#i know like fuck all about bones and even i think the design of the spine looks questionable at best

[secretagentsagainstwhatever]

Is there anyone like genuinely i’ll take any single individual on earth, who doesn’t have back ache? Because i don’t know a single person whose spine spines correctly and that seems like a design fault…

[eddie4bat-president]

Saw a drawing of Steve and now I'm suddenly thinking about artist Eddie who designed the Hellfire shirts and Corroded Coffin fliers and who draws the villains of his D&D campaigns to slap onto his DM screen for visual aid and doodles in class and-

And i'm thinking about Steve, in a relationship with Nancy, trying to ignore that things are rocky but knowing it all the same. He finds a notebook left behind in school and he only takes it because he forgot his own. He plans to use it for the day and then figure out whose it is and get it back to them in exchange, that's probably more than fair, right? And the person is really gonna want this back - it looks like half their life is contained in this thing; there is... a shit ton of loose paper stuffed between the pages and notes on all kinds of subjects and drawings and.... he doesn't even know what that is. Who is Vecna and what the hell is a... lich?

Anyway as he leafs through it he finds that some of the drawings are... actually really good. Like, absurdly good for being in a lined notebook that looks like it has taken a trip into a dumpster and picked up some debris on the way out.

Like! Those hands! Steve has no artistic bone in his body but he's heard people whine about drawing hands and - he looks at the hand not holding the book and back again - yeah, that's exactly what hands look like! And here - a few pages further (it's one of the most empty pages of the whole thing, mostly because this one seems to have started as a drawing and not as a page of notes that turned into a drawing) there are only a few lines on the page but it's still very clearly the back of someone's neck, the collar, one shoulder.... Then there's another one that is almost all lines, but they were all carefully placed to give the effect of perfectly windswept hair. Then there's one that he actually can't make sense of at first (he almost pages past it because it is just a few lines and dots taking up a quarter of a page of very annoyed... history notes? Maybe English.) It's just a jawline with some moles but... only the day before he had cut himself shaving a finger's width underneath those exact moles. And that's when it clicks. He goes back to the hair... yeah that- that could be him too. Maybe. He flips back to that one very detailed drawing of hands and... putting down the book he tries to get his hands into the same position - the angle is off but. Yeah. That's why they looked so perfectly...! Uhhhh... Handsy! Because they're his fucking hands!

Anyway Steve realizes that about a third of the drawings are or could be him. He realizes that he actually can't go through with giving it back because - what would he even say? "Hey found your notebook, nice shrine to me?" Yeah no. But he's... also reluctant to take it to the Lost and Found. There's something in the handwriting.... He has a feeling that it might not be a girl secretly drawing him. What if someone else connects the dots? What if they confront the mystery artist about it? Flashbacks to his fight with Jonathan, the line he crossed and immediately regretted. He doesn't want to be the cause for someone else getting called that. And unrelated to that, things with Nancy aren't great right now and it's... it's just nice to think someone is paying attention, alright?

Then Halloween happens a few days after. The Break-up(?), the demodogs, Billy and the tunnels- and afterwards it's nice to have the notebook to distract him from the pain. The mundane mystery of a schoolmate maybe having a crush on him. He might not even have to confront them - he can just figure out a way to slip it into their locker; it looks like at least half their schoolwork is crammed into this thing, no matter how half-heartedly done. They definitely want this back.

Man, I wish I could actually write this thing. Damn. Maybe I could even do a scene where Steve tries to Sherlock Holmes his way to Mystery Artist and confronts a (hatefully seething) Robin, because she sits behind him in that one class, only to find his own Watson in her instead. But alas. It cannot be.

[obj4soul]

Women's clothing sucks. And I now firmly believe that one of the reason women are more obsessed about their weight is because of clothing. Growing up I mostly wore mens/boys clothing and I never had to think about size, waist, etc. The clothes won't hug my thighs in the sense that would make me conscious of them while moving. If the waist was too big id grab a belt. Plus the design of pants and tshirts was pretty standard.

Now during my late teens, early twenties i started going towards more women's clothing. Because i felt I had to look more feminine. And HOLY SHIT. It sucked. BAD. First the material. Its so bad and thin and cost more than guys clothes. No standard Tshirt fit, everything has a different shoulder to chest ratio. The pants are either too tight, hug your ass and thighs too much or are too baggy to be comfortable. And the waist. Holy shit. Ive been underweight till I was 23 (medical reasons). And I didnt have a lot of problem with the waist thing then (see where this is going) but the moment I kicked my illness and gained weight and got into normal weight range, dude the waist thing became a big issue. FIRST of all. For guys the waist end at waist, the hip bone area. Not for women. Most clothes go above the hip bones, some even over the belly button. If the thing feels right standing up, youll suffocate sitting down. And even if its elastic waistband, its sitting on your stomach, it does not have a bone to support it and it feels uncomfortable. (Maybe I have some sensory issue, I don't know about yall but I dont like being conscious of clothes sticking to my body). And now to the main point. I never had any issue with waist being uncomfortable when I was underweight or when I wear boys pants (really pants made for boys get more humanly consideration than women) and the moment i got into normal range, the womens pants saying they are my waist size fit pretty snug and tight around my waist, ass and thighs. But still till this day I never face this issue with my boys pants. Today while trying on some pants that my mom gifted me that said their waist was a size bigger than mine I found then uncomfortable and started thinking should I lose some weight? And that fucking blew my mind because I am already thin and in a pretty normal range of BMI. Those clothes feel comfortable as long as you are underweight. That is insane. Seriously. Ladies if this the case with you all. Or maybe some of you. Ditch the women's section. If you are short like me, go for the boys section or else mens. These fucking clothing sizes and designs are not made thinking of your comfort in mind. Now im gonna go to the store and exchange the pants for some boys khaki pants.

I think this is just one face of how the system is designed to make you feel uncomfortable and doubt yourself. You see how much waist room guys get? We are the same species after all. What the fuck. Do you make different size clothing for male and female cats or monkeys? No fucking other species have such a wide difference in body shape than what humans are told we have.

[puck-luck]

one bed trope by design | dawson mercer

warnings: fwb but unspokenly more, eldest daughter vibes in the first paragraph, teasing & annoying your partner, pet names, oral (fem!receiving), fingering, heavyyyy making out, dirty talk (it’s pretty sweet, actually), possessive!dawson, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, cockwarming, whimpering man (slay), begging (only a little), mentions/allusions to consensual somnophilia, and a little bit of a fixation on spit (as i am wont to do) pairing: dawson mercer x reader summary: the one when dawson comes over to build a bedframe for your guest room, demands multiple rewards,  and pouts when you try to make him test it out alone. he ends up getting everything he wanted, though. wc: 4636

You have a bone to pick with anyone who writes furniture-building instruction manuals. After all the years of “building things” (holding flashlights, standing aimlessly for support, fetching beers) with your dad, you would think that you’d be able to build a bedframe. You would think that you could read the directions, screw in some nails, glue some pegs into place, and your guest room would be all set. In another world, you’re flying through this process and the bed’s already done. Here, in this world, the real world, all you’ve done is sort all of your supplies and read the first page of directions and it’s been shit. The wording is unclear, the pictures don’t make any sense, the bags of supplies aren’t clearly labeled in conjunction with the guide in the manual, and you’re at your wits end.

So you call Daws. 

Your best friend in the world, Dawson Mercer, has always been skilled with his hands. Never mind the double entendre, you’ve seen how deftly Daws can handle a stick and a puck, so he is surely able to handle a screwdriver and a drill. 

In fact, continuing with the entendres, you know Dawson can handle a drill. On top of being your best friend in the world, you two had started hooking up in his second season at New Jersey, after you’d gotten a job in New York City and relocated. With just thirty minutes between you two and a lot of pent up feelings on both sides, it was only a matter of time until one of you broke and jumped the other. It ended up being him, but it was your fault.

It was a late night and you’d been up working on a proposal for your boss. It was well past midnight and you had work the following day, but you were in a groove and you couldn’t stop until the task was done. It had already been a tough day and you started to feel better when your work began to flow, but then you forgot a word and could not find it no matter what thesaurus you used or what questions you googled. You knew it was the perfect word for this proposal and it sounded so intelligent in your head, but you could not fucking remember it. It might’ve been the sleep deprivation of it all, but this sent you over the edge and before you knew it, you were calling Dawson and tearfully explaining your situation. He couldn’t understand you through the hysteria and was at your door as soon as possible, scooping you up and taking your computer away. You had explained everything again through your tears and he had held you in his arms, tucking your head away in his neck so you could hide from the world. When your breath evened out, Daws had registered the flutter of your eyelashes against his pulse and couldn’t stop himself from kissing you. It had been sweet and it was a long time coming. Things escalated that night about as far as you could go for the first time, with Dawson treating you like something that would break if he held you too tightly or looked at you too long. You both were shy but cared so much for each other that it just felt right.

You hadn’t defined it in the year since, but you know and Dawson knows that there is something special between you. You’re best friends and maybe, one day, you’d both be ready to commit to more.

For now, though, Dawson is the guy who’s going to sit in your guest bedroom and build your guest bed and maybe you’ll repay him if you felt like it.

Dawson comes over as soon as you call and walks into your apartment sopping wet. When he walks into your space, he shakes like a wet dog and you shriek. He gives you a toothy grin, your heart fluttering with fondness like it always does when you see the space between his teeth. “It’s raining out there,” he says unnecessarily, walking over to plant a quick kiss on your lips. “Where’s this bed you need your big, strong man to build, baby?”

You scoff and roll your eyes. “Big, strong man,” you mock. “Where’s that guy? I don’t see a big, strong man here.”

Daws pinches your hip for your comment, but it doesn’t really hurt.

“I’m turning my office into a guest bedroom,” you continue. You lean up and give Daws another little peck. “The bed is in there.” You reach around and give him a pat on the butt. “Go on, get in there.”

“You’re not going to help me?” Dawson calls over his shoulder, teasing you as he walks down the hall towards his daunting task. 

“Darling, you’ll just get distracted by me,” you reply. “I’ll be in here if you need me.” You take a seat on your couch and pick up the book you’ve been reading. You drape a blanket over your legs and lean back against the arm of the sofa, finding your bookmark and opening the book to that page. 

You can hear the rain growing heavier as you continue to read, as well as the sounds of Dawson putting the new bedframe together. He’s making quick work of it and takes a break at his self-proclaimed halfway point. He wanders into the living room and washes his hands in your kitchen sink before joining you on the couch. He sneaks under the blanket and lays between your legs, resting his head on your stomach. His hand reaches up, comes out from under the blanket, and rests on your chest. He palms your breast, just holding the weight of it in his hand. You place your bookmark and close your book, setting it down on the coffee table to your left. You lift the blanket and make eye contact with Dawson. You can’t help but think of your friend’s cat from university, who used to cuddle on your lap under the blanket just like this.

“Hi,” Dawson greets, smiling wide.

“Hi, sweet,” you reply and card your fingers through his hair, pushing it out of his face. “Have you given up on that bed yet? It’s impossible, isn’t it?”

“Mmm, no,” Dawson hums, purring like your friend’s cat used to when you pet him. He pushes into your hand just the same. “Just taking a break with my favorite girl.”

“Sweet talker,” you tease. Your hand moves to pinch his cheek like a grandmother would. “You’re trying to get in good with me, huh?”

“You always assume I’ve got an ulterior motive,” Dawson complains. “Maybe I just want to hang out with you.”

You give him an unimpressed look with a tilt of your head. 

Dawson snickers quietly, burying his head in your stomach. “No, you’re right.” He kisses your tummy, just next to your belly button. “I always have an ulterior motive.”

You spread your legs a little wider, allowing Dawson to fit his shoulders between your thighs comfortably. “What do you have in mind?”

“A snack,” Dawson replies in a cheeky voice, the smirk evident in his tone before he ghosts a fingertip under the hemline of your sleep shorts. 

Because you’re a brat, you twist away from Daws. You move to get up from the couch. “Shall I make you something?” You ask. 

Daws holds you down with his full weight, wrapping his arms around you until you’re effectively immobilized. You can’t see him anymore, having dropped the blanket when you moved to get up. “No,” he whines, drawing out the word and pulling you to him. He bites the side of your hip gently through your shorts. “Stay here, you’ve got what I need.”

“What you need,” you repeat, smiling to yourself. This is the side of Dawson that rarely anyone gets to see, even though he’s a happy-go-lucky guy most of the time. No one gets to see Dawson all whiny and eager to please, happy to get himself off by just getting his mouth on you. He’s sated like this, happy to stay between your legs for hours and make you come time after time, until you’re oversensitive and pushing him away. You’re happy to let him indulge most of the time, but that bed is still only halfway built. “Can you make it quick?” You ask. “Need you to finish building that bed for me.”

Dawson presses a kiss to your core, making you shiver. He hums in agreement. “Can we christen it after I’m done?”

You giggle and swat the back of his head under the blanket. “You wish.”

Dawson hooks his fingers in the waistband of your shorts and drags them down, removing them delicately and placing them on the ground next to him. He kisses down your leg as he does it and it’s even more arousing than it normally is, given that you can’t see him under the blanket and can barely guess his next move. “I do wish,” he agrees before moving onto your panties. “Can I earn it?”

“You can sleep in there by yourself and let me know how it is, since all my guests will be on their lonesome,” you say. You inhale sharply when Dawson dives in and flicks your clit with his tongue. “I think that would be more effective.”

Dawson bites the side of your thigh sharply and makes you jump. “Don’t wanna sleep alone,” he complains. “You’re mean to me.” He licks over your folds again, shifting to use both hands to spread you open so he can begin to eat you out properly.

