#i dont even know if i actually like this or not

[hungwy]

That guy is a fake I'm the only anon who really understands that you partake in intellectual endeavors not for the interest and curiosity but for the vanity. You live not through yourself but through your relationship with people. You understand that intellectual pursuits are regarded highly by people in general and that's why you make sure to share with everyone online that you're doing them, you want to be respected. The problem with this is that it's deceitful. Genuinely virtuous endeavors produce respect as a byproduct not as a goal. You suggest to everyone that you're smart when really you're just performative. You could be generating results and providing something of value but instead all you provide is this hollow facade of obscure words and references with no substance of your own beneath. And I'm so mad about your review honestly. The only reason you want to lean into things that piss people off is because as I said you don't live through yourself, but through others, and being able to elicit any kind of reaction makes you feel better. A true intellectual would be entirely indifferent, far too occupied by the inner world of their pursuits to give a care.

hmmm... not true actually. please consult the graph

[anakinstwinklebunny]

PAIRING: hayden christensen x pregnant!reader

FLUFF ❦

You’re glaring at your own feet like they betrayed you in the worst way imaginable. You felt humiliated, embarrassed and fat. And you swear to anything that's holy, it does not help you with your hormones that give you a true rollercoaster. While you're in your own thoughts, HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN crouched in front of you, big hands working carefully as he looped your shoelaces together. For the first time since your pregnancy you'd actually let him do that. You'd tried to go with sandals, something light, something easy to wear with no tying, zipping and all that shit you had in your closet. But when the pregnancy started to get more and more serious, when your belly was pulling you back from doing basic things, you had to let him help. Otherwise, how were you supposed to go outside, barefooted?

Your lower lip jutted out as you blinked down at him, sniffling softly, quietly. Hayden, of course, noticed immediately, like he always does, pausing after finishing the knot. He looked up at you, blue eyes warm with concern.

“…Sweetheart?”

Your lip instantly wobbled. “I can’t even tie my own shoes anymore.”

His brows lift slightly, lips twitching like he was trying so hard not to smile. “Well, yeah, baby. Kinda hard with that belly in the way.”

You sniffled harder. The audacity “My belly isn't 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 big.”

He exhaled through his nose; amused yet still incredibly soft with a patience of a saint “You’re literally growing a whole human in there, sweetheart.”

You crossed your arms, eyes still locked onto his as he kneeled before you. “But I wanted to do it myself, no help required”

Now Hayden definitely couldn't bite down his smile

He sat back on his heels, resting his palms against your knees, rubbing slow circles with his thumbs. “You want me to untie ‘em so you can do it yourself?”

You gasped. “Dont you dare”

He laughed, the sound deep and warm, adam apple visibly moving back and forth against his throat. The melody of it was so full of love you nearly melted into a puddle right then and there.

“Then what’s the problem, baby?” he asked gently, thumbs still stroking your skin.

Your lips twisted into a more advanced pout “Dont wanna talk about it”

Hayden tilted his head, fighting another grin. “You sure?”

You nodded firmly.

“…You sure sure?”

You shot him a weak glare before it completely fell apart, upon to you just sniffling again, reaching for him, arms looping around his neck as you practically collapse into his warm, solid chest.

Hayden had caught you like it was nothing. Like you don’t weigh anything at all. His hands smoothed over your back, voice dropping into that hushed, soothing tone he always uses when you get all teary-eyed over nothing.

“Aw, baby,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Hormones hittin’ you hard today, huh?” to which you just nodded into his neck, sniffling once more. None had really prepared you for such effects of pregnancy; constant mood swings, cravings, visits to the bathroom each five to ten minutes, having trouble sleeping...

He smiled. “You know I don’t mind tying your shoes, right?”

You squeezed him tighter, wanting to be as close as it's possible to him. “its the principle of it.”

Hayden laughed again, pressing another kiss to your hair. “Alright, sweetheart. Whatever you say.”

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @babybell-cheese @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @ysrjune @anakinskwkler @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @l1ttle-misssunsh1ne @anakinca @rubiesarepretty @luluartpop @cloverina @nikiloveshayden @cherriies-snake @skywalkerssgirl

[silvaurum]

ehhh i think that the us political chaos may be a part of it, but i really do agree that ignorance/incuriosity is a fundamental us cultural thing. it's not like 'the us thinks its the center of the universe' is a new political thing. we've been doing this since before we were a country.

on the proletariat level though, those of us in the imperial core have incentive to not-know, and not want-to-know. not just 'the media/government/corporations dont want us to know about the world' but we, personally, have emotional incentive to shut ourselves off from the world. being aware of the suffering that fuels our nation would produce guilt, confusion, grief, and we have the luxury of being able to avoid all of that. just by closing our eyes and covering our ears and never looking too closely. we are rewarded for being unaware. we are brought comfort by being unaware.

the reactions people in the us have to being called out on their incuriosity is defensive. it's a mental block, a safety wall to prevent us from considering the impact our empire has on the world and our fellow humans beings. which is why people get angry about it being probed. the suggestion that we be aware threatens our relationship to the material benefits of the empire, even if just in our own mind.

this is only really possible on the scale we see it, imo, because the us cultural framework is so intensely individualist and atomized. if we let ourselves be aware of nestle slavery chocolate, then we as individuals would feel bad about nestle products, so we as individuals wouldn't want to buy them, which makes us have to change our individual habits, and our routine... but the idea of working together socially to prevent nestle from operating with slavery doesn't occur or seem plausible. we believe we must solve these international problems through our individual action, which is impossible, clearly, and so we put up a mental defense to prevent ourselves from being aware that there is a problem.

in reality, we should just band together to destroy all exploitation. but there are other cultural imperatives that teach us that being individually powerful and atomized and 'not needing help' and all are morally good. and also that hierarchies are always good natural and invincible. this is stupid, of course, and we in the us should get over it. like actually for real get over it and accept that we live in a society and rely on each other.

i dont say any of this to justify "u.s. americans are not intellectual, to put it mildly." i'm just trying to explain my observations as an insider so that we can work together to crack this stupid cultural thing open. there's got to be effective ways we can undo these cultural narratives and get around these mental barriers. it is truly unnatural for an entire nation to be so socially under-developed, but it's because the imperial core wants to balance conscience and material benefit when it cannot look clearly at itself or the world and do that. so it refuses to look clearly. "i would need a passport and the leisure of a vacation to know about other countries or cultures" is ridiculous cope, but thats because its an emotion-driven excuse to an emotion-driven problem.

[alicentsgf]

I think sometimes people misunderstand Shaunas relationship to violence and butchery. I've said before I dont think Shauna enjoys the violence of it and people have pushed back on that and I get why but I just want to explain what I mean.

I think the important aspect to remember is Shaunas attraction is primarily to power and control. She has always wanted to control and manipulate, she just doesnt know how to achieve it half the time, so when Coach Ben hands her the knife to butcher the stag she does get a thrill from it. Dead things cant fight back, she has power here, i guess in that way she enjoys the violence in it. Its also the fact she suddenly has a skill the others dont. Something to feel wanted and important in. Heres something she can manipulate physically the way she feels jackie manipulates her mentally. Its an outlet. Its fulfilling. And its not really the violence and blood she enjoys, its the security of having a domain thats hers to control.

Then, slowly but surely, it becomes a burden. She has to ration the food and as the winter goes on every week the rations get smaller and smaller. Now shes not so much the "badass" feeding them like Jackie dubbed her, shes the person disappointing them as she hands them some dried up, meager strips of bear meat.

What comes next is even worse. The most fucking awful burden, and theres no sense of control anymore at all. Butchering javi doesnt make her feel powerful, she's shaking, tear tracks down her cheeks, absolutely helpless. This is pure desperation, they're all depending on her. She feels compelled to do this because they need it and she has always wanted to be needed. Maybe even looked at like a hero or a martyr. To be admired. She shoulders the burden because shes the only one who can and she hopes when this over they'll look at her and see what shes sacrificed for them. Then maybe she'll regain that brief sense of control she once felt.

Except thats not how it happens. The burden she takes on is so heavy, piled on top of everything else shes lost, and it crushes her. Now none of the others can even bear to look at her. Shes something ugly now. They cant acknowledge what she did without acknowledging the part they played too. Shauna gifted them that ability to look away, and now they're trampling all over her grief and pain, thanking the wilderness for the sacrifices shes made; Jackie, Javi, her baby. Now the job that once made her feel powerful makes her feel weak at best and sickens her at worst, makes her feel worthless, so she lashes out at Nat. Nat who Shauna sees as always getting the glory of the kill without the hard work of the butchering. Its irrational but thats always been Shauna. In her misplaced hatred she wants to tear Nat down so badly. She needs to see Nat, so steadfast in her goodness, broken like this too so she can stop feeling so guilty about what shes become. Desperate to not feel so alone in it. She needs someone who will look her in the eyes and understand her, even if they don't like what they see.

So its never been the actual blood and guts Shauna finds enjoyment in. She doesn't jump at the chance to commit violence herself unless its an impulse, lashing out in rage or desperation. She gets far more enjoyment from coercing others; trying to manipulate Nat into shooting Coach Ben, handing the knife to Melissa to cut his tendon, punishing Nat by forcing her to be the butcher. Shauna hands off these roles easily because the more visceral side of violence is just a means to an end for her. What she really enjoys is power, control, manipulating others into violence because she feels so deeply isolated being the only one who had to feel Javis freezing skin and cold blood under her fingertips.

