#I would like to sit the fuck down with the writers and ask what they’re trying to do

[ghostgirl-22]

Hi! <3 You’re like my favorite writer for Artrick! I swear you characterize them perfectlyyy

I keep thinking about the idea of Art and Patrick going on a date when he’s at Stanford. Like obviously Art wouldn’t admit it’s a date, but I imagine it’s after Art reluctantly admits that he wants to hang with Patrick alone when he comes to visit and that he’s a bit jealous of Tashi. So they basically have an unofficial date night. How do you think this would go, and how would Art go about initiating something physical between them because he’s obviously not gay right?

Okay but you’re actually such an amazingly talented writer and I love your stuff so much! Thanks so much for this request I honestly don’t think I did this ask justice and I’m sorry it was so long but I hope this attempt brings you some amusement <3

CW: 18+ !NSFW! 3.8kish words

—-

It’s not that Art is jealous. He’s not jealous. He’s not. But up until now Patrick’s always called him and stopped by on his little trips to Stanford. It’s not like he expects Patrick to stay long, he knows he’s not the main event… but he at least expects him to come by.

So when Patrick shows up at his door three days later, asking if he can stay in Art’s room, Art tries his best not to express his irritation that he hasn’t once come by his room till now. And it really stings because Art knows the only reason he’s here now is because of the limit on how many days he can consecutively “visit” her dorm.

“You’re saving me man,” Patrick says, patting his arm as he drops his duffle on Art’s designated chair full of stuff.

Art shrugs. “Yeah well. Happy to be an afterthought.” He mumbles.

Patrick raises his eyebrows and then gives him a crooked smile. “You are never an afterthought.”

“It’s fine,” Art says, already embarrassed that he brought it up. “You’re dating Tashi Duncan. It’s totally understandable dude.” He tries to sound nonchalant, hopeful that it’s how he comes across. He feels like he spends so much time these days swallowing down on feelings. Feelings he can’t name, feelings he doesn’t even really understand. None of them jealousy. He’s really not jealous.

He does often wonder what they do alone. He thinks about what they do in bed since the most he really knows is that they’re fucking. He knows Patrick calls her all the time because he doesn’t really call Art that much anymore. They used to sit on the phone for hours, barely talking or talking too much, sometimes till late in the night. The same way they did when they were sharing a room in high school. But gradually it became, Patrick leaving the call earlier and earlier. To Patrick not really calling that often at all.

“You know, you can help me with something actually,” Patrick says, flopping onto Arts bed.

“What?”

“I’m taking her on a date tonight, we’re going to get dinner and see a movie.”

“Oh,” Art says. “What movie?”

“The new Saw movie. What number are they on now? 11?” Patrick laughs.

“Oh I didn’t know she’d like something like that,” Art says carefully.

”Yeah well, she saw the first one and she said liked it. She never got around to the others. I asked her if she’d be scared to see it but she said even if she was… she wouldn’t mind being scared if I was there. Isn’t that kinda… hot?”

Art shrugs again, swallowing it down.

”Sorry, is this hard to hear?” Patrick asks, patting his cheek.

“Fuck off,” Art mutters. “I’m just… I’m thinking about my game on Sunday. I’m not really worried about your relationship actually.” He lies.

“Good cause I was just gonna ask for your advice on what to wear. She tends to dress up for this kinda thing and I don’t want her to be annoyed if I show up in shorts and a t-shirt again.”

“You want me to help you pick out an outfit?”

“Yeah… you’re always put together,” Patrick says.

“All your clothes are tailored. Just pick something.” Art says, dryly.

“Okay but I want to wear something comfortable. Not something that makes me look like I’m about to donate a hefty sum at some stuffy fundraiser.”

Art sighs, “fine what’d you bring? Lay it out.”

Patrick empties his duffle on the bed, everything he has that isn’t training gear, playing gear and t-shirts is all wrinkled but Art has an iron. He helps Patrick pick something out. He’s still irritated, but he thinks he covers it well.

He’s actually stunned by how happy it makes him when Tashi calls and says she has to cancel. She does kids tennis lessons for extra spending money and a client wanted her help to prep for a game in the early morning.

Patrick’s talking to her, his tone understanding making her feel better about canceling last minute and promising to see the movie another time. He’s such a good boyfriend. It’s so weird that he’s not fucked it up by now. Art can’t remember Patrick ever dating anyone this long before.

Art’s sitting on his bed, back up against the wall, kicking his feet over the edge, listening to him.

“Sorry man, you’re stuck with me all night,” Patrick says after he hangs up. He knees the bed and sinks into it, settling down and leaning close to Art, he picks up his half ironed slacks and frowns.

“Mm… why don’t we go out?” Art suggests.

Patrick laughs and so does Art, feeling himself beginning to flush.

“Or… I mean… we could just hang out. Watch Hell’s Kitchen or something,” Art says quickly. He looks up when Patrick doesn't reply and Patrick is staring at him, a peculiar look on his face.

“Fuck it, let’s go out.” Patrick smirks. “You can be my date.”

“Yeah? Why not?” Art smiles. “I mean who says two friends can’t go out for dinner and a movie.”

Patrick laughs a bit, his expression flitting quickly between amusement and something Art can’t recognize. “Mm right. Platonic date night. Here we come. You have something nice right?”

”Yeah,” Art says. “I can wear that one shirt I wore to the awards dinner last year.”

“Oh yeah, you look so hot in blue, wear that,” Patrick teases.

“Shut up,” Art smirks, ignoring the weird feeling that blossoms in his chest after Patrick calls him hot.

They get dressed. Patrick’s clothes fit him so well. He’s in an outfit that might read as casual (fitted t-shirt, slacks, and a blazer) if not for the simple elegance of it all being quietly wealthy.

He’s also got a great body and anything fitted on him is going to bring that out. Art doesn’t think about his body often or anything like that, it’s just something he notices. The sky is blue, water is wet and Patrick Zweig has a great body. It just is.

They go to the movies first. “I prefer that when I go out on a date, so we have something to talk about over dinner or drinks,” Patrick explains as he drives them over to the theater in his jeep. “You know in case the date is boring. Not that that’s ever the case with Tashi. Actually, you know what’s crazy? I feel like she’s as easy for me to talk to as you are.”

“Hm,” Art says, swallowing down on something bitter in his throat. “Well I think you should try to find a balance. Talk to other people. You don’t want to scare her away by only ever talking to her.”

“Oh is that what you think?” Patrick says, smirking. “I don’t only talk to her actually. I’ve just got a lot of pressure on me. The only time I get a chance to rest I’m so exhausted— I got one phone call in me and so you know…”

“Oh,” Art says. “Well yeah I guess that makes sense.”

“Are you seeing anyone?” Patrick asks.

“Mm, I mean… I think I might be interested in this girl on the team. She’s really good.” Art lies. He’s not really interested in anyone and he’s probably wasting his time, thinking more about Patrick and Tashi than he spends thinking about his own social life. He wants her so bad unfortunately every other girl he meets just pales in comparison.

—-

They’re actually on the 4th Saw movie, and it’s as stupid as Art might have expected. They laugh about it over dinner at Applebees. Patrick’s got this pretty realistic looking fake id so he orders a drink and they split it when the waitress isn’t looking. Not that she cares, she’s also a Stanford student. She’s been to a few tennis games to watch Tashi play but she knows Art is the number one singles player on the men’s team.

“You’re really good,” she smiles at him and he can feel his skin flushing as Patrick grins at him from across the table.

”Thanks uh— but Patrick actually plays professionally.” Art says.

“That’s so cool,” she says, she smiles at Patrick and then looks back at Art. “I would love to learn to just hit the ball over the net.” She laughs.

”He can teach you that easy,” Patrick says. Art kicks him under the table and he just grins wider.

“Can you really?” The waitress asks, flipping her pretty blonde hair over her shoulder.

“Yeah I mean… whenever,” Art says, awkwardly.

“Cool, I’ll be back. You guys want anything else?”

Patrick gives Art a meaningful look and then orders a second drink.

“When were you gonna tell me you got number one singles?” Patrick asks, watching her as she walks away.

“I figured Tashi told you,” Art says.

“Yeah but you should have told me,” Patrick says. “She’s hot right?” He adds, gesturing back towards the waitress.

“I mean… I can tell her you think she’s hot,” Art says. “I don’t think she believes you’re actually dating Tashi anyway.”

Patrick laughs, “God you’re such a dick. I meant for you. That would be a fun night.”

“I guess,” Art says, rubbing his palms on his lap. It’s all he has to say for Patrick to keep teasing him throughout the rest of the night, getting her to come back over and flirt with Art. He orders more and more drinks which she happily brings over.

In spite of the teasing, it’s actually really fun. Of course Art has been to movies with Patrick before, even gone out to dinner with him and their friends or family before, but this feels different. Art can’t figure out why… maybe because he gets to be in Tashi’s place. Maybe because it feels like old times.

They probably spend two and half hours in Applebees talking about the movie, high school, tennis, their parents, video games, girls and anything else that pops into their heads. They only leave because its 12 am and the restaurant’s closing. By then they’ve split a total of six cocktails and Art is feeling so tipsy.

“How much is it?” He asks when the waitress brings the bill.

“I’ll take care of it,” Patrick says.

“Dude it’s okay we can split,” Art says.

“No relax, it’s our platonic date night, right?” Patrick pulls out his credit card. “I can give you this though.”

He hands Art the non singable copy of the receipt and on the bottom the waitress left a note: For whenever you decide to teach me how to serve, Jenny. Followed by her phone number and a heart.

“She drew a heart and everything,” Patrick teases.

”It’s for you,” Art says, shyly.

“It’s so clearly for you, Stanford boy,” Patrick smirks.

“We probably have to take a cab home,” Art hiccups. Changing the subject. He does slip the receipt into his jeans pocket though.

“Oh yeah,” Patrick says. “You’re so responsible by the way. I love that about you.”

Art snorts a laugh and Patrick starts laughing too. Patrick leaves a big tip and they call a cab. Art promises to come back with him to pick up his jeep in the morning and they share a cigarette while waiting for the cab. When it arrives they hop in the backseat for the 25 minute ride back to campus.

Art’s feeling sleepy, the combination of food, alcohol and a long car ride is lethal for him. He closes his eyes, head slipping to settle on Patrick’s shoulder. Distantly, he feels Patrick rest a hand on his thigh and he opens his eyes, suddenly wide awake. It should be a nothing feeling but Art goes rigid, he feels it all up and down his spine and even worse, his cock starts to wake up.

“Did you have fun?” Patrick asks, quietly.

“Yeah,” Art says, he stares at the meter on the cab. He feels so dizzy and confused as Patrick’s fingers play a light pitter patter along his thigh.

“I’m sorry I’m not… free all the time. Like in high school, you know?” His voice is soft, Art can almost feel the vibration of it from where he’s leaning. He can feel Patrick’s breath on his cheek. It makes no sense the way his body is reacting. Maybe he’s drunker than he thought.

“Uh,” Art sits up. “Don’t worry about it. We’re both um— busy.”

“I know,” Patrick says, he’s still playing the pattern on Art’s thigh. “But I feel like I’ve been neglecting you.”

Art feels anxious, he looks up front, he can see the driver glancing back at them in the rear view. “Look… obviously your girlfriend comes first. We can do bro stuff whenever…” Art says as he gently eases Patrick’s hand off his thigh even though it feels nice. His heart is racing like he’s running some kind of marathon he doesn’t know why but it’s probably just the drinks. All the alcohol making his head all fuzzy.

“Yeah,” Patrick sighs. “Bro stuff.” He rests his head against the back of the seat and they’re mostly quiet for the rest of the ride. Arts mind is racing. All he can think about is how close they are but how much it feels like something is slipping away.

The halls are mostly empty as they get back to the dorm. There’s a few students still up. A couple talking softly to each other. One girl on the floor with her headphones plugged in watching something on her laptop. Some guy exits his room, talking on his cellphone as he breezes past them.

“You think I can sneak back to her room or no?” Patrick asks, one arm resting on the door frame as Art leans in to unlock his room.

Art feels his heart still beating oddly fast, probably because Patrick is right behind him. He’s never been able to manage personal space as long as they’ve been friends but right now Art is just so… aware of him. “You can stay here. It’s just one night. I’ll even let you have the bed all to yourself.” Art says.

“It’d be two nights. I leave on Sunday.”

“Okay, two nights then,” Art pushes open the door, breaking the closeness. It feels like a temporary bit of relief.

Patrick follows him in and slips off his shoes. “That’s the one thing I hate about dressing up. Fucking boat shoes.”

Art smiles. “I’m really drunk I think.” He says, kicking off his own shoes.

“Yeah?” Patrick smirks.

“Yeah, I don’t know how I’m gonna make it to practice tomorrow.”

“Isn’t it in the afternoon?” Patrick pulls off his jacket and then his t-shirt. He digs through his duffle for something to put on.

“Yeah but still.” Art realizes then he’s been watching Patrick undress, like he hasn’t seen him butt naked before. He shakes his head and goes to change into his own night clothes.

“Don’t be mad,” Patrick says as Art gets his jeans off.

“What?”

“I think I need a session, maybe I found that waitress hotter than I realized,” he’s in his boxers holding himself. His eyes fall over Art’s body.

Art looks down and swallows. He’s seen Patrick erect before… even touched it… But they were a lot younger last time. They’d actually grown out of doing it in front of each other a long time ago.

But ever since Patrick brought it up that night… ever since they kissed… Art’s mind would occasionally wander to what it might be like to see it again. And now there it was… just… right in front of him. Patrick holding it idly like it’s not ridiculous to be carrying all of that around. Art’s fingers twitch, his mouth is suddenly too wet and he swallows again. The worst part… he’s getting hard.

Patrick sighs. “I’ll go in the bathroom.”

“Um…” Art can hear his heartbeat in his ears, he sits on his bed just because his knees are shaky. “I thought… I think she’s hot too.”

Patrick is still for a moment watching him, before he smiles and approaches Art. “Right? I think it was the skirt. I mean those fucking legs.”

Art nods. He reaches for Patrick. His head is all fuzzy, his ears are ringing and Patrick straddles him on the bed. Art touches it through his boxers. It’s heavy and really, really full.

Patrick eases his fingers into Art’s hair. “And she’s blonde….I think I like blondes more than I should.”

Art grips him properly. It’s not just lengthy, it’s thick. The only thing he can think about is what it might feel like in— in— just in.

He rubs it up and down, like it’s his own. He’s never done anything like this before so he’s shocked when Patrick reacts, “Fuck,” he gasps, this quiet sound that makes Art shiver. Art grabs at the front of his boxers and eases them down, revealing a shock of dark hair and Patrick’s cock as it bobs forward. Circumcised, all pink, and all so real. So much bigger than the last time Art saw it like this.

He leans over and licks at the shaft.

“Whoa,” Patrick breathes and then he chuckles.

“I uh—‘m sorry,” Art looks up at him, anxious that maybe this is too much, too far. That he did something wrong.

“God Art. You’re so fucking…” Patrick breathes and settles down on Art’s lap. He takes Art’s face in his hands and kisses him. Art breathes in as their lips touch. It almost feels the way it felt that night. Something warm, almost on fire. Their chemistry overwhelming.

God, is he into this? Is he into Patrick? He thought it was all because of Tashi but this still feels good even when she’s not watching. And right now Art knows he wants to feel more of Patrick’s tongue. He wants to lick his cock again. His mouth hasn’t really stopped feeling wet, but the kiss feels good in spite of it…maybe because of it. He finds himself exploring every inch of Patrick’s mouth. His heart is still racing. He knows Patrick can feel how hard he is. The way he feels Patrick poking against his stomach. He grips it and gets excited when Patrick hums a pretty little moan.

Patrick eases them out of the kiss and looks at Art, fingers tangled in his hair. His cheeks are all flushed and rosey. His freckles are so vivid up close. He’s actually incredible. “You want to taste it again?” He asks, brushing up against Art’s lips.

“Mmhm,” Art nods.

Patrick takes a deep breath and he actually stands up in front of Art, so his cock is just right in front of Arts face. Art stares at him and nibbles on his thumb. Patrick’s got freckles on his tummy, just a couple spattered here and there. Art wants to lick those too.

He sits up and grips Patrick’s cock again. It feels so warm he must run at a thousand degrees. Art licks at him. He can see the way Patrick’s muscles tense. Hear his little breaths. Art starts licking more. Up and down, all over the length of him. He likes how it feels along his tongue. The heat of it, how soft and solid it is at the same time. He likes the taste and the smell, salty and heady. He sees the pearls leaking from the tip and tastes that. He really likes how it tastes so he sucks on the tip a little more. And it’s all punctuated by the way its affecting Patrick.

“Mm, fuck sweetheart, I know you want to explore but this feels insane.” Patrick breathes. “You’re gonna mess around and make me shove it in your mouth.”

Art feels warm at the way he says sweetheart. And the thought that Patrick might lose control over him.

He opens up and takes in more.

“Fuuckk,” Patrick sighs like he’s sinking into a warm bath. Art closes his eyes and runs his tongue over the length. He’s almost sure he can taste Patrick’s heart beating through it. It feels incredible and Patrick starts moaning for him which makes Art begin to lose himself in it. It’s too big to get it all inside at once but he tries to take a little more. His mouth is so wet that when he pulls back spit drips onto his thighs. He licks and then takes it in again, more this time.

“Oh shit,” Patrick gasps. He starts moving his hips like he can’t control himself and Art needs to grab on to keep him from shoving it too deep. But he likes the sliding feeling as it moves back and forth over his tongue. His own cock is aching. He feels like he might start pushing up against the air too. It’s so hot how he’s the one doing this to Patrick. It’s all him. His mouth. His tongue.

“Can you look at me?” Patrick gasps.

Art hums and looks up as it’s sliding out of his mouth, he takes a small breath before taking it back in again but his mouth starts filling immediately. Art feels it hot and thick slipping down his throat and he starts coughing. Which makes it start spilling everywhere, dripping off his lips and Patrick’s still coming so Art licks around the tip to try and taste it.

“No… wait, fuck, fuck… that’s too sensitive just… relax,” Patrick gasps, breathlessly. He pulls his shorts back up and stumbles to sit on the bed next to him. He rubs his thumb over Art’s messy lips, Art licks at it and Patrick smiles letting him suck it for a minute before pulling it away and sucking it into own mouth. “Come here.” He rubs his thighs.

Art stares at him for a minute and then moves to straddle him. “Sit,” Patrick says, softly.

Art settles on his lap.

“Have you ever done that before?” Patrick asks, rubbing him over his boxers.

“No, is it okay?” Art asks, his voice a little hoarse.

“So fucking okay,” Patrick says and he starts kissing him immediately. It feels so satisfying, rubbing his tongue along Patricks after having a mouth full of him. He feels Patrick’s fingers ease into his boxers, gripping his cock where Patrick starts jerking him off properly. That combined with the stimulation from the kissing makes Art finish embarrassingly quickly all over Patrick’s fingers and in his shorts.

“Mm I need another cigarette,” Patrick laughs, licking his fingers and gazing at Art.

Art swallows hard, mildly panicked now that he’s back in his right mind. He climbs off of Patrick’s lap.

“What?” Patrick asks. ”And don’t say sorry.”

Art bites his tongue and takes a deep breath. “I think I drank too much.”

Patrick grins. “I don’t know. You kinda spilled some of it,” he gestures to Art’s lap, a bit of pearly liquid settled there.

“That’s not funny,” Art says, biting down on a smile.

“Oh it’s really funny.” Patrick says, getting to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Art asks. Strangely enough he just kinda wants to be near him.

“I’m gonna wash my hands,” he says. “And clean up a bit.”

Art bites his lip.

“You want to come?”

Art nods and gets to his feet. “I’ll just brush my teeth and um… change my…” he gestures vauguely.

Patrick smirks and beckons for Art to lead the way. “So,” Patrick says. “Where do you wanna go tomorrow night?”

[maul-of-shame]

Oh my god you’re out here acting like you’re some badass queen for having a horrible ship but you just sound like a middle aged bored mom who read a Colleen Hoover book and now makes it their entire personality because they’re bored. Also what’s with the big red letters? You don’t sound like a mean girl who’s making a point, you sound like a loser who’s in desperate need of a dose of reality.

Galadriel is like an older sister (or even a mother figure) to Elrond, which is why their relationship is so comforting. You trying to ruin that does make me upset cause I’m tired of people having no sense of media literacy. Not everything has to be shipped and definitely not something as dumb as this.

Also, fuck that stupid Sauron/Galadriel ship. It’s straight up people romanizing abuse and it’s disgusting. Canon!Galadriel would have never fallen for Hallbrand’s shit or Sauron’s charms and the way the Rings Of Power writers took a strong, mature female character and made her in to an immature schoolgirl (when she’s literally one of the oldest elves, older than Gil-Galad) is fucking stupid and actually misogynistic. I’m so tired of people taking strong female characters and watering them down to make them into a love interest for the villain or make her a cringy villain too. It’s dumb

So yeah, fuck Rings Of Power for destroying canon and destroying Galadriel’s character, fuck those Sauron/Galadriel shippers for being weird, and fuck you for taking a comforting, platonic relationship ship between two characters who have both been through a lot of shit and romanticizing it.