“Fuck, Daws,” you groan, throwing your head back. You take a breath before continuing. “If I’m so mean to you, why am I letting you eat your snack? I could tell you no at any moment and make you go back to the guest room and work some more before kicking you out of my apartment and sending you home.”

“You’re talking a lot for someone who’s supposed to be enjoying herself,” Dawson mutters. You can hear his pout, not needing to see it to know that he’s annoyed that he hasn’t rendered you speechless. 

“Maybe you need to do better,” you breathe out, grinding down on the fingers that are slowly tracing your entrance, begging for them to enter you without actually saying it.

Dawson growls at that, taking it like a challenge and dipping his fingers into you and flicking his tongue against your clit quickly, giving everything he can to bring you to your peak.

You moan, reaching under the blanket to thread your fingers in Dawson’s hair. You tug at it and he moans, the vibrations making you shiver and bringing you just that much closer to your orgasm. “Dawsy,” you breathe out. “More.”

“Not much more to give, baby,” Dawson mumbles against your pussy, but pistons his fingers into you more quickly. “Giving you all I’ve got right now. Trying my best to make you feel good, sweet girl.”

“Feels so good,” you reassure him. “Need something else, need a little more.”

Dawson adds another finger, stretching you. He reaches up and pulling the blanket down so he’s not covered anymore. You can see your wetness dripping down his fingers and onto his wrist as he continues to move them inside you. You grip his hair as he brings his other thumb to your clit, rubbing in rapid circles. He spreads his fingers and leans in, doing his best to lick between them and get his tongue inside you. He looks up through his eyelashes at you when he does it and it’s that image, his wide eyes filled with so much admiration for you and determination to prove that he can make you feel so, so good, that makes you clench down and let your release wash over you. 

Dawson continues to thrust his fingers into you through your climax, mouthing over your clit and suckling at it until you’re squirming and panting. You pull him up your body by his hair, needing his mouth on yours. You keen into his mouth as he speeds his fingers up again. “Daws,” you gasp.

“Baby,” he replies, then kisses you again. He slips his tongue into your mouth and you two make out, movements lazy. He continues to finger you through it, unwilling (maybe even unable) to pull out of your wet heat just yet. He’s laying on top of you at this point and the weight of him is wonderful, always comforting you like nothing else could.

You kiss for what feels like ages, just feeling each other. Dawson grinds his hips against your leg, pressing his hardness into you, but making no move to do anything about it. It’s lovely, this moment, and comfortable like you two had been in love for years and you could do this every day. In the least cliché way, you knew that Dawson was your soulmate, the person you were meant to find in any universe at any time. He wasn’t yours, but he was. 

“Love you, Dawsy,” you tell him between kisses. 

He hums in agreement.

“Can you go finish building my bed now?” You ask, your one-track mind itching to get Dawson back on task. You really wanted that bed to be finished today, just so you didn’t have to think about it anymore.

Dawson pulls away and glares down at you. “Here I am, making out with you with my fingers inside your pretty pussy, and you’re going to make me work?” He demands. 

You giggle, leaning up to plant a wet kiss, a real smacker, on his cheek. “Yeah,” you say, shit eating grin on your face when you settle back onto the couch cushions. “Go on.”

Reluctantly, Dawson slides his fingers out of you and gets off the couch, licking his fingers clean and adjusting himself in his sweatpants. “So mean,” he reminds you with a cutting glance before he disappears back down the hallway and into the guest room.

You return to your book. “Holler when you’re done!” You yell to Dawson. 

“I don’t know why I ever do anything for you,” Dawson replies, voice floating down the hall with ire. 

You laugh out loud, loud enough for him to hear, and get comfortable with your book. You read for probably another hour before Dawson summons you to the guest room to inspect his handiwork.

When you round the doorway, Dawson’s eyes grow wide, noticing that you never put your panties or shorts back on. He’s standing next to the bed as you approach and he licks his lips. “You’re sure we can’t christen my handiwork?” He asks again.

“No,” you insist. “Merc, you already got what you needed.” You roll your eyes and flip the bird at your best friend, chastising him for being insufferable in his desire for you. “You’re such a horndog.”

Dawson shrugs. “Can you blame me? I’ve seen you how beautiful you are naked, I’ve heard how pretty you sound when I’m fucking you, and I’ve been loving you since forever. Just because we’re not dating doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to ask. You’re lucky I ask because you know I could pick you up and take you, and you’d love it”

“Do you want me to call you a wah-mbulance?” You retort, folding your arms over your chest. You glare at him with an eyeful of reproach, but he’s right. He’s taken you like that before and it’s been incredible, something you’ll even ask him for on occasion.

“Want you to let me fuck you,” he replies in the same tone, mirroring your actions.

You two stare at each other before bursting out in laughter. You walk over and loop your arms around Dawson’s neck, pressing your body against his and giving him a chaste kiss. His hands rest on your hips, holding you tightly. He kisses you again.

“Go to bed, Merc,” you say when you finally pull away. You step back. “Let me know how the bed feels.”

Dawson bids you goodnight and  turns around. You walk to the door. You leave the room and make it all the way to your bedroom before you hear a crash and rush back in.

Dawson is smiling, proud of himself as you take in the lopsided bed. One of the legs of the frame has been hastily removed and if you’re not mistaken, you can see it peeking out from where Dawson’s arms are crossed behind his back. “Oh no,” Dawson says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “It broke. I guess I have to sleep with you.”

Your mouth drops open in disbelief and you let out a laugh. “Dawson!” You exclaim, still giggling. “What’s the matter with you?”

Dawson shrugs. “Well, I can’t sleep on a broken bed,” he tells you. “That would be unsafe.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t want that.” You play along, a small smile still written across your face. 

Dawson takes a step forward and bats his eyelashes at you. “I guess I have to sleep in yours.”

“You’re insatiable,” you tell him. You turn on your heel and leave the room, listening for the clatter of the leg of the bed before Dawson’s footsteps trail after you. Both sounds come, just as you expected, and Dawson’s hands find your hips again. He walks with you, pressed along your back, lips attached to the back of your neck. 

“I want you,” he teases, his voice light and melodic in your ear. He reaches his hand up and traces your neck. “Don’t I get a reward for building furniture for you?”

“You already got a snack.”

“Ugh, but then you took it away from me after I made you come,” he complains. “And you’re teasing me, not putting your panties back on before checking my work. It’s a little slutty, baby. Is that what you wear for all the people that come to work in your house?”

Now in your bedroom, Dawson turns you around and walks you back until your knees hit the edge of your bed. You fall down onto the mattress and bring Dawson down with you. He reaches up your shirt and grabs a handful of your tit, gripping it in a way that directly contrasts how he was just holding it on the couch. 

“No bra either,” he notes, nuzzling into your neck and breathing you in. “You give all these workers quite a show.”

“You know I only dress like this for you, Dawson,” you reply. 

“Wish you’d commit to the bit and just be naked all the time.” He kisses your shoulder, other hand sliding up your shirt to grasp your other breast. He kneads them both, rolling your nipples between his calloused fingers. 

“Wish you’d take an article of clothing off,” you retort. 

“I’ll take it all off for you if you want me to, baby, just say the word,” Dawson promises. “Can I take your shirt off? Wanna get my mouth on these pretty tits.”

“Only if you take yours off too.”

Dawson doesn’t waste a second, pushing up to stand over you. He grabs the back of the neck of his shirt and pulls it over his head, revealing his muscular body to you. His chain falls between his collarbones beautifully and it makes your breath catch in your throat. He unbuckles his belt and pops the button on his jeans, unzipping them and pulling them down his legs, leaving him just in his boxer-briefs. The dark gray briefs leave nothing to the imagination and you bite your lip, gazing at the wet patch on the front of the briefs, right at the tip of his dick. 

You reach up and Dawson grabs your hands, pulling you into a sitting position. You raise your arms and he kneels between your legs, pushing your shirt up and bunching the fabric in his hands before he pulls it over your head and reveals your body to him. 

Dawson kisses up your stomach, slowly rising from his knees. He lifts you up and gently places you down so your head is on the pillows at the top of your bed. He then leaves a trail of kisses down your neck, shoulder, collarbone, and sternum until he makes his way to your breast.

He takes your nipple in his mouth, flicking his tongue over it. He grinds down on the bed, rolling your other nipple between his fingers again. You moan and once he’s determined that your breast has received enough attention from his mouth, he switches to the other one. It’s slow and sensual, with Dawson taking his time and savoring the moment and the sounds that he pulls from your lips.

“Dawson.” You find your voice, signaling to him that it’s time to move on. 

“Mmm?” He continues to suckle on your chest, leaving a hickey on the side of your boob now.

“Fuck me,” you say. “Come up here and fuck me.”

“Yeah?” Dawson asks, pulling away from you to grin at you. “Need my cock, baby?”

You pretend to think. “Need is an exaggeration,” you tell him.

Dawson scoffs and leans down to kiss you, lining his cock up with your entrance. “No pussy gets this wet if ‘need is an exaggeration,’ sweet girl.”

You whine as he sinks into you and he lets out a breath that sounds like a groan, his head falling with the sensation. He presses his forehead against yours and bucks into you, holding back to take in the sensation of your heat around him. He always gets pussy drunk on you and goes too fast, loving the way you squeeze him and milk him for every drop. It’s only so long before he does it again and starts to really fuck into you, but he’s intoxicated now by the slow drag of your walls against his length.

“So warm, so wet,” Dawson groans. “All for me.”

“All yours,” you agree. You close your eyes and kiss Dawson, swallowing the moan that comes from his lips at your words. 

His hips start to pick up speed. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

Dawson’s hips move with desperation. It’s the easiest way to bring him to his climax, you’ve learned over the past year. He’s possessive over you and although you’re not boyfriend-girlfriend, he knows that you belong to him. When you admit it, when he hears those words come from your mouth, it squeezes at his heart the same way you clench down on his cock when he hits that spot inside of you.

“Dawsy,” you breathe out, clutching at his shoulders. “Feels so good.” 

With every thrust of his hips, he brings you closer to your second orgasm of the night. He thrusts forward and sucks at your neck, leaving wet kiss after wet kiss. His saliva cools on your neck as his wet, hot pants leave his lips. He grunts and kisses you deeply, his tongue filling your mouth as deliciously as his cock is filling your pussy. He pulls back and looks down, watching his cock disappear into your heat. 

“Fuck me,” he whispers, pressing a hand against your stomach and feeling himself inside of you. 

A wanton moan leaves your mouth, back arching from the pressure. Your mouth hangs open and Dawson leans up, biting your bottom lip between his teeth. 

“Feeling good, honey?” He asks quietly. “Love hearing you.”

“Yes, yes,” you chant, and you let out a squeal when Dawson reaches up to give your nipple a sharp pinch. “God!” Your stomach turns, so close to climaxing. With every light touch of his fingers and the consistent kiss of his cock to the spot inside you that makes you see stars, you inch toward your peak.

“Just me,” he says, cheeky but like it’s an afterthought. He soothes the pinch with a kiss before leaning back up to kiss you. His hips stutter and Dawson groans. “Gonna come, baby,” he says. “Gonna come with me?”

“Always,” you whine, voice high in the back of your throat but sounding far away, like Dawson’s fucked your soul right out of your body. 

“Come,” Dawson breathes out, hips stuttering as he moves them with abandoned fervor, chasing a high that’s just out of reach. “Come, baby, need to feel you. Need you to come on my cock before I do, please,” he begs. “Fuck!”

You can’t control the scream that bubbles in your throat as you let go, juices absolutely soaking Dawson’s cock inside you and the covers beneath you. It wasn’t often that he made you squirt, but tonight was one of those nights. Your release burst out of you like a dam and left you completely boneless on the bed. 

It only took a few more thrusts for Dawson to whimper and shoot off inside of you. You’re like a vice around him, clenching down so hard that it’s almost difficult to thrust in and out of you. “Sweetheart,” Dawson whines, voice dripping with emotion. “So tight, fuck, love your pussy.”

He collapses onto you, his head on your chest, his hands on your waist, his weight pressing you into the bed the same way he trapped you onto the couch earlier in the night. 

You trace the lines of his face with your thumb as your breath syncs with his and you both come down from your climaxes. 

Dawson hasn’t pulled out yet, his cock still half-hard inside of you. He moves his hips slowly, fucking his cum into you at an excruciating pace. 

You plant a kiss on Dawson’s head and hug him to your body. “We should probably get up, Daws.”

Dawson shakes his head. “Gonna fall asleep right here.”

You let out a chuckle. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Dawson looks up at you with tired eyes. “Gonna keep my cock inside you all night, wake you up by making you come again.”

You let out a breath at that, clenching down on him subconsciously. You can’t help it. He’s so honest and he’s unabashed about how he wants you. 

He smiles, almost devilish. “You like that idea, huh?”

“Gimme a kiss,” you request, puckering your lips and waiting for him to come to you.

He does easily, unashamed and eager. “Could kiss you all night long.”

“Don’t, I’m tired.”

“Just think,” Dawson murmurs against your lips. “We could’ve done all of this in your guest bedroom.”

“Well someone broke the bed.”

“I wouldn’t have had to break the bed if you had just slept there with me.”

You two bicker like a married couple before you remove Dawson’s cock yourself and swing your legs over the side of the bed. He trails after you when you head to the bathroom, brushing his teeth with your toothbrush as you use the toilet. It’s all very domestic and you argue with him about the toothbrush, too, because he has his own and knows exactly where it lives (next to yours in the holder). You steal the brush from his mouth and leave him to rinse his mouth of the minty substance. You turn your back to him to hide the satisfied smirk on your face when you pop the toothbrush in your mouth without rinsing it of his germs.

