#reposting here bc i deactivated my side blog

[milla984]

Just another rainy day

Summary: Reader comes home after a few days away on a work trip and smut ensues. Sort of.

Pairing: modern AU Bheem x fem!reader (but Bheem still has a nose ring)

Category: smut (NSFW, 18+, MDNI)

TW/CW: kissing, unprotected penetrative sex, mentions of food

Word Count: 2.8k

You close the front door of the apartment as the noise of the downpour fills the silence with the repetitive tapping of raindrops bouncing off the rooftop. You take off your shoes and socks to leave them at the entrance, besides Bheem’s boots, then you let your bag flop on the floor and toss the keys into the glass bowl at the entrance, producing a loud clink - which should be his cue to stop doing whatever he’s doing to give you a proper welcome back. There’s no answer, though, except for a muffled sound of water splashing in the shower and a delicious aroma coming from the kitchen. 

You hang your coat and scuttle like a mouse across the room to take a peek inside the pot cooling on the stove, lifting the lid to confirm Bheem prepared one of your favorite dishes for dinner. Food is part of his love language, and even if it’s not five-star restaurant quality the simple fact he made it is enough for you to declare all the other biryanis don’t hold a candle to his version.

It takes a moment for you to notice the crumpled mass of fabric lying on the armrest of the couch, in the living room; upon a closer look you realize it’s the nehru jacket you bought him as a birthday present, and a few feet away there’s also one of his shirts. The trail of clothes he left behind points to the hallway and you patiently pick each item up, so you could put them into the hamper. You know he doesn’t expect you to be his maid, since he’s capable of doing his share of household chores, he’s just… Bheem, getting so excited over the little things in life (such as stripping off to have a well-deserved shower at the end of a long day) that you can’t really get mad at him. 

Once you’re done with the laundry basket you walk towards the bathroom and you raise a hand to push the door fully open - that’s when he turns off the faucet, causing you to gawk, speechless: he may be as innocent and impetuous as a child, on occasion, yet you can’t help but stare at the grown man who’s in front of you.

All of him, since his imposing physique takes up half the space in the cabin.

Thanks to the semi-transparent panels you can see he’s tilting his head back to shake the excess water out of his hair and let it roll on his shoulders, down along his spine to his rock-solid ass and thighs. You lick your chops at the thought of the veins climbing up his knee, towards his hip; he could probably choke you with those legs and the fire burning in your core indicates you find the idea inviting. He’s a sweetheart by nature, nevertheless experience taught you his inherent impetuosity leads to interesting results during your most intimate one-on-one sessions.

You jump out of your trousers and toss them behind you, and with only your kurti on you rush to the kitchen to spoon some virgin coconut oil out of the jar and put it in a small bowl. When you go back he’s standing in front of the bed, a towel wrapped around his waist and his muscular calves exposed. 

“Bujji…?” you call him in a soft tone.

“Ammu!!!” he roars, his eyes shining brighter than the stars in the sky. He’s so strong he lifts you up while he greets you. “Are you tired?” he adds, enthusiastically, and doesn’t really give you a chance to reply because he can’t contain the excitement of holding you in his arms. “Hungry?! How was—”

“Kiss me and I’ll tell you all about it,” you cut him off, in the hope that he won’t be tempted to ask more questions. Right now you’re in desperate need of his nose ring pressed against your upper lip, and he obliges.

Kissing Bheem feels like being blessed by a ray of sunshine, warming you up on a cold winter’s morning; his soul is pure as dew glistening on jasmine petals, his embrace is where you wish you could spend eternity.

“I am hungry,” you whisper, “and tired, but I’ve got duties to fulfill.”

He smiles again and nods, kissing you one last time before he sits on the covers; you kneel behind him, using your palms to warm up a moderate amount of coconut until it melts completely. You’ve been dreaming of this for days: you start with a gentle massage on the nape and move up to the crown to distribute the oil on the scalp, then switch to a firmer pressure to play with large chunks of his hair to help him relax.

Calling it ‘a duty’ is a private joke, as far as possible from an old-style, strict interpretation of gender roles within a couple. In fact, you’d never pass up a chance to put your hands all over him and worship every inch of his naked body and it’s definitely a display of desire he’s very fond of.