Also, fuck you for erasing Celebrian. I know you probably can’t comphrehend a female character being great without a sword in her hand so take that sword and shove it up your ass.

A word of advice, don’t touch the Lord Of The Rings when you clearly do not understand any of the characters, their relationships, or the meaning behind them. Just write your own book at this point with your own characters and leave the beautifully written stories of Tolkien alone.

Oh nooooooooo, did I offend you and your little Nazgûl toys? Did my horrifying act of (gasp) shipping two FICTIONAL characters make you sprint to the safety of the anonymous ask button, cloak fluttering dramatically behind you, so you could deliver this righteous tirade?🥺🥺🥺

Oh, how will I ever recover from being called a middle-aged Colleen Hoover mom by someone who’s clearly more pressed than the One Ring under Sauron’s hand? Truly, I’m shattered.🙄

Better a badass queen than some self-appointed Warden of the Fandom Wastes, skulking around like Gollum clutching your “precious” canon interpretations. Honestly, the only crown you’d ever wear is made of your own insecurities and bad takes, and even that sits crooked because it’s weighed down by all the irrelevant, unsolicited opinions you can’t stop flinging around. At least I’m out here enjoying myself—what’s your excuse?

You’ve got thoughts on the big red letters, do you? How utterly precious. Let me roll out the crimson carpet for you, since it seems they’ve left such a deep impression on your clearly delicate sensibilities. Here, let me give you more big red letters, because I wouldn’t want you to feel deprived of the melodramatic theater you seem so desperate for:

BIG. RED. LETTERS. JUST. FOR. YOU.!!!!

How’s that? Feeling better? Maybe this will soothe whatever irrational rage my formatting has triggered in that oh-so-fragile ego of yours. You’re acting like I personally painted the Eye of Sauron in your living room. Imagine being so pressed over font choices on the internet as well. It’s giving “I’m mad at PowerPoint for existing” energy, and frankly, it’s embarrassing.

You're embarassing yourself honey.

I wrote a reply, but I doubt you have the intelligence to understand it—or to hear it over the sound of your teeth grinding. Don’t worry, though! I hear Nazgûls get special dental benefits under Sauron’s health plan! Might want to book that appointment before the Mouth of Sauron starts mumbling your excuses for you!🦷🦷🦷

[TW: long salty rant]

First of all, if you’re so confident in your opinions, why are you skulking in my inbox as ANON, like Gollum trying to steal his precious back?

If you’re going to talk big about media literacy and "ruined characters," at least have the courage to do it without hiding behind the shadowy safety net of anonymity. You don’t sound like a defender of Tolkien’s legacy.

You sound like someone who got rejected by the Council of Elrond and has been bitter about it ever since.

Second, your entire rant reeks of irony. You complain about media literacy while writing paragraphs of projection, completely ignoring that this is fan content.

FAN. CONTENT.

You know, the space where people explore different interpretations and tell stories that resonate with them? Oh, but no! We must all bow to your singular, unyielding interpretation of Tolkien’s work, or else risk being smote upon the mountains of your judgment! Get over yourself. Seriously.

The best part? You’re mad about me "ruining" Galadriel and Elrond’s "comforting" dynamic by exploring a different take, but in the same breath, you’re tearing down Rings of Power Galadriel for being "immature" and "cringy." Sweetheart, pick a lane. You’re out here defending canon while also trashing it—what is this, the mental gymnastics World Championships? I have to say, your flexibility is impressive, careful of pulled muscles.

And so I have a sword up my what now?

Oh, my dear anonymous bard of bitterness, that’s quite the reach for someone who’s clearly got a scroll of the Silmarillion shoved so far up their ass that they probably recite Quenya conjugations in their sleep.

What’s next? Are you going to accuse me of erasing Melian because I didn’t write her into my Elrond and Galadriel fic either? Or maybe I’ll get yelled at for not including Bill the Pony in a Kingsman AU (he will be besties, don't worry)?

Let me make this very clear for you, Elvish Choir Master of Overreach, Herald of the Screeching Essay, Defender of the Lore That Nobody Asked You to Protect, Wielder of the All-Caps Argument, and Keeper of the Scroll That’s Shoved So Far Up Your Ass You Probably Quote “Ainulindalë” When Ordering Your Morning Coffee (truly, your titles grow longer than Treebeard’s introductions, yet none of them seem to include “Maker of a Valid Point.”!")-

Celebrian is not missing because I "don’t comprehend strong female characters without swords." She’s missing because, brace yourself, not every single piece of fanfiction has to feature every single character from Tolkien’s works.

Shocking, I know. Truly, I can hear the Valar themselves weeping at this revelation.

But here’s the thing: I’m not writing a Celebrian-centric fic. And you know what? That’s okay. You can unclench now.

Let’s really talk about your oh-so-bold suggestion to shove a sword somewhere for a sec. That’s your masterstroke? That’s the hill you’re dying on?

If we’re being honest, your insult is so dull it wouldn’t cut through soft butter on a sunny day, let alone make me flinch. Sting is officially handing in its resignation because it’s mortified to even share a sentence with you. You’re out here acting like you’ve got the sharpest blade in the Shire, but all I see is someone frantically flailing with a broken spoon.

And then there’s this laughable attempt at moral superiority. You’re swinging around words like you’re a defender of Middle-earth itself, valiantly protecting Tolkien’s legacy, when in reality, your argument is about as sturdy as a sandcastle at Helm’s Deep. You’re not a warrior—you’re the Mouth of Sauron after a bad day, spewing nonsense and hoping someone will think it’s profound. Newsflash: it’s not.

Let’s be clear: your little temper tantrum reeks of someone who just discovered the caps lock button, a bunch of adult words and decided to let it do all the heavy lifting.

I’ve seen hobbits throw better shade after three pints of ale.

You’re no mighty protector of canon—you’re just another basement-dwelling troll who thinks yelling loud enough will make people take you seriously.

And your sword suggestion? I’d recommend you point that creative energy inward, maybe use it to figure out how to construct an actual argument instead of regurgitating clichés you probably heard from your "leader" of choice in your private toxic fandom echo chamber. Don’t worry, though—I doubt you’ll hear any of this over the sound of your teeth grinding or the faint whistle of your Nazgûl screech echoing through your mom’s basement.

Maybe take a break, Denethor—chew on a tomato or two, cry into your cloak, and try again when you’ve leveled up from hobbit insult level: preschool.

Honestly, you’re not even mad about Celebrian being “erased.” You’re mad because I dared to write something that doesn’t align with your precious headcanons. And instead of just scrolling past, you decided to play Tolkienquisitor in my inbox, as if you’ve been personally tasked by Eru Ilúvatar to uphold canon.

I'm sorry (no) to break it to you but nobody crowned you King (or Queen) of Arda.

Not every single piece of fanfiction needs to involve every canon character just to meet your Tolkien purity test. If that’s a requirement, maybe you should write the fic. Oh wait....- you’re too busy spamming inboxes with this unhinged bullshit. My bad.

Here’s the thing, Bearer of Misplaced Rage: nobody asked for your unsolicited essay about the sanctity of Celebrian. But please, do continue climbing the Tower of Tolkien Purism like you’re on some holy quest. Maybe at the top, you’ll find the self-awareness you so desperately lack—or perhaps just a mirror to reflect your ridiculousness back at you.

You wanna talk about erasing characters? Fine.

Let’s talk about how you erased common decency, social awareness, and basic literacy by barging into my inbox with this drivel. The lorebros tirades and scroll-up-the-ass syndrome are bad enough, but now you’re out here flinging insults like “shove a sword up your ass” as if you just invented edgy. Sweetheart, that’s not edgy—that’s the kind of thing a D-list internet troll would type before running out of Wi-Fi.

So, let me leave you with this, oh Guardian of the Fanfic Gates: the next time you feel compelled to compose another Screed of the Self-Righteous, maybe take a moment to ask yourself, “Does this make me sound like a reasonable human being, or just a Balrog throwing a temper tantrum in a lava pit?” Because right now, I’d wager Smaug hoarding gold has more chill than you do.

And let’s not even start with your hilariously misplaced outrage about me shipping Elrond and Galadriel while we both apparently agree that Saurondriel is not our cup of tea. You’re yelling into the void about something I never even said or supported. Congratulations! You’ve officially argued against a strawman!

Here’s your Orcish participation trophy!

Thank you, Supreme Chancellor of Canon Policing, Overseer of the One True Interpretation, and Gatekeeper Extraordinaire of Tolkien’s Sacred Scrolls. I am truly humbled to be graced with your unsolicited advice, delivered with the self-importance of someone who thinks they’re the Mouth of Sauron but comes off more like Gollum arguing with his own reflection. Truly, I don’t know what I’d do without such pearls of wisdom.

But let me give you a word of advice, oh Lore Purist in Chief, President of the Fanfiction Police Union, and Guardian of the Shire’s Moral High Ground: I will touch Tolkien’s world, twist it, flip it like a pancake, and build something entirely new on top of it because guess what?

I’ve already done it.

And I’ll do it again.

And the best part? I don’t give a single, solitary fuck about your opinions, your outrage, or your sad little attempts to gatekeep Middle-earth like it’s your family heirloom.

You think your tired, sanctimonious “write your own book” line is a gotcha? Sweetheart, I already have. Several, in fact. And guess what? I’ll write more—more stories, more ships, more reinterpretations—and there’s nothing you can do but sit there in your self-proclaimed Chair of Canonical Superiority, furiously typing out essays that no one but you cares about. Go on, keep clutching your pearls and scribbling your fanfic hate manifestos, but let me promise you something: I’m not stopping. Ever.

It’s honestly adorable that you think your little decree will somehow shame me into putting my pen down. What next? You gonna summon the Valar to smite me for daring to reinterpret a fictional world?

Send an eagle my way, please—I’ll need it to carry all the fucks I don’t give about your opinion.

And let me be clear, Warden of Tolkien’s Spirit: your outrage is just fuel for my creative fire. Every time you whine, I just want to write more. So congrats, you’re officially my muse now, Pontiff of Perpetual Fan Rage!

You know what’s truly laughable? Your holier-than-thou act of pretending you’re the sole arbiter of what Tolkien “meant.” Tolkien’s works are complex, layered, and ripe for reinterpretation—that’s the beauty of storytelling. But no, you’ve decided you’re The Chosen One who understands it all, while the rest of us mere mortals stumble around in the dark.

Honey, if you’re the shining beacon of understanding, I’d rather take my chances in Moria without a light.

So, High Inquisitor of Gatekeeping™, continue shouting into the void, continue crying about my creative choices, and continue being mad about fanfiction. Meanwhile, I’ll be over here doing exactly what you hate: writing more, creating more, and caring less about your irrelevant opinions.

Go back to your dark little corner of Middle-earth, chewing on your bones—or was it cherry tomatoes this time?—and maybe weep dramatically about how "nobody understands your self-proclaimed brilliance". Honestly, your energy is giving less "Steward of Gondor" and more "Steward of Mom’s Basement."

Do you light a big, dramatic bonfire every time someone disagrees with you, or do you just sulk under the glow of your monitor, waiting for someone to tag your ship so you can descend like a Nazgûl in a hissy fit?

You’re out here acting like you’re defending Tolkien’s honor, but let’s be real—you’re just pressed that not everyone worships at the altar of your very specific, incredibly narrow, terminally boring interpretation of his works. It’s okay, really. We get it. You’ve been sitting there so long with that “scroll of canon” shoved up your ass that you’ve convinced yourself you’re a scholar.

Spoiler alert: you’re not. You’re just the guy crying into a bowl of instant noodles, mad that someone dared to take creative liberties with a fictional story.

To my knowledge, the Tolkien Estate is NOT sending you a paycheck to defend their lore. You’re not a martyr. You’re not a scholar. You’re not even the fun kind of fan who shares cool lore facts. You’re just the guy screaming, “That’s not canon!” into the void while the rest of us are out here enjoying our fandom like adults.

Here’s a thought: maybe instead of crying about other people’s ships, you could take that energy and, I don’t know, apply it to something useful. Learn Elvish. Build a model of Barad-dûr out of your tears. Or maybe, just maybe, stop weeping over cherry tomatoes and touch some grass. I hear the Shire has a lot of it.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have characters to write, ships to build, and a very long scroll of I don’t care to finish signing. Good day, Esteemed Minister of Misguided Rage.

Morning people! It's just above 8am but a Lorebro called (screamed)! XD

[weeping-statue]

I love your writing, you're literally my favorite writer on here!

If requests are open, can I request headcanons of Norton with a GN!reader who is introverted? Not shy or anything, but they just avoid people because they don't know what to say to anyone.

They don't go up to anyone to speak themselves, so they kind of stare at people (unintentionally) and hope that whoever they're looking at will come up to them.

They're kinda quiet at first, but once you get them talking, they'll never stop.

I was wondering if it can just be general headcanons of what a relationship would be like!

Please and thank you! Sorry if this is too much!

-🔮

I’m so sorry I took me this long to answer, I have a shit ton of asks and I’m trying to get through them<3

That’s very sweet of you tho, I’m happy that you enjoy my work <3

I’ve been editing it here and there but I just needed to post it out today

Norton and a Introvert!Reader

———————————————————————

You just don’t like people, and you don’t know what to say?

Well neither does he.

He thinks they’re rich snobs who’ll try to manipulate him and he just doesn’t think the conversation is even worth it depending on who it is.

He doesn’t speak a lot to begin with, so he doesn’t mind if you talk his ear off, just only when he’s in a good mood.

When he’s in a bad mood he’ll either want to be alone or find solace in your arms, but they’ll both have to be in silence. No more noise.

He enjoys that you’re an introvert because it gives him more of a reason to stay away from everyone.

Sometimes from across a room he can feel someone staring into his back and he’ll immediately know it’s you. He doesn’t find it creepy, since he stares off into space too.

The first time it happened though, he thought you had a problem with him. And asked you what your deal was.

Other people sometimes get creeped out at the blank stare you give but few are used to it.

Norton and you were sitting in the dining room talking, as he polished his magnets.

“I didn’t think kiting a literal wheel would make me want to cry. I don’t understand why I’m getting chased around by a fucking car part. This is just ludicrous.” You exclaimed, sitting across from him with your head in your hands.

Norton nodded, he too hated the three brothers, mainly because they creeped him out, and irritated him. “Annoying bastards is what they are.” He replied.

Fredrick had entered the room overhearing your.. unsavory words about the Will brothers and cleared his throat.

Norton looked him up and down, a scowl emerging on his face. “You’re interrupting our conversation. Get lost.”

Fredrick raised an eyebrow at his bluntness, “Such vulgar behavior. No wonder the only one who tolerates you is the other lowlife.”

Norton stood up immediately, giving you a gesture with his head to follow him. “Apparently it’s a crime to be an introvert.”

Fredrick scoffs as you follow him, not saying another word and letting the two leave.

Outside Norton was waiting for you with his hand out, gripping onto yours tightly. “He’s rich, and loud, he doesn’t know what he’s saying. We’re not lowlifes, we’re just fed up and tired.”

You squeeze his hand in reassurance, “I know.” Dragging him along towards your room smiling, you say, “Come on, I’ll finish telling you all about my match and then I’ll make us some snacks!”

———————————————————————

Lowkey I stare at people with a blank face for some reason until I realize what I’m doing and smile.

[alectology-archive]

one year later liandrin’s comment about how the world is mostly governed by men on the show still makes zero fucking sense.

[nnephthyss]

makeup sex - gojo x reader

plot: satoru comes knocking at your door late at night begging for you to let him in even though you’re both broken up.

warnings: fem! reader, nipple play, cock riding, pussy eating, cock sucking, cum eating, unprotected sex, cream pie, mentions of break up

wc: 1.9k

(guys! please give me ideas to write! i know im not the best writer but i try and i can do whatever you guys want me to do. any character from any anime (if im familiar with it!) and any scenario. just name it! and make sure it’s described pretty well! thank youuuu!)

sorry for any mistakes pookies!!

——————————————————————————-

it’s been 5 months since you and satoru broke up. it wasn’t that you didn’t love him. he was the love of your life but work…work was way too hard for the both of you. he was always out late, not coming home til the crack of dawn sometimes and it always worried you since he never called or text. he was becoming a shitty boyfriend and he knew it. you took all you had to finally break up with him and the look on his face was heartbreaking. you hadn’t seen satoru cry until that damn day.

ever since the break up, it was hard for you to get along. you went from being with him a lot to not being with anyone. not having any sex which was really hard since you went from having it almost everyday to just sitting in your bedroom and getting off by yourself. it was terribly hard for satoru. he missed you so much, especially that pussy of yours. he finally had enough and showed up on your doorstep late at night. you were just in a skimpy tank top and sleep shorts, approaching the door, not knowing who the hell it was because it was midnight.

you open the door just enough to see who it was so you don’t get jumped by a random person. your eyes widen when you see the white haired boy standing there. “w-what are you doing here.?” you ask softly but your voice is a bit guarded and shaky. he looks down at you, blue eyes wandering over your chest. his throat almost goes dry when he can see the way your hardened nipples poke through the thin material of your shirt. “just wanted to see you.” the boy says almost in a defeated-like tone. your eyes drop down, down..down.. down.. until they meet his crotch. fucking hell if the man didn’t have an boxers on. he always did that. walking around the house in just sweatpants ready to fuck you whenever he could.

you notice what you’re doing, gawking at his cock. your eyes immediately flicker back to his and the man almost groans when he realizes what you were doing. if he wasn’t hard already he was now. “it’s late.” you clear your throat, getting ready to close the door but he puts a foot in the doorway. “satoru.” you huff and look up at him with an angry pout. he could laugh at how cute you looked. “just let me in. please baby. we’ll just talk.” he says softly almost pleading with you. you knew damn well what letting this sexy specimen in would do. he would fuck you, make you his again and you wouldn’t be able to resist.

rolling your eyes, you open the door wider and a small smile rises on the boy's face. he almost skips in, settling on your couch. you shake your head, closing the door behind you and walking towards him. “what do you want to talk about?” you stand in front of him, between his legs and he pulls you closer by your hips and you almost gasp at the contact that you haven’t felt in months. his hands slide down to the back of your bare thighs, rubbing gentle with his thumb at the edge of your shorts. “i miss you.” his voice is soft, eyes trained on yours but they occasionally drop down to your tits. you knew he missed you because you missed him too but sex could NOT happen. he leads you forward with that look in his eyes. those damn eyes, they’re so soft and so appealing.

you walk forward, hands meeting his shoulders. bending the back of your knees, he makes you straddle him. “satoru-“ you try saying but he cuts you off, hands coming up to the neckline of your tank top. “may i?” he gestures to your breasts. you whine, not meaning to and almost slap a hand over your mouth. you felt so stupid. stupid for letting him have so much control over you. nodding your head he pulls down your tank top gently, revealing your acute breasts. the cold air hits them, nipples erect just for his view and it takes his breath away. looking up at you he leans his head forward, pressing a kiss to one of the buds which makes your whole body shiver.

he takes it into his mouth, sucking on it gently. he pulls a moan from you, hands going into his hair. “s-satoru.” you try protesting but he cuts you off again, pulling at the little bud which receives him a gasp. all these sensations were sending waves of pleasure into your core. he was already getting hard, lifting his hips up to grind against you. he’s missed your breasts, your body. just you in general. “s-so fucking good.” he pants, mouth feasting on your sensitive bud. he pulls away with a pop~ sound. he looks up at you, lifting his head and instantly kissing you. moaning into the kiss, you pull him closer, tugging gently on the white strands of hair between your fingers.

all while kissing he pulls down your tank top all the way, slipping it past your waist along with your shorts. they fall to your feet, making sure not to fall you hold onto his shoulders. his hands go to your hips, making you grind against him, guiding your hips, he can feel how wet you are through the thigh fabric of your panties. “ride me, baby.” he pulls away, breathing hard and you just look at him before moving your slender hands to his sweatpants. both of you rush to get the remainder of your clothes off.

he immediately pulls you down onto his aching length, not caring if you were ready or not. “toru..!” you gasp at him and he grins. your hands go into his hair, pussy clenching around his cock just like you were made for him.

