#cos this is frankly getting ridiculous

[bits-and-babs]

✦ 𝐎𝐃𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐍 ✦

simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader (delta) | smut, 18+ | 4.1k

summary: you, soap and gaz make a silly bet at ghost's expense for an invaluable prize.

cw: mw3 spoiler free. 141 ridiculousness, humour, attempts to remove the mask resulting in life threatening (not really) injury, mild exhibitionism if you squint, very talkative ghost, 'interrogation' wink wink, unprotected p in v sex, reference to f receiving oral.

ghost mlist | main mlist | taglist

"Y'know, I'm sure as shit that L.t's got brown hair," Soap pipes up in the middle of the silence that had settled inside the safe house. 

The members of Task Force 141 glance up one by one, querying eyes cast Soap's way as the guesstimated observation hangs in the air. It's louder than chopper blades, thudding against your skull and roaring in your ears as you attempt to recall the information you have on Ghost, what little physical attributes you can attribute to him. Each time, you hit a brick wall. The only image conjured in your minds-eye is the black voids of the mask's eyes and the piercing amber of his irises. 

The wind howls outside, battering the windows with Wyoming snow and creeping in through the cracks in the panes. It makes a yowling sound as it slips through the crevices, carrying your memories of Ghost's appearance with it. He truly was like an apparition, there one moment, then gone altogether. 

Gaz's brows crease in the middle, little crevices in the skin showing his mind working over the sentence. 

"He doesn't," he eventually retorts, eyebrow cocked while shaking his head, "He's blonde." 

"What makes you say that?" Price scoffs at his colleague's certainty, "You ever seen his face?"

The silence that follows makes the Captain chuckle. A wordless 'that's what I thought'. 

"You willin' to bet on that?" Soap pushes Gaz with a lopsided smirk. There it is, that ridiculous playfulness that the Scotsman continuously let slip over coms. Simon had once reprimanded him for how it would get him killed– you were almost certain if he continued down this path in particular, he'd be in a box by daylight.

"I am," Gaz counters thoughtlessly, a smug lilt to his tone as he leans the crown of his head back against the rotting wooden wall, "He's got blonde eyelashes. He's gonna have blonde hair."

"What're ya gettin' so close tae him for?" Soap grins wide, loading the new ammunition and hitting a bullseye on the first shot, "You been snoggin' him or somethin'?"

"Lads," Price warns. It's only one word, but it says a lot; 'he'll have your head.' All of you know Simon 'Ghost' Riley well enough to know it's not a joke. Seen enough of the mangled bodies he left behind to know it wouldn't be clean, either. More like he'd hack your skull from your neck, picking out the dullest blade that'd struggle to slot between vertebrae.  

"Bets on, then," Soap continues, white teeth gleaming in the low light, "First to confirm gets the honour of shootin' Hassan between the eyes." 

It's like throwing a match at a body doused in diesel. 

                           ✰

The parameters of this wager are as follows... First: the competition is between you, Soap and Gaz. Price was ruled automatically exempt the moment he admitted he had, indeed, seen Ghost's face. It was a revelation that caused quite a storm- and a promise from Gaz of £100 if he'd tell.

The Captain, quite frankly, told him where to stick it. 

Second: None of you could just ask Ghost himself. That was boring; no fun in that. 

Thirdly, there are no other rules. Acquire the information by any means necessary to claim victory. Perhaps this rule should have been revised- because to say that 141's tactics for getting Ghost to reveal his face were a little unorthodox is an understatement of the highest order. 

Despite his hulking frame, Ghost is like a cunning fox, cognizant of even the slightest changes in energy and hypervigilant of those approaching. The midnight void of his grease paint that frames his eyesockets contrasts the whites of his eyes as they dart back and forth between you all. He appears to have noted the devious scheming, practically hearing the cogs turning in your heads the moment he returned from his watch. Something is amiss, and you know Ghost knows it. 

He says nothing. 

Day One; the grumpy, black-clad special ops soldier sits back in his seat as he crosses his arms over his vast chest, cautiously observing the minute movements the three of you made. He'd bristled when Gaz stood from the sofa simply to enter another room, poised and ready to pounce at whatever fuckery the younger soldier would attempt. 

"Hey, L.t.," Soap's drawl cuts through the humorously tense atmosphere in the room, and you brace yourself for his master plan. "When was the last time ye got a haircut?"

Ghost hesitates. Waits a beat. The silence stretches almost uncomfortably until he answers, thick, bassy voice almost booming in the box room. "What're you playin' at, Johnny?"

Soap shrugs his shoulders, exuding complete nonchalance as he settles into the seat across the table from the hulking mass of man. "Just wondered if the mask ever came off. How do you cut your hair?"

Amusement ripples through you in the sound of a chuckle, both men glancing your way. Ghost peers at you, suspicion pooling thick in his pupils. 

"Shave it," Ghost rumbles bluntly, with an air of finality that leaves no room for argument or for Soap to encourage him to try something stupid like curtain bangs or, God forbid, a mohawk. 

You can't help but grin from ear to ear as you watch the Scotsman's shoulders slump in defeat, already waving a white flag upon seeing how unwilling Ghost is to play whatever stupid game you're all partaking in. Even you can't deny the anxiety that prickles across your nerve endings when you see the way Ghost's biceps flex beneath the camo fabric of his uniform, primed for action. 

When Ghost's aqua irises slide to you, your shoulders shrug comically, putting on the performance of your life to appear as though you had no idea what Johnny was up to. You see the way Ghost's blacked-out eyelids squint in suspicion. He doesn't believe you, but doesn't say as much. 

Day Three and the polite, roundabout tactics had been discarded in favour of the nuclear option. Gaz had tried ambushing Ghost in the shower, opening the door without knocking as if pretending he didn't know the Lieutenant was in there. The door slammed so quickly into his head that an egg had been steadily growing on his forehead for the past hour and a half, blood seeping from his almost certainly broken nose. 

"You'll stay out next time, Bravo 2-6, if you know what's good for you," Ghost had growled through the crack in the door before shutting it with a click of the lock. 

Holding his face and slinking away, mortally wounded, Gaz uttered a humiliated 'Yes, lieutenant'. 

Soap, clearly not having learnt from poor Gaz, decided that the next best option was a trip, so to speak. Executing a ludicrously overexaggerated stumble, Johnny reached out to grab Ghost's mask to 'steady himself' and ultimately drag it from his superior's head. 

Ghost had leapt from his seat with a roar, threatening to send Sergeant MacTavish back to Scotland in a box with the Saltire draped across the lid. The standoff only settled upon Captain Price's barked orders to stand down or hang up the uniform. 

By Day Six, Ghost had bruised your opponent's egos enough that neither Soap nor Gaz dared attempt to peek beneath the mask again. They look at you like you're absolutely bonkers when you finally announce it's your turn to try and tame the beast. 

"Yer fuckin' mad, hen," Johnny grumbled, watching you observe Ghost from across the room. He'd settled on a chair in the corner of the room, ensuring no one could sneak up on him. "You can't seriously be plannin' on-"

"I want Hassan," you shrug, a smile playing on your lips. Though, at this rate, you couldn't care less about the terrorist and the honour of dispatching him. No, Ghost had made this ridiculous game far more competitive than needed, and you planned to win.

"Have fun," Gaz scoffed bitterly, still icing the blotchy green and purple bruise that had welted on his forehead as a medal of dis-honour. You hadn't exactly helped the healing process, poking it harshly with the pad of your thumb as you laughed at his mortifying misfortune. 

You wait patiently for Ghost to move, like a stake out on a mission. Lying in plain sight in a ghillie suit, a sniper rifle pointed right between his eyes and your finger on a hairpin trigger. You wait for him to break, for exhaustion to creep in. Thankfully, you don't have to wait long. The Lieutenant rises from his chair, announcing to 141 that he's headed to bed. 

A quiet mumble of 'goodnight' from each member grants him leave, and Ghost walks out of the room without further word. You waste no time in hurrying to your feet. 

"Are you gonna...-" Soap winces when you stand, trailing off when you start after Ghost, not allowing either of your colleagues to talk you out of this suicide mission. 

Though, the moment you turn the corner, you wish you had. Ghost's broad frame practically fills the narrow hallway like someone had plucked Everest from Nepal and shoved its hulking mass into a matchbox. He's ginormous, his usually silent footsteps causing the aged, rotting wood beneath the soles of his boots to creak with the weight he applies when he turns to face you. 

The dark hallway obscures Ghost's skull-face mask, but a glittering reflection of the golden light bleeding from the bulb in the living room area flickers across the wet surface of his eyes as he observes you. You can't allow the weighty pressure of his stare to phase you if you're to push ahead with your plan- so you step forward, swallowing down the nerves that Ghost's attention inevitably dredges up. 

"Lieutenant, sir," you address him smoothly, voice low as you gaze up at him through your lashes. Ghost's eyebrow arches in response, noting your somewhat suggestive behaviour. "Permission to spea-"

"I'm hopin' you'll tell me what you're all up to," his eyes spear your nerve as he interrupts you, "They're not lettin' up, but I'll get it outta you one way or another." 

"What... Did you have in mind?" You chance, heart slamming up against your chest when you realise just how obvious you're being. It's dangerous- you hadn't planned to be so forward. The idea that he'd be able to read your flirting so soon set off mortars in your veins. 

There's a pause. It dizzies you, throwing your previously sturdy confidence off kilter when Ghost tilts his masked head slightly. He's turning it over in his mind, considering the past few days' events. Then, he turns everything on its side. 

"I know what you're doing," he speaks suddenly, the rich baritone of his voice ricocheting off the walls and ringing in your ears like he's just discharged a round of ammo with each syllable. You jerk upright, standing to attention. 

"I don't know what you m-"

"You want the mask off," he interrupts you again, cutting your pathetic excuse short as he steps forward. It's ridiculous, the sheer size of him as he looms over you. "You lot made a bet."

Another beat. Ghost waits for a response, an admission of guilt. It feels like he's cornered you; every answer that springs to mind is incriminating. You know he can see your rueful expression, wide-eyed and panicked by the ease with which he puts you on the ropes. 

"Was this your plan?" He murmurs, reaching to grasp your chin. His palm settles on the hollow of your jaw, fingers fanning out across the bone. "Get me into bed and see if I'll take it off?"

Trembling in his hold, you whimper as Ghost's thumb stretches across to trace the curve of your lip. It follows the delicate arc, lining the shape of your mouth and trailing the dip of your cupid's bow. 

"'M sorry," you mumble weakly, cheeks hot beneath his touch. Again, you fold beneath the intensity of those honeyed irises. It's a miracle your knees don't buckle when he pushes the pad of his thumb just past your lips, so that it brushes the edges of your teeth. 

"That was your plan. Y'can still give it a try, love. But..." he hums, his voice throaty and quiet and settling in the pit of your stomach. It's embarrassing, the ease with which he figures you out, but his words drip over you, easy and warm, and all you can focus on is the slip of his thumb as he presses the pad against the flat of your tongue. 

"The mask stays on." 

Ghost’s insistence makes you giggle sheepishly and your stomach flip in dread, like a child caught with its hand down a bear trap. Despite the lewdness of him pushing his thumb past your lips, you know that he’s being serious, deathly so. You nod clumsily in recognition of his executive order, and Ghost gently taps the skin of your cheek with his free hand, the soft slap of his palm against your flesh standing your hair on end.

“Go.”

The word hangs in the air for a moment, weighing heavily in the claustrophobic space of the small hallway. It takes a moment for your mind, rendered utterly useless by Ghost’s imposing presence, to understand exactly what he’s implying. Only when he removes his thumb from your mouth to shove you forward towards a bedroom door does his intention become clear.

Oh. Oh!

Scrambling to force your feet forward, they practically float across the threshold of the bedroom door. You can feel Ghost looming just behind you, can practically feel the heat radiating from his chest warming the expanse of your back. Fingers clasp over your shoulder, practically swallow the curved flesh, and shove you back against the bedroom wall.

The force of impact winds you, the air expelled from your lungs swallowed down by Ghost’s lips bearing heavily down upon your own. He’d ripped the mask upwards, the hem of the ski-mask balanced across the bridge of his nose. Simon’s tongue licks into your mouth– intrudes upon the space like he’s kicking down a door, like he’s swallowing the breath he’d expelled from you with his heavy hand. 

Once the dazed dizziness dissipates, you moan in relief at finally getting what you wanted. Ghost’s gigantic paw takes hold of your jaw in a firm grip to fit his mouth perfectly against your own, his swirling fingerprints indenting in the soft flesh there in a mottled bruise. The soft pine he coaxes from you bleeds past your open mouth despite your attempt to suppress the frankly pathetic noise. 

Fuck it, this was worth it– all of it was worth it. The fear of getting it wrong, the anxiety of being caught, the panic that Simon could turn you away… All of it seeps into the darkness in the corners of the room when your superior drags his tongue across your lower lip. It’s though he’s relishing in the taste of the aftershocks of the arousal he sparks between your legs, the dopamine that rushes through you.

“Was this your plan?” Ghost grunts, grasping ahold of the scruff of your neck. Gasping weakly, you’re almost certain your eyes roll back in your head when he uses his harsh grip to steer you towards the bed. “Get me out of my fuckin’ mind so I don’t notice you takin’ off the mask?”

“That’s–” you huff, rendered breathless by Ghost’s intruding tongue, “That’s not it–”

Your pitiful attempt to excuse yourself is made useless when Ghost practically launches you onto the mattress of his bed, the rusted metal frame screaming under the sudden weight of your body. 

“No?” he queries, the usual boom of authority in his voice replaced by something that sounds far more like goading amusement as he places the hefty weight of his palm against your sternum, holding you down and thwarting any attempt to escape. 

He needn’t worry. The last thing you wanted was to leave. 

“Tell you what,” he muses in that smug tone you always hear over the comms, his free hand quick to grasp at the leather of his belt. The buckle clinks in the quiet as he works his fingers over it, “We’ll run through this mission, yeh? See if you can complete your objective, Delta?”

Your retort, or lack thereof, dies in your throat when Ghost pushes his crotch into your own. If it weren’t for the yelp of bliss that the Lieutenant had to smother with his palm, you’d hear the way he’d practically purred when he dragged his cock against you. 

“C’mon then. Try it,” he urged. 

It’s pointless, his mock-support. You just desperately reach for the waistband of his khaki uniform trousers, cockdrunk from the tease of its shape against you. Even in the low light, you can see Ghost’s scarred lips, the way they stretch into a smirk at your desperation. 

“Abandoning mission, Sergeant?” He asks you, unzipping his trousers. “Price’ll be disappointed to know this is all it takes for Delta to go AWOL.”

“Shut up,” you moan into the cold air of the cabin. You can see your breath. “Shut up and fuck me.”

When Simon removed himself from his trousers, making some glib comment about you being demanding, you marvel at the size of him. Girthy, swollen, the ruddy tip leaks precum down the arch of his cock and traces the pulsing veins. He’s rock hard and throbbing, framed by a thatch of pubic hair. 

Fumbling with your own trousers, you awkwardly try to remove them given Simon’s weighty palm still pins you down by your sternum. He watches, a glint in his eye in the low light that would almost embarrass you if you weren’t so focused on the task at hand. 

“What was the prize?” 

“H-Huh?” you stall, mind fried by Ghost’s unexpected line of enquiry. He picks up where you left off, violently yanking your trousers down your thighs and pushing your panties aside to expose your glistening cunt to his prying eyes. 

“What. Was. The. Prize?”

You hesitate for a moment, feeling Ghost’s fingers press against the inside of your thighs as he probes this unexplored territory of you. His touch skirts the areas you want him most, teasing and goading you for more information. “H-Hassa-ahh!”

You barely manage the first syllable of your answer before Simon rests the arch of his cock against your slick pussy lips. His body jerks slightly at the heat of your swollen cunt, the ease with which he can slide himself through your drenched sex. 

“You got to kill Hassan?” he asked for confirmation, his voice unwavering. You wonder how he manages to stay so steady– you’re coming apart at the seams, trembling as the head of his cock bumps your clit clumsily. 

“Yes,” you breathe, eyes rolling back as he continues his laboured, steady torture. His free hand settles on your hip, arching your pelvis up slightly to meet his own. You grind your hips upward against his cock, and Simon expels a soft scoff from lungs, those piercing eyes settled on your contorting expression. 

“Mhmm,” he hums, rolling his hips again. This time it’s even slower, teasing. “A temptin’ reward–” 

Simon is interrupted by the moan that splits your lips when he drags the length of his cock heavily against your clit. It sparks arousal deep in your abdomen, clings to the inside of your thighs wetly. 

Perhaps the disturbance is one transgression too many tonight, because Simon grasps your hips so hard that you are forced to stop gliding over the length of his cock. You pine in protest, but you choke on the pitiful sound when Ghost suddenly plunges his cock inside of you. It spears you open, breaks you apart, and you find your back arching desperately against the mattress. 

The palm that had rooted itself to your sternum flies up to clasp against your mouth, smothering the shriek of bliss that threatened to expose your extracurricular activities to the rest of your squad. You sob through your teeth beneath his life line, tears welling in your eyes as you feel him stretch your walls open to make room for his intrusion. 

You can’t help yourself. You need something to grasp onto, and opt for his wrist above your face. Digging your nails into the inked flesh there, you watch as the pain sparks something dark and twisted in Simon’s pupils, his azure irises swallowed by the expanding blackness.

He likes it. You can tell. His cock arches up inside of you, pushing deep and rocking against something earth shattering inside of you. Damp with sweat already, the skin of his wrist ripples as he tightens his grip on your face, refusing to withdraw from your pussy walls and instead opting for sharp, shallow thrusts that push you up the mattress with each connection of your hips. 

“Fuck,” he spits, using his tight grasp to pull you back towards him. It’s obliterating you, ripping you apart and pushing all your pieces back together in a mangled, jumbled mess. You whimper as you suffer through his brutal pace, marvelling at how good it feels when he consistently spears your g-spot. 

“When would you have done it?” Simon asks you, a little breathless now as he chases the high that begins to build at the edges of your body, tingling and pulsing. 

“Shut up–” you beg him, the low rasp of his voice launching you towards that pleasure that threatens to consume you. Jerking your hips up to meet his, your body mindlessly reacts to the sound of his timbre. 

