#and i will keep drawing it until it stops being hilarious

[frodo-with-glasses]

Our hero, everybody!

[slytherinslut0]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 18th. mattheo — hate fucking / enemies.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: “at least her favourite form of foreplay isn’t an argument…” “or being a bitch her kink..”

warnings: 18+ MDNI, dubcon(meh), ex bf/gf trope, toxic behaviour, mutual manipulation, these two are chaotic as fuck, mentions of blood, gagging, degradation, rough sex PIV, hate fucking, spitting, spanking, uhhh i think that covers it. this one is a ride. can you tell this is my fav trope?

"I'm so fucking sick of you.”

"Get well soon, princess."

"Get fucked, Riddle."

Three sentences, three venomous insults that cut the room in half—heavy enough in their intensity to make you want to tear through dungeon walls, splintering stone and mortar with bare hands if it means sparing yourself another second in this blasted room, with him.

Detention at midnight—on a Friday, no fucking less—is unheard of. But leave it to your dickhead ex to make the impossible a reality. His fault, of course. Like always.

Snape had turned a blind eye for months. It was only a matter of time before something had to give. An hour unsupervised was as good as you'll get.

Sulking defeat, you sink back in your chair, rough wood digging into your spine as you eye Mattheo with a glare that could rival a bullet. He looks like hell, and it's infuriating how even in that state he manages to look so nonchalant, so maddeningly unbothered—like even exhaustion makes a home on him and he's comfortable with it. Bags under his eyes, scar cutting across the bridge of his nose, those dark curls falling messily over his forehead, white dress shirt wrinkled and open at the collar.

You roll your eyes, a gesture that feels like your only act of rebellion left.

And he notices. Of course he does.

"You haven't changed a bit," he spits, and you know it's an insult. You scowl as he swipes the blood off his chin with the sleeve of his shirt. "Always a bitch to me over something."

Bitch. The name strikes you, but you won't let him see it, won't let him know that it lands. You've bled too many times at his feet for him to draw blood again tonight.

"Am I not allowed to be pissed off that you dragged us into detention? We should be at the party, Mattheo. We should be anywhere but here." You hear the frustration rising in your voice, like it's boiling up from somewhere deep, somewhere you can't quite reach. It's hard not to let it slip, especially when he looks at you like that. "This is so fucking typical of you. You mess up, and somehow I'm the one who pays for it."

For a moment, there's silence, and it almost feels like a victory until you realize he's only biding his time, waiting to strike back.

"You really want to get back there? To that party?" He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. You long for the chair to break from under him. "After what your new man was caught doing with Lovegood?"

You snort before you can stop yourself, the sound slipping out like a reflex. You hadn't expected that. And quite frankly, it's amusing—no, downright hilarious—that he's clearly been keeping tabs on you and "new man", and now here he is, trying to play it off like he doesn't care. Like it's nothing.

"I'll spare you the insults this once," you mutter, fingers loosening the tie around your neck with a tug. "Because, clearly, you're ignorant to the truth, even if you think you know every goddamn thing." You pause, ripping out your earrings. "He's not my man, so I don't give a shit what he does with who. He ended it last week. Good fuck, sure—but other than that..."

You trail off, making a mocking noise with your lips, a derisive puff of air, as if you could blow away the memory of him as easily as dust off an old book. A Ravenclaw. Brilliant in all the wrong ways—sharp mind, yes, but utterly thrill-less, like he saw you as just another page to flip through, a textbook he was annotating.

It is what it is.

A moment passes and then Mattheo grins—slow at first, but spreading across his face like fire, destructive in its consummation. It unsettles you. He looks more intrigued than he's been in months.

"A good fuck, huh?"

"That's what I said," you reply, clipped, your tone offering no room for him to crawl inside.

"And why didn't it work out? Too good for you?" He says, twisting the knife just because he can. "Too clean, maybe?"

Your eyes scan the room, searching for something within reach to throw at him, anything to break this unbearable tension. Insufferable. Every inch of him, insufferable.

You find nothing, so you throw words instead. "You're an asshole, you know that?"

He nods, as if that's the truest thing either of you have said all night. Of course he knows.

You barely suppress a dry laugh at his idiocy. "Like I told you—he ended it. If you're so fucking interested in why it didn't work out, then why don't you go ask him?"

There's a pause—he's chewing the inside of his cheek as he stares at you. You imagine chewing his head off as you stare at him.

"I'm sure you gave that bookworm the ride of his life," he says, voice half-dry, half-sarcastic, as if he's already bored of the conversation. As if he knew all of this information already. "Everyone knew that was temporary. Your first rebound, congrats."

And just like that, your blood is boiling. He knows how to needle you, how to get under your skin with the slightest flick of his stupid fucking tongue. Your eyes trace the cold stone of the dungeon walls, desperately trying to find something—anything—to distract yourself.

But it's no use. Mattheo's an asshole. He's always been an asshole. That's why you left. All the two of you did was fight and fuck, a chaotic spiral that was as thrilling as it was destructive. Now, he's easily your enemy—dragging you into his messes, never letting you get too far without ruining your life somehow.

And yet—

If you said you didn't miss the sex sometimes, that'd be a lie. Or at least a half-truth. The kind that slips out when you've had one too many glasses of firewhiskey, the kind you'd regret in the morning.

"What about you, dickhead?" You cut through the silence, ignoring his obvious attempt to rile you up. "That Hufflepuff you were seeing—why'd I see her all over Theo tonight?"

He answers far too fast. "They're friends."

You snort, disbelieving. "Right."

You rise to your feet, crossing the room to the bookcase as if it's the most natural thing in the world. The books feel safer somehow, less volatile.

"You're bored of her, aren't you?" You don't care to look at him. You can imagine the way his jaw tenses at the question.

The silence is telling. He doesn't answer right away. You know him well enough to understand what that means. Then, finally, he speaks, a half-answer that doesn't really answer the fucking question at all.

"At least her favourite form of foreplay isn't a fucking argument." He stands, slow, pushing his hair back from his forehead with one battered hand. You glance at him, pulse quickening. "Or being a bitch her kink."

"Does she even have kinks?" It slips out, a knife thrown without aiming. "Sounds like you're bored, Matty."

You watch as he blinks, his eyes darken. That nickname—you know you don't have the right to say it anymore, and that's exactly why you do. It's an insult wrapped in familiarity, and it hits its mark by the way his shoulders tense, jaw tight.

He steps toward you, one calculated step, and you feel it—that chaotic pull, the gravity that's always drawn you both in, no matter how far you try to stay away. A smile pulls at your lips, a cruel thing.

"How cute." He tilts his head just enough to inspect you, eyes dragging over you like he's searching for something to confirm what he already suspects. "Looks like you're jealous."

Your hand grips the bookshelf, eyes locked on him over your shoulder. Jealous? There's not a soul on this planet who could make you jealous. She may be the hero of this story, the girl that gets the guy, might even be everything you're not—

"Looks like you're learning the hard way," you're inspecting him now, too. Every piece of him you once touched. "When it comes too easy it's never gonna' hit as hard, babe."

Another pause from him—something dancing in his eyes. Anger? Maybe. Or something more, something twisted that you don't care to name. You've already lit the match, and now you're just watching him burn.

"You're so clever, huh? So full of advice," he sneers, ripping off his tie and chucking it on a desk. "Go on then, tell me more about how I feel, professor. Since you know everything about me."

You can't help the smirk that curls on your lips. Oh, he's pissed. And that means you're winning.

"What? You don't like hearing the truth? Too much for your delicate ego?" You take a step toward him, savouring every second of this. He hurt you, over and over, the scars from those days still fresh, still bleeding beneath your skin. This has been a long time coming. "You think I care about your new girl, Matty? The one you let your boys fawn over in the common room?...she kissed Theo tonight." You pause, letting that linger. "You think you're doing something, but I see right through you. You don't give a fuck about her. If you did, no one would dare touch her like that. So don't sit here, accusing me of jealousy, like I'm the one hung up on you. You're projecting. And it's pathetic."

He doesn't waste a goddamn beat—his laugh is bitter, sickeningly so—and he advances again, his shadow moving behind him, the space between you now barely there.

"That's amazing, truly. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were a goddamn oracle. All-knowing, all-seeing." His voice is infuriating. The look on his face more-so. "What's your verdict then, my lord? You think this is all an act? That everything I'm doing is just to spite you?"

Your heart races, breath catching in your throat as he steps closer. This is a dance you both know too well, the kind where neither of you win.

"I know how you operate." Your chest heaves, anger rising with every breath. "It's all a game to you, Matt. A sick, twisted game to keep yourself entertained."

"That's rich, coming from someone who played it just as well." He takes another step forward. You could reach out and touch him now he's that close. His grin grows. "Too bad your Ravenclaw figured it out before you could sink your teeth in too deep. Next time you see him, make sure to tell him I said you're welcome."

Your brows pinch—the blood in your veins screeching to a halt, backing up like New York traffic at a standstill. You feel it, hot and furious, rushing toward a place it can't go, clogged behind the wall of rage building up inside you—

"You're welcome?" You spit, a sharp snarl caught between clenched teeth. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He's watching you, his eyes darting over your shoulder, fingers brushing over his lips like he's trying to dull that familiar smirk, that cruel little game he's always played.

Your stomach sinks, drops to your feet.

"Mattheo—" you snap, cutting him off just as he opens his mouth, before he can throw another snide word. "Spare me the cryptic bullshit for once in your life—“

His eyebrows lift at that, but there's a nod, a hint of something deeper in it. You taste the smugness in the air between you, can almost feel it slithering through his silence.

"Looks like you don't know everything after all. Isn't that ironic?" He straightens up, letting the moment breathe before his face hardens into something almost serious. "Your rebound came to me in the courtyard about two weeks ago. Had some questions about you."

"What?" Your nerves are vibrating, every cell in your body on edge. Your blood is so clogged, you swear you're seeing red. "What questions?"

"The usual sort of normal stuff. Your birthday. Your favorite colour. Childhood traumas. Our downfall. You know."

The casualty in the way he says it makes you sick, bile rising in your throat, a bitter burn at the back of your mouth. It's all starting to come together now. This stupid motherfucker—

"You're lying." The words feel weak, frail. He wouldn't—no, he couldn't. "You're fucking lying."

"Am I?" His fingers brush your cheek, but your skin's gone numb, your blood too frozen to feel anything but the cold burn of your fury. "Or, is the truth just…too much for your delicate ego to handle?"

Oh, fuck off—

Your wand is in your hand before you even realize you've grabbed it, instinct, pure reflex. There's barely a second of rational thought before you're casting, the spell hitting him square in the chest, sending him flying back into the chair he once sat in. His eyes flash, anger igniting there, and he scrambles for his wand—but you're faster.

"Expelliarmus."

One word and you're across the room before you even know you've moved, chest tight as you slam the tip of your wand against his throat. There's a cut on his lip, blood trickling down his chin for a second time tonight, but that stupid fucking smirk is still there, showcasing rubies for teeth and carved into his face like it belongs.

"Tell me what you did." Your voice cracks, but not from fear—it's fury, burgling through you, burning hot enough to make your whole body shake. You half want to cut him open just to bury your rage inside him, let him feel it. "If what you're saying is true, he ended things just days later. Tell me what the fuck you said to him."

Mattheo’s leaning back, hands raised in mock surrender, eyes glinting with the same smug amusement that's always haunted him. He's daring you, taunting you. He knows you never cared about that guy, not really.

You both know it. He was boring, easy.

This—this is something else.

His tongue swipes at the blood on his lip. "He didn't tell you—"

"Don't." Your wand digs deeper into his skin, cutting off whatever he was about to say. The pressure makes his breath hitch, but not enough. Not nearly enough. "I said tell me."

"Merlin—okay—I told him nothing, nothing really," his voice makes your grip tighten on your wand. He stares at you for a long, hard minute before he adds; "except that he should show me some fucking gratitude."

Your jaw slips, confusion rushing in like a flood. But before you can even question him—

"I told him he should be thanking me." Another pause. "When he's fucking you."

He laps at the blood seeping from the cut on his lip for the second time in only a minute and you barely notice the movement—the words hit you like a brick, but it's deeper than that, something visceral that crawls under your skin and settles in your bones. It's sharp, raw, cutting through the wall of rage so fast it leaves you breathless. You don't know how to explain it, this feeling that twists through you, something far too complicated to be named.

And then, you become aware of everything at once.

His legs, spread wide on either side of yours, the space between you so small, your chest just close enough to his face that his breath feels like it's fogging your skin. You're towering over him, wand pressed hard into his throat, your heart hammering in your chest like you're ready to ruin him—but his eyes, the way he looks up at you, says he'd let you.

"I may have even added that although you're with him, you'll always think of me. Both you and him know it’s true.“ That stupid smirk is gone, replaced with something you've never quite seen before. He pauses, before he continues. "You miss it. Us." Another pause. There’s something victorious in his tone, something that's almost breaking you. "And no matter how many times you try to forget, you never do, do you?"

Salazar save you—you should hex him. You should fucking hex him. Every nerve in your body is screaming for it, begging for it, but you can't. You can't fucking move. Your wand is still pressed to his skin, but it feels like you're the one pinned down.

"Shut up," you finally manage, but your voice is meek, thin, nothing like the fury you want to feel. "You...you're being—"

"I'll shut up," his hand finds your wrist, pressing your wand tip against his neck with more force—enough to make himself wince. "If you make me."

You blink, stunned, and you can feel your anger slipping, slipping faster than you can catch it. You don't know what's happening to you—it’s just him—his sick twisted insanity that disarms you. Time and time again. An endless fucking cycle.

"I could ruin you," you whisper, but it sounds more like you're trying to convince yourself than him. You press the wand deeper, just enough to draw a grunt from him, but the look on his face—he's not afraid. No, he's enjoying it. "I have more reasons than most to leave you here bloodied for Snape to find in the morning."

You say the words but the conviction is gone, swept away in the flood of heat between you—the dizzying proximity, the way his lips curl, almost smiling but not quite—

"What are you so afraid of?" He whispers, and there's something fragile in his voice now. "That you might actually want this?"

"I don't want this." You force the words out immediately, hoping they will make it real. Hoping they'll stop this spiral. "I regret ever wanting this."

He’s silent for a moment as he lowers his hands, dark eyes falling to trace your lips—

"I know you hate me, the feelings mutual...but I know. I know I'll always be your favourite regret," those chocolate curls shift, his head tilts closer, too close. Not close enough. "You're still my weapon of choosing."

Merlin. Merlin bloody forgive you—

"…to hurt yourself with?” It's half a question, but you already know the answer.

He nods, and that does it.

Your lips are on his, fast and hard and bruising—and the reaction is immediate, visceral. All that backed-up blood—all that rage frozen in your veins rushes forward in a single, scorching wave. It crashes low, between your thighs, a heat so sharp it aches. The shame comes with it. So does the disgust. A sick knot of self-hatred pulsing through you as you taste his blood on your tongue while his hands are under your skirt, grabbing you like he owns you, pulling you into him. It's only a moment before your wand clatters to the ground, and your hands are tangled in his hair, yanking hard, hard enough to hurt.

You want it to hurt. God, you want it to hurt.

He growls at the sting on his scalp—and then, everything flips.

His fingers tug at something, and you realize it's his own wand, the one you tucked into the back of your skirt—and before you can even think, he's got it, casting a spell that sends you flying back onto the desk behind you. You groan—the world spins, but you don't even have a second to gather yourself before he's advancing toward you, casting another spell on his tie.

