#and for reading my stuff for such a long time now!

[defmaybe]

J’adore

5.2k words

aespa’s Yoo Jimin/Karina x Male Reader

Prequel to Not Shy

A/N: Kind of extension to Not Shy! Also, this is my last sprint before the midterms lol, I’ll be back after that and try to write something good. Kinda rough bc there’s no beta-reading lol. Thanks for reading as always!!!

Spring

“You? A student council member?”

“It’s just the treasurer!”

It’s the easiest position, according to your seniors, which seems to be much, much more credible sources than Kai, the friend you got caught in a debate with.

“Just the treasurer. Mate, have you seen the lads from last year? I swear that one of them almost died.”

“I have to build my portfolio, man. You even have your dance club!” You retort, trying to grasp on something.

“Well, it’s because I like to dance.” Kai says in a mocking tone. He doesn't mean to be condescending, of course. He’s your best friend, after all. “Do you like to work with Excel?”

“I mean–”

“Board games? No, too nerdy. Cheerleader? No, too demanding. And then you fucking jumped onto the student council? I swear, man, you definitely have some kind of death wish,” he says.

You sigh, surrendering to his points. Still, you're too deep in the application process to turn back now. You look back at your phone, seeing all the completed questions in the form.

“I’m not leaving you behind, still,” Kai says, patting your back. “I’ll give you caffeine when you need it.”

Do you think you’re qualified to be a student council member?

Yes.

“I’m sending it now.”

“Good luck.”

Submit

Thank you for your submission. We will announce our selection by May 1st.

—

Summer

Maybe it was how the last year’s council members turned out to be. You were the only one who applied for the treasurer's position. Hell, even the other ones aren’t any more popular either. There was no one in the head of first aid, and they had to roll out another round of applications for that.

The fresh faces of the new student council members are all standing inside this meeting room—so determined, so passionate. Their chatters fill the room up with life.

You glance around the room. You’re familiar with some of them, walk-pasts in the hallways, sitting-fars in the classes, until one woman catches your eye.

Yoo Jimin, you’ve heard that she beat the second place applicant for president by quite a margin. Her confidence is probably what makes her so alluring to the students. Also, her face, fuck, her face, she’s the fucking epitome of perfection.

Maybe it’s the way you stare at her for just a little too long; she starts to walk towards you, and that’s when you fell into her trap for the first time.

She stops just a step away, offering you a handshake—firm, assured.

“Yoo Jimin,” she declares—stern, expressionless.

“Pleasure to meet you, Jimin.” You accept her grip, lips curling inward, letting out a minuscule smile—relaxed, reserved.

“We’ll be working together for the next year. I’m looking forward to it.” She keeps it professional in the expression she makes. There’s nothing to be made of it, except for the fact that she’s very reticent with her face.

You force out another small smile. “I’m also looking forward to it, Jimin.”

—

“Areas! I need two tables and four chairs. Parcels, get your equipment ready.”

The first meeting between the freshmen and their seniors is always the hardest to perfect. There’s the idea that the first impression defines the future of the relationship between the two. So, here you are, in your faculty’s First Meet event. You’re lucky that they let you use the air conditioners on the d-day. Those fucking run-throughs got you all melted.

You have little work to do today, having managed the proposals and preparing to do the post-production stuff. So, you’re at the core team’s table, playing whatever your old laptop can handle, until—

“Are you free?”

You look up from your screen to see the angelic figure that is Yoo Jimin standing in front of you, towering you with ease with you sitting in your seat.

“Uh–,” you can only let out a hesitation.

“I guess you’re—” she bends over the desk to see the gaming screen, before letting out a small laugh. “—free?”

“Y–Yes, Jimin.” A slight view of her cleavage can be seen with her posture, and you have to do your best to find something else to look at.

“Good. Can you help us carry a few tables?”

You look at your frail arms—should’ve done some more work at the gym. “If you want me to tear my biceps.”

Jimin chuckles, before closing on your ear, left hand pressing on your right thigh, “Don’t worry that you wouldn’t be able to jerk off, treasurer. I can do it for you.”

You freeze, not believing the words coming out of her mouth. Did she just say that? Such lewd words?

Jimin, sensing your tensed up body, pulls back from you and laughs. “Oh my god, look at you. I was just fucking with you!”

“Good grief, Jimin. You could’ve killed me,” you huff.

She shoots back a beam. “Come on, let’s get to work.”

—

Fall

The clicking sound of your keyboard and the scratches of the bills you’re arranging permeates the room this evening. Jimin is sitting on the other side of the trash-ridden table—stationeries, snack wraps—eyes unfocused as she swipes one short video after another. Her thoughts seem to be elsewhere now. Dinner? Bed? Someone? You’ll never know.

“Fucking hell, this bitch again,” she mutters under her breath, which you catch. You look up from the budget plan you’re working on, meeting her eyes.

“Sorry, Tinder stuff.”

You return her a tiny smile before going back to inputting the bills. Still, you can hear Jimin’s tossing and turning in her chair as she seems to type something into her phone, before smashing her thumb on the right side of its poor screen. You can’t help but let out a chuckle, one that she catches.

“Yeah, it’s pathetic, isn’t it?” Jimin rhetorizes, placing her phone on the table. “A student president that just can’t find any partner.”

You shrug, still typing, “Well, the work is gruelling.” And she chuckles at your statement.

“Yeah, I guess so. But it’s just, how to explain?” She furrows her eyebrows, tapping her chin to seek the right word in the air, before coming to an answer. “I just can’t find the right person, you know? Half of the line is gone once I show any bit of confidence, and the other half are, well, clingy ass bitches.”

You smile back at her, trying to give her some solace in solitude. “I’m sure you’ll find the right person soon, Jimin. You like–have the whole faculty in your hands.”

She gives you a weak smile. “You always have pleasant words for everyone, treasurer.”

You smile back before returning to your accounting work, unbeknownst to the light bulb brightening up inside her head.

“So, how’s your love life?” She asks, rising from the other side. She leans forward ever so slightly, hands supporting her frame on the white table, slightly revealing the valley of her breasts.

You break yourself from the laptop, once again, meeting her cleavage in your line of sight for a split second. It’s magnetic, but you’re able to resist it, for now.

“Hmm?”

“I mean… you don’t seem to be an awful choice for women, or men, judging from… how many months?”

“Four,” and you gulp.

“Yeah, four months with you, my treasurer. But I’ve never quite caught you being involved in anything,”—she stands up straight, before slowly striding towards your seat, hips swaying at each nifty step—“romantic.”

You clench your eyes ever so tightly at her alluring motion—the swaying hips, the crossing steps—as if there’s anything to examine but her burning lust. “Well, Jimin, I don’t think the passive mid-table guys get much,” you state.

“Is that so? Because you don’t seem to belong at the mid-table.” The distance between you two is shrinking, slowly. And with a few more small steps, you find her towering over you, chest basking in front of your face.

Jimin bends down slowly, revealing just a slight sight of her gorgeous cleavage. The poor crop top is struggling to hold her supple flesh within, even with the workshop shirt helping. You shift just slightly in your seat.

Your eyes are doing their best to resist the magnetic force, but her big brown eyes aren't a sanctuary, either.

“Thanks, miss president.”

Her Dior J’adore is enrapturing you.

“You know, I notice the perfume you wear every day, even if it’s just CK One.” She forces sultry into her perceptive words, and to say, it works. She drags her right middle finger along the length of your arm, lighting a fire in its trail.

You try to keep your composure; it works, for now. She doesn’t seem to notice the sweat hanging off your forehead yet.

“Or how you dress so damn well to class, even if it’s some fuckass subject,” Jimin continues, tracing her hands up to your forearm now.

Your breath hitches, and you can just connect the dots so easily.

“W–Why me, though, Jimin?”

“Oh, clever boy, I just need the real thing, that’s all,” she coos. Her digits are playing with the line of your collarbones now. 

“See, I’m just so fucking sick of my—well, what’s the word, devices. They’re pleasurable, sure, but unlike a real person, which in this case—is you—” Her hand grabs your chin from behind, and you can’t find any resistance. Her sonic reduces into a sensual whisper into your ear. “—they lack warmth.”

“S–So, do you want to have—”

“Sex? Yes, I want you inside me, baby. I want you body clashing against mine, while you moan my name like you’re some common whore.”

It’s haywire, your mind. You are lost in her—her voice, her face, her body, everything that’s about Jimin. Is she really inviting you to have sex with her? Is this interaction even real?

“So, what do you say, wanna go somewhere after this? Somewhere—small, somewhere—private.” Her voice dives into a whisper beside your ear, and you can feel a smile forming beside it. “I’m sure you can work on your bills—anywhere.”

You stare forward, trying to look unfazed to cover your crumbling composure.

“I–I can work on the bills anywhere, Jimin.” Your voice betrays you.

She gives a quiet laugh, “Good to know, treasurer,” before lightly grabbing your chin, with her index and middle finger resting on your lips. Are they seeking silence or entry?

Slowly, they push your upper lip ever so slightly, eliciting a whimper from you. Fuck, is she trying to—

“You know what to do, baby.”

Rejection.

Hesitation.

Submission.

You open your mouth for her—now courtesy of Yoo Jimin. You take in her fingers. They’re cold from the air conditioner. Bite. Lick. Swallow. You close your eyes while doing so, absorbing her taste with your tongue. You feel you’re under her control—so submissive. It’s ecstatic.

“God, do you like being called a whore? Because you’re acting like one right now,” Jimin asks.

You profusely nod at her statement, continuing to suck on her fingers.

“Then keep doing it, whore.”

Your eyes roll into the back of your head as you can hear her giggle. And as your vision comes back to her, the free hand is rubbing against her clothed core now. Mewling sounds can be heard.

“God, keep sucking it, baby. I’ve never cummed as fast as this before.”

“Ngh.” And you keep sucking her fingers.

A sound of the door stops you in your tracks though.

“Guys, I need a few chairs–am I interrupting something?”

Ning Yizhuo, head of student welfare, barges into the room. She stares straight at you two. Good thing Jimin pulls her digits out and puts them behind her back before Yizhuo’s eyes catch sight of you glistening on her, leaving you stranded in your burning desire for your president.

Maybe it’s the way your eyes are still fluttering. Maybe it’s the way your mouth ever so slightly hangs open. Maybe it’s your quick breaths.

Yizhuo wants to know what’s up.

“We’re just–” Jimin tries to find the right word in your eyes. Her blinks are rapid. She’s concerned. She’s afraid.

“You’re–what?” Yizhuo isn’t a patient figure. She’s trying to gauge something out of Karina.

“I–I’m adjusting his posture! O–Our dear treasurer has a bad sitting posture and–”

“Cut the shit, Jimin. What the fuck did you guys do?”

“S–See, he’s sitting a lot, you know? B–Bills. Accounting. Excel stuff.” Jimin’s brows hint at the concern within her chuckle. She pushes the middle of your back to set you straight up. As you follow her move, Yizhuo clenches her eyes.

“Just get me some chairs and don’t fuck inside this room.”

—

Jimin swings her door open, and as expected, every single bit of it is immaculately kept clean. There’s not a single piece of trash on the floor of her white room; the table is meticulously arranged; the bed is folded. There’s a Meteora vinyl placed on her shelf. God, what a tasteful woman.

“Drop your bag.”

You comply as she also does so.

And she immediately pounces on your body, consuming your taste and scent at your nape. Her lips are wet, sending shocks through your pliant frame.

“Mmph, keep this perfume, baby. I just wanna have this scent of you every day.”

It’s CK One.

She plants her kisses along your neck—standing up straight—ever so determined to make you hers. Her hands lock your shifting, shaking body in place, despite being so eager to feel every inch of you—up and down.

“So—pliant, so—submissive,” she whispers.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you deflect, trying to have a hold of the battle. There’s a glint of brattiness inside you that wants to resist her just a little, just before you give in.

“Is that so?” Jimin mewls, before pushing you onto the bed.

“I’m not letting you have me that easily, miss president,” you say with your back against her soft cushion. Jimin is straddling her lean, lengthy legs over yours. She looks so damn tall from this view—you lying beneath her.

“Sucking my fingers, then decide to be a bratty bitch right now—” She lightly taps the tip of your nose, also scrunching hers. “—I like that.”

You say nothing, giving her just a wink from below.

“Oh, baby, I’ll have you scream my name so many times.”

“Fucking make me then.”

And fires ignite in her eyes.

She dives onto your left ear—nibbling, biting, swallowing, whatever she can do with her mouth without tearing your auricle off. Her deep moans send suppressed shudders through your neurons.

Jimin spreads saliva all over your ear, no sign of relenting. Slurping sounds of her flesh ring in your head. She plants each lick with purpose, and it sends jolts and jolts through your body. Still, you’re far from falling apart—tethered on the ground.

“Tsk, i–is this the best y–you can do?”

“Oh, baby, you’re already stuttering? I can do more if you want~,” she tastefully threatens. Then, she brings her right hand into play, tilting your chin up. Your mouth is right beside her neck. The pale smoothness of her skin is presented in front of you, and you just can’t help but—

“F–Fuck!” Jimin yells, clearly enraptured with the swipes of tongue you are giving her. Still, she keeps spreading her saliva on your ear as if it’s hers (it’s hers).

“Oh, b–baby boy, maybe you can use your t–tongue on other things instead,” she whines.

“Your cunt?” You keep stretching your tongue onto her nape, getting a taste of her sweat.

She pulls back from you, robbing the sensations away from your throat. “Clever, now just lie like this. I’m riding your pretty face.”

Jimin then takes off her purple lace panties, giving you a hint of her wet cunt—unshaved—as she lifts her leg, before stuffing the garment onto your nose. Fuck, her musk is so intense; you can just die happily right here.

“You just love it, don’t you?”

You sheepishly nod, pressing her panties against your nose even tighter, eliciting laughs from her sinful mouth.

“I think that’s enough, baby. I wanna fuck your face now,” she says, before tossing away the filthy garment.

Jimin then moves forward on her knees, bringing her heat closer and closer to your face. God, the fact that she’s unshaved only brings you higher. You need to slurp her juice; you need it on your face, you–

“Ready?”

Her cunt is hovering above you now, she’s pulling her skirt up, letting you see her face for the last time before being buried under her.

You nod.

And she sinks onto your face.

The first contact is soft, so, so soft. You’re practically making out with pussy, as she shakes above you erratically. There isn’t much light, with her skirt darkening your vision of what’s around, but it’s like you’d complain. You’re eating your student president out in her room, and you’re doing it so, so well that it sends shivers through her body, again and again.

“Ngh, f–fuck!” Jimin shouts from above—the things you’d do to see her face right now, to see an effect you’re having on her.

You say nothing, just keep lapping up her folds enthusiastically. Her juice drips into your mouth—sweet.

Jimin starts to grind her hips, as the moans grow louder. She’s getting wetter, and you’re still happily drinking her sugary nectar—drunk with it.

“Ah, ah, y–you’re doing well, my treasurer.”

You give her a thumbs up. You keep licking her cunt as if your life is depending on it. She moans so loud; everyone on this floor is probably going to hear that, but you don’t care anymore. The only thing in your head right now is to please Jimin—only Yoo Jimin.

And you can feel her thighs tense, shaking with pleasure. She’s going to cum. Her moans grow more chaotic and shorter than they were.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m cumming, I’m cumming, fuck!”

She cums hard, collapsing onto the bed, cunt still on your face, ass up in the air. Her core clenches and clenches on your face, and she just forgets to breathe as her hips convulse.

“No squirt today, huh?” you joke from below.

She snaps back into the situation she’s in, sneering, “Fuck off, don’t fucking play stupid with me, wh–whore.”

You laugh, “Alright, alright, let’s get to the main course, shall we?”

“Y–Yeah.”

Jimin lifts off from you, leaving a string of her lubricant between your lips and her cunt.

“God, that’s hot,” you just can’t help but say it.

She giggles, and you can now see the sweat forming on her forehead; there’s beauty in it.

You two, in a haste, discard all of your clothes until you’re left with nothing—just bare bodies on the bed together. You’re sitting opposite of her, expecting her to say something.

She looks ethereal under the room light. The messy hair, the perfect features, the bare body, they all combine into the epitome of perfection right in front of you. Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

“Can I suck your tits?” you mutter. Fuck reticence, you need her, now.

She chuckles. “Sure, but only if I’m on top of you.”

“You just have to find a way to dominate me, don’t you?” you huff.

“Don’t say it like you don’t like it, baby.” She caresses your cheeks, and you shiver at her touch.

You lie down, as she slowly eclipses the light above both of you. Her large breasts are hanging down so close to your face. And—

“F–Fuck!”

You latch your mouth on her right breast as if it’s innate, with your hand kneading on the other. She lets out empyrean moans that only makes you want to suck on them even more. God, you can do this all day.

And not wanting to wait anymore, she impales her cunt with your cock, and you can only moan into her tits. This sensation, it’s overwhelming. Her velvety walls are hugging you so, so tightly. It’s so warm. She’s warm.

“Fuck,” she groans, eyes rolling into the back of her head. “Your cock is so well-bent, baby. It’s hitting my g-spot so good.”

“T–Thanks, J–Jimin.” Your mind is so damn clouded by the pleasure that you can say nothing but her name right now.

And a crack starts to form when she moves—up and down. Her unshaved cunt dragging along your digit, emanating pleasure all over your body from the core.

“B–Babe, c–can you stop s–sucking my tits?” she pleads.

You pull yourself out of her mounds, as she’s still riding you like there’s no tomorrow, and you let out small moans at each contact. “W–What? Ngh.”

“I wanna kiss you.”