“y-you fit sooo perfectly around me.” he whispers sweetly and presses a soft kiss to the edge of your mouth before guiding your hips up and down. whining, because you haven’t had sex in a few months, you start to lift your thighs up, slamming right back down onto him. his cock stretches you out absolutely perfect, tip hitting that familiar place that made him feel like he was in heaven. “j-just nghh- like that babyyy.” he breathes, lifting his hips up to meet yours. fuck, you always loved the way he sounded. it hits your ears like a melody, imprinting in your brain. you missed the way he felt, sounded. he felt just the same as he did before you broke up.

basically holding onto him for dear life as he lifts your hips up, slamming it right back down into his girthy cock, you breath harshly. eyes closing and moans falling from your quivered lips. “toruuu!” you breathe out raggedly as his length hits that sweet spot inside of you. he leans forward taking one of your nipples in his hot mouth response to your whining. “yeah? you gonna cum for me?” he coos and his voice was so damn smooth. you tilt your head back and groan at the way he was pleasuring you so good. he chuckles against your aching bud, sucking on it roughly.

you swore you were seeing stars. you hadn’t had an orgasm like this in months and it felt good. your whole body felt like it was floating. your legs were almost numb, ears burning as your climax washes over you. a loud cry rips through your throat, mouth hanging wide open as your eyes roll back. he looks up at you, admiring your view as he feels your pretty cunt clamp down onto his cock. you could feel the way he twitches inside of you, filling you up so sweetly. as his hips stutter his head falls back while he moans out your name.

he smiles “not done yet.” and you whine because your legs were hurting but yet you were still horny. pressing a kiss to his cheek, you get down on your knees before him. he opens his eyes, eyebrows furrowing before he realizes what you’re doing. “oh f-fuckkkk.” he curses as you take him in your hot mouth, engulfing his tip. you start to bob your head downward, taking him in so deep. he whimpers because his cockhead was sensitive. just how lovely his whimpers were and they way it made your cunt ache.

he grabs a fistful of your hair, guiding your movements. “not gonna last- fuckkk, long baby.” you knew he wasn’t. he never did when you sucked him off. you take him deeper, wanting to please him the best you could. his head was thrown back, murmuring some inaudible words. your pussy was practically throbbing at the sight, aching to be touched again.

you look up at him and it’s over. his hips stutter, lifting up off the couch as he dumps a hot load down your throat. he breathes harshly, trying to catch his breath from his second orgasm of the night. this was definitely dirty make up sex. there was no fucking way satoru was leaving you after tonight. he pats your head, fingers running through your soft locs. “let me repay you the favor hm?” he says and helps you up to the couch, laying you on your back.

he kneels between your thighs. seeing droplets of cum leaking down your thighs, he licks it all up, tongue making its way up your inner thighs towards your slick folds. looking up at you he takes his first taste, moaning at the way you taste, smell. he had missed this. all of this.

your propped up on your elbows, eyes on his face as he revels in the taste of your sweet cunt. “did you miss me?” he asks and it was a trick question. of course you did, he had his tongue stuck out, waiting for an answer and once you nod he gives your clit a soft lick before attacking it with his lips. “ughh..!” you groan, tilting your head back. your hips were lifting up, holding his face close to your aching clit, you grind your sweet pussy against his mouth. his tongue was fantastic, he was skilled in eating pussy and you knew it. your back arches as his fingers move up, sliding one into your aching hole. long slender finger lifts upward, curling and hitting that sweet spot again, which makes your entire body shudder. “k-keep going, keep goinggg.! gonna cum..!” you pant.

whines were falling from your mouth like it was your second language. noticing the way your legs shake, he adds a second finger and that immediately pushes you over the edge. both his tongue and fingers working you over, you start to see stars once again. “that’s it pretty girl.” he praises against your soaking wet clit.

your body shudders again, seeing white as you come hard onto his fingers. your over sensitive cunt clenches around his fingers as he keeps them moving, working you over that edge. he watches as your body convulses just from his fingers and tongue which makes him smile. he places a few kisses to your inner thighs, removing his fingers from your cum ridden hole instead of just pulling away he goes back in and gently cleans you up. licking up every droplet of cum from your pussy. after, he moves up, resting his face against the valley of your breasts. “fuck. i missed you.” he huffs, breathing hard.

———————————————————————————

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Home At Last (141 Members x Reader)

Summary: You and your boyfriend spend some time together after an extended mission. Preference for what has changed in each of the 141 men after a long mission abroad, including Simon “Ghost” Riley, John “Soap” MacTavish, Kyle “Gaz” Garrick, and John Price.

AN: It’s hard writing preferences so kudos to all the writers who specialise in them! I’ve found that I really like writing fics where you share a bed with the COD boys and/or they’re vulnerable with you lmaoo. 

Content warnings: Some allusions to smut (Minors DNI), Reader is GN and some use of Y/N, a mixture of soldier!reader and civilian!reader

Masterlist // AO3

Your name: submit What is this?

Simon “Ghost” Riley

“Can you fix it?”

Ghost was slowly but surely making his way out and allowing room for Simon to come back, one of the eye sockets sliced apart. Part of that process was removing the mask when he was sure he was absolutely safe: in his room, door locked, preferably with you. But this part had been altered.

In his hands, he held his balaclava with the skull faceplate splintered diagonally down the middle. As he stared back at what he usually stared with, he winced. The snot green marks, mottled with violet, framed his face where the mask had crunched into him, beneath the butt of a gun. His ears were still ringing from where his brain struggled to process this attack. Vaguely he remembered an enemy soldier standing above him, raising his empty weapon to strike Ghost in the face again, to match his mask, his skull, and his moniker as truly one. Then blood spurted out the enemy’s gut, his clothes tearing in two spots, and the enemy collapsed alongside him.

Your question echoed around in his head, a sign he was failing to ground himself as well as he usually did. He tossed the mask away from him. He wasn’t sure where it landed and he didn’t care either.

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

Your voice was closer now, and reverberating less. Good. Simon was coming back.

“It’s just a mask,” He replied.

It would be easy make another one. He could darn and mend clothes well enough, and making a new mask would only refine his oft-abandoned stitching skills. Plenty of spares lined his top drawer

Somewhere in his inner monologue, you’d changing into your post-shower lazy gear.

“Nightcap?” You offered.

“Fuck,” He sagged at the suggestion, “Please.

Through lazy eyelids, he watched you collect the decanter, pouring two fingers worth of whiskey into glasses. You mixed yourself a drink too. Clinking his glass against yours in the smallest celebration of the mission’s end, Simon knocked half the whiskey back. He enjoyed the burn a lot more than the bruises.

Swallowing, he heard you sniff and gag, “Oh my god, it reeks.”

In your hand was the abandoned mask. Sitting down beside him on the cot, you began unpicking the stitches that held the broken faceplate against the fabric, whilst Simon poured himself another glass then sipped and swirled at it.

With the plate removed, you held the balaclava up in front of you both, “Just needs a scrub. Save you buying a replacement.”

Good thing about the fabric being black: in the dark, you couldn’t see the dried blood.

“Thanks,” Simon knocked his head lightly against yours, groaning a curse word in instant regret. He held the cool glass against his bruise.

“How’s the rest of you?” You asked tentatively.

“Fine,” Simon closed his eyes, “Not broken.”

The next thing he felt was your hand touching his that held his glass, the gentle contact tracing up his arm until you reached his ropey shoulders. There, you began to squeeze out the first knots your thumbs found. Simon grunted appreciatively, soaking up the touch he’d missed these last few weeks.

After a few minutes, he tilted his head back to see you, knelt behind him and smiling away at your handiwork. He couldn’t help but grace over your cheek with the backs of his calloused fingers.

“You ok, sweetie?” You leant against his touch.

Simon blinked languidly up at you, “Mm, it’s good to be home.”

-

John “Soap” MacTavish

AN: Genuinely wrote this before Neil decided to drop his Soap in the bubble bath checklist.

John “Soap” MacTavish really knew how to brighten a doorway. His broad shoulders carried bulky arms and a body to boot, almost entirely blocking out the hall light when he opened your bedroom door and sheepishly smiled at you.

“Hey love.”

Never before had you left your bed with such speed. It was like you could fly, fairy dust and the happiest thought of your husband’s return after three months radio silence spurring you across the room. Your arms wrapped around him to prove he was really hear. There was a thunk of his bag falling to the floor, and you were swept up in his embrace.

You only realised something was off when no stubble rubbed against your neck as Johnny nudged his cheek there. Drawing back to take in his face, you gasped at the sight of several strips of white tape holding his chin together.

Your hand traced over his cheek, avoiding the injury by several inches, “What happened?”

“Razor wire, it’s fine. Healing,” dismissed Johnny, pecking your lips between his answers. You were too concerned to respond at first but then you realised he was trying not to react every time his lips pursed, tugging on his fragile skin.

“You’ll fuck up your cuts,” You tried to lean back away from his kisses, as tempting as they were.

But Johnny had you in a boa constrictor’s grip and he wasn’t about to let you go, “Don’t care. Missed you.”

“Johnny,” You said in an attempt to warn him.

“Baby,” He mocked and managed to get the one more kiss on the corner of your mouth that caused you to cave.

“Missed you too,” You said, sheepish under his fond gaze. Fingers brushing through his overgrown Mohawk, you kissed him thrice more, the final lasting until you couldn’t hold your breath any longer.

With his lips brushing yours, Johnny whispered with a smirk, “I stink.”

“I know you do.” Your hands slid down to his shoulders. “I can run you a nice hot bath.”

You thought his pupils couldn’t dilate any more, but his iris was now barely a ring around his pupil at the mention of his second greatest weakness.

Swaying from side to side, Johnny tucked his thumbs into the waistband of your pyjama pants, “Will you join me in there?”

“Scrub you down?” You raised an eyebrow. Fluttering his eyelashes, Johnny nodded with a pouting bottom lip, and you snorted at how ridiculously charming he was acting.

Despite the comedy routine, Johnny was clearly more interested in the simple pleasures that were hot water and your presence against his war-torn body. The groan that released from his throat as he sank beneath the bubbles made your cheeks warm as you removed your sleepwear.

Before he wrapped himself around you, Johnny splashed you – which you claimed was unfair since his stitches prevented you from splashing back. But he made it up to you by settling you against his chest, heart beating strong within it, arms returning to cuddle you close. You stroked over his forearms, letting the water soak his fluffy dark hairs while the pair of you flirted with each other. With the Sandman lingering over you after your extended day, you almost drifted off beneath the bathwater - twice.

-

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

When Kyle Garrick sloped into medical, you were in your office with no idea that he was there. Being buried up to your eyes in paperwork worked wonders for preventing distractions. He was hovering by your office door and watching you in your official habitat with that dopey smile on his face, lovesick after two months away from you, and you hadn’t even noticed. Your pen continued scribbling down details of the latest entrant to the med-bay, your eyebrows creased in the centre of your forehead – the picture of intense concentration.

Unable to stand being in your presence without acknowledgement any longer, Kyle cleared his throat. Your head shot up, eyes wide to take him in, and you gasped.

“Oh my god,” You shot out of your chair, leaving a line of ink at the end of whatever insignificant word you’d just written. You didn’t care about anything else as your arms squeezed around your boyfriend and all his tac gear.

But then he grunted, restrained rather than relieved, and you pulled away, assessing his entire body as you asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Need a change on bandages.” He gave you a wry smile as he gestured to his shoulder. It was then that you caught sight, beneath his vest and jacket, of a bandage that did not look as sterile as it had presumably been when it was first dressed on him.

“I swear to God, if you went for debrief before you came here…” You trailed off when Kyle dropped his gaze, looking a little sheepish, and you couldn’t keep a wrangle on your volume as annoyance filled your body: “That idiot! Did you tell Price you needed them changed?”

No time for an answer, you dragged Kyle (by his good shoulder) to a bed in the bay. He watched with affectionate exhaustion whilst you worked and rambled about the “bloody paperwork” being nothing compared to “potential for infection, did you even have access to anti-biotics on this mission?” Even as you ranted, your touch against Kyle’s wound was as gentle as ever. The reunion with softness made the soldier shiver. You mistook it for feeling the chill of the evening and sped up your healing – and your tirade on Price’s priorities.

“Next time Price comes here, I’m not using anaesthetic. Don’t even care how much it hurts,” You grumbled as you tucked in the end of the gauze and surveyed your handiwork. Content with this conclusion, you let out a sigh like it was the first breath you’d taken since Kyle came back.  

“Feel better?” Kyle raised an eyebrow with fond irony.

Peeling off your rubber gloves, you dumped them in the disposal, “No. You’re still hurt.”

“Barely a scrape. Come here.” His good arm raised to make way for you, and he kissed your forehead to welcome you back. “I missed you.”

“Me too.” You allowed yourself a little break in his embrace, before resuming your role, “I’ll get you some painkillers then we can head to bed.”

“Got all the medicine I need right,” He pecked you quickly on the lips, “Here.”

“I’m not kissing your bandages.” You proved this by kissing his cheek, “And you’re still taking some painkillers so I can cuddle you.”

Kyle sat up a little straighter. Ah yes, the most potent medicine, often best paired with kisses: cuddles in bed with a loved one after prolonged absence. It meant swapping sides on the bed so that you weren’t leaning on Kyle’s injury, but that was hardly a sacrifice.

And if there were a few more kisses on places that didn’t risk medical attention, that was between you and your beloved boyfriend.

-

John Price

It was an easy rule to agree to: no PDA on a mission or on base. Only in the privacy on his quarters – unofficially yours too –permitted you both to let your real feelings show. Therefore, a mission two months long had deprived you of the affection John often shared with you.

You’d gotten creative over the years: the occasional tap if his knee against yours if you were sat beside one another, or a hand touching the small of your back as he passed you by during the watch changeover if you were really lucky. But it was nothing compared to what you could get up to when you were off-duty. More than anything, the mission had been a real exercise of self-restraint, one you both took with the utmost seriousness.

Two weeks prior, when your hearing took a knock from a grenade exploding close by, John had almost given in. He was the one to cup your face, getting Ghost to shine a torch whilst he checked your eyes for signs of a concussion. He took your watch that night too.

But now, with steam curling about the small bathroom, he was able to rest his hands on your waist, pouting and pulling faces as you sliced the foam from his cheeks.

The fully-fledged beard that had grown across the mission had been hidden mostly in a balaclava, to protect against the cruel snow and ice that had battered you day in, day out. It did suit him well, as did the waves that curled in his longer tresses  beneath his hat – in a sort of gruff recluse kinda way. But he had his image and reputation, and the SAS was hardly a place to be sporting untamed hair. Hence why you were carefully trimming at his beard until the floor of his private bathroom was littered with brown (and the occasional grey) hairs.

“I’ll shave it properly in the morning” he had said when, upon entering his quarters, he’d embraced you tightly and tickled your neck with his unruly facial hair.

You replied, “You could go to a barber’s, treat yourself to a hot towel.”

“You’re cruel for teasing a soldier with the prospect of hot towels.”

“Or I could do it?”

That suggestion struck a chord with the Captain, and he realised later that it was a nice way to ease himself back into the comforts of your relationship.

You were half tempted – in your post-mission mania – to shave his cheeks bare like when he was a Lieutenant and bask in the baby-face he’d suffer from for the three weeks it’d take to get his mutton chops back to their original glory. Nonetheless, as you followed the grooves of his chin, you decided that treating this act of trust as sacred was better than the split second of devilish delight you’d get from that. Maybe when you were both retired though.

Patting down his cheeks with a fluffy towel that’d been hanging on the radiator, you revealed him unto you, “Hello handsome.”

At last you could show your love for him and without worrying about getting his facial hair trapped between your teeth like dental floss. Still holding his chin up, you pressed a smiling kiss to his already pursed lips.

“Thank you, gorgeous,” He hummed against you, and you both giggled at how his appreciation – and his freshly trimmed beard – tickled the small space between you.

[blue-aconite]

fields of dandelions || prologue

Summary: Jake's life falls apart in less than an hour and he's left trying his best to pick up the pieces.

Warnings: Swearing, cheating

Word Count: 1.6k

Pairings: Jake Seresin x OC

Authors Note: And we're back with a new series! This has been sitting in my drafts forever and I finally found the motivation to finish off the prologue. I just think the world needs more single dad!Jake, don't y'all agree?

Thank you to my betas @a-reader-and-a-writer & @green-socks and for letting me ramble on about this!

Jake spent a good twenty minutes staring at his own house through the windscreen. He remembered when he and Sarah first bought it. A lot had happened since. And now it looked like it was all coming to an end. 

Sarah was on the phone as he entered the kitchen, talking quietly as she flipped through a magazine. He shoved his hand into the pockets of his jeans, leaning against the doorframe and waiting for her to notice him. When she didn’t acknowledge his presence, he cleared his throat.

“Sarah.”

She looked up, eyes widening as she saw him. “Jake. I didn’t realise you were going to be home yet.” She ended the call without saying goodbye and Jake noticed how she chose to put the phone with the screen down. 

He gave her a tight smile before sitting down across from her. “Half day. They’re running drills with the kids so Mav sent us home.”

“That’s nice. Did you pick up the boys?”

Jake shook his head. “Javy picked them up. They’re trying out his new pool.” The boys had been on their case since they found out their uncle Coyote was installing a pool in his backyard. 

She hummed but offered no other answer. An uncomfortable silence filled the space, neither of them speaking. Sarah shifted in her seat, eyes darting back and forth between him and her phone. 

Jake felt his stomach turn but decided to jump the gun. “I think we need to talk.”

He had expected some sort of fight, some sort of protest, so when Sarah only sighed and twisted her face in what resembled a smile, it was like a punch to the gut. 

“How did you find out?” she asked, completely unbothered as she inspected her nails. She didn’t bother denying it, even though Jake hadn’t asked about it directly. But it was enough to confirm what Jake already knew but hoped he was wrong about. 

Jake dragged a hand through his hair, baffled at her lack of reaction. “How did I find out? Is that all you have to say?” 

“What do you want me to say?” Sarah shook her head, manicured nails tapping the table. Jake dragged a hand down his face. 

“I want you to say that you didn’t fuck him. That you didn’t invite him into our house while our boys were home. I mean, what the fuck?!” 

If his words affected her, Sarah didn’t show it. She twisted her wedding band round and round, her silence telling him everything Jake needed to know. 

“If you’ve been unhappy -”

“It’s not about that. It’s complicated, Jake.” Sarah sighed. 

Jake scoffed, clearing his throat. “Uncomplicate it for me then. Tell me why I had to find out from our son that you’ve been inviting another man into my house. How many times, huh?”

“How many times what?” she countered, staring at him. Jake could barely recognise his own wife. She didn’t seem to care that their five-year-old had seen her with another man. 

“You know what I’m asking, don’t play dumb. How many times did you bring him here?” Jake pushed away from the table, unable to sit still anymore. Sarah’s disinterest only served to make him more agitated. 

As if his question finally affected her, Sarah looked up at him but her face showed nothing. “Just one time. And the kids were supposed to be asleep.”

“How long?” It hurt to ask but he needed to know. How long had she been cheating on him? He could piece it together, track back to when she started to become distant but he wanted her to admit it. As if it would feel better. 

Sarah pressed her lips together, hands clasped on top of the table. “Couple of months. I don’t know.”

He laughed at the absurdity of the situation. Of all the possible scenarios he had of the future when he asked Sarah to marry him after high school, this one had never crossed his mind. How had they ended up here?

“Why? Tell me why.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know.” 

Shaking his head, Jake gripped the back of the chair he vacated earlier. “Stop saying that. Tell me the truth. If the last 18 years have meant anything to you, you’ll be honest with me,” he paused, drawing a shaky breath. “You owe me that much.”

“I don’t know what to say, Jake! It’s done, okay? I can’t pinpoint the exact fucking moment, alright? One moment everything was alright and then it wasn’t. And he was there for me. Stop questioning me, this isn’t an interrogation.” Sarah spat, anger seeping into her voice.

“No. You don’t get to be angry. You’re the one that fucked up. You do not get to tell me I don’t get to ask questions.” Jake spat back, his own anger surfacing. She had no right to play the victim. 

Sarah rolled her eyes, a humourless laugh leaving her. “Alright, fine. Do you want the truth? I’m so fucking tired of this life. I’m tired of staying home all the fucking time whenever you get deployed, putting my own career on hold for you. I’m tired of it all. I’m tired of you. For once, I want to do something for me, have something for myself.” 

“And to achieve that you decided that cheating on me was the best course of action? Why haven’t you talked to me about this?” Jake demands all the anger and hurt clashing together. 

Sarah shakes her head. “Like talking would do any good.”

He thought it would hurt more, to hear that his own wife was tired of him but all he could feel was a numbness spreading through his body. 

The woman sitting in front of him wasn’t his wife, wasn’t the mother of his children. She sounded cold, detached, almost like Jake felt. 

Jake scoffed. “Well, you could have said something, instead of fucking someone else. We could have tried couples therapy -” 

“It wouldn’t have made a difference. And now it doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.” Sarah interrupted. 

He stared at her, trying hard to remember the girl he once had fallen in love with. But she was nowhere to be found. Instead he saw someone he didn’t even recognised anymore. Sarah stared back, neither of them breaking eye contact. He knew it was the end. She knew it too. 

“Are you leaving?” 

Sarah lowered her gaze back to her hands. “Yes.”

“What about the boys?”

Sarah didn’t say anything. She stayed quiet, once again twisting her wedding band round and round. Jake sat down again, exhaustion seeping into his bones. “Sarah. What about the boys?”

“What about them?” She kept her eyes on her hands, refusing to meet his eye. 

Jake threw his hands up in frustration. “What do we tell them?”