Within seconds it's slithering across your lips and tying itself around your head, gagging you.

He steps between your legs, parts them with the ease of someone who's done it a thousand times before—rough hands gliding up your thighs, eyes wild. His fingers slip beneath your underwear, through your slit, and you try to hold on to any shred of control, but it's gone. You can feel it. The way you forget everything except the way he leans down, breath hot in your ear.

"Look how fucking wet you are," he spits through a sneering grin. "You're goddamn shameless, aren't you?"

You roll your eyes, but your thoughts scatter the moment his fingers shove inside you, curling hard—so hard you gasp into the tie, your back arching violently off the desk.

"He ever get you this wet?" His voice is like gravel, each word grinding into your bones. "Nod your head if he did."

Your body reacts before your mind does, arching against him, but you don't move your head. As much as it hurts your pride to give him that win. You dig your fingers into his hair and pull—hard enough to make him grunt, hard enough to hurt.

His hand comes down hard on your thigh in response, a sharp smack that stings, a warning. You squeal, and his fingers start pumping faster, deeper.

He huffs. "That's what I thought."

His fingers make quick work of you, relentless, and his thumb presses to your clit, rolling circles in a rhythm that has your blood on fire, shame licking at the edges of your vision, but it only makes you burn hotter. This is all wrong. Everything about this is wrong, something you'll regret with every fiber of your being tomorrow, but right now, it's an ache you need.

It's the wound you keep reopening, the pain you crave because it's the only thing that ever feels real.

"Fuck, you're close, aren't you?" He sounds almost shocked, like he can't believe how easily your body betrays you, but you feel it too, the disbelief crashing through you as fast as the pleasure does. Too fast. Far too fast. "Did he ever make you cum? Huh? When's the last time you fucking came?"

You can't answer, just groan, yanking at his hair again. His response is immediate, another stinging slap to your inner thigh, sharp enough to make fluid prick your eyes. Your orgasm is right there, teetering on the edge, ready to tip over—but then he slows his pace, dragging it out, torturing you.

You whine. A pitiful, desperate sound you hate yourself for.

"Look at me." His voice cuts through the haze, and begrudgingly, you do. "He didn't make you cum, did he?"

Your face burns, not from his breath or his fingers or even the astronomical amount of shame you feel—but from the truth of it. You shake your head.

"How long?" His voice shatters the air between you. "A week?"

You shake your head again, biting into the fabric of his tie as his fingers curl deeper inside you.

"Two weeks?"

Another shake. He curses under his breath.

"You poor little thing." His words are venom, but the second they spill from his lips, he pumps his fingers into you again, massaging at your walls, and your vision goes white. "Can't even cum without me."

You would've slapped him if you could, would've torn him apart, but the orgasm hits you like a freight train, ripping through you with violent force. You clench around his digits, thighs trembling as you ride the wave of pleasure, convulsing, moaning into the tie as he watches you like he's won.

"So fucking easy." He withdraws his fingers, and immediately, his hands go to his belt. "We'll make up for lost time."

Everything about this feels like a rerun. The same scene playing out on loop, again and again—a cycle of self-destruction you know too well, like running headfirst into a burning building, certain you can handle the smoke only to choke on it.

He's taking off his belt, ready to fuck you stupid, and by morning you'll be back to the same familiar hatred, tearing each other apart in new, inventive ways. Your hands move sluggishly to rip the tie from your mouth, but you're slow, too slow, still dizzy from the release that blindsided you, one that you haven't felt in so long—the fabric barely grazes your fingers before Mattheo catches your wrists, yanking them back, dragging you to your feet in one rough motion.

The spin disorients you—arms pinned behind your back, his cock sliding between your thighs.

"You've done enough talking today," he hisses at your ear as he drags along your slit. "You want this, don't you?"

Your mind screams for you to shake your head, to end this here and now. You know he'd stop—he's an asshole, but not that kind of an asshole. You know it. You almost do it, almost say the word that would shatter this madness. But then he drags his tip against your clit and you moan before you can stop yourself.

Your head nods with a wanton moan, and it's so full of shame your eyes sting with tears.

"Yeah, I know, baby." He's taunting you, every syllable smug, condescending. "This pussy missed me so much, huh?" His hand tightens on your wrists until your skin burns, the other hand finding its way around your thigh, pulling you closer to him. "Fuckin' lost without me. S'all it's good for, isn't it? Taking my cock."

You groan, shaking your head in defiance, but even that feels like a lie. You hate him. You want him. You hate yourself for wanting him.

"No?" His fingers inch toward your clit, ghosting over it—you squeal, hips jerking for more. "Maybe we should call this off then?"

You blink once and his fingers are gone—wrenching a whine out of you, pathetic as you push your ass back against him, shame burning through you as you shake your head. Fuck him. Curse him. But you need him inside you, need him to fill the aching void that gnaws at you.

"That's my slut," he growls, and before you can process the words, he's inside you—one long, brutal thrust that spears you open, the stretch burning deep. The sting mixes with shock of his fingers returning to your clit, rubbing circles that make your knees buckle. "You know you're the only girl I've fucked raw? This pussy will always be mine."

He's fucking insane. Completely insane. And the worst part is, you're just as insane for wanting him. For needing him. You can't fight it. You don't even want to. Not now. Not when his voice drips like poison and he's tearing you apart in the only way you understand.

"Mmmf—" you groan into the tie and he's matching you, his teeth grazing your shoulder, marking you in ways that will last for days.

"I hope it hurts," he grumbles against your skin, his breath ragged. He's lying, you can feel it in the way his fingers are moving, coaxing you to cum, even as he pretends to wish you pain. "I hope it fucking stings."

Your hands ball into fists, trapped in his grip, and you imagine clawing at his back until you draw blood, sinking your nails in until he feels every ounce of your anger.

"I want you to feel it—fuck—I want you to remember this," he pants, his voice barely more than a growl as your climax crashes toward you, unstoppable now. "Remember how weak I make you. How much of a slut you are for me."

Another harsh thrust and then, you're there—falling into the void—pleasure is so strong it bleeds out of you, forcing your cunt to clamp tight around him, legs trembling, barely able to support you through it. Mattheo’s curses slip through clenched teeth, but this only fuels him—his rhythm picks up, brutal, hips slamming against your ass with a pace that borders on unhinged.

"Fuck. Oh, fuck." The words are barely audible, grunted against the shell of your ear. You're whining, still twitching with aftershocks, but he doesn't care. His hands are on your hips now, fingers digging deep as he thrusts you forward, slamming you over the desk. The wood bites into your palms as you try to brace yourself, but his anger is palpable, drilling into you— "you wanna bitch at me now?"

The moan you release is automatic, instinctual. You can't stop it. Can't control it. His fingers curl around your throat, shifting the tie down to shove two into your mouth.

"Hhhhh—" you're trying to form words around his fingers, but it's impossible. The garbled sound is pathetic, but he knows exactly what you're trying to say.

"You hate me. I know." It’s smug, punctuated by a sharp smack to your ass, the sting of it making you yelp. He pulls his fingers from your mouth, wiping the spit across your cheek before he grips your jaw, forcing your head to turn, to meet his eyes. "Open your mouth."

There's no time to process the demand. His eyes are molten, crazed, filled with something raw and uncontainable. His next thrust is punishing, slamming into your cervix, making you sob—your mouth parting just enough—

He leans in close, and then he spits into your mouth.

"Swallow it." His fingers dig into your cheeks, pressing the order into your bones. "Be a good girl for once."

You choke out a laugh, even as you're panting, even as he's splitting you stupid.

"Never." The word barely leaves your lips before you’re spitting back at him—your entwined saliva landing across his chin and lips.

For a second, you expect the worst—you brace yourself for the retaliation—the slap, the insult, the way he'll tighten his grip and take back control. But to your surprise, instead of anger, there's a grin—wide and feral, big and crazed enough to reach his eyes.

You smile back. His cock twitches inside you.

"Fuck me," he mutters, then crashes his mouth to yours.

You taste the salt and bitterness of mingled spit, a mess of his and yours, and it pulls a moan from somewhere deep inside you. He devours it, greedy, his hips growing erratic, sloppy as his high nears.

His hand drops to your clit, fingers pressing with a precision that obliterates every last shred of sanity—and it takes only moments before the pressure builds again, fast and furious. Your third orgasm rips you apart, your body clenching tight, muscles seizing as you're lost in it. You're not sure where you end and he begins—your breath congealing with his, your moans swallowed in the space between you.

His release follows right after, crashing over him as he buries himself deep, spilling into you with a groan that reverberates through your bones. You hate the way it feels. You hate the way he fills you. But you also can't deny the twisted satisfaction of it—the way you sought this punishment, needed it. The shame consumes you, but it's comforting in its familiarity.

He pulls out, and the silence between you is easy, broken only by your ragged breathing. The room feels impossibly small now, your body still thrumming with the aftermath, but the moment is over. You both start to move—piecing yourselves back together, pulling clothes into place, avoiding the weight of what just happened.

You don't understand how it came to this, how it always does, but you're not surprised. Not anymore.

After a long, silent moment, he looks at you. “I don’t regret what I did.”

You know he doesn’t.

“I know.”

He blinks. “I won’t apologize for it.”

You know he won’t.

“I know.”

He nods, now, a smirk on his lips as he watches you fix your skirt. You note the hair sticking to his forehead, how he’s still catching his breath even though he’s pretending he isn’t.

“You aren’t mad.” An observation.

“I’m not.” You reply. You know you should be, but the relief you felt when that Ravenclaw ended things tells you everything you need to know. “Just, never do it again.”

He nods again. “Sure.”

You’re pretty sure he doesn’t mean that—but, at least now, as you glance over at him, there's a small comfort in knowing you no longer want to kill him.

[impactrueno]

ok stop. stop. i'm gonna stop you right there because why in the world are you telling me this? where is this even coming from? what did you see on my blog that would make you come to me with this? i didn't ask ANYONE to justify their feelings about beetIebabes, positive or negative. you don't have to explain anything to me. i don't ship them, and i don't care whether other people ship them or not, or their reasoning why. my ask box is not an open letter column in a magazine, it's part of my blog. i'm a person. this isn't "beetlejuice fandom central" or anything like that.

i already said i do not want any shipping discourse of any kind brought into my blog. respect that.

just know that you're allowed to dislike things. you're good. no one is making you like the ship, i promise. i support you, you're perfectly valid and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. i'm very sorry that happened to your friend, but that's not a "proshipper" thing, that's a groomer thing, and groomers can be ANYWHERE. to see it as an exclusively "proshipper" thing is just going to put you in danger because kids have gotten groomed by shippers of "safe and wholesome" pairings as well. i've seen it happen and it's why i distanced myself from a previous fandom. so please, if YOU are a minor (or just young, adults can get groomed too) please stay on your guard no matter what circles you're in, and yes, even around "safe" shippers. i can't stress this enough.

let me tell you something before i shut this topic down.

this fandom i distanced myself from, i did it because i kept seeing adults pressuring minors to draw certain things. some 16yo kid drew suggestive art of a character under the pretense of a shitpost, and people went crazy over it and demanding more. and kids are always going to give into peer pressure, so of course they continued doing it and escalating the tone of the "shitpost" drawings.

this wasn't a "proship" space, quite the contrary, these were all very "anti" types as you may call it (once again i loathe these terms and shipping discourse is a fucking circus i don't want to involve myself with) the types that enforce safe, appropriate and unproblematic shipping and content. but here they were, hooting and hollering and with a terrifying lack of self-awareness and pressuring the kid to draw more suggestive art. IN PUBLIC. ON TWITTER. everyone thought it was hilarious but i was standing there like "wow! i want to get the fuck out of here" and i tried to remind everyone to NOT give in to peer pressure to do anything you're not comfortable with, but no one was listening because "sexy art of a popular character"

you can be manipulated and peer pressured to do things you're uncomfortable with at any age. especially if you're kind of a people pleaser like i was. people got nsfw art out of me that i didn't want to draw when i was 20. i got used and manipulated by someone who shipped "the correct things" to ship.

you won't realize you're being groomed until it's too late. that's why i insist for kids to stay safe and make wise choices, keep an eye out EVEN IN "SAFE SPACES" and i repeat do NOT let ANYONE pressure you into doing something you're not 100% comfortable with (and even if you are, think it over)

once more: stay safe, guys. no matter who you think your friends are. groomers can use anything to groom you, not just "problematic" ships.

that's all i'm gonna say. don't talk to me about shipping discourse again, please. won't be posting asks about this if i can help it.

[evanhamato]

i was if you could make some headcannons for the rottmnt boys with a little sibling who is around like 5 or 6, and they like, look up the brothers a lot! i mean it gets to the point where they’ll copy everything they do and say.

and if it’s okay, you can make them separate.

[ Tater Tot ]

ROTTMNT x GN!Reader as their younger sibling

A/N: slides into the room slowly... heyy... guess whos back from the endless abyss that was forgetting to update its tumblr. evan is!! thank you for being SO PATIENT lovelies!! :] i find this req so cute.. toddler reader with chubby cheeks and stubby legs copying them like a robot HEHE... anyways, thank you nonnie for requesting <3!

Relationships: Strictly platonic, familial

TW: Fluff, cheek kisses, small mentions of injuries, teasing, olayful mocking

Raph

He only realized when you started to kiss his 'boo-boos' and stepping in front of danger to protect him (the danger being mean looking cats).

Heart melted into putty, maybe even slime.

Encourages you to continue by acting scared or extra hurt.

If you start to talk in third person or say 'Like a BOSS!' he loses it.

Now, Raph isn't the type to boast but, he totally would

Your name? What do you mean? It's always been Raph Jr!

Leo

He finds it hilarious.

When you mess up your words, he mocks you under his breath.

Since you're not that good at articulating punchlines yet, you often find yourself stuck and he cannot keep himself from cracking up.

It only encourages you, you don't understand he wasn't laughing at your joke.

Jokes aside, he finds it so sweet.

Often you'll do something smug and question where you got it from. Him. You got it from him.

Donnie

Fascinated.

Studies you (not genuinely) like a little lab rat.

Not good at expressing emotions so he just stares with wide eyes, if only his face could link to his brain.

He corrects you casually when you try to be smart, it often ends up with him just talking instead of you.

A little offended when he hears you say 'gasp' or 'scoff'.

That's his thing! That is until he remembers toddlers pick up stuff that they enjoy. Sweet.

Mikey

Oh. Mi. Gosh.

Quite literally. He heard you scream it from across the hall.

You try to cook with him, never again.

Why? You once placed your poor little hand on the pan as you tried to stop yourself from falling off a stool.

Lets be honest, you're 5. You suck at drawing. Does that stop Mikey from hanging up your drawings? No.

At this point call him Michael because you're the next Michelangelo.

[hamsterclaw]

Foolish

You keep going back to Namjoon, it's what you've always done. Then you meet Hoseok, who draws you away like he's not even trying.

Pairing: Hoseok x F! reader, Namjoon x F! reader

Word count: 7.7k

Rating: 18+

Genre: Smut, angst

Warnings: Sex, fuckboy Namjoon

Everytime, you tell yourself it’s the last time you’ll come back to Kim Namjoon.

Everytime it’s just one last time.

His hand leaves a print on your hip, his lips leave a trail down your neck, across your breasts. He often comes on your skin, a trail of white. He marks you everywhere he sees fit.

He doesn’t give a shit who sees. 

You let him do what he wants.

Rinse, repeat.

Namjoon nudges you. ‘Hey, I have an early class.’