You freeze under her. She’s still motioning herself to squeeze the cum out of you, whimpering each time your cock hits the hilt. Is it a confession? Does she love—

“B–Babe,” she brings you back to the mortal world.

“Y–Yeah, kiss me.”

She invades your mouth as if it wasn’t already hers at the second she sits on your face. Your tongues intertwine in a quest to declare their feelings of their owners.

Your hands are still squeezing her breasts. It’s addictive. You press and press into her flesh just to feel her as much as you can. This might as well be the only body you want to have just to yourself, as you dedicate yours to her. Every curve, every contour, every limb, you want her; you want her to want you; you need her. This kiss, fuck, it’s doing wonders to you.

She’d be the one to break off from the kiss to pant above you, hips still smashing into yours in a perfect rhythm.

“W–Wanna go out with me?” she asks.

She’s desperate, all the Tinder dates, all the–

“Babe, I–I fucking know that it’s desperate, yes or no. Fuck those Tinder dates, fuck those guys and girls, I–I want to go out with you, t–treasurer,” she pants.

Maybe it’s her J’adore that’s permeating all over you. Maybe it’s the way your hips are clashing into each other. Maybe, just maybe, it’s the glint in her eyes.

But if you have to recall, it’d be the confidence she’s radiating in clashing your flesh together just right now.

You nod.

Jimin smiles, pulling you into another kiss. You swear it can tear you apart if you have to let this woman go—figuratively.

She pulls off, her breaths becoming shorter and shorter again. “C–Can you cum with me, baby?”

Again, you nod, smiling. It’s inside your loins, building up, building up. Your body tenses up beneath her, same as hers. It’s there. It’s there.

“Fuck, baby, breed me. I’m yours, just breed me, just–ugh!”

And her whole body freezes, juices flowing onto your crotch. Her face is contorted by the pleasure coursing through her. Again, she forgets to breathe, back arching. You don’t slow down, though. Your orgasm is coming too.

“B–Babe–ah!”

It breaks. You busy yourself inside her to the hilt. Just like her, you forget to breathe. You shoot spurts of your seed deep into her womb, intending to breed her as her wish. Your cock shakes inside her, as she moans at each twitch.

It subsides, eventually. The shots get softer and softer to the point the cum just dribbles off the tip of you now. Fuck, your juices even leak out of her cunt onto your crotch, mixed together.

“F–Fuck,” is all she can say, before collapsing onto you, chest pressed up against yours.

“The plan’s still up?”

“Yeah.”

And she slips to the side, embracing you from behind, as you two doze off in the nocturne.

—

“Can I use your toothbrush?”

A long drag of uncertainty comes from the outside. Sun has risen hours ago, yet you two are still in the drowsy state.

“Or do I have to kiss you again for the answer, Jimin?”

“Put your morning breath away from me!”

At least she’s quick with her riposte.

As you brush your teeth, naked, she saunters into the bathroom, still similarly bare from last night. Her breasts bounce ever so slightly with each step in the mirror. Despite the disheveled appearance, her natural beauty shines through the mess—a seraphic being, one might say.

“Ha, yeah, I know I’m pretty, baby,” she says. “People would kill to have a body like me.”

You finish your clean up, before saying, “You’re insufferable, you know?”

Jimin laughs, before giving you a quick peck on the cheek, emanating mellow all over your face. Fuck, you can feel the blood rushing to your erection now.

“You too, babe.” She smiles, before grabbing her mouthwash for a gargling.

Your cock, again, finds the condition to rise in front of this woman. It’s twitching, and you just have to turn back before she notices it.

Still, her sharp eyes find you, and she gives you a small slap on your bare ass, sending pleasure rushing through your body.

“Hey!” she growls with the mouthwash, before quickly disposing of it. “You’re fucking hard again?”

“I–I–I–uh–”

Jimin then presses herself up against your back, arms ever so tightly trapping you from behind in a hug. It’s warm. She’s warm.

“Let me, baby,” she whispers against your wobbling right ear. “I can’t have my co-workers’ needs go unsated.”

“F–Fucking hell.”

In one careful motion, Jimin slides her arms down to your erection, right hand grabbing the length. “Wouldn’t mind some respect from my baby boy~” Her grip and the languid, careful strokes make your legs wobble.

“Tsk, n–no fucking way, J–Jimin,” you muster any inhibition you have left to deflect.

“Well, then.” Jimin then tightens her hold on your cock, transpiring both pain and pleasure to you. “How about now?”

“Nghhhh, f–fuck,” you cry out, the contorted expression appears in the mirror.

“Just like that, baby, moan for me. Show me who owns you,” Jimin coos, loosening her hold a slight, still keeping the adagio tempo.

“Nnnh, J–Jimin.”

“Good boy, good boy,” she murmurs.

She drags her filthy hand up and down your cock so leisurely, finding the rhythm for your pliancy. She strokes and strokes to build you up to the second release with her, this time by her hand.

It feels like eternity—the way her unhurried digits find the pace that would make you want so much more, or how she whispers ‘good boy’ into your ear every time she wants a whiff of reassurance of control. It’s like she needs one, anyway, judging by how you’re moaning like a bitch right now.

“God, you’re making so much sound for me.” The way she swipes her index finger at the tip of your cock on each stroke, fuck, you can fall onto the floor right here and now. “Wanna see your face in the mirror, baby?”

You turn your head leftwards to find reflections of a contorted face and a grin side by side. Her hand is diligent as ever—building you up to your inevitable release.

“What do you say, baby? Wanna see our faces in the mirror?” she inquires again. You can feel a mischievous smile beside your ear.

“Ngnh, a–alright.”

With ease, she forces your body to turn into your image of the ball of lust—the shower of kisses on your neck; the hand sliding up and down your cock; the thigh pressing up against your ass. You shift and shift within her restraint, and that seems to only fuel her fire.

“Moan some more for me, baby. I wanna hear your voice. I want my men moaning.”

You comply, letting out a series of whimpers just for your student president. The sensation of her hand is so damn enthralling—each slide, each nick of a finger, each twist of her wrist, they are all designed to make you surrender to her.

“Good boy. Your moans are so pleasing to hear, you know that?”

“Nngh, t–thanks, Jimin.”

“Wanna up the ante, baby? I can do it faster~” As if her languid tempo isn’t already doing its job in trapping you inside her overflowing lust.

You hesitate, finding yourself wanting this act to go on to such lengths, maybe even when the sun sets again. Being under her comforting warmth is too satisfying.

“I–I don’t know, Jimin.”

“Oh, this baby can’t decide? Guess I’ll just have to–”

She suddenly lets go of your length, cutting your string of desire so easily. You whine, as Jimin lets out a laugh.

“Don’t!” you say in a rush, and letting go the hand you haven’t realized you’ve been holding—hers.

Jimin giggles. “Say please, baby.” She tightens her hug on you, squeezing the plea out.

Your eyes meet hers in the mirror.

“Please, Jimin.”

“Good boy.” And she wraps her hand around your erection again, casually stroking it.

“Ngh.”

The sound of her jerking your shaft fills the room. It’s heavenly—her voluptuous chest pressing up against your arching back with right hand busy sliding on your rod. She does it so cleanly—the technique, the pace. You swear you will cum by the second she whispers another ‘good boy’ into your welcoming ears.

As if she knows your inevitable release, she seeks a higher speed on your cock, stroking it with a swiftness that tries to draw out your moan and your cum as much as she can.

“Ngh, J–Jimin,” you whimper.

“Oh, gonna cum already, baby?” Jimin giggles at your crumble, before giving a peck on your left cheek. “Go on, cum for me. Cum, just like you did last night inside me.”

White spots start to form within your vision. Your breaths become more erratic. It’s there. It’s there.

“Jimin~”

And you explode all over her mirror, painting white streaks on it. You are left with ecstasy on your face as Jimin smiles at your release. Your body shrieks and shudders in her embrace. Your cock twitches in her hand, sending flying ropes of cum everywhere. Fuck.

“Yes, baby, just like that.” Her voice is deep—so seductive.

You continue to shake in her hold, not being able to subside from your high so quickly. Your release grows lighter and lighter in her hand, until it comes out in drops, finally letting you catch your breath.

“Good boy,” Jimin says, before forcing your body towards hers. You are spun around, and she gives you a kiss.

It’s short, but it’s powerful—no tongue fighting for dominance, no slurping sounds, just a kiss.

And she pulls back from it once she’s satisfied, judging from the smile on her face.

“Wanna do this again?” she asks.

“Definitely—well—maybe. You know Yizhuo would beat our asses if she catches us again, right?”

“Just shut up, babe. She won’t know if you’re good with secrets like me.”

You pout, bringing out a laugh from her.

Winter

“It’s going well, isn’t it?” Kai asks.

You give him a small smile. “It’s bearable, yeah.”

“Good to know, good to know.” He then takes a sip of his latte from his cup, looking outside.

“Fuck, I forgot to ask you this,” you say. “Are you seeing anyone?”

“Oh yeah! In fact, there’s a woman I've been seeing recently, Yizhuo. You probably know her, right? You guys are working together,” Kai answers.

“Oh,” you utter. “Oh.”

He chuckles, before continuing, “Yeah, I know it’s weird–”

“No, no, not at all, bro,” you deflect with a chuckle along with him. “I’m happy that you’re happy.”

Kai, still chuckling, inquires, “How about you? It’s gotta be more than ‘bearable’ for you to be all happy like this.”

You give him a smile.

[some-insomniac-writes]

♡ Puppy-lovin' ♡

A/N: Oh my goodness this took me FAR TOO LONG!!!! Commission of headcanons for my lovely sunshine anon, THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE MY DARLING!!!

Even more headcanons of puppy hybrid and Leon shenanigans!!!

Warnings/content: 2nd person (you/yours), fem pup hybrid reader, grumpy ol' man Vendetta Leon, Leon is referred to as daddy! lots and lots and LOTS of fluff!!! Headcanons!!!

Word count: 3,250 approx.

꒰꒰・┄┄┄┄┄┄・♡・┄┄┄┄┄┄・꒱꒱

꒰꒰・┄┄┄┄┄┄・♡・┄┄┄┄┄┄・꒱꒱

What is his biggest pet peeve that she does? (Ik he's obsessed with her HAHA but he  i s  still a grump at times, after all)

TEETHING. That sweet fluffy baby chews on ANYTHING she can get her little canines on. Food and water bowls, toys, chair legs, trashcans, clothes, towels, shoes. Leon has to sit you down and explain that yes you do have very pretty chompers and yes the hybrid vet said they were very healthy and you were a good girl for brushing them on your own but that doesn’t mean you have to PROVE A POINT WITH SAID TEETH!!!! SAVE IT FOR THE SQUEAKY TOYS!!!!! HIS COMBAT BOOTS DID NOT DESERVE THAT GNAWING!!!!!!

I also feel like her whimpering might sometimes get to him?? Depending on his mood. Like making dinner? Whimper. He’s in the bathroom? Whimper. Reading files? Whimper. Tv without her? Whimper. Broken record. His puppy just wants to be around him any time she can because that’s her daddy obviously, and he loves her to bits, but sometimes the man just wants to take a piss alone! We’re talking he gets a few fingers gently bapping at the gap between the floor and the door out of curiosity with mixed whines, or sometimes he has to keep it open a crack so you can hold his hand as he goes. You’re so damn lucky he loves you and that thumping tail of yours.

“Listen, listen, a man has the right to pee in peace. My puppy says otherwise, okay?” -Likely said by Leon as he’s laughing to one of his coworkers about your behaviour. 

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

What's something that'll make him go "Who did this, hm?" And she's like- anxiously wags,,,, like when dogs know they're guilty n stuff 😭

ONCE MORE THE CHEWING!!!! I also feel like she can’t be trusted with porcelain or glass for obvious reasons (cough cough Picture Perfect fic cough) so if he does let her eat with him at a table or anything it’s gotta be plastic. One time she’s wanting to be helpful and get him a glass of water as they’re winding down for the night, he came home from a long tedious day of work, and on her way to the faucet she’s still so excited about him being back that she completely forgets she is in fact holding a glass. When it hits the floorboards it’s instant chaos, babygirl’s sitting there staring at the shards like ‘uh oh uh oh uhohuhoh-’ and not knowing what else to do she puts a pillow over it. Because yeah honey, he’s totally gonna think that's perfectly normal.

So obviously when Leon finds it, seeing the pieces collected in a neat little pile under a cushion, he’s giving a call. 

“Sunshine. C’mere a second, baby.”

And you toddle your way in with that tail slightly tucked, not making eye contact. Oh he already knows what’s going on, you’ve never been very good at lying.

“Y’know, it’s funny sweetheart. I come home from a long day of work, have an amazing dinner with my favourite girl in the world, take a nice hot shower and start getting ready for bed. But right as I’m turning the lights off, I find this.” He gestures rather pointedly to the cushion atop the glass shards. 

“And I’m thinkin’, hm, that’s odd. So I pick it up, and look at what’s hiding under it.” Picking it up by a corner of the casing, he makes sure to add an over dramatic gasp. “Broken glass! Isn’t that the strangest thing, puppy? I mean, what are the odds?” His broad shoulders shrug as if he himself can’t believe this ‘totally random’ sequence of events leading to a pile of glass ‘randomly’ appearing under a pillow. “You wouldn’t happen to know who did this, now would you honey?”

You’ve got your cute butt planted on the floor by now, looking up at him rather pitifully. Staring from beneath your lashes, tail slowly wagging back and forth across the hardwood, ears pressed back. 

When you do finally speak, it’s a mumble of “I was getting you water n’ I forgot…”

He cocks an eyebrow at you. “You.. forgot? You forgot what, sweetpea?”

“...Forgot I was holding the glass..”

Oh his heart just melts. You’re an angel, a bit of a dummy at times, but such an angel. Leon can only shake his head with a chuckle, placing a kiss to the crown of your head. “My sweet, silly girl. Let’s get this cleaned up then, alright?”

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

Do you think Leon will have his days where he needs space from her from a difficult mission/assignment?

It’s a 50/50 depending on how hard the mission was. If we’re talking like freshly Vendetta Leon then definitely. He’s just so mentally drained, sometimes he just needs to have a minute to fall face first into bed, lay there for a couple of hours. He’ll leave to go to the bathroom and hear your paws padding after him but he just doesn’t have the energy to do anything more then pet you as he goes to grab another drink from the fridge. Sometimes alcohol, sometimes soda. It depends on how shitty he’s feeling, how much he wants to torture himself.

Sometimes you sit at the door with a meek whimper and swishing tail, at first confused as to why he’s so down. Pawing at the wood grain like the poor dumb girl you are, missing your favourite person and just wanting to be there with him. From time to time you crawl up into bed next to him, slipping under his arm to lay your face in the crook of his bicep, often to receive a gentle pet. “I just need a second, puppy. You’re my good girl, though.”

A few times you’ve asked him why he gets like that, why he seems to sink back into himself, and he just sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Y’know how you get upset after the vet, cause they prod at your teeth with the nasty tasting gloves and you have to get your shots?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well sometimes Daddy gets like that after a really really hard day at work.”

“..If I put a Hello Kitty bandaid on it and..” You scrunch your little nose in thought, “..buy you a stuffie for being brave will you feel better?”

And he just chuckles fondly, giving your hair a gentle ruffle. God, you’re too sweet. “Maybe baby, maybe.”

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

Do you think he'll get better with the drinking with her around, or do you think he still drinks? I imagine that she's not a fan, if he still does!

He definitely tries his best to at least cut down on the drinking, but I doubt he’s entirely sober since - well, it’s Leon - but he really doesn’t feel the need to sometimes. Usually when something shitty goes down he instantly goes for the bottle, but now? Now it takes a lot more to drive him into that spiral. 

Most of the time when his depression hits it’s like you sense it, call it that puppy instinct, and you’re toddling your way over to lay your head on his knee and whimper. He tries not to get too drunk, he knows you hate it. How he sways and scruffs at your hair sometimes a little too hard. But he’s trying. Tries to substitute the shitty burning taste of whiskey with spicy foods as an alternative, or punish himself through tonic water only to look like an angry cat once the glass is finished. Anything other than alcohol if he can stomach it.

Because he doesn’t want you to remember him as someone who drank all the time, he wants you to remember how on the bad days he opened his arms to you and let you lay atop his chest as his own personal weighted blanket. How despite how he used to snap and draw away from everyone, how he’d shoot whiskey like it was water, you coming into his life made it all feel so much easier.

He wants you to remember that you made it easier. You made it better.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

When she gets in trouble, what is it for? And is there any form of "punishment" or "grounding"? 

Timeout is HUGE, I don’t think he’d have the heart to actually ground her. One bat of those big babydoll eyes and he has to remind himself NOT to cave. The only thing he can’t do is take her toys away, that would eat the big guy up inside AND out, he knows how much you adore your stuffies and squeakies. 

Usually it’s just lockup time in her pen to sit and think about what she did, doing his best to ignore the pitiful sound of your whines of guilt. He knows you hate timeout, but he doesn’t really know how else to punish you! That or taking away your weekly movie night until you behave, which means no 2 or so hours of uninterrupted cuddle time on daddy’s lap, which is worse than a jail sentence in your opinion. 

The cone of shame has yet to be used, same for muzzles. You’ve cut it pretty close a few times with any of the ladies who stick around and talk to him too long though! He had no clue his sweet sunshine baby had a knack for nipping at ankles.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

Does she beg for food, and if so, how does Leon go about dealing with it?

