#I drew this a week ago holy shit

[nebulaerage]

The freaks are multiplying!!!!!!

[bayleaf-2]

Assorted screenshots relating to Lyra I've been collecting haha

[jewish-vents]

i’m a teacher and i had a kid draw a swastika in my classroom on like. the second day of school. so one of our admin came in to two of my classes the next day to talk about it. and she started by telling this story about how she had a hijabi student. and a boy in the class was “really curious about what her hair looked like.” and had the students guess what happened next (pulled the hijab off, gross and awful) and how that might have made the hijabi student feel. at this point i’m sitting at my desk like “it’s been five minutes are we going to talk about the swastika” and then she finally goes “yesterday someone drew a symbol that represents division. and hate. and those aren’t things we stand for” and a kid (of course) was like what was it? and this fucking woman turns to me and goes “are you comfortable sharing what it was?”

?????? i thought that’s why you were here?? i thought you were here to explain why swastikas are not okay, and we are seven minutes into your little presentation and you haven’t said the word swastika or even jewish. so i said it was a swastika and several of the kids didn’t know what that was. which was disturbing on its own as i teach middle school but i digress. i said no way in hell am i drawing one so my admin looks at me and is like “could you google a picture?”

can’t believe i did this but i didn’t know what else to do in the moment so i pulled up a google image search of swastikas and projected it on the board. at no point did the admin say “hey you can take that down now” it just sat up there until i got uncomfortable and sick to my stomach enough to close it myself. and then she came back the next period and did the WHOLE song and dance again (no jewish, no antisemitism, not even the word NAZI which is insane to me) and STILL told the opening story about the hijabi girl even with two hijabi girls sitting in the class this time who were clearly uncomfortable.

this was like three weeks ago and it’s been quietly bothering me for a while and i finally told my (nonjewish) work friends about it and they were all like “holy shit that’s so fucked that she asked you to do that” and i told my (jewish) partner and he went “she couldn’t have picked up a fucking marker??” and that was when it really hit me.

maybe she didn’t want to be in a situation where she drew a swastika on a jewish teachers whiteboard. ok. but she apparently didn’t consider the WORSE implications of asking that same jewish teacher to google an image of a swastika and project a google image search of a page FULL of swastikas on her board.

AND she never once checked in with me after that. she left the class without talking to me again and hasn’t said a word about it since. i remember i even asked her “do you want me to leave the room” beforehand because im thinking i don’t want to have to look at swastikas but she asked me to stay because “the impact is real and they need to see it” which. uh. i’ve been pushing this experience down for weeks bc at the end of the day it “wasn’t that bad” but like. holy shit. she really wanted to put my trauma on display for the students instead of just asking me to leave and explaining what a swastika is/showing them one. and it took her nearly ten minutes to get to the actual swastika!! i’m just. so done

.

[badlydrawnbabydirk]

i drew this a week ago n forgot to send it in lol

// OMGMGMGM HELLO??@9?? GET HIM OUT OF TJERE !?9?00!? This is so cute holy shit his eyes. His LASHES. Ougghgj I just woke up so I can’t come up with anything smart but this is so cute. Holy shit. Tysm

[randomyuu]

i keep the warmest truth.

Well you look at that. Another comic hahahaha why did I do this to myself—

But I do enjoy drawing this comic! It was a different kind of challenge, where this one focuses a lot on close-ups, so I need to learn about the subtlety of expressions. Can’t say I learn a lot (I use lots of copy-pasting of the same position lmao), but I still learn... something!

This beautiful one-shot fic is titled i keep the warmest truth by Dehawny. If I have to summarise the fic, it’s basically Ace!Gojou and Adorable!Yuuji. It's more like gray ace but better keep the “A” going, haha. And as usual, the fic is NSFW, so please do read the tags before you decide to give it a read.

Ace!Gojou is something I don’t know I need. I think I love almost every kind of Gojou headcanons, but Ace!Gojou holds a special place in my heart. I could be biased as someone in the ace spectrum, but the way Dehawny wrote Gojou and Yuuji’s interaction is truly heartwarming. And also a bit possessive, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Possessive Gojou is my jam.

And Yuuji. Oh, dear lord where do I even start with this boy. I don’t have enough vocabularies to express how much I adore Yuuji. Him being his horny teen-self and constantly worrying about making the pleasure mutual is too much for my heart. And he’s still understanding of Gojou’s sexuality. Yuuji is kind, like that. Don’t mind me as I’m crying out happy tears in the corner.

Alrighty, below are my thoughts as I drew this, as usual haha:

After I got a taste with comic-making from my previous GoYuu comic, this one is a bit easier to plan once I narrowed down the scene I want to draw. I wanted the comic to start with Gojou positioning himself and Yuuji in the futon, bringing up Yuuji’s question weeks ago, but that means I have to draw 10+ pages and I was like, “haha nope”. I still love my hands, thank you very much. So I start with Yuuji’s reaction after Gojou explains a bit about his sexuality.

Panelling is still a struggle. In a way that I still feel that the layout can be improved, but I can’t for the life of me figured out what needs to be improved. I guess this kind of thing will come eventually, but not now.

During the sketching, I must say I got super hyped drawing Gojou’s eyes. That eye close-up? I really want to try making it as ethereal as possible in an achromatic setting. It’s intimidating, don’t get me wrong, but I have always loved drawing eyes since I was a kid and this is a fun thing to test my love for eyes.

If I have to complain… it would be the intimate position of them laying on the futon. I never really try drawing “couple-like” positions before, but it was really hard! Like, holy shit, can you guys stop being so awkward looking? Where the hell did I draw it wrong??? Thankfully references have helped me a lot with positioning.

The line art took sooo much time because I realise I want to make Gojou and Yuuji more… buff (kinda) so I need to re-sketch a bit :(( but the result is better than the previous one, so I’ll take what I can get haha. And I start to really like using screentones for shading—once I properly learn how to do manga layout, I think I might fall in love with drawing mangas!

But overall, this is a fun process to do, and I hope you enjoy the comic and this rambling of mine! :D

[roosterbruiser]

𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄? — 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟒

—𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐏𝐎𝐏 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐈-𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒. 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 (𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐒𝐓) 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍, 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐔𝐒𝐔𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐒 𝐁𝐔𝐘 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃. 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐉𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐖𝐅𝐔𝐋 𝐀𝐒 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑. —𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 𝟖.𝟒𝐊 —𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 —𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄? 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐉𝐀𝐊𝐄'𝐒 𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐌 ��𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟒

The tough leather football catapults off the laces of Jake’s right cleat and soars across the true-blue sky through the yellow guideposts staked at the opposing side’s endzone. It’s clean--doesn’t so much as skim the chipped paint before it bounces off the net gloriously.

Triple.  

And just like that, the game ends the way everyone already knew it would: with Jake Seresin’s jersey blown up on the jumbotron, with the home team’s score dwarfing the opposing team just barely, with the crowd roaring in abundant approval.

The loyal crowd packing the stadium, all dressed in a sea of morning yellow and teal, erupts like an undefeated crowd should. Everyone is on their feet, breaths no longer held and fingernails no longer bitten, with their hands in the crisp autumn air surrounding them. The bright stadium lights wash over the field--all the celebrating players, the exuberant turf, the moping opposing side glitter inside its glow and beneath the evening sky.

Thunderstruck by AC/DC is screaming through the speakers. At this point, you’re well-versed enough in your school’s football history to know that this song is synonymous with victory. It’s the only reason you put up with the trash.  

“Holy shit!” Bob calls out. He’s grinning, his lips a bit pink and wet and his eyes wide and watered with joy. “Bullseye, man! Bullseye, bullseye, bullseye!”

Bob rarely curses so liberally--you’ve noticed this over the past year between late night runs to the corner store and lazy afternoons in Jake and Brad’s dorm. He says things like good Lord and have mercy and now just hold on a darn second there. But during football games, his lips are looser and he isn’t as quick to flush. He can say shit and damn and sometimes fuck. It is partly because of the sticky, nippy atmosphere and partly because of the few cheap beers Javy always buys for him.

“I told you! I told you he never misses!” Javy returns excitedly. “Fuck outta here, ‘Bama!” 

Javy brings his pointer and his tongue to his mouth, glancing over at you to make sure you see--you do and you’re already covering your ears. He gives you a courteous warning before he whistles after he nearly made you jump out of your skin during kick-off a few weeks ago. 

He heard all about it from Jake when you let it slip casually in conversation. 

“You trying to maim her or something, you dick?” Jake had said with his brows furrowed, his cheeks still pink from running though the football game had ended hours ago. He took a long, languid drink from his water bottle and then drew it away and pointed at Javy with it. “How about some warning next time, big guy?”

“Let’s fucking go!” Javy calls out, his voice ragged from calling out referees and hollering Seresin and Bradshaw, the paint on his face crumbling as his mouth stretches into a grin. “Don’t Trip on your way out, bitches!”

He wraps an arm around your shoulder and pulls you into his side--he smells like face paint and sweat. Bob, all his excitement bubbling over, blows a yeasty breath out and wraps you up in his arms, too. Bob, somehow, always smells like he’s only just stepped out of the shower. 

Jake can hear everything from the field--everyone screaming, the noisemakers snapping, the hands clapping, the other players cajoling, Javy’s absurdly loud whistling--for only a moment. He only experiences the win for a few fleeting seconds, teammates punching his shoulder pads and slapping his ass through his tight game pants, until he turns his face to the bleachers.

It is easy for him to find you. Maybe if he told someone that, someone like Javy or Bradley or Bob, they would tell him that it’s because he’s the one who bought your tickets, picked your seats. That he simply memorized where you’re gonna sit, glances over during practice, always checks on you. 

But Jake knows better than that. 

He knows that it is so easy for him to find you because he looks for you in every room now--even if it’s the chem lab he knows you aren’t even enrolled in, even if it’s his family’s living room in Texas over the summer when you’re home in Virginia, even if it’s his dorm room at four in the morning and he’s just dropped you at your own hal, even if it’s the crowded dining hall he knows you wouldn’t ever step foot in on your own. 

He’s good at finding you--always has been. 

And now, a year to the day he first saw you at that shitty house party that only played a few good songs, he finds you wedged in between Bob and Javy. 

Jake’s chest is tight as he looks at you. You’re standing between two of his best friends, who have now become your friends, grinning like there is no other place in the world you would rather be than this close to the football field and drowning in beer breath. 

There you are, like you have been since November of last year, standing in the first row of bleachers. You’re clapping and laughing as Javy and Bob hold you and undoubtedly insult the opposing team. You’re wearing the sweatshirt Jake gave you, that soft yellow thing that’s been faded with time since it was first worn by Jake’s father all those years ago, and there are little butterfly clips in your hair--team colors, of course. 

It’s funny, Jake thinks. A year ago you didn’t own even one school team shirt. Not a hat, a keychain, a hand-me-down, not even one of those rubber bracelets you can get for free literally anywhere on campus.

“Didn’t have a reason to have school pride before. You know--before you. But doesn’t everyone have school pride now that we’re undefeated? I bet you’re the reason a lot of people buy sweatshirts, Trip,” you told him when he asked about it. It was December of last year and he was reclined on your bed, watching you brush your hair as you slipped into his father’s sweatshirt. “This is really nice, you know. Vintage.” 

“It was my dad’s,” Jake told you softly, trying to be sly about his lingering gaze. 

But still, you saw him when you turned suddenly to look at him with furrowed brows. The two of you had only known each other for a month and some change and already he deemed you important enough to will down his father’s sweatshirt. 

“Shouldn’t you be saving this for some gorgeous girlfriend in a little tank-top?” You asked, only half-joking. 

He caught your gaze in the mirror and shook his head. 

“Nah,” he answered. “It looks good on you.” 

But now, here you are, all these months later. In the same sweatshirt, the one you keep in pristine condition and wear almost every gameday. And now you have matching hair clips. 