You don’t bother to respond, just get out of his bed, put your clothes back on.

You check you’ve got your phone, your keys, smooth your hair back down as you wait for the cab.

You let yourself out.

***

Your friend Jimin is funniest when he’s annoyed, like now.

You’re both working a shift at the grocery store.

He’s leaning on the stacked crates, supposed to be refilling the produce shelves but really just taking up room.

‘And so then he clicked his fingers and expected me to walk to him, like a dog.’

You have no idea if this is a sex story or a rude customer story. 

Knowing Jimin, it could be either.

You start arranging the apples onto the display shelves as you listen to Jimin’s hilariously petty reaction.

It was a sex story.

Jimin stacks packs of cherry tomatoes beside you, chattering away.

You mmm and aaah at the right times, but your mind is elsewhere.

You’re thinking back to how the last few times you’ve met up, Namjoon hasn’t bothered to ask you to text him when you got home after being at his.

He used to. 

There’s a thin thread of shame that tugs at you whenever you meet him now, and the pull’s getting stronger.

It wasn’t always like this. 

He’d pursued you, coming into the diner where you worked weekend after weekend for months, flirting with you over pancakes until he’d finally asked you out.

You went on a few dates, and a few more and then somehow you’d slipped into what you have now.

He texts you when he’s horny and you come over.

Sometimes you don’t even talk. 

You don’t know why you keep coming back, apart from that maybe you haven’t quite moved on from seeing him as the guy who was sweet to you over brunch. The one who dimpled and invited you to come hang at his place and took you to the park and got you ice-cream.

You wonder how he sees you now.

You snap back to attention when Jimin clears his throat pointedly.

‘You don’t have to listen to me, it’s fine,’ he says, bordering on dramatic, pout in his voice.

‘Sorry Jiminie,’ you say apologetically. ‘I was thinking about Namjoon.’

Jimin has no idea about how things are between you and Namjoon. There’s no way you’d ever let anyone really know how low your bar is set.

He finishes stacking the cherry tomatoes, moves on to the heads of broccoli. 

You’re still on apples.

You wheel the empty crates back to the stockroom, concentrating so hard on not letting the crates slip that you don’t see the guy by the automatic doors.

‘Whoa!’ he says, stepping out of the way quickly, laughing.

You’re mortified, already apologising as you come to a dead stop. The crates wobble dangerously and you reach out, letting out a little cry as your fingers get clipped in between.

You yank your hand away, and the guy hurries forward. He grabs your hand, a look of concern darkening his face.

‘Are you ok? That must have hurt so much!’

You’re taken aback by how genuinely concerned he seems to be.

‘I’m ok,’ you say, as he rubs your fingers gently.

‘I have some support plasters,’ he offers. 

‘I’m ok!’ you insist, waving him away gently.

He takes the trolley from you and stacks the crates in the corner. 

‘Sorry to startle you,’ he says warmly. ‘My name is Hoseok, I’m new.’

His smile is infectious. You tell him your name, and he exclaims over how pretty he thinks your name is, even though it’s a fairly common one, as far as names go.

You’re amused by his charmingly over the top reactions. 

Hoseok helps you load the greens onto your trolley, insists on pushing it with you to the fresh section of the store. 

‘Don’t you have your own work to do?’ you ask. 

He grins at you like he’s sharing a secret. ‘The broken oven got fixed so it’s taking me less time to bake the bread rolls,’ he confesses. 

He reaches up for the hairnet over his hair, pulls it off and stuffs it into his pocket. ‘Does this make my hair flat?’ 

You look up at his very soft and fluffy looking dark hair. ‘Your hair looks great,’ you tell him, honestly. 

‘Come by later on your break, I’ll save some rolls for you. I made some fillings last night to bring to work.’ 

His offer is so sincerely and sweetly made that you find yourself responding in kind. 

‘Sure, I’d love to,’ you say. 

He parks your trolley by the shelves, and gives Jimin a big smile in greeting. 

You’ve never met anyone who smiles this much. 

Jimin lifts a crate of cabbages and starts arranging. 

‘What’s his deal?’ you ask, after Hoseok waves jauntily at you and walks away. 

Jimin rolls his eyes. ‘He’s just a nice guy. People can be nice.’ 

‘No one’s that nice,’ you say, frowning. 

‘Hoseok is. I’ve known him since way back.’ 

‘He must have a dark side,’ you mutter. 

‘Yeah. He’s apparently an asshole in bed.’ 

You choke on air. 

Jimin laughs at your reaction. ‘I’ve never slept with him but apparently he’s mean in bed.’ 

‘Like mean, how?’ you ask, more interested than you’d like to admit to yourself. 

‘Why are you so interested?’ Jimin asks, slyly. 

‘You brought it up,’ you argue. 

Jimin laughs and refuses to say anything else and you pretend you’re not that interested anyway. 

***

You’re awakened by your phone vibrating under your pillow. 

You fish it out and stare at the number on the screen that’s evaded your caller ID. 

Eventually you swipe to answer. 

‘Hi,’ you say. 

‘Hey,’ says a vaguely familiar voice. ‘It’s Hoseok. Jimin gave me your number.’ 

Your eyes open all the way, and you sit up so quickly you drop your phone into your duvet. 

It takes you a moment to fish it out. 

‘Hey, sorry, I dropped my phone,’ you say, when you’ve got it back. 

‘I’m sorry, I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ he says. 

It’s weird, you barely know him but you can hear the smile in his voice. 

‘It’s fine, I should be up anyway,’ you reply. 

‘Ah, sorry, I didn’t know you’d still be asleep.’ 

You check the time. Eeep. 

‘What’s up, Hoseok?’ you ask. 

‘I was wondering - do you like music? There’s a festival in Olympic Park today and I have a spare ticket and I wondered if you’d like to come with me.’ 

You blink, surprised. 

‘I know it’s short notice,’ he says, when you don’t say anything for a bit. 

‘No, I’d like to go. I’m free and easy.’ 

You slap a hand to your forehead, wondering why you sound like such an idiot. 

‘I mean, I don’t have plans today.’ 

He sounds like he’s smiling again. ‘Ok. Meet you there?’ 

***

You look around for Hoseok when you get to the park, but he doesn’t keep you waiting. 

He approaches you, smiling and bright in a yellow and black parka, sunglasses shading his eyes. 

‘I brought snacks,’ he tells you cheerfully. ‘Thanks for agreeing to come with me.’ 

His manner is so relaxed and easy that you feel any awkwardness slip away. 

The sun’s warm on your bare shoulders, Hoseok’s a nice guy, and he’s got the prettiest smile you’ve seen in a while. 

You smile back at him. ‘I’m glad I came,’ you reply. 

He holds out his arm, and you link yours with his. 

It turns out Hoseok’s just as charming when he’s tipsy. 

You’ve been drinking beer with him in the sunshine all day. 

He blinks at you sleepily in the late evening sun as the last of the bands plays on the main stage. 

He’s stretched out on the grass, face tipped to the sky. His profile is beautiful, all sharp angles accentuated by the height of his cheekbones. 

‘You shouldn’t have let me finish off the beer,’ he tells you. 

‘Oh no, are you too drunk?’ you ask lazily, laying down next to him, watching the clouds swirl in the late summer sky. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he admits finally. ‘I was nervous and I drank too much.’ 

‘Nervous?’ This is news to you. 

‘You’re very pretty,’ he informs you. ‘In case you didn’t know.’ 

‘You’re pretty too,’ you tell him. 

He nods. ‘I know. But you’re prettier.’ 

This is the most ridiculous conversation you’ve had in a while, but somehow you don’t mind it.

You close your eyes briefly, and turn your head to see Hoseok looking at you intently. 

‘Why are you nervous?’ you ask. 

‘I want you to like me,’ he says, with an honesty that steals your breath. 

‘Because?’ 

‘Because I think I could like you a lot.’ 

‘How much?’ 

You’re leaning over him slightly, too close for your intentions to be anything but clear. 

Hoseok’s eyes drop to your lips. 

‘A hell of a lot,’ he says. 

In the end it’s Hoseok who initiates the kiss, one hand coming up to slip around the back of your neck. 

He’s gentle but firm, lips pressing against yours, tilting his head to kiss you deeper. 

You put your hand on his chest, and his own comes up to cover it. 

When you pull away he lets out a soft sound of protest. 

You’re smiling at each other like idiots, his hand still over yours on his chest. 

The sun’s dropped low enough to cast shadows over his face. 

‘I’ll take you home, ok?’ he says. 

He packs up the picnic he made that you’ve been picking at all afternoon, slips his jacket over your shoulders, and walks you out of the park. 

Darkness falls as you walk the few blocks home, adding a layer of distance between you, helping with your self-consciousness as, swaddled in his soft jacket, you realise just how attractive you find Hoseok. 

You stop at the entrance to your building, and Hoseok looks up. 

‘I had a nice time. See you next week?’ 

You’re slipping off his jacket, pressing it into his arms. ‘Thank you for asking me out,’ you tell him. 

There’s a moment because you haven’t fully ended your sentence, and he looks like he’s waiting for the next thing you were about to say. 

‘Do you want to come up?’ you ask. 

Hoseok’s eyes study your face. 

‘Honestly, I’d love to, but I shouldn’t.’ 

Like your goodbye, it seems open ended, like there’s more he would say if you waited long enough. 

Your phone vibrates in the pocket of your dress. 

‘I should go,’ you say. 

Hoseok nods. 

He waits until you’re up the steps, in the door, before he leaves. 

***

Namjoon’s got his mouth open, nibbling at your neck. God, he feels good, teeth grazing your skin, tongue licking. 

His hands are tucked in his pockets still, he hasn’t touched you even though you’re straddling his lap. 

You lean back a little, ask, ‘hey, like my new dress?’ 

You curse yourself for your moment of weakness but the words are already out. 

Namjoon raises a brow. ‘Thought you didn’t care what I thought.’ 

He’s referring to a fight you once had, when you were dating. 

‘Yeah,’ you say, regretting asking. 

You look at each other for a moment. 

‘I should go.’ 

‘You just got here,’ Namjoon says, mildly. He doesn’t make any move to stop you as you climb off his lap, hands tucked in his pockets still. 

‘I don’t think we should do this anymore,’ you say, forcing yourself to look him in the face. 

‘You mean, fuck,’ Namjoon asks. His voice has its usual husky tone, but there’s a coolness to it now. 

‘Yeah, fuck,’ you say. 

Namjoon shrugs. ‘Sure. If that’s really what you want.’ 

He stands, and you’ve spent so much time horizontal with him lately you’d forgotten how tall he is. 

He reaches down to take your hand. 

‘You want me to tell you that you’re pretty?’ he asks. 

‘No,’ you answer, but you don’t pull your hand away. 

‘Look how hard I am,’ he tells you. He presses your hand over his erection. 

‘That’s just biology,’ you say. 

Namjoon scoffs. ‘It’s my biological response to having you grinding in my lap.’ 

He strokes up your arm. ‘Can I convince you to stay?’ 

‘Why would I stay?’ you ask, but you still haven’t moved. 

Namjoon tugs the strap of your bra, leans down to mouth at your collarbones. His big hand curls around your back to steady you as he kisses your neck. 

‘I don’t know, baby, do you want the happy ending or do you just want me to make you happy tonight?’ 

He sucks at your skin, and you get the familiar rush of pleasure pain you get when he marks you. 

‘We’re not going out, are we?’ 

His hand slides down your ass, cupping you, pulling you taut against his groin. 

‘I’m not your boyfriend.’ 

He’s walking you back into his bedroom, onto his bed. He pushes you back against the covers, hand behind your head to cushion you even though it’s soft. 

‘We’re not getting married.’ 

His words are brutal in their honesty, and still you don’t push him away. 

He tugs your panties down impatiently, rumbling his approval when he feels how wet you are. 

‘But I make you like this,’ he says, fingers slipping inside you, thumb circling your clit. 

‘Namjoon,’ you say, a warning. 

He gives you a look so heated you lose your train of thought. 

He hasn’t, though. 

He grabs your thigh, pulls you down to the edge of the bed so he can keep leaning over you. 

‘What, am I wrong?’ he taunts. 

His fingers are stroking, scissoring inside you. He’s still gripping your thigh with his free hand. 

He squeezes your thigh. 

‘Am I wrong? Didn’t I get you wet like this?’ he asks. He scoffs. ‘Of course I did. Just like you got me this hard.’ 

He slides a hand over himself, grinding into his palm. 

‘Just fuck me, Namjoon,’ you say. The pleasure’s building, making you tighten around his fingers. 

‘I’ll fuck you,’ he promises. ‘Just as long as we’re clear that there’s no feelings involved.’ 

He stops touching himself, wraps his hand around your neck, tight. 

You moan, and he laughs. 

‘You’re so easy to please, baby,’ he says, mocking. ‘If I fuck you now you’ll come, won’t you?’ 

‘I hate you,’ you spit out. 

Namjoon cocks an eyebrow. ‘Sweetheart, I don’t even think you’re convincing yourself.’ 

He yanks his jeans down, and he’s in you in one movement. 

He groans as he bottoms out inside you, slams his hand down on the bed beside your head. 

‘So fucking tight,’ he utters. ‘Who got you like this?’ 

He’s not waiting for an answer, rocking into you, balls slapping your ass with every firm thrust. 

It’s just as well, you don’t think you could answer him anyway.

Namjoon fucks you good, it’s what he always does. 

***

You’re cleaning up a spillage in the detergent aisle when Hoseok walks past. 

‘Hey,’ he says, looking pleased to see you. ‘How are you?’ 

‘I’m good,’ you say, returning his smile. 

He’s in a standard issue blue polo shirt emblazoned with the store logo today, unlike the baggy fleeces you’re used to seeing him in. 

You try not to stare at his exposed arms.

‘What are you doing after work today?’ he asks.

He takes the mop from you and wrings it into the bucket, then picks it up. 

‘I’ll take this,’ he says, his tone brooking no argument. ‘It’s heavy.’

‘I don’t have plans,’ you say.

Hoseok beams. ‘I’m going to support my friend at this club night. Want to join me?’

‘What does your friend do?’ you ask, walking with him to the cleaning supplies closet.

‘He raps,’ Hoseok tells you. He grins. ‘I rap sometimes too.’

You see it. He’s got a rasp to his voice sometimes, an easy cadence to his words. 

Somehow the idea of him as a rapper makes sense.

‘So, you want to come with?’ he asks.

‘I’d like to,’ you tell him.

He looks so pleased about it that it makes you feel brighter too.

‘Text me your address and I’ll pick you up at 8, ok?’

He saunters off with a cheerful wave.

You realise you’re looking forward to it.

***

There’s not a lot of space between you and Hoseok at this tiny club, he’s been leaning over you for most of the night.

Somehow your arm’s found its way around his waist, and you find you like having him this close.

Hoseok’s lips brush your cheek gently, and your heart pounds. This close, his eyelashes are long, his eyes beautiful, the line of his jaw irresistible. He looks so good. 

You turn your head, chase his lips. He gives in with a willingness that makes your confidence soar. Like he’s wanted you this whole night and now he doesn’t want to wait anymore. 

His lips are soft, but the way he kisses you is firm, chest towards yours, hand curled around the top of your hip bone. He kisses you like he knows better than you what you’ll like, and he’s got every intention of following through. 

You haven’t got any interest in the next act, but as soon as you hear the voice, your eyes open. 

Hoseok murmurs a little, pulls you closer into his chest. 

You look up at the stage, and there, so close you can see the tic in his jaw as he takes in you and Hoseok, so intimately intertwined, is Namjoon. 

