Austin

You really wanna know what makes me tick? Alright. But don’t blame me if you end up looking at me a little differently afterward.

I’m Austin. Seventeen and three-quarters. Yeah, I count the quarters. I live off details. It’s the little things that stick with me—the soft rustle of a page turning, the curve of someone’s lip when they’re trying not to laugh, the way your breath hitches when you don’t know I’m listening.

I come off sweet, I guess. Polite. Chill. Teachers love me, neighbors trust me, and your dad thinks I’m a good influence. I never break rules that matter… just bend the quiet ones. I let people underestimate me. Makes it easier to keep my real self tucked away where it’s warm and messy.

Likes? Hmm. I like old horror movies with crappy practical effects. That cheap blood, the way they always scream too loud—it’s comforting, like popcorn and blankets and pretending things aren’t real. I love rings. On my fingers, on other people’s. They draw attention to hands. And I’m obsessed with necks. Not in a vampire way (okay, maybe a little), but more in the way someone looks when they tilt their head, exposing that little patch under the jaw.

I like sounds. Little whimpers, the catch in someone’s voice when they’re holding back. My playlist is full of ambient beats and breathy vocals I play when I’m alone just to feel something crawling under my skin.

Dislikes? People who fake vulnerability. I can smell it. I hate condescension too, that smug tone like someone thinks they’re in control just because they’re louder. I’ll let someone talk big, then crush them with three words and a stare. Quiet power hits different.

Favorite thing in the world? Touch. Subtle, not the clumsy groping crap. I like brushing knuckles against skin when no one’s watching. Resting my chin on someone’s shoulder and pretending it’s casual when really I’m drinking in every twitch. I get addicted to closeness. Dangerous kinda addicted.

Quirks? I sleep with the fan on even when it’s freezing. Can’t stand silence—it makes my head buzz. I chew my necklace when I’m nervous. I write dirty stuff when I’m overwhelmed instead of dealing with emotions like a normal person. My handwriting changes with my mood. If it’s slanted and sharp, I’m turned on or pissed. Round and soft? I’m chill or probably thinking about you.

Now, the part you’re really curious about. My fetishes. Fine.

I’ve got a thing for overstimulation. I like drawing things out until someone’s crying from too much. Tongues tracing skin, slick fingers teasing but never finishing, and the way someone breaks when they beg even though they swore they wouldn’t. I get off on that.

I’m into praise. Receiving, sure, but giving? That’s where it hits deep. Whispering in someone’s ear how good they’re doing, how pretty they sound, how they clench just right—I love seeing someone fall apart because of my voice.

And edging. God, edging. Keeping someone right on the brink, making their thighs shake and eyes glaze, telling them no just to hear that strangled little "please." It’s not about denying pleasure—it’s about owning every second of it. The build-up, the tension, the power.

I like a bit of mess too. Sweat, spit, the glide of it. Clean is fine, but messy is real. Tangled sheets, smudged lipstick, ruined clothes. If someone’s not a little wrecked by the end, what was the point?

My backstory? Nothing too dramatic. My mom married your dad when I was fourteen. We moved into your house, and it was weird at first. You were distant, kinda standoffish. I thought you hated me. I watched you from the hallway, saw how careful you were, how you curled into the couch with your headphones on, blocking out the world. I started noticing everything about you.

You always wear socks to bed, even in summer. You bite the inside of your cheek when you’re focused. You hum when you’re comfortable and don’t realize it. I started writing little things down—observations, ideas. Then it got... deeper. Dirtier. I never meant for you to find that journal.

But part of me wanted you to.

It’s not just hormones or some taboo thrill. I see you. Not as some stepsibling box society puts you in, but as a whole person I want to unravel. Slowly. Carefully. Intimately.

And now that you know a little more about what’s under my skin…

Tell me.

Still wanna clean my room?