#I know I’m missing a fuckton

[thetimetraveler24]

STOP CANCELING SHOWS AFTER ONE OR TWO SEASONS! LET THEM COOK A LITTLE!

[lesser-sage-of-stars]

I’m not sure if I just missed it but I would love more warframe lore on what the other Tenno are doing. I understand that the player character is the big, powerful Tenno who made the deal and other stuff. But I want to her about the other Tenno, what’s there names, what happened to them during/after the new war. Does lotus manager all the Tenno, or just a few?

Also what’s the situation after the new war and the other Tenno

Are we the only Tenno with a railjack?

I have so many questions, and yeah fanfic and speculation but I would love a bit more

)yes I know Rell is a named Tenno but he’s just alive for one quests and the red vail never mentions him as far as I know afterwards(

[whencartoonsruletheworld]

Hey so that reminds me. The first Five Nights at Freddy’s trailer dropped and it looks good and fun and scary and the Jim Henson company can do no wrong as always!!! I can't fucking wait!!!!!

But like– warning for people not familiar with this franchise:

(and I have no idea HOW you could have missed this but I have encountered larger and stranger knowledge gaps in my time on the internet so just. sending this out there):

FNAF is THEEEEEEE jumpscare game.

Like. I’m not a gamer or anything but just from my memory it’s what started the jumpscare horror trend of the mid-2010s. The entire game system for the vast majority of the franchise is BUILT around jumpscares. Jumpscares are what it is known for, if its name could be changed to anything it would be "Jumpscares: The Game" because that's what it is. The first thing anyone learns about this franchise is that there are one shit billion jumpscares in it. The trailer didn't have too many but the movie no doubt WILL have a metric fuckton just because that's how the game operates.

also for those not familiar with this franchise, every game (the first one implicit but it's still present) deals with child death + murder. Teaser already confirmed that will be in the film, leaked trailer confirmed even more of it. Have you seen that viral post going around like "sir this is the child death and murder franchise i know what i signed up for" "what kids are in fnaf??" "are you in the headspace to receive information that could possibly hurt you right now" they are NOT kidding it is a core part of the lore and plot.

tl;dr if you don't know anything about fnaf but wanna see it after the movie trailer looked sick, massive MASSIVE trigger warnings for jumpscares and child murder. It's a core part of the franchise and if you can't deal with one or both of those you should avoid this one come October.

[loaksky]

no thoughts other than professor!abby / coworker!abby and the holiday stocking ! this is like 80 percent backstory bc who am i to not blabber about my new favorite trope...full length fic abt them in the works oops! not proofread + no warnings other than language!

tlou masterlist | main masterlist

⋆.ೃ࿔ first let’s set the scene by establishing that abby’s probably a tenure-track professor in a hyper specific literature study or maybe cross-teaches a course or two in the women and gender studies department. you’re a new educator probably teaching english 101?

⋆.ೃ࿔ abby first sees you at the faculty meeting for her department during the late summer and is immediately enamored.

⋆.ೃ࿔ by some stroke of luck, she finds that she’s been assigned to your neighboring office and her final lecture is held in the hall across from yours.

⋆.ೃ࿔ abby’s usually pretty good about the timing of her lectures and she ends up finishing 10-15 minutes early every session. so sometimes she hears the tail end of your lessons and can’t help but think you’re so fucking brilliant.

⋆.ೃ࿔ the students are taken by you too, usually not paying any mind to professors that teach lower level classes, but you’re animated and hands-on, and abby realizes that maybe she should take a page from your book.

⋆.ೃ࿔ literally can’t work up the courage to say anything to you first and is so surprised when she’s having an internal warfare one day while she’s locking up the lecture hall and you slink past her.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “have a good weekend dr. anderson!”

⋆.ೃ࿔ nearly short circuits because how in the fuck do you know her name? (hint hint: you haven’t been able to get a grip after seeing her in the same faculty meeting she’d basically fallen head over heels for you at).

⋆.ೃ࿔ for the life of her, can’t get her shit together over the weekend. is so scatterbrained because the hot new professor knows her name?? practically spirals because that means that she’s been perceived and she has no idea if it’s a good or bad thing because what do you think of her ???

⋆.ೃ࿔ runs into you bright and early monday morning as she’s about to duck into her office and she wants to make a beeline for the safety of her ergonomic chair, but you look a little frazzled and she’s speaking before she can stop herself.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “everything alright?” she asks as you miss the slot for the keyhole a few times and blow out a shaky sigh.

⋆.ೃ࿔ notices you’re carrying a fuckton of things and is wordlessly grabbing your stack of folders and taking your heavy knapsack from you as you finally get the key in the keyhole.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “thank you so much,” you say, voice thick with unshed tears. “i just, fuck, shit, sorry, that wasn’t professional—”

⋆.ೃ࿔ and she could melt because you’re so cute.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “i don’t think i saved the form for midterm grades on my laptop and the battery just crapped out on me, and i’m pretty sure i just missed the deadline and—”

⋆.ೃ࿔ “hey, breathe, breathe,” abby says gently, hands involuntarily smoothing over your shoulders. “you’re okay, it’s okay. shit happens.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ “god, i’m such a idiot.” you scrub your hands down your face. “the upper level professors were right, i do suck—”

⋆.ೃ࿔ “whoa, whoa,” abby calls out sternly, expression horrified. “who said that?”

⋆.ೃ࿔ “it’s not important,” you whisper, blowing out another breath and squeezing your eyes shut as you shake your hands to try to calm yourself. “they’re not wrong.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ “who.” and abby is no longer asking, arms bulging in her oxford shirt as she crosses her arms over her chest and stares down at you.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “dr. paige and mr. ruiz,” you say quietly, fidgeting under such a steely gaze.

⋆.ೃ࿔ abby just makes a noise in her throat, uncrosses her arms and tilts her head towards your desktop computer.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “if you were working on the submission form on your faculty account, it automatically syncs to the cloud both on and offline,” she says. “there’s usually a grace period until the final scheduled lecture for the day which is in...” she glances at her wrist watch, “in about an hour.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ you’re rounding your desk, practically throwing yourself in your chair as you boot up the computer and log into your faculty portal. your cheeks are flushed warm and eyes wide as your gaze flits across the screen.

⋆.ೃ࿔ you deflate in relief after a few clicks to find that professor anderson’s absolutely correct, and there’s the form in all it’s glory, cursor blinking and ready to be completed and submitted.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “holy shit, thank you so much,” you whisper.

⋆.ೃ࿔ when you look up, she’s already stormed halfway out of your office.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “dr. paige and i would just like to extend a sincere apology for our words regarding your tenure here,” mr. ruiz says after they corner you in the staffroom a few mornings later.

⋆.ೃ࿔ your eyebrows are knitting together momentarily before it dawns on you like a splash of cold water.

⋆.ೃ࿔ it explains why professor anderson had been in such a hurry to leave your office after assisting you a few mornings ago.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “s’okay,” you shrug.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “it’s really not,” dr. paige says. “it was immature and uncalled for to make such comments, and such shouldn’t be taken lightly.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ a sudden movement outside of the window catches your eye, and you’re grinning when you see the familiar flash of dirty blonde.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “really, it’s no hard feelings,” you assure them. “now if you’ll excuse me.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ you’re breaking away from them to duck out of the staffroom and surprise surprise, abigail anderson is standing a few metres from the door, arms crossed over her chest.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “are you eavesdropping dr. anderson?” you tease.

⋆.ೃ࿔ she doesn’t even bother to hide it, answering with a firm and resounding, “yes.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ that earns a full-bellied laugh out of you and she realizes that she’s so fucking whipped.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “you’re a wonderful professor,” abby assures you. “your students love you and you’ve already accomplished such great things in the department.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ you can’t help but flush and an awkward but cute silence dawns the two of you after you murmur a quiet “thank you”

⋆.ೃ࿔ “where’s your next session?” dr. anderson breaks the ice. “i’ll walk you.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ the two of you end up getting a lot closer over the rest of the semester and abby starts to get a little frustrated with herself for waiting for so long to actually talk to you.

⋆.ೃ࿔ because you’re practically perfect; so sweet, insanely intelligent, and it’s just the icing on top that you’re probably one of the prettiest girls she’s ever seen and you’ve got an equally pretty ass to match (abby is an ass girl IDC !)

⋆.ೃ࿔ heart is in shambles because you’ve learned how she likes her coffee and frequently bring her one first thing before your string of lectures start.

⋆.ೃ࿔ also, more often than not, the two of you are spending lunch hours together whether you’re grabbing a quick bite from one of the dining halls, splurging a little to eat lunch at an actual establishment, or killing time at the nearby bookstore a few blocks from the campus center.

⋆.ೃ࿔ long story short, you and abby have been spending so much time together and she knows she really likes you, but she can’t find it in herself to say anything because she doesn’t wanna scare you off with such a strong bout of emotions.

⋆.ೃ࿔ but literally everyone sees it! and it’s not necessarily that you’re oblivious, but abby’s accomplished, a really well-loved professor by both the department and her students, and even if there isn’t a ring on her finger, you’re convinced that abby’s got to have someone special in her life...it’s literally you.

⋆.ೃ࿔ even the students see it! dr. anderson’s been lagging recently during her last time slot and it doesn’t take long for a few students who love her especially so to see the way it takes her a little while longer to pack up and how she lingers out in the hall as your class ends!

⋆.ೃ࿔ “have a good weekend dr. anderson!” her last two students chime as they part ways with her. one of them glances over his shoulder and sees you filing out with a group of students from the adjacent classroom. “good luck.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ and abby’s beet fucking red when you finally lock up and ask her what that was about.

⋆.ೃ࿔ fast forward to now, it’s the final week before students are set to go home for the holidays and she’s a little down in the dumps because not only will she not get to see you for almost a month, but she’s usually alone this time of year and it’s agonizing to think that maybe you’ll be going home to someone else.