***

‘This is my friend Namjoon,’ Hoseok says, after the set’s over. 

Namjoon uses the towel around his neck to wipe his face, but he’s still out of breath, slick with sweat. 

He tilts his head at you, dimples like it’s the first time you’ve met. Says nothing. 

‘We’ve met,’ you say. 

You’re a little away from the stage, far enough that you can hear each other over the next act. 

‘Yeah, we’ve met,’ Namjoon confirms. 

Hoseok regards you both with interest. He’s a nice guy, but he’s no fool. 

You say, ‘That was a great set, Namjoon.’

‘Yeah?’ asks Namjoon. He pops the cork on a bottle of Dom, pours it out. Watches as you drink, a smirk on his lips.

You’re watching Hoseok.

‘How do you and Hobi know each other?’ Namjoon asks. He lays back, knees spread, thigh nudging yours. 

‘We work together,’ you reply. You turn to Hoseok, but the smile freezes on your lips when you see his expression, the way he’s looking at Namjoon.

You want to touch him but the tense set of his shoulders gives you pause.

Meanwhile, Namjoon looks more relaxed than ever.

‘Hey, it’s getting late, I should probably get going,’ you say.

Hoseok looks at you for a long moment. ‘Yeah, I’ll take you home.’

The car ride’s the quietest Hoseok’s ever been with you.

By the time he pulls up outside your apartment you’re tight with tension despite the champagne.

‘Thanks Hoseok,’ you say, mustering a smile.

He can barely look at you, and for some reason that makes you feel like crying.

You unbuckle your belt, push the door open. You’re almost all the way up the steps when you hear the car door behind you.

You turn to see Hoseok hurrying up the steps.

He steps a couple feet in front of you.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘Shit that was weird, wasn’t it?’

He gives you a half-smile, touches your arm.

‘Yeah,’ you agree. You smile back at him uncertainly.

‘I’ll see you at work Monday?’

This time his smile’s more like the cheerful friendly Hoseok you’ve come to know.

He waves at you as he walks back to his car, waits until you’re inside before he drives away.

***

You’re messing around with Jimin by the fresh flowers, emptying out the buckets, when Hoseok walks by.

‘Hey!’ you say cheerfully, waving a hand.

Hoseok smiles but keeps walking, heading round to the back.

You hurry to catch up. 

‘Hoseok,’ you say, walking alongside him. ‘Jimin and I and some of the other guys are getting drinks after work, would you like to come?’

Hoseok hangs his jacket on the hook, puts on his apron. 

‘I’m busy. Maybe another time, ok?’

He’s walking off without waiting for your answer. 

You’re so taken aback by his brusqueness, a sharp contrast to the warm, kind Hoseok you’ve come to know that it takes you a moment to regroup.

When you get back to the flowers, Jimin’s finished filling the buckets.

‘You ok?’ he asks.

‘Yeah,’ you reply, forcing a smile. ‘I went to ask Hoseok to join us for drinks, but he’s busy.’

Jimin’s studying your expression.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Tell you what, we’ll grab food beforehand, ok? My treat.’

You smile at him, a real smile this time. ‘It’s your turn anyway to get dinner,’ you point out.

Jimin puts an arm around your shoulders, squeezes. 

‘I’ll buy you whatever you want,’ he promises.

***

You’re three shots in, merry and listening to Jimin tell you about his weekend when Namjoon and Hoseok walk into the bar.

‘Shit,’ you hiss, slumping down next to Jimin.

Jimin throws you a sympathetic look as one of your colleagues, Dahyun calls Hoseok over.

You look down at your hands as Hoseok greets everyone at the table.

Thankfully you’re tucked in a seat against the wall.

You glance up, see the way both Namjoon and Hoseok are looking at you, and go back to looking at your hands.

As soon as they go to get drinks you tap Jimin on the shoulder. 

‘I’m gonna go, ok?’ 

‘Let me take you home,’ Jimin says. 

You wave aside his protests and make your way to the door.

You’re waiting for your taxi, shivering a bit in the cool night air, when you hear a familiar voice. 

‘Going so soon?’ asks Hoseok. He’s standing a little away from you, hands tucked in his pockets.

‘Yeah, I’m tired.’ You give him a small smile and turn back to the road, willing your taxi to arrive.

‘I’ll wait with you,’ Hoseok says.

‘I’m fine, it’ll be here any minute,’ you say.

Hoseok steps closer. ‘Can I talk to you?’

You close your eyes. ‘Sure,’ you say. ‘About what?’

There’s a flash of headlamps as your taxi pulls up. 

Hoseok opens the door for you, lets you in and gets in after you. 

You’re too surprised to say anything.

Hoseok turns to you. ‘I don’t have to go to your place, I can get out as soon as we arrive at yours ok?’

He runs a hand through his hair. ‘I just want to talk to you for a bit.’

‘Sure,’ you say. 

There’s a silence.

‘Namjoon’s my friend,’ Hoseok starts.

You’re wondering what he’s leading up to.

‘I needed to talk to him,’ Hoseok says.

You look out the car window, at the buildings flashing by.

‘I —‘

He stops again. ‘I like you,’ he says, simply. ‘But Namjoon’s my friend, and I just needed to know if he’d be ok with us dating.’

You feel hollow. ‘What did Namjoon say about us?’ you ask.

‘He said that you don’t have that kind of relationship,’ Hoseok replies.

You laugh bitterly.

‘If you wanted to know about me and Namjoon, you could have just asked me,’ you say.

He’s quiet.

Finally, he says, ‘I’m sorry, Y/N.’

The taxi pulls up outside your building. 

You’re more hurt than you thought you’d be. Hot tears burn the backs of your eyes.

‘It’s fine, Hoseok.’

You can’t look at him. 

You get out of the taxi. ‘I’ll see you at work, ok?’

Hoseok says, ‘wait’, but you’re already walking up the steps, letting yourself in.

You make it up to your apartment, and close the door behind you before you let the tears fall.

***

You’re sitting at the back of the room at the team-building day, half-asleep because it took you ages to get here on the train, to the ass end of nowhere. 

Jimin’s sleeping quietly beside you, ball cap pulled low over his face. You’ve promised to wake him if he started sleep-talking. 

Hoseok’s near the front of the room, not that you’d been looking out for him. You haven’t really spoken since that night at the bar. 

Namjoon’s texted you a few times but you haven’t answered. 

You can do better than a boy who just wants to fuck and a boy who can’t be bothered to talk to you like a goddamn decent human being.

You nudge Jimin awake when it’s time for the activity - a scavenger hunt in the woods where you’ll be paired off. 

To your dismay, you don’t get to pick your teammate. 

It’s fine, as long as you don’t get –

You swallow down the swear word that fills your mouth when you realise your teammate is Hoseok. 

Of course it is. 

Hoseok looks as thrilled about it as you do. 

He grabs the sack you’ve been given, and you pick up your clipboard and pen. 

‘Shall we head towards the lake?’ you ask, clipped. 

‘Sure,’ he says, neutral. 

You’re looking down the list. ‘Too bad it doesn’t ask for an asshole,’ you say, looking at him darkly. ‘Because you’re right here.’ 

Hoseok looks at you, straight faced. ‘Are you gonna be like this the whole time?’ 

‘Why don’t you call Namjoon and ask him, seeing as he knows so much about me?’ 

Hoseok tilts his head. ‘I said I was sorry about that,’ he tells you. 

You sigh. ‘Forget it. The first item is a black rock.’ 

‘There’ll be loads by the lake,’ Hoseok says. 

He sets off without waiting for you. 

You’re loath to follow him but at least if you get this over with as soon as possible you can go back and take the next train out of this place. 

Scowling, you follow in his tracks. 

***

‘You look hot when you’re angry,’ Hoseok tells you. ‘That little frown line between your brows really suits you.’ 

You give him a dead-eyed stare. ‘Yeah, and you looked hot before you turned out to be a misogynistic asshole.’ 

‘Jokes on you,’ Hoseok mutters. ‘I always was one.’ 

The giggle escapes you before you can hold it back. 

‘No wonder you’re friends with Namjoon,’ you scoff, turning away. 

‘We have a lot in common,’ Hoseok allows. He side-eyes you. ‘We like the same type of women.’ 

‘Women that are too hot for you?’ you ask, straightfaced. 

‘Yeah.’ 

You stumble on a rock, and Hoseok curls his hand under your arm to steady you. 

‘There you go again, thinking I need you when I don’t,’ you snipe, jerking your arm away. 

‘Yeah, next time I’ll just let you fall on your face,’ Hoseok agrees. 

He sighs. ‘Honestly? Your bitchiness is giving me a hard-on.’ 

Your gaze flies to his crotch. 

Hoseok lets you look. ‘I’m strapped in, but I’ll let you look at it properly later if you want.’ 

‘No thanks,’ you snap. 

He shrugs. ‘I’m not gonna force myself on you.’ 

Then, as you’re looking at his face, he smirks, popping a dimple at the corner of his mouth. ‘I won’t fuck you until you’re begging for it.’ 

You raise a brow, nonchalant. ‘Guess we’re never fucking then.’ 

‘That’s my loss,’ he says. 

He veers off to the right, behind a tree. 

‘Got it,’ he says, emerging after a moment, triumphantly holding up an acorn. 

You tick it off the list silently. 

‘I don’t want to be an asshole misogynist again, but the path’s slippery here, be careful,’ he says, as you approach a steep sloping hill. 

‘Thanks,’ you reply. 

The path narrows, and he says, ‘Let me go up ahead, ok? Just in case.’ 

‘I’m fine with you dying first,’ you agree. 

He looks back at you, smiles. ‘I would have asked you out sooner if I’d known you were like this.’ 

‘Intolerant of assholes?’ you suggest. 

He laughs. ‘Mean.’ 

You’re indignant. ‘I’m not mean!’ 

‘No, I like it,’ he says. ‘Like I said, you’re giving me a boner.’ 

‘I heard you were mean too,’ you say. 

He scoffs. ‘Only in bed.’ 

He smiles at you. ‘Wanna find out?’ 

You shove him, and he just laughs. ‘Come on, let me help you up the slope.’ 

He offers you his hand, and when you reach out for it, he pulls it away. 

You look up at him, outraged, and he laughs again. 

‘No, really this time,’ he says, putting out his hand again. 

You push past him, and your foot slips. 

‘Shit!’

Hoseok, quick as a cat, grabs you to steady you. 

‘You ok?’ he asks quietly, holding your arm. 

‘I’m fine,’ you mutter. ‘We have one item left, then we can head back.’ 

‘The elderberries?’ Hoseok asks. ‘I found those ages ago.’ 

You stare up at him. ‘You didn’t —’

‘Yeah, I wanted more time with you. Alone in the woods.’ 

You’d be more mad if he didn’t look so absurdly hot when he’s grinning at you like he is now. 

‘Fuck, Hoseok.’ 

‘My friends call me Hobi,’ he says. 

‘We’re not friends,’ you snap. 

He almost looks hurt. ‘Aren’t we? Don’t you like hanging out with me?’ 

You’re about to say you don’t when you realise it would be a lie. 

He holds out his arm. ‘Come on, it’s getting dark. We should head back.’ 

***

You’re one of the last teams to get back, and as you walk up you realise from Jimin’s reaction that you’re still holding Hoseok’s arm. 

‘Can I give you a ride back? I drove,’ Hoseok offers. 

‘I came with Jimin on the train,’ you say. 

‘You can both fit in my car,’ Hoseok says, easy. 

You wake up to Jimin saying goodbye to Hoseok, and sit up guiltily. 

Hoseok turns back to you. 

‘Are you ok? You looked tired so we didn’t want to wake you.’ 

‘I’m fine. Let me come round the front.’ 

You slide into the front passenger seat, and Hoseok pulls away from Jimin’s apartment.

‘You hungry?’ he asks, as he drives.

You sit up and realise that you are, a bit.

‘Depends, are we gonna eat together?’

Hoseok looks over at you, laughs. ‘We can sit separately if you want.’

You end up at some 24 hour noodle bar near where he lives.

Hoseok slurps his noodles, throws glances at you across the tiny table, until you set down your chopsticks.

‘What?’

‘I’m just regretting fucking things up so badly with you,’ he says.

You open your mouth, ready with a reply, and close it again.

‘Namjoon asked me out,’ you tell him. ‘He came round to where I worked, and then one day asked if I wanted to meet him, and I did. We went on dates, and I don’t remember when it all changed but then one day I realised we were just sleeping together.’

You look up at him. 

‘He’s never lied or said he wants more,’ you say. ‘You know, there was this one night I was walking back from his place and some dude snatched my phone.’

You look out the front window at the street. 

‘I was right outside his building, but it was only after I got home, all shaken up that I realised I hadn’t even thought about ringing his bell, asking to come back up and calm down.’ 

You laugh, short. ‘I guess I didn’t want to find out how little he really cares about me outside of bed.’

You don’t want to see Hoseok’s face right now. 

Is he disgusted at how pathetic you are?

You look at your hands. 

‘I should go.’

Hoseok’s standing. He hasn’t said a word since your confession.

He stops with his hand on the passenger door of his car. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

You risk a glance at his face only to find he’s looking at you. There’s an openness to his expression, a mixture of concern and kindness and something else you can’t read.

He opens the door, shuts it after you once you’ve climbed in.

The drive back to yours is short, and you’re grateful that he seems to not want to try to talk.

He pulls up outside your steps, kills the engine.

‘Let me walk you to the door,’ he says.

You’re surprised. ‘It’s literally ten steps.’

He walks up with you, stops at the entrance. 

‘Namjoon and I are similar in a lot of ways,’ he tells you, putting a hand on your arm, ‘but not in everything. I wouldn’t want you to think I’d treat you the same as he’s done.’

You look up at him and the memory of him that day at the festival softens your gaze. 

‘I know you’re not the same,’ you say.

‘Good,’ Hoseok says. He lets go of your arm. 

He waits until you’re inside before he drives away.

***

You and Jimin stare, bemused, at the beautifully stocked display trays of fresh fruit and vegetables.

You haven’t even started your shift, but it looks like all your work’s been done for you.

You turn to Jimin. ‘Did you?’

‘Nope,’ Jimin denies.

‘Then who?’

Hoseok walks by, accompanied by a man you don’t know with a lip piercing and a fluffy looking wolf cut covering his face.

‘Hey, Jungkook and I arranged the fruit this morning. Do you guys want to go round the back? We made rolls and coffee.’

Nonplussed, you and Jimin follow Hoseok and Jungkook to the break room.

Hoseok pours you a mug of coffee, passes you a roll. 

‘How are you doing?’ he asks, settling into the seat next to yours, leaning back.

His thigh brushes yours as he stretches out, and he moves it carefully away.

‘I’m good,’ you say. ‘You?’

‘I couldn’t sleep well thinking about what you said,’ Hoseok says.

You’re discomfited. ‘It’s fine, Hoseok, I didn’t tell you for any particular reason.’

‘I know. I just wanted you to know I’m sorry and I can do better.’

You’re quiet. ‘Why do you care?’

‘I like you,’ he says, with an honesty that takes your breath away. ‘Even when you’re mean to me.’

He smiles at your expression. ‘Especially when you’re mean to me,’ he amends.

You can’t help but laugh. 

***

Hoseok’s gathering shopping trolleys in the car park when you walk out. 

‘Hey,’ he says, pushing a long line of trolleys towards you. ‘Want to go watch a movie?’

You tilt your head, considering, and then decide to make the leap.

