#but I’m about to just dive in to fuckin honestly

[bakugosbratx]

I am determined to finish this Yandere Kyoujuro x Shinjuro x reader fic dammit.

[thecreelhouse]

stuck

Paring: Steve Harrington x Fem!reader

Summary: Yes, it’s exactly what you think it is. MDNI

WC: 4.6k+

Includes: no plot all filth, unrealistic “stuck” porn trope, friends to horny idiots, dirty talk, pet names/name calling, unprotected PiV sex, oral (f receiving), briefest mention of monsterfucking, brief anal play, a smidge of humiliation kink with a healthy side of a praise kink, d/s dynamic, etc.

A/N: Literally got this idea from a certain filthy piece of DBD fanart that I can’t find, but if you know the one I’m talking about, please lmk so I can properly credit for the inspo!! Is this ridiculous? Yes. Was this originally for Halloween? Also yes. We hate rules here (and deadlines). Hope y’all enjoy it <3 (dividers from @/saradika-graphics)

Everyone told Steve he was insane to venture back into the Upside Down, but he couldn’t leave you there alone. 

He felt sick for even leaving you behind at all. Quite honestly, no one felt good about evacuating without you, but it was smarter to go home, gear up, grab another working walkie, before wandering back into hell to find you.

See, among the chaos of trying to help Eddie, trying to keep Max alive, he worried about you and your unusual absence from the group, but you were strong enough to handle nearly anything— that much, he was confident on. You had fought side by side with him over the years, protecting everyone in the group, and one another; through demodogs, a shit summer job gone awry, and anything in between, you could hold your own with a bravery he wished he didn’t need to front at times.

That didn’t quell his anxiety one bit, though. When and where you had disappeared to, he wasn’t sure.

It wasn’t until your voice broke through over the airwaves, when Steve, Eddie, Nancy, and Robin were on the lake, that he felt relief you were at least alive. Your voice was tinny through the static.

“Guys?”

The only reason a signal existed at all was because the group floated just above the gate at the bottom of the lake— they just didn’t know it yet.

Steve had just thrown his sweater off, ready to dive in, when the sound of your voice made his eyes widen. 

“Holy shit, give me the—“ He rocked the tiny boat a little too much for anyone’s comfort as he fell to his knees, grabbing the walkie from the floor. “Where the fuck are you?!”

“Hi to you too, Harrington.”

Robin yanked the device from Steve’s grip, “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

“Long fuckin’ story, but—“ Your voice cut out, static filling the dead air for a few seconds. “And that’s—“ Cut off again. “Upside Down, but I- I don’t know where I am, exactly. Why didn’t any of y’all tell me how bad this place sucks?”

Steve laughed to himself, unaware his eyes became glassy, hearing the familiar attitude and sailor’s mouth you carried; the other three noticed just how relieved and emotional he was right away. He grabbed the walkie back from Robin with shaky hands.

“We’re gonna come find you, we think we found a gate,” He rushed out. “Are you safe at least?”

“For now, but these—“ Signal cutting out, Steve hit the walkie a few times, as if that’d fix the disconnect between literal dimensions. “— Th- they’re everywhere. I don’t know where to hi— oh, shit—“ Your end fell dead again, leaving the four on edge, waiting for you to speak. White noise droned on for less than a minute; you weren’t coming back. 

Wasting not a second longer, Steve dove into the dark, chilled waters of the lake. He found the gate they suspected of, and broke the surface to alert his friends. As he relayed the information, rushed and panicked, wanting to find you as soon as possible, something tugged on his leg. Only startling the group at first, Steve was caught off guard, pulled under, back down to the bottom. He kicked, struggled, lungs burning as he fought off the urge to gasp for a breath he couldn’t dare to take.

It was all a blur, being dragged through the gate and tossed around like a rag doll; the bats diving towards him, finding an oar to defend himself with among the Upside Down’s mirrored decay of the lake, only to be bombarded by the gnarly creatures. They tore at his flesh as he was being strangled to death; brain growing fuzzy as he put up a good fight, he began to accept this fate. He wasn’t sure when his friends came through the gate, but one by one they retaliated against the bats, leaving just the one still strangling Steve.

“Get fucked!”

Unexpectedly, you appeared, slamming an ax— one you always left in your trunk, just in case— down onto one of its wings, chopping through completely, yet it still tried to flee as Steve bit down on its tail. Stunned, you all watched as Steve swung it around, slamming it down into the ground before violently ripping its spine out, fueled by pure rage.

Blood dripped from his mouth while he glanced up at you, rage and fear fading as relief flooded every inch of his heart. Despite your ragged appearance— covered in grime, soot, and blood— he was just happy to see you alive; a sight for sore eyes.

“I fuckin’ hate those things.” You wanted to run and hug him, but restrained yourself at the sight of his wounds. Taking in the sight of all four friends, you sighed, “Y’all okay?”

Another screech in the sky tore everyone’s attention away, “C’mon!” Where everyone ran off to the rocks, you made the mistake of running off in the opposite direction. The group of bats split off, heading towards both you and the others; when you looked over your shoulder, you watched Steve do the same, panic fueling you both to run for your lives.

You sprinted off towards the woods, hoping you’d find each other again soon, and alive.

Steve climbed back through the gate in Eddie’s trailer, and had searched for what felt like hours; he was losing hope of finding you by the minute. He knows you; you wouldn’t give up without a fight. You had to be alive, but dread was still building within him.

At least he caught a signal over the walkies.

“What do you mean you’re stuck?”

Your voice warbles through the speaker of Steve’s walkie, barely coherent through the sharp static. 

“Okay, okay, where are you?”

“The— g—“ Feedback rips through your words, shrill and sharp. “I’m tr—“

“You’re cutting out—“

“Gate! I’m—“ A drone of white noise floods the speaker, and you’re gone.

“Shit. Fuck. God-fucking-dammit!” He hits the device with his free hand, slams the buttons and messes with the knobs and antenna— if only he actually paid attention when Dustin tried showing him how to work this fucking thing.

He did hear you say ‘gate’ at least, but which one? You clearly weren’t at the one he just entered, and the one at the lake had closed up by now. 

This would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.

Steve’s exhausted, searching high and low for you, at every possible spot that crosses his mind. It had to have been another hour since he last heard from you, and he’s running out of ideas of where you could be.

“Checked around town,” He begins murmuring to himself, listing and eliminating options out loud. “No luck there… but— shit, didn’t check the library…” Could a gate even open in there? Anywhere was possible, right? And if that was the case, he’d have to tear through every room of every building, circle each structure, check any cars, houses, sheds, backyards, parks, the woods—

Christ, at this rate, he’ll never find you—

“Oof!” Steve loses his footing, tumbling over something in the stretch of woods he was combing through. Colliding with the ground, he groans on impact.

“What the fuck?”

Steve rolls over quickly, sitting up to find he had tripped over you.

“Oh, thank fuck.” He scrambles to his feet, brushing debris off his body as he finally glances your way.

When you said you were stuck, Steve didn’t picture the sight before him now; you, halfway through a gate found in a tree trunk, unable to move because it began to close up around your waist. Your upper half is on the other side, but your bottom half is still stuck in the Upside Down.

“Oh…. You’re… wow, okay.” He snickers, “Yeah. You’re stuck, alright.”

Steve’s muffled cackling echoes through the slimy gate. You huff and roll your eyes; not like he can see.

“Just help me out of here, would ya’?!”

“Okay, okay… Jesus.” He drops to his knees, still towering over you— well, your back half, at least. “Does it hurt?”

“No, it’s just fucking annoying. Maybe try, I dunno, pulling at the edges of it, or something?”

“I don’t think that’s how these things work—“

“Steve!”

“Okay, right, yeah, sorry.” He bites his bottom lip, stifling more laughter. It’s certainly an… awkward position, leaning over you from behind, but it’s the only way he can pull at the edges with both hands at once. He gives the gate’s edge a tug, but it’s stone solid. He tries again, this time with a grunt that has your mind wandering elsewhere. “Yeah, this is, uh… that’s not gonna work.”

“Oh my god, I’m stuck here forever,” You groan, kicking your feet. “I’m gonna die here.”

“Calm down, drama queen. Gimme a second, I’ll try again.” Steve keeps himself balanced on one knee, while the other leg plants a steady foot into the ground. Again, he attempts to pry open the gate, hoping to free you; his foot slips, causing him to rub against your backside.

Okay, ‘rub’ is a generous term— more like roughly falling against your ass, then whining over the pressure on his bulge.

“Steve, what the fuck?” You crane your neck, only able to see where the tree bark opens up into the gate, snug around your waist. “Did you just—“

“I didn’t mean to, I swear! M- my foot slipped!”

“Oh, bullshit.”

“Look, it’s not exactly the easiest to move around you without touching you right now,” He argues. “You really think I’m trying to make a move on you in a situation like this?!”

“Well, I can’t see shit, Harrington. I don’t know what the hell’s going on back there.”

Ignoring you, Steve murmurs, more to himself but loud enough for you to still hear, “The hell are you wearing these tiny shorts for, anyway?” He tugs at the hem around your thigh, elastic snapping back against your skin. You bite back whatever pathetic noise threatens to escape your lips.

“It was warm out earlier!”

“It’s March—“

“And unreasonably warm for March, y- you jerk.”

“That why you’re shivering?”

“Considering the sun set, uh, yeah?”

You grumble, annoyed how wet this easily has made you. You need out, and Steve needs out, too, and the two of you need to just forget about all of this.

“Okay, just—“ You can’t think straight, mind clouded with dirty thoughts— how embarrassing. “Push me through.”

“You… want me to push you… how?”

“With your hands, St—“

“I know with my h— I meant, like, where?”

You can’t see the way he licks his lips, staring at your ass, but you sure can hear the strangled moan he miserably tries to hide in his throat. 

“Wherever works— I don’t know, I’ve never been stuck between dimensions before!”

He shudders a breath before calling through the gate, “I’m gonna— if I touch anything I shouldn’t, I swear to god I’m not trying to—“

“Okay, yeah, I get it, Steve— just push me out of here!”

“Christ, you’re fucking bossy…”

His hands grip the plush of your hips, first, hoping he can grip hard enough and push this way— it’s useless; his hands lose grip, sliding up your body. His knuckles run into the tree, and he’s grateful for that barrier; who knows how far his hands could’ve slipped. He yelps and recoils away. “Sorry!”

“Dude, I don’t care, just do whatever works.” You sound exhausted, and who wouldn’t be in a situation like this? You had to have been here at least an hour, and even if it doesn’t hurt, it can’t be very comfortable. 

Steve shakes his nerves off, hands reaching for the back of your thighs; his fingers splay apart, pushing as hard as he can, and you finally begin to budge. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

Until you cry out for him to stop. “Shit, that fuckin’ hurts— It’s— ow, fuck! My hips—”

He immediately backs off, hands releasing pressure, but still resting gently on your thighs. It’s automatic, the way his thumbs rub slow circles into your exposed skin to try comforting you; the shorts you’re wearing are not helping either of you. It was warm out earlier, like you said, but did you have to wear these now?

Goosebumps prickle up under his fingers, and it’s hard to miss the way you clench your thighs together. 

“You, uh…” Steve gulps, fingers gently kneading at the meat of your thighs. “You okay over there?”

“Uh-huh,” Your answer isn’t very convincing, with a trembling voice. “Everything okay back there? W- with you, I mean.”

“Sure, yeah, it’s… I’m good.” He feels like such a pervert, fantasizing about taking you right here, like this. It’s wrong when you’re trapped like this. “Honey, I- I don’t know what else to do.”

The pet name twists at a coil deep within you, building up a pressure of some kind. 

“This is gonna sound fucked up, but just— push my ass— Steve, that better not be you laughing!”

He can’t hold back his immature giggling, but he’d rather this than moan.

“You sure? I don’t want you to get mad or anything.” He tries to settle down, focus on getting you unstuck. “Tell me to stop if it hurts again, alright?”

You imagine hearing those words of sweet consent in a different circumstance, biting back a whimper. “Ye- yeah, I will.”

Steve slides his hands up to the curve of your ass, unable to restrain himself before digging his fingers into your soft, plushy body. “Gonna count down, sweetheart, okay?”

This time a whimper does beat you to the punch before you can actually reply. He squeezes a little harder.

“Three… two… one—“ Steve shoves his hands against you, pushing as hard as he can. Again, your hips shove up against the tree trunk, and you cry out from the pinch. He pulls you back an inch, wincing with guilt. “M’sorry, I—“

“Again,” You boldly call back to him.

“… You sure?”

“Just do it, please,” His hands are so warm, touch so soft; you wish the fabric of your shorts would just disappear. There’s an extra whine to your voice, “Don’t hold back, I can take it.”

“Oh, fuck…” He mumbles, sucking in a sharp breath. “Go— I’m gonna try again, ready?” He hears a faint noise of consent, shoving himself into you; this time, his hips rut into you, too. You still can’t get through the gate, but you’re not sure that’s either of your concern at this moment. His bulge, rock-hard now, brushes up against your ass, and you both moan out. This is bad.

The way you push back against him isn’t helping much, either.

Both of you still, falling silent while trying to steady your breaths. Are you really about to do this here? Now?

Steve makes the decision for you both, muttering, “I can’t fuckin’ take it anymore.” He’s purposefully grinding against you, head lolling back with a groan as you push into him in return. From either end, both of you are shuddering out sinful noises. “Always wanted to kiss you first, but—“

“As soon as you rescue me, y’can kiss me all ya’ want.”

“Shit, princess, never took you for the damsel in distress type.” He tugs your shorts down, choking on air when he discovers you’re completely nude underneath. “Jesus, did you think at all about your outfit today?”

“Uh, considering I don’t have a bra on… no.”

“You don’t have a—“ Steve comically pouts that part of you is through the other side of the gate; he’s grateful you can’t see the pathetic expression. “What, did you just roll outta bed and stroll down here?”

“Steve, the longer we talk about the logistics of my outfit, the dryer I’m becoming.”

“Good thing I can help with that.”

“Okay, that was goofy to s— oh…” His thumbs spread your folds apart; despite your failed quip, you’re soaked as sin. 

“So fuckin’ pretty…” He leans down, kissing the swell of your ass, trailing his lips down your backside until he’s level with your heat. There’s no warning, just his tongue gliding along your folds, lapping up your arousal. A feral sounding groan vibrates through your core as he loses himself tasting you. It’s not rushed— not on purpose, at least— but any restraint is long gone now.

“Oh m’god,” You shudder while his tongue swirls around your clit, sucking it softly. His arms wrap around your thighs from behind, hooking you in place. You twitch back, like you’re desperate to grind on his face, but worried to freak him out.

Steve’s far from freaked out; in fact, he’s delving his tongue deeper, nearly incoherent when he mirrors your earlier words, “Don’t hold back. I can take it.”

That’s all the permission you need, rolling your body back as far as the gate allows, trembling as he sloppily makes out with your cunt. If only you could see the glistening mess on his pretty features. “Steve…”

He angles his nose against your clit just right, making you squeal into the empty forest around you. His tongue laps away, eventually tapering to fuck into you with it.

“Fuck, more, ple- please,” You pant, grateful Steve’s holding you upright, or you’d go limp against the tree. “Please— god!”

He slides a finger into you, curling it just right as he kisses and sucks back to your clit. He’s rougher this time when he suckles on the sensitive bud, rolling your eyes back and tensing your body up. You chant his name in whimpers, like a desperate prayer, only urging him to finger fuck you harder.

“Jesus, sweetheart, you’re gripping me so hard.” He groans into you, adding another finger. “Taste so good, I could be here all night—“

An orgasm startles you, going 0 to 100 without warning; lewd noises floating back through the gate toward Steve only challenge him to keep going.

“S- Steve, ha- hang on—“

“You want me to stop?” He slows his pace, but you ram yourself back into his hand and lips.

“No! Please, god, no—“

“Then what is it?” His tongue flits out, teasing around your sensitive nub.

“M- move your fingers up, back where you had it— ohhhmyfuckinggod—“

“C’mon, come for me, y’can do it again,” he coaxes, spitting onto your folds while relentlessly ruining you with his thick, long fingers. Your legs tremble wildly. “I can tell you’re close, angel. Make a mess, come for me again—“

This time, you cry out, praying whatever woods you found yourself in was deep enough, away from the public. Your hips twitch and convulse, while you flutter around his digits, soaking his face while he continues to delve deeper, as if that’s even possible.