When you make your way back to bed after cleaning yourself up, Dawson lays behind you and plasters himself to your back. He slips his cock back into your heat again and sighs, settling into the comfort of your heat. He presses a kiss to the back of your neck and breathes evenly until he falls asleep. You fall asleep with him, and if Dawson makes good on his promise of fucking you awake, that’s nobody’s business but yours.

notes: don't ever put me in a room with dawson mercer because i will make it my mission to stockholm sydrome that boy. welcome to my longest fic yet and man, oh man, did i have fun writing this.

[kissitbttr]

your mafia!toji fic got me thinking so hard abt him😭😭 he’s deffo the type to just buy you sm stuff as an apology but when you don’t forgive him and sleep in a different bedroom mf will come into the room on his knees and beg for you to come to sleep 😩😩 imagine still saying no and him just flipping you onto his shoulders and carrying you to bed 🤭

oh you are absolutely correct!

|

“darling” toji softly calls you, letting out a tired sigh. “i said i was sorry. what am i supposed to do?”

“die” she replies nonchalantly, shoulders shrugging before grabbing a pillow and your favorite blanket off the bed,

he snickers, looking over at her with a raised eyebrow. “now, now that would be over dramatic don’t you think? won’t you miss me?”

he almost pisses his pants when she throws him a glare,

“okay. no jokes. got it” he put his hands up in surrender, feeling absolutely terrified at his baby being mad and speaking less than two words to him,

if anyone ever finds out that the most feared and notorious man in the city being tamed by his woman, he would never hear the end of it,

but she is scary. can you blame him?

toji looks over at the designer shoes and bags he just purchased a few hours ago, tucked neatly in the corner. untouched by her.

guess the apology gifts aren’t working,

“i didn’t know that she was coming, i haven’t even talked to her in years! never planned to anyway, you know i only got my eyes for my girl, right?”

she tries so hard not to roll her eyes,

toji had a meeting with one of the cartels at the club earlier that night. and of course, she always goes. it’s where he can always keep an eye on her and refuses to leave her at home all alone because he can’t risk that. also, because she’s his good luck charm. whenever she’s around, deals always goes well,

tonight was an exception though,

all was well until a certain person decided to crash. his old fling. one before he met his precious girlfriend. the red haired thought that it would be fun to press her fake ass tits against toji,

y/n was shocked to say at least. she didn’t say anything but her face spoke thousand words. toji could see that. throwing daggers at the bitch, corner of her lips quirk into a form of disgust.

and the worst part was? toji didn’t do anything about it! can you believe that asshole?!

something about being absolutely unprofessional if he was ever to push her off and it ticked y/n to the fucking bone so she decided to ignore him the rest of the night,

toji feels defeated when she chooses not to respond, simply just taking her stuff. he crouches lightly to look at her pretty face clearly. “baby… can you please look at me? I can’t stand seeing you mad. i’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you”

if it was any circumstances, sure she would melt and jump in his arms. but tonight is different. how could he?

she looks up at him and whisper “fuck. you” before turning around angrily and walk out of the door to go sleep on the guest room,

toji groans, the heel of his palms pressing against his eyes. she has always been so stubborn. too fucking stubborn. exactly why he had to get rejected seven times before she accepted his date.

what? he needed to get humbled, so she gave him that.

he contemplate for a while whether or not he should let her be or not. then he chooses the latter. it would probably be best if he let her cool off some steam for a while, he doesn’t want to do any more damage or make her feel more annoyed by his presence,

bet. not even ten minutes later, he feels like losing his mind without her here.

“fuck this shit” he mutters, getting up from the bed. rubbing his face furiously before stomping towards the other side of the room,

he walks in without knocking, ready to say what he needs to say again. yet he stops. heart clenching at the sight of his girl curled up in bed, back facing him.

“love?” he slowly walks over to her laying figure,

“go away” she speaks. now in a softer tone

“please” he begs, walking around the bed and catching a glimpse of her playing with her pink manicured hands. “sweetheart. I’m sorry” he repeats, going down to her eye level before letting his hand moves to rest on her bare thigh. he’s internally relieved when she doesn’t push him off,

he sighs when she’s not looking at him, seemingly only focused on the nails that she had gotten done a week ago.

“i should’ve pushed her off. shouldn’t let her touch me like that. hell, i shouldn’t even let her breathe near me. i know that” he realizes his mistake. “i didn’t even think about what my girl needed. i was being a horrible boyfriend”

no answer,

he sighs again, refusing to look away from her pretty eyes,

“baby—“

“i heard you the first time. leave. and close the door”

toji is taken aback. fuck. she really is mad at him.

“you don’t mean that”

“uhm, yes i do” she retorts in an obvious tone, sassily raising her eyebrow before scooting a bit further from him. she doesn’t realize this but it makes his heart break,

“princess, i swear-“

“go call that girl back to keep you company. let that fucking bitch sleep by your side” she mutters, looking at the tv instead of him,

he can’t take this anymore,

“you know what? that’s it” toji had enough, he will not be sleeping alone and neither will she. standing up on his feet, his hands reach out to circle around her ankles before tugging her body towards him causing her to yelp,

“toji! what the fuck are you doing-oh!” her voice gets cut off the moment he pulls her body up like she weighs nothing. throwing her over his shoulder. “put me down!” her fists start to hitting his back—as if they’re actually hurting him— legs swinging back and forth

“nope” he answers, keeping a firm grip around her waist before swatting her ass, locking the guest room behind him and walking back to their shared one. “you’re driving me crazy, woman—not saying that i hate it, but i’m pretty fucking beat tonight and we are going to sleep together. so stop fighting me”

she huffs, admitting defeat and letting him carry to the bed. “fuck you, toji”

he smirks at that. “oh i will, baby”

[eoieopda]

tidal.

but vernon has a point to make, so that’s precisely what he does: “i don’t need a sales pitch. you will never — ever — have to convince me to fuck you.” 

pairing: vernon x afab!reader type: one-shot (fluff n’ smut) au: est. relationship wc: 4.8k rating: 18+ a/n: i didn’t plan this whatsoever, but i felt so weirdly compelled to write it that i avoided eye-contact with all of my wips, and now… here we are, lol. cw: pov switch, reader is afab + on their period, gender identity + pronouns aren’t designated, blood mention (obvi), unprotected p in v penetration (ill-advised!!), wee bit of dry-humping (ig?), a lil massage, pet names (baby, sweetheart), self-indulgent ref to a favorite docu of mine, and lastly — vernon (yes, this is a warning 🧍🏻) 🔞 MINORS WHO INTERACT WITH ME AND/OR MY CONTENT WILL BE BLOCKED, WHETHER OR NOT THE CONTENT IS NSFW. I’M AN ADULT WRITING EXCLUSIVELY FOR OTHER ADULTS.

Vernon isn’t blind. 

He can see you out of the corner of his eye, laying flat on your back, several unexplained centimeters away from his side. With the duvet clenched in your fists, you stare intently up at the ceiling, like you’re waiting for it to move — or trying to move it yourself, telekinetically. You keep your bottom lip pinched between your teeth, as if you expect it to make a run for it.

So, yes, Vernon can see you. 

He just can’t figure out what’s wrong with you.

For a few minutes, he attempts to pay attention to the documentary lighting up the screen on the wall ahead. You were the one that picked it — some wild tale about mother-daughter recluses in New York — and he finds it hard to give a shit about it without your usual commentary. Your hot takes are his favorite part of any movie night, after all.

He’ll be the first to admit that he’s never been good at keeping his eyes off you. Try as he might, he can’t glue his gaze to the television; each glance in your direction sticks longer than the one before it, testing the waters. Minutes slip away just like this until he completely caves, turns his head fully, and stares at you outright. 

You still don’t seem to notice.

His brow scrunches up as he watches you, caught in the middle between concerned, confused, and amused by how absolutely ridiculous you look right now. When he speaks, he tries to sound stern, like he isn’t fighting the urge to laugh.

“Baby?”

“Hmm?” is all he gets in response. 

You don’t even look his way. If anything, you tense harder now that his attention is on you. 

None of it makes sense. Not the weird gap you’ve left between your body and his, your total refusal to look him in the eye, or the fact that there wasn’t an argument to precipitate any of this distance. It’s a symptom with no apparent cause, and it’s totally baffling. Brain-breaking, even.

Frowning, Vernon scoots himself across the bed to get closer to you. 

You don’t reciprocate. 

He tugs gently at the hem of your sweatshirt in a silent plea for your attention and receives radio silence in response; unless he counts the way you swallow thickly.

Which, for the record, he does not.

This close, Vernon can feel the anxious energy pulsing out of your tensed-up body in waves, so he leans away and props himself up on his elbow. Desperate to know what broke you and how to fix it, he mutters, “What is happening right now?”

Ope. 

It comes out harsher than it was supposed to, reading more like annoyance than worry, so he immediately clears his throat. Gently and with a brush of his knuckles against your hip bone, he tries again: “Are you okay? Did I do something to make you mad at me?”

A fly on the wall might get the wrong impression and think he stroked you with a live wire instead.

“Oh, my god. No!” You sputter with a jolt, shifting gears quickly from vaguely on-edge to horrified. You shake your head so frantically that Vernon fears you’ll detach it. “No, you haven’t done anything. I’m fine, I just —”

He interjects with a laugh, “— I don’t necessarily believe that —”

Visibly cringing with every muscle in your body, you cover your face with your hands. Not long after you take a deep breath does a meek voice slip out through your fingers, sounding beyond embarrassed.

“I’m so incomprehensibly horny right now that I can’t even look at you.”

For a second, it’s dead silent because he can’t quite process how much of a weirdo you are, or how completely and hopelessly enamored he is with you. But then the dam breaks. His laugh comes out so forcefully that you pull your hands away from your face, eyes wide.

“Is that so?” He smirks, nodding his head towards the television. “Grey Gardens really gets your motor running, huh?”

Absolutely aghast, you swat at his bicep. Then, you sling your arm over your eyes and groan, “I got my period. It has turned me into a sex-crazed monster, I fear.”

Vernon nods in understanding, even though you can’t see it, and hums, “Ahh.”

And he leaves it at that, only because you seem to have more that you want to say. Something you want to ask, maybe, or a reason you may want to give for not jumping his bones at the first opportunity. He’s down, he thinks without hesitation, so long as you are.

But you don’t say anything.

Maybe you aren’t actually down after all, and that’s why you won’t look at him. Shit, are you embarrassed? Should I say something? Silence falls overtop like a weighted blanket, smothering the two idiots who can’t tell whose turn it is to talk. 

Do you or do you not want this right now?

You mumble something that he can’t catch, so he nudges your side gently with his knuckles to encourage you. Just as nervous, you repeat yourself without looking at him, “Period sex is supposed to help with cramps, I think.”

He thinks he’s read the exact same article you have. More than that, he wishes you’d look over at him and see for yourself how completely unbothered he is by this concept.

“If you think about it, it’s kind of like a natural lubricant,” you add in a voice that’s even smaller than before.

Your shyness really might kill him, so he reaches over to grab your hand and gently pull your arm away from your eyes. It’s the first time you’ve looked at him since you laid down — since you put your self-imposed no-contact order in place — and he feels his stupid heart swell.

For what it’s worth, he feels his dick twitch, too.

You open your mouth to speak again, likely to continue your unnecessary campaigning; Vernon is having none of it. He tugs your wrist just enough to tilt you inward, then he kisses you hard enough to shut you up. A tiny whimper slips out of your lips when he pulls away, and it almost makes him regret his decision to do so. 

But Vernon has a point to make, so that’s precisely what he does: “I don’t need a sales pitch. You will never — ever —  have to convince me to fuck you.” 

Your eyes crinkle at the corners, like this is somehow news to you. It shouldn’t be. He’s told you a thousand times in as many different ways how thoroughly crazy you drive him just by existing so closely to him, but maybe you didn’t take him seriously then.

To emphasize his point, he slips his hand under the hem of your sweatshirt and finds your bare waist with the pad of his thumb. It spirals slowly against your warm skin, making both of you dizzy. Then, sick of the distance, Vernon dips his head down to press a kiss to your temple. 

“Like, ever,” he murmurs, lips following the curve of your jaw. 

Soft, slow kisses trail behind him as he travels down to your lips. Your head tilts further backwards with every single one, providing him with more and more access. 

He states it matter-of-factly because, to him, it is. “I’m down so bad for you that it might be terminal.”

“Oh?” 

You try to laugh but turn to putty when his palm rests fully on the curve of your waist and pulls you flush against him. The surprised gasp you let loose confirms his suspicion: You can feel how serious he is, affirmation throbbing against your abdomen in time with his heartbeat. 

Vernon smirks to himself, relishing your reaction, and bypasses your mouth entirely. A moan escapes from you, soft like an exhale, as his lips move slowly down the length of your neck. Every so often — just to feel you shiver — he flicks the tip of his tongue along the delicate skin he finds there.

“It might be messy…” 

The rest of your needless warning gets lost in a dreamy sigh as he suckles at the spot where your neck meets your shoulder. Shifting even closer, your desperate fingers reach out and cling to his t-shirt.

Vernon licks a stripe over the galaxy blooming on your skin. He hums, hand traveling upwards from your waist, “Don’t care about a mess.”

And he means it. 

Mindful of any soreness, he smooths his hand over your left breast and massages it tenderly, swearing to himself that he’ll throw the whole fucking mattress out if that’s what it comes down to. For you, he’ll race across town on foot to buy another one, and — fuck it — if the store is closed, he might just break in.