‘Hey. My mom dropped off a lot of food at mine yesterday. There’s enough for both of us if you’re interested.’

Hoseok beams at you. ‘Yes!’ he says, with such enthusiasm you’re smiling.

‘I just need to get my jacket,’ he explains. ‘Wait for me here?’

You’re waiting for Hoseok by the trolleys when a familiar voice says your name.

It’s Namjoon.

He’s decked out in blue, and white, tall enough to block out the late afternoon sun, handsome enough to make you stand up straight.

‘Hey,’ he says. 

‘Hey.’

‘I haven’t heard from you lately,’ he says. He cocks his head, dimples at you. ‘You good?’

‘Yeah, I’m good.’

‘I’m ready,’ Hoseok says cheerfully, coming out the side of the store.

He stops when he sees you and Namjoon.

There’s an infinitesimal pause before he says, ‘Hey, Namjoon.’

Namjoon says, easy, ‘hey Hobi.’

‘We’re going to have dinner,’ you say. 

‘Yeah,’ Hoseok says. ‘See you later, Namjoon.’

Hoseok puts a gentle hand under your arm. ‘Ready?’

You think you are.

***

Hoseok’s eating a cream puff. 

There’s a dollop of cream on his top lip, and you put your hand on his arm to keep him still as you lean forward and lick it off.

Hoseok’s reflexes are quick.

He turns his head instantly to kiss you full on the lips.

Oh my. Is this what you’ve been missing?

His lips are sweet, and warm, and he’s responsive, following your lead as you deepen the kiss.

His tongue flicks at your lower lip, and then slides into your mouth.

His warm hand covers yours as you break apart.

‘Let’s go sit,’ you invite, gesturing to your couch.

Hoseok’s laying a trail of kisses along the line of your neck, tongue coming out to flick at your skin. His hand’s gently squeezing your covered thigh.

His chest is pressed against yours, and something about the solid warmth of him is making your head spin. 

You’re squirming, impatient already even though he’s made no move to do anything but kiss you.

Hoseok sighs out a breath as he pulls away. He rests the side of his head against the back of your couch, lips curving in a smile. 

‘I could do this all night,’ he tells you.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

***

Hoseok’s shirtless, lying on his back on your bedspread. His flat abs twitch as you run your tongue along them.

You reach the button on his jeans, tug at it with your teeth.

Hoseok’s hand comes up to grasp your hair. 

‘You really want this?’ he asks. 

‘We can just snuggle for a bit if you want,’ he suggests, voice low and warm.

He pulls you up alongside him, curls an arm around you, keeps his face close to yours.

He says, ‘I’ve wanted to be with you like this since that time at the festival.’

He reaches out, traces a finger over the upper curve of your breasts, exposed in your bra. 

‘Fuck, you’re a menace,’ Hoseok mutters, but he doesn’t sound mad about it.

He traces circles on your arm lazily, lets you slide your hand over his bare chest. His flat nipples pebble under your touch.

‘You know what I think?’ he says, finally. 

You raise your eyes to his. 

‘I think you need to be told what to do,’ Hoseok says, thoughtfully. ‘You’re too pretty, I bet that’s what all the boys you’ve slept with tell you.’ 

Your brow furrows. 

Hoseok nudges you down so you’re flat on the bed, hooks a thigh over your legs to slide you fully underneath him. 

He braces himself with a forearm beside your head, rolls his hips slowly against yours, makes you tremble with want.

Hoseok says, a challenge in his eyes, ‘Bet you wouldn’t know what to do with my cock if I let you have it.’

You look at him, your irritation clouded by lust, by the way he’s still slowly grinding himself against you. 

He laughs at you. 

The bastard has the audacity to laugh at you. 

‘Look at you, your lips like that, your eyes like that. Bet all you have to do is smile and you have guys creaming their pants.’ 

He leans closer, presses his lips to your ear, murmurs, ‘huh.’

You’re already so wet and needy you can barely keep up, but you muster up a retort, defiance in your tone.

‘I’m not some sort of pillow princess,’ you tell him, annoyed.

Hoseok laughs, voice so low and raspy now you can barely make out the words. 

‘I think you are,’ he replies. He rolls his hips again, and you try to stifle a moan but you can’t. 

‘It’s ok,’ he tells you, hand under your ass, pulling your hips up to his. ‘I like it.’

The chain around his neck’s dangling into the dip of his clavicles. You tuck your fingers into it, pull a little as you kiss him again, open mouthed. 

Hoseok licks into your mouth like he loves the taste of you, sloppy, wet. As you run your hand down over his bare chest he groans. 

He sits forward, tucks his fingers under the strap of your bra. ‘Can I take this off?’ he asks. 

When you nod he unhooks your bra, tugs it off you.

He admires your bare breasts for so long your hands are already coming up to cover yourself when he says, stern, ‘Don’t.’

‘Hoseok —-‘

‘I’m staring,’ he explains patiently, ‘because I’ve been thinking about you like this for so long I can’t believe we’re finally here, like this.’

He kisses you off centre, at the corner of your mouth, flicking his tongue at the seam of your lips. 

‘I’m staring because you’re such a pretty girl.’

He lowers his head, sticks out his tongue, laves the peak of your breast, pulling a whimper out of you. 

‘Go on,’ he says, watching your face, lips against your breast. ‘Let me hear how much you like it.’ 

His thigh slips between yours, and you roll your hips against it, seeking friction for your aching clit, the emptiness between your legs. 

Hoseok’s mouth is warm, and wet, and he grasps your hip, tight, as he suckles at your breasts.

Your first orgasm takes you by surprise, a burst of warm pleasure from your throbbing clit, your cunt pulsing around nothing as you cry out and buck your hips against his.

‘Easy, baby,’ Hoseok says, letting you ride out the waves of your pleasure, hand warm on your skin as he steadies you.

You lift your face to his, and he’s only too happy to give you his mouth. You’re still breathless from your orgasm, and when he slips a firm hand under your panties, you moan so loudly his ears ring.

Hoseok groans at the feel of you, warm and soft and slicking up his fingers. 

‘Are you sensitive? Can I?’

You reach down and curl your fingers around him, and Hoseok can’t stop himself from grinding into your hand.

‘One sec,’ he grunts. He tears open a condom, passes it to you.

‘Go on, do some work, princess.’

You’re sitting up on legs that still feel like jelly.

Instead of rolling the condom onto his length, you take him in your mouth, suck at his head, and Hoseok swears and pulls you off him.

‘Damn you need to warn me if you’re gonna do that, I nearly came,’ he pants.

He kisses you again. ‘Behave yourself or you won’t get fucked.’

You pinch the tip, roll the condom onto him, and Hoseok pulls you on top of him.

He pinches the softness of your inner thigh, making you jump.

‘Line me up,’ he says. 

You squeeze him as you position yourself, and Hoseok groans. ‘Fuck, you’re such a brat.’

He closes his eyes, huffs out a long breath as you take him in.

He’s deep, like this, snug. He grasps your hips, helps you move on his cock.

His head arches back into the pillow underneath it, neck bared to you as you ride him.

‘Use me, baby,’ he urges, bucking his hips up into you to fuck you a little deeper, grunting when you cry out.

He feels so good your oversensitivity gives way to building need. 

‘Come on,’ Hoseok says. He cards his fingers through your hair, tugs you down so he can devour your mouth. He’s vocal in his enjoyment of you, groaning into your mouth, grasping your ass so tight he’s going to leave marks.

‘Look,’ he says, hoarse, helping you lift up off him so you can see your arousal glistening on his skin, on the insides of your thighs.

He swears. ‘Turn over.’

He pulls out, and you turn over, onto all fours. You tremble with want as he slides his cock against your slit, nudging you apart.

He’s back inside you in one smooth movement, curled over your back, hand on your tits, the other hand snaking down the front of your pelvis to rub your clit.

‘I’m gonna come,’ he tells you. His voice is raspy now, taut. ‘And I think I’m going to fucking love coming into this cunt.’ 

‘I think you’re gonna get so fucking tight I won’t be able to move.’

He strokes his fingers over your clit, and you cry out. He flicks his other thumb over your peaked nipple. 

‘Shit, you’re so fucking soft, princess,’ he groans. ‘So fucking soft.’

You moan his name as his words push you over the edge.

‘That’s it, there you go, princess,’ he says. He drives himself into your pulsing cunt, deep, slow, and then he’s holding you tight, pulled up so your back is pressed to his chest. You can feel him twitching as he fills the condom.

Your arms buckle, and you drop onto the bed, taking him with you.

He rolls off. ‘Fuck, are you ok? Did I squash you?’

You’re still breathless but you manage a smile. ‘No, you killed me.’

Hoseok laughs. ‘Knew you were a princess.’

He sits up, staggers a little, and he disappears in the direction of your kitchen, coming back with a glass of water.

‘Drink up.’

As you drink he goes to the bathroom, returning shirtless but with his briefs back on.

‘All yours,’ he says. He passes you his t-shirt and your panties.

By the time you make it back he’s tidied up the clothes you shed, and is perched on the end of your bed. 

He looks up at you. 

‘I can go,’ he says, tentative. 

You come closer, and automatically, he curls an arm around your waist, pressing his face into your front.

‘Why don’t you stay?’ 

Hoseok’s smile is bright, happy, pleased. ‘I’d like to.’

You hit the lights, and he holds up the covers for you to slide in, wraps his arm around you as soon as you’re in the bed.

Your phone buzzes on your nightstand. 

‘Need to get that?’ he asks as you lift it to check.

He watches you swipe away the text from Namjoon, but all he says is, ‘What kind of coffee do you like? I’ll pick us up some in the morning.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ he promises. ‘I’ll get you whatever you want.’

©hamsterclaw 2023

[inkdrinkerworld]

They ARE girl dad!Sirius thoughts (because of course he’s a girl dad)

- god ok just imagine this man holding a baby… like just holding his tiny baby girl in his arms and she looks even smaller than normal and he needs to be holding or looking at her 100% of the time otherwise he goes insane

- he loves to spoil his baby girl, like even before she can talk if she looks at something in a store, it’s hers because how could he ever say no to her when she’s so perfect? And he definitely talks to her like she’s an adult, sitting on the couch with her cradled in his arms like “can you believe what James said, that bastard?” and she’ll babble in response and he’s like “I knew you’d understand” (her first word is definitely a curse word but the two of you find it hilarious)

- once she gets a little bigger, he loves carrying her around in those chest carrier things so that his hands can be free but he still gets to stay close to his baby, like you come home and he’s in the kitchen and your daughter is strapped to his chest and she just has this giant baby grin on her face

- she’s a total daddy’s girl, like literally all she wants is to be just like Sirius when she grows up, and she loves drawing on her arms to give herself tattoos to look “just like daddy!” and you can’t even be upset at all because it’s just so cute

- he’s definitely shockingly amazing at doing hairstyles, like of course because his hair is longer he’s pretty skilled but these are like professional-grade hairstyles on his daughter and they always look so perfect and it’s his favorite part of the day when the two of them just get to sit together (until she starts grumbling about him pulling her hair too hard and then he feels awful for the next few hours)

- like he would literally do anything for his baby girl, and his daughter is definitely in the same, like when parents in her class start talking shit about the two of you because you’re so much younger (like Lily/James when they canonically had Harry) and Sirius doesn’t look very stereotypical dad with his piercings and tats and leather jacket but this little girl is ready to physically fight anyone who insults her parents, child or adult

- around the holidays she gets so spoiled but like she’s so perfect so she deserves it, and your house is always decorated and so cozy and the three of you bake cookies together and decorate your tree as a family and obviously you get your daughter lots and lots of gifts but she also gets things for you two, whether she makes them or sneaks off with one of you to go to the store to pick something out for the other

There are more hehehe but all in all just like Sirius being the best dad ever even though he’s terrified of becoming just like his parents (don’t think of all the times during your pregnancy when he broke down about not being a good father and it definitely didn’t stop after your daughter was born but he is the best dad in the world regardless of what he thinks)

Omg YES TO ALL OF THIS!!!

He def does break down a lot while you’re pregnant, more so when you hit pregnancy milestones like feeling the kicks. He starts panicking when he feels the pressure of the foot against his hand.

“What if I mess her up?” He whispers, tears in his eyes as your daughter keeps kicking. “What if I’m like them?”

You hold his face, looking at him all sad and your heart cracks open as you whisper, “You won’t mess a thing up. Not a thing.”

That all proves true when your daughter, Daphné is born. Sirius’ heart expands so much he can’t breathe when he holds her. From then on they’re inseparable and she’s Sirius’ entire world.

His little Daphné is a fighter! The moment anyone says anything about you or her daddy, she’s ready to tussle, even at five. You and Sirius have been called into school more than you care to admit because Daphné likes shoving kids off swing sets when they talk about you and him.

[chenziee]

Shortly after Ace starts dating Marco in a modern AU, Luffy is chatting with Sabo about his latest E.R. trip when when he goes "Actually, Pinapple man was there and--"

Sabo is completely confused for a moment, until Luffy notices and clarifies, "You know that guy. I forget his name. That pinapple guy. Ace brought him to BBQ last week."

It takes Sabo a full minute to process that Luffy just called Ace's boyfriend, the department head of the university hospital, 'that pinapple guy' but when he does... he laughs. He laughs and laughs to the point of tears; he can't remember the last time he laughed quite this much.

He keeps bursting into snickers when he rushes to the store right after.

When Ace gets home that night, there is a pineapple sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, complete with googly eyes and fake glases glued on--as well as having its own plate and cuttlery set out before it, ready to get its own serving of dinner.

Ace doesn't have to look at the name tag that reads "Marco, that pineapple guy" that is hanging on lanyard that's tangled in its leaves before he, too, starts laughing until tears are streaming down his face.

A photo of Marco the Pineapple is set as Marco the Human's contact photo before dinner is even served.

Marco the Pinapple sits at the table for a few days but after a Straw Hats visit, it is deemed that he is taking up too much space and is relocated to the living room, his new home being the top of a cabinet.

By the time Marco the Human visits the ASL household about a month later, Marco the Pineapple is pretty much a family member.

Marco doesn't notice the random pineapple at first--the pineapple that is now wearing a tiny lab coat and a stethoscope--until Ace's cat, Kotatsu, jumps on that particular cabinet.

It's only when Sabo's warning hiss of, "Kotatsu, you know you can't touch Marco, don't you dare" draws his attention that he notices the cat wasn't about to start wrestling with his ankles.

Instead, he was sitting next to the decorated pineapple and staring straight at Sabo as if to tell him to try and stop him.

Marco isn't sure if he's ever been faced with a sight so bizzare... but he would be lying if he said he didn't find it hilarious.

Ace gifts him Marco the Pineapple Jr. to keep on his desk at work.

And Marco loves it.

[vctrvn-ls]

|On a Plane•|Beta Squad|

✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️

not 3am thoughts but plane thoughts (pretty appropriate)

✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️

Chunkz

Let’s start this off simple. He’d sleep. He would literally just close his eyes at takeoff and only wake up when they’re bringing the food around. But at some point he’d want to watch a movie with you, so you’d share a pair of headphones and get cozy next to each other. He’d get out the blanket that the plane offers and put it over you and him, lift the armrest up and let you lay your head down on his soft shoulder. You’d definitely watch a cartoon, maybe something like Turbo (movie about the racing snail) but it wouldn’t be long until you dozed off in your comfortable position, arms wrapped around one of his. He’d soon join you, after taking a couple of crazy selfies with your hilarious sleeping face, he’d carefully lay his cheek on the top of your head and also fall asleep, only waking up for the landing.