When you bring your attention to his outer ears, rolling the flexible helices between your thumb and index finger, his head falls backwards and his curls tickle your cheek. You peck him gently on the temple and scoop a larger quantity of coconut oil out of the bowl, repeating the warming process; his hands sneakily reach the hem of your kurti to try and lift it - to no avail, since the back portion of the garment is trapped under your weight.

“Do you want me to stop?” you purr, and his laugh makes something stir in your belly.

No, he doesn’t want you to stop - what comes next is his favorite part.

You start working his shoulders and the pads of your fingers glide on his skin, dampened with the tiny droplets glistening in the dark fuzz he’s never bothered to get rid of; he groans in pleasure and you too enjoy the sensation of his firm muscles being manipulated, the light friction making them even warmer to the touch. They’re so defined you could use his entire back as a living anatomy chart, so you torture your lips in a feeble attempt to suppress the temptation to cover him in bitemarks. After reaching his waist you usually go for a knuckling technique along both sides of his spine in an upward direction, but tonight you have other plans.

Bheem lets out a surprised, short gasp as you tug at one border of the towel around his hips to peel it open. You put your palms flat on his thighs and you slowly stroke back and forth, your chest pressed against his body and the tip of your tongue following a linear path from the base of his neck to the sensitive spot behind his ear. The scent of coconut on his olive complexion drives you insane and you dig your fingers into his flesh; he winces in discomfort, so you release him and use the bed of your nails to graze over the veins you’d be able to find even with your eyes closed. 

He grows impatient soon and grabs your right wrist, dragging it towards his groin; when you’re so close you can perceive his heat you trap his earlobe between your teeth and he whimpers, like a puppy who’s gotten his tail bitten by one of his siblings. You ghost the back of your hands against his ribcage, your chin resting on the crevice created by his collarbone. You look down and the mere sight of his hardening cock hits you so good that the pounding between your legs turns into a wet patch.

“I missed you so much,” you whisper. 

He raises his arm to caress your head and the tattoo on his bicep contracts, sending jolts of pure lust to your brain. “Four days, chinna!”

“Too long,” you declare, resolute, “I want you. I need you...”

In a flash you’re sprawled on the covers, Bheem’s big hands nearly tearing the kurti off of you; he’s propping up on one knee, towering over you to pin your forearms down and rub himself over your panties. You bite your lips again: he’s allowed to do some teasing in return, and you know he likes the idea that spending less than a week apart turned you into a writhing mess, hungry for him. 

His breathing quickly becomes ragged from the fast-paced, rocking motion but the spark in his eyes is absolutely feral. It doesn’t take long before the tension mounting in your lower stomach screams for release, overwhelmed by the bobbing and pressing of his tip on the same, soaked spot. You’re a single step away from begging him to put you out of your misery when he pulls your underwear down. And almost at the same time, the whole room plunges into darkness. 

You both react with different degrees of annoyance - Bheem’s annyoed and somewhat resigned grumble covered by your vocal “No, damn it! Not now!!”

“Welcome home,” he sighs and he plops on his side to avoid crushing you by mistake.

You bang your head on the mattress and whine, as a demonstration the pet name he uses for you sometimes fits perfectly. “I hate when this happens! Hate it!”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Bheem grunts. He stands up and in the blue-ish hue filtering through the windows he walks to the dresser, clearly searching for a pair of briefs in the dedicated drawer.

“Where are you going?” you ask him, perplexed.

He gives you a little frown from over his shoulder. “Uhm, someone should check the—”

“Breaker box?! Like you always do and nothing changes and the power comes back on its own?” you point out, since you have no intention of letting a stupid blackout disrupt your evening.

“It’s just…” he stammers, then he stops mid sentence with the drawer half-open in front of him. 

Finally he turns around, and you see for yourself why he’s got such a mortified expression on his face. The random honking of scooters driving into traffic, in the distance, seem to add a poignant effect to the moment, but you shrug and pat on the sheets.

“I really missed you. Please… stay?”

He rapidly considers the pros and cons of the two scenarios he’s facing and eventually he shrugs as well. Someone else would be in charge of checking the breaker box, for once, so you wait for him to lie at your side; you put your head on his chest, your heart contemplating the power he has over your life. 

There’s so much of him to cuddle that his presence alone makes you feel safe: the worst part about work trips for you is not the consciousness you won’t be returning to the comfort and protection of your apartment for the night - it’s being forced to spend that time alone, in a stranger place without his warmth and considerable weight close to you.