The pumping pace of his fingers never relents, despite how overstimulated you feel already.

“St- Steve…”

“Got one more in ya’?” You feel his hot breath fanning over your folds again. It’s not long before he’s flicking his tongue back out, teasing your clit while adding another finger. “Christ… yeah… yeah, angel, that’s it…” He laps at the nectar dribbling from your centre, grunting as his free hand pulls you by your thigh, guiding you to bounce against his face. The fingers buried in you curl just right, earning a broken, breathy noise from the other side; he hits the right spot, and under a minute in, you’re gushing against his pretty face.

You can hear how drenched he is when he speaks, licking his lips between his words, “That was… oh, fuck, that… that was so… can we do that every day?”

Winded, you manage to laugh weakly, “If you can figure out how to get me un-stuck, I’ll let you do that as much as you fuckin’ want.”

You’d kill to see his face right now, dripping with your release, but until then you’ll just need to use your imagination.

“…. Can we—“

“Please.”

The head of his cock slides along your folds, teasing as it runs over your sensitive clit. You jolt back, and he grips you by the hip, holding you in place with one hand.

“Be patient for me, angel. I don’t wanna hurt you,” he slides in, taking his time, paying attention to your gasps. “You okay?”

“Uh-huh, ju- just go slow.”

Like earlier, when Steve tried pushing you through the gate, he soothes you with his touch, thumbs rubbing soft circles against your skin. He sinks a bit further, feeling you clench around him with anticipation. “Angel, gotta relax to let me in…”

“I- I know, m’trying, you’re just— you’re so… so…”

“Shhh, it’s okay, I have you. You’re okay…” He slides deeper, hips almost flush against your backside. “Just relax… that’s it, that’s my girl.”

The praise elicits a pornographic moan out of you, only triggering his cock to twitch against your walls.

“God, wish I could see your face right now,” his mumbling fades into a gravelly groan, sinking deep into you. 

“Y’can if you fuck me when we’re outta here,” you strain out, taking him to the hilt. His cock twitches again, making you both shudder.

“I dunno, what if we can’t get you out, sweetheart?” The tides turn with his tone. He pulls out slowly, teasing your clit with the head of his cock. You twitch and clench around nothing, making him smirk. “What if you’re stuck here forever?” Slamming back into you, your walls clamp down on him, tighter than before. “Oh, what, you like that idea?”

“Steve…”

“You wanna be left here? Where anyone can walk by, use you however they want?” He draws back, snapping his hips back into your ass, relishing in the way you cry out. “Anyone can find you in the woods over there, use that pretty mouth of yours…” Gripping your hips, he pulls back slowly, thrusting in with everything he’s got. It’s becoming a torturous pattern, but he can tell you’re enjoying it with the way you’re soaking his cock. 

“Oh my— fuck…” You gasp from the other side, throwing yourself back into him as far as the gate allows you. He grunts as you meet his thrusts.

“You’d be up for grabs over here too, y’know…” Hands trailing back to your ass, he spreads your cheeks, spitting lewdly on your pretty, puckered hole. “But maybe you’re not that much of a freak—“ You don’t hold back the sinful sound building in your throat over his unfinished concept. “Oh. Oh. You’d like gettin’ fucked by some monsters too, huh? That’s so fuckin’ gross, babe.”

“That ain’t even the half of it,” you manage to reveal through panting and whimpering.

His mind races over the possibilities, slamming into you a little faster.

Steve circles the tight entrance with the pad of his thumb, throbbing deep inside you as he tests the waters, sinking in just a bit. You squirm and whine, relaxing as he continues on, eventually making it past his knuckle— which, wouldn’t be too much, but with the size of his hands, you feel so full off that alone.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight, I don’t think I’ll l- last long,” he murmurs while he pistons his hips into you, growing sloppier by the minute. 

“S’okay… m’not…” You can’t grasp onto the words you need, not when he’s fucking you absolutely brainless between dimensions. “God, Steve, you’re so deep.”

His thumb slips out of you, leaving you emptier than before, making desperate, pathetic mewls and cries. Ignoring you, his hand slides underneath, pressing down onto the peak of your mound. “Where do you feel me? Here?”

“N- no, deeper…”

Steve splays his hand wide, fingers blanketing over your skin; he inches his touch up, just where your belly and pelvis begin to meet. The further he stretches his touch, the more he leans over you, kissing along any bare skin on your back he can reach.

“Here?”

You shake your head, but he can’t see. Your lapse in verbal response earns a smack on your ass, causing you to cry out into the expanse of the woods. 

“Where, babe? Tell me.”

“Up,” whimpering, you push back into him. Hand gliding up to your belly button, he stops.

“Here?”

Eyes rolling back, you let out a broken sob, “Yes!”

Steve pushes down on your belly, just enough for the pressure to meet his thrusts.

“You’re takin’ me like a slut… sound like one, too.” He grunts while bucking wildly into you. His hand disappears, only to join the other in grabbing you by the thighs, nearly lifting your lower half off the ground against him.

The sound is absolutely what you’d expect from two, hopelessly horny idiots, fucking in a circumstance like this one right here. Skin on skin slapping roughly, echoing out into the woods of the Upside Down, in time with his near-feral grunts and throaty groans. On your side, in your world, you can only imagine how close to an injured animal you might sound like, or someone in actual distress, unable to cover your mouth as you hold yourself up while he fucks into you relentlessly.

“M’pretty close, angel,” Steve pants through the gate, hips stuttering while he still gives his all, thrusting mercilessly into you. “Where—  where can I—“

“‘Side…” You groan out, lost in a lust-driven delirium.

Attitude softening, he manages to ask, “In— you mean inside?”

“Uh-huh, wanna be full,” you murmur, just loud enough for him to hear. “Make me yours—“

“Oh, fuck,” Steve’s hips freeze over your words, finally reaching his high. One final cry tears out of you as your fourth and final orgasm trembles through your body, rolling into his. The delicious squeeze and fluttering around him helps milk his release, doing just as you asked, filling you up with his spend. 

Involuntarily, his entire lower half twitches violently into you, and finally, finally, the gate gives, allowing him to tumble through to the other side, shoving you out first. He lands on top of you, rolling over onto the forest floor while you both groan. The woods are quiet, aside from occasional crickets and your loud, ragged breaths, weaving through the branches above.

Though the two of you are ready to fully collapse, the squelching sound of the gate constricting catches your attention; the damn thing closes completely.

Steve chuckles weakly, while you push past any shame that might still linger, shyly smiling over at him.

“Hey…” You attempt to greet him, now that you’re face to face— which, speaking of, his features are still glistening from sweat and your multiple releases. 

“Hi,” he breathes, eyes trailing over your figure, landing and pausing on your exposed core, dripping a lewd mixture of fluids. “Fuck…” He leans forward, but stops himself, mumbling, “If we weren’t in the woods, I’d, uh, help clean you up, but…”

Your eyes widen, taking in his words; neither of you are in a state to fuck around any further, but you make a mental note of the suggestion for the future. “I’m— I’ll remember that.”

Surging towards him with an ounce of renewed energy, you capture his lips in a long-awaited kiss. He makes the cutest noise of surprise, melding against you. Pausing, he murmurs against your lips, “Sorry we couldn’t do that first.” It’s a wild shift in his demeanor post-sex, from a dominant, feral wreck, to this soft, precious person before you.

“We can make up for it though.”

“After a super long fuckin’ nap.” Then he cringes, “And the— y’know, the whole—“ He waves his hand around, rolling his eyes, “the Vecna thing.”

“Right. Yeah. Priorities.” You’re looking forward to all of this coming to an end. All you want is to curl up in bed with Steve, and sleep a whole day away, but that’ll have to wait. 

As clarity brings you back down to earth, you realize you’re still naked from the waist down… which means— 

“Um… Steve?”

“Yeah, angel?”

“… Where’s my shorts?”

[mwahbabe]

Please 🙏 Chloe with a girlfriend that just absolutely loves eating her pussy

Just down there for hours, LOVES when Chloe rides her face, actually moans into her pussy without being touched ✋️

pairing: chloe price x fem!reader

mdni, smut, cunnilingus(c!receiving and eventually r!receiving) reader is a munch! 69;)

a/n: ohhh my god tysm for the request! i’m wet just thinking about this. i need to eat chloe out.

♡ chloe is a much, an eater, whatever you wanna call it, it’s something she really enjoys and gets her off when you get off.

♡ loves eating pussy, your taste, your moans, your thighs sandwiching her face, it’s her heaven.

♡ so naturally she’s surprised and a bit bummed when you stop her as she’s taking your panties off and moving downwards and immediately flustered and can’t form words when you so sweetly say “chlo i wanna make you feel good. can i do that?”

♡ her eyes dart around the room as she answers, “y-yeah. okay. yeah. sure babe. go crazy.”

♡ and you did. chloe jerks her hips up as your lips latch onto her clit after you practically ripped off her underwear, you were sucking, licking, your tongue flicking her clit, sometimes you take deep dives, not afraid of it, your nose bumping into her clit over and over making her moans higher which is the most embarrassing thing to her but so hot to you!

♡ it became a regular thing, before chloe could get her hands on you, you beat her to it, and soon she was on her back with you lapping mercilessly at her clit. but once she came you weren’t done. oh no.

♡ you made her cum with your mouth over and over, to the point she was squirming away from over sensitivity “god.. c’mon babe.. easy on me.”

♡ you tried. but you were just addicted to her taste, her moans and how she bucked up into your mouth.

♡ once in the morning around early hours you were hungry and wanted her for breakfast. after morning cuddles you sat up and the words that left your mouth chloe wasn’t ready for.

♡ “i want you to fuck my face.”

♡ “jeez. you serious? it’s fuckin 5am…”

♡ but you didn’t care. you needed her pussy and now.

♡ chloe grinned and decided to take you up on that. climbing over you until she was hovering over your face, she went to make a snarky remark but when you grabbed her hips and pulled her down onto your face her whole body shirt circuited.

♡ “ah! oh fuckin- shit.. christ babe..”

♡ her moans we’re making your own pussy throb, each time she grinded into your face you moaned into her, so much that she wondered if you were touching yourself, nope. you were like her and getting off on her taste and pleasure.

♡ she had to admit it was definitely eye opening to meet her match

♡ honestly you were even more of a pussy fiend than her.

♡ she didn’t not enjoy it. she enjoyed it very much. plus you were so good at it.

♡ pretty soon she starts coming to you asking if you can go down on her in return for her going down on you of course.

♡ duh of course you are, you don’t really care about your own pleasure. but it made chloe happy so you both get each other off devouring each others pussy until you have a bright idea

♡ “69.” you suggest. chloe has to laugh. “shit, you for real?” “yeah of course. i bet i can make you cum first.” “oh you’re on, hotstuff.”

♡ and then boom! this is both of your new favourite posish. you on top with your face in her pussy while she’s under you gripping your ass and lapping at your cunt,

♡ sometimes her tongue slips and she licks at your asshole, which you can’t lie you don’t hate it.

♡ chloe eats ass too let’s not lie.

[luvrboydave]

dad's best friend dave brainrot

pairing: dave mustaine x fem!reader

warnings: smut, age gap, oral sex (f receiving), pet names, hair pulling

a/n: had to remake this account so i'm posting this again lol whoops...anyways enjoy!!

CLICK HERE FOR PT.2

your dad invites him over for dinner and to have beers, watch shit on tv, talk cars, etc every so often. he’s just so fucking hot, and the fact that he lives just across the street makes things so much worse. when dave mows his lawn, he’s always shirtless and every time you make sure to be out on your front porch to stare at him. and don’t think he doesn't notice your lingering stares…in fact, he likes to put on a bit of a show for you, constantly wearing those slutty little cutoff tank tops around you, going to his mailbox in the morning wearing nothing but a low-hanging pair of grey sweats…he likes that you watch him; honestly, he kinda gets off on it. knowing someone much younger than him finds him attractive turns him on so much.

one night while your dad is out of the house for a work trip, dave presses you up against the kitchen counter, his chest flush with your back, and whispers nasty shit in your ear as you grind back into him. “been thinking ‘bout this for so long,” he groans as he grabs your hips and holds you still against his hardening cock. he flips you around to face him, hoisting you to sit on the counter before kneeling, flipping your skirt up, and sliding your pretty little panties down your legs. and god, he is such a tease. he takes his sweet time rubbing up your thighs, purposefully avoiding the spot you need him most. he won’t touch you until you whine for him to do so. he wants to hear how desperate you are for his touch, how badly you need him between your legs. “please, dave, please touch me...need you so bad! ’m so wet for you, baby...” he looks up at you with that stupid fucking smirk and whispers out a “good girl” before diving right into your soaked pussy. and good lord, this man eats pussy like his life depends on it!

your legs are thrown over his shoulders, and it’s all so fuckin sloppy. his fingers are pressed inside of you as he laps at your swollen clit. his pupils are blown wide when you look down at him, and he’s staring up at you through his messy bangs, watching how you react to his touch. his chin is glistening with a mixture of your slick and his spit, and his pretty nose brushes up against your clit occasionally. you brush the hair from his face to get a better look at his pussydrunk expression, and it almost sends you over the edge. your hands weave into his curly hair and try to pull him away from you. dave growls when you pull his hair, his eyes rolling to the back of his head for a split second at the feeling, but he doesn’t budge. “oh shit- baby, ‘m gonna cum!” you cry out, your grip on his hair tightens, and you begin to squirm. dave wraps his arms around your plush thighs, pulls you closer to his mouth, and mumbles, “stop squirmin’, sweetheart.” your eyes roll back into your skull, and your legs start to shake. “c’mon sweetheart, cum for me. let go, baby.” dave growls. “fuck, fuck, fuck! i’m cumming-” you cry out. your whole body shudders, and your vision goes white. dave grunts against your pussy, helping you ride through your orgasm. “fuck, sweetheart...you did so good for me. so good, baby,” dave groans, “god…this pussy is gonna kill me, baby,” he breathes out, resting his head against your thigh, a dopey smile on his face. through your labored breathing, you manage to mumble, “what about you?” he looks up at you and laughs a bit, “no need to worry ‘bout me, sweetheart…you already made me cum in my pants like a fuckin’ teenager.”

[lynzishell]

OC Deep Dive Questionnaire 💛Atlas & Asher🩵

✨TYSM for the tag @raiiny-bay, @zosa95, @dandylion240, @sirianasims, and @hannahssimblr 🤗💖

Of course, I went overboard with this, so grab your favorite beverage and let's dive right in, shall we? ☕💕

-what common/uncommon fear do they have?

💛Atlas: [Pointing to Asher] Water. 🩵Asher: You can’t just leave it at that. It’s not like if you set a glass of water on the table, I’ll run screaming. I have a fear of drowning, so I don’t like to be submerged in water. You’re never going to catch me out swimming. Probably not on a boat either, while we’re at it. Not taking any chances. 💛Atlas: Fair enough. But you won’t even put your face under the water in the shower. 🩵Asher: That’s because it reminds me of being submerged in water. Anyway, this conversation is making me sweaty, and there just happens to be water on the other side of this fence, so let's change the subject. Next question.

-do they have any pet peeves?

🩵Asher: Oh, Atlas fuckin’ hates mindless small talk, like the kind you use just to fill the silence, or because you awkwardly feel like you need to talk to the person next to you. Seriously, he’ll like you a lot more if you just sit next to him in silence for an hour. 💛Atlas:  Very true. And yet, your record for silence is, what, twenty minutes?  🩵Asher: Maybe. But I don’t make mindless small talk. 💛Atlas: Yeah, I do like listening to you ramble on about your latest obsessions. You get all animated and excited, it’s really cute. 🩵Asher: You’re really cute.

-what are 3 items you can find in their bedroom?

💛Atlas: Uh, I don’t know, what’s in our room besides the obvious? Probably too many electronics. 🩵Asher: Right, between the computer and the switch and my drawing tablet and our phones... 💛Atlas: And your sketchbooks and pencils. How many pencils does someone need? 🩵Asher: I don’t have enough; I’ll tell you that much. Count yourself lucky that most of my art supplies are scattered between Lex’s place and my parents’ house. One day I’ll get it all organized in one place, but that day is not today.

-what do they notice first in a person?