Sarah pulls the wedding band off along with the engagement ring he’d given her all those years ago. He could do nothing but watch as she ended twelve years of marriage right in front of his eyes. Eighteen years together, right down the drain. 

She leaves them laying on the long abandoned magazine and Jake couldn’t make himself pick them up. He didn’t want to touch them. “We need to tell them.”

“They won’t understand,” Sarah argues. 

“So we shouldn’t say anything? They’re old enough to understand that something is wrong. We need to sit down together and talk to them,” he reasons but Sarah seems disinterested in continuing their conversation.

“No. You can tell them whatever you want. I’m not doing this,” Sarah snaps, blindsiding him. What the fuck is she saying?

When he asks her as much, Sarah simply shrugs her shoulders, that cold, hard exterior back in place. “I’m leaving. You can tell them whatever you see fit. It’s honestly not my problem.”

Jake explodes. “You’re not even going to say goodbye? How am I supposed to go pick up our children and explain to them why their mother isn’t home? How is that fair? To me? To them?!” He wants to grab her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. 

The chair scrapes on the floor as Sarah stands and Jake follows suit, anger coursing through his veins. “You can’t just leave.”

Sarah simply levels him with a glare, challenging him to make another move. After a tense minute Sarah folds, shoulders slumping. “Fine. Pick up the boys and we’ll talk.”

“I swear to God, if you’re not here when I get back -”

“I’ll be here,” Sarah promises, sitting back down and flipping the magazine open again. The rings clatter onto the table and down onto the floor but neither of them makes an effort to get them.

As he pulls out of the driveway, Jake prays that she’ll still be there when they get back. He doesn’t believe her but at this point, he doesn’t have a choice. He chooses to believe that she wouldn’t abandon their sons. She might be tired of him, their marriage, but Jake knows Sarah loves Josh and Levi. She wouldn’t just leave. She couldn’t.

After exchanging a few words with Javy and making sure the boys are safely strapped in their seats, Jake rushes back home. He drives slower than he’d like to but with the boys in the car, he’s not willing to risk it. 

Dread fills him when he pulls into the driveway. The garage is open and Sarah’s convertible is gone. After bribing the boys with ice cream if they promise to stay in the car just a little while longer, Jake jogs up the porch, heart sinking in his chest. 

The house is eerily quiet when he steps inside and he berates himself for trusting Sarah to stay true to her word. Because all that is left of the woman he’s loved for eighteen years, the mother of his children, is a note on the fridge.

“Tell the boys I love them.”

Taglist: @wildbornsiren​ @ryebecca @imjess-themess @reels-and-wheels @antiquitea @writercole @hederasgarden @yanna-banana @bobfloydsbabe @hollandorks @anniesocsandgeneralstore @ereardon @luminousnotmatter @roosterscock @thedroneranger @fandomxpreferences @top-hhun @princessmisery666 @bradshawsbitch​ @a-reader-and-a-writer @green-socks @angstybluejay @seresinhangmanjake @ayorooster​@notroosterbradshaw​ @indynerdgirl @gigisimsonmars @girl-in-the-chairs-void@bradshawbabes @unhinged-btch @horseshoegirl @sadpetalsstuff @bradshawbaby @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @ummjustfics​ @septemberrie​ @somenamewithepineapple​ @seresinsweetie​​ @crescentwolf​ @seresinhangmanjake​ @waklman​ @roosterforme​ @rosiahills22​ @dempy​ @i0veless​ @ilovewriting06​ @kmc1989​ @demxters @amortentiadrops @teacupsandtopgun @hangmanscoming

[onlyjaeyun]

i’ve been following ur writing for some time now and i do have to agree with that anon who said you did CH dirty. you are a very talented writer so it’s just hard to watch.

you started off CH so strong with the lore and little chapters here and there but as it progressed you kind of just got lazy and it shows. when important events happened in the story, they weren’t conveyed through writing but through the texts (ie the riki and yn fight, that was definitely worth a written chapter) and it was honestly disappointing.

the ending isn’t much to say about either. yn and hoon barely go through development after the letter incident and all of a sudden they’re dating and married with a kid like two chapters later?

idk, if it was a mental health issue then i get that but even then you should’ve just gave it a break and thought everything out more. you could do so much better.

thank you for the feedback!

i wanna put you through the progess of a piece of writing from the POV of a writer okay? now keep in mind: i work two jobs, am a fulltime uni student and the daughter of an immigrant household with two parents who still work most of the day just so you know what else i have to deal with, besides my mental health okay?

now, i started off CH strong right? yes. i uploaded on the daily, fine i chose that. a chapter usually takes me around one hour if i actually sit down and focus on nothing but the chapter itself, which includes IG stories, editing, formatting etc. alright

on top of the daily chapters, i constantly replied to 40+ asks a day, a blessing in disguise because no matter how much i enjoy talking to you guys, the pressure does get worse the bigger that number of my inbox becomes, i hope this makes sense

now, i started CH back in october, right when my semester started, thats why i started off strong but as time went on, my assignments and private life got too busy and i guess i felt entitled enough as a writer to skip a few certain chaps and make life a little easier for me by making them regular chapters instead of written ones.

and this is gonna be my main point: i'm not a machine. i wrote a minimum of 5 THOUSAND words per written chapter, MINIMUM. we're talking about a 5-9 THOUSANDED worded chapter EACH WEEK. which usually took me about 6-7 hours, even allnighters.

yes, i chose to do that and maybe my time management wasn't the best but i had to create a compromise where i wouldnt have let you guys wait for over two months which would have resulted in me losing my motivation completely, and yet still focusing on EXAMS. because you know, i'm a fulltime uni student with TWO jobs 😮‍💨

if YOU think i did CH dirty go write an alternative ending yourself but it should be a minimum of 15 chapters including 5 written ones, with at LEAST 9k words each yeah? i wanna see you manage it all, pls prove me wrong snd show me you're better than me i'm genuinely begging bc it might inspire me to do "better" next time.

as a writer/artist/creator, and i can tell you probably arent one yourself or havent been one for long, the longer smth takes to come to an end the worse the pressure becomes which results in a blockage i dont wish upon my worst enemy i'm being deadass. i dealt with some of the worst writer's block ive had since i started writing literally 12 years ago and you're telling me i should have just "taken a break" and do "better"

i never, ever expected anything from anyone but some of you are so entitled to a writer's time and skill it's giving me a headache. maybe you didn't like the timing and writing of the last few chapters of CH and i guess that's unfortunate but this was so unnecessary because you completely dismissed everything else that could have been going on in my life and even belittled my mental health issues like im some fucking AI writing machine

do better, be nicer, write it yourself if you don't like it i'm so fucking over this

if i had gotten out of my own comfort and wellbeing and have actually written another set of written chapters i would have burned myself completely out. ive been in this fandom for not even a year and have already finished FOUR smaus with 50 chapters each, you do NOT get to tell me what i should or could have done better because you dont even give a fuck about me as a person this is just about receiving what YOU think YOURE entitled to but this is MY art and I will do what I see fit even if it's not what was expected of it because i'm a fucking human being with a life before i'm a writer on tumblr

oh, also: i do this for free ㅤ:) just a reminder :) this is my HOBBY :)

and don't you EVER call me lazy again when it comes to writing because i'm not gonna pour my heart and soul into a fic just for you to call me lazy when i literally wrote 50 THOUSAND words for this fucking fic just for the written chapters

goodbye

[prolix-yuy]

Writers' Iron Chef #13: Lovesick

[PROMPT] Patching up a wound

[ADDITIONAL PROMPT] “Why would you put yourself through something like that?”

[TIME LIMIT] Optional, 10 minutes prep. time 30 minutes writing time Optional, 10 minutes editing time

Pairing: Joel Miller x GN!Reader

Rating: M, descriptions of wound care and blood, allusions to dubcon due to drinking and drug use. While this story is not explicit, my blog and the content shared on it is 18+ so MINORS DNI.

Summary: You've been greedy for Joel for too long.

Notes: Written for Writers’ Iron Chef Prompt 13

I've had a Joel story idea bouncing around in my head for several months now, but it's not much more than disconnected scenes and a vibe, you know? I decided to try and exorcise a part with this prompt. This was imspired by a scene in the movie Foe with Saoirse Ronan and Paul Mescal (which was excellent, btw) that got the creative juices flowing.

Thanks to @writersironchef for always giving the best prompts!

The blood that runs into the sink isn’t yours, but it is Joel Miller’s and that’s hardly better.

Laying the needle and scissors beside the sink, you dry your hands on a towel that doesn’t make you feel much cleaner. There’s probably still blood under your nails, half moons of frenzied memories you can look back on when you’re in bed tonight.

“Joel, what the fuck?”

“I need…”

He didn’t have to say much more, and your stomach sours for it. Joel could say he needed you to balance on the edge of a razor and you’d do it just for the fact that he needed you. Pitiful, lovesick, desperate you.

He’d shredded his back coming back into the QZ scrambling away from patrol lights. Tess split off from him, trades to be made and deals best done without her loyal attack dog. So he’d stumbled back to his apartment, stopping just long enough to knock at yours across the hall.

“Jesus Christ, how did you fuck yourself up this badly?”

“FEDRA’s patrolling our usual spots, think they’re onto us…fuck!”

You salved his wounds with apologies as you cleaned grit from long scrapes and worried at the beads of blood that melted across your fingers. The worst was a gash you had to close, infection too present a worry. Hardening your gut, you tried to disassociate how much like sewing leather it felt. Joel bit down on his belt and stuffed his face in a pillow, but fists still slammed on walls around you at his ruckus. 

“I’m done, I’m done, it’s finished.”

“Jesus ‘n Mary, there ain’t much left for you to piece back together at this rate.”

Walking back to the bed, he’s disheveled but alive. He asks for booze, which you find in a high cabinet. He asks for pills, reluctantly revealed to live in a false drawer bottom. You don’t have to say he can trust you with these secrets. Vices were too expensive for you most days. Once he downs both he lays back, injury padded with the cleanest cloths you could find. His breathing hitches, pants in pain, then slows as the drugs and drink take effect. 

And then it’s just you, sitting next to your neighbor as his body releases. 

You should go. Tess would be back any time now and you didn’t want her to see your longing. There are whispers about if Joel is hers, and while you know they belong to each other in a way drenched in darkness, you’ve never been sure if the claim is on their hearts as well. It’s just vague enough of a partnership that when Joel has a good day and shares an extra ration card, your heart flutters. 

But it’s too dangerous. He’s too dangerous, the both of them. You can’t get mixed up in whatever they have going on. Why would you put yourself through something like that?

It’s not the first time he’s come home bloodied, and not the first time you’ve pulled him back together. There’s trust there, but also foolish hope that life could march on and a man could desire you again. Maybe even care for you enough to break teeth and bones. 

A brush against your arm turns you back to Joel, eyes half-lidded but trained hazily on you. One large hand skims over your shoulder, down your arm and lands heavily in your lap. 

“Joel?” you ask, looking down at his thick fingers splayed across your thighs. He hums, low and rumbly as his lips part. 

He’s surely too far gone to know you’re even here. It would be best to slip out unnoticed, talk to Tess tomorrow about checking his injury for infection. 

But you don’t. You’re frozen as the calloused skin of his thumb catches on the worn fibers of your jeans. It’s a caress you haven’t known for years. 

He doesn’t know it’s you.

“Joel,” you say again, and enough courage bolsters you to slide your hand into his palm, the other circling his wrist. He’s so warm, thick-skinned against your fingers. You start to lift from the bed, intending to place his hand where you sat, when it makes a drunken path to cup your chin. Pressure against your jaw turns your face to him spread out on the bed beside you. His chest is bare, light perspiration beading along the cut of his collarbone. He licks his lips slowly, the slip of tongue drawing an ache up from the deepest well. 

“Hey there,” he drawls, and god, you could shatter from it. Tears build in your eyes but you can’t move, his hands drawing you down to him. 

“Joel, it’s…I’m not…” you choke out. It’s a final defense. He’ll hate you tomorrow, but you’ll have said something. His lip quirks, not quite a smile. 

“I know,” he husks before leading your lips to meet his.

You’re not sure he does, but you’re too greedy to say more.

END

[ohbo-ohno]

Heyyyyy so id like to apologize in advance for this ask, it’s dlmliyh related but mostly just a Drabble I wrote in a trance and figured no one else but you would appreciate. BUT if you’re done posting about that AU I totally understand and pls feel free to delete haha! Anyway, i was going through the whole dlmliyh tag (an entire years worth of posts woo!) and came across this one in particular ( https://www.tumblr.com/ohbo-ohno/727861861927747584/okay-but-reader-hearing-simon-punish-soap-for-the ) and omg this little Drabble just wrote itself basically. Uhhh yeah I hope u enjoy??? I’m not a writer obviously but I was possessed. Also I’m sending on anon cus tumblr is dumb but my cod side blog is irnbruandmanu so yeah u might see me floating in ur notes ❤️

You can hear the harsh smack smack SMACK of Simon hitting Johnny in the other room, probably in the face from the way he grunts after each impact. A particularly harsh sound of rubber hitting flesh followed by a heavy THUD paints a perfect picture of Simon kicking John right in the ribs, sending him sprawling to the floor.

You’re shaking almost uncontrollably now. Adrenaline and fear mixing in your stomach to create a cocktail of 100 proof nausea and anxiety. You’re in an entirely separate room but every hit makes you flinch like it’s coming straight for you. It keeps going. On and on and on, and you’re getting more agitated by the second, nerves ramping up. Smack smack SMACK. A whine. Muttering voices. You shake your head to clear the black spots. You can’t stop picturing Simon treating YOU like that. Hitting YOU so hard you slide across the floor. God you’re scared. This punishment is the worst you’ve heard so far, and even though Johnny is technically the one who wrought this whole situation upon you, you want, NEED, his suffering to end before your brain splits in half and you completely lose your mind out of fear.

Trembling fingers come up to the bars of your-no, johnny’s- no, THE dog cage, flexing against the metal. When you clear your throat, you find it so dry it feels like you haven’t spoken in days. You swallow a few times to build up both nerve and saliva.

“Stop.” Christ it’s basically a whisper. Maybe you HAVEN’T spoken in days, it’s hard to tell really. But even your own ears had trouble picking up that pathetic cry.

This time, you hit the bars a little bit and try to yell. “Stop!”

But the punishment DOESN’T stop, doesn’t even slow down from the sound of it. Christ, Simon might actually kill him. Then there’ll only be you for him to focus on. You really rattle the bars now, finally seeming to find your voice.

“Stop! Stop it!”

Silence. Instant and total silence. The air seems to have been vacuum sucked from the entire house. Despite how much you were begging god for it just seconds ago, the quiet suddenly seems so, SO much worse than the noise. Maybe this was a mistake. Fingers still wrapped in the cage bars, you sit there trembling and waiting to see what’s going to happen.

The creaking of the floorboards is the first indication that anyone else is still alive in the abode. You know it’s Simon’s boots because you’d seen Johnny barefoot before the whole incident lit off. Slow, methodical steps from the next room followed by the sound of something heavy being dragged across the hardwood floors. The seconds tick by like they’re being dragged through molasses. By the time Simons big black boot steps over the threshold of the bedroom, your eyes are glued to the floor, body seizing up periodically with involuntary shakes.

You started this. But any confidence you had is gone with the wind. You can’t even make yourself look up. Fuck, FUCK, you should’ve let Simon kill the idiot. When he fully enters the bedroom you see he’s half dragging Soap behind him by the hair, and you flinch. He comes to a halt in front of the cage and releases his hand from Soap’s head, letting the younger man basically collapse on the floor at his feet. Then Simon slowly crouches down in front of the cage, craning his neck to try and get a good look at your face. Every move is so slow and calculated, you know you’re in for it. You can tell you’ve really upset him now. You’re still too nervous meet his eyes.

“You say something?” He growls, actually literally GROWLS the words out like it pains him to even be in your presence.

When you still don’t look at him, he snaps his fingers at your face until your gaze finally flickers up to his. “Oi! I asked you a question, girl.”

You know you have to respond, and you know you probably look like a dumbstruck fish when your mouth opens and closes a few times. Eyes dropping back down to Soaps body on the ground, you manage to get out a few words. “I just…please stop hurting him. Please. Please I can’t-“ But even those few words have you choking up and starting to hyperventilate, anxiety ramping to a full blown panic attack.

Simon cocks his head again and looks you up and down. The silence besides your panicked crying and johnnys breathing weighs heavy for a long moment before Simon chuckles, and the tension seems to break immediately. The masked man in front of you relaxes his shoulders and shakes his head.

“Aww you hear that, pup? Our girl’s already worried sick over you.” The condescension drips like poison from his mouth, but underneath it all you think he might genuinely be finding this kind of funny.

Johnny groans in response from the ground, but when Simon cards a hand through his hair, he sighs and lifts his head from the floor to lean into the touch.

“Go on boy, tell ‘er you’re alright.” Simon says, nudging Johnny’s back in a place he must have hit earlier, because John practically whines at the touch.

“ ‘S okay Bonnie…” he mumbles. “Was a bad boy…’ave to take my punishment now.” At this, Simon seems to rumble an agreeing sound.

“You’ll get it one day” Soap adds, even as you’re starting to shake your head in disbelief. At this, Simon lets out a real laugh, seemingly uncaring as you flinch back further into the corner of the cage, trying to form any kind of distance between yourself and these two fucking psychopaths.

hello!!!! i have literally nothing to add but this was so so good!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[hdhdgsgs]

Hi Hi! Idk how I ended up here lol (maybe through Bard’s page?? idk) anyway! I see that you’re writing for Osomatsu San right now! Would I be able to request your headcanons on every matsu comforting their crying significant other? Pleeeeease? lol I love the comfy stuff

First post back from writers block/burn out, I know some aren’t as long as others and I’m sorry it’s not consistent but I love the idea!

Osomatsu

For a little bit after you start crying he’s stunned, he’s not sure what to do. He’s comforted his brothers before but they’re his brothers, you’re a whole different person that he hasn’t learnt his whole life to comfort.

He’ll pay your back first then offer an awkward hug that turns into cuddling and crying into him with him rubbing the back of your hair and saying how you’ll be ok, kissing your head every now and then.

If you don’t want to be physically touched he’ll just tell you it’ll be okay and that he’ll listen if you need to talk, just constant sweet talking and he’ll throw in a little flirting or joking around if he feels like it’ll make you feel better.

He’ll even offer his beer or to eat instant ramen with him, he might even ‘force’ (ask) his mother to make him and you something, to which she would say yes and comfort you as much as she could and as she’s raised 6 kids at the same time, she’s pretty good at it.

He’ll offer you sex, half-joking, but if you take him up on his offer he’d be delighted to help, whether that means fast and rough or slow and sweet. He’d totally even be willing to get none of the pleasure himself because he wants to make you feel good (and he’s a pervert), you deserve it after all.

Karamatsu

He’s read up on this a LOT before so he can understand and comfort his future partner. He loves you and asks before every little thing he does, if you want ANYTHING he’ll run all over Tokyo as fast as he can to get it for you. If his brothers are around he’ll either boss them into doing things for you or he’ll threaten them to stay as far away as possible so you can be in piece.

Affection needed? He’s ready, he’ll do anything to make you happy, even if it’s (not shaming anyone) kissing your feet. He’s ready, cuddles are elite and he’s petting you everywhere he knows you like, kisses galore and touching places he knows makes you giddy. At one point he thinks about tickling you to see you laugh but he decides against it after thinking for a minute.

For gifts and acts of service, he’ll go ALL over Tokyo, fuck, even Japan if he has to, all to make you happy. If he can’t afford he WILL beg, steal and take what he needs to. He will empty everyone he knows bank account, or maybe just hatabou’s cuz he’s rich.

You want words of affirmation? He’s got it, words sweeter than ever before come out of his mouth, comforting and reassuring you until his vocal cords stop working and still then he’ll write it all down. He won’t joke around until he knows you feel good enough, so he will test the waters, every now and then with little jokes before unleashing his attack of humour to make you laugh.

Quality time, no problemo. He’s sitting and laying and standing around, just being with you, if you don’t want to talk he won’t, he’ll give you tissues, water, a plush, ice cream and just sit with you. He isn’t used to not talking for so long but he will anything for his karamatsu angel.

Choromatsu

Worst one of all of them, but he’s trying his best. He will pat your back and say “it’s not that serious, you’ll be okay.” Please get mad at him… he isn’t hurt by it for the most part, he’s used to a lot worse by his brothers.

Eventually he’ll learn and get better but at the start he’s grossly bad for someone who reads romance manga on the daily. He might try things he sees there, affection and tissues/water but after a while he’ll honestly just sit next to you and stare into space. He’s perplexed.