The rain trickles down on the glass and the reflection of the street lamps light paints stripes on his forehead and nose. His body resembles the image of a bear in your mind, so it’s no wonder you often call him that (even though it’s such a special endearment you never use it in public to respect the sacred privacy of your bedroom). Your hand wanders briefly on his sternum, twisting and twirling the fuzziness growing on his pecs; he’s very much used to you doing this whenever you chill out on the couch, watching a movie, and he’s well aware of how good his beard feels when he goes down on you. 

You hug him tighter and envelop his right thigh with yours: the feeling of his coarse hair over your sensitive clit is painfully exquisite, the friction from the grinding movement muffled by the slick texture of your arousal. You’re literally humping the tattoo matching the one on his left bicep and the back of your fingers start brushing over his nipple; Bheem shudders and tenses up, so you wait for another possible indication of uneasiness. He clenches his fist around the messy locks at the base of your neck to offer you his left nipple, instead, and your subtle oral fixation is more than glad to please him. 

You plant butterfly kisses to trace the outline of the areola, alternating between sucking the stiff, tiny bud and blowing warm air on it; you never rush through this stage of foreplay, and he’s a terrible enabler who’s learned to use your weakness to his full advantage. When your fingers leave his chest to trail down to his navel, cupping his reinvigorated erection, he gently yanks your head back to claim your mouth for himself. 

This is without doubt what you’ve been craving all along: your moans roll on his tongue like sweet mango juice, your hearts beat in unison as echoes of an otherworldly dimension of pure intimacy. He then shifts to his side, so that your bodies align perfectly in front of each other; his palm dances on your skin, his skilled fingers unclasping your bra to help you remove it. He’s done waiting and you nod, in a silent confirmation you share the same urgency.

Bheem slips his left forearm under your right knee, lifting your leg up against his chest. He’s got you pinned in an awkward position - your calf resting on his bicep and your forehead touching the bridge of his nose - but it’s the best way to have you ready for him, and you hold your breath as you feel his bulbous tip nudging at your entrance. He’s not fully in control of this new setting, so he hesitates; he slips out as a result and you squirm in pain for a fraction of a second, which prompts him to loosen his grip and kiss your shoulder to make sure you’re alright. 

You smile and let your free hand reach for your folds. This time he holds his breath and you gently guide his head on the right spot, waiting for him to push deeper: a loud moan escapes your throat when he finally does, drunk on the blissful feeling of having him inside of you and the knowledge you belong together. He tries swaying his hips in a rising movement, still figuring out the optimal dynamics, and your lips come closer.

“Bheema…” you mutter, clawing at his muscles.

He growls, a low rumble that reverberates in your ears, and the realization seems to dawn on him: he starts thrusting with his thigh and his pounding gets faster, more confident, a wild exercise in untamed passion. He’d let go of you in an instant if you asked him to, nevertheless you cherish your status as a captive of his powerful hold. Your grip on his skin turns into a primal instinct to further assert your possession rights over him once he sets a frantic pace.

The slapping noise distracts you before you can feel his fingertips kneading your butt cheek: he buries his face in your hair and his last, ferine growl sends him over the edge and he twitches multiple times inside of you while your own climax builds up in response. You throw your head back while a second and third slap land on your ass, your legs shaking and not a single sound from your lips during one of the most intense and satisfying experiences of your life.

You collapse on his chest, panting and laughing with what little breath you’ve got left. There’s a sudden, electric buzz in the air and the lights come back on, as you predicted.

“Are you okay?” he inquires, a tangible trace of confusion in his voice. “Did I do something wrong?”

You snuggle against him to play with the earring adorning his lobe. “I can’t even think straight... you were amazing.”

Bheem blushes and tries to maintain eye contact, but has to look away in the end; he just fucked you into a mind-blowing orgasm, still he’s too embarrassed to talk about it. No amount of words could ever describe or quantify the love you have for him.

“Come on, get up! We must feed you, Pallavi...!” he bellows, back to his usual cheerful self - his smile a beautiful reminder of how falling for him was, indeed, inevitable.

“I know, I’m starving,” you agree, and you retrieve your panties and kurti to swiftly put them on as you get off the bed, “but I’m going to take a long shower, first.”

He nearly throws you off balance when he grabs you by your waist, making you sit on his lap while he stares at you like he’s got a shocking secret to confess.

“I’m so happy you’re back,” he giggles, “three nights without you is definitely where I draw the line.”