BIG puppy dog eyes at the table, sitting at his feet. Sometimes he caves, because duh, you’re his baby. But Chris keeps saying he needs to be more stern so he tries and tries and TRIES. But you have those HUGE glossy blinkers on blinky mode up at him, and your tail is swish swish swishing happily against the wooden grain and you just look so ready to get a little bite of whatever he’s got and who is he to deny you? You who wakes him up with kisses and cuddles, who trots along behind him everywhere he goes. You sit at the window and wait for him to get home from work for god’s sake, surely a little piece of food is nothing, right?

He’ll do it cause he loves you, other times cause he wants to see how you’ll react. One time you gave him the puppy stare for a lick of the hot sauce he got to go with his wings, which was a moment of instant regret on your end. Leon had to bite back the biggest smile with an “Is it good, baby?” Watching you smack your lips and tongue with a scrunched up face and furrowed eyebrows. Shaking your head around and yapping as if the taste was a personal attack on you.

Sometimes you even get fancy with it, padding from leg to leg at his feet, doing little spins out of excitement for whatever tasty morsel he’s about to drop into your mouth. I mean c’mon, how is he supposed to resist it?

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

How does he interact with her in his depressive states, and how does she comfort him?

You 100% believe he needs a stuffie. So you’re dropping your toys in his lap with big wet eyes and a slow swaying tail. It has to make him feel better, right?

Leon has two main moods when he’s in his depressions. ‘I’ve ruined everything, no one come near me.’ And ‘I’ve ruined everything, please don’t leave me alone.’ Swinging between these moods like an unstable seesaw, but he just can’t bring himself to pull you down with it. Who is he to look you in the eye and tell you to go away, when all you want to do is help? You’re not a bad girl, not a bad dog, so why should he lecture you on behaviour that comes as natural to you as breathing? Your kindness and need to ensure he’s as happy as you are, it’s practically built into your little puppy brain. Because he’s your daddy, and you love him. 

So he tries his hardest. He lays on the couch for his usual hour of slumping but keeps an eye out for a swishing tail, an ear out for any little whimpers. You’re climbing into his lap, crawling all over him to put your weight on him, cuddling up like a plush toy. 

And he wraps his arms around you silently, letting you be his anchor.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

When she asks to come with him to work, how does he respond? (Bc obvi she can't come fight bioweapons with him,,)

Sometimes he’ll take her when he has desk duty and Hunnigan just MELTS she LOVES your sweet little tailed self. But other times either he has to call Becca and Claire over to babysit you, cause there’s no way that he can leave his poor sweet girl at home alone! And you whimper and whine the whole time but it’s either that or coax you to go to the DSO before Claire comes to pick you up after the work day is finished.

Like how is he supposed to look at you and go ‘no baby you can’t go with daddy to work because daddy shoots bugs and-’ 

BUGS? YOU LOVE BUGS!!!! BUGS DESPISE YOU SO YOU’LL BE SO GOOD ON BUG DUTY!!!!

“I know puppy, I know. But daddy’s going in a biiiiiiig metal bird, and I know you love to chase birds so I can’t take you with me. Cause what if you bite the bird too hard, huh? Then daddy can’t buy you new toys! Can’t have that happening, sunshine. So, how about this. You can sit at daddy’s desk next to miss Hunnigan and when I talk to her over the little ear phone she can pass it over to you and you can have a chat with me. Is that okay? Yeah?”

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

How does he react when she catches things for him, like bugs or something? (he def didn't ask her to LOL) I feel like she'd be eyeing a moth or something and be like omg a present for daddy :33 (she has good intentions fs)

That man honestly gets a leaf bug or moth at his feet once a month. A little half chewed, he saw you spitting out tufts of wing a few minutes ago so he can guess that’s why. You’ve always been a jumper, pouncing and bouncing around the yard or when he takes you for walks. So it’s no wonder you started up this habit.

“Yes- yes baby, I know you got it just for me and- mhm. Mhm I do love it honey but I just think- And I’m so proud of you for hunting it all on your own but sweetpea how about instead you bring me.. I don’t know, fuck- wait don’t say that word. Hm. I don’t know leaves you find interesting.”

Stupid man. Dumb dumb idiot man. Next thing he knows there’s a small collection of leaves lined up at the back door. He’s gotta figure out an alternative and fast, boy. 

Has he ever had to bandage her up bc she did something dumb that he warned her not to do? 😭

That girl’s mortal enemy is anything that like, rears up at her. Praying Manti, spiders, grasshoppers, wasps and bees. If it moves, and it moves in a way that she perceives as a threat, it will be bapped with her hand.

“Hey- hey woah woah woah woah woah- easy there, tiger.” He’s scooping you up off the grass as you’re growling and yapping at whatever insect has made the mistake of buzzing too close to his sweet girl. “That’s a praying mantis, baby. If one of those big claws gets you, it’s gonna scare the sh- ahem, it’s probably gonna spook you.”

Five minutes later when he sets you back down he hears a startled yelp followed by you scampering around the backyard waving your face back and forth. Yeah he should’ve expected that. Watching as you finally flick the bug away with a huff of disapproval, which is followed by a very overdramatic whimper in Leon’s direction. Obviously need of love and affection after such a traumatic experience. Nothing a bit of antiseptic and plenty of well placed kisses won’t fix.

SO many scrapes. Bee stings, ant bites, mosquito bites, scratches and bruises from bouncing around the yard and house. He had to buy the Sanrio bandaids to patch you up or you refused to sit still. Thankfully your new favourite thing is barking at the other hybrids on the tv, an activity that WON’T result in several bruises. Maybe an earache or two, perhaps a sore throat, but hey, that’s better than box up on box of bandaids. 

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

When he wants her inside, and she does that one excited play pose (you know the one HAHA), does he entertain it, or does he know better to just go inside because she'll follow? LMAO

You’re padding your way around through the grass of the backyard, tail high and wagging proudly. You’d been very successful in your burying of a bone, planting your own little territory outside the house, and because of that success a buzz ran through your body. Being the jitterbug you were with a case of the zoomies coming on, you gave your ears a shake out when Leon’s whistle was heard.

“Puppy? C’mon, babygirl. It’s getting dark.”

But you were just getting started! Maybe you could convince him, after all if puppies had to listen to their daddies, surely daddies had to listen to their puppies right? That’s, like, the law. And you still have so much energy!

So, ever the bouncy pup you are, you crouch down into ‘the pose’. Everyone knows which one. The one you pull when you’re telling another hybrid you wanna play, the half bow with you eyes locked on him and a fast wagging tail.

“Baby- no. Oh, don’t give me that face..” Leon runs a hand over his face with a long sigh, biting back a smile with all the teeth he can manage.  

But you’re giggling with that big grin on your face, hands braced like paws against the grass and ears perked up expectantly.

“Honey..no. Now-

As soon as he takes a step towards you, no matter how small it is, you’re jumping in a little circle with happy yaps. Next thing he knows you’ve got the zoomies, and you’re bounding your way through the freshly-clipped lawn. All he can really do is lean against the outside wall and wait for you to run out of energy, arms crossed with a grin on his face. IIt doesn’t last too long thankfully, a few bounces, a couple of spins and you’re trotting over to him panting. He watched the whole thing, your tail wagging a gazillion miles an hour each time you hopped, skipped, and jumped. You always found endless ways to entertain yourself outside, Leon really didn’t know how you did it. 

 And yeah, it was getting dark out, but it was only a few minutes more of watching his sweet girl bound around happily, he’d only really try to rouse on you if it was for your safety. But right now? As your big eyes watch fireflies fill the backyard’s air, pawing weakly up at them between giggles, he knows it’s worth it. 

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

Like my work? Consider buying me boba!

[pparacxosm]

wounded in

(blue-eyed son part 2: electric boogaloo !!!! ; (hate to be that gal but you may have to read the first bit for context); homeless era!patrick zweig x jaded businesswoman!reader; nonlinear narrative; tw office job; tw coworkers; tw mcdonald’s; the sound of music stuff is for myself; i fucking love sound of music; and i fucking love cats (the animal not the musical, though that's lovely too) so there’s that; pushing a patrick zweig can’t spell agenda; tw new england maybe; i gave new rochelle a better rap this time; kiss scene kindaaaa ??..? ; tashi coaching patrick after new rochelle is canon to me; tw descriptions of emojis; what if i told you there’s a part 3; then what)

You hold in a bout of laughter when Patrick brings the drinks to the table.

His hair is longer than the last time you saw him, which wasn’t that long ago, in scale. In bones, in feels like a while.

Dear old New Rochelle. Far enough out that the city is a twinkle on the horizon like a cluster of stars, far enough that there are some actual stars above you, now. It’s odd to see him in New England. It’s odd to see him in jeans. But then it’s September.

There are new lines on his face already. He’s aging quicker now, as if to make a point.

Drinks are on me,

Is the first thing Patrick told you, when you walked in in a juniper parka. Scanned the room, picked out his booth.

Is this the part where you tell me you’ve opened a savings account? you said, trying to seem completely blasé about it. It would have been childish to be thrilled by such meagre chivalry at twentyeight. I feel like I should pay, you’re in my city.

Yeah, but you’ve hosted me enough for now.

That’s what you are, half the time. A host to him.

A museum. Thumbing through a rolodex of all the different shades of blue his eyes could go in one humid night.

You pass on more nights out than you accede to. You got a cat. You’re getting LASIK soon. But what it really looks like is that you’re wearing glasses to show that time has passed.

“What’re you smiling about?” Patrick asks, placing the foamy mug of beer in front of you.

You wipe discreetly under your eyes, spreading the mascara smudge. “Just thinking about how my aweinspiring generosity has rescued you from the misery of total squalor.”

Patrick chuckles. “Well, they say to pay it forward.” He sounds pleased as he lifts his own mug with a wink.

You look out the window. There’s a film of dust on it. There’s dust on the faux-chintz curtains too.

You start to wonder if that’s what he really thinks. That this is him going forward.

Patrick picks up the plastic menu. “We ordering sidedishes or do we want a full dinner? What’s good in Wellesley?”

You try to laugh, though the noise has the distinct tender hue of a sob. But you’re sure you feel mostly fine. “What are you doing here?”

“Hm?”

“What are you doing in Wellesley?”

Patrick looks up at you with bright, twinkling eyes. “Challenger in Boston. Thought it’d be a waste not to come see you.”

You clench your jaw to prevent more runny mascara. It’s stupid. You don’t much like waste either. But you’re not going to weep in front of Patrick like a child.

“You hungry?”

You nod, picking up your own menu, hiding your face behind it.

His hand reaches suddenly across the table, trying to touch yours. You pull away, but make it look like you didn’t.

“Bet you had a hard time leaving Tobes for the night,” he says, trying to lift the mood.

“Um yeah. A little. I like to imagine what she gets up to when I’m away.”

“My sister had a cat, when we were young. My sister was, like, seventeen, and I was eight, so pretty big gap.”

Because he has to clarify those sorts of things. Because you don’t know he has a sister. You don’t know anything.

You find it hard to picture him pinned down in any humane way. It’s always his beautiful leg (now sheathed in denim) writhing in a bear trap. Always his papery wings unfurled and pinned against a picture frame like a butterfly. Something metamorphosed. Something capable of a great change, and that must be tortured for it.

“She found the cat in an alleyway. She called it Patrick.”

You lift your eyes. You feel it bubbling in you like magma, the urge to coo. You feel all soft these days. And maybe that’s just open heart season, and the passage of time. But you see a vivid meridian in your life, and it falls right along the night you met this guy. And this back half is all soft, so you sort of want to blame him.

You swallow.

“Well, that’s sweet.”

Patrick lowers the menu. “Nope,” he shakes his head, that huge smirk on his face, like his name is on every ticket of the raffle, like he’s cheating at something. “Let me tell you what she used to do. She used to put the fucker in, like, a blanket, right? And she’d lift it up like a sack, with him inside, and he’d obviously start clawing and making all of these noises—“

He makes the noises. Just starts whipping his head around and making kitten growls, imitating this cat with his name. You get the sense that this is one of those anecdotes that explains a lot about a person.

“—And she’d come into my room, in, like, the middle of the night—this is real psycho shit—and she’d lift my covers and drop the cat. And the shit would fucking claw at me and bite me, just—“

He’s doing the noises again. And now he’s clawing at the air with his hands.

He stops, and the way he closes his mouth around his grin makes his teeth look like they’re trying to escape past his lips. But it looks sort of lovely.

“When the fuck died, Saskia texted me. She was like, oh, he loved you so much, you should’ve said goodbye.” He pauses, widens his eyes, looks at you with the pointed intimacy of sharing in this ludicrousness.

You roll your eyes. But you catch yourself smiling. You like the idea of him being mauled like that, skin deep. You get the sense that life has done to him a lot of that—those growls and scratches. And that sounds a little fucked. But what you like about it is how he seems so unmoved now, by this psycho shit. This flailing animal, this torture device. Pinning him down. He's laughing.

You try to imagine him as a child, but the proportions are all comically bizarre, in your mind’s eye.

“Pork chops,” you say, throwing the menu aside. “I feel like stuffing my face.”

Patrick gets three sausage egg McMuffins on the way to the New Rochelle Country Club—and fries, and a hash, and a soda—and he’s eating the second by the time you pull out of the drivethru.

There is a compelling sense of chaos to how he drives. Like, he’s so bad at driving. Three different people honk at him in a dozenminute window. And you feel content knowing that whatever had had your heart thumping last night has not shrivelled and died with the morningtime. Though now it’s maybe a partial distress for your safety. But you get the sense that, maybe, this is actually the person you are now. The woman who sleeps beside a rugged stranger and buys him breakfast and doesn’t care how he speaks with his mouth open while he’s eating the fries. Doesn’t care about the writhing mire of half chewed potato on his tongue. The way his lips gleam pink with salt.

“I need to listen to really specific music to, like, get in the zone? If you don’t mind?”

He sounds so uncharacteristically shy, for brief a moment. You have to lean forward and look to see he isn’t joking. He isn't.

“Uh— yeah, of course. It’s your car.”

He slides a Sound of Music soundtrack disc into the mouth of the dashboard.

You laugh so hard you fold over.

He’s got one hand on the wheel, and shifts is his seat, peeling the unfamiliarly clean skin of his thighs off the leather before sitting back down. He’s tearing into his third breakfast sandwich with a reckless abandon reserved for death row. He laughs around the bite, glancing, bemused, between you and the road, and, ultimately, spending more time looking at you.

“What?” he laughs around a halfmasticated mouthful. “What?”

There are tears sluicing down your face. You can’t breathe. You think you can, and then you start laughing again, and you can’t.

“How do you solve a problem like Maria?” Patrick hums cheerily as he noshes. It’s a gross and wonderful noise, the food moving between his teeth, circumventing Hammerstein.

You think the large coke is probably no performance enhancer, not only because he all but tumbles out of the car when it’s hardly halfway parked (poorly, you’ll add).

“Fuck, need to piss,” he says frenetically.

When you know the notes to sing…, carols Julie Andrews.

You’re still laughing. Crying. Your tummy fluttering painfully.

Patrick makes you order dessert too, since you’re celebrating.

Celebrating what? you had to ask, though, at the time, you were wearing an impish, knowing, frankly celebratory sort of smile.

Patrick feigned great offense. He said, I’m fucking here, aren’t I?

He wants you to have sundaes together. You spill some ice cream on your skirt. He finds that funny. He’s always got this weasel smile, like he’s constantly ready for amusement. He’s shaved, at some point between now and then. The hairs on his face are sparser. The skin on his face looks milky and organic like a crinite litchifruit.

The frumpy diner was his idea too.

He’s spent some time on the veritable extremes of the economic spectrum—that’s what life tends to be for him; veritable extremes, scratching him meanly—and now he just wants to play at being the average wage earner.

“You really are welcome to stay with me, if you’d like.”

Patrick looks at you like he’d rather shoot himself.

You sort of marvel at his sense of pride, as if it were a rare stone, swallowing light and spewing it out at all angles. The Sociology course you took in uni had a whole two modules on personal pride. It is one of the few emotions that are unique to humans.

Patrick—for his weasel smile and beastly hunger and feline anti—is remarkably proficient in being human. In the real, visceral parts of it. In wielding his emotions like kaleidoscope hues. Dancing freely in confinement.

“When are you leaving?”

“Don’t worry about that. If you have time for breakfast tomorrow, we can—”

“Mm, not tomorrow, I don’t think. But I have no plans this weekend.”

You say it with this weird, bright intonation, like you’re jesting. Which—a lot of things feel like a bit of a joke these days. But he seems to understand you well enough. Delivers a curt, unspurned nod, and even a smile. Not the weasley, chronicling one. The wolfish one that makes his eyes crinkle up.

“Come here then,” he says.

Patrick leans in for a hug. You can’t avoid it. He enfolds you in a fascinatingly soft, burning embrace. He still smells sort of musky and acrid. Like even though he can shower regularly now, he maybe doesn’t as often as he should. But you find a gross comfort that. This pleasantly fetid, human man. His cologne smells like a wine cellar.

He says, “It’s nice to see you again.”

Something churns in your belly. Maybe the pork chops. Maybe the ice cream. This whole fucking day. You accidentally deleted some files and IT spent five hours trying to help you unsheathe them from oblivion. You felt like a failure. And now you’re here and,

“Fuck, you’re still so cool.”

You push away from him with a forceful laugh.

You used to be able to tell your sister all kinds of things. But, lately, you haven’t been able to talk to anyone about anything.

Working so many years for a soulless corporate hive mind has turned you into an expert at short, polite, and meaningless feedback that only varies with inflection.

“Right”, “Sure”, “Got it”, “Whatever you think is best”, “Already on it”.

Half the time you sound illiterate. The other half, you sound like you could have written Prozac Nation.

When your sister asks, how was New Rochelle? she expects you to say something annoyingly vague and ominous in your cool, collected adjunct’s voice, like: Everything is under control.