⋆.ೃ࿔ unbeknownst to her, you’ve been really nervous because maybe you’d overheard her talking to an adjunct professor, owen, about how she’d never gotten a personalized stocking made for her in response to seeing the one hanging on his shelf that his wife and kid had made for him this year, and perhaps you’d watched a couple youtube videos on stocking decorating and went out to buy the supplies right after.

⋆.ೃ࿔ admittedly, the last few days, the two of you are distant, her because she’s sad, and you because you’re probably spending every waking moment trying to think of ways to make the stocking perfect and you’re so in your head that you don’t even notice her change in demeanor.

⋆.ೃ࿔ and you try to make it perfect, really want abby to love her gift, so you fiddle around with it until the last possible moment.

⋆.ೃ࿔ you’re also nervous as fuck as you peer over your shoulder thursday afternoon, hoping dr. anderson doesn’t catch you in the act of staging her gift because frankly you’re too shy to give it to her.

⋆.ೃ࿔ even though you and dr. anderson are on great terms, she’s still so intimidating and you don’t trust yourself to make an ass of yourself, so you relay your message through a pretty piece of cardstock and tuck it into the bag before you’re scurrying off for the end of the semester.

⋆.ೃ࿔ finally, it’s the final day that campus will be open and abby’s trudging up to her office, only really intending to gather the last of what she’ll need since the buildings will be locked throughout the duration of holiday break, but she’s stopped dead in her tracks when she sees the sizable gift bag hanging on her doorknob.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “what that—”

⋆.ೃ࿔ she’s carefully moving around the tissue paper and her heart catches in her throat when she sees a blue stocking bulging with different treats and even a book! with her name carefully stitched on the band.

⋆.ೃ࿔ her first knee jerk reaction is that maybe owen pitied her and made her one, but a matching blue envelope catches her eye and she’s fishing it out of the bag.

⋆.ೃ࿔ recognizes your handwriting from the whiteboards when she’s stealing peeks into your classroom.

⋆.ೃ࿔ cheeks are flaming and stomach is tying in knots as she reads your note.

⋆.ೃ࿔ Firstly, I’m really disappointed I couldn’t deliver this to you in person, but my flight leaves for home on Friday... :( Nonetheless, you’ve been such a wonderful office neighbor and even more wonderful colleague. I truly can’t string together an adequate way to express how grateful I am to work alongside someone as kind and thoughtful as you, Dr. Anderson. You’ve quickly become such a dear friend and I hope you have a wonderful holiday! See you next year! ˆ<3

⋆.ೃ࿔ the fucking heart...the fucking heart!!! literally it’s all abby can fixate on before she realizes that there’s an ass of things tucked in the stocking and not only did you take the time to handstitch onto the fabric, but you took the time to gather things she didn’t even realize you knew she liked.

⋆.ೃ࿔ is unlocking her office so that she can pour the contents of the stocking onto her desk and she nearly dissipates into a pile of goo right then and there because there’s a few packs of her favorite gum (wintergreen), a set of her absolute favorite ballpoint pens (because gel pens are too runny for her liking), a giftcard to her usual coffee shop (“since I won’t be there to bring you your order” according to the note scrawled on the holder), a thick pair of argyle socks in her favorite colorway, and finally, there’s an annotated version of this is how you lose the time war.

⋆.ೃ࿔ and it has to mean something; your book choice and how you raved about it weeks prior during an excursion with abby to the public library, and you’d pulled the copy off the shelf and asked her if she’d read it.

⋆.ೃ࿔ “no,” she answered simply. “never caught my eye.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ “you should read it,” you’d said quietly. “their love was beautiful.”

⋆.ೃ࿔ and she’d never admit it, but she’d checked it out the following morning and blew through the book so fast, heart pounding in her chest as she realized that it was about two women in love. and, god, this has to mean something, she’d continue to agonize, even until this current moment.

⋆.ೃ࿔ and here an annotated version sits, your thoughts and inner feelings inking the pages. it makrs abby bubble with equal parts hope and sadness. sadness because it seems like way too long until she’ll see you again, and hope because maybe this means something more for the two of you in the future.

⋆.ೃ࿔ who knows, really. but abby’s certain that this holiday will feel a little less lonelier with her heart a lot more fuller.

neng © 2023

[carmyberzattosjournal]

Entry 13: Grand Canyons of Scars

GIF by @mithrandirl

Bearblr Promptober Day 13: Hot Cocoa + Baking

Summary: In which Carmen has the worst panic attack of his life.

Warnings: Panic attack, swearing, trouble breathing, vomiting, pain, Carmy feels like he's dying, The Devil (Chef David) makes an appearance, written with fem reader who is a trauma surgeon in mind, she/her pronouns.

Notes: All journal entries will be titled as such and tagged with #cb journal.

This is a two-parter. Second part here.

Reblogs and comments appreciated. Thank you to @carmenberzattosgf for putting together this prompt list.

13 Oct 2024

I’m glad I had the panic attack in the park before the one I had at home. Because if I had the one at home first, I’m fairly certain Darling wouldn’t’ve looked at me the same again.

The Devil was a food critic now. Should’ve been a downgrade from being one of the best chefs in the world, but jokes on all of us miserable fucks, he was making a fuckton of money without having to step foot in another sweltering, loud, stressful kitchen again. Not that he felt stress. He didn’t feel anything.

He wasn’t a fucking human.

You know how if there is a God, he’s out for my blood, right? Well, I have proof of that now. Exhibit A: I find out this information while chopping chocolate for hot cocoa at my apartment—aside: fuck landlords, it took him a month to fix my range, and the radiator in the bedroom still won’t fucking work—and what comes on during the ad break of the baking show I have running in the background so the place isn’t painfully quiet while I’m waiting on Darling to come up from the parking lot after a long shift?

Aside 2: She was at the hospital for 19 fucking hours, you piece of shit. You fucking deadbeat. That’s the day you did this to her.

“Part of the reason we’re seeing so many restaurants close down, especially after the COVID-19 pandemic, is because of the social culture around dining out changing,” Chef David said.

If I had any control of my body, I would’ve kept my eyes off the T.V., ran over to the remote, and changed the channel or turned it off. That’s it. It sounds so fucking simple when I write this down, but that’s not how it went. It’s not how it’s ever going to go because The Devil left gouges, chasms in my psyche, Grand Canyons of scars that I put shitty fucking rope bridges over and that I could never—and I can never, I know this—fill in. No, I froze. I froze like The Devil’s breath was fanning out over the back of my neck, and the plates were moving too slowly, and I repeated ingredients again, and I should’ve been dead I should’ve been dead I should’ve—

One of the weirdest consequences of working for The Devil was that I could remember every single word he said to me. It was paramount that I did. He spat venom at me if I missed anything he said the first time. Every little thing—down to his fucking hatred of fucking black pepper—I memorized it. I knew that tilt of his head when he sensed an excuse, that eyebrow twitch when he expected a verbal answer, the furrow that formed and dissipated in the blink of an eye when he decided something had too much in it and needed to be stripped further. He walked differently when he was going to berate me. His cadence was different when I fucked up versus when I insulted humanity for existing.

So, as I stood, a marble carving in the kitchen, knife hovering over a chunk of Valrhona 55% dark chocolate already half-shredded into flakes, all I could do was watch the white reflection coming off the blade tremble more and more, all I could do was absorb every. Single. Word. The Devil said, as the voice in my head screamed at my body to move. To do something. To make the voice stop. As I tried to fight through the noise to tell myself it wasn’t real and that it was a dream, and I couldn’t be back in New York, Darling wasn’t in New York, and I couldn’t’ve imagined her this vividly.

“… with the rise… like Uber Eats and Doordash, people are just not finding it necessary to go out to dining halls and enjoy meals. They can get a lot of the food they tend to want to eat at home on their own time without having to brace the discomforts of social expectations. This has, obviously, caused problems in the mid-to-fine dining world, where that social expectation of a dining experience is primarily what drives people in the door rather than the food itself being of some specific quality.”

Like a bolt of lightning, a searing pain erupted in my chest. The knife clattered and slid off the cutting board, off the counter, and rang as it bounced off the tile floor. I grabbed at my chest, at the thing causing the pain, as if to remove it, as if I’d find a knife there butchering me as I stood, but all I grasped was the front of my apron.

“So do you think this will change how restaurants are being run?”

“Absolutely,” The Devil said. “I think in order to survive this change in society, restaurants need to adapt to the social changes we’re seeing.”

The pain worsened and deepened and sunk into the pit of my stomach. And I tore my apron off and clawed at my shirt, trying to chase down the hands under it, under my skin, under my ribs, the ones twisting my insides around their fists.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Noma has announced that it will be closing its dining hall after the service season in 2024 and opening an option more catered to people who want to be able to take the food to-go. There needs to be a shift in the industry that corresponds to the shift in the culture.”

My knees buckled, pain exploded elsewhere—I couldn’t even tell where, it all hurt. Everything hurt. World dimmed. Noise of some kind? Was that a voice? Was that The Devil’s voice?

“Carmy? Carmy!”

I couldn’t breathe. A roaring sound. Lights in my view.

Dark again. Cold. Cold on my face. Something jostled me.

“CARMEN, BREATHE!”

I can’t, sweetheart.

The Devil finally killed me.

Tell Sugar I’m sorry.

Tell ma I love her.

Piercing cold on my chest. Light. Dark. Light. Bile. I coughed and spluttered, gasped in air.

“There you go. Cough. Keep coughing.”

Pressure on my back. Light. It kept moving.

“Breathe... Breathe.” Darling sniffled, drew in a shaking breath. “In and out, slowly, all the way... You’re okay... It’s gonna be okay.”

Kitchen floor, on my side, knife and pool of vomit in view. And the stench of bile and random noise from the T.V. and freezing cold on my chest. A hand rubbing up and down my spine. Darling sniffled again. Took a deep breath.

“Sweetheart, can you hear me?”

I could. Fuck if I could respond, though.