@ronaldofandom, @gifseafins, @ladydarkey, @bheemaxrama, @astrafangs, @ronnoxandlumoss, @rambheemlove, @chaidrivenwhore, @ssabriel, @burningsheepcrown, @busy-bii

»»»— read pinned post for taglist info —«««

[moscatoslut]

please take a moment to read ❤️

(reposting to my 10 yr old side blog bc my main has been temporarily deactivated and tumblr has not gotten back to me)

My husband and I are currently doing everything we can to get our 3 children out of Ohio as soon as we can. We are in an area that has gotten more hostile towards our trans child as time has passed, and we fear with the legislature being pushed forward in other red states that things are headed for the worst here. We are desperately trying to avoid our son having to detransition due to the laws being pushed forward (especially as we enter into an election year), as well as moving from the hatred he has had to face from the school system and social atmosphere of our area. My parents currently live in Vermont and have been kind enough to offer to let us stay with them so that we can get out of Ohio before things get any worse, but we are facing some financial barriers keeping us from being able to make the move. Vermont has protections in place for trans children in school that keep teachers from outing them and they are required to use his chosen name. Despite working around the clock to be able to make this move happen, the skyrocketing cost of living has made it near impossible to save. We need to be able to pay the out of pocket costs associated with hormone therapy and daily medications when we lose insurance between jobs, and our family vehicle needs maintenance to be able to make the 11 hour move to a new state. If we are able to meet our donation goal, we can cover the moving costs, medication and repairs necessary to be able to get our family to a better place. If we were fortunate enough to exceed that goal, all extra funds would be put towards supporting our son in the next step to his transition (top surgery and legal name change). I am so grateful to anyone that has read this far and for any donations to our family. We are doing everything we can to support our children through this social and political uncertainty and any outside support (financial and emotional) is so meaningful to our family.

I completely understand that things are financially difficult for a lot of people and families right now and that this is a lot of money. Even if you are able to just able to reblog this it would be so helpful!

[etherealkawai]

Here’s a rant now. So...... please, I’ll start going off about s**ouma/(a,i) o**asai. (u,m). I will NOT hold back on it. And I’ll just basically scream and etc. on this post because just fuck it at this point.

S**ouma was the main cause of my traumatic experience considering so many people hated me for two things, not liking their basic toxic ship and thinking a fictional character is bisexual. It’s probably the main reason on why I’m problematic and lowkey mean, because I try my hardest to be nice but sometimes if you revoke me I will not hold back, so I just. 😐. Don’t act suprised and defenseless when I’m talking about what I dislike and it crosses to your interests. I don’t even care if your a nice s**ouma shipper, you SCARE ME. I don’t want to hear it, it’s for my mentality because it’s ON MY BLOG. My blog shouldn’t be open to people I don’t want on it. I’m trying to be happier by opening this fucking blog but if you s**ouma reposters keep coming on this fucking blog I will deactivate it. I can see every single reblog and like and all that stuff, your not an exclusion. One last time, any people who even think s**ouma is an okay thing to let slide DONT INTERACT.

Actually, since I’m getting even, I’m gonna tell you why I don’t like s**ouma and why it scares me sooo badly because Kokichi’s with “someone who doesn’t even want shit to do with him” or because I’m “being defensive.”

To be TRUTHFULLY HONEST with you the entire dynamic they have going on (subdued and neutral protag x wild card antag with a huge personality) is my least favorite in the world. It simply puts me to sleep bc i feel like every time they talk it’s kokichi saying some wild funny shit and shuichi just going “um o-ok” or *uncomfortable silence* instead of engaging with him in any entertaining or meaningful way. Shuichi is shown to be enamored with people that act like kokichi’s total opposite and kichi’s interest in him feels so unnatural and empty to me.. nor did he even have much of an interest in him, bro. And it’s handled so.. erratically. His “affection” lasts from chapter 4 - chapter 4 trial, disappears, and then you find his whiteboard calling shuichi tricky/untrustworthy?? It’s weird. and It’s not a result of spending time with shuichi and like, bonding with him as a person. It’s just that he’s the only semi-intelligent person left in the school. (Minus maki, Theres an ER trip waiting to happen.) Which would make kokichi a “sapiosexual” and I just can’t-

It’s VERY easy to say that the “Pathetic? Look at yourself, Kokichi. Kaito always has us by his side, see? But no one wants to be around you. You're alone, Kokichi. And you always will be." didn't show no "I love you kokichi and I will forever please stay with me." Type of thing. It was more of a "You are a monster from hell and I hate you because of it." Type of thing. And honestly? I fucking love it. IT LITERALLY STATES THAT SHUICHI IS AFRAID OF OUMA.