But, instead, you say, “Do you and Mark still go to mass? I really want to start giving more of myself away.” And you’re wearing this smile that’s utterly sincere.

That’s what spooks your sister.

Of course, you want to tell her more. Because your sister married a Herman Melville character; one of those grizzly, stinky, sacerdotal men who don’t want to work but don’t want to lose either. You know your tale of Linklateresque, serendipitous connection would render her mesmerised and marginally jealous.

But, soft and charitable as you may now be, you keep it all to yourself.

Patrick is still in Massachusetts a fortnight later. You say you’d have loved to come and see him play, but you’re really busy, and he says not to sweat it. Insists really. Maybe even begs. Do not sweat it.

You text him, presumably a day or two afterwards, and ask how it went.

Smahsed it!, he texts, and garlands the (misspelled) notion with eight sunglassfaced emojis. You counted. Dibner? he texts.

Then, a moment later,

*dinner?

You get to see your first New Rochelle sunrise.

You slink out of bed with toothfairy softness, even though Patrick is sleeping the sleep of death—with a deep, miserable snore like a resounding dirge to prove it—beside you. Your pillow wall, in the night, had collapsed like Berlin in 89.

You step outside. You check your phone, first, but you do go outside. You do believe in fresh air in the mornings, even if you don’t have the fortitude for mindfulness and journaling.

The parking lot is a vast open soul. Regretfully resigned and stunningly silent.

The sky looks like a bleeding mouth, but the hard grey edges around it don’t seem to care. The concrete enterprises and litter splay do not want anything to do with this bruise. A tart, sort of sewery smell makes your eyes water.

Cars drive by too fast. 

You think, in some faraway capacity, you can hear the soft, rhythmic thunk of tennis balls hitting asphalt. But it’s only your heart.

You hear things. You see things.

You don’t want to sound like some haunted Victorian heiress with a mystical past, but you do.

In the break room, mostly.

So you hadn’t noticed before. Your coworker, Sam, goes fucking wild for tennis. Sam’s slobbering lewd and voracious over tennis. It’s hard to witness. In fact, you feel dirty witnessing this. You should call HR. Sam’s in the break room doing an onanistic oneman scene play about tennis.

Or maybe he just kind of likes it.

And you hadn’t noticed it before.

There’s a lot, for your part, that you were content not noticing around the office.

But now every errant tenniscentric commentary makes your hands feel sore and weightless without the presence of a gun.

“No, you don’t get it, Deirdre, this is like if LeBron played a game at some random Y, and got dunked on by this fuckin’ nobody, and then just… quit the game.” He sounds tumid with bewilderment. “Just fuckin’ dipped!” Sam’s incredulous. “Forever!”

“LeBron…?”

“Fuck, Deirdre, you’re killing me.”

You slot the mouth of your bottle beneath the spout of the water cooler. You close your eyes—zombieleaden, uneven on the tiles; it’s only 10—and listen to the halting trickle, trickle… stream. The plastic goes cold against your palm as the water rises.

“All because of some… fuckin’,” Sam snaps his fingers, “Fuck, I forget the name.”

Peter Zeppelin, your mind supplies dryly.

It is then that Sam chooses to notice you. Points his finger. Wide smile. “Oh-ho, here’s trouble!” says Sam.

Sam and you have had enough one on one conversations for you to list on your one free hand, and you wouldn’t be spoiled for digits. But, all the same,

“Here’s trouble!” Sam announces, “Big shot boss babe, huh? Back from kickin’ rear in New Rochelle. I know you’re glad to be back.”

You don’t say anything. You feign responsiveness, flash a stilted smile. But you don’t say anything. Because what would you say?

Outside the men’s bathroom of the New Rochelle Country Club, you fidget awkwardly, standing against a wall and trying to look inconspicuous. Patrick’s duffel sits at your heels like a staunch hound.

Your gaze meanders around the venue with an idle sense of inquiry.

You’d expected a certain echelon of grandiosity, anyway. And the country club is nice—you feel silly casting any judgement at all—if a little outdated. All glossy wood-panelling and pea green outdoor carpet.

You can see yourself, warped and bleary, upon the polished floor. The bar flourishes a glassy sheen and cloistered amber rows of lavish whiskeys.

Through glass windows, golf splays unfurl, ceaseless viridescence, beset on all sides by sharpcornered hedges.

People mill about with the air of the lookedafter, and polo shirts as white as the maw of God.

Which is nice—it’s all nice—and all, but your chest seems to enwreathe a stark state of dread. You feel the sort of nausea that would rack you as a child. Floating in the curtains at your dance recitals, like an anxious little poltergeist.

When Patrick emerges from the loo, he is whistling. Fluting finely the swooping tune of ‘Sixteen Going on Seventeen’.

“You certainly seem unburdened,” you murmur, gaze shadowing him as he draws near. You know you sound unconvinced. For his part, he looks undeterred.

Slings his bag over his shoulder like it is floatable, even as you know it bears the poundage of half a man’s life.

He grins, flashing a canine.

To you, he has just eaten his weight in greasy, leaden carbcloth, and proceeded to piss for twelve minutes straight.

But Patrick seems imbued by morningshine.

He throws a heavy arm around you, squeezes your shoulder. Says, “Look alive!” Says, “I’ve had a good night’s sleep, a hot shower, the breakfast of champions, and I’m about to get paid!”

You wince a bit at his volume, and also because he seems to be emanating a bit of that morningshine. Not to speak of the heat. Searing from his very bones.

If nothing else you admire his buoyancy. In that way, the warmth—even as the sun blooms above you—is a fascinating comfort.

Like something to be shared.

You say yes to dinner.

You keep having dinner. He keeps taking you out for dinner, and to decent places, too, places you haven’t even been to around here.

You’re sitting across from him. You’re eating, as one does. He’s regarding you with something like awe. Though you wouldn’t know it, because he regards, too, his plate, when the waiter rests it before him, with a sort of comical reverence. Even though you’re pretty sure he’s not starving, anymore.

But hunger’s not always about those sorts of things, you suppose. Maybe he's just still hungry.

He’s winning a lot. Must be, if he’s taking you out all the time, and—hey—maybe you can get him to sign something for Sam. That’d be nice of you.

Patrick watches you eat.

You try not to stare back at him. As long as you keep chewing, you won’t have to ask why he’s still here.

“That’s a nice shirt,” he says after a long silence.

You smile. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t text you for months, many months, after New Rochelle. You’d given him your number, because you wanted to put the ball in his court, and—fuck—here’s hoping you didn’t say that.

But you can’t recall.

It’s been months.

So, when you do get the text, you’re pleased to see it’s aptly contrite.

ypu probably think I’msn idiot, it reads, and it’s late at night and you’re already in bed, stewing over NYT Connections.

You eye the ID. Maybe: Patrick Zweig, but that’s implied—so many implicit little shards—because not a lot of people are so tortured by the prospect of your opinion on them so as to text you at 1 AM. So.

Define idiot, you text back.

dictionary defenition is Patrick Rupert Zweih. There’s prpbably even a lil picture of me next to it.

A few moments.

A bad one.

Ten or eleven emojis of abject terror.

You consider this—not a bad picture of him (though he doesn’t quite strike you as wildly photogenic anyway), just... This Whole Wound—and tap the side of your phonecase in tentative thought.

Your full name is Patrick Rupert Zweig? Tough.

Like ypu didnt already look me up.

You blink. Whoa—okay.

Not a humble idiot, I see, you type.

You don’t know where you get the balls. There’s a sweeping litany of long, gorgeous miles between your bed and New Rochelle, but maybe he can smell you thinking as much because,

Im in MA next week

In the registration room, a man with a binder asks his name, and Patrick sheathes his canine in a way that makes him look conspiratorial and bemused. You suppose it’s become an inside joke.

The ATP official seems to gleam with recognition when Patrick does give his name—his real name—and he says, “Oh wow, that is you!”

You can’t see his face from this angle, but you can envisage the way his moue has settled in confusion.

Apparently, the ATP official was a line judge at the Junior US Open back in 06.

You try to think back to what you were doing in 2006. Probably populating your microcosm in The Sims. Trapping little imitations of those who had scorned you in swimming pools to drown.

“You were really something back then, huh?” says the ATP official.

Your eyes flicker to Patrick’s profile. He doesn’t quite know how to respond to that.

The official hands Patrick a packet. There’s a little map of the facility in there, in case he gets lost. His first match is against one Gonzalez, on court seven.

Patrick says, marginally halting, “Hey, so, is there any chance of an advance payment on the prize money.”

The official blinks.

“Because I know I’m guaranteed a minimum of four hundred dollars even if I get knocked out today—“

You frown a bit at that. The official frowns a lot at that.

“Well,” he says, “Generally we don’t give out winnings until a player makes his way through the tournament…”

A beat.

Then,

“You could always just lose today. Then we’d have to cut you a check this evening.”

Patrick hardens to bone. You hope he has another lifeaffirming piss in him. He doesn’t meet your eyes when he turns to leave, but flicks you a glance that seems to ask that you spare him the judgement.

You leave New Rochelle today. Good as the night’s sleep may have been, he knows better than anyone that life’s loveliest things are fleeting.

So—fine—you don’t begrudge him. Instead,

“He seems hopeful,” you say wryly.

“Must’ve been thrown off by my pretty caddie,” he says dismissively. Maybe a little bristled.

The warmup courts, deep blue plane, shimmer in the sunheat.

Patrick takes the asphalt, flicks his racket around by its handgrip as though refamiliarising himself with the palmfeel for the first time in a while. Which—well—doesn’t give you confidence, at risk of contesting Julie Andrews.

He practices his serve. Starts to work the ball up and down the court. Hits a few forehands, a few backhands.

Then,

“He was lying,” he yells to the bleachers.

The bleachers are mostly empty. A few errant loiterers. Bored spectators who have finished their lunch earlier than their friends. What have you.

He’s looking at you, though. With a staggering precision from so far away.

“What?”

“That guy. He was lying. Or… bigging it up. Or whatever. I wasn’t really something, I was just decent.”

He strikes a ball over the net. You can see, from here, the vibration ricochet through the racketstrings with a shudder that has you expecting music to flutter out.

You lean back in your seat, sort of sliding down against the glossy plastic, a tremor of induced electric tickling your bum through your jeans. You cross your arms.

“That’s kind of bullshit,” you call out.

He spares you a glance, sort of doubletakes, and you can see the corner of his mouth tremble with intrigue.

He takes another ball from the basket. Tosses it up. You watch the neon starsphere spin fleetingly in the air before being walloped to oblivion. And what do you know of tennis? But you do think his serve is a thing of beauty. Beauty measured in power and precision, sure (he hits the ball straight and hard and fast and low, just barely clearing the net), but you can also see the way his muscles work beneath his skin. Which—you know.

Patrick walks to the fence that partitions the courts from the stands. He leans over, rests his arms on the palisade, and looks at you.

“This was the whole problem,” he tells you, “Everyone was always telling me how good I was. And it got to my head. And now I’m here.”

It’s a shabby imitation of humility. What it really is, is an attempt to scale down the apogee, so the fall seems less mythic. So the years seem less unkind.

“I didn’t come here to watch you sulk just because some guy was nice to you.”

Patrick grins. His cheeks are flushed with heat, and there are little spots of sweat on the hollows where his skin and bones meet. But he seems to know not to exert himself fully right now.

“You think I’m sulking?”

“I think you seem pretty torn up for a guy who’s going to play a thirty minute match, and walk away a few hundred dollars richer.”

He makes a noise like you’ve wounded him, but he seems elated.

“A few hundred dollars?” he says, raising his brows. “So you’ve lost your faith in me.”

“I have some,” you allow, and you’re not surprised to find that you really do. “Just don’t choke.”

Patrick wears the smile of a newly crowned Miss Universe. He looks touched that you’re being so frank.

“I won’t,” he says, with a sense of finality and what you feel is an incongruous tenderness. “I’m pretty good at dealing with pressure. My parents always used to take me to work with them and tell employees to come to me at random intervals with madeup highstakes scenarios. Like, pretending to have a breakdown, and saying they needed me to help them out and make the final decision. Some of them could cry on command.”

You try and fail to hide a look on your face that divulges how demented you think that anecdote is. But you try to find something neutral to say.

“Well, maybe you’re lucky,” you tell him. “I was horrifically nervous as a child.”

“Not anymore?” he asks, swinging his racket idly, and you get the sense he’s actually very interested in how you will answer.

So it’s hard not to answer him honestly.

“I don’t know,” you say finally, and you look away from his eyes, and instead at the sky. You’re alarmed to find they are precisely the same tincture of aegean. “Mostly not. But if I have to give a presentation or speak up in a meeting, I have to take one of those beta blockers, you know? Propranolol?”

You are stricken, at odd moments, in New Rochelle, in Massachusetts.

You get the sense that he’s trying to be cavalier. But, at the same time, there’s this unmistakable fragility about him. Like it wouldn’t take much to knock him down.

You are stricken by how he’s managed to maintain this cocksure swagger for so long. With such a brittle, aching core.

How easily it all might’ve been shaken by the wrong person, and the wrong word.

You love the smell of your dear kitty’s head right after a bath. The fluff of dandelions and baby bird. You love toweling her, taking her little paws in your hand and prying the toes open.

Toby pretends not to like being fussed over, but she doesn’t put up much of a fight. In fact, most nights, she falls asleep in your arms.

When he pays you the visit, Ms Tobes is breathing evenly in your arms, your thumb caressing the organtender slope of her silky head.

You open the door, and great weeping gales have been jostling your windows all evening. But he is in shorts.

Patrick’s been in New England for nearly a month.

There’s an odd sort of look on his face, and an unlit cigarette behind his ear.

Hands in his pockets, he leans against the door frame, staring down at you. You feel a remarkable heat radiating from the downy flesh of his bare legs.

He doesn’t seem confident, nor does he seem unperturbed. He seems… pensive and maybe even penitent, but he wears it with a fascinating poise. There’s still something wounded and vulnerable about the way of his shoulders, the slant of his mouth. It's the softness that kills you, anyway, you think incoherently. 

You peer up at him, dubious, through the briar of your lashes. He looks down at Toby, at the sweep of your finger over her head. You do not know if it is he or Toby who purrs.

When he speaks, he is whispering very softly, though there’s a frayed, low seep of his voice in his throat. It feels revoltingly intimate.

“When Patrick died,” he says, “The cat. I felt so shitty. I had this weird feeling of—like—I don’t know. Shittiness. Because of how Sassy said what she said. You should’ve said goodbye. What am I supposed to do with that, y’know?”

You swallow. The hallway is so vacant and noiseless you can hear the plush shuffle of his running shoes against the carpet. Dutifully beyond the boundary of your home, even though he’s been here quite a few times now.

“Patr—“ you croak.

“I’m not in Massachusetts for a game,” he tells you, shrugging hopelessly and almost smiling. But failing to. Which you register. “There’s no challenger in Boston. There’s just you. In Wellesley. All these… fucking ponds everywhere. Private schools. Bunch of rich little assholes who need a tennis coach, I bet. All these res—fuck. You know,” he shifts, taking the cigarette from his ear and gesturing with it between the two of you, “We’ve been out, like, twenty times, since I’ve been here, and there’s still, like, fifty restaurants we haven’t been to.”

You stare up at him. Your palms, where they cradle Toby, grow damp. The throbbing organ of your heart takes up residence in your throat. There’s a sad sort of clanging from the clock in the hall.

You lift one trembling finger to your lips.

Please, don’t say anything else, you beg with your eyes. Please, not in front of Toby.

Patrick’s eyes glint ruefully. Almost ominously. He seems insulted by your gesture, but he understands. He always understands. He never holds anything against anyone.

“No need for that,” he says very quietly. “I come in peace.”

He moves closer, breaking the enclave where the carpet of the hall meets the vinyl of your floor, until he is inches away.

A head taller, yet shrinking, as if you were seeing him from across a room.

He smells very good today. He smells like spice and bergamot and the laundered fabric of his navy blue halfzip. You sort of miss the musk. Of course you think of New Rochelle. You think of Bob Dylan and Hello Kitty and thermostats. Fucking Sally.

You lift your chin.

“I’m not asking you to—“

Patrick leans forward, his nose touching your nose.

“I’m gonna do the tennis,” he speaks the words into your mouth, voice like gravel melting in the sun.

You part your lips. A part of you hates him, hates how he’s insinuated himself in your life without warning. Another part, however, is asleep and betrays you.

He shushes you, though you’re sure you haven’t said anything. It’s just that you’re crying now. Completely still and silent. Weeping like the dead, because the dead weep, too.

He shakes his head, his nose brushing over yours, says shhh like you’re a cat, and, even then, Toby only stirs between your fingers.

“It’ll be good,” he says, and you’ve heard him sound convincing. You know that right now he sounds… something else. And he’s still shaking his head as he whispers, “It’ll be good, I’ll be good. I have a coach, I’m not done, I love the tennis.”

You look up at him. Lick your lips, which, when you’re so close, also means sort of licking his. Sort of licking into him. You want to say, fuck your tennis and fuck you too, but you also want to fuck him and you want to fuck his tennis, too.

You think of New Rochelle.

Patrick’s hand meanders upward toward Toby, and, if his cigarette was lit, you’d see sweeping coils of smoke floating heavenward.

It isn’t lit, but still.

You catch him quickly. You hold him by the wrist.

His skin is nauseatingly warm.

“You love it?” You sound unimpressed now. Your mouth moves over and around and against his as you speak.

“I do.”

“You love it, you love the tennis?” You’re sort of spitting it at him, and he tastes it.