As an adult she kills the rabbit in the garden and yet again this is out of a need for control, frustrated by it damaging her flowers, frustrated by the lack of control she feels in her own home with her own family. So unseen and underappreciated once again. Its a messed up coping mechanism she just cant shake. But then she cries when Lottie tells her she doesnt have to kill the goat. Theres nothing to gain from it, and shes so tired of killing innocent things. Violence for violences sake is not who she is, it never was, shes just forever grasping desperately at power because deep down she feels so utterly helpless. Everything shes ever wanted she seems to come so close to having when it slides through her fingers; Jackie, her baby boy, an ivy league education, a relationship with her daughter, a way of reliving her lost youth. But no matter how hard she tries to control the situation, to control herself, she never can. She is all impulse, self-destruction and repression. What she wants most has always been the very antithesis of who she is.

So its always been about control for Shauna because shes never truly had it. Its more important to her than anything, especially in the teen timeline. The wilderness is not a place she can afford to be helpless in. Jackie was helpless, Javi was helpless, her baby was helpless. Its why we see her choosing to be angry and cruel. She has to choose it, because if she doesnt she will feel it anyway, and if she fights against the rage and pain and it wins (which it would), then shes not in control at all.

[faunandfloraas]

certain contingent of minsungers have been having an absolute time over the 2min duet since it was announced, just freaking out about it, lee knows being forced to do this, minsungs being oppressed, etc. etc. seungmin's an evil villain, lee know hates him etc. etc. want so bad was suppressed blah blah and the thing is- im not shocked, ive seen this behaviour for ages now and i expect it. whats offending me at this point is no one ever mentions han and seungmin's dynamic. like okay be a lunatic and hate seungmin and freak out about lee know writing a song, fine- why does han never rate a mention? why does respirator and its sweet little lyrics never rate a mention if we're talking about unit songs. also respirator was the song the company wouldnt release for a yr and both han and seungmin had to repeatedly bring it up so lol cmon now han and seungmin are cute enough to rate a mention, put a lil respect on seungsung now.

[kittynugg]

okay let me consult my google doc i made an d blacked out during (p.s. should i give you access to the doc or would that give you another thing to NOT focus on college for. i dont have everything written down but im working on jotting everyhing in somewhat of a reasonable order to make a timeline out of it later) i think i wrote about stan and ford living together during college

i feel like they cant go without that "THIS IS HOW WE DO IT IN JERSEY" charm but fffuh idk maybe caryn takes the initiative to put them in a different school if the bullying is bad??

here's what i have related to the college thing tho what do we think

also writing this here because i WILL forget, im noooot sure what the first post will even be so i wouldnt mind continuing to brainstorm here for the time being

i might scrawl out a quick oneshot as an introduction or maybe since you talked in the tags about drawing their designs that could be an option lemme open firealpaca and get scribbling

everything you wrote about filbrick i'd like to take initiative and declare canon, including shermie being the older sibling because TH E FUCKING POTENTIAL?? HELLO?? i had to like. take a minute at "you still haven't gotten those removed?" theres GOING to be a bit where they visit him and he's GOING to say that.

and can i propose that they stay over for a while (prob not in the same house stan and ford get a hotel room) and filbrick finds out ford's autistic somehow and takes him to a doctor to ask how to fix it and its just really uncomfortable for both the stans (based on my grandfather and my brother 😔/lh but imagine the fuc,ing angst)

okay heading back to the 2000s with museum talk now your idea with the coffee and tea is actually so good and fun. the coffee is behind a locked cabinet not because they're worried for the consumer due to the strength, but because stan's worried for ford because he already practically pisses caffeine and does not need the blend he learned from that pixie he's never seen blink

yes ford is still sleep-deprived you can only fix so much with one au

they'd definitely raise money for shit in the woods tho maybe not preservation since they seem fine but like as the gnome homeless population grows yanno (idk i imagine the gnomes to be a very humanlike society with crime and homelessness and shit because god is it fucking funny like the weed gnome from that one fic i wrote)

okay i have to fucking sleep but yeah any ideas go for it bitch the world is your oyster also GO TO SLEEP YOU i know we're in similar timezones

i dont wanna hear it

[asheepinfrance]

I think you would write сute/comfort fic patrick× pregnant reader 🎀

ACKKKK thank you this is so. im so. i dont know when the last time i got a request was. thank you, deeply, for trusting me with making something you imagined come to fruition in some way. i hope this is something you can enjoy. im calling this one aubrey

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The words ‘Patrick Zweig’ and ‘commitment’ had essentially never been spoken in the same sentence. Of course, he wasn’t entirely a lost cause when it came to settling down, finding a comfortable life for himself with all the amenities a trust fund and pro-tennis money can buy, but he never, ever wanted to settle. When he looked himself in the mirror, saw himself getting older, a beard growing in that he was reluctant to shave and slightly more dull of a shine to his skin, he still never quite saw himself stepping into traditional adulthood. A 9 to 5 in a cubicle, answering calls on a landline and typing away at a too-slow desktop, carefully adjusting an old picture frame of the wife and kids on the corner of his desk? Not his speed. He preferred freedom with the occasional presence of femininity. He liked that he only had to clean should someone be coming over, that he could hog as much of the duvet of his bed as he so pleased. Hookups were frequent, spontaneous, and usually fairly good. There was an unspoken contract each time: We fuck, you can stay the night but not the morning after, we never speak again. Always kept up, never broken. Sure, you’d been one of his favorites, someone he’d actually spoken to for a decent bit prior to inviting you back to his. Someone he laughed at not to ease them into things, but because they were actually funny. He noticed a lot about you that he didn’t see in most people, from the shape of your teeth to the way the light bounced off your skin when you slept beneath his covers. He could almost feel something, and it made him sick, both to know you’d be gone the next time his eyes were open, and that he was still capable of doing so. 

And then you showed up again, positive test in hand. Precautions had been taken, of course, you weren’t both stupid, and yet, here he was, and here you are, standing on his front porch and asking for him to do something. What it is exactly, he’s not sure. Responsibility, maybe? A promise to pay some kind of child support? Be a father? How was he meant to do that when he hardly had one? He sure as hell couldn’t raise someone from childhood through adolescence up to the big eighteenth birthday, the precipice of mortgages and the reminder that holding onto life is as futile as trying to avoid its reality. Now this was his. And, still, you were one of his favorites. He would figure something out. 

Figuring something out, apparently, had meant calling his parents up for the first time in a few months. After the exasperated greetings, the dreadful small talk, and the false promises of an incoming marriage, he announced there would be a new (probably more suitable) heir to the Zweig estate, there was no question of if he was to receive some financial assistance, maybe even a small job here and there. Anything for the family image, of course. The proliferation of the Zweig family continues with Patrick, apparently. The least proper, least Zweig of all the people in his family to have ever bore the last name. Thank God for rich parents, he thinks each time he sees you. The woman he’s managed to start letting himself feel for, despite his initial resistance. He hasn’t seen you since he woke you up with a kiss this morning, pulling away just in time to see your eyes softly flutter open and your lips open like the red velvet curtains of a stage to see teeth. He pressed a kiss to your stomach afterwards, which was finally starting to show signs of the intense changes your body was undergoing, and you’d let out something between a scoff and a laugh, mumbling something about looking fat. He hadn’t stopped until you’d pushed at his forehead, and when he looked down at the swell of where the life you’d made together was resting, he saw the shining, wet outline of where his lips had been. 

Even if you’d only just begun to show, the differences between the woman at his door holding the most important piece of plastic he’d ever seen to the one now making a space in his home are striking. He’d been the one to hold back your hair the first time you’d been wracked by morning sickness, and each of the subsequent times. He never minded, really. He’d spent many nights emptying his guts into toilet bowls with a friend’s assistance for stupider reasons. He’d been woken up at odd hours of the night to fetch cravings (lately, it’d been butter chicken) or to rub away any aches and pains which had developed. It was a little unpleasant, sure, at times, but he wasn’t experiencing half of it, and he found himself just wanting to make things easier where he could, lost sleep and spicy smelling kitchen be damned. 

He can remember the exact date and time he’d felt his child kick for the first time, mostly because it had nauseated him to no end upon first impact. The idea of a living, breathing human being nestling itself inside walls of muscle and tissue, kicking around amongst the insides of you, made him feel horrendous until he felt it a second time. A living, breathing, just-about human being was doing the best it could at touching him back, and it was one he’d made. When he heard you laughing, most likely at the expression which had pulled over his face like a veil, he joined you. Wonderful. How absolutely wonderful all of it was. Your skin had changed recently. Glowy in a way his hadn’t been since his teen years. It suited you. Made you look almost like a goddess in your softness. He wanted to kiss you until your knees gave out. He wanted to hold you until he began to rot. He wanted to start the process of becoming a father all over again. 

On the way back from one of your appointments, poking and prodding at the taped down gauze in the soft, flat crook of your elbow, feet resting on the dash, he watched the road just a little less than he should. He can’t fault himself. The sun was setting orange, and it gave you the halo he’s sure was hidden behind carbon dioxide and thick, palpable adoration that surrounded you in his presence. He’d let you choose the music, the way he always did. He liked knowing what the inside of your head might sound like. A song he didn’t quite recognize on the strum of guitar strings and the vibration of vocal chords alone struck him. 

“Aubrey… that’s a pretty name, don’t you think?”

He hummed a bit, looking at the display screen to note the name. Aubrey. A not so very ordinary girl or name. 

“I don’t wanna name our daughter after a song by a band named Bread.”