“Oh, no,” he chuckles, shaking his half masked face. There’s a silver laden scar that stretches across the base of his chin. It matches the one that splits his upper lip to the base of his nose, the ski mask hovering tantalisingly over the bridge. “When?” 

The seriousness of his tone makes your thighs quiver when paired with the sharp thrust he punctuates his question with. Years of training in maintaining a cover-story while a hostage are blown to bits as though Ghost has launched a mortar at your resolve, because suddenly all your state secrets are spilling out of you quicker than you can shove the incriminating words back into your traitor mouth. 

“I’d– Hagh… I’d do it j-just as you’re cummin–hhah!”

“And spoil my fun?” Ghost hums, that heavy timbre licking up your spine and sparking viscous embers at the base of your spine, “Anyone ever told you that you’re very fuckin’ selfish, Delta?” 

You’d offer a witty comment, but Ghost’s angled his hips just right, and your jaw is falling loose to let out a panicked whimper. 

“There it is, shit. Look at you, Sargeant. Fuckin’, you’re so tight–” 

You’re like a slip knot, tightening around him further with each knock of your g-spot with Simon’s ridiculously large cock-head. Prickling tears of bliss threaten to spill over the edge of your waterline, continuing to sting even when you shut your eyes. You’re shaking, trembling beneath his rocking hips as you mewl his name. 

“S-Simon! Fuck–”

Wild, wet squelches of Simon sinking into your soaked cunt echo in your skull as he ramps up his violent thrusts, the springs of his mattress screaming an unmistakable rhythm to anyone walking by. He doesn’t seem to care now though, his eyes zeroed in on your expression like he’s stalking a victim with his sniper scope. Aiming for complete obliteration. 

“C’mon Can feel you squeezin’ round me,” he murmurs, the steady tone he’d offered earlier shuddering slightly as you squeeze impossibly tight around him, coil threatening to snap, “You’re so close, Delta. C’mon, paint my cock an’ I’ll eat you out with my cum in you–” 

                           ✰

“He’s blonde.” 

Gawping jaws drop to the floor at your very simple observation, Soap’s eyes nearly rolling across the uneven, rotten floorboards after falling out of his skull. You can’t help the smug smile that threatens to tug at the edge of your lips, especially given the sensation of Ghost’s eyes boring holes into the back of your skull. 

The awe only worsens when Price gives a subtle nod of confirmation from the corner of the darkened room, crowning you the winner of this utterly ridiculous joust. 

“How do you know?” Gary is as shaken as Soap by the confidence with which you’d offered your final answer, in disbelief as to how you could have possibly obtained it without being maimed, given the egg on his forehead was still throbbing despite days of icing it with the snow from outside the safehouse.

“His pubes are. I assume the curtains match the drapes,” you shrug dismissively. 

The sheer incredulity that flashes across Johnny’s face is utterly hilarious. The smirk that had been threatening to break finally cracks across your lips at the confirmation of your victory. Ghost’s eyes appear to have lazered through your skull, singing brain matter with the ferocity of his scowl. Frankly, you couldn’t care less– you can see it in your mind's eye; the gorgeous contrast of a blood-red crosshair settling across Hassan’s forehead, the weight of the trigger beneath your finger as you pull it back.

cod mwii/kinktober taglist:

@mockerycrow @bubuslutty @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art @levi-llama @thebiscuitsheep @maelstrom007 @alexxavicry @bug-sy-boy @glennrheesworld @kittenfrostt @luvfromkat @blingblong55 @whore4dilfs @wolfyland07 @doggydale @dog55teeth @cabreezer0117 @cathnoneofyourbusiness @marygraceee @thatchickwiththecamera @legend-o-zelda @whore-for-anime @i-love-ghost @cyberpr1m3 @mockerycrow @bubuslutty @lundenloves @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art @babychoi03 @infectedkura @allekat1988 @whore-for-anime @soupbinsoup @passi0np1t @mockerycrow @cyberpr1m3 @i-love-ghost @allekat1988 @infectedkura @babychoi03 @freakquenci @maviee @yunggoblin @sleepystaarr @watyousayin @soupbinsoup @passi0np1t @damn-dean-blog @pheonyxmoon @magicalreviewphantom @limegreenbabx @johfaam0 @iaur @justsayk

@mortallyuniquepeach @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @crybaby-blue-blog @heart-atttack @pansa-1-san @maviee @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @s-u-t @ghostslynx @solidly-indulgent @glitterypirateduck @gummyfang @bii-aan-ckaa @konigsblog @crissteetee @crissteetee67 @sylvanasthebansheequeen @akaym2 @exploremyworldsm @thriving-n-jiving @su57 @cabreezer0117 @cathnoneofyourbusiness @marygraceee @thatchickwiththecamera @legend-o-zelda @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction @tusk89 @bellasbees01 @dog55teeth

[narcsmelly]

fascinated by devon because she's like the only character with any goddamn sense but also why the hell did she marry that man?

i would love to talk about this..... bcos honestly idk i just.. feel like i get them, mostly cos the show is asking me to believe it and i enjoy stories most when i go along with what theyre telling me until theyre done telling me about it.

but for real here's my take on devon & rickens relationship: when ricken and devon met, ricken was a lil rich boy who loved to write (poorly) and was always a little too privileged and weird, but ultimately very personable/funny and like... puppy dog level head over heels for devon. first love type shit on his end. i think they were probably young and it was probably an honest friendship that grew into a relationship at devons pace, and while ricken was (and still is) ridiculous and a little lost, that doesnt stop devon from loving him. then gemma and she and mark and ricken became close knit, a real ass family spending a lot of time together and devon & rickens relationship became better because of it. and then gemma died c: and devon had to get really fucking serious about caring for mark AND ricken.. and thats the devon we see today, grieving and carrying it all.

AND ricken is grieving... we see him cope with any negative feelings (insecurity etc) with false bravado and overthinking. And ricken who is both grieving and dealing poorly with the grieving people around him is in an ego-driven rabbit hole exacerbated by the random boderline-sycophants who bring out the worst in him.. but the ego rabbit hole friend group makes him feel wanted/loved/important so he's coping poorly and spiraling by playing into it without regard to how it affects devon and what it really 'means' about who he is/what he's achieving (he's not very introspective or self aware even tho he thinks himself to be!!) idk i just think that while ricken is like.. maybe the worst version of himself he's ever been at this point in their lives, he also wasn't ever some incredible amazing superhero person to begin with... he's kinda just a dope. and devon loves him. and he's wealthy lmao. and i just feel like even though they aren't some storybook fairy tale mark & gemma type romance, devons an extremely pragmatic person and wouldnt be with someone she didn't Want to be with. I don't think she'd take as much crap from mark as she does if she wasn't sure about ricken. but idk im prepared to eat my hat cos frankly i think they should open their marriage and devon should date women but thats just me

ANYWAY: Jen tullock talked about a lot of these things on the severance podcast ep she was on, and also a lot of my opinions were informed/solidified by He Ain't Heavy He's My Brother by cassiandor on ao3 and i think everyone who loves devon should read it.

[paperyowl]

This is a weird ask. Feel free to ignore it.

But post breakup Buck staring at Rockon thinking Tommy has a date with this hot silver daddy (he ain't blind) and confronted them cos he's jealous to find out he was wrong. They bought him home for either a threesome (cos David never had one) or maybe just cuddles cos looks at the sad puppy and doting on Buck.

(what buck doesn't know is that Donovan is Tommy's cousin with a hilarious sense of humor who texted him the very next day to collect his man cos he ain't sharing his daddy with his cousin's ex no matter how pretty he is)

It's not weird at all. I love the idea! And I have two vastly different thoughts for this - lets go with this one for now. (I might have changed it a little bit - but I definitely need that threesome happening sometime still.)

+++

Pick up, idiot.

Calling me names doesn't make me want to talk to you more.

Tommy dropped his phone somewhere on the couch, not really bothering to check where it fell. He was not in the mood for his cousin's antics. His week had been so busy that Tommy was aching in more places than he knew he could. Maybe was is getting too old for this job.

Or perhaps he'd been slacking. Not eating well, not sleeping enough. These days, Tommy is usually good at taking care of himself. A hard-learnt habit, but he'd put in the work.

Not that it mattered now when his mind kept circling back to the rather sweet sentiment of someone saying, 'You don't have to do everything by yourself' and 'I'll take care of you'.

It was a certain someone with those impossibly warm baby blues that Tommy was trying very hard not to think about. (And failing miserably.) He deserved this. After all, he'd been the one to implode what they had.

His phone kept buzzing. After the third or fourth time - which frankly was ridiculous Don, what the fuck, get a life - Tommy hunted it down in the cushions and unlocked it.

Only to almost drop it when he saw the last message was a photo of -

"Hi, cuz," Donovan drawled, sounding deeply satisfied with himself. But Tommy wasn't focused on that at all.

"How do you have a photo of Evan? Is he there with you? Why is he with you?"

"Okay, first of all, ouch, I think I'm insulted-"

"Donovan."

Tommy heard his own voice rise and wondered since his fuse had become this short. Then he remembered that Donovan had always had this way of riling him up. That's why they hadn't talked in months. They'd been fighting about something; Tommy couldn't really remember what it had been about.

"Figured that pic would get you to call me," Donovan said. "No 'Hello, my favourite cousin, how are you doing?' It's nice to hear you, too, you know."

"Don't be mean, Rocker," another voice said in the background, one that Tommy didn't know. Or actually, he might - he'd heard it once before, and now he could remember what the fight had been about. But his focus was somewhere else completely.

"Hi. How are you. It's been too long. I miss you - is Evan okay?"

Donovan laughed at the way only one of those sentences ended in a note high enough to count as a question. Tommy hissed his name again, and finally got a 'yeah, yeah, alright.' before the phone was handed off to -

"Hi," Evan said softly. He sounded like he'd been crying. His sniffeling was hard on Tommy. "Your cousin and his partner are nice."

Tommy couldn't help but scoff. "Maybe they're doppelgängers."

There is a momentary pause, and Tommy is almost certain that the rustling he hears is a bit of a grapple for the phone. But it's still Evan on the other end when the noise dies down.

"I wouldn't know about that," Evan said. "You never mentioned them."

Fuck.

"Evan-"

"So we're back to Evan?"

"Bu-"

"Don't," Evan pleaded. "Just. Don't."

"Want me to go and rough him up a little? I still remember where he lives."

Donovan's offer sounded weak, and Tommy could imagine the way he had probably put a hand on Evan's shoulder. Or his back.

Evan didn't exactly laugh, but it was similar enough. The sound still unravelled something in Tommy's chest.

"Can we talk in person?"

"I'd like that," Evan breathed. "Just maybe not tonight?"

"Of course. Do you want me to text-"

"I'll take over from here," Donovan said, and Tommy vaguely heard the muffled noise of the receiver being covered. He checked his watch, aware that whatever conversation happened on their end took less than a minute, but to Tommy, it felt like ages more.

"You free tomorrow? Wanna come over for lunch?" Donovan asked without any lead-up, startling Tommy a little. "I somehow think you have a bit more of a reason to say 'yes' this time."

Tommy huffed a laugh.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm free," he said. "Is he alright?"

"Are you going to stop being an idiot?"

"Don."

Donovan sighed. "Listen, I know it's not really my place, but I know you, and I can make an educated guess what happened here."

"I don't like you," Tommy groused.

And like the total bastard that he was, Donovan only laughed and responded, "But you love him."

Like that was a normal thing to say. Tommy spluttered.

"Just be here tomorrow at noon, I'll cook" Donovan completely ignored Tommy's rather childish comment, 'You can cook?' and just went on. "And I'll introduce you to Deacon."

"The ominous partner that you wouldn't tell me more about when I asked?"

That was a rather shortened version of the outright shouting match of a phone call that they'd had all those weeks ago. There had been a lot of implications about very different, and Donovan wouldn't even tell him the name of the man who had him all secretive.

It was easy to read between the lines, and perhaps Tommy had been protective in exactly the wrong way. But he'd never been able to help that when it came to Donovan. The only family member that Tommy cared about.

"He just filed for divorce," Donovan told him. Tommy hissed in sympathy, starting to apologize for the whole fight, but Donovan went on: "And you wouldn't believe the things he can do with his tong-"

"Shut up."

Donovan kept laughing at him, and Tommy felt too exhausted to do something about it. And perhaps a little relieved.  

"Noon, you said?"

He might have only imagined it, but Donovan softened a little after that. But he proved he was still an absolute asshole when he yelled out, 'Hey Evan, say goodnight to your daddy,' and like the absolute cheeky brat he was, Evan did just that. (Tommy almost choked on his own spit, but after hanging up, he felt like he could breathe properly for the first time in months.)

[luveline]

Hello! Can I request cornflower blue with Aaron, where he's just really into chubby!reader and she's so sweet to him and acts kind of similar to bombshell!reader, but is surprised and ecstatic when she finally notices that he's been flirting back?

tysm♡

You walk into Hotch's office feeling pretty and ridiculous. You know you look cute today, hair done pristine, skin dewy, your outfit one that accentuates the slopes of you (and this is all without mentioning the frankly gorgeous pair of shoes you're wearing). 

"Hello," you say. Something about Hotch makes you feel prettier. You couldn't put your finger on it, maybe it's the way he doesn't seem bemused at your flirting ('cos, oh, there's the flirty fat girl, how funny! like being sweet on people is weird when you do it). "How are you today, handsome?" 

"I'm good," he says, with a real, authentic, sticker of approval smile. "How are you?" 

"Better now I'm seeing you," you say, neatening the edges of your papers on his desk before offering them to a big hand. 

"I could say the same thing," he murmurs, looking down at the papers you've passed him with that boss look about him. He has to check your paperwork before it's submitted, of course, and this batch is a little late, so that's probably why he's happy to see you.

"Charmer. Do you need my help with anything while I'm here? I'm free." 

"You, free?" he says, still looking at the papers, one held above the pile, grabbing for a pen blindly. "In what world?" 

"This one, if you can believe it! Hotch, you understand me like nobody else does." You put on a saccharine, movie star tone, silky and smooth as you sit in the slippery leather chair in front of his desk. Elbows on the desk, you place your chin in your hand and watch him correct things you've written with a dreamy expression that isn't even really fake.

You quite like turning Hotch's innocuous comments into flirtation, if only to see his smile, but today the smile seems different. Almost like he knows something you don't know. You press your pinky finger over your lips and try to work it out. 

… Is Hotch flirting back? There's nothing to do but test it. 

"How do you make paperwork look good?" you ask. And it's important to note that you mean what you say, even if your compliments are said in a teasing, sunny manner. "Is there anything you can't do?" 

"Careful," he says, turning a page. Well, maybe he isn't flirting– "You might get something you aren't looking for." 

Your heart is a bat out of hell, leaping from your chest. "I'm always looking for something as long as you're the one giving it, Hotch... I've been thinking I'd quite like a new moniker, if you're up to it." 

He places the paperwork down into a tidy tray and leans back just a touch in his chair (what the fuck). "What would you have me call you?" he asks quietly. 

"Any Sweetheart will do." Is this real? Is he really giving it back to you? "Puppy love, angel, valentine. You could take your pick."

"Why don't you choose one for me?" 

You stand up from your chair and shake your head at him, fizzy energy with nowhere to go. "Handsome, you're in a mood. I'm going to do a lap, okay? Before I combust. Think you can get this," —you gesture to his chest in a big circle— "under wraps, or shall I start picking out colours for our engagement party invitations?" you ask. 

Hotch laughs and opens one of his desk drawers. You consider the joking over, and while you're disappointed, you're not surprised. That is, until he says, "I like eggshell white over cream, but I'm sure you'll make the right decision, angel." 

[laswells-ashtray]

KATE LASWELL AND CO BOARDGAME NIGHT. POSSIBLY DRINKING. MAYBE MARIJUANNA.

I'm saying Kate, her wife, John and Nik because Kate and John would never let the lads see them high.

Sarah insists that they play Game of Life because no one is getting through Monopoly if her stash is involved. They don't go your typical route and share a joint. No, Sarah likes baking so they have brownies.

It starts off fine, they're still a bit stiff around the shoulders. A little too professional for a board game. Nikolai and Sarah use their critical thinking skills and bring out a selection of various snacks before ordering pizza.

And then Kate starts smiling when she's reading out a card, she's flashing her pearly white teeth and Nikolai is half sure she doesn't know she's doing it. "Your pet goat wins a ribbon. Collect 120K from the bank."

It's a ridiculously unfunny card but the way John snickers makes Nikolai laugh and in the back of his mind Nikolai quickly realises that the brownies are kicking in. Sarah is still content and happy, no change in her.

"Pet goat?" John asks with far too much glee for something so simple.

"What kind of lesbian doesn't have a pet goat?" Sarah remarks, feigning offence.

Nikolai rolls his eyes and points to the board on the table. "She isn't a lesbian, she started off as a blue figure."

John had immediately claimed the blue car, Nik had taken the pink while no one was looking and it'd left the women to fight over who got the green car. Kate had won and coincidentally, Nikolai had pretended not to see how Sarah had offered her chest a feel.

"Lesbians can be blue, John. You English bigot." Kate retorts, barely biting back a laugh. The relaxed, almost giggly aura looks good on her. Nikolai has seen her during the hardest days of her career and he thinks she deserves as much happiness as she's feeling now. John might be his partner but Kate is one of his closest friends and he'd be lying if he said it didn't warm his heart to see the both of them so happy. Even if they're high as shit.

John only lets out a loud bark of laughter in response, sinking back into the couch cushions.

He watches as Sarah leans over and snatches a pack of Chips Ahoy from the table, tearing it open carelessly and shoving one in her mouth with a quite frankly pornographic moan that is hysterically funny to him. He briefly considers stealing one but John is slumped against his side and there's no way in Hell he can escape out from under him.

Kate looks back to her wife and then at the arrangement of snacks on the table before looking back to Sarah. "Hand me the Doritos."

Sarah does not have the grace to swallow the cookie before answering and it makes Nikolai chuckle. "Get them yourself."

"Give me the Doritos or I'll pinch you."

Sarah grabs the bag with a dramatic look of irritation. "Only because you'd pinch my tit."

Nikolai thinks John is half asleep with how quiet the other man is until someone knocks on the Laswell's front door, the undeniable joy on John's face is something he wishes he could photograph if he could remember where he sat his fucking phone.