You’re growing impatient; your fingers let go of his shirt and tangle themselves in his hair.

“So needy,” he chuckles low in his chest, teasing. “You know, I think you’re lying. I think it is this bat-shit insane documentary that’s driving you wild, and you’re too embarrassed to admit it.”

“Stop,” you whine, dragging out the vowel sound. 

You don’t, though; you throw your left leg over his right thigh and shimmy forward until your cunt grazes his dick. Involuntarily, he groans at the warmth radiating off your core. Every part of you drives him just the slightest bit insane. You seem to know it, he thinks as he watches your pupils dilate in real time.

But he can play games, too, so he rolls his hips forward and grinds against you. He pushes you further, “Don’t get me wrong, baby. I’m not kink-shaming you —”

“Hansol Vernon Chwe!”

Oh, shit. Government name?

“— I’m just a little surprised, I guess.” He sighs with a shrug. “Think you know somebody…”

Your impatience is scribbled all across your scrunched up face. It seeps into your voice when you crash back against the pillows and huff, “Can you please stop fucking with me and start fucking me?”

“Sex-crazed monster, huh?” Leaning over, Vernon punctuates his question with a quick press of his lips to yours.

You whimper, “I’m so serious. I might explode.”

“Then go take care of whatever you need to take care of.” He kisses you again, smiling so fondly that his eyes may even be twinkling. “And I’ll go get a towel.”

You wait until Vernon clears the threshold before launching yourself out of bed at breakneck speed. Stumbling all the while, you race off to the adjoining bathroom and shut the door forcefully behind you. When it clatters against the frame, you finally admit to yourself that you might be a little bit eager.

Maybe.

Opting to keep your baggy, bleach-stained sweatshirt on, you wiggle out of your shorts and — what he refers to as — your crisis diaper. The high-waisted, frumpy, beige panties are utilized exclusively during your period, and to your surprise, they’ve remained spotless. It’s only ever the pretty and expensive pairs that wind up as collateral damage, isn’t it?

As they pool around your ankles, you can’t help but think that Vernon’s nickname for them is pretty spot on. That’s partly why you figured he might need to be talked into this. Unsated arousal aside, you feel as far from sexy as you can possibly get.

You shake your head to clear your thoughts, kick what you’ve discarded into a pile near the hamper, and let your sweatshirt shift down to cover as much of your ass as it’s capable of managing. You grab a square of toilet paper; then, you go to work excavating the wad of cotton that separates you from everything you want in this life. 

It is within the realm of possibility that you’re a little bit eager and a little bit dramatic. 

Perhaps.

After discarding the evidence in the small trash can under the sink, you wash your hands as if you’re about to step into an operating theater and not the bedroom you spend half your life in. When you finally feel sterile, you lift your head and catch your reflection in the mirror. Instantly, you make eye contact with the painful, hormonal pimple on your chin — the one you’ve been waging a retinoid war against for days.

“Bitch,” you mutter, like calling it names will be the one thing that finally gets it to shrink. Of course, your plan doesn’t work, but you feel a little less powerless. That’s good enough, you think. At least, as good as it’s going to get.

Now half-naked and certifiably unobstructed, you tiptoe back to your bedroom much more carefully than you left it. Vernon enters from the opposite doorway at the same time, jumping slightly the second he notices you. You ignore his frightened eyes and glance down at the crisp, white towel he’s clutching.

You open your mouth to suggest anything otherwise, but he beats you to it. His eyebrows shoot up his forehead as his mouth widens outwards, a self-aware rectangle. Otherwise expressionless, he lets go of an atonal, “Aaaaaaah”, that tells you he’s caught on.

He says nothing else before turning around and walking back the way he came. You have to bite down on your lips to keep from cackling.

That one’s mine, you think, still as infatuated as you were at the start. I chose that one.

While he’s gone, you try not to move, not to breathe too heavily. Vernon said he didn’t care about a mess, but when he said it, he was speaking theoretically with his hand on your tit. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d spoken recklessly with your body melting under his touch.

As far as you know, he hasn’t had any experience with this mess in practice. He could wind up finding you about as sexy as you currently feel — to wit: not at all. So, erring on the side of caution, you turn yourself into a statue and wait for the boy and his towel to find you again.

When he comes back, he plants a drive-by kiss on your unsuspecting mouth before skirting right around you. With shocking finesse, he grabs the corners of the — thankfully — black towel, which unfurls in the seconds before he flicks it upwards. It lands perfectly in the center of the bed, flat without needing to be fussed with.

“Wow,” he mutters to himself, taking in his clean work with raised eyebrows.

The impressed look is still on his face when he turns around, but you don’t have time to comment on his feat because he laughs as soon as he sees you.

“Kinda look like Donald Duck with the whole top-on, bottom-off situation.”

I chose this one?

You pout with an indignant gasp, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m not wearing a sailor hat, so…. bad analogy. Rude, even.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs as he snakes his arms around your waist and pulls you in close. You stumble a little on your way into him; the jury’s still out about whether it’s his hushed tone or the sudden movement that trips you up.

Between his thumb and index finger, he gently captures your chin. You follow along with his unspoken direction, tilt your face up to meet his. This close, you can see your own reflection in his pupils, black dilating against the warmest shade of brown you’ve ever seen.

Vernon takes a moment of silence as he takes in your features, and he studies them so intently that his eyebrows crinkle on their own. He sighs, sounding so completely serious. “You might get prettier every time I look at you.”

It’s unclear if you’re melting, or gushing; and if it’s the latter, you can’t say which biological process is at fault. Thankfully, the hand at the small of your back keeps your weak knees from buckling when his lips brush over yours.

“Even if you’re dressed like Winnie the Pooh.” 

You feel him smirk even before you hear him laugh at his own joke. Then, you feel his hand slide down to cup your bare cheek, squeezing affectionately. You want to tell him that this analogy is still inaccurate because you’re not wearing a crop-top; but he gently instructs you to ditch the sweatshirt and get on the bed, and your body moves automatically. No questions asked.

Carefully, you crawl up onto the mattress, then you center yourself on the towel. Still on your knees, you tilt your head curiously and ask, “Where do you want me?”

“Anywhere,” he breezes, pulling his shirt off and tossing it onto the dresser nearby. He amends, “Everywhere. All the time, and then some.”

“Better be careful,” you tease. “Talking like that might have consequences. You may never be able to get rid of me.”

His joggers are the next to go. Your sanity follows shortly thereafter, hungry eyes lingering on the imprint of his cock underneath his boxer briefs. You have to clamp your mouth shut to keep from drooling.

Brown eyes sparkling, he steps closer to you, kicking his pants aside as he goes. “Be careful,” he echoes, not a hint of cockiness to be found — just softness. “Saying it like a threat doesn’t make me wish it’s not a promise.”

I choose this one.

Crossing all the way to you, Vernon reaches the bed and climbs up with significantly more grace than you did. The mattress dips under his weight as he kneels right in front of you, mirroring your posture and causing your stomach to flip with anticipation.

You can’t help yourself; you lick your lips and look up at him with half-lidded eyes. “Naked, please. Like, right now.”

“Damn, I gotta do this myself?” Incredulous, he holds his hands up while glancing pointedly down at his underwear, then back at you. 

You arch an eyebrow, unfazed. 

“Depends.” You shrug. “Do you want to keep them? Because I really will rip them off of you.”

He concedes quickly; he always does. Sighing, he shakes his head and tuts, “Sex-crazed monster,” before pushing his briefs down his thighs. His length hangs heavy between you, but you swear you can feel its perfect ache inside you already.

You have a one-track mind, so you don’t hesitate to reach out and wrap your hand around him. A groan crawls up from the bottom of your chest when you feel the weighted warmth of his cock in your palm. You don’t hold that back, either.

“Fuck,” he sighs, head tilting as far backwards as it’ll go. Unexpectedly, he laughs. He doesn’t catch the quizzical look you shoot him, though he explains himself anyway, “Your hands are so fucking cold, but it feels so good.”

Swiping your thumb over his tip, you spread the pre-cum you find there down his shaft and stroke him slowly. He grows harder with every gentle squeeze, every pass of your fist. 

“We’re learning a lot of new shit about each other today.” You lean forward to pepper kisses across his collarbones. The hum of your mouth against his skin when you talk makes his cock twitch in your hand. “You might have a temperature kink and a thing for Winnie the Pooh.”

He snorts, nowhere near serious, “Shut the fuck up.”

“Make me,” you counter smugly, and you do mean it.

Vernon tilts his head forward to stare back at you. You’re already turning into a puddle, but if the look he gives you says anything, it’s that your melting isn’t enough for him. His voice is low and velvet-lined when he responds, “How about I just make you cum instead?”

“That could work, yeah.” You shrug.

He runs the pads of his fingers down each side of your waist to your hips, then back again; and each time he does it, you shiver. Reflexively, your back arches, chest pressing against his.

At this, he smirks, “It could? Maybe?”

“We can workshop it.”

“Or,” Vernon so generously offers, “You can turn around and lay down on your stomach. You know, if that’s sufficient.”

It’s not until you whip around and flop down onto the towel that you realize you never responded with words. Oh well. You figure he gets the point, judging by the quiet laughter you hear as he settles with his knees on either side of your upper thighs.

You don’t know what his next move will be — you don’t care, either, as long as he moves in your direction — so you don’t anticipate his palms flattening against your bare back, applying perfect pressure with his thumbs while he rubs away the soreness at the very base of your torso.

“Oh, shit,” you moan, eyes fluttering shut as the heels of his hands work out the tension in your muscles. “Have you always been good at this?”

You feel his chest brush against your shoulder blades when he hovers over you. Against the nape of your neck, he murmurs, “Nope.”

He kisses down your spine, mouth trailing after his hands as they work their way back down your body.

“Lemme guess — you read an article? Studied up?”

You get a snicker, then an affirmative hum, then another kiss. This time, it’s at the curve of your spine, just above your ass. Seconds later, he’s kneading the doughy flesh of your cheeks until your whole fucking body tingles.

That’s when it hits you:

Under normal circumstances, Vernon would be face-first in your pussy by now. Devouring you in earnest, like he’s starving. He can’t do that now — and you don’t blame him — so he’s making up for what you both view as a loss.

God, you want him.

One hand disappears from you, but you don’t have to guess where it went. You can hear the barely-there hiss of breath through his teeth when he takes his cock in that hand; as well as the very faint shift of his palm while he pumps himself.

“You’re gonna have to navigate, baby. I dunno how sensitive you are like this, what’s too much — any of that, so you need to tell me how you want me to move.”

Suddenly dizzy over how badly you need him, all you can muster is a nod. Vernon must want a verbal acknowledgment, though, because he leans back over you with one hand bearing his weight beside your head.

He kisses your shoulder and urges you, “Please say so if you need to stop or switch it up. Don’t wanna hurt you, sweetheart.”

“I will,” you breathe. “But I can’t even articulate how much I need you inside of me right now, so please — pretty please — fuck me.”

The tip of his nose bumps your temple affectionately. Right beside your ear, he teases, “With a cherry on top?” And it vibrates down your whole goddamn spine.

“Vernon!” You whine, burying your face in the comforter. It’s muffled, but you warn him nonetheless, “Don’t make me come back there.”

“Aish. Calm down, sex monster.”

The instinct to twist around and glare at him over your shoulder is strong, but every feral urge you feel is stronger. So, when he tells you to spread yourself open for him and tilt your hips back, you do so without even a hint of complaining.

With the crown of his cock slipping through your folds, inching towards your entrance, you hear him curse under his breath. Suddenly self-conscious, you finally crane your neck to the side and glance back at him. 

“We don’t have to,” you whisper. “If it’s gross and you don’t want to anymore, I get it —”

He balks at your suggestion without letting so much as a beat pass. “None of that, sweetheart; no spiraling. I’m just trying to figure out the logistics of, like… how to survive how good this already feels.”

Struck dumb, all you can muster is a peep, “Oh?”

“Shit, yeah.” His response comes in a low groan. “Can you take a deep breath for me?”

It’s a good call on his part, a suggestion you’re glad to have taken, because the pressure of him entering you is intense enough to knock the wind out of you. Empty lungs likely would’ve led to your untimely demise.

You whimper, already overwhelmed with the combination of pain and pleasure; the best kind of ache. The little, breathy moans must freak him out, however, because his fingertips caress your waist as he checks in: “This okay?”

Your limp arm lifts off the mattress, which you’ve melted fully into, and you form a circle with your index finger and thumb to indicate that you’re okay. The light is bright fucking green; you’ve just maxed out your capacity for speech.

Vernon continues his slow thrust forward, giving you ample time to adjust to his size.

“Oh my god,” he grunts, “This is — shit, I can’t believe we haven’t done this before. If I knew how good you’d feel like this, I wouldn’t have waited around for you to ask me.”

That hits like a truck.

He was waiting on you. 

You spent months convincing yourself that he’d need to be convinced, and chickening out before you could raise the idea. Months, and months, and months, of craving him during your werewolf transformation; wasting away over a shitty assumption that Vernon is anything like the people you’ve been with before. 

Christ. 

His credit for putting up with you is long overdue.

Too tongue-tied to speak any of that out loud, you settle for a summary that you hope conveys the message: “I love you so fucking much.”

Mindful of how deep it will push him into your cunt, he leans down over you carefully. Weight balanced on his knees and forearms, he envelopes you in his body heat, trails kisses across your shoulder, and echoes your words back at you between each one.