🩵Asher: Hm. That's a good question. What did you notice about me first? 💛Atlas: Your hair, obviously. 🩵Asher: [laughs] 💛Atlas: But no, I would say your eyes. I’d never met anyone with such pure gray eyes before, they’re striking. Your eyes are very expressive too. And you make eye contact with people more than anyone else I know. Like, whenever I talk to you, I always feel like you’re really listening. 🩵Asher: [smiles] I am.

-on a scale of 1-10, how high is their pain tolerance?

🩵Asher: Oh god, mine is probably like a 5, and Atlas’s is probably a fuckin’ 8 or 9. 💛Atlas: I would’ve said 7, but we can go with 8.

-do they go into fight or flight mode when under pressure?

💛Atlas: I think my first instinct is freeze, but then probably flight. Depending on the situation, I’ll walk away or hide away. 🩵Asher: Mostly. But with James, you definitely went to fight. 💛Atlas: That was different. I don’t care if people hurt me, but I’m not going to let them hurt the people I love. Ash is definitely more of a fighter than I am.  

-do they come from a big family/are they a family person?

🩵Asher: I don’t come from a big family, it’s just my parents, me, my sister, and my niece, but we are very close. But honestly, family isn’t just about relatives. Chosen family is just as important. When I say my family is the most important thing to me, I don’t just mean them, I also mean Atlas and Lex and Dawn and Phoenix and Aspen too. And Jasper, obviously. 💛Atlas: Exactly. If we’re talking about relatives, I come from a very large family, but I will never see or speak to any of them again, except for Dawn, of course. A few years ago, I never would’ve considered myself a family person, but Ash’s family taking me in changed all that. I’d definitely say I am now. 🩵Asher: I love that.

-what animal represents them best?

💛Atlas: Oh, that’s easy. Ash is just like Jasper, his border collie. Playful and energetic, friendly, intelligent, hardworking, and he loves to snuggle. 🩵Asher: Hm. I think for Atlas, I’d say a deer. 💛Atlas: A deer? 🩵Asher: Yeah, like, you’re quiet and cautious, a bit anxious with a tendency to hide, but you’re also beautiful and sweet. 💛Atlas: You make me sound more like a bunny. 🩵Asher: No, definitely not a bunny. Have you ever come upon a big buck deer? They’re majestic and intimidating, and they’ll kick your ass if they have to. They’re… survivors.

-what is a smell that they dislike?

💛Atlas: Ammonia. 🩵Asher: No one likes the smell of ammonia. 💛Atlas: I know, but when I was a kid, at the end of every school year, we’d have to clean our desks with this ammonia spray. Twenty kids spraying ammonia in an enclosed room. It was awful. I’m sure they had the windows open, but even still, that smell is seared into my brain, makes me want to gag just thinking of it.

-have they broken any bones? if so, how?

🩵Asher: Okay, story time! So, when I was ten? Eleven? Something like that. Anyway, I was dancing around in my room, as one does, and I tripped on a book, one of many scattered around my disaster of a room, and tried to catch myself as I went down. Bad decision. I’ll spare you the details, but the pain I felt in my wrist was horrible. I literally saw stars. And then I almost puked when I looked at it. So, of course, I started screaming for my mom. She came running in, and I told her that I’d broken my wrist. And what did she do? She yanked on it and snapped it back into place! Because apparently, I’d just dislocated it. But, fuck, it hurt. If a broken bone is worse than that, then I hope I never break one. 💛Atlas: I broke a toe once. Stubbed it on the corner of my bed when I was in college. I wasn’t good about taping it up or anything either, so it healed a little crooked.

-how would a stranger likely describe them?

🩵Asher: For Atlas? One word: quiet. How they interpret that quietness varies though. Some people think he’s really shy, others think he’s just aloof. But he’s actually neither. He’s introverted and pensive, sure, but he’s also very warm and enjoys chatting with people if it’s a more meaningful conversation, y’know. Like, when we first met, we would talk for hours and hours. 💛Atlas: That’s true, but you’re such an easy person to talk to. I think that’s what people would say about Ash. He’s just very relaxed and friendly and has a way of putting people at ease. He’s good at connecting with people and getting them talking and making them laugh.  

-are they a night owl or a morning bird?

🩵Asher: Probably night owls, I’d say. Atlas prefers starting his day later and working late, if he has the option. 💛Atlas: Yeah, but these days, it feels like I’m working all the time. But even still, Ash starts his day earlier. I don’t know. I think he’s somehow both. He has no issues with mornings, but he also gets a burst of energy in the evening and sometimes it’s hard to get him to come to bed. 🩵Asher: To sleep, anyway. 💛Atlas: [laughs] Right.

-what is a flavor they hate and a flavor they love?

💛Atlas: Ah, Ash hates vinegar and anything pickled. And he loves warm spices like cinnamon and cardamom. 🩵Asher: Oh my god, and Atlas is fuckin’ backwards when it comes to this. He likes bitter flavors to a strange degree, like super bitter beer and strong coffee and he’ll only eat chocolate if it’s the super dark stuff, otherwise he hates it. He doesn’t like sweets. No sugary drinks or candy or even pastries.

-do they have any hobbies?

🩵Asher: We both love gaming and dancing. Otherwise, I like to draw and spend time with my dog. My favorite is taking him down to the beach to play fetch, he loves it there. 💛Atlas: Yeah, and I don’t know, I like to stay active because I feel like I’m constantly at a desk otherwise. I used to rock climb a lot, but since we climbed Mt. Komorebi, we took a break and never really got back to it, so I pretty much just run and work out at the gym occasionally. And I like to sing. 🩵Asher: Seriously, I wish you could hear him. He has the most incredible voice. 💛Atlas: Aw, thank you.

-boom, surprise birthday party! how do they react to surprises?

💛Atlas: Ash would love it! He’d be so stoked that everyone showed up for him like that. 🩵Asher: And Atlas would probably dump me on the spot if I ever did that to him. 💛Atlas: I don’t know if I’d dump you, but… okay, yeah, I probably would.

-do they like to wear jewelry? if so, what is their favorite piece?

🩵Asher: I don’t think I’ve ever seen Atlas wear any jewelry. 💛Atlas: No, I’ve tried, but I could never get used to it. I’d always end up taking it off by midday. 🩵Asher: I can see that. I wear earrings, but that’s it. I used to wear a necklace that an ex gave me, but I threw it out when we broke up. I wanted to throw it into the ocean, but I didn’t dare to walk out on the dock [laughs] so I tossed it in a dumpster instead. 💛Atlas: I didn’t know that. Which ex? 🩵Asher: Elias. 💛Atlas: Ahh. Yikes. 🩵Asher: Yeah. Anyway. Next question.

-do they have neat or messy handwriting?

💛Atlas: I think we both write fairly neat. 🩵Asher: I think so too. Yours is all sharp angles, but it’s not sloppy. 💛Atlas: Yeah, and you have a strong preference for uppercase letters. Sometimes it’s rushed, but it’s never messy. Actually, I’ve never thought about it before, but I really like your handwriting. 🩵Asher: I like yours too.

-what are two emotions they feel the most?

🩵Asher: [points to Atlas] Anxious. 💛Atlas: All of the time. 🩵Asher: And, hm, we can only pick two? I’d probably go with either introspective or focused. 💛Atlas: That’s probably right. For you, I’d say, passionate or inspired and then maybe playful or energetic or something like that. Okay yeah, passionate and playful.

-do they have a favorite fabric?

💛Atlas: Probably cotton, I guess. 🩵Asher: Yeah, same. I don't know. Never really thought about it, to be honest.

-what kind of accent do they have?

🩵Asher: I don’t know. Do we have accents? I mean, I guess Atlas gets a hint of a drawl when he drinks, it’s pretty cute. 💛Atlas: I do not. 🩵Asher: You do! I never told you because I didn’t want you to get self-conscious and try to stop. 💛Atlas: It’s a good thing I don’t drink often, I guess. 🩵Asher: Whatever. I love it. 💛Atlas: And I love you. 🩵Asher: I love you too.

And I love them too!! 🥹

Okay, whew! What are the chances anyone actually read all that? I really can't just be normal about these things, can I? Oh well... Now it's your turn!! I'm gonna tag @madebysimblr, @crownsofesha, @xldkx, @honeyjars-sims, aaaaaaaaaaand @igotsnothing 🤸🏻‍♀️💖 Answer them normally, or have a little fun with it, or ignore me completely, that's fine too (no it's not) 🫶🏻

[soaps-mohawk]

Just want to let you know I fuckin love Crcb, started reading Wednesday and just finished I know I'm crazy cause I had exam this week but I just can't stop reading. You should really just start your own novel, this is truly a masterpiece.

Please stop me right now, before I dive even deeper into this endless pit of obsession! If this novel were poison, I’d proudly drink it all, leaving no drop behind, even licking the glass. I feel like being dragged by an emotional train with no brakes, then thrown into a canyon, but instead of dying, you feel even more alive.

I don’t know how I can get through my days without thinking about every plot twist, every betrayal, and every second of chaos. Honestly, if you doesn’t release the next part, I’m ready to be the most tragic simp to ever exist.

✨ CRCB forever, sleep is for later! ✨

Nooo sleep is important 😭 so are exams

The story isn't going anywhere. I'll be here until this ship sinks so you have plenty of time.

Thank you though, I'm glad you're enjoyed it so much 💚

[yellowocaballero]

NCAU Rex for the WIP titles?

I got this ask just as I was doing NCAU Rex lmfaoooo!!!

Here's Anakin, then. Anakin actually became way more of an important character in the rewrite, somewhat unfortunately. You get a certain perspective of him in Obi-Wan's story, and another perspective in Rex's. He had to be important in Rex's story - Anakin is the center of Rex's life. He's the meaning and purpose of it. Kind of. Rex thinks so.

As I said, the stories are very much about why good people do bad things. You'd think that would be Anakin's narrative. It honestly isn't. But you do feel kind of bad for him after a while.

Just to set the record straight: Rex was a hero. 

They were all heroes. Loyal soldiers first, obviously, in place to support the real protagonists of the galaxy, but every clone was a personal hero of the Empire. They were the ones with the holy mission. They would be the ones on the front lines, fighting to the preserve the Republic against the evil forces of the CIS until it was time to revolt against the Republic, kill the Jedi, and enforce galactic peace. 

And Rex? The Marshal Commanders, the clone commanders, the best of the best? They would be the ones who would make the Empire happen.

Which was a good thing. Everybody said so. Everybody said so - the flash trainings, the Kamino, the trainers, Jango Fett while rolling his eyes and actually mocking everybody else. Boba if he wanted to be included. It barely even needed to be said. Sometimes Rex felt as if he’d been born knowing that. 

He hadn’t been born knowing why the Empire was good, but he didn’t stop and ask himself that question until six months into the war. Ironically - or maybe just statistically - it was pretty much Vader’s fault. 

They were in a shitty dive bar on Planet Who Cared. They had just conquered - uh, sorry, ‘liberated’ - it from the nasty CIS oppressors, and the city itself had been completely evacuated before the bombings started. Combing through the rubble searching for the secret CIS headquarters that Vader had been reliably reassured definitely existed, they had found a miraculously untouched bar. Rex and Vader had called in a very serious investigation into the underground headquarters, high fived, and started drinking through the place. 

Absolutely alone, free of all prying eyes or thoughtful cameras, Vader really opened up. Rex constantly refilling his glass helped. 

“You know what I like about you?” Vader said, jabbing a finger at Rex. It was the fact that Rex always spoke his mind and didn’t act like Vader was better because he was a Jedi. “It’s how you always speak your mind. You don’t treat me like I’m better just ‘cause I’m a Jedi. ‘Cause I’m not. The person giving you orders isn’t better than you. Fuck, the people in charge are always the worst. People telling you what to do - are bad. Very bad!”

“Hate to say it, but being told what to do is how it works in the military,” Rex said, amused despite himself. He took a sip of his beer. Vader thought Rex got drunker way more frequently than he actually did. Once or twice - ah, let’s not mention that to Cody. Or Fox. “Can’t see many ways I’m better than you, sir. But I can think of a dozen ways we’re better than the rest of ‘em.”

Vader laughed, light and drunken. “You can read faster than me! I still suck at reading.”

“Reading?” Vader could out-shoot, out-memorize, out-run and out-fly Rex. And Rex could out-anything almost everybody else. It was very humbling, and only reinforced what a strong and amazing leader Vader was. “You can do anything, sir, you have to be great at reading.”

But Vader just snickered into his drink, looking at the far wall of the bar. Many of the glass bottles were shattered, and the air stank of a unique mix of a dozen varieties of flash-fried alcohol. “When I was a kid I could read bits and pieces of Huttese. Specific stuff. Could read an instruction manual for a starfighter but not a, uh, fuckin’ picture book. Took me forever to learn how to read Basic. Maybe I could’a gotten it faster, but everybody was always making me feel like shit for not knowing how to do it. I got so embarrassed. Refused to practice. Classes didn’t help…but Master let me learn at my own pace, so I got it eventually. Eventually, right?”

Reading? Rex learned how to read when he was a year old. Rex knew how to read ten languages, just to cover his bases. 

There had to have been some sort of expression on his face, because Vader huffed a laugh. He drained his glass, letting it clatter back onto the bar. “You got no idea why, do you.”

He absolutely did. “No, sir.”

“Sir. Sir…” Vader’s expression darkened, and he hunched his shoulders over the bar. “I’m so big. I’m so adult. Educated men callin’ me sir. Go me. Yay. I never dreamed of this.”

“Sir…?” The briefing had not given him a reply for this. He honestly didn’t know what the hell Vader was going on about. And he usually did! Vader and Rex were always on the same wavelength. Rex bragged that they could read each other’s minds. 

“Man, I was stupid. I wanted everybody to know what I could do, how great I was. Respect, everyone would respect me. But - I just wanted to be as good as everyone else. My biggest, greatest dreams. I was only as good as everyone else. But I went from worse to better. I’m still…”

Rex was silent. He just refilled his glass. Did he say something? It had taken him a while to figure it out, but Vader wanted comfort sometimes. Even natborns wanted that.

After a second’s grappling, Rex said, “I went from being a defect to being the best of the best.” AKA, serving directly under you. “But my brothers never treated me any differently. You just gotta find other people like you, eh? Everybody’s got somebody who understands ‘em.” A little more practiced, he said, “Hell, sir, you understand me. Forgive me for being presumptuous, but I think I understand you. We can tackle the galaxy together, can’t we?”

“There’s nobody out there like me,” Vader said, simple and sure. He said it with such certainty - as if it wasn’t just an opinion or an insecurity, but a truth that span the galaxy. He was probably right. “But thanks, Rex. You’re - just a really nice guy. But you don’t -”

“You don’t make me feel like I have to hang out with you, I don’t feel pressured to hang out with you, and I’m here ‘cause I want to be.” Rex had said that so often. Vader still kept making him say it. Rex would worry that it didn’t sound authentic, but it was even true. 

“Oh. Cool.” Vader thought hard, before something clearly occurred to him. He scrambled fully upright, and he grabbed Rex by the shoulder. Strangely, almost frantically, he said, “I’m never going to hit you, Rex! You’ll always have food, any time you want, okay? I’ll keep you alive no matter what, you aren’t - aren’t disposable or expendable or cheap. I won’t even yell at you! You know, right?”

“Uh,” Rex said, “...yeah?”

“I’m not going to beat you!” Vader said fervently, and there was something in his powerful blue eyes that Rex didn’t like to see. “I’m not that kind of person, I’ll never do that, so don’t be scared!”

“Sir, I didn’t think you would?!”

“Oh. Awesome.” Vader settled back, beaming happily and more than a little drunkenly at him. “Just watch, Rex. I’ll end this war for us. We’ll be free of all of this. And we’ll be real, actual friends, right? No more titles, no more generals or captains or sirs. It’ll just be us, without that bullshit in the way. I won’t be able to hurt you at all. Me and Padme are gonna be free and happy. I’m gonna stay home, take care of the kids, and I’ll support her being her super-awesome self. I’ll make her lunches! I’ve always wanted to make somebody’s lunches for them. It’s so domestic.”

Vader had spilled the oil on him and Amidala months ago. Rex sympathized. It had to have been murder keeping your marriage to one of the most attractive, talented, accomplished, and prestigious women in the galaxy secret. Or so described by Vader. Amidala was…fine. A little unsettling. She looked at Rex too hard, harder than almost any natborn did. As if she was actually seeing him or some ridiculous shit like that. “Husband of the year, you’ll be.”