And he thinks of Patrick the cat, how he lay there and was mauled. Pinned down. He thinks he’d let you draw blood, now, if you really wanted to.

“Tennis doesn’t love you.”

“Do you?”

There is time enough for you to answer. But when a sound is finally made it is only Toby, who mewls.

Patrick smiles. You feel the seam of his lips touch your lower teeth. “Didn’t think so.”

He straightens, his lips swiping your nose on his way up. He gently removes his arm from your grasp, your nails scraping is skin.

You exhale sharply. You feel stung.

Poor Toby, caught between your beating hearts. Patrick steps away. He places the cigarette between his lips, and then you do not stop him from touching Tobes. He strokes her gently.

“You got a lighter?” he asks around the cig.

There are three aflame candles in your home right now. He can smell the vanilla. You shake your head. He smiles again. Toby purrs. Patrick’s fingers touch yours between the heather fur.

You feel a strange ignition in your bones.

The game begins.

Everything is quick and violent.

You don’t know if tennis is actually quick and violent, or if that’s just him.

You are astounded by just how much a man can sweat. You are spellbound by the visceral implication of being drenched in one’s own exertion.

Gonzalez is younger. A little bit more thrilled to be here. And he’s got the kind of easy, quick thoroughness that means he probably practices with a ball machine at home, but not a lot of real experience.

Patrick makes brutal work of him.

There is a certain way his muscles tense through his forearm and the pulse travels up his bicep when he strikes the ball. His shirt rises as he twists to send it flying over the net. There is so much laboured breath and dripping skin.

He has you sit exactly where you sat during warmups.

Between sets, he extends his arm, taut and sweatsoused, and points to you with the scratched edge of his racket, one eye closed like he’s mapping trajectory. And he does sort of have this bloodhungry precision in his gaze, like a marksman.

You feel it in your neck, the ache of your focus, how your eyes water for lack of blinking as you swivel your head side to side. You do not close your mouth once.

He hits the ball again, and then again. Each with an almost startling accuracy. Each with a deep and fleshsatisfying thwack that makes your very ear canals thrum with the sort of pain that has you expecting the warmth of dripping crimson on your shoulders.

But it’s not just the force that strikes you. It’s that precision. That bulletgleam precision.

He seems to know, with a profound, animalic certainty, exactly where to place each shot.

At times, they will land exactly where the last landed.

And by the time his adversary cottons on, he has set his hungry eyes upon another target.

It’s beautiful.

You start to wonder if you have ever—ever—looked so fucking beautiful doing any single thing in your life. This strange and beautiful violence. Refined and delicate violence. He is violent and graceful.

Patrick groans when he hits the ball. Makes a guttural sound, a pained sort of sound, like he loses something of himself with each forceful departure.

The sun beams down, and you see his beautiful legs flex aglow with the beautiful gleam of his abject labour.

You think, fuck—

New Rochelle is beautiful.

“You know, I could have gone pro.”

Sam leans back in his Herman Miller chair. Takes a deep quaff of his coffee before pointing to Deirdre with his mug.

“You played for two years in middle school,” Deirdre deadpans, her gaze unmoving from her monitor as she populates a spreadsheet with who the fuck knows.

“This is huge, D,” says Sam, unhurt, “This is like if Jamal Mashburn started coaching the fuckin’ nobody that demolished LeBron at the Y.”

Deirdre seems to have forgotten this analogy, which, for her part, Sam first made months ago now.

“But also if Mashburn was married to Lebron,” adds Sam.

Your computer screen casts depressing polygons across your glasses. You slide your AirPods in. You don’t want to know where Bob Dylan will appear on your Spotify Wrapped.

I met one man who was wounded in love. I met another man who was wounded in hatred. And it’s a hard, it’s a hard— It’s a hard, it’s a hard—

It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

[luludeluluramblings]

Hi so I was having some brainrot regarding your small-town-neglected-meta reader and I wanted to share them with you!

One thing I've been thinking about alot is the way readers powers work and what kinds of weather they're likely to create, etc. One thing I specifically thought about is that readers powers definitely have to come from her mom's side. Bruce and no else in Bruce's biological line have powers so readers mom has to have the meta gene. I was thinking that maybe readers mom also controlled the weather a bit, maybe not as strong as reader can but still had some powers.

Like creating little drizzles, maybe some dustdevils, and little snow storms. Because her powers were so weak she never really used them for much, maybe to help out her own parents on the farm but that's about it(using her rain powers to easily water the crops)

In that same line of thinking I also wondered if readers little brother also has superpowers. Maybe the way his powers work or appear are bit different than readers because of they have different dads(I imagine Bruce has really strong genetics. If Damian is any proof of that lol)

One little crank in this little headcanon though is that Nana and Gramps would also have to have superpowers. But then I reread the first chapter and thought about One of the phrases you used to describe how reader got in Bruce's hands.

"but blood is thicker than water in the eyes of the court."

That specifically makes me think that Nana and Gramps are actually readers little brother biological grandparents and not theirs.(what happened to their bio grandparents 🤔)

But anyway, one last thing I wanted mention is how badly I want to see reader using their powers more freely when they're back in small town. Like they aren't afraid to use their powers to make it super windy and have fun with their little brother up on the sky. Or causing a blizzard just so they can have a snowball fight and make snow-men with their little brother. Or even accidently cause a power outage because someone pissed them off! No more suppressed emotions just freedom. (Also reader crying in the middle of the rain they made in front of their parents graves(they wanted to be buried in their hometown) would be so tragically fantasic.)

Anyway I know this is a lot to read and I'm sorry if I seem a bit scrambled but I wanted to send this to you just cause I had so many ideas floating up in my brain I couldn't stop thinking about it all. Thank you for listening to me ramble, I hope your doing amazing🩷

Your call this bain-rot, Imma call it fertilizer. This is long as mess, but I think I addressed everything. Lots of Smalltown!Reader lore and I made a Family Tree to help explain if needed.

☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎

Smalltown!Reader's Family Tree:

Complicated little bugger, ain't it? I didn't add Stephanie or Barbara because Bruce technically never adopted them or fostered them. This isn't an official thing, I made this and it was composed of little bits of information I found online. So some of this stuff might not be lore accurate.

Also, while I was researching I found out that Bruce's middle name was apparently Patrick, after his grandfather at one point.

Now, time for the pseudo science.

I consider the meta gene to be a genetic trait carried down by a parent. That would be Momma/Adeline, in this case. She carries the gene. Now, the meta gene does not always activate even if one has it. So, no, Momma was not making mini storms for us. She was, however, very encouraging of Reader using their abilities. It takes an event, usually a traumatic one, to activate the gene. (Little Brother could be getting power's in the next chapter, though.)

As for Nana and Grand Daddy we have this:

They don't have the gene, so they don't have abilities. (Which doesn't me their harmless.) They are Reader's Step-Grandparents, but they've grown to love them all the same. Now, in court, it is preferred for a child to go to the nearest blood relative after their parents die. Or, at least, that's what I roughly know from what the court in my state is like. I'm not from Louisiana or New Jersey, where Gotham's located, so maybe it's different. But, this is fiction. This is why Nana and Grand Daddy didn't get custody of Reader, though. Plus Bruce is rich with a bunch of adopted kids, on paper he looks like the best option.

☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎

I really love the thought of Reader using their abilities for silly little things while back in Smalltown, at least before things absolutely go to hell in a hand basket. So I'll probably include a bit. (They used to do things like that before moving to Gotham, definitely.) Something I want to mention is that Reader likes to make it rain when their happy. It's their favorite weather, they love it. So a grave scene might be a bit different. (I have to include that now. Thank you for that idea! Frick, Part Eight about to be long af.)

☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎

If your curious about Reader's other grandparents, they just died from old age and health problems. I like to think that Reader had a close relationship with them. Calling them MawMaw and Gab for their nicknames and having spent a lot of time with Reader and their Little Brother before they died. (I'm sorely tempted to just commit to rewriting this with the OC I based Reader off of so I can include all this backstory to highlight how different their life in Gotham is compared to what it used to be, but I best finish what I started first.)

(Side Note: It's very common in the American south for people to give their grandparents nicknames. I have some for my southern grandparents, while I call my northern grandparents just plain Grandma and Grandpa. The nickname can vary and is usually what ever the first grandchild comes up with.)

Thank you for sending me this ask! Stuff like this actually inspires me so this was wonderful. Hopefully this helps. (Now to get back to work on my writing, I've been draggin' my feet again.)

[cosmerelists]

Renarin Ranks Starting Places For New Readers of the Cosmere Series

"Renarin ranks something" requested by @themoonstonechronicler :)

Fans often argue about where new readers should start in the Cosmere: which book is the best starting place? In this list, Renarin will rank various options. Because if any character can break the fourth wall, it's either Hoid (of course) or Renarin with his funky corrupted Future Sight.

[Contains Stormlight Spoilers through Rhythm of War!]

1. Way of Kings

"Starting with Way of Kings is like jumping into a 4 versus 1 Shardblade duel armed with a sword that screams when you touch it after a lifetime of not really being allowed to train in real combat scenarios due to your blood weakness. Will you be in over your head? Yes. Might the experience harm you? Very possibly. Will Kaladin's presence save you? Absolutely. Is it a bad idea? Objectively yes. BUT does this choice make you inherently cool? I think so. At least, I have no regrets."

...

"Make that very few regrets."

"I give this an 8/10."

2. Elantris

"Listen...I get it. You want to start from the beginning. Proceed chronologically. I think my cousin Jasnah would be inclined toward this. But speaking as a 'funky time guy,' as Adolin called me once, I have to say that the past doesn't necessarily predict the future and uh...this one just might be a little tough to start with. In my opinion."

"4/10."

3. Tress of the Emerald Sea

"I think...I think I like Wit. Mostly. There was that one time he tried to make everyone think I was hooking up with, like, multiple women at once, which was...weird. But he also made fun of me. Which does not sound good, but it meant he respected me in a Wit way. In any event, this book is like sitting and listening to Wit for hours. Is it good if that is the first thing you ever do? Maybe? The little rat is cute."

"9/10."

4. Yumi and the Nightmare Painter

"This one is Wit too. Just to get that out of the way. And I think it might be a little bit confusing for a first-time reader since it is clearly being told to a Rosharan, which is not something a new reader would understand."

"But on the other hand, it is maybe...refreshing to have a main character who hasn't yet realized what he's good at, and another main character who hasn't yet realized that not all aspects of her religion should restrict her as much as they do."

"So a confusing place to start, but not necessarily a bad one."

"6/10."

5. The Emperor's Soul

"This one is short! That might be good for someone who is looking for less of a commitment. Plus, it involves a lot of research into how things work, if that appeals to you. But I think the real benefit is that if someone is reading it to you, it would probably only take a few hours."

"10/10."

6. The Sunlit Man

"This book is like seeing into the future, since it is literally about the future. It's also very painful. Which, in my experience, the future often is. The future can be changed...but not in this case, because now it's written down. So I would say: start here at your own risk. On the other hand, it will probably seem less sad if you read it without any backstory. But it will make other things sadder later, trust me."

"3/10."

7. White Sand

"This one can be good if you're a man, since there are a lot of pictures. There are also a lot of words, of course, but if you're just starting out on the reading thing, then having the pictures would help a lot I'd imagine."

"6/10."

8. Warbreaker

"Speaking as someone who...well, I can't say that I deliberately make dramatic reveals, but I have been known to do things like scrawl warnings on a wall or appear suddenly from the shadows or, you know, stuff like that. So I might actually recommend reading this before you read our books, just so you can have those, 'Wait, it's YOU!' moments over and over again."

"Seriously, why did so many of those characters end up in our series?"

"I'm not answering the question, though. This one is standalone, and not too long, yet still manages to have a pretty big cast of characters and a bunch of storylines. It is like Sanderson training."

"8/10."

9. The Last Empire

"This is what everyone always tells you to do. Sometimes it can get frustrating when everyone is SO SURE that they know what's good for you, especially your dad, who won't listen when you tell him that you don't want to become an ardent even though he thinks it's the best. And you know what? In the end, I am a fighter, but also a scholar, since men can do both now. So sometimes what people say is good, but only when it happens in the way you want it to and...I think I lost the thread. Um. You can do what people tell you that you should do IF you want to. "

"If you start here, I imagine you'll like it. Sometimes what everyone tells you to do is a good idea...but only if it's what you want too."

"9/10."

10. The Alloy of Law

"Starting with Mistborn Era 2 is like bonding a corrupt spren. It's almost what everyone agrees is a good thing to do (start with Mistborn / bond a spren), only you're going about it in a...different way. But different is not necessarily bad! Yes, I have abilities that are maybe from Odium and that give me a maybe sacrilegious ability to foretell the future...but when given the chance, I immediately recommended my best friend do the same thing."

"Being different can be good. 7/10."

[inchidentally]

"short and easier to read" babe I am so sorry to you and everyone else for how my insane posts come out - it's why I link to so much stuff bc it is a struggleee for me to not write just run-on sentences ;__; but I do get what you mean and I promise I tried my best - it's def shorter than the og and in smaller bites if that helps ??

(I actually wrote this on someone else's laptop so it's got proper punctuation and capitalization and everything!)

For those who don’t know: Oscar is an acts of service guy Lando is a words of affirmation guy. Let’s remember that someone’s love language is how they choose to express themselves, not what they should demand of others!

Oscar is also very much not a PR guy, for anyone totally oblivious to the obvious (and that all his "greatest hits" in PR were done unintentionally or bc he's awkward or bc his mom is cooler than him). For example, Oscar brings up his girlfriend of 4-5 years a fair amount but it’s almost hilariously not gushy or romantic (having a “cuddle” is as far as it goes lasfgjlsagfl). But he’s said himself that for the most part he’d prefer not to have too much private life available to the public. *His downtime with Lando joins in with all his other social life in being extremely limited to the public. 

The “thanking the sponsors” thing is one of Oscar’s safe, approved speeches he pulled from Andrea so that Oscar doesn’t have to do spontaneous on-camera speaking. Sorry but not all of us are good at it and it’s wayyyy easier to just have some rehearsed pre-approved soundbites. He tends to have a few that he repeats for a while until he updates the list lsafjslafhlafh.

He also very openly struggles to do on-camera speaking and no one knows that better than Lando who’s had to help him a huge amount. 

It does seem to be mostly cameras that make him stressed bc he was fine thanking Lando for his help in Baku at the fan stage in Singapore and overall he can use more of his dry humor when he's speaking to people rather than just to a camera. 

Lando’s recent inclusion of Oscar in his media responses to this degree is a reaction to Hungary and Monza - normally, his post race responses focus on himself and his own performance (which is literally normal and the default for drivers!!). The recent emphasis on teamwork/Oscar is something he feels he needs to do with his own PR work right now. He’s a smart man who’s been doing this a long time, so his reasons are valid no matter what fans think. He’s not sitting there working out or analyzing Oscar’s PR, just his own. 

People are absolutely running away with themselves over Monza and ignoring that apart from that one moment, Oscar is widely popularly seen as the supportive teammate role. To the point where last year and even part of this year, Lando was criticized by a lot of fans for not acknowledging Oscar enough.

Going off of that, let’s show how easy it is to take PR and media to make one of them look bad by turning it around onto Lando (!! this is for an example, I do NOT endorse hating on Lando for any of it !!)

Lando openly disliked being referred to as the “older teammate” and kinda left Oscar to his own devices so much last season that Oscar wouldn’t know where he was going a lot of the time and even semi-joked “my teammate’s abandoned me” (again, reminder this was not a source of drama for anyone but fans). He got called a little duckling a lot bc he’d tail Lando closely so as not to lose him. In fact it started irking some people that Lando would spend so much time with Carlos or Daniel and not getting to know his new teammate and helping him out with his rookie season of F1 the way Carlos did for Lando.

In every team photo where Lando has had a podium and Oscar has had nothing (and sometimes due at least in part to team orders!) which is very often! the comments sections have always had plenty of ‘Oscar is such a great team player, always happy and showing up for Lando no matter what’. So the whole ‘Oscar doesn’t do enough for Lando’ narrative is extremely recent and at odds with the rest of reality.

Please read the very first part of my enormous full post bc Lando didn’t thank Oscar for his Miami win, he praised his driving.

Even though at Silverstone this year Lando got on the podium and Oscar didn’t, Oscar made the fan stage all about bringing Lando out of his disappointment and even said he did the shoey “to make us feel better” and then dedicated the top row of his IG that week to photos and videos of him and Lando. Special note that this is in no way Oscar’s home race and he was solely seeing it as emotional for Lando and McLaren - and he had zero reason to personally be very happy after that weekend.

I’ve seen Melbourne this year get mentioned in the team orders discussions on my fyps, so that’s a handy example in many ways: Despite Melbourne being Oscar’s literal hometown race - and Lando even filming some Quadrant stuff at Oscar’s childhood karting track where a corner is named after him* - this year Lando didn’t acknowledge Oscar really at all over the weekend until someone mentioned him at the end of the podium press conference. Lando acknowledged that Oscar following team orders made his (Lando’s) drive a bit easier in Melbourne this year but said that he was faster than Oscar and deserved third over him anyway. (Good contrast to Hungary and even Carlos stating that something an undercut due to pit strategy shouldn’t erase one teammate being faster/more dominant in a race in order to give the other teammate the win!) He did PR work with pretty much everyone except Oscar actually, even doing promo for his (Lando’s) dad’s electric scooters on the new dotmov acc. Kind of like him being on a similar PR campaign at Singapore this year because of a sneak preview of Quadrant rebranding and announcing the Landostand at Silverstone  - he went for the biggest PR hits and posted Daniel on his jpg account, did a golf day with Carlos and Max F and was more active on socials than he had been for months. All while only having Oscar in one photo out of the whole weekend’s carousel despite the McLaren double podium. You could even read into him cutting Oscar and Oscar’s trophy out of two of the shots if you wanted! (He did include Oscar in the big group photo after the podium celebrations.)