“Is this too much?” He whispers, rolling his hips slowly.

You feel him everywhere, with every drag of his cock along your walls; and you can’t tell where that throbbing sensation is coming from, him or you. 

You shake your head and sigh, “‘s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Like he knows it’ll unravel you, his large hand comes to rest over the back of yours. His fingers slip through the spaces between and squeeze you much more gently than the vice grip you hold on the bedding below you. He keeps holding you — just like this — through every movement.

The sensation of being this surrounded, this loved, this whole crashes over you like a wave and knocks you off balance.

“I’m so close,” you pant, voice as ragged as your breathing. There’s nothing that he isn’t already giving you with every deep, deliberate thrust into your heat; but you beg nonetheless, “Please, please, please —”

His speed doesn’t increase, but the intensity does. The smack of his hips colliding with your ass does, too, and you feel it reverberating in your bones. Buried as far inside of you as he can be, cock tip kissing your cervix with every high tide, length rolling across your g-spot with every low.

You cum so hard — so completely, invoking every single muscle you have — that you forget how to breathe. With a choked-out gasp, you squeeze your eyes shut and let your orgasm devastate you. 

“Fuck!”

Vernon gets caught up in the current, too, grinding desperately against you until he’s swept up in your wake. You feel him twitch inside you as his release floods, leaving you so lost in his warmth that you feel boneless underneath him.

His face winds up hidden in the crook of your neck, somewhere amidst the baby hairs that cling to the sheen of your sweat. You feel his lips fluttering against your skin when he laughs, “Oh…my god.”

“Mmphf.” You nod weakly in agreement. Beyond blissed, your body still tingles too much to move.

Slurring, you add, “‘s good. ‘s really…”

The rest of that thought dissolves into something between a moan and a yawn.

Just as tired, Vernon pats your ass cheek affectionately and mumbles, “Well said. No notes.”

You tilt your head far enough to free your face from the sheets. When you do, you find your boyfriend fighting a losing battle to keep his eyes open. In the rare seconds he can, he looks back at you in a daze that seems even more adoring than it does fuck-drunk.

“I think I need to hibernate now,” you announce. “Think you just fucked me so well that I need to take a sabbatical.”

He counter-offers, “Shower first, then sabbatical?”

You wiggle so that you can pull your joint hands to your mouth. You can’t kiss him properly while he’s laid out on top of you, but you can press your lips to the back of his hand and hope he feels how much of you that you pour into it.

“Okay, but, like…. who’s carrying who?”

[love-bitesx]

was booking myself a new tattoo and this is all i could think of ! this is just brainrot ramble

: ̗̀➛ hobie brown x gn!reader - giving him tattoos (and yourself)

thinking about giving hobie sweet little tattoos with a makeshift stick and poke set up. he'd come home drunk one night, slurring his words and holding you close to him, ranting about how he wants you to give him a tattoo (and something about not wanting to pay big corporations for a real tattoo gun). even if you’re not creative, he just wants to be able to look at his skin and see evidence of you, always. you refuse him at the time, telling him he's too drunk and he'll regret it. but when it's the next day, and he's stone cold sober, you walk in on him hunched over the kitchen table, making a little stick and poke creation.

so, it’s late at night, he’s sprawled out across your bed like it was his, his head and shoulders pressed into the headboard, eyes trained on you. straddling his lap, you held his arm up to the lamp, tongue stuck out in concentration. hobie winced everytime the needle met his skin, his free hand gripping at your thigh to outlet the pain. when you're done, and he's all cleaned up, he's lit up with pride, constantly checking his arm in different lights to see your design. "it's perfect, darlin'," he mutters, his lips pressed to your forehead.

he’d very rarely ever wear sleeves again after that, always having your design on show to remind him of you when he’s away. not that he needed it, you always had a comfortable seat in the front of his mind. he’d show it off to his friends, though, all the time.

"oi, pav!" he'd call out to his friend, drawing his attention over to his exposed skin.

"you got a tattoo!" pav would exclaim, hopping over and inspecting it closely.

“my partner did it,” he couldn’t mask the grin from fuzzing his cheeks, “fuckin' sick, right?”

his heart wasn't even prepared for what he'd come home to that night. when he'd climb in through your window, shedding his spider-apparel and kicking his boots off by your dresser, he'd notice your sleeping form. smiling to himself, picking up the sheets and climbing into the empty space, careful not to startle you – not that it would, you were more used to waking up beside him than alone.

his hands wouldn't be able to stop themselves from touching you, needing to feel your skin beneath his fingertips, and beaming at the sleepy sound of his name leaving your lips. when his hands find your hip, however, you jump and groan in pain. he'd pull you to him.

"'the fuck 'appened?" he'd whisper, careful not to touch the area again, but be confused at your reaction.

"tattoo," is all he could catch, through your tired, and possibly pained, groans.

"you what?" he'd mutter, and lift the covers back, hiking up your his t-shirt to expose a tiny black design, sitting on the skin above your hip bone.

etched into you was a tiny spider, hand drawn and adorned with little spikes, similar to his persona. he'd be so taken aback, he wouldn't even know what to say.

"'s'this for me, sweetheart?" his fingers would very lightly ghost the dark outlines, honing into your body's reaction to it, steering clear of the painful areas. he's close to you, very close, and you can feel his heart pounding against his chest.

"mhmm," you moan, your brain finally pulling itself from slumber, warm in the smell of him, tangling your arms around his neck, "all for you."

"fuckin' ell," he breathed before kissing you with such a passion you'd never felt from him before. he was drowning in you, head buzzed at the thought of something of him being on your skin forever, and you on his. heart pouring, he reached for you in every way he could.

he'd be obsessed with both of the tattoos, strongly encouraging you to never ever wear anything high-waisted again, so long as he steered away from sleeves. pride and happiness overtook him when he'd see you with other people, in public or with friends, and see the black ink peek through your clothes, knowing that it was for him, and nobody else.

he just loved you a lot, and he adores the permanent reminders.

[mangosrar]

call it what you want pt4.

matt sturniolo x fem reader.

“i mean what even is that” you said looking at chris while taking a bite of your burger, flailing your free hand around in utter confusion.

“you’re thinking too deep into it y/n he’s just fucking with you, he does it to us all the time you know this” he replied, chewing on some fries

“oh your brother pulls you into a closet and kisses your neck?” you laughed, looking at him with a cheesy grin.

“not exactly but he’s just trying to get under your skin…or maybe just under you” he said giggling and dodging the punch you sent him.

you just rolled your eyes and tried to hide your smile.

“but in all seriousness, kid probably smoked too much weed and started bugging, don’t get in your head about it” he told you, nudging you with his elbow, attempting to settle you.

that’s what you loved about having chris as a best friend. he always knew how to put you at ease. like now, after you straight up dragged him out of class and forced him to drive you to mcdonald’s, just so you could rage about his brother, he still somehow knew exactly what to say.

“do your parents know yet?” he asked, looking at you with a worried expression.

“i haven’t told them but, caden saw us this morning and when you’re the favourite child desperate for mommy and daddy to hate your sister, word travels fast” you replied, nodding your head as you spoke.

he just hummed in agreement, as you both continues to eat, basking in a comfortable silence.

you never really understood how matt was the way he was, when his brothers were so great. you always wondered what matt would be like if things were different. would you be as close as you are with nick? would he be able to make you laugh like chris does? or would you still hate the bones of him?

-

“chris bring me a drink” you shouted from the living room, as you cuddled up on the couch with a blanket, waiting to start the movie.

“do we have to watch this?” chris whined, padding over to you with a bottle of water in his hand for you.

“yes we have to watch this, it’s the best coming of age movie ever” you replied, taking the bottle of water from him and watching as he slumped down on the couch, huffing as you pressed play, and the movie began.

“i hate this movie” he muttered, crossing his arms, like a grumpy child. you just laughed at him before a voice appeared behind you.

“what movie?”

it was like he was always somehow creeping up on you, ready to pounce at any moment.

“the breakfast club” chris tensed up, not bothering to look back at his brother, instead keeping his eyes trained on the tv.

you weren’t sure if he was miraculously interested in the movie, or if he was too scared to look up, in fear your gaze might catch his and kill him instead of matt.

“and what the fuck are you doing here?” matt said turning to you, with furrowed brows.

“oh did you not notice? i’m re designing your living room. what the fuck does it look like i’m doing ass hat” you scoffed, turning your eyes away from him and back to the tv.

“so hostile y/n” matt tutted sarcastically before sauntering off into the kitchen. god how you just wanted to grab his face and-

“y/n!?” chris yelled snapping you out of whatever daze matt had managed to get you in. you hadn’t even realised that you were watching him.

“you’re staring” he spoke quietly in a sing song voice, smirking at you while wiggling his eyebrows.

you just swatted his arm before muttering a quick “shut up”. was it that obvious?

-

9pm rolled around fast, and before you knew it, chris was pulling up in your drive way.

“hey let me know how it goes in there” he said as you got out of the car, referring to your parents.

you just smiled, thanked him before closing the door and making your way in the house.

the thing was, you had great parents, but boy were they strict. they had rules for everything. no parties, no drugs, no boys, no skipping school, no staying out past 10, no grades below a B, the list went on and on. the only time the rules were let a little loose was when you came home with elija whitlock.

if your parents wanted you to be with anyone it was that man. he was your ex boyfriend of 8 months, and your parents worshipped the ground he walked on. he was smart and funny, came from a good family, he was well respected, and had a first class scholarship to the top college in boston. what more could they want for their little girl?

but in reality he was a complete and utter jackass. he was the most generic, stereo typical, fuck boy, captain of the hockey team, jock who partied, smoked and cheated behind closed doors.

everyone wanted him, and some how he landed the good girl with parents who would choke at the sight of a tattoo.

but all good things must come to an end, and after months of cheating, lying and borderline torture, you called it quits. you dumped his ass and left him in the dirt. it was like all hell had broke loose. everyone in the school had heard about it, but it hit you pretty hard.

although he was a complete douche bag and treated you like shit, he was your boyfriend and you loved him regardless, wether it was one sided or not. but no one loved him more than your straight line down, watching paint dry parents.

“you’re home late”

his voice made you jump as you placed your foot on the bottom step of the stairs, closing your eyes and scrunching your face up before turning around to face him. you had almost made it. almost.

“yeah, chris drove me home” you spoke quietly, before clearing ur throat.

“mhh. have fun?” your dad asked while looking at you and standing up, putting his hands in his pockets.

“yeah we just watched a movie” you replied. swapping from one foot to the other, like a nervous child.

“was matthew there?” shit.

“um, no he-“ you began.

“don’t even try and lie to me y/n because i already know” he cut you off. his face was hard as he stared at you from across the room.

you just swallowed and looked down.

“what has gotten into you? he’s not a good kid y/n and you know it. he drinks, he smokes and you know what? you will follow in his footsteps” he paused, pointing a finger at you, jabbing it in the air as he spoke. “i’ve seen it happen before, one week you’re fine, the next you’re on drugs, getting in the back of a police car” he nodded

“what are you even saying dad? that’s never going to happen!” you exclaimed, throwing your arms up by your sides and letting them fall again.

you weren’t sure why, but your mom had been oddly silent this whole time. usually she loved giving her 2 cents on things like this. but she hadn’t even looked at you yet.

“does he play sports?” your dad asked, raising his eyebrows.

“yes he’s on the hockey team, the same as caden” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose.

there was a brief moment of silence, your dad rubbing chin, like he was deep in thought and your mom looking at whatever book she was reading, like this conversation wasn’t even happening.

“the same as elijah” there was that 2 cents.

“fantastic observation mom. yes he’s on the same team as elijah, are we pointing out any other obvious facts that we’re all aware of or just that one?” you snapped, cocking your head in her direction.

she turned to look at you with her eyebrows raised as if to say “excuse me”, making you feel small.

“we’re looking out for you, he’s a bad influence y/n” she stated.

“you don’t even know him” you spoke quietly. this whole interaction made you feel a little stupid, they were completely right, but for the sake of your fake relationship, you had to fight your corner.

“no but i know he liked to drag you into janitors closets to do god knows what” she smiled sarcastically, looking back down at the book in her lap. and as if on cue, that shit eating, vile little creature you call a brother appeared in the doorway.

“snitch” you spat at him. he just frowned and placed his hand over his heart, in fake sadness.

“hey! he’s looking out for you, like we all are” your dad spoke, sending you a authoritative look. you weren’t actually sure you had the brain power or energy to entertain this conversation much longer, you were never going to win. between your parents and your brother, you were toast.

“whatever. can i go now?” you sassed, crossing your arms over your chest.

“don’t let me catch you in any closets, up to no good” your mom demanded. you just rolled your eyes and stomped up the stairs.

although that whole lecture was soul sucking, there was a small part of you that wanted to jump for fucking joy, purely for the fact that matt sturniolo was your long haired tattooed, weed smoking, fake boyfriend.

i message.

chris 🤓

y/n: parents flipped. they think i’m gonna be arrested🥳

chris: i can’t tell if thats a good or bad thing

y/n: time will tell. elijah was brought up

chris: should have known. your parents think the sun shines out of that dudes ass

y/n: trust me i know

chris: want me to tell matt?

y/n: na it’s cool i’ll tell him

chris: gotcha

matt 🖕

y/n: you didn’t tell me my brother saw us today?

matt: i forgot your dumb and can’t read context clues

y/n: oh so pulling me into a closet kissing my neck are context clues? makes sense matt good job!!!!!!!!

matt: i had to keep up the act or he would know it’s fake.

y/n: wow. i wasn’t aware caden could see through walls😱

matt: don’t act like you weren’t enjoying it.

y/n: i think having needles in my eyes would have been a better experience. nice try tho !

matt: whatever helps u sleep at night sweetheart.

ass hole.