The other man drags himself off of the couch and towards the front door with a pep in his step that Nikolai swears he's never seen before.

"Even walks like a gayboy." He hears Sarah mutter between cookies.

Kate breaks into a fit of giggles in response, pointing at John with a Dorito in hand as she tries to form words that just can't quite break through her laughter.

Nikolai would laugh if he wasn't too busy trying to kick off his boots without having to reach down and untie them.

The pizza boxes hit the table with a loud thud and before any of the three have a chance to react, John has already pinched the top one. "Dig in, arseholes."

[justporo]

Astarion owns property in my head at this point. Can I request for Astarion and Tav where they finally settle down after everything with the Absolute is over and has finally calmed down, and Tav immediately gets extremely sick. Nothing deadly, but still severe. After all the stress from the tadpoles and fighting for their lives, Tav's body kinda just gives out. I'd imagine Astarion would be at a complete loss at taking care of someone, let alone someone that sick lol probably gets scared they're dying too

Oh, Anon, I feel you. It's not that he lives in my head rentfree, no! He owns the building and makes ME pay the rent by now...

This request resonates a lot with me, today, because I'm frankly barely holding on atm, my stomach's acting up and I can't wait for the finishline for this week... so I too could actually use some Astarion taking care of me - although if that might help? Let's see! (Spoilers ahead)

This is pure ridiculous fluff btw. And thank you for the sweet request!

Pairing: Astarion / GN!Tav (You) Wordcount: 1,5k

Strawberry Sugar High

You hadn't left the bed for the better part of a week and you felt you had contracted most every kind of ailment that one could suffer from under this sun. You felt shaky and dizzy. Your limbs hurt and felt weak. Your stomach was in a weird limbo of feeling strange and barely allowing you to keep anything down. Radiating heatwaves making your whole body sweat came and switched places with icy chills so even the coziest of blankets couldn't stop you from shivering. You were down bad - and Astarion almost scaled the walls not knowing what to do with you or how to take care of you.

"My sweet, I brought you...", Astarion started to announce cheerfully as he opened the door to your bedroom with a bowl and a steaming mug in his hands. Then he saw how you had hogged every possible piece of fabric in your giant joint bed and had wrapped yourself in it. At the sight of it, Astarion's shoulders slumped visibly and with it his procured goods - which almost caused scorching hot tea to splash on the floor.

“…some fruit and tea”, he finished audibly distraught and walked over to sit somewhat next to where you had rolled up into a mess of sheets and blankets and were silently shivering. He carefully placed down mug and bowl on the nightstand before he turned to the pile that you had become.

“I really thought you were getting better, my love!” The sad and suffering puppy eyes he made at you almost made you think he was the one to be worried about.

“Y-you say t-that every-ytime you le-leave the room and co-ome back, A-Astarion”, you replied through shattering teeth which sadly took the edge off of your snide remark.

“I know, love. Because every time I hope you might would have started to feel better. But you’ve been like this for almost a week and yet no improvement in sight. You have me worried sick!”, he dramatically explained.

The shivers temporarily left your body to allow you to give Astarion a death stare – the audacity of this man. “I am so terribly sorry that I dare put you through th-this. Now please h-hand me the t-tea!”, you sarcastically replied and worked your hands out of the mountain of blankets to stretch them out towards the nightstand where the vampire had placed the mug.

Astarion handed you the mug. “Careful, it’s scorching ho…”, he said while you grabbed it from him and placed your palms around the hot ceramic and sighed at the bliss of warmth.

Astarion stared at you as if you had turned into an ox.

You took in the smell of the fresh brew and sighed again – pine needles, mint, chamomile, and a hint of lavender. You took a sip slowly because it was actually really hot and closed your eyes for a second. The hot drink temporarily made you feel better.

“You really got the right mixture down now, Astarion, thank you!”, you said as you opened your eyes again and smiled broadly at the vampire who had swung his legs onto the bed and crossed them by the ankles – bare feet sticking out of the pant legs – to sit beside you. At your compliment his face lit up, his eyes filling with sincere joy.

“Well, I’m happy to hear I am proficient at taking care of you, my sweet sick darling”, he said and raised one of his eyebrows in arrogant manner. “Well, let’s not forget the time when you didn’t strain the pine needles or when you tried to make mushroom soup and created bile”, you replied to his cocky demeanour and then took another sip of tea. The shivers were really calming down now.

Astarion’s mouth became a straight line. “Well, I am sorry, but it’s been over two hundred years since I last had to know my way around a kitchen – you’d be surprised how easily forgotten mundane things are”, he pouted but stretched out his arm to rub circles on your back – or what he thought must be your back under the thick padding of fabric.

You were fairly certain, Astarion had never really known his way around a kitchen, but you really didn’t want to rub it in since he was actually trying so hard to take care of you. And he had really been worried sick about you since it seemed he had also forgotten how much impact even a rather harmless sickness could have on a mortal body.

“Feeling better now?”, Astarion asked while he kept rubbing your back. This time there wasn’t a hint of sarcasm or arrogance in his tone, just a sincere, caring question.

“I am. Thank you, my heart”, you answered and turned a bit to him to give him another smile. “I guess after everything that happened my body was just in dire need of a break – and now forced me to take it. I guess in a few days I’ll be merrily dallying around again”, you spoke as you looked at Astarion but then spied past him to where you had seen something of interest in the bowl he had brought.

“I’m happy to hear that, my sweet, because I don’t know…”, the vampire replied with a smile then furrowed his brows as he saw your focus shift past him and you leaned to look behind him. He made to lean with you. “My beautiful eyes are up here, my love”, he murmured playfully.

But you craned your neck now to see what it was he had brought you – broad shoulders and handsome face be damned. “Gods, are those strawberries?” “Indeed, sweetheart.”

Your mouth opened and you stared at Astarion in anticipation: “Where did you get them? Those are not in season for a few more months! I love strawberries, they’re my favourite fruit, no, food!” Your eyes gleamed at the vampire who replied with a smug grin: “I know, darling. I am actually a good listener in case you hadn’t noticed yet.”

You stretched to give him a kiss which almost resulted in you falling over and spilling all of the remaining tea. Your heart filled with an incredible amount of joy – not only because there were strawberries to be had, but because you felt so seen by your soulmate. You smiled at Astarion. “Indeed, you are”, you happily cheered him. He smiled back just as warmly.

“I got them from a place where they magically empower the crops. It did almost cost me an arm and the rest of my dignity though, but here we are”, he explained jokingly to which you raised an inquisitive eyebrow at him.

“Feed me!”, you then demanded excitedly when he didn’t spill any more details. To which the vampire grinned even more broadly, showing his sharp fangs in the process. “Oh love, I am more than happy to indulge you in this pleasant reversal of roles”, he crooned and turned around to grab the bowl of fruit while you kept sipping on your herbal tea.

He grabbed one of the deep red fruits and slowly lifted it to your already excitedly opened mouth. You were almost salivating, as Astarion offered you the berry, holding it elegantly in his long, slender fingers. The fruit almost touched your lips, but then, at the last possible moment: the vampire flicked it in his own mouth with his thumb.

Your mouth stayed open but now in a desperate expression while Astarion chewed. His facial expression became confused then pleasantly surprised, not even looking at you for a moment. “Oh dear, these are actually rather good. I had almost also forgotten how good these taste. I haven’t eaten a strawberry in forever.” He gave a quick high-pitched laugh while still looking a bit confused. This certainly had awoken a memory he had probably thought lost forever. But still – weren’t these for you?

“Excuse me, my tragic darling vampire, I really love you rediscovering your love for these mortal pleasures known as fruit, but weren’t these meant to soothe my sufferings?”, you said and pouted at Astarion. He readily replied by finally offering you one – for real this time, while he smirked at you and stole another one for himself.

As you bit down the taste just about exploded in your mouth. They were perfectly delicious and sweet. You sighed blissfully and let your head fall back with closed eyes. You were definitely feeling better by the minute.

“So good! Thank you so much for getting them – I feel so much better already!”, you said to Astarion and shimmied over to him to first lean past him and put the mug on the nightstand and then hugging him – arms extending from your ball of blankets.

Astarion pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. “You’re welcome, my love. Now – share the rest?” “Only if you promise to get more tomorrow!”

The pale elf threw his head back and laughed. “If that is what it takes to nurse you back to health, I am more than happy to oblige, sweetheart”, he promised with a chuckle before he gave you another of the sweet berries and then popped another strawberry in his own mouth.

Author's note: Okay cool, where do I get strawberries now? Hope you enjoyed!

[g1rld1ary]

bloody genius ; anthony lockwood x fem!reader

➻ rushed to get this out before I go out tonight (wish me luck lols) but am pretty fond of it !!

➻ word count: 1686

➻ synopsis: after a long night of sifting through research for an impossible case with lockwood, you do something you didn't quite mean to

➻ warnings: light mentions of series typical murder/violence, kissing, idiots in love

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

You groaned, tipping back in your chair and rubbing your eyes, trying to make them see straight. You and Lockwood had been pouring over photocopied newspaper articles, floor plans and assorted research for hours and you weren’t getting any closer to stringing any of it together. With Lockwood & Co steadily improving their reputation, the company was getting more and more cases with shorter and shorter timeframes. To combat this influx of cases and the consequent research that needed completing, you’d all decided to split the load where possible. This meant that currently George and Lucy were in the library researching one case whilst you and Lockwood had shut yourselves in the kitchen to struggle through another.

You supposed you had the better deal, though, supplied with easy access to tea, the thinking cloth, and, of course, Lockwood. He was your secret favourite out of your coworkers-turned-family, though if you asked Lucy she’d say it was no secret at all. Regardless, that brought you to the current moment where the thinking cloth was filled with nonsensical lines following trains of thought, all edges punctuated with a frankly ridiculous number of question marks.

Lockwood himself looked almost as frustrated as you felt, but you could tell he was trying to hide it and save face. He caught you staring and flashed a smile, but it lacked its usual charm when his eye bags were more pronounced than usual.

“Hey,” He said softly, putting his hand over yours to stop you drawing stress doodles — the latest one a crudely drawn murder scene, “We’ll get it soon, just gotta find the connection between it all.”

“Sure, Lockwood.” You tried for a smile but it came out as more of a grimace and Lockwood could see the exhaustion etched into your features. He frowned, more concerned for your wellbeing than the case at the moment.

“Maybe you’ve done enough for tonight? Go get some sleep and we can pick back up in the morning?”

“Are you going to go to bed?” You asked, already sure of the answer, “I’m not leaving you to do this on your own, not this time.” He opened his mouth to argue but you shut him up with a glare. He held up his hands in light-hearted surrender. As an alternative Lockwood suggested a break; only a few minutes, but enough for you to make two new mugs of steaming tea and him to crack open a new packet of biscuits. “I’ll even let you break the biscuit rule,” He stage whispered, ducking out of the kitchen to check on Lucy and George and refill their own stash of snacks.

You watched him go, smiling softly. You loved evenings like this — well not like this where trains of thought didn’t quite make it to the station and you had the infuriating feeling of knowledge being held just out of reach, but nights where you were all home and together. You liked them even more when it meant you got to spend time with Lockwood and he got like this; treating you just a little bit differently to George or Lucy, offering you extra biscuits and giving you that soft smile, the one that made your heart flutter in a way it probably shouldn’t when looking at your boss. It fed your delusions of one day telling him how you feel, sure, but the lightness of his attention overpowered the inevitable heartbreak you’d face when he got a date that wasn’t you.

He returned with a confident grin, snapping you out of your stupor. You buried yourself in a new file, scanning for anything that could make sense of the mess of a case you were given. Maybe a Type Two, could be a poltergeist or not, who knows who the ghost was — the whole thing was ridiculous and you had no idea why Lockwood would even take it, but he said he felt sorry for the poor old man who came to the doorstep of 35 Portland Row. The both of you sat in comfortable silence for what felt like hours, knee-deep in paper.

Your eyes were glazing in and out of focus until you caught a snippet of something that had you gasping and tumbling out of your chair, standing frenetically in front of Lockwood looking ready to perform.

“What if I told you,” You said grinning, “That your dear old man had a sealed criminal record until a few years ago? For being a suspect in a murder case no less!” Lockwood was solely focused on you now, dark eyes searching your face for more information. You were no less enthusiastic, eyes scanning the police report quickly for the relevant information. “He was a suspect in the murder of a Charlotte Black back in the 50s. Her sister alleged that the two were involved but the police found no evidence of his involvement, nor of their relationship at all, with the exception of two letters the sister sent during the time of the investigation. Officers on the case said his apartment was ‘severely lacking a female touch’ — ouch — and said to them he was definitely not in a relationship. The record was sealed because the allegations had a dire impact on his accounting firm!” You were buzzing despite the grim subject matter, as you’d finally found the link that could tie the case together.

Lockwood was similarly ecstatic. “Obviously the relationship had to be a secret for whatever reason which was why there’s no marriage certificate or record of letters between them. The letter I was looking at before must’ve been from this sister, it detailed her desire for independence and her interest in his business. She found out about his shady numbers—” He jumped up to grab a letter of complaint over botched figures from a client, “He got mad and killed her! Y/n you’re a bloody genius!” You flushed at the compliment.

“And she’s here now because he’s coming out of retirement, he bragged about it when you were hearing his case! God, it would just be great if we had, like, one more piece of evidence, just to confirm they knew each other,” You sighed, clenching your fingers at the single hole in the puzzle.

The door opened suddenly and George appeared, holding a small folded piece of paper.

“I think this might be from your case, not ours — odd looking couple,” George said, popping the photo on the edge of the dining table, giving a quizzical look at the two of you standing in the middle of the kitchen before heading back to the library. You and Lockwood exchanged a look, almost too scared to take a peek, it was too perfect. You grabbed the photo of Charlotte Black her sister had attached to the letter, plus the one of the man that you’d found in a local newspaper in the archives and laid them both out on the table for comparison.

Lockwood sucked in a nervous breath before slowly peeling open the photo. You couldn’t contain your joy, it was them! The whole night was suddenly worth it, the two of you jumping around the kitchen like little kids on Christmas. One second you were doing a stupid victory dance and the next your lips had pressed themselves to Lockwood’s. The moment you’d become cognisant of what had happened you stepped back, feeling your heart plummet to your toes. This was not how you’d imagined that would happen. Plus, Lockwood’s unusually stoic face was igniting your anxiety, cold spreading through every branch of your veins.

“Oh my God,” You breathed, willing your legs to work, “I am so sorry, Anthony.” Your body caught up to your brain and you headed to the door until you were pulled back, a hand on your waist twisting you to face him again. And then his lips were on yours with purpose this time, the hand not on your waist finding its way to cup your jaw. When your brain was done short circuiting you matched his fervour tenfold, bringing your hands up to rest on his chest, gripping the collar of his shirt to bring him impossibly closer.

You only pulled away when you were at genuine risk of passing out, unable to conjure a single word. Lockwood gazed at you with glossy, blown out pupils. That, mixed with the pink blush on his cheeks and swollen lips created your favourite ever version of Anthony Lockwood — an image you hoped would be privately yours from now on.

“So, is this where I ask to take you on a proper date, love?” He asked, his smile melting your heart into a puddle in his hand. You couldn’t let him have all the fun, though, and willed yourself to produce a teasing grin.

“Seems appropriate, doesn’t it?” Your eyes strayed to the clock on the wall that showed an inappropriately early hour of the morning, “I think we both ought to get some sleep, tomorrow’ll be a big job. Goodnight, Anthony.” You punctuated it with a soft kiss to his cheek before slipping out of the room to silently scream as you bound up the stairs, victory dance making a reappearance behind your safely closed door.

Anthony was left standing in the kitchen like a fool, hand sitting softly where you’d kissed him. A lovesick smile passed his face, thoughts of the impending case long gone from his brain, and in their place sat pictures of you and a looping memory of you slotting your lips between his. He wasn’t sure how long he was standing there basking in your light, but Lucy walked past to drop her mug in the sink, shooting Lockwood a knowing look before heading up to the attic. Lockwood found himself giggling uncharacteristically, giddy with the glee of finally telling you how he’d felt since you first walked through the door of 35 Portland Row.

[cha-melodius]

💘 firstprince please :)

💘 fake relationship / mutual pining / dared to kiss  (I skipped ahead on prompts so I could write the companion piece to this ficlet. if you were hoping for fake relationship, watch this space, I have another one of these hearts to do lol. read all the kiss ficlets)

Alex doesn’t know how he got himself into this situation.

To be fair, coming out was entirely his idea. It’d been too long since he let loose and had fun, so when a girl in his econ class told him about this party, he’d put on his tightest pair of jeans and crop top, styled his curls just so, and dragged Liam along with him for good measure (Alex loves his best friend, but the dude needs to get out more).

So far he’s had fun dancing, and he’s been hit on by plenty of very enthusiastic girls, but nothing’s really clicked. There’s something else thrumming under his skin that he can’t put a finger on. It didn’t really help that he nearly ran into Liam making out with Pez Okonjo on his way to the bathroom. Obviously it’s fine that he was, Alex knows (now) that Liam is gay, and he’s free to kiss whoever he wants. It’s not like Alex was jealous. If anything, it was kinda hot—they looked good together, Liam’s pale skin against Pez’s dark tones, which is frankly not a thought Alex is sober enough to deal with right now.

Alex is also not sober enough deal with running into Pez later, who has a tall, blond, ridiculously hot friend in tow this time. Blondie is wearing a plain button down and khakis, like he’s at a business lunch, but somehow the way his shirt is cuffed at the elbows and unbuttoned at the top to let his collarbones peek out is more alluring than most of the half-dressed coeds at the party. Then there’s the way his golden hair flops over his forehead and his blue eyes shine in the low light, and it’s a lot, ok? Fuck.

It’s honestly a bit of a relief when Alex gets dragged away and convinced to do some kind of scavenger hunt, which sounds kinda dumb, but whatever. It’ll keep his mind off Pez’s hot friend. He works his way down the list, taking shots and doing ridiculous dances and convincing people to give him their numbers (not hard), until he hits one in particular—make out with someone you met tonight.

He’s met plenty of people tonight. Lots of girls who’d probably be willing, honestly. Somehow, only one person sticks out in his head.