AJ

Ayooo this fvcking guy. Firstly, he’d definitely be vlogging and he’d want some action on this flight, so he’d force you to play different games with him. For example a game of cards and whoever wins pays for the others meal. Aj wouldn’t let you sleep, he didn’t get on this flight to sleep (like Chunkz), of course he’d let you sleep, but with him by your side you wouldn’t even want to. Would you get complaints? Uuuh maybe? But you’d be respectful…as much as you could. After being two crazy people you’d listen to some music together while playing the shitty games on the plane monitors, laughing at the candy crush rip offs.

Kenny

Every time I start writing one of these “thoughts” I always call Kenny baby. Cause he is (please I’m crying), he’d be so so sweet. He’d make sure you weren’t sitting in front of an annoying kid who kicks your seat, or a man who keeps pushing your chair up with his knees cause there’s no space (Niko??). He’d put you first on any type of trip. He’d give you his blanket, let you sleep on him, give you his dessert when it’s meal time. And you’d appreciate every little thing, and after convincing him that he could lay down on your shoulder and sleep (cause we know our bbg needs his rest) he’d slowly start falling asleep. Being the good gf you are you’d pull a blanket over him and place a small, but affectionate kiss on the top of his head, before smiling to yourself and continuing to watch the movie that you were watching.

Sharky

Like Kenny Sharky would give you everything you need and more. He’d definitely bring two head-pillow-things, one for you and for himself. He knows how hard it is to fall asleep sometimes so he’d also get matching blindfolds to go. When you get on the plane you’re both excited. Sharky let you have the window seat on the condition that you’d take the best photos for insta stories. Flying with Sharky would generally be chill. You’d double connect your AirPods to his phone and listen to his Frank Ocean playlist and you’d end up napping on the window while Sharky draws little circles on your knee. (I need Sharky next to me rn and not this guy who keeps crashing into me w his head when he falls asleep)

Niko

Girrrlll, listen, I feel like Niko’s the type of person who’d be worried that their ears won’t unblock during the flight. Like he wouldn’t want to be uncomfortable for the next several hours of the flight, so he’d stress about it on take off. You’d obviously know about this and be there to help him (or also worry with him, I would cause my ears are pain in my life) so you’d chew packs and packs of gum until you were at a stable height. Once you stopped worrying about that…Niko would probably fall asleep. With his mouth open. On you. Look as much as you’d want a romantic trip, you won’t get it, not on a plane. Niko is our little cutie patootie and we need to let him sleep, because as soon as the two of you land wherever, he’ll be taking care of you like you’re the most precious thing in the world (which to him you are) so it’s only fair for you to get comfy in your seat, lay Niko onto you and sleep yourself (or watch a movie)

[jbuffyangel]

Hot and Cold: Arrow 1x22 Review (Darkness of the Edge of Town)

There is no episode that exemplifies the disjointed nature of Season 1 more than “Darkness on the Edge of Town.”  We have Exhibit A: an OTA field op and the smoaking hot chemistry of Stephen Amell and Emily Bett Rickards igniting in an elevator shaft of all places.

And Exhibit B: the other show. A frigid black hole I feared we’d never escape from.

Let’s dig in…

Olicity and OTA

Let’s start with the positive since there is soooooo much freaking positive! It can take time for a television series to find its footing in the first season.  Unfortunately, nowadays if the audience isn’t binging the entire season in 24 hours, the show gets canceled. But blessedly, this was 2013. Network TV was still the supreme ruler, and Arrow was pulling big enough numbers for the CW to allow for some leeway.

Twenty two episodes of leeway. Arrow finally found its groove and latched on to the mystical “it factor” that keeps an audience watching - Oliver, Felicity and Diggle. The chemistry and dynamic between these characters and the actors who play them is undeniable and it creates an action packed, laughing out loud, and sizzling hot episode. The writers are having FUN in “Darkness on the Edge of Town" and it shows, which means we get to have fun too.

Oliver decides to question his mother regarding the Undertaking, but she refuses to confess. So, Oliver and Diggle take a more brutal approach. The Hood kidnaps them both and beats the crap out of Oliver until she coughs up the information. It’s always hilarious when this show acts like David Ramsey can fit in Stephen Amell’s suit.

The burgeoning relationship between Oliver and Felicity is very much in its infancy. Oliver is fully in denial about feeling any type of way toward his IT girl. Never is that more apparent then when Oliver and Diggle return from the confrontation with Moira. Diggle gets a few solid whacks in, which I’m sure felt amazing given the absolute jackass Oliver was being the past few episodes.

Felicity has a much harder time concealing her feelings towards Oliver and it’s clear she worries about him. She is always the first to ask if he’s okay, offer a supportive ear to listen or shoulder to cry on. However, Oliver seems to draw a line in this episode when Felicity reaches to touch the bruise on his face. That small step was too much. He physically keeps her at arm’s length because the intimacy of Felicity’s concerned touch is not something Oliver is ready for. There is still a very big wall hiding all that pain, regret and unworthiness.

Source: @lyricalarrow

Admitting he remembers the exact day they met, however, is absolutely no problem. We shall come to discover just how much Oliver remembers about that day in later seasons. I have a lot of male friends and I guarantee you I don’t remember the day we met. However, the day I met my husband is burned into my memory.

The team determines the only way to stop Merlyn from leveling the Glades with a man-made earthquake machine is to find the location of the device. Unfortunately, Felicity is unable to hack Merlyn’s system so she needs direct access to his mainframe inside Merlyn Global Headquarters. LET'S DO CRIMES!

Oliver makes an appointment with Tommy (more on that later) while Felicity continues to up her adorability factor by dressing up as Big Belly Burger employee delivering lunch to a security guard otherwise known as John Diggle.

The burger is laced with benzodiazepine, so it knocks out the other security guard and gives John free reign to control the elevator & cameras. Do we know how Diggle is able to pose as a security guard? No. Do we care? Nope. Let the hijinks commence!

Oliver and Felicity make their way to the elevator, but not until Oliver unloads an unwelcomed dudebro hitting on Felicity.

Jealousy looks so good on him. The way Stephen Amell plays this scene, with his nails-on-a-chalkboard look at the word “sweetie” to robotically knocking the papers out of the elevator, is physical comedy at its best. Something Amell rarely gets to do, but he’s great at it.  

The mainframe is on the twenty fifth floor, but the elevator only goes up to the nineteenth, so Oliver and Felicity have some climbing to do. It seems Felicity is thinking of a certain kind of climbing as well and really who can blame her?

Source: @lyricalarrow

Oliver lifts her WITH ONE ARM out of the elevator, which is so freaking hot I cannot.

Then, very gently, bends down to wrap his arm around Felicity’s waist and loop her arm around his neck. Oliver is moving with the precision of a jungle cat, but it also feels like an incredibly elaborate way to grab hold of someone. It has a very superhero sweep-her-into-my-arms sensuality to it. The mission is giving Oliver plenty of reasons to touch Felicity and he doesn’t seem unhappy about it, particularly when he softly tells her, "Hold onto me tight."

Is it warm in here? Holy Moses, Oliver Queen. Get control. This man is a god to women, so he clearly understands the connotations of, “Hold onto me tight.” There’s a thousand different ways to say that platonically, but nope! Oliver charges headlong into the blinking neon lights of SEXUAL INNNUENDO.

Felicity’s Freudian slip didn’t feel so Freudian either. She knew exactly what she was saying and leveled her full meaning in a single look. I thought the elevator was going to combust from all the heat. If you are looking for the text book definition of undressing someone with your eyes than look no further than these two. They way they hold the gaze. WOW. Can we have all the nakedness now?!!! It’s a sin against science for Oliver and Felicity not to bang regularly BECAUSE THE CHEMISTRY.

THIS IS NOT THE BEHAVIOR OF A MAN MADLY IN LOVE WITH LAUREL LANCE.

This scene has the classic Superman and Lois Lane feel to it.

Source: @olicitygifs

Oliver is doing his vigilante thing, but his partner in crime isn’t the leading lady of Arrow. It’s a supporting character who’s feeling less and less supporting with each episode.

Unfortunately, Felicity is about to be discovered while Oliver is held up by Malcolm Merlyn, Thea and Roy Harper. This is a very popular day to visit Merlyn Global. Oliver’s frustration under his cool and calm exterior builds the tension nicely and we do wonder how Felicity is getting out of this jam. Never fear! It’s John Diggle to the rescue. Top notch comedy from both Rickards and Ramsey.

Source: @olicitygifs

Their first official team mission outside of the bunker is a wild success. Felicity still has to search through all of Merlyn’s data to determine the location of the device. Despite all the heat, hilarity and hijinks on this side of the show, Oliver makes an abrupt decision regarding the other side of the show that makes absolutely no sense.

Lauriver and Merlance

Still feeling warm friends? Well don’t worry. I have a nice bucket of ice cold water to dump on you.

As predicted, Oliver’s love confession messes with Laurel’s mind and obliterates any clear path back to Tommy. He drops this bomb on her and they have not spoken for a WEEK. Of course, this is all Laurel has thought about and she makes a rather elaborate speech admitting she has feelings for Oliver too.

Yeah, none of this is a surprise. Tommy knew Laurel had feelings for Oliver. We knew Laurel had feelings for Oliver. Hell, even Oliver knew. The only one who wasn’t admitting it was Laurel, so at least she’s finally being honest about things. You don’t get a love triangle if the central figure in the love triangle doesn’t have feelings for two people. The issue is who does Laurel love MORE.

Laurel: Maybe Tommy was right. Maybe he and I weren’t meant to be.

She had a clear answer last week. It was Tommy. She absolutely wanted to get back together with him, but Oliver decided honesty was the best policy on this one subject only. This line enrages me because Oliver has distracted Laurel from the man she is truly meant to be with. I will die on this hill, friends. DIE. ON. THIS. MERLANCE. HILL.

Laurel: Tommy’s a good guy. Are you?

Oliver: I didn’t have an agenda. I didn’t mean to make it more difficult to fix things with Tommy.

Oh for fucks sake. Yes, you did Oliver. That’s exactly why you said it. This is just a straight up lie. Oliver absolutely wanted to confuse Laurel. He just doesn’t want to look like the bad guy for doing it. This is some A+ Ollie behavior.

After Laurel makes a wonderfully impassioned and heartfelt speech about her feelings for Oliver, after probably obsessing about it for seven days straight, Oliver dumps her. AGAIN.

Oliver: Nothing’s changed. My life hasn’t changed. I haven’t changed.

I am infuriated on Laurel’s behalf with this flip flopping back and forth. The time to make this speech was last week in the hospital hallway. That was the moment to let her go and put Laurel on the plane with the man she belongs with, but Oliver couldn’t do it because it was too damn hard. It was just cruel and horribly unfair to both Tommy and Laurel because Oliver has absolutely no intention of being with her. But now it’s too late. The information is out there. You can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube, my dude.

Laurel pays her father a visit to basically get his permission to date Oliver again. Yeah, let’s make the man who lost his daughter to Oliver’s selfishness sign off on banging his other daughter again. This show.

Quentin’s speech is equally as empty as any speech Laurel’s made about seeing the change in Oliver because we, the audience, have not been privy to those moments. We’re just supposed to take their word for it even though the last time Quentin saw Oliver Queen he was trying to arrest him for drug trafficking. But sure, Quentin thinks he’s “changed.”

In order to make this storyline work, you have to give proper attention to the Lance family interacting with Oliver and the writers do not seem interested in doing that. All the important emotional growth takes place off screen and we’re supposed to accept it as fact because the characters tell us.

Meanwhile, they are organically growing the relationship Oliver has with Diggle, Felicity, hell even Roy! So we know the writers are capable of SHOWING these moments of character evolution. They just choose not to when it comes to the Lance family. It’s why the show feels so completely disjointed.

Oliver pays Tommy a visit and wants to have a chat.

Source: @queensarrow

So it's safe to say Tommy is still pissed.

Oliver encourages him to work things out with Laurel – kind of?

Oliver: Lord knows, I am guilty of a lot of things between us, but not you are her.

What’s infuriating about this conversation is that Oliver still refuses to accept any kind of responsibility in their break up. Oliver pretends to be a friend to the all feminists and touts Laurel’s independence and free will. She makes her own choices and she chose Tommy.

Tommy’s point is clear, even if it is self pitying; Laurel is not dealing with all the information. If she did have all the information then she would choose Oliver. From Oliver’s standpoint, it doesn’t matter because he can’t be with her.

That’s not reassuring to Tommy nor is it supposed to be. If the elements keeping Oliver and Laurel apart were removed (the Hood) then Oliver wouldn’t think twice about making a move on Laurel. And Tommy knows this. These are not the actions of a best friend, which is why he’s so pissed.

Now, Tommy’s big mistake was throwing in the towel too early. He should have NEVER given Oliver an opening with Laurel, but he did and it set them on this path. No we have to watch it play out.

Oliver: I promised myself that when I crossed all of these names off the list, I’d be done, but taking down these people, it doesn’t honor him. I was just treating the symptoms while the disease festered. I stop the Undertaking… I wipe out the disease.

Diggle: What are you saying Oliver? You would hang up the Hood?

Oliver: Merlyn’s plan is what I returned from the island to stop.

Does anyone else have whiplash? Oliver does a complete about face and determines he can be with Laurel since he only needs to cross one name off the list instead of dozens. He’s just missing one step, gee what could it be? Oh! I know. OLIVER STILL HAS TO CROSS MERLYN’S NAME OFF THE LIST AND STOP THE UNDERTAKING. Talk about counting your chickens before their hatched.

A hero’s journey is a very specific type of story. Joseph Campbell outline seventeen stages in 1949 and Christopher Vogler created an updated version in 2007 for screenwriting. I’m not going through all seventeen steps, but we can skip to the very last one regarding this storyline.

Freedom to Live/Return with the Elixir – meaning the hero has faced their internal and external struggles, has conquered the demons around them and earned the right to live as they choose. From a spiritual sense, the hero lives without fear of death.

It’s similar with Vogler’s elixir stage. From a community perspective, the hero has found the magical way to heal their wounded land. They are bringing hope, life and freedom back to their loved ones. In doing so, it gives the hero a personal victory. They’ve earned the right to experience peace and joy, which can be represented in a wide variety of narratives.

Oliver is hero. Arrow has made his endgame very clear - save Starling City. Has he saved the city? Has he stopped Malcolm Merlyn? NO. So why is his leather clad ass running all the way back to Laurel Lance to enjoy the fruits an elixir he has yet to procure? If Laurel is endgame, this makes absolutely no sense. This is too fast. It’s too abrupt. It doesn’t feel earned because it hasn’t been earned.

Clearly, the initial plan was to put Oliver (Green Arrow) and Laurel (Black Canary) on parallel, if not intersecting, paths. I’m not saying Oliver cannot be with Laurel as they evolve into superheroes together. But this is the first freaking season you guys! He hasn’t done a damn thing yet! Neither has she. And yet, here Oliver is, knocking on Laurel’s door, looking for some fruit.

Oliver: Ever since I’ve been back, we’ve been doing this dance. We come together and then I pull away.  Something pulls me away, but I think finally that something might be over.

Laurel: What are you are trying saying?

Oliver: That you know me better than anyone. And that you are more important to me than anyone. I just hope I didn’t wait too long to say it.

