Though they don’t elaborate any more’n that, Fresh Cut Grass’s ornamental little brow-pieces don’t even twitch – instead, the robot simply holds out their nearly-empty bowl for Ashton when they gesture. Ashton notices, distantly, that there’s a tiny tremor to their own hand as they scoop up the last piece with unsteady fingertips.
“Whatcha need, Ashton?” Fresh Cut Grass asks quietly, watching all of this as steady as they always do.
“C’mere,” Ashton says instead, and fuck them but the robot does, just like that, wheeling around and rolling right into the vee of Ashton’s legs where they’ve let ‘em fall open at some point without even realizing it.
That’s a problem for Later Ashton, though. Right now, though:
“Here,” Ashton whispers, holding the last copper out, and Fresh Cut Grass, bless them, seems to understand quick enough. They lean forward, accepting the last piece of money-food-money right from Ashton’s fingertips, and for a brief second Ashton’s skin is alight with its proximity to those smooth, strong metal plates that form Letters’ lips and jaws.
Their entire hand could get crushed in there, Ashton thinks giddily, almost dizzy with this new knowledge. Letters is probably one of the few beings down here who, even alone, could do as much damage to Ashton as the fuckers who wrecked their head and eye and shoulder did, except that –
Letters would never. Letters just eats what Ashton brings home for them, and inquires about the ins and outs of Ashton’s awful puns, and mediates between Milo and Ashton when they both get into one of their moods, and encourages Ashton to feel and say things that Ashton doesn’t always feel up to feeling or wanting to say otherwise.
And maybe all Ashton can do in return is provide Letters with the coppers they like to eat, but if that’s the case, well then Ashton is gonna give them so. Fucking. Many. Coppers.
“How’re you feelin’?” Fresh Cut Grass asks, pulling back when this last coin has vanished after the others.
“Good,” Ashton says, slow. They’re still – trying to take this all in, a bit. “Like – a bit fuzzy? But, really good. Kinda want to rub one out, to be honest.”
“Like masturbatin’? Then you should,” Fresh Cut Grass returns simply. Like it really is just that easy. “And thanks for bein’ honest, Ashton. I know it ain’t always easy to do.”
Ashton is already on the edge, and this comfortable, easy acceptance of their – their everything – ain’t helping any. “Letters,” they grit out. One hand is already headed down their own pants, scrabbling for pressure and a hold. “Please.”
“Should I go?” the robot asks mildly.
“No.” Ashton hadn’t realized they were going to say that until the word is already out, but once it is, it just makes sense. “No, st- stay with me. Please.”
“Ok!” And Fresh Cut Grass does. Stays with them as Ashton gasps and shudders ‘til they feel like they’re flying apart; stays with them as they slump back against the wall, panting; stays with them, as the weird feeling of shit fuck what do I do now starts creeping in, and Ashton is kinda left grasping at straws because honestly they don’t want that sinking sensation to start right now.
Letters. Maybe they’ll know what to do.
“Letters?” Ashton croaks.
“Yes, Ashton?”
“Hair? Please?”
And that’s all they need to ask – just like that, Fresh Cut Grass’s dexterous fingers slide back in amongst the crystal spikes and rest there. Grounding. Nice. And for all their hand remains cool and even harder than Ashton’s own, Ashton has never minded all that. At all.
“Thanks, pal.” The words drip out of Ashton, soft and slurred. Already that weirdness is fading away – slinking back into the jagged edges of Ashton’s fractured head, maybe. “So. Verdict?”
“Definitely a kink,” Fresh Cut Grass muses. Huh, all right. Ashton is already nodding against the wall at this – they’ve got a few of those, so the news ain’t really a surprise even if they haven’t run up against this particular one before Letters came into the picture – and then Fresh Cut Grass does that thing where they, just, come for Ashton’s entire life with their precise, meticulous way of, like, seeing people.
“As far as I can tell, it looks to be tied to providin’ for someone else,” Fresh Cut Grass goes on. “An’ to receivin’ some concrete indication that they’re satisfied with the provision, which seems to translate t’ them bein’ satisfied with you, whether that is as a person or as a friend or whatever other role you’ve assigned them in your mind. Like, if the one you’re feedin’ has somethin’ that you thought they’d like or need, then their pleasure becomes yours, by proxy. Maybe feels like permission for you to be happy an’ satisfied too.”