“What are you gonna do once you’re free, Rex? Keep bees? Write a book? Find love, settle down? It can be whatever, you know!” Vader leaned against the bar, warming up to his own fantastical idea. “Every year, we can have a 501st reunion at Padme’s - our! - lake house. Big, blow-out party, with more booze than you’ve seen in your life. It’ll make Padme roll her eyes, but it’ll be her chance to have a lady’s trip with her old handmaidens. Man, Rex, you gotta see those views, you’ll love going diving and swimming with me.”

Rex had a thought that he didn’t know he could have. Or maybe he just knew that he shouldn’t. 

It was scary. He wasn’t in the habit of having thoughts he shouldn’t have. Rex had worked too hard to be perfect to have little slip-ups like that. Was this the defect shining through? It had to be. Only defects would have such defective thoughts. 

Darth Vader didn’t want to be Darth Vader. 

He…wanted to be a househusband. A father. The Sith treasured power, control, and dominance. Vader just wanted to be accepted. To walk in a crowd of others, indistinguishable from the rest, laughing and free. Whatever his dreams were, whatever he chased or fought for, it was the life he wanted. 

Well, he’d figure out that the Empire was good eventually! He was just brainwashed by Jedi propaganda. Not even Lord Vader was immune to his twisted Jedi upbringing. Vader just hadn’t found the power of the Sith and the beauty of the Empire yet. No big deal. People changed! And Vader would change to want Darth Vader! 

“I want to be at your side,” Rex said. He winked. “Captain of your guard, eh?”

Vader beamed. “Sounds perfect!”

And if captain of the guard still had captain in the name - if it would keep Rex subordinate, adoring, obedient - then it was what Vader secretly wanted after all. 

[pardy-dardy]

BtWoD: The Great Monkeying

had a fucking brain blast earlier about the Yeren and their place in the broader mythology and did a funky in-world piece about it. figured they needed some more meat beyond just being a Pentex experiment :). as told from the perspective of "Pictures in Neon", an Elder Nuwisha who is currently a little too drunk to be funny.

OC below the cut, hope you enjoy! CW: alcohol

Everyone’s got a fuckin’ stain on their record as far as I’m concerned, haha. It’s easy to take the piss with the Garou, but the other Fera just looooove to pretend they’re squeaky clean. You look back far enough, you’ll see what I mean. When the Apis wore the crown, they were nepotists and holier-than-thou pricks who couldn’t take a joke. Rodens are pragmatic, sure, but speak to a couple about their practices of culling those who can’t do their job anymore and watch them hold back little mousy tears. The Rokea are swimming relics who also can’t take a joke, the Ananasi are if the Samsa weren’t as fun, the Bastet are too smug when it’s least convenient, and the Aquila are really starting to concern me with the nihilistic bullshit these days. At least we’ve still got the Anurana and the Corax.

But hey, you wanna know a secret? I heard this one from a Mokole-Mbembe I’m pals with down in The Big Easy, he said it really changed his perspective on things. Lemme finish this glass real quick and I’ll regale you. I’ve got all night.

Listen up kids, ‘cause I’m about to tell you about The Great Monkeying. Back before the Impergium, a long, long time ago— Shifters didn’t have Homid forms. Didn’t have Half-Homid forms neither. Makes sense, doesn’t it? We were just animals that could get bigger and smarter and tougher when we needed. There were outliers who could take weird-ass forms like the Dragon Kings could, but as far as we know, they didn’t look like Humans.

Have you ever wondered why we Fera can all turn into a single type of ape? It’s not like Homo Sapiens ain’t a fuckin species of animal too. It’s basic biology shit.

But, there were species of Were-Ape that existed, and that I’m pretty sure are still around. You might know them by the name “Yeren” or something. Their symbol looked a bit.... like.... this. Yeah, the ones that Pentex claims they invented. No, they didn’t invent a Shifter. The Wyrm can’t invent anything, didn’t you pay attention when your Elders were giving you lessons on the Triat, kids? Fuck. Where was I?

Yeah, the Yeren. They loved to push the boundaries, inventing crazy shit and diving deep into the Umbra with the best of us. Honestly they sounded like a hoot, but that kind of ambition can leave you open to some nasty customers. They got approached by a powerful Spirit at some point who made them an offer they couldn’t pass up.  It would teach them a powerful ritual that would grant their fellow Fera brand new forms to use in the fight against the Wyrm.

Imagine that! Granting every Fera that currently exists and will exist the capability to use entirely new forms?? The offer was too good to refuse obviously, and they entered a relationship with this new Patron. Time went on, and since nobody was really paying attention to them, they got to finishing their Ritual without a hitch.

Of course, the final step was to sacrifice themselves. Yeah, everyone. All at once. Hey, listen here. You might not think that it’d be a good idea, but these fuckin apes were crazy. They knew they’d die, but they also knew that they’d have committed such an incredible sacrifice that they’d live on forever. And, well. They kinda succeeded, just not in the way they might’ve wanted.

Here’s another thing you gotta realize too, kids. There were no mages or whatever before Humanity got its footing. There just weren’t. Not the way we know them. You can blame the monkeys for them showing up though, ‘cause their sacrifice essentially irradiated the earth around their Kinfolk with so much Gnosis that a bunch of them turned into the first mages.

And you know how mages can shape reality to whatever the hell their twisted perception is? It should be obvious by now where this is going.

These new mages saw themselves reflected in the Fera. Anthropomorphized them and shit. Like if steamboat willie were a cave painting. They applied Human characteristics to the Shifters, and as a result, they literally made them Human. One by one, as mythologies about men who turned into beasts and back spread across the earth, the Fera suddenly found themselves Human, in addition to being whatever animal they are. 

You really wanna call bullshit on this one? I’ve never been more honest in my life, it’s so hard to lie when I’m drunk. And it’s fucking HARD to get drunk! If you want the rest of this story without the bullshit, you’d fill back up my glass. That’s my explicit consent, by the way! Quit being shy with the pours!

Okay, so. Everyone’s obviously pissed that they suddenly can turn into naked apes. It’s a violation of just about every conception of consent out there. Everyone turns to the Homen to turn them to mush— wait, shit. I forgot something. The Yeren had a couple Tribes, and the one that did all this shit were Clan Homen. Homo sapiens. The gorillas and orangutans didn’t have shit to do with it. Anyways, the spiders tell everyone that Clan Homen had been working with an extension of the Weaver directly, and that they probably’d been tricked. 

That didn’t do shit to make anyone less angry. They wanted blood, and even more so after not even the greatest mystics around couldn’t figure out how to undo it. So, the Fera decided to turn on the other Yeren— just a little too late, though. About 99% of the bastards had fled deep into the Umbra before retribution could come ‘round, and we only rarely see them these days.

No, the Pentex-made ones aren’t real, I already said that. They’re not actual Shifters. It’s like if someone drew an evil crayon version of a Shifter and it came to fuckin’ life. No, I don’t know for sure, but I know a Fera when I smell one, and those guys just smell like cheap cologne and hate. You wanna hear the end of this story or not?!

The Yeren flee into the Umbra, the Fera are pissed off, yadda yadda everyone’s fighting and upset. Actually, the story is basically over. Oh yeah, and this is what started the Impergium by the way. We got too heated about Humanity so we decided to start killing them. Look where that got us! Ugh. God, I’m too drunk to have fun right now. Lets get something to eat, I need to sober up.

[revasserium]

Can you do #154 with Hoshiumi or Bokuto ❤️🥺

send me a prompt and a character, and i'll write you a drabble (or ukno, like a 2k fuckin fic)

154. Leap into my arms @thisbicc

diving into the wreck

bokuto; 1,815 words; angst in the beginning, but its honestly more hurt/comfort, and the ending is fluffy ;) ish.

he is a volcano, he is a thunderstorm — he is every natural disaster poets have ever tried to tame with language and still, the truth remains — bokuto koutarou is a force of nature. but the thing about natural disasters is that they end. they pass and, like shooting stars, all that remains is the wreckage they’ve left behind, the imprint of light across a moonless night.

“losing isn’t everything, y’know.”

you run a hand down the curved planes of his back, trying to sooth the tantrum building just beneath the surface.

“it is! and you know it is! you just — you just don’t know how it feels! you don’t know anything!”

the words seep through the house, oozing blood like an open wound, soaking the carpets and weighing down the curtains, staining them till neither of you are sure what color they used to be when you first got them.

(”look! look! these are on sale! and they’re the design i like!” “ah, well if they’re the design you like, then i guess we gotta get ‘em, huh?” “oh shut up, you big goofball.”)

you pull back your hand and sigh.

“you’re right… i don’t know how it feels to lose like you do but —” you bite down hard on your lips, swallowing down the words —

i know how it feels to lose you.

he looks up, his expression desperate. he wants to reach out, to pull you close to say no, i didn’t mean that or no, i’m sorry, let’s get some icream or some popcorn or some new damn curtains but he looks away instead.

(”how do you jump so high?” “huh? me? oh… uh… well, i mean… i just kinda do it… i guess.” “but… aren’t you afraid you’re gonna fall and hurt yourself?” “nah. like, the floor’s not goin’ anywhere, y’know?”)

“bokuto… i — i think i’m gonna go stay with a friend for a while.”

bokuto feels the world press in, the walls inching towards him, the ceiling pressing down. he wants to curl in on himself till there’s nothing left, he wants to crush you to him, to hold you so tightly you become a part of him but his body won’t move. his lips are still. and there’s a part of him that wonders if he does this to himself just so he’ll have something to fight for.

because the truth is — he doesn’t know how else to love you.

he doesn’t know how else to love but like this — with no training wheels, with his eyes closed and fists clenched and wild hope pounding in his heart. and he knows he’s not good at this — he’s never been all too good at this but he never thought it would hurt — he never knew that the floor could disappear from beneath his feet and that sometimes, just sometimes, you really should look before you leap but…

“for… for how long?” he asks.

“i… i’m not sure yet but… i think —” you take a breath like gasping for air in a vacuum-sealed space, “i think it’d be good for us,” another heaving breath.

“some time… apart.”

bokuto feels the air leave the room like a scolded child, slipping away through the opened doorway, disappearing into the darkness of the hall. he tries to breathe and finds that he doesn’t quite remember how.

(”so… its like a trust exercise. with the floor.” “w-wha?? you still talkin’ about jumping?” “yeah! like… in order to jump that high, you gotta trust that the floor will be there to catch you, right?”)

“okay.”

the word burns through him, a comet with a too-long tail, singeing his tongue. it tastes like cinder and smoke and all the words he never had the courage to say out loud.

“okay,” you echo, with a tiny little nod.

he feels the ground beneath him crack and crumble, and for the first time in his life, bokuto is afraid of falling.

“i…” he nearly chokes on the word, but he forces himself to his feet, his fists balled at his sides. like this, he towers over you, like this, he’s a huge, imposing thing, but like this — he feels the smallest he’s ever been.

i’m sorry.

“i love you,” he says, finally. after a long-held breath.

you look up at him with wide, sad eyes and after a moment, you let out a small laugh. it shakes your shoulders and breaks something inside him. because this, at least, he knows to be true. he might not be good at it but he knows that he loves you. he loves you strong, and he loves you hard.

he loves you like a thunderstorm might love a lightning sea, too much salt, and not enough water —

“yeah…” you say, “yeah… i know.”

(”ahh… there’s no fixin’ that, is there?” “what, the dish you broke cause you put it in the dishwasher wrong? nope. don’t think so.” “mm… but what if we keep it anyway?” “aww, you big baby, i always knew you were the sentimental type.”)

you run a hand through your hair, leaning back against the kitchen counter with a deep, heavy sigh.

slowly, the air trickles back into the room.

“let’s go swimming,” he says. and you look up, all sadness gone and replaced by confusion, but bokuto is smiling, a hopeful, indulgent sort of thing.

“what, right now?” you blink at him. he rocks on the balls of his feet.

“yeah. right now.”

for a second, you narrow your eyes, for a second, you wonder what this might be about. but years with bokuto has taught you that there are moments where you don’t ask why or when or how. it is only the who that matters — and it has always been him.

the pool is closed but bokuto manages to find the key tucked in the gym manager’s drawer and you bite back an exasperated sigh as he unlocks the door and lets you both in. there’s a triumphant smile on his lips and you can’t help but laugh. when he cannonballs into the water, whooping out in joy, you stand by the poolside and watch him — and for a second everything is fine. for second, everything is forgotten — all the big fights, all the long nights, all the things neither of you really meant to say — washed away by the chlorine-scented water dripping down the length of his spine.

“c’mon! come in! the water’s great!”

bokuto motions for you to join him, and you only hesitate for a second before pulling off your shirt and slipping into the cool, temperature controlled water. you let yourself sink beneath the surface and you feel the world above you slip away.

you open your eyes to find bokuto there, right in front of you, his eyes just as wide open as yours. his lips are moving, bubbles streaming from his mouth as he speaks but you shake your head, feeling the laughter curling up within you.

“b-bokuto — i can’t hear anything you’re saying!”

you break the surface and reach out to pull him up. but he only shakes his head and drags you under again. you shake your head too, about to break away when you see him mouthing the words —

i’m sorry.

don’t leave me.

you still, and for a moment, you both hang there, suspended by the weight of water, the sheer lack of air. and for once, bokuto is thankful for it.

(”i — i’m not that sentimental! i just… i like holding onto broken things, sometimes.” “bokuto… but… we can just get a new dish —” “no, like… i just think… that it’s worth a try is all.”)

this time, when you break the surface, bokuto comes up with you, gasping for air like a drowning man. he takes you by the arms and shakes you, ever so slightly. water droplets cling to his hair like gemstones, glittering in the refracted blue lights.

“we — we’re not broken,” he says, his voice a bit waterlogged, his chest heaving like some great beached whale, fighting for every breath, for every word.

you purse your lips, a wave of something cresting inside your chest.

he gives you another shake.

“and… and even if we are…” he gulps, “i — i think we’re worth fixing.”

you let out a tiny sob, the hot prickling behind your eyes bursting out in a maelstrom of salt and water and bokuto holds you at arm’s length and lets you cry. he lets you scream and struggle and tell him all the things you’d never have told him otherwise.

he takes it the best he can. he weathers the storm. he waits it out like a patient beach, knowing that eventually, the tide will recede. that eventually, even a hurricane will blow through it’s course.

“i’m sorry,” he says, finally, when you’ve cried yourself out, still hiccupping with his hands on either side of your arms, both your fingers pruning in the water.

“y-you better be.”

bokuto laughs, nodding, finally pulling you in for a kiss.

“i am… and… i’m sorry that i’m so bad at apologizing.”

you let out a watery laugh and make a half-hearted attempt to splash him.

“as long as you don’t make a habit of breaking into the gym pool at midnight just to say sorry.”

“i dunno, it’s kinda nice though, isn’t it?”

“what, a midnight dip? i guess it is…”

for a moment, the both of you are quiet. and you both know this isn’t the end, that there are still words to be said, new curtains to buy, old dishes to mend.

“hey, wanna try something?” bokuto’s voice is hopeful, but as you turn to look at him, you allow yourself another smile. because isn’t this what you fell in love with in the first place? the highs and the lows, the sunlight days and the stormy nights.

“sure, what do you wanna try?”

bokuto points at the diving board hanging over the deep end of the pool with a wide, wayward grin.

you hike your eyebrows.

“c’mon! try it! i’ll catch you!”

trust me.

you hesitate for a moment longer before swimming to the edge and heaving yourself out of the water. bokuto whoops as you walk onto the diving board and look over the edge.

he opens his arms and waits for you.

you take a breath, and —

you jump.

[bruisedbruiser]

I saw a post a bit ago that rubbed me the wrong way about politics and punk, saying that punk is a music subculture and- beyond that- a subculture that is for live shows specifically. It said some shit about not having opinions on punk if you weren’t constantly at boots-on-the-ground live shows.

I think that’s a gross fuckin mindset. Punk is political. It’s not a one-size-fits-all, single political view with detailed reading, sure, but it is political. Punk has political roots. When you boil something down to just music or aesthetics without looking at the history you’re not actually punk anymore. You’re punk-core or whatever the fuck.

Not to mention the fuckin elitism of ‘you’re a poseur if you don’t go to live shows’. Yeah. Live shows are a huge part of punk. The community and environment and shit, but that’s not feasible for a lot of people. I’m not being overly PC or sensitive or whatever. I’m talking disabilities, show locations, shit like that.