If Laurel has no clue Oliver is the Hood then can he really claim she knows him best? It sounds good to say, and probably what Laurel is dying to hear, but it rings hollow because there’s no evidence of this anywhere on the show. Laurel was wrong about who Oliver is all season. We are just supposed to accept some verbal acknowledgment of change, that she knows him better than anyone, but without any television scenes to back it up. That’s not how storytelling works, Arrow writers.

Sorry to beat a dead horse, but I warned you I wasn’t done with this topic - Oliver is still lying to Laurel. There should be more talking. What are those things pulling you away, Oliver? Why are they over? Are you a hooded, crime fighting, serial killer who has been mysteriously stalking me all year? Those are just some ideas off the top of my head. There is no person on this planet that Oliver needs an honest conversation with more than Laurel Lance, but nope. They jump straight to sex.  

Let’s talk about the sex. This has been built up all season. These two characters belong together. They are bulldozing over Tommy Merlyn to be together because they are this passionate romance that time cannot quell. It should be like the fourth of July in Laurel’s apartment right now.

Source: laurelscanary

Instead, of heat we get frigid. Fish have hotter sex.

I’m willing to acknowledge "Radioactive" was the hit song of 2013 and every show on the CW was using it. It has a very sexy beat and big crescendo. It sounds like a good song to use during a sex scene.

Except for the fact that it’s called RADIOACTIVE with lyrics like, “This is it, the apocalypse.” This is not the romance your Plan A couple usually requires in a scene like this. They had Blake Neely for a composer. Where’s Oliver and Laurel’s love theme? We'll probably get it in the season finale but anything would be better than "Radioactive."

Source: laurelscanary

Next issue. Black socks and jean shorts?  Wardrobe – what were you thinking? Nobody felt the need to tell Katie to take off the sox? Details matter!!

Source: laurelscanary

Stephen Amell and Katie Cassidy kissing are like watching two pieces of flat cardboard trying to hump each other. Can they choose a direction? Are we biting or no biting? Are we using tongue or no tongue? Can Oliver unbutton his shirt or does Laurel need to help? Is Oliver going to drop Laurel while trying to get her sweatshirt off? It was just so awkward from start to finish. ZERO SPARKS.

Source: habibialkaysani

And for the coup de grace, they leave the curtains pulled wide open, so Tommy can see them screwing from the street. The look of utter devastation on his face is heartbreaking and that’s the final image they leave us with as their love scene fades to black. Oliver and Laurel reuniting are not framed as a good thing. It’s framed as a betrayal, because that’s exactly what it is.

Source: @queensarrow

Even worse, Felicity finds the device while Oliver and Laurel are asleep and HE LEAVES. No note. No, honey I have to run out and save the city real quick, but I’ll be back for round two later. Nothing. But please, tell me again how much Ollie has changed.

When I watched this episode live I was horribly disappointed the big reunion with Laurel and Oliver fell flat. This was really my last gasp trying to be a Lauriver shipper. And I use the term “trying” loosely. I was more or less looking for any redeeming qualities in this love story, but after this hypothermic love scene I was officially out. I could not ship these two. I could never forgive them for betraying Tommy. But I feared Arrow would never move on from Oliver and Laurel.  

Of course, their real intention becomes all too clear later. Arrow was trying to blow them up to make way for something infinitely better.

 Theroy

Speaking of flipping back and forth, these two break up every other week. Roy is clearly committed to finding the Vigilante, which leads them to Merlyn Global and a run in with Oliver, the disapproving older brother. Again, Stephen Amell’s acting is superb.

I loved the way he said “What” to Thea and the firm alpha male handshake he gives Roy, warning him to stay away.

Obviously, Roy accomplished his goal. He found the Vigilante. Roy just doesn’t know it. He thinks Oliver Queen is too much of a wimp to ever consider him as the man in the hood. Thea was good and ticked off with that “wimp” remark. Enough to dump Roy. She will not tolerate any slander of her brother. #QUEENSIBILINGSFOREVER

But this is like the fifth time these two broke up, so it’s losing the impact. This isn’t all about the Hood’s identity and thanking him for saving Roy’s life. He wants to BE the Hood, so Roy can protect the people he loves and never lose anyone again. The question is – who did Roy lose? Unfortunately, Thea storms out before we get an answer, but hopefully one is coming in the season finale. (No I do not remember who).

Long story short, yes I like these two, but the faster the Arrow writers move the characters into the Hood storyline the better. Otherwise they are just marooned on their own show like Laurel Lance Island.

Stray Thoughts

Yao Fei died! It’s so sad and traumatic. I forgot he’s shot in the head. Really didn’t need to see that twice.

Fyers is shooting down a commercial airliner to destabilize the Chinese economy. It’s always about money for these assholes.

Walter wants a divorce and I would say their differences are irreconcilable. Moira is getting what she deserves. You can’t kidnap your husband for six months and then offer him tea and crumpets when he comes home.

"Who the hell is Felicity Smoak?" Uh oh. Quentin has Felicity’s name. That ain’t good.

“Is the other archer working for Merlyn?” Please don’t make Diggle look this dumb again.

Merlyn versus Oliver battle was EPIC! The fight scenes this season are so stellar.

“Psychopaths are color coding themselves. That’s helpful.” HA!

Listen to the Watchover podcast reaction to 1x22!!!

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Disclaimer: Any gifs on the blog are not mine. If you would like a gif removed from my reviews, please message me!

[ofallthingsnasty]

What about a himbo yandere he seems so nice and well stupid to be dangerous so you let your gaurd down surely he coudnt do any harm and meanwhile the dumb himbo is writing down plans to take you home and preparing his basement for you

omg I LOVE that this! Although the mental image of some random himbo cranking out some crayolas and trying his best to work out a proper plan to get me into his basement is hilarious to me 😂 This is so good omg thanks for gracing me with that thought! And requests are open!

word count: 1.1k tags: gn reader, yandere and everything it might entail, nsfw in those last few sentences, kidnapping, minors dni

The thing is: is he really scheming? He probably didn't even get the idea to turn you into his little basement spouse until he saw it in some movie. Up to that point, he just thought he was extremely overprotective of his crush - maybe with a little sprinkle of jealousy. Something really clicked when he watched some fictional character locking their love interest away to be able to protect them from all the harm in the world... What a brilliant idea! Watch him draw mindmaps and stick-figures on printing paper, fevershly trying to figure the logistics of his own little operation - and then giving up halfway through, haha. In general, it's confusing as all hell to him, all those big feelings. He can't stop thinking about you, how fragile and powerless you are in this big, dangerous world and just how much it'd break his heart if anything ever happened to you. You can probably see the cogs in his head turning while he’s trying to figure this out - he knows very well that he likes you, it’s just the unexpected intensity of it all that sometimes becomes too much for his brain. How does he cope with it? He’ll become overbearing - always happy to help, always texting you, just wants to be around you all the time. He’s so handsy, too. You are already accustomed to his big bear hugs for greetings, now get ready to get lifted up into the air and twirled around and squeezed as if you were to dematerialize the moment he doesn’t touch you. He keeps you close while you’re out and about, maneuvers you around with a hand around your waist and shoulders, just acts like your big, overprotective boyfriend in public. And you? You probably don’t even notice it because he’s always been one to go for physical touches - him being a bit more intense isn’t that noticeable, really. Absolutely develops some form of cute aggression. No matter your stature or your height, when he sees you his one goal is to protect and guard - his hugs are just a little too tight, his grip on your shoulder a smidge too hard, his face a bit to close and eyes too dark when you talk to him. You don’t think much of it when it happens, just chalk it up to his bulky frame and golden-retriever-like over-excitedness. Once he has you locked away, you’ll see all those little details in a different light. Especially how happy he gets when you voice your discomfort or squeak in surprise when his touch gets too bruising. Definitely the type to hit you up with random texts after midnight, just to know that you’re there, sends you the oldest memes during the day and badgers you if you don’t answer them within an hour. He’s quite pushy and there won’t be a day he doesn’t try to hear from you, doesn’t matter if it’s in person or via text. He isn’t quite the stalker type, though. Yes, he’ll make sure to hang around your favorite spots, the place you visit on the regular but he won’t try to watch you shower. Mainly because it doesn’t occur to him. If someone or something is giving you a hard time, be prepared for him to knock on your door half an hour later, with your favorite snack in hand - he’ll try to make you laugh, always. And if it’s someone specific, don’t be confused when you don’t see them in days - he had to be a little forceful with them to protect you, alright? But he’d never tell you that, you’re just too precious and would probably even worry about them! All in all, he’s quite unassuming as a yandere, mainly because you’re used to his (a bit too nice) antics. The actual logistics of getting you into his literal basement? Still blurry to him, he’s a man of the moment, after all. He’ll take the chances as they arise and it solely depends on you - are you a little bit of a party animal, get drunk often, call him at 4 am from some club to pick you up, because he’s just such a good friend and you know you can always count on him? Then a head-splitting migraine won’t be the only thing you’ll wake up to a few hours later. Or are you more of an introvert, happy to spend your weekends on your own but enjoy hanging out with him here and there? Then a movie night might just turn into something entirely different. He won’t plan these things out in minute detail - rather, he’ll have a rough idea of how to get you. He’ll get there when he’ll get there - and should you be able to spoil his plans, he’ll definitely play it of as nothing and wait for another try. But once he has you - oh boy, he’ll be happier than a kid on Christmas Day. All wide, sparkling eyes and flashing smiles while you try to comprehend the situation, probably in tears, struggling to free yourself from the restraints he put on you. He’s probably severly underprepared for the first couple of weeks. You won’t starve or be neglected but watch him not accounting for things like your period (if you can get one), benign little illnesses you might catch, or even that you’ll probably won’t be happy with this form of arrangement (because, hey, he thought you were friends? And you loved him, too? He was so sure you’d understand.) Still, he gives you plenty of time to adjust. There is no use in hurrying, after all. The cute aggression I mentioned beforehand would absolutely get worse once he has you in his grasp, too. He’s like a toddler with an unhappy cat - you can try to fight your way out of his strong arms all you want, he’ll just hold you tighter and tighter until your joints pop and the air gets squeezed out of your lungs. He just can’t believe he finally has you and the need to physically squeeze you until you get dizzy and his muscles hurt gets too much sometimes. And while he’s patient, he gets quite... overzealous at times. I can see him almost, almost nonconning you because he’s just so excited. Definitely the type to masturbate in front of you, even as you squirm around with tears in your eyes - he isn’t doing anything to you, isn’t laying a single finger on you, right? But you have to understand that he has needs, too. And that you’re too sweet not to indulge in from time to time... You’ll definitely wake up with your face full of dried cum more than once because you were just to cute to pass up while asleep. All in all, I’d say a true himbo yandere isn’t the worst to have - he is neither cruel nor sadistic, genuinely loves you and doesn’t really want to harm you - but his strength runs away from him sometimes, along with his common sense.

[clownsnake]

guys. Astarion wasn’t literally considered a child when he was 30. Among elves he was clearly seen as Of Age to do adult things like drink and live independently and fuck and pay taxes. its just that elves have a stupid extra concept of adulthood that doesn’t MEAN adulthood in a literal sense. has nothing to do with physical or brain development. not even necessarily emotional development, but it kind of is depending on how u interpret it, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

basically elves in the forgotten realms trance instead of sleep (we know this) and until around age 110, during their trances they “dream” of their past lives (I’ve only seen a few ppl who know this, but idk if they also knew it stops at a certain age). They then stop dreaming of their past lives naturally, and it’s generally considered kinda traumatic to go through bc well. you’re losing what has been a fundamental part of yourself for so long.

I interpret that as being like a “shared trauma maturation stage” where instead of elves brains literally becoming more adult, losing the guidance of their past lives feels like more of a final step towards independence to them. and adulthood is just the closest social experience to this stage of being “truly on your own”

around 30-40 they get a “first reflection”, which is when their dreams start having experiences from their current life. (Makes sense for Astarion having a dream about Cazador in origin runs that prompts the biting scene) And then the loss of past life memories at 100-110 is called the drawing of the veil.

Tl;dr Astarion was a young adult by elf standards stop infantilizing him PLEASE

Getting into headcanon land now, feel free to draw your own conclusions from here.

i imagine older elves kind of have a sense of being more “mature” than under-110 elves in the way tht people comparing their trauma tend to do. Like “u think ur so smart and worldly but you haven’t even been through half the shit I’ve been through.” PATRONIZING that’s the word I’m looking for, it’s patronizing. And since every elf goes through this, they just kind of assume that yeah, going through this trauma/emotional loss IS a big step towards being a full adult. so it’s like if the concept of adult had a Pokémon evolution that didn’t involve getting wrinkly and hair loss and going through menopause or erectyle dysfunction. Adult 1.5 steam update.

I have no clue if Astarion would have the drawing of the veil as an undead elf. The fact that he even has dreams shows that being revived as a vampire keeps certain bodily functions running, mainly anything relating to the brain and consciousness, but idk if it would keep him physically at 30 or let his brain change.

Although hold on, in the epilogue where you’re a mind flayer and considering eating Astarions brain, you get narration that’s like “ooohh his brain part that handles senses must be sooo wrinkly” which would only be caused by the shit he went through post-vampirification. Meaning his brain Would be able to change and “mature”. But that’s also just an assumption that mindflayer!tav/durge is making.

k I looked it up. The exact quote is “Astarion’s sweet brain may be a bit less wrinkled than the rest, but you hunger for its teasing cells. His parietal lobe - which controls his sense of touch - will be an aphrodisiac in your maw.” Hilarious, he canonically gets called smooth brain. Anyway if u kill him I don’t think you get to eat his brain, withers just banishes you asap lmao. So we don’t actually know if his parietal lobe changed over his un-life! I’d wager it did though, based on his “don’t touch me” selection line (and probably some other lines hinting towards over-sensitivity tht im forgetting). And change caused by external trauma vs change caused by aging is different anyway.

no conclusion wrt to if he’d reach the drawing of the veil or not. Does it even matter? He’s still the same adult man, who’s gone through far worse hardships than losing memories of his past lives. If he lost his past life dreams too, well then I don’t think that’d make much of a difference for him.

[crazylittlejester]

sending you a morning ask but i just wanted to talk about this so bad

i love it when jojo sometimes (intentionally?? accidentally???) draws wars with his hair facing the opposite way (bangs going left instead of them being right) and i find that so fucking funny because it gives me the vibes of someone who is so used to having their hair done one way that when they try to change it up, it just doesn't wanna stay like that and keeps reverting back to it's original place

because, i bet that having one singular hairstyle last through months and years of endless war without having the chance to change it up at all but then growing older and deciding "hey, im gonna try something new!" must fuck up his hair so much </3

also i think he too, accidentally styles it the opposite way sometimes when he's doing his hair, it's like an old habit that never died off and when wars catches himself doing that he will be like "what?? am i doing???" OR he will just not even realize and spend like a whole day with his hair looking wrong and having no one point it out to him until the next day where he goes to fix his hair and realizes that it's gone all messed up lmao

it's just a small detail that i've noticed in LU a couple of times and i understand if jojo does it by accident and just doesn't notice but, personally, i find it hilarious

i’m honestly obsessed with the idea that the wind was fighting against him so Wars just brushed his bangs the other way for a moment so his hair would stop getting blown in his face, and then decided he absolutely hated it and it felt wrong as hell

my hair is so used to being parted on one side it is a legit STRUGGLE to get it to go the other way and I think it’d be so so funny if Wars spent like 30 minutes in the morning fussing over his hair tryin to do something new because it’s literally fighting him 😭

I think Jojo said somewhere that she flips the canvas when she draws and sometimes forgets to flip it back (because Time’s eye has been on the wrong side before) but I love the idea that Wars is doing his hair differently on purpose thats so funny

[00fairylights00]

I hope this will be a healing message...... I keep thinking of making a high-humanity P laugh really hard 🥹 like doing or saying something he thinks is SO hilarious that he is literally on the floor, gasping for breath, unable to speak because he is genuinely dying with laughter.