*I saw some ppl say he didn't include Oscar in the Melbourne karting filming bc McLaren doesn't cross over with Quadrant, which isn't true. Zak has shares in Quadrant and Bianca has been included in the Quadrant rebranding launch with Lando's Singapore helmet design.

See how easy that was to flip it around?? If you’re even slightly biased against a driver or never see flaws in another- or are dying for two teammates to hate each other - then confirmation bias will always find plenty of “evidence”! Because the reality is that after the Austin GP, Lando found his “older teammate” mode and began helping Oscar out with his rookie year. In Melbourne, Lando spent his first day filming for his .mov account including the Oscar jersey and merch he came across - and Oscar mentioned how he and Lando talked about Lando filming at his old track. (Again, not PR coordinated or filmed, just mentioned!) And that after the Singapore race this year, they beamed at each other every other second of that night, filmed a deliriously happy post race video and joked in the cool down room - I honestly doubt have even noticed yet what the other has posted to IG salfhsalfafa. All of the negativity fans are coming up with is their own personal spin and does not resemble how Lando and Oscar are behaving to or speaking about each other.

They base their relationship on their conversations and interactions solely away from the public and the cameras and don’t do any inflammatory commentary about each other. They bragged about the door in the team hub that separates their drivers rooms from everyone else and leaves them open only to each other. Their communications only matter to each other when in private.

Segueing on from that: media and social media are literally PR. Lando is extremely skilled at it now and Oscar is not at all naturally skilled and is still learning. Lando is quick to be able to adapt his media responses, Oscar is not and often sounds stilted and uncomfortable. But it still has nothing to do with how they think of each other and talk to each other personally.

And “Landoscar” has never had the typical PR bromance aspect that we all love in other teammates, and it never will. Lando and Oscar mention but don’t broadcast or package their downtime together and they don’t share their private dynamic with fans or the media apart from the glimpses we see in more relaxed content. It’s just their choice! And just like it doesn’t mean Lando and Oscar are less friends because they don’t PR their relationship, it doesn’t mean the friendships who do utilize PR are less friends! 

And tbh that’s a good note to leave on: that seeing two drivers with no PR to gain from openly liking and respecting each other should mean that we as fans place less importance on the PR responses they give to media and put on social media. So many people want them to hate each other (Netflix even begging them outright) and rivalries get far more headlines and fan engagement, that if these two didn’t like each other or even were blah about each other, they wouldn’t waste time trying to fake it (side note ppl actually thought this joke was deadly serious for a short while). F1 isn’t team sports, no one really cares if drivers or teams appear “friendly” unless they’re desperate for money/engagement to keep them afloat (even there, Alpine prove it clearly isn’t a priority to have friendly teammates when you’re lower down the grid!)

There is absolutely nothing to be gained for them in faking the smiles and laughter and twinning. Equally there’s nothing to be gained by us as fans in judging them and their relationship based on their PR responses and PR work. Lando beams and smiles the same at Oscar after all of Oscar’s awkward, stiff debrief speeches and I kind of want one of these crazy stans to say to him that Oscar is a bad team player and doesn’t show Lando enough appreciation just to watch what his adorable face does in response (don’t do that I’m joking).

[olderthannetfic]

The people who tag the main ship/character/person when they are posting anti-ship/character/person stuff piss me off so much.

We get it. You’re an attention-seeker. Can you stop now? When you call them out on it they’ll be like “I was just expressing my opinions” that’s true on the broadest sense. But it’s a bit like going to a church picnic and going on a long atheist rant. We get what you’re doing. You’re being an asshole. It’s so fucking transparent that they just wanted to get the attention of the people who like [insert ship/character/person].

I’ve stopped giving them that attention because it’s not worth my time, but it infuriates me every time I see it.

Another thing that annoys me is some people’s allergy to the read more button is super annoying. I don’t want to read your characterxoc/reader right now. Mind you, I love characterxoc / character x reader fics, but I’ve got five minute work break and I spent like 15 seconds scrolling past a wall of fucking text.

Ok im done complaining.

--

I stopped using readmores when I realized they make stuff unreadable in certain contexts. Now, I usually just rely on the ability to truncate long posts.

[pretzel-box]

Chapter 2: The W in WcWonalds stands for Winning

Tags: Pure comedy

Words: 2,9k

“Allo, Allo. Allo! Pspspsps, Allo!” Casimir beamed brightly at the other man, holding up a small box labeled Paper Cups as if he’d just discovered the secret to life.

Allo, without lifting his head entirely from the ridiculously long newspaper that stretched halfway down the table, side-eyed Casimir and then glanced at the box. He raised an unimpressed eyebrow and sighed. “If you’re trying to sell me paper cups again, please know that I will dispose of them just like the last 23 you’ve tried to push on me.”

Casimir’s grin didn’t falter for even a second. In fact, it widened. He shook the box a little for emphasis. “Ah, but no, no, my friend. This is no ordinary box of paper cups. This is a box full of—”

“COKE!” Nick's voice suddenly boomed through the air, cutting Casimir off entirely. Nick barreled through a nearby patch of open water, waving frantically. “I WANT TO ORDER A COKE!”

In front of him, Cheshire was swimming as fast as possible, trying to escape whatever chaos Nick was trying to rope them into this time.

Casimir, still holding up the box, blinked and watched the scene unfold. He glanced at Allo, who hadn’t even bothered to look up from his paper.

“...Coke?” Casimir finally muttered, confused, before shaking it off and continuing his pitch. “Anyway, as I was saying, this box is full of—”

“I SAID, COKE!” Nick shouted again, now completely ignoring everyone else as he chased Cheshire around the water, determined to complete his non-existent order.

Casimir sighed dramatically, muttering under his breath. “Forget the paper cups. I should’ve invested in better staff members.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Allo raised an eyebrow, still clutching the ridiculously long newspaper but not actually reading it anymore. His tone was more of a dare than a question.

The inquiry alone set off a mischievous glint in Casimir’s eyes. Without hesitation, he shoved Allo off his seat and plopped down himself, ready to deliver a grand tale. “Ah, my friend, let me take you on a journey.”

And with that, a flashback started—whether anyone wanted it or not, everyone around them was suddenly pulled into it.

It was probably a Tuesday afternoon. Inside the community room, Sasha stood in the middle, notebook in hand, while Painter sat idly on top of a catering cart. Painter’s mobile body wasn’t quite ready yet, so Sasha, ever the problem-solver, had resorted to using the catering cart as his temporary mode of transportation.

“So, we should improve our quality of life by adding more human-like stuff,” Sasha declared, placing her notebook down on Painter, who quietly blinked.

Painter, who was basically a high-tech computer with personality, hummed thoughtfully. “The system suggests that a quality improvement for life would involve... good food. Good food is essential for a good atmosphere.”

Casimir’s voice echoed through the flashback, narrating as if this were an epic saga. “Ah, but of course, this suggestion was the catalyst for everything. The search for 'good food' began, and soon, chaos would follow.”

Back in the present, Allo had stopped pretending to care about the newspaper. He stared blankly at Casimir. "This is all about food?"

Casimir nodded solemnly, but before he could continue the saga, another loud “COKE!” came from Nick, still sprinting through the water, causing Cheshire to swim faster to escape.

"Of course, it always starts with food," Casimir said dramatically, pointing at Nick as if this proved his point entirely. "And ends with—"

Before Casimir could finish, Angela stormed into the scene, hands on her hips, glaring at everyone. "WHAT is going on here?! Do you think this is a playground?! Nick! Stop shouting about Coke! Cheshire, stop encouraging him! And you—" She pointed at Casimir, who tried his best to look innocent. "Stop throwing people off chairs and starting flashbacks without warning!"

Casimir blinked, then grinned sheepishly. "Oh... mother mode, activated."

“Ah, Allo, I’m sorry for startling you,” Angela’s tone switched in an instant, going from stern to soft and motherly. Amilia paddled up behind her, making her way onto land before plopping down next to Casimir.

Casimir pouted dramatically, folding his arms. “I wasn’t done—”

But Angela, ever so gently, took over, and like some sort of magical spell, we were all once again pulled into another flashback.

“I know the perfect source for good food,” Cordelia’s voice rang out confidently as she entered, a spotlight somehow illuminating her entrance. She strutted down a random set of stairs, stepping into the room with the energy of a magical girl lead. Without hesitation, she squished herself between Sasha and Painter, striking a pose. “McDonald's!”

“McDonald’s? We can’t do that. It has a copyright,” Painter deadpanned, his digital voice full of skepticism.

“WcWonalds...?” Sasha offered, her voice uncertain but filled with hope. The suggestion hit Cordelia like a revelation, her eyes lighting up in awe.

“WcWonalds!” Cordelia repeated, as if it were the most groundbreaking idea in existence.

Angela of the past, shook her head at the absurdity, watching the scene play out with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. "You all really are impossible." She sighed, but it was the kind of sigh a mother gives after realizing her kids are too far gone in their antics.

The flashback ended, and the moment Angela wanted to continue, another person came crashing into the room.

“Lord Commander, oh mighty WcWonalds leader, Casimir. René started a fire in the kitchen, innocent fries are burning.” Cyrus called out, his neat little WcWonalds uniform was now covered in soot.

Casimir blinked, before sighing. “What about the Walkie Talkie I gave you?”

“It fell victim to the fryer, it is now among the burning pommes.”

Casimir took the paper cup box, opened it and revealed a set of Walkie Talkies, sponsored by Sebastian. He threw a new one to Cyrus, not noticing that Angela snatched one for herself too out of the box.

Amelia wanted to grab one too, trying to fish one out with her mouth but Angela kept her in place, shaking silently her head.

The WcWonalds—formerly an abandoned cafeteria near the community room—had become a gathering spot for anyone seeking mischief or simply trying to avoid responsibilities. Dusty tables were half-cleaned, the counters lined with mismatched kitchen gadgets that looked like they'd been scavenged from a dump. The old sign out front, haphazardly covered with duct tape, now proudly read “WcWonalds,” a creation of Cordelia’s, still beaming over her brilliant copyright dodge.

Inside, chaos reigned as usual. Painter rolled around on his squeaky, upgraded cart, stationed behind the cash register, which refused to stay closed no matter how hard he tried. Cordelia, wearing a lampshade turned into a hat, was overseeing the operation with the air of someone who believed they were running a legitimate establishment. Meanwhile, Cheshire, who escaped Nick, sat at the counter, arms crossed and half-amused as he watched the antics unfold.

The whole group could stay at the restaurant without drying out thanks to the fact that most of the area is damaged, flooded or just naturally having water leaks.

"So, today’s special is...” Painter’s robotic voice paused dramatically as he calculated, “...whatever isn’t expired in the back fridge."

Cheshire leaned back, smirking. “Ah, the usual, then. Can’t wait to see what’s alive back there.”

René, wearing a firefighter’s helmet after their most recent mishap in the kitchen, walked in with a slightly dazed look on their face. They wails, afraid of setting anything else on fire.

Meanwhile Cordelia shouted: “Has anyone seen the toaster oven? I’m pretty sure it disappeared after I used it to heat up some fries.”

Security, leaning against the counter with her tail in a small bucket of water, waved her off. “It’s probably with the deep fryer. I saw it lurking under the sink last time I checked.”

“Right, the deep fryer incident,” Painter muttered, his mechanical voice tinged with guilt. “It... uh... exploded during ‘Experiment 12.’”

Sasha, sitting at a booth with her notebook, raised an eyebrow. “Wait, what was ‘Experiment 12’ again? I don’t have that one listed.”

“Oh, you missed that,” Cheshire replied dryly. “They wanted to see if you could fry fries twice and make them better. Spoiler alert: no.”

As the conversation carried on, René started rummaging through the kitchen, pulling out random items and tossing them aside in search of the toaster. A large jar of pickles rolled across the floor, narrowly missing Security's bucket.

Cordelia, taking her managerial role way too seriously, slapped her hands together. “Alright, people! Time to focus. What’s the WcWonalds slogan again?”

Painter beeped softly before saying, “We can’t get sued if we don’t sell anything.”

Cheshire chuckled. “That’s the spirit.”

A group of new "customers" wandered into WcWonalds, looking both curious and mildly confused. Asterion, with his usual stoic expression, led the way, followed by Tapu, who was already trying to hold back laughter at the sight of the makeshift restaurant. Hanako peered in shyly from the doorway with Yuri, still unsure about the whole situation, and Osiris trailed behind, looking far too regal for the mess she was about to step into.

Cordelia, now fully embracing her self-proclaimed manager status, puffed out her chest and called for order. She turned dramatically toward Security, who was leaning against the wall, half-asleep, with her arms crossed still in the same bucket.

“You! Nr. 7! Bring the customers to a table!” Cordelia ordered, finger pointing like an overly enthusiastic drill sergeant.

Security, who hadn’t moved a muscle in response, slowly raised an eyebrow and shifted her gaze to Cordelia. “Nr. 7? Did you just call me by a number?”

Without missing a beat, Cordelia nodded, clearly proud of herself. “Of course. It’s the official WcWonalds ranking system. You’re number seven.”

Security blinked, her expression unchanging. “And who decided I’m number seven?”

“I did. Obviously,” Cordelia said matter-of-factly. “Now, do your job, or you’ll be demoted to number... uh... 13. Which is bad.”

Security exhaled slowly, clearly unimpressed but too tired to argue. “And why, exactly, is being number 13 bad?”

Cordelia hesitated for a second. “Because... because... that’s the person who has to clean the fridge. And trust me, no one wants that job.”

Painter, from behind the register, beeped in agreement. “The probability of someone finding a sentient yogurt in there is approximately 73%. Proceed with caution.”

Tapu burst out laughing, slapping Asterion on the back. “Did you hear that? Sentient yogurt! I knew this place was special!”

Asterion, as stoic as ever, just grunted and found a seat, looking like a king who had been forced to dine in a peasant’s tavern. Osiris, meanwhile, eyed the tables with disdain before gingerly sitting down, making sure to inspect the chair first as if it might crumble beneath her.

Hanako, still lingering by the door, quietly murmured, “Is it safe in here?” While Yuri tried to spot an open seat that didn't scream danger.

Cheshire, who had been watching the whole interaction from the counter, leaned over and grinned. “Safe? Sure. But I wouldn’t drink anything from the soda machine. Last time we used it, it started spewing foam... and that was three weeks ago.”

Hanako blinked, now even more hesitant to step inside. “I... I’ll just sit by the window,” she mumbled, sliding into a booth far away from the chaos. Yuri followed her with a nod, feeling rather comfortable in the flooded part of the facility.

Cordelia, completely oblivious to the growing unease of her guests, clapped her hands. “Alright, everyone! We’re a well-oiled machine here! Number 7—uh, Security—get them some menus!”

Security just sighed and grabbed a pile of random, crumpled papers from behind the counter, tossing them on the nearest table. “Here. The ‘menu.’ Good luck.”

Tapu unfolded one of the papers and raised an eyebrow. “This is... a takeout flyer from a Chinese place. And it’s from last year.”

Cordelia beamed. “Exactly! Our food transcends time and space. We don't need real menus! Just... feel the vibe of what you want to eat like royalty. Customer is King.”

Painter whirred. “Vibes detected: 99% likelihood of disappointment.”

Osiris, completely unamused, stared down at the so-called "menu" before deadpanning, “I’m royalty. I do not 'feel the vibe' of my food. I expect a menu, and I expect service.”

Cordelia shot her with finger guns. “And that’s exactly what you’re gonna get! Just... not today.”

At that, Tapu couldn’t hold it in anymore. She slapped her hand on the table, cackling. “This is the worst place I’ve ever been, and I love it.”

Asterion leaned back in his chair, folding his arms, his usual grim demeanor cracking slightly. “This is what passes for ‘good food’ around here? No wonder half of them look malnourished.”

Cordelia, not one to be defeated, marched up to Painter. “Alright, get the food ready! What’s the special of the day?”

Painter beeped a few times before announcing, “Special of the day: leftover fries and... one singular chicken nugget.”

Tapu snorted. “One nugget? How generous.”

Cordelia, determined not to lose her managerial swagger, nodded confidently. “It’s a gourmet experience. We serve... minimalist portions.”

Osiris groaned, rubbing her temples. “I demand real food.”

From somewhere in the back, René’s voice wailed which kinda meant, “I FOUND THE TOASTER!”

A loud crash followed, and smoke started wafting out from the kitchen, followed by René stumbling out, their firefighter’s helmet askew. Sasha called out after seeing the smoke. “Uh, minor issue. The toaster may have... uh... caught fire. Again.”

Tapu slapped the table again, this time harder. “Best. Restaurant. Ever.”

Asterion simply sighed as Hanako slid further down into her booth, now reconsidering every decision that had led her to this point.

The whole room felt like it was about to collapse in chaos until, suddenly, Allo ascended from a random hole in the kitchen floor like some culinary deity. He stood there, glowing (probably from the fryer grease) and with an aura of absurd authority.

"Did someone say my name?"

Everyone shook their heads so fast, you’d think they were auditioning for a shampoo commercial. The denials came quickly from all corners.

"Nope."

"Definitely not."

"Not even a whisper."

Allo, completely unbothered, smirked. “Too bad, because now I am here!” His arms shot up dramatically, as if commanding the forces of fast food. “Tag Team, assembly!”