I’m a disabled punk. I’m autistic. My legs don’t fuckin work. Have I been to shows? Yeah. A few. And honestly? They were hell on me. I LOVED the experience. Loved meeting people and seeing shit but I fucking suffered for it.

Are you gonna look at me and tell me I’m a poseur because I couldn’t finish a show because I got overstimulated or I was in so much physical pain I had to leave? Punk is accepting. Punk is radical kindness.

I know punk is different to every person. To some people it’s dive bar shows and nothing else. To some it’s politics, diy or die and kickass music. What the fuck ever. But getting on someone’s ass over this shit? You’re the fucking asshole ok? Everyone else is already wary of us. Why are you turning people away too?

Fucking solidarity.

[iguessitsjustme]

Jack o' Frost Ep 1 & 2 Thoughts

I have time today (because my job gave us an extra day off this weekend) soooo it’s time to liveblog Jack o’ Frost since it won my poll. I’m gonna do two episodes at a time for the liveblog just because they aren’t that long. I got my snacks, I got my drink, I am ready to dive in let’s gooooo

I was promised good music so that’s what I’m watching for honestly. I don’t know how much I’ll comment on the music, but I’ll probably talk at least a little bit if it’s that good.

Oh so we start this show in the middle of the drama. Love that. What’s happening. I guess I’ll find out

One thing that I lovehate about Japanese dramas is how much they utilize silence. I love it when shows do that but as someone who gets distracted easily and lives on a busy city street with a lot of noise competing for my attention, it is hard to watch Japanese shows sometimes.

Happy birthday. Time to break up.

These Japanese boys do run. Have they thought about a career in track? But also it makes me so tired to watch. *eats chip*

Is this a fucking amnesia story?

I went into this blind. I don’t know anything about this show. Did y’all trick me into watching an AMNESIA show? Do y’all hate me?

I can’t help but notice the very obvious color coding of these boys. Their coats are very coded. Do I know what it means? Nope. But it’s obvious enough for me to notice. Or I’m getting better at noticing. Which I count as a win for me.

Ooooo I love a good pajama set. I want that one. Looks cozy.

Okay okay. He had a head wound. He had bandages on it. He washed his hair? And the wound? Is gone? Where go? Why bandages? Head wounded outside or inside? What?

Real quick, is Tomoko single? Asking for a me friend.

Ohhhh nooooo he only forgot his boyfriend. What specific amnesia.

Okay EP 2 time let’s get into it. Right now. Right away.

Oh you want a do-over? Well isn’t that just great and dandy. You’re gonna run into the same issues. Just because Ritsu doesn’t remember doesn’t mean the issues aren’t there and don’t still need to be addressed before you two have any hope.

I’m actually gonna pull my hair out. This is why I hate amnesia stories. They’re always so unbalanced. Poor Ritsu.

Alas. Tomoko has a boyfriend. Things aren’t going well though? He better treat her right, or I will. Anyway she gives good advice to whatshisname (I’m not learning it until he fucking tells Ritsu literally anything about the two of them). The only thing she should also tell him is to TELL RITSU ABOUT THEIR RELATIONSHIP Jesus H Crhist. This is why they had issues I’m guessing. This dumbass doesn’t know how to communicate.

I would like to go to this coffee shop actually. Seems very cozy.

Oh I didn’t really talk about the music did I? I love it. It’s very, very classical and that’s pretty much all I’ve been listening to lately so while I have issues with the heckin fuckin amnesia plot we got goin on…at least the music is absolutely gorgeous and doing it’s job well. Anyway. On to episode 3 I guess.

[xarrixii]

Chapter_31 : "Insiders" ━━━━━━━━━━━━━

CW: previous chapter | beginning | masterlist

━━━━━━━━━━━━ ▼

“Jesus. Wow. This really was their central hub, wasn’t it?” Liam whistles, clicking through the barrage of files being uploaded to the Cinder database. “Well, not, you get what I mean.”

“Why would they keep all of this in a bowling alley? Do they honestly trust their security systems this much?”

“Apparently.”

Harlow stares at Liam for a moment. “You’re going to let me go, right? I need to find them.”

“That would literally be going against what I said I’d let you do. I would still have to clear it with Amaterasu.” Liam adjusts his seat, watching as the USB unloaded more and more content to be unfolded by one of Cinder’s many supercomputers. “Wait wait wait, hold on. Storm agent database.”

“All you’re missing is the popcorn to be the excited drama kid.”

“Who said I was missing any popcorn?” Liam smirked, waving over a bucket telekinetically and diving in with their non-clicking hand. “Don’t tell Matty I’ve got food next to her screens or I will murder you before Storm does.”

Harlow rolls his eyes. “Right.”

Liam whistles, looking at the list of names. “Thank God you both weren’t caught, or Storm might actually consider some security measures. Y’know, I told them a long time ago—when I still worked for them and all—to encrypt it in a code.” Liam shoved some popcorn in his mouth, chewing while speaking. “ ‘Course, Nacht called me an idiot.”

His eyes stopped while scrolling through the list. “Liam, isn’t that Blake?”

Liam had to slowly scroll through the deepening list of operatives, gulping down whatever was left of the popcorn in his mouth and clicking on the file Harlow gestured to.

“Son of a bitch.”

For an electrokinetic, Blake was quite easy to overpower.

I guess that’s what being cocky and unguarded gets you. It’s a good defense against telepaths trying to break in, but once your cover’s blown, it does the opposite of what you want it to do.

“Just in time, too,” Liam practically dropped Blake on the concrete as Kyal unlatched a truck’s back door. “Five was just departing. You should hope Suzie’s not waiting for him.”

“We can talk about this,” Blake was out of breath, having struggled against the binders the whole way down. Liam had grabbed rubber gloves from R&D.

“If that ‘we’ means you and Cinder’s interrogation team, I’m glad.”

Someone hops out of the back of the truck after presumably blasting the doors open with a gust of wind once loose enough. “Kyal, you know how the truck doors work?”

“I fuckin’ better. Only driven a few dozen.”

The guy snickers and walks over to Liam, taking the rubber gloves and hauling Blake to his feet.

“We’re lucky it was you, aren’t we kid?” Liam laughs, walking over to help latch up the truck as Kyal picked up a clipboard and started checking things off.

“Why?” The guy’s face scrunched up a bit at the nickname.

“I got someone to introduce you to.” Liam gestures down to Harlow, who knew exactly how to push around someone in binders—even if they were Raijin—and had only lagged behind because R&D had to find another pair of gloves.

The guy looked disappointed, and Liam’s smile fell off. “Also, Storm’s bigger than we thought.”

next chapter

━━━━━━━━━━━━ ▲ missing a content warning? let me know

well well well, look at the new character we've got here

[phoebehalliwell]

i have many questions i'm sorry

do you think the cupitches are as close, or closer, than the halliwell sisters are?

has melinda ever wanted sisters over brothers

if you had to pick any of the four charmed ladies to make twins, who would it be?

how close are henry jr and paige (in ur opinion)?

do you think andy and henry would've liked each other

how are you doing <3

hi hi hi its okay i love answering questions ❤️‼️❤️📝❤️‼️

1. i would say the cupitches are honestly closer bc they’ve known about this power of three thing since birth + are raised by and empath and a relationship therapist (coops mortal (and sometimes magical!) job) so like the clear communication thing is really really super prevalent. they were learning how to carefully articulate their emotions without pinning the blame on others while most of us were still learning santa isn’t real

2. i mean sometimes a little but the fact that her + pj + kat + tam are all so so super close in age (with parker and peyton still relatively close as well) i think it scratches that itch so to speak like she has someone to braid their hair or put on wacky eyeshadow and bad fashion shows with you know?

3. easy. prue & piper. it would just make their dynamic so much jucier like hello prues overprotective nature over her twin but then also just being the brave one which i think would make piper even more the wallflower and also makes piper taking prues mantle post death even more interesting

4. honestly i think they’re pretty close i think henry jr is a naturally curious child and i think paige likes answering his questions like we really see how much paige loves study and learning esp in season five when she dives headfirst into studying witchcraft and even starts exploring angles not previously known to the halliwells (eg using chi in the s5 premiere, studying romani culture + magic in the eyes have it) so i think like paige has found conversations with her son very engaging even from a young age also i think henry jrs just like. cool. he has a similar dry sense of humor and is in general a fun guy to hang out with so i think he and paige are really close. honestly probably the closest to paige out of any of her children

5. this is difficult to say bc like. idk i really don’t know i wanna say yea bc i love a world in which everyone gets along but my gut is telling me that (if they met in a work setting not thru the girls) no. they’re both very stubborn and strong willed and then of course henry had this bad habit of bailing which yes is a romantic thing but i think any defining bad habits will always spill into other facets of your life and as we see with andy that cut and run deal really fuckin bothers him so he might hold an intrinsic dislike for henry. that being said tho i think if they had motive to bond (e.g. ur girlfriend’s sister is my girlfriend) i think yes they would be friends. i think they were both movie / video game kids growing up i think they would bond over thejr dated pop culture references

6. i am mostly okay but i have a new crush and i’m having a terrible time about it lol i kept saying you know what i need? a like crush? something fun to keep me occupied But Now I Have One and it is not fun!!!! auauaagahuagahhghhh!!

[golbrocklovely]

it's been a minute since i posted one of these so..

here’s some of colby’s tweets from 2021.

i don’t have proof that these are his tweets, but believe me, they are his.

if it’s bold and italicized, it’s someone’s tweet to him.