——————————————————————————

taglist: @christinarowie332 @jenna0rtegaswife @mattswifue @chrisenthusiast @mattslolita @secret-sturniolo @gloomymatt @urfavstromboli @gwenlore @mattestrella @iloveneilperry @ifilwtmfc @iammattsturniolo @sturniolos4lifee @honestlybabymiracle @sturns-posts @carolinalikesthings @kasiaslayuje @blondiesjailer @crazycoka @honestlybabymiracle @morgannmay @megamia44

[silencedrowns]

rating Halloween toilet decor at my local Michael’s

The classic skeleton on a skeleton shaped toilet. 8/10. you cannot go wrong with a spooky dookie but the book made of bone is definitely not it

Ichabod Crane toilet. 7/10. Points for originality with a less common Halloween figure and the satisfyingly smug pumpkin face, but points lost for confusing denim boot covers and the way the pumpkin isn’t reading the book whatsoever. Also makes me wonder if the axe is for toilet paper.

Dracula toilet. 4/10 for boring sculpt, bad paint job, baffling makeup, and the fact that Anne Rice says vampires don’t need to use the bathroom. Not that I believe Anne Rice about everything, but it’s funny to bring up the time Lestat gets body swapped into a normal body and spends way too many pages describing the feeling of peeing.

Frankenstein’s monster. 10/10 this is perfect. The pose, the sculpt, the self referential book… this monster knows what he’s about and even though like all these other toilet figures he’s wearing pants, it’s fine. Top tier silly. I love his face and I genuinely contemplated buying this for about 30 seconds before I realized then I’d have to own and find a place for a Frankenstein toilet figure.

Edgar Allan Poe on the toilet. 9/10 this is the only time I’m deducting points for “but he’s still wearing pants!” because this is an actual human figure, but I’m adding a ton of points back for how scrunkly he is and the large amount of accessories.

Laptop skeleton toilet. THIS IS PERFECTION 100/10. The pose, so familiar to anyone who’s had to use a computer for news or bad social media or zoom. The silly ghost not quite Apple logo. The jointed knees letting you bat at the feet like a cat with a toy. You cannot improve on this. One of my favorite objects in the Michael’s Halloween section of all time. This skeleton is a mood and an icon and I love it so, so very much.

Hey Michael’s? What in the actual fuck is this. I’m not even going to rate this because this is literally just a regular toilet, not a Halloween toilet. “Oh it has a snake on it” snakes alone do not make something Halloween or have we all forgotten about Britney Spears with the yellow python (top 10 “how did I think I was straight” moments). Send whoever designed this embarrassment to remedial Halloween school where they have to design anatomically improbable skeletons. IT DOESN’T EVEN HAVE A SEAT YOU’D FALL RIGHT IN THIS THING SUCKS

[girlwithadragonheart]

I need to yap desperately about one single gripe I have with this game. MAJOR MAJOR MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD read at your own discretion

The first half is me ranting about how much certain things mean to me and how impacted I was, and the actual gripe comes closer to the end.

I'll preface this by saying this post is about Varric's death and my rage and despair regarding it, but more so about my Rook's.

I've seen people who said they picked up on the hints about whatnot, who knew before the Fade Prison. I was not one of those people. I was so relieved when I saw him after the Prologue that I didn't think twice, because I knew that it would destroy me the second shit started going wrong.

I was already not having a good time when I started the game simply because Varric was getting older. I don't handle aging well or death, and his design showing his age, and the comments he would make about "getting too old for this" just made my heart break.

And then shit got worse. I sobbed disgustingly when that knife went into Varric's chest.

After Rook woke up from talking to Solas and she heard Varric, I was so gods damned relieved. And my Rook was better taken care of by Varric in that year she spent with him than she was in the rest of her entire life.

I cried from the end of Ghilan'nain's fight until the romance scene and on and off after that. I got so used to visiting Varric just to be comforted by his presence. Inquisition was the biggest part of my life for a year and a half when I was just a kid.

I did really bad middle school age writing for it but regardless of the quality, those characters were built up in my head becoming even more than they were in the game. Varric was my biggest support character through everything I was going through at the time.

I don't talk about it much, but I didn't have a great childhood, and I know a lot of people didn't, but I coped with it through writing and video games. Varric was the one supporting me through the abuse I suffered and writing was the way I processed how bad things really were.

When Rook was in the prison she said "What am I going to find here?" And Varric said "I think you already know, kid." I DIDN'T until he said that. The second he said that my entire chest tightened and I just said "No" out loud as I watched Rook find his body.

Now for my real complaint!!!

Rook never gets the chance to grieve Varric. They go from talking to him every day to finding out he's dead and it was all a lie. I have personally never been more fucking pissed at Solas than I am now. But Rook comes back and they have that kind of "closing off" scene with Varric's empty bed (which was so hard to go through btw). And then they fuck their pookie LIKE I CANNOT BE THE ONLY ONE UPSET ABT THAT

FYM I gotta find out my dad is dead and then Rook is up for boning like there's no fucking way unless it's to cope. And at least pertaining to the Lucanis romance, Rook is processing everything that happened and they can say "So much has happened, I just don't know how to feel."

And rather than getting to process that in some kind of way, the devs said nah this scene serves one singular purpose, and Lucanis says "I do" and then dicks them down.

Personally, I felt very dismissed despite being overjoyed about finally having the romance scene, I couldn't even enjoy it with everything that happened prior.

Rook deserved the chance to completely break down after everything they went through. Tbh i don't know how they kept it together. Varric said "don't get all misty eyed" and i thought to myself that's way too delicate a term for what's happening here, I was fully ugly crying.

Fuck your "I had a good run" I still need you bitch.

All this to say I'm very upset, and I'm running my second playthrough and every time I look at, hear, or talk to Varric I tear up again. Wtf Bioware.

Rook should've gotten the chance to actually talk about what Solas did to them, especially in the sense that he made them believe Varric was still there. Or at least get to properly grieve the person who was their closest friend for a long time.

I have very strong feelings about this obviously

[thegnomelord]

Bro I have been a solid lurker for a HOT moment. Let me just say stupendous writing literally devouring this surplus like a fine dinning for 3. Daily check your page because the writing is so immaculate!

I have come to share a particular idea. Soap has a Mohawk but what about male reader having a cool hairstyle to. (Totally not because I also have a Mohawk there cool asf) but soap who is used to having his hair pulled, then comes along reader and he's practically begging to have his hair pulled with the silly style and soaps obsessed. BONUS points if reader and soap or monsters like bloodborne lichen dude 🙏🙏🙏 peek monster design I need to see that in action you know. (I'm so full of cool old school horror movies with monsters and insane cool practical effects) all I'm thinking about it Soap who's being an arse pushing reader to his limits, grabbing his hair and pulling only to get a near guttural growl from reader and getting demolish by reader

Sorry if that made no sense im rambling and the bus is a pain in my side.

Could I be 🛠 anon!

NGL I always wanted a mohawk and TRIED to do a mohawk but my head is shaped like a very inbred egg and it just does not look good on me.

CW:MDNI, sorry it's short I don't have much time cause I'm swamped with other projects and my studies :Dd

But I also love the idea of conventional werewolf Soap with Bloodborn werewolf reader. Like you're beastly even in human form, a wild mohawk on your head stretching down all the way down your spine, wild coarse hair giving you a savage appearance. And Johnny is painfully hard for it. Just something wild in bones absolutely salivates for the blatant ferocity you show.

So, as you do, he makes himself a menace every chance he gets. Something in him, something beyond his inner wolf, earns for the ferocious bloody fight and brawl. So any chance he gets, he's by your side, growling, baring his teeth, always trying to push the boundaries of your space.

He finally fucks up when, his need getting too strong, he reaches out and curls his fingers in your mohawk near the nape of your neck. The growl he receives shakes the ground and has his heart dropping to his stomach. Your teeth are on him in a second, big clawed paws pinning him to the ground no matter how much he shifts and tries to fight back. You're bigger than him in wolf form, wild hair and semi-flayed flesh falling around his head like a shroud so all he can see is are the jagged jaws snarling near his face.

And it only takes a second before you feel his ass bump against your groin, a second later to smell the strong musk of arousal clinging to him like the last dregs of humanity cling to your bones. Soap whines like a kicked pup when he smells your acrid arousal in return, licking into your open jaws and struggling on purpose to grind his ass against your quickly hardening cock.

[tadc-harlequin-au]

Hi! Please excuse any misspellings, english is not my frist language...

Firstly I just wanted to tell you that I love your AU! Your Harlequin au was what intorduced me to lovely TADC au Tumblr community and I absolutley love it! I haven't seen alternate universes as creative as these since the Sansverse era!

Secondly, I hace a question about the Patriarch: He seems to have a very good idea of who Caine is, wouldn't he be this world's equivalent to Able? I ask because althugh his design is WAY different from most fan Able depictions, he still has that "The Puppetmaster's brother" vibe that all Ables tend to have, a peace of Caine's past that he can never get rid of!

If he is not Able then I am curious of who he is, if he is then the lore just got spicier and if you don't want to spoil anything I'll understand.

But honestly: Keep it up! Your au has filled 70% of all my daydreams, the only thing I have been able to think about for a while has only been game mechanics, combat and chase sequences!

Damn y'all are fucking sleuths istg

Though I am very proud of that because that means my design philosophy worked somehow, and for that, I'll throw you guys a bone. And also because I can't keep it a secret any longer I've been holding it in since the very beginning of this au

YES.

The Patriarch of Puppets is none other than Abel, Caine's biological brother.

When I was first designing him, I wanted every aspect of Abel's design to scream "opposite of Caine", and to hold some form of symbolism. From his megaphone head, down to the color palettes, there is meaning. Don't get me wrong, Mushy's Able is a very memorable and awesome design and I could've incorporated him the same way I did Souls-like, but I wanted something deeper for Harlequin.

While Caine is adorned in golds and maroons to symbolize his warmer nature, Abel has teals and silver, a very cold and intimidating stature. Their outfits and the colors are an opposition towards each other yet reflect one another somehow, the way Abel dresses tightly and formal when Caine is loose and open, his intense red pupil conveys his hostility, whilst Caine's eyes are softer blues and greens.

His king-size height dwarfing Caine tells just how much the Puppetmaster felt living on his shadow, HELL, someone noticed the weird "A" on the sides of his head and I had to shrug it off because I didn't want to reveal it as early as that time.

Even the megaphone head design holds SO MUCH UNTOLD STORY BETWEEN THE BROTHERS THAT I WILL CHOOSE TO KEEP A SECRET FOR NOW. I've put SO MUCH THOUGHT behind his design.

*sigh*... Which is also why I very much dislike the "siren head" jokes, because it's the one thing I didn't really foresaw when I was developing his design until I finished, and someone pointed out it might cause jokes like that to prop up. Something I thought I wouldn't mind initially, until everyone made the same joke over and over again and I just audibly groan irl.

But you know. internet's gonna internet, they see one thing that resembles a popular media, it's an immediate connection. I didn't even give a shit enough about Siren head to know how the design actually looked like, just a silhouette of the guy.

Therefore, I would really appreciate it if saying this out loud would help lessen the jokes, but ik not everyone is going to see this post so.

I do still wanna thank you for your kind words, because these kinds of asks are the fuel to my fire of inspiration and motivation for this AU, and I wish that I can keep this fire going till the very end of this AU's story :')

[nervoussagittarius]

y/n and chris being the hottest couple for 5 minutes straight

summary: hot moments caught on camera between chris and his girlfriend

warnings: fluff, little suggestive, request

★ you were chris’s biggest supporter, so when he asked you to model for his new fresh love drop the obvious answer was absolutely. the drop was so big for chris that he went as far as filming the entire design and creative process for his fans. including this photo shoot.

when photo shoot day came around chris kept you by his side the whole time. you walked out in the first design and his jaw dropped. “you’re stunning. holy shit, ma. you look so good.” chris said as he placed you in the light for the photographer.

you were a natural when it came to taking pictures and posing. you did everything to make chris’s brand look good.

you did a few test shots before starting the real shoot. “you’re so hot, baby. you’re doing so good.” you felt the heat rise to your face. you were able to play it off by looking over at chris and sending him a wink.

chris was the best hype man the entire day even though this shoot was really for him. “thank you for letting me be involved.” you said walking away from the backdrop and over to chris. he pulled you in by the belt loops on your jeans and connected his lips to yours.

“you were the biggest help through all of this. this day was just as much about you as it was me.” chris comments, pulling you into a bone crushing hug.

★ you hadn’t seen your boyfriend in over a month due to his touring schedule. after talking to his brothers you decided to suprise him for one of their shows.

you hid in the crowd so when they picked players for their tournament you would be seen. “alright chris you pick first.” nick said into the mic.

you were completely decked out in orange for chris. you went as far as wearing his clothes. chris did a double take when he saw you. convinced the lights were distorting his vision, he walked toward the front of the stage.

“not fucking way.” he said looking straight at you. you could see his pupils dilate from across the room. “guys my girlfriend y/n is here. i didn’t know she was coming.” he started jumping around like an excited child.

you were ushered backstage and immediately were met with chris when you crossed the curtains. he pulled you over to his brothers before finally taking you all in.

“is that my shirt?” he asked tugging on it gently to get your attention. you responded with a nod and a smug smile. “oh my fuck, baby.” he said basically melting in your presence.

the crowd went crazy at your interactions.