Almost instantaneously, you know he’s looking at you. Even when he’s across an entire football field, even when he’s being crowded by the rest of the football team and the coaches, even when his eyes are nearly hidden behind his helmet--you know. It’s a feeling that you get, one that is almost indiscernible from other big feelings like exhilaration or delirium. 

And because you know he’s looking at you, you know that when he jams his finger in the sky and angles it--he’s pointing at you. You. That’s who the win was for. You. It’s always you. If someone were to be writing it down, they would know that every single win this season--and every single one during the latter half of last season--is dedicated to you. You own them, really. Technically. They’re gifted to you, thrusted into your lap, by Jake. 

Just like you do each time he points to you after a win, you hold your hands in a heart--a juvenile and crooked thing. But you hold it high and proud in the sky as confetti reigns down from the bleachers above. 

Jake’s beaming underneath his face mask, filled to the brim with unadulterated joy as you hold your hands up in a heart. It’s for him--it always is. 

He can’t remember when this all started--the hearts, at least. He thinks they must’ve started the way nicknames do; on a whim, randomly, fleetingly. It’s that sweet thing where you don’t know where something begins or how it will end, but you know everything in-between because it just is.  

But he does remember the first time you came to a game after you met. It was the next game, the one he promised he’d get you tickets to, and you sat in the front row like you said you would despite him offering to nab you some nosebleeders. 

His fingertips tingled with adrenaline the entirety of the game, only gaining more momentum the closer the team got to a fourth-quarter victory. Everyone could tell that Jake was on his A-game, which meant that he was unstoppable. 

He was the one who kicked the field goal that won the game--and with only ten seconds left on the clock. He remembers vividly the way the crowd went animalistic, the way everyone erupted in howls and cries and hollering. 

Before the game, he memorized the exact seat you were going to sit in. During practice, he watched it--imagined you there. Your exuberant smile, your unrelenting good mood, which he partly attributed to the company of yours truly and partly attributed to you losing the dead weight of Spit Sabler. 

And when he kicked the field goal, when he heard the crowd go wild, he turned towards where he knew you were sitting. It wasn’t even on purpose--it was just like a natural reaction. There you were, just like you said you would be. Grinning. Clapping. Laughing. 

He was so overwhelmed with joy, so overwhelmed with having met you and immediately adored you, that he pointed to you. 

You. 

His girl. 

He doesn’t remember what he was doing after wins before this--before he started looking for you. Maybe he was indulging in the celebration. Maybe he was letting Bradshaw tackle him to the turf. Maybe he was running to the sidelines. He can’t remember. He experiences this a lot when he thinks of life before you--it’s all blurry. Unimportant. 

“You fucker! You dumb fucker!” Bradley laughs in his ear as he jumps into Jake’s arms, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and knocking Jake’s helmet with his own. “Just take me already!” 

“You fucking goon, get off me!” Jake howls, stumbling backwards with Bradley’s entire weight on his torso. But he’s still grinning. “You’re giving the other team way too much ammunition right now!” 

“Ammunition-shammunition!” Bradley says gleefully, panting and laughing as he hugs Jake close to him. They both stink--almost indistinguishable from each other. “We won! We fucking won! Let ‘em talk!” 

“We always do,” Jake says, planting Bradley’s cleats back on the turf. “We’re literally 10-0!” 

Bradley slaps his hands on the sides of Jake’s helmet and pulls him close so that the hard plastic clashes roughly. Jake starts to whine, but Bradley is too amped to notice or mind. 

“I love you, man! I love you!” 

“Stop!” Jake insists. The grin is devouring his face. “Be normal!” 

“I can’t! Something’s happening to me! Something big and-and--!” Bradley’s already starting to gyrate, spreading his arms out and running in place on the tips of his toes. “Oh, God--it’s happening!”  

“Don’t!” Jake warns, shaking his head seriously. “Please--just this once, don’t do it--!” 

The team is already watching the two of them, amused. They know what’s coming. It’s the same thing at the end of every game that Jake wins for the team--which is almost every single one at this point. 

Bradshaw is notoriously an idiot--bonafide. But he might be the most beloved member of the team; he has an irresistible goofy charm about him that even the quarterback is susceptible to. That’s pretty much what happened with you, too. You fell in love with his big, cow-like eyes and unrelenting unwillingness to be embarrassed. 

“It’s taking me! Oh, Lord! It’s taking me!” Bradley cries. He’s really getting into it now, clutching his chest and marching in place on beat. “Help me, Jake! Help me!”

“Uh-oh,” Bob says with a fond smile tugging on his lips. He squeezes you and Javy. “Trouble! One o’clock!” 

You and Javy grin at the scene on the field. The other team dejectedly fielding sneers and boo’s as they sulk off the field as AC/DC shakes the ground beneath their cleats. Your football team watches on in amusement as Bradley howls and breaks out in dance while Jake desperately tries to get away. 

“The Bradshaw Boogie,” you sigh, beaming. “Who could've guessed?” 

“Me, you, Bob, that guy over there, that guy over here, even the lady down there,” Javy lists, shaking his head. “What an idiot.” 

“But he’s ours,” you sigh lovingly, leaning your head against Bob’s. Bradley tackles Jake to the ground and your chest grows warm, pulses with love. “Both of them.”

𖥔

“Doesn’t this all feel so…American?” Bob asks. He’s pushing the cart, squinting beneath the harsh fluorescents flickering above the lot of you. He’s in his costume already--a freakishly accurate Indiana Jones costume that has gotten more than a handful of compliments since arriving at the grocery store. “Going to a football game and then buying pumpkins at the local twenty-four hour superstore?” 

“Winning a football game,” Bradley corrects from his spot inside the cart, knees against his chest as he cradles a few bottles of the cheapest vodka in stock. His face is partially painted--which means he just looks partially rabid. He scratches the real dog collar around his throat and the metal name tag that he sharpied the Hell hound’s name on jangles melodically. “And we’re not just buying pumpkins.” 

“Yeah,” Javy echoes from ahead of everyone, skimming the aisles absently as he reads all the price tags. He’s the certified sales finder, which is always why he walks ahead of everyone. The bright read-and-white sweater of his Waldo costume, ironically, sticks out like a sore thumb in the dull, white-washed aisles. “We’re buying Bradshaw a leash, too. Finally.” 

“Ha-ha,” Bob says. “Funny. But I don’t think Cujo had a leash.” 

Javy pauses and glances over his shoulder at Bob and Bradley. Bob’s watching him, brows knit and lips quirked. Bradley hasn’t even noticed that the cart’s halted--he’s too busy chewing his fingernail. 

“No. We were supposed to get around to it last week,” Javy says. “He keeps wandering.”

Now Bradley looks up--suddenly realizing that Bob and Javy are looking at him.

“Oh. Kinky,” Bradley grins, waggling his brows. He adjusts himself in the cart, uncomfortably packed against the metal grates between bags of Doritos and robust pumpkins, but unwilling to get out. “I like it. Wanna take me for a walk, Goldie?” 

Bradley leans out of the cart to grin at Jake, like he always does when he puts the faux moves on you, but all he sees is an empty aisle. He was totally expecting a firm smack on the back of the head from Jake and a sweet laugh from you. Nothing but cereal boxes, though.

“Hey. Where’d they go?” Bradley asks, pouting. “I totally just said that for loverboy.” 

“Who?” Javy returns, starting down the aisle again as he straightens his crooked glasses. “Sonny and Cher?”  

“They’re Daphne and Fred,” Bob says, shaking his head. 

“More like Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dumbass,” Bradley says good-naturedly. He releases his fingernail from the wrath of his teeth and then sighs dejectedly. “Anyone got any clippers on ‘em? I have a hangnail.”

Two aisles over, you’re sorting through the various bags of candy sitting on the beige shelves. Nothing is striking your precise fancy and Jake can tell from the careful way he’s watching your brows crinkle. You take your Halloween candy seriously--really, you take everything about Halloween seriously--and he knows he’s already on thin ice taking you to a superstore to get pumpkins instead of a patch. 

“Who the fuck likes Dots?” You whisper to him, shaking your head disapprovingly. “Do you know someone who likes Dots? I don’t. I never have.” 

Jake shakes his head fondly. 

“Yeah, I do,” Jake says. 

“Nuh-uh,” you say dismissively, brows loosely knit.  

“I’ll give you one guess,” Jake says, tightening the orange ascot around his throat. 

Glancing at him through your lashes, your belly already in a puddle at your platform heels right beside your heart, you meet his gaze. He’s always already looking at you--just like he always is. It’s one of the first things you noticed about him after you two met for coffee on November 1st of last year, a mere twelve hours since you broke things off with Spit Sabler. Jake was the one who stood from the table he snagged for both of you, the one who was watching the door for thirty minutes before you arrived, the one who called your name across the cafe and waved you over.

“Hey,” he’d said when you crossed the cafe shyly and ended up at his feet. “You look great out of costume, too! I think you could still pass for a doctor.” 

“Jokes on you,” you’d told him, eyeing the ridiculously good-looking denim jacket he had shrugged over his The Innocence Mission t-shirt. “You don’t.” 

You cheek your grin and whip a bit of your stringy red wig over your shoulder. When he sees you struggling, two little strands of artificial hair stuck in your lipgloss, he reaches up and carefully peels them away from your lips. His fingers graze your cheek as he retracts--a ghost of a touch, the hint of a touch, the hint of a ghost of a touch. Enough for both of you to curl your toes identically in the safety and privacy of your own socks. 

Both of you pretend not to be warm from the interaction. 

You clear your throat.  

“Nobody likes Dots,” you insist. 

Jake shakes his head smugly. 

“Somebody you know and love likes Dots,” Jake insists. 

He doesn’t bother checking his grin--he can hardly muster when you’re looking up at him so prettily. Fuschia eyelids and candy-apple lips, all that sweet softness and playfulness sitting in the fat of your cheeks as you try not to smile.  

“You lie like a rug,” you challenge, crossing your arms indignantly. “I’m calling your bullshit.” 

“Error 404. Bullshit not found,” Jake says, holding his palms up in defense. “C’mon. One guess. You’ve got it.”

“You,” you say with a devious smile. 

He holds his chest in mock insult and you beam at him. 

“Ouch,” he says. “No. I underestimated your ability to be wack as Hell.”  

“Okay, Fresh Prince,” you bite back, open-mouth laughing now. “Then who is it? Hm? Who do I know and love that likes Dots?” 

“Scrappy Doo,” he says confidently. 

He watches your face contort--first confusion and then realization. 

“Bradshaw really does make it hard for himself, doesn’t he?” You say quietly. “But, like--now that you say that? I can see it. Unfortunately. I can see it.” 

“He went to the movie theater one time to--like, literally just to buy Dots. Brought, like, five boxes back to the dorm and ate them overnight.”

“Ew,” you say, nose wrinkled. “Did he get sick?” 

“No,” Jake says, rolling his eyes. “He has an industrial stomach.” 

“Shit,” you say, laughing. “Go figure.” 

“Unlike someone here, he’s also not picky,” Jake says, widening his eyes and nodding towards you. 

Sticking your tongue out at him, you roll your eyes. 

“It’s not so easy!” 

Jake glances down at the mounds of candy before you, scouring for a bag you would actually enjoy. He’s learned a lot about you--he feels like he’s learned everything about you--in the past year, so he knows how tricky this is going to be. You won’t eat coconut or dark chocolate--nor do you like non-sour gummies. You only tolerate Smarties and you can’t stomach M&M’s after last year’s milkshake incident. 

“Here,” Jake says, tugging a variety bag out from the bottom of the pile. He hands it to you and nods for you to follow him as he starts down the aisle again. “That one.”

“That’s ballsy,” you say to him, not moving from your spot. You squint as you read the labels of the candy in the variety pack. “You know this is a most sacred process for me.” 