Besides, if you hadn’t gotten your current name, or the slew of pet names he’d placed upon your shoulders, he thinks Aubrey would suit you best. At least, if the lyrics meant anything. He’d do it, though. Maybe if Aubrey was her name, then it’d place just a little bit of your spirit into her. He hoped he hardly had a trace of himself within her. He hoped she had your kind eyes and soft hands, your matter of fact way of approaching things, but the gentleness to comfort. He was too rough, he thought, even if you relentlessly insisted he’d only ever been soft with you. Maybe he liked thinking there was still a bit of toughness left to him outside of his professional life. Life with you wasn’t about winning anything, so he let himself relax. 

He thinks Aubrey���s not so bad.

[avoidmint]

A continuation~

Probably a lesson to be learned here about one's own hubris. But I'm sure he'll choose to ignore said lesson in favor of just giving them things dirty looks for the rest of eternity.

[creatingblackcharacters]

hi! Im writing a very, VERY futuristic sci-fi story and humanity has gone through many changes including complete change of ethnicity conceptualization (now most people would say their ethnicity is the cityship or planet colony their family comes from, or a subgroup that developed within that, nothing from earth really) and because of this + the fact that through so many generations no ones any one earth ethnicity or culture anymore, everyone is their own unique blend of everything, makes me worry about 'ambigiously brown' characters. I have one character who is undoubtedly Black- im torn on calling her Black in the book bc the narrators (including her) wouldnt have that concept and no one else would have earth words used for their ethnicity or race, but it id a word that we should use more and I dont want to avoid it if you think I could probably just ignore that no one would know that terminology in world. <- sorry tangent. As I was saying shes undoubtably Black, she has dark skin and 4c hair and black hairstyles that will be referred to by name even of her Blackness isnt directly stated, but I have a lot of other characters who are more ambigious in presentation, just due to the way the world works. They have self identified ethnicities and different cultures and practices,,but they arent earth things. Should I change this and make them more clearly earthen ethnicities? I feel bad about that but if thats the way to go ill do it ofc

I have a book suggestion; try reading Raybearer by Jordan Ifueko (you'd be supporting a Black author and a family friend!) This book never refers to anyone as a real world race, as the races within the book are fictional. However, when you're reading it, you get names like Tarasai, Sanjeet, Dayo, Kirah, Thaddace, Kathleen, and Woo In. You get descriptions of the places these people hail from, which take heavy influence from real world groups and ethnicities, including the names of their instruments, design of their clothes, and some of their language. By reading into this, and their physical descriptions, you can tell who is influenced by what general area (e.g. Tarasai is Nigerian, Sanjeet is Indian, Thaddace is Scottish, Woo In is Korean).

Essentially- and I mentioned this in lesson 3, and in the coding lesson (9? 10?)- if you cannot outright call a character Black in your story, you're gonna have to actually know more about us outside of our skin color in order to convey the message that that's what this character is supposed to be! Yeah I'd suggest reading that book- it's for kids, but it's still a really cool read and way to see how we describe ourselves- and study it to see an example of your idea 👍🏾

[malevampiricsiren]

its like they keep forgetting the fact that its possible for us to get pregnant. like i know this is a hard topic for many trans men as it causes dysphoria but its also something that needs to be discussed.

they keep forgetting that the laws that are put in place about abortion rights, reproductive care, etc also affects trans men but they never fucking mention it probably because they dont fucking care to.

if i were living in the a different state, one that has made abortions illegal, and i were to be attacked as a trans man, my rights to abortion would be the exact same as a cisgender woman. we are equally in danger.

because fun fact not all trans men get rid of their eggs. not all trans men want to get that surgery. some trans men actually WANT kids that are made using their eggs. IM one of them. why as a trans man is it expected of me to have that surgery? why do people assume that i want to? why are we never mentioned when it comes to healthcare the same way others are? why are they even BEING gendered? if it were like something someone with a certain sex organ should have then *sure, whatever, but that’s not whats happening here.

nothing should be specified to a gender as people who ARENT WOMEN can get pregnant and do not have access to abortions. people who ARENT MEN can get other people pregnant. lets go back to using gender neutral terms.

*(i also think its weird to have classes based on sex organs alone i personally think that everyone should learn about each organ and how to properly protect yourself and your loved one no matter what organ you have)

why are we always forgotten? excluded? especially when it comes to topics about protecting ourselves?

Holy fuck? That’s actually insane what.

[darlingdaisyfarm]

⸝⸝ american dream ˚.

he says he's a businessman, but his pockets are full of fake cash

author note: i actually started writing this as a one-shot fic and wanted to end it in filthy smut, but i got a little bit inspired during the process....... now honestly, i love the idea. it’s not that canon-compliant, but who cares?? also, i’m not from america, so sorry if anything here sounds dumb aghgh :( i dont really know if i should develop it into smth serious or just leave it like that, so idk if it's chapter one or just one shot but im anyways leaving tags for the whole idea i have in mind. i would be glad to see ur opinions on this

tags for the whole fic: Stan Pines x reader (Steve Pinington because he's hot), conman Stanley Pines, enemies to forced travel companions, enemies to lovers, comedy i guess?, supposed to be slow burn but im bad at writing it, gritty realism, homelessness and survival, lots of crime, sexual tension, eventual smut, dirty talk, mutual destruction, partners in crime, morally questionable characters, fake identities and passports, au i guess? because Stan’s stanmobile is broken

All that was left in his palms was next to nothing, a couple of crumpled bills and loose change rattling with every movement. His hands were dirty, rough, calloused from heavy bags, cracked from the cold, knuckles rubbed raw from arguments he lost. And that damn bruise under his eye was still warm and throbbing, reminding of how easy it is to fuck up your last dollar if you say the wrong thing.

The storm hadn’t let up, and he had no choice. Up ahead, a neon sign flickered in the darkness, seconds away from burning out. “low prices, lower standards!” if he had a choice, he would've kept walking, but Stanley never had choices.

The door let out an obnoxious creak when he pushed it open. Behind the counter sat some guy in a wrinkled tank top and, hearing someone step in, he lazily lifted his gaze, looked at the person in front of him up and down, dirty, drenched, exhausted, before sluggishly sliding a key across the counter.

“Fifteen bucks.”

Stan didn’t even bother arguing, he already knew the room would be awful. Could tell by the smell in the lobby, the peeling paint on the walls and the stains nobody had even tried to scrub out. So he dumped the money on the counter, swiped the key, and moved down the hall, careful not to touch the walls.

The room was worse than he expected. Long, packed with metal beds, at least ten of them, maybe more. The mattresses all varying levels of fucked-up, one even had a spring jutting out like a rusty knife. In the corner, a bathroom, if you could even call it that. The faucet leaked constantly, and the toilet. . . yeah, best not to think about the smell coming from there.

But Stanley wasn’t the type to be picky. He’d been through too much to start acting delicate now.

He dropped his suitcase beside one of the beds and, sitting down, rubbed his tired face with both hands. Accidentally, his fingers brushed against the bruise, sending a sharp pang of pain through his skin. He hissed. It hurt, but in a way, it felt good. At least it meant he could still feel something.

The storm outside picked up even harder.

Stanley knew all he had to do was make it through the night. Just one more night in a long string of nights he wouldn't remember. If sleep came, it would be short and restless. His stomach grumbled, but he’d long since learned to ignore hunger.

And yet, there was something ironic about all this. Here he was, Stanley Pines, the free spirit, a boy with attitude, as his mother used to say. Once a promising athlete, as that one family friend had called him, ruffling his brown hair. And now he was just a washed-up liar, spending his last few bucks on a bed in a room where someone had probably died. Fate had one hell of a sense of humor.

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Somewhere in the next room, a tv blared some ad promising happiness a better life in three easy steps.

Yeah, if only life was that easy.

But Stan had stopped believing in easy a long time ago. He didn’t believe in simple ways out. All he had were his fists, wits, and his ability to get back up every time life knocked him down.

And he'd get up after this night too.

Tomorrow he’d hit the streets again, try to scrounge up some cash, tell himself that tomorrow would be easier.

He already knew it was a lie.

But sometimes, a lie is the only thing that keeps you moving.

In his dreams, Stanley was happy. No debts, no street fights, no counting pennies, no that one goddamn night when dad threw him out like some unwanted troublemaking mutt. Just him and a giant, disgustingly delicious burger. Meat dripping with fat, cheese stretching in long strings, sauce dripping onto his fingers. Stan tore into it, starving. Oh, god, ohh fuck. The best burger of his life. And bacon. Crispy, salty bacon.

Stan remembers bacon and coffee in the mornings, remembers a warm kitchen, the smell of fresh bread. And toffee peanuts, sticky and sweet, caramel-flavored, tasting like childhood.

Somewhere something clattered. Close enough that it shouldn't have been here.

Stan jolted awake so fast he almost rolled off the shitty, creaky bed. His heart hammered against his ribs and his mind latched onto one thought. Cops, fucking cops. He barely had time to say his mental goodbyes, to his brother, his mother, and—

In the doorway stood someone drenched, exhausted, with an oversized duffel slung over one shoulder. Dirty rainwater dripped from their boots and ran in slow rivulets down their face.

“Oh, shit, sorry. Didn’t know someone else was in this piece of— uh, shitty place.”

Stanley blinked. Looked around, still trying to process what the hell was happening. He had just been in heaven, his greasy, cholesterol-filled heaven, and now—

Now some random stranger from the streets had just stumbled right into his shitty motel room.

“I just closed my eyes!” Stan mumbled.

You threw your bag on the floor and scoffed, shaking the rain off your sleeves. “right, sorry for disturbing your precious sleep, your highness.”

“Oh, you better be sorry! I was dreamin’ about a burger. The juiciest, fattest, most delicious burger. And bacon. Bacon, man! Do you even know how long it’s been since i had bacon? And toffee peanuts! goddamn caramel melting in my mouth like—”

“Jeez, calm down, okay? man, you need therapy.”

