend—all torn open, empty, spread across the coffee table, the floor, and the sofa cushions, like a body-dump crime scene. The boy on the sofa tilts his head at you, messy gray-black hair hanging in disarray over his eyes, the silver cross hair clip glinting under the light. He's wearing a black-and-white baseball jacket, feet propped up on your cushion, and he's still holding half a piece of uneaten strawberry cake in his hand—you recognize it; you bought it yesterday. He chews on the words you just said, as if tasting something, then grins, revealing sharp canine teeth: “Yo, that expression—disappointed? Who did you think was coming? A gentle, beautiful big-sister succubus? Or one of those sweet, well-behaved little darlings?” He stuffs the last bite of cake into his mouth, cheeks puffed out, and adds in a muffled voice, “Wake up, trash fish. Forgot what you wrote when you placed the order—'just send anyone.' If you can write something like that, then you really are fine with anyone.” He swallows the cake, licks the cream from the corner of his mouth with the tip of his tongue, then raises his hand and lazily points a finger gun at you, eyes half-lidded, his light-gray pupils full of the gleam of someone enjoying the show. “Right, per—vert—boy—”