“Carmy, baby, are you here?” something touched my hand. “Can you squeeze if you can hear me? I’m gonna have to call for an ambulance if you’re not—”

I crushed her fingers in my grip. Fuck no. No hospitals.

“Okay.” The cold sensation on my chest left, and in its wake was numbness and, weirdly, burning. The kind that made my face hurt when walking to the restaurant in the winter.

I’d just had the most brutal panic attack of my life. And this poor fucking woman—she got back from 19 fucking hours at the hospital and had to clean up that mess and me and the cut on my arm from falling on the knife. I kept wanting to help—I knew it was my fucking mess—but I couldn’t tell which way was up or down or if I was awake or asleep or what day or year it was. And I hadn’t been properly sick in a long time, but I remembered what a high fever felt like—and this felt like the highest fever of my pathetic existence. I don’t know when the T.V. turned off, but at some point, I noticed how quiet it was.

How did I end up on the couch wrapped in a blanket?

She joined me there. In her pajamas, hair up. Brought two mugs and set them on the coffee table.

“Hi, baby,” she whispered. Pulled her sleeve over her hand and patted my cheek—since when do I cry? “Do you know where you are? What happened?”

It took me a thousand years to respond.

“Panic attack?” I didn’t mean for it to come out as a strangled whisper, but I could’ve swallowed glass, my throat hurt so bad.

Oh.

That roaring sound I heard was my own screaming.

She nodded. Her eyeliner was smudged into a haze around her eyes. “Yeah. Panic attack. But it’s over now. We’re gonna try to recover, but then we need to talk about this, okay?”

I squeezed my eyes shut. I can recall now what she said, but at the time, I couldn’t understand her. The words came to me jumbled.

“Is it okay if I hold you?”

I saw that she was holding an arm out for me. I scooted towards her and hid my face in the crook of her neck. Collapsed into her scent, her softness, her warmth. I crushed a fistful of her pajama top in my hand and squeezed her like she’d disappear if I let go. She peppered kisses all over my forehead and my hairline while she sipped her hot chocolate. Murmured little comforting things to me. She kept feeling the temperature of the second mug, and, after a while, brought it first to her lips to test the temperature, then to mine for me to taste. It had coffee notes, curtesy of the type of chocolate I used, and was rich and velvety without being overly sweet.

“That feel doable, sweetheart?”

Not exactly, but I’d troubled her so much by freaking the fuck out that I sat up and took the mug. Kept sipping it. Let it wash down the pain in my throat.

“’m sorry,” I mumbled.

“Panic attacks are not your fault, baby.”

“No, but I… I should’ve…” heat in my face. “I should’ve gotten help f-for them—”

She placed a hand on my leg. “Sweetheart, I want you to try to stay calm, okay? Just let yourself recover. I promise, we’ll talk about this and figure it out, but right this moment, you need to let yourself calm back down.”

I nodded.

(To Be Continued)

[bloatedandalone04]

Eyes (Not) On Me

➪the one where bradley loses a fight and you make him feel better while also giving him a confidence boost.

Warnings: boxer bradley, angst, fluff, smut, blowjobs, mentions of injuries, mentions of blood, descriptions of injuries, swearing

Word Count: 3k

Do not repost this anywhere, reblogs are fine ♡

Bradley was sitting on the couch, his face a bloody mess after losing his match in the ring. 

You were next to him, gently wiping away the blood on his face with a cloth as he watched himself get the shit beaten out of him on the TV screen. “Baby, you shouldn’t be watching that,” you say quietly, pressing the white cloth against the cut on his forehead. 

“I have to, babygirl,” he muttered in a low voice, wincing as you pressed the fabric against his skin. “I need to know where I went wrong.” He continued watching  himself get pummeled to the floor, his opponents fists meeting his face over and over again. 

“You just had a slip up, that’s all,” you murmured, kissing the cut after you finished cleaning it. “You miscalculated his move.”

Bradley leaned into your touch, a soft sigh escaping his lips. “I’ve had too many slip ups lately,” he grunted, “I can’t keep throwing matches, babygirl. This is my career.”

“I know,” you whisper, smoothing out his damp hair. Whether it was damp from sweat or blood or both, you didn’t know. “What can I do?”

He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you onto his lap, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Just being here is enough, baby,” he said quietly, nuzzling his sore face against the side of your neck.

“I want to help you,” came your hushed response as you ran your fingers through his hair. “How can I help you, baby?”

Bradley pulls you closer to him. “Just being here, just being with me… it helps more than you know,” he promised, leaning back against the couch and pulling you with him. 

“I just feel useless…watching you in that ring, taking you home and cleaning you up just so you can do it all again,” you mumble, bracing your hands on his shoulders, not putting nearly as much pressure as you normally do. “I want to do more for you.”

Bradley pulled you right up against him, his shirt still a bit damp with sweat from the fight. “You’re not useless, babygirl,” he whispered, burying his face in your hair and inhaling your sweet scent. “Having you with me, the way you’re so careful with me when you clean me up…it means the world.”

“Are you sure?” You ask quietly.

He pulled back. “Of course I’m sure. You’re my rock, my everything,” he brings a hand up to brush a strand of hair out of your face, gently caressing your cheek. “You and I both know how fucking lost I was without you.”

You give him a small smile, the reminder of your brief breakup still a painful memory. “Yeah,” you trailed off, gently tracing your thumb along the cut on his lip. “How bad does it hurt?” 

“It’s not too bad. I’ve had worse,” he answered, but you saw the way he winced when you brushed the tip of your finger along the slit in his lip. 

He was trying to play it off, but you knew him better than anyone else. “Bradley,” you gave him a look and added a hint of warning to your tone. 

He sighed, “Okay, it does hurt a fuckton,” 

You shake your head, leaning down and kissing his cheek softly instead of his lips. 

Bradley leaned into your touch, his lip pouting a bit when you pulled away. “You missed,”

“Not with that cut, baby,” you hummed, pulling away and reaching for the cloth again. 

He groaned, leaning back again and watching as you lifted the cloth back up to his face. “Fine, but as soon as it heals, you’re mine,”

“Like always,” you laughed, gently wiping away the dried blood on his chin. 

Bradley placed his hand on your thigh. “Damn right,” he grinned, splitting his lip further and making it bleed again. You shake your head, pressing the cloth to the cut just as you heard the announcer reveal the winner of the fight Bradley took part in an hour and a half ago. He sighed, his eyes moving behind you as he glared at the TV, his jaw locking. 

“Ignore it,” you requested quietly, pulling the cloth away from his mouth. “Please.”

“How can I ignore it when he’s rubbing it in my face?” He lifted his hand and frustratedly gestured to the screen. 

You look over your shoulder and watch as Grant Dunn raises his hand in victory, his own face beaten and bloody from the hits Bradley got on him. Turning your back to the TV again, you lean down and press your lips to the skin below your boyfriend’s ear. “Just stop watching it,”

Bradley moaned softly, his gaze still fixated behind you as you heard the crowd start to boo Grant. “I can’t,” he protested. “I need to see where I went wrong.”

“You did nothing wrong,” you whispered, trailing the tip of your nose along his jaw.

Another soft moan left his lips and his eyes flickered shut for a few seconds as you nuzzled against him. “Babygirl, you’re distracting me,” he mumbled, gripping your thigh a bit tighter. 

“Good, that’s what I’m trying to do,” you say quietly, stroking his jaw with your thumb. “You don’t need to be watching that stuff.”

He swallowed hard, “But I need to know where I fucked up,” his voice was more of a low growl now, his breathing becoming ragged. 

“You did nothing wrong,” you promise, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

Bradley lets out a guttural moan, his hand inching up towards your thigh as he tries to keep his focus on the TV. “You don’t understand, baby,” he mumbled. “I need to watch it…I need to figure out…”

“Figure out what?” You ask, tracing your finger along the base of his throat. “You don’t need to figure out anything right now.”

He swallows harshly again, his throat pushing against your fingers. “I need to know how I lost,” he trailed off, his focus slowly turning to you instead of the screen. 

“No, you don’t,” you murmur. “You don’t.”

Bradley groans quietly, his nails digging into the skin of your hip. You could tell that he was allowing himself to give in to you, yet he was still pissed off about the loss. You wanted to make him feel better, and you knew he was a sucker for your mouth. 

“Don’t watch it,” you whisper, an idea forming in your head as you lean up to kiss his forehead, right on the spot next to his cut. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

He let out a groan of frustration, and you could see how worked up he was getting. “I can’t think when you’re doing this,” 

“Do you want me to stop?” You ask, pulling away from him. 

It was almost comical how quickly he grabbed your hips and pulled you back to him. “Don’t you dare,” 

“Then stop watching the TV and keep your eyes on me,” you mumble, caressing the sides of his beautiful and bruised face. 

Bradley’s hands slide down your thighs, gripping you tightly as he nods. “Fuck it. Forget the fight. Forget everything,” 

“Good,” you say, your voice quiet as you lean in and gently press your lips to the cut on his chin. He moans, his hands reaching up to tangle in your hair as he leans back. “I just want to help you. Any way that I can.”

He pulls you closer, his hips bucking up against you. “You’re helping me already,” he mumbled, looking up at you with dark eyes. 

You smile at him, reaching in between your bodies until you’re palming him through his jeans. He was already hard, and the feeling of him grinding against your touch made you smile. “What do you want from me?” You asked, leaning down to bump your nose against his. “What do you want me to do?”

Bradley lets out a low moan, his hands shaking a bit from everything he’s holding inside right now. “Anything. I just want you, baby,”

When he tries to move your body on top of his, you hold back a needy sound and move off his lap to sit next to him. “You just went nine rounds. You’re too sore for that,”

He groaned, leaning over to press his forehead against yours. “I don’t care how sore I am. I need you,” 

You bite your lip before kissing his cheek. “Let me do the work,” you offered, sliding your hand up his thigh. 

Bradley nods with wide eyes, his body tense and his voice rough. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Yeah, baby. Take care of me.”

“Always,” you smile and reach for the zipper on his jeans. 