★ people from boston went all out for sporting events. if you’re from boston you support boston teams. so you weren’t suprise when your boyfriend decided to drag you to a bruins hockey game.

you sat in between nick and chris while nick kept you company because there was no getting chris’s attention off of the game in front of him. this was until he overheard nick talking about how hot all of the hockey boys were.

“nick, why are you talking to my girl about all of these hot guys when i’m right here. i’m the only hot guy she needs to think about.” the smirk on chris’s face gave away his playful demeanor. you knew he was joking with you two.

“you’re the only guy i think about, baby. don’t worry.” you said as you adjusted his beanie. chris replied by resting his hand in your thigh and placing a kiss on your forehead.

there was a pause in the game where they started playing different commercials and things on the big screen. it was all fun and games until the kiss cam focused on you and nick.

the two of you jokingly went in for a kiss before swerving each other with a laugh. all of a sudden you felt chris’s hand on your chin redirecting your focus to him.

chris rested his hand around your neck in a simple gesture before leaning in to give you a passionate kiss. everyone around cheered for him before the camera focused on another couple.

you gave chris a ‘really’ look with your raised eyebrow. he shrugged before saying, “i had to show all these hockey players that you’re off limits.”

comments:

find you a man who can still make you blush three years in

chat how to find a sexy gf like y/n

sleeping on the highway tonight

what i would give to be in those crowds

taglist: @norr1ssturni0lo @recklessmatt @luvr4miya @hpyjw @unbruisable @watercolorskyy @elliewrites1 @rheaasturn @slxt4matt @mmay4ever @aurizp

[saiintvalentiine]

Summary: Ken walks into the aftermath of Parrot finding out Wifies is actually a clone. He should be given sainthood for how little he kills Parrot. Part 2 now out!

notes: this is so not edited lol i wrote this in like. 3 hours between tasks at work. rip. this is vaguely set in the most recent UU episode in that i needed a setting and also a reason for ken wifies and parrot to be in the same place at once. no spoilers for the episode its just alluded to being the setting. uhhhh. i think thats it. enjoy. divider from here.

word count for the curious: 2678. allegedly.

Ken arrives in the meeting room with a hop in his step. He’s been looking for Wifies everywhere, but Dean let him know that Wifies was talking with Parrot, and now Ken can finally show him the little tricky trap he’s been working on! He’s proud of himself. It’s a really good design! So he’s hopping into the room like a rabbit instead of a cat.

Parrot stands alone at the head of the table, back to the door. Just Parrot.

Bleh.

“Yo,” Ken greets even though he still feels the urge to whack Parrot across the head occasionally. “I thought Wifies was here?”

“Did you know?” Parrot asks.

Ken can feel every single part of his body prickle with discomfort. He’s glad that Parrot isn’t looking at him, so he has a chance to lower his shoulders, and tail, and ears. And attitude. He knows, somehow, what exactly Parrot means by knowing. Ken shuts the door silently.

“Know what?” Ken asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Don’t play dumb Ken. Did you know about Wifies being a clone?”

Ken breathes in slowly. He pulls his comm out and checks the playerlist. Wifies is gone. He was here only a few minutes ago when Ken last checked, which means that whatever happened, just happened.

“Did he tell you that?” Ken asks, opening Wifies’s chat.

[_Kenadian_]: where are you?

“You know, I was so confused,” Parrot turns around, eyes distant and face blank. “When I first met him, he was such a fucking asshole. Entirely full of himself. Still the smartest guy I’d ever met, though, so when all this stuff started happening on the server, I couldn’t help but think of him. I thought I was gonna regret inviting him, yet he was so quiet and nice now.”

[_Kenadian_]: wifies

[_Kenadian_]: seriously where are you

“He was always reserved, even before, but all these little things started coming up— he couldn’t remember things well, he’d talk about weird things in his sleep, things like that. And I couldn’t even. . . I didn’t know how to piece it together, and he wouldn’t talk to me!”

[_Kenadian_]: wato

[Wato1876]: Hey!

[_Kenadian_]: have you heard from wifies

[Wato1876]: No?

[Wato1876]: Isn’t he on unstable w/ you right now?

[_Kenadian_]: he left and isnt answering my messages

[_Kenadian_]: parrot found out, idk how, and now wifies is /gone/

[Wato1876]: ok I’ll check around for him

[_Kenadian_]: thx

“Are you even listening?” Parrot asks, and Ken finally looks up at him. His expression is one of desperation. It disgusts Ken.

“No,” Ken says, voice bone dry. “You yelled at him didn’t you? God Parrot, and I was just starting to respect you.”

“He lied to me this whole time!” Parrot explodes, eyes wild as he leans his hand on the table. “From the start, he hid this from me, and I only found out by— by sheer coincidence! He was talking to someone on his comm, and said something about being a clone, and I just—”

“Wait, who was he talking to?” Ken interrupts with a frown.

“I— I don’t know, they had a deep voice, talked really particularly?”

“Must’ve been Retro. . . Retro knows?” Ken mutters to himself.

The shame Wifies stews in every day because of his clone status is something Ken hasn’t been able to push past; Wifies always says he owes his life to Ken, but rarely does he bother to share his burdens with him either. Which means at least Retro seems to be getting through to him. . . It stings a little, but Ken has bigger fish to fry.

“So you did know!”

“Parrot, why do you care!” Ken snaps, turning back to his comm and searching for Retro’s contact information. Shit. He should’ve nabbed it off of Wifies earlier. “You drove him off! He’s not your fucking problem now, shouldn’t you be happy?! There! You cleaned your friends list of liars! Aren’t you satisfied with your work?!”

“I just wanted to know the truth, I didn’t want to drive him off! He's not a problem to get rid of!”

“Well great fucking job, man, go kick rocks or something. Fuck, where did he go?!”

[Wato1876]: Found him. He’s at the factory.

[Wato1876]: Ken, his comm is cracked right in half. He’s stuck here again.

Ken feels everything in him rear like a lion. He closes his comm and tucks it into his pocket. Slowly, oh so slowly, he stalks around the table towards Parrot, holding the hilt of his sword in a loose grip. Parrot follows his path with his eyes, feathers puffing out and fists clenched.

“Did you break his comm, Parrot?” Ken asks casually.

“No,” Parrot replies.

“Parrot. Tell me the truth. Did you break Wifies’s comm? Even by mistake?” Ken’s gums ache. He’ll dig his teeth into Parrot’s thin throat. He’ll rip his flimsy little esophagus out.

“No, no. I didn’t. I didn’t touch him. I didn’t. I wouldn’t.”

“I don’t know if you wouldn’t, Parrot, but I swear to everything you hold dear, if I find out it was you who broke his comm, you are going to wish I had just killed you instead,” Ken hisses out.

“His comm is broken?” Parrot echoes faintly, and it’s like gravity returns to his world, his feet landing back in reality.

“I don’t think you deserve an answer, Parrot, but yes.”

Ken tries to breathe through his anger. He’s going to believe Parrot for now.

[_Kenadian_]: ill be there soon

[Wato1876]: Bring a replacement comm?

“I was mad,” Parrot sounds wretched. “But not— I don’t care that he’s a clone Ken. I just felt like he didn’t trust me.”

Killing Parrot would make Wifies even sadder. Killing Parrot would make Wifies even sadder. Killing Parrot would make Wifies even sadder. Killing Parrot would make Wifies even sadder. Killing Parrot would make Wifies even sadder.

“I never trusted you, Parrot, not once, not for a single moment, but you made Wifies happy. I don’t know what he sees in you, but he was happy playing second fiddle to your stupid little orchestra on here, y’know? So I tried very hard to get along with you, so Wifies could stay happy,” Ken lets go of the hilt of his sword to press a sharp nail into Parrot’s chest. “You don’t understand the state I found him in before he came here, before you roped him into your stupid little games. He—”

Ken’s voice cracks and he curses, indistinct and abstract. He hates this. Leave it to Parrot to fuck everything up, just like Ken always knew he would with his lack of foresight and planning and brain. Parrot snaps up to grab Ken’s hand in a tight grip.

“Ken, I didn’t want him to leave me,” Parrot chokes out. “I just wanted to know, I just—”

“And look at where your wanting got him!” Ken spits out, yanking his hand away. “You want, and want, and want, Parrot do you even care what your wanting costs the rest of the world? What it costs Wifies?”

“He never says anything to me, he never—”

“Do you ever ask?! God Parrot, get out of your head for a minute!”

Ken runs a hand through his hair. Where is he gonna find a replacement comm? He might have something in one of the prison servers he frequents, but his head is scrambled, he can’t quite sort through his inventory in his head to figure out what he has right now. He may have one in his escape kits. . .

“Ken,” Parrot breathes. He finally realized what he’s done, it seems. Ken wants to stab him in the stomach. “Ken, I care about Wifies more than anyone else. You know that right? He knows that right?”

Ken pulls at his roots.

“I don’t know anything about Wifies right now,” Ken finally says, exhaustion creeping into him as his adrenaline runs dry. “I can’t contact him right now. He gets. . . bad, when it comes to the clone stuff. God, Parrot, what the hell have you done?”

Ken doesn’t wait for an answer. He leaves the server and lands in his solo world, scrambling around his storage before finding a dusty old comm he hasn’t used since he customized his current one. Landing near the factory is always a displeasure, but he pushes his feelings aside and enters. It takes a little searching, but he finds Wifies and Wato in the office, laid out on the floor next to each other.

“Wifies,” Ken says, more to say something than having anything to say, and he sits next to Wifies.

“Sorry for scaring you,” Wifies says. His voice is hoarse, and his eyes are bloodshot. “My comm broke. I dropped it while it was open, and I fell on it.”

“I brought you an old one I had laying around,” Ken says, bringing a hand up and running his fingers through Wifies’s curls slowly. Wifies closes his eyes. “What happened?”

Wifies doesn’t answer at first, just breathes evenly and relaxes each part of his body. He's so tense. Ken wishes he had killed Parrot.

“Parrot found out,” Wifies whispers. “I was talking to Retro. He’s been. . . helping me decipher some stuff from the notes. It was important. And I called him, and Parrot heard, and he was livid. That I hadn’t told him. That he couldn’t trust me. So I left.”

“He’s an asshole,” Wato says, and both Wifies and Ken turn to look at him in shock. “What?”

“Wato, there’s a reason why we’re such good friends,” Ken says with a grin. “Because I, too, believe Parrot is an absolute asshole.”

“You guys always knew, but I lied to him,” Wifies says. “I don’t know if he’s an asshole for being upset I didn’t tell him.”

“Yes he is,” Ken and Wato say together.

“There’s no reason to defend him out here,” Ken scolds, scratching Wifies’s scalp lightly.

“I don’t hate him, Ken,” Wifies lets out a deep, winding sigh before sitting up slowly. “Can I have the comm? I need to message Retro. Tell him everything’s okay.”

“Fine.”

Ken hands over the comm and Wifies thanks him faintly. As he boots it up and logs in, Wato sits up and gives Ken a look. Ken returns the look. Before they can descend upon Wifies and force him to talk about his feelings, the comm begins pinging wildly, messages flooding in and not stopping. Peeking over Wifies’s shoulder, Ken makes a disgusted expression at Parrot’s chat being at the top of Wifies’s DMs. Parrot is absolutely spamming Wifies’s inbox. Ken’s going to eat him for dinner.

“Ah,” Wifies says. He then proceeds to ignore Parrot to text Retro. Good. Fuck that guy.

“What does he want?” Ken asks, not because he really cares but because if Parrot pisses him off again, he can justify going at him with an axe.

“Maybe. . . Maybe not right now,” Wifies’s voice is weak.

The messages roll to a stop. Good! And then Ken’s comm starts ringing off like shots. Goddamn it. Ken pulls out his comm. It is Parrot. Awful. Now Wifies and Wato move to peek over his shoulder as his inbox becomes utterly unusable.

[Parrotx2]: Ken

[Parrotx2]: I’m sorry

[Parrotx2]: not to you

[Parrotx2]: well I can be sorry to you too but I’m sorry that I reacted like that to Wifies

[Parrotx2]: and I just need him to know that I’m sorry

[Parrotx2]: and I know you hate my guts

[Parrotx2]: but you said he was happy right? I made him happy

[Parrotx2]: I don’t think I’ve ever made someone happy by just existing

[Parrotx2]: cause fuck, it’s not like I’ve done anything for him

[Parrotx2]: Ken what the fuck did I do

[Parrotx2]: please just let him know I’m sorry

[Parrotx2]: and that I didn’t mean to blow up

[Parrotx2]: you’d think I’d be used to betrayal but with him, it felt so much worse than betrayal

[Parrotx2]: like I had failed to be trustworthy

[Parrotx2]: the reveal was a lot, but I felt more hurt than disgusted or scared

[Parrotx2]: I don’t care if he’s a clone

[Parrotx2]: I mean I care if he wants me to care. I want him to want me to care about him.

[Parrotx2]: I care about him in general

[Parrotx2]: plus whoever the guy before him was was a bitch

[Parrotx2]: he’s like so much better in a million ways

[Parrotx2]: not the point

[Parrotx2]: the point is my caring of him is not reliant on his clone status

[Parrotx2]: I can tell he’s got a comm now cause my messages are showing up as received

[Parrotx2]: does he hate me now?