Now for Kokichi’s sexuality.... for those fujoshis out there who think short boys = gay, (not saying short males can’t be gay) I’m gonna have to tell you to shut the fresh quivering fuck up. Like.. you missed me with that bullshit. I can assume Kokichi is bisexual because it never confirmed he was gay now huh? 🙃 kodaka never stated it, and it’s freedom of expression for me to state he’s bisexual. Saying “he’s half gay still!!” Is bisexual erasure and once again, I’m gonna have to tell you to shut the absolute fuck up because you’ll make me want to take you rights away as soon as the words utter out of your mouth! 😁 btw, this was written by a bisexual girl herself so...... I guess I’m half lesbian now.

In a summary: don’t bring up s**ouma, don’t come to me if your a s**ouma account, support the ship in general, it’s a trigger. My kindness is only a mask because I swear I will literally rip you limb by limb if you say something uncalled for. I’m nice because I chose to be and I can easily just switch off. 😇

Now that I’ve got that all of my chest, does anyone wanna chat? ^^

[diningpageantry]

Don’t @ Me

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18215168/chapters/43092371

Chapter 1/10 of It’s A Handheld Disaster

Word Count: 3118

Fic Summary: Teenage life is hard enough, but with the added weight of their lives, both Simon and Baz thrive online in a fandom for the British crime show, Gastrell, about the genius Huxley and his "flatmate" Sam. Through Tumblr, they find each other, and sink into something more than just being mutuals.

Chapter Summary: A shitpost is taken a little too personally, and an argument breaks out. In true Baz fashion, he seeks to prove himself right in the most ridiculous way possible.

BAZ

Morning routines are the most menial shit in the realm of existence of arbitrary tasks.

Everyone seems to have them, yet nobody really has a set one. For example, my step-mum has a long, seemingly pointless hour of simply facial cleansers, serums, and hair products. When I’d asked her years ago why she does it all, she shook her head and said “You’ll never be an aging woman, Basilton.”

I couldn’t quite argue with that.

Regardless, it’s a part of life. The routines. Wake up, morning routine, morning activity, eat, afternoon activity, usually afternoon snack, evening activity, dinner, night-time activity, sleep.

A boring, underwhelming cycle of the day.

Although, I suppose it’s shittier for me, since the homeschooling doesn’t give me a chance to do much besides sit and read. Of course, I have my car and I can drive off to whatever. Hell, father even suggested I get a job to occupy myself, but I don’t quite see the point given how much money we have (and the risk factors with moving around so frequently).

So, here I am. Finishing my classes in a matter of months, then having an entire year of pointless bullshit.

Needless to say, my entire day’s routine isn’t the most thrilling. Wake up at 10 on a good day, check social media and emails, then just lay here until I can’t wait to piss. Piss. Go to eat breakfast and get greeted by screaming children and my poor step-mum trying to wrangle them in. Go upstairs, go back online, see whatever’s on my dash, reblog some shit, then try to do something vaguely productive. Check Archive, check email again. Nothing’s on the emails, ever. Text Dev and Niall, who get awfully pissed since they are in school. Get more food. Eat. Bring tea upstairs, despite the disdained look from our maid (who hates collecting my piles of mugs). Write for a couple hours. Take an afternoon nap, if I please. Wake up and sit there (again). Maybe lonely wank. Go back to the bathroom, stare at myself in the mirror for a good few minutes. Sit on the toilet for half an hour for no reason besides the fact that my phone seems more interesting while sitting there as compared to sitting in bed. Sit then on the bathroom floor doing the same thing. Go back to my bed, listen to music on my phone and work on my laptop. Write, maybe scroll. Get dinner brought to me as they tut that I should be more active. Eat. Go downstairs for an evening workout (they’re right, I shouldn’t confine myself to my bed). Come back, do exactly what I do for half the day until I pass out somewhere around 3 am. Repeat.

Dream life for an 17 year old. Social life of a god.

Somewhat.

It’s shit to say (and sort of embarrassing to share) that there’s sort of a social media presence around me. Not quite the Instagram model bullshit, but based around fan life.