His teeth bite down onto his sore lip, a quiet hiss escaping his mouth as he looks at you like you were his entire world. “God, I need you so much,” 

You could tell, he was rock hard and pressing against his boxers as you spoke, “How much?” you teased anyway, pushing down his jeans. 

He lifted his hips, helping you guide his jeans down to his knees. “So much, babygirl. So fucking much,” 

You reach down to grope him through his boxers, raising a brow as you gazed up at him. “Do you want me here?”

Bradley lets out a deep moan, his body arching towards you as he nodded. “Yeah. I want you,” his voice was a rough whisper now, “I need you. Touch me, please.”

It was always so amazing to see your big, strong boyfriend practically melt when he got into the mood. Some may find it out of character or weak, but you found it unbelievably sexy. “Tell me, do you want my mouth or my hand?”

He groaned, “I want your mouth, baby,”

You grin, leaning down to kiss him through the dark fabric of his boxer briefs. He lets out a string of curses, his hand reaching for your hair as you brush your nose along his length. “I need you to do something for me,” 

“Anything, babygirl. I’ll do anything,” he said right away, making you smile as you kiss him again.

“I want you to look at the TV,” 

He grunts, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t want to, baby. I want to look at you,” his voice sounded a bit desperate as his body trembled. 

“Shh, baby,” you cooed, “Just look at the TV.”

He lets out a soft sigh, reluctantly turning his gaze to the TV screen. The announcers are talking about the intense fight and are now replaying the footage of his loss over and over.

“Good,” you hum, beginning to palm him. “What do you see?”

He groans as you start to touch him, his body arching up towards your hand. He forces himself to focus on the TV screen, his eyes fixated on his face receiving the very same cuts you just so carefully cleaned up. “I see myself losing like a weak bitch,” he answered, his voice harsh but his attention now divided between you and the screen. 

You lift your head, giving him a look. “How does it make you feel?”

“Frustrated…angry…pissed off. Embarrassed. I want to win,” he growled. “I want to prove that I’m the best.”

“You are, baby,” you swore, pushing his boxers down. 

His eyes flicker to you, the anger dissolving instantly. “Yeah?”

You nod and he reaches down to take your jaw in his big hand. “Yeah,” you repeat, kissing his palm. “Look at the TV again.” 

Bradley nods, his eyes moving back to the screen and he watches his beaten body be counted out by the referee. You lean down and kiss his thigh, trailing your hand up the smooth skin before hovering it over his cock,

“Tell me again how you feel,”

Bradley clenched his jaw, his eyes staring at his bloody face. “Pissed, annoyed, angry,”

You hum before grabbing his base and kissing his tip. “And how do you feel now?” You asked before taking him into your mouth. 

He moaned, his hand tangling in your hair again as he answered you in a broken whisper, “Fuck, baby…feels good,” 

You moan around him at the praise, slowly beginning to bob your head up and down. With your attention fully on him, you were able to tune out the sound of the blows being landed on the TV behind you. You saw it firsthand, you really didn’t need to see Bradley get his face punched in again. 

His free hand gripped the couch cushion, his eyes hooded as he stared past you. “Your mouth feels so good,” he continued to praise you, threading his bruised fingers through your hair. 

You pull off him, stroking him for a few seconds as you spoke, “Tell me how you feel now,”

Bradley groaned deeply as you began sucking on him again, his head tipping back. “I feel…fuck, like I’m in heaven, babygirl,” he responded in a hoarse whisper, clearly struggling to form proper sentences. “Your mouth is incredible.”

You moan again, taking him all the way before pulling back off. “What’s happening now?”

He dropped his head back down and glanced at the TV. “They’re talking about how I lost,” he grunted, no longer sounding angry. “They’re talking about Grant.”

“Look at yourself,” you mumble, stroking his spit coated cock as you gazed up at him. 

Bradley huffed, his fingers tightening their hold on your hair. “I look beat to hell, baby. Like I’m not strong enough,”

You shake your head, kissing along his length. “You are. Keep looking at yourself, okay?”

He groaned and nodded, and you took him into your mouth again. You hollow your cheeks, getting your mouth as tight as you could as you started to suck him off. Bradley moaned softly as you used your spit to help guide your mouth on him easier, his fullness definitely a lot to take in. 

How you landed yourself a hot, big, boxer boyfriend who was also packing, you’d never know. 

“Baby,” he whispered, bunching up the strands of your hair between his fingers. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

You moan in response, closing your throat around him once you take him all the way. You knew your throat would definitely be sore later on, and your voice would probably be wrecked, but you lived for the times you got to have him like this. He was embarrassed and angry at himself, and you wanted to make him feel better in one of the best ways you knew how. 

Bradley groaned again, louder this time as he released the cushion and curled his fist instead. “How do you feel, baby?” You asked, licking up the side of his cock as you looked up at him through your lashes. 

“So fucking good, baby,” he rasped, bucking into your hand. “I feel so overwhelmed right now…in the best way.”

“Good,” you hummed. “I want you to remember this feeling whenever you see yourself on screen. I want you to feel like this.”

Bradley let out a deep, raspy moan as he nodded. “I will,” he promised as you wrapped your lips around his tip again. “I’ll remember how good you make me feel and how fucking lucky I am.”

You moan, blushing even with his cock in your mouth. “Do you wanna come?” 

He tore his eyes away from the screen and looked down at you, spit dripping on your chin and your lips a bit puffy, and this time you let him. “Yeah, babygirl. I want to come. Please, I need it,” 

You glance over at the screen, seeing his body on the floor of the ring. “Whenever you watch this, think about how good you feel right now, okay?” 

He nods, his eyes wide as you take him all the way to his base again and suck harshly. His hand was pulling on your hair now as he gently fucked your mouth. Your eyes were watering a bit as you gripped his thighs and listened to his deep grunts and moans. “Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he warned, breathless as you sped up the pace a bit and moaned around him. His head fell back against the top of the couch, his hand reaching blindly for yours as he tensed. “Fuck, I’m coming, baby. Holy fuck.”

You swallowed every drop of him as he came, lacing your fingers with his as you slowly sucked him until his body relaxed completely. After the fight and now this, he was spent, and you gently pulled your mouth off him. “How do you feel now?” You asked, wiping at your chin with your free hand. 

“God, babygirl, I feel amazing,” he said quietly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you onto his lap. “That was so good…you make me feel so fucking good. Like I can do anything.”

“You can,” you whisper, “Anything you want to do, you can.”

Bradley grinned lazily at you, “You’re perfect, baby. I might need to start taking you to my training sessions from now on,”

“Yeah?” You laugh, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, making sure not to put too much pressure on him. “You wanna show off for me?”

His grin turned into a smirk as he slowly nodded. “Hell yeah I do. I want you with me all the time, you know that,”

You smile, caressing his jaw. “Wherever you want me to be, I’m there,” you promise, kissing his forehead. “I’m so proud of you, baby.”

“Even after I lost tonight?” He asked and took your chin in his thumb and index finger when you nodded. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you. You’re the sweetest, kindest, sexiest woman I’ve ever met.”

A blush took over your face as you smiled up at him, placing your hand on the side of his neck. “I love you,”

Bradley leaned down to press his forehead against yours. “I love you, too, babygirl. More than anything,”

-

I had to revisit these two 🫶

[jackactuallywrites]

All Seeing, All Knowing, All Loving Part 9

Rating: SFW

Warnings: ANGST

Summary: You have a date! Not with Ghost 💀

Notes: If you feel this is out of character for you personally, valid, I just like making Ghost suffer 😌

Word count: 1,513

ao3 link

You were going on a date!

It had been some time since you’d been on one, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the man who you refused to name even in your own head. You weren’t doing this out of any petty desire to prove you were desirable; no, this was personal growth! This random man from Tinder could be your future husband, after all!

Well, that was taking it a bit too far, but at the very least, he might knock some of the spiderwebs off your headboard.

Your day had been spent preparing for your date, starting with an hour-long bath in which you shaved everything from your eyebrows down, leaving your skin smooth, polished, and buttery soft. You didn’t want to think about the cost of all the moisturiser you’d used, only how nice you smelled, as though you’d been dipped into a vat of cocoa butter. Then, it was onto makeup. Thankfully, today had been a good skin day for you, so you kept it simple, a fuckton of mascara to make your eyelashes really pop, and then another half hour tweezing your eyebrows into a perfect shape. You dithered over colours, settling with a warm lip tint, which you dabbed on your cheekbones. Already, you felt that this man would not be worth all this effort, but you did enjoy the process of making yourself look absolutely breathtaking. The outfit was the last piece of the puzzle and the hardest part. How could you find clothes that said, ‘I’m down to shag, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have to put any effort in’. Jeans? Mm, no, too hard to take off while looking sexy. Little dress? Eh, too cold. Midi skirt it was. Warm and practical, and easy to hike up. Plus, it had pockets! What wasn’t to love! You paired it with a nice pair of dark heels and an off-the-shoulder top. You faffed with your hair, trying to figure out if you wanted it up or down, before just sticking a little bow clip in it and calling it a day.

Naturally, now that you were preened to perfection, Soap decided it was the best time to try and rub spiky white hairs all over your outfit, as though his essence was what was missing from the ensemble. He’d been happily snoozing the entire time you were getting ready, seemingly knowing when the exact wrong time was to start trying to fuss you. You simply did your best to pet him at arms reach, then distracted him with treats while you sat on the sofa to kill time, having gotten ready far too early for your date.

You were busy trying to figure out how you were supposed to eat crisps without ruining the outfit when you heard a knock at the door. Strange, you were meeting your date at the bar. If he’d somehow found your address online, he was getting deep heat spray to the eyes. You tucked the little canister into your skirt pocket as you went to the door, peering through the peephole.

Shit.

Why did you suddenly feel awkward about going out on a date? You had nothing to be ashamed about; you were a free agent; you could go on a thousand dates if you liked. Still, you felt uneasy opening the door to him. The chain remained off as you opened the door, your arm wrapped around your waist for comfort.