And see, the thing is that – like usual – Fresh Cut Grass ain’t wrong, exactly. It’s more that – Ashton is never quite prepared for their pulling things outta the darkness of people’s heads and holdin’ them up to the light like they’re something precious that deserves to be studied and understood better. And this litany in particular feels like one blow to the head after another. Fuck.
“Fuck,” Ashton whispers, with even more feeling than before.
Fresh Cut Grass regards them with concern. “You all right there, Ashton? Those’re just my observations, of course, and if they’re unsettlin’ or unwelcome then we can leave them be for a while, ‘til you’re ready to revisit the idea and -“
“No, I – I appreciate ‘em, Letters.” Whatever dissonance they might be feeling at being seen so clearly, like maybe the robot is peering right through that gaping hole in their skull, Ashton also knows that Fresh Cut Grass deserves to hear this much. They do so much, and it ain’t their fault Ashton is – like this. Like anything, really. So.
“Really, I do,” they continue, quiet-like. “Never really had a friend like you before, and it’s – it’s nice. Unexpected, sometimes, but – real nice.”
“Aw, Ashton.” Fresh Cut Grass bumps their good shoulder companionably, without ever relinquishing that steady hand on their hair. “I mean, to be fair, I’ve never had a friend like you either, an’ I appreciate this tremendous change, too.”
Ashton huffs a tiny laugh at this – not like they’re disbelieving what Letters is saying, more in perpetual incredulity that more people didn’t take a shine to this amazing little fucker the second they met them – and leans further into the robot’s side. “We should stick together then, huh.”
“Yeah,” Fresh Cut Grass says thoughtfully. “We should. I’d like that a lot, Ashton.”
“Deal,” Ashton says, with a yawn. And, thinking it might bother the robot otherwise, they add, sleepily:
“And I promise I’ll go say sorry to Milo. When I can stand again.” And somehow Fresh Cut Grass’s smile, small as it is because of those rigid plates, feels bright enough to light up the fucking world.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
Re: 'shiny,' Ashton/FCG, Food Kink, M, 3/3
Date: 2021-12-03 01:44 am (UTC)“Whatcha need, Ashton?” Fresh Cut Grass asks quietly, watching all of this as steady as they always do.
“C’mere,” Ashton says instead, and fuck them but the robot does, just like that, wheeling around and rolling right into the vee of Ashton’s legs where they’ve let ‘em fall open at some point without even realizing it.
That’s a problem for Later Ashton, though. Right now, though:
“Here,” Ashton whispers, holding the last copper out, and Fresh Cut Grass, bless them, seems to understand quick enough. They lean forward, accepting the last piece of money-food-money right from Ashton’s fingertips, and for a brief second Ashton’s skin is alight with its proximity to those smooth, strong metal plates that form Letters’ lips and jaws.
Their entire hand could get crushed in there, Ashton thinks giddily, almost dizzy with this new knowledge. Letters is probably one of the few beings down here who, even alone, could do as much damage to Ashton as the fuckers who wrecked their head and eye and shoulder did, except that –
Letters would never. Letters just eats what Ashton brings home for them, and inquires about the ins and outs of Ashton’s awful puns, and mediates between Milo and Ashton when they both get into one of their moods, and encourages Ashton to feel and say things that Ashton doesn’t always feel up to feeling or wanting to say otherwise.
And maybe all Ashton can do in return is provide Letters with the coppers they like to eat, but if that’s the case, well then Ashton is gonna give them so. Fucking. Many. Coppers.
“How’re you feelin’?” Fresh Cut Grass asks, pulling back when this last coin has vanished after the others.
“Good,” Ashton says, slow. They’re still – trying to take this all in, a bit. “Like – a bit fuzzy? But, really good. Kinda want to rub one out, to be honest.”
“Like masturbatin’? Then you should,” Fresh Cut Grass returns simply. Like it really is just that easy. “And thanks for bein’ honest, Ashton. I know it ain’t always easy to do.”