if it’s in (), that’s just me commenting lol

added bonus: if they have a * next to them, that means it’s been deleted

~~~~~~~~~~

Jan. 2 - thank you all so much i love you don’t forget

Jan. 6 - just got yelled at on my walk by a 93 year old grandma it was dope how’s your day goin

on another note , so sad to see what’s been happening today at the capitol .. this is ridiculous. i’m worried.

(the issue with this time period is that colby was getting a lot of heat for shit he shouldn't have been. so… some of these tweets are gonna trigger me, and this is one of them lmao)

Jan. 8 - seems like the older i get the more independent i become

*@/mikes_dead: seems like the older u get the more u forget to call me back headass sorry bb 🖤

don’t crave that personal life human affection like i used to i’m cool with being by myself

always feel like i’m living in a dreamy reality until i get caffeine. blurry vision blurry mind

Jan. 9 - learned how to drive manual for the first then drifted that car today i’m surprised i didn’t kill anyone

you in January

Jan. 12 - fan: hi i love yOu…@/ColbyBrock

hiii i love you

fan: It’s my 2,000 day supporting Sam and colby. That’s fucking insnae man. Mental. I love you 2. Always and forever thank you for being such huge parts in my life @/SamGolbach @/ColbyBrock @/SamandColby

thank you for being a part of our life journey 🙏🏼🖤

Jan. 14 - time to conquer my anxiety

Jan. 16 - tonight , two years ago i was sleeping in a little jail cell wondering how long i’d be in there without Sam. life is fuckin crazy hahah, freedom is a gift

fan: i cant believe that most of the fandom slept on the floor when @/SamandColby 2 years when they got arrested #FreeSamAndColby

the best fans in the world

Jan. 18 - oh how time can heal and change everything

fan: no fr he’s been working so hard and you can really tell. proud of you @/ColbyBrock

thank you darlin

Jan. 19 - my fear won’t be something that i let control the way i live

Jan. 20 - fan: colby ur tweets r always so deep

twitters my personal little mind dump

(wish this was still the case… but i get why he is barely on there)

Jan. 22 - it’s underwater shipwreck dive today

feels good to feel proud of myself

Jan. 24 - fan: @/ColbyBrock can you teach me your ways of being okay with being single bc i’m tired of asshole guys fucking around with my feelings

one day you’ll learn that the only happiness you need comes from within, once you’ve learned to really enjoy youre own company you don’t need anyone else! practice makes perfect 🖤

Jan. 25 - why do i push away everyone who tries to get me to open up?

(what a juxtaposition lol)

Jan. 28 - crows are honestly just death metal chickens

Jan. 30 - don’t wanna jinx this like last time but XPLR gods have definitely been on our side recently again … Alaska has been an adventure of a lifetime

Feb. 1 - don’t let anyone tell you who YOU are and how to think

fan: Currently listening to We Love Our Friends @/SamGolbach @/ColbyBrock @/SamandColby

a bop

Feb. 2 - fan: Thinking about @/ColbyBrock hours

💭🖤

*fan: @/ColbyBrock u should get a tongue piercingggg

*ouchh

fan: As part of 25x25 @/ColbyBrock needs to come out with music

🤫😏

(he needs to come out with more music asap)

*fan: @/ColbyBrock u said no to the tongue piercing what about u getting a nipple piercing??

ouchhh

(what's with fans wanting him to get random parts of his body pierced lmao)

wake me up after valentine’s day

Feb. 4 - what’s one thing you wanna do before you die ?

Feb. 7 - my dream is to show you the beauty in life .. no matter how hard it can get

really opened up on my ongoing experience with anxiety in today’s video , i hope it resonates with some of you. we’re not alone

Feb. 8 - fan: bro @/ColbyBrock do you always get your tats in the early hours of the morning??

yes hahah

just gettin started on this sleeve. lots of work to do

Feb. 10 - fan: @/ColbyBrock I need some advice for anxiety lately my anxiety is playing up and I keeps having anxiety/panics attacks and idk how to calm my self the best thing I can do so far is watch ur vids but still sometimes I just can’t hold it in do u have any advice

box method breathing really helps.. soft music.. meditation. anything that can relax the mind. usually it stems from overthinking so if you can somehow distract yourself with an activity of some sort that could help too 🖤

i’m so emotional sometimes and for what

Feb. 13 - so who’s down to hangout tomorrow

fan: i could really use a hug from @/ColbyBrock rn /: sigh i miss him sm

🖤 sending virtual hugs

fan: Hey Colby … just checking in…. are you okay? Taking care of yourself? @/ColbyBrock

thank you for being so sweet i love you. yes i’m okay i have my good and bad days

Feb. 17 - sang for the first time on camera yesterday

Feb. 20 - this pill that i don’t wanna taste

fan: Are you okay??? Or one of your song lyrics

song lyrics .. probably should have explained that a lil more. it’s not a literal thing i promise hahah

Feb. 22 - damn i miss the big trap house parties we use to throw at our old place. 500 people plus in our living room.. David dobrik always comin in randomly with flame throwers hahah legendary times

Feb. 24 - i was so happy in my dream last night .. felt so real.

simply a wonderful sight to see

Feb. 28 - Dear @/ColbyBrock I would REALLY REALLY APPRECIATE IT IF YOU DYED YOUR HAIR BACK TO BROWN I WOULD REALLY APPRECIATE IT

my purple is pretty much out ! so it’ll be all the way brown soon

fan: Apparently the guys are in Las Vegas and Las Vegas is probably like oh no not these guys again. @/ColbyBrock don't go for a midnight stroll and almost get mugged or kick a cactus this time

palm springs was when the mugging and cactus assault happened hahah but we will do our best to stay outta trouble .. maybe

March 2 - i feel like i don’t fit in with that many people in LA

@/jccaylen: let’s move to Texas.

looking for houses now

March 6 - take a chance with me

head down, headphones in

March 8 - happy #InternationalWomensDay , women are fuckin powerful, thank you for all that you do

(another triggering tweet sksks)

March 10 - maybe i just knew i had to wait for you

March 15 - fan: I just know deep in my soul @ColbyBrock had an angsty sad boi tumblr back in the day and I just wanna scroll thru it. Sir pls hand me the link thx :)

i wish i had tumblr. but wasn’t in to social media until i was like 18. only had a facebook until 2014

(….interesting lol)

fan: @/ColbyBrock do u have any advice on keeping productive on something even though it isn’t ur favourite thing to do but u need to get it done

set goals and make sure you do things in little pieces. if you don’t like something you’re doing just make sure you’re getting it done in the way YOU want to. take it day by day instead of procrastinating and doing it last minute

fan: y r u awake @/colbybrock

same reason you are

March 16 - things change, people change. but in the end i’ll always wish the best for my friends

March 17 - i can’t help but feel this way

March 18 - fan: How can you get through a break up

time. i know that’s a cliche answer. but seriously. distract your mind for a while and you’ll get over it i promise

fan: @/ColbyBrock how often do you not sleep at night because your mind is too loud?

i sleep terribly most nights. i have this weird insomnia that forces me to be up at 3am daily

are any of you hard on yourself for no reason? cause holy shit that’s me daily

fan: Better at picking others up than picking myself up

feel this so hard

fan: please call me sweetheart its my dream deadass

sweeeeeetheart 🖤

fan: @/ColbyBrock what’s your best advice to give to a teen who’s gonna turn 17 next week ? like any tips or tricks you wanna hand down bc i need help

so assuming you’re in highschool, just know that you might think your social circle means the world to you right now .. but everything can change (if you let it) after you graduate. life changes so much after graduation! focus on making good relationships and having fun :)

fan: @/ColbyBrock what’s the first thing you’ll do after all this covid stuff is over?

throw a real trap house party

March 25 - i am becoming a hummingbird father.

@/amberscholl: idk why but this is a VERY hot tweet

can’t wait to show you what i’ve been doing 😈

March 27 - just don’t have the time anymore

March 29 - friday by rebecca black is my anthem

March 30 - should i curl my hair for a youtube video

[waitmyturtles]

Um, WOW, okay, ha -- I did NOT see an Ohm-and-Film fight scene happening in my lifetime. Thoughts on Double Savage, episode 7: 

1) I wrote this morning that I’m just beginning to dive into New Siwaj’s oeuvre, and I’m wondering for this screenplay, if New Siwaj is really New Siwaj-ing himself here. The writing in this episode was choppy at best. Vignette after vignette with not the most connective tissue. 

I’m not convinced by Win’s continued and growing intensity against Korn -- although I like that Korn finally talked back, but again, without context (unless he was commenting on Win’s sheer IDIOCY for flashing a gun at a funeral, which fucking makes TOTAL sense). 

We’re also not getting enough of WHY Rung would make such a drastic change in her life to go to the same life that Korn is living. Plus, she knows something about her parents that we don’t, I think, but that’s also not made entirely clear.

With that crazy-ass test at the end, along with the previews for episode 8, I am thinking that episode 7 can’t stand alone without episode 8 (Li taking care of Ah’s wound?! What?). Anyway. 

2) Back to Win for a second. Does he continue to spiral because of the pressures at work? He’s clearly NOT getting pressure from his (very good-looking, cough) superiors to, like, arrest his own brother. 

I’m trying to figure out if there’s supposed to be a parallel between Win’s temper and his father’s temper. A patriarchially-inspired temper, basically given unto a man through societal expectations and not through, say, merit or empathic love for his family.

I mean, in other words, Win’s fuckin’ it up left and right, but I honestly am not sure how convincing it is on screen. UNLESS -- because he’s written so choppily -- if he’s MEANT to come off as inconsistent and terribly weak, then THAT’S working. That’s REALLY working. (Again, this might be New New-ing himself -- using an unfamiliar order of operations to make a character look like a fucking lame ass.)

One thing that I can think of on Win’s part is that Win never HAD to learn how to control his temper, the way Korn had to, in order to survive during their childhood. Win received all the praise. We continue to see it in the previews for tomorrow’s episode. Win hasn’t learned self-control -- and we see it emanating.

3) You know what I liked the best of this episode? (Besides Film’s drip, which WE’LL GET TO IN A SECOND.) 

I liked that the mother finally, FINALLY SAID to Win: “But why are you acting like you don’t know why [Korn] chose [his way of life]?”

And petty Win retorts: “You’re taking his side like you’ve always done.”

Come awn, Win. Maybe THAT’S what’s missing for me.

Win clearly understood the trauma of what his family was facing when they were younger. I think I’m realizing that I don’t believe, convincingly, that Win has TOTALLY forgotten it. I wrote last week that what Win is the most influenced by, at this adult time of his life, is the extrasocial factor of jealousy that’s driving his worldview. 

But I appreciate his mom calling him out for straight-up FORGETTING that it was patriarchal ABUSE that caused all of this. His mom is like -- COME AWN. YOU KNOW THIS. And you used to love your brother so much.

And Win is like, aw, Ma, I’m a tired old man, wah wah, I’m going home.

Weak ass. I mean, again, if the writing is SUPPOSED to shape Win like this, then great job. But I think the writing (COME ON, NEW) could have been a lot sharper and more convincing. Perth is like, electric with talent in this and could have had a lot more to work with.

4) Quick note on Korn. Korn’s failing in life is that he lacks subtlety, and I think Ah is taking advantage of it. Korn would be a much smarter and wiser person -- and maybe he’s gonna get there with Rung back at his side -- if he could be more sophisticated about the life he’s living and the illegal things he’s doing. He’s still holding onto a child’s black-and-white perspective, like almost everyone else around him (EXCEPT Ah, Mek, and Rung) -- and I wonder if his maturing into the gray is going to be a storyline for the rest of the series.

5) I have thoughts on the Asian compulsions for saving face and playing the blame game vis à vis Korn’s father, but I might save those for tomorrow -- I’ve been crazy writing the last couple of days. Let me just say this about Korn’s dad, and that interaction they had in the apartment. 

I understood it all. Very unfortunately. As HORRIBLY as that dad has treated Korn for the entirety of Korn’s life, I understood why Korn continued to help his dad, even when his dad went silent. I have that filial piety guilt on me every minute of every day. 

Seeing the dad shed a tear was a touch of karmic satisfaction, but it didn’t make me happy. Ugh. It was painful to watch. 

6) Let’s appreciate Film’s leather-and-eyeliner era. And those CARGO SWEATPANTS! And MOCK TURTLENECK gym shirt! I will submit a request to GMMTV to please get Film some muscle tees and a strength trainer, because I’d like to see some poppin’ biceps on my girl. I LOVE YOU, FILM, I LOVE YOU SOOOOOOO MUCH.

7) Finally, I just want to note that I have previously loved Foei in the few shows of his that I’ve watched on GMMTV (most notably Dirty Laundry, which I was obsessed with; his work in 10 Years Ticket, and the few episodes of Midnight Museum that I watched), and I’m really fucking horrified and disappointed by his social media behavior this weekend.

[madstronaut]

my IRL moots and I are currently bingewatching olympic coverage so if I have been absent it’s because I have temporarily replaced fanfic as my comfort/stress reliever with footage of simone biles and sunisa lee and leo marchand and katie ledecky and tom daley absolutely fucking SLAYING (and knitting) over in the city of lights

but anyway WHO DOESn’T LOVE A GOOD COMEBACK STORY AND TEH FUCKING STANDING OVATION (so wat if it was in my PJs and a facemask I had a long week okay) I GAVE WHEN I SAW WRENNY RETURNED WITH A FUCKING BANGER OF A CHAPTER TO CONTINUE SKIN DEEP THAT WAS OLYMPIC-WORTHY IF I SAY SO 🥇🥇🥇🥇🥇 (surgeon general warning: this is purely fucking subjective)

I was gonna use an olympic cheering gif but I saw this bajirao mastani gif and deemed it even better and also I saw a post saying gifmakers are notified whenever their gif is tagged in a post and I want to apologize in advance dear artist for using it in my fanfic rant lol

anyway diving right into it (if yall knew the absolutely herculean effort I am making not to sprinkle this whole fucking thing with olympic puns…) does anyone else get sympathy phantom pains when they read about a character you’re emotionally invested in get hurt? cos I definitely grabbed and patted my own tit in sympathy when I read about reader’s piercing snagging on a sweater

also I FUCKIN LOVE THE MATCHING PIERCINGS!!!! <33333 something so special about sharing something secret and intimate between just you and your beloved <3 (which makes johnny’s matchy eyebrow piercing reveal later all the more interestin 👀)

if cleanliness were a love language, it would likely be Simon’s. 

this tracks for how I HC simon honestly, where all my fellow traumatized PTSD-coping control freaks at!!!! just me???!!?!!

Not that he had told you he loved you—nor had you told him. You had promised yourself that you would wait until he said it first (the only sure-fire way to avoid coming across as overeager and scaring him off). Still, there were a thousand ways in a day that Simon made you feel as if he loved you: the way he would go out to start your car in the wintery mornings when your remote start stopped working; the way he always offered you the first bite of his food if you weren’t sharing a meal; the way he’d crack open your drinks before handing them to you. Was it wrong of you to try to read between the lines? 

how does that saying go, “actions speak louder than words”? 👀👀👀 also couldn’t help but be reminded of me and my fellow POC IRLs sharing about how our parentals/families never said ILY growing up but later learned to understand they showed not told (my current philosophy tho is y not both? y not both indeed)

His thumbs stroke beneath your breasts along the sternum tattoo he gave you—a favorite part of you for him to touch-

🥰🥰🥰

“I want you,” he mutters. “Say yes.”  “Yes, God, yes.”

 👏sexy consenting, we luv to see it 👏

Something about him so unashamedly enjoying himself makes it easier for you to enjoy yourself too.

yes, we love a win-win situation 💛💛💛

also i loved all the goofy little moments during their sexytime with the knocking over his pencils, “don’t insult me” (I would be gigglin my ass off at this), their banter <3, LAUGHING WHILE COMING!!! cannot even describe the feeling but yes if you’ve done the same it is *quite* the feeling - GOOFY SEX SUPREMACY BLOG OVER HERE, ANTIS CAN GO FUCK CLOWNS TYVM (it’s me, I’m the clown, wooin you in this 10k word essay I will-)

as always simon seems to be so adept and confident at reading reader but hOOOW CURIOUS THAT HE DOUBTS HIMSELF/CUTS HIMSELF OFF FROM SPECULATING WHEN IT COMES TO JOHNNY? hMMMMMMM

and UGH i so feel the reader in wanting to befriend your beloved’s beloveds and the stress in that struggle -currently experiencing a different iteration of this with my IRL moots in trying to balance putting aside your pride to attempt to get along with someone you just don’t jive with but who is beloved by your beloved (uhh does this make me johnny in this scenario but wthout the sexual tension/ghoapiness of it all UGH) anyway READER I FEEL YA

“When Soap and I are in a room together with women, I’m like a ghost. 🥺🥺🥺 “Were you jealous?”  He makes an ambiguous sound. 

i notice direct, straightforward simon consistently struggles to be so when it comes to our soapy boi  👀👀 *putting my tin foil hat back on* though another part of me wonders if simon has noticed how frosty reader and johnny are and is secretly not too bothered by it by the aforementioned love triangle/soap “stealing the spotlight” probs

I am dying to know what went down in the fight between simon & johnny at the flooded shop!!! wrenny SPILL TEH TEA WOMAN (if you please per your time/desire)

after re-reading this multiple times I pulled up my conspiracy theories from pt 1 and HOLY FUCK THE FEELING OF CHECKING OFF A FEW TO BE CONFIRMED IS PROBABLY HOW THOSE PPL WHO  RAIDED AREA 51 VIA THAT PUBLIC FB EVENT INVITE FELT WHEN THEY GOT TO NARUTO-RUN ON LIVE TV

I did the phoenix ace attorney finger point (i know nothing bout this show cept thru this meme) while yelling I FUCKING KNEW THEY FUCKED at the top of my lungs at my laptop (sorry to my IRL neighbors)

“The day after we—y’know. Fucked. I told him it was a one time thing. Maybe it’s in my head,” says Simon, frowning. “Maybe I’m crazy. But sometimes he looks at me or says something to me and it makes me think it’s not over. Not for him.” “Is it really over,” you ask, “for you?” Simon looks at you, quiet. He says: “I want you.” And you are so relieved by the obvious honesty in his answer that it never crosses your mind to think that’s not what you asked. 

*currently ripping off my tin foil hat, shredding it in my jaws and screaming IRL at all the cues and tells here*

I also sus that this is why reader is hesitant to say ILY so far whether she knows it or not but again thats just my tin foil talkin

oooh FUCKING LOVE the reader coming up to observe johnny unnoticed!!! all up in simon’s space looking at his sketches 👀👀

and then HIS BODY LANGUAGE!!!! the open grimace, putting physical space in between them, deflecting with the “incriminating” comment accusations + bringing up simon.. I devoured the entire convo of just reader + johnny here; just fuckin fascinated by reader acting as a social bridge between simon and johnny here...maybe in more ways than one? (DO NOT MAKE AN EIFFEL TOWER JOKE DO NOT FUCKING-)

anyway my current conclusion based on this convo is that the torch johnny has been carrying for simon is fucking OLYMPIC-SIZED (last joke I swear I’m SORRY) and he deflects with casual/shallow flirting etc. to hide the weight/grief of it anyway brb dabbing away some tears so I can see clearly to read the rest of this-

also ALSO SUS impending loss of johnny as partner (and more) is what triggers simon’s nightmares; i usually dont recall/consider simon’s canon backstory when i picture him in fics I read unless explicitly stated/included but I think we can all agree across the board that generally speakin That Man Has Seen Sum Shit™️