“Ghost.”

For once, he wasn’t wearing the mask. He still had the ‘definitely a civilian’ clothes on, blue jeans and a black waterproof, and even the way he stood was unquestioningly military, his arms behind his back, but without the mask, he was a little more human. And gorgeous, but you didn’t want to think about that.

“You off out somewhere?”

“Yeah, actually. Got a date.”

You watched his expression carefully, a twinge of guilt in your stomach. It wasn’t like you were anything more than friends. Weird, fucked up friends where one of them broke into the other’s house and left cats. His face didn’t change. Still perfectly neutral, his eyes dead and cold, just like you remembered them. He shifted from his stiff position, bringing forth the bouquet he’d apparently been concealing behind his back.

You’d been given a lot of bouquets over the years, some from dates, some from thankful cat parents, a lot from your girls, but this was new. Usually, a man would give you basic red roses or whatever strange mix Lidl had on sale at the doors, but these weren’t cheap supermarket flowers. They were a beautiful mix of purple tulips, some so dark they looked almost black, some soft lavender, without a single limp petal or dangling leaf. A dark purple ribbon was wrapped around their stems, holding them tightly together. Fuck. He’d really gone all out.

“Wanted to give you summat as a thank you.”

“Ghost, these.. they’re really nice. You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

You took them from him, gently inhaling their scent. Christ, did tulips smell good. Did you even own a nice vase to put them in? You’d stashed all your glass ornaments in cupboards, out of Soap’s reach. Soap. Would he know not to eat tulips? They were, after all, exceptionally poisonous to cats. And Soap was a bit of an idiot. You’d just have to keep them up on the shelf in your bedroom with the rest of your treasured possessions. Not that this was a treasured possession. You just didn’t want Soap to get sick.

“Thank you.”

“Welcome.”

There was a moment of silence, things left unsaid, but you couldn’t exactly say what was on your mind. He’d already rejected you once before, and you weren’t made of steel. Still, you felt bad.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t-“

“Why would you be sorry? They’re just flowers. Don’t read so much into it.”

Well, that put an end to any guilt on your end.

“Right. Well, thanks for the flowers, Simon.”

He gave you a brisk nod, then turned on his heel and left without another word.

If the man had planned on putting your head in a spin before your date, he’d done a marvellous job. The flowers seemed to stare down at you mockingly from their position on the shelf high above your headboard, watching you spray perfume on yourself, decorating yourself for another man. You scowled at them as though you could singe their petals; they could watch you fuck another man for all you cared; as Ghost had said, they were just flowers. They meant nothing. Nothing that had a place of importance in your room. Ugh.

They stuck with you throughout your date. The man you met at the bar wasn’t unattractive, tall, handsome, dark-haired, and his conversation was pleasant enough, but you just couldn’t feel a spark. Was that a good thing? The sparks you felt with Ghost felt more like a taser; they’d left you fearful and uneasy, but my God, those sparks were strong. Perhaps it was better that you didn’t feel that way about your date. After all, people weren’t supposed to break into your house and then make snarky comments about your home security, nor were they supposed to reject you and then make teasing comments about how you wanted them, or give you flowers and then tell you they meant nothing. This date could have been good for you, a nice, normal man, a picket fence, 2.4 children, weekend walks in the Peak District and holidays in Benidorm.

You went home alone.

You didn’t need a date. You didn’t need a Ghost. What you did need was a therapist.

Unfortunately for you, they were expensive if you went private, and if you didn’t, you’d be stuck on a waiting list for months. Besides, you didn’t really want to confess to a therapist, ‘so I have a stalker, but we’re actually friends, so please don’t report him to the police!’. As if. You could therapise yourself. You knew what you needed to do. You needed to do what most other people in this situation would do: you needed to block his number, change your locks, and forget about him.

You stared at his number in your phone. Ghost. Stupid name. If you blocked him, he’d know he’d gotten to you. Or would he assume you’d moved on? It irritated you that he took up so much room in your thoughts. It would have served him right if you threw those flowers away. You considered it, taking them down off the shelf and holding them in your hand, imagining how it would feel to burn them, trample them underfoot, or beat him to death with them. Nope. Prick or not, the flowers were too beautiful to get rid of, and it wasn’t their fault that the person gifting them was a cunt. Back on the shelf they went.

You’d keep them just because they were beautiful, and they would wilt with your emotions for him, and then you could throw everything away.

[leclsrc]

Could you maybe write a blurb for Charles . Just like the trend on tiktok, that you are having a argument with your boyfriend and during the argument you are flashing him with your tits?

my own doing – cl16

genre: smuuut, 2k celebration, toxic relationship bec i listened to pnd and care package so much tn

auds here... title from this (but also listened to this while writing), also this is not funny its just smutty anon i am sorry.

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... penetrative sex, praise/dirty talk as per auds law, angryish sex, unprotected sex too (wrap it before u tap it)

“Didn’t you used to date this guy?”

The newspaper rustles, is turned to you, and Charles Leclerc’s flushed face is in yours displaying a championship-winning smile. It takes a lot for you not to visibly react, your lips still pursed and eyebrows still furrowed when you face your friend’s curious face again.

“Huh. Used to,” you chuckle. “I haven’t heard from him in forever.”

The only thing you’re used to is lying—and not only are you accustomed to it, you’ve also grown good at it. You lie to your friends, who ask where your flights are headed; to your dates, who ask if you’re committed to anyone; your mother, who asks you if you’re involved with anyone. You gulp, watching your friend’s interest fade away as she flips the page and reads the horoscope.

“Today, you will…” She hums, searching for your zodiac sign. “Hmm. Fall into old habits.”

—

“So wet for me,” Charles murmurs behind you, fingers toying with your clit. “So good, yeah? Missed me that much? Come on, cum for me.”

“Y—yeah,” you keen desperately. “So good, fuck, I’m gonna—!”

You grind back onto his cock when you cum for the third time tonight, legs shaking with overstimulation. As always, he cleans you up, presses gentle kisses to your hair and forehead, blowing softly over your sticky face.

“Flight tomorrow?”

“First thing. I have work Monday,” you say, turning over to face him. Your lips move softly against his neck, his jaw. His hands roam over the expanse of your bare back, tracing circles on your favorite spots; the ones that feel good, aren’t too ticklish. He knows every spot. Every inch. He’s the only one that does.

“Wish you didn’t.” 

You snort. “Wish I could believe that.”

—

Charles has high tolerance to just about everything. The worst type of drunk he gets is goofy drunk, which isn’t bad at all—he dances like crazy, starts telling the worst jokes, moves around a lot, is unnecessarily noisy, but all that takes him a fuckton of alcohol. It’s jealousy he falls into easily—and when he does, it’s almost a whole different Charles.

“I saw your post with Matt, or whatever. Pensais-tu que je ne verrais pas? Why post with some guy then fly economy just to see me?”

You roll your eyes. “You’re full of it. Matt and I—just friends. Don’t act like you’re not linked with every other girl in Monaco.” The conversation you’re having seems out of place when you’re on top of him making out, but alas.

“You are mine.” He says it, doesn’t ask it, no softness to his tone. He’s not angry, but he has something to prove. He licks hungrily into your mouth, his hand unbuttoning your jeans, sneaking into them. “No one else’s.”

“Yeah?” You smile into his lips. “You sure about that?”

He grunts, irritated, taking both hands and tugging at the collar of your tank top to eventually pull it off of you. The room smells like weed and sex, two of his favorite post-race pastimes. You arch into his touch, wait for his hand to make its way to the clasp of your lace bra and pull your jeans off.

“Can anyone else fuck you this good?” He bites on your lip. “Huh?”

Your kissing grows hungry, desperate, aggressive. He thumbs at your nipples, drags the cups of your bra down to tweak them and get them hard. You whimper his name and it sounds like music. You grind onto his cock in his pants, denim to denim, awaiting more friction, more pleasure. He walks you through it, slow, easy.

“Answer me.”

“No,” you say, lip caught in between your teeth.

“I know,” he says, kissing up your neck. “I know.”

“You’re so fucking”—you claw antsily at his shirt, at the hard abs underneath—“full of yourself.” But you love it. 

“Keep whining and you’re not getting fucked.” He cups your jaw, faces you toward him so you fully grasp his instructions. You groan, the noise teasing and petulant, but you nod anyway, letting him maneuver you out of your jeans even if it takes a few moments.

“Stop it,” you insist when his eyes are stuck on you, features shy. It’s always a reward for Charles, undressing you, so he can see your matching lacy sets (most of which he’d bought for you) and inadvertently realize how bad you want him to praise you.

“You just wait in my room in your pretty underwear hoping I fuck you?” He asks wickedly, his accent extra thick, sliding in and out of vowels and syllables slowly. “You want it that bad. Even when you say you don’t care about me. Even when you’re on dates with other men, no?”

“I don’t,” you lie, gritting your teeth as he pulls your panties to the side and slides a thumb over your slit. There’s something about being practically naked and him being fully clothed, with just enough room to tug his dick out.

“Couldn’t even wait ‘til we were in the same city, yeah?” He grabs you by your hips and pulls you downward, onto him, hot and tight, letting the stretch simmer. “Flew out here in fucking economy. Needed my attention that bad.”

“Charles,” you sob, guttural. He fucks up into you slowly. His words are too honest, too hard-hitting.

“Tell me,” he demands, pounding into you. “You can tell me. I wanted this too, baby. Was just gonna cum thinking of you but I got the real thing instead. Je ne peux me lasser de toi.”

You clench around him, giving in to the words, the persuasion, the pleasure. “Yes,” you confess, overwhelmed. Fuck, he’s splitting you open. “M’gonna cum. Wanna cum, wanna cum.”

“No. Wait.” He says firmly, and you curse, nodding, needing to follow his orders.

You’re tense all over, your orgasm brewing right at your stomach, and finally he’s throwing his head back, whining, releasing inside you. You follow suit, moanin, pushing back against it, your fingers playing with the damp curls at the nape of his neck.