Apparently he’s not even fucking subtle about it, which is embarrassing. Liam catches him looking down at his list, then back up at Henry across the room, and slings an arm around his shoulders.

“Go on. Ask him,” Liam goads, grinning drunkenly at Alex. “I think he’s into you.”

As if on cue, Henry glances over at them, then quickly looks away again when he sees them staring.

“You’re on drugs,” Alex scoffs, trying and failing to shove him away as something inside his stomach turns over at the thought that Henry might be into him. It’s probably just the liquor. “Maybe he likes you.”

“Nah,” Liam says confidently. “You wanted a wingman. I’m winging. Wingmanning? I dunno, man. Just go kiss him, ok?”

Alex can feel his face getting hot. “Fuck off.”

Liam’s grin goes sharp and wicked. “I dare you.”

Fuck. The best friend dare is sacred. If Alex doesn’t do it, he’ll have to do something else later that’s like ten times worse. Fuck.

Alex crosses the room in some kind of daze, the rest of the party falling away around him. Is he really doing this? Apparently so. He stops by Henry’s elbow, and the other man turns to look at him.

“Hey,” Alex says. Amazing opening line, truly. Fuck, he’s an idiot.

“Alex, right?” Henry replies with a little smile. Alex nods. “What’s up?”

Alex swallows hard. “Can I kiss you?” he blurts. Henry’s eyes go wide, and Alex holds up the sheet of paper. “It’s a dare.”

“Oh,” Henry says, sounding almost disappointed.

“But also, like, you’re really hot and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, and I’m not gay but I— I might be bi, I guess, I don’t really know because my best friend is gay and I never thought I was really into guys but I kinda want to kiss you, I mean, I really want to kiss you, if you’re into it, and oh my god, I’m such a fucking idiot, please forget I ever said any of this to you.”

Alex turns on his heel, ready to flee the house and probably the country, but Henry catches him by the arm and pulls him back. Pulls him in, firmly, so that Alex has to tip his head up, and then Henry’s kissing him. Softly at first, but Alex whimpers and opens his mouth, tilting his head to slot their mouths more firmly together, the taste of cheap booze and sugary mixers blending on their tongues. Henry gets a hand into his hair and Alex likes that even more, likes the way Henry surrounds him, likes the way Henry's waist feels under his palms. Never wants it to end, actually.

Henry does eventually pull back, though. Sadly. Alex promises he doesn’t whine.

“So,” Henry murmurs. He still hasn’t let Alex go, and Alex is entirely ok with that. “Thoughts?”

“I think I need another. Y’know. To gather more evidence.”

“Another kiss?”

“Yeah,” Alex breathes. “Maybe more than one.”

Henry laughs, low and warm, and he kisses Alex again.

[uzumaki-rebellion]

"You spend half your life with dilated pupils I don't think you're nice And you treat me kinda cruel All your moves is crazy You compromise my safety All your friends are shady They tried to warn me vaguely You patronize me daily You never call me baby Or treat me like a lady And mainly quite frankly

You get on my damn nerves…"

Chlothegod – "UGOMDN"

A.N.: Content Warning. Discussions of abortion, blood & violence.

An abortion was impossible for Celeste to get under Louisiana State law.

Once Roe v Wade was abolished, the law in her state was activated to ban all abortions, regardless of whether a woman had been raped or was a victim of incest. Despite her fear, Celeste had to see a doctor after her third positive pregnancy test and increasing fatigue. She lived with horrendous morning sickness and suffered in silence. At a clinic, a sweet-faced young doctor told her she was about nine weeks along. The fetus was the size of a strawberry. Refusing to look at the ultrasound, she didn't want to acknowledge the being inside her as a baby. Especially when she wanted to get rid of it.

Under normal circumstances, the logical answer was to remove the fetus from her body by crossing state lines. But jumping up to take a trip to California suddenly wouldn't be easy. Celeste would have to find a discreet way to get away from L.A. relatives when she'd never been there before, find a clinic, have the abortion, and then lie around in bed for a day or two until she was okay. She wished she had female cousins her age to talk to, but the only other women relatives nearby were twice her age, jaded aunties who would curse her out for being so stupid about getting pregnant…by a vampire. She refused to share the news with her girlfriends, embarrassed that she let a dude knock her up on the first fuck. The one female cousin she had in L.A. that was only a couple of years older than her couldn't be trusted to keep her mouth shut if Celeste confided in her for a ride to a Planned Parenthood trip. It had to be a covert operation.

"Arrghhhh!"

Celeste screamed inside her car on the drive to the chicken processing plant. For the next twelve hours, she would sort chicken parts and blast-freeze them. The work was routine and boring, but paid well and she liked the co-workers who packaged the chicken on the graveyard shift with her. Anticipating relief from the city's heat, she couldn't wait. Freezing chicken in a controlled, cool environment saved her from thinking too much about her problems.

Sort. Push trays. Freeze. Toss frozen chicken parts into boxes. Rinse and repeat.

The hours ticked by and she settled into her work groove. The face mask covering her nose and mouth helped keep the stench of raw chicken from upsetting her stomach. She became so sensitive to odors lately that she didn't know how she could hide a pregnancy from her family. The hormonal changes fucked her up. She'd cry at the drop of a hat and get irritated so fast around people. Even at the chicken plant, she acted short with co-workers. Fatigue set in after six hours. Her snippiness was called out by the floor supervisor, and she took a break in the restroom to get her shit together. She sat on a toilet and cried, angry that she put herself in the position she was in. Plan B failed her. Her choice to let the man nut in her was ridiculous. She regretted not staying consistent on birth control pills after being with Freddie.

Covering her face with her hands, she berated herself for getting pregnant a second time in her life. The first time had been before she entered university. She'd been terrified then and confided in her cousin Micah, who stood by her in secret. He drove her to a clinic over in Slidell and let her stay with him and his family for a sleepover movie party to hide the fact that she needed a quiet place to recuperate. Micah was her favorite cousin, and she knew that he'd be the first to help her if she called, but she didn't want him to judge her for not heeding his warning about Terry. This time, she was on her own, and it killed her soul to know she was going back on her word to God about doing anything like that again. She swore as a frightened seventeen-year-old that she'd never have an abortion again if God could forgive her for terminating that one mistake.

The man who impregnated her as a teenager had been older, in his mid-twenties, and ended up getting killed by gun violence over in Shreveport when Celeste turned eighteen. She would've been an unwed teen mother with a dead baby daddy. Going back on her word brought her personal shame. As an adult woman, she should've done better. Being hot in the panties at seventeen didn't compare to being a grown ass fucking up.

Getting back on her grind, Celeste finished her shift and left the building quickly. She sat in her Charger and watched three male co-workers who car-pooled together in an old Honda leave before her from the parking lot. At three in the morning, the sky stayed dark enough to let the stars shine like little crystal buttons.

Her cell chirped.

Micah.

"Bitch, what's going on?" Micah said.

"Getting off work."

"I'm not askin' 'bout your job, cousin. What's going on with you?"

The noise of Bourbon Street droned on in the background of Micah's call. His club job didn't shut down until four in the morning.

"Nothin'. Just work…like I said."

"That redbone ever come back?"

"Terry ain't no redbone—"

"Whatever…you still fuckin' wit 'em?"

"No."

"Joyce called me and said you ran outta the Quarter like you seen the devil or something and she ain't hung witchoo since. Y'all been tight since gradeschool. Ain't like you to be anti-social, Duchess."

"Work has been kicking my ass…I just need time by myself."

"Quit one of them jobs, then."

"I need money to pay my rent and save up for my dream house."

"Nobody told you to go live in overpriced artsy-fartsy Marigny. Them old slave homes cost millions. Bitch, we from the Truh-May. You think two jobs and sewin' gonna pay for that in your lifetime? Unless these white folks give up some reparations, you stuck outchea grindin' for pennies on the dolla like the rest of us. Move in with me and you could save some real money."

"And watch you argue with your boyfriend and girlfriend all the time? I got enough drama without your chaotic poly life."

"Point is, cranky bitch, I've got plenty of room for you and a support system if you need it."

"Thank ya, cousin. I appreciate it. I'll file that away for emergencies."

"You need me to roll through and cook you breakfast when I'm done here?"

"No. I'm going to get in my bed and sleep until I gotta come back here tonight."

"You see a doctor about that anemia?"

"Yes. I'm not anemic. Just overworked."

Celeste let the lie sit. Micah didn't pester her further, and they ended their call promising to see each other at their grandparent's house for a Sunday dinner. She resolved to tell Micah the truth…about her pregnancy…and the vampires.

She started the engine of her car, and the Charger roared to life. Waving at incoming workers starting the next shift, she pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the long stretch of quiet state highway. A marine layer covered the road with an advection fog, reducing her visibility. She slowed down, played some music, and smoked. A violent coughing fit hit, and her stomach heaved. She threw the cigarette out of the window. The taste of nicotine on her tongue hit different. Like rotten meat.

While singing along to the radio, she noticed blinking hazard lights on the side of the road up ahead. An old Honda pulled to the side looked familiar. Her co-workers.

They milled about, looking forlorn.

She pulled up next to them and rolled down her passenger window halfway.

"What happened?" she asked.

Hector, a Honduran with a ready smile, leaned against her car. The other Black men with him watched the road for any oncoming cars in the fog.

"Blown tire."

"You have a spare?"

"Yeah, but no jack or lug wrench. None of us got Triple-A."

"I have a kit in the back. Hold on."

Celeste backed up behind them and hopped out of her car. The foggy air cooled her skin, and she hoped the temperature stayed that way all the way home. She popped her trunk and took out some small orange traffic cones with reflectors and spread them around her car and Hector's. One of the Black men, Shorty, who was over six feet tall, took out the equipment she had and started working on the tire. He did it all wrong, not even knowing how to use the foot jack she had.

"Stand back," she said, taking over tire duty.

The other guys thanked her and listened to music playing from their car. They lifted the blown tire from the wheelbase for her and Hector placed the spare on.

"Here, I can finish it up," Hector said.

He didn't know what he was doing, either.

"I got it, man. Don't get your ego hurt because a woman is doing this," she said.

She tightened each lug nut and patted the tire when she was done.

"Good to go," she said.

Hector pulled out a ten-dollar bill from his wallet.

"This is all the cash I have. Thanks for stopping and saving us from waiting around."

"Nah, Hector…keep that. Buy your kids some candy," she insisted.

"Y'all see that?" Shorty said.

Celeste and Hector peered over the roof of the Honda and looked to where the others had their attention. Massive oak trees with their sloping branches curved toward the ground like giant skeletal fingers, the fog whispering around them with an unnatural light that shouldn't have been possible without the moon. Four ominous figures moved toward them.

"Are those people hanging over there?" Quentin, a chubby co-worker asked.

Celeste quickly collected her tools and threw them in her trunk.

"We gotta leave!" she shouted.

Hector and the other men looked at her with confusion, but didn't move right away.

"The fuck—"

Shorty didn't finish his sentence before a mangy-looking white woman in a tattered trench coat jumped on his chest and ripped out his throat with feral teeth. The man's blood sprayed all over Celeste and she sprinted for her car, jumping in and cranking the engine. Fast-moving figures attacked and ravaged the other men. Celeste backed up and Quentin banged on her door with one hand, his other clutching the side of his neck that spurted blood like a geyser. She unlocked the passenger side, and he flung open the door to jump in.

It was too late.

A ferocious-looking white man with long, clawed fingers dragged Quentin out of her car. Celeste screamed and shifted gears, but someone punched in the tempered-glass on her side and dragged her through the window, slamming her onto the ground.

"No! No! No!" she screamed, her eyes unable to focus on how fast their attackers moved.

She immediately curled into the fetal position, closing her eyes and instinctively guarding her stomach in a protective hold, waiting for a death blow to rip her throat out.

What sounded like screams from hell reverberated all around her, and amidst the human cries for help and imploring moans to God from her co-workers, other blood-curdling shrieks rang out.

Someone lifted her by her locs and shoved her away from the Charger. She landed on her back with a hard thump to her head. Staring at the sky, she didn't move a muscle, the pain in her back and head disorienting her. Losing focus, she twisted her head to the side and watched Hector claw at the ground as his lifeblood drained onto the highway. Their eyes connected and Celeste could only observe in silence as life drained from his once shiny brown pupils. His blood pooled out toward her like a horrific black river.

A large pair of black leather lace-up boots stomped down in Hector's blood and walked through it like it was a useless puddle of liquid. She looked up, and The Deacon grinned at her with those sinister fanged grills.

"Well, well, well, Duchess…here we meet again with no barrier between us," he said.

Three of his female minions strode over next to him, their faces smeared with blood and gore. Only The Deacon's face looked clean from a feeding frenzy. The Goth, whose voice sounded a lot like the Dominique who claimed to have a package at Celeste's house, leaned in toward The Deacon.

"We finished killing that wild pack of feeders. They made a mess of the bodies… left blood everywhere. They didn't even have the intelligence to carry these blood bags into the trees," Dominique said.

Celeste tried to back away on her elbows with gravel digging into her sore skin. The Deacon reached down and grabbed her throat, stopping her pitiful escape.

"Let me kill her for you," the dark brown beauty said, crouching low. She swiped a clawed hand across Celeste's cheek, drawing blood.

Celeste hissed and whimpered at the pain. She squirmed under his grip and tried pulling her knees into her chest. The Deacon studied her carefully.

"She's defensive, but not for herself," The Deacon said.

The sound of a large vehicle pulled up. Celeste heard a sliding door and guessed that it was a van.

The Deacon kept a hand on her throat and used a claw-like nail from his other hand to slit her palm. He licked the blood that flowed out. His silvery-gray eyes stared at her with a look of shock.

"She's pregnant. It's a girl," he said.

His astonished voice made every vampire hover over Celeste, staring at her like she was a freak of nature and not them.

"Impossible!" the dark brown beauty yelled, sounding hurt.

The Deacon stared at the beauty and flicked his hand dismissively.

"Go make sure the ghouls handle the bodies and debris, Mia," The Deacon said.

His malevolent eyes softened, looking down at Celeste.

"We won't hurt you, Celeste. In fact, we will be your most ardent protectors because you carry something phenomenally priceless in your womb. I have lived several lifetimes and have yet to lay eyes on what you are about to bring into the world…a dhampir."

He stared deep into her eyes, probing them, and shook his head, gently helping her sit up.

"No…you will not abort this child. I know we may seem like horrid monsters to you because of the way we have to survive. But we are not different from you."

"You are bloodsuckers, you kill people…that's evil," Celeste said.

"You stupid humans don't kill people? Or slaughter other living creatures to feed yourselves?" Dominique barked.

"Dominique, chill," The Deacon said.

"They always think they're better. I'll be glad when our Morningstar wipes them from the earth."

"And what will we live on?" The Deacon said, annoyed.

Dominique rolled her eyes. Celeste noticed that none of the other vampires had silver eyes like The Deacon.

"Come now, get up young mother," he said.

He lifted her with a brawny arm and placed her back on her feet.

"You feel well enough to drive home?" he asked.

The sincerity of his tone threw her off. This was not the same angry and vicious vampire who beat at the door of her house, aiming to trick her for an invitation. She glanced past him and the other vampires. Two slinky individuals in dark clothes stacked Shorty and Quentin into a white van.

"Oh, God," Celeste said, turning her head away.

A third vampire minion stripped the last of Hector's clothes from his blood-soaked body and began eating him, starting at his feet. The loud crunch of bones breaking and human flesh being slurped down the worker's throat sickened her. She turned her head and lurched forward. A spray of vomit flew out of her mouth.

The Deacon chuckled and kicked dirt over it.

"Now you see what our clean-up crew does once we're done eating. They dispose of the bodies for us, leaving behind no trace like a crime scene unit. We're very efficient and prudent," he said.

The Deacon guided Celeste back to her car. Her mind couldn't fathom what was happening.

"They have children, families who will miss them…" she said.

The Deacon ignored her words.

The pale-skinned vampire pack that attacked her co-workers were left on the side of the highway and ignored. A ghoul who looked like a forgettable-looking citizen with a trim beard hopped into Hector's car and drove away. The van pulled off behind it.

"You aren't taking those dead vampires, too?" Celeste asked.

She wiped her mouth and gagged at the feel of vomit still left at the back of her throat. Coughing, then spitting, she did all she could to keep from throwing up again.

"The sun will destroy evidence of them. Our concern is that they don't properly hide their refuse."

"Refuse?"

Celeste's voice rose to an angry pitch.

"They're fucking people…humans with loved ones who are going to wonder what happened to them," Celeste screamed.

"You say that as if that's our fault," Dominique said, leaning against Celeste's car. "We didn't kill them."

The Deacon turned Celeste's face to look at him directly.

"We don't do that to people often. Our kind prefer to eat and release. We resort to killing only in self-defense or special circumstances."

"Your kind?"

"We are the top of our species' food chain. Those creatures are bottom feeders, the reason the Old Ones hunt us. They blame us for those inbred gutter dwellers. If we acted like them, do you know how many humans would disappear daily?"

"How come Terry can walk in the sun if he's one of you?"

"He's a Daywalker. The true apex predator. More powerful than us because he can kill the Old Ones during times we cannot. That's why we need him. He's our champion. If we're lucky enough, the baby in your womb will be like him. She would protect us, too."

"I'm not keeping it."

"Yes, you are. You call her Strawberry in your mind, because of her size. I could taste how attached she is to you, how much she loves you—"

"Stop fucking manipulating me. It's just a fetus with developing cells…a blob, and I'm going to stop another one of you from coming into this world. I'll find an Old One and tell them about you! I know what they are…gargoyles! Terry's great-granddaughter Miss Irma told me about them."

"Then you will doom yourself and that baby," Dominique said.

"It's not a baby! You're tricking me, trying to guilt me into keeping it."

"Rationalize your conflicted feelings how you want, Duchess. But your first instinct was to protect her. Ball yourself up. Even when I came to help you, you reacted by covering your stomach," The Deacon said.

Celeste's eyes watered.

"I can't have this baby…I can't have a monster."

"Does Terry look like a monster to you?" Mia asked.

Mia's eyes welled up. Tears fell down her face. The Deacon wiped them away.

"Mia…don't cry. She's only scared," he said.

"I'm scared for us, too," Mia said.

What the hell was happening?

Vampires afraid and crying?