From behind some very suspiciously placed lockers came a loud bang, as they burst open to reveal his “elite squad”:

First up was Nautilea. She marched out, looking sharp in her pressed WcWonalds uniform and glasses. "Looks smart, is smart. Can handle the cash register with her eyes closed and your order with care. But only if you have insurance!"

Yuri raised an eyebrow. "Insurance? For what exactly?"

"Existential dread," Painter beeped quietly from the register.

Next was Roxy, who strutted out balancing six plates in one hand, all perfectly stacked. "Our talented waitress! Can carry your entire order on one arm and balance a stack of pancakes on her head! But," Cordelia added dramatically, "if you complain... she’ll give you extra service by spitting on the food you didn’t order."

Roxy cracked her knuckles, eyeing Osiris. “Try me.”

She immediately looked away.

Finally, Violet stumbled out, looking more confused than anyone else. “Violet, our in-house therapist,” Cordelia introduced, clapping her hands. “She didn’t apply for the job—she got kidnapped! But now, she leads the therapy sessions required after your visit to WcWonalds. Free and anonymous... except for the fact that they’re televised. So, not anonymous anymore!”

Violet waved weakly. “I’m still not sure how I got here... but I’m rolling with it.”

Suddenly, a blaring red light filled the room, accompanied by the wail of a siren. Everyone jumped to attention.

“The WcWonalds emergency alarm!” Allo shouted over the noise. “A starving customer in need!” His voice was dripping with the intensity of a chef who had just been challenged to a cooking duel.

Without missing a beat, Allo swooped over to the one remaining chicken nugget, lying lonely and pathetic on the counter. With the precision of a master, he sliced it into thin strips. Then, with a sprinkle of some mysterious dust (was it seasoning? Magic? No one knew), he popped the strips into the microwave for precisely 10 seconds.

When the microwave dinged, he pulled out the tray, revealing what could only be described as the world’s finest chicken chili wraps. The wrap glistened, like it had been blessed by the gods of fast food themselves.

The crowd erupted into applause. Asterion even managed to clap once, though begrudgingly.

Allo handed the plate to Roxy, who balanced it with ease. “Delivery time!” she called out before kicking it toward Violet.

Violet, with surprising grace, caught the plate mid-air, throwing it again to Nautilea who catched it. “Wrap, incoming!” she yelled, throwing it toward the door just as Sebastian stepped inside.

SMACK.

The wrap hit him square in the face, various ingredients slopping down his clothes in slow motion. He stood frozen in the doorway, staring in bewilderment as shredded lettuce and chili sauce dripped off his nose and splattered on the floor.

The room went silent for a beat.

Sebastian blinked. "What... in the name of Urbanshade...?"

Tapu, unable to hold it in any longer, burst into laughter, slapping the table. "Best... restaurant... EVER!"

Painter's voice chimed in softly from the register, “Current vibe level: chaotic excellence.”

Then Angela came in, carrying Amilia on her arms and giving Sebastian a glance. Amilia sniffed on Sebastian before giving him a soft kick.

“YOU ALL ARE SO GROUNDED.”

WcWonalds got force closed after this day. And this was the end of Allos wonderful job as a chef. Now he was just Allo, the man that never got to fulfill his dreams.

[iamthecomet]

-appears in a plume of smoke-

I come bearing Dewther thoughts, because I have been thinking about them.

Okay, so going with the idea that Aether is back at the abbey doing other work, I need you to imagine that, despite having the internet and phones and all that, it's not always easy to sit down and have a call or even really respond to messages with time differences, spotty signals, other people in the room, etc... so Dew sends Aether postcards while he's on tour.

Obviously, Dew has already left the location after the postcard is sent, but I like to think that once they get back into the country post tour -maybe staying at a hotel overnight before making the long haul home- Dew sends a post card ahead of him so that Aether knows he's back... but doesn't tell him he's going to be home the next day.

Aether just thinks he sent his stuff ahead, and he did, but it's because he doesn't want to have to deal with a bunch of luggage when he could be running over to hug him, ya know?

Something, something, Aether is looking at the postcard like, "When will my husband return from the war-" and then Dew's doing little jumping jacks to get his attention outside of the infirmary's windows, because fuck waiting with the bus, he wants to see his man NOW.

Anyway, Aether hangs the postcards in his office and grins at them like a complete dork whenever someone mentions them.

Also Dew definitely gives him hea-

-vanishes before finishing that sentence-

SADJKFASDFw. Lamp your brain is so big. I adore this. I'm picturing Aether's little spot where he has them all hung up--in order. How he pulls them down to look at sometimes, re-reads them--even after Dew is home. He's just sentimental like that. And yes, Aether is definitly staring longingly at Dew's latest postcard, while the bus is pulling into the Abbey. While Dew is walking over to the infirmary windows to tap his fingers on the glass and scare the absolute shit out of Aether because he cannot wait one more second to see his face. And yeah, I mean. Dew definitely pulls Aether into the nearest room with a door that closes (lock optional) because if he doesn't get his mouth on him right now he is going to "actually die." I love them so much.

[mustainegf]

can you write about dave comforting the reader about scars on her arms? ik you did this w james already n i NEED it with dave😿😿 (SORRY IF UR UNCOMFY W THISS)

I’m not uncomfortable with this kinda stuff at all!! I hope it brings some comfort :)

𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐘 ¹⁹⁸⁴

I sat on the couch, my knees to my chest, studying the old scars that cascaded up and down my arms. It was just another night and they seemed more taunting, reminding me of what once was a part of me and refused to leave my past.

I heard the creak of the front door, which always warned of its opening, then heavy steps on the hardwood. It was Dave. My heart pounded in fear, and quickly, I wiped my cheeks dry of tears. He wasn't going to see me like this... again.

But the moment he steps into the room, I can smell it on him, the smoke, the liquor. It clings to him like a bad memory, but in a way, it's comforting as his smell. My eyes, red and swollen, met his. The grin that had been upon his face as he first entered the room vanished instantly, replaced with concern.

"Baby," he whispered, stepping closer, so that he was right on the other side of the couch. He squatted down and took my hands in his, his hands closing over mine. "Did you... do it again?"

I shook my head, feeling fresh tears spill over. "No, I didn't. I was just... looking at them and it made me feel—" and my voice cracked, I couldn't finish the sentence.

He hadn't said a word, just gathered me back into his arms as he had tightened. Even the smell of him, smoke and all, brought me a tiny bit of comfort. That was joined, however by its very own sad reminder of where he'd been. He had started to rock me back and forth.

"I'm proud of you," he whispered, finally breaking his voice. "You're so strong. You know that? So strong." Dave whispered.

His words brought tears more freely now, in that way you cry when you've been keeping it all inside for way, way too long. I buried my face in his chest, the soft fabric of his shirt absorbing my tears. "I don't feel strong, Dave."

His arms on me squeezed a bit tighter as his hand began to rub slow circles over my back. "You're here, with me, right now... you're the strongest person I know."

I wanted to believe him, God knows, I did. I wanted to take his words and wrap them around my heart like an armor of protection. The scars on my arms told a different story, reminded me of how many times I had failed, how many nights I hadn't been strong enough for myself.

As if reading my mind, Dave took one of my arms in his hands, gently tracing the lines of the scars with his fingers. His touch was so tender it made my heart ache. “These don’t define a single thing about you,” he said softly. “They’re just part of your story, but... they’re not the whole story..”

I had to look back up into his eyes and see his sincerity. My storm weakened for a moment. He was right; I had survived, and I was still here. Surely that had to mean something.

"You've been through a living hell, but you survived it."

I nodded, his words coming slowly through the drum of my ear. We stayed this way for almost an hour, just holding on to each other as the world slipped slowly from outside. i slowly combed my shaky fingers through his fiery hair, twisting gently as the curls.

I mumbled then, just softly. For Dave, and Dave only, "Thank you for being you..."

He kissed the top of my head, his lips lingering there while with a soft chuckle, "Always, baby. Always."

[goldenlaquer]

Woahhhh if asks are open... can I ask for Gintoki trying really hard to impress this girl he likes, but everything goes to absolute shit because this is Gintama? Totally fine if you delete! I still devour all your old stuff to fill my soul with life 🥹 Never come across anyone who writes Gintama as accurately as you bebe 😘

Sakata Gintoki Headcanons:

If Gintoki made a list of pros and cons about himself, it would probably read like this:

Pro: he has a big dick. (Big dick reading as BIG DICK, in bold, all-caps. Triple underlined.)

Con: he's a perfectionist. (Con: he's a liar.)

So, it isn't all that hard to imagine impressing you would be a Herculean task for Gintoki.

Asking Kagura for advice is like shooting yourself in the foot. Gin-chan is penniless, she says matter-of-factly. No lady wants a broke, mooching, deadbeat boyfriend. A pause to let him absorb these insults, and then, Papi brought Mama three heads, she kindly tells him like it's the secret to your heart, and that's very romantic in Yato culture apparently. Which reminds Gintoki that Kagura is from a different species just as much as her barely counting as female to begin with. Well, in human culture, he could give you as many heads as you'd want— but that's bases away and he's been swinging strikes all throughout this sad, unrequited game.

Asking Shinpachi— no, no. Now, that's a lost cause.

He tries. He does. He really tries.

He tries complimenting you. Suavely slide in a comment about how your teeth looks like it could bite into hard candy, no problem. That your hair doesn't look as dry and brittle today than it did yesterday, and oh wow, your tits look... wow. Double thumbs up.

He tries paying for your meal, to show that he can provide for you, that he's not going to be the broke, mooching, deadbeat boyfriend Kagura deemed him to be. Work a few odd jobs and have all the correct bills in his normally depleted wallet, even break a comb on his hair and get dressed to the nines in his nice, regular clothes that passed the sniff inspection when he shook it out from a pile of unwashed laundry— and it's just, while on the way to his favorite family diner he invited you to, he's passing by a pachinko parlor, with all of its flashy get-rich-quick displays and bright dinging noises from within, and that was when he's suddenly sensing it... the taste of victory. Long story short, the only thing he'll end up tasting is the strawberry parfait that you paid for.

Whatever poor progress that manages to inch forward always ends straight back to the negatives. Damn the perverted stalker and her masochistic plays she forces on him. Damn the timing and whatever deity has pitted against him when you step onto the scene to the sight of him wielding a paddle as the stalker squeals happily while tied to the wooden cross. No, this isn't— he wants to tell you, but your expression has already smoothed into a carefully blank canvas before you turn your back to him and walk away to leave him to... it. No, this isn't what it looks like, he wants to scream.

In a mood of desperation and shots deep in cheap gutter sake, he'd even wrote a poem in the dead of night, detailing the color of your eyes and all the things they reminded him of, invented a new word just to make a rhyme with your name, how the sound of your voice catches in his chest when he hears it— shit if he knew anything about pretty words, he'd never wrote anything longer than a drawn penis before— and once he was done, what he did next was ball the whole sheet up, open the nearest window, and pitch it to the stars. The lamest shit he ever did in his life will be taken to his grave.

Sometimes, because his name is Gintoki, and he is the protagonist of a septic tank for low hanging fruit comedy series called 'Gintama', sometimes the whole universe is against him.

There is a two episode-length arc the occurs, but due to the time-constraints of these headcanons and the writer's own laziness, the details of it shall not be outlined, but please know it involves an exposition, conflict, rising action, a climax (and not the good kind), falling action, some explosions and a tiny grave misunderstanding that leaves you storming from the wreckage in fury and exasperation, and Gintoki catching your wrist, spinning you around to face him. Emotions and adrenaline running high, chests heaving in exertion, and seeing your face covered in soot and sweat and your eyes huge and wet, looking damn more beautiful than you have any right to be, that's when Gintoki finally decides to put his big balls to use and confess himself to you. Opening his mouth and—

Plotfully, the wind picks up, and then suddenly a wadded ball of paper rolls to hit your feet. Both you and Gintoki look down to stare at this interruption. You bend down to pick it up and unfold the ball, startling at whatever you find, snapping your eyes up to him. "Gin, your name is on here?"

Shit! Gintoki realizes, recognizing the paper now. This is the worst possible timing! My stupid shitty poem somehow found its way to the woman it was written for. And why the fuck did I sign it!

He looks left and right, searching for a vending machine to put his head through, and when there are none, he's scrubbing his face with his hand, looking at you and the damned poem he wrote that found it's way to you, as if was meant to be there. "I wrote it." He finally grumbles. "For you. Don't be creeped out."

Your eyes scan the page from top to bottom, reading. Your eyebrows shoot up, looking up at him with wide eyes.

"This is really what you think about me?" Your trembling voice barely above a whisper.

Gintoki pauses. Then nods. "Yeah. Every word."

Your expression blanks. You turn the wrinkled paper around. Gintoki squints.

Shit! Gintoki thinks. I was so drunk I never wrote anything down, I just drew a penis!

[scarrletmoon]

Do you have any Ed and Stede fic you could recommend to me? I love your fics so I think I'd like your recommendations :)

i'm so flattered 😭i barely read anything to begin with for multiple reasons (nothing to do with quality -- i've been in a lot of fandoms and this one BY FAR consistently has the most incredible fic) but uuuuhhhh let's go through my most recent bookmarks!

in case you don't want to scroll through all the rambles (oh and feel free to tag anyone if they're on tumblr, i just linked their ao3 pages):

An Uncharted Level of Waves by Living_City (E)

politely menacing by daydreamcrash (E)

charted by darcylindbergh (E)

serial blusher by daydreamcrash (T)

CringeFail Mob Boss Stede (series) by Panda_Birds (T)

but that's none of my business by chaotic_neutral_knitter (T)

Telescope by Jimsnose (E)

Untitled by oatmilktruther (T)

An Uncharted Level of Waves by Living_City (E)

something about this trans ed fic just got me. something about ed talking about his body with someone he trusts? something about how you can tell how deeply stede adores ed even when it's not from his perspective? also uuummm this has coming untouched, so. i'm a simple man,

politely menacing by daydreamcrash (E)

i'm so stupidly picky when it comes to stede characterization, but i took a chance bc i saw "what if......stede in the cat collar" and you know what. it was fuckin great. i love when stede gets to be the brat. i love seeing ed and stede trust each other. i like when ed gets to dom on his own terms. i love them being disgustingly in love

charted by darcylindbergh (E)

i assume im like, the last person to read this but it's one of those fics that just pops into my head out of nowhere sometimes and i just 🫠 as i said before, im a simple man and i'm a sucker for play that involves one of them trying to distract the other. sexually. anyway it's hot AND shows off how intelligent and skilled ed is. win-win

serial blusher by daydreamcrash (T)

(see sometimes i read stuff that isn't filth!) this fic is SO FUCKIN FUNNY. i just love the fact that ed's spent so long trying to meet someone, but of course the guy he instantly falls head over heels for is the one archie never even considered. it's "stede? STEDE stede?" manifested into a hilarious 5k fic. i love it

CringeFail Mob Boss Stede by Panda_Birds (T)

just gonna rec this entire series bc it's so FUCKING funny. i haven't read Performance Review but i trust sowmz' humor so much that i'm going to rec it sight unseen. they just manage to capture stede's terrible but kind-hearted boss energy without going too far into clueless michael scott territory. also ed is completely smitten and everyone is confused by it. it's great

but that's none of my business by chaotic_neutral_knitter (T)

i've probably hyped this fic too many times but idc. it's 1.5k of lucius losing his mind bc he's CONVINCED ed and stede have something going on but NO ONE will believe him (except exactly who you'd expect)

Telescope by Jimsnose (E)

another one of my always-recs. pretty sure jimsnose has left the fandom at this point but that doesn't change the fact that Telescope is incredible and i hope one day i write something even half as good as this. one thing i love about their writing is how you don't so much read it as let it HAPPEN to you. and sometimes i remember parts of this fic like glimpses through that telescope and it's just so incredibly vivid. you can feel the tension so well between ed and stede here, how much they care for each other, how that breaks them, how it brings them together. and jimsnose so good at what they do that i happily read their Ted Lasso fic. i've never watched Ted Lasso. idk if i ever will. idk what i was doing over there, reading it. but the fics are fuckin banger

Untitled by oatmilktruther (T)

first of all, read anything abs writes on sight, like go sub to them right now if you haven't already (i'm biased but im RIGHT). im picking kind of a weird one but you try and get the image of leather and stede and tongue-tied ed out of your head. right. exactly.

[luxmoogle]

I've just seen the post about being visceral horror fan and need to ask: what are your favourite horror titles? 💜 Do you have any recommendations? 💜

Beware, long post below..

This is honestly quite a hard question, and recommendations hinge on what kind of horror one would prefer, and in what medium..! Books, movies, manga, audio tales even! A lot of my personal horror tastes weigh on the side of psychological horror or ones with supernatural or mystic features, less of slashers and violence, though I do enjoy quite a few of such titles as well.. I'll try not to mention all of the most obvious stuff everyone's already seen.

When it comes to games, I always say that if Kingdom Hearts didn't exist my favorite game of all time would be Bloodborne. The gothic style, vague storytelling and existential horror really speak to me. The Project Zero (Fatal Frame in the US) -series is dear to my heart, specifically the third one. The Forbidden Siren -series was also quite a treat in it's time. Honorary meantion to ObsCure, a great game to play with multiple people at a time, but unfortunately I think it's one of the rarest games ever now, so finding a copy/playing it might be quite the challenge..