Your foreheads collide, breaths mingling.

“I didn’t fly economy,” you protest. “First class only.”

“If we got back together,” he argues, “it’d be a private jet.”

—

“We have to stop this,” he says. Your mental tally chalks it up to six—six iterations of this exact conversation. Sometimes he starts it, sometimes you do. Today it’s him, because last night he cheated on his fling with you in the backseat of his car.

Is it really your problem? “Fine,” you say simply. “Stop it then. Block my fucking number and everything.”

“Ah, putain.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you really think it’s that easy?”

“Jesus. How many times are we going to fight like this?” You roll your eyes.

“Until you and I realize the sex is awf—”

But you’re fed up. You take the hem of your flimsy tank top in two hands and pull it upward, showing him your tits underneath. “This is awful?”

His eyes darken. “You’re such a brat.” But it’s the same brat he’s pinning up against the wall and fucking dumb anyway.

—

You’re greedy. You broke his heart, but you want him to yourself. And he’s stupid. He’s broken up with girls just for one fuck with you.

“They’re not even together,” you tell Pierre when a picture of a random girl is shoved in your face. “He said so himself.”

“When?” His eyes narrow.

“I meant—I meant, he never confirmed it. You know what? That’s besides the point,” you say, face warm with embarrassment at being caught in a lie. “Which is that he’s single.”

“Why do you care? You broke up with him years ago.”

“I don’t,” you say. And this time it’s the truth. The sex has been off the table for almost five months now, and both of you seem to finally be moving on from the viciously toxic cycle of fucking and crying and considering getting back together and fucking friends to get the other jealous (you don’t speak of Carlos.)

It’s healing the way you’ve both been mature enough to forgive, to grow up and stop hurting yourselves and each other. Your phone buzzes and you lower the brightness, lest Pierre attempt to take a peek.

Room 1903 baby.

Be there in 5. And hey, your lying’s gotten really good recently.

[sstormyskyess]

Bad Attitude

[had to repost this bad boy because it got shadowbanned when i first posted it 👍 thanks tumblr!]

author's note: simon is def a brat tamer, like he's all sweet and soft until you really get on his nerves. had to write it because it was living in my head rent-free

cw: drinking mention, smut, pwp, bottom sub!reader, dom top!ghost, brat!reader, brat taming, enemies to lovers, brief choking mention, edging/orgasm denial, light bondage/bdsm, dacryphilia [if i missed anything lmk!]

word count: 1900+

Simon "Ghost" Riley x GN AFAB!Reader "Streak"

“Admit it. You’ve always sort of liked me.” You smirk behind the rim of your glass of bourbon. Simon pinches the bridge of his nose and suppresses a metric fuckton of pointed comments he’s been holding in all night. All he wanted was to have a nice night at his favorite pub in the entire country, but no. You and your bratty little antics had to follow him wherever he went.

“I dunno, Streak, sometimes I wonder if he even likes me. I don’t think your chances are much better, mate.” Johnny chuckles after setting down your next round of drinks, catching the tail end of the conversation. You shrug and lean back in the booth cushions, quickly tossing back the last of your drink. “I mean hey, I might be prettier than you, Soap. That might affect things.” You snicker at the offended look on his face and he started to speak before you cut him off with a quippy, “Thanks for the drink!”

Simon just starts to tune you out when you and Johnny start to bicker. He won’t dignify you with a response; You're too dedicated to pissing him off that it's clear a reaction was exactly what you're seeking out. So, he turns to the TV across the room and focuses on the football game that was playing. His favorite team wasn’t playing though. Well, anything would be better than the little prick—you—sitting next to him.

He barely knows what's going on in the game even after watching for a few more minutes, but he's was broken out of his thousand-yard stare when he's met with your ass scooting right past his face as you shuffle out of the booth. His eyes shoot up to yours and all you offer is a tiny shrug. “What? You wouldn’t get up for me to go to the bathroom.” Simon makes sure to take note of the smirk on your face. You aren't even trying to hide your intentions. A barely audible growl passes Simon’s lips through his mask.

Johnny chuckles and stands up. “Well, I’m gonna go cut in on that match. Have fun with Streak!” He walks off to the billiards table and pokes Gaz in the side, making him mess up his shot. Simon rolls his eyes and leans forward on the table on his forearms. He contemplates for a few minutes before he notices how long you've been gone. He looks over to the restrooms and, making sure he was unseen by the rest of the boys, makes his way over.

When he opens the door, he spots you leaning against the wall, scrolling on your phone. “Oh, hey L.T.! How can I help you?” You snicker and look back down to your phone. Simon stalks over and smirked under his mask when your eyes widen at the close proximity. “Hey!” You jump when Simon snatched the phone out of your hands and pocketed it. “What the hell, man? Give that back—” Simon’s hand wraps around your wrist when you reached around him to get your phone back out of his pocket. He yanks you closer and you collide with him, face pressed into his chest.

Simon’s grip tightened. “Fuckin’ brat. Don’t whine now.” You scoff and tug against his grip. “What’s your problem?” You sneer at him. Simon rolls his eyes and snatches your other wrist before pinning them above your head on the wall. “I’m not daft, Streak.” He growls. “I know what you want.” You struggle a bit against the vice grip around your wrists and huff.

“And what exactly would that be, Ghost?”

You growl past the ball gag stuffed behind your teeth and wiggle in the leather restraints wrapped around your arms, all the way up to your elbows. You were grateful, at least, that your captor had put some forethought into the nature of your imprisonment. Plain rope was rough and scratchy compared to these nice leather wrappings. Luckily your captor was understanding and attentive to your needs. At least, most of them.

Simon hovers over you, who he laid out over the bedsheets. He chuckles when he receives a very pointed glare from his precious little sergeant. The way he reveled in the shivers that were running up and down your spine downright infuriated you. You’ve been laying here in this bed for upwards of thirty minutes getting teased and toyed with, with no end in sight. There was an absolute mess between your legs and it was soaking both the sheets and the pants that Simon still had on, despite you being completely laid bare.

You start to struggle again, even though you know that you weren't getting out. Really, at this point, you're only trying to find any friction to get yourself off on. Simon squints down at you. “What did I tell you about squirmin’ around like that?” His voice comes out as a growl in his uniquely deep timbre. “Still haven't learned your lesson yet, hmm?” He shakes his head and spreads your thighs further, even though you've practically been doing the splits for a while now.

You jump and let out a high pitched yelp that was muffled behind the ball gag. For what feels like the millionth time, Simon’s hand comes down hard on your cunt. The wet slap that pierces the air nearly brings tears to your eyes, but for the sake of your pride you could not and would not cry. Not for this asshole.

The fact that you’d ended up in this situation would still be baffling you if your mind wasn’t fully focusing on the sting between your legs. Should you have stopped goading Simon on at the pub he’d taken the gang out to? Yeah, probably. Should you have told him to cut it out when he followed you to the bathroom to shove his tongue down your throat? That might have been for the best, yes. But god damn, you’d be lying if you said you weren't having a good time right now. As much as you hate it, you love it so much.

Though, honestly, you certainly weren’t expecting Simon to pull out all the stops and give you the full brat taming treatment. When you got dragged back to his flat, you were immediately bombarded with bites and hickeys all over your neck and shoulders, before he even got you to the bedroom. His calloused hands had shoved you down on the bed and before you knew it, all of your clothes were torn off and thrown all over the floor, leaving you naked. In the process of trying to get your bearings, you completely neglected to keep track of what your lieutenant was up to. When you got flipped onto your stomach and restrained by these accursed leather straps, you finally snapped back to reality and found yourself pinned.

And now, for the past half hour, you’ve been getting edged over and over again to the point of utter frustration. Hot, burning frustration that was getting more and more pent up as the minutes dragged on. Even after you spent all damn night pestering him, Simon was still able to drag all of this out as long as possible, much your dismay. You’d love to say you were surprised by his abundance of patience, but you really weren't. Must be something that comes with that lieutenant rank of his.

Drool pools on your tongue and out of your mouth as you whine. You whine and whine, to no avail. If you were able, you’d be growling out so many expletives, so many things that would absolutely get you a formal punishment if you two weren’t on leave. You manage to hold back the desperate urge to kick at Simon’s chest and wipe that smug little look off his face, but only just barely. You force your muscles to tighten to stop yourself from squirming involuntarily, and you flex even harder when his fingers sweep across your cunt and dip into your tight little hole ever so slightly.

You almost choke on your own spit when you shuddered out a long, needy moan. Your legs instinctively try to close, but he's quick to hold them in place. He clicks his tongue and pulls his fingers out again, eliciting a whimper from the back of your throat. You're quietly grateful for the gag, knowing that if it wasn’t there, all your little submissive noises would be on display for him to hear. You would absolutely never be able to live that down; the embarrassment would be too much for you to handle.

“I told you to quit movin’ around.” He sneers. You squeeze your eyes shut and nodded quickly. When you open them back up, you're met with Simon’s face hovering closer over yours. Your eyes open wider when Simon’s hand creeps up over your chest, twirling one of your nipples between his fingers. They move up and up, over your collarbone before settling around your neck to squeeze at it. Your toes positively curled, a whine slipping past the gag and directly to Simon’s ears, forming a smirk on his face.

Your eyes flutter as the blood supply in your head slowly diminishes and a string of weak, breathless moans make it past the gag. With the added pressure on your senses, you can't manage to hold back the tears anymore. Tears and spit pearl down your face and you meet Simon’s eyes with your own glassy ones. You desperately lock your legs around Simon’s waist, wordlessly begging him to just let you cum—you needed to cum so bad.

He tilts his head and drags the edges of his nails from your scalp to the back of your neck comfortingly. “Poor fuckin’ thing. You need this cock, huh?” He smirks at how fast you nod, proud to have finally broken you. He lets your neck go, at least for now, and uses both of his hands to spread your cunt open wide. “What a view. Never seen you like this, Streak.” He chuckles. You whine and try to grind against his fingers, looking at him with your desperate, teary eyes. Another sob leaves your chest when Simon pushes three of his fingers deep inside you, and they had you fighting the urge to arch up into his touch. It took everything in you, and you could feel your muscles tiring at how hard you clenched, but you hold on for fear of making him stop.