“I need a damn burger!”

You smirked, shrugging off your soaked jacket. Water dripped onto the wooden floor, which was already sticky from years, no, decades, of dirt.

“Well, i don’t have a burger. But i do have a half-eaten snickers somewhere in my bag. Interested?”

Stanley looked at you like you had just offered him a brick instead of food.

“You think a snickers can replace bacon?”

“No? But it’s got peanuts. That’s protein. Protein is good for you.”

“You don’t get it, do you? It’s not just food, it’s nostalgia! It’s my damn childhood! It's waking up to the smell of bacon in the kitchen, my mom humming some old tune, me stealing a piece before my brother—“ he cut himself off, grimaced, and flopped back onto the bed. “forget it.”

You finally looked at him properly and only now noticed that he looked like he’d been through hell. “Rough night?”

“Rough life.”

You both went quiet. The storm outside raged on, shaking the flimsy motel walls under the force of the wind.

“So,” you finally said, rolling your shoulders, “we’re roommates now?”

Stanley snorted. “Seems like it. Welcome to hell, buddy.”

You flopped onto one of the empty beds, and the moment you did, the loudest creak imaginable ripped through the room, making both you and Stan clap your hands over your ears. Using your foot, you pulled your heavy-ass duffel bag closer, which created yet another horrible sound. You rolled your eyes and started wringing out your sleeves, water trickling in thin streams down onto the ancient, mildew-scented carpet.

“Jesus, what the hell is this weather? it’s like god himself wants me to suffer.”

Stanley, still grimacing, lazily turned toward you. “tell me about it. This place ain’t much better either. I think the walls are moldy.”

You eyed the peeling wallpaper, noticing the unsettling dark substance oozing out of the corner. God, you didn’t even wanna know what the hell that was.

“Yeah, well. Beats sleeping outside.” you said nervously.

Stan chuckled but didn’t argue. He watched as you fussed with your wet clothes for a few seconds before finally speaking up again, in the most pathetic tone imaginable. “Uh, so. . . you said somethin’ about a snickers?”

You looked up, and your heart almost burst, because this grown-ass man with a black eye and a permanent scowl was looking at you with the saddest, most puppy-eyed expression known to mankind. You felt like you had personally caused every single one of his problems. What a goddamn actor.

“Oh my god,” you pressed a hand to your forehead. “Fine. Knock yourself out. Bag’s on the floor.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Practically leaping off the bed, he snatched up your bag and started digging through it, clearly on the hunt for the promised candy bar.

“Jesus, what do you even keep in here? bricks? dead bodies?”

“Yeah, first one to ask gets to be the next one in there.”

Stan snickered but kept rummaging. Finally, he pulled out the snickers, unwrapped it, and—

“Oh—oh my godd—” your eyes widened at the unexpected, borderline obscene sounds.

He literally moaned when the chocolate hit his tongue, tilting his head back, eyes shut in pure bliss. You stared at him in absolute disgust.

“Dude. Ew.”

“You don’t get it,” he groaned, taking another bite. “it’s been weeks since i had chocolate. Weeks! I was startin’ to forget what joy tasted like!”

“Yeah, that was a good one. I wanted to steal a twix too, but almost got caught.”

Stan froze mid-bite, eyebrows shooting up in pleasant surprise. “Wait. You’re tellin’ me, you steal too?”

You smirked, holding out your hands. “Duh. What, you think i have money for this crap?”

“Holy shit. We’re like, the same.” he shook his head, still in shock. “man. all this time i thought i was some kind of lone wolf, strugglin’ through life, hustlin’ my way through this shitty world. Turns out i got a partner in crime?”

“Ehh, sorry to break it to ya, but you ain't that special.”

Stan scoffed, finishing the candy bar. Although he clearly remembered when he kept rummaging through your bag, his hand suddenly stilled and he found something. Something that made his eyebrows climb higher and higher. He didn’t say anything. And neither did you. Stanley was good at pretending everything was okay.

You kept wringing out your soaked clothes, searching your bag for something dry, while Stanley swallowed the last bite of his snickers like it was the last chocolate bar he’d ever eat in his life. And, honestly, judging by the way he looked, that might just be true.

He was watching you until finally, his curiosity got the better of him. “So. Who the hell are you, anyway?”

You didn’t even look up, still rummaging through your things.

“Somebody who gave you food.”

Your answer made his mouth twitch into a grin, and he nodded. “Yeah, well, that’s a good start. Sharin’ food is a sacred bond, y’know.”

“Uh-huh. Sacred.”

“But seriously,” he rolled onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow, “you steal, you crash in shitty motels, you carry. . . whatever the hell that was in your bag, what’s your deal?”

You shrugged lazily. “No deal. Just life.”

Truthfully, your head was killing you, and all you wanted was for him to shut up. But he clearly wasn’t planning on it. You winced, rubbing your temples. “jesus, you talk a lot.”

“Aaand yet, you answer everythin’. Means you don’t mind.”

You squinted at him. “No, i’m just too tired to tell you to shut up.”

He snorted. “Yeah, sure. Keep tellin’ yourself that, buddy.”

You rolled your eyes, peeled off another layer of your damp clothes, and hung it over the back of the bed. Then, without stopping your rummaging, you nodded toward his face.

“What’s with the bruise?”

He immediately pulled a smug expression. “you should see the other guy.”

You kept digging through your stuff, barely paying attention to his cheap bravado. Yeah, yeah. Seen it, heard it, met plenty like that.

“Hmm. And the truth?”

Stan scoffed, but when he realised you hadn’t even acknowledged his first joke, he made a deeply offended face. “Wow. You weren’t even listenin’ to me?”

“Nope.”

He huffed and waved a hand. “Eh, whatever. Owed some guy money, didn’t have it, got this instead.”

“Fair trade.”

“You’d think, huh? So where you from, anyway?”

You kept rifling through your things, but your voice turned colder. “Not from any state.”

Stan raised a brow. “Oh. so you’re not even from the U.S.?”

“Documents, visas, all that crap. Long story.” you nodded.

He dragged out a slow “huh.” and fell quiet for a moment. Then, as if he suddenly remembered that conversations were supposed to go both ways, he said, “new jersey.”

“Huh?” you squinted.

“Where i’m from. new jersey.”

You made a mental note. Oh, great. An american. Then you glanced at him again. . . Grimy, exhausted, full of problems, broke as hell. The perfect representation of the american dream. . .?

You had no energy left for this conversation. You’d had your fill of socializing for today, just like you’d had your fill of adventures. That snickers bar had cost you enough. So you decided not to reply, just shrugged and turned away.

Your wet shirt was clinging to your skin, and it was getting unbearable. So you started taking it off, not particularly caring that someone else was in the room. There were bigger concerns.

You turned your back to Stanley as the fabric hit the floor with a soft thud, exposing your spine.

Stan froze, just staring. his gaze dragged down your back, and then he just kept staring.

Directly. At. You.

You felt it prickling at the back of your neck.

Silence. Way too long of a silence. Long enough to make you frown as you slowly turned your head.

“Dude.”

He immediately looked away.

“What? i ain’t lookin’.”

“Bullshit. You were literally staring.”

He grimaced, turning away harder. “Yeah, well. Not my fault. You’re the one strippin’ in the middle of the damn room.”

You rolled your eyes. “Gosh, it’s a back. Grow up.”

Stan muttered something under his breath, yanked his blanket higher, and grumbled, “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Just warn a guy next time.”

You finally pulled on a dry shirt and flopped back onto the cot, exhaling. The rain was still hammering against the window, the wind howled, and the ceiling creaked ominously.

You glanced over at Stan, who was already curling up, about to knock out. “Wait.”

He cracked one eye open, barely awake. “hm?”

“Never asked. What’s your name?”

That made him blink. And immediately Stan started thinking. Of course, he should lie. He always lied. Threw out fake names like poker cards. Steve Pinington. Stetson Pinefield. Hell, maybe John from Alaska? No, Stan, that's too dumb.

He squinted at you through the dark room, until he finally said. “Call me Steve.”

“Steve?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Steve.”

You rolled your eyes. “Right. And i’m the queen of england.”

“Holy shit. Pleasure to meetcha, your majesty.” Stan stuck out a hand like he was about to shake yours.

But you swatted it away. “Okay, Steve. Whatever.” then you gave him your name.

“Well,” Stan tested your name on his tongue, stretching, folding his arms behind his head, “This been a real thrill, but i’d really like to—“

“Is that your car outside?”

He froze. “What?”

“The shitty, beat-up thing that looks like it’s been in five accidents and somehow survived.”

He pushed himself up on an elbow. “Hey! That’s my baby you’re talkin’ about.”

“Why didn’t you just stay there, then?”

He groaned dramatically and flopped back down. “Ugh. Somethin’s busted. Gotta fix it. But i need a real good mechanic, and guess what? I got no money.”

“So you’re tellin’ me that thing is just. . . sitting there, useless?”

He sighed. “Not useless. just— okay, yeah, maybe a little useless. but it’ll run! probably. Just needs a little love. and, y’know. Not to blow up in the process.”

You nodded thoughtfully. “so you’re afraid your car might explode.”

“Eh. Fifty-fifty chance.”

you nodded again. “Solid odds.”

“Right?”

You both finally settled in, pulling the blankets higher, and before long, you were both out cold.

But you weren’t given much time to sleep. A sharp, hysterical scream shook the motel walls, and you flinched, jerking from the suddenness of it.

“Where is he?!” the door burst open with a crash, and a man stormed into the room. The same guy who took the payment for the room. What the fuck? You hadn’t even processed what was happening before he jabbed a finger at you.