If you ask him about getting something or doing something for you, he will be a dork and salute, immediately getting up to help. He might put on some idol shows on tv or try and distract you by putting together a figurine with you. Choromatsu would offer a beer or sake to cheer you up, since it always makes him feel better (even though that’s unhealthy). Some more of his ideas include forcing Totty to search up ways to help, making his brothers embarrass themselves to make you laugh or running around doing things for you (which they will do in the hope you might like them too because you were able to fall for Choromatsu, but they won’t make it that obvious). Cuddles are a thing choromatsu has always been hesitant about, meaning he has to be insanely vulnerable, but he’ll throw away all vain the second he sees you upset.

Ichimatsu

Panics but keeps it on the inside so you wont stress more. He decides to treat you the same way he treats cats, only knowing how to cheer them up. So he’ll buy you food or get it from his cupboards and pet your head. He’ll whisper sweet nothings in your ear while giving your head a massage (which he’s surprisingly good at) making sure to focus behind your ears and the top of your head. Ichimatsu loves getting kisses but he’s not too confident on giving them so he won’t kiss your lips for his own comfort but he will kiss everywhere else, up your arms, your neck, your face, your head, everywhere else however if you ask him directly he will buck up and give you a small kiss on the lips, followed by more as he gets more confident. Orders his brothers around if you need something since he’s giving you affection at the moment.

Sends out a cat signal(idk) and gets all the little fluffy bois in the area to come and cuddle up! (As a chubby girl myself) He WILL put you on his lap for cuddles, he doesn’t care about weight at all whether you’re underweight, average or overweight. He wants to hold his kitten no matter what. If you end up eating something he’ll physically feed you like a baby, feeling very protective.

Jyushimatsu

Cat eyes, thinking face. Stays like that for a few second then runs around grabbing everything he can think of. Blankets, pillows, stuffed animals, water, tissues, a baseball, snacks and one of his hoodies. He brings it all and offers them, setting up a calm little area and wiping your tears with his sleeves, finding it more intimate than tissues.

Jyushimatsu sings a little song while laying you back on his chest and rubbing your back. He’s very used to comforting Ichimatsu so if you don’t want to be held he’ll know exactly how to help, he might even ask ichimatsu to help him get a cuddly cat for you. Wiggles his arms and and does the water trick too, but if you don’t respond he’ll stop immediately. Sits next to you and writes a love letter, detailed with all his feelings for you, he puts it in an envelope, seals it and hands it to you like you couldn’t see the whole thing being made, he’s VERY bashful about it too. Jyushi will also make you drink water to rehydrate and whisper meow over and over again in a sing song voice because he knows it helps Ichimatsu so surely it’ll help you right? Just need a distraction? He’ll talk about baseball for hours, the history, his favourite players, the rules and how to play it.

Todomatsu

Best equipped to handle it, doesn’t go about it well. Todomatsu doesn’t, in fact, use his phone. He feels it would be gross to use his phone when his partner needs comfort, and he panics wanting them to know he loves them more than life itself but not knowing how. He pulls you into a tight hug, telling you it’s going to be okay and that he loves you. Todomatsu will run his hand up and down your back while the other one is in your hair massaging the back of your head. He will push away his feelings of discomfort for a second to grab his phone, putting on soft music to help you relax, including a playlist he made especially for when he got a partner and he needed to comfort them. If Totty even sees a glimpse of a brother in the corner of his eye, they will be gone as soon as possible to make you feel safer and calmer. He hums along while he tries to make you fall asleep in his arms, I’m all honesty Todomatsu will do ANYTHING for his partner, he won’t let you go a single day feeling sad or bad because he truly adores you more than anything in the whole universe.

[bisexual-horror-fan]

I know you’re requests are closed but I had an idea for a Mickey fic and I’m an awful writer and you’re amazing so imma just leave this here. What if reader and Mickey are both the Ghostfaces along with Nancy and they’re both like, literally insane. Like to the point where after they kill they gotta fuck then and there whilst covered in their victims blood blah. blah but in the end Nancy kills one of them and it makes the other completely fucking INSANE for revenge.

OKAY! SO! Anon! I fucking love this ask. I went so hard. I hope you enjoy this enemies to friends to lovers over 7K massive fic! I stretched out the timeline of Scream 2 because fuck you, this is fanfic and we can do whatever we want to! I love this request and where it leaves off? I already have a sequel planned and mostly plotted. So thank you Anon seriously. Also, shoutout to @mrsaltieri-real for helping me out on this one! You are the best.

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Rating. Explicit. Length. 7.9K. Mickey Altieri X AFAB! Ghostface! Reader. She/Her Pronouns. Warnings: Reader Is A Killer. Reader Has Anger Issues. Fighting. Taunting. Teasing. Mickey And Reader Are ASSHOLES To Each Other. Blood. Gore. Murder. Death. Mild Fluff. Enemies To Friends To Lovers. Ghostface Partners In Crime Couple. Mickey Is Crushing Hard. Angst. Hurt. Crying. Emotional Pain. I Apologize In Advance.

—

“So Good To You.”

—

You never cared much for the idea of getting a college education, or at least that is what you told yourself because financially it was way out of reach for you, an impossibility. That was until you got an offer you simply couldn’t turn down, what that offer was? It was for a free ride at a college by a benefactor with money to burn and some revenge she needed to be carried out. It would be a hindrance for some, but not for you. The reason you were chosen was because of not only your previous experience with this, but your outright willingness to spill blood. So you accept, you follow her instructions to the fucking letter and arrive at school in September. 

Once moved into your dorm, a few days into college you were meeting up with her in person, all the correspondence up to this point has been online and on the phone, meeting her had to be done carefully. The meeting is not even in town, the process must be delicate, and the wrong people cannot see you together lest there be talk and suspicion. When you show up and see that she is not alone you are confused, when you sit down, and she explains that you are not the only student she is “sponsoring” you are pissed.

You don’t hide this either, gripping your menu, so tightly it might bend, speaking in a hushed yell whisper, “Nancy, what the fuck?”

He, whoever he was, agreed, leaning forward and voice low, “Yeah actually, what the fuck?”

Nancy tried to have a measured response, attempting to calm you both, she set her own menu aside, fingers laced together, hands resting on top of the tablecloth. She says your name and then his, “Mickey-” you scrunch your nose, who the fuck is named Mickey? Like the fucking mouse? 

“-I have to make sure this happens. You both know the motive and I figured having two of you would make this better, all the easier. I can be very hands-off and honestly, you are both such great talents. How could I choose just one of you?”

That pissed you off further. You keep your voice hushed, not wanting to be overheard, “It sounds to me more that you don’t think I can handle this myself and that I need some shitty fucking guy’s help to kill.” 

Mickey scoffed, a roll of his eyes as he leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed as he said, “Yeah, you are such an empowered woman who doesn’t need any help to kill. So tough. So strong. If you are so capable, why do you need someone to fund your college career?”

You hated him. Everything about him. His stupid spiky hair, the dumb shade of blue on his sweater, his face, his voice, what he said in tone and also in content. “It’s called a scholarship. I know it’s a big word, you’ve probably never heard it, and what about you? She thinks that YOU need a woman’s help to kill, how sad is that for you?” 

By the way his eyes narrowed, you feel like he doesn't like you either. Good. You don’t want him to. 

The dinner is tense, but you manage to make it through and Nancy makes it clear that if you want to go or if he does that you can, but she will pull her funding and whoever is left will get to do it alone. You don’t back down and neither does he, so you are forced to work together, and you accept this fact with extreme reluctance.

The plan is for you and him to get as close to Sidney and her friends as possible, to insert yourselves and get in the right position at just the right time to make sure that this happens just as Nancy wanted. You did, and you were barely able to restrain your rage against him, it comes out sometimes, everyone else thinks it is an affectionate thing, a long-running joke of both of you disliking each other and exchanging barbs, but no one thought it was serious. 

You had to get used to his presence, but that proved to be difficult, you would sometimes get so riled up after an argument with him that you felt like screaming and ripping your hair out, he got under your skin in the worst way possible. You got to him similarly it seemed, you sometimes knew he left your interactions being the one who could barely reign in his temper, part of you liked getting to him like that. 

Staying away from him and avoiding any time you and Mickey were solo was a must, but sometimes you can’t help it when you are in the same friend group like this. You and he were at the same party and Sidney left to go use the bathroom, and Randy went to go get a drink, and that left you and him in proximity.

You and Mickey were both leaning against the same wall. He speaks first, “Getting real friendly with Sid there.” 

You smile, proud of yourself, you were making a great impression, fantastic progress, you allow yourself to indulge in feeling pride as you agree with his assessment, “Yeah, I am.”

“She seems super invested. You do know that you need more than a low cut shirt to get her fallin’ all over herself for you, right?” He turned to face you, and you turn too as you respond, “Yeah unlike you, I am not a total slut, I am not trying to fuck her.”

“Why not?” He asked, and you laughed into your cup, making sure to keep your voice low enough just for him to hear, “Who am I? Billy Loomis? Gonna fuck her then gut her?” 

He shrugs before taking a sip from his own cup, a swallow before he says casually, “I’ve read your papers in film class, derivative is your whole thing.” 

“Is it now?” You ask and he says, “It is. Taking from someone great, and regurgitating it back out as if it is some amazing new or profound thought, something original all your own, when it very obviously is not.” 

He was such an insufferable asshole. 

You swallow what is left in your cup and then push off the wall, “I need another fucking drink if I am gonna have to be around you.” 

He lets you go. 

After lunch one day you, and he ended up in the same direction, you don’t want to deal with him and so you pick up the pace, walk faster, and he makes sure to speed up too, “Awe where you off to in such a rush? Gonna be late for your gender studies class, princess?” 

“Gross, do not call me that shit.” You say as you adjust your backpack, rolling your eyes before you retort, “You ready to fail that test tomorrow? I know you haven’t been studying.”

His hands are thrown up, eyes skyward and a grin as he says, “Heaven forbid, I wanna enjoy the college experience and make the most of it out and about, not with my nose in a book all the time.” 

“I think you could stand to be a little more well-read, you are painfully fucking dull whenever I am forced to talk to you.” Breaking off for the turn you head towards the building for your next class, he calls after you, “I am so, so hurt. Hey, don’t forget to spell women with a y, you’ll lose points otherwise, okay?” 

He knew just how to really fucking bother you. 

You know how to bother him, too. 

A different day, you and him were meant to have a meeting with Nancy. You were waiting for her to arrive, and he was boasting about how he had gotten in with Randy and Derek, you said, “Finally, took you long enough. It’s weird, though, considering that you are the fucking worst.” 

“I’m the worst?” He asked, and you nod, “Yes you are, I don’t know how you pulled it off, I have seen your acting ability.”

His hand rubs over his eyes as he asks, “You insult my acting ability now? What is wrong with it?” 

“Mickey. Virgin teens faking on prom night are better actors than you are.” 

His jaw drops, brows pinch together, and you pile on before he can respond, “You seem so chummy with Randy though, you blown him yet orrr?”

Nancy walked into you both locked in another augment, and she slammed the door, making you both stop. “Can you please, please, for the love of God, not fight for one day? I know it must be very hard, but do it for me?”

“It isn’t my fault she is such a frigid bitch.” He spits, and you say back, “Rich coming from the school slut, seriously, do you sweat chlamydia?” 

Mickey opens his mouth and Nancy cuts him off, “Please, save it! Can’t you be the bigger person here?”

Mickey doesn’t even look at her, eyes locked with you, he says, “I know you are a real maternal figure, but I am not your fucking son so can you not talk to me like I am?” 

You have to bite back the laugh you were about to bark out, and Nancy was just done, thoroughly over you both and your petty rivalry. “If you both don’t knock it off, I will call off the whole thing!”

That had you and he both turning to her, “You can’t!” 

It is reminiscent of a tired parent on a car trip sick of hearing, “Are we there yet?” and responding with, “I will turn this car around!” When she tells you both, “I can, and I will if you don’t play nice at least in front of me!” 

You and Mickey both know she is serious. You do your best to chill the hell out and just get through this without killing each other. 

The road is long until the first kill is meant to happen. You and he have ebbs and flows of seriously deep hatred, neutral times of acceptance and even an instance or two of actually kind of getting along, at least on the surface. Below that, you still find times of hating each other.

One night after yet another tense meeting, after yet more endless frustration, you and he locked in another fight it happens without you meaning to. Both of you are just too pent-up and when he spits, “I am so tired of you being such a bitch, have you tried loosening up sometimes?”

“How would you recommend I do that in between keeping a low profile, getting closer to Sid and the rest, and keeping my grades up?” He tells you with crossed arms over his chest, “I’d recommend you taking a good dick every once in a while.” 

“Does it always gotta come back to that? Just fuck my stress away and that will fix me?” 

“Why not try it?” And he says it so smugly, something inside just snaps inside of you, leading to you both being in your bed. Your clothes don’t even totally come off, it is a messy hate-fuck, “I knew you wanted me-”

Your teeth sink into his throat, a sharp bite that makes him jerk back, his hips faltering as you respond, “I don’t want you, this means fucking nothing, you mean fucking nothing, okay?”

 “Fine, fuck.” Another roll of his hips pulls a moan from you before he mutters out, “Crazy fucking bitch, just stop biting me.”

A terrible idea hits, and you execute it, a slap to his face as opposed to a bite and it is so shocking, catches him so off guard he has to actively fight the urge to cum. “Better?”

You ask sugary sweet, and he grits out, “I fucking hate you.” 

“I fucking hate you too.”

Hate fucking when the wait for the plan to kick off becomes a somewhat regular occurrence, one neither of you chose to acknowledge unless you were splayed over a surface together.

Currently, you were in Mickey’s place. You and he agreed to head over to a party together to meet up with everyone else, you were in one of those times when you didn’t totally hate his guts, just mostly did, so you could tolerate his presence. You were getting impatient, you were a punctual person, and he was not when it came to things like this. You were tapping your foot on the bottom rung of a stool as you sat at the bar as you waited, calling out to him while he is in his bedroom, “What are you doing in there? Jacking off? I’d like to go sometime this century.” 

“Yeah, I bet you like to think about that.” He called back, and you scoffed, “As fucking if.” 

While you waited, your eyes flitted over the bar, and you noticed there were scattered papers about, you are so bored you start to sift through them, looks like some kind of project he was working on. You look further, wondering what it was, you skim pages and words caught on, “slice” and “blood”.

You start to look further, flip through pages, and you find descriptions of murder, violent kills, strangulation, knives stabbed into warm bodies. You read of terrible brutality and the feelings that are invoked while experiencing it. You become so absorbed in the reading when his hand touches your shoulder, you jump nearly a foot in the air, heart hammering. 

“Catching up on some reading?” He asked with a grin, and you roll your eyes as you shake off his hand, “Creep.” 

“Says the girl who is currently rummaging through MY shit.”  Your eyes are back on the papers, ignoring what he said, and instead you ask, “What even is all this? Some fucked up project for a class?”

He takes the seat on the stool next to you, “It’s my work before coming to school.”

Your eyes go wide, you look at him, “Wait is this-”

He brightens further, “A scrapbook, yeah! I was rearranging it before you showed up, got a bit too into it, lost track of time, so I couldn’t clean it up before you came in, and then you were fucking rushing me-” 

“Holy fucking shit, you have a scrapbook of your previous kills?” You flip through, detailed accounts, pictures, small souvenirs, more still. It was amazing but also infuriating, how the fuck did you never think to do something like this? Most you had was scrawled out diary entries post kill, but this was truly in depth, a testament to his commitment to wielding a knife and bringing pain.

He leans closer, starts pointing out particular details, and you have to admit, an impressive body of work, clear effort put forth into this catalogue of violence. “She was the first. She was in my math class in high school, the kind of girl who thought she was way too good for everyone, you know the type.” 

His eyes meet yours, a taunting smile, and you find yourself letting out a laugh. He kept talking, and you kept listening until he says, “You are being awfully quiet.”

“Am I not allowed to be quiet?” You ask, and he laughs, “No. It just isn’t like you, normally you make your opinions very painfully known.”

You sighed, “I just can’t get over what a good idea this is, I’m fucking pissed I didn’t think of it myself.” You admit, and he laughed louder, “I got one up on you and you admit it? Fuck, it is a good night.” He gets up, collects the papers and puts them in the open box nearby. You try to stop him, “Wait, where are you going?”

You ask as he takes the box back to his room, and he says, “We have a party to get to, remember? I’ll let you read it in full another time for you to cream yourself over, alright?” 

Yeah, sure, cream yourself over is what you’d do. You are simply curious about his work before you both met, you liked getting a feel for him and what he had done, it only makes sense since you are going to work together. He comes back and you both leave, but that night you had to admit is what started the shift, you started to look at Mickey a bit differently, had more respect for him. He obviously had skills to back up his talk, it was a comfort as well as just nice to get to know him on this level. No one else understood that side of you, getting to talk with someone else who has killed, he understands the depth, the complexity and more, you didn’t know how nice it would be.

After that night, you and he talk some more about it, his kills and yours, it is bonding, and it goes from hating each other and somewhat tolerating to being more like co-workers. A different night you were in your dorm room alone and both going over what your pasts. He showed you his newly minted scrap book, and you read aloud from your diary about how your first date ended in your killing the guy. 

“How often have you gotten blood in your mouth?” He asks, and you gagged jokingly, “Too many times! You never think that it is gonna spray like that until the first time you slash a throat, right?”

“Seriously. Okay, okay. Least favourite part?” He asked, and you groaned, “Disposal, dead weight is such a bitch at times. Once a guy almost got away from me, I cornered and killed him at the bottom of some stairs, but once he was dead I had to drag him back UP those same stairs.” 

“Fuck, how did you do it?” He genuinely asked, and you tell him, “With ropes and determination. How about you?” He hums, “My least favourite part has to be when the chase goes on for too long. Nothing worse than being winded before you even get the knife in them, feel like I can’t enjoy it properly, and I hate to do a rush job like that. It’s like the option is taken from me.”

“Lack of control is truly the worst.” You agree. 

While you felt closer, a small kinship as well as more mutual understanding, Mickey could still be a bit much at times, you still clashed on occasion, but those times were becoming fewer and further between. It makes the path to the plan easier. You study on occasion, able to have meals together, Nancy is pretty pleased you’d both calmed down, and you find yourself consumed with regular daily life. The hate fucking isn’t so hateful and has also slowed considerably to a near stop.

When you got the go ahead, you and he were giddy. Alight. It caused one of the worst fights you had with him where you insisted that you be the first one to kill, you wanted to show that you could, prove yourself and also, it had been so, so fucking long since you had. Eventually, Nancy sides with you but insists Mickey be nearby in case shit goes screwy, and you can deal with that. 

You revel in it. The phone call, the break in, the case and the actual kill. You being on top of her, stabbing her, running her through with one hand as your other is over her mouth. She struggles and whines, and you feel powerful, watching the light drain from her eyes the same way the blood does. 

Perhaps you linger just a touch too long, but you just can’t help it. Mickey comes to get you, urge you out, and then he sees it, the aftermath. You still sitting on top of her in your costume, the knife to the hilt inside of her, and you turn, ghostly white mask with small spots of red and his breath catches. He read your accounts, you’d talked in depth, he’d killed people himself, but this, seeing it, you, post kill, was a totally different animal. 

You pull off your mask, hair a mess, face sweaty with the effort, a manic smile as you ask, “What’s up?”

He lingers by the door of the balcony you were on, stuck in the threshold, the sliding glass was acting like a metaphorical doorway as much as a physical one, a turning point, one that cannot be forgotten or ignored. A shifting tide, your relationship, how he viewed you, permanently changed. His mouth feels dry, he swallows and says, “We have to go.”

“Shit, yeah, you’re right, just got a little uh-” You look down at the body, pull the knife out and drive it in one last time, you sound gleeful, “-stab happy.” 

The laugh spills from you both unbidden and then, you flee the scene of the crime. Costumes stowed in bags and knife hastily wiped down. He couldn’t stop looking at you after that night. Every time he saw you, it was like you went from black and white static to live and in colour, as if he was seeing you for the first time, truly seeing you. He had it and had it so fucking badly for you, it was embarrassing. 

You could get him, understand him on levels no one else could or probably ever would. 

Mickey started treating you differently. You think it is because of what he saw, he finally was respecting you and sure it was part of it, but much more than you could have realized went into it. He was being much more than pleasant to be around, he was nice, fun to be around, he wasn’t an asshole like previously and slowly, much, much too slowly, after many meals bought, coffees given and notes shared you figure out that you think, he has a crush on you. It slips through even when with your “friends” and it doesn’t go unnoticed. Especially because he doesn’t hide it. He is kind, he flirts shamelessly, he makes his wants and intentions known.

You don’t know how to deal with or process that. 

So you don’t.

You let him treat you better, you feel previous hate and anger melt, but you write it off as friendship, nothing wrong with that considering what you were doing. You take his compliments with a smile, you laugh off his over the top promises of “I’d be so, so good to you.” with a wave of your hand.

The plan continues on, stretches out from days to weeks, Nancy claims she wants Sidney to really suffer, and you aren’t going to question or complain. 

The next kill is up to Mickey, you weren’t able to be there, but you got to see him after. Amped the fuck-up and excited, he told you about it all, how it went. “He was so pathetic, you should have seen him, begging for his life, crawling on the ground, oh my God.” 