Yes, it’s a laughing stock. That’s where my popularity lies--a mixed grab-bag of various ages gathering around various platforms to enthuse about certain topics. And I’m somehow lucky enough to have the slightest bit of popularity here.

As in, a large following. A large, somehow active following.

It isn’t exactly thrilling as one would like to think. Sure, it’s fun to see a scattered group of regulars pop up, and I have my mutuals, but it’s a sad existence to sit around and make various shitposts with nothing better to occupy my mind. Or, at least, that’s what Dev and Niall tell me.

All in all, I blame Fiona. She’s the one who got me into the show, saying she thought the character was a bit like me. After I saw it, I found the three connections she’d grasped at.

Gay, dark-haired, and violinist.

As if that’s a rarity.

Yet, surely enough, I did love it. The cinematography, the characters, the storyline. It was intriguing--captivating.

It doesn’t hurt that the online community was still on the smaller side when I first got there. The show was only a season in when I made my blog, and I’ve stuck through all this bullshit to get me here. One of the regulars. Reposted everywhere, uncredited usually. Big fics, large interactions. Shitposts with thousands upon thousands of notes. I’m recognizable; a suggested name.

Don’t get me wrong, the attention is spectacular. I love interacting with people beyond this depressing household, and they’re usually fairly nice (usually) (except those ravenous for an argument). It’s just awkward to share at times when people ask why your mobile’s got 99+ symbols next to the apps and you just shrug and say “I’m shit at checking it” to avoid the conversation because most people see it as childish.

It’s a shame, really. Especially since I feel emotionally attached to these goddamn fictional fuckers.

I suppose that’s what makes it all the more personal, then. Even the shitposts mean something to me.

Which is what makes this is a long, winded way of saying fuck whoever’s arguing with me about whether or not Huxley is a fucking Ravenclaw. (He is. Hands down.) How’d I get here, staring at my mobile in disbelief at a brief back and forth post turned fight? Because it feels like a reasonable question to wonder.

I got here because, as almost all mornings, I woke up, opened my phone, read my notifs, then sat here, thinking of something. Anything. Then, in a tired haze, typed out a single text post on tumblr.

huxley gastrell is a ravenclaw send tweet

Following so, I went about my typical morning. Of course. Then--then--I check my phone as I’m going downstairs and I see it. I see the “@bi-sammy mentioned you in a post!” notif, then read the God-forsaken reblog.

@gaystrell op do you take criticism on your posts?

I frowned at my phone, typing out a quick response before tucking it back into my pocket.

@bi-sammy no.

What I hadn’t anticipated, though, was the reply I’d open up to soon after I’d started poking at my morning meal.

@gaystrell well too bad bc ur WRONG and ur opinions are UGLY

#he’s clearly a slytherin this is slytherin oppression #don’t tell me he and bryonie aren’t from a slytherin family

Now I sit, staring and completely awestruck at such a post. Now, I won’t deny Bryonie Gastrell is definitely, in all possible ways, a Slytherin. Cunning and ambitious as fuck, as any political spy may be, but fuck anyone who tries to dismiss Huxley’s clear Ravenclaw leanings.

It takes me a moment to fully process, mouth robotically chewing my eggs as I contemplate my answer.

@bi-sammy there is absolutely no proof of huxley being a slytherin and more than enough support towards him being a ravenclaw. get your clueless negativity off my blog, you utter tit.

With that, I settle my phone face down onto my table and try to enjoy my lovely plate of scrambled eggs, barely ignoring the boiling of my blood.

SIMON

My phone lights up with the new notification, dragging my attention away from my laptop as the words slide down onto the screen. “@gaystrell mentioned you in a post!” I hate to admit that I get a little pattering in my heart, urging my hand out to grasp the mobile as I pause the Youtube video currently playing. As I read his words, I slowly blink out of my excitement.

Tit. He called me a bloody tit.

Of course this fucking wanker called me a tit.

He must think that since he’s this big bad blogger, he can call me a tit right out in the open. (Although, he is talking to me, so that’s a plus) (No! No no no, bad validation, Simon. Bad). What, with his thousands of followers and fans of his own, he thinks he can try to say shit out in the open?

Fuck it. He’s either getting a DM or a bloody fist fight from me. I’ll take a train to wherever the fuck he lives (which is somewhere in England, since that’s what his bio says) (and his aunt lives in London, since he’s posted about visiting her) (I really do wonder where he’s from and how close he might be--what if I run into him one day?) (No wait fuck I don’t want that anymore).