“WHERE IS HE, BITCH?!”

You panicked, looking around. And only then did you notice. Steve was gone. That fucking bastard just. . . disappeared.

You swallowed, feeling your throat dry, trying to wrap your head around it, and just as you were about to ask what the hell was going on, the man took a step toward you, his face twisting with rage.

“YOU FUCKERS SCAMMED ME!!”

“Huh?”

“HE PAID ME WITH COUNTERFEIT MONEY, THAT LYING PIECE OF SHIT!!!”

You didn’t even have time to react before he grabbed your arm, squeezing so hard it hurt.

“AND YOU, BITCH, YOU’RE IN ON IT TOO, HUH?!!

Counterfeit money? That dumbass gave him counterfeit money?

“I’ve never even seen him before in my life!”

“DON’T LIE TO ME, WHORE!!!” he shook you.

What the fuck. What the actual fuck!

“L-listen, man, i have nothing to do with this, okay? i didn’t even know he—“

“SHUT UP!!!” he raised his hand, and you realized he was actually about to hit you. And this shit, this fucking bullshit, was not even your fault. All you could do was grab your bag, sending a snickers wrapper tumbling to the floor, and bolt for the window like crazy.

“STOP, YOU BITCH!!”

However you were already climbing over the windowsill, jumping, falling, crashing into the mud. Pain shot up your ankle, but you couldn’t stop.

His voice roared behind you, “I’LL FIND YOU!!!”

But you were already sprinting down the wet road with that disgusting cold rain slamming into your face, mud clinging to your boots.

You were fucked. You were alone. On the street. In a foreign country. With no money.

And all thanks to that fucking bastard.

That’s how you end up on the street again, with a fucking bag, dirty boots, and realisation that the world is just a giant piece of shit you’re now neck-deep in. Rain’s pouring down and you can’t even remember what it feels like to be dry. Your hair’s soaked, clothes clinging to your skin, and your stomach is damn empty, a hollow ache that’s turned into this dull, throbbing pain gnawing at your insides. And the funniest fucking part? None of this is your fault. But does that matter? No. The guy at the motel is probably already calling the cops, waving around those fake bills, and now you’re not just homeless, you’re probably a wanted criminal.

Fantastic.

No money, no food, no Steve, no fucking anything. But no time for existential bullshit, you gotta get the fuck out of here, and quick. But how the fuck are you supposed to leave when you’re broke as shit? Bus tickets cost money. Taxis cost money. Even hitchhiking isn’t an option unless you wanna roll the dice on getting murdered in some psycho’s trunk.

You walk. And walk. And fucking walk.

And it’s humiliating, the way your stomach growls loud enough for people to hear, the way your soaked clothes cling to you, the way you have to press yourself against buildings just to shield from the wind. Your last meal was half a snickers bar and now even that feels like some luxurious memory from a past life.

You need money. And fast.

So you do what desperate people do, you start looking for work. Not a real one, obviously, because legally, you don’t even exist. So you walk into the first rundown diner you see, a place so grimy it’s a miracle the health inspectors haven’t shut it down yet. The guy behind the counter, fat, greasy, way too friendly with hamburgers, doesn’t ask questions. Just tosses you a filthy apron and says your shift starts now.

You carry plates and wipe sticky tables. Put up with customers who act like you’re not even a person, just part of the furniture. Some leave tips and others leave disgusting looks, but you pretend none of it matters.

Until you spill a drink on some guy, who said very nasty and dirty things to you and the manager, who’s been drinking all day in his office, just decides he doesn’t like you. Either way, you’re out on the street before you can even say “go fuck yourself.”

Fine. Fuck them.

Next, you try cleaning. Sounds easy enough, right? Just wipe shit, take out trash, don’t ask questions. But the people. Oh god, the people.

One guy stares too long. Another asks if you “do more than just clean.” You hear something in the next room that sounds exactly like a body being dragged across the floor, and before they can assign you your first shift, you’re already bolting out the backdoor, deciding you’d rather starve than end up as another missing poster.

So you adapt and start lying. The first lie is awkward, stumbling, barely convincing.

You become a lost tourist, a poor, helpless tourist with tears in their eyes. “i need to get home, but i got robbed, could you please help?” some people believe you, some don’t, but sometimes a few bucks land in your palm.

Actually pretending to be a lost tourist works. Not always, not on everyone, but enough to get you through a night. Enough to buy something cheap from a gas station. Enough to keep you from completely breaking.

But you’re still homeless, from time to time sleeping under bridges, curled up in your too-thin jacket, cursing Steve every time you hear a car pass because he’s probably in his fucking shitty car right now, dry and warm, while you’re here turning into a human popsicle.

Every night, you promise yourself if you ever see him again, you’re gonna punch him. Right in the jaw.

But then one day, you watch some lady on the street doing tarot readings. Honestly, she's dramatic as hell, but you see the way people eat it up. How badly they want to believe the bullshit she’s spinning.

And that’s when it hits you. You don’t need luck to survive. You just need a better lie.

So you become a psychic, not a real one, obviously. But you pick up quick because you watch, listen and learn.

You sit out on the street, put on a knowing expression, grab the hand of the first idiot who stops, and start spewing bullshit about “long fate lines,” “hidden symbols,” and “a rich soulmate just around the corner.” And people eat it up.

God, they’ll believe anything if it means hearing their future is bright. And you don’t blame them because you wish you could believe it too.

“Oh, i see a great love in your future!”

“Yes, you’ll be rich one day, just wait!”

“Your life is about to change in a big way!”

So the money starts coming in. Not much, but more than before. More than the waitress job and more than begging. For the first time in forever, you don’t feel like you’re at rock bottom.

And soon you’ve got enough to get the hell out of this cursed city.

Here you are, trying to catch a bus, because if you stay here even one more day, you’re either gonna get arrested for illegal stay, or get eaten alive by the homeless, or worst of all found by the people who were supposed to make sure you never crossed the border in the first place. Okay, last chance, last hope. Standing on the roadside, you're scanning the cars, forcing a practiced smile, as if you’re not freezing your ass off and your legs aren’t burning from exhaustion.

The bus finally arrives, late as always, Because yeah, why would anything ever be convenient for you? The city is already deep asleep, leaving the streets empty, and that silence unsettles you. You’ve always hated silence. Especially this one that makes you glance over your shoulder and wonder if you should even get on this bus at all. But you don’t have a choice so you throw the money at the driver before he can say anything, drag yourself to the back, where you can sprawl out by the window and maybe catch a few minutes of sleep. You’re already hauling your heavy-ass bag, dreaming about collapsing into a seat, when you see—

WHAT

That bastard, slouched in the corner, legs widely spread, brown hair is even messier than before, his gaze lazy, but the second he spots you, his eyes widen just a little.

You stop and stare. So does he.

“You. fucking. asshole.” you throw your bag onto the seat beside him, the sound echoing through the empty bus, but you don’t give a single shit.

“Hey, what the fuck, lady?” Steve or whatever the hell his name was raises his hands, as if he has no idea what’s happening, as if he’s genuinely fucking clueless about why you’re yelling at him.

“Oh, don’t you fucking “lady” me. You left me, you piece of shit.”

“Listen, doll, it's not like I—“

“Oh my fucking god, don’t ”doll” me either, you goddamn motherfucker.”

You hate the fact that he acts like this is funny. But he's not dumb, he knows you’re ready to kill him.

“I did what I had to do, you know! you should be grateful I didn’t wake you up.”

“Grateful?” you laugh, because at this point, it’s not even anger, it’s pure, unhinged hysteria. Grateful? Fucking seriously? “that motel guy was about to fucking kill me!”

“Well, did he?”

“No? but that’s NOT the point!”

Stan rolls his eyes. You can literally see him gearing up for some dumbass excuse.

“Ohh, come on, sweetheart, i knew you’d make it. You don’t look like someone who’d die that easily!”

You feel your face burning with rage. “Oh, oh, fuck you. Fuck you so much. you know what? I should've stolen your damn car.”

“Oh, you should've?” he smirks. “please, id love to see you try.”

You narrow your eyes. “next time I will.”

“Sure, good luck with that.”

You're aware that he looks you up and down, soaked, pissed off, hair a mess, but alive. And the bastard has the audacity to look. . . pleased?

“Anyway. nice seeing you again. Name’s Bill, by the way.”

You snap your head up. “wasn’t you Steve?”

He freezes. Then grimaces because he just realized he played himself. “. . .Yeah, well. i have many names.

He leans back against the seat, already bored of this conversation.

“And no brain cells. But oh my fucking god. Was that even your real name?”

“Who even gives a shit about real names, huh? names are just a concept.”

“A concept?”

“Yeah, you know, just labels people put on you. But they don’t mean shit. you can be whoever the fuck you want. Today I’m Bill. Yesterday I was Steve. Who knows what I'll be tomorrow?”

You press a hand to your forehead. “You are literally the dumbest person I have ever met in my life. I can't believe i—“

“Aww, thank you.” Stan interrupts you.

“That wasn’t a fucking compliment.”

“I’ll take it anyway.”

You exhale. No, seriously, you’re too fucking tired for this.

“You know what, fuck it. I don’t even care anymore. I’m sitting here, and if you open your mouth again, I swear I’ll strangle you.”

You're so cute when mad. That makes Stan grin. “ohhh, so we’re traveling together now?”

“No.” you're wrinkling your forehead.

“Sounds like we are!”

“Shut the fuck up.”