He turns, now in the middle of the aisle, and watches you read it silently. He already knows--before you even do--that this is the one you’re going to choose. He knows little things about you like this--like your In-N-Out order, your favorite kind of pen to write with, your dislike of baseball caps. But he knows big things about you, too--like how old you were when your parents divorced, what your favorite color was in the second grade, who you consider to be your personal hero and why it’s Dolly Parton.

“You underestimate my fondness for you,” Jake says. Heat blooms all cross his chest and his ascot suddenly feels tight when you glance back at him in amusement. He laughs dryly. “Idiot.” 

“I stand corrected,” you tell him with a shrug and sigh, slinging the candy over your arm. “And you know how much I hate standing.” 

“Who hates standing?” Jake grins, shaking his head. You are slowly making your way over to him in that strangely authentic Daphne costume, the one you put together over the course of three months with him in tow. “Nobody hates standing.” 

When you come close to him, you can smell the aftershave on his face, the sandalwood on his pulse points. He grins down at you, unrealistically handsome even in this truly awful Fred wig--truly, it’s less Fred and more of a tow-headed Sonny Bono.

“Someone you know and love hates it,” you tease, pressing the bag of candy in his awaiting arms. “Right?” 

He looks down at you in between taking measured, deep breaths. He can’t believe how much he adores you. Well, he can because he does and he has been since the moment he first saw you. He felt like he already loved you when he saw you in the cafe the day after Halloween, when you walked across the checkered tiles with your glasses on and your backpack slung over one shoulder. 

“What--you didn’t bring your backpack? Do you not care about passing midterms?” You’d asked him seriously. But you were smiling softly as your lashes kissed the tops of your cheeks. “Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of doctor?” 

Sometimes he wonders when it happened--when something happened between the two of you that halted both of you in your tracks, something that stalled anything real and romantic happening at the party or the dorm room. He thinks about it when he zones out in class, when he’s trying not to fall asleep during film in the locker rooms. 

Maybe it was when some John puked all over your legs. When he told you to look up at the night sky while he wiped your legs down and free from marigold flowers and puke. 

Maybe it was when he didn’t walk you to the door of your dormitory. When he stayed in his truck and waited until you got into the building before he drove away. Maybe he should’ve stuck his hands in his pockets and walked all the way up to your room, should’ve met your roommate and seen what pictures you hung on the walls.

Maybe it was when he didn’t bring his backpack for coffee. When he had to sit on the same side of the little bistro table as you and read over your shoulder, when he had to borrow one of your pens to take notes on scrap paper you happened to have.

Maybe it was when you were the one to ask for his number first, scribbling it on the corner of your notebook with a smiley face. Smiley face. Not a heart.

Maybe it was on a Tuesday in April or maybe a Friday in September. Maybe it happened while the two of you were watching Apocalypse Now or Dazed and Confused. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever know--doesn’t even know if he wants to know. 

But Jake isn’t one to complain, though. 

Maybe you’re not what he wants you to be--his girlfriend, even though that feels too juvenile a word for what he really wants you to be--but you’re still the best person he knows. And, in a lot of ways, he considers himself very lucky to have landed you at all. Even as a friend. 

You have quickly--effortlessly--become one of Jake’s favorite people on God’s green earth. He thinks about you each morning when the sun touches his face for the first time, thinks about how warm your hands always are when you pinch his cheeks. He thinks about you each night as he flicks off his lamp, glancing at the framed photograph he has of you on his bedside table--one Javy took of you on a disposable camera, one where you’re decked out in team colors and holding a foam finger with Jake’s number on it.

Sometimes, though--like right now--he gets overwhelmed with everything. It’s like there’s a ball of light in his chest that’s starting to puncture his skin. Like there’s something bright and hot and big that wants out and wants out now. 

“Right,” Jake whispers now, pretending like he’s not choked up. He grips the plastic bag in his arms to keep himself from holding your cheeks. He’s watching your lips. “You are someone I know and love.” 

There is a hotness radiating from Jake, but you hardly notice. If you did, you’d be fanning yourself and un-pinning your wig. But your gaze is unwavering, even if you feel like Jake isn’t quite meeting your eyes right now. Either way, you still feel seen by him. Always.

“Prove it,” you whisper to him. 

It sounds like an invitation--maybe it is. 

Yes, it lingers there in the air between you, the one that smells like dead leaves and artificial apple and gardenia perfume from the lady a few aisles over. You and him both see it, clear as day, as if it’s some sort of bright red mist surrounding you. 

You have a supremely good eye for detail. You notice eyelashes on sidewalks and memorize license plates on speeding cars and have never once missed foreshadowing. That’s why Bradley has you proofread all his essays, why Javy has you watch football games with him, why Bob studies with you, why Jake loves to watch movies with you. 

So, you notice it whenever Jake’s eyebrows pinch. Whenever he looks confused, like he’s just about to sputter out a what? and step away from you. That’s when you realize, flushed as ever before, that your faces are a mere inch apart. 

“Buy my candy,” you say, straightening out and moving your face away from his. 

Jake’s heart is hammering in his chest.

Fuck.

He was going to do it. He was going to ask if he could kiss you--Hell, he was just going to hold the stupid wig in place and press his lips to yours before he lost the nerve. 

But it’s too late. You’re already smiling at him, expression unreadable to him even though he’s well-versed in you, nodding towards the register. 

“Goldie--!” 

“Hey!” Javy says when he sees the two of you. “Simon! Garfunkel! Let’s get a move on, huh? We’ve gotta get our drink on!” 

Both you and Jake turn to find your three friends standing at the end of the aisle. Javy with his hands on his hips and his lips pursed, Bob smiling almost apologetically like he knows he interrupted something, and Bradley struggling to his knees in the very-full cart to get your attention. 

“Hey, Goldie! I made a really good joke earlier and you weren’t there,” Bradley starts, grinning as he gestures wildly. “Okay, so Javy said--!”

“Down boy,” Bob says, nudging Bradley. 

You and Jake trudge towards the three of them, a strange aura of embarrassment and disappointment permeating the air around the two of you. It’s strange because the two of you, as close as you are, never seem very embarrassed about being so obliviously in love as you both are. 

“What?” Bradley asks, genuinely oblivious. He’s gesturing to you as you sheepishly make your way over to the cart. “She missed it! She’s my audience!” 

“Audience of one?” Javy asks, brow raised. “Lame.”

“Boo me all you want, but I’m loyal. A one-woman kinda guy,” Bradley defends. You’re smiling at him, rolling your eyes, when he pats his thighs while waggling his eyebrows. “Hey, pretty lady. Wanna take a seat?” 

Jake thumps the back of his head hard, even if he knows that Bradley’s adoration for you is purely platonic and flirtation if in complete jest. And Bradley keens at Jake, strangely accomplished.

“Nah,” you say softly. You hold your own hands and try not to breathe in too much of Jake’s cologne. “I’ll stand.”

𖥔

Technically it’s still Halloween when you and Jake stumble into his dorm room. The two of you have been in Bob’s dorm room for the better half of the evening, drinking away a couple bottles of vodka between the four of you while having a horror movie marathon. 

Things feel alright now--better than they did at the beginning of the night, in the direct aftermath of whatever the fuck happened at the store. With every drink the two of you had, you moved closer to the middle of the room from the prospective sides you’d initially settled in. By the time Jaws II was being discussed, you were laying your head in Jake’s lap and letting him stroke your wig. 

“Jinkies, I gotta get you back,” Jake had sighed, glancing at the clock and then you. He dropped his eye in a heavy wink, one that was not as sly as usual, and nodded towards the door. “Gotta celebrate our anniversary.” 

“Oh, right,” Bradley had interjected, leaning over the two of you with a pink-tinted grin. “What’s the first anniversary? Silver?” 

“Paper,” Bob corrected, slightly inebriated. 

“Do candy wrappers count?” Jake had whispered, thumb pressed against your cheek. 

“Yeah,” you yawned. “So does cash.”

Time is ticking by quickly and so are you as Jake shuts the door behind the both of you, a broken laugh falling from his vodka-flavored lips at something you said on the elevator. Something he can’t even remember now. 

“Jesus, it’s dark,” you say as you pull your lop-sided wig off your head and let it slink to the wooden floor. It will, undoubtedly, live there for the next couple weeks. You can already imagine Bradley eating shit after slipping on it. “You live like this?” 

The room is dark and empty besides the two of you, completely quiet besides the usual clanging and hollering outside his window from the drunk boys in the courtyard. And, of course, the laughter still dying on Jake’s tongue and the thumps of your heels. 

You have been in this room more times than you can count--so much so that several of the floors RA’s have approached you about blowing off floor meetings. So, despite being a bit drunk and despite being in the dark, you’re able to find the radio sitting on Jake’s dresser. It’s where it always is beside a pack of gum and his favorite bottle of cologne. 

“Like a hermit,” Jake says. “A Norman Bates type.”

“Spooky,” you whisper to him. “Really getting me in the mood over here.” 

“Yeah? Sitting in Bob’s room and watching creature features didn’t do that for you already?” 

“Nope,” you say, shaking your head despite the fact that he cannot see you. “You know I like more high brow stuff.” 

“Right,” Jake says distantly as he reaches blindly for the switch to the lava lamp. “Slashers.” 

“Uh huh,” you mutter. Then you clear your throat and drunkenly giggle as you sing. “Gimme, gimme, gimme some gore after midnight.” 

“You know how I can tell when you’re trashed, Goldie-girl?” Jake grins, still fumbling for the switch. “You start singing ABBA parodies.” 

“You like my parodies,” you whisper back. 

“Love ‘em,” he says and he really does mean it. 

The lamp suddenly illuminates the room. The both of you squint in tandem, on opposite sides of the small dorm room, stumbling in your steps in surprise. 

“Hi,” you whisper to him. 

Your makeup is smeared--bleary. His wig is gone and his ascot is untied. 

“Hey,” he returns. “What are you in the mood for? Pick your poison.” 

He nods to the CD’s you’re sorting through. 

“Julee Cruise,” you whisper back. “She’s been stuck in my head all day.”

“On the left,” he tells you. “Towards the bottom.” 

Nodding, you dig it out. Jake rubs his eyes, trying to sober up. It isn’t that he wants to even be sober--he feels good right now. But after what happened at the store, the way you have been inside of a hard shell all night between Jaws and The Blob, he wants to have a clear head. 

Fumbling only slightly, you manage to start the CD. And without looking back at Jake, you wander over to his twin bed and flop down on the brown plaid bedding, sighing in relief. 

“I’ve been awake for too long,” you whisper to him, blinking up at the ceiling. 

He’s still standing beside the lamp, watching every one of your moves with his heart in his throat. 

“How long?” He asks. 

You turn to him, biting a smile and blinking your bleary eyes. 

“My whole life,” you return. 

Now he’s biting a grin. 

“Wow,” he whispers. “You must be exhausted.”

“Yup,” you confirm. You point to your platform heels and crooked stockings. “Too exhausted to take my costume off.” 

A bubble pops inside of Jake, inside of you, in tandem. You blink at him. He blinks at you. There are only a few feet separating you and him, only a few paces across a shitty rug and old hardwood floors. 

He swallows hard. You notice it when his Adam’s apple bob. 

He considers what could happen next. He could press forward, tell you that he can help with that. And then maybe you would sit up and draw your knees to your chest and tell him he’s just like every other guy you’ve ever been friends with. Or he could stand right where he is now and just nod like he didn’t quite hear you, then sit on Bradley’s bed while you huddle up by yourself in his. Neither of which sound palatable to Jake right now--or ever. 

Your heart is racing as you watch him. Fuck. You keep word vomiting, keep accidentally inviting him, keep telling the truth too voraciously. 

When he moves, he doesn’t say anything. That’s what he’s decided on--he won’t say a word. He’ll just…walk towards you. And you watch him as he crosses the floor, his footing suddenly a bit more sober than it was when the two of you left Bob’s dorm after Bradley insisted on a second screening of Critters. 