The Deacon opened Celeste's driver side door. The ghouls had taken away her broken window. He traced a finger across her face and showed her the blood and bits of skin that stuck to her cheek and hair.

"You need a bath and some rest. We can't stop you in the daytime, so if you run off to…terminate…that's your choice. You don't know how profound this is for us and the hidden world. I beg you to reconsider. We'll fight anything that tries to harm you or the child."

"She doesn't want it. Let her end it," Mia screamed.

Mia's fangs were stained with blood from feeding on Celeste's co-workers, too.

"Time to go, Deacon. The sun will be up in two hours," Dominique said.

"Go home…sleep, Duchess," The Deacon said.

Celeste climbed into her car and drove off in a daze. Why didn't they kidnap her and force her to have it? They had the means and minions to do that.

From her rearview, she watched the vampires walk into the diminishing wisps of fog and vanish among the trees.

Chapter 12 HERE.

Masterlist

Taglist:

@nahimjustfeeling-writes

@planetblaque

@kindofaintrovert

@thedondada05

@blackburnbook

@avoidthings

@slutsareteacherstoo

@nayaesworld

@notapradagurl17

@4pfsukuna

@yamst3rdamctrl

@sweettea-and-honeybutter

@comfortzonequeen

@theereina

@brattyfics

@prettyisasprettydoes1306

@megane96

@honeytoffee

@taurusqueen83

@mightbeher

@melaninpov

@carlakeks

@woahthatshitfat

@hrlzy

@theglamclosetsl

@liquorlaughslove

@teeresaresa

[luvrodite]

THE VERY FIRST NIGHT JASON TODD (college! au)

↳ the first night you spend at his place

You don’t mean to stay over, the first time that you do. Truly you don’t. But it’s late, and you’ve spent the entirety of the afternoon dozing in and out of consciousness on the–quite frankly, illegally comfortable–couch in Jason’s living room. The both of you lie, pressed into each other, against the couch cushions and watch the reruns of old tv shows that are showing. 

A cool wind breezes in through an open window, and at your back, Jason is warm. The sun has long since set, but neither of you have mustered up the will to shut the blinds beyond the comments made every so often when a car will beep loudly, or a truck drones down the road, so loud the both of you flinch awake where you’d lingered on the precipice of true sleep.

It’s this such disruption that pulls you so meanly from sleep, startling you where you’d been so very comfortable in the arms of your boyfriend, and your movement in turn wakes him. He grumbles, and the both of you blink blearily in the dark at each other.

“What’s wrong?” he yawns, making to tug you closer. You stay upright, and he frowns at you, greatly inconvenienced. You would laugh if you were more awake, but sleep clouds your senses still and you reach for your phone. The time blinks at you, a mocking 12:19 and you let out a breath that is heavier than Jason feels it ought to be.

You show him the time and he stares blankly at you. “I’ve missed the last bus,” you say, and he screws his face up as another yawn tears out of him. His arms come around you once more, this time successfully pulling you closer.

“So what, sweetheart,” he murmurs, tucking his nose into your neck.

“Be serious,” you murmur, brushing a hand over his hair. “I should get home.”

He lifts his head to look at you. “‘M being serious. Just stay.”

You pause. 

“Stay the night?” you murmur, unsure. He nods, earnest and sleepy. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll drive you home, if you want,” he says gently, leaning up to press a soft kiss to your mouth. Your heart snags on how he grows a little shy as he pulls away, eyes flicking away to where your necklace has slipped out of your shirt collar. “Just thought it’d be more convenient….y’know…you could borrow my clothes if you want.”

“Jason Todd, you romantic, you,” you breathe out, a surprised laugh colouring your voice. He grumbles as you giggle, heat crowding in your face. You cover up your shyness with a false bravado, peering down at him to tease, “Will you make me breakfast in the morning, too?”

He glares up at you, teeth nipping at the tip of your finger. “I would. ‘Cos I’m a gentleman. And a good host. And your boyfriend.”

Everything in you seems to turn topsy turvy at his words, heart melting into a syrupy sweet, treacle-like mass in your chest. You can’t help but kiss him again. 

“Okay,” you whisper, and his eyes brighten in the dark. “I’ll stay, if you’ll have me. If you promise I’m not being a bother.”

“Could never bother me,” he says plainly, happy. “C’mon, sweetheart. Get you something to wear, think I’ve got a spare toothbrush, somewhere.”

You think that your first night together is going to be nerve-wracking. That you’ll stiffen up in bed and never fall asleep for fear of–fear of what? Getting too comfortable, you think. You think you’ll do something ridiculous and be laughed at for it. You don’t know if you could bear it from Jason.

But as it happens, you are guided down the dim-lit hall, hand in his, feeling very much as though you have already fallen asleep. A soft shirt is pressed into your hands, and shorts you forego–sleep plies you soft and uncaring, you’re here anyway, aren’t you? Jason says nothing, only pressing a kiss to your shoulder and leaving. He returns some moments later, takes your day clothes from your hands in exchange for a red, unopened toothbrush. 

You slip under the sheets and sleep claims you with a kiss. 

me when i lie and say i'm saving writing jersey boy for friday and the weekend. september and october are my peak jason months i think. the weather turns gentle and everything starts to bloom again, and i feel so much love for this silly little fictional man. he makes my heart ache. i love domestic jason. i think mid afternoon in september is always so pretty and the evenings are even lovelier. it makes me think of love so much even though i think i'd run away if it came within six feet of me.

[ollieofthebeholder]

Hi! I know you do NaNo every year and are quite involved with it; have you seen their new AI policy? And what are your thoughts on it?

https://nanowrimo.zendesk.com/hc/en-us/articles/29933455931412-What-is-NaNoWriMo-s-position-on-Artificial-Intelligence-AI

Hi!

So first off, nonnie: My involvement with NaNoWriMo has, uh, declined significantly in the last year. I was an ML through last November, and there were...a lot of problems that all culminated in me (and my co-ML ) not only making the decision to step down as MLs, but disaffiliate our region from NaNo altogether. We're not stopping people from participating, just taking the groups we manage independent and starting our own, localized version. Global communities are great, but when you get to as big as NaNo got and start having to implement rules and make them apply to wildly diverse regions - and then have absolutely no policies in place for people in those specific regions to adapt those policies - it stops being fun, frankly. For organizers and participants.

All of which is to say, no, I hadn't seen this until now.

My thoughts are that, like so many other things NaNo has tried to do since November, it's well-intentioned (probably) but poorly thought out and even more poorly executed. It's also too broad and overencompassing. And it violates the spirit of the program they've been belaboring us with for the last 25 years.

AI - Artificial Intelligence - covers a lot of ground. Spellcheckers are technically AI. Speech to text programs could be construed as AI. Predictive text is AI. ChatGP and its ilk is essentially an advanced form of predictive text, at least at this point. And if you had suggested five years ago that someone might write a novel entirely based on predictive text, the official NaNoWriMo stance would have been "I mean, sure, you CAN do that, we can't really stop you, if that's what you're happy with." If your goal is just to have 50,000 words, do whatever you want. I guess from their wording, they're saying that this is in general, not specifically for NaNoWriMo, but this is still a pretty bizarre stance for an organization that pushed for years for everyone to start on November 1 with a blank document and not a single word written ahead of time.

Arguing that "opposition to AI is classist and ableist" is the kind of reductive bullshit I expect from Tumblr, not a major organization that is supposed to promote literacy. I especially don't get the "not everyone has access to all resources" bit. Yeah...that's true...but if you have access to AI, you have access to everything you need to participate in NaNoWriMo, i.e. a computer with a keyboard and an internet connection. If you just want the fifty thousand words to get the prize and don't care if they're good, just fucking write "banana" over and over again until you hit it. Boom, you're a winner, and you've done just as much work as someone prompting ChatGPT, and it'll probably make about as much sense.

Also, most AI programs in existence use up a ridiculous amount of energy and resources, and encouraging their use is kind of an iffy stance for any company to take, let alone one that's been making this much of an effort to be sustainable.

Frankly, I think this policy is just one more sign that NaNo has gotten a) too big to be sustainable and b) too far from what it was originally meant to be, and I'm honestly debating if I'm even going to participate in the global one this year.

[bits-and-babs]

𝐀𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐘𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐒 – 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐎'𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀

↳ summary: miguel has an issue with the performance and comfortability of his suit. he feels he's found a suitable solution– but he can't tell you.

↳ pairing: pervy!miguel o'hara x f!reader

↳ content: 18+ MDNI. SMUT. pervy!miguel, sneaking into your home, panty stealing, miguel wears your panties, (m) masturbation, masturbating in your panties, a little dirty talk, imagines p in v sex with reader.

miguel masterlist ୨୧ main masterlist ୨୧ join taglist ୨୧ ask

Disgust coats Miguel's tongue in a kind of rancid film, his lashes fluttering closed as he tries to breathe through the turbulence of the unhinged thoughts that bounce in his skull. Of all the ideas he'd contemplated to make the suit a little easier to wear, this was by far the most demented.

The delicate, silky midnight fabric of your high-cut thong had sprung to mind late at night, sleep ebbing at the edges of his consciousness and poisoning his ethics. He'd noticed them the last time he saw you, the elasticated straps that framed your hips peeking over the denim waistband of your jeans when you bent over to collect some papers from his office floor. It's as though the image had imprinted itself on his brain's grey, swirling surface and seared into his retinas.

Friends, Miguel he had to remind himself consistently. You were his friend. Friends don't steal other friends' panties.  

Frankly, this ridiculous plot had all come about thanks to the absurd skin-tight suit Miguel consistently afflicted himself with. His excuse for invading your privacy was aerodynamics. The smoother the outline of the suit, the quicker he'd swing from his webbing... Or so he told himself. It was a perfectly reasonable excuse, as far as his bias was concerned. 

The temptation was intolerable. Of course, getting a thong was easy enough– Miguel could buy them from the mall with the excuse of wanting to see an imaginary girlfriend in them or order them online if it embarrassed him too much. But the debauched notion of wearing your panties, the kind you wore and smelt like you, drove him crazier than he could ever admit. 

He hadn't been able to stave off the desire for very long. Some forty-eight hours later, Miguel found himself snatching the object of desire from your laundry basket, blanketed by the pitch blackness of the dead of night. Driven by this repulsive need, he'd retreated to his office almost as swiftly as he had entered your home, careful to conceal evidence of his presence. All items had been placed back neatly while Miguel scoured for your thong, and he'd pulled your bedroom window back to its original position, open just a crack. 

Thoughts of your silhouette, framed only by the panties in his hand and their matching bra, had carried Miguel home. He'd been rock hard by the time he'd stumbled back into the office, practically ripping the lycra-like material from his body to slip the panties on. 

So here he stood, spider-suit a crimson and midnight blue pool at his feet, naked in the mirror beside the panties that barely stretched across his ample hips. His thick, muscular thighs looked even wider when paired with the dainty lingerie and the dark trail of hair that sparsely scattered his lower abdomen looked far prettier when decorated like this.

Miguel's eyes slid over the silky fabric against his smooth, tanned skin. The silk canvas barely contained the base of his cock and his balls, straining over the ample flesh he'd managed to stuff into the already limited, thin cloth. The scalloped straps of the thongs dug into his hips, little diamonte hearts encrusted by the base of the chords– he hadn't noticed them until now, his cheeks warming as he studied them in the mirror. 

The sheer mass of Miguel's frame was far too large for the undergarment, the elasticated waistband stretched across the shaft of his cock, so it rested against his stomach, erect. The ruddy tip of his swollen head leaked creamy pre-cum against his abdomen at the consistent pressure, throbbing weakly when Miguel passed his eyes over it.

"Hng-" he huffed a breath through his nostrils, the sound almost a wheeze. Fuck, he could smell you on them, the musky scent of your sex. Miguel can't contain the monster, his palm tracing over the outline of his cock. The fabric is stretched so thin against his dick that he can see it twitch, the engorged vein that extends across the arch of him evident in his reflection. 

"D-Dios-" Miguel moans softly, watching precum drip from his swollen tip onto the dark fabric of your underwear. Running his thumb over the head of his cock, Miguel smears his spend over the velvety skin and watches the muscles of his abdomen spasm with the intense pleasure that spidered across his nerves. 

"Oh fuck, pretty baby," he whispers, tracing the crescents arches of his nails over his clothed length, babbling to himself as he relishes your scent, imagining tasting you. "Want your pretty pussy on my face..."

Miguel's hand quickly grasps the mirror's frame, his knees threatening to collapse beneath the weight of his bliss. He's drooling precum now, steady dribbles leaking down into the elasticated waistband and trailing across his knuckles. Fuck fuck fuck– would you be as tight as your panties felt on him? Would you squeeze him like this? 

Pushing his thumb beneath the seam of your thong, Miguel lifts the waist of the lingerie upwards. Shuddering breaths heaved from his ribcage, bracing as he lets the stretchy band slip from his digit. 

It snaps back onto his pulsing cock with a 'crack', the stinging sensation from the impact rocking down the length of his spine as Miguel rubbed the flat of his palm across the flushed head. His jaw falls loose, vermillion irises rolling back into his skull.

"Hhah- fuuuckkk– gonna cum-" he choked out into the emptiness of his office, quickly snapping the fabric onto his length again. "Gonna fuckin' cum–"

Miguel's eyelids flutter, almost missing the lurch of his dick. Cum spurts from the tip, splattering across the reflective surface of the mirror, painting ribbons of creamy white across his bronzed skin. It seeps into the midnight blue of your panties, darker blotches oozing into the silk as he rocks his hips into his touch. 

When his exceptional vision finally rights itself, Miguel notes the tearstains that streak down his cheeks, wetness clinging to the ebony eyelashes that frame his dilated pupils. He heaves a shuddering exhale, letting out a hoarse scoff at the rakish vision of himself, smeared in cum and wearing his friend's panties. 

Despite the fizzling arousal that singed the edges of his nervous system, Miguel's mind continued to develop images of you. Forever unsatiated, it conjures the depiction of you sprawled across your bed with your cum stained panties balled up and stuffed in your mouth. Your jaw aching, eyebrows stitched together as Miguel's ludicrously thick cock sinks into your tight pussy. Would you tear up, back arching as you attempt to rock your hips further onto him despite the stretch?

Flopping into his desk chair, Miguel covers his eyes with his palm and feels his ravenous cock twitch under the soiled fabric once again. He was pretty confident he'd never return this thong now...

join the taglist here

Oscar Isaac taglist ;

@pansa-1-san @xwing-baby @crybaby-blue-blog1 @aynsleywalker @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @howellatme @mortallyuniquepeach @stvrlights-world @gummyfang @s-u-t @marygraceee @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction @bellasbees01 @alexxavicry @levi-llama @lundenloves @bubuslutty @luuvbuzz @mandowifey

MDNI banner credits go to @/cafekitsune

[isobelardent]

The end of the 911 S8 hiatus can’t come soon enough tbh, not just because of the wishful hopes for Buddie canon but simply because the longer we wait, the more frustrated I become thinking about the Eddie/Chris estrangement.

I need resolution before I hate Chris too much for being a misguided, moody and stubborn (I want to say bratty and selfish) teenager who should not be allowed to be calling all the shots and making his two co-parents miserable. Eddie’s the damn adult. He’s the father and should have put his foot down before Chris even left for Texas.

I’ve read two fics recently where Chris makes the quite frankly bizarre (given his life in L.A. up to that point) decision that he prefers Texas permanently and Eddie just…goes along with it so moves there too (admittedly causing Buck heartache so I’m probably predisposed to not enjoy that element regardless) and it just makes me stupidly angry over fictional characters being stubborn and hurting people who are supposedly the most important in their lives. (This is why I try to avoid angsty fics with open or emotionally unsatisfying conclusions btw but sometimes you get sucked into temptation by good writers).

And the more compassionate side of me gets it. The Diaz boys are both traumatised. Eddie’s been undermined by his parents since forever, but especially when it comes to his parenting. Eddie made several hurtful mistakes re: Kim. Chris was understandably shocked and upset and neither of them were thinking clearly. And whilst we are only seeing one side of the story of what’s happening in El Paso, it’s obvious Eddie’s parents are not helping the situation one iota. Okay.

Also from a practical tv perspective, there’s just the show needing angst and drama and plot needs to work with logistical filming reasons. Sure, fine, whatever.

Despite all that, my fandom brain finds myself aggravated by the notion that Chris and his grandparents are doing whatever the hell they want when Eddie who is a decent, caring, loving father is left to rot 800miles away. Then Eddie makes a bad situation worse by moving away from his rewarding career and support system (not to mention the Buck of it all) back to a place of painful memories where he felt stifled, burdened and demeaned. Even with good intentions of trying to bridge the gap in their relationship, it’s not the smartest longterm move.

It’s a ridiculous (desperate) decision that would do even more damage to his self-image and overall wellbeing (even if I put aside my shipper glasses). And no amount of self-sacrificing ‘children come first’ justification can overcome the sense of unfairness (and unreasonableness) that one mistake (which Kim was also responsible for btw) means allowing your child to run away and avoid an explanation or chance to make amends. Then by allowing him to stay and validating Chris’ impulsive action, instead of having some hard, vulnerable conversations, it compounded the problem

And as much as I was hoping there would be some firefam common sense that Eddie listened to, the BTS footage suggests otherwise. All because Eddie is depressed but can’t face therapy to try and resolve the situation instead of making a dumbarse dramatic move that could do more harm than good. (I want to hug him as much as I want to yell at him).

So even though 8b might be even more of a punch in the gut, I need to see it play out on screen and come to a conclusion, rather then sitting in the furrowed eyebrow pondering and fanfic-inspired “Why would you do that?!!” spirals.

[cantcompetewhereudontcompare]

A complete deconstruction: Louis Tomlinson is a terrible songwriter. Part III

So, we arrived at the last part.

Part I was a deconstruction of this idea that Louis wrote "most 1D songs" and "all the bangers." In part II we talked about how little involvement he had in terms of instrumentation, vocal engineering, melodies, etc, of his own albums. How he got given several songs that were already written, and of the other ones, they mostly came together from a melody someone else wrote.

So what's left in terms of songwriting? The one thing he pats himself on the back for, the one thing Liam gave him (partial) credit for, and the one thing he and hic co-writers agree he actually does participate in (participate is a key word): LYRICS.