Clicking on his blog, the little person drop down gives me the option of a message. I barely think as I type it out, vision going spotty from the adrenaline of the twinging anger.

bi-sammy: i swear to god there was no point to the battle of hogwarts if you’re just going to go around and absolutely slander the slytherin name and dare say that huxley is not one of them and, rather, is a ravenclaw

At first, I grin at it, watching my lone message appear into the empty chat. It’s so freeing--so powerful to send it. I pride myself, in the moment, for this solid move of communication. Of course I’m fucking proud. I messaged the arse myself and gave him a space to fight.

Maybe Penny’s right, I should dial down the confrontation, but it’s just the internet. Nothing important happens through a stupid little argument over Huxley’s true Hogwarts house (although, I’m sure I know I’m right in my heart), but it is a bit of fun to fuck around with someone. It’s a distraction. And that’s why I’m here, afterall. To have a distraction.

Penny thinks it’s a bit silly, but she doesn’t really complain. All she’s ever said was  “I thought we left fandom stuff behind us when we were 14.” She said it over lunch, watching me scroll through my at-the-time new tumblr.

It’s funny, I thought I did leave it behind when I was younger. It seemed unneeded as life shifted. I’d just found a stable foster home, with someone who was going to keep me for a while. I found Penny a couple months before I deactivated my old account. I was happy; we were free. I didn’t need a venting place.

Shits been sort of hitting the fan recently, though. No uni plans, David’s been getting more controlling, and of course, Agatha dumping me. It all crashed on top of me a few months ago, and somehow, the only place that I could find healthy coping was online. So, I started fresh. Made a blog and settled in. It’s not big, but I’ve had a few posts get noticed. I have a good few hundred followers, and one nice anon who asks me how I am every few weeks. It’s not a lot, but it’s comforting.

I feel at home here, even with a little discourse.

Well, only when the discourse is answered. Which, in this situation, I don’t know if it will be, given it’s been over an hour now and Baz hasn’t answered.

If that’s even his name.

It’s what his bio says, at least.

baz. 17. cisguy (he/him). gay. don’t interact if you think huxley is remotely straight.

I’ve wondered for a while what Baz stands for. He refuses to answer it in asks; he always says it’s too personal. He’s sort of odd like that--never posts pictures of anything that could be linked back. Seems sort of creepy, but then again, a lot of people follow him. It’s reasonable to want space.

Maybe that’s why he’s not answering. He probably wants space of some sort, but it’d be at least decent to answer someone who tried to have a discussion (that’s at least what I’m calling that message I sent--a discussion starter).

I frown at my phone, keeping it on silent as I slide it into my front pocket and settle into my seat in maths. I’ll say it--I sulk in class, a little bitter that I don’t have his attention (despite the fact that he seems like he’s always active online, which seems odd). Eventually, I exhale and try to let it slip away. There went my one interaction with him. My few seconds of the weirdest fucking bliss online, gone.

Then, it happens. As the class is ending, I pull out my screen just enough to see and there it is. A clear notification telling me he’d answered. Oddly enough, it’s just him sending me a link to a Google Doc.

Weird.

I ignore it for the moment being, letting myself ride the wave of relaxation that I actually got a reply. It passes my mind until I’m sitting in the back of Agatha’s car, listening to Penny and Aggie in the front talking about whatever’s on their mind. The rides are sort of awkward as of recently. At least Agatha agreed to drive me home (it’s a good 45 minute walk, if not) after some convincing from Penny, but her and I don’t really chat. It’s just the two of them.

Given that time, I have a chance to pull out my mobile and thumb through what was sent.

gaystrell: https://docs.google.com/document/d/175qFASmqD7hey8lE0eoE-6VhhFYE9DP6bpnI32Aay98/edit?usp=sharing

I click on it, not expecting that much (or, really, not expecting anything at all). Yet, the second it pops up and loads, my jaw drops.

“Jesus fuck,” I say aloud, scrolling through it. Penny turns her head, frowning as I stay locked on my screen.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“No--no nothing,” I say, waving a hand. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s got to be something for that reaction,” she says, keeping turned in her seat as she eyes me up. “Just tell us, Si.”

“I mean it when I say it’s nothing.” My voice gets quieter as I shift, reading the title. “It’s just fandom stuff. It’s really nothing.”