Then he’s standing before you--you’re laying below him. Both of you watch each other, drink in every movement--there hardly are any. His palms are damp and your throat is dry. 

His movements are slow, but calculated. His fingers wrap around your right ankle and your leg feels weightless as he lifts it and places the bottom of your shoe on his pristine Fred Jones sweater. The color of your shoe, that sweet purple-pink, is a stark contrast from the muddy print the sole of your shoe will leave. 

Jake doesn't look away from your face as he reaches for the buckle. 

It’s a tiny thing, flimsy and delicate. But he’s dextrous. 

“Thanks,” you whisper preemptively--just to say something. 

Falling by Julee Cruise is playing. You can only hear the blood rushing through your ears--you’re sure Jake hears it, too.  

“Jesus,” Jake says and he’s still looking you right in the eyes. Your heart rate spikes--your back almost leaves the bed in a sudden arch at just the sound of it falling from his lips. All rasp, all football player, all Jake. “How’d you get these things on?” 

“With a little help from my friends,” you say back pathetically. You shift slightly and he re-secures his grip on your ankle like you are trying to climb away from him. “You know. Fingernails.” 

You hold your hands up to him weakly and he nods, still not smiling as he fingers the buckle. 

“Right,” he says. “Something I don’t have.” 

“Right,” you say. 

“But anything you can do, I can do better,” he says. 

His heart is hammering. 

But you smile--smile despite the apple vodka staining the back of your throat and the heat pooling in your belly and the thoughts of him muddling your ever-present attention. 

“Tell it to the heels, baby,” you whisper to him. 

And, like you’ve said a magic word, he gets the first heel unbuckled. 

With a raise of his eyebrows, as if to say ha!, he delicately removes the heel from your foot and sets it on the floor. He’s still holding your ankle, softly stroking the light pink nylon tights. Wishing it was your skin. Burning all the same. 

There’s a muddy shoe print on his chest now. He sees it--so do you. But neither of you say anything about it. You’re too nervous to accidentally invite him to something he doesn’t want to come to--he’s too nervous to say the wrong thing and make you retreat. 

Your socked foot rests against his chest even after he releases you, which is what he wants. Any part of you against any part of him. 

He makes quick work of the other buckle and you watch, sobering quickly beneath the warmth of his touch and the velvety music flooding the radio. 

“You’re a pro,” you whisper. Your voice is somewhere between a whisper and a jive. 

He doesn’t say anything. 

Here you are, below him in his bed. Here you are, your legs open and your ankles in the stronghold of his hands. Here you are, a year to the day since he first saw you. Here you are, listening to his dream pop in his dorm after hanging out with your friends that used to be his friends that you now share. 

Here you are. It astounds him, really. 

How lucky he is that you’re here. Now. 

Right now. 

There is an intensity to his gaze, one you see fleetingly, rarely in certain instances. If you were someone else and so was he, you would call those instances stolen glances or maybe pensive longing. 

But you’re you. 

He’s him. 

So you don’t know what to call it.  

“Are you okay?” You ask.

“No,” he answers. 

He clears his throats, ignores the ringing in his ears. 

Fuck. He didn’t mean to answer like that. 

You’re already scrambling to sit up, to probably interrogate him and press your knuckles to his forehead and check for a fever, but then he’s pressing his flat palm to your belly and pushing you back against the bed. 

It is not a hard touch--nor is it a violent one. It is a guidance, a suggestion. One that takes your breath from your lungs and smacks his face with it. One that renders you almost voiceless. 

“What’s wrong?” You whisper. 

“No, nothing, I--it’s nothing,” Jake tries, knowing how much of a liar he sounds like right now. 

“But you just said--!” 

“--Forget what I just said,” Jake tells you. He means it. He pushes down and feels all the skin of your belly, all the warmth and blood and flesh. You’re thrumming with life. “Really. I’m fine. It’s fine. I just…” 

He stops talking--knows he’s digging himself in a deeper hole. 

Swallowing hard, you think about the grocery store. Your quiet, accidental invitation. If it was really accidental at all. You still aren’t sure. You can't be sure right now when he’s looking down at you the way he is.

You have to ask. It’s overwhelming you--the thought that you did something wrong. 

“Did I…do something?” 

His response is immediate. Instantaneous like he’s rehearsed this before.

“What could you have done that would ever make me not okay?” He asks, a strangely kind bite to his tone. As if he were saying Don’t you know that I love you, you idiot? “I mean, really. You’re kinda the best.”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. Words are tugging on your lips. “Buy you a Red Hot Chili Peppers CD?” 

A dry laugh falls from his parted lips, but he doesn’t smile. He can’t. Not when his throat is so dry, not when you two are so close. So, so close. Close enough to smell that warm amber in your hair and against your throat. 

“Get serious,” Jake insists after a moment. 

Shifting beneath his palm, you stare up at him. 

“I am,” you try. 

“No, you’re not,” Jake says back, brows furrowed. 

You glance down at your costume. 

“I can’t be serious in pink tights.”

Jake doesn't have time to think--doesn’t have time to stop himself. He’s reaching up, up and under your dress, hooking his fingers in the band of your pink tights and tugging on them. They come loose much easier than the buckles, practically purr at Jake’s touch as he draws them down your legs, leaving a trail of gooseflesh on your skin. 

You’re gasping, nearly moaning before you choke on it, as he swiftly removes your tights. And then your legs are bare before him and your legs are still open and he’s standing and you’re sitting and your pink tights are in his fist. They’re still warm from your skin--still smell like you. 

Jake drops them on the floor, not peeling his gaze from yours. They’ll live on the floor for a few weeks, too. He knows it. So do you. 

Now you’re speechless, which doesn’t happen often. 

Jake’s heart is battering inside his ribcage like a bird attempting to flee. 

“What happened at the grocery store?” He asks. 

He has to ask. He needs to know.

“What?” You sputter out. Your heart races. Fuck. You were hoping to just forget it all. “What are you--what do you--?” 

“You know what I’m talking about,” Jake says. He flushes when he realizes that your legs are still open, when he realizes that you couldn’t close them if you wanted to since he’s standing so close to you. “C’mon. Don’t bullshit me.” 

“You tell me,” you demand. “I thought you were gonna…I don’t know…” 

You’re too flustered to continue, throwing your arm over your face under the guise of shielding your eyes from the light. Your face, your arm, your skin, your breath--it’s all so hot. You want to melt into the plaid bedding and become one with the dust bunnies. 

“Marigold,” Jake says and it sounds like he’s begging. “Don’t hide from me. C’mon. C’mon, we’re friends!” 

Friends. There’s that word. 

You want to roll over on your side, want to just apologize and go to your dorm and pine privately for him, but you can’t. You can’t because he’s leaning forward and tugging your arms away from your eyes. 

He’s suddenly infinitely closer to you. So close that you feel tipsy just breathing in his breath, all the alcoholic apples that have died there. 

The two of you stare at another. You’re searching his eyes, his nose, his lips, trying to get a read on him and what he’s thinking and what he’s doing. He’s leaning over you, slotted between your legs, his hips only a breath away from your core. He feels it when you squirm--he isn’t sure if you’re trying to get closer or farther, so he shifts backwards a few centimeters. 

“Did you want me to do something?” Jake asks. It’s a quiet demand. A plea. 

“What do you mean?” You ask even though you know. You’re stalling. “Where? At Bob’s?” 

“Don’t be a chickenshit,” Jake says, shaking his head. “Back there. At the store.”

You swallow, don’t know what to say. The light is suddenly too bright and the music is suddenly too loud. Your breaths are paralyzed in your lungs. 

“Did you want me to want you to do something back there? At the store?” 

He scoffs--it’s a mean, but soft sound. He needs to hear you say it. Yes, you wanted it. He didn’t overstep. He missed the chance, but he knows now. He won’t miss the chance again. If you just say it. Say you wanted it--wanted him. 

“You’re impossible,” he whispers.  

“I’m trying not to be,” you say back. “Sorry.” 

“We almost kissed,” he says and his lips are quivering. “Right? That’s what that was, right? You wanted me to kiss you.” 

When the words fall on your ears, in your already heightened state, you feel like they’re accusatory. You wanted him to kiss you. And it made him knit his brows and falter, stumble. 

You’re fucking everything up. 

You can’t afford to fuck everything up with the best friend you’ve ever had.

“No, I didn’t,” you whisper. Your voice is hoarse, thin.

“Yes, you did,” he whispers. His brows are totally furrowed. “You’re a bad lair.” 

He almost says that he couldn’t look away from your lips all night. He almost says that he wished you were closer to him. He almost says that he wants you to kiss him, too. He almost says that he’s wanted to kiss you for a year--an aching, throbbing year. 

But he doesn’t.

“Stop it,” you tell him quietly. Tears are welling in your eyes. You blink rapidly, try to ease yourself from the absolute comfort of his heat. “Why would I want that?” 

Now he says nothing. There it is--that crippling fear he always has, the one where he fucks it, the one where he’s rejected, the one where he fumbles the ball, the one where he misses the goal. Except it feels realized suddenly. Suddenly as you’re looking up at him in artificially warm light, your tights tugged off your naked legs by him, you look hurt. Your eyes are watery and your lips are twisted and you’re not drunk anymore. 

And he’s the one caging you in. Holding you against the bed. 

At once, he lays on his back. He’s no longer between your legs, no longer hovering you and looking into your eyes. He’s laying beside you. 

The both of you lay there, side-by-side, blinking up at the ceiling. You’re desperately blinking, trying to keep the tears from spilling over. And you’re curling your knees to your chest, holding yourself together with flimsy tape.

His chest is heaving. He doesn’t know what’s happening. He doesn’t know what to do. 

But he doesn’t have to because as he’s running his hands over his face, shaking his head and opening his trembling lips, your hand is on his forearm. 

You’ve never been one to hold a grudge. You even wave at Spit Sabler when you see him around campus. But even if you were someone who held a grudge--you know it would be fruitless when it comes to Jake. You’ve never been able to feel anything but love towards him. Pulsing, jovial love. Red-hot and American. 

“Hey,” you whisper. You’re watching him, lying on your side now, trying not to sound as desperate to keep him as you feel right now. “Jake. Look at me.” 

He does at once. 

Plaid bedding separates your mouth from his and your eyes aren't as watery anymore. It’s good. That’s good. Jake still can’t muster a word. He can’t believe what he just did. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. 

“We’re just drunk,” you say dismissively. And even you sound like you don’t believe that bullshit. “Saying dumb shit when you’re drunk is, like, a rite of passage. Right?” 

He nods meekly after a long, sober pause. 

“I’m…” he starts. His cheeks flood bright red. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Hey, don’t be,” you tell him. “Like--it’s…don’t worry about it. We can talk about it when we’re sober.” 

He nods. Grateful, kind of, for your grace. But also angry that he couldn’t make it work--angry that things didn’t end up the way he needs them to. 

He glances at the clock just as it strokes midnight. 

No longer Halloween. Time to take the costume off.

 Absently, carefully, you reach forward and press the pads of your fingers against the muddy heel print on his chest. He won’t be able to wear this sweater again, but you feel like this isn’t going to be something that he throws away. And if he did--you would climb into any dumpster on campus to retrieve it. Just to hold it. Just to keep it. 

“Wanna get coffee tomorrow?” You whisper. 

The hint of a smile tugs on his lips. He finally tears his eyes away from the clock and looks at you. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I think I know a place.” 

Your lungs deflate slightly--with relief, with grief. It all feels the same. 

“Don’t forget your backpack.”

Another laugh--a sad and pitiful thing. One he might regret later on. But it’s enough that his hot blood is beginning to cool, even this close to you, even with this much of your naked legs on display on his bed in his empty dorm. 