[Two of his songs get special treatment you can find that post here]

To be fair, we did a little detour so I could analyze Harry's lyrics first and show you what I value and what I'm critical of in terms of songwriting. Keep in mind, opinion about art is meant to be subjective. This is my taste and my opinions, and you can absolutely disagree.

Initially, I intended to do the same breakdown I did for Harry but for Louis. I also intended to do four songs, and do the different points for each of them.

I had to give up halfway through. I analyzed Kill My Mind and We Made It (and I might post that elsewhere so you can see it). I also intended to do Bigger Than Me and Saturdays, but frankly, I'm simply not going to.

Why? It's just BORING. I'm sorry but it's boring as fuck. I do these posts because they entertain me. I LOVE talking about art more than anything. I love poetry, I love this shit. But Louis' lyrics suck the fun out of it. And no, I'm not being dramatic.

I found myself wanting to compare him with better artists who tackled the topics he did in a more interesting, more compelling way, just so I could stop reading his and analyze interesting art instead. I had to stop myself from inserting Adele, Olivia Rodrigo, The Weeknd, Fleetwood Mac, Pink Floyd, just to name a few.

I found myself irritated, rolling my eyes at my screen.

I had to take so many long breaks, to do literally anything else because the idea of having to analyze his lyrics for two more seconds pained me.

Here's the problem, and I'll break it down for you:

HE'S LAZY.

We're talking about an artist who:

Wears the same outfits and/or the same style of clothes over and over.

Doesn't seem to even brush his hair or do the most minimal effort to look better.

Takes zero care of himself, of his skin, of his hair, of his food intake and diet, of his health.

Doesn't even know his own lyrics.

Has had fourteen years to learn an instrument and to this day hasn't played one live for more than 15 seconds, despite calling himself a musician

Has regressed in terms of vocal capabilities. He could sing better at the beginning of his career with 1D than at the end. And he could sing better at the end of 1D than now.

Doesn't come up with his own melodies, or sometimes, even his own lyrics or concepts.

His idea of an image to project has been "Northern lad from Donny who smokes and curses and gives you the finger and Noel Gallagher and Arctic Monkeys and indie bands" for 8 years with literally zero nuance since then.

Even his photoshoots are lazy. All he does is smolder at the camera wearing some sort of sweatshirt and athletic pants.

His staging is ridiculous, three TVs showing his own zoomed in face in black and white.

He puts zero effort in his career, in his own person, in his own image. I'm 100% sure that I spent more time thinking about his lyrics in the past week than he ever did, and you can absolutely tell.

I tried looking at his rhyming schemes. I compared one song to another, I listened to them (it was painful) trying to find little assonances, and counting syllables to see if he mirrored anything, if he told any stories within them. ANYTHING.

I don't want to cherry pick the worst bits and present them here as a "see, he's bad!" I want my analysis to be fair.

But I simply can't put myself through that. Why?

I'm not going to tell you. I'm going to show you (a concept Louis has never heard of).

RHYMING SCHEMES, CADENCE

[Most times they're either A A B B or A B A B or some slight variation of that. I haven't found a single song where the cadence is thoughtful. To be fair, I'm taking the first verse of the first five songs off each album.]

Album 1, song 1, verse 1:

You're a nightmare on the dance floor And you hate me, and I want more You're a total distraction While I'm waiting for your reaction, why?

A A B B

Album 1, song 2, verse 1

On our way to Twenty Seven Got a place on the other side of London Doing better, doing better And I know you left a part of you In New York under your bed in a box But you're doing better, doing better

???

Album 1, song 4, verse 1 (skipping song 3 because he didn't write it)

Oh my, I remember those nights Meet you at your uni', cheap drinks, drink ’em all night Staying out 'til sunrise Share a single bed and tell each other what we dream about Things we'd never say to someone else out loud We were only kids, just tryna work it out Wonder what they'd think if they could see us now, yeah

A A A B B B B

Album 1, song 5, verse 1

I've been looking back a lot lately Me and you is all I've ever known It’s hard to think you could ever hate me But everything's feeling different now

A B A B

Album 1, song 6, verse 1

Nothing wakes you up like wakin' up alone And all that's left of us is a cupboard full of clothes The day you walked away and took the higher ground Was the day that I became the man that I am now

A A B B

Album 2, song 1, verse 1

Tell you I'm on my way Nothing could make me late Said I had a plan for us Time, it came and changed it all We had to disappear ’Cause nothing gets through here Through that circle 'round my heart Where the best of me should start

A A B C D D E E

This is just a variation of A A B B C C, it's just that two sentences don't rhyme, for seemingly no artistic reason.

Album 2, song 2, verse 1

When you don't want coffee in the morning I know I'm in a hole It's hard enough to get you sober Got no chance if I'm hungover I ain't even woken up yet Not nearly vertical All I know is I'm in trouble 'Cause the atmosphere's so cold, so

A B C C D E E E

Basically, just A A B B B, with some sentences not rhyming.

I will commend the last syllable of "vertical" rhyming with "cold" and the first sentence of "trouble" as well. But the fact that the only reason he added "vertical" was to make that rhyme, because it adds nothing to the song "I ain't even woken up yet" already conveyed the same thought, kinda ruins it for me. IDK

Album 2, song 3, verse 1

I didn't read the signs Walkin' different lines I know I took a left Tryna make it right

A A B A

I'll give him that "left" could be done for artistic reasons, like, the only sentence that doesn't rhyme and it's him talking about making a mistake. I don't know that he's capable of being this thoughtful, or that he could even come up with it. But let's pretend. This is also poorly executed and I'll expand later.

Album 2, song 4, verse 1

You give and give until it's gone away Just tell yourself you've got another day You've lived that life, you just don't see it yet I see how hard you've worked to be yourself

A A B B

Album 2, song 5, verse 1

Good and bad and right and wrong Are stories made up when we're young to scare us Love and hate are in-between Depends on your reality to see them

A A B B

---

EFFECTIVITY AND COMFORTABILITY OF THE RHYMES + NONSENSICAL AND NARRATIVE ELEMENTS

[I combined all of it together because I started doing just the rhymes and then I just got distracted by his nonsense. So have it all together. Also, I'm doing nearly every song and the ones I skip, I explain why.]

Kill My Mind

You're a nightmare on the dance floor

Cliché

And you hate me, and I want more

'Nother cliché.

You're a total distraction While I'm waiting for your reaction, why?

Distraction from what? Reaction to what? You just wanted to rhyme these words didn't you? Cause they look similar? Cause this makes no sense in context.

The devil in my brain

CLICHEEEEE

Whispering my name

Why is he whispering your name if he's already inside your brain? Wouldn't he be whispering something more interesting? Like, idk "do crime"? Or, given the theme of this song "do drugs"?

I can hear it sayin', "Ah, ah, ah"

The fuck does "Ah, ah, ah" mean? It doesn't make sense in the context of the song either.

Kept me living From the last time From a prison of a past life On a mission just to feel like When you kissed me for the last time, why?

I put the whole verse in just to be 100% fair. The last two sentences make sense by themselves, but the first three are nonsensical. He clearly just wanted to rhyme prison and mission, which don't even form a perfect rhyme (different consonants).

And ya won't let go of your hold on me And I don't know what I'd do without you now

Not criticism, but commentary, and I'm being completely serious. This is quite worrisome to write in a song that's seemingly about substance abuse. Just saying.

[I'm skipping DLIBYH because it's getting special treatment. He didn't write Two Of Us.]

We Made It

'Cause we made it Underestimated And always underrated

Underestimated and underrated mean the same fucking thing. This isn't an essay — you don't need to hit a specific word count. What's the fucking need to just pad these songs?

Now we’re saying goodbye Waving to the hard times Yeah, it's gonna be alright

Just unnecessarily splitting a single thought into two "We're waving the hard times goodbye."

If any of this was actually poetic instead of at the level of eighth grade lit class, when Ms. Smith tries to get her students into poetry and asks them to submit their own attempts, I wouldn't say anything.

It's just bad, juvenile. It's beginner levels. This man has been "writing" songs for over a decade, and he gets paid handsomely to do so.

I measure things by average pop song. He's significantly worse than that.

Like the first time Met you at your doorstep Remember how it tasted Looking into your eyes Baby, you were still high Never coming down with your hand in mine

And how did the doorstep taste, Louis?

Too Young

I've been looking back a lot lately Me and you is all I've ever known It’s hard to think you could ever hate me But everything's feeling different now

Verb tenses are kicking his fucking ass. It WAS hard to believe she'd ever hate you. In the past. It's not hard to believe now. Because she hates you now. And you are writing the song now.

["Me and you is all I've ever known" is a rampant cliché, but I'll overlook it]

Also how awkward is the wording "everything's feeling different now"? Everything feels different now?

Let me give it a whirl...

I've been looking back a lot lately Me and you is all I've ever known Would've never believed you could hate me But all the love you had for me seems to be gone

It's certainly not a masterpiece. I'm working with the constrictions of his metrics, melodies, rhymes, corny ass themes, and... I'm not a professional songwriter. Also, I'm not getting paid to do this. But at least this not only rhymes and fits the metric, but also... MAKES GRAMMATICAL SENSE.

Walls

Nothing wakes you up like wakin' up alone

Nothing makes you hurt like hurtin' who you love

Nothing makes you run, like running out of time

See? I can do it too.

It's giving, I'm 14 and this is deep.

Sorry, I know I'm verging on bitch eating crackers territory, but godddd this is so cornyyy

But these high walls, they came up short Now I stand taller than them all These high walls never broke my soul And I, I watched them all come fallin' down I watched them all come fallin' down for you, for you

The whole song is corny, which, whatever, it's a pop song. Pop songs are often corny. It's fine. Now, can I ask a question?

Why would walls break one's soul?

I would leave it as a funny quip, and be done with it, but I'll explain the problem with his simile/metaphor.

First of all, where did the walls come from? This is the first verse:

Nothing wakes you up like wakin' up alone And all that's left of us is a cupboard full of clothes The day you walked away and took the higher ground Was the day that I became the man that I am now

The chorus about the walls comes right after. Did she erect (hehe) Walls around herself when she left? Cause there's no other explanation as to where the walls came from. If the song was about him overcoming those walls and getting back with her, that'd be something that makes sense. Slightly overdone, but it'd make sense.

Well, it's not. The bridge seals it (we'll get that in a second). He's saying that because he overcame those walls, he became a better person. So did she erect (hehe) walls around... him?

Huh, little bit kidnappy. But let's roll with it. So he's using the metaphor of her, I guess building a wall around him, for some fuckass reason. A physical wall that he physically overpowers because he becomes taller and it's too short for him.

So how can a physical wall break your soul? The metaphor here would be switching from physical to spiritual. A metaphor that already doesn't make a ton of sense, now makes even less so.

The bridge, though....

So this one is a thank you for what you did to me

What did she do to you? You haven't said. All you mention is her leaving after you hurt her. Doesn't seem like she did much of anything TO you. It seems like YOU did this. Or are you actually claiming that she trapped you inside short-ish walls? If this song is attempting to be sincere and not sarcastic (I think it's sincere?) then wouldn't it be better to say "for what you did FOR me"?

Why is it that "thank you"s are so often bittersweet?

Are they? Since when?? Says who??

I just hope I see you one day, and you say to me, "Oh, oh"

You want her to say "oh, oh"? The fuck does that mean? After this comes the chorus, so he's the one talking about overcoming walls again. She doesn't say anything other than "oh, oh". Whatever the fuck that means.

[I just have to laugh because the rhymes, cadence, and rhyming scheme of this are piss poor, the melody is interpolated from three different Oasis songs (Acquiesce, Stop Crying Your Heart Out, and Cast No Shadow,) and the music video is directly lifted from a fourth, different Oasis music video for the song Live Forever. Add to that that the lyrics are completely nonsensical and you have the "Louis is a great songwriter and artist" bingo.

NO HE'S NOT.]

Habit

You're the shiver that I can't shake

You give me the time and the space I was out of control And I'm sorry I let you down I guess that I know what I already knew I was better with you And I miss you now

Not going to criticize this because it's just your run of the mill pop song, but I can't help it, this whole song is giving

Always You

I went to so many places Looking for you in their faces

He's INCAPABLE of show don't tell, isn't he?

By show don't tell I mean:

Woke up the girl who looked just like you I almost said your name

Show me that you see her face in someone else. Don't tell me.

Arctic Monkeys has a whole song about this:

I thought I saw you in the Battleship But it was only a look-a-like She was nothing but a vision trick Under the warning light She was close, close enough to be your ghost But my chances turned to toast When I asked her if I could call her your name

I'm not specifically talking about this lyric in particular when I say "show don't tell", btw. It's just that that's his vibe so much of the time and it irritates me. I'm not saying he never "shows". I'm obviously being hyperbolic, and I'm not saying you ALWAYS have to show instead of tell, either. I just think he misses a ton of opportunities to be a little more poetic that would very much elevate his lyrics.

Seeing your ex's face on someone else is a commonly used trope, which can become corny and cliché or poetic depending on how you communicate it. He chose corny and cliché.

Fearless

This is a lyrically sound song. No notes. I don't necessarily agree with his view of things — I think he has a very narrow view of what succeeding in life can be, but it's a well-written song. Lyrically, sonically it's BORINNNNG.

Perfect Now

If you are a fan of his and you're reading this... first of all, wow, that should count as masochism. Second of all, I hope you remember when I was very nice just now. Because I'm about to be a bitch.

You say to me your jeans don't fit

You don't feel pretty and it's hard to miss

'Cause everybody's lookin' at you now, my, oh my

I guess some queens don't need a crown

Listen, I'm no stranger to men writing weird ass lyrics about women. Harry did write "Couldn't take you home to mother in a skirt that short" after all (at least he tried to redeem himself with "but I think that's what I like about it"). But JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.

Not only is the jeans bit a weird ass fucking thing for a man to write that about a woman in the 2020s (to be frank, it was weird when Ed Sheeran wrote it in Little Things in 2012, so imagine now), but also, how cringe was it for him to still be doing that at almost 30?

Don't even get me started with the "Some queens don't need a crown" shit. That would've been corny and overdone if Elvis had sung it in the 50s.

Also

You never stop given half the chance

Cliché

Even when your tears are fallin' down Still, somehow, you're perfect now

Keep your head up, love, keep your head up

Cliché

You make me feel like being someone good to you

....? What? So it's up to her to... make you... feel... like being good to her? Is that not your default setting?

Every insecurity, like a neon sign, as bright as day If you knew what you were to me You would never try to hide away

No, yeah, I'm sure all her deep rooted problems with insecurity, which likely stem from patriarchy and the impossible standard women have to fulfill, would magically be solved if she understood that you like, REALLY fancy her. You're the center of the fucking universe, after all!

Throw this entire song in the trash. Burn it. Then bury the ashes. Jesus fuck, he's such a fucking asshole.

Defenceless

I come runnin' to you like a moth into a flame

This is the first sentence, y'all..

We're sleepin' on our problems like we'll solve them in our dreams We wake up early morning and they're still under the sheets

He probably thought this was so deep. Hell, his fans probably think this is deep too.

Obviously, the point is that you're not going to solve your problems if you sleep on them (double meaning because "sleeping on" something means ignoring it). My point is that it's the type of analogy your Uber driver makes at 3 AM when he picks you up after a night out with friends, and that's the only context in which this analogy sounds thoughtful in any way.

The main problem I have with this brand of lyric of his is that he takes it seriously and so do his fans. Nobody thinks "You can't bribe the door on your way to the sky" is Nietzsche or treats it at such. Perhaps it touches you personally and that's valid, but it's just a cool song, at the end of the day.

Never been so defenceless (Oh) Never been so defenceless (Ooh) You just keep on buildin' up your fences (Oh) But I've never been so defenceless (Ooh)

Tell me he didn't just rhyme "defenceless" with "fences"...

I've been holding my tongue but it's so fucking obvious that his first instinct is to rhyme words that visually look like they might rhyme. That's the level we're working with.

[He didn't write Only The Brave so we're skipping it too.]

The Greatest

Time, it came and changed it all

[Noun] [comma] it [did thing]

Abolish that sentence structure unless you're willing to make it interesting.

Also this is a cliché.

’Cause nothing gets through here Through that circle 'round my heart Where the best of me should start

The fuck does this mean?

It's you and me until the еnd

Cliché

Your face reminded me Of a love you cannot hide

It SHOWED you, not reminded you.

Writing a song "for your fans" is corny as fuck.

[Written All Over Your Face will get special treatment, so we're skipping it.]

Bigger Than Me

When somebody told me I would change

Who told you you would change? People in general? If it's people in general why not just say that? If it was a specific person why are you being vague?

I used to hide behind a smile When somebody told me I would change I was afraid, I don't know why

Something about the "I don't know why" rhyme is so fucking juvenile, but I can't put my finger on why.

'Cause so does the world outside, I've realised

Sorry, not a commentary on how good or bad the lyrics are, but is he saying "I was afraid of changing but I don't know why since the world changes too"?

His emotional intelligence is sub-zero isn't it?

I know I took a left Tryna make it right

Even hen he's trying to do wordplay he just smacks you in the face with it.

I'm not exactly a fan of Taylor Swift's, but Louis' fans often compare him to her, and...

The woman has many, many flaws as an artist (to be fair, all artists do), but when she wants to, she can write a mean lyric, and Louis CANNOT.

Everybody moved on, I stayed there. Dust collected on my pinned-up hair. They expected me to find somewhere, some perspective, but I sat and stared right where you left me. You left me no, oh. You left me no choice but to stay here forever.

THAT is wordplay.

Right and left but not meaning right and left in the directional sense

"I'm where you left me" meaning, in the physical place you dropped something

"You left me" meaning, you abandoned something, ended a relationship

"You left me no choice", meaning, I had no other option

Even a poppy Sabrina Carpenter song has more thought put into it:

We were goin' right, then you took a left Left me with a lot of shit to second-guess

She starts it off as lazy as Louis but she actually adds it a little something something.

When I say his music is worse than the average pop song...

I've woken up from my sleep

Cliché

[Blanket statements about me pointing out clichés. They're not necessarily bad. To some degree, they're unavoidable, especially with a large body of work. Unless I really go in on it, I'm just pointing out when he uses them to keep track of it. Like I said, having clichés, commonplaces, common tropes, etc, is normal. What's not normal is how often he does it]

All of these voices, all of these choices I don't hear them anymore

You don't hear the choices?