I hear her disgruntled huff as she turns back, mumbling something about me reacting too dramatically to this. “It isn’t even real.” It’s said under her breath, yet it still rings clear in my ears.

It isn’t really fake, either.

Hell, this is six pages of real. “Why Huxley Gastrell is, Without a Doubt, a Ravenclaw”. Shared by Basilton Pitch (is that his actual name?!). Fucking hell, it’s detailed to no ends. You’d think, with this much writing, there’d be pages of pointless filler where he’d just type “im gay hi huxley is also a gay we’re all gay here aren’t we”, but no. It’s full, grammatically correct sentences detailing his points.

It’s a bit much to read in the car, so I settle my mobile face down onto the seat as I’m left reeling. That… was a bit more than I’d expected.

Shit, did he write that for me?

This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

BAZ

Whoever says that having a flair for the dramatics is pointless has clearly never met me, because I wouldn’t quite call this masterpiece of an essay “pointless”. In fact, I should send it to academics. Rename it “A Study In Multi-Dimensional Characters and their Associated Generalized Personality Traits”. I’ll be hailed as a genius, as I deserve to be.

I crack my knuckles, and see the little person pop up.

Surely enough, it’s @bi-sammy’s name that he has listed online, Simon. It’s curious, he has his last name listed as “Snow”. Although, the smallest part of me believes it’s a pseudonym. Given our interactions, I doubt he’s clever enough to think of a solid pseudonym. And, even at that, why pick Snow?

Either way, it’s surprisingly endearing. Simon Snow. Sounds sweet. Sounds innocent.

I watch his cursor turn on, then his icon goes grey after a few moments. My heart starts to trip, making my cheeks begin to flush. Is… he ignoring this?

No. He can’t be. I put in hard work and dedication into this work, and I deserve the respect I’d sent into it. Fucking hell, three fully developed points (his devotion to intellectual work, his effort to step out of public light for Sam’s sake, and his overall lack of ambition for moving forward). I clearly set it out, and ended it properly; I’d proven that Huxley is a Ravenclaw. Case and point, opinion made, the end.

And, here I sit, watching him have the audacity to open it up then close it back. That was my hard work put in there, and he closes it? Who in the name of all that is sacred thinks he’s that above other people to the point where he just ignores--

Oh. He’s back on. Nevermind.

He’s… probably a school student. It’s roughly the time that most classes end, I suppose.

I make a mental apology to him, despite having never ranted directly to him in the first place.

He stays active for a good bit; long enough to show he’s reading. I assume that he’d just close off and message me, but after minutes, I notice a little highlighted comment pop up on the last sentence.

Simon Snow i………. owe you every single possible apology

Each word makes me grin like I haven’t in a while. A wide, cheek-creasing grin. There’s something so sweet to that--so personal. It feels like a note passed to me in a classroom under the tables. Like a cute “Blink if you like me”, although I doubt he has quite an intention.

Nevertheless, it warms my chest, sending my head back as I smile. I’m not sure whether or not it’s the satisfaction of winning, or his words, but I laugh outwardly into the room. It stays with me, reverberating onto my skin and my throat.

I look back at the comment, then leave it untouched. If he won’t remove it, then I won’t either.

With a glance at our personal messages tab, I figure that’s that. Even field, no more argument. No more interaction. It’s a bit of a shame, given the effort I’d just extorted for his sake, that he hasn’t answered in our chat.

While I’m disappointed to close off the document, I smile at it one last time. Sometimes I have to move on from random people, especially when they come on a bit strong.

Except, I find, moments later that I’m wrong about one thing--the moving on. He didn’t just stop his interaction, but instead made a public post.

“@bi-sammy mentioned you in a post!”

This time, I really laugh. A full bellied, hand-covering-mouth laugh.

i guess i have to suck @gayhuxell’s cock now because i was wrong and the bloody arse was right. huxley is a ravenclaw.

#fuck me i guess

I take a minute, rereading over his words a few times before typing a simple answer with my reblog.

i’m available anytime behind a mcdonald’s parking lot

[alchemist-shizun]

Did a quick search for you buddy! I'm pretty sure the writer moved blogs or deactivated but still has the fic on Ao3, Here it is!

comic commissioned by @insanelycoolish, a scene from his logicality fic which is part of his really cool sanders sides band au you should totally check out here!

//DONT REPOST MY ART(ESPECIALLY COMMISSIONED ART)//