“Hey, Goldie?” Jake whispers. 

You worm your way closer to him, like you always do. And, like always, his arms are already open to receive you when you press yourself against his chest and inhale the mud and cologne there. 

“Yeah?” You whisper. 

“You’re my best friend,” he tells you suddenly and it’s true. “Like, you’re my favorite person. Forget Bradshaw.”

Tears well in your eyes again--watery and fat. And you laugh softly, knowing you’ll regret it later. It punctuates this conversation with a casual tone when in reality--this conversation is nothing of the sort. 

“Yeah,” you whisper. “You’re kinda my best friend, too. Asshole.”

The two of you sit in the music for a while, neither of you looking at each other. His heart is thumping unsteadily and you graciously pretend not to hear it despite your head resting on his chest. The alcohol is fading slowly and the both of you blink lazily. 

Because he can’t stop himself, because he needs something resembling a win tonight, he leans down and gently kisses the top of your head. One feather-light thing, hardly anything really. 

You feel it. You always do. You never miss a thing. 

“Do you wanna stay?” He asks. 

“You already took my shoes off,” you mutter. “I’m not going anywhere.”

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: OH MY GOD JUST FUCK ALREADY!!!!!!!

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

[infiniteglitterfall]

the worst part about the i/p discourse

it's NOT the posters of Nazis with the swastikas on their flags replaced by stars of david. or the pages and pages of blood libel conspiracy theories in instagram posts about why local pride organizers are such big meanies. or the newfound insistence that jews just exaggerate and make up antisemitic incidents to smear the pro-palestine movement....

it's the fact that every. single. time. i try to post anything about any of these things, i end up in a rabbit hole SO DEEP IT'S IMPOSSIBLE TO GET TO THE BOTTOM.

Yesterday, I saw a --

YOU SEE? I went to Reddit for a second to find the link to the post about the Melbourne protest this week that had people carrying the Nazi-star-of-David posters. But first, I saw a post that began, "All I see on social media and the news is more and more attacks. Who beat up a Jewish family here, who stabbed a 1 year old in front of a synagouge. Those are two examples, I've lost track of all of the other ones."

and I was like, SOMEONE STABBED A ONE YEAR OLD IN FRONT OF A SYNAGOGUE?!?!

And I started to look that up. AND THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENS. EVERY SINGLE TIME.

Two days ago, I saw an article about Cincinnati Socialists setting up a table at North Kentucky Pride without asking, it sounds like, to hand out flyers saying the war in Gaza was Netanyahu's "Final Solution" for Palestinians. Cincinnati Pride organizers alerted the NKY Pride organizers, who kicked them out.

I was like, "okay, well, let's see what Cincinnati Socialists say about it." Then I discovered that their instagram not only "names and shames" the two Cincy Pride organizers and one NKY organizer. Which led to the Cincy ones getting so much harassment and violent threats that they resigned....

But also has a related post that goes on for pages and pages of pure blood libel.

So then I sat there fact-checking all their blood libel and finding out that not only was it untrue and impossible, but half the stuff they referenced didn't even exist.

Then I ended up fact-checking things in the "article" that they'd clearly used as their source. Fact-checking things I found while fact-checking those.

Trying to write a Facebook post about how fucked up it all was. Giving up on the Facebook post after several hours because it made more sense to write it on Tumblr, or at least to write it on Tumblr FIRST.

Then I'm also looking at the post they made "naming and shaming" the organizers, which is like... "the Cincy ones are partners! two days after Hamas's incredibly violent and brutal massacre, one of them changed his profile picture to a photo of them honeymooning IN ISRAEL two years ago! they did it through some group that COVERS A LOT OF THE COSTS FOR HONEYMOONS IN ISRAEL!!!!" and "the other one went to a protest of Hamas's massacre!!! with a sign saying to free the hostages!!!"

oh no. the fucking horror. truly how did these genocidal monsters even end up on the pride organizing committee. this is a shanda scandal.

then I'm responding to people's comments, trying to talk them down from horrible positions. telling people things like, "I know it's asking a LOT, but if people could grasp the idea that "going to Israel for your honeymoon" ISN'T "committing genocide," it would be really great. Or that wanting the hostages freed is actually something that both Israeli AND GAZAN protests have called for, and it's only Westerners who are opposed to it. Or that in fact, saying you "Stand with Israel," a few days after an incredibly brutal attack that burned multiple towns to the ground in one day, killed entire families and their pets, an attack which Hamas has promised to repeat "again and again and again" till Israel is violently destroyed... is opposing that attack, NOT calling for genocide."

then i'm like, "oh, i should edit these images to show the correct info, and i can explain that I drew arrows and added the correct info!" so then i'm doing that and working on writing alt text, and holy shit??? how many fucking hours??? did i spend on this?????? just because i read a frigging reddit post that linked to an article about it?????????

and like. i can go through and debunk all that shit in the comments. (and did. i responded to every single comment that believed this shit.) but ultimately, everyone who pulls this shit has way more reach than I do.

just. like. THAT'S ONE ORG IN ONE PLACE. And it was bad enough that I persevered and finished debunking it and commenting on it today and started telling people about it. Do you even know how many more of those I've seen?! How many I would see if I looked for them on purpose?!

The tsunami of deliberate disinformation is SO FUCKING BAD. All of it is SO FUCKING LAYERED. In any single bullshit post, there are SO MANY horrifically bad and wrong assumptions. So many of them are DESIGNED, BY HAMAS, to lead people down the path to "All Zionists should die! Israel should be violently destroyed!"

There were so many comments on a "Free Palestine Melbourne" group's instagram post (Sydney? Could've been Sydney) asking, pointedly, how many Jews are Zionists. What percentage of Jews are Zionists, again?

One (1) had a response telling them it doesn't matter what the percentage is, no percentage would justify collective punishment of Jews.

The rest all said things like, "Too many."

It feels like constantly being lied to. Just constantly being lied to about things I have looked up and verified myself from solid sources, now and in the past, by people I counted as my community.

Then just now I opened Instagram because I hadn't taken screenshots of a couple of the pics I wanted to add. And I'm hit with these:

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by jewsinschool (@jewsinschool)

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Jewish on Campus (@jewishoncampus)

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Jewish and Proud (@jewishpridealways)

Then some brighter posts (including one of a baby bat!!) and then a post which sums up a lot of what I'm feeling right now.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Jess Cook (@jessicagcoook)

It's like, yes, that, plus the uncomfortable sense that some people are getting thisclose to going, "Most Jews are Zionists anyway, so YEAH, I DO think most Jews deserve to die."

[melodygatesauthor]

Dirty Driving

Jake Lockley X f!Reader

Not beta-read - Requested by Anon

Summary:

Jake Lockley is on an undercover mission to do some digging into a dangerous crime boss. He's been tasked with driving and protecting you, the boss' daughter. Your feelings finally come to a head on the way to a party.

Tags/Warnings:

NSFW, car sex, semi-public sex, smut, porn with a little bit of plot, Jake being Jake, reader is commando, p in v creampie, oral sex f receiving, no MCU, Jake is a limo driver

Word count: 810

Being the daughter of a crime boss had its perks, and you supposed a ridiculously attractive personal driver was one of them. No one, not even you, could’ve expected that you and said driver would’ve ended up in the backseat of the limousine, mouths connected in breathy moans as the windows steamed up around you. Just a little while ago you were afraid of him, after seeing him beat down one man after another who tried to hurt you. There was no telling what those hands were capable of.

It started with light teasing, the brush of his fingers against your thigh in passing, or the casual wink when you thanked him for driving you somewhere. You were on your way to a party when the two of you finally gave in to the building feelings that had been brewing for weeks. All it took was a coy implication that you’d forgotten to wear your panties. It was a lie, of course, you’d omitted them on purpose…easy access and all that.

“Shit, I forgot to put on panties…we should go back so I can get them.”

You had to admit, it wasn’t the most clever way of letting him know that you were ready for him to take you, but it got the point across. He pulled into a quiet, secluded, area and climbed into the back with you, wasting no time kissing you and telling you he was going to, take good care of you like he always does.

He kept true to his promise, kissing softly over your jaw and working down to your collarbone, tucking his fingers under the strap of your dress and gently sliding it down your arm. You tossed his flat cap from his head and grabbed his dark locks between your fingers. He pushed up the skirts of your dress, grabbing your asscheeks and pulling you forward, wasting no time dragging his warm tongue between your slick folds.

“J-Jake, we're going to be late.” You whined with little conviction in your tone.

He responded by pursing his lips over your swollen clit, tongue dancing circles around it masterfully. You still had both hands on his head when you arched your mound into his mouth harder, bringing his face down deeper into you. His lips vibrated while he hummed a moan into you.

“Holy…shit.”

One of your hands, almost involuntarily, flew behind you, grabbing the back of the seat. His large hands were caged around your hips, fingers gripping so hard they left divots in their wake. You gasped as his tongue plunged into your hole. You found your mouth gaping open without a sound while he worked you over.

“I want you to f-fuck me Jake, p-please,” you managed to choke out.

His eyes shot up, meeting yours in an intimidating gaze. You put both hands on either side of his face and started pulling upward gently. His lips were glossy, covered in a combination of fluids. He lunged upward and started kissing you again noisily. You heard his belt clanking while he worked on getting his pants undone. Jake never took his mouth off yours while he tugged down his zipper.

“Don’t think your dad would like you fooling around with your driver do you, princesa?” He was breathing heavily.

“Don’t care what he thinks.” You were completely breathless.

He drew a gasp from your lips when he thrust himself into you fully, burying his fat cock deep in your soaking channel. You melted your body into him while he snapped his hips forward again. Jake was grunting with every strong motion, going deeper and harder. He cradled the back of your head while he started kissing you like a man starved.

“Haven’t been with anyone in a long time hm? So wet.” He hummed into another kiss.

“No one who feels as good as you.”

A growl rolled up through his chest at your comment. It seemed that Jake liked being told he was the best you’d ever had. His cock was dragging against your deepest points, brushing over the spot inside that made you squirm underneath him. A high-pitched whine left your mouth when he started fucking harder.

“I can feel you squeezing me, hermosa, just let go, want to feel you come all over my cock,” he said between thrusts.

You did as you were told with another few thrusts, gushing over him in contracting waves. You felt him grab the seat behind you and fuck faster. Surely there would be bruises on your hip where his hand grabbed so tightly. His hips stopped suddenly. You felt his cock pulsating wildly inside of you, filling you with hot white ropes to the brim.

When you arrived at the party, more than fashionably late, no one would suspect your tardiness was due to a secret affair with your dirty driver.

Jake Lockley Masterlist

Moon Knight Masterlist

AS A FRIENDLY REMINDER - I'm no longer doing a taglist. You need to follow @melodygatesupdates for updates on fics I post here.

[strawhatghost]

ASL PONIES!!!

Sabo by himself that I drew like a week ago because he's so fun to draw lmao

Luffy's design is bugging me I might remake it later... Something about it just doesn't spark joy... 🤔 I made Ace's design on the spot and I LOVE IT holy shit he's such a little guy wtf, I cooked there...

I tried to think of MLP similar names before immediately giving up LMAO (like Cozy Glow for Sabo but that is an actual MLP character, or Sapphire but nothing stuck.)