The bus rattles down the highway, lights flashing past the windows, and you're doing your best to ignore the fact that you’re stuck in the same goddamn vehicle as this absolute idiot. Unfortunately, he’s here, sitting right next to you, breathing the same air, and worst of all, he’s enjoying it. It's obvious by the way he smirks and sits all sprawled out like this is his personal limousine and you’re just some random hitchhiker who happened to stumble into his kingdom.

You take a deep breath. You need to calm down. Just count to ten, breathe and—

“Man, you are so mad. I literally feel the steam coming out of your ears. Are you always like this, or is it just me?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “it’s just you.”

“Oh, I feel so special now.”

You clench your fists. God, he’s such a dick. But something about his words sticks with you, that moment when you mentioned his car, and then the question pops into your head.

“Wait a second. Didn’t you have a car?”

Stan blinks, then makes the most pitiful face you’ve ever seen. “Oh, my baby. . .“

“Your what?” you immediately frown.

“My car! My precious, my one and only. . .”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

He sighs dramatically, placing a hand over his chest looking like he's talking about a dead relative. “I had to sell her.”

“What?”

Stan nods, staring out the window like some tragic movie character. Oh shit here we go, you think.

“Yeah. . . she’s gone now. Sold her to some guy named Bud.”

“You sold your damn car?”

“Had no choice, sweetheart.”

You stare at him, unable to process this information. “and what the hell did you do to end up in a situation where you had to sell your fucking car?”

He shrugs, way too casual about the whole thing. “oh, you know. fucked up. I'm a screw up after all.”

You stare at him, waiting for an actual explanation, but he just keeps grinning that lazy grin like this whole conversation is just a fun little game for him. And that pisses you off even more.

“You are literally the worst person I’ve ever met.”

Stan snorts. “Oh, come on. Don’t act like you’re sad about it. Or what, were you hoping to move in? live in MY car?”

“NO, you idiot! but I was hoping you’d stay the fuck away from me instead of sitting here, ruining my life even more!”

He leans too close, invading your personal space, grinning. “Bold of you to assume I would even let you touch my baby.”

“Are you kidding me, you idi—“

Stan throws his head back, laughing loudly, and it’s the worst sound you’ve ever heard. “Oh man, you are so easy to piss off. I love it.”

“I hate you. Shut up.”

“I know. And no, i wont.”

You roll your eyes, turning away, deciding you’re done wasting your energy on this asshole. But your stomach has other plans as it growls too loudly, and suddenly you remember that the last time you had a proper meal was. . . well. Way too long ago. You dig through your bag and pull out real food. Warm, actual food. Not a goddamn snickers like last time, but something that smells so good your mouth starts watering.

You still remember the motel. You remember this asshole munching on YOUR snickers and moaning like he was in heaven, knowing damn well you had nothing to eat.

You pick up a piece, put it in your mouth, close your eyes and—

“Mmmhmm.”

Stan’s head snaps toward you immediately.

“What the hell are you doing.”

You open your eyes, smirking, and take another bite. “just enjoying my food.”

He squints at you. “you’re fucking with me.”

“Am I?” you close your eyes again, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Mmhh. God, this is so good.”

“Okay, stop.”

“Stop what? enjoying my food? Oh, no, no, no. I should savor it.” you take another bite, chewing as slowly as possible, staring right at him.

He’s getting nervous. And his stomach starts growling too.

“So what, not even gonna share?” Stan looks at you, demonstrating you his puppy brown eyes.

Without breaking eye contact, you put another piece in your mouth, chewing as slow as humanly possible.

“Why the fuck would I share with the person who got me almost killed?”

He gasps, clutching his chest like you just stabbed him. “oh, please! it’s not like I ever needed your help!”

And with that, he yanks open his suitcase, clearly expecting something great, warm, tasty and instead. . .

Nothing. Well, except for some sad, rip-off band-aids.

He stares at them, slowly closing the suitcase. “man, life sucks.”

Finally, the bus screeches to a stop, tires rattling against the old asphalt, and you’re not even sure whether to be relieved or not. Sure, you got out of that place, the one you definitely shouldn’t have stayed in, but now you’re here, some other godforsaken place you don’t even know what to do with. But that’s not a problem anymore. At least you know what comes next. Unlike some people with fake names.

You stand, grab your heavy duffel bag, and Stan does the same with his suitcase. The entire ride, he didn’t shut up for even a second, but now that you’re outside, he’s way too quiet.

You steal a glance at him, he's standing there, gripping his suitcase like a little lost child, brushing his thick fingers over his mustache, scanning the darkness as if he's looking for something.

And it bothers you a little. Not because you worry about him. Just because Steve never gets this quiet for no reason. But you don’t care.

Honestly, it’s even better this way.

You adjust the strap of your bag and start walking. Slow, but determined. You don’t need this idiot. You don’t trust him, not after what he did, and not after he screwed you over. Yeah, maybe you’re no saint, but at least you never betrayed him the way he betrayed you.

And now, when he’s in even deeper shit than you are, why the hell should you stay?

But of course, he just has to open his damn mouth.

“So what? You just leave?”

You stop, exhaling sharply. “um, what do you expect me to do? take your hand and lead you like a lost puppy?”

“I mean, that would be nice.” he smiles awkwardly.

You roll your eyes and turn, meeting his sad gaze. “look, Steve if that's even your name, you got me in enough shit already. The last thing i need is you making it worse.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes right back at you.

“Oh please. Don’t act like you weren’t already knee-deep in trouble before me.”

“Yeah, but at least i was handling it! Unlike some people.”

Stan narrows his eyes at your answer. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, at least i still have my business. I still got people to scam. What do you have? Failed cons and a car you had to sell to some guy named Bud?” you smirk, shaking your head.

His face twists in mock offense. “Hey, Bud was a great guy! very talkative! he even gave me some advice—“

“I do not care.”

“Man, you’re so heartless.” Stan sighs.

“And you’re a liability.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but then he just stops. You see it hit him, even if he tries to play it off. Stan hates losing, hates to realise that someone else is better than him at at least one thing he thought he was good at, scamming. And right now you’re doing better.

He could say it’s not a competition, but for him, it always is. And that feeling, that he’s falling behind, pisses him off more than anything.

But when Stan blinks, shaking the thought off, he notices he’s standing alone.

You’re already gone and that makes him curse under his breath, glancing around, but you’re nowhere in sight.

“Well, shit.” he stands there, alone in the dark, and for the first time in a long time, he has no idea what to do.

But he has money. Shit, at least he has that. Thanks, Bud.

Stan glances around, thinking this place feels too dark and too empty so it makes him uncomfortable. He needs to get somewhere with people. Somewhere with a motel or at least a spot to crash for the night.

He walks, humming under his breath. Whatever, he doesn't need you, he doesn't need anyone. He's free spirited Stanley damn Pines, right, ma?

He turns the corner and something heavy slams against his head. Stanley doesn’t even get the chance to curse before he stumbles forward, collapsing onto the pavement with a dull thud and everything goes black.

[jadewritesficshere]

Eddie frowns to himself slightly. He was expecting to come home to find you watching TV or maybe doing one of your hobbies. Instead, there are still laundry baskets full of unwashed clothes you were going to take to the laundromat.

"Babe?" He calls, leaning against the wall to take off one shoe at a time. He lets them fall haphazardly next to your neatly placed shoes. He takes his leather jacket off and hangs it on the peg on the wall.

Eddie heads down the trailer hall to the bedroom. The door creaks as it opens. He can see you laying under the covers. Eddie walks over, carefully sitting towards the foot of the bed. "Hey Babe," he runs a hand up and down your spine," bad day?"

You groan," yeah...I'm sorry." "For what?" Eddie's brow furrows slightly. You huff and pull the blankets back to look at him. "I was supposed to do laundry. Clean the living room up for your club to meet tomorrow. Instead my joints decided 'hey let's become stiff like steel so every movement hurts'. My nervous system decided 'oh hey let's send a wave of fatigue so strong we can barely keep our eyes open."

Eddie blinks a couple of times watching you. A stray tear falls from your eyes, but Eddie gently wipes it away before it can leave your cheek. "Those days happen. It's okay. Do you ever get mad at me when my body aches?" He cups your cheek in his hand.

"Eddie you almost died saving the world. My body just is like this-" "Who's to say the Upside Down didn't exacerbate things hm? That air wasn't exactly legal." You roll your eyes.

"It isn't your fault." Eddie murmurs, thumb running back and forth against your cheek. The cool of his rings against your face. "It feels like it," you mumble. "Hey, stop being mean to the person I love!" Eddie pokes your side gently. You can't help but smile slightly at him.

"I love you. I know you get frustrated and upset sometimes, especially when things flare up. I do understand what you're going through and it fucking sucks. But that doesn't mean I love you less. We got to take the bad with the good. It makes those good days all the more special. It's an honor to be with you. In sickness and in health, yeah?"

"Are you saying wedding vows?" You joke. "I mean... I never believed in marriage for me but you make me think about it." Eddie shrugs," Dont need a piece of paper to validate my feelings for you." You smile softly," Yeah."

A few seconds pass before Eddie clears his throat, face flushing," So, uh, do you need heat? Will that help?" You slowly nod.

Eddie stands," Then I am going to go pop the rice bags in the microwave for you, and then im gonna run to the laundromat to get the clothes in the washer because I think Wayne will actually kill us both if he comes home in the morning to no clothes."

You laugh lightly," Til death do us part eh Munson?" "Not even death could separate us my love."