[Blanket statement about me pointing out small nonsensical elements. Pop songs tend to say some shit here and there. The problem is the frequency of his nonsense, and sometimes the levels of it. The lack of better elements is also a problem.]

'Cause, yeah, I mighta changed But everybody does

Do they? Oh wow.

Now I realise that the world outside Is bigger than me

Is it? Oh wow.

He made an entire song about realizing that the world is bigger than him.

This is what the song is supposed to be about:

As the lead single from Louis Tomlinson’s sophomore studio album, Faith in the Future, “Bigger Than Me” finds itself as an anthemic pop/rock song, on which Tomlinson sings about letting go of self-doubt, personal growth and shutting down the negative voices.

Lucky Again

If you believe that guy is Superman They're selling tickets at the cinema

Is he trying to say, like, "I have a bridge to sell you"? Cause nobody says it this way. I checked.

I'm so confused.

Whatever gets you through the darkest night

Cllché

Just find the light out in the madness, hold tight

Cllché

'Cause I'm a hard man to lose

Does this mean that it's bad to lose him? Or that he's hard to lose as in, he's got an airtag on him? A third thing I can't think of?

The rest of the verse doesn't help with context:

But I figured it out, then made my way back To a life I would choose We werе lucky once, I could be lucky again

Beforе the world, it got so serious

[Noun] [comma] it [did thing]

Before the time, it got away from us

This combination is lethal.

[Noun] [comma] it [did thing] + an incredibly overused idiom

Face The Music

Good and bad and right and wrong Are stories made up when we're young to scare us

No they're not???

Love and hate are in-between Depends on your reality to see them

Is this purposefully idiotic or am I just not getting it? Love and hate are not in-between. He's just saying things atp.

I just wanna stay in the moment the rest of my life

Cliché. A good excuse as any to listen to this awesome song:

I don't wanna face the music, but I still wanna dance with you

This is a cliché ("face the music") but the lyric is cute (and I'm not being facetious).

Close your eyes and count to ten If you're standin' on the edge of fallin' Open up and looking down Everything that matters is forgotten

Huh?

Chicago

They say bitter ends turn sweet in time

Who says that? This is the first time I ever hear these words put together this way.

You always made me feel much bеtter And I'll always be grateful for that

So many of his lyrics sound like he's texting (derogatory)

All This Time

I'm tryna find the words to say for ages

Cliché

It's not how you spend the time, it's if you waste it

Coooooorny ass cliché

And I keep on building mountains hoping that they'll turn to gold

Well that's fucking stupid. Why would mountains turn to gold? Where did you even get that they'd do that?

Also how are you BUILDING mountains? Who the fuck BUILDS mountains? Do you know what mountains are? And what "building" means?

It's the way we see ourselves through walls of trees

You guys, what the hell is he banging on about? What does this MEAN?

I keep looking up the things he writes just to see if I'm missing some context or some popular British saying. I'm not British! British people are weird! But no. It's just that he's writing nonsense.

Writing nonsense is FINE if that's your stylistic choice. I LOOOOVE Oasis and they write some of the most nonsensical garbage you could ever imagine, but

1- The music fucking slaps

2- It's not meant to be read as diaristic or biographical. It's also not meant to be read as a straightforward story or whatever. It's meant to be flowery and a little esoteric.

Louis went on and on about honest lyrics, and how little he liked metaphors, and how he didn't like exactly the type of lyric Oasis tends to write (all while claiming that Oasis wrote the type of lyrics he does like, because he's fucking stupid — I made a whole post about that).

It doesn't even feel like he's trying to be metaphorical and weird or flowery here anyway? It just feels like he's stupid and says stupid shit that doesn't make sense, all the while actively trying to make sense.

Also, Oasis' nonsense is more poetic, but it has it's own worldbuilding and logic. It's not outright dumb like "building mountains," so there's that.

Out Of My System

Take anything you can carry And leave everythin' else behind

Cliché

I am only half of what I think I can be

Are ya? Then why don't you try to better yourself? Cause that's my main issue with your entire existence. I personally think you're way too much for how little talent and hard work you put into things.

Gotta get it off of my chest

Cliché

I've lived a lot of my life already But I gotta get through the rest

Am I being too bitch eating crackers? Yes, Louis, you have to get through the rest. That is how life works.

Demons, I'm takin' all of my demons Putting them where I won't see them 'Cause I just wanna feel alive

This is such a confusing metaphor. What do you mean by taking? Taking them off? Taking them with you? What do you mean "putting them where I won't see them?" Like, what does it mean in the context of this metaphor? What do your demons have to do with feeling alive?

Having demons is a commonplace about struggling with stuff (it can be mental health, family issues, personality issues, a number of different things). It doesn't typically have anything to do with "feeling alive" or not.

I'm not saying these lyrics are necessarily invalid? I just think he could've taken a little longer to develop this metaphor more and make it click better and easier. I'm having trouble interpreting what he's trying to say here, and I don't think it's lack of trying or being pedantic. I think I'm being pretty fair, and in all.

[He didn't write Headline so I'm skipping it.]

Saturdays

I'm not supposed to be Feelin' dirty cheap on Silver Street At quarter to three

Why not? I mean, the feeling dirty cheap I get. Yeah, you're not supposed to feel that way. That's sad. I'm sorry that happened, bro.

But why aren't you supposed to be on Silver Street at a quarter-to-three? For the record, Silver Street is a street in Doncaster that's lined with a bunch of clubs. If you're ver gonna be on Silver Street, it's likely to be at a quarter-to-three. And I see nothing wrong with going clubbing once in a while.

Is he trying to say that he's not supposed to feel dirty cheap on Silver Street because he's out clubbing? But then why add the time? Would it be okay to feel dirty cheap when out clubbing if it was a little earlier?

I am being pedantic now, btw. Why? Because there are ways to write this that make it clear that the problem is with how he feels while being out with friends. Incredible songwriters, such as what Louis and his fans claim he is, would do that. Not just use the first combination of words that rhymes and fits the metric.

Hidden across my face In the crowd, I'm countin' up the days

What's hidden across his face? He never clarifies. Something is hidden. A feeling? A scar? A mole? A crowd can't hide across your face, and these sentences come right after the ones I just quoted, and are followed by:

In a haze I'm gazin' at the floor Somebody's got your trainers on The ones that you wore When you walked out the door

Still on the last two sentences: maybe he's trying to convey that him feeling dirty cheap is hidden across his face? If he's trying to do that, he failed.

The new bits I added now are alright. "In a haze I'm gazing at the floor, somebody's got your trainers on" is pretty good, actually. I personally would've said "the ones you had on when you walked out the door," instead of "the ones that you wore when you walked out the door." It just feels more sentence like. Because of the melody of this song, he tends to pause between sentences, so the way he wrote it feels like he's saying "somebody's got your trainers on, the ones that you wore." Which would be very redundant. What he's saying is that someone's wearing the exact shoes she wore when she left him.

Like I said, he suffers from chronic Not Taking The Time To Edit And Perfect His Lyrics. That's what I'm trying to point out here.

The feeling he's trying to convey is actually interesting and relatable, and the lyrics aren't necessarily BAD. They just aren't that good and can lend to confusion, especially given the cadence of the song. It wouldn't take a lot of work to make these lyrics be excellent and elevate the song, but alas...

Nobody stays the same No matter how much you want it Some things change

Cliché. And annoying at that.

Through my cigarette A shadow of you sticks me to the carpet Try to ignore it

??

Somethin' about the way The light catches the mirror in my brain It gives me shade

What?

Silver Tongues

Gettin' high on the amber wave

This is presumably about beer. You get drunk on beer, not high, Louis. If he's trying to wordplay like he's high (as in, physically) on the "wave" then he needs to find a way to close the metaphor. He could've said "getting under the amber wave." When you're drunk, you're under the influence.

Going deep for the ones who do the same

He could've continued the metaphor with this if he had used "under" instead of "high." You're under, and you get deeper. If you're high, you're not deep, because high means up. Yes, I am being bitchy. Thank you for noticing. I'm fed up.

Not to mention this sentence is confusing. What does "going deep" even mean in this context?

Air Maxes and silver tongues Settle in for another heavy one

Another heavy one what...? It's not clear in context.

You said love was a pretty lie And I choked when your smoke got in my eye Bad logic and empty cans

I can't decide if he's being clever or dumb. I want to give him the benefit of the doubt that he's saying "bad logic" because you can't choke from getting smoke in your eye, but he's said so much dumb nonsensical shit in his lyrics that I don't know.

Let's give him this one. This, that one sentence from Face The Music, and Fearless are the only lyrics of his that I find good so far.

I know nobody understands Me like you do

Cliché (tolerable)

You know, when I'm with you, I'm so much happier

Cliché (also tolerable)

You smile at me and say, "It's time to go" But I don't feel like goin' home

Cliché (tolerable)

You and me until the end

Cliché (alright cut it out)

Wakin' up to start again

Cliché (....)

There's nowhere else that I would rather be

Cliché, verging on intolerable with how many there are in a row.

Also excuse to put another huge and much better song

She Is Beauty We Are Word Class

Conversation is currency

Okay, interesting! Where is this going?

Shapes become a language

Uh... letters are technically shapes, and letters form words in multiple languages?

Square eyes and sunglasses

Is this a Keep Driving type of song? I can get behind those, but I'm not following right now.

Finding faces in the trees Fabricated fairytales Bring a new world to life Sit down, sit down in the space and time

I'm so confused.

She is beauty And we are world-class (Oh) Forever We let the feeling last

That's the chorus. Small tangent.

In Keep Driving, the first verse lists things that seem random until you hit the chorus.

A small concern with how the engine sounds. We held darkness in withheld clouds. I would ask "Should we just keep driving?"

Essentially, the engine sounds like it's about to break, and the darkness in the clouds show that there's a storm coming, but he stubbornly asks if they should keep going regardless. The part about darkness and clouds seems to indicate "a storm coming" isn't just literally coming in the real world, but also in the relationship.

The analogy is, driving in a car that's about to break, but not doing anything about it, and finding yourself stuck in the middle of a storm because you didn't act when you should've, and comparing that to a relationship.

Anyway, it seems that whoever he's talking to is as stubborn as he is, because he continues to list things in the second verse, particularly "pancakes for two" and "I will always love you."

The singing (the way he sings) gets a little more intense in the bridge. And the things he lists get more unhinged. It starts off listing things that makes it sound like a road trip ("passports in footwells"), which makes the parallel meaning of the song take even more form and makes the other things he listed in the verses make more sense (sunglasses, cameras, breakfast items, etc).

Continuing with the bridge, there are little things that allude to the summer of 2020, "tea with cyborgs" is most likely a reference to doing zoom calls with your loved ones during quarantine, and "Riot America" to the Black Lives Matter movement, which hit its peak in May-June 2020. "Life hacks going viral in the bathroom" is a literal thing that happened during quarantine, particularly on TikTok.

There's allusions to sex ("choke her with a sea view" and "side boob") and to substances ("puff pass" "edibles" "cocaine" "wine glass").

Then "tootache", "bad move", "just act normal" show us that something is going wrong. Following the theme of the song, he ends the bridge with "it's all good, hey you" and then the outro just says "should we just keep driving", signaling that, despite the fact that there's clearly issues, they'll continue to ignore them, and closing the metaphor fully.

I think Keep Driving is a brilliant song, perfectly executed. And if Louis were writing something like that, I'd commend him. Music and poetry within it gives you so many possibilities. Not everything has to be narrative-driven.

The problem that I have is that I just cannot make sense of this song at all.

This is the second verse:

Escape the inevitable Fade into light Soak up the empathy 'Cause I’m with you tonight

I'm sorry, but what is he talking about? There doesn't seem to be a thread that connects any of this.

Are we one or are we two? Are we me or are we you? Have we been all this before? Do you see what I see?

Is it a stream of consciousness type of thing? Cause I can get behind those too, but typically, the songs are, you know, better.

Like, I'm not gonna analyze this song super closely if that's what it's meant to be doing because I respect a stream of consciousness 100%, but I will judge the fact that the song is ass. If you're gonna do stream of consciousness you have to write a banger song.

This is one of my favorite songs by Oasis:

For those who might be reading this long ass essay out of curiosity and aren't familiar with Louis' song, well, I don't recommend it, but you can find it here.

Common People

I came from a good home A house full of terrace dreams That was enough for me You know, you had to see it to believe

"Gotta see it to believe" implies something unbelievable, weird. What is so unbelievable about a good home?

All the late nights, good times

Cliché

No deep pockets, but big hearts

Cliché

This song is pointless and boring.

Angels Fly

Nothin' really matters Nothin' really hurts We can talk about it It'll only make it worse

Jesus Christ, who pissed in your cereal? Not commentary on the quality of the lyrics, but my god.

If every star is an eye in the sky You'll see angels fy

Put the pain behind you now You don't need it anymore

BOOOOOO. Cliché

Holding On To Heartache

You said I wear it like a crown

Cliché

You should be starin' at the sky The birds just passin' by, love

This song is apparently about how much he misses being in 1D, which...

These two sentences I'm quoting do absolutely nothing to further the narrative and I'm not sure what the point of including them was other than not actually having to think and make an effor to come up with something relevant.

I can still hear a clock that's tickin'

Cliché

You know the party's over When you're standin' in an empty space alone

Not commentary on the quality of the lyrics, but yes, he's literally this meme (derogatory):

And time can always heal you If you let it make its way into your bones

Why'd you have to go and make things so complicated? Time can always heal you if you let it. End of. Why does time have to get into your bones? What kind of weird ass, unnecessary metaphor even is this? Just not wanting to think of a better, more compelling way to word things and sticking with the first sentence that fits the metric.

Nothing's ever easy

Plenty of things are easy. This adds nothing to the song or its meaning. You're just saying things.

[Writing this song three years after his admitted BFF said that he would've died if he had stayed in the band feels pretty fucking selfish. He's allowed to feel however he feels, but there was no need to externalize it constantly, especially knowing how much Liam was struggling...]

That's The Way Love Goes

Cool, simple song lyrically speaking. Nothing amazing and there are a couple of clichéd sayings, but it's fine! Lyrically one of his best alongside Fearless. It's a little boring musically speaking (better than Fearless, though), nothing to write home about, it could be better if he wasn't the one singing it. His voice really does ruin everything.

Change

This song is cliché o'clock:

Time of our lives

it's easy to see

We were just gettin' by

If you need, you can call on me

I'll be the friend you need

'Cause everything's changed outside, but I feel the same inside

The kids are alright

When we gonna realise we don't get another life?

I know it'll be alright

We've still got the rest of our lives

'Cause we're all the same inside

If he was trying to do a song full of idioms that'd be so cool. Like Better Than Words in 1D. But he's not trying to do that. There are a bunch of sentences here that aren't idioms. He's just fucking lazy.

The theme of the song is so boring too. Nothing's changed, I mean, some things changed, which I hate, but also I miss it, and I'm from Doncaster did you know?

----

Okay, I was gonna do High In California, but it's just a song about smoking weed, and I refuse to analyze that lyrically. I was also gonna do Miss You, Back To You, Just Like You, and Copy of a Copy of a Copy... I'm not going to. I'm bored and annoyed and I wanna be done with this.

You can find the analysis I mentioned of Written All Over Your Face and Don't Let It Break Your Heart IN THIS LINK.

---

FINAL THOUGHTS:

I think I have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that Louis is a lazy songwriter who doesn't put too much thought into his lyrics, which are the only part where he has any actual participation (going from what he and his collaborators have said about the process so far and the liner notes in his albums).

You can feel like the lyrics touch you or you feel represented by them or whatever, that's absolutely fine. I'm not judging that. What I'm judging is how apt of a songwriter he is technically speaking. I can't judge vibes. Vibes are personal.

Technically speaking, he's terrible. Like, downright one of the worst I've ever had the displeasure of listening to.

With that, I bid you goodbye.

PS I have not proofread this monster of a post. I might do it in the future. I've had this written for a few days, and decided to post it on New Year's as a gift for those of you (all five of you! haha) who enjoy my content. Thank you

[lemotmo]

A lot of these people are just way out of control at this point. Dear god. Do NOT spoil that moment for me.

Q. It's bizarre and a little bad for business that we're not getting any 911 bts content. I mean they want us to engage and talk about it and big it up but they're not giving us anything to feed our excitement. It's not a very good look from a business perspective. The fact is if you want excitement and engagement from your audience you have to feed the audience. What are they doing? Give us teases. Give us photos.

A. I'm going to say from go that my answer is going to piss you off. They're not obligated to give any kind of BTS content. They create a television show. Their job is to make believe. Right now real life is taking precedence over the job, as it should. Their city is literally on fire around them. They're not operating at normalcy right now. We know that Jennifer lost her home. We have no idea how many other members of the cast and crew or their family have been affected. We don't know that the social media team weren't affected. The fact that they don't feel obligated to record the cast doing an Apple dance 2.0 for you is more than reasonable. And frankly the content still wouldn't satisfy most of you because you feel entitled to everything and you're not entitled to anything. Nothing. They owe you nothing. And sorry but you all ran off the one constant, genuine BTS provider the fandom had. They had the nerve to post something TRUTHFUL that made your favorite show not look great and you ran them off the Internet. Anyone who has been around the 911 fandoms for any length of time was not and should not have been surprised to hear that the crew was still being made to work. They have a history of not so great treatment of their crew members. But you didn't like it so you attacked the messenger instead of just posting your disappointment at the situation. The bullying, the constant screaming and shouting about what the show and actors owe you has been going on for almost a year now and it's exhausting and frankly frightening. The entitlement syndrome is disgusting.

'I don't care about Brad content why is that what they chose to share'. ' Where's Ryan, he still has a beard that clearly means he's not filming'. 'Why hasn't Oliver taken any wardrobe photos and shared them with us'? 'Why don't we know what episode they're working on'? 'Why haven't we seen anything of Ryan and Oliver together on set'? 'Why isn't the crew tweeting and pic posting'?