[Parrotx2]: he has every right

[Parrotx2]: I can’t even pretend that he shouldn’t hate me

[Parrotx2]: Ken I don’t want him to hate me

[Parrotx2]: I don’t know if I can live with that

[Parrotx2]: I fucked up so badly

[Parrotx2]: the worst part is I trust him

[Parrotx2]: I made this whole fuss about trust and I still trust him

[Parrotx2]: of course I do, he’s the single most trustworthy person I’ve ever met

[Parrotx2]: I’ve slept in the same room as him for months and I never even worried

[Parrotx2]: he could’ve left or betrayed me or killed me literally at any point

[Parrotx2]: and he never did! even if it would’ve made his life easier

[Parrotx2]: what the fuck was I thinking?

“Ugh. Do you wanna talk to him right now?” Ken asks, turning his head towards Wifies. He gets a face full of sweet smelling curly hair.

“. . . I don’t know,” Wifies says, resting his chin snuggly onto Ken’s shoulder.

[_Kenadian_]: can you shut up. jesus.

[Parrotx2]: sorry

[_Kenadian_]: yes he has a comm now

[_Kenadian_]: he’ll talk to you when he talks to you

[_Kenadian_]: you made him cry yknow

“Ken!” Wifies hisses, cheek warming up where it’s now pressed to the side of Ken’s throat. “Why did you tell him that?”

[Parrotx2]: fuck I’m sorry

[_Kenadian_]: yeah he knows

[_Kenadian_]: just

[_Kenadian_]: give him some space

[_Kenadian_]: also dont text me like that whats wrong with you

[_Kenadian_]: i want you so dead its not even funny

[_Kenadian_]: this is the SECOND time you make him cry

“Ken!!”

[Parrotx2]: I

[Parrotx2]: what?

[_Kenadian_]: wouldnt you like to know bird boy

[Parrotx2]: why would you tell me that

[_Kenadian_]: you need to understand the consequences of what you do

[_Kenadian_]: wifies never lets you see but i do and i think you should writhe

[_Kenadian_]: you care so much? lets see.

[_Kenadian_]: writhe bird boy writhe

“That’s mean,” Wifies says as Ken closes his comm, but he doesn’t move a single muscle.

“You should’ve made it worse,” Wato says. “Should’ve told him Wifies was comatose or something.”

“Jeez, since when are you so vicious?” Wifies asks, but Ken is almost certain he and Wato are holding hands behind Ken’s back.

“I approve,” Ken says, bumping his head into Wato’s lightly. “Anyway, take as long as you want to ignore Parrot. Forever, even. I’d also approve of forever.”

Wato hums in agreement. Wifies sighs again, much lighter than before.

“Just a little while,” he says to Ken’s vast displeasure. “Just until I can stomach it. I shouldn’t have run away.”

“You’re allowed to do whatever you want, actually. Forever.”

Wifies giggles, and Ken finally feels himself relax a little. If Wifies is laughing, then it’ll be okay. He still feels anger pulsing within him like a second heartbeat, but it softens when Wifies bumps the top of his head into Ken's cheek. Not gone, never gone, but quietened enough to let Wifies speak for himself.

Ken trusts Wifies despite his own opinion. So he'll keep true and hold Wifies close no matter what.

“We still gotta talk about your feelings,” Wato says, and Wifies whines, trying to hide his face further into Ken's shoulder. 

“It's so embarrassing,” he murmurs.

“I'd be embarrassed too if I cried over Parrot of all people,” Ken deadpans. 

Wifies groans. Ken won't let him get away this time.

[milf-murdock]

Hi!! I love love love your writing! Especially your 141!Reader series <3 I don't know if you take requests, but your last post about Simon and baby Joseph made me so angsty and I would love to read more angst from you. Could you please write about Simon thinking 141!Reader was KIA on a mission? Thank you!!!

Anon....who....who hurt you???? I’m kidding 😆 mostly 👀 But for real, this one HURT. Like. OUCH. This man has been through so fucking much…but let’s put him through a bit more 😈😈😈 also, I did very much hurt my own feelings with this one. So I’m thinking we might need a part two reunion because I don’t know if I can leave our Ghosty boy in shambles like this

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

The rain patters against the window in a steady rhythm.

Simon watches the fat raindrops roll down the small window pane, one foot anxiously tapping against the concrete floor. He didn’t know why he was called to Price’s office, but there was an ominous charge to the air. Call it a premonition, or maybe an instinct, but he knew in his bones that something was wrong. 

The click of the door handle pulls Simon from his thoughts as Price enters the office, a heavy silence filling the air. 

“What’s happened?” Simon's voice has a hard edge to it, cutting straight through the bullshit. Watchful eyes appraise every detail of Price’s body language, and Simon notes the deep sunken look of his captain’s eyes accentuated by a somber expression. 

Price avoids Simon's gaze, staring down at the oak desktop before him as he takes a seat. The captain wasn’t one to mince words or beat around the bush, but even he was having a hard time wrapping his mind around the situation despite his many years in the service.  

Simon's heart hammers in his chest, every second in the unknown feeling like an eternity. This isn’t right, he thinks to himself. 

Price steels himself with a deep inhale, pulling his gaze from the desk to face Simon head on, looking past the mask, speaking to the man he knew laid beneath. 

“I wanted you to hear this from me, son. You…deserve to hear this from me.” 

Simon stops breathing. 

With practiced determination, Price continues his speech, having rehearsed the words in his head the entire walk down to his office. 

“Reconnaissance mission, Operation Blackout, suffered multiple casualties after a long-range detonation by enemy action. There’s been no contact with the team, and rescue attempts were unsuccessful due to the extensive damage caused by the explosion. All team members are presumed KIA. The official course of action…”

The rest of Price’s speech is drowned out by the dull roar in Simon’s ears; his blood runs cold, his rigid body barely breathing. 

This can’t be happening. Not again. Never again. 

Simon's thoughts grip him by the heart, squeezing painfully. 

I can’t do this again.

He had already lost everyone once. Had built impenetrable walls, designed to protect him from this type of pain. 

But you. You and your goddamn charm, and your soft smiles, and your relentless fucking attitude. You broke down those walls brick by brick, made Ghost–no, made Simon– feel more like a man than he had in years. You slipped past his ironclad defenses and took his heart without him even realizing it. 

And just when he had finally opened up, just when he had finally convinced himself that maybe he could be happy–that you could be happy together. It all came crashing down. 

In the distance, Ghost could hear shouting. A chorus of denials piercing the air, heavy ragged breaths filling the silence between. 

A heavy hand fell on Ghost's shoulder and he found himself back in his body, looking up at Price, voice raw. 

With a stark realization, Ghost realizes it was him. He was the one shouting, the one gasping for breath. 

The world tilted out from under him. 

____________ 

Ghost left Price’s office a different man–a mere shell of the man who entered. With every step he took, he felt himself slipping further and further into the familiar safety of Ghost, an unpierceable facade moving through the world. 

Everything felt wrong. Every step. Every breath. He felt like he was moving underwater, every action taking twice the effort it should. 

The next few hours pass in a blur. The official order that he was being sent on leave. The ensuing argument with Price over the orders. He eventually just gave up. Leave, no leave, it didn’t fucking matter. 

None of it fucking matters. 

Johnny tries to see him before he leaves, meeting Simon on the tarmac. He tries to be there for his lieutenant, his friend. 

The red rim around Johnny’s eyes reminds Simon that he wasn’t the only one who had lost you. They had all lost you. But even that which should have been a comfort, a sort of kinship in the grief, meant nothing. Simon didn’t give a singular fuck. He turned away from Johnny mid-speech, leaving the Scotsman to sit in his grief alone as he watched Ghost disappear into the aircraft. 

____________ 

It takes every ounce of strength Ghost has to make it through the flight. To make it through the drive back home. To make it through that door. 

Keep it together, soldier. Don’t you dare fucking lose it, Simon Riley. Just a bit longer. 

His belongings crash to the floor as the door slams shut behind him. He doesn’t even bother turning on the light, instead using the faint glow of the moonlight through the curtains to guide him to the cabinet. 

Ghost pulls the bottle of bourbon from its resting spot, not even bothering with a glass as he pulls off the corked top and takes a hearty swig. 

The burn of the liquid is invigorating, filling Ghost with a quiet simmering fire. 

He takes another drink. And another. 

He walks through the flat in a daze, the amber liquid dulling his senses, sending him even deeper into the haze of his grief. 

Ghost finds himself in front of his dresser, staring at the wooden drawers. 

Taking another drink, he steels himself as he yanks open the top drawer. Rummaging beneath the pile of socks and t-shirts, Ghost digs out the small velvet box. He grips it tight in his hand, the small object groaning in protest as waves of rage and pain overtake Ghost, threatening to pull him under. Hot tears slide down his face, but he doesn’t even notice. 

With a roar he throws the velvet box across the room, the impact fracturing the drywall. Ghost’s knees go out from under him and he crashes to the floor, his heart shattering into a thousand pieces. There would be no repairing this. No amount of time could heal this type of heartbreak. 

You were dead. 

And as far as Ghost was concerned, Simon Riley died with you. 

[warblogs17282]

Helluva Boss and it's usage of music, why the sound design is so important and how the music connects things together.

So, I've discussed this subject before but I've been thinking about it again recently and I'd like to go a lot more in depth about it, just so we're all clear, I am not mentioning songs in this at all, things like All 2 U and Two Minutes Notice for example.

Let's start with s1 e7, the scene after the date goes horribly and Stolas is talking to Blitz. Notice when the music piece starts here, it starts right during Stolas' line of "We could... talk.", more specifically starting right as Stolas says the word 'talk', which is one of the most important words in that scene, and the purpose of starting the music piece right at that word is to emphasise that word more, and there's another example of the show doing that to prove this point.

So, Blitz gets home, the music has completely stopped by this point, then the music piece starts up again the moment that Blitz scrolls onto that picture of his mother, which is obviously a very significant thing to Blitz, and us, the viewers, showing once again that they've used that music piece to bring emphasis on specific details, this time it being the picture of Blitz's mother.

That music piece is so great at placing more emphasis on details and being a great mood setter for the scene as well.

Now, let's head to the ending of s1 e8, that one scene where Blitz is talking to Loona on the couch. The same music piece as we just discussed starts up again, after Blitz says "Fuck, Fizz was right.", starting the moment that Blitz's lip starts quivering because he's obviously extremely upset about everything right now, yet again placing heavy emphasis on Blitz's emotions, and the statement he just said. Plus, setting the mood of the scene excellently as well.

S2 E1, but first, keep in mind the specific music piece titled 'Stolas Speaks', first shown during this scene in s1 e1, as it's used three different times if I'm remembering correctly.

Now, let's look at Paimon's introduction, and pay close attention to the music piece used, if you compare that and Stolas Speaks, it becomes obvious that Paimon's theme here is a variation of 'Stolas Speaks', which makes complete sense as Paimon is Stolas' father, and is probably a reoccurring theme across the Goetia as a whole as well.

Quick detour here but, pay attention to the music piece when Cash is talking to Blitz, and also pay attention to how the music piece almost instantly changes when Cash does the fake sadness face, the music piece now giving off a sadder tone compared to before Cash did that face, placing even more emphasis on Cash and his fake sad face.

Anyways, Stolas has just woken up from his drinking session, and we hear what I believe is 'Stolas Speaks' once again, but this time, stripped down to just it's bare bones, the piano that's normally there being completely absent this time. With the piano starting back up again right as Stolas takes the 'happy pills', which is also most likely done to bridge more naturally into the song, and to place more emphasis on Stolas taking the 'happy pills'.

S2 E4, we all remember this scene where Stolas is being wheeled into the hospital, and what we also know is that the first piano note of 'Stolas Speaks' plays right at the scene where the screenshot is taken, time slowing down as Blitz sees Stolas on the stretcher, all to sell the impact of the scene more to you and to place more emphasis on the rapidly approaching realisation to Blitz that Stolas can indeed get hurt.

S2 E8, the moment Stolas starts to place the Asmodean Crystal on Blitz's glove, the same music piece from s1 e7 and s1 e8 starts again (that or the general melody is quite similar), and this is most likely done to compare and contrast the car scene in s1 e7 and this scene in s2 e8.

One more thing I noticed, I may be overthinking this connection but the sparkles in the song that starts right after Stolas says 'be who you are.' really reminds me of that one scene in 'Stolas Sings', like the melodies sound so similar, and the show does that to specifically take you back to that moment in the song, to make you compare and contrast that moment in 'Stolas Sings' to what's happening in the current scene in the full moon.

Now, moving onto the argument, (I'm at the 10 image limit so I'm just gonna have to give you timestamps now lmao), go to 21:52, and notice the music piece starting right after the view you have of the scene changes, right when Stolas' face becomes visible.

Then the piano kicks in, just after Stolas becomes in the focus instead of Blitz, and when his face becomes even more visibly upset.

(Timestamp, 22:05), the piano ends, shortly after the show focuses in on Blitz again and does a close-up on him, the final note timed for the exact moment when Blitz's eyes and face shrinks, the exact moment when Blitz has realised just how badly he's fucked up, with the final note being the heaviest note of them all, to sell the impact of the scene even more, and to place major emphasis on showing you, the viewer, Blitz realising that he's fucked up big time.

S2 E9, pay attention to just how much the music changes when Blitz goes to the different people on his list during his 'Apology Tour', it changes to match specifically who and the area which Blitz is apologising to. But during the two times Blitz checks his phone, both times it being opened to his messages with Stolas, the music piece appears to change, sounding and feeling a lot less upbeat and much more saddening, most likely to reflect Blitz's feelings during those moments when he has his phone open to his messages with Stolas.

In conclusion: I have listed plenty of examples to show just how important the music pieces in the show are to the scenes they're in, and to also show just how interconnected those music pieces are within the show as well, some melodies showing up in multiple episodes throughout the show.