You watched him pace back and forth, animated hand gestures, his t-shirt was sticking to him from the sweat, your eyes aren’t sure where to linger, defined arm muscles or that wide sick smile. He flops onto the couch beside you, a large exhale, “It was fucking incredible.” 

“And what are you feeling like, right now?” You asked as you looked down at him, and he says as his head pitches to look up at you, “I am feeling fucking starving. You want to order in a pizza?”

So you did. You ate sprawled on the floor and talked about the fact everything was meant to ramp up soon, that you and he were expected to both go in hard within the next few weeks. 

It still goes on, you and both grow closer, another kill here, one there until finally there is a night where you have to murder together. The talking beforehand is frantic, both planning what was going to happen, honestly excited to do this together. You and Mickey started off hating each other's guts, but that seems so far away now, you and he were actually good friends and a united front on this plan.

It doesn’t go well at first.

The struggle is hard, you and he almost lose the two people you were planning on killing, but you manged it. Watching Mickey up close, not only that but you both doing this together, it makes something in you and your perception of him change. It is startlingly intimate, you are so in the moment, weirdly in sync with very little verbal communication, at one point you are gutting one of them while he holds them down and even through the masks, you know your eyes are locked, you can’t see his gaze, but you feel it. 

It’s then. Between the smell of blood, the sweat making your black robe stick to you, over the screams of your shared victims, that all of it hits you.

It all comes crashing in, you thought he was the only one with a crush, with deeper feelings, that is not the case. You’ve come to realize that you have feelings for him too, deep and intense, scary and all consuming feelings, you care about Mickey and more than as a friend, a fellow killer, a partner in crime. You like him. Old memories flow through your mind now tinged differently, a highlight reel of neon recollection, synapses sparking, forcing you back, dragging you along to really look at those moments in the new light and context of your now fully exposed feelings. Raw and wriggling and out in the open air for you to contend with, screaming for acceptance and to be dealt with in some fucking fashion.

You had liked him for a long while and were far too stubborn and stupid to realize it. And you can’t ignore it any longer.

Snapped back into the moment you are staring. His strong gloved hands around the bitch’s throat, you can see the power he has, the way his arms strain from the effort, you can’t look away. 

Once it was over, once they are both dead, you and he had to separate, and it made your mind run. You were so nervous, you trusted him completely now.

You knew Mickey was more than capable, but still, the thought of him actually being caught, you don’t know how you’d handle it. The sudden change steals your breath, you feel crushed by your new feelings, the unexpected care you feel for him.

The emotions run high during a kill night on the best of times, but the rough and rocky start, the joined act of killing, the fact the police presence as stepped up, it all mixes together. You were worried, very fucking worried, and that makes you terrified. 

When you come back to the meeting point, he is already there, his mask is taken off, and you hastily remove your own. Staring across the space at each other, heavy breathing, and the look in his eyes upon meetings yours, he knows. He knows you feel differently now, and it can be felt in the air. You stride forward first as you exhale out, “Thank fuck you’re okay-”

As soon as you are close enough Mickey’s hands are on the sides of your face, pulling you to him and his mouth crashing into yours, swallowing you up in him, preventing you from speaking, stealing all words, you return his affection hastily, clumsily and with a moan of relief. Even during all your hate fucking, it wasn’t like this. There were no presses of your mouth to his, the only times your mouths were used were to bite, cause pain, or on occasion give each other some truly rough but brutal oral sex. 

You are greedy, need to make up for lost time. You kiss him hard, want to make him as breathless as you are, more than the chase made him. You and he end up on the couch in his place. Costumes are long forgotten on the floor. His hands wander, touch you all over, help pull clothes away and aside, “I’ve been thinking about this so fucking much.”

A laugh slips out as you straddle him, helping him out of his shirt and throwing it aside, “Yeah Mickey?”

He takes in the view of you in just your pants and bra perched on his thighs, his hands run up your sides, fingers press over an already flowering bruise left from when one of your murder victims kneed you in the ribs. You hiss slightly, a sharp intake of air from the stab of pain, you retaliate, fingers in his hair, you thread, twist and pull. He gasps, smile widens, and he nods as much as you allow, “Yeah, been thinking about you just like this.” 

“Just like this?” You grind on his lap, bare down on his clothed erection, short muted sounds of pleasure leave you both as you lose yourselves in the action, the friction before he manages to get out, “Almost, there are no clothes in the way, and I am buried deep again in that sweet fucking cun-”

You pull even harder and his sentence breaks off with a groan as you prompt him. “Stop talking and start doing.” 

He was losing it. Normally whenever he hooked up with people he was sure, in total control, but you got the drop on him. He should know better, especially after all the previous very violent hook-ups. 

At first, he was on top, or rather, he was trying to be, but all of a sudden a leg was around his hip and hands were on his broad chest pushing him until he fell onto his ass, back propped up on the arm rest of the couch. You settle into his lap quickly, straddling him and then lowering yourself, taking him deep, to the hilt, before he could protest. The moan leaves him on an exhalation at feeling how soaked and hot you are. His hands are on your hips, and he rocks up into you once before your hands are in his hair once more. Fingers thread anew, wrap around and twist before pulling, it makes his eyes shoot open, a harsh inhale from the pain, brows knitted together in confusion when you tell him firmly, "Stay fucking still. This is for me right now, not you."

He is shocked, stunned, your tone so harsh, leaving no room for argument, and you start to move, hips rise and fall as you ride him for all he's worth.

You look fucking stunning, gorgeous, and you feel even better. 

He didn’t know he could be so into this, but he thinks it is because it’s you. He has seen you kill, seen how capable and powerful you are, he is so fucking into you, feels so deeply for you, he thinks you could carve your name into his flesh and he’d beg for more. The praise tumbles out between groan and gasps, timed with the falls and of your hips, the rolls of your body, and it makes you laugh breathy, “You are really into this.” 

“Been a, fuck, while.” He confesses, and you slow your hips, “Mickey, have you kept it in your pants? Stopped fucking half the student body?”

You knew he was seeing other people in between your fucking for a while, but when you and he stopped, did he not get his fill elsewhere? He shrugs, tries to seem unbothered, but it’s hard when his hands are gripping your hips so tightly, browns pinched together, you clench on him and his head is thrown back against the arm rest of the couch. Sweat is down his temple, tendons in his throat as he swallows thickly, “Been busy.”

It is all he can force out. This is serious. Mickey the slut stopped screwing anyone else because he was crushing on you so severely. He did really like you, holy shit. Not an act at all, he was so consumed with you that fucking other people wasn’t something he wanted. 

The emotion radiating off him is filling you, bleeding back into you, and you let it take you without trying to show it too heavily. You fucking care about him, you really fucking do. 

Your hand below your waist, quick fingers bring you to your peak twice in short succession as you ride him before he finds his own high. The first time is frantic, needy, more about getting it out of your systems after so long without. It is undeniably satisfying and thoroughly enjoyable. 

The next time happens that same night. With reheated Chinese and in his bed. You talked about it all, how the kill that night went and in the process worked yourself up once more and made the shower you shared after your time on the couch utterly pointless from how sweaty you got again. 

After that night, you were together. You and he often fucked, maybe more than you should, but you just could not get enough. You’d been so busy that you hadn’t really fucked anyone other than him since getting here over a year ago. Times in your dorm or his, shared showers, traded oral in places that you shouldn’t like between library stacks. Once you had sex in the band pit of the theatre, your hands over his mouth and his over yours as you worked to keep quiet, him thrusting up into you, and you are slamming down on him as you worked each other over, bringing him and yourself to Earth shattering pleasure. 

Both of you kept it more hush, hush, but another secret just added to it. You didn’t run from your feelings, nor did you attempt to hide how into him, you were. The dates squeezed in everywhere you could also try to make up for your stubborn bullshit earlier. Affection was, often, moments of tenderness and vulnerability in private were shared. 

There is a moment that you keep coming back to. 

Another kill. You and he are blood splattered, you had a quickie next to the body, a rushed moment of passion with you pushed over a desk. Your legs were shaking from the strength of the orgasm he fucked out of you. Over the past while you’d gotten much more comfortable with him taking control, it wasn’t a fight for dominance, it was shared responsibility that you give into as often as he does. His cum was leaking out into your panties that you had just pulled back into place. You were heaving, body slick, and resting for a moment when he comes around the desk. His mask is pulled up, and he leans down, gloved hands come to your face, one hand holds the knife in his leather clad grip, the other holds your cheek. You feel the knife handle against the opposite side, and he moves in, he kisses your forehead half-in-half-out of his killer garb, and you melt. You smile up at him and he returns it. 

The lies and secrecy shouldn’t turn you on like this. Lying to Sidney and everyone else, the high you are both on from so far getting away with it is immense. You and he are too perfect of a fit.

It’s the day of. You and he are about to head out when the urge strikes. “Hey-“ Your hand quickly reached out and grabs his wrist, pulling him back from the door, so he was stood facing you again. His hand dropped to your waist, and he smiled down at you, that stupid damn devastating smile you used to hate that you now couldn’t see yourself living without, “- before we do this, there’s something I wanna tell you. Just in case.” 

He noticed you looked almost nervous, weight shifting from one foot to the other, he had never seen this emotion on your face before, and he knew exactly what was coming before you took a deep, unsteady breath and opened your mouth to speak again. “I lo-”

“Don’t.” He said quickly, eyes wide, raising his hand to place it over your mouth, an action you had both done to each other God knows how many times in a much different context. “Save it. Tell me after we’ve won, okay?”

You rolled your eyes slightly, prying his fingers away from your mouth. “God, you’re such an overdramatic dork, Mickey. Okay.”

It was stupid. You shouldn’t have listened to him. You should have said it.

You and he and Nancy were in the theatre with Sidney. The monologue was underway, big speeches, reveals, shock and awe. You’d been watching from afar, waiting for your cue to come in, when it happens all too quickly. Sidney made Nancy so angry so fast, unable to control herself, and she points the gun and with a simple move of her finger, the trigger is pulled and all of a fucking sudden just like that night your world is coming crashing in. He wasn’t expecting it, the bullet holes in his chest pour blood out rapidly. 

You are frozen in place. Rooted to the spot. You watch as his body falls. Here then gone. Stole from you in a single moment, no time to react, nothing to do, no time to process either. He was ripped from you, and it takes a moment for everything to come back into focus. Sidney and Nancy are struggling, and you find the strength. 

You move. 

The weapon in your hand is used on Sidney, not the way you’d intended to, the butt of your own gun is smacked full force on the back of her head. You knock her out and let her fall to the stage. You are left standing there with Nancy, who is wondering what you are doing. You are holding up the gun, pointing it straight at her, questioning her in the same way, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” 

“Why are you pointing that at me?” She asked in seeming disbelief, and you scoff, “Why do you think?! I heard you! I heard what you said, I watched you shoot Mickey, I know you want me dead next, right? Clean up the loose ends?”

You spit it at her with vitriol before you do your best impression of her annoying voice during her speech to Sidney, “There was a big scuffle, and you-” your foot kicking Sidney’s boot for emphasis, gesturing down to her with your other hand, “-shoot Mickey-”

Saying it makes you sob. Tears start to stain your cheeks, “I cannot believe you! Bringing us here, making us do your dirty work, and you were planning on killing us the whole fucking time!” 

“What, did you really think that he’d get away with it? His big plan about blaming the movies? What jury would believe that-” She shouts, and you stomp your foot, “Shut the fuck up, that isn’t the point!” You weren’t going to tolerate her speaking ill of him, not while he is still bleeding out in the band pit, you kept talking, “You double-crossed us!”

Your gun moves down, and you shoot, getting her in the knee. She crumples under the weight of her own body. She is on the ground, and she is the one sobbing in short order. You make your way to her, you step onto her busted knee, grinding your boot down into it and revelling in her anguished screams. Blood gushes and you still are not satisfied. You sink down, you lay into her. First the gun across her face, teeth are knocked out, displaced and rattle as they roll across the wooden stage. 

You hit her again and again, next the gun is dropped, your hand takes over, punching her, nose breaks, cartilage cracks, bones snap, she is coughing and wheezing and weak. Your knife is removed from the holster stored in your boot, and you hold it to her throat, “You are such a stupid fucking bitch.”

She was delirious, and you slammed her head against the stage, “Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

Her eyes are unfocused, but they are on you, “This is your fault. You are going to die, but you didn’t have to. You killed him first, and now I’m gonna kill you.”

The response is weak from her dry cracked lips, “Why?”

“Why?” You asked, a bitter laugh, you hold the knife closer to her throat, “Dumb cunt wants to know why? Sure, I can tell you.” 

A deep inhale before you say, “You brought me here under false pretenses, made me work with one of the most annoying and insufferable people I have ever met in my life, forced me to be around him and in the process made me realize that…”

You can’t bring yourself to say it, but you instead say, “-That I care about him. That I needed someone else who could truly understand me on this level, who cared, who showed me how I deserved to be fucking treated and then, you just…You kill him, snuff him out, like he was nothing!”

You feel the tears falling again, “After all we’ve done to make your fucked up dream of a revenge plot come true, and you expect me to just lie down and take it when you kill him?!”

You can’t see her properly, not through how watery your eyes were. A steadying breath before you say, “And the way you did it. With a gun? It is insulting! Where is the intimacy? The care? The artistry, if he had to die by murder, he deserved better! Do you care about the art form at all?!”

You are tired of her, the anger and sadness had been bubbling up, it all comes to a head and bursts, the knife slices through her throat, she is choking on her blood when you tell her, “I’m not playing along, I’m not doing your stupid plot, not anymore. I’m rewriting it, Sidney’s gonna live.”

You don’t stop there. The knife is forced into her over and over. By the time you are done, her stupid white unflattering white suit is stained completely red. 

Getting up from the complete mess, you look over your shoulder, Sidney is still passed out. This is your chance to run, but you can’t. Not yet.

Your steps are tentative, your knees hurt from how long you were on them while hunched over Nancy’s body while you were killing her. Your hands shake, and you peek over the edge of the stage and see him down there, amongst upturned band chairs, and your breath is stolen. You and he hooked up down there weeks prior, and now he was down there, looking wrong, totally fucking wrong. He looks lonely, and you hate that, you move quickly, one hand on the edge of the stage, and you jump down, it hurts your ankles from the height, you don’t care. 

You stay there with him. You cling to him, you are reminded of that conversation, your least favourite. Dead weight. Quickly going cold, lifeless eyes staring up, past you, to some point on the ceiling, unseeing. You let yourself cry. You want to say it, tell him the depth of your feeling want to force the words out, you want to tell him you love him, but now it doesn’t feel right at all. He should have been able to hear those words from you while he was alive, while you still had a shot at a future together, whatever it would have looked like.You let yourself say this at the very least. 

“You were right…” You sniff, you wipe at your cheeks and say, “The time we had was short but fuck. You were so good to me. I should have let you be good to me sooner. I should have been better to you, too.” The next words sit heavy on your tongue, no matter how much you want to they are left unsaid, and you make yourself leave him. 

Before you do, there is one thing that feels necessary, like you have to. Hands cradle his face, one hand still holding the knife, and you lean down, you press a blood stained kiss to his forehead, near his hairline just like he did to you before. A mirror of that previous act of tenderness on a scarlet tinged afternoon but so much sadder because it was the last moment like this you’d ever have with him and again still, it was totally wrong. He can’t feel it, because he’s dead.

You get up and with one last forlorn look to him, you run. 

Sidney wakes up unscathed but dazed, Mickey dead and Nancy too. You hadn’t revealed yourself, she hadn’t seen you, Nancy and Mickey hadn’t made mention of you, you’d been wearing gloves and there was none of your blood or DNA at the finale’ site, so you got away with it. They think the last person is still at large, but they have no clue who. 

Your sadness is understandable, your real grief is able to be spread around, it is believable that it is for Hallie and Derek and everyone else but Mickey on the surface. You and Sidney drift apart. You tell her it’s too hard and she more than understands, she was initially suspicious at first, but you were too good an actor, your alibis too well planned and airtight. 

The unmarked account that your tuition came out of was still full. You intend to transfer to a different college next semester. You can’t stay here, the idea of graduating from here without Mickey is horrible. You need a new state, a new school, a fresh chance to try and attempt to move on. It’s after winter break at that new school that you meet. 

The events happened over a year ago, and you were still not doing good. Still sad, you wonder how you can ever process this pain, this total loss, no way can you talk about it, no way another person could ever understand. 

Until that is one fateful day, you get a knock at your apartment door. You answer it and standing in front of you is a ghost, one person who you thought, just like everyone else, was dead, and maybe, perhaps, the only one who can relate to you. 

Brows furrowed and gripping the door, so your legs won’t buckle, you asked nervously, in total shock and disbelief, “Stu Macher?”

He grinned with a point to himself, “That’s me. Can I come in?”

[cascade05]

Book Girl

Heads up: Language, suggestive but definitely not descriptive, also Bakugo Katsuki (he comes with a warning), and unedited—super unedited

Kay, so, hear me out… Bakugo Katsuki and an author reader. Yes, ooh, ahh, I know I know. For those of you, and I am sure there are many, who have no idea what I mean, lemme explain:

Bakugo with a reader who asks him the strangest, borderline worrisome question about his work. “What’s it feel like to get stabbed?” “Have you ever gotten shot? With a gun? Explain it to me. How did it feel?” Sometimes he thinks you’re a little psycho but it’s oddly therapeutic for him to explain the worst parts of his job and not care about being judged so he don’t mind none.

Bakugo with a reader who patches up his wounds like a pro and mumble “this would be perfect in chapter twelve.” And he’s just staring at her like “ma’m I’m dying plz don’t immortalize this in literature.”

Most importantly (the thought that had me on this tangent), Bakugo Katsuki with his cute little writer baby who tests things on him. It’s never easy to deal with things either. It’s not, like, fighting related things. You don’t go up to him and ask him if you could put him in arm-bar or ask him if he could put you in an arm-bar (Actually you did ask him to do that cause you wanted to know how to get out of one but—)

She does this… thing where she goes up to him and whispers the nastiest shit in his ear, like, you know, innocent book girl shit. Ya’ll know what I mean. Book girls are fucking wild and they read the sauciest shit. So she whispers some knee numbing curse and Bakugo freezes like a little schoolboy who just found out what puberty hormones are and she has the audacity to take a step back, examine him like he’s a fucking lab rat or some shit, then ask him if that made his heart flutter. Like, bitch it made something flutter, the hell did you think saying that would do? Does he answer? The first few times it happened, he couldn’t. The next few times he tried to deny it but mumbled and slurred his words like a drunk. When he wasn’t caught horribly off guard, he started just throwing her over his shoulder and showing her what it did to him. (It really helped her with that one scene—)

But that’s not the worst of it. No. No no no. You see, before Bakugo, she had never been in a relationship before. She had never been in love before and she most certainly had never done anything physical with someone else before. He was her first everything. So she has trouble writing particularly steamy scenes, at least when it comes to describing everything and it has to be perfect. Well, that’s what a boyfriend’s for, right?

So, there are times in Bakugo’s life where his writer girlfriend just decides to make out with him. That’s a normal thing to do, they’re together, but she doesn’t just kiss him. Remember, book girl shit, girl goes fucking—well, Bakugo doesn’t know what but it’s ridiculous.

Kay, first time it happens: She comes up to him all casually and cute-like and asks if she can try something. Blissfully unaware Bakugo raises a brow but lets her and she takes his breath away with a kiss that’s all passion and it’s hot—he’s hot. He’s melting, actually, and she takes it further and put her hands in exactly the right places and just when he’s getting ready to go all the way with it, she pulls back. Bakugo’s never felt whiplash quite so jarring but there she was asking him how it felt because she wants to write the scene from a man’s perspective. She asking him all these questions and bro’s on a different planet right now, he can’t answer, kay. Like, give him a second to breathe cause he can’t find the air, ya know. And it happens, well not all the time but enough for the poor man to think she just isn’t in to him like he’s in to her. If she was, she would’ve been frustrated too, right? But she wasn’t and there he was, sitting alone like a fool while she ran off to go write it all down before she forgot.

But, well, book girls, right? Those freaky shits know how to please a guy so you can bet your bottom dollar that she made it up to him. Thoroughly :)

Or, alternatively, writer gf who doesn’t write steamy shit and just does all of this to fuck with him cause his reactions are *chief’s kiss*

[ilikekidsshows]

Do you think there's anything prior to s4 that foreshadowing Adrien status as senti?

---

To put it simply, Anon: fuck no. I think there are a couple of coincidences the people who liked the theory latched onto and that they used to retroactively justify the writers’ lies that it was the intention all along. All of this stuff has another explanation. Adrien is allergic to feathers? No other Sentimonster is. Adrien and Sentibug both get called “perfect”? “Perfect” is a perfectly common word that suits a lot of situations perfectly. Adrien ads use a lot of feathers? They’re fucking white, Adrien has a recurring angel motif and anyone claiming otherwise is blind to patterns. Adrien does what Gabriel tells him to even when he doesn’t want to? HE’S BEING ABUSED BY THAT MAN. Why else would Emilie use the Peacock Miraculous when it killed her? Because she's an entitled rich asshole who thought she was above consequences. If Miraculous wanted to make “eat the rich” commentary, that's what they should have done. SentiAdrien also required reworking the Sentimonster lore to make the heroes killing them en masse okay.