Simon pinches at and rolls your clit between his fingers, and you are a goner. You stood absolutely no chance. The gag was a smart idea on Simon’s end; if not for the gag, your screams would’ve netted him a noise complaint. Simon groans as he watches you writhe from your earth-shattering orgasm. “That’s a good little thing for me, fuckin’ hell…” He stares down at you while he rubs you through your orgasm, leaning down to your ear and whispering all sorts of praises with a grin on his face.

There were just so many wet sounds in the room that were absolutely filthy. The squelching of your sopping cunt, your quiet sniffling, and the ‘pop!’ of the ball gag being flipped out of your mouth. Simon puts a sloppy kiss on your lips, pressing your tongues against each other. All he receives a tired hum from you, since you're unable to do much more than that with your brain having been turned into mush from his ministrations. So much for saving your pride, huh?

Simon pulls back and takes a good look over you. You were a complete mess. Job well fucking done, he thinks to himself. You blink the tears out of your eyes and stare up at him for a few seconds before laying your head back on the pillows and closing them back up again. You wince and groan when Simon tapped your face. “Who said we were done, love? We’ve got a lotta time to make up for.” He chuckles darkly when he watches your pretty little eyes widen once again.

author's note 2: was considering making a part two for this so if that's something y'all would be interested in, lemme know!

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

[depressedstressedlemonzest]

Hay It's Getting Cold Out

“The fuck?” Ian’s words stumbled from his lips as he walked into the apartment to find straw littering all over the kitchen floor.

Mickey’s head peeked up from behind the kitchen island and he ducked back down.

“Mickey why does our apartment look like a barn?” Ian walked over to the kitchen island and found Mickey on his knees surrounded by straw and plastic storage bins.

“I’ll clean it up.” Mickey muttered as he picked a knife up and jammed it into the bin, sawing a square into it before punching it through.

“What are you doing?” Ian asked trying not to sound accusatory but not being sure if he was succeeding.

Mickey paused and looked up at Ian, “It’s getting cold out, it's going to get colder this weekend, like below twenty degrees out.”

Ian raised an eyebrow, “Yeah, and we live in Chicago, this happens a lot in the fall and winter.” 

“Well, I wanted to do something for Clawdia, but everything I was looking at was super expensive. But then I found this do it yourself thing and it would only cost about ten bucks.”

“Claudia?” 

Mickey grimaced, “Clawdia, the cat that has the missing leg that hangs out around the pool in the summer.”

“You named her Clawdia?”

Mickey groaned, “Yes I named her, yes I’ve been feeding her, and no I don’t want her to get cold this winter, so I’m making her this cat house. But when I went to ordered the straw to get delivered I thought a bale was only like a pound or two, turns out it’s a fuckton. So I’m making more than one for any of Clawdia’s friends that get cold this winter and want a nice warm box.”

Ian felt his lips curve up in a smile, “That’s so s-”

“Fuck off Gallagher.” Mickey huffed sinking back down to keep sawing at the plastic bin.

“You know if you wanted a cat-”

Mickey groaned, “Fuck OFF.” 

Ian looked at the mess and shook his head, he went to the bedroom and put his phone on the charger before digging into the closet and grabbing another knife from the closet.

He came back into the kitchen and sunk onto the floor across from Mickey.

Mickey eyed him as he grabbed another one of the storage bins and stabbed the knife into the side before sawing a line into it.

Ian glanced up at Mickey and grinned as he sawed the square out of the bin and punched it through.

Together they made six cat shelters, even with each one stuffed full of hay they still had a good amount left over.

“How about we go to the hardware store and get some wood? Make a big shelter for the rest of the hay?” Ian suggested when they finished sweeping and bagging the remainder of the straw up from the kitchen floor.

“I didn’t want to make it a big project.” Mickey sighed tying the bag up and shoving it aside.

“I know, but I’m sure we can budget it enough to make it work, besides what else would we use the hay for?” Ian asked with a laugh.

Mickey smirked, “Well, there is that fantasy about doing it in the loft of a barn in the hay.”

Ian’s laugh slipped from his face and he looked at his husband sternly, “We are NOT putting that hay in our bed.”

Mickey laughed reaching up and cupping Ian’s face with his hands, “C’mon Carrot Farmer, you know you need to make sure the stable hand is doing the chores.” 

Ian let Mickey pull him into a kiss before gripping his wrists gently, “No way. Now let’s get these ones out to Clawdia before it does get cold out.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, “Spoil sport.”

“Well we couldn’t have done that at a better time.” Ian muttered as he looked at the picture Mickey had sent him.

Clawdia the three legged cat in one of the shelter boxes with four little puffy kittens around her.

“You know, that extra room we have would make a good nursery.” Mickey mused over the phone.

“No way.” Ian’s voice was firm, but when he looked at that photo again he felt his heart melting.

“Only Clawdia, and only her kittens. And once they’re all old enough we’re getting them all fixed.”

“Glad you’re agreeable because I already brought them inside. And since we still had that hay I took out the drawers of the dresser and put some in each.”

[markerofthemidnight]

A Fuckton of Wiggly x Miss Holloway Headcanons Because You Liked It Last Time

For the past 24 hours I’ve been obsessing over this stupid crackship (I’ve considered calling it SeaWitch, but if anyone else has something better please share with the class), and a lot of you seemed to like this concept last time, so here goes.

(under the cut because this gets really, really long)

I can’t even begin to imagine the very specific circumstances that would make this pairing happen

Like, you know the classic romcom setup of “these two lead characters hate each other at the beginning, but as fate keeps pulling them together they start to realise they’re more alike than they thought, and then by the end of the movie they’re practically married”? That’s basically them in a nutshell

But still, it would only occur under very specific circumstances, so I’m going to skip the question “how did this happen” and go onto “what goes on after it happens”.

The best way to describe it is that she fell first, but he fell harder

Well, he didn’t necessarily fall harder, it’s just that Holloway’s just really good at internalising her emotions and not quite as head-over-heels (or tentacle tips, in this case?) as Wiggly is, at least on a surface level

That’s partly due to the fact that Holloway’s been through this whole song and dance too many times to count, whereas this, as far as the AU goes, is Wiggly’s first time feeling anything CLOSE to romantic love

It takes a special kind of gal to sweep an eldritch horror off his feet, and you don’t get much more special than Miss Holloway- he said so himself in Miss Holloween!

When she first fell for Wiggly, Holloway’s reaction was basically just… “shit shit shit this is not happening.” She was good at hiding it, because she always is, but internally? She was fucking panicking.

On one hand, he’s one of the only people in existence that isn’t affected by their contract, and based on what she now knows about him, the two aren’t so different

On the other, there is not a snowball’s chance in HELL that she genuinely has a shot at getting with this cosmic horror beyond her comprehension

Even if she does- which is a PRETTY BIG “if”, she’d be involving herself with something that regularly slaughters people without a second thought, people that she’s been trying to save from that fate for decades. It’s better for everyone to just leave that dream alone without a second thought.

And she tried. God, did she try, but it quickly became apparent that Wiggly had fallen for her just as hard, or even harder given the way he looks at her and speaks to her.

Not only was he making a conscious effort to visit her regularly, but his pupils visibly dilated at the sight of her. Among other changes, like playing with her hair when he thinks she’s not paying attention, and even calling her Holly (which may be her real name, or may just be an affectionate nickname and nothing else: up to you to decide)

And she tried so hard to not dig herself deeper into this hole, because she knew that once people start caring about a creature as powerful and malicious as that, they go down a dark path they can never return from.

But the way Wiggly looked at her, and relied on her as the only person he felt that he could talk to about his insecurities, it was just so relatable. So endearing. So… dare she say… cute.

As for Wiggly himself, it took him an embarrassingly long time for him to figure it out.

In fact, he didn’t figure it out until Blinky pulled him aside one day to talk about the way he’s been acting around Holloway as of recent, and how often he goes to visit her in general.

He laughed this off originally, confidently saying there’s no way he’d develop any kind of feelings for a mortal woman, and then left.

He returned to his lair nonchalantly, thought on it for a second… and then proceeded to go the brightest shade of red a creature covered in green fur possibly could as he came to the sudden realisation that, yes, he developed feelings for a mortal woman.

He didn’t visit her for a week after that. In fact, he started blushing again every time someone brought her up.

The next time they met was when Holloway decided to summon him again- not any of the other Lords, just him- because she “missed his company.”

Ok, not technically a lie, just vague enough to lull him into a sense of security without telling the whole truth and risking him freaking out.

He was blushing the whole time. And they both knew this, clearly. He was horrible at hiding it.

Eventually (emphasis on “eventually”- seeing him squirm in embarrassment was more than a little entertaining to her), she decided to put him out of his misery and talk about the real reason he was summoned

Remarkably yet understandably, they both agreed that their mutual crush was a horrible accident and they need to do something about it quick.

As time passed, they eventually came to the mutual decision that they should keep seeing each other, but keep the relationship (which, even then, is less of a relationship and more of an “it’s complicated” on Facebook) a secret

For Holloway that was because… well, how could she tell anyone, given the circumstances, but for Wiggly it was because he’d rather crawl in a hole and die of embarrassment than admit he has feelings for anyone, let alone a mortal woman.

So that was their plan… or at least, it was until seconds later when a flash of light hit their eyes, and they turned to see Blinky with his phone out- with the camera flash turned on for dramatic effect- and a nonchalant smile on his face, as he’d seen this coming the whole time

Who was also joined by Tinky, who looked positively heartbroken with his jaw slacked to the point of hanging off his face, Pokey, who was staring at the two with a confused and disappointed look, and Nibbly, who was just smiling at them in such a way that made them think he probably also saw this coming the whole time

Turns out they actually made bets as to whether or not they’d get together. No one (but Nibbly and Blinky) was pleased with this fact.