You can’t imagine the stress that he is under, and you’d do anything to be able to shoulder a fraction of it for him. 

mood, reader, moooooood! also please if it is not obvi already despite the emotional beating she is taking/giving herself over not being able to befriend her bf's bff - reader is SUCH a great friend and gf to simon, i also want to give her a giant hug and peptalk and also kick johnny in the balls for how mean he is to her, no excuses, laddie

“That was mine!” Johnny shouts, elbowing the man next to him. “Did you see that? That was my work!”

👀👀 whats that phrase IN VINO VERITAS once again PHRASING, MACTAVISH, PHRASING GOD D A M N

I am looking down the road and brother, all roads lead to ghoaple i mean, rome as they say (trying to put ghost soap throuple in one word)

“Simon?” Johnny let’s go of the guy’s shirt, his bad mood evaporating as quickly as it had manifested.

hMMMMM

He says something back, some Scottish phrase, his accent so thick you couldn’t understand the words even if you knew them. 

hi PSA i need a favor pls someone please run over to the bar, get their security vid and lipread or transcribe what he said so I can look it up on google translate i will reward you with monopoly monies or some hot goss from the legacy media companies I’ve worked with, your choice

also do I sus not only wariness but also attraction from johnny to reader here?! but is it cos reader reminds him of simon 👀👀👀

“Oh, did I offend you?” he breathes, clutching one hand at his breast. “Not falling down at your feet? Not worshippin’ the ground you walk on?” 

 johnny do I smell some jalousie, as the french like to say hon hon hon

also btw I have been in a car with a crying driver and lemme tell you ALWAYS. PULL. OVER. that shit will drastically lower your life expectancy and raise your blood pressure simultaneously (obligatory FUCK YOU ELIJAH YOU POS FOR BREAKING UP WITH MY FRIEND OVER THE FUCKING PHONE WHILE SHE WAS DRIVING IF I EVER SEE YOUR PATHETIC BITCH ASS AGAIN IT IS ON SIGHT)

“I don’t understand,” you mutter. “He wants us to be friends.”  “He doesn’t know what he wants,'' Johnny says.

oh and you do, do you now, johnny? RAGGGHHHH my anthropological brainworm is absolutely feasting at the drama/dynamics rn

also fucking dead at picturing drunk af johnny flipping the twin birds, then slipping and falling on his side

Johnny warns you sleepily: “Ghost is right there.”

WRENNY YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKER (affectionate) THE FUCKNG JUMPSCARE THIS GAVE ME AT 2AM WHEN I FIRST READ THIS I SCREAMED OUT LOUD 

ok now that I’ve fucking blacked out and typed a fucking marathon of an essay here i wiil just end with this lovelyass post by @/dwarvenales I read earlier -

not to get tooo fuckin sappy but wrenny I recall seeing a bit of the obstacles you overcame to continue writing this and just wanted to say for you and really for any other fic writer out there who struggle with your fics that you are very much seen and loved and your brainbabies are awaited with open arms by many more lovers than haters, mes amis! mwahmwahmwahmwah bisous bisous bisous for you all 😘👌😘👌😘👌😘👌😘👌😘👌😘👌

A Complete Set (Whatever That Means) || 2

A continuation of Skin Deep. Part one of this sequel is here.

About this: previous warnings apply, oral sex (f receiving), alcohol, gross imperfections, not a single nipple unfortunately, an eyebrow though. For @/moody-alcoholic, I hope this manages to quench even the tiniest portion of your thirst. 1 more part left. 7k

-

“Simon?” 

“Hm.” 

“Are you seeing anybody else?” 

Simon looks up at you. His hair is getting long, falling over his forehead and looking nearly brunet in the dim lighting. You don’t think he’s cut it since the two of you have started dating. 

He’s been drawing for half the night, hunched over with the sketchpad in his lap, doing terrible things to his own posture and blocking his own lighting all at once. When he answers you, it’s in that dry tone that lets you know he thinks you’ve said something funny or clever: “No.” 

A knot in your chest loosens. It’s hard to believe you worried over such a question for so long just to receive such a simple, earnest answer. He goes back to sketching. 

You content yourself with this and stretch your legs out until your toes touch his thigh at the other end of the sofa. His mouth twitches, but he keeps working. 

-

Six months pass, and how do you celebrate? You climb topless onto Simon’s lap, eager and anxious in equal measure. Your nipple piercing had stopped hurting months ago (save for the time you had snagged it on a cable knit sweater and nearly seen Jesus), but you had read online that piercings heal from the outside inward, and as such you had made every attempt possible to leave the thing alone even when all you wanted to do was play with it. 

In his own way of celebrating, Simon had bought you your first new barbell: a black one with black gemmed studs at each end. You couldn’t help but notice that it looked similar to his, only with a more delicate, feminine touch.

“Will you change it for me?” you ask him. Your hands are shaking.

“Alright. Let me wash my hands.” He shifts you off of his lap and disappears into the bathroom where you hear the faucet turn on. You cross your arms over your breasts, feeling silly being half naked without Simon in the room. Your foot bounces impatiently, but you know that if cleanliness were a love language, it would likely be Simon’s. 

Not that he had told you he loved you—nor had you told him. You had promised yourself that you would wait until he said it first (the only sure-fire way to avoid coming across as overeager and scaring him off). Still, there were a thousand ways in a day that Simon made you feel as if he loved you: the way he would go out to start your car in the wintery mornings when your remote start stopped working; the way he always offered you the first bite of his food if you weren’t sharing a meal; the way he’d crack open your drinks before handing them to you. Was it wrong of you to try to read between the lines? 

Simon comes back and tugs you onto his lap again. His hands look huge compared to the jewelry through your breast as he dexterously works the ball free from the barbell. He has the hands of a surgeon: steady and calm. You close your eyes in anticipation of pain, but there is none; it just feels alien, sensitive whenever his calloused fingers brush over your pebbled nipple, even as he removes the barbell itself. 

Taking the sanitized jewelry, he carefully puts it in and screws the stud in place. 

“That didn’t hurt at all,” you say, reaching down to tug softly on the barbell. Still, no pain. 

“Great,” he says, eyes on your breasts. He grips your hips. “Up, now. C’mon, up.” 

He tugs you up onto your knees so that you’re the perfect height for him to take your nipple into his burning mouth. You shiver, one hand gripping his shoulder and the other burying itself in his hair, gripping softly to keep his mouth in place. If you had worried that getting the piercing would make you less sensitive, you were wrong. He tugs on the jewelry gently with his fucking teeth and God, holy shit, fucking hell, definitely not less sensitive.

“Been waiting to do this,” he says, nuzzling the skin between your breasts as he gives you a moment to catch your breath. “Six months of hell.” 

“Yeah?” You pant lamely, chest heaving. 

He hums. His thumbs stroke beneath your breasts along the sternum tattoo he gave you—a favorite part of you for him to touch—as his lips find your nipple again, lashing softly with his tongue. His hands have begun to tremble where they slide down the curves of your sides and to your hips, touch soft and worshipful as he brings you down to rest your weight against the hard line of his cock still confined in his jeans. The shaking says more than a thousand of his words ever could. 

“I want you,” he mutters. “Say yes.” 

“Yes, God, yes.”

Simon guides you off of his lap, kneeling down into the space between the couch and the coffee table. He pushes the table backwards with a little more force than is necessary when there isn’t enough room for his long legs and accidentally sends a cup full of charcoal pencils tipping over onto the carpet. You snort with laughter. He peels your leggings and panties off and drags you to the edge of the couch, pressing your thighs open wide. 

Getting head from partners in the past had been a fraught, mostly unenjoyable experience. Even your first few times with Simon had been tense, with him quickly moving on to something else after noticing your inability to relax. A less eager man might have counted his blessings and moved on, but Simon’s gentle persistence had gone a long way toward reassuring you that he truly wanted to please you this way. It had gone a long way toward reassuring you that you could let him. 

He spreads you apart, thumbs slipping against your slick folds, heated gaze pinpointed on your most intimate parts before he leans in and licks a broad stripe over your entrance and up to your clit. You shut your eyes (and cover your face for good measure). His warm breath fans against your pussy as he laughs. He could be mean and pull your hands away, but he lets you hide this way and you are grateful for it. 

Simon takes his time mapping each part of you with his mouth, nose brushing your clit whenever he doesn’t have his lips sealed over it. Your thighs shake, toes curled, as he pulls whines and choked gasps from your throat. 

You peek through your fingers when you feel him shifting beneath you to find that he’s worked his cock from his jeans and is jerking off, only noticeable by the tell-tale rhythmic motion of his arm against your calf. 

“Jesus, Simon,” you whine. 

He makes a little sound of acknowledgement in the back of his throat, shifting on his knees to change the angle of his mouth against you. Something about him so unashamedly enjoying himself makes it easier for you to enjoy yourself too, to let your hands come away from your face and thread them through his hair. 

“Can we fuck?” you breathe, aching inside deep where his tongue can’t reach. 

He nods against you and kneels up to kiss you. You still aren’t used to the taste of yourself in his mouth, but it’s growing less foreign—and nothing could ever make you turn away from one of Simon’s kisses. 

He pulls you off the couch onto your knees, his legs spread to either side of your own. You arch your back, feeling his cock brush against the back of your thighs. Two of his thick fingers slip inside you, testing your give and your wetness. He twists them; turns to hook them against that soft, vulnerable spot inside you that makes your legs shake. Simon works a third finger into you, a stretch that your body struggled to take before but which it accepts eagerly now, the sting welcome and familiar.

“Fuck. I need a condom,” he rasps. 

“Just pull out,” you say. 

You can sense him rolling his eyes. Your fondness for the (dangerous) pull-out method had been formally noted by him and thus far rejected at every turn. 

“Don’t insult me,” he mutters. He grabs your hand and guides it between your own legs. “Be good and keep yourself warm. I’ll be right back.”

He’s barely gone long enough for you to stroke your fingers through your folds, but when he returns (flashing the intact condom package at you like he always does), he watches you for an endless, lingering moment.

“I like that,” he says at last, taking his spot behind you again, condom in place. 

“Like what?”

“Watching you touch yourself.” The head of his cock nudges your entrance. He finds the right angle and slips inside you, stretching your walls to make room for himself. You groan, your fingers digging into the couch cushion. It stings a little, right towards the end, but he just softly saws himself in and out of your pussy, soothing the ache with pleasure. His words go completely over your head. 

He reaches so deep inside you, like with his every thrust his cock bullies the air out of your lungs. The slick sounds are lewd, keeping time with your moans and sighs as his fingertips dig into the flesh of your hips, manhandling you further onto the couch to the perfect height for him to fuck into you, your knees barely skimming the carpet.  

Your hand ends up crushed between your pelvis and the couch. You let your fingers find your clit and the touch reminds your body of how close it is, that coil deep in your belly stretched tight and ready to release. Your fingers trail down to where his cock pistons in and out of you, and at your touch he groans, slows to a smooth drag, his length slippery with your own arousal. 

“Touch yourself, not me,” he chides, his voice rough. “I’m close enough.” 

“I’m close enough,” you say.

He flops against your back, nearly crushing you with his weight to hook his chin over your shoulder and ask: “Then what the fuck are we waiting for?”

You can barely draw in the breath to laugh, and it’s only worse when you cum. You bury your face into the couch cushions, giggling, fingers rubbing a gentle, hectic rhythm against your clit as your pussy spasms around him. He snorts at your laughter, a soft quiet exhale against the back of your neck. Then he cums, his thrusts sloppy and hard, turning his head at the last moment to bite your shoulder lazily. 

“Sex makes you so weird,” you pant. Your face hurts from smiling. 

“You like it?”

“Yeah. I do.”

He ties off the condom and throws it away. The two of you sit naked on the couch together, curled up. It’s a little alien to be this open about your body with someone and to have them be so open about their body in return, but it’s a good strangeness. So much about loving Simon is. 

“I need to get the other one pierced now,” you mention, toying with his unpierced nipple. “Have to complete the set.”

“I never did.”

“You’re incomplete. Don’t you know?” 

He snorts. “I feel quite fulfilled, thanks.” 

“Please Simon?” you ask. “I want to.”

“Don’t ever say please. I’ll text Soap in the morning,” Simon says, trailing his fingers up and down the length of your arm, making goosebumps appear. 

You hesitate. Should you tell him what you’d been thinking about for the last several months? Would it offend him to know that you didn’t want to go to Johnny for any more piercings? 

Whether it offended him or not, your pride couldn’t rest easily going back to the tiny room behind the curtain in Skin Deep. While there had been only a few other tense interactions between you and Johnny since Simon’s birthday (and usually he seemed to favor outright ignoring your existence), the situation had not improved. 

“Simon—I think I’d rather go somewhere else for my other nipple. To someone other than Johnny, I mean.” 

Simon frowns. “What’d Johnny do.” 

He phrases it like that—more of a statement and less of a question, immediately assuming that Johnny is at fault. 

“It’s just—it’s like I said on your birthday. He doesn’t like me much.” 

Simon turns to look you in the eye. When your gaze tries to skirt away, he lets out an irritated breath through his nose—but doesn’t fight you. Simon always lets you run. Maybe because he knows his legs are long enough to catch you. “You really feel like that?” 

“You’ve never noticed?” 

“Thought it was in my head,” he mutters. Then he says the most dreaded words he possibly could: “I’ll talk to him.” 

“No!” you nearly shout. You struggle to lower your voice to something more appropriate for indoors, your heart tap-dancing to an anxious beat inside your chest. Just trying to picture Johnny’s irritated expression at any of Simon’s potential efforts to talk to him made your stomach turn over. “I mean—don’t. Really. It’s fine.” 

“It’s not. I need you two to get along. You and Johnny—you’re the most important people in my life,” he says baldly. His honesty does something to your lungs—empties them, crushes them. You only just realize the position that you’re putting Simon in, and it makes you feel about two inches tall. How could you let your petty problems with Johnny potentially get in the way of their longtime friendship? Their brotherhood?

“I’m begging you, Simon,” you plead. “Promise me you won’t talk to him. Just, give me more time to get to know him or something.” 

“Can't promise that.” He stands up and stretches, joints popping as you stare at him, your stomach tearing itself to pieces at this knowledge. This is not how this conversation was meant to end. But he disappears into the bedroom before you can gather your wits enough to say another word.

-

There is nothing like sleeping beside Simon, his arm beneath your head, your body turned and cradled against his side, a leg thrown over his thighs. His heart is as slow and steady as his breaths, his calloused thumb tracing a line back and forth on your naked side, a line which grows slower and slower as he drifts closer to sleep. 

You ruin it like this: “Simon?” 

“Hm.” 

“Can I ask you something?” 

“If you got’a.” 

“On your birthday, you said that women meant for you sometimes ended up being Johnny’s. What did you mean?” 

He’s quiet for so long that you mistake him for falling asleep. You’ve resigned yourself to asking him another night when he speaks, his speech is slow and thoughtful, like it is hard to put it into words. 

“When Soap and I are in a room together with women, I’m like a ghost. He’s a fucking human being. Flesh and blood. Alive. People want to talk to him, to know him, to laugh with him, to have a drink with him. I’m not like that. I haven’t ever been like that. More than once Johnny would try to get me together with a woman who would end up falling for him instead. Eventually I convinced him to stop trying.” 

“Were you jealous?” 

He makes an ambiguous sound. “It’s hard to be jealous of Soap.” 

“Not impossible, though.” 

He rolls you over onto your back, coming to rest over you, your legs a tangled mess beneath the sheets. The darkness lengthens the shadows of his eyes, but you can still feel his gaze, tangible as any touch. He braces himself on his elbows over you and lets his forehead rest against your own. “I just wanted someone who was mine,” he says. 

It’s on the tip of your tongue, those words that are building inside of you and growing harder to withhold by the day. But you say it like this and hope he can translate: “I’m yours.” 

He ducks his head and kisses you. 

-

In the morning, Simon has slipped a piece of paper just beneath the edge of your mug of tea. When you look at it, written in charcoal pencil is DARCELINA: Dream City Tattoos and Piercings XXX-XXXX. 

-

It’s one for the record books: the rain. Thick pregnant clouds carry more than eight inches of rain to your city in the course of a day. The last time it rained so much was apparently during the Civil War era. The city floods, including the basement of your apartment building, which leads to a building-wide power outage. 

Simon has you pack a suitcase, junk the majority of your refrigerator and freezer, and come stay with him. You’re giddy, feeling like it’s a semi-permanent sleepover when he gets the call that Skin Deep has flooded as well. 

Then things take a turn for the worse. Simon is gone for nearly 36 hours straight making endless calls to attempt to clear the water and begin repairs, and sometime in the midst of that, the fight with Johnny happens. 

It’s an ugly one. 

Simon comes home in the foulest mood you’ve ever seen him in. It turns him positively stony as he moves around the apartment making himself a hasty meal, avoiding your eyes every chance he gets. After he eats, he sits heavily on the sofa, pulls out his sketchpad, and trashes no fewer than six entire pages before you get the nerve to ask him what’s wrong. 

“Soap,” he mutters, crumpling a paper in one strong, dextrous hand. He throws it toward the small garbage can beside the telly and misses. “He’s looking for other locations to pierce at.”

“Is the building that bad?” you ask. “You guys will have to find a new place?”

“Soap is looking for a new place. One without me.”

You gape, the shock of this news reaching all the way to the core of your being. 

“You don’t think it’s because of—?” Me. You can’t even finish the sentence, the thought upsets you so much. You tuck your legs beneath you on the couch, curling up, seeking to become small and harmless as grief and horror wash over you in wave after wave. 

“This is my fault. I tried to talk to him but he’s so fucking—he gets under my goddamn skin like he was born to do it.” Simon pauses heavily, before adding: “I need to tell you something about the night Soap pierced me.” 

Story time. Alright. You uncurl your legs, choosing to sit with them criss-crossed, your body turned toward him, giving Simon your entire attention. It’s been months since you found out that Johnny had been the one to pierce Simon, but you had been no closer to getting the story from either of them. Your curiosity was a dangerous, corrosive thing, eating away at your insides. 

“I’m listening,” you say, hoping you don’t look as eager as you feel. 