What is far more compelling than the defenses of SentiAdrien is the fact that, after the long hiatus between seasons 3 and 4, Gabriel's body language changed completely, just like if something about his character had been changed. Gabriel used to hold tightly clenched fists behind his back, symbolizing his tight grasp on things he wants to control, especially his emotions. From the first episode of season four onward, almost like the writers couldn't contain themselves from including a new, fresh idea they’d had, Gabriel is suddenly constantly toying with this wedding ring, twisting it around like he's a neurodivergent kid and that ring is his favorite fidget toy.

Look, I know Miraculous gets a lot of flack for inconsistencies, but, like, some stuff is consistent. All the main characters used to have their own ways of moving. Adrien would pat people's shoulders, Marinette would wave her arms around, Gabriel would very rarely sit if he could get away with standing and he would clench his fists. These were simple, easy to remember ticks that strengthened the characterization. Adrien longs for human connections, Marinette is anxious and hyperactive and Gabriel never lets down his guard. In season 4, Gabriel's body language is suddenly: “Is Adrien a Sentimonster controlled by this ring? Come on, theorists, post about the theory a lot and do our marketing for us!”

The only explanation for Gabriel’s sudden change in body language is one of the writers had a tumblr when the theory got popular and got super excited to include this new idea as quickly and obviously as possible.

There’s also the fact to consider that the Miraculous crew has a very particular way of writing mysteries: they don’t. A mystery is a compelling question and “is” is not a compelling question. Basically the same rules apply as when picking a driving question for your essay: who, what, how, why and when are all good questions that will give you plenty to chew over while building your thesis. Yes or no questions, on the other hand, should be avoided at all costs, because the act of asking a yes or no question often already reveals the answer and ignores anything actually interesting about the phenomenon being studied.

I’m gonna be honest: when I first watched Miraculous, I had no idea Hawk Moth’s identity was supposed to be a mystery. I thought the answer was obvious on purpose because we were meant to wonder about the how and why. But, no, the why gets revealed as soon as the show confirms Gabriel is, indeed, Hawk Moth, because there’s so much focus on Emilie. There is only one possible thing Gabriel could want with the Miraculous, with no other options being presented to keep things interesting. Similarly, the show never asks: “Who is Hawk Moth?” because only one option is ever seriously presented with no other options being presented to keep things interesting. The question is: “Is Gabriel Hawk Moth?” and the answer is: “Yes, of course, because it couldn’t be anyone else.”

When you look at it in hindsight, this is also how the “Sentipeople” mystery gets presented to us. The only question the show asks about Sentimonsters and it asks it instantly at the start of season 4 is: “Is Adrien a Sentimonster?” and, like, the only answer is yes, because otherwise it wouldn’t get asked. However, the question is presented in a way that's only grasped by people already thinking along those lines, like Gabriel playing with his ring because it's now all of a sudden an Amok, which is why many people who weren't already convinced by the fan theory dismissed it. There are also no red herrings in this “mystery”, because every character to get any hint at them being a Sentimonster is revealed to be one. The Miraculous crew can’t write mysteries, so the existence of human Sentimonsters became obvious for the people already thinking along those lines as soon as they decided to include it.

This means, that, if this plotline was written for people who already thought SentiAdrien was a thing, the writers knew there were people thinking SentiAdrien was a thing. I'm saying the idea totally got taken from the fandom. And it's not surprising that the idea is stolen; Astruc's main character is a poor man's copy of the protagonist of the Dork Diaries book series, after all.

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

Dance For Me (Fatgum x Black!Fem!Reader 18+ One Shot)

"Can I give you an extra birthday gift, baby boy?"

Pairing: Taishiro “Fatgum” Toyomitsu x Black!Fem!Reader (Strangers to Lovers)

Synopsis: In which you give Fatgum the experience of a lifetime when his friends drag him to a strip club for his birthday.

Story Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINORS GTFO); Reader is Black-coded (but anyone can still read this); Reader is Fem; Reader is a Stripper/Pole Dancer; Fatgum in Skinny & Fat Form; Strangers to Lovers; Erotic Dancing; Stripping; Body Worship; Lap/Thigh Grinding; Foreplay; Dirty Talk; Deepthroating; Outercourse; Clothed Sex; Cum in Pants; No PIV Sex; Cum on Body; Scent Marking; Aftercare

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer’s Note: The happiest birthday to my maaaaan 🥰 Enjoy y'all! -Jazz

**********

Can you imagine Taishiro’s first time in a strip club? I’d imagine it’d be on his birthday.

Walk with me for a second, y’all.

Taishiro isn’t exactly inexperienced when it comes to women. He has had his fair share of girlfriends and hookups, but most of them have been short-lived due to his quirk. It gets tiring to keep himself in his skinnier form day in and day out just to please his partners, but he also knows that this form is the most aesthetically and physically pleasing to most of them. 

It’s sad that even he realizes it. Though he is loved by the public, it’s different in the bedroom and in romantic relationships. Because of that, he’s a bit hesitant to shift into his fat form around women he’s interested in. Because of that, he hasn’t done much dating or hookups. He just wouldn’t be able to handle rejection or humiliation for his body. 

His friends think he’s being stupid. “Do you know how many women out there would want to fuck you in any form?” Mirko asked him. “You just need to find them! They’re out there!” Hawks had chimed in, equally as certain that Taishiro could find the right woman. “Yeah,” he agreed. “And I know just where to find ‘em. Your birthday is coming up, right?” 

Taishiro looked at him curiously while he slurped down his ramen noodles. “Yeah, in about a week,” he replied. “Why?” Hawks just grinned at him, a secret glint in his eyes. Taishiro would regret not pushing the discussion further when he finds himself at a strip club with his friends a week later. Mirko, Hawks, and Yu practically drag him out of the restaurant to hit the club despite his constant protests and pleas for a trip to a parfait shop instead.

While, again, his eyes aren't virgins to the naked female body, he has never seen so much ass and titty in one place! Can you imagine that man walking into the club with his six-something-foot self? He stands out like a sore thumb among the crowd, catching the eyes of customers and employees walking about.

His eyes catch the jiggling of asscheeks on a bottle girl or the shaking thighs of a dancer on the pole wearing the skimpiest outfit he’s ever seen on a woman. He walks into the club his skinny form too. Though he isn’t afraid to walk around in his fat form, he usually opts for his skinny form in unfamiliar places. 

Unfamiliar places like this one. Standing among the dancers and purple lights, he feels like an alien on another world. He’s never been in a strip club before, so he’s pretty nervous. What do you even do here? Where do you put your hands? Do you ask the dancer for one? He feels stupid standing here with his friends, like a little kid on his first day of school. 

His friends push him to sit down in a secluded booth in the VIP section, immediately ordering a round of shots for them. “Time to celebrate your birthday in style, my friend,” Hawks says, smirking at him. “So how do you feel, big man? First time good so far?” 

Taishiro doesn’t want to upset his friends, so he plasters on a smile and say, “Y-Yeah! Totally good!” But deep inside, all he wants to do is go home. This isn’t for him. He probably won’t even get a dance. With someone as suave as Hawks, gorgeous as Rumi, and popular as Yu, he’ll be the last pick if not picked at all. But he still indulges in the shots sitting before him, grinning bashfully when his friends shout happy birthday to him. 

“So now you get to choose your dancer, ‘Shiro!” Yu excitedly proclaims, sitting next to Mirko. “So who do you want? Choose whoever and it’s on us!” Though it’s a kind gesture, Taishiro is still nervous as hell. He’s never gotten a dance before. Looking around, he blushes crimson at the sight of dancers tossing ass in their clients’ laps. Would he be able to handle such a thing? 

“I heard you’re lookin’ for a dance,” an enticing voice says above him. When he looks up and saw your pretty, brown eyes staring down at him, the entire room fades around the room. All that is here now are you and him. All the other people are gone.

He barely believes his eyes as he drinks you in––you’re wearing a sheer mini dress draped over your luscious, curvaceous body that exposes the tiny bra and thong set underneath. You paired the outfit with knee-high boots that he bets barely make you taller than him if he is to stand up. The lights illuminate your skin and glossed, plump lips that curl into a smile directed at him. 

“Hey,” you greet, chewing on your gum. “Fatgum, right? I know you. I’m a big fan.” Taishiro isn’t be able to speak, his tongue heavy and mouth dry. “He says thank you,” Hawks quickly says while Mirko and Yu laugh. “And yeah, he’s lookin’ for a dance. Would you maybe wanna fill that spot for him?” 

“It’s his birthday,” Mirko adds with a wink. “Treat him well.”

Your eyes, looking bigger with the lashes and mascara, tick from his friends back to Taishiro. “Of course,” you’d purr. “How could I not treat a pro well?” You then lean in across the table towards him, giving him a peek of your cleavage. “So what would you like, Mr. Fatgum?” you sultry ask the pro. “Would you like a dance from me?” 

Taishiro, once again, isn’t able to speak. He just nods, growing hard from your breathy, soft laugh. Out of everything he’s seen tonight, your laugh makes him rock hard. “Would you like the dance here or private?” you ask. “We’ve got private rooms behind the stage. They’re the champagne rooms.”

You wait patiently for his answer, acting oddly sweet for someone working in such an environment. You obviously know that this is his first time and be very understanding which turns him on even more. “Private,” he finds himself answering, earning a whoop from Mirko. A pleased smile curls onto your glossy lips as your hand found his, lacing your fingers together. “Then let’s go, big boy,” you purr, helping him out of his seat. 

His friends embarrassingly cheer him on as you lead him away to the champagne rooms. When he stands, he realizes that he does, in fact, stand at a head taller than you. You look like a munchkin compared to him. He follows, feeling robotic almost with his clanky legs and stiff joints. Everything moves in slow motion except for you two. He isn’t be able to tear his eyes off of your asscheeks jiggling and bouncing like jell-O in front of him, your long, curly hair swishing across your backside. His cock chubs against his jeans, desperate for release. ‘Not now,’ he chastises himself. The last thing he needs is to get hard here. 

You bring him into one of the clean, dimly-lit rooms with its mini-bar, private stage, and circulating sofa bed. The noises of the club are muffled, adding to the atmosphere. You let go of his hand and situate yourself near the pole, your heels clicking across the floor. As you walk, your ass jiggles, beckoning him forward for a squeeze. “Sit down and relax yourself,” you tell him. “This is your night, Mr. Fatgum.” 

Taishiro does as he’s told. He sits back against the couch cushions, his thick legs open and hands gripping his thighs in an effort to relax. “Taishiro,” he croaks out, clearing his throat. “Call me Taishiro.” 

You stop and look at him, your hair swishing over your shoulder. The smile that curls onto your lips fills him with butterflies. “Okay, Taishiro,” you agree, your name on his lips making him even harder. “So tell me what you want me to do.” Your hand reaches for the pole and as you grasp it, you bring your body flush against it. Your eyes, illuminated by the light, stare deep into his from across the room. “I’m all yours tonight, birthday boy.” 

Taishiro swallows hard, still nervous but also incredibly aroused. How is that you can seduce him without barely touching him or saying anything dirty? 

But he does tell you exactly what he wants you to do. He suddenly feels slightly more comfortable with the tequila setting in and the private room allowing him the space to breathe. “I-I just want you to dance,” he softly stutters. “I don’t care about the music. I just wanna watch you move.”

You smile for him, so pretty and sweet. “Sure, birthday boy,” you softly giggle. “Lemme just get the music goin’. You release the pole and walk over to the little stereo near the mini-bar and flip a switch. The music that begins to pump from the speakers would be soft and smooth, R&B-like. Taishiro knows he’s heard it before, possibly on TikTok. 

All other thoughts that aren’t of you go out the window when you begin to slowly strut over to the pole again, your eyes set dead on him. He especially chunks all other thoughts into the trash when you begin to move. You move perfectly to the music as if you’re made of it, your hips swaying sensually and hair swishing around your shoulders. Your eyes, two deep pools of brown, stare into his, never straying or looking away. You securely grasp the pole with both hands, one lower than the other, and gyrate your hips, making your ass jiggle enticingly to the beat. 

‘Fuck!’ Taishiro thinks, staring shamelessly at the jiggling fat. That thing that you’re lugging around should be illegal. Especially how you move it. It’s so hypnotizing the way it bounces and sways depending on the tempo of the song. When it’s slow enough, you wind and grind your thick hips suggestively against the pole, squatting with your legs open to give him a peek of the tiny cotton strip of your thong that hides the promise land from him. 

But when the tempo picks up, that ass is moving like it is made for him. He can’t keep his eyes off of the way your asscheeks bounce up and down and your thick thighs jiggle in time with your moves. You giggle to yourself as you bend over for him, causing your thong to sink deeper into your ass and make your cheeks look that much fatter. It suddenly feels hot in the room to Taishiro, uncomfortably so. He swallows every five seconds and shifts positions in his seat, trying in vain to ease the tension in his pants. 

He damn near loses his mind when you begin to finally break out the pole tricks. You grasp the pole with both hands and swing yourself around, your black heels dangling from above. He watches you, transfixed on the way you move like the wind is beneath your feet, the lights illuminating the muscles flexing beneath your luscious skin and body.

Every move you make, he is impressed and enchanted––splits; swings; backward bends. He loves it when you bend backward. There’s something about how you look when you’re in the air, your hair cascading down and your pretty face glinting in the lights. 

It’s like he’s watching a movie. He goes from sitting back against the couch to sitting up straight, eyes forward and lips parted in anticipation for your next move. His cock is damn near weeping at this point, pre-cum embarrassingly staining the inside of his boxers. He keeps his thighs closed because of that, not wanting you to see or notice his hard-on although he's sure you’ve seen plenty. With how you move, he knows you have. 

When the song finally comes to an end, you finally settle back down on your heels on the floor, effortless and skilled. Sweat glistens on your forehead, the bridge of your nose, and between your breasts where Taishiro finds his tongue wanting to be. You smile at him, proud of your work.

“You enjoy that?” you ask, out of breath. It sounds so sexy to him. He nods, too transfixed to speak. “I’m glad,” you laugh, secretly endeared by his cuteness. “That was all for you, after all.” 

Taishiro finally manages to snap some sense into himself when he realizes that you’ve stopped moving. The dance is over. ‘No,’ he thinks. ‘That can’t be! I want more of her.’

“Uh,” he stutters out, “s-so is my time here…over?” You raise a questionable eyebrow at him. “Do you want it to be?” you ask. He blushes rogue, adverting his gaze from yours. “Sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly. “I’m not used to this. I’ve never been to this type of club before, s-so I’m not sure how things work around here.” 

His eyes tick back to yours when he hears your heels clicking across the floor, getting closer and closer. His heart leaps when he realizes that you’re walking over to him. The lump in his throat grows as does his cock, hardening every second you grow nearer. Finally, you stand in front of him and hook a leg over his hip, his face now practically in your crotch.

“I was told to give you a dance,” you purr. “So that’s what I’m going to do.” You smile down at him, the idea of him being smaller than you makes him want to burst. “And plus, I want to. So would you like me to?” 

Taishiro is close to fainting as he stares up at you, not sure what’s happening but also liking it. “T-to dance for me?” he carefully asks. You slowly nod as the next song starts: “Body” by Summer Walker. “S-Sure,” he nervously replies. “I’d like that a lot.” A happy smile brightens up your pretty face like sunshine before you gently push him back to sit against the pillows. 

Then, without another word said between you, you dance. With your leg still hiked up over his side, you proceed to grind your hips into his face, staring down at him with hooded eyes as you do. Taishiro gets even more worked up with you up close and personal. You’re so close that he could pull your little dress up, your thong to the side, and eat you out if he wanted to…and he does want to. The urge to taste you is strong. But he won’t dare overstep your boundaries or violate the rules of the club. He’s sure that touching the dancers is a big no-no. 

So he keeps his hands to himself, balled up right at his sides. You then take your leg off of the couch and lower it before continuing your dance. Your hips wind before him, moving in one circular direction and then clockwise. You then slowly stand and turn around, your ass jiggling in his face when you bend down to touch your toes.

You then drop to your knees and proceed to do moves on the floor, hips circulating against the floor, your back arching sensually. The giggles that leave your lips are even more arousing. It means that you’re enjoying this. You like making him work up a sweat like this. His fists tighten, his nails digging into his palms from the force while his cock strains painfully against his jeans. He’s never been this horny in his life. 

He just about jumps out of his skin when you suddenly slide up between his thighs, your hands moving to run over his abs. “Such a nice body,” you coo. Your eyes sparkle as you stare up at him. “You can touch me, y’know. I don’t usually let my customers touch me, but I think I can make an exception for you.” You wink at him before standing and sitting down on his lap where you proceed to toss your ass back into his lap. 

Taishiro grunts as the softness of your plush asscheeks hits his groin, brushing up against his hard cock. But he doesn’t dare touch you. He can’t. He knows that if he does, nothing will hold back his fat form anymore. He can feel it pushing to be released, causing his body to tremble. You must notice too because you look back at him, your eyebrows knitted. “You alright, Taishiro?” you ask, sounding concerned. 

Taishiro grits his teeth as he smiles at you, doing his best to seem normal. “Yeah,” he assures you. “It’s not you, it’s all me. It’s kinda hard to feel…comfortable like this.” He hopes he thinks you mean that he’s just horny, but something in your face tells him that isn’t it. 

You pop off of him and twist around to face him, your hands holding his knees. “You don’t have to keep this up, y’know,” you giggle. “You can let go. I’m gonna judge you or anything for your other form.”

Taishiro’s eyes widen, wondering how you know just what the problem is. Can you see it on his face? Can you feel it in his body? Your hands begin to sneak up his shirt to reveal his big, toned body complete with a happy trail, chest hair, and two hardened, pink nipples. 

Taishiro groans as your nails drag against his skin, sending goosebumps in their wake. “I wanna see you,” you purr, your eyes hooded and lustful. “C’mon, big boy. Don’t hide yourself from me.” He blinks at you, shocked. A pretty woman like you is willingly asking to see him in his fat form? “A-Are you sure?” he asks, still uncertain. 

You suddenly stand, your smile fading. Without a word, you hook your leg up onto the cushion again and take his big hand in your tinier one. He lets you, mouth parted in disbelief when you suddenly press his hand up against your mound. He gasps when he feels the heat radiating from it and the wetness staining your thong. “Does this feel like I’m sure?” you ask breathlessly. 

He slowly shakes his head, watching his own hand stroke you through your underwear. His thumb is big enough to cover your entire clit which he finds rubbing in small circles through the wet fabric of your thong. A shuddery moan leaves your lips, making his cock turn rock solid. “Can I tell you a secret, Taishiro?” you softly ask, batting those pretty lashes at him. 

He dumbly nods, eyes lust-blown. “Uh-huh,” he softly murmurs. You lean in toward him, pressing your lips to his ear. “I’ve been like this ever since you walked into the club tonight,” you whisper. “I wanted to be the one to dance for you. Only you.” Your lips peck him lightly on the cheek, leaving a sticky ring of gloss in their wake. 

You then pull away to look at him where he sees nothing but longing and lust in them. “Can I please see you?” you sweetly ask, peering down at him with those big eyes and lashes. 

Taishiro doesn’t need any more confirmation that this is what you want. That he is what you want. “Anything you want,” he practically growls, unable to hold himself back any longer. He can already feel himself starting to shift and his cock beginning to leak through his jeans. Only now he doesn’t care to hide it. 

Right before your excited eyes, he shifts into his fat form. His body grows bigger and pudgier, his rock-hard abs and stomach growing into pudge. He is now all big and burly with thick thighs, rolls, and a gut. Though the muscle mass is still there, it hides behind his chubby body that your eyes roam over in absolute lust. It feels good to have someone so pretty and sexy see him in such a way and not shy away from him. In contrast, you look like you want a piece of whatever he’s bringing to the table. 

“Oh,” you purr, sliding your hands up his pudgy thighs. “Now there’s my big boy.” You pause, your eyebrows narrowing in concern. “Is it still okay I call you that?” 

Taishiro nearly busts right there. Your patience and sweetness is making him crazy! “Honey, you can call me whatever the fuck you want,” he groans. “Just please keep touching me.” 

At this, you giggle, pleased with his answer. You give him what he wants, trailing your hands and acrylic nails all over his body. You tweak and suck on his nipples, emitting soft groans and whimpers from his lips that he feels no embarrassing making. You drag your nails up and down his stomach, the slightly sharp feeling causing his skin to tingle. You pepper his skin in kisses, never shying away from any part of him.

You make him feel like a fucking king. You wound up between his thighs, kissing his lower stomach with your nails dragging across his thick, pudgy thighs. “That feel good, baby boy?” you coo. 