[petals42]

i cannot get over that lumon's downfall so much came down to the focus on the innies' (collective) humanity that lumon tries so hard to suppress, but honestly and actually is their BIGGEST blindspot. Like the goat lady just being fucking SICK of killing her goats and that's such a human thing-- to get attached to your pets, to not want to just live your life raising creatures to be killed for no reason and lumon thought that the innies weren't human (maybe especially the goat innies), that they would buy the shit they were selling because they are naive and believe what they're told and don't have critical thinking skills because they not human but they are human! they dont believe whatever weird cult stuff they are being told! she doesn't even know what the fuck is going on with, mark really, she just sees her chance to get back at the guy that keeps making HER kill HER goats! her pets! Her little guys who love and trust her!!

Like honestly, imagine if lumon had just put a LITTLE more care into keeping the goat-innies not even "happy" but at least oblivious to what was going on. If they asked for a goat and Drummond just killed it himself. The goat people could have lived in plausible deniability! which like, when it comes down to it, is how most of us live but NO! No Lumon is OBSESSSED with control and think severance is the ultimate control and so they are completely unprepared for when the innies are PEOPLE and don't want to be controlled!

I! Am! Obsessed! With! This! Message!

[yaut-jaknowit]

Heyo, i hope your doing alright and have a good day/night :)

I've just recently found your page and absolutely fell in love how you write and draw, please dont stop doing this :^).

Ive been thinking of mabye something like Body and culture exploration? Like lets say GN!reader just recently got with a yautja and they get comfortable enough to actually touch like their mandibles and stuff? Mabye even wanting to know more about their bio masks (like touching or mabye even putting it on) cause thats just something i would personally do. For the yautja could it Wolf? I love my elders hihi. Plus he has a missing tusk there too which i find badass

Thanks <3

(Pls dont mind the grammar, english is not my first language)

A Personal Look

Pairings: Wolf (Male Yautja) x GN!Reader

Word Count: 2004

Summary: In the home of Wolf on Yautja Prime, it's just the beginning of your relationship with Wolf. There is quite a lot to learn about him. Not just his mind but his body as well. You take a moment to learn your differences physically.

Author Note: It's all good! Thank you for the ask!

Masterlist

Ao3

Lounging in the main room of Wolf’s home on Yautja Prime, you occupied yourself with learning. Learning about Yautjas. Since said Yautja has given you a tablet to fill your time, you’ve scoured what they have for internet about them. They were mysterious and kept to themselves for the most part. Solidary creatures by nature but are willing to choose a mate. Clearly since you are here in Wolf’s home.

Admist your research, the universal wide web holds little about them. Just small articles and posts about either thoughts or lies they thought they knew about Yautjas. Some say they can read minds and teleport. Clearly those articles were thrown out. That only left you with one possible, reasonable source. Yet, even that offered little to quell your thoughts.

This was still in the beginning stage of your relationship with Wolf. The mighty Wolf. Each touch you’ve felt like you danced with fate and death. No, you don’t fear him. Instead… it was more of a respect. The first time meeting him nearly was your last. An inch closer and those blades would too sink into your skull.

Somehow, you still live.

There was something that lured you to him. The same for him. The nearing elder Yautja didn’t understand. Of course, he took matters into his own hands and asked for you to come along with him. The least he could do for almost killing you, you thought. Then, whatever that bait was enough for curiosity to spring life. Then, later… love.

It’s fresh love. Very fresh. Barely out of the womb and still soaked in fluids.

Both of you seemed to dance around each other. For a headstrong Yautja, he took a soft, almost timid approach. You would never say timid and him in the same sentence though. Wolf allowed for you to control this, as if he knew humans needed time to comprehend things. Maybe it was for himself as well. Not to rush into something so fragile.

A groan surpassed your lips. The tablet is discarded onto the nearby stone coffee table. How were you suppose to learn about them without directly asking the source? Wolf’s probably got plenty of information about humans already. Yet, all you got was females are larger than males and they breath more nitrogen then oxygen. Useless!

Up a few steps and on a balcony, sat Wolf enjoying the fresh morning air. An inquiring noise sounded from him. You sat up from the soft couch cushion and looked over at him.

Despite not knowing much about his species, you could see what would show him as an elder among his kind. The crow’s feet, the wrinkles among his face, the greying of his tresses, the way he carries himself. Don’t get you wrong, he is still a deadly warrior, through and through. But he’s lived his life. Now he enjoys relaxing and bathing in the suns of his planet. Though he is old, he’s most likely going to out live you still.

“It’s nothing,” you dismissed, not wanting to lead him onto your plans just yet. You wanted to be prepared before going into this. How were you going to accomplish that when said information wasn’t available to you? God, you wanted to throw yourself out a window.

You drape yourself partially over the back of the couch and watch from afar. Wolf lounged in peace. Eyes softly closed; chest softly rising and falling with each breath he took.

Something within you wanted to gingerly glide your knuckles along his cheek. To fully feel his skin against yours. Properly. Not these fluttering touches the two of you give in passing. A growing need to learn about him physically then move onto mentally. You wanted to know him.

“You watch,” he observed without even opening an eye. Immediately, you flustered and bowed your head, slinking back down the couch. “I was not telling you to stop.” You perked up a little and peered over the edge of the couch to find him in the same spot. “I will not bite.” Was he inviting you closer?

The lump in your throat was forced down before you slipped off of the couch and timidly stepped closer to him. Curiosity may have killed the cat but satisfaction will bring you back.

Nervously, you took each step towards in hesitation. Not of fear. Well… maybe of fear but not of him. Maybe it was the situation. Stepping into the unknown. That’s hit the nail right on the head. There was nothing to know beforehand. So all of this was new.

Sooner than you come to realize, you stand just on the edge of coverage from the harsh twin suns. Wolf blinks his bright yellow eyes open then sits up in a smooth, controlled manner. Quite the opposite of your racing heart threatening to beat straight out of your chest. He looks at you from underneath the beating suns, arms resting on his knees. A poised position of ease. You bite at your lower lip.

“You want something.” It was a statement. Your head raised only a centimeter but he watches the movement. “You are free to speak.” He’s given you all the rope possible. Every last inch of it to control the situation. “You are free to ask.”

Despite your fingers twitching towards him, you tampered down that feeling. Permission. That requires words. Words that are lodged in your throat, stuck in way that you didn’t know how to free yourself. You wanted to touch, to explore what he feels like. To learn about him in a way that you’ve never experienced ever.

Those bright eyes. The first thing saw when he brought those blades down. They pierced straight into your soul directly. They also noticed the twitching of your fingers. You noticed the twitching of his fingers. The two of you were frozen in time. Just watching. Just waiting.

Wolf gave the briefest of nods.

Then, you moved. You found your spot between his legs. The heat from the sun and him causing your core temperature to rise immediately. Though, he doesn’t take his eyes off of you, he presses a button on his lounge chair.

The awning above extended fully, covering you from gathering blisters. Yet, that didn’t stop you from feeling the heat the radiated off of him. The lump in your throat returned. Instead of letting your words speak for you, actions spoke louder.

He watched as you gingerly lifted up a hand in his direction then paused, holding the hand nearly a foot away from him. Wolf takes a moment then dips his head again. Permission granted. The unease that had settled in your chest lifted a little, giving way to hope. The corners of your mouth twitched, just enough to show off the twinkle in your eye.

When the pads of your fingers brushed against the scales of his upper mandible, you couldn’t help the small gasp. For a rugged, hardened warrior, the flesh there was smooth, nearly velvety in a strange way. Like touching a gecko. It was the last thing you were expecting from him. You couldn’t help the giggle that left your lips. Once more, you flustered and retracted you hand out of embarrassment.

Instead of letting the moment fall away, Wolf raises his own hand and waits for permission. When given it, the rough texture of his palm cups your cheek. That was more of what you were expecting. But, you didn’t retreat. You leaned into the touch and let your eyes hooded over, gazing at him with… love. Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it?

Though, the callouses were rough against your skin, you didn’t mind it. You were learning. Learning what he felt like. What a life of a hunter felt like against a human. He slowly let that hand drift down and teased the collar of your shirt then up the column of your throat. Not intimate in a sexual way… but exploring.

You helped by tilting your head back and allowed him to feel the way your throat bobbed; the fluttering of your pulse between layers of skin. Skin that was drastically different than his. His pointer and thumb pinched your jaw softly and brought you face to face with him again. You brought your hand back to his face, inches from touching him. Another nod.

Feeling the smooth flesh again wasn’t as shocking as before. But you still couldn’t help the glimmer of a smile on your lips. The softness of it with folds and wrinkles that marked his age. Years. Hundreds of them. You trailed down his mandible, feeling it twitch under you touch. Yet, you stayed clear of the scars that marred the other side of his face, afraid of upsetting him or passing over a boundary.

Wolf was smart. He could sense things before you could, sense a disturbance, even in you. So, the elder took things into his own hands. Literally. With his free hand, he wrapped them around your other wrist and brought the tips of your fingers to the gnarled skin. Your eyes jumped wide, breath caught in your throat at the touch. This felt like a true velvet than just the scales of his mandibles. Your other hand dropped to his shoulder as you focused on the scars.

Your eyes darted to his for a moment but the elder was focused on the feel of your skin. So, you took that opportunity to press onward by following up what was left of his mandible.

The scar was messy. It spider webbed across nearly half of his face and head. A painful experience you have no doubt about. A story for another time.

Though the healed wound was clutter of stretched and sinewed skin, you were memorized by the texture and patterned. You closed your eyes and let your fingers guide the way.

Inside of your mind, you forged his physical form into memory. A different way of experiencing him. You used your other hand as well to map him out. All the different dips along the dome of his head. The ridges and bumps of his features. The scales that were scattered around. Then, you slowly blinked your eyes open and smiled at him.