In literature, I'd recommend getting into classic horror short stories, especially from the eighteen-hundreds! The setting and time they were written in often give them an automatic edge for a spooky tone.. They're fun stuff to read on a moody afternoon, and don't require the bandwidth that a full book might, if you're not such an avid reader. Some suggestions:

The Vampyre, John William Polidori (1819) The Monkey's Paw, W. W. Jacobs (1902) The Room in the Tower, E. F. Benson (1912) Kerfol, Edith Wharton (1912) Afterward, Edith Wharton (1910) The Empty House, Algernon Blackwood (1906) Sir Edmund Orme, Henry James (1891) The Body-Snatcher, Robert Louis Stevenson (1881) The Yellow Wallpaper, Charlotte Perkins Gilman (1892)

With horror movies, I think anyone with an interest in horror already know all the typical classics and modern favorites, so I'd recommend something a tad more obscure.. The asian horror scene, especially in the late 90's and early 2000s was littered with great techno ghost punk flicks. Many of these are favorites from one of my best friends, who really has a taste for this type of movie, but I'll highlight the one's I'm also very into and would especially recommend.

Kaïro / Pulse (2001), Whispering corridors -series, Dark Water (2002), Saiko! The Large Family (2009), A Tale of Two Sisters (2009), Bunshinsaba, The Wailing, The Complex, One Missed Call (2003), Shutter (2004)

This one's probably a very tired answer but with manga I just have to say the obvious, which is Junji Ito. His body of work just really scratches the itch I have for a nice tight scary story and gives a vague uneasy vibe.. Both his storytelling and art is something I love.

One of the main features of horror is suspense, so I would recommend always going in blind, stop with trailers, synopsis etc. and really sit in a dim room on a calm day or evening and get into it! You can only be horrified if you let yourself be.

[poisoncoveredkisses]

Heaven Knows I’m miserable now🍂

…

@sarcastic-cookie @herondale-lightworm @anunstablefangirl @kitsbaby123

More jeremy !!!!!!!!!!!!

I’d been hours , four long hours…it was dark outside and you were ready for bed ; settled so nicely in your bed , reading and trying…failing…to distract yourself from your ghost boyfriend who’d well…disappeared from the face of the earth. Maybe he’d moved on…? moved onto the next thing…made at peace or something…you’d hoped he hadn’t , you missed him. Rethinking everything, the way his lips felt so perfect against yours . You tried to read a book, only stopping on the same sentence two hundred and three times , Heaven knows I’m miserable now by the Smiths echoing through the dull room .

You were bored…sad and somewhat completely still confused by everything. You heard your bedroom door slowly open before a very breathless and..soaking wet Jeremy appeared.

“there she is..!”Jeremy pants out , “oh i’m so glad you’re here cause i’ve just had to fight the weirdest…” He stops , shaking himself as he laughs out , “i’m human like i’m actually breathing and stuff and i bruise and..oh my god i can actually leave this place ..”

You stare at him, leaving your bed to hug him, “missed you.”

“oh? yeah? i…uh…yeah…i missed you too but listen, baby…i just had to fight the weirdest guy over in..the underworld thing..? like he was not letting me leave but..uh i mean he did let me but-“ You cut him off , lips meeting with his as he freezes, pushing off for a moment.

“you’re warm..”

“yeah i’m alive again so i’m-…you kissed me.”

“yeah..? i missed you.”

“so are we like officially together now..since like…im human and not dead and like totally able to go on dates with you.”

You roll your eyes , pushing his head back to yours as you lead him onto the bed , his hands gripping your thighs as he leans over you, tongues dancing and lips hungrily smashing together. Your hands in his hair , he hums out occasionally; clearly dazed by everything and now the fact he was human and able to kiss his little human girlfriend without a care or a problem….well besides the problem brewing between his hips..

He lifts you a little higher, shifting himself between your thighs as he continues to kiss you , his hands wearily moving from your thighs and under your shirt causing a small hum to leave your lips…

“hm..” He stops for a moment, “i have missed this..”

“oh?” you stop, blinking at him as he hand slowly runs over your chest , your eyes half lidded as you stare at him

“i…i..not like that! i meant being a human…i wasn’t like some total manwhore…i mean this is the closest i’ve gotten to actually touching-…ill just…ill just shut up..”

You giggle at him, moving his head to rest on your chest as your fingers run through his wet hair , sighing out , “you worried me…”

“i know but trust me…i would never leave you..i chose to haunt you when i was a ghost and..i am so gonna haunt you now im alive….you’re gonna have to kill me to get me to leave ..” He smiles up at him, fingers drawing circles into your skin, eyes shining with softness and admiration once again as yours mirror his.

“i think id like it if you haunted me forever, jer…”

“yeah..?”

“mhm…”

You both settle , breathing matching as you stare at each other…mind at peace and body calm under his…you’d have this forever .

[redrose10]

Since spooky season is among us 7 or 8 would set those vibes 👀

Here is #7 from the picture game! I was hoping someone would request a spooky season one with this photo. It starts off pretty spooky but there is a lot of humor and stuff in there too. Also it’s kind of loosely based on that drama My Demon.

Warnings: Death, demons, small unwanted advancements, mention of hospitals and cancer

You looked around the room taking in the scenery as if it was all new to you even though you’d spent plenty of time there. Your grandma was a sweet woman. She really was, but sometimes you wondered what had happened in her life that caused her to become the way that she was now. She wasn’t always like this. Then one day she suddenly adorned her home with dozens and dozens of various crosses and pictures of the Virgin Mary. A bowl of Holy Water sat in each room. She recited prayers on the hour like her life depended on it. Even on her death bed it seemed to be the last thing she could think of. She held your hand as you studied her face trying to memorize every wrinkle and hair.

She hadn’t spoken in several days at this point. The nurses warned you to prepare for the end as it was near.

“Y/N”, she suddenly whispered with what little strength she had left.

Immediately you leaned forward, “I’m here grandma. I’m here. What do you need?”

“Y/N, I see him. I can see him. Do you?”

You looked around the room but it was only you and her. The nurse already having left for the night.

One of the pamphlets you read had talked about how hallucinations were common in the final stages of death. You remained quiet as your grandmother continued to mumble.

“Y/N, don’t make the same mistakes I have. I’m so sorry for what I did.”

You shook your head, “Grandma everyone makes mistakes. It’s okay. You did nothing wrong.”

“No Y/N. You don’t understand. If he ever comes to you, you run. You run away as fast as you can and don’t fall for his tricks.”

You were startled by her words but tried to remind yourself that the nurses told you this was normal and that it wasn’t really your grandmother talking any more.

“Y/N if you don’t remember anything I’ve ever taught you just please at least remember this. The Devil is real. And he's not a little red man with horns and a tail. He is beautiful. Because he's a fallen angel. And he’s here now Y/N. He’s here for me and I can’t avoid him any longer.”

She began to cry as her breath became even more ragged.

“Grandma it’s okay. It’s okay”, you said through tears trying to soothe her. You grabbed your phone to call the nurse hoping they could come administer some more sedatives or something. You hated seeing your grandmother cry in fear. But by the time the nurse picked up your grandmother had passed.

The nurse was at your door in no time. She helped you make the necessary phone calls and waited with you until the funeral home arrived. Once they were all gone and you were left alone sitting in your grandmothers room you stared at the now empty bed. The thought that your grandma’s last moments were filled with fear was more heartbreaking for you than anything else.

“Your grandmother was a good woman. I almost feel bad.”, a deep voice spoke behind you. You shrieked in fear jumping back against the wall.

“Who are you and how did you get in here?”, you screamed while frantically searching for your phone.

“Your grandmother just warned you about me. Were you not listening?”, he smirked.

You looked over this strange man who was standing in your grandmother’s bedroom. He had raven black hair and sleek cat like eyes. He was dressed in all black. His long cloak hanging lazily off of him. Skin without a single blemish. He looked like an angel.

“I’m sorry I’m still confused as to who you are and why you’re here.”, you said while slowly inching towards the door hoping you could make a run for it.

“Y/N, I’m here to collect what is mine.”

Your skin turned ice cold. Was he the man that your grandma had been seeing in her final moments? And how did he know your name?

The man let out an annoyed sigh before snapping his fingers teleporting you to an unknown location. The room was filled with thousands and thousands of clocks. All ticking away. The sound was overwhelming. Under each clock was a name plate. You gasped when you read the name under the clock directly in front of you.

Unlike the others your grandmothers clock wasn’t ticking any more and instead of being a beautiful gold color like the rest, it was gray.

“What is all this?”, you asked.

“Well I grant wishes.”

“Like a genie?”

“Yes…wait no not like a genie.”

“Well genies grant wishes so…”

“You humans really are insufferable.”, he scoffed before pinching the bridge of his nose, “As I was saying, I grant wishes for people in need. I come to them when they are the most vulnerable and in exchange for granting their wish they sign a contract stating that at the end of their life their soul will eternally be mine.”

You looked over this man trying to make sense of what he just said and why it involved your grandma.

“So what does this have to do with my grandmother?”

He grinned as he was happy to relive the moment, “Many many years ago I was at a hospital. It’s one of the easiest places to make a deal. People are willing to sign away their eternity if it means saving their loved ones or even extending their own time on earth. I came across your grandfather. He had just been diagnosed with terminal cancer, given less than three months to live. He was worried how your grandmother would be able to survive without him. She had a young child at home, only working part time at a bakery. He was desperate to make sure she was taken care of. Soooo I made him a deal. At his next doctors appointment he would be magically cured and then would live the rest of his life cancer free and when he died as an old man warm in his bed, his soul would be mine.”

You stared at him in disbelief.

He continued, “When your grandmother found out she was livid. She tracked me down and begged me to make a deal with her. At first I declined because I make the deals, not some measly human. But she was relentless. I kind of admired her honestly. Finally I gave in and made her a deal. Instead of taking her husbands soul I would get hers. She spent the rest of her life thinking that cheap porcelain crosses and holy water would save her. She paid her dues and now her soul is mine for eternity.”

Tears brimmed your eyes as you shook your head backing away from him, “You’re a monster.”

“Well they don’t call me the devil for nothing babe.”, he smirked.

Your grandmothers words repeated in your head. The devil can be beautiful and here he was standing in front of you looking as bewitching as ever.

“So what happens to the souls after you take them?”

“They’re used to fuel the livelihood of hell. Kind of like you would put gasoline in a car.”

You scoffed, “Okay and what happens when people stop making deals with you and you can’t collect any more souls?”

The devil let out a loud laugh, “That will never happen. Humans are far too selfish and weak. They will always be willing to make a deal if it benefits them in some way.”

You glared at him as hard as you could but deep down you knew he was right.

“Well it’s been a pleasure Y/N.”

“Wait! How do you know my name?”

“Babe, I know everyone and everything.”

And with that he snapped his fingers and you were back at your grandmothers and alone and confused.

Tonight was going to be a good night. You were showered and moisturized and ready to go out and have a great time. You had just exited your shower and was walking your way to the bedroom when you were greeted by a familiar voice.

“Give it back.”

You jumped in shock making sure your were completely covered with the towel.

“Excuse me! You can’t just enter into people’s homes like this.”, you spat, “I could’ve walked in here naked.”

“And I could’ve just walked into your shower and saw you naked myself if I wanted to but I didn’t. So now give it back!”, he demanded really not in the mood for anything right now.

“Give what back?

“My powers?”

“You’re pow- What?”, you’d said walking into the living room.

“Where are you going?”

“To call the police like I should’ve the first time.”

The devil lunged forward and grabbed your wrist pulling you against him, “Y/N, you really don’t want to do that.”

“You smell like cinnamon and vanilla.”, you whispered.

His brows furrowed, “What am I supposed to smell like?”

“I don’t know. Smoke with a touch of sulfur.”

“Seriously? Do you also think I should have horns and a pointy tail?”

“Actually ye-“

He shook his head, “Never mind that. You’re getting me off topic. Give me back my powers.”

“What powers? I don’t have any powers. Trust me because if I did you wouldn’t be here right now.”

He ran a hand through his somehow still perfectly styled hair, “Ever since I met you my powers have been all out of sorts. You are the only thing that was different from my normal routine. So what did you do to them?”

“Listen devil boy, I didn’t take your powers. And I really don’t appreciate you thinking you can just show up here whenever you want either. You made a deal with my grandparents, not me.”, you said poking your finger into his chest.

He looked at you somewhat shocked. No one had ever had the nerve to speak to him like that and he had to admit that he kind of liked it.

He straightened up his jacket before stepping away to give you some space, “Okay first off my name isn’t devil boy. You can call me Yoongi. Secondly if you didn’t take my powers then what happened to them?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know? Maybe you got fired or demoted or something.”

He snorted, “I am great at my job and I’m like literally the king of hell. Who’s gonna fire me?”

Rolling your eyes you grabbed your bag and started heading towards the door, “Look Yoongi I certainly don’t have your powers but if I come across them I’ll give you a call.”

You left him standing there alone and speechless.

“No thanks”, you said to the same guy for probably the 10th time. He didn’t seem to want to take no for an answer. “Hey I think I’m gonna get out of here and go home.”, you said to your friend. The noise and the people getting to be too much. She asked if you were okay by yourself which you were so you paid your tab and headed for the front door. As you waited for your ride a presence walked up next to you. Before you could react you were being dragged away down a dark alley next to the club.

“Since you didn’t want to play nice, now

I have to forcefully take it from you.”, said someone. You recognized the voice as the man who was insistent in the club earlier.

You whimpered while trying to break free of his grasp but he was significantly stronger than you were.

“Mmm you smell really nice.”, he said running his nose against your neck.

A loud bang rang through the air and smoke began to fill up the space around you. In an instant the man was thrown back against the opposite wall. Intimidatingly Yoongi stood next to you. He stared daggers at the man as he was picked up nearly twenty feet int he air before slammed back against the ground.

“If you ever even think about her again you’ll die instantly.”, Yoongi growled as he kneeled down next to the man.

He took the hint and hastily sprinted out of the alleyway somehow still in one piece.

“I thought you lost your powers?”, you questioned.

“Oh gee thanks for saving me Yoongi. That was really sexy of you. How can I ever repay you for that?”, he mocked in a high pitched voice.

You ran your tongue over your teeth before sighing, “Thank you for saving me Yoongi. That was really ANGELIC of you. I’ll repay you by getting out of your hair and going home.”

You tried to walk past him but he grabbed your wrist, “Not so fast Y/N. It seems like my powers are only strong enough when I’m near you.”

“Alright so what does that mean?”, you inquired.

He moved closer to you. So close you could feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek.

“It means that you and I are going to be spending a lot of time together.”, he smirked, “And I hope you’re ready for it babe.”

[luvwich]

✒️ writer interview tag

tagged by @dustdeepsea — tysm, this was great fun! read their answers here and mine, if you like, beneath the cut ✨

When did you start writing?

early 2023 was my first foray into writing actual fiction. prior to that i'd done an embarrassing amount of roleplaying many years ago, which i shall speak on no further, but it did form the basis for a lot of my writing now!

once upon a time, i seriously entertained the idea of an MFA in screenwriting, but went on to pursue something even stupider for grad school 👍

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?

honestly everything i enjoy reading gets smuggled into my writing in some form or another!

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

there are like 26 different writers where i wish to take bits and pieces of their style, send it all into a meat grinder, and press the gunk into sausage casings to be dipped in batter and deep fried. ideally i want my writing to hit like wagyu beef that's been corrupted into a county fair corn dog. but no i'm not sure i've ever been compared to another writer! that would fuck my shit up truly (in a good way)

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

typically curled up on my couch, because the ergonomic status of my home office setup is terrible — potentially lethal. sometimes i stay late at my not-home office, hidden away in a dark conference room, but that's usually only if i'm on a self-imposed deadline (i.e. i've started posting a WIP)

What's your most effective way to muster up a muse?

the spark that gets me to write is usually some kind of Dynamic that i want to explore so i do a lot of noodling upon situations and then figuring out how to get there. and by situations i mean smut

also, writing bits of dialogue, even if i don't know the context yet. it gets a character's voice and mannerisms in my head, and gives me a little grain to start building on

sadly, going on a hike and/or reading a really good book are both very effective and by far the most time consuming

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

longing, isolation, identity, the difference between the person you'd like to be and the person you are, strained/dysfunctional family relationships, wrong person right time, hope, blowjobs, self-deception, california, fucking your way through it, guilt, social class, mommy issues, mono no aware, oral fingering, etc; they don't surprise me anymore but the first time i finished a long fic and took a step back i was like "ohh haha Damn"

What is your reason for writing?

i am horny, sad n silly

Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?

all forms of feedback are so touching! i think much of what i write is pretty niche, so simply knowing someone has read my stuff gets me pumped. a big essay of a comment is like receiving a love letter, and comments that are just an emoji are like someone's tucked a little note in my lunchbox, and both are incredibly nourishing to me. as far as motivation, though, anything that implies someone is looking forward to reading more is the surest way to light a fire under my people-pleasing ass

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

affable wretch, trickster, wine aunt

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

i'm not sure any one thing stands out: i believe i'm pretty good in a few areas (dialogue, sensory detail, characterization) and notably lacking in others (action, "plot," pacing, not getting high on my own supply)… okay i'll stop being an asshole though and say my strength is in "delivering on a mood," if that is a thing

How do you feel about your own writing?

generally good. for one, i'm proud of myself for ever finishing and posting anything, because following through on shit isn't something i'm renown for. i tend to hate everything i write after i've gotten some distance from it, but i think that's normal? right? i'm new at it and it's all for fun so i try to be gracious with myself, with mixed success, because beneath my goofy exterior i do take everything too seriously

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely for yourself, or a mix of both?

mostly for myself; i do abstractly ask "would someone who isn't me enjoy this?" and never quite know the answer. like most humans i crave external validation and connection, but like a cactus i can survive on just a lil rainfall 🌵

tagging w/no pressure (but with my best barbara walters impression) @corpocyborg @ghostoffuturespast @merge-conflict @streetkid-named-desire @writing-for-soup