It feels like the air in his lungs is being constricted with how hard it suddenly is to breathe. The room feels too hot and tight, the walls closing in around him. But this has nothing to do with anxiety or anything close to it. It has everything to do with how horny he is. All he can think about is cumming all over your pretty face. “Y-Yes,” he whimpers. “S-So good.” 

You pause your kisses for a moment, confusing him. “Do you want more?” you inquire, looking up at him from between his thighs. His brows furrow in confusion and shock. “What do you mean?” he asks, hoping he isn’t mistaken by what he thinks you are insinuating. You couldn’t possibly mean… 

You stare up at him with a look that nearly has him creaming his pants, your long, faux lashes framing your pretty eyes. “I wanna taste you, Taishiro,” you purr. “I wanna know just what's hiding behind these jeans.” Your hand moves to palm his bulge through his jeans, emitting a grin from him. “I-I thought the dancers here don’t do that,” he stutters out. 

A humorous smile pulls onto your glossy lips. “Some don’t, some do,” you snicker. “It’s a rule to not engage in sex with customers, but the girls here gotta make some extra dough.” You lean your head against his thigh, the sight giving him some very unholy thoughts of him fucking your face. “Plus, I told you already that I can make an exception for you.” 

Your hand continuous to palm him through his pants, moving in slow circles and applying the right pressure––not to hard but not too soft. Taishiro leans his head back and moans, the sound loud and unabashed. “I can feel you already,” you moan. “You’re drippin’ for me, baby boy. That’s so hot.” He looks down, finding that his pre has begun to stain his jeans. But for some reason, he isn’t mortified; not with the lustful look in your eyes. 

You look up at him again, a sensual look on your face. “So can I give you an extra birthday gift, birthday boy?” you ask. Taishiro has never gotten his belt loosened so quick in his life. “So eager!” you laugh, helping him take his pants down to his ankles. He watches you loop your hands through his boxers, his body on fire. “Are you kiddin’ me?” he scoffs. “How can I not be with someone as beautiful as you?” 

You don’t reply to his sweet comment immediately. That’s because you’re too busy gaping at his cock when it is released from its prison. He is big, thick, and extremely hard. The bulbous, pink head drips in pre-cum which dribbles enticingly down his thick shaft where a couple veins throb under the tender skin of his cock. He keeps himself trimmed, each golden-blonde public cut short but curly like the hair on his belly and chest. From his cock hangs two heavy balls, soft, sinewy with blonde hair, and holding all the cum he has for you and you alone. 

He relishes in your gaze, feeling like the sexiest man in the world. “No,” you coo. “You're the beautiful one here, birthday boy.” You start by spitting all over his cock, causing him to groan at the sight of your saliva dripping over his shaft and balls. Then you begin to stroke him, having to use both hands because he’s just too damn big for one. 

Taishiro’s toes curl in his sneakers while his head tips back. “Shit!” he hisses, unable to hold back his choice words or sounds of pleasure. Your soft, tiny hands feel so good stroking his big dick. Every move you back causes his body to tingle, his cells to come alive from the pleasure you’re giving him. The lewd, wet sounds of your hands stroking his wet cock don’t do him any good either. He’s a lost cause. 

Especially when you finally wrap your lips around him. Taishiro’s eyes nearly bulge out of his skull the minute he feels your soft lips and wet tongue wrap around him, turning all kinds of tricks and skills on his dick. Flicking, licking, sucking.

“F-Fuck,” he groans, gripping the couch beneath him. He’s never been treated so well. You’re such a good little cocksucker. He blushes red at the nasty thought. He shouldn’t be thinking of you in such a horrible way! 

But the way you’re sucking on his dick and taking him in your throat is making him think different. You grip the base of his cock with one hand as you open your throat for him, taking him as deep as you can go. The gagging sounds that emit from your pretty throat nearly makes him cum, especially when combined with the way your throat tightens around him. So wet…so tight… He wonders if your pussy is this good too. 

He bets it is. He bets it has a tight grip like your hand stroking his cock with quick strokes that have the cum rising in his cock. He bets it’s just as wet as your throat, dripping saliva down his balls. He bets you’d moan so pretty and loud for him every time he plunges his cock into you, hitting that spot that’d have you seeing stars and your eyes rolling into the back of your head. He can feel your pussy now squeezing around him, urging him to cum.

“F-fuck, darlin’!” he groans, gripping the couch for dear life. “I’m gonna cum soon! You’re gonna make me cum!” 

You hum appreciatively, nodding your head. The way your head bobs causes his cock to brush against the roof of your mouth, sending tingles throughout his dick. “Cum for me, baby boy,” you urge, speeding up your stroking until his toes are curling and his thighs are shaking. “Cum all over my face.” 

You go back to eagerly sucking him off, slurping him down like it’ll be your last meal for a while. His balls begin to tighten. He can feel himself reaching his peak. But something stops him: the fact that you won’t be cumming too. Though your mouth feels good enough to burst, he knows his release would feel even better if you’re feeling good too. Call him a people pleaser. 

“No!” he desperately cries out. “No, please, don’t! I-I don’t wanna cum yet!” 

Hearing the desperation in his voice, you pop off of his cock with a wet “pop!”, saliva dribbling from your plump, bottom lip. Why not?” you ask, sounding utterly confused. It’s so cute. He looks down at you with hooded eyes and cups your chin in his big, strong hand. “‘Cause I wanna cum when you do,” he breathlessly replies. “I wanna make you feel good too.” 

You stare at him for a moment as if trying to piece together if he’s serious. He’s sure that you’re used to men who take what they want and leave you feeling unappreciated in your line of work. But not this man. He wants to give you every ounce of pleasure he can while you’re together. “Baby,” you giggle, looking touched by his need to please you too. But you deserve it. With the amount of energy it took to dance for him and suck the soul out of his dick, he’ll gladly give you the goddamn moon.  

Before you can agree (or even disagree), your phone suddenly beeps. You pull it out from inside your boot and groan in frustration at what waits for you there. “Shit,” you sigh. “I have to go on bottle service in five minutes. We don’t have much time.” You look utterly disappointed as you toss your phone to the side. 

You aren’t the only one. Taishiro would’ve wanted to feel your wet pussy and thighs on his face or even bend you over to fuck you silly until you came all over him. But obviously, that isn’t in the plan right now. “Then what do you want me to do?” he asks, eager to please you. He takes your hands in his, squeezing them. “I’ll do anything. I just wanna get you off too.” 

You smile at his eagerness, happiness lighting up your entire face. “Just sit there,” you reply. Taishiro obeys, staying put despite his throbbing, aching cock hanging between his thighs. He just about has a stroke when you take your dress off, revealing your bra and thong. He commits the outfit to memory. You then turn around and hook your legs over his lap, straddling him, his naked cock pressed up against your wet, fabric-covered pussy.

Slowly, you begin to rock your hips back and forth, riding his cock. He watches it slide between your thighs and across your asscrack, and back again to poke at that wet cunt that feels like an oven with how hot it is. You turn to face him over your shoulder, swishing your hair in the process. “Is this okay?” you ask breathlessly. “It’s not weird?” 

He knows what you want instantly and grasps your hips, pulling you closer. His cock pushes against your clit, causing you to whimper. “Fuck no,” he huffs. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

The more you roll those hips and grind that pussy down into his cock, the more he's starting to believe it. He can only imagine how this would feel if you moved your thong to the side, but he doesn’t have a condom and he isn’t sure if you’re on protection. He doesn’t care to ask. All he cares about is cumming and more importantly, cumming with you. 

His eyes drink in the way you toss your hair and ass around, loving how good you’re feeling. That ass is especially a sight to see. The way the thong digs into your asscheeks, making them look so plump and jiggly is almost too much. He can just imagine your ass bouncing like that while his big cock is inside of you, stretching you out. His hand is coming down to smack your ass before he can stop himself.

You gasp as the loud sound of his hand connecting with your asscheek fills the air. “S-sorry!” he immediately apologizes. “I should’ve asked first! You just looked so good.” 

His face grows hot, alarmed at himself. He’s never felt so feral for a woman before. But when you lean back and cup his face in your hand, he realizes that you’re much different. You’re a freak. “I liked it,” you whimper, pleaing with your eyes. “Do it again.” 

He obliges, bringing his hand down to smack your ass again. And again. And again. The sharp sound of his hand hitting your luscious asscheeks causes him to grind up into you, meeting the roll of your hips. Moans, gasps, and shuddery exhales fill the air as you both grind your bodies against each other, his wet cock sliding against your pussy. “Talk to me, baby boy,” you beg. “Please just say something!” 

Taishiro is happy to oblige. “You feel so good for me, darlin’,” he groans, his cock growing beneath your pussy the more you grind against it. “I feel so good I can’t taste this pretty little pussy. I wanna make you feel good too.”

You once again look behind you, letting him see those pretty eyes. “You are,” you whisper. “And you can taste me too.” You then move your fingers beneath your thong waistband where he can hear the sound of your wet pussy when you swish your fingers in it. 

You then take your fingers out, giving him a peek of your juices glistening on them. You reach back and he leans forward, immediately latching his mouth around your fingers to suck your essence off of him. He groans at your taste, his tongue swirling around your digits. You’re heavenly. “I taste good, Daddy?” you ask, smirking at him. 

He doesn’t know if it’s the taste of you on his tongue or if it’s the nickname, but something ignites in Taishiro that has him going completely off the rails for you. Suddenly, he’s leaning up and latching his arms around your body, holding your arms down so you can’t leave. A cute little squeak of surprise leaves your mouth that turns into a shuddery moan when his hips grind against your cunt harder, faster, urging you to cum.

“Sorry, darlin’,” he chuckles. “I just have to cum, and I want you to cum too.” 

He can tell from the way your body is tensing that you’re close. He leans in to your ear, his breath fanning across your face. “Can you do that for me, baby doll? Can you cum all over my thigh like a good girl?” His teeth nip at your earlobe as his cock glides across your swollen clit, causing you to cry out in pleasure. “Like my good little dancer?” he whispers. 

“Yes!” you cry out, your pretty voice bouncing off of the walls. “I’m gonna cum, Daddy! ‘M gonna cum!” You begin to babble as your release gets closer, your hips moving on their own. His one hand finds one of your breasts to play with, fondling it under your bra cup while he watches your ass grind down into his cock. “Me too,” he groans. “You’re just too much for me.” 

And you are. The softness and thickness of your body, the heat radiating off of your soaked pussy, and the way your thighs tremble against his finally takes him over the edge. “Take it!” he growls. “Take all of this cum, baby doll! My pretty lil’ dancer…” You whine in response as your orgasm takes over, making you shake and shudder against him. 

When you both cum, you cum hard. Loud moans of your release fill the room as you gush in your thong and Taishiro sprays his cum all over your pussy and thighs, creating one creamy mess. You continue to grind against his softening cock despite how much he moans and shudders at the feeling. “S-slow down please!” he begs. “S-So sensitive!” Relentless tingles course through his body as his orgasm rolls on, shocking him to his core. 

You laugh at his whimpers, poking your bottom lip out at him. “Sorry,” you giggle. “Hearing those moans are just so hot.” With a soft moan, you rise off of him, revealing how much he actually came. “Wow,” you laugh, shocked. “That’s a lot of cum, baby boy.” 

And how! His nut coats his thighs and pudgy stomach as well as your thighs, thong, and bra, dripping off of your skin.  “Oh, no, your outfit!” he gasps, mortified. “I’m so, so sorry! Can I pay for dry cleaning? How much is it? I’ll give you the money on top of your pay for the dance.” 

You begin to laugh at his panic, the sound like music to him. “Taishiro, it’s fine,” you say through a fit of giggles. “I can just wipe it off.” You walk over to the mini-bar and bend down, giving him a good view of your ass. You then retrieve some baby wipes from a drawer and hand him some to clean up with. Relief floods him when you wipe your cum off of your underwear and skin, nothing staining. 

“See?” you hum. “All clean.” You give him a smile that eases his nerves and fills with him a calm sensation despite what just transpired between you. A comfortable silence fills the air as you both dress yourselves, the sinful act of what you just did hidden. You then turn to him, pressing your hands against his chest. “Did you enjoy your gift?” you purr. 

His cock twitches at the memory of your thighs and wet cunt. “Immensely,” he sighs. “That was…amazing.” He puts his hands on your hips, bringing you closer. ”You were amazing.” 

He wants more of you. Much, much more. 

You lean your head forward, your nose brushing against his in a nuzzle that gives him tingles all over. “I’d wanna stay and snuggle, but I’ve gotta get back to work,” you sigh, sounding disappointed. You aren’t the only one. He really doesn't want this to be the last time he sees you. He’s never felt so free with a woman before, especially one that embraces his fat form. 

You look up at him, almost bashful and shy now. “I wanna see you again though. I’m sure as a pro, you’ve got your busy schedule or anything, but if you ever find yourself here again or–“ 

“Yes!” he practically shouts. He then retracts, blushing despite bursting with joy. “Yeah,” he calmly says. “I wanna see you again too.” He pulls away from you slightly, playfully teasing you. “But I think I’d need your number for that,” he chuckles. He eyes your phone across the room on the couch. 

You raise an eyebrow at him, playfully ticking your nail against your chin. “I don’t know,” you hum. “Do snuggles come with that?” For some reason, his cock twitches even more at the idea of cuddling with you. He smiles down at you, his hand gliding down to cup your ass. “Of course, darlin’. Don't you know I’m a seasoned snuggle professional?” 

You then smile brightly, giving him the impression that this is what you wanted to hear. After he slides his phone out and you put your number in for him, you stand up on your tip toes and press a sticky kiss to his cheek, signaling your departure. “Well, I’ve gotta get changed,” you announce. He releases you and watches you walk to the door, hating to see you go but loving to watch you leave. 

You turn to him before you open the door, a sexy smirk playing on your lips. “I’ll be seein’ you, birthday boy. And you’d better call me.” Taishiro smirks back at you, shoving his hands in his pockets as if that will hide his excitement. “I can try to work around my busy schedule for that.” 

You giggle at his playfulness and your hand goes for the doorknob. But you never reach for it. It pauses in mid-air as you gasp thoughtfully to yourself. “Oh, and I almost forgot!” You turn and skip back over to him, the cutest smile on your face as you do. 

Before he can take a breath, you’re grasping him and pressing your lips against his, promising more endless nights of this as his mouth glides against yours. Slowly, you pull away and smile at your glittery gloss now all over his mouth. “Happy birthday,” you whisper. 

Taishiro heart pounds against his chest as a smile crosses his lips too. His hand then reaches down into his pocket where he slips out a $100, crisp and clean. He slides it into your bra strap, emitting a bellied laugh from you. “Thanks for the gift,” he chuckles. 

THE END. 

[the1975attheirverybest]

A Strange Encounter

A/N: requested Matty X writer OC is finally here. Sorry about the delay. Idk if this is a longer fic soft launch or not. Just a thing I wrote

Warnings: none

———-

Matty swore he could feel the sweat running down his back. He glanced around the room, his anxiety rising as he failed to spot any of the faces that he’d expected to see here tonight. He’d spent the better part of the year wearing ties onstage, but, for some reason, in this moment, his tie felt suffocating. He loosened it slightly but quickly fixed it back up, feeling like a fish out of water at this charity event.

Scanning the room for a quiet place to take refuge in, he spotted the open bar and rushed towards it.

“Thank fuck,” he mumbled to himself rushing in the direction of the free alcohol. As he approached the bar, he became aware of a solitary person, a woman, sitting atop one of the barstools, her back towards him, drinking alone. She turned around as she felt him get closer, giving him a polite nod.

He nodded in return, flashing her a quick smile.

“What can I get you, sir?” the bartender offered.

Matty almost ordered a glass of wine, but, on a whim, he turned towards the woman instead, “what’re you having?” he gestured towards her glass.

“A Cherry lime tequila.”

“is it any good?”

She nodded.

Matty turned back to the bartender. “I’ll have what she’s having, please.” He sat at the other end of the bar, losing his battle against the tie.

Moments later, the bartender returned with Matty’s drink in hand. The woman watched, out of the corner of her eye, as Matty whispered a polite ‘thank you,’ and took a sip of his drink. She noticed his face scrunching as the drink pour down his throat.

“How is it?” She asked, pressing her lips together to hide her amused smile.

“G- uhh- good.” Matty lied. “I’m Matty, by the way.” He moved one bar stool closer.

“Claire.”

He smiled softly, thinking of the next thing to say.

“So…Claire, what’s your vibe?”

“My- vibe?”

Matty swore he could see her skin physically crawl. He giggled, embarrassed. “That- is the dumbest thing that I’ve ever said in my entire life.”

Something about the way that he could instantly poke fun at himself without looking self-conscious softened her towards him.

“Let me try this again. Like an adult: you hear for the writers’ charity thing?”

“I am.”

“Me too!” His tone was a bit more enthusiastic than he’d hoped. “I’m a songwriter.” He offered up, calmer now, adjusting his demeanor. “Never been to one of these things before. To be honest, I kind of hate them. Fuckin rich people trying to make themselves feel better about the dystopian world that they’re partly to blame for by hosting fuckin fundraisers and chairing charitable foundations.”

Claire took a sip of her half empty glass, nodding as Matty spoke.

“So, what about you. You a writer too?”

She smiled, “yeah, I am. Fiction, though.”

She could see a light flash across his face. He leaned in closer, “that’s fuckin cool. Anything I might have read?”

“No.”

Matty frowned at her immediate, emphatic answer. “Why- not? Are you not any good?”

“Oh, I am. I just…” she adjusted her feet underneath her, sitting up straight.

“Just what?”

“Just don’t think it’s the kind of fiction that you would read.”

Matty’s lips parted, ready for a retort, but none came. After a moment of silence, he finally thought of something. “You’ve only just met me. You don’t know what kind of fiction I read.” His tone has an edge to it, but he remained composed.

“Oh, but I do- guys like you- the hair gel, the

loose tie, the general aversion to formal settings…you probably read Jack Kerouac and Kurt Vonnegut, and, like, David Foster Wallace.”

“Ha! Jokes on you. I’ve never read Vonnegut.”

His response caught her off guard, making her laugh.

“But, yeah I’ve read On The Road….and yeah I like David Foster Wallace.”

She had a triumphant look on her face. “Pale

King?”

“No, Infinite Jest, actually.” Matty watched her expression shift again. His turn to feel triumphant.

“You’ve read all of Infinite Jest?” She whispered, as if the revelation were some kind of secret.

“Twice.”

She studied him closely, pleased with the unexpected turn of their conversation.

“And…” Matty took a sip of his drink. “For your information, I also like Joan Didion, and Virginia Woolf, and Flannery O’Connor.”

She giggled, taking Matty aback by the effect that the sound of her laughter had on him. He looked away from his drink instantly, eyes focused on her.

“So you’re saying you’re not a complete cliche?”

He nodded. “Well, what about you, then? What kind of fiction do you like?”

Her lips curved into a smile as she heard his question, she leaned in to meet him halfway, but before she could speak, a well-dressed member of the venue staff approached her and whispered into her ear, pointing to the watch on his wrist.

She nodded, turning back to Matty with an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, if you’ll excuse me, I- I’m afraid I have to go. It was a pleasure meeting you, Matty.”

For the second time tonight, Matty found himself speechless. He wanted to say something, anything at all, but when his lips parted, no sound came out. Instead, he watched her walk away, getting smaller and smaller the further she got away from him.

***

The rest of the night droned on as Matty attempted to make polite conversation with screenwriters, journalists, and authors of various kinds around his table. He couldn’t help pulling out his phone to check the time, every time there was a lull in conversation.

In front of him, the event organizer stepped onstage announcing that the last speaker of the night was up next. It would be the host of the fundraiser and chair of the organization, Claire Jones.

Matty’s head whipped around, looking up from his phone and watching as Claire took the stairs from the side of the stage, walking towards the lectern.

He recalled the snide comments that he’d made to her about his disdain for these kinds of events and the people who organize them. He felt embarrassed. She must think he’s a complete asshole. Unsure if he should be looking at her, or how to control his facial expressions appropriately, he decided he’d be better off staring at his shoes until her speech.

Matty thought that, realistically, her speech couldn’t have been more than a few minutes long, but it felt like ages. He struggled to even register her words as his own echoed in his head. He sat there, wondering if he should apologize, wondering if it mattered, if she cared one way or the other, and wondering why he cared so much.

The sound of applause filled the room, Claire Jones stepped off the stage, esteemed guests began to move around tables and mingle, shaking hands with each other, hugging, catching up, and exchanging numbers.

By the time that Matty had made his way to the other end of the room, Claire was nowhere to be found. He walked the perimeter of the room a couple of times, hoping to spot her, but when he failed to find her, he defeatedly meandered towards the exit, sticking his hand into his pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

The nighttime breeze was merciful on his face. He hadn’t realized that he’d felt suffocated until he’d made it outside. He stood on the sidewalk, leaning against the building, smoking his cigarette. He was surprised to find himself disappointed that he’d never see Claire again.