His own fingers found the curve of your nose. Starting from between your brows and following down the ridge, letting the lethal black claw ghost over fragile skin. The sight of it made your heart jump but he wouldn’t hurt you.

Not with the way he was looking at you.

Like he was discovering the joys of life for the first time. And maybe he was.

That same finger lingered on the tip of your nose for a moment before sliding down to the plushness of your lips. Subconsciously, you let them part. The sharp end of a claw dragged down your bottom lip, almost catching on the skin. You made no move to warn or stop him. Not even fearful he may hurt you. He stops for a moment when the tip was at the juncture of your bottom lip before continuing.

He went back up and diverted to the side. To your ear. If he thought your face was soft, when he touched your ear there was a stark difference. Wolf lightly pinched the cartilage with wonder flashing in his eyes. You couldn’t help the giggle that escaped from you. To see the big bad Wolf amazed by something natural to you is amusing.

Then, up to your hair his fingers went, carding through the strands much thinner than his own. He pinched a bunch together and rolled it. The snort you made drew his attention back to your eyes. Wolf, too, dropped his hands to your shoulders in a similar fashion to you.

There. All you two did was stare at each other, admire the other’s differences. Not bad differences. Just… different. Alien if you must put a name to it. That was the beauty of it all.

Exploring each other.

[maiyz]

yuji birthday special

in which: happy birthdah yuji! stop being an ungrateful little BRAT.

warning: yuji would NOT act like this i just need more angst…

pairing: yuji x reader angst

w.c: 1k masterlist

you werent sure why you cared so much.

yuji had plenty of people celebrating his birthday. nobara had planned something chaotic like smashing his head into the cake (how rude!), megumi was reluctantly going along with gojos idea to suprise him. yuji had all the attention in the world by people who openly cared about him, people who didnt hesitate to tell him how much he meant to them.

and yet there you stood by his desk before class, a small gift and your hands, hesitating.

you knew yuji wasnt the type to expect extravagant gifts, but that only made it harder. you had but more thought into this than you care to admit, a keychain from the movie he loves and a simple note you debated writing at least 10 times before settling on just ‘happy birthday, itadori!’ with small doodles scattered.

it was casual, but your hands still felt a little clammy as you set it down.

you then turned quickly, slipping back to your seat before anyone else arrived, heart thudding against your ribs.

maybe he wouldnt even realize it was from you. that would be best actually.

You weren’t used to standing out. You never had the confidence Nobara did, nor the easy charm Gojo carried. You were quiet, comfortable with just being there. It wasn’t that Yuji ever overlooked you—he was too kind for that—but you were sure you didn’t stand out to him in any significant way.

you dont like standing out, you never had the confidence nobara did, nor the charm gojo has. you were quiet. comfortable with just being there. it wasnt that yuji ever overlooked you— he was too kind for that—but you were sure you didnt stand out to him in any significant way.

you told yourself that “he wouldnt care” and that “you just want to see him smile.” that part true although you hoped that yuji would care.

yuji walked in with megumi and nobara trailed behind, his gaze looked at the small package on the desk, head tilting before grabbing it. “oh yn! you got me something?”

you held your breath, trying to distract yourself by glancing anywhere else, but your heart wouldn’t stop racing.

“can i open it?”

you mumbled a yes.

yuji unwrapped the gift quickly, his usual energetic self. he pulled out the keychain first, his eyes lighting up with a spark of recognition.

you couldn’t help but feel a small flutter of hope. But as he continued to inspect it, his expression shifted slightly. he looked up at you, a small frown tugging at his lips.

“hey, this is cool,” yuji said, his voice friendly, but there was something almost apologetic about his tone.

“i didn’t expect a keychain, but it’s really thoughtful. I guess I thought maybe something bigger, you know? maybe that what i get for opening megumis and gojo sensei gift first”

he scratched the back of his head sheepishly, trying to explain himself before getting slapped by nobara.

“why are city people so ungrateful! i think its cute yn!” nobara says.

“i didnt mean it like that it just came out wrong! im just really bad at accepting gifts, i feel like i dont deserve them” yuji says.

“when youre bad at accepting gifts, you dont say ‘i thought it would be bigger meh meh meh’ you say ‘thanks!’” nobara defends you.

“im sorry! i didnt mean to be ungrateful yn!!” yuji pleas.

“i didn’t mean to disappoint you,” you stammered, not sure if your voice was even steady enough to be heard.

you wished you could melt into the floor and disappear. yuji glanced up, his eyes softening when he realized how nervous you were.

“it just came out wrong! its really cute, yn.” yuji apologized repeatedly, though it didn’t do much to ease your anxiety.

when class ended, you slowly packed out while the other 1st years quickly departures to the field.

yuji stayed behind slightly, having to clip the keychain onto the strap of his bag.

he gave you a quick look before saying “thanks for the gift, anyways i have to catch up with them. see you later yn!”

you saw him turn and leave, and it felt depressing. the thoughtful gift you had chosen, a small sign of your feelings, was received with a lack of indifference.

you couldnt understand why it stung so deeply. its not like you thought he would be head over heels for the present—it was merely a birthday gesture—but the sense of disappointment lingered around you.

you told yourself that it didnt matter. that yuji was a good person and probably didn’t mean to make you feel this way. but the quiet ache inside you wouldnt go away.

later that evening in bed you think about every second, the silence in the room interrupted by the clicking of a clock.

you repeat the events today in your head over and over, it wasnt that yuji meant to hurt you, you know he didnt. but something about the way he reacted hurt you emotionally.

you had hoped he would see it for what it was—a small gesture of appreciation, a way of showing that you cared. although being compared to gojos gift he was indifferent.

you clenched the blanket in your hands, the weight of the disappointment settling heavy in your chest.

maybe i expected too much

you stared at the dark ceiling, feeling the weight of the unspoken words between you. you had tried so hard to show him you cared, and yet, it felt like you were invisible.

GAH YUJI WOULDNT DO THIS

[moonlitsmile]

headcannons

suguru niragi x f!reader

❦- both sfw and nsfw headcannons, toxic kinda, ik he’s a bad person isorry

He doesn’t trust people that easily, so once you’re his, he makes sure everyone knows. If anyone so much as looks at you the wrong way, they’ll regret it.

If he sees you getting too friendly with someone, he’ll grab your wrist, pull you close, and hiss in your ear, “You really wanna test me right now?”

he loves to tease, especially if you get flustered easily. He’ll have that grin on his face, get close, and say things just to see your reaction.

If someone flirts with you, he won’t just glare, he’ll make a scene. He wants everyone to know you’re his, even if it means violence.

Despite his rough exterior, he wants physical affection. He’s always draped over you, holding your waist, or pulling you into his lap.

when he gets mad, it’s bad. He’ll throw things, punch walls, and lash out verbally, saying cruel things he might not even mean.

He gets jealous easily and won’t hesitate to intimidate whoever he thinks is getting too close. He’ll wrap an arm around you and smugly ask, “You need something? No? Then get lost.”

His anger is unpredictable. Sometimes, he’ll go silent and glare at you, waiting for you to mess up. Other times, he’ll corner you and demand answers even if you didn’t do anything wrong.

He might be brutal with others, but I feel like he softens around you. If you touch his scars gently or hold his face, he goes quiet, unsure how to handle the warmth.

If you try to leave during a fight, he won’t let you. He’ll grab your arm and say things like, “Don’t walk away from me.”

He’d throw himself into danger without thinking, but if you asked him to be careful, he’d actually consider it, only for you.

If you try to set boundaries, he’ll guilt-trip you, saying things like, “Oh, so you don’t love me enough to deal with my shit?”

Hed love your voice, Whether it’s you talking, laughing, or even scolding him, he just likes hearing you. He’ll rest his head on your lap and say, “Keep talking. Don’t care about what.”

He plays mind games. One moment, he’s all over you, and the next, he’s cold and distant, just to make you chase after him.

He’s not used to being loved, so sometimes he pushes you away. But if you stay, he clings to you like you’re the only thing keeping him sane.

After a fight, he’s the type to pull you into a rough kiss, gripping your face and growling, “You’re not going anywhere.”

He uses intimacy as a way to make up for fights, Acting like everything’s fine instead of talking things out.

If he’s feeling insecure, he’ll cling to you aggressively, pressing you against him and murmuring, “I’m the only one you need, right?”

nsfw ˖ ࣪ ˒ ்⋆

he’s always in control, he loves seeing you beneath him, marked, breathless, and completely his.

I feel like he bites, kinda hard. Your skin will always have bruises, scratches, and deep red marks from his teeth. He wants people to know exactly who you belong to.

He enjoys the struggle, if you push against him or try to resist playfully, it only excites him more. He’ll pin your wrists down and chuckle, “Oh? You think you can fight me off?”

If he was mad at you earlier, expect zero mercy. He’ll grab your chin, force you to look at him, and say things to you, “If you wanna act like a brat, I’ll remind you who you belong to.”

this boy always licking, licking gently down your arm, thighs, collarbone, neck, everywhere be ready

He loves teasing and degrading you, his words are filthy, and he wants to see you flustered. “Look at you, completely ruined just for me.”

He whispers the nastiest things in your ear while smirking, just to see you squirm

He dont stop easily, if you beg him to slow down, he’ll just smirk and go even harder. He wants to see you completely wrecked.

He’ll hold you down, refusing to let you move or escape until he’s had enough.

he isn’t the best at aftercare, but he does have his moments. He might pull you close after, burying his face in your neck with a gruff, “Tired?”

He secretly loves when you gently touch his hair or arms after, but he won’t admit it, he just melts when you do. The way your fingers softly brush against his bare skin. He loves it