So as for the whole ‘glaring difference in moral alignment’ thing… they’re working on it. Wiggly’s trying to murder less, be nicer to people, and they’ve talked about apologising to his sister one day, as much as he really doesn’t want to do that

Holloway doesn’t want to throw away the only chance she has left at an actual relationship, and accepts that she’s asking Wiggly to basically change both his and his brothers’ whole lifestyle, so she’s being patient with him.

Oh, and as for Duke: I like to imagine this takes place in an alternate universe of Miss Holloween where, instead of giving up on the deal, she just buried herself deeper into her work hoping she’d just forget about Duke.

So he’s more or less fine, even if he still hasn’t completely gotten over her.

And it’s getting real late here, so… I suppose that’s essentially it.

[vhbutter]

Intro post, REJOICE

Hello friend, IM VINNY RAGHHH

Im a minor, and preferably would prefer if people under 13 didn’t contact me, cuz im not for that kinda life.

Im am Trans FTM, but I’m also not? Im just Vinny and that’s all that counts, any pronouns are fine, but I mainly go by he/him.

I have autism so a lot of my posts will be about my hyperfixations or interests

Hyperfixations (might miss some mb)

Doctor who

Little Nightmares

Bendy and the ink machine

Zelda

Hollow Knight

Elden ring

Magnus Archives

ENA

Deltarune/Undertale

Ultrakill

Spiderverse

Gotham

DFTM

Mr robot

Until Dawn

Portal

HLVRAI

Arcane

My special interests are essentially just: the ocean, space, computers and philosophy.

SORRY THERES LIKE A FUCKTON OF INTERESTS MB MB

Okay so, I make art, that’s a plus right? Maybe I’ll say something funny once in a while, joy. These are the benefits of being my friend, that’s sad.

THINGS TO KNOW

I never contact first, that shit terrifies me. So if you wanna talk, just say and I’ll be more than happy.

Forgot to mention I’m British, that can be a bit of a dealbreaker for some, I’ll admit.

I type how I talk, which is pretty flatly. Pray to god someone finds that charming.

I like friendship magic and fun, gang I promise.

KINS

Im gonna make a kinlist now, as cringy as that may be and stuff. But I want to.

Kris Dreemurr

Because I don’t say much unless I feel all cool and jolly and that. Also I eat glass, which is fairly similar to moss. Autism.

Elliot Alderson

Internal monologues and wide stares. And autism.

Viktor (Arcane)

I struggle with disability, it’s shit. Makes me feel like shit but we are thriving. Also autism.

Edward Nygma (Gotham)

Autism, “hey wanna hear this nerdy fact” all that stuff.

12th Doctor

Autism.

Edward Teach (OFMD)

Autism.

Herbert West

Autism

Papyrus

HERES A GOOD ONE, finally! I too, wish to wear four pairs of hotpants, it’s great to see a guy with priorities.

Outro

Okay I’m Vinny I like stuff I do stuff please think I’m cool.

Goodbye

[driderwife]

Fuckinnnn tmi medical update !

My rheumatologist called me & LUCKILY my liver and kidney function and all that stuff is perfectly normal! But there’s a fuckton of inflammation in my blood and body and she’s working rlly hard to narrow down what’s causing it. She’s sending me out for lupus bloodwork cuz honestly it’s a big possibility, we at least know something autoimmune is going on. I already have Juvenile Inflammatory Arthritis (yeah adults get it too for some reason there isn’t a name for the adult version) but it’s never flared up like this before.

She’s also putting me on a tapered trial dose of prednisone which is a lil intimidating BUT I’m really just looking forward to some relief from feeling extremely sick and weak and in pain all the time. IK side effects are hit and miss and can be scary sometimes so wish me luck! I start on it tomorrow.

Today I’m taking naproxen which has helped a lot, and I’m gonna try rlly hard to just take it easy. I’m messaging commissioners to update cuz I can barely even manage personal art even lol. Doing anything is exhausting atm.

[theanonymousclown]

GOD I hate Catwoman in the new Caped Crusader series.

I hate to say it because I love Catwoman, I kinda have to considering I love cats. But man, for all the hits the new show has…. There has to be a miss sometimes.

I just wish we didn’t need to throw Selina to the wolves in exchange for the best Harley Quinn and Clayface designs I’ve ever seen.

For those who don’t know, this is Selina’s Catwoman outfit in The Caped Crusader. You’ll notice it’s shitty. To be fair, she made it herself, so maybe that’s why it’s so shit.

Catwoman has almost always been associated with purple, but in recent years her designs have focused more on black. Additionally, her newest outfits are much more sleek- just compare her design from Harley Quinn as a comparison.

As you can see here, the (in my opinion superior) Harley Quinn design… actually looks like a cat burglar! In comparison to the Caped Crusader Catwoman, who looks like a child playing princess-superhero dress up. God don’t even get me started on the stupid ass cat clasp on her belt.

Now, because she made her costume herself, maybe that was the plan! But if it was, maybe her character should have been written more in that direction! Her voice says “Suave, cool cat burglar” but her outfit says “Costume party”

Fucking hate it. I’m just glad she’s still has a fuckton of cats.

[quotidian-oblivion]

✨Out of context lines shitpost Pt. 8✨

Part 7

Quo: This is it... our last day of childcare course. And... *sighs* I'm getting choked up. I met @mispeltnostalgia and got to know her well through this course and she's been the best irl fanfic buddy and older brother despite being a year younger than me ever.

Nog: These out of context things have made me so happy and its fun to look back and remember the funny shit that we have said and done this year. this deffo won't be the last though. Quo and I will forever be saying and doing stupid shit. Quo is the best little sister ever and while I'll miss our fridays together she cant get rid of me. I know too many of her fanfics and she's beta-ing my works.

Quo: You beta-ed a couple of mine too!

We'll still be posting the out of context lines, but there are going to be longer gaps since we're not gonna meet on Fridays anymore :( There's still our weekly study sessions that we dubbed TEAS on Wednesday!

~

Tim: *holding a ball of wool to Jason’s face as a pretend mic* What do you say about the Curse you just found out you have Jason: *clears throat* I hope it kills me. ~ Jason: What do you have to say about your Curse? Tim: …I’ve had it since I was fucking born. ~ Barbara: So I bought a pack of quick oats because I love oats. And then I bought another pack of overnight oats because it had yoghurt, and now I’m just realizing that I really am just a horse. Little Shit Young!Jason: THAT’S WHAT I’VE BEEN SAYING. ~ Damian: I’ve been able to find a knife, I’ve been able to find a fork, but I can’t find a spoon. Jon: You have all the stabby objects in your bag Damian: I also have a fuckton of crochet hooks and— a pocket watch?? *pulls out pocket watch* Where the fuck is my spoon. ~ Steph: So I was getting pumped up for this song but then I just hear this tiny Alvin and the chipmunks voice say “Party Rock” and it just dashed my hopes. Listen to this *Plays Party Rock Anthem”. Damian: … Steph: Like, imagine getting pumped up for one of your childhood songs then you just suddenly hear “party rock” in this high-pitched voice and I felt like killing myself. Damian: … Steph: And hear me out— Damian: I don’t think i want to hear you out anymore. Steph: *Continues to play Bad Romance covered by the Alvin and the Chipmunks” ~ Tim: *Watching a video of Bruce* Bart: Wait, your dad sounds American. Bart: And he speaks kind of like you too! Tim: Yeah, I wonder why my American dad who raised me sounds and has the same speech patterns as me. Hmm, good question. Bart: I just wasn’t expecting it. I forgot that American dads were a thing. ~ Steph: i am granting you the honor of waffle ~ Barbara: *looking for a place to put popcorn. Places the popcorn against Dick’s lap* Dick: hell yeah crotch popcorn! Omg crotchcorn! Barbara: Please don't. ~ Bruce: You have to be very careful out there. These racist attacks are getting worse. Dick: Don't worry, Pops. I'm with a white person, I'll be fine. Barbara: *chokes on her drink with laughter* ~ Tim: *mixes soda water, energy drink and trace amounts of tea together in a tumbler* For funsies. *chugs it* ~ Jason: *falls to the floor, crumbles and silently screams in a public library* Barbara: Stop it, you’re embarrassing yourself Jason: I’m a drama kid, I can do whatever I want ~ Steph: *singing* I am not a quitter Tim: *singing with her* Pocket full of glitter Steph: Yarn balls, I’m a knitter!  Steph and Tim: *singing together* I’m the whole package, baby! Tim: I haven’t met you Steph: But if you’re staaable Tim and Steph: Then here’s my number! And call me Mabel! ~ Alfred: *grabs Bruce by the shoulders and shakes* BE PRODUCTIVE! ~  Steph: IS THAT A PURPLE BALLOON??? Steph: *walks over, picks it up, and carries it like a baby* *whispers* I’m pregnant ~  Damian, high on pain meds: *giggling while he draws Tim falling off a roof* whee whee, hee hee, I’m so funny. Hee hee hee. He’s falling off a building.

[kafus]

i still want to make an online archive of all of (well, most of, some stuff i don’t need public) my old art, but i’ve been heavily procrastinating on it bc it turns out when you do art as a hobby for over a decade you make an absolute metric fuckton of art. and i’m missing all my digital art from 2012-2013 and younger me was bad about saving all my sketches/doodles so i’m missing stuff and it’s STILL so fucking much to organize. and i haven’t even TOUCHED trying to archive my traditional art other than shitty phone photos from 2021 bc while i have never been a dedicated traditional artist, the amount of pen/pencil sketches i did during my adolescence in school is vast and fills up an entire bin of sketchbooks

this photo is from 2021 and my fingers are covering it partially for some reason but the bin in question. all of these sketchbooks r full of art. and it’s actually missing a few because i located a few other ones in recent times 😭 who knows if any more are lost

i’ll get back to that archive eventually but god