[datura-tea]

holy shit this year marks 10 years of this blog and moz!! i can't remember the exact date i started posting here - my archive says i have one post from november 2013 but let's disregard that - but i do remember it was around late 2014/early 2015 :)

^ one of the very first moz art pieces i ever drew, for fallout week 2015!!

memories and art through the years under a read more bc it got long

2014 → baby's first rpg!! i started playing fnv on my cousin's jailbroken xbox late 2013 and finished mid 2014 and i loved every minute of it. i remember waking up at 8am and playing almost nonstop until 2am the next day haha!

i didn't play moz on my first playthrough - but i did start creating a character that would eventually become her: a shorthaired ex-boxer who punched her way through obstacles when diplomacy failed. i remember she spent a lot of time with boone. i liked him then, because he saved my ass more times than i can count. but i digress. this is draft 1 moz essentially

2015 → this is the year that i was doing my thesis so i could graduate but i was so depressed and stressed about it that i distracted myself by replaying fnv on pc, where i played through the dlcs for the first time. i fell in love with the dlcs' oversarching story; particularly ulysses, who i became obssessed with, especially since i couldn't find any content of him at the time. in the game, i played as moz; i had most of her personality and choices down, but her backstory was still up in the air.

fun fact: this was an existing sideblog that i remade to be a fallout blog so i could look for ulysses content, and when i couldn't find any, i made some myself, featuring moz as my main courier six. originally, i didn't ship them, but eventually i ended the year as a courier/ulysses otp shipper.

this was the year i started drawing digitally - my uncle let me borrow a drawing tablet and i used an old copy of photoshop i pirated hehe

2016 → i graduated this year!! and promptly fell deeper into my depression. this was the year that it got so bad that i had to be medicated. through it all, this blog and moz and ulysses and my fandom friends were with me. and for that i am truly grateful :) this was the year i figured out how to lock transparent pixels so that i could color my lineart lol

2017 → i started hammering out moz's backstory this year i think. there's a lot of sketches of her and her family in my files. i experimented with shading and backgrounds here but that experimentation was pretty short-lived

2018 → i started using references seriously!!!! i did a lot of oc on oc kissing this year, featuring mostly moz and many friend ocs haha

2019 → didn't draw much this year. actually this year was a blur and i can't remember much from it except from it being the year of my terrible no good bad copywriting jobs... anyway i did manage to continue my courier/ulysses brainrot and make this piece, which i'm still proud of

2020 → pandemic time. i spent a lot of time asleep at home and i think this was also the year i started doing commissions?? shoutout to anyone who has ever commissioned me - thank you so much, i truly appreciate it!!

2021 → i switched from my old-ass pirated photoshop to clip studio paint and never looked back. also i did a bunch of commissions for my grandmother's surgery, which failed, and i distracted myself from the sadness by drawing my ocs over and over and playing disco elysium

2022 → by this year, i've got moz down pat and have started vaguely developing other ocs instead. but she's still always at the back of my mind

2023 → i bought new brushes from true grit texture supply and immediately found new favorites that i started using for everything. i tentatively started incorporating background elements in some pieces!

2024 → while it's still too early to say where this year will lead me art-wise, i will say that i started experimenting in realistic paint studio (which i bought in 2021, the same time as clip studio paint) a few days ago and i'm liking the results so far. we'll see!

all in all, these last 10 years have been quite a ride, but i'm glad i stuck around and i'm glad you guys stuck around too!! much much love 💖💖💖

[its-a-me-mango]

BIG fan of your artstyle! I love how expressive and energetic it is. It's very nice to look at!

I was wondering how you would draw a Character like Boopkins because I personaly Struggle with his design lol

WAAA Holy shit thank you so much!!! ;w; I've been working on trying to get my style more energetic and fun so I'm so glad someone sees it like that!!! It really means a lot! <3 I'm gonna be so real and honest, I also don't know how to draw Boopkins, there's just something about him that's really hard to translate over to drawings, so I think we're all struggling a bit lmao.

I tried drawing him a week ago but something about him is just hard to get right. I think it's the mouth more than anything, part of me wants to do it more snout like instead of lip like but there doesn't seem to be a right way of drawing him, what's this fish guy got going onnnnnnn

I can't give any help or advice, I'll figure out how to draw him eventually and then give advice, maybe. I think it's best to just play around and have fun with him, he's meant to be a silly little guy you can throw at anything so I guess draw him like one jhsfdhbsfgk

On the flip side Bob is extremely easy to draw, drew him at the same time as Boopkins so I might as well share him too, love this weird rapper. He's just cloth.

[clownmantis]

i was gonna send this anonymously because i don't want to be geeking out this bad and have like an actual name behind me but FUCK IT.

ddude are you aware of how much you have impacted my life because ngl THANK YOU, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR DRAWING THIS ONE GIEGUE REFERENCE SHEET AND MAKING ME ABLE TO DRAW hol on let me just find it rq uhhhh

PPOW!!! llike, you made this shit years ago, i cannot even fathom how much your art has evolved now, but i can thank you very, VERY much into me starting to learn how to draw in shit in plain 2024. like wow, holy fuck. i'm screaming at the void yeah but i am screaming with tears of joy in my eyes because THANK YOU!!! also uh thank you very much for showing the ear references i was fighting demons trying to draw them

also hold on i gotta show you the oc that i made that is verry fucking cool aand and

shit's a little old (2-3 weeks my art is evolving rapidly) so it's a bit uncooked compared to now but i'm so proud of it man LIKE GOD DAMN!!!

also i feel bad for this other artist i saw that drew giegue in a similar way to you and i geeked out as well to them so i hope this is the right one

just thank you vro

-written by a dumbass 14 year old on the internet

HEHEHEHE yeah im the giegue ask blog guy!! or i was up until tumblr booted me out of that account lol . but YAAAAAAYAYAYA IM SO GLAD YOU ENJOYED HIM!!! enough to start drawing yourself .....

i am beyond flattered . so yknow what i havent drawn geeg stuff in ages but this was so sweet to suddenly find in my inbox that HERES A YOUR GUY!!! FOR THE YOU!!!

tysm for sharing your guy w me im so proud of you and KEEP ON DRAWIN!!!

[francois1030]

like a week ago i drew nana do u likes. the blood could be improved. my sopping wet meow meow full of blood

holy shit that's actually really good she's so silly (faked killing her entire class)

[darcydarlingdabbles]

Blood Like Honey

Radioapple Week — Blood — Hazbin Hotel

Explicit: blood (duh), biting. Angel blood has healing properties.

//Inspired by the gorgeous art this lovely RadioApple week! First time I’ve participated in anything like this and holy shit this fandom is talented~ Song: Closer by Nine Inch Nails//

4.4k

Alastor slipped away from the frivolity in the freshly rebuilt lobby of Hazbin Hotel. Usually he enjoyed some revelry and clinking glasses after a hard fought victory—but as the night went on, he felt his ever-present grin start to wane. 

Because the radio demon had not won this day. 

Alastor’s eternal damnation had flashed before his eyes at the end of an angelic blade, and it seemed his humiliation would not soon be forgotten. The blessed wound seared through his chest even now, and when he lifted his hand from the breast of his crimson coat, and saw blood welled on his palm. 

The demon retreated back into the shadows before his predicament was noticed. 

With a flick of his wrist, Alastor attempted to vanish, to escape to the solitude of his radio tower. But his powers faltered, the darkness sputtering and depositing him unceremoniously on the second floor.

Alastor cursed his weakness with a hiss through his clenched teeth. 

His long fingers curled in the collar of his coat, summoning his sickly green magic to try to seal the wound once again as he leaned heavily against the wall that still smelled of fresh paint and plaster. 

His grin remained fixed, that twisted rictus gaze betraying nothing of the searing agony threatening to claim him. The Radio Demon would not be felled so easily, not by some sanctimonious prick and his holy tantrum. 

Alastor’s claws dug into the wall, charred magic sizzling from his fingertips as he fought to remain upright.

A ragged cough ripped through him, flecks of ruby speckling his lips as he tried to focus his gaze and his shadows upward. The radio tower was so achingly close, and yet leagues away with his powers in their current state. 

Alastor dragged himself to his feet. Forcing one foot step after another, an agonizing trek unmitigated by every shallow breath that felt like a new slice out of his torso. 

He stumbled, leaving a streaked, bloody handprint in his wake as he slid down to the plush carpet. 

The clack of approaching heels drew Alastor’s unfocused gaze—he had no desire for any company in this state, but hissed when he saw the shadow of his least favorite hotel occupant down the hallway. Lumbering into view with a casual, arrogant swagger came none other than Lucifer himself. 

The fallen angel paused mid-step, red eyes narrowing as he caught sight of the bloody trail. “Well, well...it seems someone had a bit too much ‘fun’ at the celebration.” His lips curved in an amused, like the sanguine stains were nothing more than spilled wine on the floor. 

Alastor forced himself to his feet, covering the bloody handprint he’d left moments ago. 

“Or perhaps the infamous Alastor can’t hold his liquor?” The petite blonde arched a single eyebrow and gave a smirk that the radio demon would love to rip right off of his face. 

“It’s remarkable how such a petite parcel can contain an astonishing degree of irritation.” Despite his predicament, Alastor couldn’t resist a taunting rasp. “I would greatly prefer the pleasurable company of the younger Morningstar.” Implication laced his tongue behind his manic smile, unable to help but needle a little more at Lucifer’s ego. Even if the jab was punctuated with a wheezing chuckle.

 Maybe he should be more concerned with self-preservation at the moment, but the searing pain was robbing him of his senses. 

The flair in the archangel’s eyes might just be one of the final joys Alastor had. 

“Don’t let the packaging fool you, pal.” The shorter man sneered, reaching for the lapels of Alastor’s coat—before slamming him against the wall with enough force to rattle the demon’s bones. “I pack quite a punch, enough to pick up your slack with Adam, remember?”

A pained shriek of static tore from Alastor’s throat, causing the lights in the hallway to flicker and the blonde to wrench his hands back. 

“What the fuck…?” Lucifer’s smug triumph morphed into stunned disbelief when he saw that his palms were slicked with blood. “What in Dad’s name happened to you?”

“I do believe you have just ruined my coat.” 

Realization flickered in the angel’s eyes as he stared at the scarlet stain marring Alastor’s chest and continuing to spread. 

“Fuck your coat, you’ve got an angel blade wound! You do realize that won’t heal, ever, right?!” 

“I was coming to that conclusion, yes.” 

Lucifer looked up at the demon that was now slouching down the wall with the effort to stay upright, seeing the hand print now smudge into the wallpaper behind him. 

 The angel seized the soaked edges of Alastor’s coat, wrenching the material apart and sending buttons flying down the hallway. The scarlet button down he wore was drenched in his dark blood, and Lucifer was about to rip that fabric away too—

When a long-nailed hands wrapped around his wrists. “It’s hardly decent to disrobe me without so much as a dinner invitation.” He teased with dark amusement despite his failing strength. 

“You are so about to take the cake in the ‘pride before the fall’ department, buddy.” Lucifer snapped. “You want me to heal it, I need to see it—unless you wanna bleed out in Charlie’s hallway.” 

“Funny.” Alastor’s smirk was a ghost of his typical smile. “I do suppose pride and exhibitionism go hand-in-hand, Your Majesty.”

With a growl of pure annoyance, Lucifer snapped his fingers, whisking them away from the hall in a swirl of divine light. 

When the demon could see again, he knew they were in the lavish yet garish confines of Lucifer’s sweet. 

The fallen angel released his grip, and Alastor crumpled gracelessly onto the plush sofa with a grunt that sounded like microphone feedback. Lucifer ignored him, pacing around his cluttered room to snatch up supplies. A basin of clean water materialized on the sofa’s side table, followed by a stack of crispe white towels. 

Alastor had just managed to sit up enough to watch the whirlwind of activity through narrowed eyes, his permanent smile and ominous slash across his paling face. 

“What exactly are you doing?” The radio demon asked, suspicion swirling in his eyes and his tone. “And, for that matter, why?”

Lucifer came to a stop in front of Alastor’s splayed legs, rolling up his sleeves to show the black skin of his hands went all the way up the elbows. He squared his shoulders “Are there radio dials where your brains should be—I said I was healing you.”

Alastor watched him with increasingly heavy eyelids. “The latter question remains; why? We’ve made no secret of of our disdain for each other—what’s your ulterior motive in not letting me die?” 