Ashton is already on the edge, and this comfortable, easy acceptance of their – their everything – ain’t helping any. “Letters,” they grit out. One hand is already headed down their own pants, scrabbling for pressure and a hold. “Please.”
“Should I go?” the robot asks mildly.
“No.” Ashton hadn’t realized they were going to say that until the word is already out, but once it is, it just makes sense. “No, st- stay with me. Please.”
“Ok!” And Fresh Cut Grass does. Stays with them as Ashton gasps and shudders ‘til they feel like they’re flying apart; stays with them as they slump back against the wall, panting; stays with them, as the weird feeling of shit fuck what do I do now starts creeping in, and Ashton is kinda left grasping at straws because honestly they don’t want that sinking sensation to start right now.
Letters. Maybe they’ll know what to do.
“Letters?” Ashton croaks.
“Yes, Ashton?”
“Hair? Please?”
And that’s all they need to ask – just like that, Fresh Cut Grass’s dexterous fingers slide back in amongst the crystal spikes and rest there. Grounding. Nice. And for all their hand remains cool and even harder than Ashton’s own, Ashton has never minded all that. At all.
“Thanks, pal.” The words drip out of Ashton, soft and slurred. Already that weirdness is fading away – slinking back into the jagged edges of Ashton’s fractured head, maybe. “So. Verdict?”
“Definitely a kink,” Fresh Cut Grass muses. Huh, all right. Ashton is already nodding against the wall at this – they’ve got a few of those, so the news ain’t really a surprise even if they haven’t run up against this particular one before Letters came into the picture – and then Fresh Cut Grass does that thing where they, just, come for Ashton’s entire life with their precise, meticulous way of, like, seeing people.
“As far as I can tell, it looks to be tied to providin’ for someone else,” Fresh Cut Grass goes on. “An’ to receivin’ some concrete indication that they’re satisfied with the provision, which seems to translate t’ them bein’ satisfied with you, whether that is as a person or as a friend or whatever other role you’ve assigned them in your mind. Like, if the one you’re feedin’ has somethin’ that you thought they’d like or need, then their pleasure becomes yours, by proxy. Maybe feels like permission for you to be happy an’ satisfied too.”
And see, the thing is that – like usual – Fresh Cut Grass ain’t wrong, exactly. It’s more that – Ashton is never quite prepared for their pulling things outta the darkness of people’s heads and holdin’ them up to the light like they’re something precious that deserves to be studied and understood better. And this litany in particular feels like one blow to the head after another. Fuck.
“Fuck,” Ashton whispers, with even more feeling than before.
Fresh Cut Grass regards them with concern. “You all right there, Ashton? Those’re just my observations, of course, and if they’re unsettlin’ or unwelcome then we can leave them be for a while, ‘til you’re ready to revisit the idea and -“
“No, I – I appreciate ‘em, Letters.” Whatever dissonance they might be feeling at being seen so clearly, like maybe the robot is peering right through that gaping hole in their skull, Ashton also knows that Fresh Cut Grass deserves to hear this much. They do so much, and it ain’t their fault Ashton is – like this. Like anything, really. So.
“Really, I do,” they continue, quiet-like. “Never really had a friend like you before, and it’s – it’s nice. Unexpected, sometimes, but – real nice.”
“Aw, Ashton.” Fresh Cut Grass bumps their good shoulder companionably, without ever relinquishing that steady hand on their hair. “I mean, to be fair, I’ve never had a friend like you either, an’ I appreciate this tremendous change, too.”
Ashton huffs a tiny laugh at this – not like they’re disbelieving what Letters is saying, more in perpetual incredulity that more people didn’t take a shine to this amazing little fucker the second they met them – and leans further into the robot’s side. “We should stick together then, huh.”
“Yeah,” Fresh Cut Grass says thoughtfully. “We should. I’d like that a lot, Ashton.”
“Deal,” Ashton says, with a yawn. And, thinking it might bother the robot otherwise, they add, sleepily:
“And I promise I’ll go say sorry to Milo. When I can stand again.”
And somehow Fresh Cut Grass’s smile, small as it is because of those rigid plates, feels bright enough to light up the fucking world.