Prolly would take some real tame shit to make him laugh like that too. Like a funny drawing.

I will keel over and die but in a happy, positive way. If you would allow me to add onto this though I’d like to think the higher the humanity the more his body reacts to touch, I think he’d be ticklish!

His head is in your lap, the usual resting place for him on sunny afternoons like this. The heat makes everyone sleepy and with Krat no longer under eminent threat P can finally just laze around and relax to his heart’s content.

The light turns his hair a chocolate brown as you run your fingers through it slowly, stopping every now and again to scratch at his scalp which earns you a happy hum and a beautiful, closed eye smile. Your other hand rests on the warm skin of his chest, visible through the opening in his shirt.

You can feel the steady beat of his heart under your palm, and the hand of his legion arm is laying on top of your own, squeezing every now and again to tell you that he’s not asleep, he promises he won’t fall asleep, he’s a liar but he’s happy and you don’t mind and he knows you don’t mind.

The heat is turning your mind syrupy but not enough that you don’t notice him flinch ever so slightly when the hand in his hair brushes against the length of his neck, his eyebrows furrow for only a moment but the idea is already in your head.

You only wish to test your theory.

As gently as you can you brush your fingers against his neck again, this time with far more intention. P jerks up, trying to escape your hold but you’re already one step ahead, having braced your arm across his front to trap him against you.

A beautiful sound falls from him, you can feel it through his back as much as you can hear it, he’s laughing! 

A proper, joyful, bordering on hysterical laugh. The sound was higher pitched than his talking voice, but was still rich and warm. You come to realise that this is the loudest he’s ever been, you don’t think you’ve ever heard P raise his voice. It’s nice to see him let loose, smiling big, broad and unabashedly.

With everything over and the state of his humanity clear, watching him navigate the ways he was taken advantage of was a careful thing. He’d become well acquainted with being angry and with being sad, so the moments when you could have him rolling on the floor, losing his mind over something silly was a blessing in every sense of the word.

You pushed him forward, the two of you wrestling against your bedsheets until you came out victorious. You sat straddled atop his stomach, digging your fingers into his neck as he squirmed and pleaded for mercy,

“Stop stop, I can’t breathe,” he laughed, throwing his head back and then pulling his chin toward his chest in hopes of trapping your hands.

You continued your assault of feather light touches, poking and prodding at other areas you thought might also be ticklish.

His chest, his armpits, his sides. It was the prod to his stomach that made him yell suddenly and almost throw you off of him entirely, as you tried to recover your balance he swept your wrists between one hand, breathing heavily as he tried to calm down.

“What… was that?” He asked breathlessly, smiling up at you dazedly.

“Tickling,” you hummed, also catching your breath.

“I thought I was gonna die,” he groaned dramatically, “do it again.”

“Catch your breath first,” you instructed, breaking your hands free of his grasp gently, “it’s nice to see you laughing, you deserve to be happy.”

His eyebrows turned upward as he soaked in your earnestness, a quiet thank you said with his eyes. His hands brushed against your outer thighs, you squirmed with a giggle and a mischievous smile took over his face.

“No,” you warned, “Pino don’t!”

He dug his fingers into your sides, copying your movements and making you squeal, he’d always been a quick learner.

[hannahssimblr]

After art class on Wednesday morning I purposefully take longer than everybody else does to pack away my pencils and gather up the sheets of paper I was working from, slotting them meticulously inside the hard cover of my sketchbook so that the corners won’t get crushed inside the disorganised chaos of my school bag. Evan waits by the door tentatively waiting for me in case I might want to have lunch with him again, but I wave him away, I’ll talk to him after school, and when he’s gone it’s just me and the teacher, the last ones in the room. 

Miss O’Reilly is busy organising papers on her desk. She is separating the watercolour sheets from the cartridge and stacking them into neat little piles for the paper shelf, and doesn't seem to realise I am there until I address her. 

“Miss?” 

She glances up, “Yes?” 

My fingers fidget with the zipper of my bag, pulling it open then closed again. The sound it makes is probably annoying but I can’t seem to stop myself. “Do you mind if I talk to you for a minute?”

“Of course, what is it?” 

I approach her desk with caution as I enter this unfamiliar territory, reaching out to a teacher, risking vulnerability, but Miss O’Reilly doesn’t seem to think it weird that I want to speak with her. She simply leans against the front of her desk with an open expression, smiling warmly at me as if I am not the student who routinely ignores what she is saying in class, talks over her and interrupts her lessons by throwing bits of eraser into Philip Delaney’s mad ginger frizz. 

“I’ve been thinking about college, miss.”

“Well that’s good!”

“Yeah, um, I think I want to… like, do… art?” I exhale in a rush. I don’t fully understand why I am so nervous to speak, especially when, so far, she’s being nice. She doesn’t even look like she’s going to laugh, like she’s thinking about doing it soon, or even like she's holding it in so that she can do it later in the staff room with the other teachers. Still I keep my guard up, waiting for her features to twist into a sneer.

“I think that’s a fantastic idea,” Miss O’Reilly beams, and her eyes flick to that drawing I did of Michelle a couple of months ago and which she pinned up on the wall for everyone to see. She’s using it as an example to other students of the right things to do, the right way to capture a perfect likeness, and I should be flattered, but its presence embarrasses me. It is a symbol of my earnest effort, hard work, in which I am not known for, and I wish she would take it down and hide it. I don’t want others to know that I have tried. 

“Do you?”

“Yes! And I'm glad that you've said that, honestly. You’re one of the students in my classes who shows a lot of promise, and who I think could really do well in art school, and I know it’s not often a popular choice with parents, but I think there’s a lot of value in an art degree if you’re passionate about it,” She moves around to the front of her desk and begins rummaging in a drawer. “Here,” She produces a form and hands it to me, “These are the portfolio requirements for some colleges. It seems like a lot, but normally students take a year to do a portfolio course in a local college before applying to university.”

A year out? To just work on my portfolio? The thought of delaying my exit from Dublin for an extra twelve months makes me queasy, but my eyes flit over the paper in my hands anyway. It’s all about figure studies and expression, colour work, painting, charcoal, pencil…

“I don’t want to go to college in Dublin,” I manage, handing it back to her. “I want to move away. And I want to do my portfolio soon, so that I can do that as soon as I can.”

She eyes me curiously, “Alright… Well, there are heaps of options for international study...”

“Yeah, I think that’s what I want.” 

“Do you study French?” 

“No, German,” German, which I chose in first year because I am lazy and it seemed easy at first. The words were just like eccentric cousins of English ones that could all be squished together into hilariously long streams of letters that my friends and I would laugh about. Schwarzwälderkirschtorte. I’ll never forget that one, nor will I Krankenwagen, Backpfeifengesicht, Schadenfreude. All of us lazy boys who didn’t want to make the effort with French took German, whose words actually sounded the way they were written. I admire directness in people, so I expect it in languages too. French is underhanded, insincere. Why speak one that makes you work so hard? It’s absurd. 

“Well,” Miss O’Reilly goes back to her drawer for more shuffling, “Have you considered studying in Germany? Or the UK? There are lots of great universities abroad.”

“I never thought very far ahead,” I admit, “I just know I don’t want to study here.”

“Okay, well, at least that narrows it down some. Have a look at some of these in your free time,” She slots a small stack of forms into my hand, to which I stare dumbly at. The barrage of information is a visual assault with all of these bullet points and new abbreviated words, application fees this, UCAS that… 

I must look stricken as I feel, because Miss O’Reilly softens, “or you could come back to me when I have a few moments free and we can go through it all together. I know it’s a lot to take in, and usually we don’t go so much into depth with fifth years. This kind of thing is for next year, and usually we try not to overwhelm kids with too many decisions too soon.”

“I know, I just think I’d like a head start. Especially if there’s all these, um, requirements.”

“Well, as I said, a portfolio preparation course at a local college-”

“I don’t want to do that.”

She blinks, “Right.”

“I really just want to go somewhere new, miss. I’m willing to work hard at every chance I get to do it, I’ll make art all summer, I’ll have the best portfolio ever-”

She laughs, “I’m sure you will! I don’t doubt you at all, Jude, you’re a wonderful artist and I’m willing to help you with your work whenever there’s time to.”

“Well I don’t do Irish,” I say, “I’m exempt, so I have a free class every day where I usually just try and do my homework…”

“Well come to my class then, even when I’m teaching other years, you can sit down at the back of my lessons and just do your own thing, get working on those figure studies, the paintings, whatever. As long as you don’t cause trouble…” she eyes me warily, “It’s not a problem.”

“Really?” I don’t mean to sound so overwhelmingly grateful to her, as though I’m on the brink of falling to my knees and worshipping her, but truly, I am in slight disbelief at her offer. Most of my interactions with the teachers in this school have been of them snapping fingers in my face, rolling their eyes, calling me out of class so that they can berate me loudly in the hallway while my gleeful classmates crowd around listening at the glass panel in the doorway. It’s almost hard to believe that I have found one who is intent on being supportive.

“Yeah,” she says, and she’s distracted by the crowd of third years piling into the room behind me. “Come by any time between classes, I’m happy to help.”

“Thanks, miss.”

“No problem at all,” she turns to the hoard, “hello everyone! Art history today!” and they let out a collective groan as I slip out into the hallway. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[tweedlebugged]

Squinting at the latest dndads episode suspiciously and poking it with a stick. Because on the one hand, it definitely feels like something sus is going on under the surface here and Anthony’s going to pull the rug out any minute now.

On the other, this is a show called Dungeons and Daddies and you kind of have to accept on admission that the characters can and will twist the logical rules of the universe into a pretzel in service of a really good goof. So there’s no way to tell right now what seems a little weird For the Drama and what seems a little weird For the Bit.

Take Jodie. Last season he was this badass demon and objectively the most put together dad, and now he’s this kind of pathetic loser trying to get back with his ex. His ex who he’s definitely been broken up with for over two decades at this point, given that he was already dating Scam during the Church of the Doodler stuff only a few years post season 1. And he was a really involved dad who is obviously disappointed in Nicky for not being part of Taylor’s life, but also he seems totally indifferent toward Hermie and pinches his nose when he has to be near him? It’s weird! And he acts so eager to use these kids and is VERY obviously trying to manipulate them—the whole chosen one thing tbh, and giving scary “secret” information and telling her she smells so super evil when she’s just…not lol—but then gets worried and tries to stop Scary when she does something that will actually hurt her. Officer Foster sir what the fuck is your deal?

But also—Jodie the cringe fail King of Hell is hilarious and Jimmy could just have been leaning into that new persona because it’s good radio. And it was! So who knows!

And Glenn. We know he canonically helped found DADDIES and was working to take down the Doodler (fighting at the Church, putting in the super fast elevator) and Nicky continued to be involved for years after, so clearly the Close/Foster family cared about the Doodler stuff at one point. So how did Glenn end up with the Doodler’s anchor and why is he maiming children to keep them from getting it? Children he should probably recognize and care about at least a little! (Although to be fair Taylor and Link are both still wearing skull masks)

But ALSO—and I say this lovingly—Glenn does have a slight history of being a selfish garbage man, and even though his character grew a lot by the end of season 1 it still wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibility for him to have looked around after his friends were gone, realized all of his loved ones were actually safe, and decided to fuck off to do cool things in hell instead. Especially after the other kiddads betrayed Nicky. Anthony did say that he’d let the players decide what happened to their characters, and while I don’t know Mr. Frederick Wong personally “fighting 666 demons in mega hell with the love of his life” does have the exact vibe of an ending he’d choose for Glenn.

So is Glenn under the influence of the anchor somehow? Is he actually one of the Likely family in disguise? Or is Freddy taking full advantage of being Glenn again to play out this character to its logical and EXTREMELY funny conclusion? Impossible to say!

And finally Agent Schmegan and the FBI. All that work hunting Nicky to the point that he had to abandon his family and stalking Taylor until they had an opportunity to draw out his dad, all so they could capture Nicky and torture him into letting them into hell. And now suddenly all they needed was text message permission from some random unrelated teenager and they could open a portal themselves? That’s fishy! And they had special weapons designed to take down Nicky, who said if they ever captured him his dads would be dead, but now Jodie can fight them all by himself without much issue? Feels a little like a scam, actually!

BUT ALSO—the 12 soccer players have been tied to the FBI since the FBI was introduced, and it makes sense to play out those stories at the same time. And since you can only go to hell once, bringing the FBI there now could take them out as a threat to Nicky. Which is more a narrative move than a comedy beat but would still be very funny when he loses his excuse to be an absentee dad and has to actually interact with Taylor. And his ex wife. And her new boyfriend.

This post isn’t going anywhere, the episode just reminded me why trying to theorize about Dungeons and Daddies is like trying to connect a conspiracy board with silly string (affectionate)

[babycharmander]

Raz for the headcanon meme? Please and thank you :)

Sure thing!

Headcanon A (realistic): Raz absolutely 100% has ADHD. Can't stay still, constantly talking and narrating things to himself, keeps EVERYTHING organized via notes, doodles constantly while working, has very intense special interests, and so on. He's unknowingly built up some pretty good coping mechanisms for his ADHD (such as the note taking) but goodness help him if he has to stay still for a prolonged period of time. Also, I like to headcanon that he was homeschooled by his parents, who would do the homeschooling while they were practicing their acrobatics or setting things up, and this actually helped Raz concentrate on learning things, because he could constantly move around while learning!

Headcanon B (hilarious): Even after the events of Psychonauts 2, he still sends submissions to True Psychic Tales. Sometimes they're about actual missions he goes on, but also he just... sends the wildest fabrications. Like, downright Psychonauts fanfiction because it never occurred to him Not to do that. Some of the folks who actually work for the publication are like "...wait isn't this Agent Aquato. why is he doing this" but no one really has the heart to stop him because he is Ten Years Old. Eventually though as the years go on he gets into drawing comics as a hobby, and some of his comics (about things that absolutely did not happen) wind up getting published in the magazine.

Headcanon C (ANGST): He never fully untangles the mess of emotions he feels about Ford. Ford is his mentor and close friend, but he's the one who did... everything that happened to his family. He's the one who actually "cursed" them. He trained him, but also he caused his family to have a fear of psychics, which messed with him during his early life. He broke Lucy, but he also kept her safe, in a way, but was also part of the reason Lucy became Like That to begin with... Raz does stay friends with him, but there's some occasions where some bitterness and anger rise up. They don't stay for long, and Ford wouldn't blame him for any of it. Raz struggles with it up until Ford dies, and even past that, he still doesn't fully know what to think, but he tries to remember Ford in a positive light regardless. One thing's for sure--his life would not be the same without Ford.

Headcanon D (probably doesn't 100% fit canon but I dON'T CARE): Ever since Meat Circus, Raz has been very much put off by the thought of eating meat. The sight of raw meat especially messes with his head, and the smell of it (or the smell of blood) makes him feel lightheaded. As a result he's gone vegetarian for the time being. His mother is confused by this and insists he needs protein because he is a Growing Boy, but she manages to find things he can eat, and Oleander gives him tips as well. I don't know that he would stay vegetarian for his whole life--he might eventually get over it. But at the very least, he'd probably go vegetarian for the next month or so at least.