He spoke the words with his characteristic smoothness, belying the desperation and the toll the injury was taking on him. Each syllable strained him and the filter crackled at random. 

Lucifer rolled his eyes heavenward, as if entreating a higher power for patience. 

“Is it so damn hard for a demon to believe an angel just wants to help?”

Alastor answered with a derisive snort. 

“Fine…” Lucifer ran a hand through his blonde hair, mussing it, as he averted his gaze and folded his arms. “I have a reason. But it’s nothing to do with you, so can we get on with this?”

The radio demon continued with his pointed stare. He’d rather die than owe his skin to anyone else. 

Lucifer’s jaw tightened, visibly steeling himself, before something raw escaped in his expression. “Look, it’s because of Charlie.”

Alastor’s expression stayed painted on. 

“I’m still working my way into her good graces again, and for some reason, she likes having you around.”

Alastor blinked slowly, the rapid rise and fall of his chest the only indication of his surprise. Not surprise that the petite blonde was trying to win Charlie over—but that he, a demonic overlord, mattered enough to either of them to want to keep around. Sure, he’d tried to make himself invaluable to the princess, but clearly he’d failed during the fight to protect the Hotel. 

For an eternity, a heavy silence reigned between them, broken only by the faint crackle of radio static. 

Well, even if the angel was wrong, at least the demon would be alive to find out. 

Then, almost imperceptibly, Alastor inclined his head in a minute nod of acceptance. Lucifer’s shoulders sagged in naked relief.

“Thank fuck.” The angel sighed, rather dramatically. “Now, can we get on with saving your wretched life before I’m accused of ending it?”

Despite the fragility of his condition, Alastor’s permanent grin stretched taut with grim amusement. “Well...” A chuckle reverberated from somewhere deep within the demon. “When you put it like that...” With a magnanimous sweep of his hand that cost him precious agony, he acquiesced. “By all means.”

Lucifer wasted no more time, though his motions were just slightly more gentle than ripping Alastor’s clothes open in the hallway. 

He began to peel away the blood-soaked dress shirt and pushed his suspenders aside, exposing the gash across his chest. 

The radio demon stiffened, a low, warning growl reverberating from somewhere in his ribcage—but it was more instinct than true protest. Or, he couldn’t move to stop the angel’s movements.

As more of Alastor’s torso was revealed, the slashes and lacerations of various vintages across his ashen skin. 

Lucifer’s brow furrowed at the sight, but he made no comment. 

His dark fingers were already ghosting over the fresh, jagged wound with reverence, probing the ragged edges. Angelic poison pulsed and seethed. 

Alastor watched every move warily, radio feedback bristling like a impotent force field around him. 

When Lucifer’s palm pressed flat against his gory wound, the demon went rigid. Something…sparked between them. Their eyes met for a moment, energy igniting and crackling between them like a live wire. 

Before the demon could process, Lucifer was moving again. 

Alastor thought the magnetic feeling was fleeting and gone—until Lucifer swung a leg over his lap to straddle him. The demon recoiled with a sharp hiss of breath, every muscle gone taught. 

“What the devil do you suppose you’re doing?” he snarled through gritted teeth. “…darling?”

The angel shot him a look at the provocation, but his pulled focus pulled right back to the gaping wound in the demon’s chest

“Bracing you, because this is about to hurt, tough guy.” Lucifer said, calm as could be, reaching behind Alastor to grab the back of the sofa. “And I suggest you grab something—this is gonna fucking hurt.” 

Alastor’s arms felt too damn heavy to grab much of anything at the moment, and his dignity was suffering with the archangel so intimately in his space. He took the arm of the sofa, leaving his clawed hand resting limply on the cushion beside Lucifer’s thigh.

The angel’s warning became abundantly clear as his other hand pressed to the slash through Alastor’s flesh. 

A searing white light blazed and pain etched into every fiber of Alastor’s being. His teeth clenched so hard they might shatter—anything to keep the scream from clawing its way up his throat as holy fire lanced through his veins. The demon’s hands clenched on instinct, claws sinking into the nearest thing he could grab. 

Piercing the arm of the plush sofa, and Lucifer’s leg. 

Alastor’s bright red nails sank through fabric and flesh with sickening ease. 

The fallen angel hissed but refused to relent. His palms pressed harder, searing ever brighter, as he cauterized the divine wound with his own sacred power. 

Alastor’s awareness contracted into one agonizing pinprick of existence. The room around him roiled, chaotic colors and sounds and torturous sensations. 

Lucifer’s eyes blazed like a solar flare in the haze. 

Alastor’s claws shredded deeper, molten gold seeping from the ragged punctures and between his black fingers. 

But it was nothing, less than nothing compared to the scouring inside him. 

He was nothing but the agony. 

And, if there was one thing that Alastor knew well, it was agony and suffering. He’d seen hundreds, thousands of souls experiencing loss of life and limb—often at his own hand. 

Blood shed between two people was an excruciatingly intimate experience.

Alastor could feel it, even now, with this angel holding him together as he tore apart. Things he’d never felt. His was never the blood being spilled. Until now. 

“Nope, you’re not dying on me now deer boy!” Lucifer’s voice called him from the white void the demon had fallen into, the brilliance of the light blinding him with more torment. 

Someone yanked on Alastor’s antlers, tugging his head forward. Until he could smell apple sweet breath. Could taste it on his tongue. 

Then, as abruptly as it started, the ritual crescendo and fell. 

The brilliance subsided, leaving pulsating shadows dancing across the demon’s vision. He became aware that he was panting for every scrap of air, his chest spasming under the pressure of Lucifer’s hand. 

When Alastor’s eyes finally became useful, he found himself locked into the gaze of the devil himself. 

And Lucifer was looking at him with an expression he had never seen before. 

“There, easy big guy.” The angel’s grip moved from Alastor’s horns to cradle the back of his neck, laying him back gently against the back of the sofa…as if he were something worth treating with tenderness. 

Alastor blinked slowly at the ceiling of the room as his senses gradually reasserted themselves. 

The pain had receded, leaving a dull, throbbing ache throughout his body. 

Gingerly, he pulled his right hand from the remnants of the shredded sofa arm, drawing his fingers along the newly formed scar tissue. It tingled with residual celestial might, but the wound itself had finally closed. 

Knitted together and still giving a faint golden glow from Lucifer’s power. 

It was only then that the demon realized said fallen angel was still sat in his lap. A quip was on Alastor’s tongue, when his gaze drifted further downwards, to his claws still mangling the other man’s thigh. 

Lucifer’s pant leg was oozing trails of vibrant ichor, and the angel made no move to free himself from Alastor’s grip—though if he had, the demon’s instincts would never let him release his bleeding quarry. 

He could not help the smile that split his face, an unholy sort of rapture pulled from the depraved depths of his soul as he unsheathed his claws, just to see them dripping with divine blood. 

“Out of curiosity.” Alastor purred, feeling his darkness welling in him fresh and new. “How does an angel feel when we make them bleed?” his voice distorted with the return of his powers. 

“Huh?” Lucifer looked down at his leg, like Alastor’s morbid curiosity was only slightly of interest. “Cute.” 

Alastor blanched, his reverie broken as he stared at the blonde. And watched with utterly fascination as he casually swept a hand over his thigh—and the flesh mended and the blood seeped back into his alabaster skin. 

Fury and fascination ignited in the radio demon all at once. 

The angel stood, and the shredded fabric hung loose around his perfectly whole leg. “But it takes more than some demon’s claws to leave an archangel with a lasting injury.” 

Something in Alastor trembled. Not pain, not fear, but something far more…primal.

Lucifer was already busying himself darting around the room again, mopping up the blood—the demon’s, as it was ruby red. Perhaps a little slower than before, or perhaps that was Alastor’s wounded ego supplicating. 

Unbidden, Alastor raised his hand, examining the rivulets of golden essence dribbling down his fingers. His mouth watered. But he refused to indulge in that particular vice in front of the already smug angel. 

“Tell me, Your Majesty.” His voice was heavy even in his own flicking ears. “What am I meant to do with this?”

The archangel’s brows pulled, glancing at Alastor’s hand, before a lascivious smirk grew across his lips. Lucifer leaned back over him, closer to Alastor’s face than he allowed anyone else. “You should lick it off.” 

“I…beg your pardon.” Alastor jerked back, affronted. 

“Oh come on, what’s a little sanguivory for a demonic overlord?” He waved a dismissive hand. “I bet you’re into all sorts of weird shit”

Alastor felt his upper lip twitch with contempt. 

On the one hand, yes. On the other, fuck him. 

The demon flicked the blood off his fingers, flicking it back at its owner. 

It can heal you, you fucking pompous ass.” Lucifer rolled his eyes, his hand on his hip. “Don’t tell me you’re a straight from the vein snob.”

That struck a nerve. 

Alastor’s gaze narrowed dangerously as his smile carved deeper into his features. With a tilt of his head and a cock of his brow, he called the other’s bluff. “Afraid to lose any more blood, my dear?”

“Fuck you.” 

The demon was ready to give a laugh at the smaller man’s expense, when, when he had to hide the surprise before it could manifest across his face. 

Lucifer brought his wrist up, slicing across the artery with one of his razor sharp teeth. Golden ichor welled up instantly, trickling down the dark skin of his forearm. 

A wickedly beautiful sight, indeed. 

Alastor stared, stunned into a rare silence as the archangel offered his bleeding wrist. No demand given, no conditions set, and no chains attached. He couldn’t fathom it. 

Yet, there it hung between them, dripping celestial vitae onto the demon’s slacks. 

Alastor curled his long fingers around the angel’s fist, as if the offer may shatter and the hand wrap around his neck. The bright red eyes stayed locked on the angels, as his tongue flicked out to taste the first exquisite drop. 

The flavor was like nothing he’d tasted on Earth or in the pits below it. Rich, heady, sweet as nectar but far from the cloying sugar the demon despised. 

Distilled rapture, a taste of heaven without the affliction of holy light. 

A low rumble echoed from deep within Alastor’s chest as his gaze turned heavy-lidded again. He fastened his lips to the cut and drank deep. Savoring every drop. 

Lucifer shifted his weight from foot to foot, a shudder rippling through his slight frame at the feeling of Alastor’s lips. By the time the radio demon pulled back with a lingering swipe of his tongue, the wound sealed itself without a scar. 

“Satisfied?”

Alastor fixed Lucifer with a stare of unadulterated hunger.

 “Hardly.” 

The high of angelic vitality blazed hot in the demon’s veins. When the clawed hand reached for him, tangling in his vest, Lucifer wasn’t sure where that sinful mouth would land. 

Until lips crashed into his. 

That first kiss was a tangle of teeth and desperation. The thrill of the razor sharp and the sweetness of angel blood on his lips—until Lucifer’s forked tongue slipped into Alastor’s mouth, and sliced the inside of his cheek. 

The iron taste joined the nectar, sparking a groan of approval from the radio demon’s throat. 

Alastor’s shadows, fully restored, surged up to engulf them both, and yank Lucifer off of his feet. The tentacles slammed the angel bodily into the plush sofa. He let out a breathless laugh as Alastor loomed over him. 

“Why, Your Majesty. Letting a lowly sinner get you on your back?” Alastor purred, his knee wedging its way between Lucifer’s thighs. 

“Shut it strawberry pimp.” Lucifer shot back at him, grinning a challenge in his fiery eyes. “I’ve handled bigger and stronger demons than you.” 

Baring his teeth in a feral smile, Alastor leaned down until they were nose to nose again. “Is that so, darling?”

With a yank of clawed fingers, Lucifer dragged Alastor’s mouth back to his own in a bruising kiss. “Less talking,” he growled against those smiling lips. “More biting.”

A low, rumbling chuckle spilled from Alastor’s chest as he nipped sharply at Lucifer’s jaw. 