Simon looks to be at a loss for words, running his tongue along the sharp edge of his teeth. When he speaks, it’s hardly the lengthy story you had been anticipating: “We fucked.”

You blink. “You and—Johnny?”

Simon sighs and shrugs a shoulder. 

“I didn’t know you were…” Simon stares, waiting for you to finish your sentence. “…interested in men.”

“You are. Why can’t I be?”

You feel a chilly pang of horror, like someone has slipped a dagger between your ribs. You rush to assure him: “You can! You—“

Simon’s mouth twitches as he rubs at the crease of one eye, and your panic fades. He mumbles: “I’m just fucking with you.”

“So you’re bisexual.”

“I’m… I don’t fucking know. I’m attracted to who I’m attracted to. I never named it.”

“Okay,” you say gently. “We don’t have to. But what does that have to do with now?”

“The day after we—y’know. Fucked. I told him it was a one time thing. Maybe it’s in my head,” says Simon, frowning. “Maybe I’m crazy. But sometimes he looks at me or says something to me and it makes me think it’s not over. Not for him.”

“Is it really over,” you ask, “for you?”

Simon looks at you, quiet. He says: “I want you.”

And you are so relieved by the obvious honesty in his answer that it never crosses your mind to think that’s not what you asked. 

-

Simon is uptown at a café holding consultations while Johnny directs cleanup efforts at the shop, and you think that now’s the perfect chance. 

Your hands shake against the steering wheel the whole drive there, nerves less like butterflies and more like great winged moths in your belly. A part of you says that this is a mistake, you should turn back and let Simon and Johnny work it out on their own. But another part of you feels personally responsible—even if Simon says you aren’t. All your life you have taken things too personally, shouldered burdens which were not your own, bent over backwards to solve problems that weren’t yours to solve. If there was any chance that you could resolve this, you would put your pride on the line to do it. 

You park alongside the street and are thrilled to find the front door unlocked. The entire place smells musty, like a basement. The wooden floors have warped a little under your tentative steps, announcing your presence sooner than you’d like. 

Johnny sits in the chair where Simon tattoos clients. Sunlight streams in through the blinds and lights him up like some kind of punk-rock angel, his mohawk freshly clipped, dark finger nail polish chipping. Sometime between now and the last time you’ve seen him, he’s pierced his eyebrow: a black barbell with studs that reminds you a little too much of the one through your nipple (and Simon’s. Was that intentional? Did Johnny pick jewelry to match Simon’s? To match yours? For some reason just the thought makes your nipples tighten). In his hands is one of Simon’s sketchpads, and he’s flipping through it leisurely. 

He glances up toward the sound of your footsteps. 

“If you’re here about the water—“ his words die out on his pierced tongue as he stares at you, gobsmacked by your appearance. 

“Hey,” you say lamely. 

“Where’s Simon?” he asks, eyes flickering toward the protective spot where Simon usually hovers just over your shoulder. “He said he wouldn’t be in today.”  

“He’s not. It’s just me. I thought maybe we could talk.”

Johnny openly grimaces. He shuts Simon’s sketchpad and sets it down (hopefully where he found it). Standing from the chair, he takes a few casual steps away from you, clearly heading towards the curtain that leads to the back of the shop. “Really cannot think of anything we have to talk about.”

You square your shoulders, fighting down that instinctive urge to make yourself smaller, to give in and be manageable. “I think we do.” 

“You should go.” 

“Not until we work this out.” 

“There isn’t any this, alright, just—does Simon even know you’re here?” Something guilty must splash across your face because Johnny gives a mirthless laugh, reaching up to palm at his eyes. “Tha’s great. Just great. Could you be more incriminating?” 

“Incriminating—? Look, Simon told me about the night you pierced him.”

“Oh he did, did he?” Johnny says flippantly. 

“About how you two slept together.” 

Now that stops Johnny in his tracks. It’s clear that he didn’t expect Simon to really tell you about that night all those years ago. He looks at you with a fresh caution, waiting to see how exactly you’ve taken this news—what you plan to do with it. “Aye, then. I guess he did.” 

“I’m not trying to take him away from you.” 

Johnny makes a derisive sound. His words are well-rehearsed, like he has said them to himself a hundred-hundred times: “Cannot take what isn’t mine.” 

“He was your friend first,” you say, aiming for conciliatory and gentle the same way you might approach a feral animal. Johnny stares at you with flat, suspicious eyes. They’re so fucking blue—so different from Simon’s own dark ochre ones. “He told me that you’re one of the most important people in his life.” 

Johnny’s face softens. He says: “You shouldn’t tell me that. He wouldn’t.” 

“He’s not always good with words. Please don’t leave the shop, Johnny. I think it would break Simon’s heart.”

“I didn’t know he had a heart to break,” Johnny mutters. He leans against the wall beside the curtain and sighs, lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ll think about it. Now out. You shouldn’t be breathin’ in this air.” 

Johnny ushers you to the door, hand hovering just above your back, careful not to touch you. Once you’re out on the street, he shuts the door and locks it audibly. Then he leans in and huffs a heated breath beneath the “NO WALK INS” sign. In the fog, he adds: “No GFs!”

You flip him off. 

He flips you off. 

On the way back to your car, you find yourself smiling. You force yourself to scowl. It’s a more appropriate expression. Giving one last glance back toward Skin Deep, you find him still standing there, watching. 

Likely just to make sure you’re really leaving. 

-

Not long after you are moved back into your apartment, you find that Simon stops sleeping. 

You’re ashamed to say that it takes you a while to notice; nothing changes on your end of things. Anytime you are sleeping over, he lays down with you, tugs you up against his chest, and holds you for ages, his body still and breathing even. But one night you wake to a cool, empty bed. And later in the week, it happens again. Until more often than not you realize that any moment when you expect Simon to be sleeping, he isn’t. 

Usually you find him sketching, shadows like charcoal smudged beneath his eyes. He doesn’t meet your gaze and tells you to go back to bed, that he’ll be there soon. Sometimes he even does come to lay back down beside you—but only long enough for you to convince him that you have fallen asleep again. Then he is shifting away from you, disappearing into the other room, shutting the bedroom with the quietest click behind him. 

You know that he’s busy. His schedule has been booked—and with deposits nonrefundable, people more often than not kept their appointments. He’s been working with a client on mock ups for a sleeve, and the various pieces and the way they all come together around the contours of the person’s body are very delicate. Johnny’s threat to find a new job doesn’t help, either. Have they talked and resolved things yet? Simon never says so. 

You can’t imagine the stress that he is under, and you’d do anything to be able to shoulder a fraction of it for him. 

That’s how you end up with drunk Johnny in your car. 

It starts with Simon falling asleep before you—for once. You can tell he is well and truly asleep by the sheer weight of his arm over you, the soft snores that he gives out against the nape of your neck. After so many nights of sleeplessness, his body has finally given in. You’re about to slip off to sleep yourself when the buzzing of a phone startles you back into wakefulness. 

Not your phone—Simon’s phone. And it goes off again. And again. And again. Who the hell could be sending so many messages at midnight?

You know you should leave it alone—if it was urgent, they would likely call—but curiosity gets the better of you. Carefully you slip out from under Simon’s arm. It’s a testament to his sheer exhaustion that he doesn’t wake as you jostle him. In sleep, he looks painfully young and relaxed, and it makes you long to reach out and brush back his hair that has fallen onto his forehead. But not at the risk of waking him. 

Sure that all you are planning to do is shut Simon’s phone off so that he can get some restful sleep, you are surprised to see that Simon has his text notifications visible on the homescreen, so all it takes is a simple tap to open them up. 

Johnny. All Johnny. 

Ghost. 

Ghost

Are you uo? 

Up* fuck my fingers 

I need a ride home

Simon

I’m at that bar on… The text is cut off. To see more, you would have to open his phone. So Johnny is stuck at some bar, drunk more than likely. Well good riddance, you think to yourself, the hurtful way he treated you still very much fresh in your brain. But then you remember your talk at Skin Deep, and your traitorous heart softens. Could you really just put the phone back now and pretend you hadn’t seen the messages?

Simon doesn’t even have a password; that’s how much he trusts you. Would he still trust you after this, if he knew that you had gone through his phone, even if it was for a good cause? 

Making a spur of the moment decision, you could only hope so. Your conscience wouldn’t let you wake Simon, and as much as you disliked him, it couldn’t let you leave Johnny stranded at some bar either. 

You open his phone as quickly as you can, swiping so that it goes straight to Johnny’s texts and nowhere else. The name of the bar is right there, and you scramble for your own phone to type it down in Google Maps. He’s not far. Probably would be within walking distance, if he weren’t drunk. You could be there and back before Simon ever knew you were gone—you hoped. 

As Simon, you send back to Johnny a simple OMW. 

There is no hint of spring in the frigid March air as you slip outside into your car. The parking lot is dim and quiet, and traffic is minimal as you follow the GPS on your phone to Johnny’s location. The pub nightlife spills out onto the pavement and you struggle to find a place to park, grimacing at the knowledge that you will have to get out of the car and go inside to find Johnny, considering you see him nowhere on the street. Leaving the warmth of your car is the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do, especially in just a thin tank-top and a pair of leggings. Gathering your coat more tightly around yourself, you rush out of the car and through the people on the sidewalk and into the warmth of the pub. 

You keep your eyes peeled for Johnny, but can’t spot his silly haircut anywhere. What if he’s gotten a ride home from someone else? What if he’s decided to walk, or found someone to go home with? You shift up onto your toes, looking over everyone in the bar when you spot him in the corner at a table with a few other men. 

Johnny doesn’t even recognize you at first—either a testament to how unexpected your sudden appearance is or how drunk he is based on how difficult it is for his eyes to focus on you. When he realizes who you are, his mouth drops. He points. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks, accent so thick and slurred that you can barely understand him. 

“Picking you up. You said you needed a ride.”

“Aye but not from—oh, Jesus make me still. Yer not wearing a bra, are you?” 

All the men at the table turn to gape. You snatch the sides of your jacket closed where they had loosely fallen open, your face flushing with warmth. The table roars with laughter, but Johnny in his drunkenness doesn’t seem to notice your embarrassment. 

“That was mine!” Johnny shouts, elbowing the man next to him. “Did you see that? That was my work!”

“We get it, bruv,” the guy says with a roll of his eyes. “She’s no ten.” 

“What’d you fuckin’ say?”

The table laughs. 

Johnny grabs a fistful of the guy’s shirt and drags him nearly clean out of his seat. “I said, What’d you fucking say about her?”

The table stops laughing. Johnny cuts an impressive figure even when drunk; he’s easily the largest guy of the group. Your stomach drops and lands somewhere between your shoes. This is not going to plan at all. Reaching out, you try to insert yourself physically between the two of them but can only wrap your fingers around Johnny’s wrist, feeling the strength poised in the tendons. 

“Johnny,” you say, loudly to be heard over the sounds of the pub. “Come on. Let’s go, yeah? Simon…Simon’s out in the car.” 

“Simon?” Johnny let’s go of the guy’s shirt, his bad mood evaporating as quickly as it had manifested. He nudges his way out from behind the table, all politeness. Once free, he stumbles into a woman in a slinky dress who gives him a look that could melt glass. 

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize to her, wrapping an arm around Johnny’s waist and doing your best to keep him steady. “He’s an idiot, and he’s drunk. You look amazing by the way—“

“Control your boyfriend,” she snaps. 

“I will,” you promise, guiding Johnny away from her and into the crowd. 

His nose brushes the shell of your ear, breath fanning across your neck as he says with a laugh in his voice: “I’m not yer boyfriend.” 

You flush. “Thanks for letting me know, Johnny. I had no clue.” 

He says something back, some Scottish phrase, his accent so thick you couldn’t understand the words even if you knew them. 

“English, please,” you mutter. 

“Je-sus,” he groans, dragging the words out into multiple syllables. He takes your chin in his hand and squeezes your cheeks a little. “You’re just like him. ‘English, MacTavish’. Ha!”

You bat his hand away. 

“He’s been rubbing off on you,” Johnny mutters, laughing a little. Beneath his breath (though far more loudly than he likely intends), he adds: “In more ways than one, I imagine.”

Your face goes hot. “Johnny, stop talking.” 

The two of you exit the pub out into the cool night air. It seems to sober Johnny some, as he takes in deep, gulping breaths. He walks a little steadier as the two of you cross the street, and by the time you’ve made it to your car, he has shrugged you off altogether (even if he is still a little unstable on his feet). He stands outside the car for a moment before opening one of the rear doors. 

“What are you doing?”

“Rather sit back here.” 

“I’m not your cabbie.”

“Strange manner of dress if you were,” he says snidely, slipping into the backseat. 

In the driver’s seat, you let yourself have a small breakdown. You grip the wheel tightly, taking a few deep breaths of your own, searching for inner peace. You thought that you and Johnny had a tentative truce after that day at Skin Deep, but clearly he is still holding some grudge. Your search for peace turns up empty. 

“Sorry I lied about Simon being here. I just really needed you to leave the pub,” you explain politely. 

“Knew you were lying,” Johnny says from the darkness of the backseat. He sounds remarkably like Simon: brooding and irritable. “He’s got no idea you’re here, does he? He’d never let you come alone.” 

You frown. “No. He doesn’t. He’s sleeping and I didn’t want to wake him.” 

“Nightmares?” 

“Huh?” 

Johnny leans forward. You glance at him in the rear view mirror. “I said, Has he been having more nightmares?” 

You didn’t know anything about Simon having nightmares. That sour feeling in your belly was back, the one that made you feel like you would never truly know Simon, not the way his friends did. 

“No,” you say, a little defensive. “He’s been working on this sleeve for a client. Staying up way too late to finish it on time.” 

“Aye. Nightmares. Anything else is just an excuse he’s telling himself—and you.” 

Done with the conversation, you turn the key in the ignition and pull out into the street. “What’s your address?” 

“Doesn’t matter.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“Left my keys at the bar.” 

“Goddamnit.” 

You turn towards Simon’s apartment. “Then you’re staying with us—with Simon. You can sleep on his couch and get your keys in the morning; I’m sure he won’t care.” 

“Are you staying there?” 

“Yes.” 

Johnny mutters something under his breath. You consider yourself lucky not to have heard it. For a while, the two of you drive in silence. Then Johnny says: 

“You never came for your second nipple.” 

“It’s only just been six months.” 

“So you’re due for an appointment then, aren’t you?” 

You steel yourself, gripping the wheel tightly at ten-and-two. “Actually, I’m going to someone else.”

Johnny’s seatbelt unclicks. He hovers at your shoulder bringing with him burning warmth and the scent of whisky. When he talks, his breath brushes your neck, fury tangible in every syllable. “Who is it? Who the hell is he taking you to? Darcelina? Astrid? Dusty? Whoever it is, consider the appointment canceled. No one is piercing you but me.”

“You don’t get that privilege,” you grit out between your teeth. “Not anymore, not after the way you’ve treated me!”

“Oh, did I offend you?” he breathes, clutching one hand at his breast. “Not falling down at your feet? Not worshippin’ the ground you walk on?” 

“Fuck you, Soap! I wanted to be friends.” Your voice cracks embarrassingly. Suddenly the road goes blurry. You blink rapidly, forcing yourself to calm down—you’re driving for fuck’s sake. You swallow past the lump in your throat, the silence interrupted by rustling as Johnny leans forward again in the backseat, trying to get a look at your face in the passing streetlights. 

“Fuck,” Johnny groans. “Are you crying?”

“No!”

“You are. Fuckin’—pull over, before you get us killed.” 

Keen embarrassment only has your eyes watering more, until you have no choice but to do as he asks, pulling over to hastily parallel park and throw on your hazard lights. You let your elbows rest against the steering wheel, face in your hands. His words echo in your head, said in that stupid Scottish brogue: not falling down at your feet? Not worshippin’ the ground you walk on? Are those really the things he thought you wanted? Is that the sort of impression you gave to Johnny, to Ghost’s other friends? 

The backseat door opens and Johnny climbs out. A small part of you hopes that he will walk himself home—and good riddance. But he horrifies you by walking all the way around to the driver’s side of the car and tugging on the door handle until you begrudgingly unlock the doors. 

“C’mon,” he says, trying to pull you out of the car with your seatbelt still on. 

“What’re you—?”

“Just—wouldya—so stubborn—“ he drunkenly leans over you and mashes his fingers against the button of your seatbelt until it releases. For that brief moment, he is a warm weight across your lap, bringing with him the scent of cologne and whisky. Then he pulls you out of the car—and into his arms. It’s a tight, full hug, chest-to-chest, not bone crushing per se, but all-encompassing. 

You don’t realize how badly you need it from him until you’re getting it. 

“You’re such a dick,” you groan against his shoulder, sniffling.

“Aye,” he says, swaying a little on his feet, like the two of you are dancing. “But I’m right. We cannot be friends. So you’ve got to let this go, alright? Just breathe out 'n let it go.”

“I don’t understand,” you mutter. “He wants us to be friends.” 

“He doesn’t know what he wants,'' Johnny says, one hand rubbing gently at your shoulder blades. “No more crying. It’s out of your hands. Aye?”

You shake your head, hands gripping his shirt. 

But your tears slow and eventually stop. Cars pass occasionally. One of them honks at the sight of you both entwined on the side of the road, rolls down their window to let their passenger yell something suggestive, and it makes your face go hot. Johnny pulls away, nearly stumbling out into the road to give the car both middle fingers as it peels away. He slips on the damp asphalt and goes down hard on his side, taking the skin off his elbow and palm. 

“Fuck, I’m hammered,” he laughs. 

“Clearly,” you say, struggling to help him up and into the backseat. 

Once in the driver’s seat again, you feel exhausted, emptied, like a washcloth wrung out and left to dry. The drive back to the apartment is silent, and when you’re in the parking lot, neither of you make a move to get out of the car. 

You warn Johnny: “Simon’s asleep, so be quiet inside.” 

Johnny warns you sleepily: “Ghost is right there.”

There’s a tap on the glass of your window. It nearly makes you shriek—but it is only Simon, half-smoked cigarette in his fingers, bundled up outside the car door. You roll down the window sheepishly. 

“Need a little help?” he asks, taking a drag and turning his head so the smoke doesn’t touch you. His eyes are on Johnny in the backseat. 

You hold up your fingers with just a smidge of space between them.