Stop. If and when they choose to share some content they will. But you lost your most consistent access to that content when you behaved the way you did towards them sharing something you didn't like. The cast are not social media content creators. Their job is not social media. They don't owe you any kind of access to them. We have no idea what they are dealing with in their actual real life lives at this time. And it's none of our business either. It's amazing that so many people care. More people than ever are watching and are interested and invested but with that new influx of viewers has come this insistent expectation of instant gratification and access. This show has never operated like that. They engage, of course they do, but they have never done it all day everyday and it's ridiculous and unrealistic to demand that from them now. They intentionally became very anti spoiler during 8a that was always going to continue into 8b. They got tired of people guessing storylines months in advance based off of wardrobe. Don't get me wrong, that stuff is super fun and I love that we can do it but we don't need, and shouldn't want, to do it with every storyline. I don't want the Buddie moment spoiled. I have waited for too long for it to be spoiled by a BTS pic. No one should want it spoiled ahead of time. And Oliver isn't petty posting wardrobe pics because he's not stuck in a boring onscreen no chemistry situationship with a co-star he doesn't like that he's excited to be free of. Gavin is in L.A. so Ryan is clearly going to film with him. They have already scouted a location to use as El Paso from the looks of some of the pics we have seen. You're getting information. Not getting spoiler pics of Oliver and Ryan is not depriving you of content. And actually it's good for business to build the anticipation and it's working because you all are in daily hysterics all over social media. Everyone is tense right now. Things suck. I understand completely that people want to turn to their comfort shows and characters for joy, that's what we should do. But it's their job to create those shows and characters which means it's also their job to build excitement and expectations for those storylines. It is not their job to provide photos and videos to help you guess the storylines ahead of time. Stop wanting to do that. Stop badmouthing them and complaining about them for not giving you the specific bta content you want. Stop trying to tear down something you claim to love because it's not feeding you as often as you think you're entitled too.

Thank you Nonny! Sorry I got a little later at this, but I've been dealing with some lower back pain that made it hard to sit down and type. I'm taking medicin and I have regular PT sessions and I already feel so much better. So I can finally sit down again and reply to this. 🤗

Yeah, I admit that I'm also feeling the drought here, but I don't complain about it. I understand why there is little activity. Like Ali said, we cannot forget the horror some of the people working on this show went through with those fires. Some of them lost everything and that has to be absolutely terrible. It would be in very bad taste to start posting happy apple-dances right now.

I think most of the screaming and shouting is going down on Twitter though, because I don't see a lot of it on Tumblr. Twitter has always been a more 'in your face' place when it comes to fandom. Hence the reason why I mostly lurk there. I don't like the constant discourse that goes on there. It's much more quiet and 'normal' here... if you can call Tumblr 'normal'. 🤣

It's also quite obvious that ABC has the sets of its shows locked down. They enforced a strict lockdown last year and it seems that they aren't giving up on that.

I cannot lie, part of me is a little sad about this lockdown, because I thrive on speculating about the small details in bts footage. It's so much fun to talk about colour theory, clothing, pictures that have been moved, hair styles... It's just plain fandom fun. For me speculation makes half of the experience of being a 911 fan. I love the show, but I equally love being in this fandom and speculate. It's part of the package of being a fan.

And remember, I grew up in a time when all I got was a tiny blurb in a TV magazine every week. There was no bts, no extra content... nothing. So when I finally got into the online fandom a world opened for me. I'm still so grateful for it. My life would have been so much duller without the added joy of fandom and fandom friends.

All that being said though, if ABC has decided that locking down that set is what needs to be done, I'm fine with it. It's their show, they get to decide.🤷‍♀️ The upside is that we have less speculation and information to go on when 8b begins. We won't know what will happen until he moment it's happening, which is terrifying but fun at the same time. 😋

I'm also quite sure that they'll start up the promotional train back in February with the official 8b trailer and hopefully some interesting interviews. We'll get lots to talk and speculate about then. So let's just wait and see what they'll throw at us.

Most of all though, I just need it to be March already. I need 911 back NOW! I miss it so much. 😫 And hopefully it has the added benefit of quieting down the discourse, because people will have something to talk about again.

IMPORTANT! Please don't repost this ask and/or a link that leads straight to my Tumblr account on Twitter or any other social media. Thank you!

Heads up! For anyone who is giving me the shifty eyes for reposting Ali's updates instead of reblogging. Read this.

Remember, no hate in comments, reblogs or inboxes. Let's keep it civil and respectful. Thank you.

If you are interested in more of Ali’s posts, you can find all of her posts so far under the tag: anonymous blog I love.

[mikhailwrites]

Waiting for Connection 13 / Ghost x Soap

Ghost is retired and plays milsim videogame. Soap is still in the force and sometimes plays that same videogame...

Disclaimer: I've played a lot of Ghost Recon Wildlands this past weekend (damn, I almost forgot how much I love that game) and it shows :D

Previous chapter | AO3

Ghost plays much less in the following days. Instead, he spends the majority of his time in the mission editor. The new mission is going to be much bigger and more complex. Ghost raked his memory until he came up with a perfect scenario for a fire team of five. It’s an amalgam of several missions he’s done. Hostage rescue from a heavily fortified base with little to no intel. Difficult terrain, lots of guards, unknown layout of the compound.

He builds the base meticulously on a rocky hill overseeing a valley, with watchtowers and unclimbable walls with coils of razor wire on top. Oh, and there are cameras along the perimeter wall, too—absolutely the worst tactical situation.

Ghost places the A. I. controlled enemies throughout the base. Some walk in pairs, some go solo, and others oversee the situation from a vantage point. Most of them have visibility on another patrol at any given time, and their paths cross here and there. They have good weapons on them, but the base also has some pretty nasty surprises.

As a cherry on top, the hostages are civilians, so he adjusts their stamina to be lower than the default setting for the soldiers. He also can’t forget about the exfil, placing checkpoints and random patrols along the way. The mission won’t be over until they manage not only to free the hostages but also to cover some distance so the extraction helo will be able to land safely.

Frankly, if Ghost had been given this mission back in the day, he would have told his CO that it could not be done. The only way would be to wait for the enemy to transfer the hostages and intercept them. In this instance, however, they’re going to tackle it head-on. He’s done his fair share of miracles and impossible missions, but this right here? That is absurd, which is why it’s going to be so much fun.

Especially since there’s only one way for him to play it with all the knowledge he has: he’s going to be on the other team. The defending one. And with a little luck, he’s going to have a teammate, too, apart from the AI.

It takes him a week to fine-tune it to perfection. Or, well, as close as he can get with AI guards. There are a lot of them, but they wouldn’t pose all that much of a threat to a well-trained and professional unit. He’s so immersed in the preparation that he even turns down John’s numerous offers to play together. As much as he’s sorry and misses his voice and stupid jokes a little, this is going to be so much better.

Right now, he only needs to confirm one last thing—the piece de la resistance. Ghost takes his phone and dials the number. Honestly, Soap is doing wonders for his social life. Simon knows that Kyle will call him out on it soon, but it doesn’t matter. If it goes smoothly, the payback will be very much worth any and all ridicule from his former Sergeant.

The call is actually not very long at all. Because Kyle always has been and always will be up for some good old fun. Especially on the account of men under his command. He accepts Ghost’s offer for a 2v4 match under one condition: the boys can’t know it’s him. Simon happily agrees.

Finally, the day comes. Simon joins the voice chat and receives a warm welcome.

“Almost thought you’d fallen from the face of the Earth,” Soap jokes, yet his voice is slightly serious. Maybe Simon wasn’t the only one who missed the other’s voice and jokes.

“No, but I’ve been working on another mission,” Simon says as casually as he’s able.

There’s an excited “ooooh,” from Rudy, who, apparently, managed to get a new headset in the meantime.

“Don’t leave us hanging, mate,” Roach joins in, albeit keeping his cool, at least for now.

“This one is a bit different. Here’s the briefing,” Ghost uploads several files. It’s a briefing stack, alright. Map of the area, outline of the mission, and all the details the non-existent command has on the mission. Which is not much, really. Also, photos of the hostages and some bullshit story about them having information on a local drug cartel. He waits until the first person gets to the part of the brief where it says that there will be four operators.

“Wait… four?” Soap asks, audibly confused. “But there’s five of us?”

“I’m relieved you can count to five, Johnny,” Simon smirks. “That’s correct. I won’t be joining you. It would hardly be fair since I created the mission, no?”

“Uhm… I guess? But… why design a mission if you’re not going to play it?”

“I didn’t say I’m not going to play it. I said I won’t be joining you. See you in the lobby,” Simon says cheerily before he disconnects from their voice chat. He is going to have his own, after all.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Gaz greets him, his grin audible in his voice. “Ready to kick some ass, Ghost?”

Simon closes his eyes for a moment and feels the corners of his mouth lift in a smile. God, so many memories. And it feels pleasant and warm, this years-old familiarity. They saved each other’s lives many times, shared so many pints, so much banter, and some hurt and misery, too.

“Let’s show them how it’s done,” Simon agrees as he joins the lobby along with Gaz, who has a completely inconspicuous nickname of GhillieMan854. As soon as he sees all six of the players in the lobby, he starts the game.

Ghost didn’t spend the week just tweaking the mission; he was also easing Gaz into the game. Luckily, the Lieutenant was always good at picking up technology-related skills, so it was a fairly quick process. They also discussed the strategy and their roles. Both of them can efficiently work alone, and that is what they’re going to do. Lure the unit in, let them think they have everything under control.

Just a few minutes after the start of the mission, it starts to rain. Just as planned. It’s not just any rain, too. A downpour bad enough to lower visibility to shit. Ghost slips out of the base and disappears into the jungle just behind the walls. Kyle might have a “Ghillie” in his nickname, but it’s Ghost who’s wearing a ghillie suit. As he takes the position on a small hill hidden in the forest but with good visibility of the base despite the weather, he becomes pretty much invisible. Thermal vision would be the only way someone could spot him; too bad it’s raining hard enough to render thermal useless.

Now he waits. Just like Gaz waits, hidden somewhere inside the base, silent and deadly. They have the comms, but it would be stupid to talk shit now. They need to listen closely.

For the next thirty minutes, nothing happens. Ghost is sure the unit is scoping the area and studying the guards' routes, who are not too keen to stay in the rain. The rain, that is gradually losing intensity until it morphs into a mere drizzle. Ghost remembers how miserable he’d been years ago, alone in the Bolivian jungle. Drenched to the bone, cold and tired. That’s the undeniable magic of video games; you can do whatever you want while sitting in the comfort of your home. That, and you probably won’t die playing them.

Ghost looks through the scope, carefully checking all probable points of breach he can see from his position. Then he hears a faint rustle to his left. He freezes. Another rustle. A little bit closer. If they have a thermal on them, he’s fucked. If not… Simon smiles but stays completely still.

Soon enough, one man enters his field of view. It’s hard to say who it is, but Ghost is more concerned about the number rather than identity. Did they actually split up instead of creating two teams of two people, like the brief suggested? That would be either very stupid or very clever. They would play Ghost’s expectations, but at the same time, they would be much more vulnerable. It could also be a trap. The bloke in front of Ghost could be bait, with a partner waiting nearby. If Ghost makes a move, he could either take the man down or be killed before he gets to him.

Ghost opts for patience. But he can’t resist taking a screenshot. He loves the feeling of having an advantage. The moment right before he seizes the opportunity, knowing with absolute certainty he’s going to prevail. This is what he feels now. Yet he’s careful. It wouldn’t be the first time somebody turned the tables on him. The man moves forward, looking cautiously around him. He can’t hope to see Ghost. Not a chance.

However, Ghost is now reasonably sure he’s alone. Good. Painfully slowly, he lowers his head to the scope. Slower still, he turns the silenced, foliage-covered rifle a little bit to the left. Strictly speaking, he could do that shot without the scope; the bloke is close enough. Better not risk anything, though.

Ghost caresses the trigger, taking a breath, holding it.

The sound of a silenced shot is lost in the sounds of the jungle: one down, three to go. And Ghost needs to change position.

When Ghost chimes in, Gaz is sitting in the control room, looking at the monitors with camera feeds. “Got one. Seems they split up.”

“Bold,” Gaz grins, fully aware that Ghost and he are doing exactly the same thing. Three highly trained operatives? Could be anywhere. Gaz takes his SMG and goes on a patrol. It would actually be hilarious if they mistook him for an AI. Gaz wishes they would. He would’ve given them so much hell.

The guards are on the same team as he and Ghost, so they ignore him, and Gaz does his best to imitate the lifeless guards. The rain has let up, but the dusk has fallen. Strong lights come to aid, illuminating the base with white light.

Gaz is vigilant but not overly so. That could tip them off. He makes a round and starts back to the main building where the hostages are held. He sees one of the guards on the right stop. The AI-controlled body hesitates before the programming commands him to investigate whatever seems suspicious. Gaz also remembers his plan and stops, pausing and following the guard. Could be nothing.

Unless… there! A movement behind a tent. Time to play. Gaz drops lower and slowly makes his way around, SMG poised to shoot anything that sticks its head out.

He seems to be in luck. As he rounds the corner of the tent, sure enough, there’s a soldier there. With his back turned to Gaz. What a treat. Now, Kyle could make it fast and painless, but that would also mean loud since he doesn’t have a silencer on his weapon – that would set him apart from the bots. So, instead, he whips out a knife and presses the key for the slowest, quietest movement possible. He’s barely breathing, staring at the display, clutching the mouse way too tight as he crosses those last feet.

The bloke turns in the last second. Kyle can see the jolt of surprise in the movement, but this is a very skilled operator he’s dealing with. The rifle comes up, Gaz immediately dives forward. The knife finds the target, slashing the leg. A burst of gunfire misses Gaz narrowly. He won’t be so lucky next time. Switching back to the SMG, he doesn’t even have time to aim; he just pulls the trigger, sprays and prays.

The soldier staggers and tries to disengage. Gaz is not going to allow that. Rolling on his back, he aims upside down, and another salvo hits. The man is done for. A second later, a bunch of bot-guards show up. “Thanks for the help,” Kyle mutters, then informs Ghost. “Got one, too.”

“Good, they’ve managed to take out the lights by the back entrance, probably some of the bots, too. Might be close to the hostages now.”

“You going to greet them on their way out?”

“Already in position. I think that was their strategy: distract us and grab the prize.”

“Could be. Risky as hell, they lost two teammates, but if they were fast enough, might just work.”

“We will see,” Ghost muses, and he sounds like he’s really having fun. It’s nice to hear.

As a matter of fact, Soap and Alejandro are close to the hostages. So much so that they’re already leading them to the small hole in the perimeter wall. Ghost has placed several because this is supposed to be a bit of a run-down place in the middle of nowhere, not a high-tech prison.

Alejandro is taking the point as Soap ushers the package to walk faster and be quiet. They haven’t heard from Rudy or Roach, meaning they probably didn’t make it. It sucks, but it’s just a game, and they agreed that they will win this, no matter the cost. Who dares wins.

Soap is promptly reminded they’re far from safe as a bullet ricochets from the wall nearby. Sniper. Fuck! “Sniper!” he hisses into the comms, laying on the ground and taking the hostages with him.

“Where?”

“East, bearing one-ten-ish,” Soap makes an approximation.

“Okay, I’ll cover you; get to the jungle; we will lose them there. On my mark,” Alejandro hides behind a rock. “Now!” he gets up and fires somewhat blind in the direction Soap told him.

The Sergeant gets up, orders the hostages to do the same, and runs to the tree line. It’s not far, thank god for that.

“Fuck!” Ghost curses as he misses the soldier’s head. Stupid mistake. He prepares to change position the moment the second soldier opens fire in his direction. Ghost ducks, but a lucky bullet still finds him. It’s not fatal, but it’ll definitely hinder his movement. “Bloody hell… Gaz, get to the eastern wall. I’m hit, but we can still get them.”

“Rog,” Gaz confirms, easily slipping back to Ghost being in command. It’s how they served for many years, after all. Yet he knows who he can get away with. “Hold on for me, old man.”

Gaz arrives some two minutes later and patches Ghost up. Good thing he equipped the first-aid kit. “So, how do you want to play this?”

“Good old manhunt,” Simon smiles, shouldering the rifle.

“I’m up for that,” Gaz agrees. “Think they’ve changed the LZ?”

“No, the jungle is too dense elsewhere. Let’s go.”

Soap and Alejandro trudge through the jungle. It would be much less of an issue if the bloody civilians could keep up. Damn Ghost and his attention to detail. The escape was exciting, Soap would even go as far as to say it really rattled him a little.

But now they just make their way through an endless sea of green. Well, it’s mostly black now since night has fallen. Luckily, they brought night vision. The jungle in the eerie greenish-white and black tones is almost ethereal. But they can’t stop. It’s still quite a long way to the extraction point and Soap seriously doubts that Ghost and his friend are going to let them win just like that.

Ghost’s friend. Hm. Soap finds himself thinking about the unknown variable. Well, he assumes it’s Ghost’s friend, but it could be anybody, really—even some random bloke. No, no way, Ghost wouldn’t invite a random to a custom-made game with his friends. Who the hell is it? Someone from Ghost’s past? A fellow retired soldier? If he has someone like that, why did he never mention them?

“Soap? Focus, hermano, you’re thinking too loud,” Alejandro chides him, and deservedly so.

“Aye, sorry,” Soap answers sheepishly.

Ghost and Gaz track their prey like professional hunters. They, too, have night vision on them. And they know the terrain better. They are quiet, brushing through the undergrowth, guns in their hands. Their great advantage is that they can move quickly and silently. The civilians the other group is dragging along are bound to make some noise.

And they do. Footsteps are easily discernable in the background noise of the jungle. Ghost signals to Gaz to stop. They listen, gauging distance and precise location. Ghost makes a decision, gesturing to Gaz to go around. They will flank the group.

Alejandro stops and looks around.

“What is it?” Soap asks, looking around as well. He can’t see anything. Anything but trees and undergrowth.

“Not sure,” Alejandro says. Then there’s a burst of bullets from SMG, tearing through the night like a disembodied terror. “Mierda!” Alejandro cries out as he’s hit.

Soap turns immediately, finger on the trigger. At the same moment, someone tackles him on the ground. The last thing he sees is a swirling mass of foliage very loosely resembly a man and then a glint of a knife.

Alejandro tries to stand but is immediately mowed down by the SMG.

That’s a game over for the rescuers.

Have a little bonus of totally-not-Soap from Wildlands :)