Merciless claws rent through expensive fabric shredding the archangel’s shirt and vest to bare his chest. Divine blood welled up in the shallow scratches, only to knit themselves closed before the demon’s eyes. Alastor’s gaze drank in every tantalizing inch of newly exposed skin with ravenous delight. 

He grasped Lucifer’s chin, tilting his head aside to expose the tempting column of his throat.

 For a breathless moment, the radio demon’s teeth hovered a hair’s breadth away, mouth aching with the urge to sink his teeth right into the vital artery.

But something held him back. Not the angel who was squirming all too willingly under him—Alastor found he couldn’t bring himself to risk draining this delectable wellspring entirely. 

An unexpected tendril of concern gave him pause as he looked upon Lucifer’s powerful yet achingly fragile form.

Instead, Alastor’s lips trailed lower, canines finally piercing that perfect pale flesh at the juncture of neck and shoulder.

 A tremor ran through Lucifer’s body as he arched up into the vicious bite with a breathless keen of pure ecstasy. 

Hips rutted shamelessly against Alastor’s thigh, the hard line of the archangel’s arousal leaving the demon’s slack dampened.

Arousal made his blood impossibly, deliciously sweeter.

When the demon pulled back at last, a low rumble was rolling at a constant frequency from his chest, and he realized…he was purring. 

“My, my... Seems an angel’s ardor makes for quite the delectable vintage.” His smile was luminous. 

Lucifer could only pant softly in response, too lust-addled to muster words through the hazy fog of desire shrouding his senses, though he managed to raise one of his hands. 

Alastor realized only a breath before that the angel was snapping his fingers, divesting them both of the shredded remains of their clothing. 

The demon froze, feeling exposed yet again, and unsure what exactly he was meant to do next. Hazy with want for more, whatever more was. 

Lucifer’s hands scrabbled desperately at the demon’s shoulders, pulling him closer still until legs wrapped around his waist. 

The demon had half a mind to call his shadows and wrench the angel’s limbs away from him—but he didn’t want to. He’d never been so taken with someone, body and blood. When Lucifer’s fingers curled into his hair and pulled their mouths back together. 

“Just, move. Please.” The angel begged. Like music to the demon’s ears. He could very much get used to that pretty little sound. 

In one sinuous motion, Alastor rolled his hips, pinning the archangel bodily beneath him as their aching cocks ground together, slicked no doubt with their mingled blood.

 An unholy growl rumbled up from the very depths of his being in a resonant snarl. “Is this what you want, Cher?” The old, adoring term from his human life fell from his lips like honey. 

This Alastor could do. Rut gracelessly together, seeking their tangled pleasure, chasing it into the unknown. 

At last, Lucifer found his voice on a strangled groan. “Shut up and bite me already, you insufferable tease!” 

Well, far be it from Alastor to deny such an enticing demand.

He sank his teeth back into the base of the archangel’s neck, feeling the man arch into the pain and the drag of his mouth, writing desperately against him like a pinned viper. 

Alastor tasted the bliss in Lucifer’s blood before he was prepared to be sent tumbling into his own. 

When he finally surfaced from the haze of gratification, Alastor found himself sprawled bonelessly against the plush sofa cushions, every muscle deliciously lax

A warm weight pressed flush against his chest, and he cracked open one eye to find Lucifer draped over him in a tangle of pale limbs, clinging with surprising tenacity.

As Alastor made to extricate himself, the archangel merely tightened his grip with a soft protest. “Stay,” Lucifer mumbled, nuzzling closer with a contented sigh that ghosted over Alastor’s collarbones.

The radio demon arched one brow in faint surprise. “I’m not one for... cuddling, darling,” he pointed out, lips quirking in a wry smirk as he carefully peeled those insistent hands away.

But Lucifer was having none of it, stubbornly resisting Alastor’s efforts as he shot the demon an exasperated look through half-lidded eyes. 

“We’re naked and covered in each other’s bodily fluids, you really wanna leave now?,” he countered dryly. “I’m not letting you go anywhere just yet.”

Alastor held that pointed stare for a beat, considering.

 True, the archangel had not only saved his life by purging the angelic poison from his veins, but had freely offered his own sacred blood to aid in the healing. 

An act of vulnerability and trust that shouldn’t be taken lightly, even for one as distrustful as the radio demon. 

With a barely perceptible huff, Alastor relented, settling back against the cushions as Lucifer pillowed his head back into the man’s chest.

 Almost immediately, the archangel melted against him, one hand idly tracing the myriad of scars and old wounds that crisscrossed Alastor’s torso. 

He expected revulsion. For this to be the straw that made the unblemished angel finally pull away—Lucifer’s touch held only a gentle sort of curiosity, mapping out each ridge and valley with delicate fingers as though committing them to memory.

It should have set Alastor’s instincts on edge, allowing someone—an angel, no less—having such intimate access to his vulnerabilities.

 But, strangely, he found the soft caresses almost... soothing in their tender exploration. 

A tiny furrow formed between the demon’s brows as unease flickered across his features. This strange sense of comfort, of safety in the archangel’s presence... it was wholly unfamiliar. 

Unsettling. 

And yet, when Lucifer let out a jaw-cracking yawn and proceeded to snuggle closer with a contented murmur, Alastor couldn’t find it in himself to protest. 

Instead, his gaze drifted down to the faintly glowing imprint of the healed wound in his chest, the scar still ting/ed with a hint of liquid glow that seemed to pulse in time with Lucifer’s steady breaths.

Despite himself, the barest hint of a genuine smile tugged at the corners of Alastor’s lips as weariness began to tug insistently at his mind.

 Just this once, he decided as his eyes slipped shut once more. Just this once, he would bask in the warmth of this inexplicable connection. 

Consequences be damned. 

[alwaysbegrowing]

Wombo Combo

“Boom,” May said into her mic, “get fucked, bitch!”

If I had to sum up May in just two words I would choose “talented” and “toxic” which don’t sound great as far as introductions go. For as long as we’ve been dating she’s been nothing but kind and caring in every possible situation except for one. That one situation is whenever she boots up her favorite fighting game, Innocent Cog, which completely changes her demeanor. It didn’t get really bad until she started streaming it because her audience seriously eggs her on. I could think of a couple reasons why, though.

May’s favorite character to play was a little girl with a nautical theme named ‘Totsugeki’. That round, she’d been up against a grappler character named ‘Zepp’. I watched her latest victim’s lifebar empty, and waited for the real show to start. Ordinarily, May was a short brunette with slight curves. That day she was wearing a tank top that read ‘Get Smoked’ and a pair of leggings. Her clothing was pretty loose-fitting before she won the match.

When May started rising up in her seat she looked directly into her webcam. She moaned with each little bit her body grew, up and up, until her tank top and leggings drew tight on her. She enjoyed getting bigger as much as I liked watching her grow. She topped out at around five foot ten, which told me she was purposely holding back.

When her breasts, initially not even a B-cup, began inflating against the fabric of her top I figured out why. May cooed as she pushed her hands over her chest, relishing in the feeling of her growing tits pushing her hands further away. Her boobs went from barely filling a half of her palm to meeting, and then overflowing it.

May’s breasts bubbled against the edge of the shirt’s neckline. Her plunging cleavage assaulted the fabric until inches of her enormous orbs were on display. The honeydew melon-sized tits on her chest would have fit a large E-cup bra on her otherwise thin frame. May seemed like she was still growing up, but this wasn’t due to more mass being packed into her legs. In rapid surges, her buttocks grew larger and rounder until she was packing quite the bubble butt into her leggings.

Suddenly, as if by magic, a tiny person was wedged between May’s inflated cheeks and her leggings. I could just barely see the outline of someone wriggling against the fabric. She giggled and casually spoke into her mic as she waited for the next match. I was watching her both in person and on stream; I loved watching the chat feed explode when new viewers saw her grow live on camera.

“Finally, okay gang, a new challenger approaches,” May giggled, “aaaand it’s Doctor Scalpel? Biiig mistake, chief. Time to get your shit pushed in!”

Once a week, every week, this was the show that May would put on ever since she started streaming a few months ago. She would go until she lost a match or couldn’t play anymore. Today was shaping up to be headed toward the latter given that her latest match lasted about forty-five seconds before her opponent went down. Literally. This time, when May started growing larger and more buxom, it was within her top’s straining fabric her latest victim began squirming.

“Oof, got an active one this time, chat.” May playfully patted her inflating breasts. I could see her widening hips start pushing into her chair’s armrests. She was reaching six-foot-three while sitting in a chair setup for somebody much smaller. Purposeful, of course, since the small chair only served to make her bigger. May’s burgeoning G-cups were so large they were starting to rest on the desk in front of her.

The next match came and went; this time, her opponent failed to land a single hit in the first round and tried to rage-quit. I couldn’t help but chuckle, though I was drowned out by May’s much more uproarious laughter.

“Holy shit! Did you see that, chat?! Oh, they’re going straight to titty jail,” May chortled. She only grew a few inches this time. Much like the rest of her audience, I, too, didn’t want the show to end just when it was getting good. Still, May’s boobs were encroaching on her keyboard, and each one now had a squirming figure trapped beneath it. Then, another, and another, for a total of four shrunken people stuck and wriggling beneath her double H-cup melons.

“Mmmf, fuckin’ scrubs can’t even compete with my tits!” May sensuously moaned. Her shoulders were a few inches out of her chair, and her hips and thick ass were trapped against the armrests, truly. Her top stretched so far across her enormous bust that it barely served as a bra. She was a vision of curves that jiggled deliciously with her vigorous laughter. I saw her make direct and purposefully eye-contact with her webcam. I felt like she was staring right through me.

“Alright, chat, I’m gonna take a break. We’ll be back on later today, though, and we’ll be playing ranked. Get hyped!” May said as she signed off. I barely had time to put my laptop aside before May was on top of me. I could feel she was on the edge of bursting out of her clothes. She pressed her body into mine, squishing her victims between the two of us.

I didn’t realize just how far even watching May had pushed me. Her soft and jiggly body grinding against mine, much heavier thanks to how much bigger she was, was heavenly. I nearly came immediately and right as I managed to keep myself contained, I heard May giggle once again.

“We just started, baby,” May cooed, “don’t make me put you in jail, too.”

[wildlife4life]

Oreo Towers will Tumble

Buddie M 7K

Drew Heyward has been a floater at the 118 for a few shifts and ends up as man behind one afternoon. During this time he finds a surprise visitor, Eddie Diaz, one of the handful of omega first responders and the person Drew has been covering for. Turns out, Eddie is Buck's mate, very pregnant and bored after weeks of bedrest. They talk, panic attacks occur, and oreo tower bets are made, creating a new friendship.

“Well until I was put on stupid bed rest a few months ago, this was my place of work.” The omega answered, annoyance lacing his tone. Immediately Drew caught on who their guest is. “Holy shit your Eddie Diaz.” “Technically Buckley-Diaz, but yep that’s me. And you are?” Drew didn’t answer at first, because he was…well he was somewhat starstruck.  Eddie Diaz is one of a handful of omega first responders in the state of California and he was badass.  Pulled a live grenade from a man’s leg, climbed a tilted hotel and a submerged Ferris wheel, and survived the sniper attack back in May. His saves were legendary, and he broke through all the glass ceilings held above omegas.  “Um…” Diaz squinted a bit, eyes on the beta’s chest, “Firefighter Heyward, you good there?” “Holy shit I didn’t know I was covering for you! Oh my god! And did you say Buckley-Diaz? Buckley? As in Buck? He’s your mate?” Drew finally caught the underlying scent of ocean salt and smokey cedar of his fellow fireman mingled with Diaz’s spiced chocolate. “Holy shit!”

Its here! May not be the a/b/o fic ya'll are expecting, but this one is complete and posted! This fic was literally inspired by a pack of Oreos and the random ass image of Eddie stacking them on his pregnant belly. I hope you all enjoy!